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Beatrix

by Honore de Balzac

Translated by Katharine Prescott Wormeley

November, 1999 [Etext #1957]

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Beatrix

by Honore de Balzac

Translated by Katharine Prescott Wormeley

NOTE

It is somewhat remarkable that Balzac, dealing as he did with

traits of character and the minute and daily circumstances of

life, has never been accused of representing actual persons in the

two or three thousand portraits which he painted of human nature.

In "The Great Man of the Provinces in Paris" some likenesses were

imagined: Jules Janin in Etienne Lousteau, Armand Carrel in Michel

Chrestien, and, possibly, Berryer in Daniel d'Arthez. But in the

present volume, "Beatrix," he used the characteristics of certain

persons, which were recognized and admitted at the time of

publication. Mademoiselle des Touches (Camille Maupin) is George

Sand in character, and the personal description of her, though

applied by some to the famous Mademoiselle Georges, is easily

recognized from Couture's drawing. Beatrix, Conti, and Claude

Vignon are sketches of the Comtesse d'Agoult, Liszt, and the well-

known critic Gustave Planche.

The opening scene of this volume, representing the manners and

customs of the old Breton family, a social state existing no

longer except in history, and the transition period of the

/vieille roche/ as it passed into the customs and ideas of the

present century, is one of Balzac's remarkable and most famous

pictures in the "Comedy of Human Life."

K.P.W.

BEATRIX

I

A BRETON TOWN AND MANSION

France, especially in Brittany, still possesses certain towns

completely outside of the movement which gives to the nineteenth

century its peculiar characteristics. For lack of quick and regular

communication with Paris, scarcely connected by wretched roads with

the sub-prefecture, or the chief city of their own province, these

towns regard the new civilization as a spectacle to be gazed at; it

amazes them, but they never applaud it; and, whether they fear or

scoff at it, they continue faithful to the old manners and customs

which have come down to them. Whoso would travel as a moral

archaeologist, observing men instead of stones, would find images of

the time of Louis XV. in many a village of Provence, of the time of

Louis XIV. in the depths of Pitou, and of still more ancient times in

the towns of Brittany. Most of these towns have fallen from states of

splendor never mentioned by historians, who are always more concerned

with facts and dates than with the truer history of manners and

customs. The tradition of this splendor still lives in the memory of

the people,--as in Brittany, where the native character allows no

forgetfulness of things which concern its own land. Many of these

towns were once the capitals of a little feudal State,--a county or

duchy conquered by the crown or divided among many heirs, if the male

line failed. Disinherited from active life, these heads became arms;

and arms deprived of nourishment, wither and barely vegetate.

For the last thirty years, however, these pictures of ancient times

are beginning to fade and disappear. Modern industry, working for the

masses, goes on destroying the creations of ancient art, the works of

which were once as personal to the consumer as to the artisan.

Nowadays we have /products/, we no longer have /works/. Public

buildings, monuments of the past, count for much in the phenomena of

retrospection; but the monuments of modern industry are freestone

quarries, saltpetre mines, cotton factories. A few more years and even

these old cities will be transformed and seen no more except in the

pages of this iconography.

One of the towns in which may be found the most correct likeness of

the feudal ages is Guerande. The name alone awakens a thousand

memories in the minds of painters, artists, thinkers who have visited

the slopes on which this splendid jewel of feudality lies proudly

posed to command the flux and reflux of the tides and the dunes,--the

summit, as it were, of a triangle, at the corners of which are two

other jewels not less curious: Croisic, and the village of Batz. There

are no towns after Guerande except Vitre in the centre of Brittany,

and Avignon in the south of France, which preserve so intact, to the

very middle of our epoch, the type and form of the middle ages.

Guerande is still encircled with its doughty walls, its moats are full

of water, its battlements entire, its loopholes unencumbered with

vegetation; even ivy has never cast its mantle over the towers, square

or round. The town has three gates, where may be seen the rings of the

portcullises; it is entered by a drawbridge of iron-clamped wood, no

longer raised but which could be raised at will. The mayoralty was

blamed for having, in 1820, planted poplars along the banks of the

moat to shade the promenade. It excused itself on the ground that the

long and beautiful esplanade of the fortifications facing the dunes

had been converted one hundred years earlier into a mall where the

inhabitants took their pleasure beneath the elms.

The houses of the old town have suffered no change; and they have

neither increased nor diminished. None have suffered upon their

frontage from the hammer of the architect, the brush of the plasterer,

nor have they staggered under the weight of added stories. All retain

their primitive characteristics. Some rest on wooden columns which

form arcades under which foot-passengers circulate, the floor planks

bending beneath them, but never breaking. The houses of the merchants

are small and low; their fronts are veneered with slate. Wood, now

decaying, counts for much in the carved material of the window-casings

and the pillars, above which grotesque faces look down, while shapes

of fantastic beasts climb up the angles, animated by that great

thought of Art, which in those old days gave life to inanimate nature.

These relics, resisting change, present to the eye of painters those

dusky tones and half-blurred features in which the artistic brush

delights.

The streets are what they were four hundred years ago,--with one

exception; population no longer swarms there; the social movement is

now so dead that a traveller wishing to examine the town (as beautiful

as a suit of antique armor) may walk alone, not without sadness,

through a deserted street, where the mullioned windows are plastered

up to avoid the window-tax. This street ends at a postern, flanked

with a wall of masonry, beyond which rises a bouquet of trees planted

by the hands of Breton nature, one of the most luxuriant and fertile

vegetations in France. A painter, a poet would sit there silently, to

taste the quietude which reigns beneath the well-preserved arch of the

postern, where no voice comes from the life of the peaceful city, and

where the landscape is seen in its rich magnificence through the loop-

holes of the casemates once occupied by halberdiers and archers, which

are not unlike the sashes of some belvedere arranged for a point of

view.

It is impossible to walk about the place without thinking at every

step of the habits and usages of long-past times; the very stones tell

of them; the ideas of the middle ages are still there with all their

ancient superstitions. If, by chance, a gendarme passes you, with his

silver-laced hat, his presence is an anachronism against which your

sense of fitness protests; but nothing is so rare as to meet a being

or an object of the present time. There is even very little of the

clothing of the day; and that little the inhabitants adapt in a way to

their immutable customs, their unchangeable physiognomies. The public

square is filled with Breton costumes, which artists flock to draw;

these stand out in wonderful relief upon the scene around them. The

whiteness of the linen worn by the /paludiers/ (the name given to men

who gather salt in the salt-marshes) contrasts vigorously with the

blues and browns of the peasantry and the original and sacredly

preserved jewelry of the women. These two classes, and that of the

sailors in their jerkins and varnished leather caps are as distinct

from one another as the castes of India, and still recognize the

distance that parts them from the bourgeoisie, the nobility, and the

clergy. All lines are clearly marked; there the revolutionary level

found the masses too rugged and too hard to plane; its instrument

would have been notched, if not broken. The character of immutability

which science gives to zoological species is found in Breton human

nature. Even now, after the Revolution of 1830, Guerande is still a

town apart, essentially Breton, fervently Catholic, silent, self-

contained,--a place where modern ideas have little access.

Its geographical position explains this phenomenon. The pretty town

overlooks a salt-marsh, the product of which is called throughout

Brittany the Guerande salt, to which many Bretons attribute the

excellence of their butter and their sardines. It is connected with

the rest of France by two roads only: that coming from Savenay, the

arrondissement to which it belongs, which stops at Saint-Nazaire; and

a second road, leading from Vannes, which connects it with the

Morbihan. The arrondissement road establishes communication by land,

and from Saint-Nazaire by water, with Nantes. The land road is used

only by government; the more rapid and more frequented way being by

water from Saint-Nazaire. Now, between this village and Guerande is a

distance of eighteen miles. which the mail-coach does not serve, and

for good reason; not three coach passengers a year would pass over it.

These, and other obstacles, little fitted to encourage travellers,

still exist. In the first place, government is slow in its

proceedings; and next, the inhabitants of the region put up readily

enough with difficulties which separate them from the rest of France.

Guerande, therefore, being at the extreme end of the continent, leads

nowhere, and no one comes there. Glad to be ignored, she thinks and

cares about herself only. The immense product of her salt-marshes,

which pays a tax of not less than a million to the Treasury, is

chiefly managed at Croisic, a peninsular village which communicates

with Guerande over quicksands, which efface during the night the

tracks made by day, and also by boats which cross the arm of the sea

that makes the port of Croisic.

This fascinating little town is therefore the Herculaneum of

feudality, less its winding sheet of lava. It is afoot, but not

living; it has no other ground of existence except that it has not

been demolished. If you reach Guerande from Croisic, after crossing a

dreary landscape of salt-marshes, you will experience a strong

sensation at sight of that vast fortification, which is still as good

as ever. If you come to it by Saint-Nazaire, the picturesqueness of

its position and the naive grace of its environs will please you no

less. The country immediately surrounding it is ravishing; the hedges

are full of flowers, honeysuckles, roses, box, and many enchanting

plants. It is like an English garden, designed by some great

architect. This rich, coy nature, so untrodden, with all the grace of

a bunch of violets or a lily of the valley in the glade of a forest,

is framed by an African desert banked by the ocean,--a desert without

a tree, an herb, a bird; where, on sunny days, the laboring

/paludiers/, clothed in white and scattered among those melancholy

swamps where the salt is made, remind us of Arabs in their burrows.

Thus Guerande bears no resemblance to any other place in France. The

town produces somewhat the same effect upon the mind as a sleeping-

draught upon the body. It is silent as Venice. There is no other

public conveyance than the springless wagon of a carrier who carries

travellers, merchandise, and occasionally letters from Saint-Nazaire

to Guerande and /vice versa/. Bernus, the carrier, was, in 1829, the

factotum of this large community. He went and came when he pleased;

all the country knew him; and he did the errands of all. The arrival

of a carriage in Guerande, that of a lady or some invalid going to

Croisic for sea-bathing (thought to have greater virtue among those

rocks than at Boulogne or Dieppe) is still an immense event. The

peasants come in on horseback, most of them with commodities for

barter in sacks. They are induced to do so (and so are the

/paludiers/) by the necessity of purchasing the jewels distinctive of

their caste which are given to all Breton brides, and the white linen,

or cloth for their clothing.

For a circuit ten miles round, Guerande is always GUERANDE,--the

illustrious town where the famous treaty was signed in 1365, the key

of the coast, which may boast, not less than the village of Batz, of a

splendor now lost in the night of time. The jewels, linen, cloth,

ribbon, and hats are made elsewhere, but to those who buy them they

are from Guerande and nowhere else. All artists, and even certain

bourgeois, who come to Guerande feel, as they do at Venice, a desire

(soon forgotten) to end their days amid its peace and silence, walking

in fine weather along the beautiful mall which surrounds the town from

gate to gate on the side toward the sea. Sometimes the image of this

town arises in the temple of memory; she enters, crowned with her

towers, clasped with her girdle; her flower-strewn robe floats onward,

the golden mantle of her dunes enfolds her, the fragrant breath of her

briony paths, filled with the flowers of each passing season, exhales

at every step; she fills your mind, she calls to you like some

enchanting woman whom you have met in other climes and whose presence

still lingers in a fold of your heart.

Near the church of Guerande stands a mansion which is to the town what

the town is to the region, an exact image of the past, the symbol of a

grand thing destroyed,--a poem, in short. This mansion belongs to the

noblest family of the province; to the du Guaisnics, who, in the times

of the du Guesclins, were as superior to the latter in antiquity and

fortune as the Trojans were to the Romans. The Guaisqlains (the name

is also spelled in the olden time du Glaicquin), from which comes du

Guesclin, issued from the du Guaisnics.

Old as the granite of Brittany, the Guaisnics are neither Frenchmen

nor Gauls,--they are Bretons; or, to be more exact, they are Celts.

Formerly, they must have been Druids, gathering mistletoe in the

sacred forests and sacrificing men upon their dolmens. Useless to say

what they were! To-day this race, equal to the Rohans without having

deigned to make themselves princes, a race which was powerful before

the ancestors of Hugues Capet were ever heard of, this family, pure of

all alloy, possesses two thousand francs a year, its mansion in

Guerande, and the little castle of Guaisnic. All the lands belonging

to the barony of Guaisnic, the first in Brittany, are pledged to

farmers, and bring in sixty thousand francs a year, in spite of

ignorant culture. The du Gaisnics remain the owners of these lands

although they receive none of the revenues, for the reason that for

the last two hundred years they have been unable to pay off the money

advanced upon them. They are in the position of the crown of France

towards its /engagistes/ (tenants of crown-lands) before the year

1789. Where and when could the barons obtain the million their farmers

have advanced to them? Before 1789 the tenure of the fiefs subject to

the castle of Guaisnic was still worth fifty thousand francs a year;

but a vote of the National Assembly suppressed the seigneurs' dues

levied on inheritance.

In such a situation this family--of absolutely no account in France,

and which would be a subject of laughter in Paris, were it known there

--is to Guerande the whole of Brittany. In Guerande the Baron du

Guaisnic is one of the great barons of France, a man above whom there

is but one man,--the King of France, once elected ruler. To-day the

name of du Guaisnic, full of Breton significances (the roots of which

will be found explained in "The Chouans") has been subjected to the

same alteration which disfigures that of du Guaisqlain. The tax-

gatherer now writes the name, as do the rest of the world, du Guenic.

At the end of a silent, damp, and gloomy lane may be seen the arch of

a door, or rather gate, high enough and wide enough to admit a man on

horseback,--a circumstance which proves of itself that when this

building was erected carriages did not exist. The arch, supported by

two jambs, is of granite. The gate, of oak, rugged as the bark of the

tree itself, is studded with enormous nails placed in geometric

figures. The arch is semicircular. On it are carved the arms of the

Guaisnics as clean-cut and clear as though the sculptor had just laid

down his chisel. This escutcheon would delight a lover of the heraldic

art by a simplicity which proves the pride and the antiquity of the

family. It is as it was in the days when the crusaders of the

Christian world invented these symbols by which to recognize each

other; the Guaisnics have never had it quartered; it is always itself,

like that of the house of France, which connoisseurs find

inescutcheoned in the shields of many of the old families. Here it is,

such as you may see it still at Guerande: Gules, a hand proper

gonfaloned ermine, with a sword argent in pale, and the terrible

motto, FAC. Is not that a grand and noble thing? The circlet of a

baronial coronet surmounts this simple escutcheon, the vertical lines

of which, used in carving to represent gules, are clear as ever. The

artist has given I know not what proud, chivalrous turn to the hand.

With what vigor it holds the sword which served but recently the

present family!

If you go to Guerande after reading this history you cannot fail to

quiver when you see that blazon. Yes, the most confirmed republican

would be moved by the fidelity, the nobleness, the grandeur hidden in

the depths of that dark lane. The du Guaisnics did well yesterday, and

they are ready to do well to-morrow. To DO is the motto of chivalry.

"You did well in the battle" was the praise of the Connetable /par

excellence/, the great du Guesclin who drove the English for a time

from France. The depth of this carving, which has been protected from

the weather by the projecting edges of the arch, is in keeping with

the moral depth of the motto in the soul of this family. To those who

know the Guaisnics this fact is touching.

The gate when open gives a vista into a somewhat vast court-yard, on

the right of which are the stables, on the left the kitchen and

offices. The house is build of freestone from cellar to garret. The

facade on the court-yard has a portico with a double range of steps,

the wall of which is covered with vestiges of carvings now effaced by

time, but in which the eye of an antiquary can still make out in the

centre of the principal mass the Hand bearing the sword. The granite

steps are now disjointed, grasses have forced their way with little

flowers and mosses through the fissures between the stones which

centuries have displaced without however lessening their solidity. The

door of the house must have had a charming character. As far as the

relics of the old designs allow us to judge, it was done by an artist

of the great Venetian school of the thirteenth century. Here is a

mixture, still visible, of the Byzantine and the Saracenic. It is

crowned with a circular pediment, now wreathed with vegetation,--a

bouquet, rose, brown, yellow, or blue, according to the season. The

door, of oak, nail-studded, gives entrance to a noble hall, at the end

of which is another door, opening upon another portico which leads to

the garden.

This hall is marvellously well preserved. The panelled wainscot, about

three feet high, is of chestnut. A magnificent Spanish leather with

figures in relief, the gilding now peeled off or reddened, covers the

walls. The ceiling is of wooden boards artistically joined and painted

and gilded. The gold is scarcely noticeable; it is in the same

condition as that of the Cordova leather, but a few red flowers and

the green foliage can be distinguished. Perhaps a thorough cleaning

might bring out paintings like those discovered on the plank ceilings

of Tristan's house at Tours. If so, it would prove that those planks

were placed or restored in the reign of Louis XI. The chimney-piece is

enormous, of carved stone, and within it are gigantic andirons in

wrought-iron of precious workmanship. It could hold a cart-load of

wood. The furniture of this hall is wholly of oak, each article

bearing upon it the arms of the family. Three English guns equally

suitable for chase or war, three sabres, two game-bags, the utensils

of a huntsman and a fisherman hang from nails upon the wall.

On one side is a dining-room, which connects with the kitchen by a

door cut through a corner tower. This tower corresponds in the design

of the facade toward the court-yard with another tower at the opposite

corner, in which is a spiral staircase leading to the two upper

stories.

The dining-room is hung with tapestries of the fourteenth century; the

style and the orthography of the inscription on the banderols beneath

each figure prove their age, but being, as they are, in the naive

language of the /fabliaux/, it is impossible to transcribe them here.

These tapestries, well preserved in those parts where light has

scarcely penetrated, are framed in bands of oak now black as ebony.

The ceiling has projecting rafters enriched with foliage which is

varied for each rafter; the space between them is filled with planks

painted blue, on which twine garlands of golden flowers. Two old

buffers face each other; on their shelves, rubbed with Breton

persistency by Mariotte the cook, can be seen, as in the days when

kings were as poor in 1200 as the du Guaisnics are in 1830, four old

goblets, an ancient embossed soup-tureen, and two salt-cellars, all of

silver; also many pewter plates and many pitchers of gray and blue

pottery, bearing arabesque designs and the arms of the du Guaisnics,

covered by hinged pewter lids. The chimney-piece is modernized. Its

condition proves that the family has lived in this room for the last

century. It is of carved stone in the style of the Louis XV. period,

and is ornamented with a mirror, let in to the back with gilt beaded

moulding. This anachronism, to which the family is indifferent, would

grieve a poet. On the mantel-shelf, covered with red velvet, is a tall

clock of tortoise-shell inlaid with brass, flanked on each side with a

silver candelabrum of singular design. A large square table, with

solid legs, fills the centre of this room; the chairs are of turned

wood covered with tapestry. On a round table supported by a single leg

made in the shape of a vine-shoot, which stands before a window

looking into the garden, is a lamp of an odd kind. This lamp has a

common glass globe, about the size of an ostrich egg, which is

fastened into a candle-stick by a glass tube. Through a hole at the

top of the globe issues a wick which passes through a sort of reed of

brass, drawing the nut-oil held in the globe through its own length

coiled like a tape-worm in a surgeon's phial. The windows which look

into the garden, like those that look upon the court-yard, are

mullioned in stone with hexagonal leaded panes, and are draped by

curtains, with heavy valances and stout cords, of an ancient stuff of

crimson silk with gold reflections, called in former days either

brocatelle or small brocade.

On each of the two upper stories of the house there are but two rooms.

The first is the bedroom of the head of the family, the second is that

of the children. Guests were lodged in chambers beneath the roof. The

servants slept above the kitchens and stables. The pointed roof,

protected with lead at its angles and edges, has a noble pointed

window on each side, one looking down upon the court-yard, the other

on the garden. These windows, rising almost to the level of the roof,

have slender, delicate casings, the carvings of which have crumbled

under the salty vapors of the atmosphere. Above the arch of each

window with its crossbars of stone, still grinds, as it turns, the

vane of a noble.

Let us not forget a precious detail, full of naivete, which will be of

value in the eyes of an archaeologist. The tower in which the spiral

staircase goes up is placed at the corner of a great gable wall in

which there is no window. The staircase comes down to a little arched

door, opening upon a gravelled yard which separates the house from the

stables. This tower is repeated on the garden side by another of five

sides, ending in a cupola in which is a bell-turret, instead of being

roofed, like the sister-tower, with a pepper-pot. This is how those

charming architects varied the symmetry of their sky-lines. These

towers are connected on the level of the first floor by a stone

gallery, supported by what we must call brackets, each ending in a

grotesque human head. This gallery has a balustrade of exquisite

workmanship. From the gable above depends a stone dais like those that

crown the statues of saints at the portal of churches. Can you not see

a woman walking in the morning along this balcony and gazing over

Guerande at the sunshine, where it gilds the sands and shimmers on the

breast of Ocean? Do you not admire that gable wall flanked at its

angles with those varied towers? The opposite gable of the Guaisnic

mansion adjoins the next house. The harmony so carefully sought by the

architects of those days is maintained in the facade looking on the

court-yard by the tower which communicates between the dining-room and

the kitchen, and is the same as the staircase tower, except that it

stops at the first upper story and its summit is a small open dome,

beneath which stands a now blackened statue of Saint Calyste.

The garden is magnificent for so old a place. It covers half an acre

of ground, its walls are all espaliered, and the space within is

divided into squares for vegetables, bordered with cordons of fruit-

trees, which the man-of-all-work, named Gasselin, takes care of in the

intervals of grooming the horses. At the farther end of the garden is

a grotto with a seat in it; in the middle, a sun-dial; the paths are

gravelled. The facade on the garden side has no towers corresponding

to those on the court-yard; but a slender spiral column rises from the

ground to the roof, which must in former days have borne the banner of

the family, for at its summit may still be seen an iron socket, from

which a few weak plants are straggling. This detail, in harmony with

the vestiges of sculpture, proves to a practised eye that the mansion

was built by a Venetian architect. The graceful staff is like a

signature revealing Venice, chivalry, and the exquisite delicacy of

the thirteenth century. If any doubts remained on this point, a

feature of the ornamentation would dissipate them. The trefoils of the

hotel du Guaisnic have four leaves instead of three. This difference

plainly indicates the Venetian school depraved by its commerce with

the East, where the semi-Saracenic architects, careless of the great

Catholic thought, give four leaves to clover, while Christian art is

faithful to the Trinity. In this respect Venetian art becomes

heretical.

If this ancient dwelling attracts your imagination, you may perhaps

ask yourself why such miracles of art are not renewed in the present

day. Because to-day mansions are sold, pulled down, and the ground

they stood on turned into streets. No one can be sure that the next

generation will possess the paternal dwelling; homes are no more than

inns; whereas in former times when a dwelling was built men worked, or

thought they worked, for a family in perpetuity. Hence the grandeur of

these houses. Faith in self, as well as faith in God, did prodigies.

As for the arrangement of the upper rooms they may be imagined after

this description of the ground-floor, and after reading an account of

the manners, customs, and physiognomy of the family. For the last

fifty years the du Guaisnics have received their friends in the two

rooms just described, in which, as in the court-yard and the external

accessories of the building, the spirit, grace, and candor of the old

and noble Brittany still survives. Without the topography and

description of the town, and without this minute depicting of the

house, the surprising figures of the family might be less understood.

Therefore the frames have preceded the portraits. Every one is aware

that things influence beings. There are public buildings whose effect

is visible upon the persons living in their neighborhood. It would be

difficult indeed to be irreligious in the shadow of a cathedral like

that of Bourges. When the soul is everywhere reminded of its destiny

by surrounding images, it is less easy to fail of it. Such was the

thought of our immediate grandfathers, abandoned by a generation which

was soon to have no signs and no distinctions, and whose manners and

morals were to change every decade. If you do not now expect to find

the Baron du Guaisnic sword in hand, all here written would be

falsehood.

II

THE BARON, HIS WIFE, AND SISTER

Early in the month of May, in the year 1836, the period when this

scene opens, the family of Guenic (we follow henceforth the modern

spelling) consisted of Monsieur and Madame du Guenic, Mademoiselle du

Guenic the baron's elder sister, and an only son, aged twenty-one,

named, after an ancient family usage, Gaudebert-Calyste-Louis. The

father's name was Gaudebert-Calyste-Charles. Only the last name was

ever varied. Saint Gaudebert and Saint Calyste were forever bound to

protect the Guenics.

The Baron du Guenic had started from Guerande the moment that La

Vendee and Brittany took arms; he fought through the war with

Charette, with Cathelineau, La Rochejaquelein, d'Elbee, Bonchamps, and

the Prince de Loudon. Before starting he had, with a prudence unique

in revolutionary annals, sold his whole property of every kind to his

elder and only sister, Mademoiselle Zephirine du Guenic. After the

death of all those heroes of the West, the baron, preserved by a

miracle from ending as they did, refused to submit to Napoleon. He

fought on till 1802, when being at last defeated and almost captured,

he returned to Guerande, and from Guerande went to Croisic, whence he

crossed to Ireland, faithful to the ancient Breton hatred for England.

The people of Guerande feigned utter ignorance of the baron's

existence. In the whole course of twenty years not a single indiscreet

word was ever uttered. Mademoiselle du Guenic received the rents and

sent them to her brother by fishermen. Monsieur du Guenic returned to

Guerande in 1813, as quietly and simply as if he had merely passed a

season at Nantes. During his stay in Dublin the old Breton, despite

his fifty years, had fallen in love with a charming Irish woman,

daughter of one of the noblest and poorest families of that unhappy

kingdom. Fanny O'Brien was then twenty-one years old. The Baron du

Guenic came over to France to obtain the documents necessary for his

marriage, returned to Ireland, and, after about ten months (at the

beginning of 1814), brought his wife to Guerande, where she gave him

Calyste on the very day that Louis XVIII. landed at Calais,--a

circumstance which explains the young man's final name of Louis.

The old and loyal Breton was now a man of seventy-three; but his long-

continued guerilla warfare with the Republic, his exile, the perils of

his five crossings through a turbulent sea in open boats, had weighed

upon his head, and he looked a hundred; therefore, at no period had

the chief of the house of Guenic been more in keeping with the worn-

out grandeur of their dwelling, built in the days when a court reigned

at Guerande.

Monsieur du Guenic was a tall, straight, wiry, lean old man. His oval

face was lined with innumerable wrinkles, which formed a net-work over

his cheek-bones and above his eyebrows, giving to his face a

resemblance to those choice old men whom Van Ostade, Rembrandt,

Mieris, and Gerard Dow so loved to paint, in pictures which need a

microscope to be fully appreciated. His countenance might be said to

be sunken out of sight beneath those innumerable wrinkles, produced by

a life in the open air and by the habit of watching his country in the

full light of the sun from the rising of that luminary to the sinking

of it. Nevertheless, to an observer enough remained of the

imperishable forms of the human face which appealed to the soul, even

though the eye could see no more than a lifeless head. The firm

outline of the face, the shape of the brow, the solemnity of the

lines, the rigidity of the nose, the form of the bony structure which

wounds alone had slightly altered,--all were signs of intrepidity

without calculation, faith without reserve, obedience without

discussion, fidelity without compromise, love without inconstancy. In

him, the Breton granite was made man.

The baron had no longer any teeth. His lips, once red, now violet, and

backed by hard gums only (with which he ate the bread his wife took

care to soften by folding it daily in a damp napkin), drew inward to

the mouth with a sort of grin, which gave him an expression both

threatening and proud. His chin seemed to seek his nose; but in that

nose, humped in the middle, lay the signs of his energy and his Breton

resistance. His skin, marbled with red blotches appearing through his

wrinkles, showed a powerfully sanguine temperament, fitted to resist

fatigue and to preserve him, as no doubt it did, from apoplexy. The

head was crowned with abundant hair, as white as silver, which fell in

curls upon his shoulders. The face, extinguished, as we have said, in

part, lived through the glitter of the black eyes in their brown

orbits, casting thence the last flames of a generous and loyal soul.

The eyebrows and lashes had disappeared; the skin, grown hard, could

not unwrinkle. The difficulty of shaving had obliged the old man to

let his beard grow, and the cut of it was fan-shaped. An artist would

have admired beyond all else in this old lion of Brittany with his

powerful shoulders and vigorous chest, the splendid hands of the

soldier,--hands like those du Guesclin must have had, large, broad,

hairy; hands that once had clasped the sword never, like Joan of Arc,

to relinquish it until the royal standard floated in the cathedral of

Rheims; hands that were often bloody from the thorns and furze of the

Bocage; hands which had pulled an oar in the Marais to surprise the

Blues, or in the offing to signal Georges; the hands of a guerilla, a

cannoneer, a common solder, a leader; hands still white though the

Bourbons of the Elder branch were again in exile. Looking at those

hands attentively, one might have seen some recent marks attesting the

fact that the Baron had recently joined MADAME in La Vendee. To-day

that fact may be admitted. These hands were a living commentary on the

noble motto to which no Guenic had proved recreant: /Fac!/

His forehead attracted attention by the golden tones of the temples,

contrasting with the brown tints of the hard and narrow brow, which

the falling off of the hair had somewhat broadened, giving still more

majesty to that noble ruin. The countenance--a little material,

perhaps, but how could it be otherwise?--presented, like all the

Breton faces grouped about the baron, a certain savagery, a stolid

calm which resembled the impassibility of the Huguenots; something,

one might say, stupid, due perhaps to the utter repose which follows

extreme fatigue, in which the animal nature alone is visible. Thought

was rare. It seemed to be an effort; its seat was in the heart more

than in the head; it led to acts rather than ideas. But, examining

that grand old man with sustained observation, one could penetrate the

mystery of this strange contradiction to the spirit of the century. He

had faiths, sentiments, inborn so to speak, which allowed him to

dispense with thought. His duty, life had taught him. Institutions and

religion thought for him. He reserved his mind, he and his kind, for

action, not dissipating it on useless things which occupied the minds

of other persons. He drew his thought from his heart like his sword

from its scabbard, holding it aloft in his ermined hand, as on his

scutcheon, shining with sincerity. That secret once penetrated, all is

clear. We can comprehend the depth of convictions that are not

thoughts, but living principles,--clear, distinct, downright, and as

immaculate as the ermine itself. We understand that sale made to his

sister before the war; which provided for all, and faced all, death,

confiscation, exile. The beauty of the character of these two old

people (for the sister lived only for and by the brother) cannot be

understood to its full extent by the right of the selfish morals, the

uncertain aims, and the inconstancy of this our epoch. An archangel,

charged with the duty of penetrating to the inmost recesses of their

hearts could not have found one thought of personal interest. In 1814,

when the rector of Guerande suggested to the baron that he should go

to Paris and claim his recompense from the triumphant Bourbons, the

old sister, so saving and miserly for the household, cried out:--

"Oh, fy! does my brother need to hold out his hand like a beggar?"

"It would be thought I served a king from interest," said the old man.

"Besides, it is for him to remember. Poor king! he must be weary

indeed of those who harass him. If he gave them all France in bits,

they still would ask."

This loyal servant, who had spent his life and means on Louis XVIII.,

received the rank of colonel, the cross of Saint-Louis, and a stipend

of two thousand francs a year.

"The king did remember!" he said when the news reached him.

No one undeceived him. The gift was really made by the Duc de Feltre.

But, as an act of gratitude to the king, the baron sustained a siege

at Guerande against the forces of General Travot. He refused to

surrender the fortress, and when it was absolutely necessary to

evacuate it he escaped into the woods with a band of Chouans, who

continued armed until the second restoration of the Bourbons. Guerande

still treasures the memory of that siege.

We must admit that the Baron du Guenic was illiterate as a peasant. He

could read, write, and do some little ciphering; he knew the military

art and heraldry, but, excepting always his prayer-book, he had not

read three volumes in the course of his life. His clothing, which is

not an insignificant point, was invariably the same; it consisted of

stout shoes, ribbed stockings, breeches of greenish velveteen, a cloth

waistcoat, and a loose coat with a collar, from which hung the cross

of Saint-Louis. A noble serenity now reigned upon that face where, for

the last year or so, sleep, the forerunner of death, seemed to be

preparing him for rest eternal. This constant somnolence, becoming

daily more and more frequent, did not alarm either his wife, his blind

sister, or his friends, whose medical knowledge was of the slightest.

To them these solemn pauses of a life without reproach, but very

weary, were naturally explained: the baron had done his duty, that was

all.

In this ancient mansion the absorbing interests were the fortunes of

the dispossessed Elder branch. The future of the exiled Bourbons, that

of the Catholic religion, the influence of political innovations on

Brittany were the exclusive topics of conversation in the baron's

family. There was but one personal interest mingled with these most

absorbing ones: the attachment of all for the only son, for Calyste,

the heir, the sole hope of the great name of the du Guenics.

The old Vendean, the old Chouan, had, some years previously, a return

of his own youth in order to train his son to those manly exercises

which were proper for a gentleman liable to be summoned at any moment

to take arms. No sooner was Calyste sixteen years of age than his

father accompanied him to the marshes and the forest, teaching him

through the pleasures of the chase the rudiments of war, preaching by

example, indifferent to fatigue, firm in his saddle, sure of his shot

whatever the game might be,--deer, hare, or a bird on the wing,--

intrepid in face of obstacles, bidding his son follow him into danger

as though he had ten other sons to take Calyste's place.

So, when the Duchesse de Berry landed in France to conquer back the

kingdom for her son, the father judged it right to take his boy to

join her, and put in practice the motto of their ancestors. The baron

started in the dead of night, saying no word to his wife, who might

perhaps have weakened him; taking his son under fire as if to a fete,

and Gasselin, his only vassal, who followed him joyfully. The three

men of the family were absent for three months without sending news of

their whereabouts to the baroness, who never read the "Quotidienne"

without trembling from line to line, nor to his old blind sister,

heroically erect, whose nerve never faltered for an instance as she

heard that paper read. The three guns hanging to the walls had

therefore seen service recently. The baron, who considered the

enterprise useless, left the region before the affair of La

Penissiere, or the house of Guenic would probably have ended in that

hecatomb.

When, on a stormy night after parting from MADAME, the father, son,

and servant returned to the house in Guerande, they took their friends

and the baroness and old Mademoiselle du Guenic by surprise, although

the latter, by the exercise of senses with which the blind are gifted,

recognized the steps of the three men in the little lane leading to

the house. The baron looked round upon the circle of his anxious

friends, who were seated beside the little table lighted by the

antique lamp, and said in a tremulous voice, while Gasselin replaced

the three guns and the sabres in their places, these words of feudal

simplicity:--

"The barons did not all do their duty."

Then, having kissed his wife and sister, he sat down in his old arm-

chair and ordered supper to be brought for his son, for Gasselin, and

for himself. Gasselin had thrown himself before Calyste on one

occasion, to protect him, and received the cut of a sabre on his

shoulder; but so simple a matter did it seem that even the women

scarcely thanked him. The baron and his guests uttered neither curses

nor complaints of their conquerors. Such silence is a trait of Breton

character. In forty years no one ever heard a word of contumely from

the baron's lips about his adversaries. It was for them to do their

duty as he did his. This utter silence is the surest indication of an

unalterable will.

This last effort, the flash of an energy now waning, had caused the

present weakness and somnolence of the old man. The fresh defeat and

exile of the Bourbons, as miraculously driven out as miraculously

re-established, were to him a source of bitter sadness.

About six o'clock on the evening of the day on which this history

begins, the baron, who, according to ancient custom, had finished

dining by four o'clock, fell asleep as usual while his wife was

reading to him the "Quotidienne." His head rested against the back of

the arm-chair which stood beside the fireplace on the garden side.

Near this gnarled trunk of an ancient tree, and in front of the

fireplace, the baroness, seated on one of the antique chairs,

presented the type of those adorable women who exist in England,

Scotland, or Ireland only. There alone are born those milk-white

creatures with golden hair the curls of which are wound by the hands

of angels, for the light of heaven seems to ripple in their silken

spirals swaying to the breeze. Fanny O'Brien was one of those sylphs,

--strong in tenderness, invincible under misfortune, soft as the music

of her voice, pure as the azure of her eyes, of a delicate, refined

beauty, blessed with a skin that was silken to the touch and caressing

to the eye, which neither painter's brush nor written word can

picture. Beautiful still at forty-two years of age, many a man would

have thought it happiness to marry her as she looked at the splendors

of that autumn coloring, redundant in flowers and fruit, refreshed and

refreshing with the dews of heaven.

The baroness held the paper in the dimpled hand, the fingers of which

curved slightly backward, their nails cut square like those of an

antique statue. Half lying, without ill-grace or affectation, in her

chair, her feet stretched out to warm them, she was dressed in a gown

of black velvet, for the weather was now becoming chilly. The corsage,

rising to the throat, moulded the splendid contour of the shoulders

and the rich bosom which the suckling of her son had not deformed. Her

hair was worn in /ringlets/, after the English fashion, down her

cheeks; the rest was simply twisted to the crown of her head and held

there with a tortoise-shell comb. The color, not undecided in tone as

other blond hair, sparkled to the light like a filagree of burnished

gold. The baroness always braided the short locks curling on the nape

of her neck--which are a sign of race. This tiny braid, concealed in

the mass of hair always carefully put up, allowed the eye to follow

with delight the undulating line by which her neck was set upon her

shoulders. This little detail will show the care which she gave to her

person; it was her pride to rejoice the eyes of the old baron. What a

charming, delicate attention! When you see a woman displaying in her

own home the coquetry which most women spend on a single sentiment,

believe me, that woman is as noble a mother as she is a wife; she is

the joy and the flower of the home; she knows her obligations as a

woman; in her soul, in her tenderness, you will find her outward

graces; she is doing good in secret; she worships, she adores without

a calculation of return; she loves her fellows, as she loves God,--for

their own sakes. And so one might fancy that the Virgin of paradise,

under whose care she lived, had rewarded the chaste girlhood and the

sacred life of the old man's wife by surrounding her with a sort of

halo which preserved her beauty from the wrongs of time. The

alterations of that beauty Plato would have glorified as the coming of

new graces. Her skin, so milk-white once, had taken the warm and

pearly tones which painters adore. Her broad and finely modelled brow

caught lovingly the light which played on its polished surface. Her

eyes, of a turquoise blue, shone with unequalled sweetness; the soft

lashes, and the slightly sunken temples inspired the spectator with I

know now what mute melancholy. The nose, which was aquiline and thin,

recalled the royal origin of the high-born woman. The pure lips,

finely cut, wore happy smiles, brought there by loving-kindness

inexhaustible. Her teeth were small and white; she had gained of late

a slight embonpoint, but her delicate hips and slender waist were none

the worse for it. The autumn of her beauty presented a few perennial

flowers of her springtide among the richer blooms of summer. Her arms

became more nobly rounded, her lustrous skin took a finer grain; the

outlines of her form gained plenitude. Lastly and best of all, her

open countenance, serene and slightly rosy, the purity of her blue

eyes, that a look too eager might have wounded, expressed illimitable

sympathy, the tenderness of angels.

At the other chimney-corner, in an arm-chair, the octogenarian sister,

like in all points save clothes to her brother, sat listening to the

reading of the newspaper and knitting stockings, a work for which

sight is needless. Both eyes had cataracts; but she obstinately

refused to submit to an operation, in spite of the entreaties of her

sister-in-law. The secret reason of that obstinacy was known to

herself only; she declared it was want of courage; but the truth was

that she would not let her brother spend twenty-five louis for her

benefit. That sum would have been so much the less for the good of the

household.

These two old persons brought out in fine relief the beauty of the

baroness. Mademoiselle Zephirine, being deprived of sight, was not

aware of the changes which eighty years had wrought in her features.

Her pale, hollow face, to which the fixedness of the white and

sightless eyes gave almost the appearance of death, and three or four

solitary and projecting teeth made menacing, was framed by a little

hood of brown printed cotton, quilted like a petticoat, trimmed with a

cotton ruche, and tied beneath the chin by strings which were always a

little rusty. She wore a /cotillon/, or short skirt of coarse cloth,

over a quilted petticoat (a positive mattress, in which were secreted

double louis-d'ors), and pockets sewn to a belt which she unfastened

every night and put on every morning like a garment. Her body was

encased in the /casaquin/ of Brittany, a species of spencer made of

the same cloth as the /cotillon/, adorned with a collarette of many

pleats, the washing of which caused the only dispute she ever had with

her sister-in-law,--her habit being to change it only once a week.

From the large wadded sleeves of the /casaquin/ issued two withered

but still vigorous arms, at the ends of which flourished her hands,

their brownish-red color making the white arms look like poplar-wood.

These hands, hooked or contracted from the habit of knitting, might be

called a stocking-machine incessantly at work; the phenomenon would

have been had they stopped. From time to time Mademoiselle du Guenic

took a long knitting needle which she kept in the bosom of her gown,

and passed it between her hood and her hair to poke or scratch her

white locks. A stranger would have laughed to see the careless manner

in which she thrust back the needle without the slightest fear of

wounding herself. She was straight as a steeple. Her erect and

imposing carriage might pass for one of those coquetries of old age

which prove that pride is a necessary passion of life. Her smile was

gay. She, too, had done her duty.

As soon as the baroness saw that her husband was asleep she stopped

reading. A ray of sunshine, stretching from one window to the other,

divided by a golden band the atmosphere of that old room and burnished

the now black furniture. The light touched the carvings of the

ceiling, danced on the time-worn chests, spread its shining cloth on

the old oak table, enlivening the still, brown room, as Fanny's voice

cast into the heart of her octogenarian blind sister a music as

luminous and as cheerful as that ray of sunlight. Soon the ray took on

the ruddy colors which, by insensible gradations, sank into the

melancholy tones of twilight. The baroness also sank into a deep

meditation, one of those total silences which her sister-in-law had

noticed for the last two weeks, trying to explain them to herself, but

making no inquiry. The old woman studied the causes of this unusual

pre-occupation, as blind persons, on whose soul sound lingers like a

divining echo, read books in which the pages are black and the letters

white. Mademoiselle Zephirine, to whom the dark hour now meant

nothing, continued to knit, and the silence at last became so deep

that the clicking of her knitting-needles was plainly heard.

"You have dropped the paper, sister, but you are not asleep," said the

old woman, slyly.

At this moment Mariotte came in to light the lamp, which she placed on

a square table in front of the fire; then she fetched her distaff, her

ball of thread, and a small stool, on which she seated herself in the

recess of a window and began as usual to spin. Gasselin was still busy

about the offices; he looked to the horses of the baron and Calyste,

saw that the stable was in order for the night, and gave the two fine

hunting-dogs their daily meal. The joyful barking of the animals was

the last noise that awakened the echoes slumbering among the darksome

walls of the ancient house. The two dogs and the two horses were the

only remaining vestiges of the splendors of its chivalry. An

imaginative man seated on the steps of the portico and letting himself

fall into the poesy of the still living images of that dwelling, might

have quivered as he heard the baying of the hounds and the trampling

of the neighing horses.

Gasselin was one of those short, thick, squat little Bretons, with

black hair and sun-browned faces, silent, slow, and obstinate as

mules, but always following steadily the path marked out for them. He

was forty-two years old, and had been twenty-five years in the

household. Mademoiselle had hired him when he was fifteen, on hearing

of the marriage and probable return of the baron. This retainer

considered himself as part of the family; he had played with Calyste,

he loved the horses and dogs of the house, and talked to them and

petted them as though they were his own. He wore a blue linen jacket

with little pockets flapping about his hips, waistcoat and trousers of

the same material at all seasons, blue stockings, and stout hob-nailed

shoes. When it was cold or rainy he put on a goat's-skin, after the

fashion of his country.

Mariotte, who was also over forty, was as a woman what Gasselin was as

a man. No team could be better matched,--same complexion, same figure,

same little eyes that were lively and black. It is difficult to

understand why Gasselin and Mariotte had never married; possibly it

might have seemed immoral, they were so like brother and sister.

Mariotte's wages were ninety francs a year; Gasselin's, three hundred.

But thousands of francs offered to them elsewhere would not have

induced either to leave the Guenic household. Both were under the

orders of Mademoiselle, who, from the time of the war in La Vendee to

the period of her brother's return, had ruled the house. When she

learned that the baron was about to bring home a mistress, she had

been moved to great emotion, believing that she must yield the sceptre

of the household and abdicate in favor of the Baronne du Guenic, whose

subject she was now compelled to be.

Mademoiselle Zephirine was therefore agreeably surprised to find in

Fanny O'Brien a young woman born to the highest rank, to whom the

petty cares of a poor household were extremely distasteful,--one who,

like other fine souls, would far have preferred to eat plain bread

rather than the choicest food if she had to prepare it for herself; a

woman capable of accomplishing all the duties, even the most painful,

of humanity, strong under necessary privations, but without courage

for commonplace avocations. When the baron begged his sister in his

wife's name to continue in charge of the household, the old maid

kissed the baroness like a sister; she made a daughter of her, she

adored her, overjoyed to be left in control of the household, which

she managed rigorously on a system of almost inconceivable economy,

which was never relaxed except for some great occasion, such as the

lying-in of her sister, and her nourishment, and all that concerned

Calyste, the worshipped son of the whole household.

Though the two servants were accustomed to this stern regime, and no

orders need ever have been given to them, for the interests of their

masters were greater in their minds than their own,--/were/ their own

in fact,--Mademoiselle Zephirine insisted on looking after everything.

Her attention being never distracted, she knew, without going up to

verify her knowledge, how large was the heap of nuts in the barn; and

how many oats remained in the bin without plunging her sinewy arm into

the depths of it. She carried at the end of a string fastened to the

belt of her /casaquin/, a boatswain's whistle, with which she was wont

to summon Mariotte by one, and Gasselin by two notes.

Gasselin's greatest happiness was to cultivate the garden and produce

fine fruits and vegetables. He had so little work to do that without

this occupation he would certainly have felt lost. After he had

groomed his horses in the morning, he polished the floors and cleaned

the rooms on the ground-floor, then he went to his garden, where weed

or damaging insect was never seen. Sometimes Gasselin was observed

motionless, bare-headed, under a burning sun, watching for a field-

mouse or the terrible grub of the cockchafer; then, as soon as it was

caught, he would rush with the joy of a child to show his masters the

noxious beast that had occupied his mind for a week. He took pleasure

in going to Croisic on fast-days, to purchase a fish to be had for

less money there than at Guerande.

Thus no household was ever more truly one, more united in interests,

more bound together than this noble family sacredly devoted to its

duty. Masters and servants seemed made for one another. For twenty-

five years there had been neither trouble nor discord. The only griefs

were the petty ailments of the little boy, the only terrors were

caused by the events of 1814 and those of 1830. If the same things

were invariably done at the same hours, if the food was subjected to

the regularity of times and seasons, this monotony, like that of

Nature varied only by alterations of cloud and rain and sunshine, was

sustained by the affection existing in the hearts of all,--the more

fruitful, the more beneficent because it emanated from natural causes.

III

THREE BRETON SILHOUETTES

When night had fairly fallen, Gasselin came into the hall and asked

his master respectfully if he had further need of him.

"You can go out, or go to bed, after prayers," replied the baron,

waking up, "unless Madame or my sister--"

The two ladies here made a sign of consent. Gasselin then knelt down,

seeing that his masters rose to kneel upon their chairs; Mariotte also

knelt before her stool. Mademoiselle du Guenic then said the prayer

aloud. After it was over, some one rapped at the door on the lane.

Gasselin went to open it.

"I dare say it is Monsieur le cure; he usually comes first," said

Mariotte.

Every one now recognized the rector's foot on the resounding steps of

the portico. He bowed respectfully to the three occupants of the room,

and addressed them in phrases of that unctuous civility which priests

are accustomed to use. To the rather absent-minded greeting of the

mistress of the house, he replied by an ecclesiastically inquisitive

look.

"Are you anxious or ill, Madame la baronne?" he asked.

"Thank you, no," she replied.

Monsieur Grimont, a man of fifty, of middle height, lost in his

cassock, from which issued two stout shoes with silver buckles,

exhibited above his hands a plump visage, and a generally white skin

though yellow in spots. His hands were dimpled. His abbatial face had

something of the Dutch burgomaster in the placidity of its complexion

and its flesh tones, and of the Breton peasant in the straight black

hair and the vivacity of the brown eyes, which preserved,

nevertheless, a priestly decorum. His gaiety, that of a man whose

conscience was calm and pure, admitted a joke. His manner had nothing

uneasy or dogged about it, like that of many poor rectors whose

existence or whose power is contested by their parishioners, and who

instead of being, as Napoleon sublimely said, the moral leaders of the

population and the natural justices of peace, are treated as enemies.

Observing Monsieur Grimont as he marched through Guerande, the most

irreligious of travellers would have recognized the sovereign of that

Catholic town; but this same sovereign lowered his spiritual

superiority before the feudal supremacy of the du Guenics. In their

salon he was as a chaplain in his seigneur's house. In church, when he

gave the benediction, his hand was always first stretched out toward

the chapel belonging to the Guenics, where their mailed hand and their

device were carved upon the key-stone of the arch.

"I thought that Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel had already arrived," said

the rector, sitting down, and taking the hand of the baroness to kiss

it. "She is getting unpunctual. Can it be that the fashion of

dissipation is contagious? I see that Monsieur le chevalier is again

at Les Touches this evening."

"Don't say anything about those visits before Mademoiselle de Pen-

Hoel," cried the old maid, eagerly.

"Ah! mademoiselle," remarked Mariotte, "you can't prevent the town

from gossiping."

"What do they say?" asked the baroness.

"The young girls and the old women all say that he is in love with

Mademoiselle des Touches."

"A lad of Calyste's make is playing his proper part in making the

women love him," said the baron.

"Here comes Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel," said Mariotte.

The gravel in the court-yard crackled under the discreet footsteps of

the coming lady, who was accompanied by a page supplied with a

lantern. Seeing this lad, Mariotte removed her stool to the great hall

for the purpose of talking with him by the gleam of his rush-light,

which was burned at the cost of his rich and miserly mistress, thus

economizing those of her own masters.

This elderly demoiselle was a thin, dried-up old maid, yellow as the

parchment of a Parliament record, wrinkled as a lake ruffled by the

wind, with gray eyes, large prominent teeth, and the hands of a man.

She was rather short, a little crooked, possibly hump-backed; but no

one had ever been inquisitive enough to ascertain the nature of her

perfections or her imperfections. Dressed in the same style as

Mademoiselle du Guenic, she stirred an enormous quantity of petticoats

and linen whenever she wanted to find one or other of the two

apertures of her gown through which she reached her pockets. The

strangest jingling of keys and money then echoed among her garments.

She always wore, dangling from one side, the bunch of keys of a good

housekeeper, and from the other her silver snuff-box, thimble,

knitting-needles, and other implements that were also resonant.

Instead of Mademoiselle Zephirine's wadded hood, she wore a green

bonnet, in which she may have visited her melons, for it had passed,

like them, from green to yellowish; as for its shape, our present

fashions are just now bringing it back to Paris, after twenty years

absence, under the name of Bibi. This bonnet was constructed under her

own eye and by the hands of her nieces, out of green Florence silk

bought at Guerande, and an old bonnet-shape, renewed every five years

at Nantes,--for Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel allowed her bonnets the

longevity of a legislature. Her nieces also made her gowns, cut by an

immutable pattern. The old lady still used the cane with the short

hook that all women carried in the early days of Marie-Antoinette. She

belonged to the very highest nobility of Brittany. Her arms bore the

ermine of its ancient dukes. In her and in her sister the illustrious

Breton house of the Pen-Hoels ended. Her younger sister had married a

Kergarouet, who, in spite of the deep disapproval of the whole region,

added the name of Pen-Hoel to his own and called himself the Vicomte

de Kergarouet-Pen-Hoel.

"Heaven has punished him," said the old lady; "he has nothing but

daughters, and the Kergarouet-Pen-Hoel name will be wiped out."

Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel possessed about seven thousand francs a year

from the rental of lands. She had come into her property at thirty-six

years of age, and managed it herself, inspecting it on horseback, and

displaying on all points the firmness of character which is noticeable

in most deformed persons. Her avarice was admired by the whole country

round, never meeting with the slightest disapproval. She kept one

woman-servant and the page. Her yearly expenses, not including taxes,

did not amount to over a thousand francs. Consequently, she was the

object of the cajoleries of the Kergarouet-Pen-Hoels, who passed the

winters at Nantes, and the summers at their estate on the banks of the

Loire below l'Indret. She was supposed to be ready to leave her

fortune and her savings to whichever of her nieces pleased her best.

Every three months one or other of the four demoiselles de Kergarouet-

Pen-Hoel, (the youngest of whom was twelve, and the eldest twenty

years of age) came to spend a few days with her.

A friend of Zephirine du Guenic, Jacqueline de Pen-Hoel, brought up to

adore the Breton grandeur of the du Guenics, had formed, ever since

the birth of Calyste, the plan of transmitting her property to the

chevalier by marrying him to whichever of her nieces the Vicomtesse de

Kergarouet-Pen-Hoel, their mother, would bestow upon him. She dreamed

of buying back some of the best of the Guenic property from the farmer

/engagistes/. When avarice has an object it ceases to be a vice; it

becomes a means of virtue; its privations are a perpetual offering; it

has the grandeur of an intention beneath its meannesses. Perhaps

Zephirine was in the secret of Jacqueline's intention. Perhaps even

the baroness, whose whole soul was occupied by love for her son and

tenderness for his father, may have guessed it as she saw with what

wily perseverance Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel brought with her her

favorite niece, Charlotte de Kergarouet, now sixteen years of age. The

rector, Monsieur Grimont, was certainly in her confidence; it was he

who helped the old maid to invest her savings.

But Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel might have had three hundred thousand

francs in gold, she might have had ten times the landed property she

actually possessed, and the du Guenics would never have allowed

themselves to pay her the slightest attention that the old woman could

construe as looking to her fortune. From a feeling of truly Breton

pride, Jacqueline de Pen-Hoel, glad of the supremacy accorded to her

old friend Zephirine and the du Guenics, always showed herself honored

by her relations with Madame du Guenic and her sister-in-law. She even

went so far as to conceal the sort of sacrifice to which she consented

every evening in allowing her page to burn in the Guenic hall that

singular gingerbread-colored candle called an /oribus/ which is still

used in certain parts of western France.

Thus this rich old maid was nobility, pride, and grandeur personified.

At the moment when you are reading this portrait of her, the Abbe

Grimont has just indiscreetly revealed that on the evening when the

old baron, the young chevalier, and Gasselin secretly departed to join

MADAME (to the terror of the baroness and the great joy of all

Bretons) Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel had given the baron ten thousand

francs in gold,--an immense sacrifice, to which the abbe added another

ten thousand, a tithe collected by him,--charging the old hero to

offer the whole, in the name of the Pen-Hoels and of the parish of

Guerande, to the mother of Henri V.

Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel treated Calyste as if she felt that her

intentions gave her certain rights over him; her plans seemed to

authorize a supervision. Not that her ideas were strict in the matter

of gallantry, for she had, in fact, the usual indulgence of the old

women of the old school, but she held in horror the modern ways of

revolutionary morals. Calyste, who might have gained in her estimation

by a few adventures with Breton girls, would have lost it considerably

had she seen him entangled in what she called innovations. She might

have disinterred a little gold to pay for the results of a love-

affair, but if Calyste had driven a tilbury or talked of a visit to

Paris she would have thought him dissipated, and declared him a

spendthrift. Impossible to say what she might not have done had she

found him reading novels or an impious newspaper. To her, novel ideas

meant the overthrow of succession of crops, ruin under the name of

improvements and methods; in short, mortgaged lands as the inevitable

result of experiments. To her, prudence was the true method of making

your fortune; good management consisted in filling your granaries with

wheat, rye, and flax, and waiting for a rise at the risk of being

called a monopolist, and clinging to those grain-sacks obstinately. By

singular chance she had often made lucky sales which confirmed her

principles. She was thought to be maliciously clever, but in fact she

was not quick-witted; on the other hand, being as methodical as a

Dutchman, prudent as a cat, and persistent as a priest, those

qualities in a region of routine like Brittany were, practically, the

equivalent of intellect.

"Will Monsieur du Halga join us this evening?" asked Mademoiselle de

Pen-Hoel, taking off her knitted mittens after the usual exchange of

greetings.

"Yes, mademoiselle; I met him taking his dog to walk on the mall,"

replied the rector.

"Ha! then our /mouche/ will be lively to-night. Last evening we were

only four."

At the word /mouche/ the rector rose and took from a drawer in one of

the tall chests a small round basket made of fine osier, a pile of

ivory counters yellow as a Turkish pipe after twenty years' usage, and

a pack of cards as greasy as those of the custom-house officers at

Saint-Nazaire, who change them only once in two weeks. These the abbe

brought to the table, arranging the proper number of counters before

each player, and putting the basket in the centre of the table beside

the lamp, with infantine eagerness, and the manner of a man accustomed

to perform this little service.

A knock at the outer gate given firmly in military fashion echoed

through the stillness of the ancient mansion. Mademoiselle de Pen-

Hoel's page went gravely to open the door, and presently the long,

lean, methodically-clothed person of the Chevalier du Halga, former

flag-captain to Admiral de Kergarouet, defined itself in black on the

penumbra of the portico.

"Welcome, chevalier!" cried Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel.

"The altar is raised," said the abbe.

The chevalier was a man in poor health, who wore flannel for his

rheumatism, a black-silk skull-cap to protect his head from fog, and a

spencer to guard his precious chest from the sudden gusts which

freshen the atmosphere of Guerande. He always went armed with a gold-

headed cane to drive away the dogs who paid untimely court to a

favorite little bitch who usually accompanied him. This man, fussy as

a fine lady, worried by the slightest /contretemps/, speaking low to

spare his voice, had been in his early days one of the most intrepid

and most competent officers of the old navy. He had won the confidence

of de Suffren in the Indian Ocean, and the friendship of the Comte de

Portenduere. His splendid conduct while flag-captain to Admiral

Kergarouet was written in visible letters on his scarred face. To see

him now no one would have imagined the voice that ruled the storm, the

eye that compassed the sea, the courage, indomitable, of the Breton

sailor.

The chevalier never smoked, never swore; he was gentle and tranquil as

a girl, as much concerned about his little dog Thisbe and her caprices

as though he were an elderly dowager. In this way he gave a high idea

of his departed gallantry, but he never so much as alluded to the

deeds of surpassing bravery which had astonished the doughty old

admiral, Comte d'Estaing. Though his manner was that of an invalid,

and he walked as if stepping on eggs and complained about the

sharpness of the wind or the heat of the sun, or the dampness of the

misty atmosphere, he exhibited a set of the whitest teeth in the

reddest of gums,--a fact reassuring as to his maladies, which were,

however, rather expensive, consisting as they did of four daily meals

of monastic amplitude. His bodily frame, like that of the baron, was

bony, and indestructibly strong, and covered with a parchment glued to

his bones as the skin of an Arab horse on the muscles which shine in

the sun. His skin retained the tawny color it received in India,

whence, however, he did not bring back either facts or ideas. He had

emigrated with the rest of his friends, lost his property, and was now

ending his days with the cross of Saint-Louis and a pension of two

thousand francs, as the legal reward of his services, paid from the

fund of the Invalides de la Marine. The slight hypochondria which made

him invent his imaginary ills is easily explained by his actual

suffering during the emigration. He served in the Russian navy until

the day when the Emperor Alexander ordered him to be employed against

France; he then resigned and went to live at Odessa, near the Duc de

Richelieu, with whom he returned to France. It was the duke who

obtained for this glorious relic of the old Breton navy the pension

which enabled him to live. On the death of Louis XVIII. he returned to

Guerande, and became, after a while, mayor of the city.

The rector, the chevalier, and Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel had regularly

passed their evenings for the last fifteen years at the hotel de

Guenic, where the other noble personages of the neighborhood also

came. It will be readily understood that the du Guenics were at the

head of the faubourg Saint-Germain of the old Breton province, where

no member of the new administration sent down by the government was

ever allowed to penetrate. For the last six years the rector coughed

when he came to the crucial words, /Domine, salvum fac regem/.

Politics were still at that point in Guerande.

IV

A NORMAL EVENING

/Mouche/ is a game played with five cards dealt to each player, and

one turned over. The turned-over card is trumps. At each round the

player is at liberty to run his chances or to abstain from playing his

card. If he abstains he loses nothing but his own stake, for as long

as there are no forfeits in the basket each player puts in a trifling

sum. If he plays and wins a trick he is paid /pro rata/ to the stake;

that is, if there are five sous in the basket, he wins one sou. The

player who fails to win a trick is made /mouche/; he has to pay the

whole stake, which swells the basket for the next game. Those who

decline to play throw down their cards during the game; but their play

is held to be null. The players can exchange their cards with the

remainder of the pack, as in ecarte, but only by order of sequence, so

that the first and second players may, and sometimes do, absorb the

remainder of the pack between them. The turned-over trump card belongs

to the dealer, who is always the last; he has the right to exchange it

for any card in his own hand. One powerful card is of more importance

than all the rest; it is called Mistigris. Mistigris is the knave of

clubs.

This game, simple as it is, is not lacking in interest. The cupidity

natural to mankind develops in it; so does diplomatic wiliness; also

play of countenance. At the hotel du Guenic, each of the players took

twenty counters, representing five sous; which made the sum total of

the stake for each game five farthings, a large amount in the eyes of

this company. Supposing some extraordinary luck, fifty sous might be

won,--more capital than any person in Guerande spent in the course of

any one day. Consequently Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel put into this game

(the innocence of which is only surpassed in the nomenclature of the

Academy by that of La Bataille) a passion corresponding to that of the

hunters after big game. Mademoiselle Zephirine, who went shares in the

game with the baroness, attached no less importance to it. To put up

one farthing for the chance of winning five, game after game, was to

this confirmed hoarder a mighty financial operation, into which she

put as much mental action as the most eager speculator at the Bourse

expends during the rise and fall of consols.

By a certain diplomatic convention, dating from September, 1825, when

Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel lost thirty-five sous, the game was to cease

as soon as a person losing ten sous should express the wish to retire.

Politeness did not allow the rest to give the retiring player the pain

of seeing the game go on without him. But, as all passions have their

Jesuitism, the chevalier and the baron, those wily politicians, had

found a means of eluding this charter. When all the players but one

were anxious to continue an exciting game, the daring sailor, du

Halga, one of those rich fellows prodigal of costs they do not pay,

would offer ten counters to Mademoiselle Zephirine or Mademoiselle

Jacqueline, when either of them, or both of them, had lost their five

sous, on condition of reimbursement in case they won. An old bachelor

could allow himself such gallantries to the sex. The baron also

offered ten counters to the old maids, but under the honest pretext of

continuing the game. The miserly maidens accepted, not, however,

without some pressing, as is the use and wont of maidens. But, before

giving way to this vast prodigality the baron and the chevalier were

required to have won; otherwise the offer would have been taken as an

insult.

/Mouche/ became a brilliant affair when a Demoiselle de Kergarouet was

in transit with her aunt. We use the single name, for the Kergarouets

had never been able to induce any one to call them Kergarouet-Pen-

Hoel,--not even their servants, although the latter had strict orders

so to do. At these times the aunt held out to the niece as a signal

treat the /mouche/ at the du Guenics. The girl was ordered to look

amiable, an easy thing to do in the presence of the beautiful Calyste,

whom the four Kergarouet young ladies all adored. Brought up in the

midst of modern civilization, these young persons cared little for

five sous a game, and on such occasions the stakes went higher. Those

were evenings of great emotion to the old blind sister. The baroness

would give her sundry hints by pressing her foot a certain number of

times, according to the size of the stake it was safe to play. To play

or not to play, if the basket were full, involved an inward struggle,

where cupidity fought with fear. If Charlotte de Kergarouet, who was

usually called giddy, was lucky in her bold throws, her aunt on their

return home (if she had not won herself), would be cold and

disapproving, and lecture the girl: she had too much decision in her

character; a young person should never assert herself in presence of

her betters; her manner of taking the basket and beginning to play was

really insolent; the proper behavior of a young girl demanded much

more reserve and greater modesty; etc.

It can easily be imagined that these games, carried on nightly for

twenty years, were interrupted now and then by narratives of events in

the town, or by discussions on public events. Sometimes the players

would sit for half an hour, their cards held fan-shape on their

stomachs, engaged in talking. If, as a result of these inattentions, a

counter was missing from the basket, every one eagerly declared that

he or she had put in their proper number. Usually the chevalier made

up the deficiency, being accused by the rest of thinking so much of

his buzzing ears, his chilly chest, and other symptoms of invalidism

that he must have forgotten his stake. But no sooner did he supply the

missing counter than Zephirine and Jacqueline were seized with

remorse; they imagined that, possibly, they themselves had forgotten

their stake; they believed--they doubted--but, after all, the

chevalier was rich enough to bear such a trifling misfortune. These

dignified and noble personages had the delightful pettiness of

suspecting each other. Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel would almost

invariably accuse the rector of cheating when he won the basket.

"It is singular," he would reply, "that I never cheat except when I

win the trick."

Often the baron would forget where he was when the talk fell on the

misfortunes of the royal house. Sometimes the evening ended in a

manner that was quite unexpected to the players, who all counted on a

certain gain. After a certain number of games and when the hour grew

late, these excellent people would be forced to separate without

either loss or gain, but not without emotion. On these sad evenings

complaints were made of /mouche/ itself; it was dull, it was long; the

players accused their /mouche/ as Negroes stone the moon in the water

when the weather is bad. On one occasion, after an arrival of the

Vicomte and Vicomtesse de Kergarouet, there was talk of whist and

boston being games of more interest than /mouche/. The baroness, who

was bored by /mouche/, encouraged the innovation, and all the company

--but not without reluctance--adopted it. But it proved impossible to

make them really understand the new games, which, on the departure of

the Kergarouets, were voted head-splitters, algebraic problems, and

intolerably difficult to play. All preferred their /mouche/, their

dear, agreeable /mouche/. /Mouche/ accordingly triumphed over modern

games, as all ancient things have ever triumphed in Brittany over

novelties.

While the rector was dealing the cards the baroness was asking the

Chevalier du Halga the same questions which she had asked him the

evening before about his health. The chevalier made it a point of

honor to have new ailments. Inquiries might be alike, but the nautical

hero had singular advantages in the way of replies. To-day it chanced

that his ribs troubled him. But here's a remarkable thing! never did

the worthy chevalier complain of his wounds. The ills that were really

the matter with him he expected, he knew them and he bore them; but

his fancied ailments, his headaches, the gnawings in his stomach, the

buzzing in his ears, and a thousand other fads and symptoms made him

horribly uneasy; he posed as incurable,--and not without reason, for

doctors up to the present time have found no remedy for diseases that

don't exist.

"Yesterday the trouble was, I believe, in your legs," said the rector.

"It moves about," replied the chevalier.

"Legs to ribs?" asked Mademoiselle Zephirine.

"Without stopping on the way?" said Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel, smiling.

The chevalier bowed gravely, making a negative gesture which was not a

little droll, and proved to an observer that in his youth the sailor

had been witty and loving and beloved. Perhaps his fossil life at

Guerande hid many memories. When he stood, solemnly planted on his two

heron-legs in the sunshine on the mall, gazing at the sea or watching

the gambols of his little dog, perhaps he was living again in some

terrestrial paradise of a past that was rich in recollections.

"So the old Duc de Lenoncourt is dead," said the baron, remembering

the paragraph of the "Quotidienne," where his wife had stopped

reading. "Well, the first gentleman of the Bedchamber followed his

master soon. I shall go next."

"My dear, my dear!" said his wife, gently tapping the bony calloused

hand of her husband.

"Let him say what he likes, sister," said Zephirine; "as long as I am

above ground he can't be under it; I am the elder."

A gay smile played on the old woman's lips. Whenever the baron made

reflections of that kind, the players and the visitors present looked

at each other with emotion, distressed by the sadness of the king of

Guerande; and after they had left the house they would say, as they

walked home: "Monsieur du Guenic was sad to-night. Did you notice how

he slept?" And the next day the whole town would talk of the matter.

"The Baron du Guenic fails," was a phrase that opened the conversation

in many houses.

"How is Thisbe?" asked Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel of the chevalier, as

soon as the cards were dealt.

"The poor little thing is like her master," replied the chevalier;

"she has some nervous trouble, she goes on three legs constantly. See,

like this."

In raising and crooking his arm to imitate the dog, the chevalier

exposed his hand to his cunning neighbor, who wanted to see if he had

Mistigris or the trump,--a first wile to which he succumbed.

"Oh!" said the baroness, "the end of Monsieur le cure's nose is

turning white; he has Mistigris."

The pleasure of having Mistigris was so great to the rector--as it was

to the other players--that the poor priest could not conceal it. In

all human faces there is a spot where the secret emotions of the heart

betray themselves; and these companions, accustomed for years to

observe each other, had ended by finding out that spot on the rector's

face: when he had Mistigris the tip of his nose grew pale.

"You had company to-day," said the chevalier to Mademoiselle de Pen-

Hoel.

"Yes, a cousin of my brother-in-law. He surprised me by announcing the

marriage of the Comtesse de Kergarouet, a Demoiselle de Fontaine."

"The daughter of 'Grand-Jacques,'" cried the chevalier, who had lived

with the admiral during his stay in Paris.

"The countess is his heir; she has married an old ambassador. My

visitor told me the strangest things about our neighbor, Mademoiselle

des Touches,--so strange that I can't believe them. If they were true,

Calyste would never be so constantly with her; he has too much good

sense not to perceive such monstrosities--"

"Monstrosities?" said the baron, waked up by the word.

The baroness and the rector exchanged looks. The cards were dealt;

Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel had Mistigris! Impossible to continue the

conversation! But she was glad to hide her joy under the excitement

caused by her last word.

"Your play, monsieur le baron," she said, with an air of importance.

"My nephew is not one of those youths who like monstrosities,"

remarked Zephirine, taking out her knitting-needle and scratching her

head.

"Mistigris!" cried Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel, making no reply to her

friend.

The rector, who appeared to be well-informed in the matter of Calyste

and Mademoiselle des Touches, did not enter the lists.

"What does she do that is so extraordinary, Mademoiselle des Touches?"

asked the baron.

"She smokes," replied Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel.

"That's very wholesome," said the chevalier.

"About her property?" asked the baron.

"Her property?" continued the old maid. "Oh, she is running through

it."

"The game is mine!" said the baroness. "See, I have king, queen, knave

of trumps, Mistigris, and a king. We win the basket, sister."

This victory, gained at one stroke, without playing a card, horrified

Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel, who ceased to concern herself about Calyste

and Mademoiselle des Touches. By nine o'clock no one remained in the

salon but the baroness and the rector. The four old people had gone to

their beds. The chevalier, according to his usual custom, accompanied

Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel to her house in the Place de Guerande, making

remarks as they went along on the cleverness of the last play, on the

joy with which Mademoiselle Zephirine engulfed her gains in those

capacious pockets of hers,--for the old blind woman no longer

repressed upon her face the visible signs of her feelings. Madame du

Guenic's evident preoccupation was the chief topic of conversation,

however. The chevalier had remarked the abstraction of the beautiful

Irish woman. When they reached Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel's door-step,

and her page had gone in, the old lady answered, confidentially, the

remarks of the chevalier on the strangely abstracted air of the

baroness:--

"I know the cause. Calyste is lost unless we marry him promptly. He

loves Mademoiselle des Touches, an actress!"

"In that case, send for Charlotte."

"I have sent; my sister will receive my letter to-morrow," replied

Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel, bowing to the chevalier.

Imagine from this sketch of a normal evening the hubbub excited in

Guerande homes by the arrival, the stay, the departure, or even the

mere passage through the town, of a stranger.

When no sounds echoed from the baron's chamber nor from that of his

sister, the baroness looked at the rector, who was playing pensively

with the counters.

"I see that you begin to share my anxiety about Calyste," she said to

him.

"Did you notice Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel's displeased looks to-night?"

asked the rector.

"Yes," replied the baroness.

"She has, as I know, the best intentions about our dear Calyste; she

loves him as though he were her son, his conduct in Vendee beside his

father, the praises that MADAME bestowed upon his devotion, have only

increased her affection for him. She intends to execute a deed of gift

by which she gives her whole property at her death to whichever of her

nieces Calyste marries. I know that you have another and much richer

marriage in Ireland for your dear Calyste, but it is well to have two

strings to your bow. In case your family will not take charge of

Calyste's establishment, Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel's fortune is not to

be despised. You can always find a match of seven thousand francs a

year for the dear boy, but it is not often that you could come across

the savings of forty years and landed property as well managed, built

up, and kept in repair as that of Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel. That

ungodly woman, Mademoiselle des Touches, has come here to ruin many

excellent things. Her life is now known."

"And what is it?" asked the mother.

"Oh! that of a trollop," replied the rector,--"a woman of questionable

morals, a writer for the stage; frequenting theatres and actors;

squandering her fortune among pamphleteers, painters, musicians, a

devilish society, in short. She writes books herself, and has taken a

false name by which she is better known, they tell me, than by her

own. She seems to be a sort of circus woman who never enters a church

except to look at the pictures. She has spent quite a fortune in

decorating Les Touches in a most improper fashion, making it a

Mohammedan paradise where the houris are not women. There is more wine

drunk there, they say, during the few weeks of her stay than the whole

year round in Guerande. The Demoiselles Bougniol let their lodgings

last year to men with beards, who were suspected of being Blues; they

sang wicked songs which made those virtuous women blush and weep, and

spent their time mostly at Les Touches. And this is the woman our dear

Calyste adores! If that creature wanted to-night one of the infamous

books in which the atheists of the present day scoff at holy things,

Calyste would saddle his horse himself and gallop to Nantes for it. I

am not sure that he would do as much for the Church. Moreover, this

Breton woman is not a royalist! If Calyste were again called upon to

strike a blow for the cause, and Mademoiselle des Touches--the Sieur

Camille Maupin, that is her other name, as I have just remembered--if

she wanted to keep him with her the chevalier would let his old father

go to the field without him."

"Oh, no!" said the baroness.

"I should not like to put him to the proof; you would suffer too

much," replied the rector. "All Guerande is turned upside down about

Calyste's passion for this amphibious creature, who is neither man nor

woman, who smokes like an hussar, writes like a journalist, and has at

this very moment in her house the most venomous of all writers,--so

the postmaster says, and he's a /juste-milieu/ man who reads the

papers. They are even talking about her at Nantes. This morning the

Kergarouet cousin who wants to marry Charlotte to a man with sixty

thousand francs a year, went to see Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel, and

filled her mind with tales about Mademoiselle des Touches which lasted

seven hours. It is now striking a quarter to ten, and Calyste is not

home; he is at Les Touches,--perhaps he won't come in all night."

The baroness listened to the rector, who was substituting monologue

for dialogue unconsciously as he looked at this lamb of his fold, on

whose face could be read her anxiety. She colored and trembled. When

the worthy man saw the tears in the beautiful eyes of the mother, he

was moved to compassion.

"I will see Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel to-morrow," he said. "Don't be

too uneasy. The harm may not be as great as they say it is. I will

find out the truth. Mademoiselle Jacqueline has confidence in me.

Besides, Calyste is our child, our pupil,--he will never let the devil

inveigle him; neither will he trouble the peace of his family or

destroy the plans we have made for his future. Therefore, don't weep;

all is not lost, madame; one fault is not vice."

"You are only informing me of details," said the baroness. "Was not I

the first to notice the change in my Calyste? A mother keenly feels

the shock of finding herself second in the heart of her son. She

cannot be deceived. This crisis in a man's life is one of the trials

of motherhood. I have prepared myself for it, but I did not think it

would come so soon. I hoped, at least, that Calyste would take into

his heart some noble and beautiful being,--not a stage-player, a

masquerader, a theatre woman, an author whose business it is to feign

sentiments, a creature who will deceive him and make him unhappy! She

has had adventures--"

"With several men," said the rector. "And yet this impious creature

was born in Brittany! She dishonors her land. I shall preach a sermon

upon her next Sunday."

"Don't do that!" cried the baroness. "The peasants and the /paludiers/

would be capable of rushing to Les Touches. Calyste is worthy of his

name; he is Breton; some dreadful thing might happen to him, for he

would surely defend her as he would the Blessed Virgin."

"It is now ten o'clock; I must bid you good-night," said the abbe,

lighting the wick of his lantern, the glass of which was clear and the

metal shining, which testified to the care his housekeeper bestowed on

the household property. "Who could ever have told me, madame," he

added, "that a young man brought up by you, trained by me to Christian

ideas, a fervent Catholic, a child who has lived as a lamb without

spot, would plunge into such mire?"

"But is it certain?" said the mother. "How could any woman help loving

Calyste?"

"What other proof is needed than her staying on at Les Touches. In all

the twenty-four years since she came of age she has never stayed there

so long as now; her visits to these parts, happily for us, were few

and short."

"A woman over forty years old!" exclaimed the baroness. "I have heard

say in Ireland that a woman of this description is the most dangerous

mistress a young man can have."

"As to that, I have no knowledge," replied the rector, "and I shall

die in my ignorance."

"And I, too, alas!" said the baroness, naively. "I wish now that I had

loved with love, so as to understand and counsel and comfort Calyste."

The rector did not cross the clean little court-yard alone; the

baroness accompanied him to the gate, hoping to hear Calyste's step

coming through the town. But she heard nothing except the heavy tread

of the rector's cautious feet, which grew fainter in the distance, and

finally ceased when the closing of the door of the parsonage echoed

behind him.

V

CALYSTE

The poor mother returned to the salon deeply distressed at finding

that the whole town was aware of what she had thought was known to her

alone. She sat down, trimmed the wick of the lamp by cutting it with a

pair of old scissors, took up once more the worsted-work she was

doing, and awaited Calyste. The baroness fondly hoped to induce her

son by this means to come home earlier and spend less time with

Mademoiselle des Touches. Such calculations of maternal jealousy were

wasted. Day after day, Calyste's visits to Les Touches became more

frequent, and every night he came in later. The night before the day

of which we speak it was midnight when he returned.

The baroness, lost in maternal meditation, was setting her stitches

with the rapidity of one absorbed in thought while engaged in manual

labor. Whoever had seen her bending to the light of the lamp beneath

the quadruply centennial hangings of that ancient room would have

admired the sublimity of the picture. Fanny's skin was so transparent

that it was possible to read the thoughts that crossed her brow

beneath it. Piqued with a curiosity that often comes to a pure woman,

she asked herself what devilish secrets these daughters of Baal

possessed to so charm men as to make them forgetful of mother, family,

country, and self-interests. Sometimes she longed to meet this woman

and judge her soberly for herself. Her mind measured to its full

extent the evils which the innovative spirit of the age--described to

her as so dangerous for young souls by the rector--would have upon her

only child, until then so guileless; as pure as an innocent girl, and

beautiful with the same fresh beauty.

Calyste, that splendid offspring of the oldest Breton race and the

noblest Irish blood, had been nurtured by his mother with the utmost

care. Until the moment when the baroness made over the training of him

to the rector of Guerande, she was certain that no impure word, no

evil thought had sullied the ears or entered the mind of her precious

son. After nursing him at her bosom, giving him her own life twice, as

it were, after guiding his footsteps as a little child, the mother had

put him with all his virgin innocence into the hands of the pastor,

who, out of true reverence for the family, had promised to give him a

thorough and Christian education. Calyste thenceforth received the

instruction which the abbe himself had received at the Seminary. The

baroness taught him English, and a teacher of mathematics was found,

not without difficulty, among the employes at Saint-Nazaire. Calyste

was therefore necessarily ignorant of modern literature, and the

advance and present progress of the sciences. His education had been

limited to geography and the circumspect history of a young ladies'

boarding-school, the Latin and Greek of seminaries, the literature of

the dead languages, and to a very restricted choice of French writers.

When, at sixteen, he began what the Abbe Grimont called his

philosophy, he was neither more nor less than what he was when Fanny

placed him in the abbe's hands. The Church had proved as maternal as

the mother. Without being over-pious or ridiculous, the idolized young

lad was a fervent Catholic.

For this son, so noble, so innocent, the baroness desired to provide a

happy life in obscurity. She expected to inherit some property, two or

three thousand pounds sterling, from an aunt. This sum, joined to the

small present fortune of the Guenics, might enable her to find a wife

for Calyste, who would bring him twelve or even fifteen thousand

francs a year. Charlotte de Kergarouet, with her aunt's fortune, a

rich Irish girl, or any other good heiress would have suited the

baroness, who seemed indifferent as to choice. She was ignorant of

love, having never known it, and, like all the other persons grouped

about her, she saw nothing in marriage but a means of fortune. Passion

was an unknown thing to these Catholic souls, these old people

exclusively concerned about salvation, God, the king, and their

property. No one should be surprised, therefore, at the foreboding

thoughts which accompanied the wounded feelings of the mother, who

lived as much for the future interests of her son as by her love for

him. If the young household would only listen to wisdom, she thought,

the coming generation of the du Guenics, by enduring privations, and

saving, as people do save in the provinces, would be able to buy back

their estates and recover, in the end, the lustre of wealth. The

baroness prayed for a long age that she might see the dawn of this

prosperous era. Mademoiselle du Guenic had understood and fully

adopted this hope which Mademoiselle des Touches now threatened to

overthrow.

The baroness heard midnight strike, with tears; her mind conceived of

many horrors during the next hour, for the clock struck one, and

Calyste was still not at home.

"Will he stay there?" she thought. "It would be the first time. Poor

child!"

At that moment Calyste's step resounded in the lane. The poor mother,

in whose heart rejoicing drove out anxiety, flew from the house to the

gate and opened it for her boy.

"Oh!" cried Calyste, in a grieved voice, "my darling mother, why did

you sit up for me? I have a pass-key and the tinder-box."

"You know very well, my child, that I cannot sleep when you are out,"

she said, kissing him.

When the baroness reached the salon, she looked at her son to

discover, if possible, from the expression of his face the events of

the evening. But he caused her, as usual, an emotion that frequency

never weakened,--an emotion which all loving mothers feel at sight of

a human masterpiece made by them; this sentiment blues their sight and

supersedes all others for the moment.

Except for the black eyes, full of energy and the heat of the sun,

which he derived from his father, Calyste in other respects resembled

his mother; he had her beautiful golden hair, her lovable mouth, the

same curving fingers, the same soft, delicate, and purely white skin.

Though slightly resembling a girl disguised as a man, his physical

strength was Herculean. His muscles had the suppleness and vigor of

steel springs, and the singularity of his black eyes and fair

complexion was by no means without charm. His beard had not yet

sprouted; this delay, it is said, is a promise of longevity. The

chevalier was dressed in a short coat of black velvet like that of his

mother's gown, trimmed with silver buttons, a blue foulard necktie,

trousers of gray jean, and a becoming pair of gaiters. His white brow

bore the signs of great fatigue, caused, to an observer's eye, by the

weight of painful thoughts; but his mother, incapable of supposing

that troubles could wring his heart, attributed his evident weariness

to passing excitement. Calyste was as handsome as a Greek god, and

handsome without conceit; in the first place, he had his mother's

beauty constantly before him, and next, he cared very little for

personal advantages which he found useless.

"Those beautiful pure cheeks," thought his mother, "where the rich

young blood is flowing, belong to another woman! she is the mistress

of that innocent brow! Ah! passion will lead to many evils; it will

tarnish the look of those eyes, moist as the eyes of an infant!"

This bitter thought wrung Fanny's heart and destroyed her pleasure.

It may seem strange to those who calculate expenses that in a family

of six persons compelled to live on three thousand francs a year the

son should have a coat and the mother a gown of velvet; but Fanny

O'Brien had aunts and rich relations in London who recalled themselves

to her remembrance by many presents. Several of her sisters, married

to great wealth, took enough interest in Calyste to wish to find him

an heiress, knowing that he, like Fanny their exiled favorite, was

noble and handsome.

"You stayed at Les Touches longer than you did last night, my dear

one," said the mother at last, in an agitated tone.

"Yes, dear mother," he answered, offering no explanation.

The curtness of this answer brought clouds to his mother's brow, and

she resolved to postpone the explanation till the morrow. When mothers

admit the anxieties which were now torturing the baroness, they

tremble before their sons; they feel instinctively the effect of the

great emancipation that comes with love; they perceive what that

sentiment is about to take from them; but they have, at the same time,

a sense of joy in knowing that their sons are happy; conflicting

feelings battle in their hearts. Though the result may be the

development of their sons into superior men, true mothers do not like

this forced abdication; they would rather keep their children small

and still requiring protection. Perhaps that is the secret of their

predilection for feeble, deformed, or weak-minded offspring.

"You are tired, dear child; go to bed," she said, repressing her

tears.

A mother who does not know all that her son is doing thinks the worst;

that is, if a mother loves as much and is as much beloved as Fanny.

But perhaps all other mothers would have trembled now as she did. The

patient care of twenty years might be rendered worthless. This human

masterpiece of virtuous and noble and religious education, Calyste,

might be destroyed; the happiness of his life, so long and carefully

prepared for, might be forever ruined by this woman.

The next day Calyste slept till mid-day, for his mother would not have

him wakened. Mariotte served the spoiled child's breakfast in his bed.

The inflexible and semi-conventual rules which regulated the hours for

meals yielded to the caprices of the chevalier. If it became desirable

to extract from Mademoiselle du Guenic her array of keys in order to

obtain some necessary article of food outside of the meal hours, there

was no other means of doing it than to make the pretext of its serving

some fancy of Calyste.

About one o'clock the baron, his wife, and Mademoiselle were seated in

the salon, for they dined at three o'clock. The baroness was again

reading the "Quotidienne" to her husband, who was always more awake

before the dinner hour. As she finished a paragraph she heard the

steps of her son on the upper floor, and she dropped the paper,

saying:--

"Calyste must be going to dine again at Les Touches; he has dressed

himself."

"He amuses himself, the dear boy," said the old sister, taking a

silver whistle from her pocket and whistling once.

Mariotte came through the tower and appeared at the door of

communication which was hidden by a silken curtain like the other

doors of the room.

"What is it?" she said; "anything wanted?"

"The chevalier dines at Les Touches; don't cook the fish."

"But we are not sure as yet," said the baroness.

"You seem annoyed, sister; I know it by the tone of your voice."

"Monsieur Grimont has heard some very grave charges against

Mademoiselle des Touches, who for the last year has so changed our

dear Calyste."

"Changed him, how?" asked the baron.

"He reads all sorts of books."

"Ah! ah!" exclaimed the baron, "so that's why he has given up hunting

and riding."

"Her morals are very reprehensible, and she has taken a man's name,"

added Madame du Guenic.

"A war name, I suppose," said the old man. "I was called 'l'Intime,'

the Comte de Fontaine 'Grand-Jacques,' the Marquis de Montauran the

'Gars.' I was the friend of Ferdinand, who never submitted, any more

than I did. Ah! those were the good times; people shot each other, but

what of that? we amused ourselves all the same, here and there."

This war memory, pushing aside paternal anxiety, saddened Fanny for a

moment. The rector's revelations, the want of confidence shown to her

by Calyste, had kept her from sleeping.

"Suppose Monsieur le chevalier does love Mademoiselle des Touches,

where's the harm?" said Mariotte. "She has thirty thousand francs a

year and