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by Honore de Balzac

Katharine Prescott Wormeley

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Etext prepared by John Bickers, jbickers@templar.actrix.gen.nz

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The Village Rector

by Honore de Balzac

Katharine Prescott Wormeley

DEDICATION

To Helene.

The tiniest boat is not launched upon the sea without the

protection of some living emblem or revered name, placed upon it

by the mariners. In accordance with this time-honored custom,

Madame, I pray you to be the protectress of this book now launched

upon our literary ocean; and may the Imperial name which the

Church has canonized and your devotion has doubly sanctified for

me guard it from perils.

De Balzac.

THE VILLAGE RECTOR

I

THE SAUVIATS

In the lower town of Limoges, at the corner of the rue de la Vieille-

Poste and the rue de la Cite might have been seen, a generation ago,

one of those shops which were scarcely changed from the period of the

middle-ages. Large tiles seamed with a thousand cracks lay on the soil

itself, which was damp in places, and would have tripped up those who

failed to observe the hollows and ridges of this singular flooring.

The dusty walls exhibited a curious mosaic of wood and brick, stones

and iron, welded together with a solidity due to time, possibly to

chance. For more than a hundred years the ceiling, formed of colossal

beams, bent beneath the weight of the upper stories, though it had

never given way under them. Built /en colombage/, that is to say, with

a wooden frontage, the whole facade was covered with slates, so put on

as to form geometrical figures,--thus preserving a naive image of the

burgher habitations of the olden time.

None of the windows, cased in wood and formerly adorned with carvings,

now destroyed by the action of the weather, had continued plumb; some

bobbed forward, others tipped backward, while a few seemed disposed to

fall apart; all had a compost of earth, brought from heaven knows

where, in the nooks and crannies hollowed by the rain, in which the

spring-tide brought forth fragile flowers, timid creeping plants, and

sparse herbage. Moss carpeted the roof and draped its supports. The

corner pillar, with its composite masonry of stone blocks mingled with

brick and pebbles, was alarming to the eye by reason of its curvature;

it seemed on the point of giving way under the weight of the house,

the gable of which overhung it by at least half a foot. The municipal

authorities and the commissioner of highways did, eventually, pull the

old building down, after buying it, to enlarge the square.

The pillar we have mentioned, placed at the angle of two streets, was

a treasure to the seekers for Limousin antiquities, on account of its

lovely sculptured niche in which was a Virgin, mutilated during the

Revolution. All visitors with archaeological proclivities found traces

of the stone sockets used to hold the candelabra in which public piety

lighted tapers or placed its /ex-votos/ and flowers.

At the farther end of the shop, a worm-eaten wooden staircase led to

the two upper floors which were in turn surmounted by an attic. The

house, backing against two adjoining houses, had no depth and derived

all its light from the front and side windows. Each floor had two

small chambers only, lighted by single windows, one looking out on the

rue de la Cite, the other on the rue de la Vieille-Poste.

In the middle-ages no artisan was better lodged. The house had

evidently belonged in those times to makers of halberds and battle-

axes, armorers in short, artificers whose work was not injured by

exposure to the open air; for it was impossible to see clearly within,

unless the iron shutters were raised from each side of the building;

where were also two doors, one on either side of the corner pillar, as

may be seen in many shops at the corners of streets. From the sill of

each door--of fine stone worn by the tread of centuries--a low wall

about three feet high began; in this wall was a groove or slot,

repeated above in the beam by which the wall of each facade was

supported. From time immemorial the heavy shutters had been rolled

along these grooves, held there by enormous iron bars, while the doors

were closed and secured in the same manner; so that these merchants

and artificers could bar themselves into their houses as into a

fortress.

Examining the interior, which, during the first twenty years of this

century, was encumbered with old iron and brass, tires of wheels,

springs, bells, anything in short which the destruction of buildings

afforded of old metals, persons interested in the relics of the old

town noticed signs of the flue of a forge, shown by a long trail of

soot,--a minor detail which confirmed the conjecture of archaeologists

as to the original use to which the building was put. On the first

floor (above the ground-floor) was one room and the kitchen; on the

floor above that were two bedrooms. The garret was used to put away

articles more choice and delicate than those that lay pell-mell about

the shop.

This house, hired in the first instance, was subsequently bought by a

man named Sauviat, a hawker or peddler who, from 1786 to 1793,

travelled the country over a radius of a hundred and fifty miles

around Auvergne, exchanging crockery of a common kind, plates, dishes,

glasses,--in short, the necessary articles of the poorest households,

--for old iron, brass, and lead, or any metal under any shape it might

lurk in. The Auvergnat would give, for instance, a brown earthenware

saucepan worth two sous for a pound of lead, two pounds of iron, a

broken spade or hoe or a cracked kettle; and being invariably the

judge of his own cause, he did the weighing.

At the close of his third year Sauviat added the hawking of tin and

copper ware to that of his pottery. In 1793 he was able to buy a

chateau sold as part of the National domain, which he at once pulled

to pieces. The profits were such that he repeated the process at

several points of the sphere in which he operated; later, these first

successful essays gave him the idea of proposing something of a like

nature on a larger scale to one of his compatriots who lived in Paris.

Thus it happened that the "Bande Noire," so celebrated for its

devastations, had its birth in the brain of old Sauviat, the peddler,

whom all Limoges afterward saw and knew for twenty-seven years in the

rickety old shop among his cracked bells and rusty bars, chains and

scales, his twisted leaden gutters, and metal rubbish of all kinds. We

must do him the justice to say that he knew nothing of the celebrity

or the extent of the association he originated; he profited by his own

idea only in proportion to the capital he entrusted to the since

famous firm of Bresac.

Tired of frequenting fairs and roaming the country, the Auvergnat

settled at Limoges, where he married, in 1797, the daughter of a

coppersmith, a widower, named Champagnac. When his father-in-law died

he bought the house in which he had been carrying on his trade of old-

iron dealer, after ceasing to roam the country as a peddler. Sauviat

was fifty years of age when he married old Champagnac's daughter, who

was herself not less than thirty. Neither handsome nor pretty, she was

nevertheless born in Auvergne, and the /patois/ seemed to be the

mutual attraction; also she had the sturdy frame which enables women

to bear hard work. In the first three years of their married life

Sauviat continued to do some peddling, and his wife accompanied him,

carrying iron or lead on her back, and leading the miserable horse and

cart full of crockery with which her husband plied a disguised usury.

Dark-skinned, high-colored, enjoying robust health, and showing when

she laughed a brilliant set of teeth, white, long, and broad as

almonds, Madame Sauviat had the hips and bosom of a woman made by

Nature expressly for maternity.

If this strong girl were not earlier married, the fault must be

attributed to the Harpagon "no dowry" her father practised, though he

never read Moliere. Sauviat was not deterred by the lack of dowry;

besides, a man of fifty can't make difficulties, not to speak of the

fact that such a wife would save him the cost of a servant. He added

nothing to the furniture of his bedroom where, from the day of his

wedding to the day he left the house, twenty years later, there was

never anything but a single four-post bed, with valance and curtains

of green serge, a chest, a bureau, four chairs, a table, and a

looking-glass, all collected from different localities. The chest

contained in its upper section pewter plates, dishes, etc., each

article dissimilar from the rest. The kitchen can be imagined from the

bedroom.

Neither husband nor wife knew how to read,--a slight defect of

education which did not prevent them from ciphering admirably and

doing a most flourishing business. Sauviat never bought any article

without the certainty of being able to sell it for one hundred per

cent profit. To relieve himself of the necessity of keeping books and

accounts, he bought and sold for cash only. He had, moreover, such a

perfect memory that the cost of any article, were it only a farthing,

remained in his mind year after year, together with its accrued

interest.

Except during the time required for her household duties, Madame

Sauviat was always seated in a rickety wooden chair placed against the

corner pillar of the building. There she knitted and looked at the

passers, watched over the old iron, sold and weighed it, and received

payment if Sauviat was away making purchases. When at home the husband

could be heard at daybreak pushing open his shutters; the household

dog rushed out into the street; and Madame Sauviat presently came out

to help her man in spreading upon the natural counter made by the low

walls on either side of the corner of the house on the two streets,

the multifarious collection of bells, springs, broken gunlocks, and

the other rubbish of their business, which gave a poverty-stricken

look to the establishment, though it usually contained as much as

twenty thousand francs' worth of lead, steel, iron, and other metals.

Never were the former peddler and his wife known to speak of their

fortune; they concealed its amount as carefully as a criminal hides a

crime; and for years they were suspected of shaving both gold and

silver coins. When Champagnac died the Sauviats made no inventory of

his property; but they rummaged, with the intelligence of rats, into

every nook and corner of the old man's house, left it as naked as a

corpse, and sold the wares it contained in their own shop.

Once a year, in December, Sauviat went to Paris in one of the public

conveyances. The gossips of the neighborhood concluded that in order

to conceal from others the amount of his fortune, he invested it

himself on these occasions. It was known later that, having been

connected in his youth with one of the most celebrated dealers in

metal, an Auvergnat like himself, who was living in Paris, Sauviat

placed his funds with the firm of Bresac, the mainspring and spine of

that famous association known by the name of the "Bande Noire," which,

as we have already said, took its rise from a suggestion made by

Sauviat himself.

Sauviat was a fat little man with a weary face, endowed by Nature with

a look of honesty which attracted customers and facilitated the sale

of goods. His straightforward assertions, and the perfect indifference

of his tone and manner, increased this impression. In person, his

naturally ruddy complexion was hardly perceptible under the black

metallic dust which powdered his curly black hair and the seams of a

face pitted with the small-pox. His forehead was not without dignity;

in fact, it resembled the well-known brow given by all painters to

Saint Peter, the man of the people, the roughest, but withal the

shrewdest, of the apostles. His hands were those of an indefatigable

worker,--large, thick, square, and wrinkled with deep furrows. His

chest was of seemingly indestructible muscularity. He never

relinquished his peddler's costume,--thick, hobnailed shoes; blue

stockings knit by his wife and hidden by leather gaiters; bottle-green

velveteen trousers; a checked waistcoat, from which depended the brass

key of his silver watch by an iron chain which long usage had polished

till it shone like steel; a jacket with short tails, also of

velveteen, like that of the trousers; and around his neck a printed

cotton cravat much frayed by the rubbing of his beard.

On Sundays and fete-days Sauviat wore a frock-coat of maroon cloth, so

well taken care of that two new ones were all he bought in twenty

years. The living of galley-slaves would be thought sumptuous in

comparison with that of the Sauviats, who never ate meat except on the

great festivals of the Church. Before paying out the money absolutely

needed for their daily subsistence, Madame Sauviat would feel in the

two pockets hidden between her gown and petticoat, and bring forth a

single well-scraped coin,--a crown of six francs, or perhaps a piece

of fifty-five sous,--which she would gaze at for a long time before

she could bring herself to change it. As a general thing the Sauviats

ate herrings, dried peas, cheese, hard eggs in salad, vegetables

seasoned in the cheapest manner. Never did they lay in provisions,

except perhaps a bunch of garlic or onions, which could not spoil and

cost but little. The small amount of wood they burned in winter they

bought of itinerant sellers day by day. By seven in winter, by nine in

summer, the household was in bed, and the shop was closed and guarded

by a huge dog, which got its living from the kitchens in the

neighborhood. Madame Sauviat used about three francs' worth of candles

in the course of the year.

The sober, toilsome life of these persons was brightened by one joy,

but that was a natural joy, and for it they made their only known

outlays. In May, 1802, Madame Sauviat gave birth to a daughter. She

was confined all alone, and went about her household work five days

later. She nursed her child in the open air, seated as usual in her

chair by the corner pillar, continuing to sell old iron while the

infant sucked. Her milk cost nothing, and she let her little daughter

feed on it for two years, neither of them being the worse for the long

nursing.

Veronique (that was the infant's name) became the handsomest child in

the Lower town, and every one who saw her stopped to look at her. The

neighbors then noticed for the first time a trace of feeling in the

old Sauviats, of which they had supposed them devoid. While the wife

cooked the dinner the husband held the little one, or rocked it to the

tune of an Auvergnat song. The workmen as they passed sometimes saw

him motionless gazing at Veronique asleep on her mother's knees. He

softened his harsh voice when he spoke to her, and wiped his hands on

his trousers before taking her up. When Veronique tried to walk, the

father bent his legs and stood at a little distance holding out his

arms and making little grimaces which contrasted funnily with the

rigid furrows of his stern, hard face. The man of iron, brass, and

lead became a being of flesh and blood and bones. If he happened to be

standing with his back against the corner pillar motionless, a cry

from Veronique would agitate him and send him flying over the mounds

of iron fragments to find her; for she spent her childhood playing

with the wreck of ancient castles heaped in the depths of that old

shop. There were other days on which she went to play in the street or

with the neighboring children; but even then her mother's eye was

always on her.

It is not unimportant to say here that the Sauviats were eminently

religious. At the very height of the Revolution they observed both

Sunday and fete-days. Twice Sauviat came near having his head cut off

for hearing mass from an unsworn priest. He was put in prison, being

justly accused of helping a bishop, whose life he saved, to fly the

country. Fortunately the old-iron dealer, who knew the ways of bolts

and bars, was able to escape; nevertheless he was condemned to death

by default, and as, by the bye, he never purged himself of that

contempt, he may be said to have died dead.

His wife shared his piety. The avariciousness of the household yielded

to the demands of religion. The old-iron dealers gave their alms

punctually at the sacrament and to all the collections in church. When

the vicar of Saint-Etienne called to ask help for his poor, Sauviat or

his wife fetched at once without reluctance or sour faces the sum they

thought their fair share of the parish duties. The mutilated Virgin on

their corner pillar never failed (after 1799) to be wreathed with

holly at Easter. In the summer season she was feted with bouquets kept

fresh in tumblers of blue glass; this was particularly the case after

the birth of Veronique. On the days of the processions the Sauviats

scrupulously hung their house with sheets covered with flowers, and

contributed money to the erection and adornment of the altar, which

was the pride and glory of the whole square.

Veronique Sauviat was, therefore, brought up in a Christian manner.

From the time she was seven years old she was taught by a Gray sister

from Auvergne to whom the Sauviats had done some kindness in former

times. Both husband and wife were obliging when the matter did not

affect their pockets or consume their time,--like all poor folk who

are cordially ready to be serviceable to others in their own way. The

Gray sister taught Veronique to read and write; she also taught her

the history of the people of God, the catechism, the Old and the New

Testaments, and a very little arithmetic. That was all; the worthy

sister thought it enough; it was in fact too much.

At nine years of age Veronique surprised the whole neighborhood with

her beauty. Every one admired her face, which promised much to the

pencil of artists who are always seeking a noble ideal. She was called

"the Little Virgin" and showed signs already of a fine figure and

great delicacy of complexion. Her Madonna-like face--for the popular

voice had well named her--was surrounded by a wealth of fair hair,

which brought out the purity of her features. Whoever has seen the

sublime Virgin of Titian in his great picture of the "Presentation" at

Venice, will know that Veronique was in her girlhood,--the same

ingenuous candor, the same seraphic astonishment in her eyes, the same

simple yet noble attitude, the same majesty of childhood in her

demeanor.

At eleven years of age she had the small-pox, and owed her life to the

care of Soeur Marthe. During the two months that their child was in

danger the Sauviats betrayed to the whole community the depth of their

tenderness. Sauviat no longer went about the country to sales; he

stayed in the shop, going upstairs and down to his daughter's room,

sitting up with her every night in company with his wife. His silent

anguish seemed so great that no one dared to speak to him; his

neighbors looked at him with compassion, but they only asked news of

Veronique from Soeur Marthe. During the days when the child's danger

reached a crisis, the neighbors and passers saw, for the first and

only time in Sauviat's life, tears in his eyes and rolling down his

hollow cheeks; he did not wipe them, but stood for hours as if

stupefied, not daring to go upstairs to his daughter's room, gazing

before him and seeing nothing, so oblivious of all things that any one

might have robbed him.

Veronique was saved, but her beauty perished. Her face, once

exquisitely colored with a tint in which brown and rose were

harmoniously mingled, came out from the disease with a myriad of pits

which thickened the skin, the flesh beneath it being deeply indented.

Even her forehead did not escape the ravages of the scourge; it turned

brown and looked as though it were hammered, like metal. Nothing can

be more discordant than brick tones of the skin surrounded by golden

hair; they destroy all harmony. These fissures in the tissues,

capriciously hollowed, injured the purity of the profile and the

delicacy of the lines of the face, especially that of the nose, the

Grecian form of which was lost, and that of the chin, once as

exquisitely rounded as a piece of white porcelain. The disease left

nothing unharmed except the parts it was unable to reach,--the eyes

and the teeth. She did not, however, lose the elegance and beauty of

her shape,--neither the fulness of its lines nor the grace and

suppleness of her waist. At fifteen Veronique was still a fine girl,

and to the great consolation of her father and mother, a good and

pious girl, busy, industrious, and domestic.

After her convalescence and after she had made her first communion,

her parents gave her the two chambers on the second floor for her own

particular dwelling. Sauviat, so course in his way of living for

himself and his wife, now had certain perceptions of what comfort

might be; a vague idea came to him of consoling his child for her

great loss, which, as yet, she did not comprehend. The deprivation of

that beauty which was once the pride and joy of those two beings made

Veronique the more dear and precious to them. Sauviat came home one

day, bearing a carpet he had chanced upon in some of his rounds, which

he nailed himself on Veronique's floor. For her he saved from the sale

of an old chateau the gorgeous bed of a fine lady, upholstered in red

silk damask, with curtains and chairs of the same rich stuff. He

furnished her two rooms with antique articles, of the true value of

which he was wholly ignorant. He bought mignonette and put the pots on

the ledge outside her window; and he returned from many of his trips

with rose trees, or pansies, or any kind of flower which gardeners or

tavern-keepers would give him.

If Veronique could have made comparisons and known the character, past

habits, and ignorance of her parents she would have seen how much

there was of affection in these little things; but as it was, she

simply loved them from her own sweet nature and without reflection.

The girl wore the finest linen her mother could find in the shops.

Madame Sauviat left her daughter at liberty to buy what materials she

liked for her gowns and other garments; and the father and mother were

proud of her choice, which was never extravagant. Veronique was

satisfied with a blue silk gown for Sundays and fete-days, and on

working-days she wore merino in winter and striped cotton dresses in

summer. On Sundays she went to church with her father and mother, and

took a walk after vespers along the banks of the Vienne or about the

environs. On other days she stayed at home, busy in filling worsted-

work patterns, the payment for which she gave to the poor,--a life of

simple, chaste, and exemplary principles and habits. She did some

reading together with her tapestry, but never in any books except

those lent to her by the vicar of Saint-Etienne, a priest whom Soeur

Marthe had first made known to her parents.

All the rules of the Sauviat's domestic economy were suspended in

favor of Veronique. Her mother delighted in giving her dainty things

to eat, and cooked her food separately. The father and mother still

ate their nuts and dry bread, their herrings and parched peas

fricasseed in salt butter, while for Veronique nothing was thought too

choice and good.

"Veronique must cost you a pretty penny," said a hatmaker who lived

opposite to the Sauviats and had designs on their daughter for his

son, estimating the fortune of the old-iron dealer at a hundred

thousand francs.

"Yes, neighbor, yes," Pere Sauviat would say; "if she asked me for ten

crowns I'd let her have them. She has all she wants; but she never

asks for anything; she is as gentle as a lamb."

Veronique was, as a matter of fact, absolutely ignorant of the value

of things. She had never wanted for anything; she never saw a piece of

gold till the day of her marriage; she had no money of her own; her

mother bought and gave her everything she needed and wished for; so

that even when she wanted to give alms to a beggar, the girl felt in

her mother's pocket for the coin.

"If that's so," remarked the hatmaker, "she can't cost you much."

"So you think, do you?" replied Sauviat. "You wouldn't get off under

forty crowns a year, I can tell you that. Why, her room, she has at

least a hundred crowns' worth of furniture in it! But when a man has

but one child, he doesn't mind. The little we own will all go to her."

"The little! Why, you must be rich, pere Sauviat! It is pretty nigh

forty years that you have been doing a business in which there are no

losses."

"Ha! I sha'n't go to the poorhouse for want of a thousand francs or

so!" replied the old-iron dealer.

From the day when Veronique lost the soft beauty which made her

girlish face the admiration of all who saw it, Pere Sauviat redoubled

in activity. His business became so prosperous that he now went to

Paris several times a year. Every one felt that he wanted to

compensate his daughter by force of money for what he called her "loss

of profit." When Veronique was fifteen years old a change was made in

the internal manners and customs of the household. The father and

mother went upstairs in the evenings to their daughter's apartment,

where Veronique would read to them, by the light of a lamp placed

behind a glass globe full of water, the "Vie des Saints," the "Lettres

Edifiantes," and other books lent by the vicar. Madame Sauviat knitted

stockings, feeling that she thus recouped herself for the cost of oil.

The neighbors could see through the window the old couple seated

motionless in their armchairs, like Chinese images, listening to their

daughter, and admiring her with all the powers of their contracted

minds, obtuse to everything that was not business or religious faith.

II

VERONIQUE

There are, no doubt, many young girls in the world as pure as

Veronique, but none purer or more modest. Her confessions might have

surprised the angels and rejoiced the Blessed Virgin.

At sixteen years of age she was fully developed, and appeared the

woman she was eventually to become. She was of medium height, neither

her father nor her mother being tall; but her figure was charming in

its graceful suppleness, and in the serpentine curves laboriously

sought by painters and sculptors,--curves which Nature herself draws

so delicately with her lissom outlines, revealed to the eye of artists

in spite of swathing linen and thick clothes, which mould themselves,

inevitably, upon the nude. Sincere, simple, and natural, Veronique set

these beauties of her form into relief by movements that were wholly

free from affectation. She brought out her "full and complete effect,"

if we may borrow that strong term from legal phraseology. She had the

plump arms of the Auvergnat women, the red and dimpled hand of a

barmaid, and her strong but well-shaped feet were in keeping with the

rest of her figure.

At times there seemed to pass within her a marvellous and delightful

phenomenon which promised to Love a woman concealed thus far from

every eye. This phenomenon was perhaps one cause of the admiration her

father and mother felt for her beauty, which they often declared to be

divine,--to the great astonishment of their neighbors. The first to

remark it were the priests of the cathedral and the worshippers with

her at the same altar. When a strong emotion took possession of

Veronique,--and the religious exaltation to which she yielded herself

on receiving the communion must be counted among the strongest

emotions of so pure and candid a young creature,--an inward light

seemed to efface for the moment all traces of the small-pox. The pure

and radiant face of her childhood reappeared in its pristine beauty.

Though slightly veiled by the thickened surface disease had laid

there, it shone with the mysterious brilliancy of a flower blooming

beneath the water of the sea when the sun is penetrating it. Veronique

was changed for a few moments; the Little Virgin reappeared and then

disappeared again, like a celestial vision. The pupils of her eyes,

gifted with the power of great expansion, widened until they covered

the whole surface of the blue iris except for a tiny circle. Thus the

metamorphose of the eye, which became as keen and vivid as that of an

eagle, completed the extraordinary change in the face. Was it the

storm of restrained passions; was it some power coming from the depths

of the soul, which enlarged the pupils in full daylight as they

sometimes in other eyes enlarge by night, darkening the azure of those

celestial orbs?

However that may be, it was impossible to look indifferently at

Veronique as she returned to her seat from the altar where she had

united herself with God,--a moment when she appeared to all the parish

in her primitive splendor. At such moments her beauty eclipsed that of

the most beautiful of women. What a charm was there for the man who

loved her, guarding jealously that veil of flesh which hid the woman's

soul from every eye,--a veil which the hand of love might lift for an

instant and then let drop over conjugal delights! Veronique's lips

were faultlessly curved and painted in the clear vermilion of her pure

warm blood. Her chin and the lower part of her face were a little

heavy, in the acceptation given by painters to that term,--a heaviness

which is, according to the relentless laws of physiognomy, the

indication of an almost morbid vehemence in passion. She had above her

brow, which was finely modelled and almost imperious, a magnificent

diadem of hair, voluminous, redundant, and now of a chestnut color.

From the age of sixteen to the day of her marriage Veronique's bearing

was always thoughtful, and sometimes melancholy. Living in such deep

solitude, she was forced, like other solitary persons, to examine and

consider the spectacle of that which went on within her,--the progress

of her thought, the variety of the images in her mind, and the scope

of feelings warmed and nurtured in a life so pure.

Those who looked up from their lower level as they passed along the

rue de la Cite might have seen, on all fine days, the daughter of the

Sauviats sitting at her open window, sewing, embroidering, or pricking

the needle through the canvas of her worsted-work, with a look that

was often dreamy. Her head was vividly defined among the flowers which

poetized the brown and crumbling sills of her casement windows with

their leaded panes. Sometimes the reflection of the red damask window-

curtains added to the effect of that head, already so highly colored;

like a crimson flower she glowed in the aerial garden so carefully

trained upon her window-sill.

The quaint old house possessed therefore something more quaint than

itself,--the portrait of a young girl worthy of Mieris, or Van Ostade,

or Terburg, or Gerard Douw, framed in one of those old, defaced, half

ruined windows the brushes of the old Dutch painters loved so well.

When some stranger, surprised or interested by the building, stopped

before it and gazed at the second story, old Sauviat would poke his

head beyond the overhanging projection, certain that he should see his

daughter at her window. Then he would retreat into the shop rubbing

his hands and saying to his wife in the Auvergne vernacular:--

"Hey! old woman; they're admiring your daughter!"

In 1820 an incident occurred in the simple uneventful life the girl

was leading, which might have had no importance in the life of any

other young woman, but which, in point of fact, did no doubt exercise

over Veronique's future a terrible influence.

On one of the suppressed church fete-days, when many persons went

about their daily labor, though the Sauviats scrupulously closed their

shop, attended mass, and took a walk, Veronique passed, on their way

to the fields, a bookseller's stall on which lay a copy of "Paul and

Virginia." She had a fancy to buy it for the sake of the engraving,

and her father paid a hundred sous for the fatal volume, which he put

into the pocket of his coat.

"Wouldn't it be well to show that book to Monsieur le vicaire before

you read it?" said her mother, to whom all printed books were a sealed

mystery.

"I thought of it," answered Veronique.

The girl passed the whole night reading the story,--one of the most

touching bits of writing in the French language. The picture of mutual

love, half Biblical and worthy of the earlier ages of the world,

ravaged her heart. A hand--was it divine or devilish?--raised the veil

which, till then, had hidden nature from her. The Little Virgin still

existing in the beautiful young girl thought on the morrow that her

flowers had never been so beautiful; she heard their symbolic

language, she looked into the depths of the azure sky with a fixedness

that was almost ecstasy, and tears without a cause rolled down her

cheeks.

In the life of all women there comes a moment when they comprehend

their destiny,--when their hitherto mute organization speaks

peremptorily. It is not always a man, chosen by some furtive

involuntary glance, who awakens their slumbering sixth sense; oftener

it is some unexpected sight, the aspect of scenery, the /coup d'oeil/

of religious pomp, the harmony of nature's perfumes, a rosy dawn

veiled in slight mists, the winning notes of some divinest music, or

indeed any unexpected motion within the soul or within the body. To

this lonely girl, buried in that old house, brought up by simple, half

rustic parents, who had never heard an unfit word, whose pure

unsullied mind had never known the slightest evil thought,--to the

angelic pupil of Soeur Marthe and the vicar of Saint-Etienne the

revelation of love, the life of womanhood, came from the hand of

genius through one sweet book. To any other mind the book would have

offered no danger; to her it was worse in its effects than an obscene

tale. Corruption is relative. There are chaste and virgin natures

which a single thought corrupts, doing all the more harm because no

thought of the duty of resistance has occurred.

The next day Veronique showed the book to the good priest, who

approved the purchase; for what could be more childlike and innocent

and pure than the history of Paul and Virginia? But the warmth of the

tropics, the beauty of the scenery, the almost puerile innocence of a

love that seemed so sacred had done their work on Veronique. She was

led by the sweet and noble achievement of its author to the worship of

the Ideal, that fatal human religion! She dreamed of a lover like

Paul. Her thoughts caressed the voluptuous image of that balmy isle.

Childlike, she named an island in the Vienne, below Limoges and nearly

opposite to the Faubourg Saint-Martial, the Ile de France. Her mind

lived there in the world of fancy all young girls construct,--a world

they enrich with their own perfections. She spent long hours at her

window, looking at the artisans or the mechanics who passed it, the

only men whom the modest position of her parents allowed her to think

of. Accustomed, of course, to the idea of eventually marrying a man of

the people, she now became aware of instincts within herself which

revolved from all coarseness.

In such a situation she naturally made many a romance such as young

girls are fond of weaving. She clasped the idea--perhaps with the

natural ardor of a noble and virgin imagination--of ennobling one of

those men, and of raising him to the height where her own dreams led

her. She may have made a Paul of some young man who caught her eye,

merely to fasten her wild ideas on an actual being, as the mists of a

damp atmosphere, touched by frost, crystallize on the branches of a

tree by the wayside. She must have flung herself deep into the abysses

of her dream, for though she often returned bearing on her brow, as if

from vast heights, some luminous reflections, oftener she seemed to

carry in her hand the flowers that grew beside a torrent she had

followed down a precipice.

On the warm summer evenings she would ask her father to take her on

his arm to the banks of the Vienne, where she went into ecstasies over

the beauties of the sky and fields, the glories of the setting sun, or

the infinite sweetness of the dewy evening. Her soul exhaled itself

thenceforth in a fragrance of natural poesy. Her hair, until then

simply wound about her head, she now curled and braided. Her dress

showed some research. The vine which was running wild and naturally

among the branches of the old elm, was transplanted, cut and trained

over a green and pretty trellis.

After the return of old Sauviat (then seventy years of age) from a

trip to Paris in December, 1822, the vicar came to see him one

evening, and after a few insignificant remarks he said suddenly:--

"You had better think of marrying your daughter, Sauviat. At your age

you ought not to put off the accomplishment of so important a duty."

"But is Veronique willing to be married?" asked the old man, startled.

"As you please, father," she said, lowering her eyes.

"Yes, we'll marry her!" cried stout Madame Sauviat, smiling.

"Why didn't you speak to me about it before I went to Paris, mother?"

said Sauviat. "I shall have to go back there."

Jerome-Baptiste Sauviat, a man in whose eyes money seemed to

constitute the whole of happiness, who knew nothing of love, and had

never seen in marriage anything but the means of transmitting property

to another self, had long sworn to marry Veronique to some rich

bourgeois,--so long, in fact, that the idea had assumed in his brain

the characteristics of a hobby. His neighbor, the hat-maker, who

possessed about two thousand francs a year, had already asked, on

behalf of his son, to whom he proposed to give up his hat-making

establishment, the hand of a girl so well known in the neighborhood

for her exemplary conduct and Christian principles. Sauviat had

politely refused, without saying anything to Veronique. The day after

the vicar--a very important personage in the eyes of the Sauviat

household--had mentioned the necessary of marrying Veronique, whose

confessor he was, the old man shaved and dressed himself as for a

fete-day, and went out without saying a word to his wife or daughter;

both knew very well, however, that the father was in search of a son-

in-law. Old Sauviat went to Monsieur Graslin.

Monsieur Graslin, a rich banker in Limoges, had, like Sauviat himself,

started from Auvergne without a penny; he came to Limoges to be a

porter, found a place as an office-boy in a financial house, and

there, like many other financiers, he made his way by dint of economy,

and also through fortunate circumstances. Cashier at twenty-five years

of age, partner ten years later, in the firm of Perret and Grossetete,

he ended by finding himself the head of the house, after buying out

the senior partners, both of whom retired into the country, leaving

him their funds to manage in the business at a low interest.

Pierre Graslin, then forty-seven years of age, was supposed to possess

about six hundred thousand francs. The estimate of his fortune had

lately increased throughout the department, in consequence of his

outlay in having built, in a new quarter of the town called the place

d'Arbres (thus assisting to give Limoges an improved aspect), a fine

house, the front of it being on a line with a public building with the

facade of which it corresponded. This house had now been finished six

months, but Pierre Graslin delayed furnishing it; it had cost him so

much that he shrank from the further expense of living in it. His

vanity had led him to transgress the wise laws by which he governed

his life. He felt, with the good sense of a business man, that the

interior of the house ought to correspond with the character of the

outside. The furniture, silver-ware, and other needful accessories to

the life he would have to lead in his new mansion would, he estimated,

cost him nearly as much as the original building. In spite, therefore,

of the gossip of tongues and the charitable suppositions of his

neighbors, he continued to live on in the damp, old, and dirty ground-

floor apartment in the rue Montantmanigne where his fortune had been

made. The public carped, but Graslin had the approval of his former

partners, who praised a resolution that was somewhat uncommon.

A fortune and a position like those of Pierre Graslin naturally

excited the greed of not a few in a small provincial city. During the

last ten years more than one proposition of marriage had been

intimated to Monsieur Graslin. But the bachelor state was so well

suited to a man who was busy from morning till night, overrun with

work, eager in the pursuit of money as a hunter for game, and always

tired out with his day's labor, that Graslin fell into none of the

traps laid for him by ambitious mothers who coveted so brilliant a

position for their daughters.

Graslin, another Sauviat in an upper sphere, did not spend more than

forty sous a day, and clothed himself no better than his under-clerk.

Two clerks and an office-boy sufficed him to carry on his business,

which was immense through the multiplicity of its details. One clerk

attended to the correspondence; the other had charge of the accounts;

but Pierre Graslin was himself the soul, and body too, of the whole

concern. His clerks, chosen from his own relations, were safe men,

intelligent and as well-trained in the work as himself. As for the

office-boy, he led the life of a truck horse,--up at five in the

morning at all seasons, and never getting to bed before eleven at

night.

Graslin employed a charwoman by the day, an old peasant from Auvergne,

who did his cooking. The brown earthenware off which he ate, and the

stout coarse linen which he used, were in keeping with the character

of his food. The old woman had strict orders never to spend more than

three francs daily for the total expenses of the household. The

office-boy was also man-of-all-work. The clerks took care of their own

rooms. The tables of blackened wood, the straw chairs half unseated,

the wretched beds, the counters and desks, in short, the whole

furniture of house and office was not worth more than a thousand

francs, including a colossal iron safe, built into the wall, before

which slept the man-of-all-work with two dogs at his feet.

Graslin did not often go into society, which, however, discussed him

constantly. Two or three times a year he dined with the receiver-

general, with whom his business brought him into occasional

intercourse. He also occasionally took a meal at the prefecture; for

he had been appointed, much to his regret, a member of the Council-

general of the department--"a waste of time," he remarked. Sometimes

his brother bankers with whom he had dealings kept him to breakfast or

dinner; and he was forced also to visit his former partners, who spent

their winters in Limoges. He cared so little to keep up his relations

to society that in twenty-five years Graslin had not offered so much

as a glass of water to any one. When he passed along the street

persons would nudge each other and say: "That's Monsieur Graslin";

meaning, "There's a man who came to Limoges without a penny and has

now acquired an enormous fortune." The Auvergnat banker was a model

which more than one father pointed out to his son, and wives had been

known to fling him in the faces of their husbands.

We can now understand the reasons that led a man who had become the

pivot of the financial machine of Limoges to repulse the various

propositions of marriage which parents never ceased to make to him.

The daughters of his partners, Messrs. Perret and Grossetete, were

married before Graslin was in a position to take a wife; but as each

of these ladies had young daughters, the wiseheads of the community

finally concluded that old Perret or old Grossetete had made an

arrangement with Graslin to wait for one of his granddaughters, and

thenceforth they left him alone.

Sauviat had watched the ascending career of his compatriot more

attentively and seriously than any one else. He had known him from the

time he first came to Limoges; but their respective positions had

changed so much, at least apparently, that their friendship, now

become merely superficial, was seldom freshened. Still, in his

relation as compatriot, Graslin never disdained to talk with Sauviat

when they chanced to meet. Both continued to keep up their early

/tutoiement/, but only in their native dialect. When the receiver-

general of Bourges, the youngest of the brothers Grossetete, married

his daughter in 1823 to the youngest son of Comte Fontaine, Sauviat

felt sure that the Grossetetes would never allow Graslin to enter

their family.

After his conference with the banker, Pere Sauviat returned home

joyously. He dined that night in his daughter's room, and after dinner

he said to his womenkind:--

"Veronique will be Madame Graslin."

"Madame Graslin!" exclaimed Mere Sauviat, astounded.

"Is it possible?" said Veronique, to whom Graslin was personally

unknown, and whose imagination regarded him very much as a Parisian

grisette would regard a Rothschild.

"Yes, it is settled," said old Sauviat solemnly. "Graslin will furnish

his house magnificently; he is to give our daughter a fine Parisian

carriage and the best horses to be found in the Limousin; he will buy

an estate worth five hundred thousand francs, and settle that and his

town-house upon her. Veronique will be the first lady in Limoges, the

richest in the department, and she can do what she pleases with

Graslin."

Veronique's education, her religious ideas, and her boundless

affection for her parents, prevented her from making a single

objection; it did not even cross her mind to think that she had been

disposed of without reference to her own will. On the morrow Sauviat

went to Paris, and was absent for nearly a week.

Pierre Graslin was, as can readily be imagined, not much of a talker;

he went straight and rapidly to deeds. A thing decided on was a thing

done. In February, 1822, a strange piece of news burst like a

thunderbolt on the town of Limoges. The hotel Graslin was being

handsomely furnished; carriers' carts came day after day from Paris,

and their contents were unpacked in the courtyard. Rumors flew about

the town as to the beauty and good taste of the modern or the antique

furniture as it was seen to arrive. The great firm of Odiot and

Company sent down a magnificent service of plate by the mail-coach.

Three carriages, a caleche, a coupe, and a cabriolet arrived, wrapped

in straw with as much care as if they were jewels.

"Monsieur Graslin is going to be married!"

These words were said by every pair of lips in Limoges in the course

of a single evening,--in the salons of the upper classes, in the

kitchens, in the shops, in the streets, in the suburbs, and before

long throughout the whole surrounding country. But to whom? No one

could answer. Limoges had a mystery.

III

MARRIAGE

On the return of old Sauviat Graslin paid his first evening visit at

half-past nine o'clock. Veronique was expecting him, dressed in her

blue silk gown and muslin guimpe, over which fell a collaret made of

lawn with a deep hem. Her hair was simply worn in two smooth bandeaus,

gathered into a Grecian knot at the back of her head. She was seated

on a tapestried chair beside her mother, who occupied a fine armchair

with a carved back, covered with red velvet (evidently the relic of

some old chateau), which stood beside the fireplace. A bright fire

blazed on the hearth. On the chimney-piece, at either side of an

antique clock, the value of which was wholly unknown to the Sauviats,

six wax candles in two brass sconces twisted like vine-shoots, lighted

the dark room and Veronique in all her budding prime. The old mother

was wearing her best gown.

From the silent street, at that tranquil hour, through the soft

shadows of the ancient stairway, Graslin appeared to the modest,

artless Veronique, her mind still dwelling on the sweet ideas which

Bernadin de Saint-Pierre had given her of love.

Graslin, who was short and thin, had thick black hair like the

bristles of a brush, which brought into vigorous relief a face as red

as that of a drunkard emeritus, and covered with suppurating pimples,

either bleeding or about to burst. Without being caused by eczema or

scrofula, these signs of a blood overheated by continual toil,

anxiety, and the lust of business, by wakeful nights, poor food, and a

sober life, seemed to partake of both these diseases. In spite of the

advice of his partners, his clerks, and his physician, the banker

would never compel himself to take the healthful precautions which

might have prevented, or would at least modify, this malady, which was

slight at first, but had greatly increased from year to year. He

wanted to cure it, and would sometimes take baths or drink some

prescribed potion; but, hurried along on the current of his business,

he soon neglected the care of his person. Sometimes he thought of

suspending work for a time, travelling about, and visiting the noted

baths for such diseases; but where is the hunter after millions who is

willing to stop short?

In that blazing furnace shone two gray eyes rayed with green lines

starting from the pupils, and speckled with brown spots,--two

implacable eyes, full of resolution, rectitude, and shrewd

calculation. Graslin's nose was short and turned up; he had a mouth

with thick lips, a prominent forehead, and high cheek-bones, coarse

ears with large edges discolored by the condition of his blood,--in

short, he was an ancient satyr in a black satin waistcoat, brown

frock-coat, and white cravat. His strong and vigorous shoulders, which

began life by bearing heavy burdens, were now rather bent; and beneath

this torso, unduly developed, came a pair of weak legs, rather badly

affixed to the short thighs. His thin and hairy hands had the crooked

fingers of those whose business it is to handle money. The habit of

quick decision could be seen in the way the eyebrows rose into a point

over each arch of the eye. Though the mouth was grave and pinched, its

expression was that of inward kindliness; it told of an excellent

nature, sunk in business, smothered possibly, though it might revive

by contact with a woman.

At this apparition Veronique's heart was violently agitated; blackness

came before her eyes; she thought she cried aloud; but she really sat

there mute, with fixed and staring gaze.

"Veronique, this is Monsieur Graslin," said old Sauviat.

Veronique rose, curtsied, dropped back into her chair, and looked at

her mother, who was smiling at the millionaire, seeming, as her father

did, so happy,--so happy that the poor girl found strength to hide her

surprise and her violent repulsion. During the conversation which then

took place something was said of Graslin's health. The banker looked

naively into the mirror, with bevelled edges in an ebony frame.

"Mademoiselle," he said, "I am not good-looking."

Thereupon he proceeded to explain the blotches on his face as the

result of his overworked life. He related how he had constantly

disobeyed his physician's advice; and remarked that he hoped to change

his appearance altogether when he had a wife to rule his household,

and take better care of him than he took of himself.

"Is a man married for his face, compatriot?" said Sauviat, giving the

other a hearty slap on the thigh.

Graslin's speech went straight to those natural feelings which, more

or less, fill the heart of every woman. The thought came into

Veronique's mind that her face, too, had been destroyed by a horrible

disease, and her Christian modesty rebuked her first impression.

Hearing a whistle in the street, Graslin went downstairs, followed by

Sauviat. They speedily returned. The office-boy had brought the first

bouquet, which was a little late in coming. When the banker exhibited

this mound of exotic flowers, the fragrance of which completely filled

the room, and offered it to his future wife, Veronique felt a rush of

conflicting emotions; she was suddenly plunged into the ideal and

fantastic world of tropical nature. Never before had she seen white

camelias, never had she smelt the fragrance of the Alpine cistus, the

Cape jessamine, the cedronella, the volcameria, the moss-rose, or any

of the divine perfumes which woo to love, and sing to the heart their

hymns of fragrance. Graslin left Veronique that night in the grasp of

such emotions.

From this time forth, as soon as all Limoges was sleeping, the banker

would slip along the walls to the Sauviats' house. There he would tap

gently on the window-shutter; the dog did not bark; old Sauviat came

down and let him in, and Graslin would then spend an hour or two with

Veronique in the brown room, where Madame Sauviat always served him a

true Auvergnat supper. Never did this singular lover arrive without a

bouquet made of the rarest flowers from the greenhouse of his old

partner, Monsieur Grossetete, the only person who as yet knew of the

approaching marriage. The man-of-all-work went every evening to fetch

the bunch, which Monsieur Grossetete made himself.

Graslin made about fifty such visits in two months; each time, besides

the flowers, he brought with him some rich present,--rings, a watch, a

gold chain, a work-box, etc. These inconceivable extravagances must be

explained, and a word suffices. Veronique's dowry, promised by her

father, consisted of nearly the whole of old Sauviat's property,

namely, seven hundred and fifty thousand francs. The old man retained

an income of eight thousand francs derived from the Funds, bought for

him originally for sixty thousand francs in assignats by his

correspondent Brezac, to whom, at the time of his imprisonment, he had

confided that sum, and who kept it for him safely. These sixty

thousand francs in assignats were the half of Sauviat's fortune at the

time he came so near being guillotined. Brezac was also, at the same

time, the faithful repository of the rest, namely, seven hundred louis

d'or (an enormous sum at that time in gold), with which old Sauviat

began his business once more as soon as he recovered his liberty. In

thirty years each of those louis d'or had been transformed into a

bank-note for a thousand francs, by means of the income from the

Funds, of Madame Sauviat's inheritance from her father, old

Champagnac, and of the profits accruing from the business and the

accumulated interest thereon in the hands of the Brezac firm. Brezac

himself had a loyal and honest friendship for Sauviat,--such as all

Auvergnats are apt to feel for one another.

So, whenever Sauviat passed the front of the Graslin mansion he had

said to himself, "Veronique shall live in that fine palace." He knew

very well that no girl in all the department would have seven hundred

and fifty thousand francs as a marriage portion, besides the

expectation of two hundred and fifty thousand more. Graslin, his

chosen son-in-law, would therefore infallibly marry Veronique; and so,

as we have seen, it came about.

Every evening Veronique had her fresh bunch of flowers, which on the

morrow decked her little salon and was carefully concealed from the

neighbors. She admired the beautiful jewels, the pearls and diamonds,

the bracelets, the rubies, gifts which assuredly gratify all the

daughters of Eve. She thought herself less plain when she wore them.

She saw her mother happy in the marriage, and she had no other point

of view from which to make comparisons. She was, moreover, totally

ignorant of the duties or the purpose of marriage. She heard the

solemn voice of the vicar of Saint-Etienne praising Graslin to her as

a man of honor, with whom she would lead an honorable life. Thus it

was that Veronique consented to receive Monsieur Graslin as her future

husband.

When it happens that in a life so withdrawn from the world, so

solitary as that of Veronique, a single person enters it every day,

that person cannot long remain indifferent; either he is hated, and

the aversion, justified by a deepening knowledge of his character,

renders him intolerable, or the habit of seeing bodily defects dims

the eye to them. The mind looks about for compensations; his

countenance awakens curiosity; its features brighten; fleeting

beauties appear in it. At last the inner, hidden beneath the outer,

shows itself. Then, when the first impressions are fairly overcome,

the attachment felt is all the stronger, because the soul clings to it

as its own creation. That is love. And here lies the reason of those

passions conceived by beautiful things for other beings apparently

ugly. The outward aspect, forgotten by affection, is no longer seen in

a creature whose soul is deeply valued. Besides this, beauty, so

necessary to a woman, takes many strange aspects in man; and there is

as much diversity of feeling among women about the beauty of men as

there is among men about the beauty of women. So, after deep

reflection and much debating with herself, Veronique gave her consent

to the publication of the banns.

From that moment all Limoges rang with this inexplicable affair,--

inexplicable because no one knew the secret of it, namely, the

immensity of the dowry. Had that dowry been known Veronique could have

chosen a husband where she pleased; but even so, she might have made a

mistake.

Graslin was thought to be much in love. Upholsterers came from Paris

to fit up the house. Nothing was talked of in Limoges but the profuse

expenditures of the banker. The value of the chandeliers was

calculated; the gilding of the walls, the figures on the clocks, all

were discussed; the jardinieres, the caloriferes, the objects of

luxury and novelty, nothing was left unnoticed. In the garden of the

hotel Graslin, above the icehouse, was an aviary, and all the

inhabitants of the town were presently surprised by the sight of rare

birds,--Chinese pheasants, mysterious breeds of ducks. Every one

flocked to see them. Monsieur and Madame Grossetete, an old couple who

were highly respected in Limoges, made several visits to the Sauviats,

accompanied by Graslin. Madame Grossetete, a most excellent woman,

congratulated Veronique on her happy marriage. Thus the Church, the

family, society, and all material things down to the most trivial,

made themselves accomplices to bring about this marriage.

In the month of April the formal invitations to the wedding were

issued to all Graslin's friends and acquaintance. On a fine spring

morning a caleche and a coupe, drawn by Limousin horses chosen by

Monsieur Grossetete, drew up at eleven o'clock before the shop of the

iron-dealer, bringing, to the great excitement of the neighborhood,

the former partners of the bridegroom and the latter's two clerks. The

street was lined with spectators, all anxious to see the Sauviats'

daughter, on whose beautiful hair the most renowned hairdresser in

Limoges had placed the bridal wreath and a costly veil of English

lace. Veronique wore a gown of simple white muslin. A rather imposing

assemblage of the most distinguished women in the society of the town

attended the wedding in the cathedral, where the bishop, knowing the

religious fervor of the Sauviats, deigned to marry Veronique himself.

The bride was very generally voted plain.

She entered her new house, and went from one surprise to another. A

grand dinner was to precede the ball, to which Graslin had invited

nearly all Limoges. The dinner, given to the bishop, the prefect, the

judge of the court, the attorney-general, the mayor, the general, and

Graslin's former partners with their wives, was a triumph for the

bride, who, like all other persons who are simple and natural, showed

charms that were not expected in her. Neither of the bridal pair could

dance; Veronique continued therefore to do the honors to her guests,

and to win the esteem and good graces of nearly all the persons who

were presented to her, asking Grossetete, who took an honest liking to

her, for information about the company. She made no mistakes and

committed no blunders. It was during this evening that the two former

partners of the banker announced the amount of the dowry (immense for

Limousin) given by the Sauviats to their daughter. At nine o'clock the

old iron-dealer returned home and went to bed, leaving his wife to

preside over the bride's retiring. It was said by everyone throughout

the town that Madame Graslin was very plain, though well made.

Old Sauviat now wound up his business and sold his house in town. He

bought a little country-place on the left bank of the Vienne between

Limoges and Cluzeau, ten minutes' walk from the suburb of Saint-

Martial, where he intended to finish his days tranquilly with his

wife. The old couple had an apartment in the hotel Graslin and always

dined once or twice a week with their daughter, who, as often, made

their house in the country the object of her walks.

This enforced rest almost killed old Sauviat. Happily, Graslin found a

means of occupying his father-in-law. In 1823 the banker was forced to

take possession of a porcelain manufactory, to the proprietors of

which he had advanced large sums, which they found themselves unable

to repay except by the sale of their factory, which they made to him.

By the help of his business connections and by investing a large

amount of property in the concern, Graslin made it one of the finest

manufactories of Limoges ware in the town. Afterwards he resold it at

a fine profit; meantime he placed it under the superintendence of his

father-in-law, who, in spite of his seventy-two years, counted for

much in the return of prosperity to the establishment, who himself

renewed his youth in the employment. Graslin was then able to attend

to his legitimate business of banking without anxiety as to the

manufactory.

Sauviat died in 1827 from an accident. While taking account of stock

he fell into a /charasse/,--a sort of crate with an open grating in

which the china was packed; his leg was slightly injured, so slightly

that he paid no attention to it; gangrene set in; he would not consent

to amputation, and therefore died. The widow gave up about two hundred

and fifty thousand francs which came to her from Sauviat's estate,

reserving only a stipend of two hundred francs a month, which amply

sufficed for her wants. Graslin bound himself to pay her that sum

duly. She kept her little house in the country, and lived there alone

without a servant and against the remonstrances of her daughter, who

could not induce her to alter this determination, to which she clung

with the obstinacy peculiar to old persons. Madame Sauviat came nearly

every day into Limoges to see her daughter, and the latter still

continued to make her mother's house, from which was a charming view

of the river, the object of her walks. From the road leading to it

could be seen that island long loved by Veronique and called by her

the Ile de France.

In order not to complicate our history of the Graslin household with

the foregoing incidents, we have thought it best to end that of the

Sauviats by anticipating events, which are moreover useful as

explaining the private and hidden life which Madame Graslin now led.

The old mother, noticing that Graslin's miserliness, which returned

upon him, might hamper her daughter, was for some time unwilling to

resign the property left to her by her husband. But Veronique, unable

to imagine a case in which a woman might desire the use of her own

property, urged it upon her mother with reasons of great generosity,

and out of gratitude to Graslin for restoring to her the liberty and

freedom of a young girl. But this is anticipating.

The unusual splendor which accompanied Graslin's marriage had

disturbed all his habits and constantly annoyed him. The mind of the

great financier was a very small one. Veronique had had no means of

judging the man with whom she was to pass her life. During his fifty-

five visits he had let her see nothing but the business man, the

indefatigable worker, who conceived and sustained great enterprises,

and analyzed public affairs, bringing them always to the crucial test

of the Bank. Fascinated by the million offered to him by Sauviat, he

showed himself generous by calculation. Carried away by the interests

of his marriage and by what he called his "folly," namely, the house

which still goes by the name of the hotel Graslin, he did things on a

large scale. Having bought horses, a caleche, and a coupe, he

naturally used them to return the wedding visits and go to those

dinners and balls, called the "retours de noces," which the heads of

the administration and the rich families of Limoges gave to the newly

married pair. Under this impulsion, which carried him entirely out of

his natural sphere, Graslin sent to Paris for a man-cook and took a

reception day. For a year he kept the pace of a man who possesses a

fortune of sixteen hundred thousand francs, and he became of course

the most noted personage in Limoges. During this year he generously

put into his wife's purse every month twenty-five gold pieces of

twenty francs each.

Society concerned itself much about Veronique from the day of her

marriage, for she was a boon to its curiosity, which has little to

feed on in the provinces. Veronique was all the more studied because

she had appeared in the social world like a phenomenon; but once

there, she remained always simple and modest, in the attitude of a

person who is observing habits, customs, manners, things unknown to

her, and endeavoring to conform to them. Already voted ugly but well-

shaped, she was now declared kindly but stupid. She was learning so

many things, she had so much to hear and to see that her looks and

speech did certainly give some reason for this judgment. She showed a

sort of torpor which resembled lack of mind. Marriage, that hard

calling, as she said, for which the Church, the Code, and her mother

exhorted her to resignation and obedience, under pain of transgressing

all human laws and causing irreparable evil, threw her into a dazed

and dizzy condition, which amounted sometimes to a species of inward

delirium.

Silent and self-contained, she listened as much to herself as she did

to others. Feeling within her the most violent "difficulty of

existing," to use an expression of Fontenelle's, which was constantly

increasing, she became terrified at herself. Nature resisted the

commands of the mind, the body denied the will. The poor creature,

caught in the net, wept on the breast of that great Mother of the poor

and the afflicted,--she went for comfort to the Church; her piety

redoubled, she confided the assaults of the demon to her confessor;

she prayed to heaven for succor. Never, at any period of her life, did

she fulfil her religious duties with such fervor. The despair of not

loving her husband flung her violently at the foot of the altar, where

divine and consolatory voices urged her to patience. She was patient,

she was gentle, and she continued to live on, hoping always for the

happiness of maternity.

"Did you notice Madame Graslin this morning?" the women would say to

each other. "Marriage doesn't agree with her; she is actually green."

"Yes," some of them would reply; "but would you give your daughter to

a man like Graslin? No woman could marry him with impunity."

Now that Graslin was married, all the mothers who had courted him for

ten years past pursued him with sarcasms.

Veronique grew visibly thinner and really ugly; her eyes looked weary,

her features coarsened, her manner was shy and awkward; she acquired

that air of cold and melancholy rigidity for which the ultra-pious are

so often blamed. Her skin took on a grayish tone; she dragged herself

languidly about during this first year of married life, ordinarily so

brilliant for a young wife. She tried to divert her mind by reading,

profiting by the liberty of married women to read what they please.

She read the novels of Walter Scott, the poems of Lord Byron, the

works of Schiller and of Goethe, and much else of modern and also

ancient literature. She learned to ride a horse, and to dance and to

draw. She painted water-colors and made sepia sketches, turning

ardently to all those resources which women employ to bear the

weariness of their solitude. She gave herself that second education

which most women derive from a man, but which she derived from herself

only.

The natural superiority of a free, sincere spirit, brought up, as it

were in a desert and strengthened by religion, had given her a sort of

untrammelled grandeur and certain needs, to which the provincial world

she lived in offered no sustenance. All books pictured Love to her,

and she sought for the evidence of its existence, but nowhere could

she see the passion of which she read. Love was in her heart, like

seeds in the earth, awaiting the action of the sun. Her deep

melancholy, caused by constant meditation on herself, brought her back

by hidden by-ways to the brilliant dreams of her girlish days. Many a

time she must have lived again that old romantic poem, making herself

both the actor and the subject of it. Again she saw that island bathed

in light, flowery, fragrant, caressing to her soul. Often her pallid

eyes wandered around a salon with piercing curiosity. The men were all

like Graslin. She studied them, and then she seemed to question their

wives; but nothing on the faces of those women revealed an inward

anguish like to hers, and she returned home sad and gloomy and

distressed about herself. The authors she had read in the morning

answered to the feelings in her soul; their thoughts pleased her; but

at night she heard only empty words, not even presented in a lively

way,--dull, empty, foolish conversations in petty local matters, or

personalities of no interest to her. She was often surprised at the

heat displayed in discussions which concerned no feeling or sentiment

--to her the essence of existence, the soul of life.

Often she was seen with fixed eyes, mentally absorbed, thinking no

doubt of the days of her youthful ignorance spent in that chamber full

of harmonies now forever passed away. She felt a horrible repugnance

against dropping into the gulf of pettiness in which the women among

whom she lived were floundering. This repugnance, stamped on her

forehead, on her lips, and ill-disguised, was taken for the insolence

of a parvenue. Madame Graslin began to observe on all faces a certain

coldness; she felt in all remarks an acrimony, the causes of which

were unknown to her, for she had no intimate friend to enlighten or

advise her. Injustice, which angers little minds, brings loftier souls

to question themselves, and communicates a species of humility to

them. Veronique condemned herself, endeavoring to see her own faults.

She tried to be affable; they called her false. She grew more gentle

still; they said she was a hypocrite, and her pious devotion helped on

the calumny. She spent money, gave dinners and balls, and they taxed

her with pride.

Unsuccessful in all these attempts, unjustly judged, rebuffed by the

petty and tormenting pride which characterizes provincial society,

where each individual is armed with pretensions and their attendant

uneasiness, Madame Graslin fell back into utter solitude. She returned

with eagerness to the arms of the Church. Her great soul, clothed with

so weak a flesh, showed her the multiplied commandments of Catholicism

as so many stones placed for protection along the precipices of life,

so many props brought by charitable hands to sustain human weakness on

its weary way; and she followed, with greater rigor than ever, even

the smallest religious practices.

On this the liberals of the town classed Madame Graslin among the

/devotes/, the ultras. To the different animosities Veronique had

innocently acquired, the virulence of party feeling now added its

periodical exasperation. But as this ostracism took nothing really

from her, she quietly left society and lived in books which offered

her such infinite resources. She meditated on what she read, she

compared systems, she widened immeasurably the horizons of her

intellect and the extent of her education; in this way she opened the

gates of her soul to curiosity.

During this period of resolute study, in which religion supported and

maintained her mind, she obtained the friendship of Monsieur

Grossetete, one of those old men whose mental superiority grows rusty

in provincial life, but who, when they come in contact with an eager

mind, recover something of their former brilliancy. The good man took

an earnest interest in Veronique, who, to reward him for the

flattering warmth of heart which old men show to those they like,

displayed before him, and for the first time in her life, the

treasures of her soul and the acquirements of her mind, cultivated so

secretly, and now full of blossom. An extract from a letter written by

her about this time to Monsieur Grossetete will show the condition of

the mind of a woman who was later to give signal proofs of a firm and

lofty nature:--

"The flowers you sent me for the ball were charming, but they

suggested harsh reflections. Those pretty creatures gathered by

you, and doomed to wilt upon my bosom to adorn a fete, made me

think of others that live and die unseen in the depths of your

woods, their fragrance never inhaled by any one. I asked myself

why I was dancing there, why I was decked with flowers, just as I

ask God why he has placed me to live in this world.

"You see, my friend, all is a snare to the unhappy; the smallest

matter brings the sick mind back to its woes; but the greatest

evil of certain woes is the persistency which makes them a fixed

idea pervading our lives. A constant sorrow ought rather to be a

divine inspiration. You love flowers for themselves, whereas I

love them as I love to listen to fine music. So, as I was saying,

the secret of a mass of things escapes me. You, my old friend, you

have a passion,--that of the horticulturist. When you return to

town inspire me with that taste, so that I may rush to my

greenhouse with eager feet, as you go to yours to watch the

development of your plants, to bud and bloom with them, to admire

what you create,--the new colors, the unexpected varieties, which

expand and grow beneath your eyes by the virtue of your care.

"My greenhouse, the one I watch, is filled with suffering souls.

The miseries I try to lessen sadden my heart; and when I take them

upon myself, when, after finding some young woman without clothing

for her babe, some old man wanting bread, I have supplied their

needs, the emotions their distress and its relief have caused me

do not suffice my soul. Ah, friend, I feel within me untold powers

--for evil, possibly,--which nothing can lower, which the sternest

commands of our religion are unable to abase! Sometimes, when I go

to see my mother, walking alone among the fields, I want to cry

aloud, and I do so. It seems to me that my body is a prison in

which some evil genius is holding a shuddering creature while

awaiting the mysterious words which are to burst its obstructive

form.

"But that comparison is not a just one. In me it seems to be the

body that seeks escape, if I may say so. Religion fills my soul,

books and their riches occupy my mind. Why, then, do I desire some

anguish which shall destroy the enervating peace of my existence?

"Oh, if some sentiment, some mania that I could cultivate, does

not come into my life, I feel I shall sink at last into the gulf

where all ideas are dulled, where character deteriorates, motives

slacken, virtues lose their backbone, and all the forces of the

soul are scattered,--a gulf in which I shall no longer be the

being Nature meant me to be!

"This is what my bitter complainings mean. But do not let them

hinder you from sending me those flowers. Your friendship is so

soothing and so full of loving kindness that it has for the last

few months almost reconciled me to myself. Yes, it makes me happy

to have you cast a glance upon my soul, at once so barren and so

full of bloom; and I am thankful for every gentle word you say to

one who rides the phantom steed of dreams, and returns worn-out."

At the end of the third year of his married life, Graslin, observing

that his wife no longer used her horses, and finding a good market for

them, sold them. He also sold the carriages, sent away the coachman,

let the bishop have his man-cook, and contented himself with a woman.

He no longer gave the monthly sum to his wife, telling her that he

would pay all bills. He thought himself the most fortunate of husbands

in meeting no opposition whatever to these proceedings from the woman

who had brought him a million of francs as a dowry. Madame Graslin,

brought up from childhood without ever seeing money, or being made to

feel that it was an indispensable element in life, deserved no praise

whatever for this apparent generosity. Graslin even noticed in a

corner of the secretary all the sums he had ever given her, less the

money she had bestowed in charity or spent upon her dress, the cost of

which was much lessened by the profusion of her wedding trousseau.

Graslin boasted of Veronique to all Limoges as being a model wife. He

next regretted the money spent on the house, and he ordered the

furniture to be all packed away or covered up. His wife's bedroom,

dressing-room, and boudoir were alone spared from these protective

measures; which protect nothing, for furniture is injured just as much

by being covered up as by being left uncovered. Graslin himself lived

almost entirely on the ground-floor of the house, where he had his

office, and resumed his old business habits with avidity. He thought

himself an excellent husband because he went upstairs to breakfast and

dined with his wife; but his unpunctuality was so great that it was

not more than ten times a month that he began a meal with he; he had

exacted, out of courtesy, that she should never wait for him.

Veronique did, however, always remain in the room while her husband

took his meals, serving him herself, that she might at least perform

voluntarily some of the visible obligations of a wife.

The banker, to whom the things of marriage were very indifferent, and

who had seen nothing in his wife but seven hundred and fifty thousand

francs, had never once perceived Veronique's repugnance to him. Little

by little he now abandoned Madame Graslin for his business. When he

wished to put a bed in the room adjoining his office on the ground-

floor, Veronique hastened to comply with the request. So that three

years after their marriage these two ill-assorted beings returned to

their original estate, each equally pleased and happy to do so. The

moneyed man, possessing eighteen hundred thousand francs, returned

with all the more eagerness to his old avaricious habits because he

had momentarily quitted them. His two clerks and the office-boy were

better lodged and rather better fed, and that was the only difference

between the present and the past. His wife had a cook and maid (two

indispensable servants); but except for the actual necessities of

life, not a penny left his coffers for his household.

Happy in the turn which things were now taking, Veronique saw in the

evident satisfaction of the banker the absolution for this separation

which she would never have asked for herself. She had no conception

that she was as disagreeable to Graslin as Graslin was repulsive to

her. This secret divorce made her both sad and joyful. She had always

looked to motherhood for an interest in life; but up to this time

(1828) the couple had had no prospect of a family.

IV

THE HISTORY OF MANY MARRIED WOMEN IN THE PROVINCES

So now, in her magnificent house and envied for her wealth by all the

town, Madame Graslin recovered the solitude of her early years in her

father's house, less the glow of hope and the youthful joys of

ignorance. She lived among the ruins of her castles in the air,

enlightened by sad experience, sustained by religious faith, occupied

by the care of the poor, whom she loaded with benefits. She made

clothes for the babies, gave mattresses and sheets to those who slept

on straw; she went among the poor herself, followed by her maid, a

girl from Auvergne whom her mother procured for her, and who attached

herself body and soul to her mistress. Veronique made an honorable spy

of her, sending her to discover the places where suffering could be

stilled, poverty softened.

This active benevolence, carried on with strict attention to religious

duties, was hidden in the deepest secrecy and directed by the various

rectors in the town, with whom Veronique had a full understanding in

all her charitable deeds, so as not to suffer the money so needed for

unmerited misfortunes to fall into the hands of vice. It was during

this period of her life that she won a friendship quite as strong and

quite as precious as that of old Grossetete. She became the beloved

lamb of a distinguished priest, who was persecuted for his true

merits, which were wholly misunderstood, one of the two grand-vicars

of the diocese, named the Abbe Dutheil.

This priest belonged to the portion of the French clergy who incline

toward certain concessions, who would be glad to associate the Church

with the people's interests, and so enable it to regain, through the

application of true evangelical doctrine, its former influence over

the masses, which it might then draw to closer relations with the

monarchy. Whether it was that the Abbe Dutheil recognized the

impossibility of enlightening the court of Rome and the higher clergy

on this point, or that he had consented to sacrifice his own opinions

to those of his superiors, it is certain that he remained within the

limits of the strictest orthodoxy, being very well aware that any

manifestation of his principles at the present time would deprive him

of all chance of the episcopate.

This eminent priest united in himself great Christian modesty and a

noble character. Without pride or ambition he remained at his post and

did his duty in the midst of perils. The liberals of the town were

ignorant of the motives of his conduct; they claimed him as being of

their opinions and considered him a patriot,--a word which meant

revolutionist in Catholic minds. Loved by his inferiors, who dared

not, however, proclaim his merits, feared by his equals who kept watch

upon him, he was a source of embarrassment to the bishop. His virtues

and his knowledge, envied, no doubt, prevented persecution; it was

impossible to complain of him, though he criticized frankly the

political blunders by which both the throne and the clergy mutually

compromised themselves. He often foretold results, but vainly,--like

poor Cassandra, who was equally cursed before and after the disaster

she predicted. Short of a revolution the Abbe Dutheil was likely to

remain as he was, one of those stones hidden in the foundation wall on

which the edifice rests. His utility was recognized and they left him

in his place, like many other solid minds whose rise to power is the

terror of mediocrities. If, like the Abbe de Lamennais, he had taken

up his pen he would doubtless, like him, have been blasted by the

court of Rome.

The Abbe Dutheil was imposing in appearance. His exterior revealed the

underlying of a profound nature always calm and equable on the

surface. His tall figure and its thinness did not detract from the

general effect of his lines, which recalled those by which the genius

of Spanish painters delights to represent the great monastic

meditators, and those selected at a later period by Thorwaldsen for

the Apostles. The long, almost rigid folds of the face, in harmony

with those of his vestment, had the charm which the middle-ages bring

into relief in the mystical statues placed beside the portals of their

churches. Gravity of thought, word, and accent, harmonized in this man

and became him well. Seeing his dark eyes hollowed by austerities and

surrounded by a brown circle; seeing, too, his forehead, yellow as

some old stone, his head and hands almost fleshless, men desired to

hear the voice and the instructions which issued from his lips. This

purely physical grandeur which accords with moral grandeur, gave this

priest a somewhat haughty and disdainful air, which was instantly

counteracted to an observer by his modesty and by his speech, though

it did not predispose others in his favor. In some more elevated

station these advantages would have obtained that necessary ascendancy

over the masses which the people willingly allow to men who are thus

endowed. But superiors will not forgive their inferiors for possessing

the externals of greatness, nor for displaying that majesty so prized

by the ancients but so often lacking to the administrators of modern

power.

By one of those strange freaks of circumstance which are never

accounted for, the other vicar-general, the Abbe de Grancour, a stout

little man with a rosy complexion and blue eyes, whose opinions were

diametrically opposed to those of the Abbe Dutheil, liked to be in the

latter's company, although he never testified this liking enough to

put himself out of the good graces of the bishop, to whom he would

have sacrificed everything. The Abbe de Grancour believed in the merit

of his colleague, recognized his talents, secretly accepted his

doctrines, and condemned them openly; for the little priest was one of

those men whom superiority attracts and intimidates,--who dislike it

and yet cultivate it. "He would embrace me and condemn me," the Abbe

Dutheil said of him. The Abbe de Grancour had neither friends nor

enemies; he was therefore likely to live and die a vicar-general. He

said he was drawn to visit Madame Graslin by the desire of counselling

so religious and benevolent a person; and the bishop approved of his

doing so,--Monsieur de Grancour's real object being to spend a few

evenings with the Abbe Dutheil in Veronique's salon.

The two priests now came pretty regularly to see Madame Graslin, and

make her a sort of report about her poor and discuss the best means of

succoring and improving them. But Monsieur Graslin had now begun to

tighten his purse-strings, having made the discovery, in spite of the

innocent deceptions of his wife and her maid, that the money he paid

did not go solely for household expenses and for dress. He was angry

when he found out how much money his wife's charities cost him; he

called the cook to account, inquired into all the details of the

housekeeping, and showed what a grand administrator he was by

practically proving that his house could be splendidly kept for three

thousand francs a year. Then he put his wife on an allowance of a

hundred francs a month, and boasted of his liberality in so doing. The

office-boy, who liked flowers, was made to take care of the garden on

Sundays. Having dismissed the gardener, Graslin used the greenhouse to

store articles conveyed to him as security for loans. He let the birds

in the aviary die for want of care, to avoid the cost of their food

and attendance. And he even took advantage of a winter when there was

no ice, to give up his icehouse and save the expense of filling it.

By 1828 there was not a single article of luxury in the house which he

had not in some way got rid of. Parsimony reigned unchecked in the

hotel Graslin. The master's face, greatly improved during the three

years spent with his wife (who induced him to follow his physician's

advice), now became redder, more fiery, more blotched than before.

Business had taken such proportions that it was necessary to promote

the boy-of-all-work to the position of cashier, and to find some stout

Auvergnat for the rougher service of the hotel Graslin.

Thus, four years after her marriage, this very rich woman could not

dispose of a single penny by her own will. The avarice of her husband

succeeded the avarice of her parents. Madame Graslin had never

understood the necessity of money until the time came when her

benevolence was checked.

By the beginning of the year 1828 Veronique had entirely recovered the

blooming health which had given such beauty to the innocent young girl

sitting at her window in the old house in the rue de la Cite; but by

this time she had acquired a fine literary education, and was fully

able to think and to speak. An excellent judgment gave real depth to

her words. Accustomed now to the little things of life, she wore the

fashions of the period with infinite grace. When she chanced about

this time to visit a salon she found herself--not without a certain

inward surprise--received by all with respectful esteem. These changed

feelings and this welcome were due to the two vicars-general and to

old Grossetete. Informed by them of her noble hidden life, and the

good deeds so constantly done in their midst, the bishop and a few

influential persons spoke of Madame Graslin as a flower of true piety,

a violet fragrant with virtues; in consequence of which, one of those

strong reactions set in, unknown to Veronique, which are none the less

solid and durable because they are long in coming. This change in

public opinion gave additional influence to Veronique's salon, which

was now visited by all the chief persons in the society of the town,

in consequence of certain circumstances we shall now relate.

Toward the close of this year the young Vicomte de Grandville was sent

as deputy solicitor to the courts of Limoges. He came preceded by a

reputation always given to Parisians in the provinces. A few days

after his arrival, during a soiree at the prefecture, he made answer

to a rather foolish question, that the most able, intelligent, and

distinguished woman he had met in the town was Madame Graslin.

"Perhaps you think her the handsomest also?" said the wife of the

receiver-general.

"I cannot think so in your presence, madame," he replied, "and

therefore I am in doubt. Madame Graslin possesses a beauty which need

inspire no jealousy, for it seldom shows itself: she is only beautiful

to those she loves; you are beautiful to all the world. When Madame

Graslin's soul is moved by true enthusiasm, it sheds an expression

upon her face which changes it completely. Her countenance is like a

landscape,--dull in winter, glorious in summer; but the world will

always see it in winter. When she talks with friends on some literary

or philosophical topic, or on certain religious questions which

interest her, she is roused into appearing suddenly an unknown woman

of marvellous beauty."

This declaration, which was caused by observing the phenomenon that

formerly made Veronique so beautiful on her return from the holy

table, made a great noise in Limoges, where for a time the young

deputy, to whom the place of the /procureur-general/ was said to be

promised, played a leading part. In all provincial towns a man who

rises a trifle above others becomes, for a period more or less

protracted, the object of a liking which resembles enthusiasm, and

which usually deceives the object of this ephemeral worship. It is to

this social caprice that we owe so many local geniuses, soon ignored

and their false reputations mortified. The men whom women make the

fashion in this way are oftener strangers than compatriots.

In this particular case the admirers of the Vicomte de Grandville were

not mistaken; he was in truth a superior man. Madame Graslin was the

only woman he found in Limoges with whom he could exchange ideas and

keep up a varied conversation. A few months after his arrival,

attracted by the increasing charm of Veronique's manners and

conversation, he proposed to the Abbe Dutheil, and a few other of the

remarkable men in Limoges, to meet in the evenings at Madame Graslin's

house and play whist. At this time Madame Graslin was at home five

evenings in the week to visitors, reserving two free days, as she

said, for herself.

When Madame Graslin had thus gathered about her the distinguished men

we have mentioned, others were not sorry to give themselves the

reputation of cleverness by seeking to join the same society.

Veronique also received three or four of the distinguished officers of

the garrison and staff; but the freedom of mind displayed by her

guests, and the tacit discretion enjoined by the manners of the best

society, made her extremely cautious as to the admission of those who

now vied with each other to obtain her invitations.

The other women in this provincial society were not without jealousy

in seeing Madame Graslin surrounded by the most agreeable and

distinguished men in the town; but by this time Veronique's social

power was all the stronger because it was exclusive; she accepted the

intimacy of four or five women only, and these were strangers in

Limoges who had come from Paris with their husbands, and who held in

horror the petty gossip of provincial life. If any one outside of this

little clique of superior persons came in to make a visit, the

conversation immediately changed, and the habitues of the house talked

commonplace.

The hotel Graslin thus became an oasis where intelligent minds found

relaxation and relief from the dulness of provincial life; where

persons connected with the government could express themselves freely

on politics without fear of having their words taken down and

repeated; where all could satirize that which provoked satire, and

where each individual abandoned his professional trammels and yielded

himself up to his natural self.

So, after being the most obscure young girl in all Limoges, considered

ugly, dull, and vacant, Madame Graslin, at the beginning of the year

1828, was regarded as one of the leading personages in the town, and

the most noted woman in society. No one went to see her in the

mornings, for all knew her habits of benevolence and the regularity of

her religious observances. She always went to early mass so as not to

delay her husband's breakfast, for which, however, there was no fixed

hour, though she never failed to be present and to serve it herself.

Graslin had trained his wife to this little ceremony. He continued to

praise her on all occasions; he thought her perfect; she never asked

him for anything; he could pile up louis upon louis, and spread his

investments over a wide field of enterprise through his relations with

the Brezacs; he sailed with a fair wind and well freighted over the

ocean of commerce,--his intense business interest keeping him in the

still, though half-intoxicated, frenzy of gamblers watching events on

the green table of speculation.

During this happy period, and until the beginning of the year 1829,

Madame Graslin attained, in the eyes of her friends, to a degree of

beauty that was really extraordinary, the reasons of which they were

unable to explain. The blue of the iris expanded like a flower,

diminishing the dark circle of the pupil, and seeming to float in a

liquid and languishing light that was full of love. Her forehead,

illumined by thoughts and memories of happiness, was seen to whiten

like the zenith before the dawn, and its lines were purified by an

inward fire. Her face lost those heated brown tones which betoken a

disturbance of the liver,--that malady of vigorous constitutions, or

of persons whose soul is distressed and whose affections are thwarted.

Her temples became adorably fresh and pure; gleams of the celestial

face of a Raffaelle showed themselves now and then in hers,--a face

hitherto obscured by the malady of grief, as the canvas of the great

master is encrusted by time. Her hands seemed whiter; her shoulders

took on an exquisite fulness; her graceful, animated movements gave to

her supple figure its utmost charm.

The Limoges women accused her of being in love with Monsieur de

Grandville, who certainly paid her assiduous attention, to which

Veronique opposed all the barriers of a conscientious resistance. The

viscount professed for her one of those respectful attachments which

did not blind the habitual visitors of her salon. The priests and men

of sense saw plainly that this affection, which was love on the part

of the young man, did not go beyond the permissible line in Madame

Graslin. Weary at last of a resistance based on religious principle,

the Vicomte de Grandville consoled himself (to the knowledge of his

intimates) with other and easier friendships; which did not, however,

lessen his constant admiration and worship of the beautiful Madame

Graslin,--such was the term by which she was designated in 1829.

The most clear-sighted among those who surrounded her attributed the

change which rendered Veronique increasingly charming to her friends

to the secret delight which all women, even the most religious, feel

when they see themselves courted; and to the satisfaction of living at

last in a circle congenial to her mind, where the pleasure of

exchanging ideas and the happiness of being surrounded by intelligent

and well-informed men and true friends, whose attachment deepened day

by day, had dispersed forever the weary dulness of her life.

Perhaps, however, closer, more perceptive or sceptical observers were

needed than those who frequented the hotel Graslin, to detect the

barbaric grandeur, the plebeian force of the People which lay deep-

hidden in her soul. If sometimes her friends surprised her in a torpor

of meditation either gloomy or merely pensive, they knew she bore upon

her heart the miseries of others, and had doubtless that morning been

initiated in some fresh sorrow, or had penetrated to some haunt where

vices terrify the soul with their candor.

The viscount, now promoted to be /procureur-general/, would

occasionally blame her for certain unintelligent acts of charity by

which, as he knew from his secret police-reports, she had given

encouragement to criminal schemes.

"If you ever want money for any of your paupers, let me be a sharer in

your good deeds," said old Grossetete, taking Veronique's hand.

"Ah!" she replied with a sigh, "it is impossible to make everybody

rich."

At the beginning of this year an event occurred which was destined to

change the whole interior life of this woman and to transform the

splendid expression of her countenance into something far more

interesting in the eyes of painters.

Becoming uneasy about his health, Graslin, to his wife's despair, no

longer desired to live on the ground-floor. He returned to the

conjugal chamber and allowed himself to be nursed. The news soon

spread throughout Limoges that Madame Graslin was pregnant. Her

sadness, mingled with joy, struck the minds of her friends, who then

for the first time perceived that in spite of her virtues she had been

happy in the fact of living separate from her husband. Perhaps she had

hoped for some better fate ever since the time when, as it was known,

the attorney-general had declined to marry the richest heiress in the

place, in order to keep his loyalty to her.

From this suggestion there grew up in the minds of the profound

politicians who played their whist at the hotel Graslin a belief that

the viscount and the young wife had based certain hopes on the ill-

health of the banker which were now frustrated. The great agitations

which marked this period of Veronique's life, the anxieties which a

first childbirth causes in every woman, and which, it is said,

threatens special danger when she is past her first youth, made her

friends more attentive than ever to her; they vied with each other in

showing her those little kindnesses which proved how warm and solid

their affection really was.

V

TASCHERON

It was in this year that Limoges witnessed a terrible event and the

singular drama of the Tascheron trial, in which the young Vicomte de

Grandville displayed the talents which afterwards made him /procureur-

general/.

An old man living in a lonely house in the suburb of Saint-Etienne was

murdered. A large fruit-garden lay between the road and the house,

which was also separated from the adjoining fields by a pleasure-

garden, at the farther end of which were several old and disused

greenhouses. In front of the house a rapid slope to the river bank

gave a view of the Vienne. The courtyard, which also sloped downward,

ended at a little wall, from which small columns rose at equal

distances united by a railing, more, however, for ornament than

protection, for the bars of the railing were of painted wood.

The old man, named Pingret, noted for his avarice, lived with a single

woman-servant, a country-girl who did all the work of the house. He

himself took care of his espaliers, trimmed his trees, gathered his

fruit, and sent it to Limoges for sale, together with early

vegetables, in the raising of which he excelled.

The niece of this old man, and his sole heiress, married to a

gentleman of small means living in Limoges, a Madame des Vanneaulx,

had again and again urged her uncle to hire a man to protect the

house, pointing out to him that he would thus obtain the profits of

certain uncultivated ground where he now grew nothing but clover. But

the old man steadily refused. More than once a discussion on the

subject had cut into the whist-playing of Limoges. A few shrewd heads

declared that the old miser buried his gold in that clover-field.

"If I were Madame des Vanneaulx," said a wit, "I shouldn't torment my

uncle about it; if somebody murders him, why, let him be murdered! I

should inherit the money."

Madame des Vanneaulx, however, wanted to keep her uncle, after the

manner of the managers of the Italian Opera, who entreat their popular

tenor to wrap up his throat, and give him their cloak if he happens to

have forgotten his own. She had sent old Pingret a fine English

mastiff, which Jeanne Malassis, the servant-woman brought back the

next day saying:--

"Your uncle doesn't want another mouth to feed."

The result proved how well-founded were the niece's fears. Pingret was

murdered on a dark night, in the middle of his clover-field, where he

may have been adding a few coins to a buried pot of gold. The servant-

woman, awakened by the struggle, had the courage to go to the

assistance of the old miser, and the murderer was under the necessity

of killing her to suppress her testimony. This necessity, which

frequently causes murderers to increase the number of their victims,

is an evil produced by the fear of the death penalty.

This double murder was attended by curious circumstances which told as

much for the prosecution as for the defence. After the neighbors had

missed seeing the little old Pingret and his maid for a whole morning

and had gazed at his house through the wooden railings as they passed

it, and seen that, contrary to custom, the doors and windows were

still closed, an excitement began in the Faubourg Saint-Etienne which

presently reached the rue de la Cloche, where Madame des Vanneaulx

resided.

The niece was always in expectation of some such catastrophe, and she

at once notified the officers of the law, who went to the house and

broke in the gate. They soon discovered in a clover patch four holes,

and near two of these holes lay the fragments of earthenware pots,

which had doubtless been full of gold the night before. In the other

two holes, scarcely covered up, were the bodies of old Pingret and

Jeanne Malassis, who had been buried with their clothes on. The poor

girl had run to her master's assistance in her night-gown, with bare

feet.

While the /procureur-du-roi/, the commissary of police, and the

examining magistrate were gathering all particulars for the basis of

their action, the luckless des Vanneaulx picked up the broken pots and

calculated from their capacity the sum lost. The magistrates admitted

the correctness of their calculations and entered the sum stolen on

their records as, in all probability, a thousand gold coins to each

pot. But were these coins forty-eight or forty, twenty-four or twenty

francs in value? All expectant heirs in Limoges sympathized with the

des Vanneaulx. The Limousin imagination was greatly stirred by the

spectacle of the broken pots. As for old Pingret, who often sold

vegetables himself in the market, lived on bread and onions, never

spent more than three hundred francs a year, obliged and disobliged no

one, and had never done one atom of good in the suburb of Saint-

Etienne where he lived, his death did not excite the slightest regret.

Poor Jeanne Malassis' heroism, which the old miser, had she saved him,

would certainly not have rewarded, was thought rash; the number of

souls who admired it was small in comparison with those who said: "For

my part, I should have stayed in my bed."

The police found neither pen nor ink wherewith to write their report

in the bare, dilapidated, cold, and dismal house. Observing persons

and the heir might then have noticed a curious inconsistency which may

be seen in certain misers. The dread the little old man had of the

slightest outlay showed itself in the non-repaired roof which opened

its sides to the light and the rain and snow; in the cracks of the

walls; in the rotten doors ready to fall at the slightest shock; in

the windows, where the broken glass was replaced by paper not even

oiled. All the windows were without curtains, the fireplaces without

mirrors or andirons; the hearth was garnished with one log of wood and

a few little sticks almost caked with the soot which had fallen down

the chimney. There were two rickety chairs, two thin couches, a few

cracked pots and mended plates, a one-armed armchair, a dilapidated

bed, the curtains of which time had embroidered with a bold hand, a

worm-eaten secretary where the miser kept his seeds, a pile of linen

thickened by many darns, and a heap of ragged garments, which existed

only by the will of their master; he being dead they dropped into

shreds, powder, chemical dissolution, in fact I know not into what

form of utter ruin, as soon as the heir or the officers of the law

laid rough hands upon them; they disappeared as if afraid of being

publicly sold.

The population at Limoges was much concerned for these worthy des

Vanneaulx, who had two children; and yet, no sooner did the law lay

hands upon the reputed doer of the crime than the guilty personage

absorbed attention, became a hero, and the des Vanneaulx were

relegated into a corner of the picture.

Toward the end of March Madame Graslin began to feel some of those

pains which precede a first confinement and cannot be concealed. The

inquiry as to the murder was then going on, but the murderer had not

as yet been arrested.

Veronique now received her friends in her bedroom, where they played

whist. For several days past Madame Graslin had not left the house,

and she seemed to be tormented by several of those caprices attributed

to women in her condition. Her mother came to see her almost every

day, and the two women remained for hours in consultation.

It was nine o'clock, and the card tables were still without players,

for every one was talking of the murder. Monsieur de Grandville

entered the room.

"We have arrested the murderer of old Pingret," he said, joyfully.

"Who is it?" was asked on all sides.

"A porcelain workman; a man whose character has always been excellent,

and who was in a fair way to make his fortune. He worked in your

husband's old factory," added Monsieur de Grandville, turning to

Madame Graslin.

"What is his name?" asked Veronique, in a weak voice.

"Jean-Francois Tascheron."

"Unhappy man!" she answered. "Yes, I have often seen him; my poor

father recommended him to my care as some one to be looked after."

"He left the factory before Sauviat's death," said her mother, "and

went to that of Messrs. Philippart, who offered him higher wages-- But

my daughter is scarcely well enough for this exciting conversation,"

she added, calling attention to Madame Graslin, whose face was as

white as her sheets.

After that evening Mere Sauviat gave up her own home, and came, in

spite of her sixty-six years, to stay with her daughter and nurse her

through her confinement. She never left the room; Madame Graslin's

friends found the old woman always at the bed's head busy with her

eternal knitting,--brooding over Veronique as she did when the girl

had the small-pox, answering questions for her and often refusing to

admit visitors. The maternal and filial love of mother and daughter

was so well known in Limoges that these actions of Madame Sauviat

caused no comment.

A few days later, when the viscount, thinking to amuse the invalid,

began to relate details which the whole town were eagerly demanding

about Jean-Francois Tascheron, Madame Sauviat again stopped him

hastily, declaring that he would give her daughter bad dreams.

Veronique, however, looking fixedly at Monsieur de Grandville, asked

him to finish what he was saying. Thus her friends, and she herself,

were the first to know the results of the preliminary inquiry, which

would soon be made public. The following is a brief epitome of the

facts on which the indictment found against the prisoner was based.

Jean-Francois Tascheron was the son of a small farmer burdened with a

family, who lived in the village of Montegnac.

Twenty years before this crime, which was famous throughout the

Limousin, the canton of Montegnac was known for its evil ways. The

saying was proverbial in Limoges that out of one hundred criminals in

the department fifty belonged to the arrondissement of Montegnac.

Since 1816, however, two years after a priest named Bonnet was sent

there as rector, it had lost its bad reputation, and the inhabitants

no longer sent their heavy contingent to the assizes. This change was

widely attributed to the influence acquired by the rector, Monsieur

Bonnet, over a community which had lately been a hotbed for evil-

minded persons whose actions dishonored the whole region. The crime of

Jean-Francois Tascheron brought back upon Montegnac its former ill-

savor.

By a curious trick of chance, the Tascherons were almost the only

family in this village community who had retained through its evil

period the old rigid morals and religious habits which are noticed by

the observers of to-day to be rapidly disappearing throughout the

country districts. This family had therefore formed a point of

reliance to the rector, who naturally bore it on his heart. The

Tascherons, remarkable for their uprightness, their union, their love

of work, had never given other than good examples to Jean-Francois.

Induced by the praiseworthy ambition of earning his living by a trade,

the lad had left his native village, to the regret of his parents and

friends, who greatly loved him, and had come to Limoges. During his

two years' apprenticeship in a porcelain factory, his conduct was

worthy of all praise; no apparent ill-conduct had led up to the

horrible crime which was now to end his life. On the contrary, Jean-

Francois Tascheron had given the time which other workmen were in the

habit of spending in wine-shops and debauchery to study and self-

improvement.

The most searching and minute inquiry on the part of the provincial

authorities (who have plenty of time on their hands) failed to throw

any light on the secrets of the young man's life. When the mistress of

the humble lodging-house in which he lived was questioned she said she

had never had a lodger whose moral conduct was as blameless. He was

naturally amiable and gentle, and sometimes gay. About a year before

the commission of the crime, his habits changed: he slept away from

home several times a month and often for consecutive nights; but where

she did not know, though she thought, from the state of his shoes when

he returned, that he must have been into the country. She noticed that

although he appeared to have left the town, he never wore his heavy

boots, but always a pair of light shoes. He shaved before starting,

and put on clean linen. Hearing this, the police turned their

attention to houses of ill-fame and questionable resorts; but Jean-

Francois Tascheron was found to be wholly unknown among them. The

authorities then made a search through the working-girl and /grisette/

class; but none of these women had had relations with the accused.

A crime without a motive is unheard of, especially in a young man

whose desire for education and whose laudable ambition gave him higher

ideas and a superior judgment to that of other workmen. The police and

the examining justice, finding themselves balked in the above

directions, attributed the murder to a passion for gambling; but after

the most searching inquiries it was proved that Tascheron never played

cards.

At first Jean-Francois entrenched himself in a system of flat denials,

which, of course, in presence of a jury, would fall before proof; they

seemed to show the collusion of some person either well versed in law

or gifted with an intelligent mind. The following are the chief proofs

the prosecution were prepared to present, and they are, as is

frequently the case in trials for murder, both important and trifling;

to wit:--

The absence of Tascheron during the night of the crime, and his

refusal to say where he was, for the accused did not offer to set up

an alibi; a fragment of his blouse, torn off by the servant-woman in

the struggle, found close by on a tree to which the wind had carried

it; his presence that evening near Pingret's house, which was noticed

by passers and by persons living in the neighborhood, though it might

not have been remembered unless for the crime; a false key made by

Tascheron which fitted the door opening to the fields; this key was

found carefully buried two feet below one of the miser's holes, where

Monsieur des Vanneaulx, digging deep to make sure there was not

another layer of treasure-pots, chanced to find it; the police, after

many researches, found the different persons who had furnished

Tascheron with the iron, loaned him the vice, and given him the file,

with which the key was presumably made.

The key was the first real clue. It put the police on the track of

Tascheron, whom they arrested on the frontiers of the department, in a

wood where he was awaiting the passage of a diligence. An hour later

he would have started for America.

Besides all this, and in spite of the care with which certain

footmarks in the ploughed field and on the mud of the road had been

effaced and covered up, the searchers had found in several places the

imprint of shoes, which they carefully measured and described, and

which were afterwards found to correspond with the soles of

Tascheron's shoes taken from his lodgings. This fatal proof confirmed

the statement of the landlady. The authorities now attributed the

crime to some foreign influence, and not to the man's personal

intention; they believed he had accomplices, basing this idea on the

impossibility of one man carrying away the buried money; for however

strong he might be, no man could carry twenty-five thousand francs in

gold to any distance. If each pot contained, as it was supposed to

have done, about that sum, this would have required four trips to and

from the clover-patch. Now, a singular circumstance went far to prove

the hour at which the crime was committed. In the terror Jeanne

Malassis must have felt on hearing her master's cries, she knocked

over, as she rose, the table at her bedside, on which lay her watch,

the only present the miser had given her in five years. The mainspring

was broken by the shock, and the hands had stopped at two in the

morning. By the middle of March (the date of the murder) daylight

dawns between five and six o'clock. To whatever distance the gold had

been carried, Tascheron could not possibly, under any apparent

hypothesis, have transported it alone.

The care with which some of the footsteps were effaced, while others,

to which Tascheron's shoes fitted, remained, certainly pointed to some

mysterious assistant. Forced into hypotheses, the authorities once

more attributed the crime to a desperate passion; not finding any

trace of the object of such a passion in the lower classes, they began

to look higher. Perhaps some bourgeoise, sure of the discretion of a

man who had the face and bearing of a hero, had been drawn into a

romance the outcome of which was crime.

This supposition was to some extent justified by the facts of the

murder. The old man had been killed by blows with a spade; evidently,

therefore, the murder was sudden, unpremeditated, fortuitous. The

lovers might have planned the robbery, but not the murder. The lover

and the miser, Tascheron and Pingret, each under the influence of his

master passion, must have met by the buried hoards, both drawn thither

by the gleaming of gold on the utter darkness of that fatal night.

In order to obtain, if possible, some light on this latter

supposition, the authorities arrested and kept in solitary confinement

a sister of Jean-Francois, to whom he was much attached, hoping to

obtain through her some clue to the mystery of her brother's private

life. Denise Tascheron took refuge in total denial of any knowledge

whatever, which gave rise to a suspicion that she did know something

of the causes of the crime, although in fact she knew nothing.

The accused himself showed points of character that were rare amongst

the peasantry. He baffled the cleverest police-spies employed against

him, without knowing their real character. To the leading minds of the

magistracy his guilt seemed caused by the influence of passion, and

not by necessity or greed, as in the case of ordinary murderers, who

usually pass through stages of crime and punishment before they commit

the supreme deed. Active and careful search was made in following up

this idea; but the uniform discretion of the prisoner gave no clue

whatever to his prosecutors. The plausible theory of his attachment to

a woman of the upper classes having once been admitted, Jean-Francois

was subjected to the most insidious examination upon it; but his

caution triumphed over all the moral tortures the examining judge

applied to him. When, making a final effort, that official told him

that the person for whom he had committed the crime was discovered and

arrested, his face did not change, and he replied ironically:--

"I should very much like to see him."

When the public were informed of these circumstances, many persons

adopted the suspicions of the magistrates, which seemed to be

confirmed by Tascheron's savage obstinacy in giving no account of

himself. Increased interest was felt in a young man who was now a

problem. It is easy to see how these elements kept public curiosity on

the /qui vive/, and with what eager interest the trial would be

followed. But in spite of every effort on the part of the police, the

prosecution stopped short on the threshold of hypothesis; it did not

venture to go farther into the mystery where all was obscurity and

danger. In certain judicial cases half-certainties are not sufficient

for the judges to proceed upon. Nevertheless the case was ordered for

trial, in hopes that the truth would come to the surface when the case

was brought into court, an ordeal under which many criminals

contradict themselves.

Monsieur Graslin was one of the jury; so that either through her

husband or through Monsieur de Grandville, the public prosecutor,

Veronique knew all the details of the criminal trial which, for a

fortnight, kept the department, and we may say all France, in a state

of excitement. The attitude maintained by the accused seemed to

justify the theory of the prosecution. More than once when the court

opened, his eyes turned upon the brilliant assemblage of women who

came to find emotions in a real drama, as though he sought for some

one. Each time that the man's glance, clear, but impenetrable, swept

along those elegant ranks, a movement was perceptible, a sort of

shock, as though each woman feared she might appear his accomplice

under the inquisitorial eyes of judge and prosecutor.

The hitherto useless efforts of the prosecution were now made public,

also the precautions taken by the criminal to ensure the success of

his crime. It was shown that Jean-Francois Tascheron had obtained a

passport for North America some months before the crime was committed.

Thus the plan of leaving France was fully formed; the object of his

passion must therefore be a married woman; for he would have no reason

to flee the country with a young girl. Possibly the crime had this one

object in view, namely, to obtain sufficient means to support this

unknown woman in comfort.

The prosecution had found no passport issued to a woman for North

America. In case she had obtained one in Paris, the registers of that

city were searched, also those of the towns contingent to Limoges, but

without result. All the shrewdest minds in the community followed the

case with deep attention. While the more virtuous dames of the

department attributed the wearing of pumps on a muddy road (an

inexplicable circumstance in the ordinary lives of such shoes) to the

necessity of noiselessly watching old Pingret, the men pointed out

that pumps were very useful in silently passing through a house--up

stairways and along corridors--without discovery.

So Jean-Francois Tascheron and his mistress (by this time she was

young, beautiful, romantic, for every one made a portrait of her) had

evidently intended to escape with only one passport, to which they

would forge the additional words, "and wife." The card tables were

deserted at night in the various social salons, and malicious tongues

discussed what women were known in March, 1829, to have gone to Paris,

and what others could be making, openly or secretly, preparations for

a journey. Limoges might be said to be enjoying its Fualdes trial,

with an unknown and mysterious Madame Manson for an additional

excitement. Never was any provincial town so stirred to its depths as

Limoges after each day's session. Nothing was talked of but the trial,

all the incidents of which increased the interest felt for the

accused, whose able answers, learnedly taken up, turned and twisted

and commented upon, gave rise to ample discussions. When one of the

jurors asked Tascheron why he had taken a passport for America, the

man replied that he had intended to establish a porcelain manufactory

in that country. Thus, without committing himself to any line of

defence, he covered his accomplice, leaving it to be supposed that the

crime was committed, if at all, to obtain funds for this business

venture.

In the midst of such excitement it was impossible for Veronique's

friends to refrain from discussing in her presence the progress of the

case and the reticence of the criminal. Her health was extremely

feeble; but the doctor having advised her going out into the fresh

air, she had on one occasion taken her mother's arm and walked as far

as Madame Sauviat's house in the country, where she rested. On her

return she endeavored to keep about until her husband came to his

dinner, which she always served him herself. On this occasion Graslin,

being detained in the court-room, did not come in till eight o'clock.

She went into the dining-room as usual, and was present at a

discussion which took place among a number of her friends who had

assembled there.

"If my poor father were still living," she remarked to them, "we

should know more about the matter; possibly this man might never have

become a criminal. I think you have all taken a singular idea about

the matter. You insist that love is at the bottom of the crime, and I

agree with you there; but why do you think this unknown person is a

married woman? He may have loved some young girl whose father and

mother would not let her marry him."

"A young girl could, sooner or later, have married him legitimately,"

replied Monsieur de Grandville. "Tascheron has no lack of patience; he

had time to make sufficient means to support her while awaiting the

time when all girls are at liberty to marry against the wishes of

their parents; he need not have committed a crime to obtain her."

"I did not know that a girl could marry in that way," said Madame

Graslin; "but how is it that in a town like this, where all things are

known, and where everybody sees everything that happens to his

neighbor, not the slightest clue to this woman has been obtained? In

order to love, persons must see each other and consequently be seen.

What do you really think, you magistrates?" she added, plunging a

fixed look into the eyes of the /procureur-general/.

"We think that the woman belongs to the bourgeois or the commercial

class."

"I don't agree with you," said Madame Graslin. "A woman of that class

does not have elevated sentiments."

This reply drew all eyes on Veronique, and the whole company waited

for an explanation of so paradoxical a speech.

"During the hours I lie awake at night I have not been able to keep my

mind from dwelling on this mysterious affair," she said slowly, "and I

think I have fathomed Tascheron's motive. I believe the person he

loves is a young girl, because a married woman has interests, if not

feelings, which partly fill her heart and prevent her from yielding so

completely to a great passion as to leave her home. There is such a

thing as a love proceeding from passion which is half maternal, and to

me it is evident that this man was loved by a woman who wished to be

his prop, his Providence. She must have put into her passion something

of the genius that inspires the work of artists and poets, the

creative force which exists in woman under another form; for it is her

mission to create men, not things. Our works are our children; our

children are the pictures, books, and statues of our lives. Are we not

artists in their earliest education? I say that this unknown woman, if

she is not a young girl, has never been a mother but is filled with

the maternal instinct; she has loved this man to form him, to develop

him. It needs a feminine element in you men of law to detect these

shades of motive, which too often escape you. If I had been your

deputy," she said, looking straight at the /procureur-general/, "I

should have found the guilty woman, if indeed there is any guilt about

it. I agree with the Abbe Dutheil that these lovers meant to fly to

America with the money of old Pingret. The theft led to the murder by

the fatal logic which the punishment of death inspires. And so," she

added with an appealing look at Monsieur de Grandville, "I think it

would be merciful in you to abandon the theory of premeditation, for

in so doing you would save the man's life. He is evidently a fine man

in spite of his crime; he might, perhaps, repair that crime by a great

repentance if you gave him time. The works of repentance ought to

count for something in the judgment of the law. In these days is there

nothing better for a human being to do than to give his life, or

build, as in former times, a cathedral of Milan, to expiate his

crimes?"

"Your ideas are noble, madame," said Monsieur de Grandville, "but,

premeditation apart, Tascheron would still be liable to the penalty of

death on account of the other serious and proved circumstances

attending the crime,--such as forcible entrance and burglary at

night."

"Then you think that he will certainly be found guilty?" she said,

lowering her eyelids.

"I am certain of it," he said; "the prosecution has a strong case."

A slight tremor rustled Madame Graslin's dress.

"I feel cold," she said. Taking her mother's arm she went to bed.

"She seemed quite herself this evening," said her friends.

The next day Veronique was much worse and kept her bed. When her

physician expressed surprise at her condition she said, smiling:--

"I told you that that walk would do me no good."

Ever since the opening of the trial Tascheron's demeanor had been

equally devoid of hypocrisy or bravado. Veronique's physician,

intending to divert his patient's mind, tried to explain this

demeanor, which the man's defenders were making the most of. The

prisoner was misled, said the doctor, by the talents of his lawyer,

and was sure of acquittal; at times his face expressed a hope that was

greater than that of merely escaping death. The antecedents of the man

(who was only twenty-three years old) were so at variance with the

crime now charged to him that his legal defenders claimed his present

bearing to be a proof of innocence; besides, the overwhelming

circumstantial proofs of the theory of the prosecution were made to

appear so weak by his advocate that the man was buoyed up by the

lawyer's arguments. To save his client's life the lawyer made the most

of the evident want of premeditation; hypothetically he admitted the

premeditation of the robbery but not of the murders, which were

evidently (no matter who was the guilty party) the result of two

unexpected struggles. Success, the doctor said, was really as doubtful

for one side as for the other.

After this visit of her physician Veronique received that of the

/procureur-general/, who was in the habit of coming in every morning

on his way to the court-room.

"I have read the arguments of yesterday," she said to him, "and

to-day, as I suppose, the evidence for the defence begins. I am so

interested in that man that I should like to have him saved. Couldn't

you for once in your life forego a triumph? Let his lawyer beat you.

Come, make me a present of the man's life, and perhaps you shall have

mine some day. The able presentation of the defence by Tascheron's

lawyer really raises a strong doubt, and--"

"Why, you are quite agitated," said the viscount somewhat surprised.

"Do you know why?" she answered. "My husband has just remarked a most

horrible coincidence, which is really enough in the present state of

my nerves, to cause my death. If you condemn this man to death it will

be on the very day when I shall give birth to my child."

"But I can't change the laws," said the lawyer.

"Ah! you don't know how to love," she retorted, closing her eyes; then

she turned her head on the pillow and made him an imperative sign to

leave the room.

Monsieur Graslin pleaded strongly but in vain with his fellow-jurymen

for acquittal, giving a reason which some of them adopted; a reason

suggested by his wife:--

"If we do not condemn this man to death, but allow him to live, the

des Vanneaulx will in the end recover their property."

This weighty argument made a division of the jury, into five for

condemnation against seven for acquittal, which necessitated an appeal

to the court; but the judge sided with the minority. According to the

legal system of that day this action led to a verdict of guilty. When

sentence was passed upon him Tascheron flew into a fury which was

natural enough in a man full of life and strength, but which the court

and jury and lawyers and spectators had rarely witnessed in persons

who were thought to be unjustly condemned.

VI

DISCUSSIONS AND CHRISTIAN SOLICITUDES

In spite of the verdict, the drama of this crime did not seem over so

far as the community was concerned. So complicated a case gave rise,

as usually happens under such circumstances, to two sets of

diametrically opposite opinions as to the guilt of the hero, whom some

declared to be an innocent and ill-used victim, and others the worst

of criminals.

The liberals held for Tascheron's innocence, less from conviction than

for the satisfaction of opposing the government.

"What an outrage," they said, "to condemn a man because his footprint

is the size of another man's footprint; or because he will not tell

you where he spent the night, as if all young men would not rather die

than compromise a woman. They prove he borrowed tools and bought iron,

but have they proved he made that key? They find a bit of blue linen

hanging to the branch of a tree, possibly put there by old Pingret

himself to scare the crows, though it happens to match a tear in

Tascheron's blouse. Is a man's life to depend on such things as these?

Jean-Francois denies everything, and the prosecution has not produced

a single witness who saw the crime or anything relating to it."

They talked over, enlarged upon, and paraphrased the arguments of the

defence. "Old Pingret! what was he?--a cracked money box!" said the

strong-minded. A few of the more determined progressists, denying the

sacred laws of property, which the Saint-Simonians were already

attacking under their abstract theories of political economy, went

further.

"Pere Pingret," they said, "was the real author of the crime. By

hoarding his gold that man robbed the nation. What enterprises might

have been made fruitful by his useless money! He had barred the way of

industry, and was justly punished."

They pitied the poor murdered servant-woman, but Denise, Tascheron's

sister, who resisted the wiles of lawyers and did not give a single

answer at the trial without long consideration of what she ought to

say, excited the deepest interest. She became in their minds a figure

to be compared (though in another sense) with Jeannie Deans, whose

piety, grace, modesty and beauty she possessed.

Francois Tascheron continued, therefore, to excite the curiosity of

not only all the town but all the department, and a few romantic women

openly testified their admiration for him.

"If there is really in all this a love for some woman high above him,"

they said, "then he is surely no ordinary man, and you will see that

he will die well."

The question, "Will he speak out,--will he not speak?" gave rise to

many a bet.

Since the burst of rage with which Tascheron received his sentence,

and which was so violent that it might have been fatal to persons

about him in the court-room if the gendarmes had not been there to

master him, the condemned man threatened all who came near him with

the fury of a wild beast; so that the jailers were obliged to put him

into a straight-jacket, as much to protect his life as their own from

the effects of his anger. Prevented by that controlling power from

doing violence, Tascheron gave vent to his despair by convulsive jerks

which horrified his guardians, and by words and looks which the

middle-ages would have attributed to demoniacal possession. He was so

young that many women thought pitifully of a life so full of passion

about to be cut off forever. "The Last Day of a Condemned Man," that

mournful elegy, that useless plea against the penalty of death (the

mainstay of society!), which had lately been published, as if

expressly to meet this case, was the topic of all conversations.

But, above all, in the mind of every one, stood that invisible unknown

woman, her feet in blood, raised aloft by the trial as it were on a

pedestal,--torn, no doubt, by horrible inward anguish and condemned to

absolute silence within her home. Who was this Medea whom the public

well-nigh admired,--the woman with that impenetrable brow, that white

breast covering a heart of steel? Perhaps she was the sister or the

cousin or the daughter or the wife of this one or of that one among

them! Alarm seemed to creep into the bosom of families. As Napoleon

finely said, it is especially in the domain of the imagination that

the power of the Unknown is immeasurable.

As for the hundred thousand francs stolen from Monsieur and Madame des

Vanneaulx no efforts of the police could find them; and the obstinate

silence of the criminal gave no clue. Monsieur de Grandville tried the

common means of holding out hopes of commutation of the sentence in

case of confession; but when he went to see the prisoner and suggest

it the latter received him with such furious cries and epileptic

contortions, such rage at being powerless to take him by the throat,

that he could do nothing.

The law could only look to the influence of the Church at the last

moment. The des Vanneaulx had frequently consulted with the Abbe

Pascal, chaplain of the prison. This priest was not without the

faculty of making prisoners listen to him, and he religiously braved

Tascheron's violence, trying to get in a few words amid the storms of

that powerful nature in convulsion. But this struggle of spiritual

fatherhood against the hurricane of unchained passions, overcame the

poor abbe completely.

"The man has had his paradise here below," said the old man, in his

gentle voice.

Little Madame des Vanneaulx consulted her friends as to whether she

ought to try a visit herself to the criminal. Monsieur des Vanneaulx

talked of offering terms. In his anxiety to recover the money he

actually went to Monsieur de Grandville and asked for the pardon of

his uncle's murderer if the latter would make restitution of the

hundred thousand francs. The /procureur-general/ replied that the

majesty of the crown did not stoop to such compromises.

The des Vanneaulx then had recourse to the lawyer who had defended

Tascheron, and to him they offered ten per cent of whatever sum he

could recover. This lawyer was the only person before whom Tascheron

was not violent. The heirs authorized him to offer the prisoner an

additional ten per cent to be paid to his family. In spite of all

these inducements and his own eloquence, the lawyer could obtain

nothing whatever from his client. The des Vanneaulx were furious; they

anathematized the unhappy man.

"He is not only a murderer, but he has no sense of decency," cried

Madame des Vanneaulx (ignorant of Fualdes' famous complaint), when she

received word of the failure of the Abbe Pascal's efforts, and was

told there was no hope of a reversal of the sentence by the court of

appeals.

"What good will our money do him in the place he is going to?" said

her husband. "Murder can be conceived of, but useless theft is

inconceivable. What days we live in, to be sure! To think that people

in good society actually take an interest in such a wretch!"

"He has no honor," said Madame des Vanneaulx.

"But perhaps the restitution would compromise the woman he loves,"

said an old maid.

"We would keep his secret," returned Monsieur des Vanneaulx.

"Then you would be compounding a felony," remarked a lawyer.

"Oh, the villain!" was Monsieur des Vanneaulx's usual conclusion.

One of Madame Graslin's female friends related to her with much

amusement these discussions of the des Vanneaulx. This lady, who was

very intelligent, and one of those persons who form ideals and desire

that all things should attain perfection, regretted the violence and

savage temper of the condemned; she would rather he had been cold and

calm and dignified, she said.

"Do you not see," replied Veronique, "that he is thus avoiding their

temptations and foiling their efforts? He is making himself a wild

beast for a purpose."

"At any rate," said the lady, "he is not a well-bred man; he is only a

workman."

"If he had been a well-bred man," said Madame Graslin, "he would soon

have sacrificed that unknown woman."

These events, discussed and turned and twisted in every salon, every

household, commented on in a score of ways, stripped bare by the

cleverest tongues in the community, gave, of course, a cruel interest

to the execution of the criminal, whose appeal was rejected after two

months' delay by the upper court. What would probably be his demeanor

in his last moments? Would he speak out? Would he contradict himself?

How would the bets be decided? Who would go to see him executed, and

who would not go, and how could it be done? The position of the

localities, which in Limoges spares a criminal the anguish of a long

distance to the scaffold, lessens the number of spectators. The law

courts which adjoin the prison stand at the corner of the rue du

Palais and the rue du Pont-Herisson. The rue du Palais is continued in

a straight line by the short rue de Monte-a-Regret, which leads to the

place des Arenes, where the executions take place, and which probably

owes its name to that circumstances. There is therefore but little

distance to go, few houses to pass, and few windows to look from. No

person in good society would be willing to mingle in the crowd which

would fill the streets.

But the expected execution was, to the great astonishment of the whole

town, put off from day to day for the following reason:--

The repentance and resignation of great criminals on their way to

death is one of the triumphs which the Church reserves for itself,--a

triumph which seldom misses its effect on the popular mind. Repentance

is so strong a proof of the power of religious ideas--taken apart from

all Christian interest, though that, of course, is the chief object of

the Church--that the clergy are always distressed by a failure on such

occasions. In July, 1829, such a failure was aggravated by the spirit

of party which envenomed every detail in the life of the body politic.

The liberal party rejoiced in the expectation that the priest-party (a

term invented by Montlosier, a royalist who went over to the

constitutionals, and was dragged by them far beyond his wishes),--that

the priests would fail on so public an occasion before the eyes of the

people. Parties /en masse/ commit infamous actions which would cover a

single man with shame and opprobrium; therefore when one man alone

stands in his guilt before the eyes of the masses, he becomes a

Robespierre, a Jeffries, a Laubardemont, a species of expiatory altar

on which all secret guilts hang their /ex-votos/.

The authorities, sympathizing with the Church, delayed the execution,

partly in the hope of gaining some conclusive information for

themselves, and partly to allow religion an opportunity to prevail.

Nevertheless, their power was not unlimited, and the sentence must

sooner or later be carried out. The same liberals who, out of mere

opposition, had declared Tascheron innocent, and who had done their

best to break down the verdict, now clamored because the sentence was

not executed. When the opposition is consistent it invariably falls

into such unreasonableness, because its object is not to have right on

its own side, but to harass the authorities and put them in the wrong.

Accordingly, about the beginning of August, the government officials

felt their hand forced by that clamor, so often stupid, called "public

opinion." The day for the execution was named. In this extremity the

Abbe Dutheil took upon himself to propose to the bishop a last

resource, the adoption of which caused the introduction into this

judicial drama of a remarkable personage, who serves as a bond between

all the figures brought upon the scene of it, and who, by ways

familiar to Providence, was destined to lead Madame Graslin along a

path where her virtues were to shine with greater brilliancy as a

noble benefactress and an angelic Christian woman.

The episcopal palace at Limoges stands on a hill which slopes to the

banks of the Vienne; and its gardens, supported by strong walls topped

with a balustrade, descend to the river by terrace after terrace,

according to the natural lay of the land. The rise of this hill is

such that the suburb of Saint-Etienne on the opposite bank seems to

lie at the foot of the lower terrace. From there, according to the

direction in which a person walks, the Vienne can be seen either in a

long stretch or directly across it, in the midst of a fertile

panorama. On the west, after the river leaves the embankment of the

episcopal gardens, it turns toward the town in a graceful curve which

winds around the suburb of Saint-Martial. At a short distance beyond

that suburb is a pretty country house called Le Cluseau, the walls of

which can be seen from the lower terrace of the bishop's palace,

appearing, by an effect of distance, to blend with the steeples of the

suburb. Opposite to Le Cluseau is the sloping island, covered with

poplar and other trees, which Veronique in her girlish youth had named

the Ile de France. To the east the distance is closed by an

ampitheatre of hills.

The magic charm of the site and the rich simplicity of the building

make this episcopal palace one of the most interesting objects in a

town where the other edifices do not shine, either through choice of

material or architecture.

Long familiarized with the aspects which commend these gardens to all

lovers of the picturesque, the Abbe Dutheil, who had induced the Abbe

de Grancour to accompany him, descended from terrace to terrace,

paying no attention to the ruddy colors, the orange tones, the violet

tints, which the setting sun was casting on the old walls and

balustrades of the gardens, on the river beneath them, and, in the

distance, on the houses of the town. He was in search of the bishop,

who was sitting on the lower terrace under a grape-vine arbor, where

he often came to take his dessert and enjoy the charm of a tranquil

evening. The poplars on the island seemed at this moment to divide the

waters with the lengthening shadow of their yellowing heads, to which

the sun was lending the appearance of a golden foliage. The setting

rays, diversely reflected on masses of different greens, produced a

magnificent harmony of melancholy tones. At the farther end of the

valley a sheet of sparkling water ruffled by the breeze brought out

the brown stretch of roofs in the suburb of Saint-Etienne. The

steeples and roofs of Saint-Martial, bathed in light, showed through

the tracery of the grape-vine arbor. The soft murmur of the provincial

town, half hidden by the bend of the river, the sweetness of the balmy

air, all contributed to plunge the prelate into the condition of

quietude prescribed by medical writers on digestion; seemingly his

eyes were resting mechanically on the right bank of the river, just

where the long shadows of the island poplars touched it on the side

toward Saint-Etienne, near the field where the twofold murder of old

Pingret and his servant had been committed. But when his momentary

felicity was interrupted by the arrival of the two grand vicars, and

the difficulties they brought to him to solve, it was seen his eyes

were filled with impenetrable thoughts. The two priests attributed

this abstraction to the fact of being bored, whereas, on the contrary,

the prelate was absorbed in seeing in the sands of the Vienne the

solution of the enigma then so anxiously sought for by the officers of

justice, the des Vanneaulx, and the community at large.

"Monsieur," said the Abbe de Grancour, approaching the bishop, "it is

all useless; we shall certainly have the distress of seeing that

unhappy Tascheron die an unbeliever. He vociferates the most horrible

imprecations against religion; he insults that poor Abbe Pascal; he

spits upon the crucifix; and means to die denying all, even hell."

"He will shock the populace on the scaffold," said the Abbe Dutheil.

"The great scandal and horror his conduct will excite may hide our

defeat and powerlessness. In fact, as I have just been saying to

Monsieur de Grancour, this very spectacle may drive other sinners into

the arms of the Church."

Troubled by these words, the bishop laid down upon a rustic wooden

table the bunch of grapes at which he was picking, and wiped his

fingers as he made a sign to the two grand vicars to be seated.

"The Abbe Pascal did not take a wise course," he said.

"He is actually ill in his bed from the effects of his last scene with

the man," said the Abbe de Grancour. "If it were not for that we might

get him to explain more clearly the difficulties that have defeated

all the various efforts monseigneur ordered him to make."

"The condemned man sings obscene songs at the highest pitch of his

voice as soon as he sees any one of us, so as to drown out every word

we try to say to him," said a young priest who was sitting beside the

bishop.

This young man, who was gifted with a charming personality, had his

right arm resting on the table, while his white hand dropped

negligently on the bunches of grapes, seeking the ripest, with the

ease and assurance of an habitual guest or favorite. He was both to

the prelate, being the younger brother of Baron Eugene de Rastignac,

to whom ties of family and also of affection had long bound the Bishop

of Limoges. Aware of the want of fortune which devoted this young man

to the Church, the bishop took him as his private secretary to give

him time to wait for eventual preferment. The Abbe Gabriel bore a name

which would lead him sooner or later to the highest dignities of the

Church.

"Did you go to see him, my son?" asked the bishop.

"Yes, Monseigneur. As soon as I entered his cell the wretched man

hurled the most disgusting epithets at you and at me. He behaved in

such a manner that it was impossible for any priest to remain in his

presence. Might I give Monseigneur a word of advice?"

"Let us listen to the words of wisdom which God Almighty sometimes

puts into the mouths of children," said the bishop, smiling.

"Well, you know he made Balaam's ass speak out," said the young abbe

quickly.

"But according to some commentators she did not know what she was

saying," replied the bishop, laughing.

The two grand vicars smiled. In the first place, the joke came from

Monseigneur; next, it bore gently on the young abbe, of whom the

dignitaries and other ambitious priests grouped around the bishop were

somewhat jealous.

"My advice would be," resumed the young man, "to ask Monsieur de

Grandville to reprieve the man for the present. When Tascheron knows

that he owes an extension of his life to our intercession, he may

pretend to listen to us, and if he listens--"

"He will persist in his present conduct, finding that it has won him

that advantage," said the bishop, interrupting his favorite.

"Messieurs," he said, after a moment's silence, "does the whole town

know of these details?"

"There is not a household in which they are not talked over," said the

Abbe de Grancour. "The state in which our good Abbe Pascal was put by

his last efforts is the present topic of conversation throughout the

town."

"When is Tascheron to be executed?" asked the bishop.

"To-morrow, which is market-day"; replied Monsieur de Grancour.

"Messieurs," exclaimed the bishop, "religion must not be overset in

this way. The more public attention is attracted to the matter, the

more I am determined to obtain a notable triumph. The Church is now in

presence of a great difficulty. We are called upon to do miracles in

this manufacturing town, where the spirit of sedition against

religious and monarchical principles has such deep root, where the

system of inquiry born of protestantism (which in these days calls

itself liberalism, prepared at any moment to take another name)

extends into everything. Go at once to Monsieur de Grandville; he is

wholly on our side, and say to him from me that we beg for a few days'

reprieve. I will go myself and see that unhappy man."

"You, Monseigneur!" said the Abbe de Rastignac. "If you should fail,

wouldn't that complicate matters? You ought not to go unless you are

certain of success."

"If Monseigneur will permit me to express my opinion," said the Abbe

Dutheil, "I think I can suggest a means which may bring victory to

religion in this sad case."

The prelate answered with a sign of assent, so coldly given as to show

how little credit he gave to his vicar-general.

"If any one can influence that rebellious soul and bring it back to

God," continued the Abbe Dutheil, "it is the rector of the village in

which he was born, Monsieur Bonnet."

"One of your proteges," remarked the bishop.

"Monseigneur, Monsieur Bonnet is one of those men who protect

themselves, both by their active virtues and their gospel work."

This simple and modest reply was received in a silence which would

have embarrassed any other man than the Abbe Dutheil. The three

priests chose to see in it one of those hidden and unanswerable

sarcasms which are characteristic of ecclesiastics, who contrive to

express what they want to say while observing the strictest decorum.

In this case there was nothing of the kind. The Abbe Dutheil never

thought of himself and had no double meaning.

"I have heard of Saint Aristides for some time," said the bishop,

smiling. "If I have left his light under a bushel I may have been

unjust or prejudiced. Your liberals are always crying up Monsieur

Bonnet as though he belonged to their party. I should like to judge

for myself of this rural apostle. Go at once, messieurs, to Monsieur

de Grandville, and ask for the reprieve; I will await his answer

before sending our dear Abbe Gabriel to Montegnac to fetch the saintly

man. We will give his Blessedness a chance to do miracles."

As he listened to these words of the prelate the Abbe Dutheil

reddened; but he would not allow himself to take notice of the

incivilities of the speech. The two grand vicars bowed in silence and

withdrew, leaving the prelate alone with his secretary.

"The secrets of the confession we are so anxious to obtain from the

unhappy man himself are no doubt buried there," said the bishop to his

young abbe, pointing to the shadow of the poplars where it fell on a

lonely house between the island and Saint-Etienne.

"I have always thought so," replied Gabriel. "I am not a judge and I

will not be an informer; but if I were a magistrate I should have

known the name of that woman who trembles at every sound, at every

word, while forced to keep her features calm and serene under pain of

going to the scaffold with her lover. She has nothing to fear,

however. I have seen the man; he will carry the secret of that

passionate love to the grave with him."

"Ah! you sly fellow!" said the bishop, twisting the ear of his

secretary as he motioned to the space between the island and the

suburb of Saint-Etienne which the last gleams of the setting sun were

illuminating, and on which the young abbe's eyes were fixed. "That is

the place where justice should have searched; don't you think so?"

"I went to see the criminal to try the effect of my suspicions upon

him," replied the young man. "I could not speak them out, for fear of

compromising the woman for whose sake he dies."

"Yes," said the bishop, "we will hold our tongues; we are not the

servants of human justice. One head is enough. Besides, sooner or

later, the secret will be given to the Church."

The perspicacity which the habit of meditation gives to priests is far

superior to that of lawyers or the police. By dint of contemplating

from those terraces the scene of the crime, the prelate and his

secretary had ended by perceiving circumstances unseen by others, in

spite of all the investigations before and during the trial of the

case.

Monsieur de Grandville was playing whist at Madame Graslin's house; it

was necessary to await his return; the bishop did not therefore

receive his answer till nearly midnight. The Abbe Gabriel, to whom the

prelate lent his carriage, started at two in the morning for

Montegnac. This region, which begins about twenty-five miles from the

town, is situated in that part of the Limousin which lies at the base

of the mountains of the Correze and follows the line of the Creuze.

The young abbe left Limoges all heaving with expectation of the

spectacle on the morrow, and still unaware that it would not take

place.

VII

MONTEGNAC

Priests and religious devotees have a tendency in the matter of

payments to keep strictly to the letter of the law. Is this from

poverty, or from the selfishness to which their isolation condemns

them, thus encouraging the natural inclination of all men to avarice;

or is it from a conscientious parsimony which saves all it can for

deeds of charity? Each nature will give a different answer to this

question. The difficulty of putting the hand into the pocket,

sometimes concealed by a gracious kindliness, oftener unreservedly

exhibited, is more particularly noticeable in travelling. Gabriel de

Rastignac, the prettiest youth who had served before the altar for

many a long day, gave only a thirty-sous /pour-boire/ to the

postilion. Consequently he travelled slowly. Postilions drive bishops

and other clergy with the utmost care when they merely double the

legal wage, and they run no risk of damaging the episcopal carriage

for any such sum, fearing, they might say, to get themselves into

trouble. The Abbe Gabriel, who was travelling alone for the first

time, said, at each relay, in his dulcet voice:--

"Pray go faster, postilion."

"We ply the whip," replied an old postilion, "according to how the

traveller plies his finger and thumb."

The young abbe flung himself back into a corner of the carriage unable

to comprehend that answer. To occupy the time he began to study the

country through which he was passing, making several mental excursions

on foot among the hills through which the road winds between Bordeaux

and Lyon.

About fifteen miles from Limoges the landscape, losing the graceful

flow of the Vienne through the undulating meadows of the Limousin,

which in certain places remind one of Switzerland, especially about

Saint-Leonard, takes on a harsh and melancholy aspect. Here we come

upon vast tracts of uncultivated land, sandy plains without herbage,

hemmed in on the horizon by the summits of the Correze. These

mountains have neither the abrupt rise of the Alpine ranges nor their

splendid ridges; neither the warm gorges and desolate peaks of the

Appenines, nor the picturesque grandeur of the Pyrenees. Their

undulating slopes, due to the action of water, prove the subsidence of

some great natural catastrophe in which the floods retired slowly.

This characteristic, common to most of the earth convulsions in

France, has perhaps contributed, together with the climate, to the

epitaph of /douce/ bestowed by all Europe on our sunny France.

Though this abrupt transition from the smiling landscapes of the

Limousin to the sterner aspects of La Marche and Auvergne may offer to

the thinker and the poet, as he passes them on his way, an image of

the Infinite, that terror of certain minds; though it incites to

revelry the woman of the world, bored as she travels luxuriously in

her carriage,--to the inhabitants of this region Nature is cruel,

savage, and without resources. The soil of these great gray plains is

thankless. The vicinity of a capital town could alone reproduce the

miracle worked in Brie during the last two centuries. Here, however,

not only is a town lacking, but also the great residences which

sometimes give life to these hopeless deserts, where civilization

languishes, where the agriculturist sees only barrenness, and the

traveller finds not a single inn, nor that which, perchance, he is

there to seek,--the picturesque.

Great minds, however, do not dislike these barren wastes, necessary

shadows in Nature's vast picture. Quite recently Fenimore Cooper has

magnificently developed with his melancholy genius the poesy of such

solitudes, in his "Prairie." These regions, unknown to botanists,

covered by mineral refuse, round pebbles, and a sterile soil, cast

defiance to civilization. France should adopt the only solution to

these difficulties, as the British have done in Scotland, where

patient, heroic agriculture has changed the arid wastes into fertile

farms. Left in their savage and primitive state these uncultivated

social and natural wastes give birth to discouragement, laziness,

weakness resulting from poor food, and crime when needs become

importunate.

These few words present the past history of Montegnac. What could be

done in that great tract of barren land, neglected by the government,

abandoned by the nobility, useless to industry,--what but war against

society which disregarded its duty? Consequently, the inhabitants of

Montegnac lived to a recent period, as the Highlands of Scotland lived

in former times, by murder and rapine. From the mere aspect of this

region a thinking man would understand how, twenty years earlier, the

inhabitants were at war with society. The great upland plain, flanked

on one side by the valley of the Vienne, on the other by the charming

valleys of La Marche, then by Auvergne, and bounded by the mountains

of the Correze, is like (agriculture apart) the plateau of La Beauce,

which separates the basin of the Loire from that of the Seine, also

like those of Touraine and Berry, and many other of the great upland

plains which are cut like facets on the surface of France and are

numerous enough to claim the attention of the wisest administrators.

It is amazing that while complaint is made of the influx of population

to the social centres, the government does not employ the natural

remedy of redeeming a region where, as statistics show, there are many

million acres of waste land, certain parts of which, especially in

Berry, have a soil from seven to eight feet deep.

Many of these plains which might be covered by villages and made

splendidly productive belong to obstinate communes, the authorities of

which refuse to sell to those who would develop them, merely to keep

the right to pasture cows upon them! On all these useless,

unproductive lands is written the word "Incapacity." All soils have

some special fertility of their own. Arms and wills are ready; the

thing lacking is a sense of duty combined with talent on the part of

the government. In France, up to the present time, these upland plains

have been sacrificed to the valleys; the government has chosen to give

all its help to those regions of country which can take care of

themselves.

Most of these luckless uplands are without water, the first essential

for production. The mists which ought to fertilize the gray, dead soil

by discharging oxygen upon it, sweep across it rapidly, driven by the

wind, for want of trees which might arrest them and so obtain their

nourishment. Merely to plant trees in such a region would be carrying

a gospel to it. Separated from the nearest town or city by a distance

as insurmountable to poor folk as though a desert lay between them,

with no means of reaching a market for their products (if they

produced anything), close to an unexplored forest which supplied them

with wood and the uncertain livelihood of poaching, the inhabitants

often suffered from hunger during the winters. The soil not being

suitable for wheat, and the unfortunate peasantry having neither

cattle of any kind nor farming implements, they lived for the most

part on chestnuts.

Any one who has studied zoological productions in a museum, or become

personally aware of the indescribable depression caused by the brown

tones of all European products, will understand how the constant sight

of these gray, arid plains must have affected the moral nature of the

inhabitants, through the desolate sense of utter barrenness which they

present to the eye. There, in those dismal regions, is neither

coolness nor brightness, nor shade nor contrast,--none of all those

ideas and spectacles of Nature which awaken and rejoice the heart;

even a stunted apple-tree would be hailed as a friend.

A country road, recently made, runs through the centre of this great

plain, and meets the high-road. Upon it, at a distance of some fifteen

miles from the high-road, stands Montegnac, at the foot of a hill, as

its name designates, the chief town of a canton or district in the

Haute-Vienne. The hill is part of Montegnac, which thus unites a

mountainous scenery with that of the plains. This district is a

miniature Scotland, with its lowlands and highlands. Behind the hill,

at the foot of which lies the village, rises, at a distance of about

three miles, the first peak of the Correze mountains. The space

between is covered by the great forest of Montegnac, which clothes the

hill, extends over the valley, and along the slopes of the mountain

(though these are bare in some places), continuing as far as the

highway to Aubusson, where it diminishes to a point near a steep

embankment on that road. This embankment commands a ravine through

which the post-road between Bordeaux and Lyon passes. Travellers,

either afoot or in carriages, were often stopped in the depths of this

dangerous gorge by highwaymen, whose deeds of violence went

unpunished, for the site favored them; they could instantly disappear,

by ways known to them alone, into the inaccessible parts of the

forest.

Such a region was naturally out of reach of law. No one now travelled

through it. Without circulation, neither commerce, industry, exchange

of ideas, nor any of the means to wealth, can exist; the material

triumphs of civilization are always the result of the application of

primitive ideas. Thought is invariably the point of departure and the

goal of all social existence. The history of Montegnac is a proof of

that axiom of social science. When at last the administration was able

to concern itself with the needs and the material prosperity of this

region of country, it cut down this strip of forest, and stationed a

detachment of gendarmerie near the ravine, which escorted the mail-

coaches between the two relays; but, to the shame of the gendarmerie

be it said, it was the gospel, and not the sword, the rector Monsieur

Bonnet, and not Corporal Chervin, who won a civil victory by changing

the morals of a population. This priest, filled with Christian

tenderness for the poor, hapless region, attempted to regenerate it,

and succeeded in the attempt.

After travelling for about an hour over these plains, alternately

stony and dusty, where the partridges flocked in tranquil coveys,

their wings whirring with a dull, heavy sound as the carriage came

toward them, the Abbe Gabriel, like all other travellers on the same

road, saw with satisfaction the roofs of Montegnac in the distance. At

the entrance of the village was one of those curious post-relays which

are seen only in the remote parts of France. Its sign was an oak board

on which some pretentious postilion had carved the words, /Pauste o

chevos/, blackening the letters with ink, and then nailing the board

by its four corners above the door of a wretched stable in which there

were no horses. The door, which was nearly always open, had a plank

laid on the soil for its threshold, to protect the stable floor, which

was lower than the road, from inundation when it rained. The

discouraged traveller could see within worn-out, mildewed, and mended

harnesses, certain to break at a plunge of the horses. The horses

themselves were hard at work in the fields, or anywhere but in the

stable. If by any chance they happen to be in their stalls, they are

eating; if they have finished eating, the postilion has gone to see

his aunt or his cousin, or is getting in the hay, or else he is

asleep; no one can say where he is; the traveller has to wait till he

is found, and he never comes till he has finished what he is about.

When he does come he loses an immense amount of time looking for his

jacket and his whip, or putting the collars on his horses. Near by, at

the door of the post-house, a worthy woman is fuming even more than

the traveller, in order to prevent the latter from complaining loudly.

This is sure to be the wife of the post-master, whose husband is away

in the fields.

The bishop's secretary left his carriage before a post-house of this

kind, the walls of which resembled a geographical map, while the

thatched roof, blooming like a flower-garden, seemed to be giving way

beneath the weight of stone-crop. After begging the post-mistress to

have everything in readiness for his departure in an hour's time, the

abbe asked the way to the parsonage. The good woman showed him a lane

which led to the church, telling him the rectory was close beside it.

While the young abbe followed this lane, which was full of stones and

closed on either side by hedges, the post-mistress questioned the

postilion. Since starting from Limoges each postilion had informed his

successor of the conjectures of the Limoges postilion as to the

mission of the bishop's messenger. While the inhabitants of the town

were getting out of bed and talking of the coming execution, a rumor

spread among the country people that the bishop had obtained the

pardon of the innocent man; and much was said about the mistakes to

which human justice was liable. If Jean-Francois was executed later,

it was certain that he was regarded in the country regions as a

martyr.

After taking a few steps along the lane, reddened by the autumn

leaves, and black with mulberries and damsons, the Abbe Gabriel turned

round with the instinctive impulse which leads us all to make

acquaintance with a region which we see for the first time,--a sort of

instinctive physical curiosity shared by dogs and horses.

The position of Montegnac was explained to him as his eyes rested on

various little streams flowing down the hillsides and on a little

river, along the bank of which runs the country road which connects

the chief town of the arrondissement with the prefecture. Like all the

villages of this upland plain, Montegnac is built of earth baked in

the sun and moulded into square blocks. After a fire a house looks as

if it had been built of brick. The roofs are of thatch. Poverty is

everywhere visible.

Before the village lay several fields of potatoes, radishes, and rye,

redeemed from the barren plain. On the slope of the hill were

irrigated meadows where the inhabitants raised horses, the famous

Limousin breed, which is said to be a legacy of the Arabs when they

descended by the Pyrenees into France and were cut to pieces by the

battle-axes of the Franks under Charles Martel. The heights are

barren. A hot, baked, reddish soil shows a region where chestnuts

flourish. The springs, carefully applied to irrigation, water the

meadows only, nourishing the sweet, crisp grass, so fine and choice,

which produces this race of delicate and high-strung horses,--not

over-strong to bear fatigue, but showy, excellent for the country of

their birth, though subject to changes if transplanted. A few mulberry

trees lately imported showed an intention of cultivating silk-worms.

Like most of the villages in this world Montegnac had but one street,

through which the high road passed. Nevertheless there was an upper

and a lower Montegnac, reached by lanes going up or going down from

the main street. A line of houses standing along the brow of the hill

presented the cheerful sight of terraced gardens, which were entered

by flights of steps from the main street. Some had their steps of

earth, others of pebbles; here and there old women were sitting on

them, knitting or watching children, and keeping up a conversation

from the upper to the lower town across the usually peaceful street of

the little village; thus rumors spread easily and rapidly in

Montegnac. All the gardens, which were full of fruit-trees, cabbages,

onions, and other vegetables, had bee-hives along their terraces.

Another line of houses, running down from the main street to the

river, the course of which was outlined by thriving little fields of

hemp and the sorts of fruit trees which like moisture, lay parallel

with the upper town; some of the houses, that of the post-house, for

instance, were in a hollow, and were well-situated for certain kinds

of work, such as weaving. Nearly all of them were shared by walnut-

trees, the tree /par excellence/ of strong soils.

On this side of the main street at the end farthest from the great

plain was a dwelling-house, very much larger and better cared for than

those in other parts of the village; around it were other houses

equally well kept. This little hamlet, separated from the village by

its gardens, was already called Les Tascherons, a name it keeps to the

present day.

The village itself mounted to very little, but thirty or more outlying

farms belonged to it. In the valley, leading down to the river,

irrigating channels like those of La Marche and Berry indicated the

flow of water around the village by the green fringe of verdure about

them; Montegnac seemed tossed in their midst like a vessel at sea.

When a house, an estate, a village, a region, passes from the wretched

condition to a prosperous one, without becoming either rich or

splendid, life seems so easy, so natural to living beings, that the

spectator may not at once suspect the enormous labor, infinite in

petty detail, grand in persistency like the toil buried in a

foundation wall, in short, the forgotten labor on which the whole

structure rests.

Consequently the scene that lay before him told nothing extraordinary

to the young Abbe Gabriel as his eye took in the charming landscape.

He knew nothing of the state of the region before the arrival of the

rector, Monsieur Bonnet. The young man now went on a few steps and

again saw, several hundred feet above the gardens of the upper

village, the church and the parsonage, which he had already seen from

a distance confusedly mingled with the imposing ruins clothed with

creepers of the old castle of Montegnac, one of the residences of the

Navarreins family in the twelfth century.

The parsonage, a house originally built no doubt for the bailiff or

game-keeper, was noticeable for a long raised terrace planted with

lindens from which a fine view extended over the country. The steps

leading to this terrace and the walls which supported it showed their

great age by the ravages of time. The flat moss which clings to stones

had laid its dragon-green carpet on each surface. The numerous

families of the pellitories, the chamomiles, the mesembryanthemums,

pushed their varied and abundant tufts through the loop-holes in the

walls, cracked and fissured in spite of their thickness. Botany had

lavished there its most elegant drapery of ferns of all kinds, snap-

dragons with their violet mouths and golden pistils, the blue anchusa,

the brown lichens, so that the old worn stones seemed mere accessories

peeping out at intervals from this fresh growth. Along the terrace a

box hedge, cut into geometric figures, enclosed a pleasure garden

surrounding the parsonage, above which the rock rose like a white wall

surmounted by slender trees that drooped and swayed above it like

plumes.

The ruins of the castle looked down upon the house and church. The

house, built of pebbles and mortar, had but one story surmounted by an

enormous sloping roof with gable ends, in which were attics, no doubt

empty, considering the dilapidation of their windows. The ground-floor

had two rooms parted by a corridor, at the farther end of which was a

wooden staircase leading to the second floor, which also had two

rooms. A little kitchen was at the back of the building in a yard,

where were the stable and coach-house, both unused, deserted, and

worthless. The kitchen garden lay between the church and the house; a

ruined gallery led from the parsonage to the sacristy.

When the young abbe saw the four windows with their leaded panes, the

brown and mossy walls, the door in common pine slit like a bundle of

matches, far from being attracted by the adorable naivete of these

details, the grace of the vegetations which draped the roof and the

dilapidated wooden frames of the windows, the wealth of the clambering

plants escaping from every cranny, and the clasping tendrils of the

grape-vine which looked into every window as if to bring smiling ideas

to those within, he congratulated himself heartily on being a bishop

in perspective instead of a village rector.

This house, apparently always open, seemed to belong to everybody. The

Abbe Gabriel entered a room communicating with the kitchen, which was

poorly furnished with an oak table on four stout legs, a tapestried

armchair, a number of chairs all of wood, and an old chest by way of

buffet. No one was in the kitchen except a cat which revealed the

presence of a woman about the house. The other room served as a salon.

Casting a glance about it the young priest noticed armchairs in

natural wood covered with tapestry; the woodwork and the rafters of

the ceiling were of chestnut which had turned as black as ebony. A

tall clock in a green case painted with flowers, a table with a faded

green cloth, several chairs, two candlesticks on the chimney-piece,

between which was an Infant Jesus in wax under a glass case, completed

the furniture of the room. The chimney-piece of wood with common

mouldings was filled by a fire-board covered by a painting

representing the Good Shepherd with a lamb over his shoulder, which

was probably the gift of some young girl,--the mayor's daughter, or

the judge's daughter,--in return for the pastor's care of her

education.

The forlorn condition of the house was distressing to behold; the

walls, once whitewashed, were now discolored, and stained to a man's

height by constant friction. The staircase with its heavy baluster and

wooden steps, though very clean, looked as if it might easily give way

under the feet. On the other side of the house, opposite to the

entrance door, another door opening upon the kitchen garden enabled

the Abbe de Rastignac to judge of the narrowness of that garden, which

was closed at the back by a wall cut in the white and friable stone

side of the mountain, against which espaliers were fastened, covered

with grape-vines and fruit-trees so ill taken care of that their

leaves were discolored with blight.

The abbe returned upon his steps and walked along the paths of the

first garden, from which he could see, in the distance beyond the

village, the magnificent stretch of valley, a true oasis at the edge

of the vast plains, which now, veiled by the light mists of morning,

lay along the horizon like a tranquil ocean. Behind him could be seen,

on one side, for a foil, the dark masses of the bronze-green forest;

on the other, the church and the ruins of the castle perched on the

rock and vividly detached upon the blue of the ether. The Abbe

Gabriel, his feet creaking on the gravelly paths cut in stars and

rounds and lozenges, looked down upon the village, where some of the

inhabitants were already gazing up at him, and then at the fresh, cool

valley, with its tangled paths, its river bordered with willows in

delightful contrast to the endless plain, and he was suddenly seized

with sensations which changed the nature of his thoughts; he admired

the sweet tranquillity of the place; he felt the influence of that

pure air; he was conscious of the peace inspired by the revelation of

a life brought back to Biblical simplicity; he saw, confusedly, the

beauties of this old parsonage, which he now re-entered to examine its

details with greater interest.

A little girl, employed, no doubt, to watch the house, though she was

picking and eating fruit in the garden, heard the steps of a man with

creaking shoes on the great square flags of the ground-floor rooms.

She ran in to see who it was. Confused at being caught by a priest

with a fruit in one hand and another in her mouth, she made no answer

to the questions of the handsome young abbe. She had never imagined

such an abbe,--dapper and spruce as hands could make him, in dazzling

linen and fine black cloth without spot or wrinkle.

"Monsieur Bonnet?" she said at last. "Monsieur Bonnet is saying mass,

and Mademoiselle Ursule is at church."

The Abbe Gabriel did not notice a covered way from the house to the

church; he went back to the road which led to the front portal, a

species of porch with a sloping roof that faced the village. It was

reached by a series of disjointed stone steps, at the side of which

lay a ravine washed out by the mountain torrents and covered with

noble elms planted by Sully the Protestant. This church, one of the

poorest in France where there are so many poor churches, was like one

of those enormous barns with projecting doors covered by roofs

supported on brick or wooden pillars. Built, like the parsonage, of

cobblestones and mortar, flanked by a face of solid rock, and roofed

by the commonest round tiles, this church was decorated on the outside

with the richest creations of sculpture, rich in light and shade and

lavishly massed and colored by Nature, who understands such art as

well as any Michael Angelo. Ivy clasped the walls with its nervous

tendrils, showing stems amid its foliage like the veins in a lay

figure. This mantle, flung by Time to cover the wounds he made, was

starred by autumn flowers drooping from the crevices, which also gave

shelter to numerous singing birds. The rose-window above the

projecting porch was adorned with blue campanula, like the first page

of an illuminated missal. The side which communicated with the

parsonage, toward the north, was not less decorated; the wall was gray

and red with moss and lichen; but the other side and the apse, around

which lay the cemetery, was covered with a wealth of varied blooms. A

few trees, among others an almond-tree--one of the emblems of hope--

had taken root in the broken wall; two enormous pines standing close

against the apsis served as lightning-rods. The cemetery, enclosed by

a low, half-ruined wall, had for ornament an iron cross, mounted on a

pedestal and hung with box, blessed at Easter,--one of those affecting

Christian thoughts forgotten in cities. The village rector is the only

priest who, in these days, thinks to go among his dead and say to them

each Easter morn, "Thou shalt live again!" Here and there a few rotten

wooden crosses stood up from the grassy mounds.

The interior of the church harmonized perfectly with the poetic tangle

of the humble exterior, the luxury and art of which was bestowed by

Time, for once in a way charitable. Within, the eye first went to the

roof, lined with chestnut, to which age had given the richest tints of

the oldest woods of Europe. This roof was supported at equal distances

by strong shafts resting on transversal beams. The four white-washed

walls had no ornament whatever. Poverty had made the parish

iconoclastic, whether it would or not. The church, paved and furnished

with benches, was lighted by four arched windows with leaded panes.

The altar, shaped like a tomb, was adorned by a large crucifix placed

above a tabernacle in walnut with a few gilt mouldings, kept clean and

shining, eight candlesticks economically made of wood painted white,

and two china vases filled with artificial flowers such as the drudge

of a money-changer would have despised, but with which God was

satisfied.

The sanctuary lamp was a night-wick placed in an old holy-water basin

of plated copper hanging by silken cords, the spoil of some demolished

chateau. The baptismal fonts were of wood; so were the pulpit and a

sort of cage provided for the church-wardens, the patricians of the

village. An altar to the Virgin presented to public admiration two

colored lithographs in small gilt frames. The altar was painted white,

adorned with artificial flowers in gilded wooden vases, and covered by

a cloth edged with shabby and discolored lace.

At the farther end of the church a long window entirely covered by a

red calico curtain produced a magical effect. This crimson mantle cast

a rosy tint upon the whitewashed walls; a thought divine seemed to

glow upon the altar and clasp the poor nave as if to warm it. The

passage which led to the sacristy exhibited on one of its walls the

patron saint of the village, a large Saint John the Baptist with his

sheep, carved in wood and horribly painted.

But in spite of all this poverty the church was not without some

tender harmonies delightful to choice souls, and set in charming

relief by their own colors. The rich dark tones of the wood relieved

the white of the walls and blended with the triumphal crimson cast on

the chancel. This trinity of color was a reminder of the grand

Catholic doctrine.

If surprise was the first emotion roused by this pitiful house of the

Lord, surprise was followed speedily by admiration mingled with pity.

Did it not truly express the poverty of that poor region? Was it not

in harmony with the naive simplicity of the parsonage? The building

was perfectly clean and well-kept. The fragrance of country virtues

exhaled within it; nothing showed neglect or abandonment. Though

rustic and poor and simple, prayer dwelt there; those precincts had a

soul,--a soul which was felt, though we might not fully explain to our

own souls how we felt it.

VIII

THE RECTOR OF MONTEGNAC

The Abbe Gabriel glided softly through the church so as not to disturb

the devotions of two groups of persons on the benches near the high

altar, which was separated from the nave at the place where the lamp

was hung by a rather common balustrade, also of chestnut wood, and

covered with a cloth intended for the communion. On either side of the

nave a score of peasants, men and women, absorbed in fervent prayer,

paid no attention to the stranger when he passed up the narrow passage

between the two rows of seats.

When the young abbe stood beneath the lamp, whence he could see the

two little transepts which formed a cross, one of which led to the

sacristy, the other to the cemetery, he noticed on the cemetery side a

family clothed in black kneeling on the pavement, the transepts having

no benches. The young priest knelt down on the step of the balustrade

which separated the choir from the nave and began to pray, casting

oblique glances at a scene which was soon explained to him. The gospel

had been read. The rector, having removed his chasuble, came down from

the altar and stood before the railing; the young abbe, who foresaw

this movement, leaned back against the wall, so that Monsieur Bonnet

did not see him. Ten o'clock was striking.

"Brethren," said the rector, in a voice of emotion, "at this very

moment a child of this parish is paying his debt to human justice by

enduring its last penalty, while we are offering the sacrifice of the

mass for the peace of his soul. Let us unite in prayer to God,

imploring Him not to turn His face from that child in these his last

moments, and to grant to his repentance the pardon in heaven which is

denied to him here below. The sin of this unhappy man, one of those on

whom we most relied for good examples, can only be explained by his

disregard of religious principles."

Here the rector was interrupted by sobs from the kneeling group in

mourning garments, whom the Abbe Gabriel recognized, by this show of

affection, as the Tascheron family, although he did not know them.

First among them was an old couple (septuagenarians) standing by the

wall, their faces seamed with deep-cut, rigid wrinkles, and bronzed

like a Florentine medal. These persons, stoically erect like statues,

in their old darned clothes, were doubtless the grandfather and the

grandmother of the criminal. Their glazed and reddened eyes seemed to

weep blood, their arms trembled so that the sticks on which they

leaned tapped lightly on the pavement. Next, the father and the

mother, their faces in their handkerchiefs, sobbed aloud. Around these

four heads of the family knelt the two married sisters accompanied by

their husbands, and three sons, stupefied with grief. Five little

children on their knees, the oldest not seven years old, unable, no

doubt, to understand what was happening, gazed and listened with the

torpid curiosity that characterizes the peasantry, and is really the

observation of physical things pushed to its highest limit. Lastly,

the poor unmarried sister, imprisoned in the interests of justice, now

released, a martyr to fraternal affection, Denise Tascheron, was

listening to the priest's words with a look that was partly bewildered

and partly incredulous. For her, her brother could not die. She well

represented that one of the Three Marys who did not believe in the

death of Christ, though she was present at the last agony. Pale, with

dry eyes, like all those who have gone without sleep, her fresh

complexion was already faded, less by toil and field labor than by

grief; nevertheless, she had many of the beauties of a country maiden,

--a plump, full figure, finely shaped arms, rounded cheeks, and clear,

pure eyes, lighted at this instant with flashes of despair. Below the

throat, a firm, fair skin, not tanned by the sun, betrayed the

presence of a white and rosy flesh where the form was hidden.

The married daughters wept; their husbands, patient farmers, were

grave and serious. The three brothers, profoundly sad, did not raise

their eyes from the ground. In the midst of this dreadful picture of

dumb despair and desolation, Denise and her mother alone showed

symptoms of revolt.

The other inhabitants of the village united in the affliction of this

respectable family with a sincere and Christian pity which gave the

same expression to the faces of all,--an expression amounting to

horror when the rector's words announced that the knife was then

falling on the neck of a young man whom they all knew well from his

very birth, and whom they had doubtless thought incapable of crime.

The sobs which interrupted the short and simple allocution which the

pastor made to his flock overcame him so much that he stopped and said

no more, except to invite all present to fervent prayer.

Though this scene was not of a nature to surprise a priest, Gabriel de

Rastignac was too young not to be profoundly touched by it. As yet he

had never exercised the priestly virtues; he knew himself called to

other functions; he was not forced to enter the social breaches where

the heart bleeds at the sight of woes: his mission was that of the

higher clergy, who maintain the spirit of devotion, represent the

highest intellect of the Church, and on eminent occasions display the

priestly virtues on a larger stage,--like the illustrious bishops of

Marseille and Meaux, and the archbishops of Arles and Cambrai.

This little assemblage of country people weeping and praying for him

who, as they supposed, was then being executed on a public square,

among a crowd of persons come from all parts to swell the shame of

such a death,--this feeble counterpoise of prayer and pity, opposed to

the ferocious curiosity and just maledictions of a multitude, was

enough to move any soul, especially when seen in that poor church. The

Abbe Gabriel was tempted to go up to the Tascherons and say,--

"Your son and brother is reprieved."

But he did not like to disturb the mass; and, moreover, he knew that a

reprieve was only a delay of execution. Instead of following the

service, he was irresistibly drawn to a study of the pastor from whom

the clergy in Limoges expected the conversion of the criminal.

Judging by the parsonage, Gabriel de Rastignac had made himself a

portrait of Monsieur Bonnet as a stout, short man with a strong and

red face, framed for toil, half a peasant, and tanned by the sun. So

far from that, the young abbe met his equal. Slight and delicate in

appearance, Monsieur Bonnet's face struck the eyes at once as the

typical face of passion given to the Apostles. It was almost

triangular, beginning with a broad brow furrowed by wrinkles, and

carried down from the temples to the chin in two sharp lines which

defined his hollow cheeks. In this face, sallowed by tones as yellow

as those of a church taper, shone two blue eyes that were luminous

with faith, burning with eager hope. It was divided into two equal

parts by a long nose, thin and straight, with well-cut nostrils,

beneath which spoke, even when closed and voiceless, a large mouth,

with strongly marked lips, from which issued, whenever he spoke aloud,

one of those voices which go straight to the heart. The chestnut hair,

which was thin and fine, and lay flat upon the head, showed a poor

constitution maintained by a frugal diet. WILL made the power of this

man.

Such were his personal distinctions. His short hands might have

indicated in another man a tendency to coarse pleasures, and perhaps

he had, like Socrates, conquered his temptations. His thinness was

ungraceful, his shoulders were too prominent, his knees knocked

together. The body, too much developed for the extremities, gave him

the look of a hump-backed man without a hump. In short, his appearance

was not pleasing. None but those to whom the miracles of thought,

faith, art are known could adore that flaming gaze of the martyr, that

pallor of constancy, that voice of love,--distinctive characteristics

of this village rector.

This man, worthy of the primitive Church, which exists no longer

except in the pictures of the sixteenth century and in the pages of

Martyrology, was stamped with the die of the human greatness which

most nearly approaches the divine greatness through Conviction,--that

indefinable something which embellishes the commonest form, gilds with

glowing tints the faces of men vowed to any worship, no matter what,

and brings into the face of a woman glorified by a noble love a sort

of light. CONVICTION is human will attaining to its highest reach. At

once both cause and effect, it impresses the coldest natures; it is a

species of mute eloquence which holds the masses.

Coming down from the altar the rector caught the eye of the Abbe

Gabriel and recognized him; so that when the bishop's secretary

reached the sacristy Ursule, to whom her master had already given

orders, was waiting for him with a request that he would follow her.

"Monsieur," said Ursule, a woman of canonical age, conducting the Abbe

de Rastignac by the gallery through the garden, "Monsieur Bonnet told

me to ask if you had breakfasted. You must have left Limoges very

early to get here by ten o'clock. I will soon have breakfast ready for

you. Monsieur l'abbe will not find a table like that of Monseigneur

the bishop in this poor village, but we will do the best we can.

Monsieur Bonnet will soon be in; he has gone to comfort those poor

people, the Tascherons. Their son has met with a terrible end to-day."

"But," said the Abbe Gabriel, when he could get in a word, "where is

the house of those worthy persons? I must take Monsieur Bonnet at once

to Limoges by order of the bishop. That unfortunate man will not be

executed to-day; Monseigneur has obtained a reprieve for him."

"Ah!" exclaimed Ursule, whose tongue itched to spread the news about

the village, "monsieur has plenty of time to carry them that comfort

while I get breakfast ready. The Tascherons' house is beyond the

village; follow the path below that terrace and it will take you

there."

As soon as Ursule lost sight of the abbe she went down into the

village to disseminate the news, and also to buy the things needed for

the breakfast.

The rector had been informed, while in church, of a desperate

resolution taken by the Tascherons as soon as they heard that Jean-

Francois's appeal was rejected and that he had to die. These worthy

souls intended to leave the country, and their worldly goods were to

be sold that very morning. Delays and formalities unexpected by them

had hitherto postponed the sale. They had been forced to remain in

their home until the execution, and drink each day the cup of shame.

This determination had not been made public until the evening before

the day appointed for the execution. The Tascherons had expected to

leave before that fatal day; but the proposed purchaser of their

property was a stranger in those parts, and was prevented from

clinching the bargain by a delay in obtaining the money. Thus the

hapless family were forced to bear their trouble to its end. The

feeling which prompted this expatriation was so violent in these

simple souls, little accustomed to compromise with their consciences,

that the grandfather and grandmother, the father and the mother, the

daughters and their husbands and the sons, in short, all who bore and

had borne the name of Tascheron or were closely allied to it made

ready to leave the country.

This emigration grieved the whole community. The mayor entreated the

rector to do his best to retain these worthy people. According to the

new Code the father was not responsible for the son, and the crime of

the father was no disgrace to the children. Together with other

emancipations which have weakened paternal power, this system has led

to the triumph of individualism, which is now permeating the whole of

modern society. He who thinks on the things of the future sees the

spirit of family destroyed, where the makers of the new Code have

introduced freedom of will and equality. The Family must always be the

basis of society. Necessarily temporary, incessantly divided,

recomposed to dissolve again, without ties between the future and the

past, it cannot fulfil that mission; the Family of the olden time no

longer exists in France. Those who have proceeded to demolish the

ancient edifice have been logical in dividing equally the family

property, in diminishing the authority of the father, in suppressing

great responsibilities; but is the reconstructed social state as

solid, with its young laws still untried, as it was under a monarchy,

in spite of the old abuses? In losing the solidarity of families,

society has lost that fundamental force which Montesquieu discovered

and named HONOR. It has isolated interests in order to subjugate them;

it has sundered all to enfeeble all. Society reigns over units, over

single figures agglomerated like grains of corn in a heap. Can the

general interests of all take the place of Family? Time alone can

answer that question.

Nevertheless, the old law still exists; its roots have struck so deep

that you will find it still living, as we find perennials in polar

regions. Remote places are still to be found in the provinces where

what are now called prejudices exist, where the family suffers in the

crime of a child or a father.

This sentiment made the place uninhabitable any longer to the

Tascherons. Their deep religious feeling took them to church that

morning; for how could they let the mass be offered to God asking Him

to inspire their son with repentance that alone could restore to him

life eternal, and not share in it? Besides, they wished to bid

farewell to the village altar. But their minds were made up and their

plans already carried out. When the rector who followed them from

church reached the principal house he found their bags and bundles

ready for the journey. The purchaser of the property was there with

the money. The notary had drawn up the papers. In the yard behind the

house was a carriole ready harnessed to carry away the older couple

with the money, and the mother of Jean-Francois. The remainder of the

family were to go on foot by night.

At the moment when the young abbe entered the low room in which the

family were assembled the rector of Montegnac had exhausted all the

resources of his eloquence. The old pair, now insensible to the

violence of grief, were crouching in a corner on their bags and

looking round on their old hereditary home, its furniture, and the new

purchaser, and then upon each other as if to say:--

"Did we ever think this thing could happen?"

These old people, who had long resigned their authority to their son,

the father of the criminal, were, like kings on their abdication,

reduced to the passive role of subjects and children. Tascheron, the

father, was standing up; he listened to the pastor, and replied to him

in a low voice and by monosyllables. This man, who was about forty-

eight years of age, had the noble face which Titian has given to so

many of his Apostles,--a countenance full of faith, of grave and

reflective integrity, a stern profile, a nose cut in a straight and

projecting line, blue eyes, a noble brow, regular features, black,

crisp, wiry hair, planted on his head with that symmetry which gives a

charm to these brown faces, bronzed by toil in the open air. It was

easy to see that the rector's appeals were powerless against that

inflexible will.

Denise was leaning against the bread-box, looking at the notary, who

was using that receptacle as a writing-table, seated before it in the

grandmother's armchair. The purchaser was sitting on a stool beside

him. The married sisters were laying a cloth upon the table, and

serving the last meal the family were to take in its own house before

expatriating itself to other lands and other skies. The sons were

half-seated on the green serge bed. The mother, busy beside the fire,

was beating an omelet. The grandchildren crowded the doorway, before

which stood the incoming family of the purchaser.

The old smoky room with its blackened rafters, through the window of

which was visible a well-kept garden planted by the two old people,

seemed in harmony with the pent-up anguish which could be read on all

their faces in diverse expressions. The meal was chiefly prepared for

the notary, the purchaser, the menkind, and the children. The father

and mother, Denise and her sisters, were too unhappy to eat. There was

a lofty, stern resignation in the accomplishment of these last duties

of rustic hospitality. The Tascherons, men of the olden time, ended

their days in that house as they had begun them, by doing its honors.

This scene, without pretension, though full of solemnity, met the eyes

of the bishop's secretary when he approached the village rector to

fulfil the prelate's errand.

"The son of these good people still lives," said Gabriel.

At these words, heard by all in the deep silence, the two old people

rose to their feet as if the last trump had sounded. The mother

dropped her pan upon the fire; Denise gave a cry of joy; all the

others stood by in petrified astonishment.

"Jean-Francois is pardoned!" cried the whole village, now rushing

toward the house, having heard the news from Ursule. "Monseigneur the

bishop--"

"I knew he was innocent!" cried the mother.

"Will it hinder the purchase?" said the purchaser to the notary, who

answered with a satisfying gesture.

The Abbe Gabriel was now the centre of all eyes; his sadness raised a

suspicion of mistake. To avoid correcting it himself, he left the

house, followed by the rector, and said to the crowd outside that the

execution was only postponed for some days. The uproar subsided

instantly into dreadful silence. When the Abbe Gabriel and the rector

returned, the expression on the faces of the family was full of

anguish; the silence of the crowd was understood.

"My friends, Jean-Francois is not pardoned," said the young abbe,

seeing that the blow had fallen; "but the state of his soul has so

distressed Monseigneur that he has obtained a delay in order to save

your son in eternity."

"But he lives!" cried Denise.

The young abbe took the rector aside to explain to him the injurious

situation in which the impenitence of his parishioner placed religion,

and the duty the bishop imposed upon him.

"Monseigneur exacts my death," replied the rector. "I have already

refused the entreaties of the family to visit their unhappy son. Such

a conference and the sight of his death would shatter me like glass.

Every man must work as he can. The weakness of my organs, or rather,

the too great excitability of my nervous organization, prevents me

from exercising these functions of our ministry. I have remained a

simple rector expressly to be useful to my kind in a sphere in which I

can really accomplish my Christian duty. I have carefully considered

how far I could satisfy this virtuous family and do my pastoral duty

to this poor son; but the very idea of mounting the scaffold with him,

the mere thought of assisting in those fatal preparations, sends a

shudder as of death through my veins. It would not be asked of a

mother; and remember, monsieur, he was born in the bosom of my poor

church."

"So," said the Abbe Gabriel, "you refuse to obey Monseigneur?"

"Monseigneur is ignorant of the state of my health; he does not know

that in a constitution like mine nature refuses--" said Monsieur

Bonnet, looking at the younger priest.

"There are times when we ought, like Belzunce at Marseille, to risk

certain death," replied the Abbe Gabriel, interrupting him.

At this moment the rector felt a hand pulling at his cassock; he heard

sobs, and turning round he saw the whole family kneeling before him.

Young and old, small and great, all were stretching their supplicating

hands to him. One sole cry rose from their lips as he turned his face

upon them:--

"Save his soul, at least!"

The old grandmother it was who had pulled his cassock and was wetting

it with her tears.

"I shall obey, monsieur."

That said, the rector was forced to sit down, for his legs trembled

under him. The young secretary explained the frenzied state of the

criminal's mind.

"Do you think," he said, as he ended his account, "that the sight of

his young sister would shake his determination?"

"Yes, I do," replied the rector. "Denise, you must go with us."

"And I, too," said the mother.

"No!" cried the father; "that child no longer exists for us, and you

know it. None of us shall see him."

"Do not oppose what may be for his salvation," said the young abbe.

"You will be responsible for his soul if you refuse us the means of

softening it. His death may possibly do more injury than his life has

done."

"She may go," said the father; "it shall be her punishment for

opposing all the discipline I ever wished to give her son."

The Abbe Gabriel and Monsieur Bonnet returned to the parsonage, where

Denise and her mother were requested to come in time to start for

Limoges with the two ecclesiastics.

As the younger man walked along the path which followed the outskirts

of upper Montegnac he was able to examine the village priest so warmly

commended by the vicar-general less superficially than he did in

church. He felt at once inclined in his favor, by the simple manners,

the voice full of magic power, and the words in harmony with the voice

of the village rector. The latter had only visited the bishop's palace

once since the prelate had taken Gabriel de Rastignac as secretary. He

had hardly seen this favorite, destined for the episcopate, though he

knew how great his influence was. Nevertheless, he behaved with a

dignified courtesy that plainly showed the sovereign independence

which the Church bestows on rectors in their parishes. But the

feelings of the young abbe, far from animating his face, gave it a

stern expression; it was more than cold, it was icy. A man capable of

changing the moral condition of a whole population must surely possess

some powers of observation, and be more or less of a physiognomist;

and even if the rector had no other science than that of goodness, he

had just given proof of rare sensibility. He was therefore struck by

the coldness with which the bishop's secretary met his courteous

advances. Compelled to attribute this manner to some secret annoyance,

the rector sought in his own mind to discover if he had wounded his

guest, or in what way his conduct could seem blameworthy in the eyes

of his superiors.

An awkward silence ensued, which the Abbe de Rastignac broke by a

speech that was full of aristocratic assumption.

"You have a very poor church, monsieur," he said.

"It is too small," replied Monsieur Bonnet. "On the great fete-days

the old men bring benches to the porch, and the young men stand

outside in a circle; but the silence is so great that all can hear my

voice."

Gabriel was silent for some moments.

"If the inhabitants are so religious how can you let the building

remain in such a state of nudity?" he said at last.

"Alas, monsieur, I have not the courage to spend the money which is

needed for the poor on decorating the church,--the poor are the

church. I assure I should not be ashamed of my church if Monseigneur

should visit it on the Fete-Dieu. The poor return on that day what

they have received. Did you notice the nails which are placed at

certain distances on the walls? They are used to hold a sort of

trellis of iron wire on which the women fasten bouquets; the church is

fairly clothed with flowers, and they keep fresh all day. My poor

church, which you think so bare, is decked like a bride; it is filled

with fragrance; even the floor is strewn with leaves, in the midst of

which they make a path of scattered roses for the passage of the holy

sacrament. That's a day on which I do not fear comparison with the

pomps of Saint-Peter at Rome; the Holy Father has his gold, and I my

flowers,--to each his own miracle. Ah! monsieur, the village of

Montegnac is poor, but it is Catholic. In former times the inhabitants

robbed travellers; now travellers may leave a sack full of money where

they please and they will find it in my house."

"That result is to your glory," said Gabriel.

"It is not a question of myself," replied the rector, coloring at this

labored compliment, "but of God's word, of the blessed bread--"

"Brown bread," remarked the abbe, smiling.

"White bread only suits the stomachs of the rich," replied the rector,

modestly.

The young abbe took the hands of the older priest and pressed them

cordially.

"Forgive me, monsieur," he said, suddenly making amends with a look in

his beautiful blue eyes which went to the depths of the rector's soul.

"Monseigneur told me to test your patience and your modesty, but I

can't go any further; I see already how much injustice the praises of

the liberals have done you."

Breakfast was ready; fresh eggs, butter, honey, fruits, cream, and

coffee were served by Ursule in the midst of flowers, on a white cloth

laid upon the antique table in that old dining-room. The window which

looked upon the terrace was open; clematis, with its white stars

relieved in the centre by the yellow bunch of their crisped stamens,

clasped the railing. A jasmine ran up one side, nasturtiums clambered

over the other. Above, the reddening foliage of a vine made a rich

border that no sculptor could have rendered, so exquisite was the

tracery of its lace-work against the light.

"Life is here reduced, you see, to its simplest expression," said the

rector, smiling, though his face did not lose the look which the

sadness of his heart conveyed to it. "If we had known of your arrival

(but who could have foreseen your errand?) Ursule would have had some

mountain trout for you; there's a brook in the forest where they are

excellent. I forget, however, that this is August and the Gabou is

dry. My head is confused with all these troubles."

"Then you like your life here?" said the young abbe.

"Yes, monsieur; if God wills, I shall die rector of Montegnac. I could

have wished that my example were followed by certain distinguished men

who have thought they did better things in becoming philanthropists.

But modern philanthropy is an evil to society; the principles of the

Catholic religion can alone cure the diseases which permeate social

bodies. Instead of describing those diseases and extending their

ravages by complaining elegies, they should put their hand to the work

and enter the Lord's vineyard as simple laborers. My task is far from

being accomplished here, monsieur. It is not enough to reform the

people, whom I found in a frightful condition of impiety and

wickedness; I wish to die in the midst of a generation of true

believers."

"You have only done your duty, monsieur," said the young man, still

coldly, for his heart was stirred with envy.

"Yes, monsieur," replied the rector, modestly, giving his companion a

glance which seemed to say: Is this a further test? "I pray that all

may do their duty throughout the kingdom."

This remark, full of deep meaning, was still further emphasized by a

tone of utterance, which proved that in 1829 this priest, as grand in

thought as he was noble in humility of conduct, and who subordinated

his thoughts to those of his superiors, saw clearly into the destinies

of both church and monarchy.

When the two afflicted women came the young abbe, very impatient to

get back to Limoges, left the parsonage to see if the horses were

harnessed. A few moments later he returned to say that all was ready.

All four then started under the eyes of the whole population of

Montegnac, which was gathered in the roadway before the post-house.

The mother and sister kept silence. The two priests, seeing rocks

ahead in many subjects, could neither talk indifferently nor allow

themselves to be cheerful. While seeking for some neutral subject the

carriage crossed the plain, the aspect of which dreary region seemed

to influence the duration of their melancholy silence.

"How came you to adopt the ecclesiastical profession?" asked the Abbe

Gabriel, suddenly, with an impulsive curiosity which seized him as

soon as the carriage turned into the high-road.

"I did not look upon the priesthood as a profession," replied the

rector, simply. "I cannot understand how a man can become a priest for

any other reason than the undefinable power of vocation. I know that

many men have served in the Lord's vineyard who have previously worn

out their hearts in the service of passion; some have loved

hopelessly, others have had their love betrayed; men have lost the

flower of their lives in burying a precious wife or an adored

mistress; some have been disgusted with social life at a period when

uncertainty hovers over everything, even over feelings, and doubt

mocks tender certainties by calling them beliefs; others abandon

politics at a period when power seems to be an expiation and when the

governed regard obedience as fatality. Many leave a society without

banners; where opposing forces only unite to overthrow good. I do not

think that any man would give himself to God from a covetous motive.

Some men have looked upon the priesthood as a means of regenerating

our country; but, according to my poor lights, a priest-patriot is a

meaningless thing. The priest can only belong to God. I did not wish

to offer our Father--who nevertheless accepts all--the wreck of my

heart and the fragments of my will; I gave myself to him whole. In one

of those touching theories of pagan religion, the victim sacrificed to

the false gods goes to the altar decked with flowers. The significance

of that custom has always deeply touched me. A sacrifice is nothing

without grace. My life is simple and without the very slightest

romance. My father, who has made his own way in the world, is a stern,

inflexible man; he treats his wife and his children as he treats

himself. I have never seen a smile upon his lips. His iron hand, his

stern face, his gloomy, rough activity, oppressed us all--wife,

children, clerks and servants--under an almost savage despotism. I

could--I speak for myself only--I could have accommodated myself to

this life if the power thus exercised had had an equal repression;

but, captious and vacillating, he treated us all with intolerable

alternations. We were always ignorant whether we were doing right or

whether he considered us to blame; and the horrible expectancy which

results from that is torture in domestic life. A street life seems

better than a home under such circumstances. Had I been alone in the

house I would have borne all from my father without murmuring; but my

heart was torn by the bitter, unceasing anguish of my dear mother,

whom I ardently loved and whose tears put me sometimes into a fury in

which I nearly lost my reason. My school days, when boys are usually

so full of misery and hard work, were to me a golden period. I dreaded

holidays. My mother herself preferred to come and see me. When I had

finished my philosophical course and was forced to return home and

become my father's clerk, I could not endure it more than a few

months; my mind, bewildered by the fever of adolescence, threatened to

give way. On a sad autumn evening as I was walking alone with my

mother along the Boulevard Bourdon, then one of the most melancholy

parts of Paris, I poured my heart into hers, and I told her that I saw

no possible life before me except in the Church. My tastes, my ideas,

all that I most loved would be continually thwarted so long as my

father lived. Under the cassock of a priest he would be forced to

respect me, and I might thus on certain occasions become the protector

of my family. My mother wept much. Just at this period my eldest

brother (since a general and killed at Leipzig) had entered the army

as a private soldier, driven from his home for the same reasons that

made me wish to be a priest. I showed my mother that her best means of

protection would be to marry my sister, as soon as she was old enough,

to some man of strong character, and to look for help to this new

family. Under pretence of avoiding the conscription without costing my

father a penny to buy me off, I entered the seminary of Saint-Sulpice

at the age of nineteen. Within those celebrated old buildings I found

a peace and happiness that were troubled only by the thought of my

mother and my sister's sufferings. Their domestic misery, no doubt,

went on increasing; for whenever they saw me they sought to strengthen

my resolution. Perhaps I had been initiated into the secrets of

charity, such as our great Saint Paul defines it, by my own trials. At

any rate, I longed to stanch the wounds of the poor in some forgotten

corner of the earth, and to prove by my example, if God would deign to

bless my efforts, that the Catholic religion, judged by its actions

for humanity, is the only true, the only beneficent and noble

civilizing force. During the last days of my diaconate, grace, no

doubt, enlightened me. I have fully forgiven my father, regarding him

as the instrument of my destiny. My mother, though I wrote her a long

and tender letter, explaining all things and proving to her that the

finger of God was guiding me, my poor mother wept many tears as she

saw my hair cut off by the scissors of the Church. She knew herself

how many pleasures I renounced, but she did not know the secret

glories to which I aspired. Women are so tender! After I once belonged

to God I felt a boundless peace; I felt no needs, no vanities, none of

those cares which trouble men so much. I knew that Providence would

take care of me as a thing of its own. I entered a world from which

all fear is banished; where the future is certain; where all things

are divine, even the silence. This quietude is one of the benefactions

of grace. My mother could not conceive that a man could espouse a

church. Nevertheless, seeing me happy, with a cloudless brow, she grew

happier herself. After I was ordained I came to the Limousin to visit

one of my paternal relations, who chanced to speak to me of the then

condition of Montegnac. A thought darted into my mind with the

vividness of lightning, and I said to myself inwardly: 'Here is thy

vineyard!' I came here, and you see, monsieur, that my history is very

simple and uneventful."

At this instant Limoges came into sight, bathed in the last rays of

the setting sun. When the women saw it they could not restrain their

tears; they wept aloud.

IX

DENISE

The young man whom these two different loves were now on their way to

comfort, who excited so much artless curiosity, so much spurious

sympathy and true solicitude, was lying on his prison pallet in one of

the condemned cells. A spy watched beside the door to catch, if

possible, any words that might escape him, either in sleep or in one

of his violent furies; so anxious were the officers of justice to

exhaust all human means of discovering Jean-Francois Tascheron's

accomplice and recover the sums stolen.

The des Vanneaulx had promised a reward to the police, and the police

kept constant watch on the obstinate silence of the prisoner. When the

man on duty looked through a loophole made for the purpose he saw the

convict always in the same position, bound in the straight-jacket, his

head secured by a leather thong ever since he had attempted to tear

the stuff of the jacket with his teeth.

Jean-Francois gazed steadily at the ceiling with a fixed and

despairing eye, a burning eye, as if reddened by the terrible thoughts

behind it. He was a living image of the antique Prometheus; the memory

of some lost happiness gnawed at his heart. When the solicitor-general

himself went to see him that magistrate could not help testifying his

surprise at a character so obstinately persistent. No sooner did any

one enter his cell than Jean-Francois flew into a frenzy which

exceeded the limits known to physicians for such attacks. The moment

he heard the key turn in the lock or the bolts of the barred door

slide, a light foam whitened his lips.

Jean-Francois Tascheron, then twenty-five years of age, was small but

well-made. His wiry, crinkled hair, growing low on his forehead,

indicated energy. His eyes, of a clear and luminous yellow, were too

near the root of the nose,--a defect which gave him some resemblance

to birds of prey. The face was round, of the warm brown coloring which

marks the inhabitants of middle France. One feature of his physiognomy

confirmed an assertion of Lavater as to persons who are destined to

commit murder; his front teeth lapped each other. Nevertheless his

face bore all the characteristics of integrity and a sweet and artless

moral nature; there was nothing surprising in the fact that a woman

had loved him passionately. His fresh mouth with its dazzling teeth

was charming, but the vermilion of the lips was of the red-lead tint

which indicates repressed ferocity, and, in many human beings, a free

abandonment to pleasure. His demeanor showed none of the low habits of

a workman. In the eyes of the women who were present at the trial it

seemed evident that one of their sex had softened those muscles used

to toil, had ennobled the countenance of the rustic, and given grace

to his person. Women can always detect the traces of love in a man,

just as men can see in a woman whether, as the saying is, love has

passed that way.

Toward evening of the day we are now relating Jean-Francois heard the

sliding of bolts and the noise of the key in the lock. He turned his

head violently and gave vent to the horrible growl with which his

frenzies began; but he trembled all over when the beloved heads of his

sister and his mother stood out against the fading light, and behind

them the face of the rector of Montegnac.

"The wretches! is this why they keep me alive?" he said, closing his

eyes.

Denise, who had lately been confined in a prison, was distrustful of

everything; the spy had no doubt hidden himself merely to return in a

few moments. The girl flung herself on her brother, bent her tearful

face to his and whispered:--

"They may be listening to us."

"Otherwise they would not have let you come here," he replied in a

loud voice. "I have long asked the favor that none of my family should

be admitted here."

"Oh! how they have bound him!" cried the mother. "My poor child! my

poor boy!" and she fell on her knees beside the pallet, hiding her

head in the cassock of the priest, who was standing by her.

"If Jean will promise me to be quiet," said the rector, "and not

attempt to injure himself, and to behave properly while we are with

him, I will ask to have him unbound; but the least violation of his

promise will reflect on me."

"I do so want to move as I please, dear Monsieur Bonnet," said the

criminal, his eyes moistening with tears, "that I give you my word to

do as you wish."

The rector went out, and returned with the jailer, and the jacket was

taken off.

"You won't kill me to-night, will you?" said the turnkey.

Jean made no answer.

"Poor brother!" said Denise, opening a basket which had just passed

through a rigorous examination. "Here are some of the things you like;

I dare say they don't feed you for the love of God."

She showed him some fruit, gathered as soon as the rector had told her

she could go to the jail, and a /galette/ his mother had immediately

baked for him. This attention, which reminded him of his boyhood, the

voice and gestures of his sister, the presence of his mother and the

rector, brought on a reaction and he burst into tears.

"Ah! Denise," he said, "I have not had a good meal for six months. I

eat only when driven to it by hunger."

The mother and sister went out and then returned; with the natural

housekeeping spirit of such women, who want to give their men material

comfort, they soon had a supper for their poor child. In this the

officials helped them; for an order had been given to do all that

could with safety be done for the condemned man. The des Vanneaulx had

contributed, with melancholy hope, toward the comfort of the man from

whom they still expected to recover their inheritance. Thus poor Jean-

Francois had a last glimpse of family joys, if joys they could be

called under such circumstances.

"Is my appeal rejected?" he said to Monsieur Bonnet.

"Yes, my child; nothing is left for you to do but to make a Christian

end. This life is nothing in comparison to that which awaits you; you

must think now of your eternal happiness. You can pay your debt to man

with your life, but God is not content with such a little thing as

that."

"Give up my life! Ah! you do not know all that I am leaving."

Denise looked at her brother as if to warn him that even in matters of

religion he must be cautious.

"Let us say no more about it," he resumed, eating the fruit with an

avidity which told of his inward fire. "When am I--"

"No, no! say nothing of that before me!" said the mother.

"But I should be easier in mind if I knew," he said, in a low voice to

the rector.

"Always the same nature," exclaimed Monsieur Bonnet. Then he bent down

to the prisoner's ear and whispered, "If you will reconcile yourself

this night with God so that your repentance will enable me to absolve

you, it will be to-morrow. We have already gained much in calming

you," he said, aloud.

Hearing these last words, Jean's lips turned pale, his eyes rolled up

in a violent spasm, and an angry shudder passed through his frame.

"Am I calm?" he asked himself. Happily his eyes encountered the

tearful face of Denise, and he recovered his self-control. "So be it,"

he said to the rector; "there is no one but you to whom I would

listen; they have known how to conquer me."

And he flung himself on his mother's breast.

"My son," said the mother, weeping, "listen to Monsieur Bonnet; he

risks his life, the dear rector, in going to you to--" she hesitated,

and then said, "to the gate of eternal life."

Then she kissed Jean's head and held it to her breast for some

moments.

"Will he, indeed, go with me?" asked Jean, looking at the rector, who

bowed his head in assent. "Well, yes, I will listen to him; I will do

all he asks of me."

"You promise it?" said Denise. "The saving of your soul is what we

seek. Besides, you would not have all Limoges and the village say that

a Tascheron knows not how to die a noble death? And then, too, think

that all you lose here you will regain in heaven, where pardoned souls

will meet again."

This superhuman effort parched the throat of the heroic girl. She was

silent after this, like her mother, but she had triumphed. The

criminal, furious at seeing his happiness torn from him by the law,

now quivered at the sublime Catholic truth so simply expressed by his

sister. All women, even young peasant-women like Denise, know how to

touch these delicate chords; for does not every woman seek to make

love eternal? Denise had touched two chords, each most sensitive.

Awakened pride called on the other virtues chilled by misery and

hardened by despair. Jean took his sister's hand and kissed it, and

laid it on his heart in a deeply significant manner; he applied it

both gently and forcibly.

"Yes," he said, "I must renounce all; this is the last beating of my

heart, its last thought. Keep them, Denise."

And he gave her one of those glances by which a man in crucial moments

tries to put his soul into the soul of another human being.

This thought, this word, was, in truth, a last testament, an unspoken

legacy, to be as faithfully transmitted as it was trustfully given. It

was so fully understood by mother, sister, and priest, that they all

with one accord turned their faces from each other, to hide their

tears and keep the secret of their thoughts in their own breasts.

Those few words were the dying agony of a passion, the farewell of a

soul to the glorious things of earth, in accordance with true Catholic

renunciation. The rector, comprehending the majesty of all great human

things, even criminal things, judged of this mysterious passion by the

enormity of the sin. He raised his eyes to heaven as if to invoke the

mercy of God. Thence come the consolations, the infinite tendernesses

of the Catholic religion,--so humane, so gentle with the hand that

descends to man, showing him the law of higher spheres; so awful, so

divine, with that other hand held out to lead him into heaven.

Denise had now significantly shown the rector the spot by which to

strike that rock and make the waters of repentance flow. But suddenly,

as though the memories evoked were dragging him backwards, Jean-

Francois gave the harrowing cry of the hyena when the hunters overtake

it.

"No, no!" he cried, falling on his knees, "I will live! Mother, give

me your clothes; I can escape! Mercy, mercy! Go see the king; tell

him--"

He stopped, gave a horrible roar, and clung convulsively to the

rector's cassock.

"Go," said Monsieur Bonnet, in a low voice, to the agitated women.

Jean heard the words; he raised his head, gazed at his mother and

sister, then he stopped and kissed their feet.

"Let us say farewell now; do not come back; leave me alone with

Monsieur Bonnet. You need not be uneasy about me any longer," he said,

pressing his mother and his sister to him with a strength in which he

seemed to put all his life.

"How is it we do not die of this?" said Denise to her mother as they

passed through the wicket.

It was nearly eight o'clock when this parting took place. At the gate

of the prison the two women met the Abbe de Rastignac, who asked them

news of the prisoner.

"He will no doubt be reconciled with God," said Denise. "If repentance

has not yet begun, he is very near it."

The bishop was soon after informed that the clergy would triumph on

this occasion, and that the criminal would go to the scaffold with the

most edifying religious sentiments. The prelate, with whom was the

attorney-general, expressed a wish to see the rector. Monsieur Bonnet

did not reach the palace before midnight. The Abbe Gabriel, who made

many trips between the palace and the jail, judged it necessary to

fetch the rector in the episcopal coach; for the poor priest was in a

state of exhaustion which almost deprived him of the use of his legs.

The effect of his day, the prospect of the morrow, the sight of the

secret struggle he had witnessed, and the full repentance which had at

last overtaken his stubborn lamb when the great reckoning of eternity

was brought home to him,--all these things had combined to break down

Monsieur Bonnet, whose nervous, electrical nature entered into the

sufferings of others as though they were his own. Souls that resemble

that noble soul espouse so ardently the impressions, miseries,

passions, sufferings of those in whom they are interested, that they

actually feel them, and in a horrible manner, too; for they are able

to measure their extent,--a knowledge which escapes others who are

blinded by selfishness of heart or the paroxysm of grief. It is here

that a priest like Monsieur Bonnet becomes an artist who feels, rather

than an artist who judges.

When the rector entered the bishop's salon and found there the two

grand-vicars, the Abbe de Rastignac, Monsieur de Grandville, and the

/procureur-general/, he felt convinced that something more was

expected of him.

"Monsieur," said the bishop, "have you obtained any facts which you

can, without violating your duty, confide to the officers of the law

for their guidance?"

"Monseigneur, in order to give absolution to that poor, wandering

child, I waited not only till his repentance was as sincere and as

complete as the Church could wish, but I have also exacted from him

the restitution of the money."

"This restitution," said the /procureur-general/, "brings me here

to-night; it will, of course, be made in such a way as to throw light

on the mysterious parts of this affair. The criminal certainly had

accomplices."

"The interests of human justice," said the rector, "are not those for

which I act. I am ignorant of how the restitution will be made, but I

know it will take place. In sending for me to minister to my

parishioner, Monseigneur placed me under the conditions which give to

rectors in their parishes the same powers which Monseigneur exercises

in his diocese,--barring, of course, all questions of discipline and

ecclesiastical obedience."

"That is true," said the bishop. "But the question here is how to

obtain from the condemned man voluntary information which may

enlighten justice."

"My mission is to win souls to God," said Monsieur Bonnet.

Monsieur de Grancour shrugged his shoulders slightly, but his

colleague, the Abbe Dutheil nodded his head in sign of approval.

"Tascheron is no doubt endeavoring to shield some one, whom the

restitution will no doubt bring to light," said the /procureur-

general/.

"Monsieur," replied the rector, "I know absolutely nothing which would

either confute or justify your suspicion. Besides, the secrets of

confession are inviolable."

"Will the restitution really take place?" asked the man of law.

"Yes, monsieur," replied the man of God.

"That is enough for me," said the /procureur-general/, who relied on

the police to obtain the required information; as if passions and

personal interests were not tenfold more astute than the police.

The next day, this being market-day, Jean-Francois Tascheron was led

to execution in a manner to satisfy both the pious and the political

spirits of the town. Exemplary in behavior, pious and humble, he

kissed the crucifix, which Monsieur Bonnet held to his lips with a

trembling hand. The unhappy man was watched and examined; his glance

was particularly spied upon; would his eyes rove in search of some one

in the crowd or in a house? His discretion did, as a matter of fact,

hold firm to the last. He died as a Christian should, repentant and

absolved.

The poor rector was carried away unconscious from the foot of the

scaffold, though he did not even see the fatal knife.

During the following night, on the high-road fifteen miles from

Limoges, Denise, though nearly exhausted by fatigue and grief, begged

her father to let her go again to Limoges and take with her Louis-

Marie Tascheron, one of her brothers.

"What more have you to do in that town?" asked her father, frowning.

"Father," she said, "not only must we pay the lawyer who defended him,

but we must also restore the money which he has hidden."

"You are right," said the honest man, pulling out a leathern pouch he

carried with him.

"No, no," said Denise, "he is no longer your son. It is not for those

who cursed him, but for those who loved him, to reward the lawyer."

"We will wait for you at Havre," said the father.

Denise and her brother returned to Limoges before daylight. When the

police heard, later, of this return they were never able to discover

where the brother and sister had hidden themselves.

Denise and Louis went to the upper town cautiously, about four o'clock

that afternoon, gliding along in the shadow of the houses. The poor

girl dared not raise her eyes, fearing to meet the glances of those

who had seen her brother's execution. After calling on Monsieur

Bonnet, who in spite of his weakness, consented to serve as father and

guardian to Denise in the matter, they all went to the lawyer's house

in the rue de la Comedie.

"Good-morning, my poor children," said the lawyer, bowing to Monsieur

Bonnet; "how can I be of service to you? Perhaps you would like me to

claim your brother's body and send it to you?"

"No, monsieur," replied Denise, weeping at an idea which had never yet

occurred to her. "I come to pay his debt to you--so far, at least, as

money can pay an eternal debt."

"Pray sit down," said the lawyer; noticing that Denise and the rector

were still standing.

Denise turned away to take from her corset two notes of five hundred

francs each, which were fastened by a pin to her chemise; then she sat

down and offered them to her brother's defender. The rector gave the

lawyer a flashing look which was instantly moistened by a tear.

"Keep the money for yourself, my poor girl," said the lawyer. "The

rich do not pay so generously for a lost cause."

"Monsieur," said Denise, "I cannot obey you."

"Then the money is not yours?" said the lawyer.

"You are mistaken," she replied, looking at Monsieur Bonnet as if to

know whether God would be angry at the lie.

The rector kept his eyes lowered.

"Well, then," said the lawyer, taking one note of five hundred francs

and offering the other to the rector, "I will share it with the poor.

Now, Denise, change this one, which is really mine," he went on,

giving her the note, "for your velvet ribbon and your gold cross. I

will hang the cross above my mantel to remind me of the best and

purest young girl's heart I have ever known in my whole experience as

a lawyer."

"I will give it to you without selling it," cried Denise, taking off

her /jeannette/ and offering it to him.

"Monsieur," said the rector, "I accept the five hundred francs to pay

for the exhumation of the poor lad's body and its transportation to

Montegnac. God has no doubt pardoned him, and Jean will rise with my

flock on that last day when the righteous and the repentant will be

called together to the right hand of the Father."

"So be it," replied the lawyer.

He took Denise by the hand and drew her toward him to kiss her

forehead; but the action had another motive.

"My child," he whispered, "no one in Montegnac has five-hundred-franc

notes; they are rare even at Limoges, where they are only taken at a

discount. This money has been given to you; you will not tell me by

whom, and I don't ask you; but listen to me: if you have anything more

to do in this town relating to your poor brother, take care! You and

Monsieur Bonnet and your brother Louis will be followed by police-

spies. Your family is known to have left Montegnac, and as soon as you

are seen here you will be watched and surrounded before you are aware

of it."

"Alas!" she said. "I have nothing more to do here."

"She is cautious," thought the lawyer, as he parted from her.

"However, she is warned; and I hope she will get safely off."

---

During this last week in September, when the weather was as warm as in

summer, the bishop gave a dinner to the authorities of the place.

Among the guests were the /procureur-du-roi/ and the attorney-general.

Some lively discussions prolonged the party till a late hour. The

company played whist and backgammon, a favorite game with the clergy.

Toward eleven o'clock the /procureur-du-roi/ walked out upon the upper

terrace. From the spot where he stood he saw a light on that island to

which, on a certain evening, the attention of the bishop and the Abbe

Gabriel had been drawn,--Veronique's "Ile de France,"--and the gleam

recalled to the /procureur's/ mind the unexplained mysteries of the

Tascheron crime. Then, reflecting that there could be no legitimate

reason for a fire on that lonely island in the river at that time of

night, an idea, which had already struck the bishop and the secretary,

darted into his mind with the suddenness and brilliancy of the flame

itself which was shining in the distance.

"We have all been fools!" he cried; "but this will give us the

accomplices."

He returned to the salon, sought out Monsieur de Grandville, said a

few words in his ear, after which they both took leave. But the Abbe

de Rastignac accompanied them politely to the door; he watched them as

they departed, saw them go to the terrace, noticed the fire on the

island, and thought to himself, "She is lost!"

The emissaries of the law got there too late. Denise and Louis, whom

Jean had taught to dive, were actually on the bank of the river at a

spot named to them by Jean, but Louis Tascheron had already dived four

times, bringing up each time a bundle containing twenty thousand

francs' worth of gold. The first sum was wrapped in a foulard

handkerchief knotted by the four corners. This handkerchief, from

which the water was instantly wrung, was thrown into a great fire of

drift wood already lighted. Denise did not leave the fire until she

saw every particle of the handkerchief consumed. The second sum was

wrapped in a shawl, the third in a cambric handkerchief; these

wrappings were instantly burned like the foulard.

Just as Denise was throwing the wrapping of the fourth and last

package into the fire the gendarmes, accompanied by the commissary of

police, seized that incriminating article, which Denise let them take

without manifesting the least emotion. It was a handkerchief, on

which, in spite of its soaking in the river, traces of blood could

still be seen. When questioned as to what she was doing there, Denise

said she was taking the stolen gold from the river according to her

brother's instructions. The commissary asked her why she was burning

certain articles; she said she was obeying her brother's last

directions. When asked what those articles were she boldly answered,

without attempting to deceive: "A foulard, a shawl, a cambric

handkerchief, and the handkerchief now captured." The latter had

belonged to her brother.

This discovery and its attendant circumstances made a great stir in

Limoges. The shawl, more especially, confirmed the belief that

Tascheron had committed this crime in the interests of some love

affair.

"He protects that woman after his death," said one lady, hearing of

these last discoveries, rendered harmless by the criminal's

precautions.

"There may be some husband in Limoges who will miss his foulard," said

the /procureur-du-roi/, with a laugh, "but he will not dare speak of

it."

"These matters of dress are really so compromising," said old Madame

Perret, "that I shall make a search through my wardrobe this very

evening."

"Whose pretty little footmarks could he have taken such pains to

efface while he left his own?" said Monsieur de Grandville.

"Pooh! I dare say she was an ugly woman," said the /procureur-du-roi/.

"She has paid dearly for her sin," observed the Abbe de Grancour.

"Do you know what this affair shows?" cried Monsieur de Grandville.

"It shows what women have lost by the Revolution, which has levelled

all social ranks. Passions of this kind are no longer met with except

in men who still feel an enormous distance between themselves and

their mistresses."

"You saddle love with many vanities," remarked the Abbe Dutheil.

"What does Madame Graslin think?" asked the prefect.

"What do you expect her to think?" said Monsieur de Grandville. "Her

child was born, as she predicted to me, on the morning of the

execution; she has not seen any one since then, for she is dangerously

ill."

A scene took place in another salon in Limoges which was almost

comical. The friends of the des Vanneaulx came to congratulate them on

the recovery of their property.

"Yes, but they ought to have pardoned that poor man," said Madame des

Vanneaulx. "Love, and not greed, made him steal the money; he was

neither vicious nor wicked."

"He was full of consideration for us," said Monsieur des Vanneaulx;

"and if I knew where his family had gone I would do something for

them. They are very worthy people, those Tascherons."

X

THIRD PHASE OF VERONIQUE'S LIFE

When Madame Graslin recovered from the long illness that followed the

birth of her child, which was not till the close of 1829, an illness

which forced her to keep her bed and remain in absolute retirement,

she heard her husband talking of an important piece of business he was

anxious to concede. The ducal house of Navarreins had offered for sale

the forest of Montegnac and the uncultivated lands around it.

Graslin had never yet executed the clause in his marriage contract

with his wife which obliged him to invest his wife's fortune in lands;

up to this time he had preferred to employ the money in his bank,

where he had fully doubled it. He now began to speak of this

investment. Hearing him discuss it Veronique appeared to remember the

name of Montegnac, and asked her husband to fulfil his engagement

about her property by purchasing these lands. Monsieur Graslin then

proposed to see the rector, Monsieur Bonnet, and inquire of him about

the estate, which the Duc de Navarreins was desirous of selling

because he foresaw the struggle which the Prince de Polignac was

forcing on between liberalism and the house of Bourbon, and he augured

ill of it; in fact, the duke was one of the boldest opposers of the

/coup-d'Etat/.

The duke had sent his agent to Limoges to negotiate the matter;

telling him to accept any good sum of money, for he remembered the

Revolution of 1789 too well not to profit by the lessons it had taught

the aristocracy. This agent had now been a month laying siege to

Graslin, the shrewdest and wariest business head in the Limousin,--the

only man, he was told by practical persons, who was able to purchase

so large a property and pay for it on the spot. The Abbe Dutheil wrote

a line to Monsieur Bonnet, who came to Limoges at once, and was taken

to the hotel Graslin.

Veronique determined to ask the rector to dinner; but the banker would

not let him go up to his wife's apartment until he had talked to him

in his office for over an hour and obtained such information as fully

satisfied him, and made him resolve to buy the forest and domains of

Montegnac at once for the sum of five hundred thousand francs. He

acquiesced readily in his wife's wish that this purchase and all

others connected with it should be in fulfilment of the clause of the

marriage contract relative to the investment of her dowry. Graslin was

all the more ready to do so because this act of justice cost him

nothing, he having doubled the original sum.

At this time, when Graslin was negotiating the purchase, the

Navarreins domains comprised the forest of Montegnac which contained

about thirty thousand acres of unused land, the ruins of the castle,

the gardens, park, and about five thousand acres of uncultivated land

on the plain beyond Montegnac. Graslin immediately bought other lands

in order to make himself master of the first peak in the chain of the

Correzan mountains on which the vast forest of Montegnac ended. Since

the imposition of taxes the Duc de Navarreins had never received more

than fifteen thousand francs per annum from this manor, once among the

richest tenures of the kingdom, the lands of which had escaped the

sale of "public domain" ordered by the Convention, on account probably

of their barrenness and the known difficulty of reclaiming them.

When the rector went at last to Madame Graslin's apartment, and saw

the woman noted for her piety and for her intellect of whom he had

heard speak, he could not restrain a gesture of amazement. Veronique

had now reached the third phase of her life, that in which she was to

rise into grandeur by the exercise of the highest virtues,--a phase in

which she became another woman. To the Little Virgin of Titian, hidden

at eleven years of age beneath a spotted mantle of small-pox, had

succeeded a beautiful woman, noble and passionate; and from that

woman, now wrung by inward sorrows, came forth a saint.

Her skin bore the yellow tinge which colors the austere faces of

abbesses who have been famous for their macerations. The attenuated

temples were almost golden. The lips had paled, the red of an opened

pomegranate was no longer on them, their color had changed to the pale

pink of a Bengal rose. At the corners of the eyes, close to the nose,

sorrows had made two shining tracks like mother-of-pearl, where tears

had flowed; tears which effaced the marks of small-pox and glazed the

skin. Curiosity was invincibly attracted to that pearly spot, where

the blue threads of the little veins throbbed precipitately, as though

they were swelled by an influx of blood brought there, as it were, to

feed the tears. The circle round the eyes was now a dark-brown that

was almost black above the eyelids, which were horribly wrinkled. The

cheeks were hollow; in their folds lay the sign of solemn thoughts.

The chin, which in youth was full and round, the flesh covering the

muscles, was now shrunken, to the injury of its expression, which told

of an implacable religious severity exercised by this woman upon

herself.

At twenty-nine years of age Veronique's hair was scanty and already

whitening. Her thinness was alarming. In spite of her doctor's advice

she insisted on suckling her son. The doctor triumphed in the result;

and as he watched the changes he had foretold in Veronique's

appearance, he often said:--

"See the effects of childbirth on a woman! She adores that child; I

have often noticed that mothers are fondest of the children who cost

them most."

Veronique's faded eyes were all that retained even a memory of her

youth. The dark blue of the iris still cast its passionate fires, to

which the woman's life seemed to have retreated, deserting the cold,

impassible face, and glowing with an expression of devotion when the

welfare of a fellow-being was concerned.

Thus the surprise, the dread of the rector ceased by degrees as he

went on explaining to Madame Graslin all the good that a large owner

of property could do at Montegnac provided he lived there. Veronique's

beauty came back to her for a moment as her eyes glowed with the light

of an unhoped-for future.

"I will live there," she said. "It shall be my work. I will ask

Monsieur Graslin for money, and I will gladly share in your religious

enterprise. Montegnac shall be fertilized; we will find some means to

water those arid plains. Like Moses, you have struck a rock from which

the waters will gush."

The rector of Montegnac, when questioned by his friends in Limoges

about Madame Graslin, spoke of her as a saint.

The day after the purchase was concluded Monsieur Graslin sent an

architect to Montegnac. The banker intended to restore the chateau,

gardens, terrace, and park, and also to connect the castle grounds

with the forest by a plantation. He set himself to make these

improvements with vainglorious activity.

A few months later Madame Graslin met with a great misfortune. In

August, 1830, Graslin, overtaken by the commercial and banking

disasters of that period, became involved by no fault of his own. He

could not endure the thought of bankruptcy, nor that of losing a

fortune of three millions acquired by forty years of incessant toil.

The moral malady which resulted from this anguish of mind aggravated

the inflammatory disease always ready to break forth in his blood. He

took to his bed. Since her confinement Veronique's regard for her

husband had developed, and had overthrown all the hopes of her

admirer, Monsieur de Grandville. She strove to save her husband's life

by unremitting care, with no result but that of prolonging for a few

months the poor man's tortures; but the respite was very useful to

Grossetete, who, foreseeing the end of his former clerk and partner,

obtained from him all the information necessary for the prompt

liquidation of the assets.

Graslin died in April, 1831, and the widow's grief yielded only to

Christian resignation. Veronique's first words, when the condition of

Monsieur Graslin's affairs were made known to her, were that she

abandoned her own fortune to pay the creditors; but it was found that

Graslin's own property was more than sufficient. Two months later, the

liquidation, of which Grossetete took charge, left to Madame Graslin

the estate of Montegnac and six hundred thousand francs, her whole

personal fortune. The son's name remained untainted, for Graslin had

injured no one's property, not even that of his wife. Francis Graslin,

the son, received about one hundred thousand francs.

Monsieur de Grandville, to whom Veronique's grandeur of soul and noble

qualities were well known, made her an offer of marriage; but, to the

surprise of all Limoges, Madame Graslin declined, under pretext that

the Church discouraged second marriages. Grossetete, a man of strong

common-sense and sure grasp of a situation, advised Veronique to

invest her property and what remained of Monsieur Graslin's in the

Funds; and he made the investment himself in one of the government

securities which offered special advantages at that time, namely, the

Three-per-cents, which were then quoted at fifty. The child Francis

received, therefore, six thousand francs a year, and his mother forty

thousand. Veronique's fortune was still the largest in the department.

When these affairs were all settled, Madame Graslin announced her

intention of leaving Limoges and taking up her residence at Montegnac,

to be near Monsieur Bonnet. She sent for the rector to consult about

the enterprise he was so anxious to carry on at Montegnac, in which

she desired to take part. But he endeavored unselfishly to dissuade

her, telling her that her place was in the world and in society.

"I was born of the people and I wish to return to the people," she

replied. On which the rector, full of love for his village, said no

more against Madame Graslin's apparent vocation; and the less because

she had actually put it out of her power to continue in Limoges,

having sold the hotel Graslin to Grossetete, who, to cover a sum that

was due to him, took it at its proper valuation.

The day of her departure, toward the end of August, 1831, Madame

Graslin's numerous friends accompanied her some distance out of the

town. A few went as far as the first relay. Veronique was in an open

carriage with her mother. The Abbe Dutheil (just appointed to a

bishopric) occupied the front seat of the carriage with old

Grossetete. As they passed through the place d'Aine, Veronique showed

signs of a sudden shock; her face contracted so that the play of the

muscles could be seen; she clasped her infant to her breast with a

convulsive motion, which old Madame Sauviat concealed by instantly

taking the child, for she seemed to be on the watch for her daughter's

agitation. Chance willed that Madame Graslin should pass through the

square in which stood the house she had formerly occupied with her

father and mother in her girlish days; she grasped her mother's hand

while great tears fell from her eyes and rolled down her cheeks.

After leaving Limoges she turned and looked back, seeming to feel an

emotion of happiness which was noticed by all her friends. When

Monsieur de Grandville, then a young man of twenty-five, whom she

declined to take as a husband, kissed her hand with an earnest

expression of regret, the new bishop noticed the strange manner in

which the black pupil of Veronique's eyes suddenly spread over the

blue of the iris, reducing it to a narrow circle. The eye betrayed

unmistakably some violent inward emotion.

"I shall never see him again," she whispered to her mother, who

received this confidence without betraying the slightest feeling in

her old face.

Madame Graslin was at that instant under the observation of

Grossetete, who was directly in front of her; but, in spite of his

shrewdness, the old banker did not detect the hatred which Veronique

felt for the magistrate, whom she nevertheless received at her house.

But churchmen have far more perception than other men, and Monsieur

Dutheil suddenly startled Veronique with a priestly glance.

"Do you regret nothing in Limoges?" he asked her.

"Nothing, now that you are leaving it; and monsieur," she added,

smiling at Grossetete, who was bidding her adieu, "will seldom be

there."

The bishop accompanied Madame Graslin as far as Montegnac.

"I ought to walk this road in sackcloth and ashes," she said in her

mother's ear as they went on foot up the steep slope of Saint-Leonard.

The old woman put her finger on her lips and glanced at the bishop,

who was looking at the child with terrible attention. This gesture,

and the luminous look in the prelate's eyes, sent a shudder through

Veronique's body. At the aspect of the vast plains stretching their

gray expanse before Montegnac the fire died out of her eyes, and an

infinite sadness overcame her. Presently she saw the village rector

coming to meet her, and together they returned to the carriage.

"There is your domain, madame," said Monsieur Bonnet, extending his

hand toward the barren plain.

A few moments more, and the village of Montegnac, with its hill, on

which the newly erected buildings struck the eye, came in sight,

gilded by the setting sun, and full of the poesy born of the contrast

between the beautiful spot and the surrounding barrenness, in which it

lay like an oasis in the desert. Madame Graslin's eyes filled suddenly

with tears. The rector called her attention to a broad white line like

a gash on the mountain side.

"See what my parishioners have done to testify their gratitude to the

lady of the manor," he said, pointing to the line, which was really a

road; "we can now drive up to the chateau. This piece of road has been

made by them without costing you a penny, and two months hence we

shall plant it with trees. Monseigneur will understand what trouble

and care and devotion were needed to accomplish such a change."

"Is it possible they have done that?" said the bishop.

"Without accepting any payment for their work, Monseigneur. The

poorest put their hands into it, knowing that it would bring a mother

among them."

At the foot of the hill the travellers saw the whole population of the

neighborhood, who were lighting fire-boxes and discharging a few guns;

then two of the prettiest of the village girls, dressed in white, came

forward to offer Madame Graslin flowers and fruit.

"To be thus received in this village!" she exclaimed, grasping the

rector's hand as if she stood on the brink of a precipice.

The crowd accompanied the carriage to the iron gates of the avenue.

From there Madame Graslin could see her chateau, of which as yet she

had only caught glimpses, and she was thunderstruck at the

magnificence of the building. Stone is rare in those parts, the

granite of the mountains being difficult to quarry. The architect

employed by Graslin to restore the house had used brick as the chief

substance of this vast construction. This was rendered less costly by

the fact that the forest of Montegnac furnished all the necessary wood

and clay for its fabrication. The framework of wood and the stone for

the foundations also came from the forest; otherwise the cost of the

restorations would have been ruinous. The chief expenses had been

those of transportation, labor, and salaries. Thus the money laid out

was kept in the village, and greatly benefited it.

At first sight, and from a distance, the chateau presents an enormous

red mass, threaded by black lines produced by the pointing, and edged

with gray; for the window and door casings, the entablatures, corner

stones, and courses between the stories, are of granite, cut in facets

like a diamond. The courtyard, which forms a sloping oval like that of

the Chateau de Versailles, is surrounded by brick walls divided into

panels by projecting buttresses. At the foot of these walls are groups

of rare shrubs, remarkable for the varied color of their greens. Two

fine iron gates placed opposite to each other lead on one side to a

terrace which overlooks Montegnac, on the other to the offices and a

farm-house.

The grand entrance-gate, to which the road just constructed led, is

flanked by two pretty lodges in the style of the sixteenth century.

The facade on the courtyard looking east has three towers,--one in the

centre, separated from the two others by the main building of the

house. The facade on the gardens, which is absolutely the same as the

others, looks westward. The towers have but one window on the facade;

the main building has three on either side of the middle tower. The

latter, which is square like a /campanile/, the corners being

vermiculated, is noticeable for the elegance of a few carvings

sparsely distributed. Art is timid in the provinces, and though, since

1829, ornamentation has made some progress at the instigation of

certain writers, landowners were at that period afraid of expenses

which the lack of competition and skilled workmen rendered serious.

The corner towers, which have three stories with a single window in

each, looking to the side, are covered with very high-pitched roofs

surrounded by granite balustrades, and on each pyramidal slope of

these roofs crowned at the top with the sharp ridge of a platform

surrounded with a wrought iron railing, is another window carved like

the rest. On each floor the corbels of the doors and windows are

adorned with carvings copied from those of the Genoese mansions. The

corner tower with three windows to the south looks down on Montegnac;

the other, to the north, faces the forest. From the garden front the

eye takes in that part of Montegnac which is still called Les

Tascherons, and follows the high-road leading through the village to

the chief town of the department. The facade on the courtyard has a

view of the vast plains semicircled by the mountains of the Correze,

on the side toward Montegnac, but ending in the far distance on a low

horizon. The main building has only one floor above the ground-floor,

covered with a mansarde roof in the olden style. The towers at each

end are three stories in height. The middle tower has a stunted dome

something like that on the Pavillon de l'Horloge of the palace of the

Tuileries, and in it is a single room forming a belvedere and

containing the clock. As a matter of economy the roofs had all been

made of gutter-tiles, the enormous weight of which was easily

supported by the stout beams and uprights of the framework cut in the

forest.

Before his death Graslin had laid out the road which the peasantry had

just built out of gratitude; for these restorations (which Graslin

called his folly) had distributed several hundred thousand francs

among the people; in consequence of which Montegnac had considerably

increased. Graslin had also begun, before his death, behind the

offices on the slope of the hill leading down to the plain, a number

of farm buildings, proving his intention to draw some profit from the

hitherto uncultivated soil of the plains. Six journeyman-gardeners,

who were lodged in the offices, were now at work under orders of a

head gardener, planting and completing certain works which Monsieur

Bonnet had considered indispensable.

The ground-floor apartments of the chateau, intended only for

reception-rooms, had been sumptuously furnished; the upper floor was

rather bare, Monsieur Graslin having stopped for a time the work of

furnishing it.

"Ah, Monseigneur!" said Madame Graslin to the bishop, after going the

rounds of the house, "I who expected to live in a cottage! Poor

Monsieur Graslin was extravagant indeed!"

"And you," said the bishop, adding after a pause, as he noticed the

shudder than ran through her frame at his first words, "you will be

extravagant in charity?"

She took the arm of her mother, who was leading Francis by the hand,

and went to the long terrace at the foot of which are the church and

the parsonage, and from which the houses of the village can be seen in

tiers. The rector carried off Monseigneur Dutheil to show him the

different sides of the landscape. Before long the two priests came

round to the farther end of the terrace, where they found Madame

Graslin and her mother motionless as statues. The old woman was wiping

her eyes with a handkerchief, and her daughter stood with both hands

stretched beyond the balustrade as though she were pointing to the

church below.

"What is the matter, madame?" said the rector to Madame Sauviat.

"Nothing," replied Madame Graslin, turning round and advancing a few

steps to meet the priests; "I did not know that I should have the

cemetery under my eyes."

"You can put it elsewhere; the law gives you that right."

"The law!" she exclaimed with almost a cry.

Again the bishop looked fixedly at Veronique. Disturbed by the dark

glance with which the priest had penetrated the veil of flesh that

covered her soul, dragging thence a secret hidden in the grave of that

cemetery, she said to him suddenly:--

"Well, /yes/!"

The priest laid his hand over his eyes and was silent for a moment as

if stunned.

"Help my daughter," cried the old mother; "she is fainting."

"The air is so keen, it overcomes me," said Madame Graslin, as she

fell unconscious into the arms of the two priests, who carried her

into one of the lower rooms of the chateau.

When she recovered consciousness she saw the priests on their knees

praying for her.

"May the angel you visited you never leave you!" said the bishop,

blessing her. "Farewell, my daughter."

Overcome by those words Madame Graslin burst into tears.

"Tears will save her!" cried her mother.

"In this world and in the next," said the bishop, turning round as he

left the room.

The room to which they had carried Madame Graslin was on the first

floor above the ground-floor of the corner tower, from which the

church and cemetery and southern side of Montegnac could be seen. She

determined to remain there, and did so, more or less uncomfortably,

with Aline her maid and little Francis. Madame Sauviat, naturally,

took another room near hers.

It was several days before Madame Graslin recovered from the violent

emotion which overcame her on that first evening, and her mother

induced her to stay in bed at least during the mornings. At night,

Veronique would come out and sit on a bench of the terrace from which

her eyes could rest on the church and cemetery. In spite of Madame

Sauviat's mute but persistent opposition, Madame Graslin formed an

almost monomaniacal habit of sitting in the same place, where she

seemed to give way to the blackest melancholy.

"Madame will die," said Aline to the old mother.

Appealed to by Madame Sauviat, the rector, who had wished not to seem

intrusive, came henceforth very frequently to visit Madame Graslin; he

needed only to be warned that her soul was sick. This true pastor took

care to pay his visits at the hour when Veronique came out to sit at

the corner of the terrace with her child, both in deep mourning.

XI

THE RECTOR AT WORK

It was now the beginning of October, and Nature was growing dull and

sad. Monsieur Bonnet, perceiving in Veronique from the moment of her

arrival at Montegnac the existence of an inward wound, thought it

wisest to wait for the voluntary and complete confidence of a woman

who would sooner or later become his penitent.

One evening Madame Graslin looked at the rector with eyes almost

glazed with that fatal indecision often observable in persons who are

cherishing the thought of death. From that moment Monsieur Bonnet

hesitated no longer; he set before him the duty of arresting the

progress of this cruel moral malady.

At first there was a brief struggle of empty words between the priest

and Veronique, in which they both sought to veil their real thoughts.

In spite of the cold, Veronique was sitting on the granite bench

holding Francis on her knee. Madame Sauviat was standing at the corner

of the terrace, purposely so placed as to hide the cemetery. Aline was

waiting to take the child away.

"I had supposed, madame," said the rector, who was now paying his

seventh visit, "that you were only melancholy; but I see," sinking his

voice to a whisper, "that your soul is in despair. That feeling is

neither Christian nor Catholic."

"But," she replied, looking to heaven with piercing eyes and letting a

bitter smile flicker on her lips, "what other feeling does the Church

leave to a lost soul unless it be despair?"

As he heard these words the rector realized the vast extent of the

ravages in her soul.

"Ah!" he said, "you are making this terrace your hell, when it ought

to be your Calvary from which to rise to heaven."

"I have no pride left to place me on such a pedestal," she answered,

in a tone which revealed the self-contempt that lay within her.

Here the priest, by one of those inspirations which are both natural

and frequent in noble souls, the man of God lifted the child in his

arms and kissed its forehead, saying, in a fatherly voice, "Poor

little one!" Then he gave it himself to the nurse, who carried it

away.

Madame Sauviat looked at her daughter, and saw the efficacy of the

rector's words; for Veronique's eyes, long dry, were moist with tears.

The old woman made a sign to the priest and disappeared.

"Let us walk," said the rector to Veronique leading her along the

terrace to the other end, from which Les Tascherons could be seen.

"You belong to me; I must render account to God for your sick soul."

"Give me time to recover from my depression," she said to him.

"Your depression comes from injurious meditation," he replied,

quickly.

"Yes," she said, with the simplicity of a grief which has reached the

point of making no attempt at concealment.

"I see plainly that you have fallen into the gulf of apathy," he

cried. "If there is a degree of physical suffering at which all sense

of modesty expires, there is also a degree of moral suffering in which

all vigor of soul is lost; I know that."

She was surprised to hear that subtle observation and to find such

tender pity from this village rector; but, as we have seen already,

the exquisite delicacy which no passion had ever touched gave him the

true maternal spirit for his flock. This /mens devinior/, this

apostolic tenderness, places the priest above all other men and makes

him, in a sense, divine. Madame Graslin had not as yet had enough

experience of Monsieur Bonnet to know this beauty hidden in his soul

like a spring, from which flowed grace and purity and true life.

"Ah! monsieur," she cried, giving herself wholly up to him by a

gesture, a look, such as the dying give.

"I understand you," he said. "What is to be done? What will you

become?"

They walked in silence the whole length of the balustrade, facing

toward the plain. The solemn moment seemed propitious to the bearer of

good tidings, the gospel messenger, and he took it.

"Suppose yourself now in the presence of God," he said, in a low

voice, mysteriously; "what would you say to Him?"

Madame Graslin stopped as though struck by a thunderbolt; she

shuddered; then she said simply, in tones that brought tears to the

rector's eyes:--

"I should say, as Jesus Christ said: 'Father, why hast thou forsaken

me?'"

"Ah! Magdalen, that is the saying I expected of you," cried Monsieur

Bonnet, who could not help admiring her. "You see you are forced to

appeal to God's justice; you invoke it! Listen to me, madame. Religion

is, by anticipation, divine justice. The Church claims for herself the

right to judge the actions of the soul. Human justice is a feeble

image of divine justice; it is but a pale imitation of it applied to

the needs of society."

"What do you mean by that?"

"You are not the judge of your own case, you are dependent upon God,"

said the priest; "you have neither the right to condemn yourself nor

the right to absolve yourself. God, my child, is a great reverser of

judgments."

"Ah!" she exclaimed.

"He /sees/ the origin of things, where we see only the things

themselves."

Veronique stopped again, struck by these ideas, that were new to her.

"To you," said the brave priest, "to you whose soul is a great one, I

owe other words than those I ought to give to my humble parishioners.

You, whose mind and spirit are so cultivated, you can rise to the

sense divine of the Catholic religion, expressed by images and words

to the poor and childlike. Listen to me attentively, for what I am

about to say concerns you; no matter how extensive is the point of

view at which I place myself for a moment, the case is yours. /Law/,

invented to protect society, is based on equality. Society, which is

nothing but an assemblage of acts, is based on inequality. There is

therefore lack of harmony between act and law. Ought society to march

on favored or repressed by law? In other words, ought law to be in

opposition to the interior social movement for the maintenance of

society, or should it be based on that movement in order to guide it?

All legislators have contented themselves with analyzing acts,

indicating those that seemed to them blamable or criminal, and

attaching punishments to such or rewards to others. That is human law;

it has neither the means to prevent sin, nor the means to prevent the

return to sinfulness of those it punishes. Philanthropy is a sublime

error; it tortures the body uselessly, it produces no balm to heal the

soul. Philanthropy gives birth to projects, emits ideas, confides the

execution of them to man, to silence, to labor, to rules, to things

mute and powerless. Religion is above these imperfections, for it

extends man's life beyond this world. Regarding us all as degraded

from our high estate, religion has opened to us an inexhaustible

treasure of indulgence. We are all more or less advanced toward our

complete regeneration; no one is sinless; the Church expects wrong-

doing, even crime. Where society sees a criminal to be expelled from

its bosom, the Church sees a soul to save. More, far more than that!

Inspired by God, whom she studies and contemplates, the Church admits

the inequalities of strength, she allows for the disproportion of

burdens. If she finds us unequal in heart, in body, in mind, in

aptitude, and value, she makes us all equal by repentance. Hence

equality is no longer a vain word, for we can be, we are, all equal

through feeling. From the formless fetichism of savages to the

graceful inventions of Greece, or the profound and metaphysical

doctrines of Egypt and India, whether taught in cheerful or in

terrifying worship, there is a conviction in the soul of man--that of

his fall, that of his sin--from which comes everywhere the idea of

sacrifice and redemption. The death of the Redeemer of the human race

is an image of what we have to do for ourselves,--redeem our faults,

redeem our errors, redeem our crimes! All is redeemable; Catholicism

itself is in that word; hence its adorable sacraments, which help the

triumph of grace and sustain the sinner. To weep, to moan like

Magdalen in the desert, is but the beginning; the end is Action.

Monasteries wept and prayed; they prayed and civilized; they were the

active agents of our divine religion. They built, planted, cultivated

Europe; all the while saving the treasures of learning, knowledge,

human justice, politics, and art. We shall ever recognize in Europe

the places where those radiant centres once were. Nearly all our

modern towns are the children of monasteries. If you believe that God

will judge you, the Church tells you by my voice that sin can be

redeemed by works of repentance. The mighty hand of God weighs both

the evil done and the value of benefits accomplished. Be yourself like

those monasteries; work here the same miracles. Your prayers must be

labors. From your labors must come the good of those above whom you

are placed by fortune, by superiority of mind; even this natural

position of your dwelling is the image of your social situation."

As he said the last words, the priest and Madame Graslin turned to

walk back toward the plains, and the rector pointed both to the

village at the foot of the hill, and to the chateau commanding the

whole landscape. It was then half-past four o'clock; a glow of yellow

sunlight enveloped the balustrade and the gardens, illuminated the

chateau, sparkled on the gilded railings of the roof, lighted the long

plain cut in two by the high-road,--a sad, gray ribbon, not bordered

there by the fringe of trees which waved above it elsewhere on either

side.

When Veronique and Monsieur Bonnet had passed the main body of the

chateau, they could see--beyond the courtyard, the stables, and the

offices--the great forest of Montegnac, along which the yellow glow

was gliding like a soft caress. Though this last gleam of the setting

sun touched the tree-tops only, it enabled the eye to see distinctly

the caprices of that marvellous tapestry which nature makes of a

forest in autumn. The oaks were a mass of Florentine bronze, the

walnuts and the chestnuts displayed their blue-green tones, the early

trees were putting on their golden foliage, and all these varied

colors were shaded with the gray of barren spots. The trunks of trees

already stripped of leafage showed their light-gray colonnades; the

russet, tawny, grayish colors, artistically blended by the pale

reflections of an October sun, harmonized with the vast uncultivated

plain, green as stagnant water.

A thought came into the rector's mind as he looked at this fine

spectacle, mute in other ways,--for not a tree rustled, not a bird

chirped, death was on the plain, silence in the forest; here and there

a little smoke from the village chimneys, that was all. The chateau

seemed as gloomy as its mistress. By some strange law all things about

a dwelling imitate the one who rules there; the owner's spirit hovers

over it. Madame Graslin--her mind grasped by the rector's words, her

soul struck by conviction, her heart affected in its tenderest

emotions by the angelic quality of that pure voice--stopped short. The

rector raised his arm and pointed to the forest. Veronique looked

there.

"Do you not think it has a vague resemblance to social life?" he said.

"To each its destiny. How many inequalities in that mass of trees!

Those placed the highest lack earth and moisture; they die first."

"Some there are whom the shears of the woman gathering fagots cut

short in their prime," she said bitterly.

"Do not fall back into those thoughts," said the rector sternly,

though with indulgence still. "The misfortune of this forest is that

it has never been cut. Do you see the phenomenon these masses

present?"

Veronique, to whose mind the singularities of the forest nature

suggested little, looked obediently at the forest and then let her

eyes drop gently back upon the rector.

"You do not notice," he said, perceiving from that look her total

ignorance, "the lines where the trees of all species still hold their

greenness?"

"Ah! true," she said. "I see them now. Why is it?"

"In that," replied the rector, "lies the future of Montegnac, and your

own fortune, an immense fortune, as I once explained to Monsieur

Graslin. You see the furrows of those three dells, the mountain

streams of which flow into the torrent of the Gabou. That torrent

separates the forest of Montegnac from the district which on this side

adjoins ours. In September and October it goes dry, but in November it

is full of water, the volume of which would be greatly increased by a

partial clearing of the forest, so as to send all the lesser streams

to join it. As it is, its waters do no good; but if one or two dams

were made between the two hills on either side of it, as they have

done at Riquet, and at Saint-Ferreol--where they have made immense

reservoirs to feed the Languedoc canal--this barren plain could be

fertilized by judicious irrigation through trenches and culverts

managed by watergates; sending the water when needed over these lands,

and diverting it at other times to our little river. You could plant

fine poplars along these water-courses and raise the finest cattle on

such pasturage as you would then obtain. What is grass, but sun and

water? There is quite soil enough on the plains to hold the roots; the

streams will furnish dew and moisture; the poplars will hold and feed

upon the mists, returning their elements to the herbage; these are the

secrets of the fine vegetation of valleys. If you undertook this work

you would soon see life and joy and movement where silence now reigns,

where the eye is saddened by barren fruitlessness. Would not that be a

noble prayer to God? Such work would be a better occupation of your

leisure than the indulgence of melancholy thoughts."

Veronique pressed the rector's hand, answering with four brief words,

but they were grand ones:--

"It shall be done."

"You conceive the possibility of this great work," he went on; "but

you cannot execute it. Neither you nor I have the necessary knowledge

to accomplish an idea which might have come to all, but the execution

of which presents immense difficulties; for simple as it may seem, the

matter requires the most accurate science with all its resources.

Seek, therefore, at once for the proper human instruments who will

enable you within the next dozen years to get an income of six or

seven thousand louis out of the six thousand acres you irrigate and

fertilize. Such an enterprise will make Montegnac at some future day

the most prosperous district in the department. The forest, as yet,

yields you no return, but sooner or later commerce will come here in

search of its fine woods--those treasures amassed by time; the only

ones the production of which cannot be hastened or improved upon by

man. The State may some day provide a way of transport from this

forest, for many of the trees would make fine masts for the navy; but

it will wait until the increasing population of Montegnac makes a

demand upon its protection; for the State is like fortune, it comes

only to the rich. This estate, well managed, will become, in the

course of time, one of the finest in France; it will be the pride of

your grandson, who may then find the chateau paltry, comparing it with

its revenues."

"Here," said Veronique, "is a future for my life."

"A beneficent work such as that will redeem wrongdoing," said the

rector.

Seeing that she understood him, he attempted to strike another blow on

this woman's intellect, judging rightly that in her the intellect led

the heart, whereas in other women the heart is their road to

intelligence.

"Do you know," he said after a pause, "the error in which you are

living?"

She looked at him timidly.

"Your repentance is as yet only a sense of defeat endured,--which is

horrible, for it is nothing else than the despair of Satan; such,

perhaps, was the repentance of mankind before the coming of Jesus

Christ. But our repentance, the repentance of Christians, is the

horror of a soul struck down on an evil path, to whom, by this very

shock, God has revealed Himself. You are like the pagan Orestes; make

yourself another Paul."

"Your words have changed me utterly," she cried. "Now--oh! now I want

to live."

"The spirit conquers," thought the modest rector, as he joyfully took

his leave. He had cast nourishment before a soul hunted into secret

despair by giving to its repentance the form of a good and noble

action.

XII

THE SOUL OF FORESTS

Veronique wrote to Monsieur Grossetete on the morrow. A few days later

she received from Limoges three saddle-horses sent by her old friend.

Monsieur Bonnet found at Veronique's request, a young man, son of the

postmaster, who was delighted to serve Veronique and earn good wages.

This young fellow, small but active, with a round face, black eyes and

hair, and named Maurice Champion, pleased Veronique very much and was

immediately inducted into his office, which was that of taking care of

the horses and accompanying his mistress on her excursions.

The head-forester of Montegnac was a former cavalry-sergeant in the

Royal guard, born at Limoges, whom the Duc de Navarreins had sent to

his estate at Montegnac to study its capabilities and value, in order

that he might derive some profit from it. Jerome Colorat found nothing

but waste land utterly barren, woods unavailable for want of

transportation, a ruined chateau, and enormous outlays required to

restore the house and gardens. Alarmed, above all, by the beds of

torrents strewn with granite rocks which seamed the forest, this

honest but unintelligent agent was the real cause of the sale of the

property.

"Colorat," said Madame Graslin to her forester, for whom she had sent,

"I shall probably ride out every morning, beginning with to-morrow.

You know all the different parts of the land that belonged originally

to this estate and those which Monsieur Graslin added to it: I wish

you to go with me and point them out; for I intend to visit every part

of the property myself."

The family within the chateau saw with joy the change that now

appeared in Veronique's behavior. Without being told to do so, Aline

got out her mistress's riding-habit and put it in good order for use.

The next day Madame Sauviat felt unspeakable relief when her daughter

left her room dressed to ride out.

Guided by the forester and Champion, who found their way by

recollection, for the paths were scarcely marked on these unfrequented

mountains, Madame Graslin started on the first day for the summits,

intending to explore those only, so as to understand the watershed and

familiarize herself with the lay of the ravines, the natural path of

the torrents when they tore down the slopes. She wished to measure the

task before her,--to study the land and the water-ways, and find for

herself the essential points of the enterprise which the rector had

suggested to her. She followed Colorat, who rode in advance; Champion

was a few steps behind her.

So long as they were making their way through parts that were dense

with trees, going up and down undulations of ground lying near to each

other and very characteristic of the mountains of France, Veronique

was lost in contemplation of the marvels of the forest. First came the

venerable centennial trees, which amazed her till she grew accustomed

to them; next, the full-grown younger trees reaching to their natural

height; then, in some more open spot, a solitary pine-tree of enormous

height; or--but this was rare--one of those flowing shrubs, dwarf

elsewhere, but here attaining to gigantic development, and often as

old as the soil itself. She saw, with a sensation quite unspeakable, a

cloud rolling along the face of the bare rocks. She noticed the white

furrows made down the mountain sides by the melting snows, which

looked at a distance like scars and gashes. Passing through a gorge

stripped of vegetation, she nevertheless admired, in the cleft flanks

of the rocky slope, aged chestnuts as erect as the Alpine fir-trees.

The rapidity with which she advanced left her no time to take in all

the varied scene, the vast moving sands, the quagmires boasting a few

scattered trees, fallen granite boulders, overhanging rocks, shaded

valleys, broad open spaces with moss and heather still in bloom

(though some was dried), utter solitudes overgrown with juniper and

caper-bushes; sometimes uplands with short grass, small spaces

enriched by an oozing spring,--in short, much sadness, many splendors,

things sweet, things strong, and all the singular aspects of

mountainous Nature in the heart of France.

As she watched these many pictures, varied in form but all inspired

with the same thought, the awful sadness of this Nature, so wild, so

ruined, abandoned, fruitless, barren, filled her soul and answered to

her secret feelings. And when, through an opening among the trees, she

caught a glimpse of the plain below her, when she crossed some arid

ravine over gravel and stones, where a few stunted bushes alone could

grow, the spirit of this austere Nature came to her, suggesting

observations new to her mind, derived from the many significations of

this varied scene.

There is no spot in a forest which does not have its significance; not

a glade, not a thicket but has its analogy with the labyrinth of human

thought. Who is there among those whose minds are cultivated or whose

hearts are wounded who can walk alone in a forest and the forest not

speak to him? Insensibly a voice lifts itself, consoling or terrible,

but oftener consoling than terrifying. If we seek the causes of the

sensation--grave, simple, sweet, mysterious--that grasps us there,

perhaps we shall find it in the sublime and artless spectacle of all

these creations obeying their destiny and immutably submissive. Sooner

or later the overwhelming sense of the permanence of Nature fills our

hearts and stirs them deeply, and we end by being conscious of God. So

it was with Veronique; in the silence of those summits, from the odor

of the woods, the serenity of the air, she gathered--as she said that

evening to Monsieur Bonnet--the certainty of God's mercy. She saw the

possibility of an order of deeds higher than any to which her

aspirations had ever reached. She felt a sort of happiness within her;

it was long, indeed since she had known such a sense of peace. Did she

owe that feeling to the resemblance she found between that barren

landscape and the arid, exhausted regions of her soul? Had she seen

those troubles of nature with a sort of joy, thinking that Nature was

punished though it had not sinned? At any rate, she was powerfully

affected; Colorat and Champion, following her at a little distance,

thought her transfigured.

At a certain sport Veronique was struck with the stern harsh aspect of

the steep and rocky beds of the dried-up torrents. She found herself

longing to hear the sound of water splashing through those scorched

ravines.

"The need to love!" she murmured.

Ashamed of the words, which seemed to come to her like a voice, she

pushed her horse boldly toward the first peak of the Correze, where,

in spite of the forester's advice, she insisted on going. Telling her

attendants to wait for her she went on alone to the summit, which is

called the Roche-Vive, and stayed there for some time, studying the

surrounding country. After hearing the secret voice of the many

creations asking to live she now received within her the touch, the

inspiration, which determined her to put into her work that wonderful

perseverance displayed by Nature, of which she had herself already

given many proofs.

She fastened her horse to a tree and seated herself on a large rock,

letting her eyes rove over the broad expanse of barren plain, where

Nature seemed a step-mother,--feeling in her heart the same stirrings

of maternal love with which at times she gazed upon her infant.

Prepared by this train of emotion, these half involuntary meditations

(which, to use her own fine expression, winnowed her heart), to

receive the sublime instruction offered by the scene before her, she

awoke from her lethargy.

"I understood then," she said afterwards to the rector, "that our

souls must be ploughed and cultivated like the soil itself."

The vast expanse before her was lighted by a pale November sun.

Already a few gray clouds chased by a chilly wind were hurrying from

the west. It was then three o'clock. Veronique had taken more than

four hours to reach the summit, but, like all others who are harrowed

by an inward misery, she paid no heed to external circumstances. At

this moment her being was actually growing and magnifying with the

sublime impetus of Nature itself.

"Do not stay here any longer, madame," said a man, whose voice made

her quiver, "or you will soon be unable to return; you are six miles

from any dwelling, and the forest is impassable at night. But that is

not your greatest danger. Before long the cold on this summit will

become intense; the reason of this is unknown, but it has caused the

death of many persons."

Madame Graslin saw before her a man's face, almost black with sunburn,

in which shone eyes that were like two tongues of flame. On either

side of this face hung a mass of brown hair, and below it was a fan-

shaped beard. The man was raising respectfully one of those enormous

broad-brimmed hats which are worn by the peasantry of central France,

and in so doing displayed a bald but splendid forehead such as we

sometimes see in wayside beggars. Veronique did not feel the slightest

fear; the situation was one in which all the lesser considerations

that make a woman timid had ceased.

"Why are you here?" she asked.

"My home is near by," he answered.

"What can you do in such a desert?" she said.

"I live."

"But how? what means of living are there?"

"I earn a little something by watching that part of the forest," he

answered, pointing to the other side of the summit from the one that

overlooked Montegnac. Madame Graslin then saw the muzzle of a gun and

also a game-bag. If she had had any fears this would have put an end

to them.

"Then you are a keeper?" she said.

"No, madame; in order to be a keeper we must take a certain oath; and

to take an oath we must have civic rights."

"Who are you, then?"

"I am Farrabesche," he said, with deep humility, lowering his eyes to

the ground.

Madame Graslin, to whom the name told nothing, looked at the man and

noticed in his face, the expression of which was now very gentle, the

signs of underlying ferocity; irregular teeth gave to the mouth, the

lips blood-red, an ironical expression full of evil audacity; the dark

and prominent cheek-bones had something animal about them. The man was

of middle height, with strong shoulders, a thick-set neck, and the

large hairy hands of violent men capable of using their strength in a

brutal manner. His last words pointed to some mystery, to which his

bearing, the expression of his countenance, and his whole person, gave

a sinister meaning.

"You must be in my service, then?" said Veronique in a gentle voice.

"Have I the honor of speaking to Madame Graslin?" asked Farrabesche.

"Yes, my friend," she answered.

Farrabesche instantly disappeared, with the rapidity of a wild animal,

after casting a glance at his mistress that was full of fear.

XIII

FARRABESCHE

Veronique hastened to mount her horse and rejoin the servants, who

were beginning to be uneasy about her; for the strange unhealthiness

of the Roche-Vive was well known throughout the neighborhood. Colorat

begged his mistress to go down into the little valley which led to the

plain. It would be dangerous, he said, to return by the hills, or by

the tangled paths they had followed in the morning, where, even with

his knowledge of the country, they were likely to be lost in the dusk.

Once on the plain Veronique rode slowly.

"Who is this Farrabesche whom you employ?" she asked her forester.

"Has madame met him?" cried Colorat.

"Yes, but he ran away from me."

"Poor man! perhaps he does not know how kind madame is."

"But what has he done?"

"Ah! madame, Farrabesche is a murderer," replied Champion, simply.

"Then they pardoned him!" said Veronique, in a trembling voice.

"No, madame," replied Colorat, "Farrabesche was tried and condemned to

ten years at the galleys; he served half his time, and then he was

released on parole and came here in 1827. He owes his life to the

rector, who persuaded him to give himself up to justice. He had been

condemned to death by default, and sooner or later he must have been

taken and executed. Monsieur Bonnet went to find him in the woods, all

alone, at the risk of being killed. No one knows what he said to

Farrabesche. They were alone together two days; on the third day the

rector brought Farrabesche to Tulle, where he gave himself up.

Monsieur Bonnet went to see a good lawyer and begged him to do his

best for the man. Farrabesche escaped with ten years in irons. The

rector went to visit him in prison, and that dangerous fellow, who

used to be the terror of the whole country, became as gentle as a

girl; he even let them take him to the galleys without a struggle. On

his return he settled here by the rector's advice; no one says a word

against him; he goes to mass every Sunday and all the feast-days.

Though his place is among us he slips in beside the wall and sits

alone. He goes to the altar sometimes and prays, but when he takes the

holy sacrament he always kneels apart."

"And you say that man killed another man?"

"One!" exclaimed Colorat; "he killed several! But he is a good man all

the same."

"Is that possible?" exclaimed Veronique, letting the bridle fall on

the neck of her horse.

"Well, you see, madame," said the forester, who asked no better than

to tell the tale, "Farrabesche may have had good reason for what he

did. He was the last of the Farrabesches,--an old family of the

Correze, don't you know! His elder brother, Captain Farrabesche, died

ten years earlier in Italy, at Montenotte, a captain when he was only

twenty-two years old. Wasn't that ill-luck? and such a lad, too! knew

how to read and write, and bid fair to be a general. The family

grieved terribly, and good reason, too. As for me, I heard all about

his death, for I was serving at that time under L'AUTRE. Oh! he made a

fine death, did Captain Farrabesche; he saved the army and the Little

Corporal. I was then in the division of General Steingel, a German,--

that is, an Alsacian,--a famous good general but rather short-sighted,

and that was the reason why he was killed soon after Captain

Farrabesche. The younger brother--that's this one--was only six years

old when he heard of his brother's death. The second brother served

too; but only as a private soldier; he died a sergeant in the first

regiment of the Guard, at the battle of Austerlitz, where, d'ye see,

madame, they manoeuvred just as quietly as they might in the Carrousel.

I was there! oh! I had the luck of it! went through it all without a

scratch! Now this Farrabesche of ours, though he's a brave fellow,

took it into his head he wouldn't go to the wars; in fact, the army

wasn't a healthy place for one of his family. So when the conscription

caught him in 1811 he ran away,--a refractory, that's what they called

them. And then it was he went and joined a party of /chauffeurs/, or

maybe he was forced to; at any rate he /chauffed/! Nobody but the

rector knows what he really did with those brigands--all due respect

to them! Many a fight he had with the gendarmes and the soldiers too;

I'm told he was in seven regular battles--"

"They say he killed two soldiers and three gendarmes," put in

Champion.

"Who knows how many?--he never told," went on Colorat. "At last,

madame, they caught nearly all his comrades, but they never could

catch him; hang him! he was so young and active, and knew the country

so well, he always escaped. The /chauffeurs/ he consorted with kept

themselves mostly in the neighborhood of Brives and Tulle; sometimes

they came down this way, because Farrabesche knew such good hiding-

places about here. In 1814 the conscription took no further notice of

him, because it was abolished; but for all that, he was obliged to

live in the woods in 1815; because, don't you see? as he hadn't enough

to live on, he helped to stop a mail-coach over there, down that

gorge; and then it was they condemned him. But, as I told you just

now, the rector persuaded him to give himself up. It wasn't easy to

convict him, for nobody dared testify against him; and his lawyer and

Monsieur Bonnet worked so hard they got him sentenced for ten years

only; which was pretty good luck after being a /chauffeur/--for he did

/chauffe/."

"Will you tell me what /chauffeur/ means?"

"If you wish it, madame, I will tell you what they did, as far as I

know about it from others, for I never was /chauffed/ myself. It

wasn't a good thing to do, but necessity knows no law. Well, this is

how it was: seven or eight would go to some farmer or land-owner who

was thought to have money; the farmer would build a good fire and give

them a supper, lasting half through the night, and then, when the

feast was over, if the master of the house wouldn't give them the sum

demanded, they just fastened his feet to the spit, and didn't unfasten

them till they got it. That's how it was. They always went masked.

Among all their expeditions they sometimes made unlucky ones. Hang it,

there'll always be obstinate, miserly old fellows in the world! One of

them, a farmer, old Cochegrue, so mean he'd shave an egg, held out; he

let them roast his feet. Well, he died of it. The wife of Monsieur

David, near Brives, died of terror at merely seeing those fellows tie

her husband's feet. She died saying to David: 'Give them all you

have.' He wouldn't, and so she just pointed out the hiding-place. The

/chauffeurs/ (that's why they call them /chauffeurs/,--warmers) were

the terror of the whole country for over five years. But you must get

it well into your head,--oh, excuse me, madame, but you must know that

more than one young man of good family belonged to them, though

somehow they were never the ones to be caught."

Madame Graslin listened without interrupting or replying. There was

silence for a few moments, and then little Champion, jealous of the

right to amuse his mistress, wanted to tell her what he knew of the

late galley-slave.

"Madame ought to know more about Farrabesche; he hasn't his equal at

running, or at riding a horse. He can kill an ox with a blow of his

fist; nobody can shoot like him; he can carry seven hundred feet as

straight as a die,--there! One day they surprised him with three of

his comrades; two were wounded, one was killed,--good! Farrabesche was

all but taken. Bah! he just sprang on the horse of one of the

gendarmes behind the man, pricked the horse with his knife, made it

run with all its might, and so disappeared, holding the gendarme tight

round the body. But he held him so tight that after a time he threw

the body on the ground and rode away alone on the horse and master of

the horse; and he had the cheek to go and sell it not thirty miles

from Limoges! After that affair he hid himself for three months and

was never seen. The authorities offered a hundred golden louis to

whoever would deliver him up."

"Another time," added Colorat, "when the prefect of Tulle offered a

hundred louis for him, he made one of his own cousins, Giriex of

Vizay, earn them. His cousin denounced him, and appeared to deliver

him up. Oh, yes, he delivered him sure enough! The gendarmes were

delighted, and took him to Tulle; there they put him in the prison of

Lubersac, from which he escaped that very night, profiting by a hole

already begun by one of his accomplices who had been executed. All

these adventures gave Farrabesche a fine reputation. The /chauffeurs/

had lots of outside friends; people really loved them. They were not

skinflints like those of to-day; they spent their money royally, those

fellows! Just fancy, madame, one evening Farrabesche was chased by

gendarmes; well, he escaped them by staying twenty minutes under water

in the pond of a farm-yard. He breathed air through a straw which he

kept above the surface of the pool, which was half muck. But,

goodness! what was that little disagreeableness to a man who spends

his nights in the tree-tops, where the sparrows can hardly hold

themselves, watching the soldiers going to and fro in search of him

below? Farrabesche was one of the half-dozen /chauffeurs/ whom the

officers of justice could never lay hands on. But as he belonged to

the region and was brought up with them, and had, as they said, only

fled the conscription, all the women were on his side,--and that's a

great deal, you know."

"Is it really certain that Farrabesche did kill several persons?"

asked Madame Graslin.

"Yes, certain," replied Colorat; "it is even said that it was he who

killed the traveller by the mail-coach in 1812; but the courier and

the postilion, the only witnesses who could have identified him, were

dead before he was tried."

"Tried for the robbery?" asked Madame Graslin.

"Yes, they took everything; amongst it twenty-five thousand francs

belonging to the government."

Madame Graslin rode silently after that for two or three miles. The

sun had now set, the moon was lighting the gray plain, which looked

like an open sea. Champion and Colorat began to wonder at Madame

Graslin, whose silence seemed strange to them, and they were greatly

astonished to see the shining track of tears upon her cheeks; her eyes

were red and full of tears, which were falling drop by drop as she

rode along.

"Oh, madame," said Colorat, "don't pity him! The lad has had his day.

He had pretty girls in love with him; and now, though to be sure he is

closely watched by the police, he is protected by the respect and

good-will of the rector; for he has really repented. His conduct at

the galleys was exemplary. Everybody knows he is as honest as the most

honest man among us. Only he is proud; he doesn't choose to expose

himself to rebuff; so he lives quietly by himself and does good in his

own way. He has made a nursery of about ten acres for you on the other

side of the Roche-Vive; he plants in the forests wherever he thinks

there's a chance of making a tree grow; he trims the tree and cuts out

the dead wood, and ties it up into bundles for the poor. All the poor

people know they can get their wood from him all cut and ready to

burn; so they go and ask him for it, instead of taking it themselves

and injuring your forest. He is another kind of /chauffeur/ now, and

warms his poor neighbors to their comfort and not to their harm. Oh,

Farrabesche loves your forest! He takes care of it as if it were his

own property."

"And he lives--all alone?" exclaimed Madame Graslin, adding the two

last words hastily.

"Excuse me, not quite alone, madame; he takes care of a boy about

fifteen years old," said Maurice Champion.

"Yes, that's so," said Colorat; "La Curieux gave birth to the child

some little time before Farrabesche was condemned."

"Is it his child?" asked Madame Graslin.

"People think so."

"Why didn't he marry her?"

"How could he? They would certainly have arrested him. As it was, when

La Curieux heard he was sentenced to the galleys the poor girl left

this part of the country."

"Was she a pretty girl?"

"Oh!" said Maurice, "my mother says she was very like another girl who

has also left Montegnac for something the same reason,--Denise

Tascheron."

"She loved him?" said Madame Graslin.

"Ha, yes! because he /chauffed/; women do like things that are out of

the way. However, nothing ever did surprise the community more than

that love affair. Catherine Curieux lived as virtuous a life as a holy

virgin; she passed for a pearl of purity in her village of Vizay,

which is really a small town in the Correze on the line between the

two departments. Her father and mother are farmers to the Messieurs

Brezac. Catherine Curieux was about seventeen when Farrabesche was

sent to the galleys. The Farrabesches were an old family from the same

region, who settled in the commune of Montegnac; they hired their farm

from the village. The father and mother Farrabesche are dead, but

Catherine's three sisters are married, one in Aubusson, another in

Limoges, and a third in Saint-Leonard."

"Do you think Farrabesche knows where Catherine Curieux is?" asked

Madame Graslin.

"If he did know he'd break his parole. Oh! he'd go to her. As soon as

he came back from the galleys he got Monsieur Bonnet to ask for the

little boy whom the grandfather and grandmother were taking care of;

and Monsieur Bonnet obtained the child."

"Does no one know what became of the mother?"

"No one," said Colorat. "The girl felt that she was ruined; she was

afraid to stay in her own village. She went to Paris. What is she

doing there? Well, that's the question; but you might as well hunt for

a marble among the stones on that plain as look for her there."

They were now riding up the ascent to the chateau as Colorat pointed

to the plain below. Madame Sauviat, evidently uneasy, Aline and the

other servants were waiting at the gate, not knowing what to think of

this long absence.

"My dear," said Madame Sauviat, helping her daughter to dismount, "you

must be very tired."

"No, mother," replied Madame Graslin, in so changed a voice that

Madame Sauviat looked closely at her and then saw the mark of tears.

Madame Graslin went to her own rooms with Aline, who took her orders

for all that concerned her personal life. She now shut herself up and

would not even admit her mother; when Madame Sauviat asked to enter,

Aline stopped her, saying, "Madame has gone to sleep."

The next day Veronique rode out attended by Maurice only. In order to

reach the Roche-Vive as quickly as possible she took the road by which

she had returned the night before. As they rode up the gorge which

lies between the mountain peak and the last hill of the forest (for,

seen from the plain, the Roche-Vive looks isolated) Veronique

requested Maurice to show her the house in which Farrabesche lived and

then to hold the horses and wait for her; she wished to go alone.

Maurice took her to a path which led down on the other side of the

Roche-Vive and showed her the thatched roof of a dwelling half buried

in the mountain, below which lay the nursery grounds. It was then

about mid-day. A light smoke issued from the chimney. Veronique

reached the cottage in a few moments, but she did not make her

presence known at once. She stood a few moments lost in thoughts known

only to herself as she gazed on the modest dwelling which stood in the

middle of a garden enclosed with a hedge of thorns.

Beyond the lower end of the garden lay several cares of meadow land

surrounded by an evergreen hedge; the eye looked down on the flattened

tops of fruit trees, apple, pear, and plum trees scattered here and

there among these fields. Above the house, toward the crest of the

mountain where the soil became sandy, rose the yellow crowns of a

splendid grove of chestnuts. Opening the railed gate made of half-

rotten boards which enclosed the premises, Madame Graslin saw a

stable, a small poultry-yard and all the picturesque and living

accessories of poor homes, which have so much of rural poesy about

them. Who could see without emotion the linen fluttering on the

hedges, the bunches of onions hanging from the eaves, the iron

saucepans drying in the sun, the wooden bench overhung with

honeysuckle, the stone-crop clinging to the thatch, as it does on the

roofs of nearly all the cottages in France, revealing a humble life

that is almost vegetative?

It was impossible for Veronique to come upon her keeper without his

receiving due notice; two fine hunting dogs began to bark as soon as

the rustling of her habit was heard on the dried leaves. She took the

end of it over her arm and advanced toward the house. Farrabesche and

his boy, who were sitting on a wooden bench outside the door, rose and

uncovered their heads, standing in a respectful attitude, but without

the least appearance of servility.

"I have heard," said Veronique, looking attentively at the boy, "that

you take much care of my interests; I wished to see your house and the

nurseries, and ask you a few questions relating to the improvements I

intend to make."

"I am at madame's orders," replied Farrabesche.

Veronique admired the boy, who had a charming face of a perfect oval,

rather sunburned and brown but very regular in features, the forehead

finely modelled, orange-colored eyes of extreme vivacity, black hair

cut straight across the brow and allowed to hang down on either side

of the face. Taller than most boys of his age, the little fellow was

nearly five feet high. His trousers, like his shirt, were of coarse

gray linen, his waistcoat, of rough blue cloth with horn buttons much

worn and a jacket of the cloth so oddly called Maurienne velvet, with

which the Savoyards like to clothe themselves, stout hob-nailed shoes,

and no stockings. This costume was exactly like that of his father,

except that Farrabesche had on his head the broad-brimmed felt hat of

the peasantry, while the boy had only a brown woollen cap.

Though intelligent and animated, the child's face was instinct with

the gravity peculiar to all human beings of any age who live in

solitude; he seemed to put himself in harmony with the life and the

silence of the woods. Both Farrabesche and his son were specially

developed on their physical side, possessing many of the

characteristics of savages,--piercing sight, constant observation,

absolute self-control, a keen ear, wonderful agility, and an

intelligent manner of speaking. At the first glance the boy gave his

father Madame Graslin recognized one of those unbounded affections in

which instinct blends with thought, and a most active happiness

strengthens both the will of the instinct and the reasoning of

thought.

"This must be the child I have heard of," said Veronique, motioning to

the boy.

"Yes, madame."

"Have you made no attempt to find his mother?" asked Veronique, making

a sign to Farrabesche to follow her a little distance.

"Madame may not be aware that I am not allowed to go beyond the

district in which I reside."

"Have you never received any news of her?"

"At the expiration of my term," he answered, "I received from the

Commissioner a thousand francs, sent to him quarterly for me in little

sums which police regulations did not allow me to receive till the day

I left the galleys. I think that Catherine alone would have thought of

me, as it was not Monsieur Bonnet who sent this money; therefore I

have kept it safely for Benjamin."

"And Catherine's parents?"

"They have never inquired for her since she left. Besides they did

enough in taking charge of the little one."

"Well, Farrabesche," said Veronique, returning toward the house. "I

will make it my business to know if Catherine still lives; and if so,

what is her present mode of life."

"Oh! madame, whatever that may be," said the man gently, "it would be

happiness for me if I could have her for my wife. It is for her to

object, not me. Our marriage would legitimatize this poor boy, who as

yet knows nothing of his position."

The look the father threw upon the lad explained the life of these two

beings, abandoned, or voluntarily isolated; they were all in all to

each other, like two compatriots adrift upon a desert.

"Then you love Catherine?" said Veronique.

"Even if I did not love her, madame," he replied, "she is to me, in my

situation, the only woman there is in the world."

Madame Graslin turned hurriedly and walked away under the chestnut

trees, as if attacked by some sharp pain; the keeper, thinking she was

moved by a sudden caprice, did not venture to follow her.

XIV

THE TORRENT OF THE GABOU

Veronique remained for some minutes under the chestnut trees,

apparently looking at the landscape. Thence she could see that portion

of the forest which clothes the side of the valley down which flows

the torrent of the Gabou, now dry, a mass of stones, looking like a

huge ditch cut between the wooded mountains of Montegnac and another

chain of parallel hills beyond,--the latter being much steeper and

without vegetation, except for heath and juniper and a few sparse

trees toward their summit.

These hills, desolate of aspect, belong to the neighboring domain and

are in the department of the Correze. A country road, following the

undulations of the valley, serves to mark the line between the

arrondissement of Montegnac and the two estates. This barren slope

supports, like a wall, a fine piece of woodland which stretches away

in the distance from its rocky summit. Its barrenness forms a complete

contrast to the other slope, on which is the cottage of Farrabesche.

On the one side, harsh, disfigured angularities, on the other,

graceful forms and curving outlines; there, the cold, dumb stillness

of unfruitful earth held up by horizontal blocks of stone and naked

rock, here, trees of various greens, now stripped for the most part of

foliage, but showing their fine straight many-colored trunks on every

slope and terrace of the land; their interlacing branches swaying to

the breeze. A few more persistent trees, oaks, elms, beeches, and

chestnuts, still retained their yellow, bronzed, or crimsoned foliage.

Toward Montegnac, where the valley widened immensely, the two slopes

form a horse-shoe; and from the spot where Veronique now stood leaning

against a tree she could see the descending valleys lying like the

gradations of an ampitheatre, the tree-tops rising from each tier like

persons in the audience. This fine landscape was then on the other

side of her park, though it afterwards formed part of it. On the side

toward the cottage near which she stood the valley narrows more and

more until it becomes a gorge, about a hundred feet wide.

The beauty of this view, over which Madame Graslin's eyes now roved

mechanically, recalled her presently to herself. She returned to the

cottage where the father and son were standing, silently awaiting her

and not seeking to explain her singular absence.

She examined the house, which was built with more care than its

thatched roof seemed to warrant. It had, no doubt, been abandoned ever

since the Navarreins ceased to care for this domain. No more hunts, no

more game-keepers. Though the house had been built for over a hundred

years, the walls were still good, notwithstanding the ivy and other

sorts of climbing-plants which clung to them. When Farrabesche

obtained permission to live there he tiled the room on the lower floor

and put in furniture. Veronique saw, as she entered, two beds, a large

walnut wardrobe, a bread-box, dresser, table, three chairs, and on the

dresser a few brown earthenware dishes and other utensils necessary to

life. Above the fireplace were two guns and two gamebags. A number of

little things evidently made by the father for the child touched

Veronique's heart--the model of a man-of-war, of a sloop, a carved

wooden cup, a wooden box of exquisite workmanship, a coffer inlaid in

diaper pattern, a crucifix, and a splendid rosary. The chaplet was

made of plum-stones, on each of which was carved a head of marvellous

delicacy,--of Jesus Christ, of the apostles, the Madonna, Saint John

the Baptist, Saint Joseph, Saint Anne, the two Magdalens, etc.

"I do that to amuse the little one in the long winter evenings," he

said, as if excusing himself.

The front of the house was covered with jessamine and roses, trained

to the wall and wreathing the windows of the upper floor, where

Farrabesche stored his provisions. He bought little except bread,

salt, sugar, and a few such articles, for he kept chickens, ducks, and

two pigs. Neither he nor the boy drank wine.

"All that I have heard of you and all that I now see," said Madame

Graslin at last, "make me feel an interest in your welfare which will

not, I hope, be a barren one."

"I recognize Monsieur Bonnet's kindness in what you say," cried

Farrabesche, in a tone of feeling.

"You are mistaken; the rector has not yet spoken of you to me; chance

--or God--has done it."

"Yes, madame, God! God alone can do miracles for a miserable man like

me."

"If you have been a miserable man," said Madame Graslin, lowering her

voice that the child might not hear her (an act of womanly delicacy

which touched his heart), "your repentance, your conduct, and the

rector's esteem have now fitted you to become a happier man. I have

given orders to finish the building of the large farmhouse which

Monsieur Graslin intended to establish near the chateau. I shall make

you my farmer, and you will have an opportunity to use all your

faculties, and also to employ your son. The /procureur-general/ in

Limoges shall be informed about you, and the humiliating police-

inspection you are now subjected to shall be removed. I promise you."

At these words Farrabesche fell on his knees, as if struck down by the

realization of a hope he had long considered vain. He kissed the hem

of Madame Graslin's habit, then her feet. Seeing the tears in his

father's eyes, the boy wept too, without knowing why.

"Rise, Farrabesche," said Madame Graslin, "you do not know how natural

it is that I should do for you what I have promised. You planted those

fine trees, did you not?" she went on, pointing to the groups of

Northern pine, firs, and larches at the foot of the dry and rocky hill

directly opposite.

"Yes, madame."

"Is the earth better there?"

"The water in washing down among the rocks brings a certain amount of

soil, which it deposits. I have profited by this; for the whole of the

level of the valley belongs to you,--the road is your boundary."

"Is there much water at the bottom of that long valley?"

"Oh, madame," cried Farrabesche, "before long, when the rains begin,

you will hear the torrent roar even at the chateau; but even that is

nothing to what happens in spring when the snows melt. The water then

rushes down from all parts of the forest behind Montegnac, from those

great slopes which are back of the hills on which you have your park.

All the water of these mountains pours into this valley and makes a

deluge. Luckily for you, the trees hold the earth; otherwise the land

would slide into the valley."

"Where are the springs?" asked Madame Graslin, giving her full

attention to what he said.

Farrabesche pointed to a narrow gorge which seemed to end the valley

just below his house. "They are mostly on a clay plateau lying between

the Limousin and the Correze; they are mere green pools during the

summer, and lose themselves in the soil. No one lives in that

unhealthy region. The cattle will not eat the grass or reeds that grow

near the brackish water. That vast tract, which has more than three

thousand acres in it, is an open common for three districts; but, like

the plains of Montegnac, no use can be made of it. This side on your

property, as I showed you, there is a little earth among the stones,

but over there is nothing but sandy rock."

"Send your boy for the horses; I will ride over and see it for

myself."

Benjamin departed, after Madame Graslin had shown him the direction in

which he would find Maurice and the horses.

"You who know, so they tell me, every peculiarity of the country

thoroughly," continued Madame Graslin, "explain to me how it is that

the streams of my forest which are on the side of the mountain toward

Montegnac, and ought therefore to send their waters down there, do not

do so, neither in regular water-courses nor in sudden torrents after

rains and the melting of the snows."

"Ah, madame," said Farrabesche, "the rector, who thinks all the time

about the welfare of Montegnac, has guessed the reason, but he can't

find any proof of it. Since your arrival, he has made me trace the

path of the water from point to point through each ravine and valley.

I was returning yesterday, when I had the honor of meeting you, from

the base of the Roche-Vive, where I carefully examined the lay of the

land. Hearing the horses' feet, I came up to see who was there.

Monsieur Bonnet is not only a saint, madame; he is a man of great

knowledge. 'Farrabesche,' he said to me (I was then working on the

road the village has just built to the chateau, and the rector came to

me and pointed to that chain of hills from Montegnac to Roche-Vive),--

'Farrabesche,' he said, 'there must be some reason why that water-shed

does not send any of its water to the plain; Nature must have made

some sluiceway which carries it elsewhere.' Well, madame, that idea is

so simple you would suppose any child might have thought it; yet no

one since Montegnac existed, neither the great lords, nor their

bailiffs, nor their foresters, nor the poor, nor the rich, none of

those who saw that plain barren for want of water, ever asked

themselves why the streams which now feed the Gabou do not come there.

The three districts above, which have constantly been afflicted with

fevers in consequence of stagnant water, never looked for the remedy;

I myself, who live in the wilds, never dreamed of it; it needed a man

of God."

The tears filled his eyes as he said the word.

"All that men of genius discover," said Madame Graslin, "seems so

simple that every one thinks they might have discovered it themselves.

But," she added, as if to herself, "genius has this fine thing about

it,--it resembles all the world, but no one resembles it."

"I understood Monsieur Bonnet at once," continued Farrabesche; "it did

not take him many words to tell me what I had to do. Madame, this fact

I tell you of is all the more singular because there are, toward the

plain, great rents and fissures in the mountain, gorges and ravines

down which the water flows; but, strange to say, these clefts and

ravines and gorges all send their streams into a little valley which

is several feet below the level of your plain. To-day I have

discovered the reason of this phenomenon: from the Roche-Vive to

Montegnac, at the foot of the mountains, runs a shelf or barricade of

rock, varying in height from twenty to thirty feet; there is not a

break in it from end to end; and it is formed of a species of rock

which Monsieur Bonnet calls schist. The soil above it, which is of

course softer than rock, has been hollowed out by the action of the

water, which is turned at right angles by the barricade of rock, and

thus flows naturally into the Gabou. The trees and underbrush of the

forest conceal this formation and the hollowing out of the soil. But

after following the course of the water, as I have done by the traces

left of its passage, it is easy to convince any one of the fact. The

Gabou thus receives the water-shed of both mountains,--that which

ought to go down the mountain face on which your park and garden are

to the plain, and that which comes down the rocky slopes before us.

According to Monsieur Bonnet the present state of things will crease

when the water-shed toward the plain gains a natural outlet, and is

dammed toward the Gabou by the earth and rocks which the mountain

torrents bring down with them. It will take a hundred years to do

that, however; and besides, it isn't desirable. If your soil will not

take up more water than the great common you are now going to see,

Montegnac would be full of stagnant pools, breeding fever in the

community."

"I suppose that the places Monsieur Bonnet showed me the other day

where the foliage of the trees is still green mark the present

conduits by which the water falls into the Gabou?"

"Yes, madame. Between Roche-Vive and Montegnac there are three

distinct mountains with three hollows between them, down which the

waters, stopped by the schist barrier, turn off into the Gabou. The

belt of trees still green at the foot of the hill above the barrier,

which looks, at a distance, like a part of the plain, is really the

water-sluice the rector supposed, very justly, that Nature had made

for herself."

"Well, what has been to the injury of Montegnac shall soon be its

prosperity," said Madame Graslin, in a tone of deep intention. "And

inasmuch as you have been the first instrument employed on the work,

you shall share in it; you shall find me faithful, industrious

workmen; lack of money can always be made up by devotion and good

work."

Benjamin and Maurice came up as Veronique ended these words; she

mounted her horse and signed to Farrabesche to mount the other.

"Guide me," she said, "to the place where the waters spread out in

pools over that waste land."

"There is all the more reason why madame should go there," said

Farrabesche, "because the late Monsieur Graslin, under the rector's

advice, bought three hundred acres at the opening of that gorge, on

which the waters have left sediment enough to make good soil over

quite a piece of ground. Madame will also see the opposite side of the

Roche-Vive, where there are fine woods, among which Monsieur Graslin

would no doubt have put a farm had he lived; there's an excellent

place for one, where the spring which rises just by my house loses

itself below."

Farrabesche rode first to show the way, taking Veronique through a

path which led to the spot where the two slopes drew closely together

and then flew apart, one to the east the other to the west, as if

repulsed by a shock. This narrow passage, filled with large rocks and

coarse, tall grasses, was only about sixty feet in width.

The Roche-Vive, cut perpendicularly on this side looked like a wall of

granite in which there was no foothold; but above this inflexible wall

was a crown of trees, the roots of which hung down it, mostly pines

clinging to the rock with their forked feet like birds on a bough.

The opposite hill, hollowed by time, had a frowning front, sandy,

rocky, and yellow; here were shallow caverns, dips without depth; the

soft and pulverizing rock had ochre tones. A few plants with prickly

leaves above, and burdocks, reeds, and aquatic growths below, were

indication enough of the northern exposure and the poverty of the

soil. The bed of the torrent was of stone, quite hard, but yellow.

Evidently the two chains, though parallel and ripped asunder by one of

the great catastrophes which have changed the face of the globe, were,

either from some inexplicable caprice or for some unknown reason, the

discovery of which awaited genius, composed of elements that were

wholly dissimilar. The contrast of their two natures showed more

clearly here than elsewhere.

Veronique now saw before her an immense dry plateau, without any

vegetation, chalky (this explained the absorption of the water) and

strewn with pools of stagnant water and rocky places stripped of soil.

To the right were the mountains of the Correze; to left the Roche-Vive

barred the view covered with its noble trees; on its further slope was

a meadow of some two hundred acres, the verdure of which contrasted

with the hideous aspect of the desolate plateau.

"My son and I cut that ditch you see down there marked by the tall

grasses," said Farrabesche; "it joins the one which bounds your

forest. On this side the estate is bounded by a desert, for the

nearest village is three miles distant."

Veronique turned rapidly to the dismal plain, followed by her guide.

She leaped her horse across the ditch and rode at full gallop across

the drear expanse, seeming to take a savage pleasure in contemplating

that vast image of desolation. Farrabesche was right. No power, no

will could put to any use whatever that soil which resounded under the

horses' feet as though it were hollow. This effect was produced by the

natural porousness of the clay; but there were fissures also through

which the water flowed away, no doubt to some distant source.

"There are many souls like this," thought Veronique, stopping her

horse after she had ridden at full speed for fifteen or twenty

minutes. She remained motionless and thoughtful in the midst of this

desert, where there was neither animal nor insect life and where the

birds never flew. The plain of Montegnac was at least pebbly or sandy;

on it were places where a few inches of soil did give a foothold for

the roots of certain plains; but here the ungrateful chalk, neither

stone nor earth, repelled even the eye, which was forced to turn for

relief to the blue of the ether.

After examining the bounds of her forest and the meadows purchased by

her husband, Veronique returned toward the outlet of the Gabou, but

slowly. She then saw Farrabesche gazing into a sort of ditch which

looked like one a speculator might have dug into this desolate corner

of the earth expecting Nature to give up some hidden treasure.

"What is the matter?" asked Veronique, noticing on that manly face an

expression of deep sadness.

"Madame, I owe my life to that ditch; or rather, to speak more

correctly, I owe to it time for repentance, time to redeem my sins in

the eyes of men."

This method of explaining life so affected Madame Graslin that she

stopped her horse on the brink of the ditch.

"I was hiding there, madame. The ground is so resonant that when my

ear was against it I could hear the horses of the gendarmerie, or even

the footsteps of the soldiers, which are always peculiar. That gave me

time to escape up the Gabou to a place where I had a horse, and I

always managed to put several miles between myself and my pursuers.

Catherine used to bring me food during the night; if she did not find

me I always found the bread and wine in a hole covered with a rock."

This recollection of his wandering and criminal life, which might have

injured Farrabesche with some persons, met with the most indulgent

pity from Madame Graslin. She rode hastily on toward the Gabou,

followed by her guide. While she measured with her eye this opening,

through which could be seen the long valley, so smiling on one side,

so ruined on the other, and at its lower end, a league away, the

terraced hill-sides back of Montegnac, Farrabesche said:--

"There'll be a famous rush of water in a few days."

"And next year, on this day, not a drop shall flow there. Both sides

belong to me, and I will build a dam solid enough and high enough to

stop the freshet. Instead of a valley yielding nothing, I will have a

lake twenty, thirty, forty feet deep over an extent of three or four

miles,--an immense reservoir, which shall supply the flow of

irrigation with which I will fertilize the plain of Montegnac."

"Ah, madame! the rector was right, when he said to us as we finished

our road, 'You are working for a mother.' May God shed his blessing on

such an undertaking."

"Say nothing about it, Farrabesche," said Madame Graslin. "The idea

was Monsieur Bonnet's."

They returned to the cottage, where Veronique picked up Maurice, with

whom she rode hastily back to the chateau. When Madame Sauviat and

Aline saw her they were struck with the change in her countenance; the

hope of doing good in the region she now owned gave her already an

appearance of happiness. She wrote at once to Monsieur Grossetete,

begging him to ask Monsieur de Grandville for the complete release of

the returned convict, on whose conduct she gave him assurances which

were confirmed by a certificate from the mayor of Montegnac and by a

letter from Monsieur Bonnet. To this request she added information

about Catherine Curieux, begging Grossetete to interest the

/procureur-general/ in the good work she wished to do, and persuade

him to write to the prefecture of police in Paris to recover traces of

the girl. The circumstance of Catherine's having sent money to

Farrabesche at the galleys ought to be clew enough to furnish

information. Veronique was determined to know why it was that the

young woman had not returned to her child and to Farrabesche, now that

he was free. She also told her old friend of her discovery about the

torrent of the Gabou, and urged him to select an able engineer, such

as she had already asked him to procure for her.

The next day was Sunday, and for the first time since her installation

at Montegnac Veronique felt able to hear mass in church; she

accordingly went there and took possession of the bench that belonged

to her in the chapel of the Virgin. Seeing how denuded the poor church

was, she resolved to devote a certain sum yearly to the needs of the

building and the decoration of the altars. She listened to the sweet,

impressive, angelic voice of the rector, whose sermon, though couched

in simple language suited to the rustic intellects before him, was

sublime in character. Sublimity comes from the heart, intellect has

little to do with it; religion is a quenchless source of this

sublimity which has no dross; for Catholicism entering and changing

all hearts, is itself all heart. Monsieur Bonnet took his text from

the epistle for the day, which signified that, sooner or later, God

accomplishes all promises, assisting His faithful ones, encouraging

the righteous. He made plain to every mind the great things which

might be accomplished by wealth judiciously used for the good of

others,--explaining that the duties of the poor to the rich were as

widely extended as those of the rich to the poor, and that the aid and

assistance given should be mutual.

Farrabesche had made known to a few of those who treated him in a

friendly manner (the result of the Christian charity which Monsieur

Bonnet had put in practice among his parishioners) the benevolent acts

Madame Graslin had done for him. Her conduct in this matter had been

talked over by all the little groups of persons assembled round the

church door before the service, as is the custom in country places.

Nothing could have been better calculated to win the friendship and

good-will of these eminently susceptible minds; so that when Veronique

left the church after service she found nearly all the inhabitants of

the parish formed in two hedges through which she was expected to

pass. One and all they bowed respectfully in profound silence. She was

deeply touched by this reception, without knowing the actual cause of

it. Seeing Farrabesche humbly stationed among the last, she stopped

and said to him:--

"You are a good hunter; do not forget to supply me with game."

A few days later Veronique went to walk with the rector through the

part of the forest that was nearest the chateau, wishing to descend

with him the terraced slopes she had seen from the house of

Farrabesche. In doing this she obtained complete certainty as to the

nature of the upper affluents of the Gabou. The rector saw for himself

that the streams which watered certain parts of upper Montegnac came

from the mountains of the Correze. This chain of hills joined the

barren slopes we have already described, parallel with the chain of

the Roche-Vive.

On returning from this walk the rector was joyful as a child; he

foresaw, with the naivete of a poet, the prosperity of his dear

village--for a poet is a man, is he not? who realizes hopes before

they ripen. Monsieur Bonnet garnered his hay as he stood overlooking

that barren plain from Madame Graslin's upper terrace.

XV

STORY OF A GALLEY-SLAVE

The next day Farrabesche and his son came to the chateau with game.

The keeper also brought, for Francis, a cocoanut cup, elaborately

carved, a genuine work of art, representing a battle. Madame Graslin

was walking at the time on the terrace, in the direction which

overlooked Les Tascherons. She sat down on a bench, took the cup in

her hand and looked earnestly at the deft piece of work. A few tears

came into her eyes.

"You must have suffered very much," she said to Farrabesche, after a

few moments' silence.

"How could I help it, madame?" he replied; "for I was there without

the hope of escape, which supports the life of most convicts."

"An awful life!" she said in a tone of horror, inviting Farrabesche by

word and gesture to say more.

Farrabesche took the convulsive trembling and other signs of emotion

he saw in Madame Graslin for the powerful interest of compassionate

curiosity in himself.

Just then Madame Sauviat appeared, coming down a path as if she meant

to join them; but Veronique drew out her handkerchief and made a

negative sign; saying, with an asperity she had never before shown to

the old woman:--

"Leave me, leave me, mother."

"Madame," said Farrabesche, "for ten years I wore there (holding out

his leg) a chain fastened to a great iron ring which bound me to

another man. During my time I had to live thus with three different

convicts. I slept on a wooden bench; I had to work extraordinarily

hard to earn a little mattress called a /serpentin/. Each dormitory

contains eight hundred men. Each bed, called a /tolard/, holds twenty-

four men, chained in couples. Every night the chain of each couple is

passed round another great chain which is called the /filet de ramas/.

This chain holds all the couples by the feet, and runs along the

bottom of the /tolard/. It took me over two years to get accustomed to

that iron clanking, which called out incessantly, 'Thou art a galley-

slave!' If I slept an instant some vile companion moved or quarrelled,

reminding me of where I was. There is a terrible apprenticeship to

make before a man can learn how to sleep. I myself could not sleep

until I had come to the end of my strength and to utter exhaustion.

When at last sleep came I had the nights in which to forget. Oh! to

/forget/, madame, that was something! Once there, a man must learn to

satisfy his needs, even in the smallest things, according to the ways

laid down by pitiless regulations. Imagine, madame, the effect such a

life produced on a lad like me, who had lived in the woods with the

birds and the squirrels! If I had not already lived for six months

within prison-walls, I should, in spite of Monsieur Bonnet's grand

words--for he, I can truly say, is the father of my soul--I should,

ah! I must have flung myself into the sea at the mere sight of my

companions. Out-doors I still could live; but in the building, whether

to sleep or to eat,--to eat out of buckets, and each bucket filled for

three couples,--it was life no longer, it was death; the atrocious

faces and language of my companions were always insufferable to me.

Happily, from five o'clock in summer, and from half-past seven o'clock

in winter we went, in spite of heat or cold and wind or rain, on

'fatigue,' that is, hard-labor. Thus half this life was spent in the

open air; and the air was sweet after the close dormitory packed with

eight hundred convicts. And that air, too, is sea-air! We could enjoy

the breezes, we could be friends with the sun, we could watch the

clouds as they passed above us, we could hope and pray for fine

weather! As for me, I took an interest in my work--"

Farrabesche stopped; two heavy tears were rolling down his mistress's

face.

"Oh! madame, I have only told you the best side of that life," he

continued, taking the expression of her face as meant for him. "The

terrible precautions taken by the government, the constant spying of

the keepers, the blacksmith's inspection of the chains every day,

night and morning, the coarse food, the hideous garments which

humiliate a man at all hours, the comfortless sleep, the horrible

rattling of eight hundred chains in that resounding hall, the prospect

of being shot or blown to pieces by cannon if ten of those villains

took a fancy to revolt, all those dreadful things are nothing,--

nothing, I tell you; that is the bright side only. There's another

side, madame, and a decent man, a bourgeois, would die of horror in a

week. A convict is forced to live with another man; obliged to endure

the company of five other men at every meal, twenty-three in his bed

at night, and to hear their language! The great society of galley-

slaves, madame, has its secret laws; disobey them and you are

tortured; obey them, and you become a torturer. You must be either

victim or executioner. If they would kill you at once it would at

least be the cure of life. But no, they are wiser than that in doing

evil. It is impossible to hold out against the hatred of these men;

their power is absolute over any prisoner who displeases them, and

they can make his life a torment far worse than death. The man who

repents and endeavors to behave well is their common enemy; above all,

they suspect him of informing; and an informer is put to death, often

on mere suspicion. Every hall and community of eight hundred convicts

has its tribunal, in which are judged the crimes committed against

that society. Not to obey the usages is criminal, and a man is liable

to punishment. For instance, every man must co-operate in escapes;

every convict has his time assigned him to escape, and all his fellow-

convicts must protect and aid him. To reveal what a comrade is doing

with a view to escape is criminal. I will not speak to you of the

horrible customs and morals of the galleys. No man belongs to himself;

the government, in order to neutralize the attempts at revolt or

escape, takes pains to chain two contrary natures and interests

together; and this makes the torture of the coupling unendurable; men

are linked together who hate or distrust each other."

"How was it with you?" asked Madame Graslin.

"Ah! there," replied Farrabesche, "I had luck; I never drew a lot to

kill a convict; I never had to vote the death of any one of them; I

never was punished; no man took a dislike to me; and I got on well

with the three different men I was chained to; they all feared me but

liked me. One reason was, my name was known and famous at the galleys

before I got there. A /chauffeur/! they thought me one of those

brigands. I have seen /chauffing/," continued Farrabesche after a

pause, in a low voice, "but I never either did it myself, or took any

of the money obtained by it. I was a refractory, I evaded the

conscription, that was all. I helped my comrades, I kept watch; I was

sentinel and brought up the rear-guard; but I never shed any man's

blood except in self-defence. Ah! I told all to Monsieur Bonnet and my

lawyer, and the judges knew well enough that I was no murderer. But,

all the same, I am a great criminal; nothing that I ever did was

morally right. However, before I got there, as I was saying, two of my

comrades told of me as a man able to do great things. At the galleys,

madame, nothing is so valuable as that reputation, not even money. In

that republic of misery murder is a passport to tranquillity. I did

nothing to destroy that opinion of me. I was sad, resigned, and they

mistook the appearance of it. My gloomy manner, my silence, passed for

ferocity. All that world, convicts, keepers, young and old, respected

me. I was treated as first in my hall. No one interfered with my

sleep; I was never suspected of informing; I behaved honorably

according to their ideas; I never refused to do service; I never

testified the slightest repugnance; I howled with the wolves outside,

I prayed to God within. My last companion in chains was a soldier,

twenty-two years of age, who had committed a theft and deserted in

consequence of it. We were chained together for four years, and we

were friends; wherever I may be I am certain to meet him when his time

is up. This poor devil, whose name is Guepin, is not a scoundrel, he

is merely heedless; his punishment may reform him. If my comrades had

discovered that religion led me to submit to my trials,--that I meant,

when my time was up, to live humbly in a corner, letting no one know

where I was, intending to forget their horrible community and never to

cross the path of any of them,--they would probably have driven me

mad."

"Then," said Madame Graslin, "if a poor young man, a tender soul,

carried away by passion, having committed a murder, was spared from

death and sent to the galleys--"

"Oh! madame," said Farrabesche, interrupting her, "there is no sparing

in that. The sentence may be commuted to twenty years at the galleys,

but for a decent young man, that is awful! I could not speak to you of

the life that awaits him there; a thousand times better die. Yes, to

die upon the scaffold is happiness in comparison."

"I dared not think it," murmured Madame Graslin.

She had turned as white as wax. To hide her face she laid her forehead

on the balustrade, and kept it there several minutes. Farrabesche did

not know whether he ought to go or remain.

Madame Graslin raised her head at last, looked at Farrabesche with an

almost majestic air, and said, to his amazement, in a voice that

stirred his heart:--

"Thank you, my friend. But," she added, after a pause, "where did you

find courage to live and suffer?"

"Ah! madame, Monsieur Bonnet put a treasure within my soul! and for

that I love him better than all else on earth."

"Better than Catherine?" said Madame Graslin, smiling with a sort of

bitterness.

"Almost as well, madame."

"How did he do it?"

"Madame, the words and the voice of that man conquered me. Catherine

brought him to that hole in the ground I showed you on the common; he

had come fearlessly alone. He was, he said, the new rector of

Montegnac; I was his parishioner, he loved me; he knew I was only

misguided, not lost; he did not intend to betray me, but to save me;

in short, he said many such things that stirred my soul to its depths.

That man, madame, commands you to do right with as much force as those

who tell you to do wrong. It was he who told me, poor dear man, that

Catherine was a mother, and that I was dooming two beings to shame and

desertion. 'Well,' I said to him, 'they are like me; I have no

future.' He answered that I had a future, two bad futures, before me--

one in another world, one in this world--if I persisted in not

changing my way of life. In this world, I should die on the scaffold.

If I were captured my defence would be impossible. On the contrary, if

I took advantage of the leniency of the new government toward all

crimes traceable to the conscription, if I delivered myself up, he

believed he could save my life; he would engage a good lawyer, who

would get me off with ten years at the galleys. Then Monsieur Bonnet

talked to me of the other life. Catherine wept like the Magdalen--See,

madame," said Farrabesche, holding out his right arm, "her face was in

that hand, and I felt it wet with tears. She implored me to live.

Monsieur Bonnet promised to secure me, when I had served my sentence,

a peaceful life here with my child, and to protect me against affront.

He catechised me as he would a little child. After three such visits

at night he made me as supple as a glove. Would you like to know how,

madame?"

Farrabesche and Madame Graslin looked at each other, not explaining to

themselves their mutual curiosity.

"Well," resumed the poor liberated convict, "when he left me the first

time, and Catherine had gone with him to show the way, I was left

alone. I then felt within my soul a freshness, a calmness, a

sweetness, I had never known since childhood. It was like the

happiness my poor Catherine had given me. The love of this dear man

had come to /seek me/; that, and his thought for me, for my future,

stirred my soul to its depths; it changed me. A light broke forth in

my being. As long as he was there, speaking to me, I resisted. That's

not surprising; he was a priest, and we bandits don't eat of their

bread. But when I no longer heard his footsteps nor Catherine's, oh! I

was--as he told me two days later--enlightened by divine grace. God

gave me thenceforth strength to bear all,--prison, sentence, irons,

parting; even the life of the galleys. I believed in his word as I do

in the Gospel; I looked upon my sufferings as a debt I was bound to

pay. When I seemed to suffer too much, I looked across ten years and

saw my home in the woods, my little Benjamin, my Catherine. He kept

his word, that good Monsieur Bonnet. But one thing was lacking. When

at last I was released, Catherine was not at the gate of the galleys;

she was not on the common. No doubt she has died of grief. That is why

I am always sad. Now, thanks to you, I shall have useful work to do; I

can employ both body and soul,--and my boy, too, for whom I live."

"I begin to understand how it is that the rector has changed the

character of this whole community," said Madame Graslin.

"Nothing can resist him," said Farrabesche.

"Yes, yes, I know it!" replied Veronique, hastily, making a gesture of

farewell to her keeper.

Farrabesche withdrew. Veronique remained alone on the terrace for a

good part of the day, walking up and down in spite of a fine rain

which fell till evening. When her face was thus convulsed, neither her

mother nor Aline dared to interrupt her. She did not notice in the

dusk that her mother was talking in the salon to Monsieur Bonnet; the

old woman, anxious to put an end to this fresh attack of dreadful

depression, sent little Francis to fetch her. The child took his

mother's hand and led her in. When she saw the rector she gave a start

of surprise in which there seemed to be some fear. Monsieur Bonnet

took her back to the terrace, saying:--

"Well, madame, what were you talking about with Farrabesche?"

In order not to speak falsely, Veronique evaded a reply; she

questioned Monsieur Bonnet.

"That man was your first victory here, was he not?" she said.

"Yes," he answered; "his conversion would, I thought, give me all

Montegnac--and I was not mistaken."

Veronique pressed Monsieur Bonnet's hand and said, with tears in her

voice, "I am your penitent from this day forth, monsieur; I shall go

to-morrow to the confessional."

Her last words showed a great internal effort, a terrible victory won

over herself. The rector brought her back to the house without saying

another word. After that he remained till dinner-time, talking about

the proposed improvements at Montegnac.

"Agriculture is a question of time," he said; "the little that I know

of it makes me understand what a gain it would be to get some good out

of the winter. The rains are now beginning, and the mountains will

soon be covered with snow; your operations cannot then be begun. Had

you not better hasten Monsieur Grossetete?"

Insensibly, Monsieur Bonnet, who at first did all the talking, led

Madame Graslin to join in the conversation and so distract her

thoughts; in fact, he left her almost recovered from the emotions of

the day. Madame Sauviat, however, thought her daughter too violently

agitated to be left alone, and she spent the night in her room.

XVI

CONCERNS ONE OF THE BLUNDERS OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY

The following day an express, sent from Limoges by Monsieur Grossetete

to Madame Graslin, brought her the following letter:--

To Madame Graslin:

My dear Child,--It was difficult to find horses, but I hope you

are satisfied with those I sent you. If you want work or draft

horses, you must look elsewhere. In any case, however, I advise

you to do your tilling and transportation with oxen. All the

countries where agriculture is carried on with horses lose capital

when the horse is past work; whereas cattle always return a profit

to those who use them.

I approve in every way of your enterprise, my child; you will thus

employ the passionate activity of your soul, which was turning

against yourself and thus injuring you.

Your second request, namely, for a man capable of understanding

and seconding your projects, requires me to find you a /rara avis/

such as we seldom raise in the provinces, where, if we do raise

them, we never keep them. The education of that high product is

too slow and too risky a speculation for country folks.

Besides, men of intellect alarm us; we call them "originals." The

men belonging to the scientific category from which you will have

to obtain your co-operator do not flourish here, and I was on the

point of writing to you that I despaired of fulfilling your

commission. You want a poet, a man of ideas,--in short, what we

should here call a fool, and all our fools go to Paris. I have

spoken of your plans to the young men employed in land surveying,

to contractors on the canals, and makers of the embankments, and

none of them see any "advantage" in what you propose.

But suddenly, as good luck would have it, chance has thrown in my

way the very man you want; a young man to whom I believe I render

a service in naming him to you. You will see by his letter,

herewith enclosed, that deeds of beneficence ought not to be done

hap-hazard. Nothing needs more reflection than a good action. We

never know whether that which seems best at one moment may not

prove an evil later. The exercise of beneficence, as I have lived

to discover, is to usurp the role of Destiny.

As she read that sentence Madame Graslin let fall the letter and was

thoughtful for several minutes.

"My God!" she said at last, "when wilt thou cease to strike me down on

all sides?"

Then she took up the letter and continued reading it:

Gerard seems to me to have a cool head and an ardent heart; that's

the sort of man you want. Paris is just now a hotbed of new

doctrines; I should be delighted to have the lad removed from the

traps which ambitious minds are setting for the generous youth of

France. While I do not altogether approve of the narrow and

stupefying life of the provinces, neither do I like the passionate

life of Paris, with its ardor of reformation, which is driving

youth into so many unknown ways. You alone know my opinions; to my

mind the moral world revolves upon its own axis, like the material

world. My poor protege demands (as you will see from his letter)

things impossible. No power can resist ambitions so violent, so

imperious, so absolute, as those of to-day. I am in favor of low

levels and slowness in political change; I dislike these social

overturns to which ambitious minds subject us.

To you I confide these principles of a monarchical and prejudiced

old man, because you are discreet. Here I hold my tongue in the

midst of worthy people, who the more they fail the more they

believe in progress; but I suffer deeply at the irreparable evils

already inflicted on our dear country.

I have replied to the enclosed letter, telling my young man that a

worthy task awaits him. He will go to see you, and though his

letter will enable you to judge of him, you had better study him

still further before committing yourself,--though you women

understand many things from the mere look of a man. However, all

the men whom you employ, even the most insignificant, ought to be

thoroughly satisfactory to you. If you don't like him don't take

him; but if he suits you, my dear child, I beg you to cure him of

his ill-disguised ambition. Make him take to a peaceful, happy,

rural life, where true beneficence is perpetually exercised; where

the capacities of great and strong souls find continual exercise,

and they themselves discover daily fresh sources of admiration in

the works of Nature, and in real ameliorations, real progress, an

occupation worthy of any man.

I am not oblivious of the fact that great ideas give birth to

great actions; but as those ideas are necessarily few and far

between, I think it may be said that usually things are more

useful than ideas. He who fertilizes a corner of the earth, who

brings to perfection a fruit-tree, who makes a turf on a thankless

soil, is far more useful in his generation than he who seeks new

theories for humanity. How, I ask you, has Newton's science

changed the condition of the country districts? Oh! my dear, I

have always loved you; but to-day I, who fully understand what you

are about to attempt, I adore you.

No one at Limoges forgets you; we all admire your grand resolution

to benefit Montegnac. Be a little grateful to us for having soul

enough to admire a noble action, and do not forget that the first

of your admirers is also your first friend.

F. Grossetete.

The enclosed letter was as follows:--

To Monsieur Grossetete:

Monsieur,--You have been to me a father when you might have been

only a mere protector, and therefore I venture to make you a

rather sad confidence. It is to you alone, you who have made me

what I am, that I can tell my troubles.

I am afflicted with a terrible malady, a cruel moral malady. In my

soul are feelings and in my mind convictions which make me utterly

unfit for what the State and society demand of me. This may seem

to you ingratitude; it is only the statement of a condition. When

I was twelve years old you, my generous god-father, saw in me, the

son of a mere workman, an aptitude for the exact sciences and a

precocious desire to rise in life. You favored my impulse toward

better things when my natural fate was to stay a carpenter like my

father, who, poor man, did not live long enough to enjoy my

advancement. Indeed, monsieur, you did a good thing, and there is

never a day that I do not bless you for it. It may be that I am

now to blame; but whether I am right or wrong it is very certain

that I suffer. In making my complaint to you I feel that I take

you as my judge like God Himself. Will you listen to my story and

grant me your indulgence?

Between sixteen and eighteen years of age I gave myself to the

study of the exact sciences with an ardor, you remember, that made

me ill. My future depended on my admission to the Ecole

Polytechnique. At that time my studies overworked my brain, and I

came near dying; I studied night and day; I did more than the

nature of my organs permitted. I wanted to pass such satisfying

examinations that my place in the Ecole would be not only secure,

but sufficiently advanced to release me from the cost of my

support, which I did not want you to pay any longer.

I triumphed! I tremble to-day as I think of the frightful

conscription (if I may so call it) of brains delivered over yearly

to the State by family ambition. By insisting on these severe

studies at the moment when a youth attains his various forms of

growth, the authorities produce secret evils and kill by midnight

study many precious faculties which later would have developed

both strength and grandeur. The laws of nature are relentless;

they do not yield in any particular to the enterprises or the

wishes of society. In the moral order as in the natural order all

abuses must be paid for; fruits forced in a hot-house are produced

at the tree's expense and often at the sacrifice of the goodness

of its product. La Quintinie killed the orange-trees to give Louis

XIV. a bunch of flowers every day at all seasons. So it is with

intellects. The strain upon adolescent brains discounts their

future.

That which is chiefly wanting to our epoch is legislative genius.

Europe has had no true legislators since Jesus Christ, who, not

having given to the world a political code, left his work

incomplete. Before establishing great schools of specialists and

regulating the method of recruiting for them, where were the great

thinkers who could bear in mind the relation of such institutions

to human powers, balancing advantages and injuries, and studying

the past for the laws of the future? What inquiry has been made as

to the condition of exceptional men, who, by some fatal chance,

knew human sciences before their time? Has the rarity of such

cases been reckoned--the result examined? Has any enquiry been

made as to the means by which such men were enabled to endure the

perpetual strain of thought? How many, like Pascal, died

prematurely, worn-out by knowledge? Have statistics been gathered

as to the age at which those men who lived the longest began their

studies? Who has ever known, does any one know now, the interior

construction of brains which have been able to sustain a premature

burden of human knowledge? Who suspects that this question

belongs, above all, to the physiology of man?

For my part, I now believe the true general law is to remain a

long time in the vegetative condition of adolescence; and that

those exceptions where strength of organs is produced during

adolescence result usually in the shortening of life. Thus the

man of genius who is able to bear up under the precocious exercise

of his faculties is an exception to an exception.

If I am right, if what I say accords with social facts and medical

observations, then the system practised in France in her technical

schools is a fatal impairment and mutilation (in the style of La

Quintinie) practised upon the noblest flower of youth in each

generation.

But it is better to continue my history, and add my doubts as the

facts develop themselves.

When I entered the Ecole Polytechnique, I worked harder than ever

and with even more ardor, in order to leave it as triumphantly as

I had entered it. From nineteen to twenty-one I developed every

aptitude and strengthened every faculty by constant practice.

Those two years were the crown and completion of the first three,

during which I had only prepared myself to do well. Therefore my

pride was great when I won the right to choose the career that

pleased me most,--either military or naval engineering, artillery,

or staff duty, or the civil engineering of mining, and /ponts et

chaussees/.[*] By your advice, I chose the latter.

[*] Department of the government including everything connected with

the making and repairing of roads, bridges, canals, etc.

But where I triumphed how many others fail! Do you know that from

year to year the State increases the scientific requirements of

the Ecole? the studies are more severe, more exacting yearly. The

preparatory studies which tried me so much were nothing to the

intense work of the school itself, which has for its object to put

the whole of physical science, mathematics, astronomy, chemistry,

and all their nomenclatures into the minds of young men of

nineteen to twenty-one years of age. The State, which seems in

France to wish to substitute itself in many ways for the paternal

authority, has neither bowels of compassion nor fatherhood; it

makes its experiments /in anima vili/. Never does it inquire into

the horrible statistics of the suffering it causes. Does it know

the number of brain fevers among its pupils during the last

thirty-six years; or the despair and the moral destruction which

decimate its youth? I am pointing out to you this painful side of

the State education, for it is one of the anterior contingents of

the actual result.

You know that scholars whose conceptions are slow, or who are

temporarily disabled from excess of mental work, are allowed to

remain at the Ecole three years instead of two; they then become

the object of suspicions little favorable to their capacity. This

often compels young men, who might later show superior capacity,

to leave the school without being employed, simply because they

could not meet the final examination with the full scientific

knowledge required. They are called "dried fruits"; Napoleon made

sub-lieutenants of them. To-day the "dried fruits" constitute an

enormous loss of capital to families and of time to individuals.

However, as I say, I triumphed. At twenty-one years of age I knew

the mathematical sciences up to the point to which so many men of

genius have brought them, and I was impatient to distinguish

myself by carrying them further. This desire is so natural that

almost every pupil leaving the Ecole fixes his eyes on that moral

sun called Fame. The first thought of all is to become another

Newton, or Laplace, or Vauban. Such are the efforts that France

demands of the young men who leave her celebrated school.

Now let us see the fate of these men culled with so much care from

each generation. At one-and-twenty we dream of life, and expect

marvels of it. I entered the Ecole des Ponts et Chaussees; I was a

pupil-engineer. I studied the science of construction, and how

ardently! I am sure you remember that. I left the school in 1827,

being then twenty-four years of age, still only a candidate as

engineer, and the government paid me one hundred and fifty francs

a month; the commonest book-keeper in Paris earns that by the time

he is eighteen, giving little more than four hours a day to his

work.

By a most unusual piece of luck, perhaps because of the

distinction my devoted studies won for me, I was made, in 1828,

when I was twenty-five years old, engineer-in-ordinary. I was

sent, as you know, to a sub-prefecture, with a salary of twenty-

five hundred francs. The question of money is nothing. Certainly

my fate has been more brilliant than the son of a carpenter might

expect; but where will you find a grocer's boy, who, if thrown

into a shop at sixteen, will not in ten years be on the high-road

to an independent property?

I learned then to what these terrible efforts of mental power,

these gigantic exertions demanded by the State were to lead. The

State now employed me to count and measure pavements and heaps of

stones on the roadways; I had to keep in order, repair, and

sometimes construct culverts, one-arched bridges, regulate drift-

ways, clean and sometimes open ditches, lay out bounds, and answer

questions about the planting and felling of trees. Such are the

principal and sometimes the only occupations of ordinary

engineers, together with a little levelling which the government

obliges us to do ourselves, though any of our chain-bearers with

their limited experience can do it better than we with all our

science.

There are nearly four hundred engineers-in-ordinary and pupil

engineers; and as there are not more than a hundred or so of

engineers-in-chief, only a limited number of the sub-engineers can

hope to rise. Besides, above the grade of engineer-in-chief, there

is no absorbent class; for we cannot count as a means of

absorption the ten or fifteen places of inspector-generals or

divisionaries,--posts that are almost as useless in our corps as

colonels are in the artillery, where the battery is the essential

thing. The engineer-in-ordinary, like the captain of artillery,

knows the whole science. He ought not to have any one over him

except an administrative head to whom no more than eighty-six

engineers should report,--for one engineer, with two assistants is

enough for a department.

The present hierarchy in these bodies results in the subordination

of active energetic capacities to the worn-out capacities of old

men, who, thinking they know best, alter or nullify the plans

submitted by their subordinates,--perhaps with the sole aim of

making their existence felt; for that seems to me the only

influence exercised over the public works of France by the

Council-general of the /Ponts et Chaussees/.

Suppose, however, that I become, between thirty and forty years of

age, an engineer of the first-class and an engineer-in-chief

before I am fifty. Alas! I see my future; it is written before my

eyes. Here is a forecast of it:--

My present engineer-in-chief is sixty years old; he issued with

honors, as I did, from the famous Ecole; he has turned gray doing

in two departments what I am doing now, and he has become the most

ordinary man it is possible to imagine; he has fallen from the

height to which he had really risen; far worse, he is no longer on

the level of scientific knowledge; science has progressed, he has

stayed where he was. The man who came forth ready for life at

twenty-two years of age, with every sign of superiority, has

nothing left to-day but the reputation of it. In the beginning,

with his mind specially turned to the exact sciences and

mathematics by his education, he neglected everything that was not

his specialty; and you can hardly imagine his present dulness in

all other branches of human knowledge. I hardly dare confide even

to you the secrets of his incapacity sheltered by the fact that he

was educated at the Ecole Polytechnique. With that label attached

to him and on the faith of that prestige, no one dreams of

doubting his ability. To you alone do I dare reveal the fact that

the dulling of all his talents has led him to spend a million on a

single matter which ought not to have cost the administration more

than two hundred thousand francs. I wished to protest, and was

about to inform the prefect; but an engineer I know very well

reminded me of one of our comrades who was hated by the

administration for doing that very thing. "How would you like," he

said to me, "when you get to be engineer-in-chief to have your

errors dragged forth by your subordinate? Before long your

engineer-in-chief will be made a divisional inspector. As soon as

any one of us commits a serious blunder, as he has done, the

administration (which can't allow itself to appear in the wrong)

will quietly retire him from active duty by making him inspector."

That's how the reward of merit devolves on incapacity. All France

knew of the disaster which happened in the heart of Paris to the

first suspension bridge built by an engineer, a member of the

Academy of Sciences; a melancholy collapse caused by blunders such

as none of the ancient engineers--the man who cut the canal at

Briare in Henri IV.'s time, or the monk who built the Pont Royal--

would have made; but our administration consoled its engineer for

his blunder by making him a member of the Council-general.

Are the technical schools vast manufactories of incapables? That

subject requires careful investigation. If I am right they need

reforming, at any rate in their method of proceeding,--for I am

not, of course, doubting the utility of such schools. Only, when

we look back into the past we see that France in former days never

wanted for the great talents necessary to the State; but now she

prefers to hatch out talent geometrically, after the theory of

Monge. Did Vauban ever go to any other Ecole than that great

school we call vocation? Who was Riquet's tutor? When great

geniuses arise above the social mass, impelled by vocation, they

are nearly always rounded into completeness; the man is then not

merely a specialist, he has the gift of universality. Do you think

that an engineer from the Ecole Polytechnique could ever create

one of those miracles of architecture such as Leonardo da Vinci

knew how to build,--mechanician, architect, painter, inventor of

hydraulics, indefatigable constructor of canals that he was?

Trained from their earliest years to the baldness of axiom and

formula, the youths who leave the Ecole have lost the sense of

elegance and ornament; a column seems to them useless; they return

to the point where art begins, and cling to the useful.

But all this is nothing in comparison to the real malady which is

undermining me. I feel an awful transformation going on within me;

I am conscious that my powers and my faculties, formerly

unnaturally taxed, are giving way. I am letting the prosaic

influence of my life get hold of me. I who, by the very nature of

my efforts, looked to do some great thing, I am face to face with

none but petty ones; I measure stones, I inspect roads, I have not

enough to really occupy me for two hours in my day. I see my

colleagues marry, and fall into a situation contrary to the spirit

of modern society. I wanted to be useful to my country. Is my

ambition an unreasonable one? The country asked me to put forth

all my powers; it told me to become a representative of science;

yet here I am with folded arms in the depths of the provinces. I

am not even allowed to leave the locality in which I am penned, to

exercise my faculties in planning useful enterprises. A hidden but

very real disfavor is the certain reward of any one of us who

yields to an inspiration and goes beyond the special service laid

down for him.

No, the favor a superior man has to hope for in that case is that

his talent and his presumption may not be noticed, and that his

project may be buried in the archives of the administration. What

think you will be the reward of Vicat, the one among us who has

brought about the only real progress in the practical science of

construction? The Council-general of the /Ponts et Chaussees/,

composed in part of men worn-out by long and sometimes honorable

service, but whose only remaining force is for negation, and who

set aside everything they no longer comprehend, is the

extinguisher used to snuff out the projects of audacious spirits.

This Council seems to have been created to paralyze the arm of

that glorious youth of France, which asks only to work and to be

useful to its country.

Monstrous things are done in Paris. The future of a province

depends on the mere signature of men who (through intrigues I have

no time to explain to you) often stop the execution of useful and

much-needed work; in fact, the best plans are often those which

offer most to the cupidity of commercial companies or speculators.

Another five years and I shall no longer be myself; my ambition

will be quenched, my desire to use the faculties my country

ordered me to exercise gone forever; the faculties themselves are

rusting out in the miserable corner of the world in which I

vegetate. Taking my chances at their best, the future seems to me

a poor thing. I have just taken advantage of a furlough to come to

Paris; I mean to change my profession and find some other way to

put my energy, my knowledge, and my activity to use. I shall send

in my resignation and go to some other country, where men of my

special capacity are wanted.

If I find I cannot do this, then I shall throw myself into the

struggle of the new doctrines, which certainly seem calculated to

produce great changes in the present social order by judiciously

guiding the working-classes. What are we now but workers without

work, tools on the shelves of a shop? We are trained and organized

as if to move the world, and nothing is given us to do. I feel

within me some great thing, which is decreasing daily, and will

soon vanish; I tell you so with mathematical frankness. Before

making the change I want your advice; I look upon myself as your

child, and I will never take any important step without consulting

you, for your experience is equal to your kindness.

I know very well that the State, after obtaining a class of

trained men, cannot undertake for them alone great public works;

there are not three hundred bridges needed a year in all France;

the State can no more build great buildings for the fame of its

engineers than it can declare war merely to win battles and bring

to the front great generals; but, then, as men of genius have

never failed to present themselves when the occasion called for

them, springing from the crowd like Vauban, can there be any

greater proof of the uselessness of the present institution? Can't

they see that when they have stimulated a man of talent by all

those preparations he will make a fierce struggle before he allows

himself to become a nonentity? Is this good policy on the part of

the State? On the contrary, is not the State lighting the fire of

ardent ambitions, which must find fuel somewhere.

Among the six hundred young men whom they put forth every year

there are exceptions,--men who resist what may be called their

demonetization. I know some myself, and if I could tell you their

struggles with men and things when armed with useful projects and

conceptions which might bring life and prosperity to the half-dead

provinces where the State has sent them, you would feel that a man

of power, a man of talent, a man whose nature is a miracle, is a

hundredfold more unfortunate and more to be pitied than the man

whose lower nature lets him submit to the shrinkage of his

faculties.

I have made up my mind, therefore, that I would rather direct some

commercial or industrial enterprise, and live on small means while

trying to solve some of the great problems still unknown to

industry and to society, than remain at my present post.

You will tell me, perhaps, that nothing hinders me from employing

the leisure that I certainly have in using my intellectual powers

and seeking in the stillness of this commonplace life the solution

of some problem useful to humanity. Ah! monsieur, don't you know

the influence of the provinces,--the relaxing effect of a life

just busy enough to waste time on futile labor, and not enough to

use the rich resources our education has given us? Don't think me,

my dear protector, eaten up by the desire to make a fortune, nor

even by an insensate desire for fame. I am too much of a

calculator not to know the nothingness of glory. Neither do I want

to marry; seeing the fate now before me, I think my existence a

melancholy gift to offer any woman. As for money, though I regard

it as one of the most powerful means given to social man to act

with, it is, after all, but a means.

I place my whole desire and happiness on the hope of being useful

to my country. My greatest pleasure would be to work in some

situation suited to my faculties. If in your region, or in the

circle of your acquaintances, you should hear of any enterprise

that needed the capacities you know me to possess, think of me; I

will wait six months for your answer before taking any step.

What I have written here, dear sir and friend, others think. I

have seen many of my classmates or older graduates caught like me

in the toils of some specialty,--geographical engineers, captain-

professors, captains of engineers, who will remain captains all

their lives, and now bitterly regret they did not enter active

service with the army. Reflecting on these miserable results, I

ask myself the following questions, and I would like your opinion

on them, assuring you that they are the fruit of long meditation,

clarified in the fires of suffering:--

What is the real object of the State? Does it truly seek to obtain

fine capacities? The system now pursued directly defeats that end;

it has crated the most thorough mediocrities that any government

hostile to superiority could desire. Does it wish to give a career

to its choice minds? As a matter of fact, it affords them the

meanest opportunities; there is not a man who has issued from the

Ecoles who does not bitterly regret, when he gets to be fifty or

sixty years of age, that he ever fell into the trap set for him by

the promises of the State. Does it seek to obtain men of genius?

What man of genius, what great talent have the schools produced

since 1790? If it had not been for Napoleon would Cachin, the man

of genius to whom France owes Cherbourg, have existed? Imperial

despotism brought him forward; the constitutional regime would

have smothered him. How many men from the Ecoles are to be found

in the Academy of Sciences? Possibly two or three. The man of

genius develops always outside of the technical schools. In the

sciences which those schools teach genius obeys only its own laws;

it will not develop except under conditions which man cannot

control; neither the State nor the science of mankind,

anthropology, understands them. Riquet, Perronet, Leonardo da

Vinci, Cachin, Palladio, Brunelleschi, Michel-Angelo, Bramante,

Vauban, Vicat, derive their genius from causes unobserved and

preparatory, which we call chance,--the pet word of fools. Never,

with or without schools, are mighty workmen such as these wanting

to their epoch.

Now comes the question, Does the State gain through these

institutions the better doing of its works of public utility, or

the cheaper doing of them? As for that, I answer that private

enterprises of a like kind get on very well without the help of

our engineers; and next, the government works are the most

extravagant in the world, and the additional cost of the vast

administrative staff of the /Ponts et Chaussees/ is immense. In

all other countries, in Germany, England, Italy, where

institutions like ours do not exist, works of this character are

better done and far less costly than in France. Those three

nations are remarkable for new and useful inventions in this line.

I know it is the fashion to say, in speaking of our Ecoles, that

all Europe envies them; but for the last fifteen years Europe,

which closely observes us, has not established others like them.

England, that clever calculator, has better schools among her

working population, from which come practical men who show their

genius the moment they rise from practice to theory. Stephenson

and MacAdam did not come from schools like ours.

But what is the good of talking? When a few young and able

engineers, full of ardor, solve, at the outset of their career,

the problem of maintaining the roads of France, which need some

hundred millions spent upon them every quarter of a century (and

which are now in a pitiable state), they gain nothing by making

known in reports and memoranda their intelligent knowledge; it is

immediately engulfed in the archives of the general Direction,--

that Parisian centre where everything enters and nothing issues;

where old men are jealous of young ones, and all the posts of

management are used to shelve old officers or men who have

blundered.

This is why, with a body of scientific men spread all over the

face of France and constituting a part of the administration,--a

body which ought to enlighten every region on the subject of its

resources,--this is why we are still discussing the practicability

of railroads while other countries are making theirs. If ever

France was to show the excellence of her institution of technical

schools, it should have been in this magnificent phase of public

works, which is destined to change the face of States and nations,

to double human life, and modify the laws of space and time.

Belgium, the United States of America, England, none of whom have

an Ecole Polytechnique, will be honeycombed with railroads when

French engineers are still surveying ours, and selfish interests,

hidden behind all projects, are hindering their execution.

Thus I say that as for the State, it derives no benefit from its

technical schools; as for the individual pupil of those schools,

his earnings are poor, his ambition crushed, and his life a cruel

deception. Most assuredly the powers he has displayed between

sixteen and twenty-six years of age would, if he had been cast

upon his own resources, have brought him more fame and more wealth

than the government in whom he trusted will ever give him. As a

commercial man, a learned man, a military man, this choice

intellect would have worked in a vast centre where his precious

faculties and his ardent ambition would not be idiotically and

prematurely repressed.

Where, then, is progress? Man and State are both kept backward by

this system. Does not the experience of a whole generation demand

a reform in the practical working of these institutions? The duty

of culling from all France during each generation the choice minds

destined to become the learned and the scientific of the nation is

a sacred office, the priests of which, the arbiters of so many

fates, should be trained by special study. Mathematical knowledge

is perhaps less necessary to them than physiological knowledge.

And do you not think that they need a little of that second-sight

which is the witchcraft of great men? As it is, the examiners are

former professors, honorable men grown old in harness, who limit

their work to selecting the best themes. They are unable to do

what is really demanded of them; and yet their functions are the

noblest in the State and demand extraordinary men.

Do not think, dear sir and friend, that I blame only the Ecole

itself; no, I blame the system by which it is recruited. This

system is the /concours/, competition,--a modern invention,

essentially bad; bad not only in science, but wherever it is

employed, in arts, in all selections of men, of projects, of

things. If it is a reproach to our great Ecoles that they have not

produced men superior to other educational establishments, it is

still more shameful that the /grand prix/ of the Institute has not

as yet furnished a single great painter, great musician, great

architect, great sculptor; just as the suffrage for the last

twenty years has not elected out of its tide of mediocrities a

single great statesman. My observation makes me detect, as I

think, an error which vitiates in France both education and

politics. It is a cruel error, and it rests on the following

principle, which organizers have misconceived:--

/Nothing, either in experience or in the nature of things, can

give a certainty that the intellectual qualities of the adult

youth will be those of the mature man./

At this moment I am intimate with a number of distinguished men

who concern themselves with all the moral maladies which are now

afflicting France. They see, as I do, that our highest education

is manufacturing temporary capacities,--temporary because they

are without exercise and without future; that such education is

without profit to the State because it is devoid of the vigor of

belief and feeling. Our whole system of public education needs

overhauling, and the work should be presided over by some man of

great knowledge, powerful will, and gifted with that legislative

genius which has never been met with among moderns, except perhaps

in Jean-Jacques Rousseau.

Possibly our superfluous numbers might be employed in giving

elementary instruction so much needed by the people. The

deplorable amount of crime and misdemeanors shows a social disease

directly arising from the half-education given the masses, which

tends to the destruction of social ties by making the people

reflect just enough to desert the religious beliefs which are

favorable to social order, and not enough to lift them to the

theory of obedience and duty, which is the highest reach of the

new transcendental philosophy. But as it is impossible to make a

whole nation study Kant, therefore I say fixed beliefs and habits

are safer for the masses than shallow studies and reasoning.

If I had my life to begin over again, perhaps I would enter a

seminary and become a simple village priest, or the teacher of a

country district. But I am too far advanced in my profession now

to be a mere primary instructor; I can, if I leave my present

post, act in a wider range than that of a school or a country

parish. The Saint-Simonians, to whom I have been tempted to ally

myself, want now to take a course in which I cannot follow them.

Nevertheless, in spite of their mistakes, they have touched on

many of the sore spots which are the fruits of our present

legislation, and which the State will only doctor by insufficient

palliatives,--merely delaying in France the moral and political

crisis that must come.

Adieu, dear Monsieur Grossetete; accept the assurance of my

respectful attachment, which, notwithstanding all these

observations, can only increase.

Gregoire Gerard.

According to his old habit as a banker, Grossetete had jotted down his

reply on the back of the letter itself, heading it with the

sacramental word, /Answered/.

It is useless, my dear Gerard, to discuss the observations made in

your letter, because by a trick of chance (I use the term which

is, as you say, the pet word of fools) I have a proposal to make

to you which may result in withdrawing you from the situation you

find so bad. Madame Graslin, the owner of the forests of Montegnac

and of a barren plateau extending from the base of a chain of

mountains on which are the forests, wishes to improve this vast

domain, to clear her timber properly, and cultivate the stony

plain.

To put this project into execution she needs a man of your

scientific knowledge and ardor, and one who has also your

disinterested devotion and your ideas of practical utility. It

will be little money and much work! a great result from small

means! a whole region to be changed fundamentally! barren places

to be made to gush with plenty! Isn't that precisely what you

want,--you who are dreaming of constructing a poem? From the tone

of sincerity which pervades your letter, I do not hesitate to bid

you come and see me at Limoges. But, my good friend, don't send in

your resignation yet; get leave of absence only, and tell your

administration that you are going to study questions connected

with your profession outside of the government works. In this way,

you will not lose your rights, and you will have time to judge for

yourself whether the project conceived by the rector of Montegnac

and approved by Madame Graslin is feasible.

I will explain to you by word of mouth the advantages you will

find in case this great scheme can be carried out. Rely on the

friendship of

Yours, etc, T. Grossetete.

Madame Graslin replied to Grossetete in few words: "Thank you, my

friend; I shall expect your /protege/." She showed the letter to the

rector, saying,--

"One more wounded man for the hospital."

The rector read the letter, reread it, made two or three turns on the

terrace silently; then he gave it back to Madame Graslin, saying,--

"A fine soul, and a superior man. He says the schools invented by the

genius of the Revolution manufacture incapacities. For my part, I say

they manufacture unbelievers; for if Monsieur Gerard is not an

atheist, he is a protestant."

"We will ask him," she said, struck by an answer.

XVII

THE REVOLUTION OF JULY JUDGED AT MONTEGNAC

A fortnight later, in December, and in spite of the cold, Monsieur

Grossetete came to the chateau de Montegnac, to "present his protege,"

whom Veronique and Monsieur Bonnet were impatiently awaiting.

"I must love you very much, my dear child," said the old man, taking

Veronique's two hands in his, and kissing them with that gallantry of

old men which never displeases women, "yes, I must love you well, to

come from Limoges in such weather. But I wanted to present to you

myself the gift of Monsieur Gregoire Gerard here present. You'll find

him a man after your own heart, Monsieur Bonnet," added the banker,

bowing affectionately to the rector.

Gerard's external appearance was not prepossessing. He was of middle

height, stocky in shape, the neck sunk in the shoulders, as they say

vulgarly; he had yellow hair, and the pink eyes of an albino, with

lashes and eyebrows almost white. Though his skin, like that of all

persons of that description, was amazingly white, marks of the small-

box and other very visible scars had destroyed its original

brilliancy. Study had probably injured his sight, for he wore glasses.

When he removed the great cloak of a gendarme in which he was wrapped,

it was seen that his clothing did not improve his general appearance.

The manner in which his garments were put on and buttoned, his untidy

cravat, his rumpled shirt, were signs of the want of personal care

with which men of science, all more or less absent-minded, are

charged. As in the case of most thinkers, his countenance and his

attitude, the development of his bust and the thinness of his legs,

betrayed a sort of bodily debility produced by habits of meditation.

Nevertheless, the ardor of his heart and the vigor of his mind, proofs

of which were given in this letter, gleamed from his forehead, which

was white as Carrara marble. Nature seemed to have reserved to herself

that spot in order to place there visible signs of the grandeur,

constancy, and goodness of the man. The nose, like that of most men of

the true Gallic race, was flattened. His mouth, firm and straight,

showed absolute discretion and the instinct of economy. But the whole

mask, worn by study, looked prematurely old.

"We must begin by thanking you, monsieur," said Madame Graslin,

addressing the engineer, "for being willing to direct an enterprise in

a part of the country which can offer you no other pleasure than the

satisfaction of knowing that you are doing a real good."

"Madame," he replied, "Monsieur Grossetete has told me enough about

your enterprise as we came along to make me already glad that I can in

any way be useful to you; the prospect of living in close relations

with you and Monsieur Bonnet seems to me charming. Unless I am

dismissed from this region, I expect to end my days here."

"We will try not to let you change your mind," replied Madame Graslin,

smiling.

"Here," said Grossetete, addressing Veronique, whom he took aside,

"are the papers which the /procureur-general/ gave to me. He was quite

surprised that you did not address your inquiry about Catherine

Curieux to him. All that you wished has been done immediately, with

the utmost promptitude and devotion. Three months hence Catherine

Curieux will be sent to you."

"Where is she?" asked Veronique.

"She is now in the hospital Saint-Louis," replied the old man; "they

are awaiting her recovery before sending her from Paris."

"Ah! is the poor girl ill?"

"You will find all necessary information in these papers," said

Grossetete, giving Veronique a packet.

Madame Graslin returned to her guests to conduct them into the

magnificent dining-room on the ground-floor. She sat at table, but did

not herself take part in the dinner; since her arrival at Montegnac

she had made it a rule to take her meals alone, and Aline, who knew

the reason of this withdrawal, faithfully kept the secret of it till

her mistress was in danger of death.

The mayor, the /juge de paix/, and the doctor of Montegnac had been

invited.

The doctor, a young man twenty-seven years of age, named Roubaud, was

extremely desirous of knowing a woman so celebrated in Limoges. The

rector was all the more pleased to present him at the chateau because

he wanted to gather a little society around Veronique to distract her

mind and give it food. Roubaud was one of those thoroughly well-

trained young physicians whom the Ecole de Medecine in Paris sends

forth to the profession. He would undoubtedly have shone on the vast

stage of the capital; but frightened by the clash of ambitions in

Paris, and knowing himself more capable than pushing, more learned

than intriguing, his gentle disposition led him to choose the narrow

career of the provinces, where he hoped to be sooner appreciated than

in Paris.

At Limoges, Roubaud came in contact with the settled practice of the

regular physicians and the habits of the people; he therefore let

himself be persuaded by Monsieur Bonnet, who, judging by the gentle

and winning expression of his face, thought him well-suited to

co-operate in his own work at Montegnac. Roubaud was small and fair;

his general appearance was rather insipid, but his gray eyes betrayed

the depths of the physiologist and the patient tenacity of a studious

man. There was no physician in Montegnac except an old army-surgeon,

more devoted to his cellar than to his patients, and too old to

continue with any vigor the hard life of a country doctor. At the

present time he was dying.

Roubaud had been in Montegnac about eighteen months, and was much

liked there. But this young pupil of Desplein and the successors of

Cabanis did not believe in Catholicism. He lived in a state of

profound indifference as to religion, and did not desire to come out

of it. The rector was in despair. Not that Roubaud did any wrong; he

never spoke against religion, and his duties were excuse enough for

his absence from church; besides, he was incapable of trying to

undermine the faith of others, and indeed behaved outwardly as the

best of Catholics; he simply prohibited himself from thinking of a

problem which he considered above the range of human thought. When the

rector heard him say that pantheism had been the religion of all great

minds he set him down as inclining to the doctrine of Pythagoras on

reincarnation.

Roubaud, who saw Madame Graslin for the first time, experienced a

violent sensation when he met her. Science revealed to him in her

expression, her attitude, in the ravages of her face, untold

sufferings both moral and physical, a nature of almost superhuman

force, great faculties which would support her under the most

conflicting trials; he detected all,--even the darkest corners of that

nature so carefully hidden. He felt that some evil, some malady, was

devouring the heart of that fine creature; for just as the color of a

fruit shows the presence of a worm within it, so certain tints in the

human face enable physicians to detect a poisoning thought.

From this moment Monsieur Roubaud attached himself so deeply to Madame

Graslin that he became afraid of loving her beyond the permitted line

of simple friendship. The brow, the bearing, above all, the glance of

Veronique's eye had a sort of eloquence that men invariably

understand; it said as plainly that she was dead to love as other

women say the contrary by a reversal of the same eloquence. The doctor

suddenly vowed to her, in his heart, a chivalrous worship.

He exchanged a rapid glance with the rector, who thought to himself,

"Here's the thunderbolt which will convert my poor unbeliever; Madame

Graslin will have more eloquence than I."

The mayor, an old countryman, amazed at the luxury of this dining-room

and surprised to find himself dining with one of the richest men in

the department, had put on his best clothes, which rather hampered

him, and this increased his mental awkwardness. Moreover, Madame

Graslin in her mourning garments seemed to him very imposing; he was

therefore mute. After living all his life as a farmer at Saint-

Leonard, he had bought the only habitable house in Montegnac and

cultivated with his own hands the land belonging to it. Though he knew

how to read and write, he would have been incapable of fulfilling his

functions were it not for the help of his clerk and the /juge de

paix/, who prepared his work for him. He was very anxious to have a

notary established in Montegnac, in order that he might shift the

burden of his responsibility on to that officer's shoulders. But the

poverty of the village and its outlying districts made such a

functionary almost useless, and the inhabitants had recourse when

necessary to the notaries of the chief town of the arrondissement.

The /juge de paix/, named Clousier, was formerly a lawyer in Limoges,

where cases had deserted him because he insisted on putting into

practice that fine axiom that the lawyer is the best judge of the

client and the case. In 1809 he obtained his present post, the meagre

salary of which just enabled him to live. He had now reached a stage

of honorable but absolute poverty. After a residence of twenty-one

years in this poor village the worthy man, thoroughly countrified,

looked, top-coat and all, exactly like the farmers about him.

Under this coarse exterior Clousier hid a clear-sighted mind, given to

lofty meditation on public policy, though he himself had fallen into a

state of complete indifference, derived from his intimate knowledge of

men and their interests. This man, who baffled for a long time the

rector's perspicacity and who might in a higher sphere have proved

another l'Hopital, incapable of intrigue like all really profound

persons, was by this time living in the contemplative state of an

ancient hermit. Independent through privation, no personal

consideration acted on his mind; he knew the laws and judged

impartially. His life, reduced to the merest necessaries, was pure and

regular. The peasants loved Monsieur Clousier and respected him for

the disinterested fatherly care with which he settled their

differences and gave them advice in their daily affairs. The "goodman

Clousier" as all Montegnac called him, had a nephew with him as clerk,

an intelligent young man, who afterwards contributed much to the

prosperity of the district.

Old Clousier's personal appearance was remarkable for a broad, high

forehead and two bushes of white hair which stood out from his head on

either side of it. His highly colored complexion and well-developed

corpulence might have made persons think, in spite of his actual

sobriety, that he cultivated Bacchus as well as Troplong and Toullier.

His half-extinct voice was the sign of an oppressive asthma. Perhaps

the dry air of Montegnac had contributed to fix him there. He lived in

a house arranged for him by a well-to-do cobbler to whom it belonged.

Clousier had already seen Veronique at church, and he had formed his

opinion of her without communicating it to any one, not even to

Monsieur Bonnet, with whom he was beginning to be intimate. For the

first time in his life the /juge de paix/ was to be thrown in with

persons able to appreciate him.

When the company were seated round a table handsomely appointed (for

Veronique had sent all her household belongings from Limoges to

Montegnac) the six guests felt a momentary embarrassment. The doctor,

the mayor and the /juge de paix/ knew nothing of Grossetete and

Gerard. But during the first course, old Grossetete's hearty good-

humor broke the ice of a first meeting. In addition to this, Madame

Graslin's cordiality led on Gerard, and encouraged Roubaud. Under her

touch these souls full of fine qualities recognized their relation,

and felt they had entered a sympathetic circle. So, by the time the

dessert appeared on the table, when the glass and china with gilded

edges sparkled, and the choicer wines were served by Aline and

Champion and Grossetete's valet, the conversation became sufficiently

confidential to allow these four choice minds, thus meeting by chance,

to express their real thoughts on matters of importance, such as men

like to discuss when they can do so and be sure of the discretion of

their companions.

"Your furlough came just in time to let you witness the revolution of

July," said Grossetete to Gerard, with an air as if he asked an

opinion of him.

"Yes," replied the engineer. "I was in Paris during the three famous

days. I saw all; and I came to sad conclusions."

"What were they?" said the rector, eagerly.

"There is no longer any patriotism except under dirty shirts," replied

Gerard. "In that lies the ruin of France! July was the voluntary

defeat of all superiorities,--name, fortune, talent. The ardent,

devoted masses carried the day against the rich and the intelligent,

to whom ardor and devotion are repugnant."

"To judge by what has happened during the past year," said Monsieur

Clousier, "this change of government is simply a premium given to an

evil that is sapping us,--individualism. Fifteen years hence all

questions of a generous nature will be met by, /What is that to me?/--

the great cry of Freedom of Will descending from the religious heights

where Luther, Calvin, Zwinglius, and Knox introduced it, into even

political economy. /Every one for himself/; /every man his own

master/,--those two terrible axioms form, with the /What is that to

me?/ a trinity of wisdom to the burgher and the small land-owner. This

egotism results from the vices of our present civil legislation (too

hastily made), to which the revolution of July has just given a

terrible confirmation."

The /juge de paix/ fell back into his usual silence after thus

expressing himself; but the topics he suggested must have occupied the

minds of those present. Emboldened by Clousier's words, and moved by

the look which Gerard exchanged with Grossetete, Monsieur Bonnet

ventured to go further.

"The good King Charles X.," he said, "has just failed in the most far-

sighted and salutary enterprise a monarch ever planned for the welfare

of the people confided to him; and the Church ought to feel proud of

the part she took in his councils. But the upper classes deserted him

in heart and mind, just as they had already deserted him on the great

question of the law of primogeniture,--the lasting honor of the only

bold statesman the Restoration has produced, namely, the Comte de

Peyronnet. To reconstitute the nation through the family; to take from

the press its venomous action and confine it to its real usefulness;

to recall the elective Chamber to its true functions; and to restore

to religion its power over the people,--such were the four cardinal

points of the internal policy of the house of Bourbon. Well, twenty

years from now all France will have recognized the necessity of that

grand and sound policy. Charles X. was in greater peril in the

situation he chose to leave than in that in which his paternal power

has been defeated. The future of our noble country--where all things

will henceforth be brought periodically into question, where our

rulers will discuss incessantly instead of acting, where the press,

become a sovereign power, will be the instrument of base ambitions--

this future will only prove the wisdom of the king who has just

carried away with him the true principles of government; and history

will bear in mind the courage with which he resisted his best friends

after having probed the wound and seen the necessity of curative

measures, which were not sustained by those for whose sake he put

himself into the breach."

"Ah! monsieur," cried Gerard, "you are frank; you go straight to your

thought without disguise, and I won't contradict you. Napoleon in his

Russian campaign was forty years in advance of the spirit of his age;

he was never understood. The Russia and England of 1830 explains the

campaign of 1812. Charles X. has been misunderstood in the same way.

It is quite possible that in twenty-five years from now his ordinances

may become the laws of the land."

"France, too eloquent not to gabble, too full of vanity to bow down

before real talent, is, in spite of the sublime good sense of its

language and the mass of its people, the very last nation in which two

deliberative chambers should have been attempted," said the /juge de

paix/. "Or, at any rate, the weaknesses of our national character

should have been guarded against by the admirable restrictions which

Napoleon's experience laid upon them. Our present system may succeed

in a country whose action is circumscribed by the nature of its soil,

like England; but the law of primogeniture applied to the transmission

of land is absolutely necessary; when that law is suppressed the

system of legislative representation becomes absurd. England owes her

existence to the quasi-feudal law which entails landed property and

family mansions on the eldest son. Russia is based on the feudal right

of autocracy. Consequently those two nations are to-day on the high-

road of startling progress. Austria could only resist our invasions

and renew the way against Napoleon by virtue of that law of

primogeniture which preserves in the family the active forces of a

nation, and supplies the great productions necessary to the State. The

house of Bourbon, feeling that it was slipping to the third rank in

Europe, by reason of liberalism, wanted to regain its rightful place

and there maintain itself, and the nation has thrown it over at the

very time it was about to save the nation. I am sure I don't know how

low down the present system will drop us."

"If we have a war, France will be without horses, as Napoleon was in

1813, when, being reduced to those of France only, he could not profit

by his two victories of Lutzen and Botzen, and so was crushed at

Leipzig," cried Grossetete. "If peace continues, the evil will only

increase. Twenty-five years from now the race of cattle and horses

will have diminished in France by one half."

"Monsieur Grossetete is right," remarked Gerard. "So that the work you

are undertaking here, madame," he added, addressing Veronique, "is

really a service done to the country."

"Yes," said the /juge de paix/, "because Madame has but one son, and

the inheritance will not be divided up; but how long will that

condition last? For a certain length of time the magnificent culture

which you are about to introduce will, let us hope, belong to only one

proprietor, who will continue to breed horned beasts and horses; but

sooner or later the day must come when these forests and fields will

be divided up and sold in small parcels. Divided and redivided, the

six thousand acres of that plain will have a thousand or twelve

hundred owners, and thenceforth--no more horses and cattle!"

"Oh! as for those days"--began the mayor.

"There! don't you hear the /What is that to me?/ Monsieur Clousier

talked of?" cried Monsieur Grossetete. "Taken in the act! But,

monsieur," resumed the banker, gravely addressing the dumfounded

mayor, "those days have really come. In a radius of thirty miles round

Paris the land is so divided up into small holdings that milch cows

are no longer seen. The Commune of Argenteuil contains thirty-eight

thousand eight hundred and eighty-five parcels of land, many of which

do not return a farthing of revenue. If it were not for the rich

refuse of Paris, which produces a fodder of strong quality, I don't

know how dairymen would get along. As it is, this over-stimulating

food and confinement in close stables produce inflammatory diseases,

of which the cows often die. They use cows in the neighborhood of

Paris as they do horses in the street. Crops more profitable than hay

--vegetables, fruit, apple orchards, vineyards--are taking the place

of meadow-lands. In a few years we shall see milk sent to Paris by the

mail-coaches as they now send fish. What is going on around Paris is

also going on round all the large cities of France; the land will thus

be used up before many years are gone. Chaptel states that in 1800

there were barely two million acres of vineyard in France; a careful

estimate would give ten million to-day. Divided /ad infinitum/ by our

present system of inheritance, Normandy will lose half her production

of horses and cattle; but she will have a monopoly of milk in Paris,

for her climate, happily, forbids grape culture. We shall soon see a

curious phenomenon in the progressive rise in the cost of meat. In

twenty years from now, in 1850, Paris, which paid seven to eleven sous

for a pound of beef in 1814, will be paying twenty--unless there comes

a man of genius who can carry out the plan of Charles X."

"You have laid your finger on the mortal wound of France," said the

/juge de paix/. "The root of our evils lies in the section relating to

inheritance in the Civil Code, in which the equal division of property

among heirs is ordained. That's the pestle that pounds territory into

crumbs, individualizes fortunes, and takes from them their needful

stability; decomposing ever and never recomposing,--a state of things

which must end in the ruin of France. The French Revolution emitted a

destructive virus to which the July days have given fresh activity.

This vitiating element is the accession of the peasantry to the

ownership of land. In the section 'On Inheritance' is the principle of

the evil, the peasant is the means through which it works. No sooner

does that class get a parcel of land into its maw than it begins to

subdivide it, till there are scarcely three furrows left in each lot.

And even then the peasant does not stop! He divides the three furrows

across their length, as Monsieur Grossetete has just shown us at

Argenteuil. The unreasonable price which the peasant attaches to the

smallest scrap of his land makes it impossible to repurchase and

restore a fine estate. Monsieur," he went on, indicating Grossetete,

"has just mentioned the diminution in the raising of horses and

cattle; well, the Code has much to do with that. The peasant-

proprietor owns cows; he looks to them for his means of living; he

sells the calves, he sells his butter; he never dreams of raising

cattle, still less of raising horses; but as he cannot raise enough

fodder to support his cows through a dry season, he sends them to

market when he can feed them no longer. If by some fatal chance the

hay were to fail for two years running, you would see a startling

change the third year in the price of beef, but especially in that of

veal."

"That may put a stop to 'patriotic banquets,'" said the doctor,

laughing.

"Oh!" exclaimed Madame Graslin, looking at Roubaud, "can't politics

get on without the wit of journalism, even here?"

"In this lamentable business, the bourgeoisie plays the same /role/ as

the pioneers of America," continued Clousier. "It buys up great

estates, which the peasantry could not otherwise acquire. It cuts them

up and then sells, either at auction or in small lots at private sale,

to the peasants. Everything is judged by figures in these days, and I

know none more eloquent than these. France has ninety-nine million

acres, which, subtracting highways, roads, dunes, canals, and barren,

uncultivated regions deserted by capital, may be reduced to eighty

millions. Now out of eighty millions of acres to thirty-two millions

of inhabitants we find one hundred and twenty-five millions of small

lots registered on the tax-list (I don't give fractions). Thus, you

will observe, we have gone to the utmost limit of agrarian law, and

yet we have not seen the last of poverty or dissatisfaction. Those who

divide territory into fragments and lessen production have, of course,

plenty of organs to cry out that true social justice consists in

giving every man a life interest, and no more, in a parcel of land;

perpetual ownership, they say, is robbery. The Saint-Simonians are

already proclaiming that doctrine."

"The magistrate has spoken," said Grossetete, "and here's what the

banker adds to those bold considerations. The fact that the peasantry

and the lesser bourgeoisie can now acquire land does France an injury

which the government seems not even to suspect. We may estimate the

number of peasant families, omitting paupers, at three millions. These

families subsist on wages. Wages are paid in money, and not in kind--"

"Yes, that's another blunder of our laws!" cried Clousier,

interrupting the banker. "The right to pay in kind might have been

granted in 1790; now, if we attempted to carry such a law, we should

risk a revolution."

"Therefore, as I was about to say, the proletary draws to himself the

money of the country," resumed Grossetete. "Now the peasant has no

other passion, desire, or will, than to die a land-owner. This desire,

as Monsieur Clousier has well shown, was born of the Revolution, and

is the direct result of the sale of the National domain. A man must be

ignorant indeed of what is going on all over France in the country

regions if he is not aware that these three million families are

yearly hoarding at least fifty francs, thus subtracting a hundred and

fifty millions from current use. The science of political economy has

made it an axiom that a five-franc piece, passing through a hundred

hands in one day, is equivalent to five hundred francs. Now, it is

perfectly plain to all of us who live in the country and observe the

state of affairs, that every peasant has his eye on the land he

covets; he is watching and waiting for it, and he never invests his

savings elsewhere; he buries them. In seven years the savings thus

rendered inert and unproductive amount to eleven hundred million

francs. But since the lesser bourgeoisie bury as much more, with the

same purpose, France loses every seven years the interest of at least

two thousand millions,--that is to say, about one hundred millions; a

loss which in forty-two years amounts to six hundred million francs.

But she not only loses six hundred millions, she fails to create with

that money manufacturing or agricultural products, which represent a

loss of twelve hundred millions; for, if the manufactured product were

not double in value to its cost price, commerce could not exist. The

proletariat actually deprives itself of six hundred millions in wages.

These six hundred millions of dead loss (representing to a stern

economist a loss of twelve hundred millions, through lack of the

benefits of circulation) explain the condition of inferiority in which

our commerce, our merchant service, and our agriculture stand, as

compared with England. In spite of the difference of the two

territories, which is more than two thirds in our favor, England could

remount the cavalry of two French armies, and she has meat for every

man. But there, as the system of landed property makes it almost

impossible for the lower classes to obtain it, money is not hoarded;

it becomes commercial, and is turned over. Thus, besides the evil of

parcelling the land, involving that of the diminution of horses,

cattle, and sheep, the section of the Code on inheritance costs us six

hundred millions of interest, lost by the hoarding of the money of the

peasantry and bourgeoisie, and twelve hundred millions, at least, of

products; or, including the loss from non-circulation, three thousand

millions in half a century!"

"The moral effect is worse than the material effect," cried the

rector. "We are making beggar-proprietors among the people and half-

taught communities of the lesser bourgeoisie; and the fatal maxim

'Each for himself,' which had its effect upon the upper classes in

July of this year, will soon have gangrened the middle classes. A

proletariat devoid of sentiment, with no other god than envy, no other

fanaticism than the despair of hunger, without faith, without belief,

will come forward before long and put its foot on the heart of the

nation. Foreigners, who have thriven under monarchical rule, will find

that, having royalty, we have no king; having legality, we have no

laws; having property, no owners; no government with our elections, no

force with freedom, no happiness with equality. Let us hope that

before that day comes God may raise up in France a providential man,

one of those Elect who give a new mind to nations, and like Sylla or

like Marius, whether he comes from above or rises from below, remakes

society."

"He would be sent to the assizes," said Gerard. "The sentence

pronounced against Socrates and Jesus Christ would be rendered against

them in 1831. In these days as in the old days, envious mediocrity

lets thinkers die of poverty, and so gets rid of the great political

physicians who have studied the wounds of France, and who oppose the

tendencies of their epoch. If they bear up under poverty, common minds

ridicule them or call them dreamers. In France, men revolt in the

moral world against the great man of the future, just as they revolt

in the political world against a sovereign."

"In the olden time sophists talked to a limited number of men; to-day

the periodical press enables them to lead astray a nation," cried the

/juge de paix/; "and that portion of the press which pleads for right

ideas finds no echo."

The mayor looked at Monsieur Clousier in amazement. Madame Graslin,

glad to find in a simple /juge de paix/ a man whose mind was occupied

with serious questions, said to Monsieur Roubaud, her neighbor, "Do

you know Monsieur Clousier?"

"Not rightly until to-day, madame. You are doing miracles," he

answered in a whisper. "And yet, look at his brow, how noble in shape!

Isn't it like the classic or traditional brow given by sculptors to

Lycurgus and the Greek sages? The revolution of July has an evidently

retrograde tendency," said the doctor (who might in his student days

have made a barricade himself), after carefully considering

Grossetete's calculation.

"These ideas are threefold," continued Clousier. "You have talked of

law and finance, but how is it with the government itself? The royal

power, weakened by the doctrine of national sovereignty, in virtue of

which the election of August 9, 1830, has just been made, will

endeavor to counteract that rival principle which gives to the people

the right to saddle the nation with a new dynasty every time it does

not fully comprehend the ideas of its king. You will see that we shall

then have internal struggles which will arrest for long periods

together the progress of France."

"All these reefs have been wisely evaded by England," remarked Gerard.

"I have been there; I admire that beehive, which sends its swarms over

the universe and civilizes mankind,--a people among whom discussion is

a political comedy, which satisfies the masses and hides the action of

power, which then works freely in its upper sphere; a country where

elections are not in the hands of a stupid bourgeoisie, as they are in

France. If England were parcelled out into small holdings the nation

would no longer exist. The land-owning class, the lords, guide the

social mechanism. Their merchant-service, under the nose of Europe,

takes possession of whole regions of the globe to meet the needs of

their commerce and to get rid of their paupers and malcontents.

Instead of fighting capacities, as we do, thwarting them, nullifying

them, the English aristocratic class seeks out young talent, rewards

it, and is constantly assimilating it. Everything which concerns the

action of the government, in the choice of men and things, is prompt

in England, whereas with us all is slow; and yet the English are slow

by nature, while we are impatient. With them money is bold and

actively employed; with us it is timid and suspicious. What Monsieur

Grossetete has said of the industrial losses which the hoarding

peasantry inflict on France has its proof in a fact I will show to you

in two words: English capital, by its perpetual turning over, has

created ten thousand millions of manufacturing and interest-bearing

property; whereas French capital, which is far more abundant, has not

created one tenth of that amount."

"And that is all the more extraordinary," said Roubaud, "because they

are lymphatic, and we, as a general thing, are sanguine and

energetic."

"Ah! monsieur," said Clousier, "there you touch a great question,

which ought to be studied: How to find institutions properly adapted

to repress the temperament of a people! Assuredly Cromwell was a great

legislator. He alone made the England of to-day, by inventing the

'Navigation Act,' which has made the English enemies of all the world,

and infused into them a ferocious pride and self-conceit, which is

their mainstay. But, in spite of their Malta citadel, if France and

Russia will only comprehend the part the Mediterranean and the Black

Sea ought to be made to play in the future, the road to Asia through

Egypt or by the Euphrates, made feasible by recent discoveries, will

kill England, as in former times the discovery of the Cape of Good

Hope killed Venice."

"Not one word of God's providence in all this!" cried the rector.

"Monsieur Clousier and Monsieur Roubaud are oblivious of religion. How

is it with you, monsieur?" he added, turning to Gerard.

"Protestant," put in Grossetete.

"You guessed it," cried Veronique, looking at the rector as she took

Clousier's arm to return to the salon.

The prejudice Gerard's appearance excited against him had been quickly

dispelled, and the three notables congratulated themselves on so good

an acquisition.

"Unfortunately," said Monsieur Bonnet, "there is a cause of antagonism

between Russia and the Catholic countries which border the

Mediterranean, in the very unimportant schism which separates the

Greek religion from the Latin religion; and it is a great misfortune

for humanity."

"We all preach our own saint," said Madame Graslin. "Monsieur

Grossetete thinks of the lost millions; Monsieur Clousier, of the

overthrow of rights; the doctor here regards legislation as a question

of temperaments; and the rector sees an obstacle to the good

understanding of France and Russia in religion."

"Add to that, madame," said Gerard, "that I see, in the hoarding of

capital by the peasant and the small burgher, the postponement of the

building of railroads in France."

"Then what is it you all want?" she asked.

"We want the wise State councillors who, under the Emperor, reflected

on the laws, and a legislative body elected by the intelligence of the

country as well as by the land-owners, whose only function would be to

oppose bad legislation and capricious wars. The Chamber, as

constituted to-day, will proceed, as you will soon see, to govern, and

that is the first step to legal anarchy."

"Good God!" cried the rector, in a flush of sacred patriotism, "how

can such enlightened minds as these," and he motioned to Clousier,

Roubaud, and Gerard, "how can they see evil so clearly and suggest

remedies without first looking within and applying a remedy to

themselves? All of you, who represent the attacked classes, recognize

the necessity of the passive obedience of the masses of the State,

like that of soldiers during a war; you want the unity of power, and

you desire that it shall never be brought into question. What England

has obtained by the development of her pride and self-interest (a part

of her creed) cannot be obtained in France but through sentiments due

to Catholicism, and none of you are Catholics! Here am I, a priest,

obliged to leave my own ground and argue with arguers. How can you

expect the masses to become religious and obedient when they see

irreligion and want of discipline above them? All peoples united by

any faith whatever will inevitably get the better of peoples without

any faith at all. The law of public interest, which gives birth to

patriotism, is destroyed by the law of private interest, which it

sanctions, but which gives birth to selfishness. There is nothing

solid and durable but that which is natural; and the natural thing in

human policy is the Family. The family must be the point of departure

for all institutions. A universal effect proves a universal cause; and

what you have just been setting forth as evident on all sides comes

from the social principle itself; which is now without force because

it has taken for its basis independence of thought and will, and such

freedom is the parent of individualism. To make happiness depend on

the stability, intelligence, and capacity of all is not as wise as to

make happiness depend on the stability and intelligence of

institutions and the capacity of a single head. It is easier to find

wisdom in one man than in a whole nation. Peoples have heart and no

eyes; they feel, and see not. Governments ought to see, and not

determine anything through sentiment. There is, therefore, an evident

contradiction between the impulses of the multitude and the action of

power whose function it is to direct and unify those impulses. To meet

with a great prince is certainly a rare chance (to use your term), but

to trust to a whole assembly, even though it is composed of honest men

only, is folly. France is committing that folly at this moment. Alas!

you are just as much convinced of that as I am. If all right-minded

men, like yourselves, would only set an example around them, if all

intelligent hands would raise, in the great republic of souls, the

altars of the one Church which has set the interests of humanity

before her, we might again behold in France the miracles our fathers

did here."

"But the difficulty is, monsieur," said Gerard,--"if I may speak to

you with the freedom of the confessional,--I look upon faith as a lie

we tell to ourselves, on hope as a lie we tell about the future, and

on charity as a trick for children to keep them good by the promise of

sugar-plums."

"Still, we sleep better for being rocked by hope, monsieur," said

Madame Graslin.

This speech stopped Roubaud, who was about to reply; its effect was

strengthened by a look from Grossetete and the rector.

"Is it our fault," said Clousier, "that Jesus Christ had not the time

to formulate a government in accordance with his moral teaching, as

did Moses and Confucius, the two greatest human law-givers?--witness

the existence, as a nation, of the Jews and Chinese, the former in

spite of their dispersion over the whole earth, and the latter in

spite of their isolation."

"Ah! dear me! what work you are cutting out for me!" cried the rector

naively. "But I shall triumph, I shall convert you all! You are much

nearer to the true faith than you think you are. Truth always lurks

behind falsehood; go on a step, turn round, and then you'll see it."

This little outburst of the good rector had the effect of changing the

conversation.

XVIII

CATHERINE CURIEUX

Before taking his departure the next day, Monsieur Grossetete promised

Veronique to associate himself in all her plans, as soon as the

realization of them was a practicable thing. Madame Graslin and Gerard

accompanied his carriage on horseback, and did not leave him till they

reached the junction of the high-road of Montegnac with that from

Bordeaux to Lyon. The engineer was so impatient to see the land he was

to reclaim, and Veronique was so impatient to show it to him, that

they had planned this expedition the evening before.

After bidding adieu to the kind old man, they turned off the road

across the vast plain, and skirted the mountain chain from the foot of

the rise which led to the chateau to the steep face of the Roche-Vive.

The engineer then saw plainly the shelf or barricade of rock mentioned

by Farrabesche; which forms, as it were, the lowest foundation of the

hills. By so directing the water that it should not overflow the

indestructible canal which Nature had built, and by clearing out the

accumulation of earth which choked it up, irrigation would be helped

rather than hindered by this natural sluice-way, which was raised, on

an average, ten feet above the plain. The first important point was to

estimate the amount of water flowing through the Gabou, and to make

sure whether or not the slopes of the valley allowed any to escape in

other directions.

Veronique gave Farrabesche a horse, and directed him to accompany the

engineer and to explain to him everything he had himself noticed.

After several days' careful exploration, Gerard found that the base of

the two parallel slopes was sufficiently solid, though different in

composition, to hold the water, allowing none to escape. During the

month of January, which was rainy, he estimated the quantity of water

flowing through the Gabou. This quantity, added to that of three

streams which could easily be led into it, would supply water enough

to irrigate a tract of land three times as extensive as the plain of

Montegnac. The damming of the Gabou and the works necessary to direct

the water of the three valleys to the plain, ought not to cost more

than sixty thousand francs; for the engineer discovered on the commons

a quantity of calcareous soil which would furnish the lime cheaply,

the forest was close at hand, the wood and stone cost nothing, and the

transportation was trifling. While awaiting the season when the Gabou

would be dry (the only time suitable for the work) all the necessary

preparations could be made so as to push the enterprise through

rapidly when it was once begun.

But the preparation of the plain was another thing; that according to

Gerard, would cost not less than two hundred thousand francs, without

including the sowing and planting. The plain was to be divided into

square compartments of two hundred and fifty acres each, where the

ground had to be cleared, not only of its stunted growths, but of

rocks. Laborers would have to dig innumerable trenches, and stone them

up so as to let no water run to waste, also to direct its flow at

will. This part of the enterprise needed the active and faithful arms

of conscientious workers. Chance provided them with a tract of land

without natural obstacles, a long even stretch of plain, where the

waters, having a fall of ten feet, could be distributed at will.

Nothing hindered the finest agricultural results, while at the same

time, the eye would be gratified by one of those magnificent sheets of

verdure which are the pride and the wealth of Lombardy. Gerard sent

for an old and experienced foreman, who had already been employed by

him elsewhere in this capacity, named Fresquin.

Madame Graslin wrote to Grossetete, requesting him to negotiate for

her a loan of two hundred and fifty thousand francs, secured on her

income from the Funds, which, if relinquished for six years, would be

enough to pay both capital and interest. This loan was obtained in

March. By this time the preliminary preparations carried on by Gerard

and his foreman, Fresquin, were fully completed; also, the surveying,

estimating, levelling, and sounding. The news of this great enterprise

spreading about the country, stimulated the laboring population. The

indefatigable Farrabesche, Colorat, Clousier, the mayor of Montegnac,

Roubaud, and others, interested either in the welfare of the

neighborhood or in Madame Graslin, selected such of these laborers as

seemed the poorest, or were most deserving of employment. Gerard

bought for himself and for Monsieur Grossetete a thousand acres on the

other side of the high-road to Montegnac. Fresquin, the foreman,

bought five hundred, and sent for his wife and children.

Early in April, 1832, Monsieur Grossetete came to see the land bought

for him by Gerard, though his journey was chiefly occasioned by the

advent of Catherine Curieux, who had come from Paris to Limoges by the

diligence. Grossetete now brought her with him to Montegnac. He found

Madame Graslin just starting for church. Monsieur Bonnet was to say a

mass to implore the blessing of heaven on the works that were then

beginning. All the laborers with their wives and children were

present.

"Here is your protegee," said the old gentleman, presenting to

Veronique a feeble, suffering woman, apparently about thirty years of

age.

"Are you Catherine Curieux?" asked Madame Graslin.

"Yes, madame."

Veronique looked at Catherine for a moment. She was rather tall, well-

made, and fair; her features wore an expression of extreme gentleness

which the beautiful gray tones of the eyes did not contradict. The

outline of the face, the shape of the brow had a nobility both simple

and august, such as we sometimes meet with in country regions among

very young girls,--a sort of flower of beauty, which field labors, the

constant cares of the household, the burning of the sun, and want of

personal care, remove with terrible rapidity. Her movements had that

ease of motion characteristic of country girls, to which certain

habits unconsciously contracted in Paris gave additional grace. If

Catherine had remained in the Correze she would by this time have

looked like an old woman, wrinkled and withered; her complexion, once

rosy, would have coarsened; but Paris, though it paled her, had

preserved her beauty. Illness, toil, and grief had endowed her with

the mysterious gifts of melancholy, the inward vitalizing thought,

which is lacking to poor country-folk whose lives are almost animal.

Her dress, full of that Parisian taste which all women, even the least

coquettish, contract so readily, distinguished her still further from

an ordinary peasant-woman. In her ignorance as to what was before her,

and having no means of judging Madame Graslin, she appeared very shy

and shame-faced.

"Do you still love Farrabesche?" asked Veronique, when Grossetete left

them for a moment.

"Yes, madame," she replied coloring.

"Why, then, having sent him a thousand francs during his imprisonment,

did you not join him after his release? Have you any repugnance to

him? Speak to me as though I were your mother. Are you afraid he has

become altogether corrupt; or did you fear he no longer wanted you?"

"Neither, madame; but I do not know how to read or write, and I was

serving a very exacting old lady; she fell ill and I had to nurse her.

Though I knew the time when Jacques would be released, I could not get

away from Paris until after the lady's death. She did not leave me

anything, notwithstanding my devotion to her interests and to her

personally. After that I wanted to be cured of an ailment caused by

night-watching and hard work, and as I had used up my savings, I

resolved to go to the hospital of Saint-Louis, which I have just left,

cured."

"Very good, my child," said Madame Graslin, touched by this simple

explanation. "But tell me now why you abandoned your parents so

abruptly, why you left your child behind you, and why you did not send

any news of yourself, or get some one to write for you."

For all answer Catherine wept.

"Madame," she said at last, reassured by the pressure of Madame

Graslin's hand, "I may have done wrong, but I hadn't the strength to

stay here. I did not fear myself, but others; I feared gossip,

scandal. So long as Jacques was in danger, I was necessary to him and

I stayed; but after he had gone I had no strength left,--a girl with a

child and no husband! The worst of creatures was better than I. I

don't know what would have become of me had I stayed to hear a word

against my boy or his father; I should have gone mad; I might have

killed myself. My father or my mother in a moment of anger might have

reproached me. I am too sensitive to bear a quarrel or an insult,

gentle as I am. I have had my punishment in not seeing my child, I who

have never passed a day without thinking of him in all these years! I

wished to be forgotten, and I have been. No one thought of me,--they

believed me dead; and yet, many a time, I thought of leaving all just

to come here for a day and see my child."

"Your child--see, here he is."

Catherine then saw Benjamin, and began to tremble violently.

"Benjamin," said Madame Graslin, "come and kiss your mother."

"My mother!" cried Benjamin, surprised. He jumped into Catherine's

arms and she pressed him to her breast with almost savage force. But

the boy escaped her and ran off crying out: "I'll go and fetch /him/."

Madame Graslin made Catherine, who was almost fainting, sit down. At

this moment she saw Monsieur Bonnet and could not help blushing as she

met a piercing look from her confessor, which read her heart.

"I hope," she said, trembling, "that you will consent to marry

Farrabesche and Catherine at once. Don't you recognize Monsieur

Bonnet, my dear? He will tell you that Farrabesche, since his

liberation has behaved as an honest man; the whole neighborhood thinks

well of him, and if there is a place in the world where you may live

happy and respected it is at Montegnac. You can make, by God's help, a

good living as my farmers; for Farrabesche has recovered citizenship."

"That is all true, my dear child," said the rector.

Just then Farrabesche appeared, pulled along by his son. He was pale

and speechless in presence of Catherine and Madame Graslin. His heart

told him actively benevolent the one had been, and how deeply the

other had suffered in his absence. Veronique led away the rector, who,

on his side, was anxious to talk with her alone.

As soon as they were far enough away not to be overheard, Monsieur

Bonnet looked fixedly at Veronique; she colored and dropped her eyes

like a guilty person.

"You degrade well-doing," he said, sternly.

"How?" she asked, raising her head.

"Well-doing," he replied, "is a passion as superior to that of love as

humanity is superior to the individual creature. Now, you have not

done this thing from the sole impulse and simplicity of virtue. You

have fallen from the heights of humanity to the indulgence of the

individual creature. Your benevolence to Farrabesche and Catherine

carries with it so many memories and forbidden thoughts that it has

lost all merit in the eyes of God. Tear from your heart the remains of

the javelin evil planted there. Do not take from your actions their

true value. Come at last to that saintly ignorance of the good you do

which is the grace supreme of human actions."

Madame Graslin had turned away to wipe the tears that told the rector

his words had touched the bleeding wound that was still unhealed in

her heart.

Farrabesche, Catherine, and Benjamin now came up to thank their

benefactress, but she made them a sign to go away and leave her alone

with the rector.

"See how that grieves them," she said to him as they sadly walked

away. The rector, whose heart was tender, recalled them by a sign.

"You shall be completely happy," she then said, giving to Farrabesche

a paper which she was holding in her hand. "Here is the ordinance

which gives you back your rights of citizenship and exempts you from

humiliating inspection."

Farrabesche respectfully kissed the hand held toward him and looked at

Veronique with an eye both tender and submissive, calm and devoted,

the expression of a devotion which nothing could ever change, the look

of a dog to his master.

"If Jacques has suffered, madame," said Catherine, her fine eyes

lighting with pleasure, "I hope I can give him enough happiness to

make up for his pain, for, no matter what he has done, he is not bad."

Madame Graslin turned away her head; she seemed overcome by the sight

of that happy family. The rector now left her to enter the church,

whither she dragged herself presently on the arm of Monsieur

Grossetete.

After breakfast every one, even the aged people of the village,

assembled to see the beginning of the great work. From the slope

leading up to the chateau, Monsieur Grossetete and Monsieur Bonnet,

between whom was Veronique, could see the direction of the four first

cuttings marked out by piles of gathered stones. At each cutting five

laborers were digging out and piling up the good loam along the edges;

clearing a space about eighteen feet wide, the width of each road. On

either side, four other men were digging the ditches and also piling

up the loam at the sides to make a bank. Behind them, as the banks

were made, two men were digging holes in which others planted trees.

In each of these divisions, thirty old paupers, a score of women, and

forty or more girls and children were picking up stones, which special

laborers piled in heaps along the roadside so as to keep a record of

the quantity gathered by each group. Thus the work went on rapidly,

with picked workmen full of ardor. Grossetete promised Madame Graslin

to send her some trees and to ask her other friends to do the same;

for the nurseries of the chateau would evidently not suffice to supply

such an extensive plantation. Toward the close of the day, which was

to end in a grand dinner at the chateau, Farrabesche requested Madame

Graslin to grant him an audience for a few moments.

"Madame," he said, presenting himself with Catherine, "you were so

good as to offer me the farm at the chateau. By granting me so great a

favor I know you intended to put me in the way of making my fortune.

But Catherine has ideas about our future which we desire to submit to

you. If I were to succeed and make money there would certainly be

persons envious of my good fortune; a word is soon said; I might have

quarrels,--I fear them; besides, Catherine would always be uneasy. In

short, too close intercourse with the world will not suit us. I have

come therefore to ask you to give us only the land at the opening of

the Gabou on the commons, with a small piece of the woodland behind

the Roche-Vive. In July you will have a great many workmen here, and

it would be very easy then to build a farmhouse in a good position on

the slope of the hill. We should be happy there. I will send for

Guepin. My poor comrade will work like a horse; perhaps I could marry

him here. My son is not a do-nothing either. No one would put us out

of countenance; we could colonize this corner of the estate, and I

should make it my ambition to turn it into a fine farm for you.

Moreover, I want to propose as farmer of your great farm near the

chateau a cousin of Catherine, who has money and would therefore be

more capable than I could be of managing such a large affair as that

farm. If it please God to bless your enterprise, in five years from

now you will have five or six thousand horned beasts or horses on that

plain below, and it wants a better head than mine to manage them."

Madame Graslin agreed to his request, doing justice to the good sense

of it.

From the time the work on the plain began, Veronique's life assumed

the regularity of country existence. In the morning she heard mass,

took care of her son, whom she idolized, and went to see her laborers.

After dinner she received her friends from Montegnac in the little

salon to the right of the clock-tower. She taught Roubaud, Clousier,

and the rector to play whist, which Gerard knew already. The rubbers

usually ended at nine o'clock, after which the company withdrew. This

peaceful life had no other events to mark it than the success of the

various parts of the great enterprise.

In June the torrent of the Gabou went dry, and Gerard established his

headquarters in the keeper's house. Farrabesche had already built his

farmhouse, which he called Le Gabou. Fifty masons, brought from Paris,

joined the two mountains by a wall twenty feet thick, with a

foundation twelve feet deep and heavily cemented. The wall, or dam,

rose nearly sixty feet and tapered in until it was not more than ten

feet thick at the summit. Gerard backed this wall on the valley side

with a cemented slope, about twelve feet wide at its base. On the side

toward the commons a similar slope, covered with several feet of

arable earth, still further supported this great work, which no rush

of water could possibly damage. The engineer provided in case of

unusual rains an overflow at a proper height. The masonry was inserted

into the flank of each mountain until the granite or the hard-pan was

reached, so that the water had absolutely no outlet at the sides.

This dam was finished by the middle of August. At the same time Gerard

was preparing three canals in the principal valleys, and none of these

works came up to his estimated costs. The chateau farm could now be

finished. The irrigation channels through the plain, superintended by

Fresquin, started from the canal made by nature along the base of the

mountains on the plain side, through which culverts were cut to the

irrigating channels. Water-gates were fitted into those channels, the

sides of which the abundance of rock had enabled them to stone up, so

as to keep the flow of water at an even height along the plain.

Every Sunday after mass, Veronique, the engineer, the rector, the

doctor, and the mayor walked down through the park to see the course

of the waters. The winter of 1832 and 1833 was extremely rainy. The

water of the three streams which had been directed to the torrent,

swollen by the water of the rains, now formed three ponds in the

valley of the Gabou, carefully placed at different levels so as to

create a steady reserve in case of a severe drought. At certain places

where the valley widened Gerard had taken advantage of a few hillocks

to make islands and plant them with trees of varied foliage. These

vast operations completely changed the face of the country; but five

or six years were of course needed to bring out their full character.

"The country was naked," said Farrabesche, "and madame has clothed

it."

Since these great undertakings were begun, Veronique had been called

"Madame" throughout the whole neighborhood. When the rains ceased in

June, 1833, they tried the irrigating channels through the planted

fields, and the young verdure thus nourished soon showed the superior

qualities of the /marciti/ of Italy and the meadows of Switzerland.

The system of irrigation, modelled on that of the farms in Lombardy,

watered the earth evenly, and kept the surface as smooth as a carpet.

The nitre of the snow dissolving in these channels no doubt added much

to the quality of the herbage. The engineer hoped to find in the

products of succeeding years some analogy with those of Switzerland,

to which this nitrous substance is, as we know, a source of perpetual

riches.

The plantations along the roads, sufficiently moistened by the water

allowed to run through the ditches, made rapid growth. So that in

1838, six years after Madame Graslin had begun her enterprise, the

stony plain, regarded as hopelessly barren by twenty generations, was

verdant, productive, and well planted throughout. Gerard had built

five farmhouses with their dependencies upon it, with a thousand acres

to each. Gerard's own farm and those of Grossetete and Fresquin, which

received the overflow from Madame's domains, were built on the same

plan and managed by the same methods. The engineer also built a

charming little house for himself on his own property. When all was

completely finished, the inhabitants of Montegnac, instigated by the

present mayor, who was anxious to retire, elected Gerard to the

mayoralty of the district.

In 1840 the departure of the first herd of cattle sent from Montegnac

to the Paris markets was made the occasion of a rural fete. The farms

of the plain raised fine beasts and horses; for it was found, after

the land was cleaned up, that there were seven inches of good soil

which the annual fall of leaves, the manure left by the pasturage of

animals, and, above all, the melting of the snows contained in the

valley of the Gabou, increased in fertility.

It was in this year that Madame Graslin found it necessary to obtain a

tutor for her son, who was now eleven years of age. She did not wish

to part with him, and yet she was anxious to make him a thoroughly

well-educated man. Monsieur Bonnet wrote to the Seminary. Madame

Graslin, on her side, said a few words as to her wishes and the

difficulty of obtaining the right person to Monsieur Dutheil, recently

appointed arch-bishop. The choice of such a man, who would live nine

years familiarly in the chateau, was a serious matter. Gerard had

already offered to teach mathematics to his friend Francis; but he

could not, of course, take the place of a regular tutor. This question

agitated Madame Graslin's mind, and all the more because she knew that

her health was beginning to fail.

The more prosperous grew her dear Montegnac, the more she increased

the secret austerities of her life. Monseigneur Dutheil, with whom she

corresponded regularly, found at last the man she wanted. He sent her

from his late diocese a young professor, twenty-five years of age,

named Ruffin, whose mind had a special vocation for the art of

teaching. This young man's knowledge was great, and his nature was one

of deep feeling, which, however, did not preclude the sternness

necessary in the management of youth. In him religion did not in any

way hamper knowledge; he was also patient, and extremely agreeable in

appearance and manner. "I make you a fine present, my dear daughter,"

wrote the prelate; "this young man is fit to educate a prince;

therefore I think you will be glad to arrange the future with him, for

he can undoubtedly be a spiritual father to your son."

Monsieur Ruffin proved so satisfactory to Madame Graslin's faithful

friends that his arrival made no change in the various intimacies that

grouped themselves around this beloved idol, whose hours and moments

were claimed by each with jealous eagerness.

By the year 1843 the prosperity of Montegnac had increased beyond all

expectation. The farm of the Gabou rivalled the farms of the plain,

and that of the chateau set an example of constant improvement to all.

The five other farms, increasing in value, obtained higher rent,

reaching the sum of thirty thousand francs for each at the end of

twelve years. The farmers, who were beginning to gather in the fruits

of their sacrifices and those of Madame Graslin, now began to improve

the grass of the plains, sowing seed of better quality, there being no

longer any occasion to fear drought.

During this year a man from Montegnac started a diligence between the

chief town of the arrondissement and Limoges, leaving both places each

day. Monsieur Clousier's nephew sold his office and obtained a license

as notary in Montegnac. The government appointed Fresquin collector of

the district. The new notary built himself a pretty house in the upper

part of Montegnac, planted mulberries in the grounds, and became after

a time assistant-mayor to his friend Gerard.

The engineer, encouraged by so much success, now conceived a scheme of

a nature to render Madame Graslin's fortune colossal,--she herself

having by this time recovered possession of the income which had been

mortgaged for the repayment of the loan. Gerard's new scheme was to

make a canal of the little river, and turn into it the superabundant

waters of the Gabou. This canal, which he intended to carry into the

Vienne, would form a waterway by which to send down timber from the

twenty thousand acres of forest land belonging to Madame Graslin in

Montegnac, now admirably managed by Colorat, but which, for want of

transportation, returned no profit. A thousand acres could be cut over

each year without detriment to the forest, and if sent in this way to

Limoges, would find a ready market for building purposes.

This was the original plan of Monsieur Graslin himself, who had paid

very little attention to the rector's scheme relating to the plain,

being much more attracted by that of turning the little river into a

canal.

XIX

A DEATH BLOW

At the beginning of the following year, in spite of Madame Graslin's

assumption of strength, her friends began to notice symptoms which

foreshadowed her coming death. To all the doctor's remarks, and to the

inquiries of the most clear-sighted of her friends, Veronique made the

invariable answer that she was perfectly well. But when the spring

opened she went round to visit her forests, farms, and beautiful

meadows with a childlike joy and delight which betrayed to those who

knew her best a sad foreboding.

Finding himself obliged to build a small cemented wall between the dam

of the Gabou and the park of Montegnac along the base of the hill

called especially La Correze, Gerard took up the idea of enclosing the

whole forest and thus uniting it with the park. Madame Graslin agreed

to this, and appointed thirty thousand francs a year to this work,

which would take seven years to accomplish and would then withdraw

that fine forest from the rights exercised by government over the non-

enclosed forests of private individuals. The three ponds of the Gabou

would thus become a part of the park. These ponds, ambitiously called

lakes, had each its island.

This year, Gerard had prepared, in collusion with Grossetete, a

surprise for Madame Graslin's birthday. He had built a little

hermitage on the largest of the islands, rustic on the outside and

elegantly arranged within. The old banker took part in the conspiracy,

in which Farrabesche, Fresquin, Clousier's nephew, and nearly all the

well-to-do people in Montegnac co-operated. Grossetete sent down some

beautiful furniture. The clock tower, copied from that at Vevay, made

a charming effect in the landscape. Six boats, two for each pond, were

secretly built, painted, and rigged during the winter by Farrabesche

and Guepin, assisted by the carpenter of Montegnac.

When the day arrived (about the middle of May) after a breakfast

Madame Graslin gave to her friends, she was taken by them across the

park--which was finely laid out by Gerard, who, for the last five

years, had improved it like a landscape architect and naturalist--to

the pretty meadow of the valley of the Gabou, where, at the shore of

the first lake, two of the boats were floating. This meadow, watered

by several clear streamlets, lay at the foot of the fine ampitheatre

where the valley of the Gabou begins. The woods, cleared in a

scientific manner, so as to produce noble masses and vistas that were

charming to the eye, enclosed the meadow and gave it a solitude that

was grateful to the soul. Gerard had reproduced on an eminence that

chalet in the valley of Sion above the road to Brieg which travellers

admire so much; here were to be the dairy and the cow-sheds of the

chateau. From its gallery the eye roved over the landscape created by

the engineer which the three lakes made worthy of comparison with the

beauties of Switzerland.

The day was beautiful. In the blue sky, not a cloud; on earth, all the

charming, graceful things the soil offers in the month of May. The

trees planted ten years earlier on the banks--weeping willows, osier,

alder, ash, the aspen of Holland, the poplars of Italy and Virginia,

hawthorns and roses, acacias, birches, all choice growths arranged as

their nature and the lay of the land made suitable--held amid their

foliage a few fleecy vapors, born of the waters, which rose like a

slender smoke. The surface of the lakelet, clear as a mirror and calm

as the sky, reflected the tall green masses of the forest, the tops of

which, distinctly defined in the limpid atmosphere, contrasted with

the groves below wrapped in their pretty veils. The lakes, separated

by broad causeways, were three mirrors showing different reflections,

the waters of which flowed from one to another in melodious cascades.

These causeways were used to go from lake to lake without passing

round the shores. From the chalet could be seen, through a vista among

the trees, the thankless waste of the chalk commons, resembling an

open sea and contrasting with the fresh beauty of the lakes and their

verdure.

When Veronique saw the joyousness of her friends as they held out

their hands to help her into the largest of the boats, tears came into

her eyes and she kept silence till they touched the bank of the first

causeway. As she stepped into the second boat she saw the hermitage

with Grossetete sitting on a bench before it with all his family.

"Do they wish to make me regret dying?" she said to the rector.

"We wish to prevent you from dying," replied Clousier.

"You cannot make the dead live," she answered.

Monsieur Bonnet gave her a stern look which recalled her to herself.

"Let me take care of your health," said Roubaud, in a gentle,

persuasive voice. "I am sure I can save to this region its living

glory, and to all our friends their common tie."

Veronique bowed her head, and Gerard rowed slowly toward the island in

the middle of the lake, the largest of the three, into which the

overflowing water of the first was rippling with a sound that gave a

voice to that delightful landscape.

"You have done well to make me bid farewell to this ravishing nature

on such a day," she said, looking at the beauty of the trees, all so

full of foliage that they hid the shore. The only disapprobation her

friends allowed themselves was to show a gloomy silence; and

Veronique, receiving another glance from Monsieur Bonnet, sprang

lightly ashore, assuming a lively air, which she did not relinquish.

Once more the hostess, she was charming, and the Grossetete family

felt she was again the beautiful Madame Graslin of former days.

"Indeed, you can still live, if you choose!" said her mother in a

whisper.

At this gay festival, amid these glorious creations produced by the

resources of nature only, nothing seemed likely to wound Veronique,

and yet it was here and now that she received her death-blow.

The party were to return about nine o'clock by way of the meadows, the

road through which, as lovely as an English or an Italian road, was

the pride of its engineer. The abundance of small stones, laid aside

when the plain was cleared, enabled him to keep it in good order; in

fact, for the last five years it was, in a way, macadamized. Carriages

were awaiting the company at the opening of the last valley toward the

plain, almost at the base of the Roche-Vive. The horses, raised at

Montegnac, were among the first that were ready for the market. The

manager of the stud had selected a dozen for the stables of the

chateau, and their present fine appearance was part of the programme

of the fete. Madame Graslin's own carriage, a gift from Grossetete,

was drawn by four of the finest animals, plainly harnessed.

After dinner the happy party went to take coffee in a little wooden

kiosk, made like those on the Bosphorus, and placed on a point of the

island from which the eye could reach to the farther lake beyond. From

this spot Madame Graslin thought she saw her son Francis near the

nursery-ground formerly planted by Farrabesche. She looked again, but

did not see him; and Monsieur Ruffin pointed him out to her, playing

on the bank with Grossetete's children. Veronique became alarmed lest

he should meet with some accident. Not listening to remonstrance, she

ran down from the kiosk, and jumping into a boat, began to row toward

her son. This little incident caused a general departure. Monsieur

Grossetete proposed that they should all follow her and walk on the

beautiful shore of the lake, along the curves of the mountainous

bluffs. On landing there Madame Graslin saw her son in the arms of a

woman in deep mourning. Judging by the shape of her bonnet and the

style of her clothes, the woman was a foreigner. Veronique was

startled, and called to her son, who presently came toward her.

"Who is that woman?" she asked the children round about her; "and why

did Francis leave you to go to her?"

"The lady called him by name," said a little girl.

At that instant Madame Sauviat and Gerard, who had outstripped the

rest of the company, came up.

"Who is that woman, my dear child?" asked Madame Graslin as soon as

Francis reached her.

"I don't know," he answered; "but she kissed me as you and grandmamma

kissed me--she cried," whispered Francis in his mother's ear.

"Shall I go after her?" asked Gerard.

"No!" said Madame Graslin, with an abruptness that was not usual in

her.

With a delicacy for which Veronique was grateful, Gerard led away the

children and went back to detain the rest of the party, leaving Madame

Sauviat, Madame Graslin, and Francis alone.

"What did she say to you?" asked Madame Sauviat of her grandson.

"I don't know; she did not speak French."

"Couldn't you understand anything she said?" asked Veronique.

"No; but she kept saying over and over,--and that's why I remember it,

--/My dear brother/!"

Veronique took her mother's arm and led her son by the hand, but she

had scarcely gone a dozen steps before her strength gave way.

"What is the matter? what has happened?" said the others, who now came

up, to Madame Sauviat.

"Oh! my daughter is in danger!" said the old woman, in guttural tones.

It was necessary to carry Madame Graslin to her carriage. She signed

to Aline to get into it with Francis, and also Gerard.

"You have been in England," she said to the latter as soon as she

recovered herself, "and therefore no doubt you speak English; tell me

the meaning of the words, /my dear brother/."

On being told, Veronique exchanged a look with Aline and her mother

which made them shudder; but they restrained their feelings.

The shouts and joyous cries of those who were assisting in the

departure of the carriages, the splendor of the setting sun as it lay

upon the meadows, the perfect gait of the beautiful horses, the

laughter of her friends as they followed her on horseback at a gallop,

--none of these things roused Madame Graslin from her torpor. Her

mother ordered the coachman to hasten his horses, and their carriage

reached the chateau some time before the others. When the company were

again assembled, they were told that Veronique had gone to her rooms

and was unable to see any one.

"I fear," said Gerard to his friends, "that Madame Graslin has had

some fatal shock."

"Where? how?" they asked.

"To her heart," he answered.

The following day Roubaud started for Paris. He had seen Madame

Graslin, and found her so seriously ill that he wished for the

assistance and advice of the ablest physician of the day. But

Veronique had only received Roubaud to put a stop to her mother and

Aline's entreaties that she would do something to benefit her; she

herself knew that death had stricken her. She refused to see Monsieur

Bonnet, sending word to him that the time had not yet come. Though all

her friends who had come from Limoges to celebrate her birthday wished

to be with her, she begged them to excuse her from fulfilling the

duties of hospitality, saying that she desired to remain in the

deepest solitude. After Roubaud's departure the other guests returned

to Limoges, less disappointed than distressed; for all those whom

Grossetete had brought with him adored Veronique. They were lost in

conjecture as to what might have caused this mysterious disaster.

One evening, two days after the departure of the company, Aline

brought Catherine to Madame Graslin's apartment. La Farrabesche

stopped short, horrified at the change so suddenly wrought in her

mistress, whose face seemed to her almost distorted.

"Good God, madame!" she cried, "what harm that girl has done! If we

had only foreseen it, Farrabesche and I, we would never have taken her

in. She has just heard that madame is ill, and sends me to tell Madame

Sauviat she wants to speak to her."

"Here!" cried Veronique. "Where is she?"

"My husband took her to the chalet."

"Very good," said Madame Graslin; "tell Farrabesche to go elsewhere.

Inform that lady that my mother will go to her; tell her to expect the

visit."

As soon as it was dark Veronique, leaning on her mother's arm, walked

slowly through the park to the chalet. The moon was shining with all

its brilliancy, the air was soft, and the two women, visibly affected,

found encouragement, of a sort, in the things of nature. The mother

stopped now and then, to rest her daughter, whose sufferings were

poignant, so that it was well-nigh midnight before they reached the

path that goes down from the woods to the sloping meadow where the

silvery roof of the chalet shone. The moonlight gave to the surface of

the quiet water, the tint of pearls. The little noises of the night,

echoing in the silence, made softest harmony. Veronique sat down on

the bench of the chalet, amid this beauteous scene of the starry

night. The murmur of two voices and the footfall of two persons still

at a distance on the sandy shore were brought by the water, which

sometimes, when all is still, reproduces sounds as faithfully as it

reflects objects on the surface. Veronique recognized at once the

exquisite voice of the rector, and the rustle of his cassock, also the

movement of some silken stuff that was probably the material of a

woman's gown.

"Let us go in," she said to her mother.

Madame Sauviat and her daughter sat down on a crib in the lower room,

which was intended for a stable.

"My child," they heard the rector saying, "I do not blame you,--you

are quite excusable; but your return may be the cause of irreparable

evil; she is the soul of this region."

"Ah! monsieur, then I had better go away to-night," replied the

stranger. "Though--I must tell you--to leave my country once more is

death to me. If I had stayed a day longer in that horrible New York,

where there is neither hope, nor faith, nor charity, I should have

died without being ill. The air I breathed oppressed my chest, food

did not nourish me, I was dying while full of life and vigor. My

sufferings ceased the moment I set foot upon the vessel to return. I

seemed to be already in France. Oh! monsieur, I saw my mother and one

of my sisters-in-law die of grief. My grandfather and grandmother

Tascheron are dead; dead, my dear Monsieur Bonnet, in spite of the

prosperity of Tascheronville,--for my father founded a village in Ohio

and gave it that name. That village is now almost a town, and a third

of all the land is cultivated by members of our family, whom God has

constantly protected. Our tillage succeeded, our crops have been

enormous, and we are r