VII.


On the day succeeding the battle of Sedan the mighty hosts of the
two German armies, without the delay of a moment, commenced their
march on Paris, the army of the Meuse coming in by the north through
the valley of the Marne, while the third army, passing the Seine at
Villeneuve-Saint-Georges, turned the city to the south and moved on
Versailles; and when, on that bright, warm September morning, General
Ducrot, to whom had been assigned the command of the as yet incomplete
14th corps, determined to attack the latter force while it was
marching by the flank, Maurice's new regiment, the 115th, encamped in
the woods to the left of Meudon, did not receive its orders to advance
until the day was lost. A few shells from the enemy sufficed to do the
work; the panic started with a regiment of zouaves made up of raw
recruits, and quickly spreading to the other troops, all were swept
away in a headlong rout that never ceased until they were safe behind
the walls of Paris, where the utmost consternation prevailed. Every
position in advance of the southern line of fortifications was lost,
and that evening the wires of the Western Railway telegraph, the
city's sole remaining means of communicating with the rest of France,
were cut. Paris was cut off from the world.

The condition of their affairs caused Maurice a terrible dejection.
Had the Germans been more enterprising they might have pitched their
tents that night in the Place du Carrousel, but with the prudence of
their race they had determined that the siege should be conducted
according to rule and precept, and had already fixed upon the exact
lines of investment, the position of the army of the Meuse being at
the north, stretching from Croissy to the Marne, through Epinay, the
cordon of the third army at the south, from Chennevieres to Chatillon
and Bougival, while general headquarters, with King William, Bismarck,
and General von Moltke, were established at Versailles. The gigantic
blockade, that no one believed could be successfully completed, was an
accomplished fact; the city, with its girdle of fortifications eight
leagues and a half in length, embracing fifteen forts and six detached
redoubts, was henceforth to be transformed into a huge prison-pen. And
the army of the defenders comprised only the 13th corps, commanded by
General Vinoy, and the 14th, then in process of reconstruction under
General Ducrot, the two aggregating an effective strength of eighty
thousand men; to which were to be added fourteen thousand sailors,
fifteen thousand of the francs corps, and a hundred and fifteen
thousand mobiles, not to mention the three hundred thousand National
Guards distributed among the sectional divisions of the ramparts. If
this seems like a large force it must be remembered that there were
few seasoned and trained soldiers among its numbers. Men were
constantly being drilled and equipped; Paris was a great intrenched
camp. The preparations for the defense went on from hour to hour with
feverish haste; roads were built, houses demolished within the
military zone; the two hundred siege guns and the twenty-five hundred
pieces of lesser caliber were mounted in position, other guns were
cast; an arsenal, complete in every detail, seemed to spring from the
earth under the tireless efforts of Dorian, the patriotic war
minister. When, after the rupture of the negotiations at Ferrieres,
Jules Favre acquainted the country with M. von Bismarck's demands--the
cession of Alsace, the garrison of Strasbourg to be surrendered, three
milliards of indemnity--a cry of rage went up and the continuation of
the war was demanded by acclaim as a condition indispensable to the
country's existence. Even with no hope of victory Paris must defend
herself in order that France might live.

On a Sunday toward the end of September Maurice was detailed to carry
a message to the further end of the city, and what he witnessed along
the streets he passed through filled him with new hope. Ever since the
defeat of Chatillon it had seemed to him that the courage of the
people was rising to a level with the great task that lay before them.
Ah! that Paris that he had known so thoughtless, so wayward, so keen
in the pursuit of pleasure; he found it now quite changed, simple,
earnest, cheerfully brave, ready for every sacrifice. Everyone was in
uniform; there was scarce a head that was not decorated with the
_kepi_ of the National Guard. Business of every sort had come to a
sudden standstill, as the hands of a watch cease to move when the
mainspring snaps, and at the public meetings, among the soldiers in
the guard-room, or where the crowds collected in the streets, there
was but one subject of conversation, inflaming the hearts and minds of
all--the determination to conquer. The contagious influence of
illusion, scattered broadcast, unbalanced weaker minds; the people
were tempted to acts of generous folly by the tension to which they
were subjected. Already there was a taint of morbid, nervous
excitability in the air, a feverish condition in which men's hopes and
fears alike became distorted and exaggerated, arousing the worst
passions of humanity at the slightest breath of suspicion. And Maurice
was witness to a scene in the Rue des Martyrs that produced a profound
impression on him, the assault made by a band of infuriated men on a
house from which, at one of the upper windows, a bright light had been
displayed all through the night, a signal, evidently, intended to
reach the Prussians at Bellevue over the roofs of Paris. There were
jealous citizens who spent all their nights on their house-tops,
watching what was going on around them. The day before a poor wretch
had had a narrow escape from drowning at the hands of the mob, merely
because he had opened a map of the city on a bench in the Tuileries
gardens and consulted it.

And that epidemic of suspicion Maurice, who had always hitherto been
so liberal and fair-minded, now began to feel the influence of in the
altered views he was commencing to entertain concerning men and
things. He had ceased to give way to despair, as he had done after the
rout at Chatillon, when he doubted whether the French army would ever
muster up sufficient manhood to fight again: the sortie of the 30th of
September on l'Hay and Chevilly, that of the 13th of October, in which
the mobiles gained possession of Bagneux, and finally that of October
21, when his regiment captured and held for some time the park of la
Malmaison, had restored to him all his confidence, that flame of hope
that a spark sufficed to light and was extinguished as quickly. It was
true the Prussians had repulsed them in every direction, but for all
that the troops had fought bravely; they might yet be victorious in
the end. It was Paris now that was responsible for the young man's
gloomy forebodings, that great fickle city that at one moment was
cheered by bright illusions and the next was sunk in deepest despair,
ever haunted by the fear of treason in its thirst for victory. Did it
not seem as if Trochu and Ducrot were treading in the footsteps of the
Emperor and Marshal MacMahon and about to prove themselves incompetent
leaders, the unconscious instruments of their country's ruin? The same
movement that had swept away the Empire was now threatening the
Government of National Defense, a fierce longing of the extremists to
place themselves in control in order that they might save France by
the methods of '92; even now Jules Favre and his co-members were more
unpopular than the old ministers of Napoleon III. had ever been. Since
they would not fight the Prussians, they would do well to make way for
others, for those revolutionists who saw an assurance of victory in
decreeing the _levee en masse_, in lending an ear to those visionaries
who proposed to mine the earth beneath the Prussians' feet, or
annihilate them all by means of a new fashioned Greek fire.

Just previous to the 31st of October Maurice was more than usually a
victim to this malady of distrust and barren speculation. He listened
now approvingly to crude fancies that would formerly have brought a
smile of contempt to his lips. Why should he not? Were not imbecility
and crime abroad in the land? Was it unreasonable to look for the
miraculous when his world was falling in ruins about him? Ever since
the time he first heard the tidings of Froeschwiller, down there in
front of Mulhausen, he had harbored a deep-seated feeling of rancor in
his breast; he suffered from Sedan as from a raw sore, that bled
afresh with every new reverse; the memory of their defeats, with all
the anguish they entailed, was ever present to his mind; body and mind
enfeebled by long marches, sleepless nights, and lack of food,
inducing a mental torpor that left them doubtful even if they were
alive; and the thought that so much suffering was to end in another
and an irremediable disaster maddened him, made of that cultured man
an unreflecting being, scarce higher in the scale than a very little
child, swayed by each passing impulse of the moment. Anything,
everything, destruction, extermination, rather than pay a penny of
French money or yield an inch of French soil! The revolution that
since the first reverse had been at work within him, sweeping away the
legend of Napoleonic glory, the sentimental Bonapartism that he owed
to the epic narratives of his grandfather, was now complete. He had
ceased to be a believer in Republicanism, pure and simple, considering
the remedy not drastic enough; he had begun to dabble in the theories
of the extremists, he was a believer in the necessity of the Terror as
the only means of ridding them of the traitors and imbeciles who were
about to slay the country. And so it was that he was heart and soul
with the insurgents when, on the 31st of October, tidings of disaster
came pouring in on them in quick succession: the loss of Bourget, that
had been captured from the enemy only a few days before by a dashing
surprise; M. Thiers' return to Versailles from his visit to the
European capitals, prepared to treat for peace, so it was said, in the
name of Napoleon III.; and finally the capitulation of Metz, rumors of
which had previously been current and which was now confirmed, the
last blow of the bludgeon, another Sedan, only attended by
circumstances of blacker infamy. And when he learned next day the
occurrences at the Hotel de Ville--how the insurgents had been for a
brief time successful, how the members of the Government of National
Defense had been made prisoners and held until four o'clock in the
morning, how finally the fickle populace, swayed at one moment by
detestation for the ministers and at the next terrified by the
prospect of a successful revolution, had released them--he was filled
with regret at the miscarriage of the attempt, at the non-success of
the Commune, which might have been their salvation, calling the people
to arms, warning them of the country's danger, arousing the cherished
memories of a nation that wills it will not perish. Thiers did not
dare even to set his foot in Paris, where there was some attempt at
illumination to celebrate the failure of the negotiations.

The month of November was to Maurice a period of feverish expectancy.
There were some conflicts of no great importance, in which he had no
share. His regiment was in cantonments at the time in the vicinity of
Saint-Ouen, whence he made his escape as often as he could to satisfy
his craving for news. Paris, like him, was awaiting the issue of
events in eager suspense. The election of municipal officers seemed to
have appeased political passion for the time being, but a circumstance
that boded no good for the future was that those elected were rabid
adherents of one or another party. And what Paris was watching and
praying for in that interval of repose was the grand sortie that was
to bring them victory and deliverance. As it had always been, so it
was now; confidence reigned everywhere: they would drive the Prussians
from their position, would pulverize them, annihilate them. Great
preparations were being made in the peninsula of Gennevilliers, the
point where there was most likelihood of the operation being attended
with success. Then one morning came the joyful tidings of the victory
at Coulmiers; Orleans was recaptured, the army of the Loire was
marching to the relief of Paris, was even then, so it was reported, in
camp at Etampes. The aspect of affairs was entirely changed: all they
had to do now was to go and effect a junction with it beyond the
Marne. There had been a general reorganization of the forces; three
armies had been created, one composed of the battalions of National
Guards and commanded by General Clement Thomas, another, comprising
the 13th and 14th corps, to which were added a few reliable regiments,
selected indiscriminately wherever they could be found, was to form
the main column of attack under the lead of General Ducrot, while the
third, intended to act as a reserve, was made up entirely of mobiles
and turned over to General Vinoy. And when Maurice laid him down to
sleep in the wood of Vincennes on the night of the 28th of November,
with his comrades of the 115th, he was without a doubt of their
success. The three corps of the second army were all there, and it was
common talk that their junction with the army of the Loire had been
fixed for the following day at Fontainebleau. Then ensued a series of
mischances, the usual blunders arising from want of foresight; a
sudden rising of the river, which prevented the engineers from laying
the pontoon bridge; conflicting orders, which delayed the movement of
the troops. The 115th was among the first regiments to pass the river
on the following night, and in the neighborhood of ten o'clock, with
Maurice in its ranks, it entered Champigny under a destructive fire.
The young man was wild with excitement; he fired so rapidly that his
chassepot burned his fingers, notwithstanding the intense cold. His
sole thought was to push onward, ever onward, surmounting every
obstacle until they should join their brothers from the provinces over
there across the river. But in front of Champigny and Bry the army
fell up against the park walls of Coeuilly and Villiers, that the
Prussians had converted into impregnable fortresses, more than a
quarter of a mile in length. The men's courage faltered, and after
that the action went on in a half-hearted way; the 3d corps was slow
in getting up, the 1st and 2d, unable to advance, continued for two
days longer to hold Champigny, which they finally abandoned on the
night of December 2, after their barren victory. The whole army
retired to the wood of Vincennes, where the men's only shelter was the
snow-laden branches of the trees, and Maurice, whose feet were
frost-bitten, laid his head upon the cold ground and cried.

The gloom and dejection that reigned in the city, after the failure of
that supreme effort, beggars the powers of description. The great
sortie that had been so long in preparation, the irresistible eruption
that was to be the deliverance of Paris, had ended in disappointment,
and three days later came a communication from General von Moltke
under a flag of truce, announcing that the army of the Loire had been
defeated and that the German flag again waved over Orleans. The girdle
was being drawn tighter and tighter about the doomed city all whose
struggles were henceforth powerless to burst its iron fetters. But
Paris seemed to accumulate fresh powers of resistance in the delirium
of its despair. It was certain that ere long they would have to count
famine among the number of their foes. As early as October the people
had been restricted in their consumption of butcher's meat, and in
December, of all the immense herds of beeves and flocks of sheep that
had been turned loose in the Bois de Boulogne, there was not a single
creature left alive, and horses were being slaughtered for food. The
stock of flour and wheat, with what was subsequently taken for the
public use by forced sale, it was estimated would keep the city
supplied with bread for four months. When the flour was all consumed
mills were erected in the railway stations to grind the grain. The
supply of coal, too, was giving out; it was reserved to bake the bread
and for use in the mills and arms factories. And Paris, her streets
without gas and lighted by petroleum lamps at infrequent intervals;
Paris, shivering under her icy mantle; Paris, to whom the authorities
doled out her scanty daily ration of black bread and horse flesh,
continued to hope--in spite of all, talking of Faidherbe in the north,
of Chanzy on the Loire, of Bourbaki in the east, as if their
victorious armies were already beneath the walls. The men and women
who stood waiting, their feet in snow and slush, in interminable lines
before the bakers' and butchers' shops, brightened up a bit at times
at the news of some imaginary success of the army. After the
discouragement of each defeat the unquenchable flame of their illusion
would burst out and blaze more brightly than ever among those wretched
people, whom starvation and every kind of suffering had rendered
almost delirious. A soldier on the Place du Chateau d'Eau having
spoken of surrender, the by-standers mobbed and were near killing him.
While the army, its endurance exhausted, feeling the end was near,
called for peace, the populace clamored still for the sortie _en
masse_, the torrential sortie, in which the entire population of the
capital, men, women, and children, even, should take part, rushing
upon the Prussians like water from a broken dyke and overwhelming them
by sheer force of numbers.

And Maurice kept himself apart from his comrades, with an
ever-increasing disgust for the life and duties of a soldier, that
condemned him to inactivity and uselessness behind the ramparts of
Mont-Valerien. He grasped every occasion to get away and hasten to
Paris, where his heart was. It was in the midst of the great city's
thronging masses alone that he found rest and peace of mind; he tried
to force himself to hope as they hoped. He often went to witness the
departure of the balloons, which were sent up every other day from the
station of the Northern Railway with a freight of despatches and
carrier pigeons. They rose when the ropes were cast loose and soon
were lost to sight in the cheerless wintry sky, and all hearts were
filled with anguish when the wind wafted them in the direction of the
German frontier. Many of them were never heard of more. He had himself
twice written to his sister Henriette, without ever learning if she
had received his letters. The memory of his sister and of Jean, living
as they did in that outer, shadowy world from which no tidings ever
reached him now, was become so blurred and faint that he thought of
them but seldom, as of affections that he had left behind him in some
previous existence. The incessant conflict of despair and hope in
which he lived occupied all the faculties of his being too fully to
leave room for mere human feelings. Then, too, in the early days of
January he was goaded to the verge of frenzy by the action of the
enemy in shelling the district on the left bank of the river. He had
come to credit the Prussians with reasons of humanity for their
abstention, which was in fact due simply to the difficulties they
experienced in bringing up their guns and getting them in position.
Now that a shell had killed two little girls at the Val-de-Grace, his
scorn and hatred knew no bounds for those barbarous ruffians who
murdered little children and threatened to burn the libraries and
museums. After the first days of terror, however, Paris had resumed
its life of dogged, unfaltering heroism.

Since the reverse of Champigny there had been but one other attempt,
ending in disaster like the rest, in the direction of Bourget; and the
evening when the plateau of Avron was evacuated, under the fire of the
heavy siege artillery battering away at the forts, Maurice was a
sharer in the rage and exasperation that possessed the entire city.
The growing unpopularity that threatened to hurl from power General
Trochu and the Government of National Defense was so augmented by this
additional repulse that they were compelled to attempt a supreme and
hopeless effort. What, did they refuse the services of the three
hundred thousand National Guards, who from the beginning had been
demanding their share in the peril and in the victory! This time it
was to be the torrential sortie that had all along been the object of
the popular clamor; Paris was to throw open its dikes and drown
the Prussians beneath the on-pouring waves of its children.
Notwithstanding the certainty of a fresh defeat, there was no way of
avoiding a demand that had its origin in such patriotic motives; but
in order to limit the slaughter as far as possible, the chiefs
determined to employ, in connection with the regular army, only the
fifty-nine mobilized battalions of the National Guard. The day
preceding the 19th of January resembled some great public holiday; an
immense crowd gathered on the boulevards and in the Champs-Elysees to
witness the departing regiments, which marched proudly by, preceded by
their bands, the men thundering out patriotic airs. Women and children
followed them along the sidewalk, men climbed on the benches to wish
them Godspeed. The next morning the entire population of the city
hurried out to the Arc de Triomphe, and it was almost frantic with
delight when at an early hour news came of the capture of Montretout;
the tales that were told of the gallant behavior of the National Guard
sounded like epics; the Prussians had been beaten all along the line,
the French would occupy Versailles before night. As a natural result
the consternation was proportionately great when, at nightfall, the
inevitable defeat became known. While the left wing was seizing
Montretout the center, which had succeeded in carrying the outer wall
of Buzanval Park, had encountered a second inner wall, before which it
broke. A thaw had set in, the roads were heavy from the effects of a
fine, drizzling rain, and the guns, those guns that had been cast by
popular subscription and were to the Parisians as the apple of their
eye, could not get up. On the right General Ducrot's column was tardy
in getting into action and saw nothing of the fight. Further effort
was useless, and General Trochu was compelled to order a retreat.
Montretout was abandoned, and Saint-Cloud as well, which the Prussians
burned, and when it became fully dark the horizon of Paris was
illuminated by the conflagration.

Maurice himself this time felt that the end was come. For four hours
he had remained in the park of Buzanval with the National Guards under
the galling fire from the Prussian intrenchments, and later, when he
got back to the city, he spoke of their courage in the highest terms.
It was undisputed that the Guards fought bravely on that occasion;
after that was it not self-evident that all the disasters of the army
were to be attributed solely to the imbecility and treason of its
leaders? In the Rue de Rivoli he encountered bands of men shouting:
"Hurrah for the Commune! down with Trochu!" It was the leaven of
revolution beginning to work again in the popular mind, a fresh
outbreak of public opinion, and so formidable this time that the
Government of National Defense, in order to preserve its own
existence, thought it necessary to compel General Trochu's resignation
and put General Vinoy in his place. On that same day Maurice, chancing
to enter a hall in Belleville where a public meeting was going on,
again heard the _levee en masse_ demanded with clamorous shouts. He
knew the thing to be chimerical, and yet it set his heart a-beating
more rapidly to see such a determined will to conquer. When all is
ended, is it not left us to attempt the impossible? All that night he
dreamed of miracles.

Then a long week went by, during which Paris lay agonizing without a
murmur. The shops had ceased to open their doors; in the lonely
streets the infrequent wayfarer never met a carriage. Forty thousand
horses had been eaten; dogs, cats and rats were now luxuries,
commanding a high price. Ever since the supply of wheat had given out
the bread was made from rice and oats, and was black, damp, and slimy,
and hard to digest; to obtain the ten ounces that constituted a day's
ration involved a wait, often of many hours, in line before the
bake-house. Ah, the sorrowful spectacle it was, to see those poor
women shivering in the pouring rain, their feet in the ice-cold mud
and water! the misery and heroism of the great city that would not
surrender! The death rate had increased threefold; the theaters were
converted into hospitals. As soon as it became dark the quarters where
luxury and vice had formerly held carnival were shrouded in funereal
blackness, like the faubourgs of some accursed city, smitten by
pestilence. And in that silence, in that obscurity, naught was to be
heard save the unceasing roar of the cannonade and the crash of
bursting shells, naught to be seen save the red flash of the guns
illuminating the wintry sky.

On the 28th of January the news burst on Paris like a thunderclap that
for the past two days negotiations had been going on, between Jules
Favre and M. von Bismarck, looking to an armistice, and at the same
time it learned that there was bread for only ten days longer, a space
of time that would hardly suffice to revictual the city. Capitulation
was become a matter of material necessity. Paris, stupefied by the
hard truths that were imparted to it at that late day, remained
sullenly silent and made no sign. Midnight of that day heard the last
shot from the German guns, and on the 29th, when the Prussians had
taken possession of the forts, Maurice went with his regiment into the
camp that was assigned them over by Montrouge, within the
fortifications. The life that he led there was an aimless one, made up
of idleness and feverish unrest. Discipline was relaxed; the soldiers
did pretty much as they pleased, waiting in inactivity to be dismissed
to their homes. He, however, continued to hang around the camp in a
semi-dazed condition, moody, nervous, irritable, prompt to take
offense on the most trivial provocation. He read with avidity all the
revolutionary newspapers he could lay hands on; that three weeks'
armistice, concluded solely for the purpose of allowing France to
elect an assembly that should ratify the conditions of peace, appeared
to him a delusion and a snare, another and a final instance of
treason. Even if Paris were forced to capitulate, he was with Gambetta
for the prosecution of the war in the north and on the line of the
Loire. He overflowed with indignation at the disaster of Bourbaki's
army in the east, which had been compelled to throw itself into
Switzerland, and the result of the elections made him furious: it
would be just as he had always predicted; the base, cowardly
provinces, irritated by Paris' protracted resistance, would insist on
peace at any price and restore the monarchy while the Prussian guns
were still directed on the city. After the first sessions, at
Bordeaux, Thiers, elected in twenty-six departments and constituted by
unanimous acclaim the chief executive, appeared to his eyes a monster
of iniquity, the father of lies, a man capable of every crime. The
terms of the peace concluded by that assemblage of monarchists seemed
to him to put the finishing touch to their infamy, his blood boiled
merely at the thought of those hard conditions: an indemnity of five
milliards, Metz to be given up, Alsace to be ceded, France's blood and
treasure pouring from the gaping wound, thenceforth incurable, that
was thus opened in her flank.

Late in February Maurice, unable to endure his situation longer, made
up his mind he would desert. A stipulation of the treaty provided that
the troops encamped about Paris should be disarmed and returned to
their abodes, but he did not wait to see it enforced; it seemed to him
that it would break his heart to leave brave, glorious Paris, which
only famine had been able to subdue, and so he bade farewell to army
life and hired for himself a small furnished room next the roof of a
tall apartment house in the Rue des Orties, at the top of the butte
des Moulins, whence he had an outlook over the immense sea of roofs
from the Tuileries to the Bastille. An old friend, whom he had known
while pursuing his law studies, had loaned him a hundred francs. In
addition to that he had caused his name to be inscribed on the roster
of a battalion of National Guards as soon as he was settled in his new
quarters, and his pay, thirty sous a day, would be enough to keep him
alive. The idea of going to the country and there leading a tranquil
life, unmindful of what was happening to the country, filled him with
horror; the letters even that he received from his sister Henriette,
to whom he had written immediately after the armistice, annoyed him by
their tone of entreaty, their ardent solicitations that he would come
home to Remilly and rest. He refused point-blank; he would go later on
when the Prussians should be no longer there.

And so Maurice went on leading an idle, vagabondish sort of life, in a
state of constant feverish agitation. He had ceased to be tormented by
hunger; he devoured the first white bread he got with infinite gusto;
but the city was a prison still: German guards were posted at the
gates, and no one was allowed to pass them until he had been made to
give an account of himself. There had been no resumption of social
life as yet; industry and trade were at a standstill; the people lived
from day to day, watching to see what would happen next, doing
nothing, simply vegetating in the bright sunshine of the spring that
was now coming on apace. During the siege there had been the military
service to occupy men's minds and tire their limbs, while now the
entire population, isolated from all the world, had suddenly been
reduced to a state of utter stagnation, mental as well as physical. He
did as others did, loitering his time away from morning till night,
living in an atmosphere that for months had been vitiated by the germs
arising from the half-crazed mob. He read the newspapers and was an
assiduous frequenter of public meetings, where he would often smile
and shrug his shoulders at the rant and fustian of the speakers, but
nevertheless would go away with the most ultra notions teeming in his
brain, ready to engage in any desperate undertaking in the defense of
what he considered truth and justice. And sitting by the window in his
little bedroom, and looking out over the city, he would still beguile
himself with dreams of victory; would tell himself that France and the
Republic might yet be saved, so long as the treaty of peace remained
unsigned.

The 1st of March was the day fixed for the entrance of the Prussians
into Paris, and a long-drawn howl of wrath and execration went up from
every heart. Maurice never attended a meeting now that he did not hear
Thiers, the Assembly, even the men of September 4th themselves, cursed
and reviled because they had not spared the great heroic city that
crowning degradation. He was himself one night aroused to such a pitch
of frenzy that he took the floor and shouted that it was the duty of
all Paris to go and die on the ramparts rather than suffer the
entrance of a single Prussian. It was quite natural that the spirit of
insurrection should show itself thus, should bud and blossom in the
full light of day, among that populace that had first been maddened by
months of distress and famine and then had found itself reduced to a
condition of idleness that afforded it abundant leisure to brood on
the suspicions and fancied wrongs that were largely the product of its
own disordered imagination. It was one of those moral crises that have
been noticed as occurring after every great siege, in which excessive
patriotism, thwarted in its aims and aspirations, after having fired
men's minds, degenerates into a blind rage for vengeance and
destruction. The Central Committee, elected by delegates from the
National Guard battalions, had protested against any attempt to disarm
their constituents. Then came an immense popular demonstration on the
Place de la Bastille, where there were red flags, incendiary speeches
and a crowd that overflowed the square, the affair ending with the
murder of a poor inoffensive agent of police, who was bound to a
plank, thrown into the canal, and then stoned to death. And
forty-eight hours later, during the night of the 26th of February,
Maurice, awakened by the beating of the long roll and the sound of the
tocsin, beheld bands of men and women streaming along the Boulevard
des Batignolles and dragging cannon after them. He descended to the
street, and laying hold of the rope of a gun along with some twenty
others, was told how the people had gone to the Place Wagram and taken
the pieces in order that the Assembly might not deliver them to the
Prussians. There were seventy of them; teams were wanting, but the
strong arms of the mob, tugging at the ropes and pushing at the
limbers and axles, finally brought them to the summit of Montmartre
with the mad impetuosity of a barbarian horde assuring the safety of
its idols. When on March 1 the Prussians took possession of the
quarter of the Champs Elysees, which they were to occupy only for one
day, keeping themselves strictly within the limits of the barriers,
Paris looked on in sullen silence, its streets deserted, its houses
closed, the entire city lifeless and shrouded in its dense veil of
mourning.

Two weeks more went by, during which Maurice could hardly have told
how he spent his time while awaiting the approach of the momentous
events of which he had a distinct presentiment. Peace was concluded
definitely at last, the Assembly was to commence its regular sessions
at Versailles on the 20th of the month; and yet for him nothing was
concluded: he felt that they were ere long to witness the beginning of
a dreadful drama of atonement. On the 18th of March, as he was about
to leave his room, he received a letter from Henriette urging him to
come and join her at Remilly, coupled with a playful threat that she
would come and carry him off with her if he delayed too long to afford
her that great pleasure. Then she went on to speak of Jean, concerning
whose affairs she was extremely anxious; she told how, after leaving
her late in December to join the Army of the North, he had been seized
with a low fever that had kept him long a prisoner in a Belgian
hospital, and only the preceding week he had written her that he was
about to start for Paris, notwithstanding his enfeebled condition,
where he was determined to seek active service once again. Henriette
closed her letter by begging her brother to give her a faithful
account of how matters were with Jean as soon as he should have seen
him. Maurice laid the open letter before him on the table and sank
into a confused revery. Henriette, Jean; his sister whom he loved so
fondly, his brother in suffering and privation; how absent from his
daily thoughts had those dear ones been since the tempest had been
raging in his bosom! He aroused himself, however, and as his sister
advised him that she had been unable to give Jean the number of the
house in the Rue des Orties, promised himself to go that very day to
the office where the regimental records were kept and hunt up his
friend. But he had barely got beyond his door and was crossing the Rue
Saint-Honore when he encountered two fellow-soldiers of his battalion,
who gave him an account of what had happened that morning and during
the night before at Montmartre, and the three men started off on a run
toward the scene of the disturbance.

Ah, that day of the 18th of March, the elation and enthusiasm that it
aroused in Maurice! In after days he could never remember clearly what
he said and did. First he beheld himself dimly, as through a veil of
mist, convulsed with rage at the recital of how the troops had
attempted, in the darkness and quiet that precedes the dawn, to disarm
Paris by seizing the guns on Montmartre heights. It was evident that
Thiers, who had arrived from Bordeaux, had been meditating the blow
for the last two days, in order that the Assembly at Versailles might
proceed without fear to proclaim the monarchy. Then the scene shifted,
and he was on the ground at Montmartre itself--about nine o'clock it
was--fired by the narrative of the people's victory: how the soldiery
had come sneaking up in the darkness, how the delay in bringing up the
teams had given the National Guards an opportunity to fly to arms, the
troops, having no heart to fire on women and children, reversing their
muskets and fraternizing with the people. Then he had wandered
desultorily about the city, wherever chance directed his footsteps,
and by midday had satisfied himself that the Commune was master of
Paris, without even the necessity of striking a blow, for Thiers and
the ministers had decamped from their quarters in the Ministry of
Foreign Affairs, the entire government was flying in disorder to
Versailles, the thirty thousand troops had been hastily conducted from
the city, leaving more than five thousand deserters from their numbers
along the line of their retreat. And later, about half-past five in
the afternoon, he could recall being at a corner of the exterior
boulevard in the midst of a mob of howling lunatics, listening without
the slightest evidence of disapproval to the abominable story of the
murder of Generals Lecomte and Clement Thomas. Generals, they called
themselves; fine generals, they! The leaders they had had at Sedan
rose before his memory, voluptuaries and imbeciles; one more, one
less, what odds did it make! And the remainder of the day passed in
the same state of half-crazed excitement, which served to distort
everything to his vision; it was an insurrection that the very stones
of the streets seemed to have favored, spreading, swelling, finally
becoming master of all at a stroke in the unforeseen fatality of its
triumph, and at ten o'clock in the evening delivering the Hotel de
Ville over to the members of the Central Committee, who were greatly
surprised to find themselves there.

There was one memory, however, that remained very distinct to
Maurice's mind: his unexpected meeting with Jean. It was three days
now since the latter had reached Paris, without a sou in his pocket,
emaciated and enfeebled by the illness that had consigned him to a
hospital in Brussels and kept him there two months, and having had the
luck to fall in with Captain Ravaud, who had commanded a company in
the 106th, he had enlisted at once in his former acquaintance's new
company in the 124th. His old rank as corporal had been restored to
him, and that evening he had just left the Prince Eugene barracks with
his squad on his way to the left bank, where the entire army was to
concentrate, when a mob collected about his men and stopped them as
they were passing along the boulevard Saint-Martin. The insurgents
yelled and shouted, and evidently were preparing to disarm his little
band. With perfect coolness he told them to let him alone, that he had
no business with them or their affairs; all he wanted was to obey his
orders without harming anybody. Then a cry of glad surprise was heard,
and Maurice, who had chanced to pass that way, threw himself on the
other's neck and gave him a brotherly hug.

"What, is it you! My sister wrote me about you. And just think, no
later than this very morning I was going to look you up at the war
office!"

Jean's eyes were dim with big tears of pleasure.

"Ah, my dear lad how glad I am to see you once more! I have been
looking for you, too, but where could a fellow expect to find you in
this confounded great big place?"

To the crowd, continuing their angry muttering, Maurice turned and
said:

"Let me talk to them, citizens! They're good fellows; I'll answer for
them." He took his friend's hands in his, and lowering his voice:
"You'll join us, won't you?"

Jean's face was the picture of surprise. "How, join you? I don't
understand." Then for a moment he listened while Maurice railed
against the government, against the army, raking up old sores and
recalling all their sufferings, telling how at last they were going to
be masters, punish dolts and cowards and preserve the Republic. And as
he struggled to get the problems the other laid before him through his
brain, the tranquil face of the unlettered peasant was clouded with an
increasing sorrow. "Ah, no! ah, no! my boy. I can't join you if it's
for that fine work you want me. My captain told me to go with my men
to Vaugirard, and there I'm going. In spite of the devil and his
angels I will go there. That's natural enough; you ought to know how
it is yourself." He laughed with frank simplicity and added:

"It's you who'll come along with us."

But Maurice released his hands with an angry gesture of dissent, and
thus they stood for some seconds, face to face, one under the
influence of that madness that was sweeping all Paris off its feet,
the malady that had been bequeathed to them by the crimes and follies
of the late reign, the other strong in his ignorance and practical
common sense, untainted as yet because he had grown up apart from the
contaminating principle, in the land where industry and thrift were
honored. They were brothers, however, none the less; the tie that
united them was strong, and it was a pang to them both when the crowd
suddenly surged forward and parted them.

"_Au revoir_, Maurice!"

"_Au revoir_, Jean!"

It was a regiment, the 79th, debouching from a side street, that had
caused the movement among the crowd, forcing the rioters back to the
sidewalks by the weight of its compact column, closed in mass. There
was some hooting, but no one ventured to bar the way against the
soldier boys, who went by at double time, well under control of their
officers. An opportunity was afforded the little squad of the 124th to
make their escape, and they followed in the wake of the larger body.

"_Au revoir_, Jean!"

"_Au revoir_, Maurice!"

They waved their hands once more in a parting salute, yielding to the
fatality that decreed their separation in that manner, but each none
the less securely seated in the other's heart.

The extraordinary occurrences of the next and the succeeding days
crowded on the heels of one another in such swift sequence that
Maurice had scarcely time to think. On the morning of the 19th Paris
awoke without a government, more surprised than frightened to learn
that a panic during the night had sent army, ministers, and all the
public service scurrying away to Versailles, and as the weather
happened to be fine on that magnificent March Sunday, Paris stepped
unconcernedly down into the streets to have a look at the barricades.
A great white poster, bearing the signature of the Central Committee
and convoking the people for the communal elections, attracted
attention by the moderation of its language, although much surprise
was expressed at seeing it signed by names so utterly unknown. There
can be no doubt that at this incipient stage of the Commune Paris, in
the bitter memory of what it had endured, in the suspicions by which
it was haunted, and in its unslaked thirst for further fighting, was
against Versailles. It was a condition of absolute anarchy, moreover,
the conflict for the moment being between the mayors and the Central
Committee, the former fruitlessly attempting to introduce measures of
conciliation, while the latter, uncertain as yet to what extent it
could rely on the federated National Guard, continued modestly to lay
claim to no higher title than that of defender of the municipal
liberties. The shots fired against the pacific demonstration in the
Place Vendome, the few corpses whose blood reddened the pavements,
first sent a thrill of terror circulating through the city. And while
these things were going on, while the insurgents were taking definite
possession of the ministries and all the public buildings, the
agitation, rage and alarm prevailing at Versailles were extreme, the
government there hastening to get together sufficient troops to repel
the attack which they felt sure they should not have to wait for long.
The steadiest and most reliable divisions of the armies of the North
and of the Loire were hurried forward. Ten days sufficed to collect a
force of nearly eighty thousand men, and the tide of returning
confidence set in so strongly that on the 2d of April two divisions
opened hostilities by taking from the federates Puteaux and
Courbevoie.

It was not until the day following the events just mentioned that
Maurice, starting out with his battalion to effect the conquest of
Versailles, beheld, amid the throng of misty, feverish memories that
rose to his poor wearied brain, Jean's melancholy face as he had seen
it last, and seemed to hear the tones of his last mournful _au
revoir_. The military operations of the Versaillese had filled the
National Guard with alarm and indignation; three columns, embracing a
total strength of fifty thousand men, had gone storming that morning
through Bougival and Meudon on their way to seize the monarchical
Assembly and Thiers, the murderer. It was the torrential sortie that
had been demanded with such insistence during the siege, and Maurice
asked himself where he should ever see Jean again unless among the
dead lying on the field of battle down yonder. But it was not long
before he knew the result; his battalion had barely reached the
Plateau des Bergeres, on the road to Reuil, when the shells from
Mont-Valerien came tumbling among the ranks. Universal consternation
reigned; some had supposed that the fort was held by their comrades of
the Guard, while others averred that the commander had promised
solemnly to withhold his fire. A wild panic seized upon the men; the
battalions broke and rushed back to Paris fast as their legs would let
them, while the head of the column, diverted by a flanking movement of
General Vinoy, was driven back on Reuil and cut to pieces there.

Then Maurice, who had escaped unharmed from the slaughter, his nerves
still quivering with the fury that had inspired him on the
battlefield, was filled with fresh detestation for that so-called
government of law and order which always allowed itself to be beaten
by the Prussians, and could only muster up a little courage when it
came to oppressing Paris. And the German armies were still there, from
Saint-Denis to Charenton, watching the shameful spectacle of
internecine conflict! Thus, in the fierce longing for vengeance and
destruction that animated him, he could not do otherwise than sanction
the first measures of communistic violence, the building of barricades
in the streets and public squares, the arrest of the archbishop, some
priests, and former officeholders, who were to be held as hostages.
The atrocities that distinguished either side in that horrible
conflict were already beginning to manifest themselves, Versailles
shooting the prisoners it made, Paris retaliating with a decree that
for each one of its soldiers murdered three hostages should forfeit
their life. The horror of it, that fratricidal conflict, that wretched
nation completing the work of destruction by devouring its own
children! And the little reason that remained to Maurice, in the ruin
of all the things he had hitherto held sacred, was quickly dissipated
in the whirlwind of blind fury that swept all before it. In his eyes
the Commune was to be the avenger of all the wrongs they had suffered,
the liberator, coming with fire and sword to purify and punish. He was
not quite clear in mind about it all, but remembered having read how
great and flourishing the old free cities had become, how wealthy
provinces had federated and imposed their law upon the world. If Paris
should be victorious he beheld her, crowned with an aureole of glory,
building up a new France, where liberty and justice should be the
watchwords, organizing a new society, having first swept away the
rotten debris of the old. It was true that when the result of the
elections became known he was somewhat surprised by the strange
mixture of moderates, revolutionists, and socialists of every sect and
shade to whom the accomplishment of the great work was intrusted; he
was acquainted with several of the men and knew them to be of
extremely mediocre abilities. Would not the strongest among them come
in collision and neutralize one another amid the clashing ideas which
they represented? But on the day when the ceremony of the inauguration
of the Commune took place before the Hotel de Ville, amid the thunder
of artillery and trophies and red banners floating in the air, his
boundless hopes again got the better of his fears and he ceased to
doubt. Among the lies of some and the unquestioning faith of others,
the illusion started into life again with renewed vigor, in the acute
crisis of the malady raised to paroxysmal pitch.

During the entire month of April Maurice was on duty in the
neighborhood of Neuilly. The gentle warmth of the early spring had
brought out the blossoms on the lilacs, and the fighting was conducted
among the bright verdure of the gardens; the National Guards came into
the city at night with bouquets of flowers stuck in their muskets. The
troops collected at Versailles were now so numerous as to warrant
their formation in two armies, a first line under the orders of
Marshal MacMahon and a reserve commanded by General Vinoy. The Commune
had nearly a hundred thousand National Guards mobilized and as many
more on the rosters who could be called out at short notice, but fifty
thousand were as many as they ever brought into the field at one time.
Day by day the plan of attack adopted by the Versaillese became more
manifest: after occupying Neuilly they had taken possession of the
Chateau of Becon and soon after of Asnieres, but these movements were
simply to make the investment more complete, for their intention was
to enter the city by the Point-du-Jour soon as the converging fire
from Mont-Valerien and Fort d'Issy should enable them to carry the
rampart there. Mont-Valerien was theirs already, and they were
straining every nerve to capture Issy, utilizing the works abandoned
by the Germans for the purpose. Since the middle of April the fire of
musketry and artillery had been incessant; at Levallois and Neuilly
the fighting never ceased, the skirmishers blazing away
uninterruptedly, by night as well as by day. Heavy guns, mounted on
armored cars, moved to and fro on the Belt Railway, shelling Asnieres
over the roofs of Levallois. It was at Vanves and Issy, however, that
the cannonade was fiercest; it shook the windows of Paris as the siege
had done when it was at its height. And when finally, on the 9th of
May, Fort d'Issy was obliged to succumb and fell into the hands of the
Versailles army the defeat of the Commune was assured, and in their
frenzy of panic the leaders resorted to most detestable measures.

Maurice favored the creation of a Committee of Public Safety. The
warnings of history came to his mind; had not the hour struck for
adopting energetic methods if they wished to save the country? There
was but one of their barbarities that really pained him, and that was
the destruction of the Vendome column; he reproached himself for the
feeling as being a childish weakness, but his grandfather's voice
still sounded in his ears repeating the old familiar tales of Marengo,
Austerlitz, Jena, Eylau, Friedland, Wagram, the Moskowa--those epic
narratives that thrilled his pulses yet as often as he thought of
them. But that they should demolish the house of the murderer Thiers,
that they should retain the hostages as a guarantee and a menace, was
not that right and just when the Versaillese were unchaining their
fury on Paris, bombarding it, destroying its edifices, slaughtering
women and children with their shells? As he saw the end of his dream
approaching dark thoughts of ruin and destruction filled his mind. If
their ideas of justice and retribution were not to prevail, if they
were to be crushed out of them with their life-blood, then perish the
world, swept away in one of those cosmic upheavals that are the
beginning of a new life. Let Paris sink beneath the waves, let it go
up in smoke and flame, like a gigantic funeral pyre, sooner than let
it be again delivered over to its former state of vice and misery, to
that old vicious social system of abominable injustice. And he dreamed
another dark, terrible dream, the great city reduced to ashes, naught
to be seen on either side the Seine but piles of smoldering ruins, the
festering wound purified and healed with fire, a catastrophe without a
name, such as had never been before, whence should arise a new race.
Wild stories were everywhere circulated, which interested him
intensely, of the mines that were driven under all the quarters of the
city, the barrels of powder with which the catacombs were stuffed, the
monuments and public buildings ready to be blown into the air at a
moment's notice; and all were connected by electric wires in such a
way that a single spark would suffice to set them off; there were
great stores of inflammable substances, too, especially petroleum,
with which the streets and avenues were to be converted into seething
lakes of flame. The Commune had sworn that should the Versaillese
enter the city not one of them would ever get beyond the barricades
that closed the ends of the streets; the pavements would yawn, the
houses would sink in ruins, Paris would go up in flames, and bury
assailants and assailed under its ashes.

And if Maurice solaced himself with these crazy dreams, it was because
of his secret discontent with the Commune itself. He had lost all
confidence in its members, he felt it was inefficient, drawn this way
and that by so many conflicting elements, losing its head and becoming
purposeless and driveling as it saw the near approach of the peril
with which it was menaced. Of the social reforms it had pledged itself
to it had not been able to accomplish a single one, and it was now
quite certain that it would leave behind it no great work to
perpetuate its name. But what more than all beside was gnawing at its
vitals was the rivalries by which it was distracted, the corroding
suspicion and distrust in which each of its members lived. For some
time past many of them, the more moderate and the timid, had ceased to
attend its sessions. The others shaped their course day by day in
accordance with events, trembling at the idea of a possible
dictatorship; they had reached that point where the factions of
revolutionary assemblages exterminate one another by way of saving the
country. Cluzeret had become suspected, then Dombrowski, and Rossel
was about to share their fate. Delescluze, appointed Civil Delegate at
War, could do nothing of his own volition, notwithstanding his great
authority. And thus the grand social effort that they had had in view
wasted itself in the ever-widening isolation about those men, whose
power had become a nullity, whose actions were the result of their
despair.

In Paris there was an increasing feeling of terror. Paris, irritated
at first against Versailles, shivering at the recollection of what it
had suffered during the siege, was now breaking away from the Commune.
The compulsory enrollment, the decree incorporating every man under
forty in the National Guard, had angered the more sedate citizens and
been the means of bringing about a general exodus: men in disguise and
provided with forged papers of Alsatian citizenship made their escape
by way of Saint-Denis; others let themselves down into the moat in the
darkness of the night with ropes and ladders. The wealthy had long
since taken their departure. None of the factories and workshops had
opened their doors; trade and commerce there was none; there was no
employment for labor; the life of enforced idleness went on amid the
alarmed expectancy of the frightful denouement that everyone felt
could not be far away. And the people depended for their daily bread
on the pay of the National Guards, that dole of thirty sous that was
paid from the millions extorted from the Bank of France, the thirty
sous for the sake of which alone many men were wearing the uniform,
which had been one of the primary causes and the _raison d'etre_ of
the insurrection. Whole districts were deserted, the shops closed, the
house-fronts lifeless. In the bright May sunshine that flooded the
empty streets the few pedestrians beheld nothing moving save the
barbaric display of the burial of some federates killed in action, the
funeral train where no priest walked, the hearse draped with red
flags, followed by a crowd of men and women bearing bouquets of
immortelles. The churches were closed and did duty each evening as
political club-rooms. The revolutionary journals alone were hawked
about the streets; the others had been suppressed. Great Paris was
indeed an unhappy city in those days, what with its republican
sympathies that made it detest the monarchical Assembly at Versailles
and its ever-increasing terror of the Commune, from which it prayed
most fervently to be delivered among all the grisly stories that were
current, the daily arrests of citizens as hostages, the casks of
gunpowder that filled the sewers, where men patrolled by day and night
awaiting the signal to apply the torch.

Maurice, who had never been a drinking man, allowed himself to be
seduced by the too prevalent habit of over-indulgence. It had become a
thing of frequent occurrence with him now, when he was out on picket
duty or had to spend the night in barracks, to take a "pony" of
brandy, and if he took a second it was apt to go to his head in the
alcohol-laden atmosphere that he was forced to breathe. It had become
epidemic, that chronic drunkenness, among those men with whom bread
was scarce and who could have all the brandy they wanted by asking for
it. Toward evening on Sunday, the 21st of May, Maurice came home
drunk, for the first time in his life, to his room in the Rue des
Orties, where he was in the habit of sleeping occasionally. He had
been at Neuilly again that day, blazing away at the enemy and taking a
nip now and then with the comrades, to see if it would not relieve the
terrible fatigue from which he was suffering. Then, with a light head
and heavy legs, he came and threw himself on the bed in his little
chamber; it must have been through force of instinct, for he could
never remember how he got there. And it was not until the following
morning, when the sun was high in the heavens, that he awoke, aroused
by the ringing of the alarm bells, the blare of trumpets and beating
of drums. During the night the Versaillese, finding a gate undefended,
had effected an unresisted entrance at the Point-du-Jour.

When he had thrown on his clothes and hastened down into the street,
his musket slung across his shoulder by the strap, a band of
frightened soldiers whom he fell in with at the _mairie_ of the
arrondissement related to him the occurrences of the night, in the
midst of a confusion such that at first he had hard work to
understand. Fort d'Issy and the great battery at Montretout, seconded
by Mont Valerien, for the last ten days had been battering the rampart
at the Point-du-Jour, as a consequence of which the Saint-Cloud gate
was no longer tenable and an assault had been ordered for the
following morning, the 22d; but someone who chanced to pass that way
at about five o'clock perceived that the gate was unprotected and
immediately notified the guards in the trenches, who were not more
than fifty yards away. Two companies of the 37th regiment of regulars
were the first to enter the city, and were quickly followed by the
entire 4th corps under General Douay. All night long the troops were
pouring in in an uninterrupted stream. At seven o'clock Verge's
division marched down to the bridge at Grenelle, crossed, and pushed
on to the Trocadero. At nine General Clinchamp was master of Passy and
la Muette. At three o'clock in the morning the 1st corps had pitched
its t

VIII.


When at about nine o'clock the train from Sedan, after innumerable
delays along the way, rolled into the Saint-Denis station, the sky to
the south was lit up by a fiery glow as if all Paris was burning. The
light had increased with the growing darkness, and now it filled the
horizon, climbing constantly higher up the heavens and tingeing with
blood-red hues some clouds, that lay off to the eastward in the gloom
which the contrast rendered more opaque than ever.

The travelers alighted, Henriette among the first, alarmed by the
glare they had beheld from the windows of the cars as they rushed
onward across the darkling fields. The soldiers of a Prussian
detachment, moreover, that had been sent to occupy the station, went
through the train and compelled the passengers to leave it, while two
of their number, stationed on the platform, shouted in guttural
French:

"Paris is burning. All out here! this train goes no further. Paris is
burning, Paris is burning!"

Henriette experienced a terrible shock. _Mon Dieu!_ was she too late,
then? Receiving no reply from Maurice to her two last letters, the
alarming news from Paris had filled her with such mortal terror that
she determined to leave Remilly and come and try to find her brother
in the great city. For months past her life at Uncle Fouchard's had
been a melancholy one; the troops occupying the village and the
surrounding country had become harsher and more exacting as the
resistance of Paris was protracted, and now that peace was declared
and the regiments were stringing along the roads, one by one, on their
way home to Germany, the country and the cities through which they
passed were taxed to their utmost to feed the hungry soldiers. The
morning when she arose at daybreak to go and take the train at Sedan,
looking out into the courtyard of the farmhouse she had seen a body of
cavalry who had slept there all night, scattered promiscuously on the
bare ground, wrapped in their long cloaks. They were so numerous that
the earth was hidden by them. Then, at the shrill summons of a trumpet
call, all had risen to their feet, silent, draped in the folds of
those long mantles, and in such serried, close array that she
involuntarily thought of the graves of a battlefield opening and
giving up their dead at the call of the last trump. And here again at
Saint-Denis she encountered the Prussians, and it was from Prussian
lips that came that cry which caused her such distress:

"All out here! this train goes no further. Paris is burning!"

Henriette, her little satchel in her hand, rushed distractedly up to
the men in quest of information. There had been heavy fighting in
Paris for the last two days, they told her, the railway had been
destroyed, the Germans were watching the course of events. But she
insisted on pursuing her journey at every risk, and catching sight
upon the platform of the officer in command of the detachment detailed
to guard the station, she hurried up to him.

"Sir, I am terribly distressed about my brother, and am trying to get
to him. I entreat you, furnish me with the means to reach Paris." The
light from a gas jet fell full on the captain's face she stopped in
surprise. "What, Otto, is it you! Oh, _mon Dieu_, be good to me, since
chance has once more brought us together!"

It was Otto Gunther, the cousin, as stiff and ceremonious as ever,
tight-buttoned in his Guard's uniform, the picture of a narrow-minded
martinet. At first he failed to recognize the little, thin,
insignificant-looking woman, with the handsome light hair and the
pale, gentle face; it was only by the brave, honest look that filled
her eyes that he finally remembered her. His only answer was a slight
shrug of the shoulders.

"You know I have a brother in the army," Henriette eagerly went on.
"He is in Paris; I fear he has allowed himself to become mixed up with
this horrible conflict. O Otto, I beseech you, assist me to continue
my journey."

At last he condescended to speak. "But I can do nothing to help you;
really I cannot. There have been no trains running since yesterday; I
believe the rails have been torn up over by the ramparts somewhere.
And I have neither a horse and carriage nor a man to guide you at my
disposal."

She looked him in the face with a low, stifled murmur of pain and
sorrow to behold him thus obdurate. "Oh, you will do nothing to aid
me. My God, to whom then can I turn!"

It was an unlikely story for one of those Prussians to tell, whose
hosts were everywhere all-powerful, who had the city at their beck and
call, could have requisitioned a hundred carriages and brought a
thousand horses from their stables. And he denied her prayer with the
haughty air of a victor who has made it a law to himself not to
interfere with the concerns of the vanquished, lest thereby he might
defile himself and tarnish the luster of his new-won laurels.

"At all events," continued Henriette, "you know what is going on in
the city; you won't refuse to tell me that much."

He gave a smile, so faint as scarce to be perceptible. "Paris is
burning. Look! come this way, you can see more clearly."

Leaving the station, he preceded her along the track for a hundred
steps or so until they came to an iron foot-bridge that spanned the
road. When they had climbed the narrow stairs and reached the floor of
the structure, resting their elbows on the railing, they beheld the
broad level plain outstretched before them, at the foot of the slope
of the embankment.

"You see, Paris is burning."

It was in the neighborhood of ten o'clock. The fierce red glare that
lit the southern sky was ever mounting higher. The blood-red clouds
had disappeared from where they had floated in the east; the zenith
was like a great inverted bowl of inky blackness, across which ran the
reflections of the distant flames. The horizon was one unbroken line
of fire, but to the right they could distinguish spots where the
conflagration was raging with greater fury, sending up great spires
and pinnacles of flame, of the most vivid scarlet, to pierce the dense
opacity above, amid billowing clouds of smoke. It was like the burning
of some great forest, where the fire bridges intervening space, and
leaps from tree to tree; one would have said the very earth must be
calcined and reduced to ashes beneath the heat of Paris' gigantic
funeral pyre.

"Look," said Otto, "that eminence that you see profiled in black
against the red background is Montmartre. There on the left, at
Belleville and la Villette, there has not been a house burned yet; it
must be they are selecting the districts of the wealthy for their
work; and it spreads, it spreads. Look! there is another conflagration
breaking out; watch the flames there to the right, how they seethe and
rise and fall; observe the shifting tints of the vapors that rise from
the blazing furnace. And others, and others still; the heavens are on
fire!"

He did not raise his voice or manifest any sign of feeling, and it
froze Henriette's blood that a human being could stand by and witness
such a spectacle unmoved. Ah, that those Prussians should be there to
see that sight! She saw an insult in his studied calmness, in the
faint smile that played upon his lips, as if he had long foreseen and
been watching for that unparalleled disaster. So, Paris was burning
then at last, Paris, upon whose monuments the German shells had scarce
been able to inflict more than a scratch! and he was there to see it
burn, and in the spectacle found compensation for all his grievances,
the inordinate length to which the siege had been protracted, the
bitter, freezing weather, the difficulties they had surmounted only to
see them present themselves anew under some other shape, the toil and
trouble they had had in mounting their heavy guns, while all the time
Germany from behind was reproaching them with their dilatoriness.
Nothing in all the glory of their victory, neither the ceded provinces
nor the indemnity of five milliards, appealed to him so strongly as
did that sight of Paris, in a fit of furious madness, immolating
herself and going up in smoke and flame on that beautiful spring
night.

"Ah, it was sure to come," he added in a lower voice. "Fine work, my
masters!"

It seemed to Henriette as if her heart would break in presence of that
dire catastrophe. Her personal grief was lost to sight for some
minutes, swallowed up in the great drama of a people's atonement that
was being enacted before her eyes. The thought of the lives that would
be sacrificed to the devouring flames, the sight of the great capital
blazing on the horizon, emitting the infernal light of the cities that
were accursed and smitten for their iniquity, elicited from her an
involuntary cry of anguish. She clasped her hands, asking:

"Oh, merciful Father, of what have we been guilty that we should be
punished thus?"

Otto raised his arm in an oratorical attitude. He was on the point of
speaking, with the stern, cold-blooded vehemence of the military bigot
who has ever a quotation from Holy Writ at his tongue's end, but
glancing at the young woman, the look he encountered from her candid,
gentle eyes checked him. Besides, his gesture had spoken for him; it
told his hatred for the nation, his conviction that he was in France
to mete out justice, delegated by the God of Armies, to chastise a
perverse and stiff-necked generation. Paris was burning off there on
the horizon in expiation of its centuries of dissolute life, of its
heaped-up measure of crime and lust. Once again the German race were
to be the saviors of the world, were to purge Europe of the remnant of
Latin corruption. He let his arm fall to his side and simply said:

"It is the end of all. There is another quartier doomed, for see, a
fresh fire has broken out there to the right. In that direction, that
line of flame that creeps onward like a stream of lava--"

Neither spoke for a long time; an awed silence rested on them. The
great waves of flame continued to ascend, sending up streamers and
ribbons of vivid light high into the heavens. Beneath the sea of fire
was every moment extending its boundaries, a tossing, stormy, burning
ocean, whence now arose dense clouds of smoke that collected over the
city in a huge pall of a somber coppery hue, which was wafted slowly
athwart the blackness of the night, streaking the vault of heaven with
its accursed rain of ashes and of soot.

Henriette started as if awaking from an evil dream, and, the thought
of her brother flowing in again upon her mind, once more became a
supplicant.

"Can you do nothing for me? won't you assist me to get to Paris?"

With his former air of unconcern Otto again raised his eyes to the
horizon, smiling vaguely.

"What would be the use? since to-morrow morning the city will be a
pile of ruins!"

And that was all; she left the bridge, without even bidding him
good-by, flying, she knew not whither, with her little satchel, while
he remained yet a long time at his post of observation, a motionless
figure, rigid and erect, lost in the darkness of the night, feasting
his eyes on the spectacle of that Babylon in flames.

Almost the first person that Henriette encountered on emerging from
the station was a stout lady who was chaffering with a hackman over
his charge for driving her to the Rue Richelieu in Paris, and the
young woman pleaded so touchingly, with tears in her eyes, that
finally the lady consented to let her occupy a seat in the carriage.
The driver, a little swarthy man, whipped up his horse and did not
open his lips once during the ride, but the stout lady was extremely
loquacious, telling how she had left the city the day but one before
after tightly locking and bolting her shop, but had been so imprudent
as to leave some valuable papers behind, hidden in a hole in the wall;
hence her mind had been occupied by one engrossing thought for the two
hours that the city had been burning, how she might return and snatch
her property from the flames. The sleepy guards at the barrier allowed
the carriage to pass without much difficulty, the worthy lady allaying
their scruples with a fib, telling them she was bringing back her
niece with her to Paris to assist in nursing her husband, who had been
wounded by the Versaillese. It was not until they commenced to make
their way along the paved streets that they encountered serious
obstacles; they were obliged at every moment to turn out in order to
avoid the barricades that were erected across the roadway, and when at
last they reached the boulevard Poissoniere the driver declared he
would go no further. The two women were therefore forced to continue
their way on foot, through the Rue du Sentier, the Rue des Jeuneurs,
and all the circumscribing region of the Bourse. As they approached
the fortifications the blazing sky had made their way as bright before
them as if it had been broad day; now they were surprised by the
deserted and tranquil condition of the streets, where the only sound
that disturbed the stillness was a dull, distant roar. In the vicinity
of the Bourse, however, they were alarmed by the sound of musketry;
they slipped along with great caution, hugging the walls. On reaching
the Rue Richelieu and finding her shop had not been disturbed, the
stout lady was so overjoyed that she insisted on seeing her traveling
companion safely housed; they struck through the Rue du Hazard, the
Rue Saint-Anne, and finally reached the Rue des Orties. Some
federates, whose battalion was still holding the Rue Saint-Anne,
attempted to prevent them from passing. It was four o'clock and
already quite light when Henriette, exhausted by the fatigue of her
long day and the stress of her emotions, reached the old house in the
Rue des Orties and found the door standing open. Climbing the dark,
narrow staircase, she turned to the left and discovered behind a door
a ladder that led upward toward the roof.

Maurice, meantime, behind the barricade in the Rue du Bac, had
succeeded in raising himself to his knees, and Jean's heart throbbed
with a wild, tumultuous hope, for he believed he had pinned his friend
to the earth.

"Oh, my little one, are you alive still? is that great happiness in
store for me, brute that I am? Wait a moment, let me see."

He examined the wound with great tenderness by the light of the
burning buildings. The bayonet had gone through the right arm near the
shoulder, but a more serious part of the business was that it had
afterward entered the body between two of the ribs and probably
touched the lung. Still, the wounded man breathed without much
apparent difficulty, but the right arm hung useless at his side.

"Poor old boy, don't grieve! We shall have time to say good-by to each
other, and it is better thus, you see; I am glad to have done with it
all. You have done enough for me to make up for this, for I should
have died long ago in some ditch, even as I am dying now, had it not
been for you."

But Jean, hearing him speak thus, again gave way to an outburst of
violent grief.

"Hush, hush! Twice you saved me from the clutches of the Prussians. We
were quits; it was my turn to devote my life, and instead of that I
have slain you. Ah, _tonnerre de Dieu!_ I must have been drunk not to
recognize you; yes, drunk as a hog from glutting myself with blood."

Tears streamed from his eyes at the recollection of their last
parting, down there, at Remilly, when they embraced, asking themselves
if they should ever meet again, and how, under what circumstances of
sorrow or of gladness. It was nothing, then, that they had passed
toilsome days and sleepless nights together, with death staring them
in the face? It was to bring them to this abominable thing, to this
senseless, atrocious fratricide, that their hearts had been fused in
the crucible of those weeks of suffering endured in common? No, no, it
could not be; he turned in horror from the thought.

"Let's see what I can do, little one; I must save you."

The first thing to be done was to remove him to a place of safety, for
the troops dispatched the wounded Communists wherever they found them.
They were alone, fortunately; there was not a minute to lose. He first
ripped the sleeve from wrist to shoulder with his knife, then took off
the uniform coat. Some blood flowed; he made haste to bandage the arm
securely with strips that he tore from the lining of the garment for
the purpose. After that he staunched as well as he could the wound in
the side and fastened the injured arm over it, He luckily had a bit of
cord in his pocket, which he knotted tightly around the primitive
dressing, thus assuring the immobility of the injured parts and
preventing hemorrhage.

"Can you walk?"

"Yes, I think so."

But he did not dare to take him through the streets thus, in his shirt
sleeves. Remembering to have seen a dead soldier lying in an adjacent
street, he hurried off and presently came back with a capote and a
_kepi_. He threw the greatcoat over his friend's shoulders and
assisted him to slip his uninjured arm into the left sleeve. Then,
when he had put the _kepi_ on his head:

"There, now you are one of us--where are we to go?"

That was the question. His reviving hope and courage were suddenly
damped by a horrible uncertainty. Where were they to look for a
shelter that gave promise of security? the troops were searching the
houses, were shooting every Communist they took with arms in his
hands. And in addition to that, neither of them knew a soul in that
portion of the city to whom they might apply for succor and refuge;
not a place where they might hide their heads.

"The best thing to do would be to go home where I live," said Maurice.
"The house is out of the way; no one will ever think of visiting it.
But it is in the Rue des Orties, on the other side of the river."

Jean gave vent to a muttered oath in his irresolution and despair.

"_Nom de Dieu!_ What are we to do?"

It was useless to think of attempting to pass the Pont Royal, which
could not have been more brilliantly illuminated if the noonday sun
had been shining on it. At every moment shots were heard coming from
either bank of the river. Besides that, the blazing Tuileries lay
directly in their path, and the Louvre, guarded and barricaded, would
be an insurmountable obstacle.

"That ends it, then; there's no way open," said Jean, who had spent
six months in Paris on his return from the Italian campaign.

An idea suddenly flashed across his brain. There had formerly been a
place a little below the Pont Royal where small boats were kept for
hire; if the boats were there still they would make the venture. The
route was a long and dangerous one, but they had no choice, and,
further, they must act with decision.

"See here, little one, we're going to clear out from here; the
locality isn't healthy. I'll manufacture an excuse for my lieutenant;
I'll tell him the communards took me prisoner and I got away."

Taking his unhurt arm he sustained him for the short distance they had
to traverse along the Rue du Bac, where the tall houses on either hand
were now ablaze from cellar to garret, like huge torches. The burning
cinders fell on them in showers, the heat was so intense that the hair
on their head and face was singed, and when they came out on the
_quai_ they stood for a moment dazed and blinded by the terrific light
of the conflagrations, rearing their tall crests heavenward, on either
side the Seine.

"One wouldn't need a candle to go to bed by here," grumbled Jean, with
whose plans the illumination promised to interfere. And it was only
when he had helped Maurice down the steps to the left and a little way
down stream from the bridge that he felt somewhat easy in mind. There
was a clump of tall trees standing on the bank of the stream, whose
shadow gave them a measure of security. For near a quarter of an hour
the dark forms moving to and fro on the opposite _quai_ kept them in a
fever of apprehension. There was firing, a scream was heard, succeeded
by a loud splash, and the bosom of the river was disturbed. The bridge
was evidently guarded.

"Suppose we pass the night in that shed?" suggested Maurice, pointing
to the wooden structure that served the boatman as an office.

"Yes, and get pinched to-morrow morning!"

Jean was still harboring his idea. He had found quite a flotilla of
small boats there, but they were all securely fastened with chains;
how was he to get one loose and secure a pair of oars? At last he
discovered two oars that had been thrown aside as useless; he
succeeded in forcing a padlock, and when he had stowed Maurice away in
the bow, shoved off and allowed the boat to drift with the current,
cautiously hugging the shore and keeping in the shadow of the
bathing-houses. Neither of them spoke a word, horror-stricken as they
were by the baleful spectacle that presented itself to their vision.
As they floated down the stream and their horizon widened the enormity
of the terrible sight increased, and when they reached the bridge of
Solferino a single glance sufficed to embrace both the blazing
_quais_.

On their left the palace of the Tuileries was burning. It was not yet
dark when the Communists had fired the two extremities of the
structure, the Pavilion de Flore and the Pavilion de Marsan, and with
rapid strides the flames had gained the Pavilion de l'Horloge in the
central portion, beneath which, in the Salle des Marechaux, a mine had
been prepared by stacking up casks of powder. At that moment the
intervening buildings were belching from their shattered windows dense
volumes of reddish smoke, streaked with long ribbons of blue flame.
The roofs, yawning as does the earth in regions where volcanic
agencies prevail, were seamed with great cracks through which the
raging sea of fire beneath was visible. But the grandest, saddest
spectacle of all was that afforded by the Pavilion de Flore, to which
the torch had been earliest applied and which was ablaze from its
foundation to its lofty summit, burning with a deep, fierce roar that
could be heard far away. The petroleum with which the floors and
hangings had been soaked gave the flames an intensity such that the
ironwork of the balconies was seen to twist and writhe in the
convolutions of a serpent, and the tall monumental chimneys, with
their elaborate carvings, glowed with the fervor of live coals.

Then, still on their left, were, first, the Chancellerie of the Legion
of Honor, which was fired at five o'clock in the afternoon and had
been burning nearly seven hours, and next, the Palace of the Council
of State, a huge rectangular structure of stone, which was spouting
torrents of fire from every orifice in each of its two colonnaded
stories. The four structures surrounding the great central court had
all caught at the same moment, and the petroleum, which here also had
been distributed by the barrelful, had poured down the four grand
staircases at the four corners of the building in rivers of hellfire.
On the facade that faced the river the black line of the mansard was
profiled distinctly against the ruddy sky, amid the red tongues that
rose to lick its base, while colonnades, entablatures, friezes,
carvings, all stood out with startling vividness in the blinding,
shimmering glow. So great was the energy of the fire, so terrible its
propulsive force, that the colossal structure was in some sort raised
bodily from the earth, trembling and rumbling on its foundations,
preserving intact only its four massive walls, in the fierce eruption
that hurled its heavy zinc roof high in air. Then, close at one side

were the d'Orsay barracks, which burned with a flame that seemed to
pierce the heavens, so purely white and so unwavering that it was like
a tower of light. And finally, back from the river, were still other
fires, the seven houses in the Rue du Bac, the twenty-two houses in
the Rue de Lille, helping to tinge the sky a deeper crimson, profiling
their flames on other flames, in a blood-red ocean that seemed to have
no end.

Jean murmured in awed tone:

"Did ever mortal man look on the like of this! the very river is on
fire."

Their boat seemed to be sailing on the bosom of an incandescent
stream. As the dancing lights of the mighty conflagrations were caught
by the ripples of the current the Seine seemed to be pouring down
torrents of living coals; flashes of intensest crimson played fitfully
across its surface, the blazing brands fell in showers into the water
and were extinguished with a hiss. And ever they floated downward with
the tide on the bosom of that blood-red stream, between the blazing
palaces on either hand, like wayfarers in some accursed city, doomed
to destruction and burning on the banks of a river of molten lava.

"Ah!" exclaimed Maurice, with a fresh access of madness at the sight
of the havoc he had longed for, "let it burn, let it all go up in
smoke!"

But Jean silenced him with a terrified gesture, as if he feared such
blasphemy might bring them evil. Where could a young man whom he loved
so fondly, so delicately nurtured, so well informed, have picked up
such ideas? And he applied himself more vigorously to the oars, for
they had now passed the bridge of Solferino and were come out into a
wide open space of water. The light was so intense that the river was
illuminated as by the noonday sun when it stands vertically above
men's heads and casts no shadow. The most minute objects, such as the
eddies in the stream, the stones piled on the banks, the small trees
along the _quais_, stood out before their vision with wonderful
distinctness. The bridges, too, were particularly noticeable in their
dazzling whiteness, and so clearly defined that they could have
counted every stone; they had the appearance of narrow gangways thrown
across the fiery stream to connect one conflagration with the other.
Amid the roar of the flames and the general clamor a loud crash
occasionally announced the fall of some stately edifice. Dense clouds
of soot hung in the air and settled everywhere, the wind brought odors
of pestilence on its wings. And another horror was that Paris, those
more distant quarters of the city that lay back from the banks of the
Seine, had ceased to exist for them. To right and left of the
conflagration that raged with such fierce resplendency was an
unfathomable gulf of blackness; all that presented itself to their
strained gaze was a vast waste of shadow, an empty void, as if the
devouring element had reached the utmost limits of the city and all
Paris were swallowed up in everlasting night. And the heavens, too,
were dead and lifeless; the flames rose so high that they extinguished
the stars.

Maurice, who was becoming delirious, laughed wildly.

"High carnival at the Consoil d'Etat and at the Tuileries to-night!
They have illuminated the facades, women are dancing beneath the
sparkling chandeliers. Ah, dance, dance and be merry, in your smoking
petticoats, with your chignons ablaze--"

And he drew a picture of the feasts of Sodom and Gomorrah, the music,
the lights, the flowers, the unmentionable orgies of lust and
drunkenness, until the candles on the walls blushed at the
shamelessness of the display and fired the palaces that sheltered such
depravity. Suddenly there was a terrific explosion. The fire,
approaching from either extremity of the Tuileries, had reached the
Salle des Marechaux, the casks of powder caught, the Pavilion de
l'Horloge was blown into the air with the violence of a powder mill. A
column of flame mounted high in the heavens, and spreading, expanded
in a great fiery plume on the inky blackness of the sky, the crowning
display of the horrid _fete_.

"Bravo!" exclaimed Maurice, as at the end of the play, when the lights
are extinguished and darkness settles on the stage.

Again Jean, in stammering, disconnected sentences, besought him to be
quiet. No, no, it was not right to wish evils to anyone! And if they
invoked destruction, would not they themselves perish in the general
ruin? His sole desire was to find a landing place so that he might no
longer have that horrid spectacle before his eyes. He considered it
best not to attempt to land at the Pont de la Concorde, but, rounding
the elbow of the Seine, pulled on until they reached the Quai de la
Conference, and even at that critical moment, instead of shoving the
skiff out into the stream to take its chances, he wasted some precious
moments in securing it, in his instinctive respect for the property of
others. While doing this he had seated Maurice comfortably on the
bank; his plan was to reach the Rue des Orties through the Place de la
Concorde and the Rue Saint-Honore. Before proceeding further he
climbed alone to the top of the steps that ascended from the _quai_ to
explore the ground, and on witnessing the obstacles they would have to
surmount his courage was almost daunted. There lay the impregnable
fortress of the Commune, the terrace of the Tuileries bristling with
cannon, the Rues Royale, Florentin, and Rivoli obstructed by lofty and
massive barricades; and this state of affairs explained the tactics of
the army of Versailles, whose line that night described an immense
arc, the center and apex resting on the Place de la Concorde, one of
the two extremities being at the freight depot of the Northern Railway
on the right bank, the other on the left bank, at one of the bastions
of the ramparts, near the gate of Arcueil. But as the night advanced
the Communards had evacuated the Tuileries and the barricades and the
regular troops had taken possession of the quartier in the midst of
further conflagrations; twelve houses at the junction of the Rue
Saint-Honore and the Rue Royale had been burning since nine o'clock in
the evening.

When Jean descended the steps and reached the river-bank again he
found Maurice in a semi-comatose condition, the effects of the
reaction after his hysterical outbreak.

"It will be no easy job. I hope you are going to be able to walk,
youngster?"

"Yes, yes; don't be alarmed. I'll get there somehow, alive or dead."

It was not without great difficulty that he climbed the stone steps,
and when he reached the level ground of the _quai_ at the summit he
walked very slowly, supported by his companion's arm, with the
shuffling gait of a somnambulist. The day had not dawned yet, but the
reflected light from the burning buildings cast a lurid illumination
on the wide Place. They made their way in silence across its deep
solitude, sick at heart to behold the mournful scene of devastation it
presented. At either extremity, beyond the bridge and at the further
end of the Rue Royale, they could faintly discern the shadowy outlines
of the Palais Bourbon and the Church of the Madeleine, torn by shot
and shell. The terrace of the Tuileries had been breached by the fire
of the siege guns and was partially in ruins. On the Place itself the
bronze railings and ornaments of the fountains had been chipped and
defaced by the balls; the colossal statue of Lille lay on the ground
shattered by a projectile, while near at hand the statue of
Strasbourg, shrouded in heavy veils of crape, seemed to be mourning
the ruin that surrounded it on every side. And near the Obelisk, which
had escaped unscathed, a gas-pipe in its trench had been broken by the
pick of a careless workman, and the escaping gas, fired by some
accident, was flaring up in a great undulating jet, with a roaring,
hissing sound.

Jean gave a wide berth to the barricade erected across the Rue Royale
between the Ministry of Marine and the Garde-Meuble, both of which the
fire had spared; he could hear the voices of the soldiers behind the
sand bags and casks of earth with which it was constructed. Its front
was protected by a ditch, filled with stagnant, greenish water, in
which was floating the dead body of a federate, and through one of its
embrasures they caught a glimpse of the houses in the carrefour
Saint-Honore, which were burning still in spite of the engines that
had come in from the suburbs, of which they heard the roar and
clatter. To right and left the trees and the kiosks of the newspaper
venders were riddled by the storm of bullets to which they had been
subjected. Loud cries of horror arose; the firemen, in exploring the
cellar of one of the burning houses, had come across the charred
bodies of seven of its inmates.

Although the barricade that closed the entrance to the Rue
Saint-Florentin and the Rue de Rivoli by its skilled construction and
great height appeared even more formidable than the other, Jean's
instinct told him they would have less difficulty in getting by it. It
was completely evacuated, indeed, and the Versailles troops had not
yet entered it. The abandoned guns were resting in the embrasures in
peaceful slumber, the only living thing behind that invincible rampart
was a stray dog, that scuttled away in haste. But as Jean was making
what speed he could along the Rue Saint-Florentin, sustaining Maurice,
whose strength was giving out, that which he had been in fear of came
to pass; they fell directly into the arms of an entire company of
the 88th of the line, which had turned the barricade.

"Captain," he explained, "this is a comrade of mine, who has just been
wounded by those bandits. I am taking him to the hospital."

It was then that the capote which he had thrown over Maurice's
shoulders stood them in good stead, and Jean's heart was beating like
a trip-hammer as at last they turned into the Rue Saint-Honore. Day
was just breaking, and the sound of shots reached their ears from the
cross-streets, for fighting was going on still throughout the
quartier. It was little short of a miracle that they finally reached
the Rue des Frondeurs without sustaining any more disagreeable
adventure. Their progress was extremely slow; the last four or five
hundred yards appeared interminable. In the Rue des Frondeurs they
struck up against a communist picket, but the federates, thinking a
whole regiment was at hand, took to their heels. And now they had but
a short bit of the Rue d'Argenteuil to traverse and they would be safe
in the Rue des Orties.

For four long hours that seemed like an eternity Jean's longing desire
had been bent on that Rue des Orties with feverish impatience, and now
they were there it appeared like a haven of safety. It was dark,
silent, and deserted, as if there were no battle raging within a
hundred leagues of it. The house, an old, narrow house without a
concierge, was still as the grave.

"I have the keys in my pocket," murmured Maurice. "The big one opens
the street door, the little one is the key of my room, way at the top
of the house."

He succumbed and fainted dead away in Jean's arms, whose alarm and
distress were extreme. They made him forget to close the outer door,
and he had to grope his way up that strange, dark staircase, bearing
his lifeless burden and observing the greatest caution not to stumble
or make any noise that might arouse the sleeping inmates of the rooms.
When he had gained the top he had to deposit the wounded man on the
floor while he searched for the chamber door by striking matches, of
which he fortunately had a supply in his pocket, and only when he had
found and opened it did he return and raise him in his arms again.
Entering, he laid him on the little iron bed that faced the window,
which he threw open to its full extent in his great need of air and
light. It was broad day; he dropped on his knees beside the bed,
sobbing as if his heart would break, suddenly abandoned by all his
strength as the fearful thought again smote him that he had slain his
friend.

Minutes passed; he was hardly surprised when, raising his eyes, he saw
Henriette standing by the bed. It was perfectly natural: her brother
was dying, she had come. He had not even seen her enter the room; for
all he knew she might have been standing there for hours. He sank into
a chair and watched her with stupid eyes as she hovered about the bed,
her heart wrung with mortal anguish at sight of her brother lying
there senseless, in his blood-stained garments. Then his memory began
to act again; he asked:

"Tell me, did you close the street door?"

She answered with an affirmative motion of the head, and as she came
toward him, extending her two hands in her great need of sympathy and
support, he added:

"You know it was I who killed him."

She did not understand; she did not believe him. He felt no flutter in
the two little hands that rested confidingly in his own.

"It was I who killed him--yes, 'twas over yonder, behind a barricade,
I did it. He was fighting on one side, I on the other--"

There began to be a fluttering of the little hands.

"We were like drunken men, none of us knew what he as about--it was I
who killed him."

Then Henriette, shivering, pale as death, withdrew her hands, fixing
on him a gaze that was full of horror. Father of Mercy, was the end of
all things come! was her crushed and bleeding heart to know no peace
for ever more! Ah, that Jean, of whom she had been thinking that very
day, happy in the unshaped hope that perhaps she might see him once
again! And it was he who had done that abominable thing; and yet he
had saved Maurice, for was it not he who had brought him home through
so many perils? She could not yield her hands to him now without a
revolt of all her being, but she uttered a cry into which she threw
the last hope of her tortured and distracted heart.

"Oh! I will save him; I _must_ save him, now!"

She had acquired considerable experience in surgery during the long
time she had been in attendance on the hospital at Remilly, and now
she proceeded without delay to examine her brother's hurt, who
remained unconscious while she was undressing him. But when she undid
the rude bandage of Jean's invention, he stirred feebly and uttered a
faint cry of pain, opening wide his eyes that were bright with fever.
He recognized her at once and smiled.

"You here! Ah, how glad I am to see you once more before I die!"

She silenced him, speaking in a tone of cheerful confidence.

"Hush, don't talk of dying; I won't allow it! I mean that you shall
live! There, be quiet, and let me see what is to be done."

However, when Henriette had examined the injured arm and the wound in
the side, her face became clouded and a troubled look rose to her
eyes. She installed herself as mistress in the room, searching until
she found a little oil, tearing up old shirts for bandages, while Jean
descended to the lower regions for a pitcher of water. He did not open
his mouth, but looked on in silence as she washed and deftly dressed
the wounds, incapable of aiding her, seemingly deprived of all power
of action by her presence there. When she had concluded her task,
however, noticing her alarmed expression, he proposed to her that he
should go and secure a doctor, but she was in possession of all her
clear intelligence. No, no; she would not have a chance-met doctor, of
whom they knew nothing, who, perhaps, would betray her brother to the
authorities. They must have a man they could depend on; they could
afford to wait a few hours. Finally, when Jean said he must go and
report for duty with his company, it was agreed that he should return
as soon as he could get away, and try to bring a surgeon with him.

He delayed his departure, seemingly unable to make up his mind to
leave that room, whose atmosphere was pervaded by the evil he had
unintentionally done. The window, which had been closed for a moment,
had been opened again, and from it the wounded man, lying on his bed,
his head propped up by pillows, was looking out over the city, while
the others, also, in the oppressive silence that had settled on the
chamber, were gazing out into vacancy.

From that elevated point of the Butte des Moulins a good half of Paris
lay stretched beneath their eyes in a vast panorama: first the central
districts, from the Faubourg Saint-Honore to the Bastille, then the
Seine in its entire course through the city, with the thickly-built,
densely-populated regions of the left bank, an ocean of roofs,
treetops, steeples, domes, and towers. The light was growing stronger,
the abominable night, than which there have been few more terrible in
history, was ended; but beneath the rosy sky, in the pure, clear light
of the rising sun, the fires were blazing still. Before them lay the
burning Tuileries, the d'Orsay barracks, the Palaces of the Council of
State and the Legion of Honor, the flames from which were paled by the
superior refulgence of the day-star. Even beyond the houses in the Rue
de Lille and the Rue du Bac there must have been other structures
burning, for clouds of smoke were visible rising from the carrefour of
la Croix-Rouge, and, more distant still, from the Rue Vavin and the
Rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs. Nearer at hand and to their right the fires
in the Rue Saint-Honore were dying out, while to the left, at the
Palais-Royal and the new Louvre, to which the torch had not been
applied until near morning, the work of the incendiaries was
apparently a failure. But what they were unable to account for at
first was the dense volume of black smoke which, impelled by the west
wind, came driving past their window. Fire had been set to the
Ministry of Finance at three o'clock in the morning and ever since
that time it had been smoldering, emitting no blaze, among the stacks
and piles of documents that were contained in the low-ceiled,
fire-proof vaults and chambers. And if the terrific impressions of the
night were not there to preside at the awakening of the great city
--the fear of total destruction, the Seine pouring its fiery waves
past their doors, Paris kindling into flame from end to end--a feeling
of gloom and despair, hung heavy over the quartiers that had been
spared, with that dense, on-pouring smoke, whose dusky cloud was ever
spreading. Presently the sun, which had risen bright and clear, was
hid by it, and the golden sky was filled with the great funeral pall.

Maurice, who appeared to be delirious again, made a slow, sweeping
gesture that embraced the entire horizon, murmuring:

"Is it all burning? Ah, how long it takes!"

Tears rose to Henriette's eyes, as if her burden of misery was made
heavier for her by the share her brother had had in those deeds of
horror. And Jean, who dared neither take her hand nor embrace his
friend, left the room with the air of one crazed by grief.

"I will return soon. _Au revoir_!"

It was dark, however, nearly eight o'clock, before he was able to
redeem his promise. Notwithstanding his great distress he was happy;
his regiment had been transferred from the first to the second line
and assigned the task of protecting the quartier, so that, bivouacking
with his company in the Place du Carrousel, he hoped to get a chance
to run in each evening to see how the wounded man was getting on. And
he did not return alone; as luck would have it he had fallen in with
the former surgeon of the 106th and had brought him along with him,
having been unable to find another doctor, consoling himself with the
reflection that the terrible, big man with the lion's mane was not
such a bad sort of fellow after all.

When Bouroche, who knew nothing of the patient he was summoned with
such insistence to attend and grumbled at having to climb so many
stairs, learned that it was a Communist he had on his hands he
commenced to storm.

"God's thunder, what do you take me for? Do you suppose I'm going to
waste my time on those thieving, murdering, house-burning scoundrels?
As for this particular bandit, his case is clear, and I'll take it
upon me to see he is cured; yes, with a bullet in his head!"

But his anger subsided suddenly at sight of Henriette's pale face and
her golden hair streaming in disorder over her black dress.

"He is my brother, doctor, and he was with you at Sedan."

He made no reply, but uncovered the injuries and examined them in
silence; then, taking some phials from his pocket, he made a fresh
dressing, explaining to the young woman how it was done. When he had
finished he turned suddenly to the patient and asked in his loud,
rough voice:

"Why did you take sides with those ruffians? What could cause you to
be guilty of such an abomination?"

Maurice, with a feverish luster in his eyes, had been watching him
since he entered the room, but no word had escaped his lips. He
answered in a voice that was almost fierce, so eager was it:

"Because there is too much suffering in the world, too much
wickedness, too much infamy!"

Bouroche's shrug of the shoulders seemed to indicate that he thought a
young man was likely to make his mark who carried such ideas about in
his head. He appeared to be about to say something further, but
changed his mind and bowed himself out, simply adding:

"I will come in again."

To Henriette, on the landing, he said he would not venture to make any
promises. The injury to the lung was serious; hemorrhage might set in
and carry off the patient without a moment's warning. And when she
re-entered the room she forced a smile to her lips, notwithstanding
the sharp stab with which the doctor's words had pierced her heart,
for had she not promised herself to save him? and could she permit him
to be snatched from them now that they three were again united, with a
prospect of a lifetime of affection and happiness before them? She had
not left the room since morning, an old woman who lived on the landing
having kindly offered to act as her messenger for the purchase of such
things as she required. And she returned and resumed her place upon a
chair at her brother's bedside.

But Maurice, in his febrile excitation, questioned Jean, insisting on
knowing what had happened since the morning. The latter did not tell
him everything, maintaining a discreet silence upon the furious rage
which Paris, now it was delivered from its tyrants, was manifesting
toward the dying Commune. It was now Wednesday. For two interminable
days succeeding the Sunday evening when the conflict first broke out
the citizens had lived in their cellars, quaking with fear, and when
they ventured out at last on Wednesday morning, the spectacle of
bloodshed and devastation that met their eyes on every side, and more
particularly the frightful ruin entailed by the conflagrations,
aroused in their breasts feelings the bitterest and most vindictive.
It was felt in every quarter that the punishment must be worthy of the
crime. The houses in the suspected quarters were subjected to a
rigorous search and men and women who were at all tainted with
suspicion were led away in droves and shot without formality. At six
o'clock of the evening of that day the army of the Versaillese was
master of the half of Paris, following the line of the principal
avenues from the park of Montsouris to the station of the Northern
Railway, and the remainder of the braver members of the Commune, a
mere handful, some twenty or so, had taken refuge in the _mairie_ of
the eleventh arrondissement, in the Boulevard Voltaire.

They were silent when he concluded his narration, and Maurice, his
glance vaguely wandering over the city through the open window that
let in the soft, warm air of evening, murmured:

"Well, the work goes on; Paris continues to burn!"

It was true: the flames were becoming visible again in the increasing
darkness and the heavens were reddened once more with the ill-omened
light. That afternoon the powder magazine at the Luxembourg had
exploded with a frightful detonation, which gave rise to a report that
the Pantheon had collapsed and sunk into the catacombs. All that day,
moreover, the conflagrations of the night pursued their course
unchecked; the Palace of the Council of State and the Tuileries were
burning still, the Ministry of Finance continued to belch forth its
billowing clouds of smoke. A dozen times Henriette was obliged to
close the window against the shower of blackened, burning paper that
the hot breath of the fire whirled upward into the sky, whence it
descended to earth again in a fine rain of fragments; the streets of
Paris were covered with them, and some were found in the fields of
Normandy, thirty leagues away. And now it was not the western and
southern districts alone which seemed devoted to destruction, the
houses in the Rue Royale and those of the Croix-Rouge and the Rue
Notre-Dame-des-Champs: the entire eastern portion of the city appeared
to be in flames, the Hotel de Ville glowed on the horizon like a
mighty furnace. And in that direction also, blazing like gigantic
beacon-fires upon the mountain tops, were the Theatre-Lyrique, the
_mairie_ of the fourth arrondissement, and more than thirty houses in
the adjacent streets, to say nothing of the theater of the
Porte-Saint-Martin, further to the north, which illuminated the
darkness of its locality as a stack of grain lights up the deserted,
dusky fields at night. There is no doubt that in many cases the
incendiaries were actuated by motives of personal revenge; perhaps,
too, there were criminal records which the parties implicated had an
object in destroying. It was no longer a question of self-defense with
the Commune, of checking the advance of the victorious troops by fire;
a delirium of destruction raged among its adherents: the Palace of
Justice, the Hotel-Dieu and the cathedral of Notre-Dame escaped by the
merest chance. They would destroy solely for the sake of destroying,
would bury the effete, rotten humanity beneath the ruins of a world,
in the hope that from the ashes might spring a new and innocent race
that should realize the primitive legends of an earthly paradise. And
all that night again did the sea of flame roll its waves over Paris.

"Ah; war, war, what a hateful thing it is!" said Henriette to herself,
looking out on the sore-smitten city.

Was it not indeed the last act, the inevitable conclusion of the
tragedy, the blood-madness for which the lost fields of Sedan and Metz
were responsible, the epidemic of destruction born from the siege of
Paris, the supreme struggle of a nation in peril of dissolution, in
the midst of slaughter and universal ruin?

But Maurice, without taking his eyes from the fires that were raging
in the distance, feebly, and with an effort, murmured:

"No, no; do not be unjust toward war. It is good; it has its appointed
work to do--"

There were mingled hatred and remorse in the cry with which Jean
interrupted him.

"Good God! When I see you lying there, and know it is through my
fault-- Do not say a word in defense of it; it is an accursed thing,
is war!"

The wounded man smiled faintly.

"Oh, as for me, what matters it? There is many another in my
condition. It may be that this blood-letting was necessary for us. War
is life, which cannot exist without its sister, death."

And Maurice closed his eyes, exhausted by the effort it had cost him
to utter those few words. Henriette signaled Jean not to continue the
discussion. It angered her; all her being rose in protest against such
suffering and waste of human life, notwithstanding the calm bravery of
her frail woman's nature, with her clear, limpid eyes, in which lived
again all the heroic spirit of the grandfather, the veteran of the
Napoleonic wars.

Two days more, Thursday and Friday, passed, like their predecessors,
amid scenes of slaughter and conflagration. The thunder of the
artillery was incessant; the batteries of the army of Versailles on
the heights of Montmartre roared against those that the federates had
established at Belleville and Pare-Lachaise without a moment's
respite, while the latter maintained a desultory fire on Paris. Shells
had fallen in the Rue Richelieu and the Place Vendome. At evening on
the 25th the entire left bank was in possession of the regular troops,
but on the right bank the barricades in the Place Chateau d'Eau and
the Place de la Bastille continued to hold out; they were veritable
fortresses, from which proceeded an uninterrupted and most destructive
fire. At twilight, while the last remaining members of the Commune
were stealing off to make provision for their safety, Delescluze took
his cane and walked leisurely away to the barricade that was thrown
across the Boulevard Voltaire, where he died a hero's death. At
daybreak on the following morning, the 26th, the Chateau d'Eau and
Bastille positions were carried, and the Communists, now reduced to a
handful of brave men who were resolved to sell their lives dearly, had
only la Villette, Belleville, and Charonne left to them, And for two
more days they remained and fought there with the fury of despair.

On Friday evening, as Jean was on his way from the Place du Carrousel
to the Rue des Orties, he witnessed a summary execution in the Rue
Richelieu that filled him with horror. For the last forty-eight hours
two courts-martial had been sitting, one at the Luxembourg, the other
at the Theatre du Chatelet; the prisoners convicted by the former were
taken into the garden and shot, while those found guilty by the latter
were dragged away to the Lobau barracks, where a platoon of soldiers
that was kept there in constant attendance for the purpose mowed them
down, almost at point-blank range. The scenes of slaughter there were
most horrible: there were men and women who had been condemned to
death on the flimsiest evidence: because they had a stain of powder on
their hands, because their feet were shod with army shoes; there were
innocent persons, the victims of private malice, who had been
wrongfully denounced, shrieking forth their entreaties and
explanations and finding no one to lend an ear to them; and all were
driven pell-mell against a wall, facing the muzzles of the muskets,
often so many poor wretches in the band at once that the bullets did
not suffice for all and it became necessary to finish the wounded with
the bayonet. From morning until night the place was streaming with
blood; the tumbrils were kept busy bearing away the bodies of the
dead. And throughout the length and breadth of the city, keeping pace
with the revengeful clamors of the people, other executions were
continually taking place, in front of barricades, against the walls in
the deserted streets, on the steps of the public buildings. It was
under such circumstances that Jean saw a woman and two men dragged by
the residents of the quartier before the officer commanding the
detachment that was guarding the Theatre Francais. The citizens showed
themselves more bloodthirsty than the soldiery, and those among the
newspapers that had resumed publication were howling for measures of
extermination. A threatening crowd surrounded the prisoners and was
particularly violent against the woman, in whom the excited bourgeois
beheld one of those _petroleuses_ who were the constant bugbear of
terror-haunted imaginations, whom they accused of prowling by night,
slinking along the darkened streets past the dwellings of the wealthy,
to throw cans of lighted petroleum into unprotected cellars. This
woman, was the cry, had been found bending over a coal-hole in the Rue
Sainte-Anne. And notwithstanding her denials, accompanied by tears and
supplications, she was hurled, together with the two men, to the
bottom of the ditch in front of an abandoned barricade, and there,
lying in the mud and slime, they were shot with as little pity as
wolves caught in a trap. Some by-passers stopped and looked
indifferently on the scene, among them a lady hanging on her husband's
arm, while a baker's boy, who was carrying home a tart to someone in
the neighborhood, whistled the refrain of a popular air.

As Jean, sick at heart, was hurrying along the street toward the house
in the Rue des Orties, a sudden recollection flashed across his mind.
Was not that Chouteau, the former member of his squad, whom he had
seen, in the blouse of a respectable workman, watching the execution
and testifying his approval of it in a loud-mouthed way? He was a
proficient in his role of bandit, traitor, robber, and assassin! For a
moment the corporal thought he would retrace his steps, denounce him,
and send him to keep company with the other three. Ah, the sadness of
the thought; the guilty ever escaping punishment, parading their
unwhipped infamy in the bright light of day, while the innocent molder
in the earth!

Henriette had come out upon the landing at the sound of footsteps
coming up the stairs, where she welcomed Jean with a manner that
indicated great alarm.

"'Sh! he has been extremely violent all day long. The major was here,
I am in despair--"

Bouroche, in fact, had shaken his head ominously, saying he could
promise nothing as yet. Nevertheless the patient might pull through,
in spite of all the evil consequences he feared; he had youth on his
side.

"Ah, here you are at last," Maurice said impatiently to Jean, as soon
as he set eyes on him. "I have been waiting for you. What is going on
--how do matters stand?" And supported by the pillows at his back, his
face to the window which he had forced his sister to open for him, he
pointed with his finger to the city, where, on the gathering darkness,
the lambent flames were beginning to rise anew. "You see, it is
breaking out again; Paris is burning. All Paris will burn this time!"

As soon as daylight began to fade, the distant quarters beyond the
Seine had been lighted up by the burning of the Grenier d'Abondance.
From time to time there was an outburst of flame, accompanied by a
shower of sparks, from the smoking ruins of the Tuileries, as some
wall or ceiling fell and set the smoldering timbers blazing afresh.
Many houses, where the fire was supposed to be extinguished, flamed up
anew; for the last three days, as soon as darkness descended on the
city it seemed as if it were the signal for the conflagrations to
break out again; as if the shades of night had breathed upon the still
glowing embers, reanimating them, and scattering them to the four
corners of the horizon. Ah, that city of the damned, that had harbored
for a week within its bosom the demon of destruction, incarnadining
the sky each evening as soon as twilight fell, illuminating with its
infernal torches the nights of that week of slaughter! And when, that
night, the docks at la Villette burned, the light they shed upon the
huge city was so intense that it seemed to be on fire in every part at
once, overwhelmed and drowned beneath the sea of flame.

"Ah, it is the end!" Maurice repeated. "Paris is doomed!"

He reiterated the words again and again with apparent relish, actuated
by a feverish desire to hear the sound of his voice once more, after
the dull lethargy that had kept him tongue-tied for three days. But
the sound of stifled sobs causes him to turn his head.

"What, sister, you, brave little woman that you are! You weep because
I am about to die--"

She interrupted him, protesting:

"But you are not going to die!"

"Yes, yes; it is better it should be so; it must be so. Ah, I shall be
no great loss to anyone. Up to the time the war broke out I was a
source of anxiety to you, I cost you dearly in heart and purse. All
the folly and the madness I was guilty of, and which would have landed
me, who knows

where? in prison, in the gutter--"

Again she took the words from his mouth, exclaiming hotly:

"Hush! be silent!--you have atoned for all."

He reflected a moment. "Yes, perhaps I shall have atoned, when I am
dead. Ah, Jean, old fellow, you didn't know what a service you were
rendering us all when you gave me that bayonet thrust."

But the other protested, his eyes swimming with tears:

"Don't, I entreat you, say such things! do you wish to make me go and
dash out my brains against a wall?"

Maurice pursued his train of thought, speaking in hurried, eager
tones.

"Remember what you said to me the day after Sedan, that it was not
such a bad thing, now and then, to receive a good drubbing. And you
added that if a man had gangrene in his system, if he saw one of his
limbs wasting from mortification, it would be better to take an ax and
chop off that limb than to die from the contamination of the poison. I
have many a time thought of those words since I have been here,
without a friend, immured in this city of distress and madness. And I
am the diseased limb, and it is you who have lopped it off--" He went
on with increasing vehemence, regardless of the supplications of his
terrified auditors, in a fervid tirade that abounded with symbols and
striking images. It was the untainted, the reasoning, the substantial
portion of France, the peasantry, the tillers of the soil, those who
had always kept close contact with their mother Earth, that was
suppressing the outbreak of the crazed, exasperated part, the part
that had been vitiated by the Empire and led astray by vain illusions
and empty dreams; and in the performance of its duty it had had to cut
deep into the living flesh, without being fully aware of what it was
doing. But the baptism of blood, French blood, was necessary; the
abominable holocaust, the living sacrifice, in the midst of the
purifying flames. Now they had mounted the steps of the Calvary and
known their bitterest agony; the crucified nation had expiated its
faults and would be born again. "Jean, old friend, you and those like
you are strong in your simplicity and honesty. Go, take up the spade
and the trowel, turn the sod in the abandoned field, rebuild the
house! As for me, you did well to lop me off, since I was the ulcer
that was eating away your strength!"

After that his language became more and more incoherent; he insisted
on rising and going to sit by the window. "Paris burns, Paris burns;
not a stone of it will be left standing. Ah! the fire that I invoked,
it destroys, but it heals; yes, the work it does is good. Let me go
down there; let me help to finish the work of humanity and liberty--"

Jean had the utmost difficulty in getting him back to bed, while
Henriette tearfully recalled memories of their childhood, and
entreated him, for the sake of the love they bore each other, to be
calm. Over the immensity of Paris the fiery glow deepened and widened;
the sea of flame seemed to be invading the remotest quarters of the
horizon; the heavens were like the vaults of a colossal oven, heated
to red heat. And athwart the red light of the conflagrations the dense
black smoke-clouds from the Ministry of Finance, which had been
burning three days and given forth no blaze, continued to pour in
unbroken, slow procession.

The following, Saturday, morning brought with it a decided improvement
in Maurice's condition: he was much calmer, the fever had subsided,
and it afforded Jean inexpressible delight to behold a smile on
Henriette's face once more, as the young woman fondly reverted to her
cherished dream, a pact of reciprocal affection between the three of
them, that should unite them in a future that might yet be one of
happiness, under conditions that she did not care to formulate even to
herself. Would destiny be merciful? Would it save them all from an
eternal farewell by saving her brother? Her nights were spent in
watching him; she never stirred outside that chamber, where her
noiseless activity and gentle ministrations were like a never-ceasing
caress. And Jean, that evening, while sitting with his friends, forgot
his great sorrow in a delight that astonished him and made him
tremble. The troops had carried Belleville and the Buttes-Chaumont
that day; the only remaining point where there was any resistance now
was the cemetery of Pere-Lachaise, which had been converted into a
fortified camp. It seemed to him that the insurrection was ended; he
even declared that the troops had ceased to shoot their prisoners, who
were being collected in droves and sent on to Versailles. He told of
one of those bands that he had seen that morning on the _quai_, made
up of men of every class, from the most respectable to the lowest, and
of women of all ages and conditions, wrinkled old bags and young
girls, mere children, not yet out of their teens; pitiful aggregation
of misery and revolt, driven like cattle by the soldiers along the
street in the bright sunshine, and that the people of Versailles, so
it was said, received with revilings and blows.

But Sunday was to Jean a day of terror. It rounded out and fitly ended
that accursed week. With the triumphant rising of the sun on that
bright, warm Sabbath morning he shudderingly heard the news that was
the culmination of all preceding horrors. It was only at that late day
that the public was informed of the murder of the hostages; the
archbishop, the cure of the Madeleine and others, shot at la Roquette
on Wednesday, the Dominicans of Arcueil coursed like hares on
Thursday, more priests and gendarmes, to the number of forty-seven in
all, massacred in cold blood in the Rue Haxo on Friday; and a furious
cry went up for vengeance, the soldiers bunched the last prisoners
they made and shot them in mass. All day long on that magnificent
Sunday the volleys of musketry rang out in the courtyard of the Lobau
barracks, that were filled with blood and smoke and the groans of the
dying. At la Roquette two hundred and twenty-seven miserable wretches,
gathered in here and there by the drag-net of the police, were
collected in a huddle, and the soldiers fired volley after volley into
the mass of human beings until there was no further sign of life. At
Pere-Lachaise, which had been shelled continuously for four days and
was finally carried by a hand-to-hand conflict among the graves, a
hundred and forty-eight of the insurgents were drawn up in line before
a wall, and when the firing ceased the stones were weeping great tears
of blood; and three of them, despite their wounds, having succeeded in
making their escape, they were retaken and despatched. Among the
twelve thousand victims of the Commune, who shall say how many
innocent people suffered for every malefactor who met his deserts! An
order to stop the executions had been issued from Versailles, so it
was said, but none the less the slaughter still went on; Thiers, while
hailed as the savior of his country, was to bear the stigma of having
been the Jack Ketch of Paris, and Marshal MacMahon, the vanquished of
Froeschwiller, whose proclamation announcing the triumph of law and
order was to be seen on every wall, was to receive the credit of the
victory of Pere-Lachaise. And in the pleasant sunshine Paris, attired
in holiday garb, appeared to be _en fete_; the reconquered streets
were filled with an enormous crowd; men and women, glad to breathe the
air of heaven once more, strolled leisurely from spot to spot to view
the smoking ruins; mothers, holding their little children by the hand,
stopped for a moment and listened with an air of interest to the
deadened crash of musketry from the Lobau barracks.

When Jean ascended the dark staircase of the house in the Rue des
Orties, in the gathering obscurity of that Sunday evening, his heart
was oppressed by a chill sense of impending evil. He entered the room,
and saw at once that the inevitable end was come; Maurice lay dead on
the little bed; the hemorrhage predicted by Bouroche had done its
work. The red light of the setting sun streamed through the open
window and rested on the wall as if in a last farewell; two tapers
were burning on a table beside the bed. And Henriette, alone with her
dead, in her widow's weeds that she had not laid aside, was weeping
silently.

At the noise of footsteps she raised her head, and shuddered on
beholding Jean. He, in his wild despair, was about to hurry toward her
and seize her hands, mingle his grief with hers in a sympathetic
clasp, but he saw the little hands were trembling, he felt as by
instinct the repulsion that pervaded all her being and was to part
them for evermore. Was not all ended between them now? Maurice's grave
would be there, a yawning chasm, to part them as long as they should
live. And he could only fall to his knees by the bedside of his dead
friend, sobbing softly. After the silence had lasted some moments,
however, Henriette spoke:

"I had turned my back and was preparing a cup of bouillon, when he
gave a cry. I hastened to his side, but had barely time to reach the
bed before he expired, with my name upon his lips, and yours as well,
amid an outgush of blood--"

Her Maurice, her twin brother, whom she might almost be said to have
loved in the prenatal state, her other self, whom she had watched over
and saved! sole object of her affection since at Bazeilles she had
seen her poor Weiss set against a wall and shot to death! And now
cruel war had done its worst by her, had crushed her bleeding heart;
henceforth her way through life was to be a solitary one, widowed and
forsaken as she was, with no one upon whom to bestow her love.

"Ah, _bon sang_!" cried Jean, amid his sobs, "behold my work! My poor
little one, for whom I would have laid down my life, and whom I
murdered, brute that I am! What is to become of us? Can you ever
forgive me?"

At that moment their glances met, and they were stricken with
consternation at what they read in each other's eyes. The past rose
before them, the secluded chamber at Remilly, where they had spent so
many melancholy yet happy days. His dream returned to him, that dream
of which at first he had been barely conscious and which even at a
later period could not be said to have assumed definite shape: life
down there in the pleasant country by the Meuse, marriage, a little
house, a little field to till whose produce should suffice for the
needs of two people whose ideas were not extravagant. Now the dream
was become an eager longing, a penetrating conviction that, with a
wife as loving and industrious as she, existence would be a veritable
earthly paradise. And she, the tranquillity of whose mind had never in
those days been ruffled by thoughts of that nature, in the chaste and
unconscious bestowal of her heart, now saw clearly and understood the
true condition of her feelings. That marriage, of which she had not
admitted to herself the possibility, had been, unknown to her, the
object of her desire. The seed that had germinated had pushed its way
in silence and in darkness; it was love, not sisterly affection, that
she bore toward that young man whose company had at first been to her
nothing more than a source of comfort and consolation. And that was
what their eyes told each other, and the love thus openly expressed
could have no other fruition than an eternal farewell. It needed but
that frightful sacrifice, the rending of their heart-strings by that
supreme parting, the prospect of their life's happiness wrecked amid
all the other ruins, swept away by the crimson tide that ended their
brother's life.

With a slow and painful effort Jean rose from his knees.

"Farewell!"

Henriette stood motionless in her place.

"Farewell!"

But Jean could not tear himself away thus. Advancing to the bedside he
sorrowfully scanned the dead man's face, with its lofty forehead that
seemed loftier still in death, its wasted features, its dull eyes,
whence the wild look that had occasionally been seen there in life had
vanished. He longed to give a parting kiss to his little one, as he
had called him so many times, but dared not. It seemed to him that his
hands were stained with his friend's blood; he shrank from the horror
of the ordeal. Ah, what a death to die, amid the crashing ruins of a
sinking world! On the last day, among the shattered fragments of the
dying Commune, might not this last victim have been spared? He had
gone from life, hungering for justice, possessed by the dream that
haunted him, the sublime and unattainable conception of the
destruction of the old society, of Paris chastened by fire, of the
field dug up anew, that from the soil thus renewed and purified might
spring the idyl of another golden age.

His heart overflowing with bitter anguish, Jean turned and looked out
on Paris. The setting sun lay on the edge of the horizon, and its
level rays bathed the city in a flood of vividly red light. The
windows in thousands of houses flamed as if lighted by fierce fires
within; the roofs glowed like beds of live coals; bits of gray wall
and tall, sober-hued monuments flashed in the evening air with the
sparkle of a brisk fire of brushwood. It was like the show-piece that
is reserved for the conclusion of a _fete_, the huge bouquet of gold
and crimson, as if Paris were burning like a forest of old oaks and
soaring heavenward in a rutilant cloud of sparks and flame. The fires
were burning still; volumes of reddish smoke continued to rise into
the air; a confused murmur in the distance sounded on the ear, perhaps
the last groans of the dying Communists at the Lobau barracks, or it
may have been the happy laughter of women and children, ending their
pleasant afternoon by dining in the open air at the doors of the
wine-shops. And in the midst of all the splendor of that royal sunset,
while a large part of Paris was crumbling away in ashes, from
plundered houses and gutted palaces, from the torn-up streets, from
the depths of all that ruin and suffering, came sounds of life.

Then Jean had a strange experience. It seemed to him that in the
slowly fading daylight, above the roofs of that flaming city, he
beheld the dawning of another day. And yet the situation might well be
considered irretrievable. Destiny appeared to have pursued them with
her utmost fury; the successive disasters they had sustained were such
as no nation in history had ever known before; defeat treading on the
heels of defeat, their provinces torn from them, an indemnity of
milliards to be raised, a most horrible civil war that had been
quenched in blood, their streets cumbered with ruins and unburied
corpses, without money, their honor gone, and order to be
re-established out of chaos! His share of the universal ruin was a
heart lacerated by the loss of Maurice and Henriette, the prospect of
a happy future swept away in the furious storm! And still, beyond the
flames of that furnace whose fiery glow had not subsided yet, Hope,
the eternal, sat enthroned in the limpid serenity of the tranquil
heavens. It was the certain assurance of the resurrection of perennial
nature, of imperishable humanity; the harvest that is promised to him
who sows and waits; the tree throwing out a new and vigorous shoot to
replace the rotten limb that has been lopped away, which was blighting
the young leaves with its vitiated sap.

"Farewell!" Jean repeated with a sob.

"Farewell!" murmured Henriette, her bowed face hidden in her hands.

The neglected field was overgrown with brambles, the roof-tree of the
ruined house lay on the ground; and Jean, bearing his heavy burden of
affliction with humble resignation, went his way, his face set
resolutely toward the future, toward the glorious and arduous task
that lay before him and his countrymen, to create a new France.

                         
                         

                                       

                            Chapter I

During the severe winter of 1860 the river Oise was frozen over and
the plains of Lower Picardy were covered with deep snow. On Christmas
Day, especially, a heavy squall from the north-east had almost buried
the little city of Beaumont. The snow, which began to fall early in
the morning, increased towards evening and accumulated during the
night; in the upper town, in the Rue des Orfevres, at the end of
which, as if enclosed therein, is the northern front of the cathedral
transept, this was blown with great force by the wind against the
portal of Saint Agnes, the old Romanesque portal, where traces of
Early Gothic could be seen, contrasting its florid ornamentation with
the bare simplicity of the transept gable.

The inhabitants still slept, wearied by the festive rejoicings of the
previous day. The town-clock struck six. In the darkness, which was
slightly lightened by the slow, persistent fall of flakes, a vague
living form alone was visible: that of a little girl, nine years of
age, who, having taken refuge under the archway of the portal, had
passed the night there, shivering, and sheltering herself as well as
possible. She wore a thin woollen dress, ragged from long use, her
head was covered with a torn silk handkerchief, and on her bare feet
were heavy shoes much too large for her. Without doubt she had only
gone there after having well wandered through the town, for she had
fallen down from sheer exhaustion. For her it was the end of the
world; there was no longer anything to interest her. It was the last
surrender; the hunger that gnaws, the cold which kills; and in her
weakness, stifled by the heavy weight at her heart, she ceased to
struggle, and nothing was left to her but the instinctive movement of
preservation, the desire of changing place, of sinking still deeper
into these old stones, whenever a sudden gust made the snow whirl
about her.

Hour after hour passed. For a long time, between the divisions of this
double door, she leaned her back against the abutting pier, on whose
column was a statue of Saint Agnes, the martyr of but thirteen years
of age, a little girl like herself, who carried a branch of palm, and
at whose feet was a lamb. And in the tympanum, above the lintel, the
whole legend of the Virgin Child betrothed to Jesus could be seen in
high relief, set forth with a charming simplicity of faith. Her hair,
which grew long and covered her like a garment when the Governor,
whose son she had refused to marry, gave her up to the soldiers; the
flames of the funeral pile, destined to destroy her, turning aside and
burning her executioners as soon as they lighted the wood; the
miracles performed by her relics; Constance, daughter of the Emperor,
cured of leprosy; and the quaint story of one of her painted images,
which, when the priest Paulinus offered it a very valuable emerald
ring, held out its finger, then withdrew it, keeping the ring, which
can be seen at this present day. At the top of the tympanum, in a halo
of glory, Agnes is at last received into heaven, where her betrothed,
Jesus, marries her, so young and so little, giving her the kiss of
eternal happiness.

But when the wind rushed through the street, the snow was blown in the
child's face, and the threshold was almost barred by the white masses;
then she moved away to the side, against the virgins placed above the
base of the arch. These are the companions of Agnes, the saints who
served as her escort: three at her right--Dorothea, who was fed in
prison by miraculous bread; Barbe, who lived in a tower; and
Genevieve, whose heroism saved Paris: and three at her left--Agatha,
whose breast was torn; Christina, who was put to torture by her
father; and Cecilia, beloved by the angels. Above these were statues
and statues; three close ranks mounting with the curves of the arches,
decorating them with chaste triumphant figures, who, after the
suffering and martyrdom of their earthly life, were welcomed by a host
of winged cherubim, transported with ecstasy into the Celestial
Kingdom.

There had been no shelter for the little waif for a long time, when at
last the clock struck eight and daylight came. The snow, had she not
trampled it down, would have come up to her shoulders. The old door
behind her was covered with it, as if hung with ermine, and it looked
as white as an altar, beneath the grey front of the church, so bare
and smooth that not even a single flake had clung to it. The great
saints, those of the sloping surface especially, were clothed in it,
and were glistening in purity from their feet to their white beards.
Still higher, in the scenes of the tympanum, the outlines of the
little saints of the arches were designed most clearly on a dark
background, and this magic sect continued until the final rapture at
the marriage of Agnes, which the archangels appeared to be celebrating
under a shower of white roses. Standing upon her pillar, with her
white branch of palm and her white lamp, the Virgin Child had such
purity in the lines of her body of immaculate snow, that the
motionless stiffness of cold seemed to congeal around her the mystic
transports of victorious youth. And at her feet the other child, so
miserable, white with snow--she also grew so stiff and pale that it
seemed as if she were turning to stone, and could scarcely be
distinguished from the great images above her.

At last, in one of the long line of houses in which all seemed to be
sleeping, the noise from the drawing up of a blind made her raise her
eyes. It was at her right hand, in the second story of a house at the
side of the Cathedral. A very handsome woman, a brunette about forty
years of age, with a placid expression of serenity, was just looking
out from there, and in spite of the terrible frost she kept her
uncovered arm in the air for a moment, having seen the child move. Her
calm face grew sad with pity and astonishment. Then, shivering, she
hastily closed the window. She carried with her the rapid vision of a
fair little creature with violet-coloured eyes under a head-covering
of an old silk handkerchief. The face was oval, the neck long and
slender as a lily, and the shoulders drooping; but she was blue from
cold, her little hands and feet were half dead, and the only thing
about her that still showed life was the slight vapour of her breath.

The child remained with her eyes upturned, looking at the house
mechanically. It was a narrow one, two stories in height, very old,
and evidently built towards the end of the fifteenth century. It was
almost sealed to the side of the Cathedral, between two buttresses,

like a wart which had pushed itself between the two toes of a
Colossus. And thus supported on each side, it was admirably preserved,
with its stone basement, its second story in wooden panels, ornamented
with bricks, its roof, of which the framework advanced at least three
feet beyond the gable, its turret for the projecting stairway at the
left corner, where could still be seen in the little window the leaden
setting of long ago. At times repairs had been made on account of its
age. The tile-roofing dated from the reign of Louis XIV, for one
easily recognised the work of that epoch; a dormer window pierced in
the side of the turret, little wooden frames replacing everywhere
those of the primitive panes; the three united openings of the second
story had been reduced to two, that of the middle being closed up with
bricks, thus giving to the front the symmetry of the other buildings
on the street of a more recent date.

In the basement the changes were equally visible, an oaken door with
mouldings having taken the place of the old one with iron trimmings
that was under the stairway; and the great central arcade, of which
the lower part, the sides, and the point had been plastered over, so
as to leave only one rectangular opening, was now a species of large
window, instead of the triple-pointed one which formerly came out on
to the street.

Without thinking, the child still looked at this venerable dwelling of
a master-builder, so well preserved, and as she read upon a little
yellow plate nailed at the left of the door these words, "Hubert,
chasuble maker," printed in black letters, she was again attracted by
the sound of the opening of a shutter. This time it was the blind of
the square window of the ground floor. A man in his turn looked out;
his face was full, his nose aquiline, his forehead projecting, and his
thick short hair already white, although he was scarcely yet five-and-
forty. He, too, forgot the air for a moment as he examined her with a
sad wrinkle on his great tender mouth. Then she saw him, as he
remained standing behind the little greenish-looking panes. He turned,
beckoned to someone, and his wife reappeared. How handsome she was!
They both stood side by side, looking at her earnestly and sadly.

For four hundred years, the line of Huberts, embroiderers from father
to son, had lived in this house. A noted maker of chasubles had built
it under Louis XI, another had repaired it under Louis XIV, and the
Hubert who now occupied it still embroidered church vestments, as his
ancestors had always done. At twenty years of age he had fallen in
love with a young girl of sixteen, Hubertine, and so deep was their
affection for each other, that when her mother, widow of a magistrate,
refused to give her consent to their union, they ran away together and
were married. She was remarkably beautiful, and that was their whole
romance, their joy, and their misfortune.

When, a year later, she went to the deathbed of her mother, the latter
disinherited her and gave her her curse. So affected was she by the
terrible scene, that her infant, born soon after, died, and since then
it seemed as if, even in her coffin in the cemetery, the willful woman
had never pardoned her daughter, for it was, alas! a childless
household. After twenty-four years they still mourned the little one
they had lost.

Disturbed by their looks, the stranger tried to hide herself behind
the pillar of Saint Agnes. She was also annoyed by the movement which
now commenced in the street, as the shops were being opened and people
began to go out. The Rue des Orfevres, which terminates at the side
front of the church, would be almost impassable, blocked in as it is
on one side by the house of the Huberts, if the Rue du Soleil, a
narrow lane, did not relieve it on the other side by running the whole
length of the Cathedral to the great front on the Place du Cloitre. At
this hour there were few passers, excepting one or two persons who
were on their way to early service, and they looked with surprise at
the poor little girl, whom they did not recognise as ever having seen
at Beaumont. The slow, persistent fall of snow continued. The cold
seemed to increase with the wan daylight, and in the dull thickness of
the great white shroud which covered the town one heard, as if from a
distance, the sound of voices. But timid, ashamed of her abandonment,
as if it were a fault, the child drew still farther back, when
suddenly she recognised before her Hubertine, who, having no servant,
had gone out to buy bread.

"What are you doing there, little one? Who are you?"

She did not answer, but hid her face. Then she was no longer conscious
of suffering; her whole being seemed to have faded away, as if her
heart, turned to ice, had stopped beating. When the good lady turned
away with a pitying look, she sank down upon her knees completely
exhausted, and slipped listlessly into the snow, whose flakes quickly
covered her.

And the woman, as she returned with her fresh rolls, seeing that she
had fallen, again approached her.

"Look up, my child! You cannot remain here on this doorstep."

Then Hubert, who had also come out, and was standing near the
threshold, took the bread from his wife, and said:

"Take her up and bring her into the house."

Hubertine did not reply, but, stooping, lifted her in her strong arms.
And the child shrank back no longer, but was carried as if inanimate;
her teeth closely set, her eyes shut, chilled through and through, and
with the lightness of a little bird that had just fallen from its
nest.

They went in. Hubert shut the door, while Hubertine, bearing her
burden, passed through the front room, which served as a parlour, and
where some embroidered bands were spread out for show before the great
square window. Then she went into the kitchen, the old servants' hall,
preserved almost intact, with its heavy beams, its flagstone floor
mended in a dozen places, and its great fireplace with its stone
mantelpiece. On shelves were the utensils, the pots, kettles, and
saucepans, that dated back one or two centuries; and the dishes were
of old stone, or earthenware, and of pewter. But on the middle of the
hearth was a modern cooking-stove, a large cast-iron one, whose copper
trimmings were wondrously bright. It was red from heat, and the water
was bubbling away in its boiler. A large porringer, filled with
coffee-and-milk, was on one corner of it.

"Oh! how much more comfortable it is here than outside," said Hubert,
as he put the bread down on a heavy table of the style of Louis XIII,
which was in the centre of the room. "Now, seat this poor little
creature near the stove that she may be thawed out!"

Hubertine had already placed the child close to the fire, and they
both looked at her as she slowly regained consciousness. As the snow
that covered her clothes melted it fell in heavy drops. Through the
holes of her great shoes they could see her little bruised feet,
whilst the thin woollen dress designed the rigidity of her limbs and
her poor body, worn by misery and pain. She had a long attack of
nervous trembling, and then opened her frightened eyes with the start
of an animal which suddenly awakes from sleep to find itself caught in
a snare. Her face seemed to sink away under the silken rag which was
tied under her chin. Her right arm appeared to be helpless, for she
pressed it so closely to her breast.

"Do not be alarmed, for we will not hurt you. Where did you come from?
Who are you?"

But the more she was spoken to the more frightened she became, turning
her head as if someone were behind her who would beat her. She
examined the kitchen furtively, the flaggings, the beams, and the
shining utensils; then her glance passed through the irregular windows
which were left in the ancient opening, and she saw the garden clear
to the trees by the Bishop's house, whose white shadows towered above
the wall at the end, while at the left, as if astonished at finding
itself there, stretched along the whole length of the alley the
Cathedral, with its Romanesque windows in the chapels of its apses.
And again, from the heat of the stove which began to penetrate her,
she had a long attack of shivering, after which she turned her eyes to
the floor and remained quiet.

"Do you belong to Beaumont? Who is your father?"

She was so entirely silent that Hubert thought her throat must be too
dry to allow her to speak.

Instead of questioning her he said: "We would do much better to give
her a cup of coffee as hot as she can drink it."

That was so reasonable that Hubertine immediately handed her the cup
she herself held. Whilst she cut two large slices of bread and
buttered them, the child, still mistrustful, continued to shrink back;
but her hunger was too great, and soon she ate and drank ravenously.
That there need not be a restraint upon her, the husband and wife were
silent, and were touched to tears on seeing her little hand tremble to
such a degree that at times it was difficult for her to reach her
mouth. She made use only of her left hand, for her right arm seemed to
be fastened to her chest. When she had finished, she almost broke the
cup, which she caught again by an awkward movement of her elbow.

"Have you hurt your arm badly?" Hubertine asked. "Do not be afraid, my
dear, but show it to me."

But as she was about to touch it the child rose up hastily, trying to
prevent her, and as in the struggle she moved her arm, a little
pasteboard-covered book, which she had hidden under her dress, slipped
through a large tear in her waist. She tried to take it, and when she
saw her unknown hosts open and begin to read it, she clenched her fist
in anger.

It was an official certificate, given by the Administration des
Enfants Assistes in the Department of the Seine. On the first page,
under a medallion containing a likeness of Saint Vincent de Paul, were
the printed prescribed forms. For the family name, a simple black line
filled the allotted space. Then for the Christian names were those of
Angelique Marie; for the dates, born January 22, 1851, admitted the
23rd of the same month under the registered number of 1,634. So there
was neither father nor mother; there were no papers; not even a
statement of where she was born; nothing but this little book of
official coldness, with its cover of pale red pasteboard. No relative
in the world! and even her abandonment numbered and classed!

"Oh! then she is a foundling!" exclaimed Hubertine.

In a paroxysm of rage the child replied: "I am much better than all
the others--yes--yes! I am better, better, better. I have never taken
anything that did not belong to me, and yet they stole all I had. Give
me back, now, that which you also have stolen from me!"

Such powerless passion, such pride to be above the others in goodness,
so shook the body of the little girl, that the Huberts were startled.
They no longer recognised the blonde creature, with violet eyes and
graceful figure. Now her eyes were black, her face dark, and her neck
seemed swollen by a rush of blood to it. Since she had become warm,
she raised her head and hissed like a serpent that had been picked up
on the snow.

"Are you then really so naughty?" asked Hubert gently. "If we wish to
know all about you, it is because we wish to help you."

And looking over the shoulders of his wife he read as the latter
turned the leaves of the little book. On the second page was the name
of the nurse. "The child, Angelique Marie, had been given, on January
25, 1851, to the nurse, Francoise, sister of Mr. Hamelin, a farmer by
profession, living in the parish of Soulanges, an arrondissement of
Nevers. The aforesaid nurse had received on her departure the pay for
the first month of her care, in addition to her clothing." Then there
was a certificate of her baptism, signed by the chaplain of the Asylum
for Abandoned Children; also that of the physician on the arrival and
on the departure of the infant. The monthly accounts, paid in
quarterly installments, filled farther on the columns of four pages,
and each time there was the illegible signature of the receiver or
collector.

"What! Nevers!" asked Hubertine. "You were brought up near Nevers?"

Angelique, red with anger that she could not prevent them from
reading, had fallen into a sullen silence. But at last she opened her
mouth to speak of her nurse.

"Ah! you may be sure that Maman Nini would have beaten you. She always
took my part against others, she did, although sometimes she struck me
herself. Ah! it is true I was not so unhappy over there, with the
cattle and all!"

Her voice choked her and she continued, in broken, incoherent
sentences, to speak of the meadow where she drove the great red cow,
of the broad road where she played, of the cakes they cooked, and of a
pet house-dog that had once bitten her.

Hubert interrupted her as he read aloud: "In case of illness, or of
bad treatment, the superintendent is authorised to change the nurses
of the children." Below it was written that the child Angelique Marie
had been given on June 20 to the care of Theresa, wife of Louis
Franchomme, both of them makers of artificial flowers in Paris.

"Ah! I understand," said Hubertine. "You were ill, and so they took
you back to Paris."

But no, that was not the case, and the Huberts did not know the whole
history until they had drawn it, little by little from Angelique.
Louis Franchomme, who was a cousin of Maman Nini, went to pass a month
in his native village when recovering from a fever. It was then that
his wife, Theresa, became very fond of the child, and obtained
permission to take her to Paris, where she could be taught the trade
of making flowers. Three months later her husband died, and she
herself, being delicate in health, was obliged to leave the city and
to go to her brother's, the tanner Rabier, who was settled at
Beaumont. She, alas! died in the early days of December, and confided
to her sister-in-law the little girl, who since that time had been
injured, beaten, and, in short, suffered martyrdom.

"The Rabiers?" said Hubert. "The Rabiers? Yes, yes! They are tanners
on the banks of the Ligneul, in the lower town. The husband is lame,
and the wife is a noted scold."

"They treated me as if I came from the gutter," continued Angelique,
revolted and enraged in her mortified pride. "They said the river was
the best place for me. After she had beaten me nearly to death, the
woman would put something on the floor for me to eat, as if I were a
cat, and many a time I went to bed suffering from hunger. Oh! I could
have killed myself, at last!" She made a gesture of furious despair.

"Yesterday, Christmas morning, they had been drinking, and, to amuse
themselves, they threatened to put out my eyes. Then, after a while,
they began to fight with each other, and dealt such heavy blows that I
thought they were dead, as they both fell on the floor of their room.
For a long time I had determined to run away. But I was anxious to
have my book. Maman Nini had often said, in showing it to me: 'Look,
this is all that you own, and if you do not keep this you will not
even have a name.' And I know that since the death of Maman Theresa
they had hid it in one of the bureau drawers. So stepping over them as
quietly as possible, while they were lying on the floor, I got the
book, hid it under my dress-waist, pressing it against me with my arm.
It seemed so large that I fancied everyone must see it, and that it
would be taken from me. Oh! I ran, and ran, and ran, and when night
came it was so dark! Oh! how cold I was under the poor shelter of that
great door! Oh dear! I was so cold, it seemed as if I were dead. But
never mind now, for I did not once let go of my book, and here it is."
And with a sudden movement, as the Huberts closed it to give it back
to her, she snatched it from them. Then, sitting down, she put her
head on the table, sobbing deeply as she laid her cheek on the light
red cover. Her pride seemed conquered by an intense humility. Her
whole being appeared to be softened by the sight of these few leaves
with their rumpled corners--her solitary possession, her one treasure,
and the only tie which connected her with the life of this world. She
could not relieve her heart of her great despair; her tears flowed
continually, and under this complete surrender of herself she regained
her delicate looks and became again a pretty child. Her slightly oval
face was pure in its outlines, her violet eyes were made a little
paler from emotion, and the curve of her neck and shoulders made her
resemble a little virgin on a church window. At length she seized the
hand of Hubertine, pressed it to her lips most caressingly, and kissed
it passionately.

The Huberts were deeply touched, and could scarcely speak. They
stammered: "Dear, dear child!"

She was not, then, in reality bad! Perhaps with affectionate care she
could be corrected of this violence of temper which had so alarmed
them.

In a tone of entreaty the poor child exclaimed: "Do not send me back
to those dreadful people! Oh, do not send me back again!"

The husband and wife looked at each other for a few moments. In fact,
since the autumn they had planned taking as an apprentice some young
girl who would live with them, and thus bring a little brightness into
their house, which seemed so dull without children. And their decision
was soon made.

"Would you like it, my dear?" Hubert asked.

Hubertine replied quietly, in her calm voice: "I would indeed."

Immediately they occupied themselves with the necessary formalities.
The husband went to the Justice of Peace of the northern district of
Beaumont, who was cousin to his wife, the only relative with whom she
had kept up an acquaintance, and told him all the facts of the case.
He took charge of it, wrote to the Hospice of Abandoned Children--
where, thanks to the registered number, Angelique was easily
recognised--and obtained permission for her to remain as apprentice
with the Huberts, who were well known for their honourable position.

The Sub-Inspector of the Hospice, on coming to verify the little book,
signed the new contract as witness for Hubert, by which the latter
promised to treat the child kindly, to keep her tidy, to send her to
school and to church, and to give her a good bed to herself. On the
other side, the Administration agreed to pay him all indemnities, and
to give the child certain stipulated articles of clothing, as was
their custom.

In ten days all was arranged. Angelique slept upstairs in a room under
the roof, by the side of the garret, and the windows of which
overlooked the garden. She had already taken her first lessons in
embroidery. The first Sunday morning after she was in her new home,
before going to mass, Hubertine opened before her the old chest in the
working-room, where she kept the fine gold thread. She held up the
little book, then, placing it in that back part of one of the drawers,
said: "Look! I have put it here. I will not hide it, but leave it
where you can take it if you ever wish to do so. It is best that you
should see it, and remember where it is."

On entering the church that day, Angelique found herself again under
the doorway of Saint Agnes. During the week there had been a partial
thaw, then the cold weather had returned to so intense a degree that
the snow which had half melted on the statues had congealed itself in
large bunches or in icicles. Now, the figures seemed dressed in
transparent robes of ice, with lace trimmings like spun glass.
Dorothea was holding a torch, the liquid droppings of which fell upon
her hands. Cecilia wore a silver crown, in which glistened the most
brilliant of pearls. Agatha's nude chest was protected by a crystal
armour. And the scenes in the tympanum, the little virgins in the
arches, looked as if they had been there for centuries, behind the
glass and jewels of the shrine of a saint. Agnes herself let trail
behind her her court mantle, threaded with light and embroidered with
stars. Her lamb had a fleece of diamonds, and her palm-branch had
become the colour of heaven. The whole door was resplendent in the
purity of intense cold.

Angelique recollected the night she had passed there under the
protection of these saints. She raised her head and smiled upon them.

Chapter II


Beaumont is composed of two villages, completely separated and quite
distinct one from the other--Beaumont-l'Eglise, on the hill with its
old Cathedral of the twelfth century, its Bishop's Palace which dates
only from the seventeenth century, its inhabitants, scarcely one
thousand in number, who are crowded together in an almost stifling way
in its narrow streets; and Beaumont-la-Ville, at the foot of the hill,
on the banks of the Ligneul, an ancient suburb, which the success of
its manufactories of lace and fine cambric has enriched and enlarged
to such an extent that it has a population of nearly ten thousand
persons, several public squares, and an elegant sub-prefecture built
in the modern style. These two divisions, the northern district and
the southern district, have thus no longer anything in common except
in an administrative way. Although scarcely thirty leagues from Paris,
where one can go by rail in two hours, Beaumont-l'Eglise seems to be
still immured in its old ramparts, of which, however, only three gates
remain. A stationary, peculiar class of people lead there a life
similar to that which their ancestors had led from father to son
during the past five hundred years.

The Cathedral explains everything, has given birth to and preserved
everything. It is the mother, the queen, as it rises in all its
majesty in the centre of, and above, the little collection of low
houses, which, like shivering birds, are sheltered under her wings of
stone. One lives there simply for it, and only by it. There is no
movement of business activity, and the little tradesmen only sell the
necessities of life, such as are absolutely required to feed, to
clothe, and to maintain the church and its clergy; and if occasionally
one meets some private individuals, they are merely the last
representatives of a scattered crowd of worshippers. The church
dominates all; each street is one of its veins; the town has no other
breath than its own. On that account, this spirit of another age, this
religious torpor from the past, makes the cloistered city which
surrounds it redolent with a savoury perfume of peace and of faith.

And in all this mystic place, the house of the Huberts, where
Angelique was to live in the future, was the one nearest to the
Cathedral, and which clung to it as if in reality it were a part
thereof. The permission to build there, between two of the great
buttresses, must have been given by some vicar long ago, who was
desirous of attaching to himself the ancestors of this line of
embroiderers, as master chasuble-makers and furnishers for the
Cathedral clergy. On the southern side, the narrow garden was barred
by the colossal building; first, the circumference of the side
chapels, whose windows overlooked the flower-beds, and then the
slender, long nave, that the flying buttresses supported, and
afterwards the high roof covered with the sheet lead.

The sun never penetrated to the lower part of this garden, where ivy
and box alone grew luxuriantly; yet the eternal shadow there was very
soft and pleasant as it fell from the gigantic brow of the apse--a
religious shadow, sepulchral and pure, which had a good odour about
it. In the greenish half-light of its calm freshness, the two towers
let fall only the sound of their chimes. But the entire house kept the
quivering therefrom, sealed as it was to these old stones, melted into
them and supported by them. It trembled at the least of the
ceremonies; at the High Mass, the rumbling of the organ, the voices of
the choristers, even the oppressed sighs of the worshippers, murmured
through each one of its rooms, lulled it as if with a holy breath from
the Invisible, and at times through the half-cool walls seemed to come
the vapours from the burning incense.

For five years Angelique lived and grew there, as if in a cloister,
far away from the world. She only went out to attend the seven-o'clock
Mass on Sunday mornings, as Hubertine had obtained permission for her
to study at home, fearing that, if sent to school, she might not
always have the best of associates. This old dwelling, so shut in,
with its garden of a dead quiet, was her world. She occupied as her
chamber a little whitewashed room under the roof; she went down in the
morning to her breakfast in the kitchen, she went up again to the
working-room in the second story to her embroidery. And these places,
with the turning stone stairway of the turret, were the only corners
in which she passed her time; for she never went into the Huberts'
apartments, and only crossed the parlour on the first floor, and they
were the two rooms which had been rejuvenated and modernised. In the
parlour, the beams were plastered over, and the ceiling had been
decorated with a palm-leaf cornice, accompanied by a rose centre; the
wall-paper dated from the First Empire, as well as the white marble
chimney-piece and the mahogany furniture, which consisted of a sofa
and four armchairs covered with Utrecht velvet, a centre table, and a
cabinet.

On the rare occasions when she went there, to add to the articles
exposed for sale some new bands of embroidery, if she cast her eyes
without, she saw through the window the same unchanging vista, the
narrow street ending at the portal of Saint Agnes; a parishioner
pushing open the little lower door, which shut itself without any
noise, and the shops of the plate-worker and wax-candle-maker
opposite, which appeared to be always empty, but where was a display
of holy sacramental vessels, and long lines of great church tapers.
And the cloistral calm of all Beaumont-l'Eglise--of the Rue Magloire,
back of the Bishop's Palace, of the Grande Rue, where the Rue de
Orfevres began, and of the Place du Cloitre, where rose up the two
towers, was felt in the drowsy air, and seemed to fall gently with the
pale daylight on the deserted pavement.

Hubertine had taken upon herself the charge of the education of
Angelique. Moreover, she was very old-fashioned in her ideas, and
maintained that a woman knew enough if she could read well, write
correctly, and had studied thoroughly the first four rules of
arithmetic. But even for this limited instruction she had constantly
to contend with an unwillingness on the part of her pupil, who,
instead of giving her attention to her books, preferred looking out of
the windows, although the recreation was very limited, as she could
see nothing but the garden from them. In reality, Angelique cared only
for reading; notwithstanding in her dictations, chosen from some
classic writer, she never succeeded in spelling a page correctly, yet
her handwriting was exceedingly pretty, graceful, and bold, one of
those irregular styles which were quite the fashion long ago. As for
other studies, of geography and history and cyphering, she was almost
completely ignorant of them. What good would knowledge ever do her? It
was really useless, she thought. Later on, when it was time for her to
be Confirmed, she learned her Catechism word for word, and with so
fervent an ardour that she astonished everyone by the exactitude of
her memory.

Notwithstanding their gentleness, during the first year the Huberts
were often discouraged. Angelique, who promised to be skilful in
embroidering, disconcerted them by sudden changes to inexplicable
idleness after days of praiseworthy application. She was capricious,
seemed to lose her strength, became greedy, would steal sugar to eat
when alone, and her cheeks were flushed and her eyes looked wearied
under their reddened lids. If reproved, she would reply with a flood
of injurious words. Some days, when they wished to try to subdue her,
her foolish pride at being interfered with would throw her into such
serious attacks that she would strike her feet and her hands together,
and seemed ready to tear her clothing, or to bite anyone who
approached her. At such moments they drew away from her, for she was
like a little monster ruled by the evil sprit within her.

Who could she be? Where did she come from? Almost always these
abandoned children are the offspring of vice. Twice they had resolved
to give her up and send her back to the Asylum, so discouraged were
they and so deeply did they regret having taken her. But each time
these frightful scenes, which almost made the house tremble, ended in
the same deluge of tears, and the same excited expressions and acts of
penitence, when the child would throw herself on the floor, begging
them so earnestly to punish her that they were obliged to forgive her.

Little by little, Hubertine gained great authority over her. She was
peculiarly adapted for such a task, with her kind heart, her gentle
firmness, her common-sense and her uniform temper. She taught her the
duty of obedience and the sin of pride and of passion. To obey was to
live. We must obey God, our parents, and our superiors. There was a
whole hierarchy of respect, outside of which existence was
unrestrained and disorderly. So, after each fit of passion, that she
might learn humility, some menial labour was imposed upon her as a
penance, such as washing the cooking-utensils, or wiping up the
kitchen floor; and, until it was finished, she would remain stooping
over her work, enraged at first, but conquered at last.

With the little girl excess seemed to be a marked characteristic in
everything, even in her caresses. Many times Hubertine had seen her
kissing her hands with vehemence. She would often be in a fever of
ecstasy before the little pictures of saints and of the Child Jesus,
which she had collected; and one evening she was found in a half-
fainting state, with her head upon the table, and her lips pressed to
those of the images. When Hubertine confiscated them there was a
terrible scene of tears and cries, as if she herself were being
tortured. After that she was held very strictly, was made to obey, and
her freaks were at once checked by keeping her busy at her work; as
soon as her cheeks grew very red, her eyes dark, and she had nervous
tremblings, everything was immediately made quiet about her.

Moreover, Hubertine had found an unexpected aid in the book given by
the Society for the Protection of Abandoned Children. Every three
months, when the collector signed it, Angelique was very low-spirited
for the rest of the day. If by chance she saw it when she went to the
drawer for a ball of gold thread, her heart seemed pierced with agony.
And one day, when in a fit of uncontrollable fury, which nothing had
been able to conquer, she turned over the contents of the drawer, she
suddenly appeared as if thunderstruck before the red-covered book. Her
sobs stifled her. She threw herself at the feet of the Huberts in
great humility, stammering that they had made a mistake in giving her
shelter, and that she was not worthy of all their kindness. From that
time her anger was frequently restrained by the sight or the mention
of the book.

In this way Angelique lived until she was twelve years of age and
ready to be Confirmed. The calm life of the household, the little old-
fashioned building sleeping under the shadow of the Cathedral,
perfumed with incense, and penetrated with religious music, favoured
the slow amelioration of this untutored nature, this wild flower,
taken from no one knew where, and transplanted in the mystic soil of
the narrow garden. Added to this was the regularity of her daily work
and the utter ignorance of what was going on in the world, without
even an echo from a sleepy quarter penetrating therein.

But, above all, the gentlest influence came from the great love of the
Huberts for each other, which seemed to be enlarged by some unknown,
incurable remorse. He passed the days in endeavouring to make his wife
forget the injury he had done her in marrying her in spite of the
opposition of her mother. He had realised at the death of their child
that she half accused him of this punishment, and he wished to be
forgiven. She had done so years ago, and now she idolised him.
Sometimes he was not sure of it, and this doubt saddened his life. He
wished they might have had another infant, and so feel assured that
the obstinate mother had been softened after death, and had withdrawn
her malediction. That, in fact, was their united desire--a child of
pardon; and he worshipped his wife with a tender love, ardent and pure
as that of a betrothed. If before the apprentice he did not even kiss
her hand, he never entered their chamber, even after twenty years of
marriage, without an emotion of gratitude for all the happiness that
had been given him. This was their true home, this room with its
tinted paintings, its blue wall-paper, its pretty hangings, and its
walnut furniture. Never was an angry word uttered therein, and, as if
from a sanctuary, a sentiment of tenderness went out from its
occupants, and filled the house. It was thus for Angelique an
atmosphere of affection and love, in which she grew and thrived.

An unexpected event finished the work of forming her character. As she
was rummaging one morning in a corner of the working-room, she found
on a shelf, among implements of embroidery which were no longer used,
a very old copy of the "Golden Legend," by Jacques de Voragine. This
French translation, dating from 1549, must have been bought in the
long ago by some master-workman in church vestments, on account of the
pictures, full of useful information upon the Saints. It was a great
while since Angelique had given any attention to the little old carved
images, showing such childlike faith, which had once delighted her.
But now, as soon as she was allowed to go out and play in the garden,
she took the book with her. It had been rebound in yellow calf, and
was in a good condition. She slowly turned over some of the leaves,
then looked at the title-page, in red and black, with the address of
the bookseller: "a Paris, en la rue Neufre Nostre-Dame, a l'enseigne
Saint Jehan Baptiste;" and decorated with medallions of the four
Evangelists, framed at the bottom by the Adoration of the Three Magi,
and at the top by the Triumph of Jesus Christ, and His resurrection.
And then picture after picture followed; there were ornamented
letters, large and small, engravings in the text and at the heading of
the chapters; "The Annunciation," an immense angel inundating with
rays of light a slight, delicate-looking Mary; "The Massacre of the
Innocents," where a cruel Herod was seen surrounded by dead bodies of
dear little children; "The Nativity," where Saint Joseph is holding a
candle, the light of which falls upon the face of the Infant Jesus,
Who sleeps in His mother's arms; Saint John the Almoner, giving to the
poor; Saint Matthias, breaking an idol; Saint Nicholas as a bishop,
having at his right hand a little bucket filled with babies. And then,
a little farther on, came the female saints: Agnes, with her neck
pierced by a sword; Christina, torn by pincers; Genevieve, followed by
her lambs; Juliana, being whipped; Anastasia, burnt; Maria the
Egyptian, repenting in the desert, Mary of Magdalene, carrying the
vase of precious ointment; and others and still others followed. There
was an increasing terror and a piety in each one of them, making it a
history which weighs upon the heart and fills the eyes with tears.

But, little by little, Angelique was curious to know exactly what
these engravings represented. The two columns of closely-printed text,
the impression of which remained very black upon the papers yellowed
by time, frightened her by the strange, almost barbaric look of the
Gothic letters. Still, she accustomed herself to it, deciphered these
characters, learned the abbreviations and the contractions, and soon
knew how to explain the turning of the phrases and the old-fashioned
words. At last she could read it easily, and was as enchanted as if
she were penetrating a mystery, and she triumphed over each new
difficulty that she conquered.

Under these laborious shades a whole world of light revealed itself.
She entered, as it were, into a celestial splendour. For now the few
classic books they owned, so cold and dry, existed no longer. The
Legend alone interested her. She bent over it, with her forehead
resting on her hands, studying it so intently, that she no longer
lived in the real life, but, unconscious of time, she seemed to see,
mounting from the depths of the unknown, the broad expansion of a
dream.

How wonderful it all was! These saints and virgins! They are born
predestined; solemn voices announce their coming, and their mothers
have marvellous dreams about them. All are beautiful, strong, and
victorious. Great lights surround them, and their countenances are
resplendent. Dominic has a star on his forehead. They read the minds
of men and repeat their thoughts aloud. They have the gift of
prophecy, and their predictions are always realised. Their number is
infinite. Among them are bishops and monks, virgins and fallen women,
beggars and nobles of a royal race, unclothed hermits who live on
roots, and old men who inhabit caverns with goats. Their history is
always the same. They grow up for Christ, believe fervently in Him,
refuse to sacrifice to false gods, are tortured, and die filled with
glory. Emperors were at last weary of persecuting them. Andrew, after
being attached to the cross, preached during two days to twenty
thousand persons. Conversions were made in masses, forty thousand men
being baptised at one time. When the multitudes were not converted by
the miracles, they fled terrified. The saints were accused of sorcery;
enigmas were proposed to them, which they solved at once; they were
obliged to dispute questions with learned men, who remained speechless
before them. As soon as they entered the temples of sacrifice the
idols were overthrown with a breath, and were broken to pieces. A
virgin tied her sash around the neck of a statue of Venus, which at
once fell in powder. The earth trembled. The Temple of Diana was
struck by lightning and destroyed; and the people revolting, civil
wars ensued. Then often the executioners asked to be baptised; kings
knelt at the feet of saints in rags who had devoted themselves to
poverty. Sabina flees from the paternal roof. Paula abandons her five
children. Mortifications of the flesh and fasts purify, not oil or
water. Germanus covers his food with ashes. Bernard cares not to eat,
but delights only in the taste of fresh water. Agatha keeps for three
years a pebble in her mouth. Augustinus is in despair for the sin he
has committed in turning to look after a dog who was running.
Prosperity and health are despised, and joy begins with privations
which kill the body. And it is thus that, subduing all things, they
live at last in gardens where the flowers are stars, and where the
leaves of the trees sing. They exterminate dragons, they raise and
appease tempests, they seem in their ecstatic visions to be borne
above the earth. Their wants are provided for while living, and after
their death friends are advised by dreams to go and bury them.
Extraordinary things happen to them, and adventures far more
marvellous than those in a work of fiction. And when their tombs are
opened after hundreds of years, sweet odours escape therefrom.

Then, opposite the saints, behold the evil spirits!

"They often fly about us like insects, and fill the air without
number. The air is also full of demons, as the rays of the sun are
full of atoms. It is even like powder." And the eternal contest
begins. The saints are always victorious, and yet they are constantly
obliged to renew the battle. The more the demons are driven away, the
more they return. There were counted six thousand six hundred and
sixty-six in the body of a woman whom Fortunatus delivered. They
moved, they talked and cried, by the voice of the person possessed,
whose body they shook as if by a tempest. At each corner of the
highways an afflicted one is seen, and the first saint who passes
contends with the evil spirits. They enter by the eyes, the ears, and
by the mouth, and, after days of fearful struggling, they go out with
loud groanings. Basilus, to save a young man, contends personally with
the Evil One. Macarius was attacked when in a cemetery, and passed a
whole night in defending himself. The angels, even at deathbeds, in
order to secure the soul of the dying were obliged to beat the demons.
At other times the contests are only of the intellect and the mind,
but are equally remarkable. Satan, who prowls about, assumes many
forms, sometimes disguising himself as a woman, and again, even as a
saint. But, once overthrown, he appears in all his ugliness: "a black
cat, larger than a dog, his huge eyes emitting flame, his tongue long,
large, and bloody, his tail twisted and raised in the air, and his
whole body disgusting to the last degree." He is the one thing that is
hated, and the only preoccupation. People fear him, yet ridicule him.
One is not even honest with him. In reality, notwithstanding the
ferocious appearance of his furnaces, he is the eternal dupe. All the
treaties he makes are forced from him by violence or cunning. Feeble
women throw him down: Margaret crushes his head with her feet, and
Juliana beats him with her chain. From all this a serenity disengages
itself, a disdain of evil, since it is powerless, and a certainty of
good, since virtue triumphs. It is only necessary to cross one's self,
and the Devil can do no harm, but yells and disappears, while the
infernal regions tremble.

Then, in this combat of legions of saints against Satan are developed
the fearful sufferings from persecutions. The executioners expose to
the flies the martyrs whose bodies are covered with honey; they make
them walk with bare feet over broken glass or red-hot coals, put them
in ditches with reptiles; chastise them with whips, whose thongs are
weighted with leaden balls; nail them when alive in coffins, which
they throw into the sea; hang them by their hair, and then set fire to
them; moisten their wounds with quicklime, boiling pitch, or molten
lead; make them sit on red-hot iron stools; burn their sides with
torches; break their bones on wheels, and torture them in every
conceivable way. And, with all this, physical pain counts for nothing;
indeed, it seems to be desired. Moreover, a continual miracle protects
them. John drinks poison but is unharmed. Sebastian smiles although
pierced with arrows; sometimes they remain in the air at the right or
left of the martyr, or, launched by the archer, they return upon
himself and put out his eyes. Molten lead is swallowed as if it were
ice-water. Lions prostrate themselves, and lick their hands as gently
as lambs. The gridiron of Saint Lawrence is of an agreeable freshness
to him. He cries, "Unhappy man, you have roasted one side, turn the
other and then eat, for it is sufficiently cooked." Cecilia, placed in
a boiling bath, is refreshed by it. Christina exhorts those who would
torture her. Her father had her whipped by twelve men, who at last
drop from fatigue; she is then attached to a wheel, under which a fire
is kindled, and the flame, turning to one side, devours fifteen
hundred persons. She is then thrown into the sea, but the angels
support her; Jesus comes to baptise her in person, then gives her to
the charge of Saint Michael, that he may conduct her back to the
earth; after that she is placed for five days in a heated oven, where
she suffers not, but sings constantly. Vincent, who was exposed to
still greater tortures, feels them not. His limbs are broken, he is
covered with red-hot irons, he is pricked with needles, he is placed
on a brazier of live coals, and then taken back to prison, where his
feet are nailed to a post. Yet he still lives, and his pains are
changed into a sweetness of flowers, a great light fills his dungeon,
and angels sing with him, giving him rest as if he were on a bed of
roses. The sweet sound of singing, and the fresh odour of flowers
spread without in the room, and when the guards saw the miracle they
were converted to the faith, and when Dacian heard of it, he was
greatly enraged, and said, "Do nothing more to him, for we are
conquered." Such was the excitement among the persecutors, it could
only end either by their conversion or by their death. Their hands are
paralysed; they perish violently; they are choked by fish-bones; they
are struck by lightning, and their chariots are broken. In the
meanwhile, the cells of the martyrs are resplendent. Mary and the
Apostles enter them at will, although the doors are bolted. Constant
aid is given, apparitions descend from the skies, where angels are
waiting, holding crowns of precious stones. Since death seems joyous,
it is not feared, and their friends are glad when they succumb to it.
On Mount Ararat ten thousand are crucified, and at Cologne eleven
thousand virgins are massacred by the Huns. In the circuses they are
devoured by wild beasts. Quirique, who, by the influence of the Holy
Spirit, taught like a man, suffered martyrdom when but three years of
age. Nursing-children reproved the executioners. The hope for
celestial happiness deadened the physical senses and softened pain.
Were they torn to pieces, or burnt, they minded it not. They never
yielded, and they called for the sword, which alone could kill them.
Eulalia, when at the stake, breathes the flame that she may die the
more quickly. Her prayer is granted, and a white dove flies from her
mouth and bears her soul to heaven.

Angelique marvelled greatly at all these accounts. So many
abominations and such triumphant joy delighted her and carried her out
of herself.

But other points in the Legend, of quite a different nature, also
interested her; the animals, for instance, of which there were enough
to fill an Ark of Noah. She liked the ravens and the eagles who fed
the hermits.

Then what lovely stories there were about the lions. The serviceable
one who found a resting-place in a field for Mary the Egyptian; the
flaming lion who protected virgins or maidens in danger; and then the
lion of Saint Jerome, to whose care an ass had been confided, and,
when the animal was stolen, went in search of him and brought him
back. There was also the penitent wolf, who had restored a little pig
he had intended eating. Then there was Bernard, who excommunicates the
flies, and they drop dead. Remi and Blaise feed birds at their table,
bless them, and make them strong. Francis, "filled with a dove-like
simplicity," preaches to them, and exhorts them to love God. A bird
was on a branch of a fig-tree, and Francis, holding out his hand,
beckoned to it, and soon it obeyed, and lighted on his hand. And he
said to it, "Sing my sister, and praise the Lord." And immediately the
bird began to sing, and did not go away until it was told to do so.

All this was a continual source of recreation to Angelique, and gave
her the idea of calling to the swallows, and hoping they might come to
her.

The good giant Christopher, who carried the Infant Christ on his
shoulders, delighted her so much as to bring tears to her eyes.

She was very merry over the misadventures of a certain Governor with
the three chambermaids of Anastasia, whom he hoped to have found in
the kitchen, where he kissed the stove and the kettles, thinking he
was embracing them. "He went out therefrom very black and ugly, and
his clothes quite smutched. And when his servants, who were waiting,
saw him in such a state, they thought he was the Devil. Then they beat
him with birch-rods, and, running away, left him alone."

But that which convulsed her most with laughter, was the account of
the blows given to the Evil One himself, especially when Juliana,
having been tempted by him in her prison cell, administered such an
extraordinary chastisement with her chain. "Then the Provost commanded
that Juliana should be brought before him; and when she came into his
presence, she was drawing the Devil after her, and he cried out,
saying, 'My good lady Juliana, do not hurt me any more!' She led him
in this way around the public square, and afterwards threw him into a
deep ditch."

Often Angelique would repeat to the Huberts, as they were all at work
together, legends far more interesting than any fairy-tale. She had
read them over so often that she knew them by heart, and she told in a
charming way the story of the Seven Sleepers, who, to escape
persecution, walled themselves up in a cavern, and whose awakening
greatly astonished the Emperor Theodosius. Then the Legend of Saint
Clement with its endless adventures, so unexpected and touching, where
the whole family, father, mother, and three sons, separated by
terrible misfortunes, are finally re-united in the midst of the most
beautiful miracles.

Her tears would flow at these recitals. She dreamed of them at night,
she lived, as it were, only in this tragic and triumphant world of
prodigy, in a supernatural country where all virtues are recompensed
by all imaginable joys.

When Angelique partook of her first Communion, it seemed as if she
were walking, like the saints, a little above the earth. She was a
young Christian of the primitive Church; she gave herself into the
hands of God, having learned from her book that she could not be saved
without grace.

The Huberts were simple in their profession of faith. They went every
Sunday to Mass, and to Communion on all great fete-days, and this was
done with the tranquil humility of true belief, aided a little by
tradition, as the chasubliers had from father to son always observed
the Church ceremonies, particularly those at Easter.

Hubert himself had a tendency to imaginative fancies. He would at
times stop his work and let fall his frame to listen to the child as
she read or repeated the legends, and, carried away for the moment by
her enthusiasm, it seemed as if his hair were blown about by the light
breath of some invisible power. He was so in sympathy with Angelique,
and associated her to such a degree with the youthful saints of the
past, that he wept when he saw her in her white dress and veil. This
day at church was like a dream, and they returned home quite
exhausted. Hubertine was obliged to scold them both, for, with her
excellent common-sense, she disliked exaggeration even in good things.

From that time she had to restrain the zeal of Angelique, especially
in her tendency to what she thought was charity, and to which she
wished to devote herself. Saint Francis had wedded poverty; Julien the
Chaplain had called the poor his superiors; Gervasius and Protais had
washed the feet of the most indigent, and Martin had divided his cloak
with them. So she, following the example of Lucy, wished to sell
everything that she might give. At first she disposed of all her
little private possessions, then she began to pillage the house. But
at last she gave without judgment and foolishly. One evening, two days
after her Confirmation, being reprimanded for having thrown from the
window several articles of underwear to a drunken woman, she had a
terrible attack of anger like those when she was young; then, overcome
by shame, she was really ill and forced to keep her bed for a couple
of days.

Chapter III


In the meanwhile, weeks and months went by. Two years had passed.
Angelique was now fourteen years of age and quite womanly. When she
read the "Golden Legend," she would have a humming in her ears, the
blood circulated quickly through the blue veins near her temples, and
she felt a deep tenderness towards all these virgin saints.

Maidenhood is the sister of the angels, the union of all good, the
overthrow of evil, the domain of faith. It gives grace, it is
perfection, which has only need to show itself to conquer. The action
of the Holy Spirit rendered Lucy so heavy that a thousand men and five
pair of oxen could not drag her away from her home. An officer who
tried to kiss Anastasia was struck blind. Under torture, the purity of
the virgins is always powerful; from their exquisite white limbs, torn
by instruments, milk flows instead of blood. Ten different times the
story is told of the young convert who, to escape from her family, who
wish her to marry against her will, assumes the garb of a monk, is
accused of some misdeed, suffers punishment without indicating
herself, and at last triumphs by announcing her name. Eugenia is in
this way brought before a judge, whom she recognises as her father and
reveals herself to him. Externally the combat of chastity recommences;
always the thorns reappear. Thus the wisest saints shrink from being
tempted. As the world is filled with snares, hermits flee to the
desert, where they scourge themselves, throw themselves on the snow,
or in beds of prickly herbs. A solitary monk covers his fingers with
his mantle, that he may aid his mother in crossing a creek. A martyr
bound to a stake, being tempted by a young girl, bites off his tongue
with his teeth and spits it at her. All glorify the state of single
blessedness. Alexis, very wealthy and in a high position, marries, but
leaves his wife at the church-door. One weds only to die. Justina, in
love with Cyprianus, converts him, and they walk together to their
punishment. Cecilia, beloved by an angel, reveals the secret to
Valerian on their wedding-day, and he, that he may see the spirit,
consents to be baptised. He found in his room Cecilia talking with the
angel, who held in his hand two wreaths of roses, and, giving one to
Cecilia, and one to Valerian, he said, "Keep these crowns, like your
hearts, pure and unspotted." In many cases it was proved that death
was stronger than love, and couples were united only as a challenge to
existence. It was said that even the Virgin Mary at times prevented
betrothals from ending in a marriage. A nobleman, a relative of the
King of Hungary, renounced his claims to a young girl of marvellous
beauty on this account. "Suddenly our Blessed Lady appeared, and said
to him: 'If I am indeed so beautiful as you have called me, why do you
leave me for another?' And he became a most devout man for the rest of
his life."

Among all this saintly company, Angelique had her preferences, and
there were those whose experiences touched her to the heart, and
helped her to correct her failings. Thus the learned Catherine, of
high birth, enchanted her by her great scientific knowledge, when,
only eighteen years of age, she was called by the Emperor Maximus to
discuss certain questions with fifty rhetoricians and grammarians. She
astonished and convinced them. "They were amazed and knew not what to
say, but they remained quiet. And the Emperor blamed them for their
weakness in allowing themselves to be so easily conquered by a young
girl." The fifty professors then declared that they were converted.
"And as soon as the tyrant heard that, he had so terrible a fit of
anger, that he commanded they should all be burned to death in the
public square." In her eyes Catherine was the invincible learned
woman, as proud and dazzling in intellect as in beauty, just as she
would have liked to be, that she might convert men, and be fed in
prison by a dove, before having her head cut off. But Saint Elizabeth,
the daughter of the King of Hungary, was for her a constant teacher
and guide. Whenever she was inclined to yield to her violent temper,
she thought of this model of gentleness and simplicity, who was at
five years of age very devout, refusing to join her playmates in their
sports, and sleeping on the ground, that, in abasing herself, she
might all the better render homage to God. Later, she was the
faithful, obedient wife of the Landgrave of Thuringia, always showing
to her husband a smiling face, although she passed her nights in
tears. When she became a widow she was driven from her estates, but
was happy to lead the life of poverty. Her dress was so thin from use,
that she wore a grey mantle, lengthened out by cloth of a different
shade. The sleeves of her jacket had been torn, and were mended with a
material of another colour. The king, her father, wishing her to come
to him, sent for her by a Count. And when the Count saw her clothed in
such a way and spinning, overcome with surprise and grief, he
exclaimed: "Never before did one see the daughter of a Royal House in
so miserable a garb, and never was one known to spin wool until now."
So Christian and sincere was her humility, that she ate black bread
with the poorest peasants, nursed them when ill, dressed their sores
without repugnance, put on coarse garments like theirs, and followed
them in the church processions with bare feet. She was once washing
the porringers and the utensils of the kitchen, when the maids, seeing
her so out of place, urged her to desist, but she replied, "Could I
find another task more menial even than this, I would do it."
Influenced by her example, Angelique, who was formerly angry when
obliged to do any cleaning in the kitchen, now tried to invent some
extremely disagreeable task when she felt nervous and in need of
control.

But more than Catherine, more than Elizabeth, far nearer and dearer to
her than all the other saints, was Agnes, the child-martyr; and her
heart leaped with joy on refinding in the "Golden Legend" this virgin,
clothed with her own hair, who had protected her under the Cathedral
portal. What ardour of pure love, as she repelled the son of the
Governor when he accosted her on her way from school! "Go--leave me,
minister of death, commencement of sin, and child of treason!" How
exquisitely she described her beloved! "I love the One whose Mother
was a Virgin, and whose father was faithful to her, at whose beauty
the sun and moon marvelled, and at whose touch the dead were made
alive." And when Aspasien commanded that "her throat should be cut by
the sword," she ascended into Paradise to be united to her "betrothed,
whiter and purer than silver-gilt."

Always, when weary or disturbed, Angelique called upon and implored
her, and it seemed as if peace came to her at once. She saw her
constantly near her, and often she regretted having done or thought of
things which would have displeased her.

One evening as she was kissing her hands, a habit which she still at
times indulged in, she suddenly blushed and turned away, although she
was quite alone, for it seemed as if the little saint must have seen
her. Agnes was her guardian angel.

Thus, at fifteen Angelique was an adorable child. Certainly, neither
the quiet, laborious life, nor the soothing shadows of the Cathedral,
nor the legends of the beautiful saints, had made her an angel, a
creature of absolute perfection. She was often angry, and certain
weaknesses of character showed themselves, which had never been
sufficiently guarded against; but she was always ashamed and penitent
if she had done wrong, for she wished so much to be perfect. And she
was so human, so full of life, so ignorant, and withal so pure in
reality.

One day, on returning from a long excursion which the Huberts allowed
her to take twice a year, on Pentecost Monday and on Assumption Day,
she took home with her a sweetbriar bush, and then amused herself by
replanting it in the narrow garden. She trimmed it and watered it
well: it grew and sent out long branches, filled with odour. With her
usual intensity, she watched it daily, but was unwilling to have it
grafted, as she wished to see if, by some miracle, it could not be
made to bear roses. She danced around it, she repeated constantly:
"This bush is like me; it is like me!" And if one joked her upon her
great wild-rose bush, she joined them in their laughter, although a
little pale, and with tears almost ready to fall. Her violet-coloured
eyes were softer than ever, her half-opened lips revealed little white
teeth, and her oval face had a golden aureole from her light wavy
hair. She had grown tall without being too slight; her neck and
shoulders were exquisitely graceful; her chest was full, her waist
flexible; and gay, healthy, of a rare beauty, she had an infinite
charm, arising from the innocence and purity of her soul.

Every day the affection of the Huberts for her increased. They often
talked together of their mutual wish to adopt her. Yet they took no
active measures in that way, lest they might have cause to regret it.
One morning, when the husband announced his final decision, his wife
suddenly began to weep bitterly. To adopt a child? Was not that the
same as giving up all hope of having one of their own? Yet it was
useless for them to expect one now, after so many years of waiting,
and she gave her consent, in reality delighted that she could call her
her daughter. When Angelique was spoken to on the subject, she threw
her arms around their necks, kissed them both, and was almost choked
with tears of joy.

So it was agreed upon that she was always to remain with them in this
house, which now seemed to be filled with her presence, rejuvenated by
her youth, and penetrated by her laughter. But an unexpected obstacle
was met with at the first step. The Justice of the Peace, Monsieur
Grandsire, on being consulted, explained to them the radical
impossibility of adoption, since by law the adopted must be "of age."
Then, seeing their disappointment, he suggested the expedient of a
legal guardianship: any individual over fifty years of age can attach
himself to a minor of fifteen years or less by a legal claim, on
becoming their official protector. The ages were all right, so they
were delighted, and accepted. It was even arranged that they should
afterwards confer the title of adoption upon their ward by way of
their united last will and testament, as such a thing would be
permitted by the Code. Monsieur Grandsire, furnished with the demand
of the husband and the authorisation of the wife, then put himself in
communication with the Director of Public Aid, the general guardian
for all abandoned children, whose consent it was necessary to have.
Great inquiries were made, and at last the necessary papers were
placed in Paris, with a certain Justice of the Peace chosen for the
purpose. And all was ready except the official report which
constitutes the legality of guardianship, when the Huberts suddenly
were taken with certain scruples.

Before receiving Angelique into their family, ought not they to
ascertain if she had any relatives on her side? Was her mother still
alive? Had they the right to dispose of the daughter without being
absolutely sure that she had willingly been given up and deserted?
Then, in reality, the unknown origin of the child, which had troubled
them long ago, came back to them now and made them hesitate. They were
so tormented by this anxiety that they could not sleep.

Without any more talk, Hubert unexpectedly announced that he was going
to Paris. Such a journey seemed like a catastrophe in his calm
existence. He explained the necessity of it to Angelique, by speaking
of the guardianship. He hoped to arrange everything in twenty-four
hours. But once in the city, days passed; obstacles arose on every
side. He spent a week there, sent from one to another, really doing
nothing, and quite discouraged. In the first place, he was received
very coldly at the Office of Public Assistance. The rule of the
Administration is that children shall not be told of their parents
until they are of age. So for two mornings in succession he was sent
away from the office. He persisted, however, explained the matter to
three secretaries, made himself hoarse in talking to an under-officer,
who wished to counsel him that he had not official papers. The
Administration were quite ignorant. A nurse had left the child there,
"Angelique Marie," without naming the mother. In despair he was about
to return to Beaumont, when a new idea impelled him to return for the
fourth time to the office, to see the book in which the arrival of the
infant had been noted down, and in that way to have the address of the
nurse. That proved quite an undertaking. But at last he succeeded, and
found it was a Madame Foucart, and that in 1850 she lived on the Rue
des Deux-Ecus.

Then he recommenced his hunting up and down. The end of the Rue des
Deux-Ecus had been demolished, and no shopkeeper in the neighbourhood
recollected ever having heard of Madame Foucart. He consulted the
directory, but there was no such name. Looking at every sign as he
walked along, he called on one after another, and at last, in this
way, he had the good fortune to find an old woman, who exclaimed, in
answer to his questions, "What! Do I know Madame Foucart? A most
honourable person, but one who has had many misfortunes. She lives on
the Rue de Censier, quite at the other end of Paris." He hastened
there at once.

Warned by experience, he determined now to be diplomatic. But Madame
Foucart, an enormous woman, would not allow him to ask questions in
the good order he had arranged them before going there. As soon as he
mentioned the two names of the child, she seemed to be eager to talk,
and she related its whole history in a most spiteful way. "Ah! the
child was alive! Very well; she might flatter herself that she had for
a mother a most famous hussy. Yes, Madame Sidonie, as she was called
since she became a widow, was a woman of a good family, having, it is
said, a brother who was a minister, but that did not prevent her from
being very bad." And she explained that she had made her acquaintance
when she kept, on the Rue Saint-Honore, a little shop where they dealt
in fruit and oil from Provence, she and her husband, when they came
from Plassans, hoping to make their fortune in the city. The husband
died and was buried, and soon after Madame Sidonie had a little
daughter, which she sent at once to the hospital, and never after even
inquired for her, as she was "a heartless woman, cold as a protest and
brutal as a sheriff's aid." A fault can be pardoned, but not
ingratitude! Was not it true that, obliged to leave her shop as she
was so heavily in debt, she had been received and cared for by Madame
Foucart? And when in her turn she herself had fallen into
difficulties, she had never been able to obtain from Madame Sidonie,
even the month's board she owed her, nor the fifteen francs she had
once lent her. To-day the "hateful thing" lived on the Rue de
Faubourg-Poissonniere, where she had a little apartment of three
rooms. She pretended to be a cleaner and mender of lace, but she sold
a good many other things. Ah! yes! such a mother as that it was best
to know nothing about!

An hour later, Hubert was walking round the house where Madame Sidonie
lived. He saw through the window a woman, thin, pale, coarse-looking,
wearing an old black gown, stained and greased. Never could the heart
of such a person be touched by the recollection of a daughter whom she
had only seen on the day of its birth. He concluded it would be best
not to repeat, even to his wife, many things that he had just learned.
Still he hesitated. Once more he passed by the place, and looked
again. Ought not he to go in, to introduce himself, and to ask the
consent of the unnatural parent? As an honest man, it was for him to
judge if he had the right of cutting the tie there and for ever.
Brusquely he turned his back, hurried away, and returned that evening
to Beaumont.

Hubertine had just learned that the _proces-verbal_ at Monsieur
Grandsire's, for the guardianship of the child, had been signed. And
when Angelique threw herself into Hubert's arms, he saw clearly by the
look of supplication in her eyes, that she had understood the true
reason of his journey.

Then he said quietly: "My child, your mother is not living." Angelique
wept, as she kissed him most affectionately. After this the subject
was not referred to. She was their daughter.

At Whitsuntide, this year, the Huberts had taken Angelique with them
to lunch at the ruins of the Chateau d'Hautecoeur, which overlooks the
Ligneul, two leagues below Beaumont; and, after the day spent in
running and laughing in the open air, the young girl still slept when,
the next morning, the old house-clock struck eight.

Hubertine was obliged to go up and rap at her door.

"Ah, well! Little lazy child! We have already had our breakfast, and
it is late."

Angelique dressed herself quickly and went down to the kitchen, where
she took her rolls and coffee alone. Then, when she entered the
workroom, where Hubert and his wife had just seated themselves, after
having arranged their frames for embroidery, she said:

"Oh! how soundly I did sleep! I had quite forgotten that we had
promised to finish this chasuble for next Sunday."

This workroom, the windows of which opened upon the garden, was a
large apartment, preserved almost entirely in its original state. The
two principal beams of the ceiling, and the three visible cross-beams
of support, had not even been whitewashed, and they were blackened by
smoke and worm-eaten, while, through the openings of the broken
plaster, here and there, the laths of the inner joists could be seen.
On one of the stone corbels, which supported the beams, was the date
1463, without doubt the date of the construction of the building. The
chimney-piece, also in stone, broken and disjointed, had traces of its
original elegance, with its slender uprights, its brackets, its frieze
with a cornice, and its basket-shaped funnel terminating in a crown.
On the frieze could be seen even now, as if softened by age, an
ingenious attempt at sculpture, in the way of a likeness of Saint
Clair, the patron of embroiderers. But this chimney was no longer
used, and the fireplace had been turned into an open closet by putting
shelves therein, on which were piles of designs and patterns. The room
was now heated by a great bell-shaped cast-iron stove, the pipe of
which, after going the whole length of the ceiling, entered an opening
made expressly for it in the wall. The doors, already shaky, were of
the time of Louis XIV. The original tiles of the floor were nearly all
gone, and had been replaced, one by one, by those of a later style. It
was nearly a hundred years since the yellow walls had been coloured,
and at the top of the room they were almost of a greyish white, and,
lower down, were scratched and spotted with saltpetre. Each year there
was talk of repainting them, but nothing had yet been done, from a
dislike of making any change.

Hubertine, busy at her work, raised her head as Angelique spoke and
said:

"You know that if our work is done on Sunday, I have promised to give
you a basket of pansies for your garden."

The young girl exclaimed gaily: "Oh, yes! that is true. Ah, well! I
will do my best then! But where is my thimble? It seems as if all
working implements take to themselves wings and fly away, if not in
constant use."

She flipped the old _doigtier_ of ivory on the second joint of her
little finger, and took her place on the other side of the frame,
opposite to the window.

Since the middle of the last century there had not been the slightest
modification in the fittings and arrangements of the workroom.
Fashions changed, the art of the embroiderer was transformed, but
there was still seen fastened to the wall the chantlate, the great
piece of wood where was placed one end of the frame or work, while the
other end was supported by a moving trestle. In the corners were many
ancient tools--a little machine called a "diligent," with its wheels
and its long pins, to wind the gold thread on the reels without
touching it; a hand spinning-wheel; a species of pulley to twist the
threads which were attached to the wall; rollers of various sizes
covered with silks and threads used in the crochet embroidery. Upon a
shelf was spread out an old collection of punches for the spangles,
and there was also to be seen a valuable relic, in the shape of the
classic chandelier in hammered brass which belonged to some ancient
master-workman. On the rings of a rack made of a nailed leather strap
were hung awls, mallets, hammers, irons to cut the vellum, and
roughing chisels of bogwood, which were used to smooth the threads as
fast as they were employed. And yet again, at the foot of the heavy
oaken table on which the cutting-out was done, was a great winder,
whose two movable reels of wicker held the skeins. Long chains of
spools of bright-coloured silks strung on cords were hung near that
case of drawers. On the floor was a large basket filled with empty
bobbins. A pair of great shears rested on the straw seat of one of the
chairs, and a ball of cord had just fallen on the floor, half unwound.

"Oh! what lovely weather! What perfect weather!" continued Angelique.
"It is a pleasure simply to live and to breathe."

And before stooping to apply herself to her work, she delayed another
moment before the open window, through which entered all the beauty of
a radiant May morning.

Chapter IV


The sun shone brightly on the roof of the Cathedral, a fresh odour of
lilacs came up from the bushes in the garden of the Bishop. Angelique
smiled, as she stood there, dazzled, and as if bathed in the
springtide. Then, starting as if suddenly awakened from sleep, she
said:

"Father, I have no more gold thread for my work."

Hubert, who had just finished pricking the tracing of the pattern of a
cope, went to get a skein from the case of drawers, cut it, tapered
off the two ends by scratching the gold which covered the silk, and he
brought it to her rolled up in parchment.

"Is that all you need?"

"Yes, thanks."

With a quick glance she had assured herself that nothing more was
wanting; the needles were supplied with the different golds, the red,
the green, and the blue; there were spools of every shade of silk; the
spangles were ready; and the twisted wires for the gold lace were in
the crown of a hat which served as a box, with the long fine needles,
the steel pincers, the thimbles, the scissors, and the ball of wax.
All these were on the frame even, or on the material stretched
therein, which was protected by a thick brown paper.

She had threaded a needle with the gold thread. But at the first
stitch it broke, and she was obliged to thread it again, breaking off
tiny bits of the gold, which she threw immediately into the pasteboard
waste-basket which was near her.

"Now at last I am ready," she said, as she finished her first stitch.

Perfect silence followed. Hubert was preparing to stretch some
material on another frame. He had placed the two heavy ends on the
chantlate and the trestle directly opposite in such a way as to take
lengthwise the red silk of the cope, the breadths of which Hubertine
had just stitched together, and fitting the laths into the mortice of
the beams, he fastened them with four little nails. Then, after
smoothing the material many times from right to left, he finished
stretching it and tacked on the nails. To assure himself that it was
thoroughly tight and firm, he tapped on the cloth with his fingers and
it sounded like a drum.

Angelique had become a most skilful worker, and the Huberts were
astonished at her cleverness and taste. In addition to what they had
taught her, she carried into all she did her personal enthusiasm,
which gave life to flowers and faith to symbols. Under her hands, silk
and gold seemed animated; the smaller ornaments were full of mystic
meaning; she gave herself up to it entirely, with her imagination
constantly active and her firm belief in the infinitude of the
invisible world.

The Diocese of Beaumont had been so charmed with certain pieces of her
embroidery, that a clergyman who was an archaeologist, and another who
was an admirer of pictures, had come to see her, and were in raptures
before her Virgins, which they compared to the simple gracious figures
of the earliest masters. There was the same sincerity, the same
sentiment of the beyond, as if encircled in the minutest perfection of
detail. She had the real gift of design, a miraculous one indeed,
which, without a teacher, with nothing but her evening studies by
lamplight, enabled her often to correct her models, to deviate
entirely from them, and to follow her own fancies, creating beautiful
things with the point of her needle. So the Huberts, who had always
insisted that a thorough knowledge of the science of drawing was
necessary to make a good embroiderer, were obliged to yield before
her, notwithstanding their long experience. And, little by little,
they modestly withdrew into the background, becoming simply her aids,
surrendering to her all the most elaborate work, the under part of
which they prepared for her.

From one end of the year to the other, what brilliant and sacred
marvels passed through her hands! She was always occupied with silks,
satins, velvets, or cloths of gold or silver. She embroidered
chasubles, stoles, maniples, copes, dalmatics, mitres, banners, and
veils for the chalice and the pyx. But, above all, their orders for
chasubles never failed, and they worked constantly at those vestments,
with their five colours: the white, for Confessors and Virgins; the
red, for Apostles and Martyrs; the black, for the days of fasting and
for the dead; the violet, for the Innocents; and the green for fete-
days. Gold was also often used in place of white or of green. The same
symbols were always in the centre of the Cross: the monograms of Jesus
and of the Virgin Mary, the triangle surrounded with rays, the lamb,
the pelican, the dove, a chalice, a monstrance, and a bleeding heart
pierced with thorns; while higher up and on the arms were designs, or
flowers, all the ornamentation being in the ancient style, and all the
flora in large blossoms, like anemones, tulips, peonies, pomegranates,
or hortensias. No season passed in which she did not remake the grapes
and thorns symbolic, putting silver on black, and gold on red. For the
most costly vestments, she varied the pictures of the heads of saints,
having, as a central design, the Annunciation, the Last Supper, or the
Crucifixion. Sometimes the orfreys were worked on the original
material itself; at others, she applied bands of silk or satin on
brocades of gold cloth, or of velvet. And all this efflorescence of
sacred splendour was created, little by little, by her deft fingers.
At this moment the vestment on which Angelique was at work was a
chasuble of white satin, the cross of which was made by a sheaf of
golden lilies intertwined with bright roses, in various shades of
silk. In the centre, in a wreath of little roses of dead gold, was the
monogram of the Blessed Virgin, in red and green gold, with a great
variety of ornaments.

For an hour, during which she skilfully finished the little roses, the
silence had not been broken even by a single word. But her thread
broke again, and she re-threaded her needle by feeling carefully under
the frame, as only an adroit person can do. Then, as she raised her
head, she again inhaled with satisfaction the pure, fresh air that
came in from the garden.

"Ah!" she said softly, "how beautiful it was yesterday! The sunshine
is always perfect."

Hubertine shook her head as she stopped to wax her thread.

"As for me, I am so wearied, it seems as if I had no arms, and it
tires me to work. But that is not strange, for I so seldom go out, and
am no longer young and strong, as you are at sixteen."

Angelique had reseated herself and resumed her work. She prepared the
lilies by sewing bits of vellum on certain places that had been
marked, so as to give them relief, but the flowers themselves were not
to be made until later, for fear the gold be tarnished were the hands
moved much over it.

Hubert, who, having finished arranging the material in its frame, was
about drawing with pumice the pattern of the cope, joined in the
conversation and said: "These first warm days of spring are sure to
give me a terrible headache."

Angelique's eyes seemed to be vaguely lost in the rays which now fell
upon one of the flying buttresses of the church, as she dreamily
added: "Oh no, father, I do not think so. One day in the lively air,
like yesterday, does me a world of good."

Having finished the little golden leaves, she began one of the large
roses, near the lilies. Already she had threaded several needles with
the silks required, and she embroidered in stitches varying in length,
according to the natural position and movement of the petals, and
notwithstanding the extreme delicacy and absorbing nature of this
work, the recollections of the previous day, which she lived over
again in thought and in silence, now came to her lips, and crowded so
closely upon each other that she no longer tried to keep them back. So
she talked of their setting out upon their expedition, of the
beautiful fields they crossed, of their lunch over there in the ruins
of Hautecoeur, upon the flagstones of a little room whose tumble-down
walls towered far above the Ligneul, which rolled gently among the
willows fifty yards below them.

She was enthusiastic over these crumbling ruins, and the scattered
blocks of stone among the brambles, which showed how enormous the
colossal structure must have been as, when first built, it commanded
the two valleys. The donjon remained, nearly two hundred feet in
height, discoloured, cracked, but nevertheless firm, upon its
foundation pillars fifteen feet thick. Two of its towers had also
resisted the attacks of Time--that of Charlemagne and that of David--
united by a heavy wall almost intact. In the interior, the chapel, the
court-room, and certain chambers were still easily recognised; and all
this appeared to have been built by giants, for the steps of the
stairways, the sills of the windows, and the branches on the terraces,
were all on a scale far out of proportion for the generation of
to-day. It was, in fact, quite a little fortified city. Five hundred
men could have sustained there a siege of thirty months without
suffering from want of ammunition or of provisions. For two centuries
the bricks of the lowest story had been disjointed by the wild roses;
lilacs and laburnums covered with blossoms the rubbish of the fallen
ceilings; a plane-tree had even grown up in the fireplace of the
guardroom. But when, at sunset, the outline of the donjon cast its
long shadow over three leagues of cultivated ground, and the colossal
Chateau seemed to be rebuilt in the evening mists, one still felt the
great strength, and the old sovereignty, which had made of it so
impregnable a fortress that even the kings of France trembled before
it.

"And I am sure," continued Angelique, "that it is inhabited by the
souls of the dead, who return at night. All kinds of noises are heard
there; in every direction are monsters who look at you, and when I
turned round as we were coming away, I saw great white figures
fluttering above the wall. But, mother, you know all the history of
the castle, do you not?"

Hubertine replied, as she smiled in an amused way: "Oh! as for ghosts,
I have never seen any of them myself."

But in reality, she remembered perfectly the history, which she had
read long ago, and to satisfy the eager questionings of the young
girl, she was obliged to relate it over again.

The land belonged to the Bishopric of Rheims, since the days of Saint
Remi, who had received it from Clovis.

An archbishop, Severin, in the early years of the tenth century, had
erected at Hautecoeur a fortress to defend the country against the
Normans, who were coming up the river Oise, into which the Ligneul
flows.

In the following century a successor of Severin gave it in fief to
Norbert, a younger son of the house of Normandy, in consideration of
an annual quit-rent of sixty sous, and on the condition that the city
of Beaumont and its church should remain free and unincumbered. It was
in this way that Norbert I became the head of the Marquesses of
Hautecoeur, whose famous line from that date became so well known in
history. Herve IV, excommunicated twice for his robbery of
ecclesiastical property, became a noted highwayman, who killed, on a
certain occasion, with his own hands, thirty citizens, and his tower
was razed to the ground by Louis le Gros, against whom he had dared to
declare war. Raoul I, who went to the Crusades with Philip Augustus,
perished before Saint Jean d'Acre, having been pierced through the
heart by a lance. But the most illustrious of the race was John V, the
Great, who, in 1225, rebuilt the fortress, finishing in less than five
years this formidable Chateau of Hautecoeur, under whose shelter he,
for a moment, dreamed of aspiring to the throne of France, and after
having escaped from being killed in twenty battles, he at last died
quietly in his bed, brother-in-law to the King of Scotland. Then came
Felician III, who made a pilgrimage to Jerusalem barefooted; Herve
VII, who asserted his claims to the throne of Scotland; and still many
others, noble and powerful in their day and generation, down to Jean
IX, who, under Mazarin, had the grief of assisting at the dismantling
of the castle. After a desperate siege, the vaults of the towers and
of the donjon were blown up with powder, and the different
constructions were set on fire; where Charles VI had been sent to
rest, and to turn his attention from his vagaries, and where, nearly
two hundred years later, Henri IV had passed a week as Gabrielle
D'Estress. Thenceforth, all these royal souvenirs had passed into
oblivion.

Angelique, without stopping the movement of her needle, listened
eagerly, as if the vision of these past grandeurs rose up from her
frame, in proportion as the rose grew there in its delicate life of
colour. Her ignorance of general history enlarged facts, and she
received them as if they were the basis of a marvellous legend. She
trembled with delight, and, transported by her faith, it seemed as if
the reconstructed Chateau mounted to the very gates of heaven, and the
Hautecoeurs were cousins to the Virgin Mary.

When there was a pause in the recital she asked, "Is not our new
Bishop Monseigneur d'Hautecoeur, a descendant of this noted family?"

Hubertine replied that Monseigneur must belong to the younger branch
of the family, as the elder branch had been extinct for a very long
time. It was, indeed, a most singular return, as for centuries the
Marquesses of Hautecoeur and the clergy of Beaumont had been hostile
to each other. Towards 1150 an abbot undertook to build a church, with
no other resources than those of his Order; so his funds soon gave
out, when the edifice was no higher than the arches of the side
chapels, and they were obliged to cover the nave with a wooden roof.
Eighty years passed, and Jean V came to rebuild the Chateau, when he
gave three hundred thousand pounds, which, added to other sums,
enabled the work on the church to be continued. The nave was finished,
but the two towers and the great front were terminated much later,
towards 1430, in the full fifteenth century. To recompense Jean V for
his liberality, the clergy accorded to him, for himself and his
descendants, the right of burial in a chapel of the apse, consecrated
to St. George, and which, since that time, had been called the Chapel
Hautecoeur. But these good terms were not of long duration. The
freedom of Beaumont was put in constant peril by the Chateau, and
there were continual hostilities on the questions of tribute and of
precedence. One especially, the right of paying toll, which the nobles
demanded for the navigation of the Ligneul, perpetuated the quarrels.
Then it was that the great prosperity of the lower town began, with
its manufacturing of fine linen and lace, and from this epoch the
fortune of Beaumont increased daily, while that of Hautecoeur
diminished, until the time when the castle was dismantled and the
church triumphed. Louis XIV made of it a cathedral, a bishop's palace
was built in the old enclosure of the monks, and, by a singular chain
of circumstances, to-day a member of the family of Hautecoeur had
returned as a bishop to command the clergy, who, always powerful, had
conquered his ancestors, after a contest of four hundred years.

"But," said Angelique, "Monseigneur has been married, and has not he a
son at least twenty years of age?"

Hubertine had taken up the shears to remodel one of the pieces of
vellum.

"Yes," she replied, "the Abbot Cornille told me the whole story, and
it is a very sad history. When but twenty years of age, Monseigneur
was a captain under Charles X. In 1830, when only four-and-twenty, he
resigned his position in the army, and it is said that from that time
until he was forty years of age he led an adventurous life, travelling
everywhere and having many strange experiences. At last, one evening,
he met, at the house of a friend in the country, the daughter of the
Count de Valencay, Mademoiselle Pauline, very wealthy, marvellously
beautiful, and scarcely nineteen years of age, twenty-two years
younger than himself. He fell violently in love with her, and, as she
returned his affection, there was no reason why the marriage should
not take place at once. He then bought the ruins of Hautecoeur for a
mere song--ten thousand francs, I believe--with the intention of
repairing the Chateau and installing his wife therein when all would
be in order and in readiness to receive her. In the meanwhile they
went to live on one of his family estates in Anjou, scarcely seeing
any of their friends, and finding in their united happiness the days
all too short. But, alas! at the end of a year Pauline had a son and
died."

Hubert, who was still occupied with marking out his pattern, raised
his head, showing a very pale face as he said in a low voice: "Oh! the
unhappy man!"

"It was said that he himself almost died from his great grief,"
continued Hubertine. "At all events, a fortnight later he entered into
Holy Orders, and soon became a priest. That was twenty years ago, and
now he is a bishop. But I have also been told that during all this
time he has refused to see his son, the child whose birth cost the
life of its mother. He had placed him with an uncle of his wife's, an
old abbot, not wishing even to hear of him, and trying to forget his
existence. One day a picture of the boy was sent him, but in looking
at it he found so strong a resemblance to his beloved dead that he
fell on the floor unconscious and stiff, as if he had received a blow
from a hammer. . . . Now age and prayer have helped to soften his deep
grief, for yesterday the good Father Cornille told me that Monseigneur
had just decided to send for his son to come to him."

Angelique, having finished her rose, so fresh and natural that
perfume seemed to be exhaled from it, looked again through the window
into the sunny garden, and, as if in a reverie, she said in a low
voice: "The son of Monseigneur!"

Hubertine continued her story.

"It seems that the young man is handsome as a god, and his father
wished him to be educated for the priesthood. But the old abbot would
not consent to that, saying that the youth had not the slightest
inclination in that direction. And then, to crown all, his wealth, it
is said, is enormous. Two million pounds sterling! Yes, indeed! His
mother left him a tenth of that sum, which was invested in land in
Paris, where the increase in the price of real estate has been so
great, that to-day it represents fifty millions of francs. In short,
rich as a king!"

"Rich as a king, beautiful as a god!" repeated Angelique
unconsciously, in her dreamy voice.

And with one hand she mechanically took from the frame a bobbin wound
with gold thread, in order to make the open-work centre of one of the
large lilies. After having loosened the end from the point of the
reel, she fastened it with a double stitch of silk to the edge of the
vellum which was to give a thickness to the embroidery. Then,
continuing her work, she said again, without finishing her thought,
which seemed lost in the vagueness of its desire, "Oh! as for me, what
I would like, that which I would like above all else----"

The silence fell again, deep and profound, broken only by the dull
sound of chanting which came from the church. Hubert arranged his
design by repassing with a little brush all the perforated lines of
the drawing, and thus the ornamentation of the cope appeared in white
on the red silk. It was he who first resumed speaking.

"Ah! those ancient days were magnificent! Noblemen then wore costumes
weighted with embroidery. At Lyons, material was sometimes sold for as
much as six hundred francs an ell. One ought to read the by-laws and
regulations of the Guild of Master Workmen, where it is laid down that
'The embroiderers of the King have always the right to summon, by
armed force if necessary, the workmen of other masters.' . . . And
then we had coats of arms, too! Azure, a fesso engrailed or, between
three fleurs-de-lys of the same, two of them being near the top and
the third in the point. Ah! it was indeed beautiful in the days of
long ago!"

He stopped a moment, tapping the frame with his fingers to shake off
the dust. Then he continued:

"At Beaumont they still have a legend about the Hautecoeurs, which my
mother often related to me when I was a child. . . . A frightful
plague ravaged the town, and half of the inhabitants had already
fallen victims to it, when Jean V, he who had rebuilt the fortress,
perceived that God had given him the power to contend against the
scourge. Then he went on foot to the houses of the sick, fell on his
knees, kissed them, and as soon as his lips had touched them, while he
said, 'If God is willing, I wish it,' the sufferers were healed. And lo!
that is why these words have remained the device of the Hautecoeurs,
who all have since that day been able to cure the plague. . . . Ah!
what a proud race of men! A noble dynasty! Monseigneur himself is
called Jean XII, and the first name of his son must also be followed
by a number, like that of a prince."

He stopped. Each one of his words lulled and prolonged the reverie of
Angelique. She continued, in a half-singing tone: "Oh! what I wish for
myself! That which I would like above all else----"

Holding the bobbin, without touching the thread, she twisted the gold
by moving it from left to right alternately on the vellum, fastening
it at each turn with a stitch in silk. Little by little the great
golden lily blossomed out.

Soon she continued: "Yes, what I would like above all would be to
marry a prince--a prince whom I had never seen; who would come towards
sunset, just before the waning daylight, and would take me by the hand
and lead me to his palace. And I should wish him to be very handsome,
as well as very rich! Yes, the most beautiful and the wealthiest man
that had ever been seen on the earth! He should have superb horses
that I could hear neighing under my windows, and jewels which he would
pour in streams into my lap, and gold that would fall from my hands in
a deluge when I opened them. And what I wish still further is, that
this prince of mine should love me to distraction, so that I might
also love him desperately. We would then remain very young, very good,
and very noble, for ever!"

Hubert, leaving his work, had approached her smilingly; whilst
Hubertine, in a friendly way, shook her finger at the young girl.

"Oh, what a vain little creature! Ah! ambitious child, you are quite
incorrigible. Now, you are quite beside yourself with your need of
being a queen. At all events such a dream is much better than to steal
sugar and to be impertinent. But really, you must not indulge in such
fancies. It is the Evil One who prompts them, and it is pride that
speaks, as well as passion."

Gay and candid, Angelique looked her in the face as she said: "But
mother, mother mine, what are you saying? Is it, then, a sin to love
that which is rich and beautiful? I love it because it is rich and
beautiful, and so cheers my heart and soul. A beautiful object
brightens everything that is near it, and helps one to live, as the
sun does. You know very well that I am not selfish. Money? Oh! you
would see what a good use I would make of it, if only I had it in
abundance! I would rain it over the town; it should be scattered among
the miserable. Think what a blessing it would be to have no more
poverty! In the first place, as for you and my father, I would give
you everything. You should be dressed in robes and garments of
brocades, like the lords and ladies of the olden time."

Hubertine shrugged her shoulders and smiled. "It is ridiculous," she
said. "But, my dear child, you must remember that you are poor, and
that you have not a penny for your marriage-portion. How can you,
then, for a moment dream of a prince? Are you, then, so desirous to
marry a prince?"

"Why should not I wish to marry such a man?" And she looked quite
amazed, as she continued: "Marry him? Of course I would do so. Since
he would have plenty of money, what difference would it make if I had
none? I should owe everything to him, and on that very account I
should love him all the more deeply."

This victorious reasoning enchanted Hubert, who seemed carried above
the earth by Angelique's enthusiasm. He would willingly have
accompanied her on the wings of a cloud to the regions of fancy.

"She is right," he exclaimed.

But his wife glanced at him reprovingly. She became quite stern.

"My child, you will think differently later on, when you know life
better."

"Life?--but I know it already."

"How is it possible for you to know it? You are too young; you are
ignorant of evil. Yet evil exists and is very powerful."

"Evil--evil?"

Angelique repeated the word very slowly, as if to penetrate its
meaning. And in her pure eyes was a look of innocent surprise. Evil?
She knew all about it, for she had read of it in the "Golden Legend."
Was not evil Satan himself? And had not she seen how, although he
constantly reappeared, he was always overthrown? After every battle he
remained crushed to earth, thoroughly conquered, and in a most
pitiable state.

"Evil? Ah, mother mine, if you knew how little I fear it! It is only
necessary once to conquer it and afterwards life is all happiness."

Hubertine appeared troubled and looked anxious.

"You will make me almost regret having brought you up in this house,
alone with us two, and away from the world as it were. I am really
afraid that some day we shall regret having kept you in such complete
ignorance of the realities of life. What Paradise are you looking for?
What is your idea of the world?"

A look of hope brightened the face of the young girl, while, bending
forward, she still moved the bobbin back and forth with a continuous,
even motion.

"You then really think, mother, that I am very foolish, do you not?
This world is full of brave people. When one is honest and
industrious, one is always rewarded. I know also that there are some
bad people, but they do not count. We do not associate with them, and
they are soon punished for their misdeeds. And then, you see, as for
the world, it produces on me, from a distance, the effect of a great
garden; yes, of an immense park, all filled with flowers and with
sunshine. It is such a blessing to live, and life is so sweet that it
cannot be bad."

She grew excited, as if intoxicated by the brightness of the silks and
the gold threads she manipulated so well with her skilful fingers.

"Happiness is a very simple thing. We are happy, are we not? All three
of us? And why? Simply because we love each other. Then, after all, it
is no more difficult than that; it is only necessary to love and to be
loved. So, you see, when the one I expect really comes, we shall
recognise each other immediately. It is true I have not yet seen him,
but I know exactly what he ought to be. He will enter here and will
say: 'I have come in search of you.' And I shall reply: 'I expected
you, and will go with you.' He will take me with him, and our future
will be at once decided upon. He will go into a palace, where all the
furniture will be of gold, encrusted in diamonds. Oh, it is all very
simple!"

"You are crazy; so do not talk any more," interrupted Hubertine,
coldly.

And seeing that the young girl was still excited, and ready to
continue to indulge her fancies, she continued to reprove her.

"I beg you to say no more, for you absolutely make me tremble. Unhappy
child! When we really marry you to some poor mortal you will be
crushed, as you fall to earth from these heights of the imagination.
Happiness, for the greater part of the world, consists in humility and
obedience."

Angelique continued to smile with an almost obstinate tranquillity.

"I expect him, and he will come."

"But she is right," exclaimed Hubert, again carried away by her
enthusiasm. "Why need you scold her? She is certainly pretty, and
dainty enough for a king. Stranger things than that have happened, and
who knows what may come?"

Sadly Hubertine looked at him with her calm eyes.

"Do not encourage her to do wrong, my dear. You know, better than
anyone, what it costs to follow too much the impulses of one's heart."

He turned deadly pale, and great tears came to the edge of his
eyelids. She immediately repented of having reproved him, and rose to
offer him her hands. But gently disengaging himself, he said,
stammeringly:

"No, no, my dear; I was wrong. Angelique, do you understand me? You
must always listen to your mother. She alone is wise, and we are both
of us very foolish. I am wrong; yes, I acknowledge it."

Too disturbed to sit down, leaving the cope upon which he had been
working, he occupied himself in pasting a banner that was finished,
although still in its frame. After having taken the pot of Flemish
glue from the chest of drawers, he moistened with a brush the
underside of the material, to make the embroidery firmer. His lips
still trembled, and he remained quiet.

But if Angelique, in her obedience, was also still, she allowed her
thoughts to follow their course, and her fancies mounted higher and
still higher. She showed it in every feature--in her mouth, that
ecstasy had half opened, as well as in her eyes, where the infinite
depth of her visions seemed reflected. Now, this dream of a poor girl,
she wove it into the golden embroidery. It was for this unknown hero
that, little by little, there seemed to grow on the white satin the
beautiful great lilies, and the roses, and the monogram of the Blessed
Virgin. The stems of the lilies had all the gracious pointings of a
jet of light, whilst the long slender leaves, made of spangles, each
one being sewed on with gold twist, fell in a shower of stars. In the
centre, the initials of Mary were like the dazzling of a relief in
massive gold, a marvellous blending of lacework and of embossing, or
goffering, which burnt like the glory of a tabernacle in the mystic
fire of its rays. And the roses of delicately-coloured silks seemed
real, and the whole chasuble was resplendent in its whiteness of
satin, which appeared covered almost miraculously with its golden
blossoms.

After a long silence, Angelique, whose cheeks were flushed by the
blood which mounted into them from her excitement, raised her head,
and, looking at Hubertine, said again, a little maliciously:

"I expect him, and he will come."

It was absurd for her thus to give loose reins to her imagination. But
she was willful. She was convinced in her own mind that everything
would come to pass, eventually, as she wished it might. Nothing could
weaken her happy conviction.

"Mother," she added, "why do you not believe me, since I assure you it
must be as I say?"

Hubertine shrugged her shoulders, and concluded the best thing for her
to do was to tease her.

"But I thought, my child, that you never intended being married. Your
saints, who seem to have turned your head, they led single lives.
Rather than do otherwise they converted their lovers, ran away from
their homes, and were put to death."

The young girl listened and was confused. But soon she laughed
merrily. Her perfect health, and all her love of life, rang out in
this sonorous gaiety. "The histories of the saints! But that was ages
ago! Times have entirely changed since then. God having so completely
triumphed, no longer demands that anyone should die for Him."

When reading the Legend, it was the marvels which fascinated her, not
the contempt of the world and the desire for death. She added: "Most
certainly I expect to be married; to love and to be loved, and thus be
very happy."

"Be careful, my dear," said Hubertine, continuing to tease her. "You
will make your guardian angel, Saint Agnes, weep. Do not you know that
she refused the son of the Governor, and preferred to die, that she
might be wedded to Jesus?"

The great clock of the belfry began to strike; numbers of sparrows
flew down from an enormous ivy-plant which framed one of the windows
of the apse. In the workroom, Hubert, still silent, had just hung up
the banner, moist from the glue, that it might dry, on one of the
great iron hooks fastened to the wall.

The sun in the course of the morning had lightened up different parts
of the room, and now it shone brightly upon the old tools--the
diligent, the wicker winder, and the brass chandelier--and as its rays
fell upon the two workers, the frame at which they were seated seemed
almost on fire, with its bands polished by use, and with the various
objects placed upon it, the reels of gold cord, the spangles, and the
bobbins of silk.

Then, in this soft, charming air of spring, Angelique looked at the
beautiful symbolic lily she had just finished. Opening wide her
ingenuous eyes, she replied, with an air of confiding happiness, to
Hubertine's last remark in regard to the child-martyr, Saint Agnes:

"Ah, yes! But it was Jesus who wished it to be so."

Chapter V


Notwithstanding her thoroughly cheerful nature, Angelique liked
solitude; and it was to her the greatest of recreations to be alone in
her room, morning and evening. There she gave herself up to her
thoughts; there she indulged to the full scope in her most joyous
fancies. Sometimes even during the day, when she could go there for a
moment, she was as happy as if, in full freedom, she had committed
some childish prank.

The chamber was very large, taking in at least half of the upper
story, the other half being the garret. It was whitewashed everywhere;
not only the walls and the beams, but the joists, even to the visible
copings of the mansard part of the roof; and in this bare whiteness,
the old oaken furniture seemed almost as black as ebony. At the time
of the decoration of the sleeping-room below, and the improvements
made in the parlour, the ancient furniture, which had been bought at
various epochs, had been carried upstairs. There was a great carved
chest of the Renaissance period, a table and chairs which dated from
the reign of Louis XIII, an enormous bedstead, style Louis XIV, and a
very handsome wardrobe, Louis XV. In the middle of these venerable old
things a white porcelain stove, and the little toilet-table, covered
with a pretty oilcloth, seemed out of place and to mar the dull
harmony. Curtained with an old-fashioned rose-coloured chintz, on
which were bouquets of heather, so faded that the colour had become a
scarcely perceptible pink, the enormous bedstead preserved above all
the majesty of its great age.

But what pleased Angelique more than anything else was the little
balcony on which the window opened. Of the two original windows, one
of them, that at the left, had been closed by simply fastening it with
nails, and the balcony, which formerly extended across the front of
the building, was now only before the window at the right. As the
lower beams were still strong, a new floor had been made, and above it
an iron railing was firmly attached in place of the old worm-eaten
wooden balustrade. This made a charming little corner, a quiet nook
under the gable point, the leaden laths of which had been renewed at
the beginning of the century. By bending over a little, the whole
garden-front of the house could be seen in a very dilapidated state,
with its sub-basement of little cut stones, its panels ornamented with
imitation bricks, and its large bay window, which to-day had been made
somewhat smaller. The roof of the great porch of the kitchen-door was
covered with zinc. And above, the interduces of the top, which
projected three feet or more, were strengthened by large, upright
pieces of wood, the ends of which rested on the string-course of the
first floor. All this gave to the balcony an appearance of being in a
perfect vegetation of timber, as if in the midst of a forest of old
wood, which was green with wallflowers and moss.

Since she occupied the chamber, Angelique had spent many hours there,
leaning over the balustrade and simply looking. At first, directly
under her was the garden, darkened by the eternal shade of the
evergreen box-trees; in the corner nearest the church, a cluster of
small lilac-bushes surrounded an old granite bench; while in the
opposite corner, half hidden by a beautiful ivy which covered the
whole wall at the end as if with a mantle, was a little door opening
upon the Clos-Marie, a vast, uncultivated field. This Clos-Marie was
the old orchard of the monks. A rivulet of purest spring-water crossed
it, the Chevrotte, where the women who occupied the houses in the
neighbourhood had the privilege of washing their linen; certain poor
people sheltered themselves in the ruins of an old tumble-down mill;
and no other persons inhabited this field, which was connected with
the Rue Magloire simply by the narrow lane of the Guerdaches, which
passed between the high walls of the Bishop's Palace and those of the
Hotel Voincourt. In summer, the centenarian elms of the two parks
barred with their green-leaved tops the straight, limited horizon
which in the centre was cut off by the gigantic brow of the Cathedral.
Thus shut in on all sides, the Clos-Marie slept in the quiet peace of
its abandonment, overrun with weeds and wild grass, planted with
poplars and willows sown by the wind. Among the great pebbles the
Chevrotte leaped, singing as it went, and making a continuous music as
if of crystal.

Angelique was never weary of this out-of-the-way nook. Yet for seven
years she had seen there each morning only what she had looked at on
the previous evening. The trees in the little park of the Hotel
Voincourt, whose front was on the Grand Rue, were so tufted and bushy
that it was only in the winter she could occasionally catch a glimpse
of the daughter of the Countess, Mademoiselle Claire, a young girl of
her own age.

In the garden of the Bishop was a still more dense thickness of
branches, and she had often tried in vain to distinguish there the
violet-coloured cassock of Monseigneur; and the old gate, with its
Venetian slats above and at the sides, must have been fastened up for
a very long time, for she never remembered to have seen it opened, not
even for a gardener to pass through. Besides the washerwomen in the
Clos, she always saw the same poor, ragged little children playing or
sleeping in the grass.

The spring this year was unusually mild. She was just sixteen years of
age, and until now she had been glad to welcome with her eyes alone
the growing green again of the Clos-Marie under the April sunshine.
The shooting out of the tender leaves, the transparency of the warm
evenings, and all the reviving odours of the earth had simply amused
her heretofore. But this year, at the first bud, her heart seemed to
beat more quickly. As the grass grew higher and the wind brought to
her all the strong perfumes of the fresh verdure, there was in her
whole being an increasing agitation. Sudden inexplicable pain would at
times seize her throat and almost choke her. One evening she threw
herself, weeping, into Hubertine's arms, having no cause whatever for
grief, but, on the contrary, overwhelmed with so great, unknown a
happiness, that her heart was too full for restraint. In the night her
dreams were delightful. Shadows seemed to pass before her, and she
fell into such an ecstatic state that on awakening she did not dare to
recall them, so confused was she by the angelic visions of bliss.
Sometimes, in the middle of her great bed, she would rouse herself
suddenly, her two hands joined and pressed against her breast as if a
heavy burden were weighing her down and almost suffocating her. She
would then jump up, rush across the room in her bare feet, and,
opening the window wide, would stand there, trembling slightly, until
at last the pure fresh air calmed her. She was continually surprised
at this great change in herself, as if the knowledge of joys and
griefs hitherto unknown had been revealed to her in the enchantment of
dreams, and that her eyes had been opened to natural beauties which
surrounded her.

What--was it really true that the unseen lilacs and laburnums of the
Bishop's garden had so sweet an odour that she could no longer breathe
it without a flush of colour mounting to her cheeks? Never before had
she perceived this warmth of perfume which now touched her as if with
a living breath.

And again, why had she never remarked in preceding years a great
Japanese Paulownia in blossom, which looked like an immense violet
bouquet as it appeared between two elm-trees in the garden of the
Voincourts? This year, as soon as she looked at it, her eyes grew
moist, so much was she affected by the delicate tints of the pale
purple flowers. She also fancied that the Chevrotte had never
chattered so gaily over the pebbles among the willows on its banks.
The river certainly talked; she listened to its vague words,
constantly repeated, which filled her heart with trouble. Was it,
then, no longer the field of other days, that everything in it so
astonished her and affected her senses in so unusual a way? Or,
rather, was not she herself so changed that, for the first time, she
appreciated the beauty of the coming into life of trees and plants?

But the Cathedral at her right, the enormous mass which obstructed the
sky, surprised her yet more. Each morning she seemed to see it for the
first time; she made constant discoveries in it, and was delighted to
think that these old stones lived and had lived like herself. She did
not reason at all on the subject, she had very little knowledge, but
she gave herself up to the mystic flight of the giant, whose coming
into existence had demanded three centuries of time, and where were
placed one above the other the faith and the belief of generations. At
the foundation, it was kneeling as if crushed by prayer, with the
Romanesque chapels of the nave, and with the round arched windows,
plain, unornamented, except by slender columns under the archivolts.
Then it seemed to rise, lifting its face and hands towards heaven,
with the pointed windows of its nave, built eighty years later; high,
delicate windows, divided by mullions on which were broken bows and
roses. Then again it sprung from the earth as if in ecstasy, erect,
with the piers and flying buttresses of the choir finished and
ornamented two centuries after in the fullest flamboyant Gothic,
charged with its bell-turrets, spires, and pinnacles. A balustrade had
been added, ornamented with trefoils, bordering the terrace on the
chapels of the apse. Gargoyles at the foot of the flying buttresses
carried off the water from the roofs. The top was also decorated with
flowery emblems. The whole edifice seemed to burst into blossom in
proportion as it approached the sky in a continual upward flight, as
if, relieved at being delivered from the ancient sacerdotal terror, it
was about to lose itself in the bosom of a God of pardon and of love.
It seemed to have a physical sensation which permeated it, made it
light and happy, like a sacred hymn it had just heard sung, very pure
and holy, as it passed into the upper air.

Moreover, the Cathedral was alive. Hundreds of swallows had
constructed their nests under the borders of trefoil, and even in the
hollows of the bell-turrets and the pinnacles, and they were
continually brushing their wings against the flying buttresses and the
piers which they inhabited. There were also the wood-pigeons of the
elms in the Bishop's garden, who held themselves up proudly on the
borders of the terraces, going slowly, as if walking merely to show
themselves off. Sometimes, half lost in the blue sky, looking scarcely
larger than a fly, a crow alighted on the point of a spire to smooth
its wings. The old stones themselves were animated by the quiet
working of the roots of a whole flora of plants, the lichens and the
grasses, which pushed themselves through the openings in the walls. On
very stormy days the entire apse seemed to awake and to grumble under
the noise of the rain as it beat against the leaden tiles of the roof,
running off by the gutters of the cornices and rolling from story to
story with the clamour of an overflowing torrent. Even the terrible
winds of October and of March gave to it a soul, a double voice of
anger and of supplication, as they whistled through its forests of
gables and arcades of roseate ornaments and of little columns. The sun
also filled it with life from the changing play of its rays; from the
early morning, which rejuvenated it with a delicate gaiety, even to
the evening, when, under the slightly lengthened-out shadows, it
basked in the unknown.

And it had its interior existence. The ceremonies with which it was
ever vibrating, the constant swinging of its bells, the music of the
organ, and the chanting of the priests, all these were like the
pulsation of its veins. There was always a living murmur in it: half-
lost sounds, like the faint echo of a Low Mass; the rustling of the
kneeling penitents, a slight, scarcely perceptible shivering, nothing
but the devout ardour of a prayer said without words and with closed
lips.

Now, as the days grew longer, Angelique passed more and more time in
the morning and evening with her elbows on the balustrade of the
balcony, side by side with her great friend, the Cathedral. She loved
it the best at night, when she saw the enormous mass detach itself
like a huge block on the starry skies. The form of the building was
lost. It was with difficulty that she could even distinguish the
flying buttresses, which were thrown like bridges into the empty
space. It was, nevertheless, awake in the darkness, filled with a
dream of seven centuries, made grand by the multitudes who had hoped
or despaired before its altars. It was a continual watch, coming from
the infinite of the past, going to the eternity of the future; the
mysterious and terrifying wakefulness of a house where God Himself
never sleeps. And in the dark, motionless, living mass, her looks were
sure to seek the window of a chapel of the choir, on the level of the
bushes of the Clos-Marie, the only one which was lighted up, and which
seemed like an eye which was kept open all the night. Behind it, at
the corner of a pillar, was an ever-burning altar-lamp. In fact, it
was the same chapel which the abbots of old had given to Jean V
d'Hautecoeur, and to his descendants, with the right of being buried
there, in return for their liberality. Dedicated to Saint George, it
had a stained-glass window of the twelfth century, on which was
painted the legend of the saint. From the moment of the coming on of
twilight, this historic representation came out from the shade,
lighted up as if it were an apparition, and that was why Angelique was
fascinated, and loved this particular point, as she gazed at it with
her dreamy eyes.

The background of the window was blue and the edges red. Upon this
sombre richness of colouring, the personages, whose flying draperies
allowed their limbs to be seen, stood out in relief in clear light on
the glass. Three scenes of the Legend, placed one above the other,
filled the space quite to the upper arch. At the bottom, the daughter
of the king, dressed in costly royal robes, on her way from the city
to be eaten by the dreadful monster, meets Saint George near the pond,
from which the head of the dragon already appears; and a streamer of
silk bears these words: "Good Knight, do not run any danger for me, as
you can neither help me nor deliver me, but will have to perish with
me." Then in the middle the combat takes place, and the saint, on
horseback, cuts the beast through and through. This is explained by
the following words: "George wielded so well his lance that he wounded
the enemy and threw him upon the earth." At last, at the top, the
Princess is seen leading back into the city the conquered dragon:
"George said, 'Tie your scarf around his neck, and do not be afraid of
anything, oh beautiful maiden, for when you have done so he will
follow you like a well-trained dog.'"

When the window was new it must have been surmounted in the middle of
the arch by an ornamental design. But later, when the chapel belonged
to the Hautecoeurs, they replaced the original work by their family
coat of arms. And that was why, in the obscure nights, armorial
bearings of a more recent date shown out above the painted legend.
They were the old family arms of Hautecoeur, quartered with the well-
known shield of Jerusalem; the latter being argent, a cross potencee,
or, between four crosselettes of the same; and those of the family,
azure, a castle, or, on it a shield, sable, charged with a human
heart, argent, the whole between three fleurs-de-lys, or; the shield
was supported on the dexter and sinister sides by two wyverns, or; and
surmounted by the silver helmet with its blue feathers, embossed in
gold, placed frontwise, and closed by eleven bars, which belongs only
to Dukes, Marshals of France, titled Lords and heads of Sovereign
Corporations. And for motto were these words: "_Si Dieu volt, ie
vueil_."

Little by little, from having seen him piercing the monster with his
lance, whilst the king's daughter raised her clasped hands in
supplication, Angelique became enamoured of Saint George. He was her
hero. At the distance where she was she could not well distinguish the
figures, and she looked at them as if in the aggrandisement of a
dream; the young girl was slight, was a blonde, and, in short, had a
face not unlike her own, while the saint was frank and noble looking,
with the beauty of an archangel. It was as if she herself had just
been saved, and she could have kissed his hands with gratitude. And to
this adventure, of which she dreamed confusedly, of a meeting on the
border of a lake and of being rescued from a great danger by a young
man more beautiful than the day, was added the recollection of her
excursion to the Chateau of Hautecoeur, and a calling up to view of
the feudal donjon, in its original state, peopled with the noble lords
of olden times.

The arms glistened like the stars on summer nights; she knew them
well, she read them easily, with their sonorous words, for she was so
in the habit of embroidering heraldic symbols. There was Jean V, who
stopped from door to door in the town ravaged by the plague, and went
in to kiss the lips of the dying, and cured them by saying, "_Si Dieu
volt, ie vueil_." And Felician III, who, forewarned that a severe
illness prevented Philippe le Bel from going to Palestine, went there
in his place, barefooted and holding a candle in his hand, and for
that he had the right of quartering the arms of Jerusalem with his
own. Other and yet other histories came to her mind, especially those
of the ladies of Hautecoeur, the "happy dead," as they were called in
the Legend. In that family the women die young, in the midst of some
great happiness. Sometimes two or three generations would be spared,
then suddenly Death would appear, smiling, as with gentle hands he
carried away the daughter or the wife of a Hautecoeur, the oldest of
them being scarcely twenty years of age, at the moment when they were
at the height of earthly love and bliss. For instance, Laurette,
daughter of Raoul I, on the evening of her betrothal to her cousin
Richard, who lived in the castle, having seated herself at her window
in the Tower of David, saw him at his window in the Tower of
Charlemagne, and, thinking she heard him call her, as at that moment a
ray of moonlight seemed to throw a bridge between them, she walked
toward him. But when in the middle she made in her haste a false step
and overpassed the ray, she fell, and was crushed at the foot of the
tower. So since that day, each night when the moon is bright and
clear, she can be seen walking in the air around the Chateau, which is
bathed in white by the silent touch of her immense robe. Then Balbine,
wife of Herve VII, thought for six months that her husband had been
killed in the wars. But, unwilling to give up all hope, she watched
for him daily from the top of the donjon, and when at last she saw him
one morning on the highway, returning to his home, she ran down
quickly to meet him, but was so overcome with joy, that she fell dead
at the entrance of the castle. Even at this day, notwithstanding the
ruins, as soon as twilight falls, it is said she still descends the
steps, runs from story to story, glides through the corridors and the
rooms, and passes like a phantom through the gaping windows which open
into the desert void. All return. Isabeau, Gudule, Vonne,
Austreberthe, all these "happy dead," loved by the stern messenger,
who spared them from the vicissitudes of life by taking them suddenly
when, in early youth, they thought only of happiness. On certain
nights this white-robed band fill the house as if with a flight of
doves. To their number had lately been added the mother of the son of
Monseigneur, who was found lifeless on the floor by the cradle of her
infant, where, although ill, she dragged herself to die, in the
fullness of her delight at embracing him. These had haunted the
imagination of Angelique; she spoke of them as if they were facts of
recent occurrence, which might have happened the day before. She had
read the names of Laurette and of Balbine on old memorial tablets let
into the walls of the chapel. Then why should not she also die young
and very happy, as they had? The armouries would glisten as now, the
saint would come down from his place in the stained-glass window, and
she would be carried away to heaven on the sweet breath of a kiss. Why
not?

The "Golden Legend" had taught her this: Was not it true that the
miracle is really the common law, and follows the natural course of
events? It exists, is active, works with an extreme facility on every
occasion, multiplies itself, spreads itself out, overflows even
uselessly, as if for the pleasure of contradicting the self-evident
rules of Nature. Its power seems to be on the same plane as that of
the Creator. Albrigan, King of Edeese, writes to Jesus, who replies to
him. Ignatius receives letters from the Blessed Virgin. In all places
the Mother and the Son appear, disguise themselves, and talk with an
air of smiling good-nature. When Stephen meets them they are very
familiar with him. All the virgins are wed to Jesus, and the martyrs
mount to heaven, where they are to be united to Mary. And as for the
angels and saints, they are the ordinary companions of men. They come,
they go, they pass through walls, they appear in dreams, they speak
from the height of clouds, they assist at births and deaths, they
support those who are tortured, they deliver those who are in prison,
and they go on dangerous missions. Following in their footsteps is an
inexhaustible efflorescence of prodigies. Sylvester binds the mouth of
a dragon with a thread. The earth rises to make a seat for Hilary,
whose companions wished to humiliate him. A precious stone falls into
the chalice of Saint Loup. A tree crushes the enemies of Saint Martin;
a dog lets loose a hare, and a great fire ceases to burn at his
command. Mary the Egyptian walks upon the sea; honey-bees fly from the
mouth of Ambrosius at his birth. Continually saints cure diseases of
the eye, withered limbs, paralysis, leprosy, and especially the
plague. There is no disease that resists the sign of the Cross. In a
crowd, the suffering and the feeble are placed together, that they may
be cured in a mass, as if by a thunderbolt. Death itself is conquered,
and resurrections are so frequent that they become quite an everyday
affair. And when the saints themselves are dead the wonders do not
cease, but are redoubled, and are like perennial flowers which spring
from their tombs. It is said that from the head and the feet of
Nicholas flowed two fountains of oil which cured every ill. When the
tomb of Saint Cecilia was opened an odour of roses came up from her
coffin. That of Dorothea was filled with manna. All the bones of
virgins and of martyrs performed marvels: they confounded liars, they
forced robbers to give back their stolen goods, they granted the
prayers of childless wives, they brought the dying back to life.
Nothing was impossible for them; in fact the Invisible reigned, and
the only law was the caprice of the supernatural. In the temples the
sorcerers mix themselves up with the popular idea, and scythes cut the
grass without being held, brass serpents move, and one hears bronze
statues laugh and wolves sing. Immediately the saints reply and
overwhelm them. The Host is changed into living food, sacred Christian
images shed drops of blood, sticks set upright in the ground blossom
into flower, springs of pure water appear in dry places, warm loaves
of bread multiply themselves at the feet of the needy, a tree bows
down before some holy person, and so on. Then, again, decapitated
heads speak, broken chalices mend themselves, the rain turns aside
from a church to submerge a neighbouring palace, the robes of hermits
never wear out, but renew themselves at each season like the skin of a
beast. In Armenia at one time the persecutors threw into the sea the
leaden coffins of five martyrs, and the one containing the body of
Saint Bartholomew the Apostle took the lead, and the four others
accompanied it as a guard of honour. So, all together, in regular
order, like a fine squadron, they floated slowly along, urged by the
breeze, through the whole length of the sea, until they reached the
shores of Sicily.

Angelique was a firm believer in miracles. In her ignorance she lived
surrounded by wonders. The rising of the stars, or the opening of a
violet; each fact was a surprise to her. It would have appeared to her
simply ridiculous to have imagined the world so mechanical as to be
governed by fixed laws. There were so many things far beyond her
comprehension, she felt herself so weak and helpless in the midst of
forces whose power it was impossible to measure, that she would not
even have suspected they existed, had it not been for the great
questioning breath which at times passed over her face. So, trusting,
and as thoroughly Christian as if belonging to the primitive Church,
spiritually fed by her readings from the "Golden Legend," she gave
herself up entirely into the hands of God, with only the spot of
original sin to be cleansed from her soul. She had no liberty of
action or freedom of will; God alone could secure her salvation by
giving her the gift of His grace. That grace had been already
manifested by bringing her to the hospitable roof of the Huberts,
where, under the shadow of the Cathedral, she could lead a life of
submission, of purity, and of faith. She often heard within her soul
the grumblings of heredity tendency to evil, and asked herself what
would have become of her had she been left on her native soil. Without
doubt she would have been bad; while here, in this blessed corner of
the earth, she had grown up free from temptation, strong and healthy.
Was it not grace that had given her this home, where she was
surrounded by such charming histories she had so easily committed to
memory, where she had learned such perfect faith in the present and
hope in the future, and where the invisible and unknown, or the
miracles of ages, seemed natural to her, and quite on a level with her
daily life? It had armed her for all combats, as heretofore it had
armed the martyrs. And she created an imaginary experience for herself
almost unknowingly. It was, in fact, the inevitable result of a mind
overcharged and excited by fables; it was increased by her ignorance
of the life within and about her, as well as from her loneliness. She
had not had many companions, so all desires went from her only to
return to her.

Sometimes she was in such a peculiar state that she would put her
hands over her face, as if doubting her own identity. Was she herself
only an illusion, and would she suddenly disappear some day and vanish
into nothingness? Who would tell her the truth?

One evening in the following May, on this same balcony where she had
spent so much time in vague dreams, she suddenly broke into tears. She
was not low-spirited in the least, but it seemed to her as if her
anxiety arose from a vain expectation of a visit from someone. Yet who
was there to come? It was very dark; the Clos-Marie marked itself out
like a great black spot under the sky filled with stars, and she could
but vaguely distinguish the heavy masses of the old elm-trees of the
Bishop's garden, and of the park of the Hotel Voincourt. Alone the
window of the chapel sent out a little light. If no one were to come,
why did her heart beat so rapidly? It was nothing new, this feeling of
waiting, or of hope, but it was dated from the long ago, from her
early youth; it was like a desire, a looking forward for something
which had grown with her growth, and ended in this feverish anxiety of
her seventeen years. Nothing would have surprised her, as for weeks
she had heard the sound of voices in this mysterious corner, peopled
by her imagination. The "Golden Legend" had left there its
supernatural world of saints and martyrs, and the miracle was all
ready to appear there. She understood well that everything was
animated, that the voices came from objects hitherto silent; that the
leaves of the trees, the waters of the Chevrotte, and the stones of
the Cathedral spoke to her. But what was it that all these whisperings
from the Invisible wished to explain? What did these unknown forces
above and around her wish to do with her as they floated in the air?
She kept her eyes fixed upon the darkness, as if she were at an
appointed meeting with she knew not whom, and she waited, still
waited, until she was overcome with sleep, whilst it seemed to her as
if some supernatural power were deciding her destiny, irrespective of
her will or wish.

For four evenings Angelique was nervous, and wept a great deal in the
darkness. She remained in her usual place and was patient. The
atmosphere seemed to envelope her, and as it increased in density it
oppressed her more and more, as if the horizon itself had become
smaller and was shutting her in. Everything weighed upon her heart.
Now there was a dull murmuring of voices in her brain; yet she was not
able to hear them clearly, or to distinguish their meaning. It was as
if Nature itself had taken possession of her, and the earth, with the
vast heavens above it, had penetrated into her being. At the least
sound her hands burned and her eyes tried to pierce the darkness. Was
the wonderful event about to take place, the prodigy she awaited? No,
there was nothing yet. It was probably merely the beating of the wings
of a night bird. And she listened again, attentively, until she could
distinguish the difference of sound between the leaves of the elms and
the willows. At least twenty times she trembled violently when a
little stone rolled in the rivulet, or a prowling animal jumped over
the wall. She leaned forward; but there was nothing--still nothing.

At last, after some days, when at night a warmer darkness fell from
the sky where no moon was visible, a change began. She felt it, but it
was so slight, so almost imperceptible, she feared that she might have
been mistaken in the little sound she heard, which seemed unlike the
usual noises she knew so well. She held her breath, as the sound
seemed very long in returning. At last it came again, louder than
before, but equally confused. She would have said it came from a great
distance, that it was a scarcely-defined step, and that the trembling
of the air announced the approach of something out of sight and out of
hearing. That which she was expecting came slowly from the invisible
slight movement of what surrounded her. Little by little it disengaged
itself from her dream, like a realisation of the vague longings of her
youth. Was it the Saint George of the chapel window, who had come down
from his place and was walking on the grass in silence towards her?
Just then, by chance, the altar-light was dimmed, so that she could
not distinguish the faintest outline of the figures on the painted
glass, but all seemed like a blue cloud of vapoury mist. That was all
she heard or learned at that time of the mystery.

But on the morrow, at the same hour, by a like obscurity, the noise
increased and approached a little nearer. It was certainly the sound
of steps, of real steps, which walked upon the earth. They would stop
for a moment, then recommence here and there, moving up and down,
without her being able to say precisely where they were. Perhaps they
came from the garden of the Voincourts, where some night pedestrian
was lingering under the trees. Or it might be, rather, that they were
in the tufted masses of the great lilac-bushes of the park of the
Bishop, whose strong perfume made her almost ill. She might do her
best to try to penetrate the darkness, it was only by her hearing that
she was forewarned of the coming events, aided a little by her sense
of smell, as the perfume of the flowers was increased as if a breath
were mingled with it. And so for several nights the steps resounded
under the balcony, and she listened as they came nearer, until they
reached the walls under her feet. There they stopped, and a long
silence followed, until she seemed almost to lose consciousness in
this slow embrace of something of which she was ignorant.

Not long after, she saw one evening the little crescent of the new
moon appear among the stars. But it soon disappeared behind the brow
of the Cathedral, like a bright, living eye that the lid re-covers.
She followed it with regret, and at each nightfall she awaited its
appearance, watched its growth, and was impatient for this torch which
would ere long light up the invisible. In fact, little by little, the
Clos-Marie came out from the obscurity, with the ruins of its old
mill, its clusters of trees, and its rapid little river. And then, in
the light, creation continued. That which came from a vision ended in
being embodied. For at first she only perceived that a dim shadow was
moving under the moonlight. What was it, then? A branch moved to and
fro by the wind? Or was it a large bat in constant motion? There were
moments when everything disappeared, and the field slept in so deathly
a stillness that she thought her eyes had deceived her. Soon there was
no longer any doubt possible, for a dark object had certainly just
crossed the open space and had glided from one willow-tree to another.
It appeared, then disappeared, without her being able exactly to
define it.

One evening she thought she distinguished the dim outline of two
shoulders, and at once she turned her eyes towards the chapel window.
It had a greyish tint, as if empty, for the moon shining directly upon
it had deadened the light within. At that moment she noticed that the
living shadow grew larger, as it approached continually nearer and
nearer, walking in the grass at the side of the church. In proportion
as she realised it was a fact that someone was there, she was overcome
by an indefinable sensation, a nervous feeling that one has on being
looked at by mysterious unseen eyes.

Certainly someone was there under the trees who was regarding her
fixedly. She had on her hands and face, as it were, a physical
impression of those long, ardent, yet timid looks; but she did not
withdraw herself from them, because she knew they were pure, and came
from the enchanted world of which she had read in the "Golden Legend";
and, in the certainty of a promised happiness, her first anxiety was
quickly changed into a delicious tranquillity.

One night, suddenly, on the ground whitened by the moon's rays, the
shadow designed itself plainly and clearly. It was indeed that of a
man whom she could not see, as he was hidden by the willows. As he did
not move, she was able to look for a long time at his shadow.

From that moment Angelique had a secret. Her bare, whitewashed chamber
was filled with it. She remained there for hours lying on her great
bed--where she seemed lost, she was so little--her eyes closed, but
not asleep, and seeing continually before her, in her waking dreams,
this motionless shadow upon the earth. When she re-opened her eyes at
dawn, her looks wandered from the enormous wardrobe to the odd carved
chest, from the porcelain stove to the little toilet-table, as if
surprised at not seeing there the mysterious silhouette, which she
could have so easily and precisely traced from memory. In her sleep
she had seen it gliding among the pale heather-blossoms on her
curtains. In her dreams, as in her waking hours, her mind was filled
with it. It was a companion shadow to her own. She had thus a double
being, although she was alone with her fancies.

This secret she confided to no one, not even to Hubertine, to whom,
until now, she had always told even her thoughts. When the latter,
surprised at her gaiety, questioned her, she blushed deeply as she
replied that the early spring had made her very happy. From morning to
evening she hummed little snatches of song, like a bee intoxicated by
the heat of the sun's rays. Never before had the chasubles she
embroidered been so resplendent with silk and gold. The Huberts smiled
as they watched her, thinking simply that this exuberance of spirits
came from her state of perfect health. As the day waned she grew more
excited, she sang at the rising of the moon, and as soon as the hour
arrived she hurried to her balcony, and waited for the shadow to
appear. During all the first quarters of the moon she found it exact
at each rendezvous, erect and silent. But that was all. What was the
cause of it? Why was it there? Was it, indeed, only a shadow? Was not
it, perhaps, the saint who had left his window, or the angel who had
formerly loved Saint Cecilia, and who had now come to love her in her
turn? Although she was not vain, these thoughts made her proud, and
were as sweet to her as an invisible caress. Then she grew impatient
to know more, and her watching recommenced.

The moon, at its full, lighted up the Clos-Marie. When it was at its
zenith, the trees, under the white rays which fell straight upon them
in perpendicular lines, cast no more shadows, but were like running
fountains of silent brightness. The whole garden was bathed and filled
with a luminous wave as limpid as crystal, and the brilliancy of it
was so penetrating that everything was clearly seen, even to the fine
cutting of the willow-leaves. The slightest possible trembling of air
seemed to wrinkle this lake of rays, sleeping in the universal peace
among the grand elm-trees of the neighbouring garden and the gigantic
brow of the Cathedral.

Two more evenings had passed like this, when, on the third night, as
Angelique was leaning on her elbows and looking out, her heart seemed
to receive a sudden shock. There, in the clear light, she saw him
standing before her and looking at her. His shadow, like that of the
trees, had disappeared under his feet, and he alone was there,
distinctly seen. At this distance she saw--as if it were full day--
that he was tall, slight, a blonde, and apparently about twenty years
of age. He resembled either a Saint George or a superb picture of
Christ, with his curly hair, his thin beard, his straight nose, rather
large, and his proudly-smiling black eyes. And she recognised him
perfectly; never had she seen another like him; it was he, her hero,
and he was exactly as she expected to find him. The wonder was at last
accomplished; the slow creation of the invisible had perfected itself
in this living apparition, and he came out from the unknown, from the
movement of things, from murmuring voices, from the action of the
night, from all that had enveloped her, until she almost fainted into
unconsciousness. She also saw him as if he were lifted above the
earth, so supernatural appeared to be his coming, whilst the
miraculous seemed to surround him on every side as it floated over the
mysterious moon-lake. He had as his escort the entire people of the
Legend--the saints whose staffs blossomed, the virgins whose wounds
shed milk--and the stars seemed to pale before this white group of
perfection.

Angelique continued to look at him. He raised his arms, and held them
out, wide open. She was not at all afraid, but smiled sweetly.

Chapter VI


It was a great affair for the whole household when, every three
months, Hubertine prepared the "lye" for the wash. A woman was hired
to aid them, the Mother Gabet, as she was called, and for four days
all embroidery was laid aside, while Angelique took her part in the
unusual work, making of it a perfect amusement, as she soaped and
rinsed the clothes in the clean water of the Chevrotte. The linen when
taken from the ashes was wheeled to the Clos-Marie, through the little
gate of communication in the garden. There the days were spent in the
open air and the sunshine.

"I will do the washing this time, mother, for it is the greatest of
delights to me."

And gaily laughing, with her sleeves drawn up above her elbows,
flourishing the beetle, Angelique struck the clothes most heartily in
the pleasure of such healthy exercise. It was hard work, but she
thoroughly enjoyed it, and only stopped occasionally to say a few
words or to show her shiny face covered with foam.

"Look, mother! This makes my arms strong. It does me a world of good."

The Chevrotte crossed the field diagonally, at first drowsily, then
its stream became very rapid as it was thrown in great bubbles over a
pebbly descent. It came from the garden of the Bishop, through a
species of floodgate left at the foot of the wall, and at the other
end it disappeared under an arched vault at the corner of the Hotel
Voincourt, where it was swallowed up in the earth, to reappear two
hundred yards farther on, as it passed along the whole length of the
Rue Basse to the Ligneul, into which it emptied itself. Therefore it
was very necessary to watch the linen constantly, for, run as fast as
possible, every piece that was once let go was almost inevitably lost.

"Mother, wait, wait a little! I will put this heavy stone on the
napkins. We shall then see if the river can carry them away. The
little thief!"

She placed the stone firmly, then returned to draw another from the
old, tumble-down mill, enchanted to move about and to fatigue herself;
and, although she severely bruised her finger, she merely moistened it
a little, saying, "Oh! that is nothing."

During the day the poor people who sheltered themselves in the ruins
went out to ask for charity from the passers-by on the highways. So
the Clos was quite deserted. It was a delicious, fresh solitude, with
its clusters of pale-green willows, its high poplar-trees, and
especially its verdure, its overflowing of deep-rooted wild herbs and
grasses, so high that they came up to one's shoulders. A quivering
silence came from the two neighbouring parks, whose great trees barred
the horizon. After three o'clock in the afternoon the shadow of the
Cathedral was lengthened out with a calm sweetness and a perfume of
evaporated incense.

Angelique continued to beat the linen harder still, with all the force
of her well-shaped white arms.

"Oh, mother dear! You can have no idea how hungry I shall be this
evening! . . . Ah! you know that you have promised to give me a good
strawberry-cake."

On the day of the rinsing, Angelique was quite alone. The _mere_
Gabet, suffering from a sudden, severe attack of sciatica, had not
been able to come as usual, and Hubertine was kept at home by other
household cares.

Kneeling in her little box half filled with straw, the young girl took
the pieces one by one, shook them for a long time in the swiftly-
rolling stream, until the water was no longer dimmed, but had become
as clear as crystal. She did not hurry at all, for since the morning
she had been tormented by a great curiosity, having seen, to her
astonishment, an old workman in a white blouse, who was putting up a
light scaffolding before the window of the Chapel Hautecoeur. Could it
be that they were about to repair the stained-glass panes? There was,
it must be confessed, great need of doing so. Several pieces were
wanting in the figure of Saint George, and in other places, where in
the course of centuries panes that had been broken had been replaced
by ordinary glass. Still, all this was irritating to her. She was so
accustomed to the gaps of the saint who was piercing the dragon with
his sword, and of the royal princess as she led the conquered beast
along with her scarf, that she already mourned as if one had the
intention of mutilating them. It was sacrilege to think of changing
such old, venerable things. But when she returned to the field after
her lunch, all her angry feelings passed away immediately; for a
second workman was upon the staging, a young man this time, who also
wore a white blouse. And she recognised him! It was he! Her hero!

Gaily, without any embarrassment, Angelique resumed her place on her
knees on the straw of her box. Then, with her wrists bare, she put her
hands in the deep, clear water, and recommenced shaking the linen back
and forth.

Yes, it was he--tall, slight, a blonde, with his fine beard and his
hair curled like that of a god, his complexion as fresh as when she
had first seen him under the white shadow of the moonlight. Since it
was he, there was nothing to be feared for the window; were he to
touch it, he would only embellish it. And it was no disappointment to
her whatever to find him in this blouse, a workman like herself, a
painter on glass, no doubt. On the contrary, this fact made her smile,
so absolutely certain was she of the eventual fulfillment of her dream
of royal fortune. Now, it was simply an appearance, a beginning. What
good would it do her to know who he was, from whence he came, or
whither he was going? Some morning he would prove to be that which she
expected him to be. A shower of gold would stream from the roof of the
Cathedral, a triumphal march would break forth in the distant
rumblings of the organ, and all would come true. She did not stay to
ask herself how he could always be there, day and night. Yet it was
evident either that he must live in one of the neighbouring houses, or
he must pass by the lane des Guerdaches, which ran by the side of the
Bishop's park to the Rue Magloire.

Then a charming hour passed by. She bent forward, she rinsed her
linen, her face almost touching the fresh water; but each time she
took a different piece she raised her head, and cast towards the
church a look, in which from the agitation of her heart, was a little
good-natured malice. And he, upon the scaffolding, with an air of
being closely occupied in examining the state of the window, turned
towards her, glancing at her sideways, and evidently much disturbed
whenever she surprised him doing so. It was astonishing how quickly he
blushed, how dark red his face became. At the slightest emotion,
whether of anger or interest, all the blood in his veins seemed to
mount to his face. He had flashing eyes, which showed will; yet he was
so diffident, that, when he knew he was being criticised, he was
embarrassed as a little child, did not seem to know what to do with
his hands, and stammered out his orders to the old man who accompanied
him.

As for Angelique, that which delighted her most, as she refreshed her
arms in this turbulent water, was to picture him innocent like
herself, ignorant of the world, and with an equally intense desire to
have a taste of life. There was no need of his telling to others who
he was, for had not invisible messengers and unseen lips made known to
her that he was to be her own? She looked once more, just as he was
turning his head; and so the minutes passed, and it was delicious.

Suddenly she saw that he jumped from the staging, then that he walked
backwards quite a distance through the grass, as if to take a certain
position from which he could examine the window more easily. But she
could not help smiling, so evident was it that he simply wished to
approach her. He had made a firm decision, like a man who risks
everything, and now it was touching as well as comical to see that he
remained standing a few steps from her, his back towards her, not
daring to move, fearing that he had been too hasty in coming as far as
he had done. For a moment she thought he would go back again to the
chapel-window as he had come from it, without paying any attention to
her. However, becoming desperate, at last he turned, and as at that
moment she was glancing in his direction, their eyes met, and they
remained gazing fixedly at each other. They were both deeply confused;
they lost their self-possession, and might never have been able to
regain it, had not a dramatic incident aroused them.

"Oh dear! Oh dear!" exclaimed the young girl, in distress.

In her excitement, a dressing-sacque, which she had been rinsing
unconsciously, had just escaped her, and the stream was fast bearing
it away. Yet another minute and it would disappear round the corner of
the wall of the Voincourt park, under the arched vault through which
the Chevrotte passed.

There were several seconds of anxious waiting. He saw at once what had
happened, and rushed forward. But the current, leaping over the
pebbles, carried this sacque, which seemed possessed, as it went
along, much more rapidly than he. He stooped, thinking he had caught
it, but took up only a handful of soapy foam. Twice he failed. The
third time he almost fell. Then, quite vexed, with a brave look as if
doing something at the peril of his life, he went into the water, and
seized the garment just as it was about being drawn under the ground.

Angelique, who until now had followed the rescue anxiously, quite
upset, as if threatened by a great misfortune, was so relieved that
she had an intense desire to laugh. This feeling was partly nervous,
it is true, but not entirely so. For was not this the adventure of
which she had so often dreamed? This meeting on the border of a lake;
the terrible danger from which she was to be saved by a young man,
more beautiful than the day? Saint George, the tribune, the warrior!
These were simply united in one, and he was this painter of stained
glass, this young workman in his white blouse! When she saw him coming
back, his feet wet through and through, as he held the dripping
camisole awkwardly in his hand, realising the ridiculous side of the
energy he had employed in saving it from the waves, she was obliged to
bite her tongue to check the outburst of gaiety which seemed almost to
choke her.

He forgot himself as he looked at her. She was like a most adorable
child in this restrained mirth with which all her youth seemed to
vibrate. Splashed with water, her arms almost chilled by the stream,
she seemed to send forth from herself the purity and clearness of
these living springs which rushed from the mossy woods. She was an
impersonation of health, joy, and freshness, in the full sunlight. One
could easily fancy that she might be a careful housekeeper and a queen
withal as she was there, in her working dress, with her slender waist,
her regal neck, her oval face, such as one reads of in fairy-tales.
And he did not know how to give her back the linen, he found her
exquisite, so perfect a representation of the beauty of the art he
loved. It enraged him, in spite of himself, that he should have the
air of an idiot, as he plainly saw the effort she made not to laugh.
But he was forced to do something, so at last he gave her back the
sacque.

Then Angelique realised that if she were to open her mouth and try to
thank him, she would shout. Poor fellow! She sympathised with him and
pitied him. But it was irresistible; she was happy, and needed to give
expression to it; she must yield to the gaiety with which her heart
overflowed. It was such lovely weather, and all life was so beautiful!

At last she thought she might speak, wishing simply to say: "Thank
you, Monsieur."

But the wish to laugh had returned, and made her stammer, interrupting
her at each word. It was a loud, cheery laugh, a sonorous outpouring
of pearly notes, which sang sweetly to the crystalline accompaniment
of the Chevrotte.

The young man was so disconcerted that he could find nothing to say.
His usually pale face had become very red, the timid, childlike
expression of his eyes had changed into a fiery one, like that of an
eagle, and he moved away quickly. He disappeared with the old workman,
and even then she continued to laugh as she bent over the water, again
splashing herself as she shook the clothes hither and thither,
rejoicing in the brightness of the happy day.

On the morrow he came an hour earlier. But at five o'clock in the
morning the linen, which had been dripping all night, was spread out
on the grass. There was a brisk wind, which was excellent for drying.
But in order that the different articles need not be blown away, they
were kept in place by putting little pebbles on their four corners.
The whole wash was there, looking of a dazzling whiteness among the
green herbage, having a strong odour of plants about it, and making
the meadow as if it had suddenly blossomed out into a snowy covering
of daisies.

When Angelique came to look at it after breakfast, she was distressed,
for so strong had become the gusts of wind that all threatened to be
carried away. Already a sheet had started, and several napkins had
gone to fasten themselves to the branches of a willow. She fortunately
caught them, but then the handkerchiefs began to fly. There was no one
to help her; she was so frightened that she lost all her presence of
mind. When she tried to spread out the sheet again, she had a regular
battle, for she was quite lost in it, as it covered her with a great
crackling sound.

Through all the noise of the wind she heard a voice saying,
"Mademoiselle, do you wish me to help you?"

It was he, and immediately she cried to him, with no other thought
than her pre-occupation as a good housewife:

"Of course I wish it. Come and help me, then. Take the end over there,
nearest to you. Hold it firm!"

The sheet, which they stretched out with their strong arms, flapped
backwards and forwards like a sail. At last they succeeded in putting
it on the ground, and then placed upon it much heavier stones than
before. And now that, quite conquered, it sank quietly down, neither
of them thought of leaving their places, but remained on their knees
at the opposite corners, separated by this great piece of pure white
linen.

She smiled, but this time without malice. It was a silent message of
thanks. He became by degrees a little bolder.

"My name is Felicien."

"And mine is Angelique."

"I am a painter on glass, and have been charged to repair the stained-
glass window of the chapel here."

"I live over there with my father and mother, and I am an embroiderer
of church vestments."

The wind, which continued to be strong under the clear blue sky,
carried away their words, lashed them with its purifying breath in the
midst of the warm sunshine in which they were bathed.

They spoke of things which they already knew, as if simply for the
pleasure of talking.

"Is the window, then, to be replaced?"

"No! oh no! it will be so well repaired that the new part cannot be
distinguished from the old. I love it quite as much as you do."

"Oh! it is indeed true that I love it! I have already embroidered a
Saint George, but it was not so beautiful as this one."

"Oh, not so beautiful! How can you say that? I have seen it, if it is
the Saint George on the chasuble which the Abbot Cornille wore last
Sunday. It is a marvellous thing."

She blushed with pleasure, but quickly turned the conversation, as she
exclaimed:

"Hurry and put another stone on the left corner of the sheet, or the
wind will carry it away from us again."

He made all possible haste, weighed down the linen, which had been in
great commotion, like the wings of a great wounded bird trying its
best to fly away. Finding that this time it would probably keep its
place, the two young people rose up, and now Angelique went through
the narrow, green paths between the pieces of linen, glancing at each
one, while he followed her with an equally busy look, as if
preoccupied by the possible loss of a dish-towel or an apron. All this
seemed quite natural to them both. So she continued to chatter away
freely and artlessly, as she told of her daily life and explained her
tastes.

"For my part, I always wish that everything should be in its place. In
the morning I am always awakened at the same hour by the striking of
the cuckoo-clock in the workroom; and whether it is scarcely daylight
or not, I dress myself as quickly as possible; my shoes and stockings
are here, my soap and all articles of toilette there--a true mania for
order. Yet you may well believe that I was not born so! Oh no! On the
contrary, I was the most careless person possible. Mother was obliged
to repeat to me the same words over and over again, that I might not
leave my things in every corner of the house, for I found it easier to
scatter them about. And now, when I am at work from morning to
evening, I can never do anything right if my chair is not in the same
place, directly opposite the light, Fortunately, I am neither right
nor left handed, but can use both hands equally well at embroidering,
which is a great help to me, for it is not everyone who can do that.
Then, I adore flowers, but I cannot keep a bouquet near me without
having a terrible headache. Violets alone I can bear, and that is
surprising. But their odour seems to calm me, and at the least
indisposition I have only need to smell them and I am at once cured."

He was enraptured while listening to her prattle. He revelled in the
beautiful ring of her voice, which had an extremely penetrating,
prolonged charm; and he must have been peculiarly sensitive to this
human music, for the caressing inflection on certain words moistened
his eyelids.

Suddenly returning to her household cares she exclaimed:

"Oh, now the shirts will soon be dry!"

Then, in the unconscious and simple need of making herself known, she
continued her confidences:

"For colouring, the white is always beautiful, is it not? I tire at
times of blue, of red, and of all other shades; but white is a
constant joy, of which I am never weary. There is nothing in it to
trouble you; on the contrary, you would like to lose yourself in it.
We had a white cat, with yellow spots, which I painted white. It did
very well for a while, but it did not last long. Listen a minute.
Mother does not know it, but I keep all the waste bits of white silk,
and have a drawer full of them, for just nothing except the pleasure
of looking at them, and smoothing them over from time to time. And I
have another secret, but this is a very serious one! When I wake up,
there is every morning near my bed a great, white object, which gently
flies away."

He did not smile, but appeared firmly to believe her. Was not all she
said, in her simple way, quite natural? A queen in the magnificence of
her courtly surroundings could not have conquered him so quickly. She
had, in the midst of this white linen on the green grass, a charming,
grand air, happy and supreme, which touched him to the heart, with an
ever-increasing power. He was completely subdued. She was everything
to him from this moment. He would follow her to the last day of his
life, in the worship of her light feet, her delicate hands, of her
whole being, adorable and perfect as a dream. She continued to walk
before him, with a short quick step, and he followed her closely,
suffocated by a thought of the happiness he scarcely dared hope might
come to him.

But another sudden gust of wind came up, and there was a perfect
flight into the distance of cambric collars and cuffs, of neckerchiefs
and chemisettes of muslin, which, as they disappeared, seemed like a
flock of white birds knocked about by the tempest.

Angelique began to run.

"Oh dear! What shall I do? You will have to come again and help me. Oh
dear!"

They both rushed forward. She caught a kerchief on the borders of the
Chevrotte. He had already saved two chemisettes which he found in the
midst of some high thistles. One by one the cuffs and the collars were
retaken. But in the course of their running at full speed, the flying
folds of her skirt had at several different times brushed against him,
and each time his face became suddenly red, and his heart beat
violently. In his turn, he touched her face accidentally, as she
jumped to recover the last fichu, which he had carelessly let go of.
She was startled and stood quietly, but breathing more quickly. She
joked no longer; her laugh sounded less clear, and she was not tempted
to ridicule this great awkward, but most attractive fellow. The
feminine nature so recently awakened in her softened her almost to
tears, and with the feeling of inexplicable tenderness, which
overpowered her, was mingled a half-fear.

What was the matter with her that she was less gay, and that she was
so overcome by this delicious pang? When he held out the kerchief to
her, their hands, by chance, touched for a moment. They trembled, as
they looked at each other inquiringly. Then she drew back quickly, and
for several seconds seemed not to know what she should do under the
extraordinary circumstances which had just occurred. At last she
started. Gathering up all the smaller articles of linen in her arms,
and leaving the rest, she turned towards her home.

Felicien then wished to speak . . . "Oh, I beg your pardon. . . . I
pray you to----"

But the wind, which had greatly increased, cut off his words. In
despair he looked at her as she flew along, as if carried away by the
blast. She ran and ran, in and out, among the white sheets and
tablecloths, under the oblique, pale golden rays of the sun. Already
the shadow of the Cathedral seemed to envelop her, and she was on the
point of entering her own garden by the little gate which separated it
from the Clos, without having once glanced behind her. But on the
threshold she turned quickly, as if seized with a kind impulse, not
wishing that he should think she was angry, and confused, but smiling,
she called out:

"Thank you. Thank you very much."

Did she wish to say that she was grateful to him for having helped her
in recovering the linen? Or was it for something else? She
disappeared, and the gate was shut after her.

And he remained alone in the middle of the field, under the great
regular gusts, which continued to rage, although the sky was still
clear and pure. The elms in the Bishop's garden rustled with a long,
billowy sound, and a loud voice seemed to clamour through the terraces
and the flying buttresses of the Cathedral. But he heard only the
light flapping of a little morning cap, tied to a branch of a lilac
bush, as if it were a bouquet, and which belonged to her.

From that date, each time that Angelique opened her window she saw
Felicien over there in the Clos-Marie. He passed days in the field,
having the chapel window as an excuse for doing so, on which, however,
the work did not advance the least in the world. For hours he would
forget himself behind a cluster of bushes, where, stretched out on the
grass, he watched through the leaves. And it was the greatest of
pleasures to smile at each other every morning and evening. She was so
happy that she asked for nothing more. There would not be another
general washing for three months, so, until then, the little garden-
gate would seldom be open. But three months would pass very quickly,
and if they could see each other daily, was not that bliss enough?
What, indeed, could be more charming than to live in this way,
thinking during the day of the evening look, and during the night of
the glance of the early morrow? She existed only in the hope of that
desired moment; its joy filled her life. Moreover, what good would
there be in approaching each other and in talking together? Were they
not constantly becoming better acquainted without meeting? Although at
a distance, they understood each other perfectly; each penetrated into
the other's innermost thoughts with the closest intimacy. At last,
they became so filled one with the other that they could not close
their eyes without seeing before them, with an astonishing clearness
of detail, the image of their new friend; so, in reality, they were
never separated.

It was a constant surprise to Angelique that she had unbosomed herself
at once to Felicien. At their first meeting she had confided in him,
had told him everything about her habits, her tastes, and the deepest
secrets of her heart. He, more silent, was called Felicien, and that
was all she knew. Perhaps it was quite right that it should be so; the
woman giving everything, and the man holding himself back as a
stranger. She had no premature curiosity. She continued to smile at
the thought of things which would certainly be realised. So for her,
that of which she was ignorant counted for nothing. The only important
fact in her mind was the intimacy between them, which united them,
little by little, apart from the world. She knew nothing about him,
yet she was so well acquainted with his nature that she could read his
thoughts in a simple look or smile. He, her hero, had come as she
always said he would. She had at once recognised him, and they loved
each other.

So they enjoyed most thoroughly this true possession from a distance.
They were certainly encouraged by the new discoveries they made. She
had long, slender hands, roughened a little at the ends of the fingers
by her constant use of the needle, but he adored them. She noticed
that his feet were small, and was proud of the fact. Everything about
him flattered her; she was grateful to him for being so handsome; and
she was overcome with joy the evening that she found his beard to be
of a lighter shade than his hair, which fact gave a greater softness
to his smile. He went away transported when, one morning, as she
leaned over the balcony, he saw a little red spot on her pretty neck.
Their hearts being thus laid open, new treasures were daily found.
Certainly the proud and frank manner in which she opened her window
showed that, even in her ignorance as a little embroiderer, she had
the royal bearing of a princess. In the same way she knew that he was
good, from seeing how lightly he walked over the herbs and the grass.
Around them was a radiance of virtues and graces from the first hour
of their meeting. Each interview had its special charm. It seemed to
them as if their felicity in seeing each other could never be
exhausted.

Nevertheless, Felicien soon showed certain signs of impatience, and he
no longer remained for hours concealed behind a bush in the immobility
of an absolute happiness. As soon as Angelique appeared at her window,
he was restless, and tried to approach her as he glided from willow to
willow. At length she was a little disturbed, fearing that someone
might see him. One day there was almost a quarrel, for he came even to
the wall of the house, so she was obliged to leave the balcony. It was
a great shock to him that she should be offended, and he showed in the
expression of his face so mute a prayer of submission that the next
day she pardoned him, and opened her window at the usual hour.

But although expectation was delightful, it was not sufficient for
him, and he began again. Now he seemed to be everywhere at once: he
filled the Clos-Marie with his restlessness; he came out from behind
every tree; he appeared above every bunch of brambles. Like the wood-
pigeons of the great elms in the Bishop's garden, he seemed to have
his habitation between two branches in the environs. The Chevrotte was
an excuse for his passing entire days there, on its willowy banks,
bending over the stream, in which he seemed to be watching the
floating of the clouds.

One day she saw that he had climbed up on the ruins of the old mill,
and was standing on the framework of a shed, looking happy to have
thus approached her a little, in his regret at not being able to fly
even so far as her shoulder.

Another day she stifled a slight scream as she saw him far above her,
leaning on an ornamented balustrade of the Cathedral, on the roof of
the chapels of the choir, which formed a terrace. In what way could he
have reached this gallery, the door of which was always fastened, and
whose key no one had a right to touch but the beadle? Then again, a
little later on, how was it that she should find him up in the air
among the flying buttresses of the nave and the pinnacles of the
piers? From these heights he could look into every part of her
chamber, as the swallows who, flying from point to point among the
spires, saw everything that was therein, without her having the idea
of hiding herself from them. But a human eye was different, and from
that day she shut herself up more, and an ever-increasing trouble came
to her at the thought that her privacy was being intruded upon, and
that she was no longer alone in the atmosphere of adoration that
surrounded her. If she were really not impatient, why was it that her
heart beat so strongly, like the bell of the clock-tower on great
festivals?

Three days passed without Angelique showing herself, so alarmed was
she by the increasing boldness of Felicien. She vowed in her mind that
she would never see him again, and wound herself up to such a degree
of resentment, that she thought she hated him. But he had given her
his feverishness. She could not keep still, and the slightest pretext
was enough for an excuse to leave the chasuble upon which she was at
work.

So, having heard that _mere_ Gabet was ill in bed, in the most
profound poverty, she went to see her every morning. Her room was on
the Rue des Orfevres, only three doors away from the Huberts. She
would take her tea, sugar, and soup, then, when necessary, go to buy
her medicine at the druggist's on the Grand Rue. One day, as she
returned with her hands full of the little phials, she started at
seeing Felicien at the bedside of the old sick woman. He turned very
red, and slipped away awkwardly, after leaving a charitable offering.
The next day he came in as she was leaving, and she gave him her
place, very much displeased. Did he really intend to prevent her from
visiting the poor?

In fact, she had been taken with one of her fits of charity, which
made her give all she owned that she might overwhelm those who had
nothing. At the idea of suffering, her whole soul melted into a
pitiful fraternity. She went often to the _pere_ Mascart's, a blind
paralytic on the Rue Basse, whom she was obliged to feed herself the
broth she carried him; then to the Chouteaux, a man and his wife, each
one over ninety years of age, who lived in a little hut on the Rue
Magloire, which she had furnished for them with articles taken from
the attic of her parents. Then there were others and others still whom
she saw among the wretched populace of the quarter, and whom she
helped to support from things that were about her, happy in being able
to surprise them and to see them brighten up for a little while. But
now, strange to say, wherever she went she encountered Felicien! Never
before had she seen so much of him; she who had avoided going to her
window for fear that he might be near. Her trouble increased, and at
last she was very angry.

But the worst of all in this matter was that Angelique soon despaired
of her charity. This young man spoilt all her pleasure of giving. In
other days he might perhaps have been equally generous, but it was not
among the same people, not her own particular poor, of that she was
sure. And he must have watched her and followed her very closely to
know them all and to take them so regularly one after the other.

Now, go when she might with a little basket of provisions to the
Chouteaux, there was always money on the table. One day, when she went
to _pere_ Mascart, who was constantly complaining that he had no
tobacco, she found him very rich, with a shining new louis d'or on his
table. Strangest of all, once when visiting _mere_ Gabet, the latter
gave her a hundred franc note to change, and with it she was enabled
to buy some high-priced medicines, of which the poor woman had long
been in need, but which she never hoped to obtain, for where could she
find money to pay for them?

Angelique herself could not distribute much money, as she had none. It
was heart-breaking to her to realise her powerlessness, when he could
so easily empty his purse. She was, of course, happy that such a
windfall had come to the poor, but she felt as if she were greatly
diminished in her former self-estimation. She no longer had the same
happiness in giving, but was disturbed and sad that she had so little
to distribute, while he had so much.

The young man, not understanding her feelings, thinking to conquer her
esteem by an increase of gifts, redoubled his charity, and thus daily
made hers seem less.

Was not it exasperating to run against this fellow everywhere; to see
him give an ox wherever she offered an egg? In addition to all this,
she was obliged to hear his praises sung by all the needy whom he
visited: "a young man so good, so kind, and so well brought up." She
was a mere nothing now. They talked only of him, spreading out his
gifts as if to shame hers. Notwithstanding her firm determination to
forget him, she could not refrain from questioning them about him.
What had he left? What had he said? He was very handsome, was he not?
Tender and diffident as a woman! Perhaps he might even have spoken of
her! Ah, yes indeed! That was true, for he always talked of her. Then
she was very angry; yes, she certainly hated him, for at last she
realised that he weighed on her breast too heavily.

But matters could not continue in this way for ever, a change must
take place; and one May evening, at a wondrously beautiful nightfall,
it came. It was at the home of the Lemballeuse, the family who lived
in the ruins of the mill. There were only women there; the old
grandmother, seamed with wrinkles but still active, her daughter, and
her grandchildren. Of the latter, Tiennette, the elder, was a large,
wild-looking girl, twenty years of age, and her two little sisters,
Rose and Jeanne, had already bold, fearless eyes, under their unkempt
mops of red hair. They all begged during the day on the highway and
along the moat, coming back at night, their feet worn out from fatigue
in their old shoes fastened with bits of string. Indeed, that very
evening Tiennette had been obliged to leave hers among the stones, and
had returned wounded and with bleeding ankles. Seated before their
door, in the midst of the high grass of the Clos-Marie, she drew out
the thorns from her flesh, whilst her mother and the two children
surrounded her and uttered lamentations.

Just then Angelique arrived, hiding under her apron the bread which
she had brought them, as she did once every week. She had entered the
field by the little garden-gate, which she had left open behind her,
as she intended to go back as quickly as possible. But she stopped on
seeing all the family in tears.

"What is the matter? Why are you in such distress?"

"Ah, my good lady!" whined the mother Lemballeuse, "do not you see in
what a terrible state this great foolish girl has put herself?
To-morrow she will not be able to walk, so that will be a whole day
lost. She must have some shoes!"

Rose and Jeanne, with their eyes snapping from under their tangled
hair, redoubled their sobs, as they cried out loudly--

"Yes, yes! She must have some shoes! She must have some shoes!"

Tiennette, half lifting up her thin, dark face, looked round
furtively. Then, fiercely, without a word, she made one of her feet
bleed still more, maddened over a long splinter which she had just
drawn out by the aid of a pin, and which must have pained her
intensely.

Angelique, quite touched by the scene, offered her the gift.

"See! Here at least is some bread."

"Oh, bread!" said the mother. "No doubt it is necessary to eat. But it
is not with bread that she will be able to walk again, of that I am
certain! And we were to go to the fair at Bligny, a fair where, every
year, she makes at least two francs. Oh, good heavens! What will
become of us if she cannot go there?"

Pity and embarrassment rendered Angelique mute. She had exactly five
sous in her pocket. It surely was not with five sous that one could
buy a pair of shoes, even at an auction sale. As it had often done
before, her want of money now paralysed her. And that which
exasperated her still more and made her lose her self-control was that
at this moment, as she looked behind her, she saw Felicien, standing a
few feet from her in the darkening shadow. Without doubt he had heard
all that had been said; perhaps even he had been there for a great
while, for he always appeared to her in this way when least expected
without her ever knowing whence he came or whither he was going.

She thought to herself, "He will give the shoes."

Indeed, he had already come forward. The first stars were appearing in
the pale sky. A sweet, gentle quiet seemed to fall down from on high,
soothing to sleep the Clos-Marie, whose willows were lost in the dusk.
The Cathedral itself was only a great black bar in the West.

"Yes, certainly, now he will offer to give the shoes."

And at this probability she was really quite discouraged. Was he
always, then, to give everything? Could she never, even once, conquer
him? Never! Her heart beat so rapidly that it pained her. She wished
that she might be very rich, to show him that she, too, could make
others happy.

But the Lemballeuse had seen the good gentleman. The mother had rushed
forward; the two little sisters moaned as they held out their hands
for alms, whilst the elder one, letting go of her wounded ankles,
looked at the new-comer inquiringly with her wild eyes.

"Listen, my noisy children," said Felicien. Then, addressing the
mother, he continued, "You may go to the Grand Rue, at the corner of
the Rue Basse--"

Angelique had understood immediately, for the shoemaker had his shop
there. She interrupted him quickly, and was so agitated that she
stammered her words at random.

"But that is a useless thing to do! What would be the good of it? It
is much more simple--"

Yet she could not find in her own mind the more simple thing she
desired. What could she do? What could she invent, so to be before him
in giving her charity? Never had it seemed to her possible she could
detest him as she did now.

"You will say from me, that it is I who have sent you," continued
Felicien. "You will ask--"

Again she interrupted him. The contest lasted a moment longer. She
repeated in an anxious way:

"It is, indeed, much more simple; it is much easier--"

Suddenly she was calm. She seated herself upon a stone, thoughtfully
examined her shoes, took them off, and then drew off her stockings,
saying:

"Look! This is the best thing to do, after all! Why should you have
any trouble about the matter?"

"Oh, my good young lady! God will reward you!" exclaimed the mother
Lemballeuse, as she turned over the shoes and found they were not only
excellent and strong, but almost new. "I will cut them a trifle on the
top, to make them a little larger--Tiennette, why do you not thank
her, stupid creature?"

Tiennette snatched from the hands of Rose and Jeanne the stockings
they were coveting. She did not open her lips; she only gave one long,
fixed, hard look.

But now Angelique realised that her feet were bare, and that Felicien
saw them. She blushed deeply, and knew not what to do. She dared not
move, for, were she to rise to get up, he would only see them all the
more. Then, frightened, she rose quickly, and without realising what
she was doing, began to run. In the grass her flying feet were very
white and small. The darkness of the evening had increased, and the
Clos-Marie was a lake of shadow between the great trees on one side
and the Cathedral on the other. And on the ground the only visible
light came from those same little feet, white and satiny as the wing
of a dove.

Startled and afraid of the water, Angelique followed the bank of the
Chevrotte, that she might cross it on a plank which served as a
bridge. But Felicien had gone a shorter way through the brambles and
brushwood. Until now he had always been overcome by his timidity, and
he had turned redder than she as he saw her bare feet, pure and chaste
as herself. Now, in the overflow of his ignorant youth, passionately
fond of beauty and desirous for love, he was impatient to cry out and
tell her of the feeling which had entirely taken possession of him
since he had first seen her. But yet, when she brushed by him in her
flight, he could only stammer, with a trembling voice, the
acknowledgment so long delayed and which burnt his lips:

"I love you."

She stopped in surprise. For an instant she stood still, and, slightly
trembling, looked at him. Her anger and the hate she thought she had
for him all vanished at once, and melted into a most delicious
sentiment of astonishment. What had he said, what was the word he had
just pronounced, that she should be so overcome by it? She knew that
he loved her; yet when he said so, the sound of it in her ear
overwhelmed her with an inexplicable joy. It resounded so deeply
through her whole being, that her fears came back and were enlarged.
She never would dare reply to him; it was really more than she could
bear; she was oppressed.

He, grown more bold, his heart touched and drawn nearer to hers by
their united deeds of charity, repeated:

"I love you."

And she, fearing the lover, began to run. That was surely the only way
to escape such a danger; yet it was also a happiness, it was all so
strange. The Chevrotte was gaily singing, and she plunged into it like
a startled fawn. Among its pebbles her feet still ran on, under the
chill of icy water. The garden-gate was at last reached, it closed,
and she disappeared.                           

Chapter VIII


On the evening of this same day, immediately after leaving the dinner-
table, Angelique complained of not being at all well, and went up at
once to her room. The agitation and excitement of the morning, her
struggles against her true self, had quite exhausted her. She made
haste to go to bed, and covering her head with the sheet, with a
desperate feeling of disappearing for ever if she could, again the
tears came to her relief.

The hours passed slowly, and soon it was night--a warm July night, the
heavy, oppressive quiet of which entered through the window, which had
been left wide open. In the dark heavens glistened a multitude of
stars. It must have been nearly eleven o'clock, and the moon, already
grown quite thin in its last quarter, would not rise until midnight.

And in the obscure chamber, Angelique still wept nervously a flow of
inexhaustible tears, seemingly without reason, when a slight noise at
her door caused her to lift up her head.

There was a short silence, when a voice called her tenderly.

"Angelique! Angelique! My darling child!"

She recognised the voice of Hubertine. Without doubt the latter, in
her room with her husband, had just heard the distant sound of
sobbing, and anxious, half-undressed, she had come upstairs to find
out what was the matter with her daughter.

"Angelique, are you ill, my dear?"

Retaining her breath, the young girl made no answer. She did not wish
to be unkind, but her one absorbing idea at this moment was of
solitude. To be alone was the only possible alleviation of her
trouble. A word of consolation, a caress, even from her mother, would
have distressed her. She imagined that she saw her standing at the
other side of the door, and from the delicacy of the rustling movement
on the tiled floor she thought she must be barefooted. Two or three
minutes passed, and she knew the kind watcher had not left her place,
but that, stooping, and holding with her beautiful hands the clothing
so carelessly thrown over her, she still listened at the keyhole.

Hubertine, hearing nothing more, not even a sigh, did not like to call
again. She was very sure that she had heard sobs; but if the child had
at last been able to sleep, what good would it do to awaken her? She
waited, however, another moment, troubled by the thought of a grief
which her daughter hid from her, confusedly imagining what it might be
from the tender emotion with which her heart seemed filled from
sympathy. At last she concluded to go down as she had come up,
quietly, her hands being so familiar with every turning that she
needed no candle, and leaving behind her no other sound than the soft,
light touch of her bare feet.

Then, sitting up in bed, Angelique in her turn listened. So profound
was the outward silence that she could clearly distinguish the slight
pressure of the heel on the edge of each step of the stairway. At the
foot, the door of the chamber was opened, then closed again;
afterward, she heard a scarcely-distinct murmur, an affectionate, yet
sad blending of voices in a half-whisper. No doubt it was what her
father and mother were saying of her; the fears and the hopes they had
in regard to her. For a long time that continued, although they must
have put out their light and gone to bed.

Never before had any night sounds in this old house mounted in this
way to her ears. Ordinarily, she slept the heavy, tranquil sleep of
youth; she heard nothing whatever after placing her head upon her
pillow; whilst now, in the wakefulness caused by the inner combat
against an almost overpowering sentiment of affection which she was
determined to conquer, it seemed to her as if the whole house were in
unison with her, that it was also in love, and mourned like herself.
Were not the Huberts, too, sad, as they stilled their tears and
thought of the child they had lost long ago, whose place, alas! had
never been filled? She knew nothing of this in reality, but she had a
sensation in this warm night of the watch of her parents below her,
and of the disappointment in their lives, which they could not forget,
notwithstanding their great love for each other, which was always as
fresh as when they were young.

Whilst she was seated in this way, listening in the house that
trembled and sighed, Angelique lost all self-control, and again the
tears rolled down her face, silently, but warm and living, as if they
were her life's blood. One question above all others had troubled her
since the early morning, and had grieved her deeply. Was she right in
having sent away Felicien in despair, stabbed to the heart by her
coldness, and with the thought that she did not love him? She knew
that she did love him, yet she had willingly caused him to suffer, and
now in her turn she was suffering intensely. Why should there be so
much pain connected with love? Did the saints wish for tears? Could it
be that Agnes, her guardian angel, was angry in the knowledge that she
was happy? Now, for the first time, she was distracted by a doubt.
Before this, whenever she thought of the hero she awaited, and who
must come sooner or later, she had arranged everything much more
satisfactorily. When the right time arrived he was to enter her very
room, where she would immediately recognise and welcome him, when they
would both go away together, to be united for evermore. But how
different was the reality! He had come, and, instead of what she had
foreseen, their meeting was most unsatisfactory; they were equally
unhappy, and were eternally separated. To what purpose? Why had this
result come to pass? Who had exacted from her so strange a vow, that,
although he might be very dear to her, she was never to let him know
it?

But, yet again, Angelique was especially grieved from the fear that
she might have been bad and done some very wrong thing. Perhaps the
original sin that was in her had manifested itself again as when she
was a little girl! She thought over all her acts of pretended
indifference: the mocking air with which she had received Felicien,
and the malicious pleasure she took in giving him a false idea of
herself. And the astonishment at what she had done, added to a cutting
remorse for her cruelty, increased her distress. Now, her whole heart
was filled with a deep infinite pity for the suffering she had caused
him without really meaning to do so.

She saw him constantly before her, as he was when he left the house in
the morning: the despairing expression of his face, his troubled eyes,
his trembling lips; and in imagination she followed him through the
streets, as he went home, pale, utterly desolate, and wounded to the
heart's core by her. Where was he now? Perhaps at this hour he was
really ill!

She wrung her hands in agony, distressed that she could not at once
repair the evil she had done. Ah! how she revolted at the idea of
having made another suffer, for she had always wished to be good, and
to render those about her as happy as possible.

Twelve o'clock would ere long ring out from the old church-tower; the
great elms of the garden of the Bishop's palace hid the moon, which
was just appearing above the horizon, and the chamber was still dark.
Then, letting her head fall back upon the pillow, Angelique dwelt no
longer upon these disturbing questions, as she wished to go to sleep.
But this she could not do; although she kept her eyes closed, her mind
was still active; she thought of the flowers which every night during
the last fortnight she had found when she went upstairs upon the
balcony before her window. Each evening it was a lovely bouquet of
violets, which Felicien had certainly thrown there from the Clos-
Marie. She recollected having told him that flowers generally gave her
a sick headache, whilst violets alone had the singular virtue of
calming her, and so he had sent her quiet nights, a perfumed sleep
refreshed by pleasant dreams. This evening she had placed the bouquet
by her bedside. All at once she had the happy thought of taking it
into her bed with her, putting it near her cheek, and, little by
little, being soothed with its sweet breath. The purple blossoms did
indeed do her good. Not that she slept, however; but she lay there
with closed eyes, penetrated by the refreshing odour that came from
his gift; happy to await events, in a repose and confident abandonment
of her whole being.

But suddenly she started. It was past midnight. She opened her eyes,
and was astonished to find her chamber filled with a clear bright
light. Above the great elms the moon rose slowly, dimming the stars in
the pale sky. Through the window she saw the apse of the cathedral,
almost white, and it seemed to her as if it were the reflection of
this whiteness which entered her room, like the light of the dawn,
fresh and pure. The whitewashed walls and beams, all this blank nudity
was increased by it, enlarged, and moved back as if it were unreal as
a dream.

She still recognised, however, the old, dark, oaken furniture--the
wardrobe, the chest and the chairs, with the shining edges of their
elaborate carvings. The bedstead alone--this great square, royal
couch--seemed new to her, as if she saw it for the first time, with
its high columns supporting its canopy of old-fashioned, rose-tinted
cretonne, now bathed with such a sheet of deep moonlight that she half
thought she was on a cloud in the midst of the heavens, borne along by
a flight of silent, invisible wings. For a moment she felt the full
swinging of it; it did not seem at all strange or unnatural to her.
But her sight soon grew accustomed to the reality; her bed was again
in its usual corner, and she was in it, not moving her head, her eyes
alone turning from side to side, as she lay in the midst of this lake
of beaming rays, with the bouquet of violets upon her lips.

Why was it that she was thus in a state of waiting? Why could she not
sleep? She was sure that she expected someone. That she had grown
quite calm was a sign that her hero was about to appear. This
consoling light, which put to flight the darkness of all bad dreams,
announced his arrival. He was on his way, and the moon, whose
brightness almost equalled that of the sun, was simply his forerunner.
She must be ready to greet him.

The chamber was as if hung with white velvet now, so they could see
each other well. Then she got up, dressed herself thoroughly, putting
on a simple white gown of foulard, the same she had worn the day of
their excursion to the ruins of Hautecoeur. She did not braid her
hair, but let it hang over her shoulders. She put a pair of slippers
upon her bare feet, and drawing an armchair in front of the window,
seated herself, and waited in patience.

Angelique did not pretend to know how he would appear. Without doubt,
he would not come up the stairs, and it might be that she would simply
see him over the Clos-Marie, while she leaned from the balcony. Still,
she kept her place on the threshold of the window, as it seemed to her
useless to go and watch for him just yet. So vague was her idea of
real life, so mystic was love, that she did not understand in her
imaginative nature why he might not pass through the walls, like the
saints in the legends. Why should not miracles come now, as in the
olden days, for had not all this been ordained from the beginning?

Not for a moment did she think she was alone to receive him. No,
indeed! She felt as if she were surrounded by the crowd of virgins who
had always been near her, since her early youth. They entered on the
rays of the moonlight, they came from the great dark trees with their
blue-green tops in the Bishop's garden, from the most intricate
corners of the entanglement of the stone front of the Cathedral. From
all the familiar and beloved horizon of the Chevrotte, from the
willows, the grasses, and bushes, the young girl heard the dreams
which came back to her, the hopes, the desires, the visions, all that
which she had put of herself into inanimate objects as she saw them
daily, and which they now returned to her. Never had the voices of the
Invisible unknown spoken so clearly. She listened to them as they came
from afar, recognising particularly in this warm, beautiful night, so
calm that there was not the slightest movement in the air, the
delicate sound which she was wont to call the fluttering of the robe
of Agnes, when her dear guardian angel came to her side. She laughed
quietly to know that she was now by her, and waiting with the others
who were near her.

Time passed, but it did not seem long to Angelique. She was quite
conscious of what was passing around her. It appeared to her perfectly
natural, and exactly as it had been foretold, when at last she saw
Felicien striding over the balustrade of the balcony.

His tall figure came out in full relief before the background of the
white sky; he did not approach the open window, but remained in its
luminous shadow.

"Do not be afraid. It is I. I have come to see you."

She was not in the slightest way alarmed; she simply thought that he
was exact to the hour of meeting, and said calmly:

"You mounted by the timber framework, did you not?"

"Yes, by the framework."

The idea of this way made her laugh, and he himself was amused by it.
He had in fact pulled himself up by the pent-house shed; then,
climbing along the principal rafters from there, whose ends were
supported by the string-course of the first story, he had without
difficulty reached the balcony.

"I was expecting you. Will you not come nearer me?"

Felicien, who had arrived in a state of anger, not knowing how he had
dared to come, but with many wild ideas in his head, did not move, so
surprised and delighted was he by this unexpected reception. As he had
come at last, Angelique was now certain that the saints did not
prohibit her from loving, for she heard them welcoming him with her by
a laugh as delicate as a breath of the night. Where in the world had
she ever found so ridiculous an idea as to think that Agnes would be
angry with her! On the contrary, Agnes was radiant with a joy that she
felt as it descended on her shoulders and enveloped her like a caress
from two great wings. All those who had died for love showed great
compassion for youthful troubles, and only returned to earth on summer
nights, that, although invisible, they might watch those young hearts
who were sorrowful from affection.

"But why do you not come to me? I was waiting for you."

Then, hesitatingly, Felicien approached. He had been so excited, so
carried away by anger at her indifference, that he had said she should
be made to love him, and that, were it necessary, he would carry her
away even against her will. And lo! now finding her so gentle as he
penetrated almost to the entrance of this chamber, so pure and white,
he became subdued at once, and as gentle and submissive as a child.

He took three steps forward. But he was afraid, and not daring to go
farther, he fell on his knees at the end of the balcony.

"Could you but know," he said, "the abominable tortures I have passed
through. I have never imagined a worse suffering. Really, the only
true grief is to think that you are not beloved by the person to whom
you have given your affection. I would willingly give up all else;
would consent to be poor, dying from hunger, or racked by pain; but I
will not pass another day with this terrible doubt gnawing at my
heart, of thinking that you do not love me. Be good, I pray you, and
pity me."

She listened to him, silent, overcome with compassion, yet very happy
withal.

"This morning you sent me away in such a dreadful manner! I had
fancied to myself that you had changed your feelings towards me, and
that, appreciating my affection, you liked me better. But, alas! I
found you exactly as you had been on the first day, cold, indifferent,
treating me as you would have done any other simple customer who
passed, recalling me harshly to the commonplaces of life. On the
stairway I staggered. Once outside, I ran, and was afraid I might
scream aloud. Then, the moment I reached home, it seemed to me I
should stifle were I to enter the house. So I rushed out into the
fields, walking by chance first on one side of the road and then on
another. Evening came, and I was still wandering up and down. But the
torment of spirit moved faster than ever and devoured me. When one is
hopelessly in love, it is impossible to escape from the pains
accompanying one's affection. Listen!" he said, and he touched his
breast; "it is here that you stabbed me, and the point of the knife
still continues to penetrate deeper and deeper."

He gave a long sigh at the keen recollection of his torture.

"I found myself at last in a thicket, overcome by my distress, like a
tree that has been drawn up by the roots. To me, the only thing that
existed in life, in the future, was you. The thought that you might
never be mine was more than I could bear. Already my feet were so
weary that they would no longer support me. I felt that my hands were
growing icy cold, and my head was filled with the strangest fancies.
And that is why I am here. I do not know at all how I came, or where I
found the necessary strength to bring me to you. You must try to
forgive me; but had I been forced to do so, I would have broken open
doors with my fists, I would have clambered up to this balcony in
broad daylight, for my will was no longer under my control, and I was
quite wild. Now, will you not pardon me?"

She was a little in the shadow, and he, on his knees in the full
moonlight, could not see that she had grown very pale in her tender
repentance, and was too touched by his story to be able to speak. He
thought that she was still insensible to his pleadings, and he joined
his hands together most beseechingly.

"All my interest in you commenced long ago. It was one night when I
saw you for the first time, here at your window. You were only a
vague, white shadow; I could scarcely distinguish one of your
features, yet I saw you and imagined you just as you are in reality.
But I was timid and afraid, so for several days I wandered about here,
never daring to try to meet you in the open day. And, in addition,
since this is a confession, I must tell you everything; you pleased me
particularly in this half mystery; it would have disturbed me to have
you come out from it, for my great happiness was to dream of you as if
you were an apparition, or an unknown something to be worshipped from
afar, without ever hoping to become acquainted with you. Later on, I
knew who you were, for after all it is difficult to resist the
temptation to know what may be the realisation of one's dream. It was
then that my restlessness commenced. It has increased at each meeting.
Do you recollect the first time that we spoke to each other in the
field near by, on that forenoon when I was examining the painted
window? Never in my life did I feel so awkward as then, and it was not
strange that you ridiculed me so. Afterwards I frightened you, and
realised that I continued to be very unfortunate in following you,
even in the visits you made to the poor people. Already I ceased to be
master of my own actions, and did things that astonished me beyond
measure, and which, under usual circumstances, I would not have dared
attempt. For instance, when I presented myself here with the order for
a mitre, I was pushed forward by an involuntary force, as, personally,
I dared not do it, knowing that I might make you angry. But at present
I cannot regain my old self, I can only obey my impulses. I know that
you do not like me, and yet, as you see, in spite of it all I have
come back to you, that I may hear you tell me so. If you would but try
to understand how miserable I am. Do not love me if it is not in your
heart to do so. I must accept my fate. But at least allow me to love
you. Be as cold as you please, be hateful if you will--I shall adore
you whatever you may choose to be. I only ask to be able to see you,
even without any hope; merely for the joy of living thus at your
feet."

Felicien stopped, disheartened, losing all courage as he thought he
would never find any way of touching her heart. And he did not see
that Angelique smiled, half hidden as she was by the open window-sash.
It was an invincible smile, that, little by little, spread over her
whole face. Ah! the dear fellow! How simple and trusting he was as he
outpoured the prayer of his heart, filled with new longings and love,
in bowing before her, as before the highest ideal of all his youthful
dreams.

To think that she had ever been so foolish as at first to try to avoid
all meetings with him, and then, later on, had determined that
although she could not help loving him, he should never know it! Such
folly on her part was quite inexplicable. Since love is right, and is
the fate of all, what good could be gained by making martyrs of them
both?

A complete silence ensued, and in her enthusiastic, imaginative,
nervous state, she heard, louder than ever, in the quiet of the warm
night, the voices of the saints about her, who said love was never
forbidden when it was so ardent and true as this. Behind her back a
bright flash of light had suddenly appeared; scarcely a breath, but a
delicate wave from the moon upon the chamber floor. An invisible
finger, no doubt that of her guardian angel, was placed upon her
mouth, as if to unseal her lips and relieve her from her vow.
Henceforth she could freely unburden herself and tell the truth. All
that which was powerful and tender in her surroundings now whispered
to her words which seemed to come from the infinite unknown.

Then, at last, Angelique spoke.

"Ah! yes, I recollect--I recollect it all."

And Felicien was at once carried away with delight by the music of
this voice, whose extreme charm was so great over him that his love
seemed to increase simply from listening to it.

"Yes, I remember well when you came in the night. You were so far away
those first evenings that the little sound you made in walking left me
in quite an uncertain state. At last I realised perfectly that it was
you who approached me, and a little later I recognised your shadow. At
length, one evening you showed yourself boldly, on a beautiful, bright
night like this, in the full white light of the moon. You came out so
slowly from the inanimate objects near you, like a creation from all
the mysteries that surrounded me, exactly as I had expected to see you
for a long time, and punctual to the meeting.

"I have never forgotten the great desire to laugh, which I kept back,
but which broke forth in spite of me, when you saved the linen that was
being carried away by the Chevrotte. I recollect my anger when you
robbed me of my poor people, by giving them so much money, and thus
making me appear as a miser. I can still recall my fear on the evening
when you forced me to run so fast through the grass with my bare feet.
Oh, yes, I have not forgotten anything--not the slightest thing."

At this last sentence her voice, pure and crystalline, was a little
broken by the thought of those magic words of the young man, the power
of which she felt so deeply when he said, "I love you," and a deep
blush passed over her face. And he--he listened to her with delight.

"It is indeed true that I did wrong to tease you. When one is
ignorant, one is often so foolish. One does many things which seem
necessary, simply from the fear of being found fault with if following
the impulses of the heart. But my remorse for all this was deep, and
my sufferings, in consequence, were as great as yours. Were I to try
to explain all this to you, it would be quite impossible for me to do
so. When you came to us with your drawing of Saint Agnes, oh! I could
have cried out, 'Thank you, thank you!' I was perfectly enchanted to
work for you, as I thought you would certainly make us a daily visit.
And yet, think of it! I pretended to be indifferent, as if I had taken
upon myself the task of doing all in my power to drive you from the
house. Has one ever the need of being willfully unhappy? Whilst in
reality I longed to welcome you and to receive you with open hands,
there seemed to be in the depths of my nature another woman than
myself, who revolted, who was afraid of and mistrusted you--whose
delight it was to torture you with uncertainty, in the vague idea of
setting up a quarrel, the cause of which, in a time long passed, had
been quite forgotten. I am not always good; often in my soul things
seem to creep up that I cannot explain or account for. The worst of it
was that I dared to speak to you of money. Fancy it, then! Of money!
I, who have never thought of it, who would accept chariots of it, only
for the pleasure of making it rain down as I wished, among the needy!
What a malicious amusement I gave myself in this calumniating my
character. Will you ever forgive me?"