GUY DE MAUPASSANT

Translated and Edited

By Ernest Boyd

New York, Alfred A. Knopf, 1923

CONTENTS

THE SISTERS RONDOLI MY LANDLADY THE LITTLE CASK ANDRÉ'S DISEASE HE? MY UNCLE SOSTHÈNE THE ACCURSED BREAD MADAME LUNEAU'S CASE A WISE MAN THE UMBRELLA A MEETING DECORATED! CHÂLI THE LEGACY

THE SISTERS RONDOLI

I

"No," said Pierre Jouvent, "I do not know Italy. I started to go there twice, but each time I was stopped at the frontier and could not manage to get any further. And yet my two attempts gave me charming ideas of the manners of that beautiful country. Some time or other I must visit its cities, as well as the museums and works of art with which it abounds. I shall make another attempt as soon as possible to cross that impregnable border.

"You don't understand me, so I will explain myself. In 1874 I was seized with desire to see Venice, Florence, Rome, and Naples. I got this whim about the middle of June, then the powerful fever of spring stirs the desire for love and adventure. I am not, as you know, a great traveller; it appears to me a useless and tiresome business. Nights spent in a train, the disturbed slumbers of the railway carriage, with the attendant headache and stiffness in every limb, the sudden waking in that rolling box, the unwashed feeling, the flying dust and smuts that fill your eyes and hair, the taste of coal in your mouth, and the bad dinners in draughty refreshment rooms, are, in my opinion, a horrible way of beginning a pleasure trip.

"After this introduction by the express, we have the miseries of the hotel; of some great hotel full of people, and yet so empty; the strange room, and the dubious bed! I am most particular about my bed; it is the sanctuary of life. We intrust our nude and fatigued bodies to it that they may be refreshed and rested between soft sheets and feathers.

"There we spend the most delightful hours of our existence, the hours of love and of sleep. The bed is sacred, and should be respected, venerated, and loved by us as the best and most delightful of our earthly possessions.

"I cannot lift up the sheets of a hotel bed without a shiver of disgust. What took place there the night before? What dirty, odious people have slept in it! I begin, then, to think of all the horrible people with whom one rubs shoulders every day, hideous hunchbacks, people with flabby bodies, with dirty hands that make you wonder what their feet and the rest of their bodies are like. I think of those who exhale a smell of garlic and dirt that is loathsome. I think of the deformed and purulent, of the perspiration emanating from the sick, and of everything that is ugly in man. And all this, perhaps, in the bed in which I am going to sleep! The mere idea of it makes me feel ill as I get in.

"And then the hotel dinners—those dreary table d'hôte dinners in the midst of all sorts of extraordinary people, or else those terrible solitary dinners at a small table in a restaurant, feebly lighted up by a small, cheap candle under a shade.

"Again, those terribly dull evenings in some unknown town! Do you know anything more wretched than when it is getting dark on such an occasion? You go about as if in a dream, looking at faces which you have never seen before and will never see again; listening to people talking about matters which are either quite indifferent to you or in a language that perhaps you do not understand. You have a terrible feeling, almost as if you were lost, and you continue to walk on, so as to avoid returning to the hotel, where you would feel still more lost because you are at home, in a home which belongs to anyone who can pay for it. At last you fall into a chair at some well-lit café, whose gilding and lights overwhelm you a thousand times more than the shadows in the streets. Then you feel so abominably lonely sitting in front of the foaming bock which a hurrying waiter has brought, that a kind of madness seizes you, the longing to go somewhere or other, no matter where, as long as you need not remain in front of that marble table and in the dazzling brightness.

"And then, suddenly, you perceive that you are really alone in the world, always and everywhere; and that in places which we know the familiar jostlings give us the illusion only of human brotherhood. At such moments of self-abandonment and sombre isolation in distant cities you think broadly, clearly, and profoundly. Then one suddenly sees the whole of life outside the vision of eternal hope, outside the daily deceptions of daily habits and of the expectations of happiness, of which we always dream.

"It is only by going a long distance that we can fully understand how near, short-lived and empty everything is; only by searching for the unknown do we perceive how commonplace and evanescent everything is; only by wandering over the face of the earth can we understand how small the world is, and how very much alike everywhere.

"How well I know, and how I hate and fear more than anything else those haphazard walks through unknown streets. This was the reason why, as nothing would induce me to undertake a tour in Italy by myself, I induced my friend Paul Pavilly to accompany me.

"You know Paul, and how woman is everything, the world, life itself, to him. There are many men like him, to whom existence becomes poetical and idealised by the presence of women. The earth is habitable only because they are there; the sun shines and is warm because it lights them; the air is soft and balmy because it blows upon their skin and ruffles the short hair on their temples, and the moon is charming because it makes them dream, and imparts a languorous charm to love. Every act and action of Paul has woman for its motive; all his thoughts, all his efforts, and hopes are centred on them.

"A poet has branded that type of man:"

Je déteste surtout le barde à l'oeil humide Qui regarde une étoile en murmurant un nom, Et pour qui la nature immense serait vide S'il ne portait en croupe ou Lisette ou Ninon. Ces gens-là sont charmants qui se donnent la peine, Afin qu'on s'intéresse à ce pauvre univers, D'attacher des jupons aux arbres de la plaine Et la cornette blanche au front des coteaux verts. Certes ils n'ont pas compris tes musiques divines Éternelle Nature aux frémissantes voix, Ceux qui ne vont pas seuls par les creuses ravines Et rêvent d'une femme au bruit que font les bois!

"When I mentioned Italy to Paul he at first absolutely refused to leave Paris. I, however, began to tell him of the adventures I had on my travels. I told him that Italian women are supposed to be charming, and I made him hope for the most refined society at Naples, thanks to certain letters of introduction which I had for a Signore Michel Amoroso whose acquaintances are very useful to travellers. So at last he allowed himself to be persuaded."

II

"We took the express one Thursday evening on the 26th of June. Hardly anyone goes south at that time of the year, so that we had the carriage to ourselves. Both of us were in a bad temper on leaving Paris, sorry for having yielded to the temptation of this journey, and regretting cool Marly, the beautiful Seine, and our lazy boating excursions, our delightful evenings spent on the banks of the river waiting for nightfall.

"As soon as the train started Paul settled himself comfortably into a corner, and said: 'It is most idiotic to go to this place.' As it was too late for him to change his mind then, I answered: 'Well, you should not have come.'

"He did not answer, and I felt very much inclined to laugh when I saw how furious he looked. He certainly looks like a squirrel, but then every one of us has retained the type of some animal or other as the mark of primal race. How many people have jaws like a bulldog, or heads like goats, rabbits, foxes, horses, or oxen. Paul was a squirrel turned into a man. He had its bright, quick eyes, its hair, its pointed nose, its small, fine, supple, active body, and a certain mysterious resemblance in his general bearing: in fact, a similarity of movements, of gestures, and of bearing which might almost be taken for an atavism.

"At last we both went to sleep—the noisy slumber of the railway carriage, which is broken by horrible cramps in the arms and neck, and by the sudden stopping of the train.

"We woke up as we were going along the Rhone. Soon the continuous noise of the grasshoppers came in through the window, a cry which seems to be the voice of the warm earth, the song of Provence. It seemed to instill into our looks, our breasts, and our souls the light and happy feeling of the south, the smell of the parched earth, of the stony and light soil of the olive tree with its grey-green foliage.

"When the train stopped again a porter ran along the train calling out 'Valence' in a sonorous voice, with an accent that again gave us that taste of Provence which the shrill note of the grasshoppers had already imparted to us.

"Nothing happened till we got to Marseilles, where we breakfasted, but when we returned to our carriage we found a woman installed there. Paul, with a delighted look at me, unconsciously gave his short moustache a twirl, and passed his fingers like a comb through his hair, which had become slightly disordered with the night's journey. Then he sat down opposite the newcomer.

"Whenever I happen to see a new face, either while travelling or in society, I become obsessed with the desire to find out what character, mind, and intellectual capacities are hidden beneath those features.

"She was a young and pretty woman, a native of the south of France certainly, with splendid eyes, beautiful, wavy black hair, which was so thick, long, and strong that it seemed almost too heavy for her head. She was dressed with a certain southern bad taste which made her look a little vulgar. Her regular features had none of the grace and finish of the refined races, of that slight delicacy which members of the aristocracy inherit from their birth, and which is the hereditary mark of blue blood.

"Her bracelets were too big to be of gold; she wore earrings with white stones too big to be diamonds, and she belonged unmistakably to the people. One would guess that she would talk too loud, and use exaggerated gestures.

"When the train started she remained motionless in her place, in the attitude of a woman who was in a rage. She had not even looked at us.

"Paul began to talk to me, evidently with an eye to effect, trying to attract her attention, as shopkeepers expose their choice wares to catch the notice of passers-by. She did not seem to hear.

"'Toulon! Ten minute's wait! Refreshment room!' the porter shouted.

"Paul motioned to me to get out, and, as soon as we were on the platform, he said:

"'I wonder who on earth she can be?'

"I began to laugh. 'I am sure I don't know, and I don't in the least care.'

"He was quite excited.

"'She is an uncommonly fresh and pretty girl. What eyes she has, and how cross she looks. She must be dreadfully worried, for she takes no notice of anything.'

"'You will have all your trouble for nothing,' I ventured.

"He began to lose his temper.

"'I am not taking any trouble, my dear fellow. I think her an extremely pretty woman, that is all. If one could only speak to her! But I don't know how to begin. Can't you give me an idea? Can't you guess who she is?'

"'Upon my word, I cannot. I rather think she is some actress who is going to rejoin her company after some love adventure.'

"He seemed quite upset, as if I had said something insulting.

"'What makes you think that? On the contrary, I think she looks most respectable.'

"'Just look at her bracelets,' I said, 'her earrings, and her whole dress. I should not be the least surprised if she were a dancer or a circus rider, but most likely a dancer. Her whole style smacks very much of the theatre.'

"He evidently did not like the idea.

"'She is much too young, I am sure; why, she is hardly twenty.'

"'Well,' I replied, 'there are many things which one can do before one is twenty; dancing and reciting are among them, without counting another business which is, perhaps, her sole occupation.'

"'Take your seats for Nice, Ventimiglia,' the guards and porters called out.

"We got in; our fellow-passenger was eating an orange. She certainly was not refined. She had spread her handkerchief on her knees, and the way in which she tore off the peel and opened her mouth to put in the pieces, and then spat the pips out of the window, showed that her education had been decidedly vulgar. She seemed more unapproachable than ever, and swallowed the fruit with an exceedingly comic air of rage.

"Paul devoured her with his eyes, and tried to attract her attention and excite her curiosity, but in spite of his talk and of the manner in which he brought in well-known names, she did not pay the least attention to him.

"After passing Fréjus and St. Raphael, the train passes through a veritable garden, a paradise of roses, of groves of oranges and lemons covered with fruit and flowers at the same time. That delightful coast from Marseilles to Genoa is a kingdom of perfumes in a land of flowers.

"June is the time to see it, when in every narrow valley and on every slope the most exquisite flowers are growing luxuriantly. And the roses! fields, hedges, groves of roses! They climb up the walls, blossom on the roofs, hang from the trees, peep out from among the bushes; they are white, red, yellow, large and small, ordinary and quiet, with a simple dress, or full in brilliant and heavy toilettes. Their powerful perfume makes the air heavy and relaxing, while the still more penetrating lasting odour of the orange blossoms sweetens the atmosphere, till it might almost be called a sugarplum for the olfactory nerve.

"The shore, with its brown rocks, was bathed by the motionless Mediterranean. The hot summer sun stretched like a fiery cloth over the mountains, over the long expanses of sand, and over the hard, set blue sea. The train went on, through the tunnels, along the slopes, above the water, on straight, wall-like viaducts, and a soft, vague, saltish smell came up, a smell of drying seaweed, mingled at times with the strong, heavy perfume of the flowers.

"But Paul neither saw, nor looked at, nor smelled anything, for our fellow-traveller engrossed all his attention.

"When we got to Cannes, as he wished to speak to me, he signed to me to get out again, and as soon as I had done so he took me by the arm.

"'Do you know she is really charming. Just look at her eyes; and I never saw anything like her hair.'

"'Don't excite yourself,' I replied. 'Tackle her, if you have any intentions that way. She does not look impregnable, I fancy, although she appears to be a little bit grumpy.'

"'Why don't you speak to her?' he said. 'I don't know what to say, for I am always terribly stupid at first; I can never make advances to a woman in the street. I follow them, go round and round them, quite close to them, but I never know what to say at first. I only once tried to enter into conversation with a woman in that way. As I clearly saw that she was waiting for me to make overtures, and as I felt bound to say something, I stammered out, "I hope you are quite well, Madame?" She laughed in my face, and I made my escape.'

"I promised Paul to do all I could to bring about a conversation, and when we had taken our places again, I politely asked our neighbour:

"'Have you any objection to the smell of tobacco, Madame?'

"She merely replied: 'Non capisco.'

"So she was an Italian! I felt an absurd inclination to laugh. As Paul did not understand a word of that language, I was obliged to act as his interpreter, so I said in Italian:

"'I asked you, Madame, whether you had any objection to tobacco smoke?'

"With an angry look, she replied, 'Che mi fa?'

"She had neither turned her head nor looked at me, and I really did not know whether to take this What does it matter to me, for an authorisation, a refusal, a real sign of indifference, or for a mere 'Leave me alone.'

"'Madame,' I replied, 'if you mind the smell of tobacco in the least—'

"She again said, 'mica,' in a tone of voice which seemed to mean, 'I wish to goodness you would leave me alone!' It was, however, a kind of permission, so I said to Paul:

"'You can smoke.'

"He looked at me in that curious sort of way that people have when they try to understand others who are talking in a strange language before them, and asked me:

"'What did you say to her?'

"'I asked if we might smoke, and she said we might do whatever we liked.'

"Whereupon I lighted my cigar.

"'Did not she say anything more?'

"'If you had counted her words you would have noticed that she used exactly six, two of which gave me to understand that she knew no French, so four remained, and a lot cannot be said in four words.'

"Paul seemed quite unhappy, disappointed, and at sea.

"But suddenly the Italian asked me, in that tone of discontent which seemed habitual to her, 'Do you know at what time we shall get to Genoa?'

"'At eleven o'clock,' I replied. Then after a moment I went on:

"'My friend and I are also going to Genoa, and if we can be of any service to you, we shall be very happy. As she did not answer, I insisted: 'You are alone and if we can be of service...' But she interrupted with such a 'mica,' that I did not venture on another word.

"'What did she say?' Paul asked.

"'She said that she thought you were charming.'

"But he was in no humour for joking, and begged me, dryly, not to make fun of him, so I translated her question and my polite offer, which had been so pertly rejected.

"Then he became as agitated as a squirrel in a cage.

"'If we only knew,' he said, 'what hotel she was going to, we would go to the same. Try and find out, so as to have another opportunity for making her speak.'

"It was not particularly easy, and I did not know what pretext to invent, anxious as I was to make the acquaintance of this unapproachable person.

"We passed Nice, Monaco, Mentone, and the train stopped at the frontier for the examination of luggage.

"Although I hate those badly brought-up people who breakfast and dine in railway-carriages, I went and bought a quantity of good things to make one last attack on her by their means. I felt sure that this girl must, ordinarily, be by no means inaccessible. Something had put her out and made her irritable, but very little would suffice, a mere word or some agreeable offer, make her unbend, to decide her and overcome her.

"We started again, and we three were still alone. I spread my eatables out on the seat. I cut up the fowl, put the slices of ham neatly on a piece of paper, and then carefully laid out our dessert, the strawberries, plums, cherries, and cakes, close to the girl.

"When she saw that we were going to eat she took a piece of chocolate and two small rolls out of her pocket and began to eat them with her beautiful sharp teeth.

"'Ask her to have some of ours,' Paul said in a whisper.

"'That is exactly what I want to do, but it is rather a difficult matter.'

"As she, however, glanced from time to time at our provisions, I felt sure that she would still be hungry when she had finished what she had. So as soon as her frugal meal was over, I said to her:

"'It would be very kind of you if you would take some of this fruit.'

"Again she said 'mica,' but less crossly than before.

"'Well, then,' I said, 'may I offer you a little wine? I see you have not drunk anything. It is Italian wine, and as we are now in your own country, we should be very pleased to see such a pretty Italian mouth accept the offer of its French neighbours.'

"She shook her head slightly, evidently wishing to refuse, but very desirous of accepting, and her 'mica' this time was almost polite. I took the bottle, which was covered with straw in the Italian fashion, and filling the glass I offered it to her.

"'Please drink it,' I said, 'to bid us welcome to your country.'

"She took the glass with her usual look, and emptied it at a draught, like a woman tormented with thirst, and then gave it back to me without even saying 'Thank you.'

"Then I offered her the cherries. 'Please take some,' I said; 'we shall be so pleased if you will.'

"Out of her corner she looked at all the fruit spread out beside her, and said so rapidly that I could scarcely follow her: 'A me non piacciono ne le ciliegie ne le susine; amo soltano le fragole.'

"'What does she say?' Paul asked.

"'That she does not care for cherries or plums, but only for strawberries.'

"I put a newspaper full of wild strawberries on her lap, and she ate them quickly, throwing them into her mouth from some distance in a coquettish and charming manner.

"When she had finished the little red heap which we had seen rapidly diminishing, melting and disappearing under the rapid action of her hands, I asked her:

"'What may I offer you now?'

"'I will take a little chicken,' she replied.

"She certainly devoured half of it, tearing it to pieces with the rapid movements of her jaws like some carnivorous animal. Then she made up her mind to have some cherries, which she 'did not like,' then some plums, then some little cakes. Then she said, 'I have had enough,' and sat back in her corner.

"I was much amused, and tried to make her eat more, pressing her, in fact, till she suddenly got in a rage again, and flung such a furious 'mica' at me, that I would no longer run the risk of spoiling her digestion.

"I turned to my friend. 'My poor Paul,' I said, 'I am afraid we have had our trouble for nothing.'

"Night was coming on, one of those hot summer nights which extend their warm shade over the burning and exhausted earth. Here and there, in the distance by the sea, over capes and promontories bright stars began to shine on the dark horizon, which I was, at times, almost inclined to confound with lighthouses.

"The scent of the orange-trees became more penetrating, and we breathed with delight, distending our lungs to inhale it more deeply. The balmy air was soft, delicious, almost divine.

"Suddenly I noticed something like a shower of stars under the dense shade of the trees along the line where it was quite dark. It might have been taken for drops of light, leaping, flying, playing and running among the leaves, or for small stars fallen from the skies in order to have an excursion on the earth; but they were only fireflies dancing a strange fiery ballet in the perfumed air.

"One of them happened to come into our carriage and shed its intermittent light, which seemed to be extinguished one moment and to be burning the next. I covered the carriage-lamp with its blue shade and watched the strange fly careering about in its fiery flight. Suddenly it settled on the dark hair of our neighbour, who was dozing after dinner. Paul seemed delighted, his eyes fixed on the bright, sparkling spot which looked like a living jewel on the forehead of the sleeping woman.

"The Italian awoke about eleven o'clock, with the bright insect still in her hair. When I saw her move, I said: 'We are just getting to Genoa, Madame,' and she murmured, without answering me, as if possessed by some obstinate and embarrassing thought:

"'What am I going to do, I wonder?'

"And then she suddenly asked:

"'Would you like me to come with you?'

"I was so taken aback that I really did not understand her.

"'With us? What do you mean?'

"She repeated, looking more and more furious:

"'Would you like me to go with you now, as soon as we get out of the train?'

"'I am quite willing; but where do you want to go to? Where shall I take you to?'

"She shrugged her shoulders with an air of supreme indifference.

"'Wherever you like; what does it matter to me?' She repeated her 'Che mi fa?' twice.

"'But we are going to the hotel.'

"'Very well, let us all go to the hotel,' she said, in a contemptuous voice.

"I turned to Paul, and said:

"'She wants to know if we should like her to come with us.'

"My friend's utter surprise restored my self-possession. He stammered:

"'With us? Where to? What for? How?'

"'I don't know, but she made this strange proposal to me in a most irritable voice. I told her that we were going to the hotel, and she said: 'Very well, let us all go there!' I suppose she is without a half-penny. She certainly has a very strange way of making acquaintances.'

"Paul, who was very much excited, exclaimed:

"'I am quite agreeable. Tell her that we will take her wherever she likes.' Then, after a moment's hesitation, he said uneasily:

"'We must know, however, with whom she wants to go,—with you or with me?'

"I turned to the Italian, who did not even seem to be listening to us, and said:

"'We shall be very happy to take you with us, but my friend wants to know whether you will take my arm or his?'

"She opened her black eyes wide with vague surprise, and said, 'Che mi fa?'

"I was obliged to explain myself. 'In Italy, I believe when a man looks after a woman, fulfills all her wishes, and satisfies all her caprices, he is called a patito. Which of us two will you take for your patito?'

"Without the slightest hesitation she replied:

"'You!'

"I turned to Paul. 'You see, my friend, she chooses me; you have no luck.'

"'All the better for you,' he replied, in a rage. Then, after thinking for a few moments, he went on:

"'Do you really care about taking this creature with you? She will spoil our journey. What are we to do with this woman, who looks like I don't know what? They will not take us in at any decent hotel.'

"I, however, was just beginning to find the Italian much nicer than I had thought her at first, and I was now very anxious to take her with us. The idea delighted me. I already felt those little shivers which the expectation of a night of love sends through the veins.

"I replied, 'My dear fellow, we have accepted, and it is too late to recede. You were the first to advise me to say 'Yes.'

"'It is very stupid,' he growled, 'but do as you please.'

"The train whistled, slackened speed, and we ran into the station.

"I got out of the carriage, and offered my new companion my hand. She jumped out lightly, and I gave her my arm, which she took with an air of seeming repugnance. As soon as we had claimed our luggage we started off into the town, Paul walking in complete silence, with a nervous step.

"'To what hotel shall we go?' I asked him. 'It may be difficult to get into the City of Paris Hotel with a woman, especially with this Italian.'

"Paul interrupted me: 'Yes, with an Italian who looks more like a strumpet than a duchess. However, that is no business of mine. Do just as you please.'

"I was in a state of perplexity. I had written to the City of Paris to reserve our rooms, and now I did not know what to do.

"Two commissionnaires followed us with our luggage. I continued: 'You might as well go first, and say that we are coming; and give the landlord to understand that I have a—a friend with me, so that we should like rooms quite by themselves for us three, so as not to be brought in contact with other travellers. He will understand, and we will decide according to his answer.'

"But Paul growled, 'Thank you; such commissions and such a rôle do not suit me by any means. I did not come here to get ready your apartments or to minister to your pleasures.'

"But I was insistent: 'Look here, don't, be angry. It is surely far better to go to a good hotel than to a bad one, and it is not difficult to ask the landlord for three separate bedrooms and a dining-room.'

"I put a stress on three, and that decided him.

"He went on first, and I saw him enter the great doorway of a fine hotel, while I remained on the other side of the street dragging along my Italian who did not say a word, and followed by the porters with the luggage.

"Paul came back at last, looking as dissatisfied as my companion.

"'That is settled,' he said, 'and they will take us in; but there are only two bedrooms. You must settle it as you can.'

"I followed him, rather ashamed of going in with such a strange companion.

"There were two bedrooms separated by a small sitting-room. I ordered a cold supper, and then I turned to the Italian with a perplexed look.

"'We have only been able to get two rooms, so you must choose which you like.'

"She replied with her eternal 'Che mi fa?' I thereupon took up her little black wooden box, just like those which servants use, and took it into the room on the right, which I had chosen for her—for us. A bit of paper was fastened on to the box, on which was written, 'Mademoiselle Francesca Rondoli, Genoa.'

"'Your name is Francesca?' I asked, and she nodded her head, without replying.

"'We shall have supper directly,' I continued. 'Meanwhile, I daresay you would like to freshen yourself up a bit!'

"She answered with a 'mica,' a phrase which she employed just as frequently as 'Che mi fa,' but I went on: 'It is always pleasant after a journey.'

"Then I suddenly remembered that she had not, perhaps, the necessary objects, for she appeared to me in a very singular position, as if she had just escaped from some disagreeable adventure, and I brought her my dressing-case.

"I put out all the little instruments for cleanliness and comfort which it contained: a nailbrush, a new toothbrush,—for I always carry a selection of them about with me,—my nail-scissors, a nail-file, and sponges. I uncorked a bottle of Eau de Cologne, one of lavender-water, and a little bottle of new-mown hay, so that she might have a choice. Then I opened my powder-box, and put out the powder-puff, put my fine towels over the water-jug, and placed a piece of new soap near the basin.

"She watched my movements with a vexed look in her wide-open eyes, without appearing either surprised or pleased by my forethought.

"Here is all that you require, I then said; 'I will tell you when supper is ready.'

"When I returned to the sitting-room I found that Paul had taken possession of the other room, and had shut himself in, so I sat down to wait.

"A waiter went back and forth, bringing plates and glasses. He laid the table slowly, then put a cold fowl on it, and told me that all was ready.

"I knocked gently at Mademoiselle Rondoli's door. 'Come in,' she said, and when I did so I was struck by a strong, heavy smell of perfumes, as if I were in a hairdresser's shop.

"The Italian was sitting on her box in an attitude either of thoughtful discontent or absent-mindedness. The towel was still folded over the water-jug, which was quite full, and the soap, untouched and dry, was lying beside the empty basin; but one would have thought that the young woman had drunk half of the bottles of scent. The Eau de Cologne, however, had been spared, as only about a third of it had gone; but to make up for that she had used a surprising amount of lavender-water and new-mown hay. A cloud of violet powder, a vague white mist, seemed still to be floating in the air, from the effects of her over-powdering her face and neck. It seemed to cover her eyelashes, eyebrows, and the hair on her temples like snow, while her cheeks were plastered with it, and layers of it covered her nostrils, the comers of her eyes, and her chin.

"When she got up she exhaled such a strong odour of scent that it almost made me feel faint.

"When we sat down to supper I found that Paul was in a most execrable temper, and I could get nothing out of him but words of blame and irritation, and disagreeable compliments.

"Mademoiselle Francesca ate like an ogre, and as soon as she had finished her meal she threw herself upon the sofa. As for me, I saw the decisive moment approaching for settling how we were to apportion the rooms. I determined to take the bull by the horns, and sitting down by the Italian I gallantly kissed her hand.

"She half opened her tired eyes looked at me, sleepy and discontented.

"'As we have only two bedrooms, will you allow me to share yours with you?'

"'Do just as you like,' she said. 'It is all the same to me. Che mi fa?'

"Her indifference vexed me.

"'But you are sure you do not mind my being in your room with you?' I said.

"'It is all the same to me; do just as you like.'

"'Should you like to go to bed at once?'

"'Yes; I am very sleepy.'

"She got up, yawned, gave Paul her hand, who took it with a furious look, and I lighted her into our room. A disquieting feeling haunted me. 'Here is all you want,' I said again.

"This time I took care to pour half the water into the basin, and to put a towel near the soap.

"Then I went back to Paul. As soon as I got into the room, he said, 'You have got a nice sort of a creature there!' and I answered, laughing, 'My dear friend, don't speak ill of sour grapes,' and he replied, ill-temperedly:

"'Just take care how this ends, my good fellow.'

"I almost trembled with that feeling of fear which assails us after some suspicious love escapade—that fear which spoils our pleasant meetings, our unexpected caresses, our chance kisses. However, I put a bold face on the matter. 'At any rate, the girl is no adventuress.'

"But the fellow had me in his power; he had seen the shadow of my anxiety on my face.

"'What do you know about her? You really astonish me. You pick up an Italian woman travelling alone in the train, and she volunteers, with most singular cynicism, to go and be your mistress in any old hotel. You take her with you, and then you declare that she is not a tart! And you persuade yourself that you are not running more risk than if you were to go and spend the night with a woman who had smallpox.'

"He laughed with an unpleasant and angry laugh. I sat down, a prey to uneasiness. What was I to do, for he was right after all? And a struggle began within me, between desire and fear.

"He went on: 'Do as you like, I have warned you, so do not complain of the consequences.'

"But I saw such ironical gaiety in his eyes, such a delight in his revenge; he made fun of me so good-naturedly, that I did not hesitate any longer. I gave him my hand, and said, 'Good night. You know the old saying: "A victory without peril is a triumph without glory," and upon my word, the victory is worth the danger.'

"And with a firm step I went into Francesca's room.

"I stopped short at the door in surprise and astonishment. She was already asleep, quite naked on the bed. Sleep had overcome her when she had finished undressing, and she was reposing in the charming attitude of one of Titian's women.

"It seemed as if she had lain down from sheer fatigue in order to take off her stockings, for they were lying on the bed. Then she had thought of something pleasant, no doubt, for she had waited to finish her reverie before moving, and then, closing her eyes, she had lost consciousness. A nightgown, embroidered about the neck such as one buys in cheap, ready-made shops, a beginner's luxury was lying on a chair.

"She was charming, young, firm, and fresh.

"What is prettier than a woman asleep? The body with its soft contours, whose every curve is a temptation, whose plump softness stirs the senses, seems to have been created for the repose of the bed. Only when it is lying upon the sheets does one get the full value of that undulating line which curves in at the waist, curves out at the hips and then runs down the charming outline of the leg, ending at the point of the foot. I was on the point of forgetting my friend's prudent counsels, but suddenly turning to the washstand I saw everything as I had left it, and I sat down, anxious, and a prey to irresolution.

"I remained thus for a long time, not able to make up my mind what to do. Retreat was impossible, and I must either pass the night on a chair, or go to bed myself at my own risk and peril.

"I had no thoughts of sleeping either here or there, for my head was too excited and my eyes too occupied.

"I stirred incessantly, feverish, uncomfortable, enervated. Then I began to reason with myself, certainly with a view to capitulation: 'If I lie down that does not bind me to anything, and I shall certainly be more comfortable on a mattress than on a chair.'

"I undressed slowly, and then, stepping over the sleeping girl, I stretched myself out against the wall, turning my back on temptation.

"In this position I remained for a long time without going to sleep, when suddenly my neighbour awoke. She opened her eyes, looked astonished, and still discontented; then seeing that she had nothing on, she got up and calmly put on her nightgown with as much indifference as if I had not been present.

"Then... I seized the opportunity, but this did not appear to disturb her at all. She immediately went quietly to sleep again, with her head resting on her right arm. And I began to meditate on the weakness and folly of human nature. Then I went to sleep also.

"She got up early, like a woman who is used to work in the morning. She woke me up by doing so, and I watched her through my half-closed eyelids.

"She came and went without hurrying herself, as if she were astonished at having nothing to do. At last she went to the washstand, and in a moment she emptied all the scent that remained in my bottles. She certainly also used some water, but very little.

"When she was quite dressed she sat down on her box again, and holding one knee between her hands, seemed to be thinking.

"Then I pretended to notice her, and said:

"'Good morning, Francesca.'

"Without seeming in at all a better temper than the previous night, she murmured, 'Good morning.'

"When I asked her whether she had slept well, she nodded 'Yes,' and jumping out of bed, I went and kissed her.

"She turned her face toward me like a child who is being kissed against its will; but I took her tenderly in my arms (the wine being poured out, I would have been very stupid not to drink any more of it). Gently I put my lips on her large eyes, which she closed with evident distaste under my kisses on her fresh cheeks and full lips, which she turned away.

"'You don't seem to like being kissed, I said to her.'

"'Mica' was her only answer.

"I sat down on the trunk by her side, and, passing my arm through hers, I said: 'Mica! mica! mica! in reply to everything. I shall call you Mademoiselle Mica, I think.'

"For the first time I fancied I saw the shadow of a smile on her lips, but it passed by so quickly that I may have been mistaken.

"'But if you never say anything but 'Mica' I shall not know what to do to try and please you. Let us see; what shall we do to-day?'

"She hesitated a moment as if some fancy had flitted through her bead, and then she said carelessly: 'It is all the same to me; whatever you like.'

"'Very well. Mademoiselle Mica, we will get a carriage and go for a drive.'

"'As you please, she said.'

"Paul was waiting for us in the dining-room, looking as bored as third parties generally do in love affairs. I assumed a delighted air, and shook hands with him with triumphant energy.

"'What are you thinking of doing?' he asked.

"'First of all we will go and see a little of the town, and then we might take a carriage, for a drive in the neighbourhood.'

"We breakfasted in silence and then started on foot to visit the museums. We went through the Spinola Palace, the Doria Palace, the Marcello Durazzo, the Red and White Palaces. Francesca either looked at nothing or merely just glanced carelessly at all the various masterpieces. Paul followed us, growling all sorts of disagreeable things. Then we all three took a silent drive into the country and returned to dinner.

"The next day it was the same thing and the next day again; so on the third Paul said to me: 'Look here, I am going to leave you; I am not going to stop here for three weeks watching you make love to this creature.'

"I was perplexed and annoyed, for to my great surprise I had become singularly attached to Francesca. A man is but weak and foolish, carried away by the merest trifle, and a coward every time that his senses are excited or mastered. I clung to this unknown girl, silent and dissatisfied as she always was. I liked her somewhat ill-tempered face, the dissatisfied droop of her mouth, the weariness of her look; I liked her fatigued movements, the contemptuous way in which she yielded to my wishes, the very indifference of her caresses. A secret bond, that mysterious bond of animal love, the secret attachment to a possession which does not satiate, bound me to her. I told Paul so, quite frankly. He treated me as if I had been a fool, and then said:

"'Very well, take her with you.'

"But she obstinately refused to leave Genoa, without giving any reason. I besought, I reasoned, I promised, but all was of no avail, and so I stayed on.

"Paul declared that he would go by himself, and went so far as to pack up his portmanteau; but he remained all the same.

"Thus a fortnight passed. Francesca was always silent and irritable, lived beside me rather than with me, responded to all my desires, all my demands, and all my propositions with her perpetual 'Che mi fa,' or with her no less perpetual 'Mica.'

"My friend got more and more furious, but my only answer was, 'You can go if you are tired of staying. I am not detaining you.'

"Then he called me names, overwhelmed me with reproaches, and exclaimed: 'Where do you think I can go to now? We had three weeks at our disposal, and here is a fortnight gone! I cannot continue my journey now; and, in any case, I am not going to Venice, Florence, and Rome all by myself. But you will pay for it, and more dearly than you think for, most likely. You are not going to bring a man all the way from Paris in order to shut him up at a hotel in Genoa with an Italian adventuress.'

"When I told him, very calmly, to return to Paris, he exclaimed that he was going to do so the very next day; but the next day he was still there, still in a rage and swearing.

"By this time we began to be known in the streets, through which we wandered from morning till night, those narrow streets without footpaths, which are like an immense stone labyrinth with tomb-like passages. We went through those windy gorges, narrowed between such high walls that the sky is hardly visible. Sometimes French people would turn round astonished at meeting their fellow-countrymen with this bored girl in her loud clothes, and who looked singularly out of place, not to say compromising, beside us.

"She used to walk along, leaning on my arm, without looking at anything. Why did she remain with me, with us, who seemed to give her so little pleasure? Who was she? Where did she come from? What was she doing? Had she any plan or idea? How did she live? As an adventuress, or by chance meetings? I tried in vain to find out and to explain it. The better I knew her the more enigmatical she became. She was not one of those who make a living by, and a profession of, venal love. She rather seemed to me to be a girl of poor family who had been seduced and taken away, and then cast aside and lost. What did she think was going to become of her, or for whom was she waiting? She certainly did not appear to be trying to make a conquest of me, or to get any profit out of me.

"I tried to question her, to speak to her of her childhood and family; but she never gave me an answer. I stayed with her, my heart unfettered and my senses enchained, never wearied of holding this proud and quarrelsome woman in my arms, captivated by my senses, or rather seduced, overcome, by the youthful, healthy, powerful charm which emanated from her sweet-smelling person and from the robust lines of her body.

"Another week passed, and the term of my holiday was drawing to a close, for I had to be back in Paris by July 11. By this time Paul had come to take his part in the adventure, though still grumbling at me, while I invented pleasures, distractions, and excursions to amuse my mistress and my friend; and in order to do this I gave myself a large amount of trouble.

"One day I proposed an excursion to Santa Margarita, a charming little town in the midst of gardens, hidden at the foot of a slope which stretches far into the sea. We all three were following the excellent road which goes along the foot of the mountain. Suddenly Francesca said to me: 'I shall not be able to go with you to-morrow; I must go and see some of my relatives.'

"That was all; I did not ask her any questions, as I was quite sure she would not answer me."

"The next morning she got up very early; then as I remained in bed, she sat down at the foot of it, and said in a constrained and hesitating voice:

"'If I do not come back to-night, will you come and fetch me?'

"'Most certainly I shall,' was my reply. 'Where must I come to?'

"Then she explained: 'You must go into Victor-Emmanuel Street, down the Passage Falcone, and Saint Raphael Street, and go into the furniture shop at the bottom, in a court, and there you must ask for Mme Rondoli. That's where it is.'

"And so she went away, leaving me rather astonished.

"When Paul saw that I was alone he stammered out: 'Where is Francesca?' And when I told him what had happened he exclaimed:

"'My dear fellow, we are in luck, let us bolt; as it is, our time is up. Two days, more or less, make no difference. Let us start at once; go and pack up your things. Off we go!'

"But I refused. I could not, as I told him, leave the girl in such a manner, after having lived with her for nearly three weeks. At any rate I ought to say good-bye to her, and make her accept a present; I certainly had no intention of behaving badly to her.

"But he would not listen; he pressed and worried me, but I would not give way.

"I remained indoors for several hours, expecting Francesca's return, but she did not come. At last, at dinner, Paul said with a triumphant air: 'She has thrown you over, my dear fellow; it is certainly very funny, very funny.'

"I must acknowledge that I was surprised and rather vexed. He laughed in my face, and made fun of me.

"'It is not exactly a bad way of getting rid of you, though rather primitive. "Just wait for me, I shall be back in a moment." How long are you going to wait? I should not wonder if you were foolish enough to go and look for her at the address she gave you. "Does Mme Rondoli live here, please?" I'll bet that you are longing to go there.'

"'Not in the least,' I protested, 'and I assure you that if she does not come back to-morrow morning I shall start by the express at eight o'clock. I shall have waited twenty-four hours, and that is enough; my conscience will be quite clear.'

"I spent an uneasy and unpleasant evening, for I really had at heart a very tender feeling for her. I went to bed at twelve o'clock, and hardly slept at all. I got up at six, called Paul, packed up my things, and two hours later we started for France together."

III

"The next year, at just about the same period, I was seized, just as one is with a periodical fever, with a new desire to go to Italy, and I immediately made up my mind to carry it into effect. There is no doubt that every really well-educated man ought to see Florence, Venice, and Rome. There is the additional advantage of providing many subjects of conversation in society, and of giving one an opportunity for bringing forward artistic generalities which appear profound. This time I went alone, and I arrived at Genoa at the same time as the year before, but without any adventure on the road. I went to the same hotel, and actually happened to have the same room.

"I was scarcely in bed when the recollection of Francesca which, since the evening before, had been floating vaguely through my mind, haunted me with strange persistency.

"Have you ever been obsessed by the thought of a woman, long afterwards, on returning to the place where you loved her and she gave herself to you? It is one of the most powerful and painful sensations I know. It seems as if one could see her enter, smiling and holding out her arms. Her features, elusive yet clear, are before your eyes. She passes, returns and disappears. She tortures you like a nightmare, holds you, fills your heart, and stirs your senses by her unreal presence. She is visible to the eye, her perfume haunts you, the taste of her kisses is on your lips, and the touch of her body caresses your skin. Yet, one knows one is alone, and one is strangely tortured by the phantom one has evoked. A heavy, heart-breaking melancholy invades you, as if you were abandoned for ever. Everything looks depressing, filling the heart with a horrible sense of isolation and abandonment. Never return to the house, the room, the woods, the garden, the seat, the town, where you have held in your arms a woman you loved.

"I thought of her nearly the whole night, and by degrees the wish to see her again seized me, a confused desire at first, which gradually grew stronger and more intense. At last I made up my mind to spend the next day in Genoa, to try and find her, and if I should not succeed to take the evening train.

"Early in the morning I set out on my search. I remembered the directions she had given me when she left me, perfectly—Victor-Emmanuel Street, the Passage Falcone, St. Raphael Street, house of the furniture-dealer, at the bottom of the yard in a court.

"I found it without the least difficulty, and I knocked at the door of a somewhat dilapidated-looking dwelling. A fat woman opened it, who must once have been very handsome, but who actually was only very dirty. Although she was too fat, she still bore the lines of majestic beauty; her untidy hair fell over her forehead and shoulders, and one fancied one could see her fat body floating about in an enormous dressing-gown covered with spots of dirt and grease. Round her neck she wore a great gilt necklace, and on her wrists were splendid bracelets of Genoa filigree work.

"In rather a hostile manner she asked me what I wanted, and I replied by requesting her to tell me whether Francesca Rondoli lived there.

"'What do you want with her?' she asked.

"'I had the pleasure of meeting her last year, and I should like to see her again.'

"The old woman looked at me suspiciously.

"'Where did you meet her?' she asked.

"'Why, here, in Genoa itself.'

"'What is your name?'

"I hesitated a moment, and then I told her. I had scarcely done so when the Italian raised her arms as if to embrace me. 'Oh! you are the Frenchman; how glad I am to see you! But what grief you caused the poor child. She waited for you a month; yes, a whole month. At first she thought you would come to fetch her. She wanted to see whether you loved her. If you only knew how she cried when she saw that you were not coming! She cried till she seemed to have no tears left. Then she went to the hotel, but you had gone. She thought that most likely you were travelling in Italy, and that you would return by Genoa to fetch her, as she would not go with you. And she waited more than a month. Monsieur; and she was so unhappy; so unhappy. I am her mother.'

"I really felt a little disconcerted, but I regained my self-possession, and asked: 'Is she here now?'

"'No, she has gone to Paris with a painter, a delightful man, who loves her very much, and who gives her everything that she wants. Just look at what she sent me; they are very pretty, are they not?'

"And she showed me, with quite southern animation, her heavy bracelets and necklace. 'I have also,' she continued, 'earrings with stones in them, a silk dress, and some rings; but I only wear them on grand occasions. Oh! she is very happy, sir, very happy. She will be so pleased when I tell her you have been here. But pray come in and sit down. You will take something or other, surely?'

"But I refused, as I now wished to get away by the first train; but she took me by the arm and pulled me in, saying:

"'Please, come in; I must tell her that you have been here.'

"I found myself in a small, rather dark room, furnished with only a table and a few chairs.

"She continued: 'Oh! She is very happy now, very happy. When you met her in the train she was very miserable, for her lover had just left her at Marseilles, and she was coming back, poor child. But she liked you at once, though she was still rather sad, you understand. Now she has all she wants, and she writes and tells me everything that she does. His name is Bellemin, and they say he is a great painter in your country. He met her in the street here, and fell in love with her immediately. But you will take a glass of syrup?—it is very good. Are you quite alone, this year?'

"'Yes, I said, quite alone.'

"I felt an increasing inclination to laugh, as my first disappointment was dispelled by what Mother Rondoli said. I was obliged, however, to drink a glass of her syrup.

"'So you are quite alone?' she continued. 'How sorry I am that Francesca is not here now; she would have been company for you all the time you stayed. It is not very amusing to go about all by oneself, and she will be very sorry also.'

"Then, as I was getting up to go, she exclaimed:

"'But would you not like Carlotta to go with you? She knows all the walks very well. She is my second daughter, sir.'

"No doubt she took my look of surprise for consent, for she opened the inner door and called out up the dark stairs which I could not see:

"'Carlotta! Carlotta! come down, quickly, my dear child.'

"I tried to protest, but she would not listen.

"'No; she will be very glad to go with you; she is very nice, and much more cheerful than her sister, and she is a good girl, a very good girl, whom I love very much.'

"I heard the clatter of slippers on the stairs, and a tall, slender, dark girl appeared, also with her hair hanging down, and whose youthful figure showed unmistakably beneath an old dress of her mother.

"The latter at once told her how matters stood.

"'This is Francesca's Frenchman, you know, the one whom she knew last year. He is quite alone, and has come to look for her, poor fellow; so I told him that you would go with him to keep him company.'

"The girl looked at me with her handsome dark eyes, and said, smiling:

"'I have no objection, if he wishes it.'

"I could not possibly refuse, and merely said:

"'Of course I shall be very glad of your company.'

"Her mother pushed her out. 'Go and get dressed directly; put on your blue dress and your hat with the flowers, and make haste.'

"—As soon as she had left the room the old woman explained herself: 'I have two others, but they are much younger. It costs a lot of money to bring up four children. Luckily the eldest is off my hands at present.'

"Then she told all about herself, about her husband, who had been an employee on the railway, but who was dead, and she expatiated on the good qualities of Carlotta, her second girl, who soon returned, dressed, as her sister had been, in a striking, peculiar manner.

"Her mother examined her from head to foot, and, after finding everything right, she said:

"'Now, my children, you can go.' Then, turning to the girl, she said: 'Be sure you are back by ten o'clock to-night; you know the door is locked then.'

"'All right, mamma; don't alarm yourself,' Carlotta replied.

"She took my arm, and we went wandering about the streets, just as I had done the previous year with her sister.

"We returned to the hotel for lunch, and then I took my new friend to Santa Margarita, just as I had done with her sister the year previously.

"During the whole fortnight which I had at my disposal I took Carlotta to all the places of interest in and about Genoa. She gave me no cause to regret the other.

"She cried when I left her, and the morning of my departure I gave her four bracelets for her mother, besides a substantial token of my affection for herself.

"One of these days I intend to return to Italy, and I cannot help remembering, with a certain amount of uneasiness, mingled with hope, that Mme Rondoli has two more daughters."

MY LANDLADY

"At that time," said George Kervelen, "I was living in furnished lodgings in the Rue des Saints-Pères. When my parents decided that I should go to Paris to continue my law studies, there had been a long discussion about settling everything. My allowance had been fixed at first at two thousand five hundred francs, but my poor mother was so anxious, that she said to my father that if I spent my money rashly I might not have enough to eat, and then my health would suffer, and so it was settled that a comfortable boarding-house should be found for me, and that the amount should be paid to the proprietor himself, or herself, every month.

"I had never left Quimper. I wanted everything that one desires at that age and I was prepared to have a good time in every way.

"Some of our neighbours told us of a certain Mme Kergaran, a native of Brittany, who took in boarders, and so my father arranged matters by letter with this respectable person, at whose house I and my luggage arrived one evening.

"Mme Kergaran was a woman of about forty. She was very stout, had a voice like a drill-sergeant, and decided everything in a very abrupt and decisive manner. Her house was narrow, with only one window opening on to the street on each story, which rather gave it the appearance of a ladder of windows, or better, perhaps, of a slice of a house sandwiched in between two others.

"The landlady lived on the first floor with her servant, the kitchen and dining-room were on the second, and four boarders from Brittany lived on the third and fourth, and I had two rooms on the fifth.

"A little dark corkscrew staircase led up to these attics. All day long Mme Kergaran was up and down these stairs like a captain on board ship. Ten times a day she would go into each room, noisily superintending everything, seeing that the beds were properly made, the clothes well brushed, that the attendance was all that it should be; in a word, she looked after her boarders like a mother, and better than a mother.

"I soon made the acquaintance of my four fellow-countrymen. Two were medical and two were law students, but all impartially endured the landlady's despotic yoke. They were as frightened of her as a bey robbing an orchard is of a rural policeman.

"I, however, immediately felt that I wished to be independent; it is my nature to rebel. I declared at once that I meant to come in at whatever time I liked, for Mme Kergaran had fixed twelve o'clock at night as the limit. On hearing this she looked at me for a few moments, and then said:

"'It is quite impossible; I cannot have Annette called up at any hour of the night. You can have nothing to do out-of-doors at such a time.'

"I replied firmly that, according to the law, she was obliged to open the door for me at any time.

"'If you refuse,' I said, 'I shall get a policeman to witness the fact, and go and get a bed at some hotel, at your expense, in which I shall be fully justified. You will, therefore, be obliged either to open the door for me or to get rid of me. Do whatever you please.'

"I laughed in her face as I told her my conditions. She could not speak for a moment for surprise, then she tried to negotiate, but I was firm, and she was obliged to yield. It was agreed that I should have a latchkey, on my solemn undertaking that no one else should know it.

"My energy made such a wholesome impression on her that from that time she treated me with marked favour; she was most attentive, and even showed me a sort of rough tenderness which was not at all unpleasing. Sometimes when I was in a jovial mood I would kiss her by surprise, if only for the sake of getting the box on the ears which she gave me immediately afterward. When I managed to duck my head quickly enough, her hand would pass over me as swiftly as a ball, and I would run away laughing, while she would call after me:

"'Oh! you wretch, I will pay you out for that.'

"However, we soon became real friends.

"It was not long before I made the acquaintance of a girl who was employed in a shop, and whom I constantly met. You know what that sort of love affair is in Paris. One fine day, going to a lecture, you meet a girl going to work arm-in-arm with a friend. You look at her and feel that pleasant little shock which the eyes of some women give you. It is one of the charming things of life, those sudden physical attractions aroused by a chance meeting, that gentle seduction induced by contact with a woman born to please and to be loved. Whether she is greatly loved or not makes no difference. It is in her nature to respond to one's secret desire for love. The first time you see her face, her mouth, her hair, her smile, their charm penetrates you with a sweet joy, you are pervaded by a sense of well-being, and a tenderness, as yet undefined, impels you towards this woman whom you do not know. There seems to be in her some appeal which you answer, an attraction that draws you, as if you knew her for a long time, had already seen her, and knew what she is thinking. The next day at the same time, going through the same street, you meet her again, and the next, and the succeeding days. At last you speak, and the love affair follows its course just like an illness.

"Well, by the end of three weeks I was on that footing with Emma which precedes intimacy. The fall would indeed have taken place much sooner had I known where to bring it about. The girl lived at home, and utterly refused to go to an hotel. I did not know how to manage, but at last I made the desperate resolve to take her to my room some night at about eleven o'clock, under the pretence of giving her a cup of tea. Mme Kergaran always went to bed at ten, so that we could get in by means of my latchkey without exciting any attention, and go down again in an hour or two in the same way.

"After a good deal of entreaty on my part, Emma accepted my invitation.

"I did not spend a very pleasant day, for I was by no means easy in my mind. I was afraid of complications, of a catastrophe, of some scandal. At night I went into a café, and drank two cups of coffee and three or four glasses of cognac, to give me courage, and when I heard the clock strike half past ten, I went slowly to the place of meeting, where she was already waiting for me. She took my arm in a coaxing manner, and we set off slowly toward my lodgings. The nearer we got to the door the more nervous I got, and I thought to myself: 'If only Mme Kergaran is in bed already.'

"I said to Emma two or three times:

"'Above all things, don't make any noise on the stairs,' to which she replied, laughing:

"'Are you afraid of being heard?'

"'No,' I said, 'but I am afraid of waking the man who sleeps in the room next to me, who is not at all well.'

"When I got near the house I felt as frightened as a man does who is going to the dentist's. All the windows were dark, so no doubt everybody was asleep, and I breathed again. I opened the door as carefully as a thief, let my fair companion in, shut it behind me, and went upstairs on tiptoe, holding my breath, and striking wax-matches lest the girl should make a false step.

"As we passed the landlady's door I felt my heart beating very quickly. But we reached the second floor, then the third, and at last the fifth, and got into my room. Victory!

"However, I only dared to speak in a whisper, and took off my boots so as not to make any noise. The tea, which I made over a spirit-lamp, was soon drunk, and then I became pressing, till little by little, as if in play, I, one by one, took off my companion's garments. She yielded while resisting, blushing, confused.

"She had absolutely nothing on except a short white petticoat when my door suddenly opened, and Mme Kergaran appeared with a candle in her hand, in exactly the same costume as Emma.

"I jumped away from her and remained standing, looking at the two women, who were looking at each other. What was going to happen?

"My landlady said, in a lofty tone of voice which I had never heard from her before:

"'Monsieur Kervelen, I will not have prostitutes in my house.'

"'But, Madame Kergaran,' I stammered, 'the young lady is a friend of mine. She just came in to have a cup of tea.'

"'People don't take tea in their chemises. You will please make this person go directly.'

"Emma, in a natural state of consternation, began to cry, and hid her face in her petticoat, and I lost my head, not knowing what to do or say. My landlady added, with irresistible authority:

"'Help her to dress, and take her out at once.'

"It was certainly the only thing I could do, so I picked up her dress from the floor where it had collapsed in a heap like a deflated balloon, put it over her head, and began to fasten it as best I could. She helped me, crying all the time, hurrying and making all sorts of mistakes and unable to find either button-holes or laces, while Mme Kergaran stood by motionless, with the candle in her hand, looking at us with the severity of a judge.

"Emma now began to hurry feverishly, throwing her things on at random, tying, pinning, lacing and fastening in a frenzy, goaded on by the irresistible desire for flight, and without even stopping to button her boots, she rushed past the landlady and ran downstairs. I followed her in my slippers and half undressed, and kept repeating: 'Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle!'

"I felt that I ought to say something to her, but I could not find anything. I overtook her just by the street-door, and tried to take her into my arms, but she pushed me violently away, saying in a low, nervous voice:

"'Leave me alone, leave me alone!' and so ran out into the street, closing the door behind her.

"When I went upstairs again I found that Mme Kergaran was waiting on the first landing. I went up slowly, expecting, and ready for, anything.

"Her door was open, and she called me in, saying in severe voice:

"'I want to speak to you, M. Kervelen.'

"I went in, with my head bent. She put her candle on the mantlepiece, and then, folding her arms over her expansive bosom, which a fine white dressing-jacket hardly covered, she said:

"'So, Monsieur Kervelen, you think my house is a house of ill-fame?'

"I was not at all proud. I murmured:

"'Oh dear, no! But, Mme Kergaran, you must not be angry; you know what young men are.'

"'I know,' was her answer, 'that I will not have such creatures here, so you will understand that. I expect to have my house respected, and I will not have it lose its reputation, you understand me? I know—'

"She went on thus for at least twenty minutes, overwhelming me with the good name of her house, with reasons for her indignation, and loading me with severe reproofs.

"Men are curious creatures. Instead of listening to her, I was looking at her, and did not hear a word, not a word she said. She had a superb bosom, firm, white and plump, perhaps a little too plump, but tempting enough to send shivers down one's spine. I should never have dreamed that anything so charming was concealed beneath the woollen dress of my landlady. She looked ten years younger when undressed. I began to feel queer... shall I say... moved? I suddenly found myself picking up with her the threads of the situation she had disturbed fifteen minutes previously in my bedroom.

"Behind her, in the alcove, I could see her bed, with the sheets rolled down, tossed, showing a hollow place where her body had pressed. And I thought it must be very nice, very warm there, much warmer than in any other bed, no doubt because of the opulent charms that rested there.

"What could be more charming, more disturbing, than an unmade bed? This one, even from a distance, intoxicated me, and made my flesh tingle.

"She was still talking, but now more gently, like a gruff but well-meaning friend, who is willing to make up and be friends.

"'Madame Kergaran, 'I stammered, 'I... I...', and as she had stopped to hear my reply, I seized her in my arms and began to kiss her, to devour her, like a famished man who has been waiting for a long time.

"She struggled, turning away her head, but without becoming really angry, and repeated mechanically, as was her habit: 'Oh, the brute... the brute... the bru...

"She did not finish the word, for I had lifted her with an effort, and was carrying her clasped to my heart. Under certain circumstances, one acquires remarkable vigour!

"I stumbled against the edge of the bed, and I fell on it still holding her in my arms... It was nice and warm in her bed.

"An hour later, the candle having gone out, my landlady got up to light another. As she returned and slipped in by my side, her great, round leg crushing the sheets, she said in a coaxing, satisfied, perhaps grateful tone: 'Oh, the brute... the brute!...'"

THE LITTLE CASK

Maître Chicot, the innkeeper, who lived at Épreville, pulled up his tilbury in front of Mother Magloire's farmhouse. He was a tall man of about forty, fat and with a red face, who was generally said to be very malicious.

He hitched his horse up to the gatepost and went in the yard. He owned some land adjoining that of the old woman. He had been coveting her plot for a long while, and had tried in vain to buy it a score of times, but she had always obstinately refused to part with it.

"I was born here, and here I mean to die," was all she said.

He found her peeling potatoes outside the farmhouse door. She was a woman of about seventy-two, very thin, shrivelled and wrinkled, almost dried-up, in fact, and much bent, but as active and untiring as a girl. Chicot patted her on the back in a very friendly fashion, and then sat down by her on a stool.

"Well, Mother, you are always pretty well and hearty, I am glad to see."

"Nothing to complain of, considering, thank you. And how are you, Maître Prosper?"

"Oh! pretty well, thank you, except a few rheumatic pains occasionally; otherwise, I should have nothing to complain of."

"Well, I am glad of that!"

And she said no more, while Chicot watched her going on with her work. Her crooked, knotty fingers, hard as a lobster's claws, seized the tubers, which were lying in a pail, as if they had been a pair of pincers, and peeled them rapidly, cutting off long strips of skin with an old knife which she held in the other hand, throwing the potatoes into the water as they were done. Three daring fowls jumped one after the other into her lap, seized a bit of peel, and then ran away as fast as their legs would carry them with it in their beaks.

Chicot seemed embarrassed, anxious, with something on the tip of his tongue which he could not get out. At last he said hurriedly:

"I say. Mother Magloire—"

"Well, what is it?"

"You are quite sure that you do not want to sell your farm?"

"Certainly not; you may make up your mind to that. What I have said, I have said, so don't bring it up again."

"Very well; only I fancy I have thought of an arrangement that might suit us both very well."

"What is it?"

"Here you are: You shall sell it to me, and keep it all the same. You don't understand? Very well, just listen to my idea."

The old woman left off peeling her potatoes, and her bright eyes looked at the innkeeper attentively from under her wrinkled eyelids, as he went on:

"Let me explain myself: Every month I will give you a hundred and fifty francs. You understand me, I suppose? Every month I will come and bring you thirty crowns, and it will not make the slightest difference in your life—not the very slightest. You will have your own home just as you have now, will not trouble yourself about me, and will owe me nothing; all you will have to do will be to take my money. Will that arrangement suit you?"

He looked at her good-humouredly, one might almost have said benevolently, and the old woman returned his looks distrustfully, as if she suspected a trap, and said:

"It seems all right, as far as I am concerned, but it will not give you the farm."

"Never mind about that," he said, "you will remain here as long as it pleases God Almighty to let you live; it will be your home. Only you will sign a deed before a lawyer making it over to me after your death. You have no children, only nephews and nieces for whom you don't care a straw. Will that suit you? You will keep everything during your life, and I will give you the thirty crowns a month. It is pure gain as far as you are concerned."

The old woman was surprised, rather uneasy, but, nevertheless, very much tempted to agree, and answered:

"I don't say that I will not agree to it, but I must think about it. Come back in a week and we will talk it over again, and I will then give you my definite answer."

And Maître Chicot went off, as happy as a king who had conquered an empire.

Mother Magloire was thoughtful, and did not sleep at all that night; in fact, for four days she was in a fever of hesitation. She felt instinctively, that there was something underneath the offer which was not to her advantage; but then the thought of thirty crowns a month, of all those coins chinking in her apron, falling to her, as it were, from the skies, without her doing anything for it, filled her with covetousness.

She went to the notary and told him about it. He advised her to accept Chicot's offer, but said she ought to ask for a monthly payment of fifty crowns instead of thirty, as her farm was worth sixty thousand francs at the lowest calculation.

"If you live for fifteen years longer," he said, "even then he will only have paid forty-five thousand francs for it."

The old woman trembled with joy at this prospect of getting fifty crowns a month; but she was still suspicious, fearing some trick, and she remained a long time with the lawyer asking questions without being able to make up her mind to go. At last she gave him instructions to draw up the deed, and returned home with her head in a whirl, just as if she had drunk four jugs of new cider.

When Chicot came again to receive her answer she took a lot of persuading, and declared that she could not make up her mind to agree to his proposal, though she was all the time on tenter-hooks lest he should not consent to give the fifty crowns. At last, when he grew urgent, she told him what she expected for her farm.

He looked surprised and disappointed, and refused.

Then, in order to convince him, she began to talk about the probable duration of her life.

"I am certainly not likely to live for more than five or six years longer. I am nearly seventy-three, and far from strong, even considering my age. The other evening I thought I was going to die, and I had to be carried to bed."

But Chicot was not going to be taken in.

"Come, come, old lady, you are as strong as the church tower, and will live till you are a hundred at least; you will be sure to see me put underground first."

The whole day was spent in discussing the money, and as the old woman would not give way, the landlord consented to give the fifty crowns, and she insisted upon having ten crowns over and above to strike the bargain.

Three years passed by, and the old dame did not seem to have grown a day older. Chicot was in despair. It seemed to him as if he had been paying that annuity for fifty years, that he had been taken in, outwitted, and ruined. From time to time he went to see his annuitant, just as one goes in July to see when the harvest is likely to begin. She always met him with a cunning look, and one would have thought that she was congratulating herself on the trick she had played him. Seeing how well and hearty she seemed, he very soon got into his tilbury again, growling to himself:

"Will you never die, you old brute?"

He did not know what to do, and felt inclined to strangle her when he saw her. He hated her with a ferocious, cunning hatred, the hatred of a peasant who has been robbed, and he began to cast about for means of getting rid of her.

One day he came to see her again, rubbing his hands as he did the first time when he proposed the bargain, and, after having chatted for a few minutes, he said:

"Why do you never come and have a bit of dinner at my place when you are in Épreville? The people are talking about it and saying that we are not on friendly terms, and that pains me. You know it will cost you nothing if you come, for I don't look at the price of a dinner. Come whenever you feel inclined; I shall be very glad to see you."

Old Mother Magloire did not need to be told twice, and the next day but one—she was going to the town in any case, it being market-day, in her gig, driven by her man—she, without any demur, put her trap up in Maître Chicot's stable, and went in search of her promised dinner.

The innkeeper was delighted, and treated her like a princess, giving her roast fowl, black pudding, leg of mutton, and bacon and cabbage. But she ate next to nothing. She had always been a small eater and had generally lived on a little soup and a crust of bread-and-butter.

Chicot was disappointed, and pressed her to eat more, but she refused. She would drink next to nothing either, and declined any coffee, so he asked her:

"But surely, you will take a little drop of brandy?"

"Well, as to that, I don't know that I will refuse." Whereupon he shouted out:

"Rosalie, bring the superfine brandy,—the special,—you know."

The servant appeared, carrying a long bottle ornamented with a paper vine-leaf, and he filled two liquor glasses.

"Just try that; you will find it first-rate."

The good woman drank it slowly in sips, so as to make the pleasure last all the longer, and when she had finished her glass, draining the last drops so as to make sure of all, she said:

"Yes, that is first-rate!"

Almost before she had said it, Chicot had poured her out another glassful. She wished to refuse, but it was too late, and she drank it very slowly, as she had done the first, and he asked her to have a third. She objected, but he persisted.

"It is as mild as milk, you know. I can drink ten or a dozen without any ill effect; it goes down like sugar, and leaves no headache behind; one would think that it evaporated on the tongue. It is the most wholesome thing you can drink."

She took it, for she really wanted it, but she left half the glass.

Then Chicot, in an excess of generosity, said:

"Look here, as it is so much to your taste, I will give you a small keg of it, just to show that you and I are still excellent friends." Then she took her leave, feeling slightly overcome by the effects of what she had drunk.

The next day the innkeeper drove into her yard, and took a little iron-hooped keg out of his gig. He insisted on her tasting the contents, to make sure it was the same delicious article, and, when they had each of them drunk three more glasses, he said, as he was going away:

"Well, you know, when it is all gone, there is more left; don't be modest, for I shall not mind. The sooner it is finished the better pleased I shall be."

Four days later he came again. The old woman was outside her door cutting up the bread for her soup.

He went up to her, and put his face close to hers, so that he might smell her breath; and when he smelled the alcohol he felt pleased.

"I suppose you will give me a glass of the special?" he said. And two or three times they drank each other's health.

Soon, however, it began to be whispered abroad that Mother Magloire was in the habit of getting drunk all by herself. She was picked up, sometimes in her kitchen, sometimes in her yard, sometimes on the roads in the neighbourhood, and was often brought home dead to the world.

Chicot did not go near her any more, and, when people spoke to him about her, he used to say, putting on a distressed look:

"It is a great pity that she should have taken to drink at her age; but when people get old there is no remedy. It will be the death of her in the long run."

And it certainly was the death of her. She died the next winter, about Christmas time, having fallen down drunk in the snow.

And when Maître Chicot inherited the farm he said:

"It was very stupid of her; if she had not taken to drink she might very well have lived for ten years longer."

ANDRÉ'S DISEASE

The lawyer's house looked on to the Square. Behind it, there was a nice, well-kept garden, extending to the Passage des Piques, which was almost always deserted, and from which it was separated by a wall.

At the bottom of that garden Maître Moreau's wife had promised, for the first time, to meet Captain Sommerive, who had been making love to her for a long time.

Her husband had gone to Paris for a week, so she was quite free for the time being. The Captain had begged so hard, and had used such loving words; she was certain that he loved her so ardently, and she felt so isolated, so misunderstood, so neglected amid all the law business which seemed to be her husband's sole pleasure, that she had given away her heart without even asking herself whether she would give anything else some day.

Then, after some months of Platonic love, of pressing of hands, of quick kisses stolen behind a door, the Captain had declared that he would ask permission to exchange, and leave the town immediately, if she would not grant him a meeting, a real meeting in the shadow of the trees, during her husband's absence. So she had yielded to his importunity, as she had promised.

Just then she was waiting, close against the wall, with a beating heart, trembling at the slightest sound, and when she heard somebody climbing up the wall, she very nearly ran away.

Suppose it were not he, but a thief? But no; some one called out softly, "Mathilde!" and when she replied, "Étienne!" a man jumped on to the path with a crash.

It was he! What a kiss!

For a long time they remained in each other's arms, with united lips. But suddenly a fine rain began to fall, and the drops from the leaves fell on to her neck and made her start. Whereupon he said:

"Mathilde, my adored one, my darling, my angel, let us go indoors. It is twelve o'clock, we can have nothing to fear; please let us go in."

"No, dearest; I am too frightened. Who knows what might happen?"

But he held her in his arms, and whispered in her ear:

"Your servants sleep on the third floor, looking on to the Square, and your room, on the first, looks on to the garden, so nobody can hear us. I love you so that I wish to love you entirely, from head to foot." And he embraced her vehemently, maddening her with his kisses.

She resisted still, frightened and even ashamed. But he put his arms round her, lifted her up, and carried her off through the rain, which was by this time descending in torrents.

The door was open; they groped their way upstairs; and when they were in the room she bolted the door while he lit a match.

Then she fell, half fainting, into a chair, while he kneeled down beside her and slowly he undressed her, beginning with her shoes and stockings in order to kiss her feet.

At last, she said, panting:

"No! no! Étienne, please let me remain a virtuous woman; I should be too angry with you afterwards; and after all, it is so horrid, so common. Cannot we love each other with a spiritual love only? Oh! Étienne!"

With the skill of a lady's maid and the speed of a man in a hurry, he unbuttoned, untied, unhooked and unlaced without stopping, and when she tried to get up and run away, she suddenly emerged from her dress, her petticoat and her underclothes as naked as a hand thrust from a muff. In her fright she ran to the bed in order to hide herself behind the curtains; but it was a dangerous place of refuge, and he followed her. But in haste he took off his sword too quickly, and it fell on to the floor with a crash. And then a prolonged, shrill child's cry came from the next room, the door of which had remained open.

"You have awakened André," she whispered, "and he won't be able to go to sleep again."

Her son was only fifteen months old and slept in a room opening out of hers, so that she might be able to watch over him all the time.

The Captain exclaimed ardently:

"What does it matter, Mathilde? How I love you; you must come to me, Mathilde."

But she struggled and resisted in her fright.

"No! no! Just listen how he is crying; he will wake up the nurse, and what should we do if she were to come? We should be lost. Just listen to me, Étienne. When he screams at night his father always takes him into our bed, and he is quiet immediately; it is the only means of keeping him still. Do let me take him."

The child roared, uttering shrill screams, which pierced the thickest walls and could be heard by passers-by in the streets.

In his consternation the Captain got up, and Mathilde jumped out and took the child into her bed, when he was quiet at once.

Étienne sat astride on a chair, and rolled a cigarette, and in about five minutes André went to sleep again.

"I will take him back," his mother said; and she took him back very carefully to his cradle.

When she returned, the Captain was waiting for her with open arms, and put his arms round her in a transport of love, while she, embracing him more closely, said, stammering:

"Oh! Étienne, my darling, if you only knew how I love you; how—"

André began to cry again, and he, in a rage, exclaimed:

"Confound it all, won't the little brat be quiet?"

No, the little brat would not be quiet, but howled all the louder, on the contrary.

She thought she heard a noise downstairs; no doubt the nurse was coming, so she jumped up and took the child into bed, and he grew quiet directly.

Three times she put him back, and three times she had to fetch him again, and an hour before daybreak the Captain had to go, swearing like the proverbial trooper; and, to calm his impatience, Mathilde promised to receive him again the next night. Of course he came, more impatient and ardent than ever, excited by the delay.

He took care to lay his sword carefully on the arms of a chair, he took off his boots like a thief, and spoke so low that Mathilde could hardly hear him. At last, he was just going to be really happy when the floor, or some piece of furniture, or perhaps the bed itself, creaked; it sounded as if something had broken; and in a moment a cry, feeble at first, but which grew louder, every moment, made itself heard. André was awake again.