THE WEIGHT OF
THE NAME

BY

PAUL BOURGET

Author of "A Divorce," "Pastels of Men," etc.

Translated from the French by

GEORGE BURNHAM IVES

Boston

Little, Brown, and Company

1908

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. [Landri]
II. [A Grand Seigneur]
III. [The Tragic Underside of a Grand
Existence]
IV. [The Tragic Underside of a Grand
Existence (Concluded)]
V. [In Uniform]
VI. [The Will]
VII. [All Save Honor]
VIII. [On a Scent]
IX. [Separation]
X. [Epilogue]

THE WEIGHT OF
THE NAME

I
LANDRI

The automobile turned sharply about the chevet of Saint-François-Xavier. With an instinctive movement, Landri de Claviers-Grandchamp seized the megaphone. He called to the chauffeur to stop before one of the side entrances. The powerful limousin was still in motion when he jumped out upon the sidewalk and disappeared within the church, to reappear a few seconds later, by way of the main portal, on Boulevard des Invalides. With the elegant and self-assured bearing characteristic of Landri, with his charming face, at once soldierly and thoughtful, which a proud, almost haughty mouth, beneath the slightly tawny veil of the mustache, would have made too stern had not the eyes, of a caressing brown, softened its expression, that childlike stratagem could mean, but one thing,—the desire, to guard from curiosity and comments a clandestine rendezvous.

It was true, but—a circumstance which would have made the officers of the dragoon regiment in which the young count was serving as a lieutenant burst with laughter—he had this rendezvous with a woman with whom he was madly in love without having ever obtained anything from her. What do I say? He had not even ventured, except on one occasion, to speak to her of his sentiments.

How many elements in his life had conspired to make him a fop and blasé: that face and that profession, his fortune and his name—one of the best in France, which had lacked nothing but the éclat of great offices at court! But Landri was born romantic. He was still romantic at twenty-nine. In him, as in the hearts of all genuinely tender-hearted men, emotion neutralized vanity.

He had met Madame Olier in 1903. That was the name of the woman in question, a widow to-day, then the wife of one of his comrades. It was now 1906, so that he had loved her for three years. It had never entered his head that such perseverance in a dumb and unselfish devotion was a delusion. He thought so less than ever on this warm and, so to speak, languid morning of late November, as he went his way, drawn on, uplifted by a proximate hope.

Although he had reasons for very serious reflection, the air seemed light to him, his step was buoyant on the sidewalks of that ancient quarter, of which he recognized the most trivial features. Behind him the dome of the Invalides stamped the gold of its cupola on a pallid, pearl-gray mist. At his right the slender towers of Saint-François soared aloft in a transparent vapor. At his left the trees of a large private garden waved their almost leafless branches over the enclosing wall, and, as far as one could see, the populous Boulevard de Montparnasse stretched away, swarming with tramways and omnibuses, with cabs and drays.

In due time the young man turned into Rue Oudinot, then into Rue Monsieur. There he paused before a porte-cochère, the door of which, although it was ajar, he hesitated for some seconds to open. This door gave access to a courtyard, at whose farther end was hidden one of those dainty, oldish hôtels, pleasing to the eye, albeit out of style, of which that street with its ancien-régime name contained some half-score or more a quarter of a century since. Alas! they are vanishing one by one. As soon as the owner of one of them dies, the crowbars of the demolishers set to work. An aristocratic plaything of stone is razed to the ground. In its place rises one of those vulgar income-producing houses, on whose threshold one finds it difficult to imagine the lingering of such a lover as this. To be sure, it is simply prejudice. In the eyes of a man in love, the profile of his mistress, espied in the cage of an elevator, would bedeck with poesy and fascination the staircase of one of those monstrosities in brick and steel which the Americans brutally call "sky-scrapers." All the same, there is a more intimate, a more penetrating sweetness in a perfect accord between the setting in which a woman lives and the passion that she inspires. This sweetness Landri de Claviers had ecstatically intoxicated himself with in all his visits to that hermitage on Rue Monsieur. Never had he savored it more deeply than at this moment, when he was about to risk a step most important for the future of his love.

He had come to Valentine Olier's house with the firm determination to bring about a decisive interview between them, and to ask her for her hand. If he had insisted that she should receive him at a most unseasonable hour, he had had for that insistence imperative reasons which excused him beforehand for his indiscretion. His timidity before that day, and the rapid throbbing of his pulse as he finally crossed the courtyard, did not come from an embarrassment of the sort that can be explained. It was the sinking of the heart from excess of emotion, which accompanies over-powerful desire in untried sensibilities. Naturally refined, Landri had not aged himself prematurely by the abuse of precocious experiments. To this young man, who was really entitled to be so called, what awaited him behind the curtains of that ground floor was the happiness or the misery of his whole life. But, we repeat, he hoped.

His eyes feasted themselves, as their custom was, on the lines of that façade, so closely associated with the image of his Valentine. Ah! would she ever be his? A reflection of her person illuminated in his eyes that two-story building, charming in very truth, whose light pilasters, modest decorations, pediment with balustrades, and niches adorned with classic busts, presented a perfect specimen of the architecture of the time of Louis XVI,—a composite style, antique and pastoral, like that extraordinary epoch itself, in which a moribund society played at idyls—awaiting the tragedy—amid Pompeian architecture.

This hôtel had been the "folly" of one of the luxurious farmers-general of that day. To-day the petite maison, divided bourgeois-fashion into small apartments, numbered among its tenants, besides the officer's widow, a retired magistrate on the first floor, and on the second the head of a department in the ministry. Thus an elegant caprice, originally designed for the suppers of a rival of Grimod de la Reynière, found itself giving shelter to existences of quasi-cloistral regularity. How gratifying to Landri was Madame Olier's choice of a habitation so retired!

Left free and alone, at twenty-seven years, with an infant son, with no near relatives, having few kindred in the world and a modest fortune, Valentine had valued in that apartment the very thing that would have disgusted so many women,—the charm of oblivion, of silence and of meditation. On the other side the ground floor looked upon a very small garden, adjoining others much larger; and as the dividing wall was concealed beneath a cloak of ivy, that enclosure of a few square yards seemed like the corner of a park.

As he pressed the electric bell, Landri was sure that the only servant, answering the ring, would conduct him through the narrow reception-room and the salon with its covered furniture, to a tiny room, looking on the garden at the rear, which Madame Olier used as a second salon. She would be there, writing, at the little movable table which she placed by the fire or by the door-window according to the season. Or else she would be reading, seated on the bergère covered with an old striped stuff, dead pink and faded green, always the same. Or else her slender fingers would be busy with her embroidery needle. Correspondence, reading, work or music,—a piano which she rarely opened except when alone, told of that taste of hers,—her occupation would be constantly interrupted by a glance at the path in the garden, where her son Ludovic was playing. Landri found therein an image of what the whole life of that widow and mother had been during the year since she had lost her husband! Great God! how dearly he loved the young woman for having thus proved to him how justly he had placed her so far apart from all other women from the moment of their first meeting!

Valentine was there, in fact, in the small salon softly lighted by the morning sun which was just making its way through a last film of mist. She was apparently engrossed by an endless piece of embroidery. But the music portfolio, still open on the piano, and the stool pushed back a little way, might have betrayed to the young man how she had passed the time while awaiting his coming. Still another sign betokened her agitation. She had not her child with her. Contrary to her custom she had sent him out to walk at ten o'clock. Why, if not that she might be alone with her thoughts? Her self-control, however, enabled her to welcome her visitor with the same inclination of the head as usual, friendly yet reserved, the same smile of distant affability. At most the quivering of the eyelids betrayed a nervousness which was contradicted by the even tones of her voice and by the impenetrable glance of her limpid blue eyes.

Such women as she, with hair of a pale gold, almost wavy, with slender hands and feet, with a tapering figure, and dainty gestures, seem destined to allow their faintest impressions to appear on the surface, one judges them to be so vibrant and quivering. On the contrary, it is generally the case that no one can be more secretive than such creatures, all delicacy and all emotion as they are. Their very excess of nervousness becomes in them a source of strength. From their first experience of the world they comprehend to what degree the acuteness of their sensations renders them exceptional, solitary beings. By one of those instincts of self-defence which the moral nature possesses no less than the physical nature, they manœuvre so as to conceal their hearts, in order that life may not brutalize them. They become, as it were, ashamed of their emotions. They hold their peace, at first concerning the most profound of them, then concerning the most superficial. And thus they end by developing a power of external impassiveness which adds to their charm the attractive force of an enigma, especially as this intentional dualism, this constant watch upon themselves, this prolonged contrast between what they show and what they feel, between their real personality and avowed personality, does not fail to exert some influence even on their manner of feeling and thinking. They are capable of the nicest shades of discrimination, even to subtlety, when they are pure; and, if they are not pure, even to stratagem, for the fascination or the despair of the man who falls in love with them, according as he, in his turn, is very complex or very simple.

Landri de Claviers-Grandchamp was both, for reasons which were connected with the peculiar features of his destiny. Thus he had already suffered much through that woman, and still had owed to her the most delicious hours that his youth, darkened by an inborn and acquired melancholy, had ever known. The first words exchanged between him and Madame Olier will enable us to understand why, and at the same time what dangerous, almost unhuman, chimeras can suggest themselves to a scrupulous sentimental woman like Valentine, who loves love and fears it, who cannot determine either to deprive herself of an affection that is dear to her, or to sacrifice her self-esteem by abandoning herself to it, who becomes agitated without losing her head, and whose pulses throb without causing her to abdicate her reason.

But the hour had come to have done with all equivocation. The young man's mind was made up. The young woman had read it between the enigmatical lines of his letter. She read it in those eyes, whose glances she had so often dominated in the past three years, simply by her attitude. No earthly power would prevent Landri from speaking to-day. She knew it. She knew what words he would utter, and she was preparing to listen to them, and then to reply, perturbed to the inmost depths of her being, and outwardly so calm in her mourning garb. She was dressed as if to go out, in order to have a pretext for breaking off the visit at her pleasure. The black cloth and crêpe gave to her delicately hollowed cheeks an ivory-like pallor which made her even lovelier.

After the first words of commonplace courtesy, amid which she found a way to slip in an allusion to an errand to be done before luncheon, there ensued one of those intervals of dumbness that occur between two persons at the moment of uttering words which cannot be retracted, and which they crave and fear in equal measure. The crackling of the fire on the hearth, and the ticking of the clock, suddenly made themselves heard in that silence, which the officer broke at last, in a tone in which his emotion betrayed itself.

"Doubtless you understood, madame," he began, "that it was a very serious matter which made me presume to ask you to receive me at this hour. I had no other at my disposal. I must start for Saint-Mihiel to-morrow evening. I was able to obtain only a very short leave of absence. My father awaits me at Grandchamp, where he is hunting to-day, and you know how much importance he attaches to his hunt. I must be there before the end, or run the risk of disappointing him. I succeeded in catching the train at Commercy last night. I was at the Gare de l'Est at nine o'clock. In an hour and a half by automobile I shall be at Grandchamp. I tell you all this because—"

"Because you do not think me your friend," she interrupted, shaking her head. "But I am, and most cordially. You have nothing to apologize for. You have accustomed me to a too loyal devotion, which I know to be too loyal," she repeated, "for me not to divine that a very important motive dictated your letter. Tell me what it is very simply, as a friend, I say again, a true friend, who will answer in the same way."

She had assumed, as she said these few words, a very gentle but very firm expression. Her voice had dwelt with especial force on the word "friend," which she repeated thrice. It was a reminder of a very hazardous and very fragile engagement. Thousands of such engagements have been entered into, since passionate men, like Landri, are able to respect those whom they love, and since women secretly enamored, like Valentine, dream of reconciling the emotions of a forbidden affection with the strict requirements of virtue. The rare thing is not that one suggests and the other accepts the romantic compact of friendship without other development, but that the compact is adhered to. Absolute, almost naïve sincerity on the part of both contracting parties is essential, a sincerity which excludes all trickery on his part, all coquetry on hers. There must also be a voluntary separation of their lives, which does not permit too frequent meetings. He who says sincerity does not always say truth. One may maintain sincerely a radically false situation, may obstinately abide by it through mute rebellions, through secret and long-protracted suffering, through hidden anguish, like that the memory of which quivered in the young man's reply:—

"A friend!" What bitterness those soft syllables assumed in passing through those suddenly contracted lips! "I knew that, at the outset of our conversation, you would shelter yourself behind my promise. I knew that you would anticipate the sentences that I wish to say to you, and that you would not allow me to say them. God is my witness, and you, too, madame, are my witness, that I have done everything to maintain the absolute reserve which you imposed as a condition upon the relations between us.—Let me speak, I deserve that you should let me speak!" he implored, at a gesture from Valentine, who had half risen. He put such mournful ardor into that entreaty, that she resumed her seat, without further attempt to arrest an avowal which her woman's tact had foreseen only too plainly during these last days. Accustomed as she was to control herself, her constantly increasing pallor, her more and more rapid breathing, disclosed the agitation aroused in her by the voice of him whom she had pretended to look upon only as a friend, and who continued: "Yes, I deserve it. I have been so honest, so loyal in my determination to obey you! Anything, even that silence, was less painful to me than to lose you altogether. And then, I had given you such good reason! I have reproached myself so bitterly for that madness of a few minutes, three years ago! That I had confessed to you what I ought always to have hidden from you, since you were not free, crushed me with such profound remorse! Every day at Saint-Mihiel I pass the wall of the garden where that scene took place. Never without seeing you again, in my thoughts, as I saw you after that mad declaration, abruptly leaving me and going back to the house, without looking back. And what weeks those were that followed, when we met almost every day, and I did not exist for your glance! 'She will never, never forgive me,' I said to myself, and the thought tore my heart. I was sincere when I determined to exchange into another regiment, to leave Saint-Mihiel; sincere when I tried, before my departure, which I believed to be final, to speak with you once more. I felt that I must explain my action to you, must make you understand that no degrading thought of seduction had entered my mind, that I must have been demented, that I had never for one second ceased to have such unbounded esteem and respect for you! Ah! I shall be very old, very cold-blooded, when I am able to recall without tears—see, they are coming to my eyes now!—your face on that day, your eyes, the tone in which you said to me: 'I have forgotten everything. Give me your word that that moment of aberration shall never return, and I will see you as before. I do not wish your life to be turned topsy-turvy because of me.'—While you were speaking, I was saying to myself—that hour is so vivid to me!—I was saying to myself: 'To breathe the air that she breathes, to see her go to and fro, to continue to hear her voice, there is no price I will not pay.' And you marked out the programme of our relations in the future. You said that the world did not place much credit in a disinterested friendship between a man and a woman, but that you did believe in such a thing provided that both were really loyal. I could repeat, syllable for syllable, every word that you said that afternoon. I listened while you said them, with an utterly indescribable sensation, of assuagement and exaltation as well, through my whole being. It was as if I had seen your very soul think and feel. Yes, I solemnly promised you then that, if you would admit me once more to your intimacy, I would be that friend that you gave me leave to be, and nothing more. That promise I have the right to say again that I have kept. I declare that I would continue to keep it if the circumstances had remained the same. But they have changed. Ah! madame, if one could read another's heart, I would beseech you to look into mine. You would see there that at the news of the misfortune which befell you, I had no selfish reflection concerning that change. I thought only of your grief, your solitude, your orphan child. So long as the catastrophe was recent, I was ashamed even to glimpse a new horizon before me—before us. But I cannot prevent life from being life. At twenty-seven a woman is entitled to reconstruct her life without offending in any wise the memory of him who is no more. On my part, I am not breaking my plighted word when I say: 'Madame, the worship, the adoration that I had for you three years ago, and that you justly forbade me to express to you then, I still entertain. My silence regarding my sentiments since that time is a guarantee of their depth. I break it to-day, when you can listen to me without having the protestation of the most fervent, the most respectful, the most submissive of passions cause you remorse. What I said to you in the garden I say again to-day, adding to it an entreaty which you will not deny. I love you. Let me devote to you what I have left of youth, my whole life. Allow me to be a support in your solitude, a consolation in your melancholy, a second father to your son. Be my wife and I will bless this long trial, which justifies me in repeating to you what I felt on the first day that I met you,—but how could you have failed to suspect it?—I love you, and I never have loved, I never shall love, anybody but you.'"

This impassioned harangue, so insistent and so direct, bore little resemblance to the one that Landri had prepared during the long waking hours of the night and in the cold light of dawn, while the express train of the Chemin de Fer de l'Est bore him away from the little garrison town where his destiny had caused him to meet Captain Olier and his charming wife. What diplomatic stages he had marked out for himself beforehand! And he had hurried through them all to go straight to that offer of marriage, put forth, abruptly, with the spontaneity that is more adroit than all the prudence in the world with a woman who loves,—and Valentine loved Landri. She loved him despite complexities upon which we must insist once again in order to avoid the illogical aspects of that woman's nature, loyal even in its subtleties, even to the slightest appearance of coquetry. She loved him, but in a strange ignorance of the elements of love, despite her marriage and maternity. Her union with a man older than herself, arranged by her family, had not caused her to know that total revolution of her existence, after which a woman is truly woman. With her, affection had never been anything more than imaginary. In the chaste and artless delights of this intimacy, without caresses or definite words, with a young man by whom nevertheless she knew that she was loved, and whom she loved, she had found the only pleasure which her sensibility, still altogether mental, could conceive. To tell the whole fact, she loved—and that friendship had sufficed for her! It was inevitable, therefore, that at the first attempt of her alleged "friend" to draw her into the ardent world of complete passion,—and this offer of marriage, under such conditions, was such an attempt,—she should throw herself almost violently back. She ought, however, to have foreseen it, that step which would put an end to the paradoxical and unreliable compromise of conscience devised by her between her conjugal duties and her secret love. Yes, she had foreseen it, and on the day after her husband's death. Her habit of reflection, intensified by the monotony of her semi-recluse existence, had led her to take an almost painful pleasure in a minute scrutiny of the reasons for and against a decision, and she had ended, in the false perspective of solitary meditation, by thinking solely in opposition to her heart. She had ceased to see anything but the force of the objections, the insurmountable difficulties, and she had taken her stand with the party most strongly opposed to her passionate desire. With that she had soothed herself with the chimerical hope of postponing from week to week the explanation which had suddenly forced itself upon her so imperatively. She came to it deeply moved and at the same time prepared, overwhelmed with surprise and, as it were, armored rather than armed with arguments long since thought out. She ran the risk thus of seeming very cold when she was deeply moved, very self-controlled and conventional, when she was all a-quiver. How near to weakness was her borrowed energy from the moment that she began her reply!

"You have made me very unhappy, my friend,—for I shall continue to give you in my heart that name which you no longer care for. I do not reproach you. It was I who deceived myself, in thinking that your feeling for me might change, that it had changed. Perhaps such a transformation is not possible. I too have acted in good faith in wishing for it, in longing for it, in hoping for it. You know it, do you not?—Now that dream is at an end." She repeated, as if speaking to herself: "At an end, at an end." And, turning toward Landri: "How do you expect me to permit you to come here now, to indulge myself in those long conversations and that correspondence which were so dear to me, after you have talked to me in this way? One does not try such an experiment twice. Three years ago I was able to believe in an unconscious outbreak of your youth, in an exaltation which would soon subside. To-day, I am no longer able to flatter myself with that illusion. But on one point you are right. The circumstances are no longer the same. If at that time it was my right and my duty to judge severely a declaration which I should have been as culpable to listen to as you were to make it, how can I blame you now for a step in which there is no other feeling for me than respect and esteem? I have not lived much in the world,—enough, however, to realize that the fidelity of a heart like yours, prolonged thus and under such conditions, is no ordinary thing. It touches me far more than I can tell you."—Despite herself, her voice trembled as she let fall those words which signified too clearly: "And I, too, love you."—"But," she continued, firmly, "this interview must be the last, since I cannot answer you with the words that you ask, since in that hand which you offer me I cannot place mine."

"Then," he faltered, "if I understand you, you refuse—"

"To be your wife. Yes," she said; and this time her blue eyes beneath their half-closed lids gazed steadfastly at Landri. Her delicate mouth closed in a fold of decision. Her whole fragile person was as if stiffened in a tension which proved to the lover the force of the emotion that she held in check. She repeated: "Yes, I refuse. I could find many pretexts to give you which, to others, would be good reasons, and which should be so to me. I have a child. I might say to you: 'I do not want him to have a stepfather.' That would not be true. You would be to him, I am sure, as you said, a second father. I might dwell upon my loss, which is so recent, in order to postpone my reply until later. Later, the reason which makes me decline the offer of your name would be the same, for it is just that name, it is what it represents, which forbids me to abandon myself to a liking of which you have had too many proofs. I shall soon be twenty-eight, my friend. I am no longer exactly a young woman. I have reflected much on marriage. I know that if people marry to love each other, they marry also to live and remain together, to have a home, to be a family. For that it is essential that there should not be, between the husband and wife, one of those unalterable differences of birth and environment, which make it impossible that her people should ever be really related to his.—Your name? It is not only very old, it is illustrious. It is blended with the whole history of France. There was a Maréchal de Claviers-Grandchamp who was a comrade of Bayard, a Cardinal de Claviers-Grandchamp who was a friend of Bossuet. Claviers-Grandchamps have been ambassadors, governors of provinces, commanders of the Saint-Esprit, peers of France. Your house has contracted alliances with ten other houses of the French or European aristocracy. You are cousins of English dukes, of German and Italian princes. You are a grand seigneur, and I a bourgeoise, a very petty bourgeoise.—Do not you interrupt me, either," she said, placing her slender hand on the young man's arm and arresting thus his protest; "it is better that I should say it all at once. In all this I am moved neither by humility nor by pride. I have never understood either of those sentiments, when there is question of facts so impossible to deny or to modify as our situation. I am a bourgeoise, I say again. That means that my people lived in straitened circumstances at first, then modestly. I consider myself rich with the thirty thousand francs a year that they saved for me, in how many years! It is a fortune in our world, in yours it would be ruin. When I walk in that quarter, before those ancient hôtels which are still to be found there, on the afternoon of a grand reception, I see their courtyards, the coupés and automobiles waiting, the footmen in livery, all that luxury of existence which you no longer notice, it is so natural to you,—and do you know what my feeling always is? That if it were necessary for me to live there, and in such fashion, I should be too much out of my element, too overpowered! These are trifles. I mention them to you because they represent a whole type of customs, an entire social code. Do not say that you will not impose those customs on your wife, that you will liberate her from that code. You could not do it. To-day, as a bachelor, and because you are an officer, you have been able to simplify your life a great deal. But your wife would not be merely the companion of Monsieur de Claviers-Grandchamp, a simple lieutenant of dragoons, stationed at Saint-Mihiel, she would be also the daughter-in-law of the Marquis de Claviers-Grandchamp, who lives in a veritable palace in Paris, and who has a historic château in the Oise. He is a widower. He would require, and he would have a right to require, his daughter-in-law, with him and for him, to do the honors of those princely residences. And besides, he would begin by not accepting me. You have talked so much to me about him! I know him so well, without having seen him. Not for nothing do you call him the 'Émigré.' So many times you have exerted yourself to prove to me that he is not a man of our time; that he has the pride, the religious veneration of his race and of old France. And such a man would consent that his heir, the only survivor of his four sons, should take for his wife the widow of an officer who was the son of a physician, herself the daughter of a provincial notary, who, before she became Madame Olier, bore the name of Mademoiselle Barral? Never! To marry me, my friend, would be first of all to quarrel with your father, and, more or less, with all your relations and your whole social circle. What do you care? you will say. When two people love, they suffice for each other. That is true and it is not true. You would suffer death and torture that I should be humiliated, even in trifles, that I should not have the rank due to your wife, being your wife. I should suffer to see you suffer, and perhaps—I do not make myself out any better than I am—on my own account. People are so ingenious in all societies in wounding those whom they look upon as intruders. If we should have children, would they feel that they were really the brothers and sisters of my boy, of a poor little Olier, they who would be Claviers-Grandchamps? And if—But what's the use of enumerating the miseries comprised in that cruel, wise, profoundly significant word—mésalliance. No. I will not be your wife, my friend, and the day will come when you will thank me for having defended you against yourself, for having defended us—dare I say it?—But not effectively, for I could not prevent your saying words which are destined to break off forever, for a long time at all events, relations so pleasant as ours.—So pleasant!" she repeated. And then, with something very like a sob: "Oh! why, why did you speak so to me again?"

"Because I love you," he replied, almost fiercely. "And you! But if you loved me, you would bless them, these differences between our environments, instead of fearing them! You would see in the hostility of my circle—I admit that I had not thought of it!—a means of having me entirely to yourself. I should have heard you simply discuss the matter and hesitate. But the coldness of your reply, this keen analysis of our respective social positions, this balance-sheet of our families spread out before me, calmly, coldly, mathematically, when I had come here, mad with emotion, and thinking only of the life of the heart!—I am more deeply hurt by that than by your refusal. I might have discussed it and argued against your reasons. One does not discuss, one does not combat indifference. One submits to it, and it is horrible!"

"How unjust you are, Landri!" she exclaimed. It very rarely happened that she addressed him so, by his first name. That caress of language, the only kind that she had ever bestowed on him, and that so seldom, came to her lips in face of the young man's evident despair. A woman who loves can endure everything, conceal everything, except the compassion aroused by a sorrow which she has inflicted upon the man she loves; and, destroying, by that involuntary outburst of her passion, the whole effect of her previous refusal, she added: "I! indifferent to you! Why, of whom was I thinking when I spoke, if not of you, solely and only of you, of your future and your happiness?"

"How happy I should be," he interrupted, "if, on the other hand, you would think only of yourself, if you would have the selfishness of love, its exigences, its unreasonableness! And yet," he continued with the asperity of a passion which feels that it is reciprocated, despite all manner of resistance, and which is exasperated by that assurance, "it is true. You have some feeling for me in your heart. You are not a coquette. You would not make sport of a man who has shown you so plainly that he loves you, and how dearly! I said just now that you didn't love me. At certain times I believe it, and it tortures me. At other times I feel that you are so moved, so trembling—see, now!—Oh! by everything on earth that you hold sacred, Valentine,"—he had never before allowed himself that familiarity, which made her start like a kiss,—"if you really regard me with the feeling that I have for you, if my long fidelity has touched you, answer me. Is it true, really true, that between me and my happiness,—for you are my happiness, only you, I tell you,—between your heart and my heart there is nothing but that single, wretched obstacle, my name?"

"There is nothing else," she replied, "I swear."

"And you expect me to bow before that, to give you up because I am called Comte de Claviers-Grandchamp and you Madame Olier, and because my social circle will frown upon the marriage!"

"It is not I who expect it," she replied, "it is life!"

"Life?" he repeated in a voice that had suddenly become dull and harsh; "what do you mean by that? But what need have I to ask you? As if, ever since my youth, I had not seen that same barrier always standing in the path of all my impulses: my name, always my name, again my name! I shall end by cursing it! I am a grand seigneur, you say. Say rather a pariah, before whom so many avenues were closed, when he was twenty years old, because he is called by that great name; and the woman he loves won't have him because of it! Ah! how truly I shall have known and lived the tragedy of the noble,—since my evil fate decrees that I am a noble,—that paralysis of the youthful being, quivering with life, hungry for action, because of a past which was not his own, suffocation by prejudices which he does not even share.—Valentine, say that you do not love me. I shall be terribly unhappy, but I shall not feel what I felt just now, and with such violence,—a fresh outbreak of that old revolt through which I have suffered so keenly, which I have always fought within myself, and which goes so far, at times, as downright hatred of my caste. Yes, I have been, I am now sometimes, very near hating it, and that is so painful to me, for I belong to that caste, in spite of everything. It holds me a prisoner. I know its good qualities. I have its pride at certain moments, and at others, this one for instance, it is a perfect horror to me!"

"Do not speak so, do not feel so," pleaded Madame Olier. "You frighten me when I see you so unjust, not only to me,—I have forgiven you,—but to your own destiny. It is tempting God. You speak of barriers, of prison, of suffocation. For my part, I think of all the privileges you received at your birth, and first of all, and greatest of all, that of being so easily an example to others. If you could have heard the remarks that were made about you when you came to Saint-Mihiel, you would appreciate more justly the value of that name which you all but blasphemed just now—and for what reason? I heard those remarks, and I am still proud for you. 'He's the Comte de Claviers-Grandchamp, and he works! He'll have three hundred thousand francs a year and he passed his examinations brilliantly! He's a good fellow. He treats people well. He has all the qualities of a leader of men.'—You call nobles pariahs, because they arouse much envy. But when they are worthy of their rank, what influence they can exert! And all this is no longer of any account, because you can't bend to your will the will of a poor woman, who, in ten years, will be passée! And you will say of her then, if you recognize her: 'Where were my wits when I thought that I loved her so dearly?'"

"And if, ten years hence,—I still love her," said the young man, "and if I have employed those ten years in regretting her! Suppose it should happen that that woman's refusal were coincident with one of those crises as a result of which one's whole life is transformed? Suppose I had reached one of those times when a man has to make a decision of tragical importance to himself, and when he needs to know upon what support he can count?"

He seemed to hesitate, and then continued in the altered tone of one who, having just abandoned himself to the tumult of his emotions, puts constraint upon himself and resolves to confine himself to a formal statement of facts: "You will understand me in a moment. I came here with the idea of beginning with this. Your presence moved me too deeply! I have told you that I was able to obtain only a very short leave of absence, forty-eight hours, and that with difficulty. Our new colonel does not agree with you about nobles. He is strict and harsh with them. He made this remark about me the other day, because of my title and my 'de': 'I don't like names with currents of air.' Under the circumstances he was not wrong in requiring me to return to-morrow night. Within a few days, we know from official sources, there will be two church inventories made in the district. And they anticipate resistance."

"Is it possible?" cried Valentine, clasping her hands. "Since the law of separation was passed, I have never read about a scene like those at Paramé and Saint-Servan without trembling lest you should be caught in one of those cases of conscience of which so many gallant officers have been the victims! I thought that at Saint-Mihiel everything had passed off quietly and that the troops had not had to interfere. Besides, they so rarely use in that business the arm of the service to which you belong."

"They will use it this time," Landri replied; "we have been warned. It is logical. Either the chasseurs or we will have to serve. Those two regiments contain a considerable number of people who bear names 'with currents of air,' one of whom is that same Comte de Claviers-Grandchamp, who 'works,' who 'treats people well,' who 'has all the qualities of a leader of men.' It is an excellent opportunity to break his ribs and those of some others of his sort! The pretext is all ready: the two churches to be inventoried are those of Hugueville-en-Plaine, and the Sanctuary of Notre-Dame de Montmartin. In the former there is an old priest, revered for fifty leagues around, who has declared from the pulpit that he will not yield except to force. You know the devotion of the department to the Madonna of Montmartin. It is essential to act quickly, very quickly, so that the peasants may not have time to collect. Hugueville and Montmartin are a long way from Saint-Mihiel. The cavalry is already selected. If the dragoons march, as my term of duty comes at the end of the week, I have an excellent chance of being in the affair."

"My poor, poor friend!" said the young woman, enveloping the officer in a glance eloquent with the affection which she had sworn so often to conceal from him; "so you, too, are going to be forced to leave the army, of which you are so fond, and in which so fine a place is in store for you—"

"I shall not leave it," he interrupted; and his face was, as it were, frozen in an expression so stern that Valentine was amazed by it.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"That I have questioned myself closely, and have not found in my conscience what my comrades of whom you speak have found in theirs. They were believers, and I—you know too well that I have doubts which I do not parade. I shall have to execute certain orders with repugnance. But repugnance is not scruple. I shall go ahead. I shall not leave the army."

"Even if it is necessary to order your men to break down the door of a church?"

"I shall give them that order."

"You!" she cried. "You—"

"Finish your sentence," he rejoined with a still more gloomy expression. "'You, a Claviers-Grandchamp!' You dare not say the word. You think it, you have it on the end of your lips. In another than myself, you would consider it perfectly natural—you above all, who know our profession—that he should execute, in my frame of mind, a military order, and that he should see, in the taking possession of the church of Hugueville or Montmartin, simply a matter of duty to be done. In me you do not admit it. Why? Again, because of my name! And you are surprised that I break out in explosions like that of a moment ago against a servitude of which I alone know the weight!—Oh, well!" he continued, with increasing wrath, "it is precisely because I am a Claviers-Grandchamp that I don't propose to leave the army. I propose to do my duty. You hear, to do my duty, not to be a useless idler, a rich man with a most authentic coat-of-arms on his carriages. I do not propose, for the purpose of handing down an example for which I am not responsible, to undo the work of my whole youth, to become an 'Émigré' within the country, like so many of my kinsmen, so many of my friends,—like my father!"

"You are not going to deny him, him too!" she implored. "You loved him, you admired him so much!"

"I love him and admire him still," replied the young man in a tone of the utmost earnestness; "yes, I admire him. No one knows better than I his great qualities and what he might have been. What a soldier! He proved it during the war. What a diplomatist! What an administrator! What a Councillor of State! And he is nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing! Why, it is the whole tragedy of my thoughts, the evidence of my father's magnificent gifts, paralyzed by his name, solely by his name! Since I have become observant, I have seen that he, intelligent, generous, straightforward as he is, makes no use of his energies, takes part in none of the activities of his time. And yet there is a contemporaneous France. He is in it, but not of it. It will have none of him, who will have none of it. He will have passed his youth, his maturity, his old age, in what? In taking part in a pompous parade of the ancien régime, what with his receptions at Paris and Grandchamp, his stag-hunting, and the playing the patron to an enormous and utterly unprofitable clientage, of low and high estate, who live on his luxury or his income. I felt the worthlessness of all that too soon; he will never feel it. He is deceived by a mirage. He is close to a time when the nobility was still an aristocracy. My grandfather was twenty-six years old in 1827, when he succeeded to my great-grandfather's peerage, and my great-grandfather was colonel of the dragoons of Claviers before '89. For there were dragoons of Claviers-Grandchamp as there were of Custine and Jarnac, Belzunce and Lanan. They are far away. But in my father's eyes all those things so entirely uprooted and done away with are still realities. He is in touch with them. He has known those who saw them. As a little boy he played on the knees of old ladies who had been at court at Versailles. One would say that that past fascinates him more and more as it recedes. To me it is death, and I desired to live. That was the motive that led me to enter the army. Indeed, I had no choice. All other careers were closed to the future Marquis de Claviers-Grandchamp.—These are the privileges you spoke of just now. I let you have your say.—Yes, closed. Foreign affairs? Closed. My father would have been welcomed by the Empire at least. To-day they no longer want us. The Council of State? Closed. The government? Closed. Can you imagine a nobleman as a prefect? They were under Napoleon and the Restoration. The liberal professions? Closed. Though a noble had the genius of a Trosseau, a Berryer, or a Séguin, no one would have him to treat a cold in the head, to try a case about a division fence, or to build a foot-bridge. Commerce? Closed. Manufacturing? Closed, or practically so. To succeed in it we nobles must have a superior talent of which I, for my part, have never been conscious. Politics? That is like all the rest. People blame nobles for not taking up a profession! They forget that they are excluded from almost all, and the others are made ten times more difficult by their birth. And you would have me not call them pariahs! I say again, I resolved not to be one. The army was left. I prepared at Saint-Cyr, not without a struggle. There at least I knew the pleasure of not being a creature apart, of feeling that I was a Frenchman like the others, of not being exiled from my time, from my generation, from my fatherland; the delight of the uniform, of touching elbows with comrades, of obeying my superiors and of commanding my inferiors. That uniform no one shall tear from me except with my life. In losing it I should lose all my reasons for living.—All, no, since I love you. I wanted to speak to you to-day to learn whether I shall keep you in the trial that is in store for me. It will have its painful sides!—Now that you know what the crisis is that I am on the point of passing through," he added, "will you still answer no as you did a moment ago? I have no pride and I ask you again, will you be my wife? Not the wife of the Comte de Claviers-Grandchamp, whose father and whose environment you dread, but of a soldier with whom that environment will have no more to do, whom his father will have spurned? If I should ever have superintended the taking of a church inventory, it will arouse in the mothers another sort of indignation than for a mésalliance, as you call it, and as I do not call it. If I have you, the wound will bleed, doubtless, but I shall have you. You and my profession, my profession and you, those are enough to make me very strong."

"You have disturbed me too profoundly," said Valentine. "I no longer know anything. I do not see clear within myself. I have felt your suffering too keenly. Mon Dieu! when I received your letter, I did guess what you wanted to speak to me about. I did not guess everything. I had taken a resolution. I believed that I was sure of keeping to it. In the face of your trouble I can not.—Listen. Be generous Do not urge me any further. Give me credit for the answer that you ask. I told you just now that I could not receive you any more after this. I have no pride, either. I withdraw that also. As you will pass through Paris again to-morrow, returning to Saint-Mihiel, come again to see me. I shall have reflected meanwhile. I shall be in a condition to answer otherwise than under the impulse of an emotion which discomposes me. Oh! why, in all the talks we have had together in these last three years, have you never told me so much about all these intimate details of your life? I would have helped you—I would have tried, at all events."

"That is another of the misfortunes of the noble," Landri replied. "There is one subject that he can never broach first, the precise subject of his nobility. But calm yourself, I implore you, as I do myself. See. It is enough that you do not repeat the 'never' of a few moments ago, for me to recover my self-control. I will be here to-morrow, and if you still cannot answer me, I will wait. I have seen that you pity me, understand me. That is one piece of good fortune which wipes out many disappointments! Am I as you would have me? Do I speak to you as you wish?"

"Yes," she replied, more touched than she chose now to betray, by this sudden softening, this return of submissive affection after his bursts of passion. "But," she insinuated, "if you were really as I would have you, you would let me give you some advice."

"What is it?" he inquired anxiously.

"To confide in your father. Yes, to talk with him of your plans,—of me if you think best,—but first of all, and at any cost, of your apprehension on the subject of these impending inventories. You owe it to him," she insisted at a gesture from the young man. "I say nothing of the bond that binds together the members of the same family, in order not to return to that question of the name, although bourgeois and nobles are equal when the common honor is involved. You owe it to him from respect for his noble heart. He loves you. A determination so opposed to his wishes is likely to cause him very deep sorrow. He must not learn it first from another than you, so that he may not misconstrue your motives. You must tell him what they are, and even if he blames them, at all events he will know that you deserve his esteem. I know it well, I who am a believer, and to whom that proceeding will be so grievous if you carry it out. Ah! how earnestly I will pray God to spare us, your father and me, that trial! But you must speak to Monsieur de Claviers. You realize yourself that you must, don't you?"'

"I will try," replied the young man, whose eyes once more expressed genuine distress. "You do not know him, and what an imposing effect he has, even on me. I ought to say, especially on me, since I can read his heart so well. But you are right, and I will obey you."

"Thanks," she said, rising. "And now think that you must not prepare him to receive in bad part what you have to say, by displeasing him. Since he was urgent that you should come to Grandchamp for this hunt, you must go. You must do it for my sake, too, for I need a little rest and solitude. Besides you still have to lunch, and it is quarter to twelve."—The clock of a near-by convent struck three strokes, whose tinkling cadence reached the little parlor over the trees of the garden. The clock on the mantel-piece also emitted three shrill notes.—"You have just time."

"With the automobile I shall be at Grandchamp in an hour and a half," he replied. "But I mean to continue to be obedient, as obedient as I have been rebellious." He had taken the young woman's hand and he pressed it to his lips as he added: "I forgot. I have to stop on Rue de Solferino to inquire for a friend of my father who is very ill. It won't take very long."

Valentine Olier withdrew her fingers with such a nervous movement that Landri could not help exclaiming:—

"Why, what's the matter?"

"Nothing," said she. "Rue de Solferino? Then it's Monsieur Jaubourg, this sick friend? it is to Monsieur Jaubourg's that you are going?"

"Yes. How do you know his name?" And then, answering his own question, "To be sure, I have been to his house several times on leaving you. I have talked about him to you, and rather unkindly. I am sorry now. He has never shown much liking for me, and when I wanted to enter Saint-Cyr, he did much to excite my father against me. I bore him a grudge for it. But that was long ago, and he is mixed up in so many memories of my childhood! The news of his illness touched me. According to my father's despatch which I found at the house, asking me to go to see him, he is dying."

"He is dying!" she echoed. "Mon Dieu! I hope you will not be admitted. In your present state of wounded sensibility, that visit will be too trying, and it's of no use. Promise me that you won't try to see him!"

"Dear, dear friend!" exclaimed Landri, bestowing a second kiss on Valentine's clenched hand, "I tell you again that you do not know how completely you have restored my tranquillity, nor how brave I should be at this moment before the worst trials. And this visit would not be a trial to me. But I will manage to do what you wish, even in so unimportant a matter. I shall deserve no credit for it. I prefer not to place any too painful image between what I feel here"—he pointed to his heart—"and my return—to-morrow. How far away it is, and yet so near!"

"Until to-morrow, then," she rejoined with a half smile, as to which he could not divine that it was forced. "Come at two o'clock as usual,—and now, adieu."

"Adieu!" he said. Instinctively he drew near to her. In his eyes blazed a gleam of passion instantly subdued by her eyes. He repeated "Adieu!" in a voice stifled by the effort he made to control himself and not to give way to his ardent longing to cover with kisses that fair hair, that pure brow, that quivering mouth.

He rushed from the salon. She listened to the young man's step as he passed through the adjoining room, then through the reception-room and the street door, which opened and closed. When he had gone from the house, and doubtless from the street, a long while, she was still on the same spot and in the same attitude, steadfastly contemplating her thoughts. What she saw was not the refined and soldierly profile of the young man whom she loved, who loved her, and whose wife she knew now that she would be. No, she saw herself at Saint-Mihiel, a very long time before. She fancied that she was living through that hour again. Landri had just joined the regiment. Valentine had a friend, one Madame Privat, the wife of one of the officers of the garrison. On several occasions she had fancied that that friend was extraordinarily cold to the newcomer. Inconsiderately enough she had asked her—she could hear herself putting the question: "Monsieur de Claviers-Grandchamp seems so antipathetic to you. Why is it?" And she could hear Marguerite Privat reply:—

"I admit it, but it's an old, a very old story. We have a distant cousin, a Monsieur Jaubourg, of whom we used to see a great deal. I say we; I should say my parents. They had a little plan for having him marry one of my aunts. Suddenly the relations between us lost their warmth. The marriage didn't take place. This coldness dates from the day that he became intimate with the Claviers. He had, at all events my parents thought so, a passion for Madame de Claviers. They even believed that there was a liaison. In families many things are known that the public doesn't understand. He seemed to avoid us. My parents did not seek a reconciliation which would have seemed to be based on self-interest. Monsieur Jaubourg is the son of a broker and very rich. I witnessed my father's grief from this rupture, which was the cause of a very unhappy union contracted by my aunt out of spite. I have always blamed Madame de Claviers for it, perhaps unjustly. The sight of her son stirs those memories and is painful to me."

Yes, that was long, long ago, and lo! Madame Olier found anew in her heart the melancholy sensation with which Madame Privat's words had suddenly oppressed her. Must it be that she loved Landri even then, unconsciously? The truth of that confidence was guaranteed both by the character of her who made it and by the chance that led to it. But perhaps it was all a matter of chance. So that Madame Olier did not believe in it altogether. However, she had retained an ineradicable doubt. How often she had wondered whether the young man's mother had really made a misstep, and whether he was in danger of ever hearing of it! She had had a little shiver every time that he had mentioned the name of Jaubourg, by chance, in their conversations; and deeply stirred as she was, all those complex and confused sensations had suddenly reawakened when he had spoken of his proposed visit to Rue de Solferino. She had fancied him at the bedside of a sick man who, in his last moments, would perhaps let a terrible secret escape his lips! Her apprehension had been so great that an impulsive entreaty had followed, most imprudent if the relations between Jaubourg and the late Marquise de Claviers-Grandchamp had really been culpable!

"I am mad," she said, rousing herself from the sort of waking dream, which had reproduced with the detail of an hallucination that brief scene, her apartment at Saint-Mihiel, Madame Privat's face, her voice, her very words. "If Monsieur Jaubourg had been Madame de Claviers' lover, he would not have continued to be Monsieur de Claviers' friend after her death. If only my movement and my exclamation did not arouse suspicion in Landri's mind! I should never forgive myself. No. He is so honest, so straightforward. He has too noble a heart to imagine in others the evil that it would be a horror to him to commit. If he will only speak to his father about that possibility of an expedition against a church! He promised. He will speak to him. His father will prevent him from following out that shocking purpose. For my part, I cannot. I love him too well. Mon Dieu! how I love him! how I love him! I defended myself too long. Ah! I feel that I am all his, now!"

And as, at that moment, she heard laughter through the partition, announcing little Ludovic's return, she opened the door to call her child, and, pressing him to her heart, she embraced him frantically, to prove to herself that this love to which she was on the point of abandoning herself, by promising to become the wife of a second husband, would take nothing from the son of the first; and she said to him:—

"You know that your mother loves you, you know it, tell me that you know it."

II
A GRAND SEIGNEUR

Madame Olier's prevision was just: that little unthinking gesture, as of a hand extended to prevent a fall, was destined to be one of the signs which should arouse in Landri the most painful of ideas, but not until later. That youthful heart—Valentine had read it accurately in this respect, as well—was too noble not to entertain an instinctive repugnance for suspicion, that calumny of the mind. How could he have made an exception in his mother's case? He had never ascribed a criminal motive, even for a second, nor imagined that any one could ascribe such a motive to the assiduities of one of the intimate friends of their family. The tears that he had shed on Madame de Claviers-Grandchamp's death had been the loving, sincere tears of a son, with no alloy in his veneration. And so, while he returned from Rue Monsieur to Place Saint-François, to get his automobile, no suspicion entered his mind. The imprudent entreaty that his friend had addressed to him not to see the invalid on Rue de Solferino was only a proof of an affection a little too easily disturbed, and he was the more touched by it.

"How I love her!" he exclaimed, echoing, and conscious of it, the passionate sigh which she, on her side, was breathing toward him. "And she loves me, too. She fights against it still, but I understood it, I saw it, I know it. I know that she will be my wife.—My wife!" he repeated, with an intimate quiver of his whole being which made him close his eyes. Suddenly Valentine's image brought before his eyes that of his father, and the memory of the undertaking he had entered into abruptly crushed that outburst of joy. "She is right," he said to himself, without transition, mentally repeating the very words that she had used. "I owe it to him to speak both of her and of all the rest. I owe it to him from respect for his noble heart. I will do it."

The bare thought of that explanation oppressed the young man with an agony of timidity. He had always suffered from it in the presence of that man whose name he bore, whose heir he was, whom he loved, and by whom he was loved, and he had never been able to open his heart to him fully, to explain himself concerning his inmost thoughts. His character, which was very manly in respect to important decisions, but extremely sensitive, and consequently easily disconcerted in its outward manifestations, had always been taken by surprise as it were by that of the marquis, so unhesitating, so dominating, so impervious to argument. His resistance to this moral despotism was not altogether conscious. It was that which incited him in his constant effort not to be an "émigré," as he said, to make himself useful, to belong to his own time, "to do his duty"—another of his phrases. We must repeat it. There are none more just. Many another young man of his class has felt, as he did, that magnanimous and praiseworthy appetite for efficient and beneficent action. Many have, like him, tried to rebel against the ostracism which France, the offspring of the Revolution, practises, by her customs as well as by her laws, against the old families. They have, like him, stumbled over obstacles. They have rarely felt them, as he did, as tragedies. This excessive and morbid view of his destiny betrayed in Landri a lack of equilibrium, of certainty. In truth, if, in certain directions, his ideas were absolutely opposed to those of his father, in others he underwent a veritable hypnotism at the hands of that powerful personality, and he was very near the point of doubting himself before an irreconcilability which he had not dared really to face but once, when it was a question of entering Saint-Cyr. His mind had been developed by reading, observation, reflection, all solitary, constantly held in check by the loud speech, the imperious intelligence, the steadfast and logical convictions, in a word, the decision, of the marquis. Landri, too, had decision, but by fits and starts, and when he had provided himself with very well-considered reasons therefor. His father had it always, gaily, buoyantly, as he walked, as he breathed, by an unfolding of his inward energy, if one may say so, which was as natural in him as the muscular development is in a lion. The prestige of that opulent and powerful nature maintained so complete a domination over the temperament, more refined perhaps, but less masterful, of his son, that he had been on the point of equivocating when Valentine asked him for that promise. He had given it, however. His lover's pride would have been too deeply humiliated to confess a weakness of which he was now sensible once more.

"Yes," he repeated, "I must speak to him—but how? Of her? That will be very difficult, but let him once see her and my cause will be won. She is so refined, so pretty, such a lady!—Of the inventories? It is impossible. She understood me at once, devout as she is. Their religion is not the same. To her the Church is the faith. Those who haven't it are simply to be pitied. To him the Church is like the monarchy, like the nobility, the essential condition of public order. It is the hierarchy that guarantees all the others. What answer can I make? I should think as he does if our time were not our time."

Soliloquizing thus he reached the side of the Church of Saint-François-Xavier, at the spot where he had left his automobile. His chauffeur, when he did not return, had left his car in the care of one of the numerous idlers who transform that isolated square into a club of bicyclists and tennis-players, and had gone to refresh himself at one of the wine-shops in the neighborhood.

"Deuce take it!" said the young man ill-humoredly, "Auguste isn't here! I shall never get to Grandchamp. I sha'n't have any lunch, that's all," he concluded. "But how is the machine?" and while the small boy who had been left in charge of the vehicle ran off to fetch the conscienceless chauffeur, he began to examine the different parts of the machine with a connoisseur's eye. That too was one of the small points upon which he had based his self-esteem as a "modernist." He understood how to repair and handle his automobile as well as a professional. "Everything is in order," he said. "I will drive myself. We shall go faster, and I shall not irritate my nerves by thinking." He began therefore to put on the cloak and cap and goggles and gloves of the profession, and Auguste had no sooner joined him, than he started his heavy machine with as much precision as if he had not borne the name of Landri, which denoted in the family of Claviers-Grandchamp pretensions more or less justified—but they date back to the twelfth century—of descending from the kings of the first race. And this car of the latest model bore on its panels the curious arms which, with the device, E tenebris inclarescent, symbolize that legendary origin: three frogs or on a field sable. These were, according to some authorities in heraldry, the arms of our first kings. Géliot waxed wroth over it long ago, in his "Vraye et parfaite science des armoiries."[1] He saw therein only three roughly executed fleurs-de-lys. He would have enjoyed maintaining that opinion before the choleric marquis. "And to think," reflected the heir of the pseudo-Merovingian, "that it took years to make my father admit the mere idea of the telephone, of electricity and the automobile! But at last we have one, and of an excellent make. I shall be there before the hunt is over."

He had, in obedience to a childish whim in which all young men will recognize themselves, instead of driving straight along the boulevard, the Esplanade and the quay, taken Rue de Babylone, in order to pass Rue Monsieur. He longed to see once more the outside of the little hôtel of the time of Louis XVI. Valentine became once more so present to his mind that he was absorbed anew in that inward vision when he reached the house in which Jaubourg lived. Lovers, even the most affectionate,—especially the most affectionate,—are almost savagely insensible to what does not concern, either nearly or distantly, the object of their passion. He had no need to remember his promise, in order to avoid trying to see the invalid.

"There should be a bulletin in the concierge's lodge," he said to Auguste; "get down, copy it, leave my name and come back quickly. We haven't five minutes to waste."

The chauffeur jumped down from his seat, with the reckless haste of a servant who seeks to earn forgiveness for a fault. He disappeared like a gust of wind behind the door of the enormous porte-cochère which imparted a seignorial aspect to the abode of the unique personality, untitled, but of the most unexceptional elegance, that Charles Jaubourg had been. In order that his name should have been so much as mentioned in connection with Madame de Claviers-Grandchamp, it must have been that he, who came of such a widely different social caste, had been able to win for himself an exceptional position in society. Of that supremely refined man, of the great bourgeois, who had become, by dint of adaptability of manners, and, in due time, of wit, a notable member of Society, there remained only a poor tattered remnant, an old man at the point of death with pneumonia, behind those high windows. The straw spread upon the pavement to deaden the noise of passing vehicles attested the gravity of a condition of which Landri had a more decisive proof. His messenger reappeared, holding in his hand a paper on which was written this laconic and ill-boding bulletin: "A very bad night. Condition stationary.—Professor Louvet, Dr. Pierre Chaffin."

The officer read these words in an undertone; and with an indifference which, under the circumstances, was of an irony no less unintentional than cruel, he folded the paper and slipped it into his pocket, saying: "All right. Let's be off!"

"The concierge told me to tell Monsieur le Comte," interposed the chauffeur, "that Monsieur Jaubourg had given special orders to send Monsieur le Comte up to him when he came."

"Me?" exclaimed the young man, with unfeigned surprise and vexation. There was a gleam of hesitation in his eyes, and he started to get down. "But no, I really haven't time!" And with this exclamation, the irony of which was even more cruel, he started the automobile once more. It had already crossed the Seine, turned into Rue des Tuileries, passed the Opéra, the Gare du Nord, the barrier, and Saint-Denis, and entered upon the road through the forest of Hez, beyond which is the château of Grandchamp, before the mind of Madame de Claviers' son had even begun to detect behind that second little sign the mystery which was destined, a few hours later, to revolutionize his career forever.

"Jaubourg dying and wanting to see me? Why, when he has never in his whole life shown anything but antipathy to me? It's easily explained. My father had told him I would call. Really, I ought to have gone up. But what more should I have had to take to Grandchamp than this bulletin? And then, Chaffin is there. He must have been sent by my father, and he'll keep him posted."

Pierre Chaffin was the son of Landri's former tutor, become, under the more distinguished title of secretary, the marquis's steward and man of business. The younger man, formerly intern at a hospital, and very eminent in his profession, was now the head of the clinical staff of Louvet, who had been the Claviers-Grandchamps' physician from time immemorial.

"Besides," continued the lover, "I promised"; and his mouth, which was open to inhale the cool breeze caused by their speed, closed as if to place, despite the distance, a last kiss on his friend's burning hands. That recollection sent the blood coursing more hotly through his veins, and the automobile flew the faster through the wild flight of the houses, already beplumed with smoke, of the autumn crops, of the misty fields, of that whole landscape, which ordinarily was to Landri the source of reflections rather than of sensations. How many times, on his way to Grandchamp, had he noticed that multiplicity of small estates, which checker the land, isolate the châteaux, surround them, as if determined to conquer them! A symbol of the upward progress of the lower classes. To-day he saw nothing save space to be devoured, at the end of which he would stand face to face with his father and his promise. He had chosen to drive, in order not to think; and, despite himself, he formed and unformed in his mind the plan of that interview, while he drove on, leaving behind him, one after another, Saint-Denis and its basilica, Groslay and its moss-covered roofs, the forest of l'Isle-Adam and its white quarries, Beaumont and the long blue ribbon of the Oise, the charming nosegay of Cahet, the wood of Saint-Vaast, Cires-lès-Mello and its mills, Balagny, and peaceful Thérain, Mouny and its graceful gables.

"Thirty-three minutes past one," said the chauffeur, looking at his watch, when the first houses of Thury appeared at the end of the road, and the oaks of the forest of Hez. "That is travelling! And Monsieur le Comte never drove better."

"Now all we have to do is find the hunt," Landri replied. "It hasn't been a bad run, that's a fact. Take the wheel now, Auguste, please. I am going to search the avenues with my glass. Let's go toward La Neuville, and drive slowly, so as not to lose any sound."

The forest, over whose gravel roads they were now driving, told no less clearly than the fields the story of the parcelling out of old France. It formerly joined the forests of Compiègne and of Carnelle, and the whole formed, between the Seine and the Oise, a vast region teeming with game, of which only fragments remain. This of Hez occupies a plateau, of a slightly irregular surface, which the automobile traversed at a very slow pace. There were constant halts, to ask information of some passer-by, to investigate with the glass the interstices in the hedges, and above all to listen for the baying of the hounds. Several times Landri had thought that he detected a "Vue!" or a "Bien allé." Suddenly he put his hand on the chauffeur's arm. He heard distinctly a blast of the horn.

"Why, that's a hallali!" he exclaimed. "So soon?—Yes.—And it's not far away. To the left, and a little speed. There we are. I see the hunt. Stop a moment while I look! Oh! what a beautiful sight!"

A sharp turn of the road had disclosed a depression in the ground. At the end of the avenue appeared one of the infrequent clearings of that dense forest. In a frame formed to perfection by the horn-beams and beeches, which blended their rusty foliage with the pale gold of the birches and the dark verdure of the firs, was being enacted the final scene of that too short day. Victorias and automobiles were arriving at the cross-roads. They drew up in line along one of the roads. In the centre a considerable crowd had already gathered in a circle, composed of country people come to assist at the finish, guests who had followed the hunt in carriages, and hunters, whose costumes in the colors of the hunt—Spanish snuff-color with blue lapels—heightened with a dash of brilliancy that truly charming and picturesque little tableau. Here grooms were covering with blankets the horses heated by the ardor of the chase. Farther on servants were bringing baskets filled with provisions for the lunch. The mellow autumn light bathed with its invigorating rays those groups, over whose heads rang out blasts of the horn, blended with the baying of the restless hounds; and each blast, by its few notes, explained to Landri the movements which were taking place in the crowd, and which he amused himself by following with his glass.—The horns blew the mort. The dogs were led away from the game. The first huntsman cut off the right fore-foot and handed it to the master of the hunt. The horns blew the honors of the foot. The master presented the foot to one of the ladies whose three-cornered hats could be seen beside the velvet caps of the men. The horns blew the mort anew. The baying of the pack redoubled. From his post of observation Landri could distinguish quite plainly all the details of the curée: the whipper-in, standing astride the stag, waved the head, by the antlers, before the slavering jaws, held in respect by the raised whip of the huntsman. Another blast. The whips had fallen. The dogs had hurled themselves on the bleeding mass of which already nothing remained.

In the front rank of the spectators of this ancient and savage ceremony, the young man had had no difficulty in making out his father's imposing profile. In his costume of master of the hunt, completed according to the old fashion by a three-cornered hat turned back with a copper button, the Marquis de Claviers-Grandchamp instantly justified, by his aspect alone, the sobriquet of "Émigré" which his son often bestowed upon him. He inevitably recalled the image of one of those sportsmen represented in the charming paintings of the staircase at Fontainebleau, or that exquisite picture at Versailles which depicts one of the hunting-parties of the Prince de Conti in the neighborhood of l'Isle-Adam.

The marquis was a man of sixty-five, whose sturdy old age put to shame the worn-out middle-aged men of to-day. He was very tall, very straight, and was still slender, although powerfully built, with a handsome face, high-colored, of which his snow-white hair intensified the ruddy hue. His long, delicate, tapering nose, a little too near the epicurean and clever mouth, gave to his profile a vague resemblance to that of François I. He was conscious of it, and he emphasized the likeness by the cut of his beard, which was snow-white, like his hair. His face did not need that adventitious aid to make even the most ignorant say of him when they first saw him: "He's a walking portrait." Everything in him was eloquent of race, the prolonged existence of a family in the constant enjoyment of energy, wealth, and domination. His whole person was instinct with kindliness of nature, and yet there emanated from it an indescribable atmosphere of dignity, and the self-assurance of one who has always maintained his rank, not only through himself, but through all his kindred.

At this moment his eyes, deep-blue and piercing none the less, expressed, as did his whole haughty countenance, the most complete and heartfelt satisfaction. His lips laughed gaily and disclosed his large white teeth, of which not one was missing. He had beside him two men of his circle whom Landri knew very well, a M. de Bressieux and a M. de Charlus. The latter, who was very small, almost puny, seemed a dwarf beside the superb master of the hunt. His refined features also savored of race, but of a meagre and worn-out type. He was only fifty-five, but he was the older man. Bressieux, who was younger, was more comely of aspect, and yet there was in his face a something which vitiated it, and his cold arrogance contrasted no less strangely with the simple grand manners of the marquis.

At that short distance Landri was able to study the group in detail with almost photographic accuracy, and he felt once more the sentiment of which he had told Madame Olier, a heartfelt admiration for his father. Monsieur de Claviers-Grandchamp realized in every respect the physically and mentally superior type of aristocrat, of the best. He was built of a more ample, richer human material. What a difference between his generous, his magnificent way of carrying off his rank, and the bickerings of Charlus about questions of precedence! That was the sole, contemptible occupation of that most refined and upright man, who was nevertheless hypnotized by trivial details concerning his nobility, though it was of the most authentic! What a difference, too, between the spontaneous geniality of Monsieur de Claviers and the obsequiousness of a semi-sharper which Bressieux displayed beneath his assumption of importance, in order to maintain the course of an ultra fashionable life by doubtful expedients. Very well born and well connected, endowed moreover with taste, education, shrewdness and much dexterity, he acted as intermediary between people of his own station, who were straitened in their circumstances, and the dealers in curios or wealthy collectors. Upon what terms? No one had ever dreamed of asking the question of that individual with the face of a gambler and duellist, ruined by cards and women, but who had retained the most impeccable manners and the most virile courage of his race.

In Charlus and in Bressieux their caste was drawing near its end. In the marquis, however, caste might be unemployed, but it was intact. To his son he seemed so perfectly the grand seigneur in his bearing even at that moment, when the picturesque amusement of the day came to an end in the most bourgeois of occupations: a cold luncheon eaten in the open air! He went from one to another of his guests, from carriage to carriage, assisted in that hospitable duty by a young woman in a riding habit, who had followed the hunt on horseback, without taking part in it. Landri recognized one of his partners at the infrequent balls which he had attended during the last two winters.

"Poor Marie de Charlus!" he muttered; "she hasn't grown beautiful!" And he added, aloud, to his chauffeur: "I am going inside, and we will go on. I have certainly earned my luncheon."

The limousin began to descend the slope, while the young man removed the mask, the cap, the gloves and the cloak in which he had arrayed himself. If the marquis had arrived at that stage of concession at which he recognized the existence of the automobile, he was still savagely hostile to the hideous accessories which that style of locomotion multiplies from day to day. This childlike precaution against the possible ill humor of his father would have made Landri himself smile under other circumstances. But the sight of Mademoiselle de Charlus had suddenly rearoused his preoccupation, which had been somewhat allayed, in spite of everything, by the fatigue and distractions of the journey. He foresaw an additional reason for sparing the marquis's least prejudices. The monomaniacal gentleman's daughter in no wise deserved the contemptuous apostrophe with which he had saluted her. To be sure, Marie de Charlus had not regular features. Her mouth was too large, her nose too short, her forehead too protuberant, but her eyes saved all the rest by their brilliancy, and, if she was not beautiful, she possessed that charm of the "ugly-pretty girl" which so many men prefer to beauty. Rather small, like her father, but of a very good figure, dancing and riding with a grace at once bold and maidenly, she too had, in her original physiognomy, that "portrait" aspect which is so frequent in stationary classes. Those who are most impervious to the theory of heredity must needs resort, in spite of themselves, in the face of this fact, to the vulgarized, indefinite and indefinable, yet accurate term, "atavism."

Landri was more capable than most men of grasping the interesting character of that young girl's face, closely resembling one of those eighteenth-century faces of which La Tour has noted the intelligent expression,—but he was in love with another woman, he had come to Grandchamp with the purpose of disarming his father's hostility to a marriage which he passionately desired, and already well-meaning persons had spoken to him of Marie de Charlus more than once in a very significant tone. Did not her presence at this hunt, after the marquis had insisted so earnestly that he should attend it, accord with these hints? Certain it is that she was the first to espy the young man, even before the motor had stopped. A faint blush rose to her cheeks. She said a word to the marquis. He turned. He saw his son descending from the heavy vehicle, and at the wave of his hand over the surrounding heads, Landri felt, as usual, the warm blood rush to his heart. This was perhaps the strangest detail of their strange relations—never had the son approached the father without an impulse of enthusiasm and affection; and the next instant he recoiled, withdrew within himself. He literally bore in his breast two hearts: one which felt a thrill of emotion upon contact with that powerful vitality, another which was, as it were, terrified and thrown into confusion by it. This time, however, the second impulse did not follow at once. The young man, in his anxiety, felt a too grateful surprise when he realized that there was no trace of reproach in that greeting, although he arrived when the hunt was over, after a downright objurgation to be prompt. He passed through the line of carriages, exchanging hand-shakes, and salutations with the hat. M. de Claviers' first words to him were accompanied by one of those hearty laughs which always rang true—the old nobleman would not have been the admirable and knightly person that he was, if his frankness had not been absolute, in the most trivial no less than in the most important circumstances.

"Well, Landri, you won't boast again of the convenience of the automobile! Your train arrived at Paris at nine o'clock, and now it's two. Ah! the horse! the horse! The four good post-horses that made the trip without a stop! However, here you are. It's a pity. You have missed a fine run. It was hotter than the result would indicate. The attack was sharp. But Tonnerre has an admirable scent for doublings. He did not allow the dogs to make a mistake, and the stag was in sight almost all the time. He was in the water only a few moments. The beast was winded by the pace. We finished with a run of a kilometre. That's what your trouble-machine has made you miss."

"I'll make him change his mind about the automobile, Monsieur de Claviers," said Mademoiselle de Charlus gaily, addressing Landri, "I pledge myself to do it. On the next circuit I am going to take him with me, and we shall go a bit fast. He'll find that it's as amusing as a fine run to hounds. I have sworn to make him up-to-date."

She looked at the new arrival with a glance most desirous to please, as she uttered that untranslatable Americanism, which, indeed, might well have been her motto. Marie had that characteristic common to certain women of her class, which is traceable to a reaction against the monotonies of their environment: an unwillingness to go slow. While Landri was a modernist, she prided herself on being ultra modern. "Not in the train, in the express," she would say; "in all the expresses"; which did not prevent her thinking about the substance of things exactly as her father and the marquis did. By an unexpected contrariety the young man disliked her and the "Émigré" liked her. Behind her poses the marquis divined the immutable "one does not mix with the canaille when one has a name like ours," of the pure-blooded aristocrat; and then, too, she loved his son, and he knew it. Landri, for his part, blamed the young woman for that defiant air, that radicalism which was like a caricature of his own ideas. And above all, he guessed that she loved him, and he loved Valentine! He replied neither to her glance nor to her words, but said to the marquis:—

"I had no trouble, father. I was simply detained in Paris a little longer than I expected."

"Did you go to Jaubourg's?" asked M. de Claviers. "Did you see him?"

"I didn't see him," Landri answered. He too was incapable of lying well. It was his turn to blush as he added, evasively: "He is so ill! But I have brought you the bulletin."

"Give it to me," said M. de Claviers eagerly. He read the ominous lines aloud. "Pierre Chaffin!" he repeated. "I am glad Chaffin's son is there. His father must have sent him, on my account, because he knows how fond I am of Jaubourg. He didn't tell me anything in order not to disturb me. Good Chaffin! And good Jaubourg! I dined with him at the club last Wednesday—not a week ago. He complained of lassitude and headache. I said to him: 'You've taken a little cold. Don't worry about it. It's nothing.' It was the first symptoms of pneumonia and perhaps he will die of it!"

"He'll have a fine sale," said Bressieux. He had the affectation of speaking with the ends of his teeth, as if he nibbled at his words. "I know of two Fragonards that he has, of the very choicest. Those that were in the poor Duc de Fleury's collection, don't you remember, Geoffroy?" This other Merovingian name was borne by the marquis, but few persons were privileged to call him by it; Bressieux never lost an opportunity. "He was a good buyer," he continued; "he had a deal of taste."

"And for a man who was not born," interposed Charlus, "he was wonderfully well brought up. I knew of but one fault that he had: he was not religious."

"A man so comme il faut!" said Marie sarcastically; "it's surprising. Never fear, papa, he won't have a civil burial. He won't inflict that on you." As she was really kind-hearted, she was a little ashamed of having scratched a dying man on the petty absurdities of his life, and she added: "No matter, even if he was a bit of a 'snob', he was an excellent man."

"Excellent!" echoed the marquis; and with the simple benignity which had always touched his son so deeply, he continued, with tears in his eyes: "I have known him more than thirty years. He has been a perfect friend to me. A friend, that is something not to be replaced at my age, nor at any age! We are happy, breathing freely, going our ways; I see him suffering, and—" He paused, then continued in a deep voice: "If he must go, I wish I had bade him adieu." He paused again, and as the wonderful vitality of his blood naturally inspired his brain with optimistic thoughts, he said: "But we are in a great hurry to bury him, and the bulletin does not suggest an aggravated case. Let us hope. I couldn't go to Paris to-day, on account of the hunt. To-morrow we shall shoot a few partridges. I will go day after to-morrow."

Plainly he had felt a twinge of remorse because he was not at the bedside of the friend he loved. He had yielded, he yielded again to the hereditary passion which decreed that Louis XVI should hunt the stag while the Jacobins were taking away his throne. And, shaking off his sad thoughts definitively, he said to his son:—

"You must be tired, my boy. You must have something to eat."—And, to a servant: "A plate.—Some foie gras? Here." He began to serve Landri himself.—"The liver of my own birds, mademoiselle, and I am proud of it!—A glass of champagne? I am hungry too."—He ate again.—"But it's a healthy hunger, of the sort that your circuit in an automobile won't give me, mademoiselle, no. A four hours' gallop in my forest, and I breathe in life through every pore. These woods have been ours for three hundred years. That's a long lease!—Ah! so you propose to make me up-to-date! On the contrary I will make you 'old France.' You recited some decadent verses to me just now. I am going to recite you some of the sixteenth century. They're by Jacques Grévin, the physician of Marguerite de France. It's a description of this very forest of ours:—

"'Dedans ces bois et forests ombrageuses
Sont les sangliers et les biches peureuses,
Les marcassins, fans de biches et daims,
Les cerfs cornus, familiers aux silvains,
Bref, le plaisir et soulas et bonheur
Que peut avoir ès forests le veneur.'"[2]

He repeated these verses in a sympathetic tone which proved that he felt their archaic charm, and that the sportsman had a nice taste for letters. He needed not to borrow a pen to write the famous work on the "History and Genealogy of the Family of Claviers-Grandchamp," a chef-d'œuvre in its way, one of those "livres de raison" to be placed on the same shelf with the eloquent "History of a Vivarois Family," published that year by another heir of a very great name. Marie de Charlus was too refined, even in her affected bad form, not to feel the picturesqueness and pathos of that figure of an old nobleman, whose originality, so vigorous to begin with, had emphasized its salience by its reaction against a too hostile age. The force of the type he represented measured the degree of his solitude. She replied, half mischievously:—

"I used to call myself the emancipated gratin; if all of us were like you, I think I should very soon call myself the repentant gratin."

"What a memory!" said Charlus admiringly. "But my grandfather was always talking to me about your grandfather's memory."

"You'll give me those verses, won't you, Geoffroy?" besought Bressieux. "I am sometimes asked for mottoes to be painted on panels in hunting lodges."

"I am the repentant gratin," rejoined the marquis. "Yes, for having presumed to lecture the cleverest of Maries. My grandfather's memory? Yes, I have always been told that I resembled him. There's nothing left of the army of Condé, but for that!—You shall have the verses, Louis. Although as to the mottoes on panels—Humph! when one has a motto one keeps it. When one has none, one has none. But I must excuse myself, mademoiselle, and you, my friends. I am obliged to leave you. The carriages will take you home. I do not propose to inflict on you a long détour that I have to make before I go home. Landri will come with me. We will take the automobile, mademoiselle, and I will practise at the circuit. À tout l'heure, at the château." He had taken his son's arm and was leading him toward the motor, saluting on all sides, and addressing this one and that. "You won't forget, Travers? I rely on you for dinner this evening.—You dine at Grandchamp, Hautchemin. I will send you home.—Férussac, you dine at Grandchamp with Madame de Férussac, that's understood, isn't it? Eight o'clock. If you're late, we'll wait for you."

When they were seated in the motor, after telling the chauffeur the direction to take, he said to Landri: "We shall be more than thirty at table. I don't know just how many; fancy that! I ordered for forty, at a venture. I like that sort of thing! It's almost the open house of old times. What a generous and proud expression: open house! The men of to-day talk about the social question. But our fathers had solved it. What was a grand seigneur? A living syndicate, nothing else. Consider how many people lived on him, how many live on us! To spend freely a handsome fortune, from father to son, on the same estate, is to support a whole district for many generations. When people prate of the luxury of the nobles of the olden time, they always think of them as like Cleopatra, drinking pearls, selfishly. But that luxury was a public service! It was the fountain which monopolizes the water in order to distribute it. The fountain was overturned, and the water is dribbling away, turning to mud, and disappearing—that's the whole story!—Ah! Auguste is going wrong!" And, seizing the megaphone, he shouted: "To the left, to the left, and then the second avenue on the right. There are three oaks in a clump and a Calvary."—And turning once more to his son: "I know the forest, tree by tree, leaf by leaf, I have ridden through it so often and on such good horses. Do you remember Toby, my gray Irish horse, and how he jumped? We are going to Père Mauchaussée's."

"Our old gardener?" inquired Landri. "What has become of him?"

"He is what he always was.

"'Qu'ils sont doux, bouteille, ma mie,
Qu'ils sont doux, tes petits glouglous!'

But it's his son that I want to see. I made him second gardener when his father retired, do you remember? He crushed his foot last week, not on our land, but at his father's, cutting down a tree. The doctor thinks he won't be able to work any more. He is in despair. Fancy, a wife and five children! Chaffin wanted me to help him a little, and nothing more. 'We don't come within the law relating to accidents to workmen,' he said. 'I don't need their laws to tell me what my duty is,' I replied. 'He shall be paid his wages in full, as long as he lives, like his father.'—I am a socialist, you know, in the old way. It was different from the new way in this, that the poor received the money of the rich directly, whereas to-day the politicians keep it all. It's very up-to-date, as our young friend Marie de Charlus says. What do you think of her? She is charming, isn't she?"

"Charming," Landri replied; "but I am surprised that she pleases you, with such ideas as she has."

"As she thinks she has," the marquis corrected him. "That will pass off. It's the impulse of youth. What will not pass off, is the old stock. She has it to the tips of her fingers and toes. Did you look at her? Ah! she's a genuine Charlus, and signed! Do you know what I said to myself when I saw her on horseback to-day?—And how beautifully she rides!—That she would make the sweetest little Comtesse de Claviers-Grandchamp.—And do you know this too? That it depends on you alone? But it does. Tell me if it doesn't begin like a chapter in a novel? A year ago she was twenty years old. She was sought in marriage—by the little Duc de Lautrec, if you please. She refused. Parents astounded. She was so young, they left her in peace. Six months ago, another offer, from Prince de la Tour Enguerrand, the widower. Another refusal. A month ago, Lautrec comes forward again. She refuses again. Then follows an explanation with the mother. Who would have thought that the 'emancipated gratin,' as she calls herself, that girl who puts on so many twentieth-century airs, is still governed by sentiment after the old style—the only style, on my word, that is always good and always young! 'I will marry Monsieur de Claviers,' she said, 'or I will die an old maid.'"

"That is impossible," interposed the young man; "we just speak to each other at a ball two or three times in a winter."

"You are too modest, monsieur my son," rejoined the marquis. "It seems that two or three times have sufficed.—In a word, stupefaction of the mother; stupefaction of the father. They tell the story to Madame de Bec-Crespin, their cousin, who tells it to her mother, Madame de Contay, who tells it to Jaubourg, who tells it to me; and as such a daughter-in-law would suit me marvellously, and as I have a horror of beating about the bush, I invited them all three, mother, father and daughter, and I sent for you. The mother sent her excuses. She's a little put out; she won't see you. She knows you, plant and root, I venture to say.—Ah! everything is there: wit, spirit, charm,—I don't say great beauty, but what a figure, and what eyes! A hundred thousand francs a year at this moment, of her own, if you please, left her by her uncle Prosny. Later, three hundred thousand more. And such relations! No more mésalliances in that family than in ours. One of those superb trees that resemble a noble action continued for seven hundred years: all the younger sons officers, bishops or knights of Malta; all the unmarried daughters nuns, abbesses or prioresses; twenty of the name killed in foreign wars. I have not often annoyed you with suggestions of marriage, my boy. Your dear mother would have known so well how to choose a wife for you! I waited a while for you to open your heart to me. But you are approaching thirty. I am sixty-five. Your three brothers are dead. I have no one but you to keep up the family. I should like not to go away before I have put in the saddle a Geoffroy IX of Claviers-Grandchamp. You are Landri X. We must look to it that the Geoffroys overtake the Landris. Well! what do you say?"

"I say, father," Landri replied, "that I came to Grandchamp to-day, myself, with the purpose of speaking to you about a project of marriage—a different one," he added.

"With some one whom I know?" inquired the marquis.

"No, father, a young woman of twenty-seven, the widow of one of my fellow officers in the regiment, who has a child, and no fortune, or very little. It's a far cry from the marriage-portion of Mademoiselle de Charlus. But I love her passionately, and have for more than three years."

"Another chapter of a novel," said M. de Claviers, still without losing his good-humour. "This does not displease me. I will not deny that I have been just a little disgusted with you. I was afraid that you had some wretched liaison in your life. You have a real love. That's a different matter. I love to have people love, you see—love long and dearly and faithfully. No fortune?" He repeated, "No fortune? My dear boy, how I would like to be able to say to you: 'Don't let that disturb you!'" A cloud had passed over his face, which was as transparent as the blue sky of that waning afternoon, stretching above his beloved forest, all turned to gold by the autumn.—"This is not the time to discuss that question, which I have wanted to talk to you about for a long while. We have many charges on the estate. If it still produced what it did once, we could extricate ourselves more easily—and, perhaps, if I had known better how to handle our interests. Consider that there have been two generations over which this outrageous Civil Code has passed, with its compulsory partitions, which are grinding France to powder. Of the income of a million which your great-grandmother saved during the Revolution by not emigrating, and demanding her pretended divorce, how much have I had? Three hundred thousand francs a year, and, in addition, all the burdens of the old days! I say again, this is not the time to talk about it.—For three years?" he added, after a pause. "Who is it? What is her name?"

"Madame Olier," replied the young man.

"Ah!" exclaimed the father, "and she was born—?"

"Mademoiselle Barral."

"Olier?—Barral?—Why, in that case, she is not a person of your own rank? Answer me frankly, my boy. I am your father, the head of your family. You owe it to me. You are her lover? You have a misstep to repair? The child is yours?"

"No, father, I give you my word of honor. Twice in my life I have told her that I loved her. Once when her husband was alive. She refused to see me again except on my promise that I would never speak to her again of my sentiments. The second time was to-day. That was the reason of my being late."

M. de Claviers had listened to this confession with contracted brow and lips tightly closed. His blue eyes took on that sombre hue which his son knew too well. It indicated the clash of profound emotions in that violent temperament. There was between the two men a further pause coincident with the stopping of the motor before the Mauchaussées' house, a dainty structure which the châtelain of Grandchamp placed at the disposal of his former retainer, without rent. The curtains at the windows and the thread of smoke issuing from the chimney bore witness to the physical well-being of these vassals of his charity. He had, however, the countenance of a magistrate rather than an alms-giver as he alighted from the automobile, without speaking to his son, who did not follow him.

The ten minutes which his father passed in the little house seemed immeasurably long to Landri. To be sure he felt as if a weight had been lifted from his heart: the first part of his confession was made, the part that had seemed to him the most formidable to put in words. It touched such a sensitive spot in his heart! Would he have the courage to make the second part, and to inflict another blow upon that man, whom he felt once more to be so impassioned, so loving and so impetuous? By what sort of an explosion would the wrath vent itself, with which he had seen that powerful brow suddenly overcast? Other questions arose in his mind: why had the marquis, whose repugnance for financial affairs was so intense, spoken with such detail of the wealth of the Charluses, and of his own with that reserve laden with hidden meaning? Landri was too unselfish to think of his own future and of the possible diminution of his inheritance. He knew that his father was very wealthy, and he had never wondered at a lavish expenditure which the marquis had seemed always able to support. He had never even asked for his own property after the guardianship accounts were once settled. The marquis gave him an allowance which represented the fifteen hundred thousand francs he had inherited from his mother. Did this enigmatic plaint mean that the grand seigneur would be compelled eventually to reduce an establishment which was as necessary to him as breathing and moving? At the same time that he revolved this question in his mind without putting it to himself so plainly, the young man was thinking of the negotiator of the Charlus marriage.

"What an idea of Jaubourg's to meddle again in my affairs! It's just as it was before about Saint-Cyr. He has never shown anything but antipathy to me, and he is always putting himself between my father and me. That is why he wanted them to send me up to him.—But the door is opening—I must prepare to sustain the assault!—Courage! it's for Valentine."

The charming image passed before his mind. It was exorcised instantly by a chorus of voices saying in the accent of the countryside: "Bonjour, Monsieur le Comte. Is everything right with you. Monsieur le Comte?"—It was the five Mauchaussée children, their mother, grandmother and grandfather, whom the marquis was driving before him toward his son. The wondering, laughing eyes of the little boys and girls, the timid and humble bearing of the two women, the jovial bloated face of the drunkard, supplied a comic illustration of the speech with which M. de Claviers presented them to their future patron.

"Do you recognize them?" he said. "The little monkeys are growing. They are pushing us aside, Mauchaussée, and you too, Madame Martine. Soon they'll be pushing you too, Landri, but you have the time. Come, children, shout, 'Vive Monsieur le Comte!'"

"Vive Monsieur le Comte!" chirped the five children.

"And vive Monsieur le Marquis!" exclaimed Mauchaussée. It was amid acclamations as paradoxical, in the year 1906, as the existence of M. de Claviers himself, that the automobile resumed its journey.

"To the château," he said to Auguste. Then, taking his son's hand and pressing it: "That is why you cannot make the marriage of which you spoke to me just now. It is because of the Mauchaussées and their like,—and they are legion,—who live on us, on the house of Claviers-Grandchamp; for there is a house of Claviers-Grandchamp. Surely you cannot wish to assist in destroying it. When one demolishes a roof, one destroys all the nests in that roof. When one cuts the trunk of one of these trees, all the branches die. Our family, as I told you just now, is like that of the Charluses. Not a mésalliance since 1260. One can count them on one's fingers, such lineages as that. You will not demean yourself."

"Is it demeaning myself," demanded Landri impatiently, "to bring you as your daughter-in-law a woman of irreproachable character, whom I love profoundly and who loves me,—pretty, refined and intelligent? One demeans one's self by lacking a sense of honor. Does it show such a lack to marry according to one's heart, without regard to money, without any secret prompting of ambition? In what way would Madame Olier, having become Comtesse de Claviers-Grandchamp, embarrass the Mauchaussées and all this generous task of supporting traditionary dependents, which forms one of the moral appanages of great families and a raison d'être of the nobility, I fully agree with you;—in what way?"

"In this,—that she is Madame Olier, born Barral, simply; that her child has Olier uncles and aunts and Olier cousins, and she has Barral cousins, perhaps brother and sisters,—a whole social circle. That circle, by marrying her, you make akin to us. That family you ally with ours. You ally it! Dig into that word, so profound in its significance, like all those in which the language simply translates instinctively the experience of ages. That means that between the Oliers, the Barrals, and the Claviers-Grandchamps, you establish a bond of fellowship, that all those existences are bound together.—I will suggest but one question to you: tell the Mauchaussées that Madame de Claviers' cousin keeps a shop, for instance, that he is like one of their own relations. Do you think that Madame de Claviers will retain the same prestige in their eyes? And let us assume that there are no Oliers, no Barrals in this case,—do you think that our kinsfolk, the Candales, the Vardes, the Nançays, the Tillières, in France, and all the others, and the Ardrahans in Scotland, the Gorkas in Poland, and the Stenos in Italy, will be altogether the same to your wife as if she were a Charlus? So that our family unity will be impaired. You will have diminished the importance of the house of Claviers, without failing in honor—that goes without saying. But, do you see, a name like ours is honor with something more."

"Or less," retorted Landri. "Why, yes," he insisted, as his father recoiled in amazement, "less life, life, to which all men have a right, but not I. No right to individual happiness,—you just told me so. No right to individual action. How much it cost you to allow me even to enter the army! What else is there for us to do? Defend tombs? You have the strength for that, but I haven't."

He had never said so much concerning his secret thoughts. It had been too painful to him to hear from the marquis's lips the same objections, in almost the same words, as from Valentine's. He had felt too strongly their implacable and brutal truth. The pain had been all the keener. He had no sooner uttered that cry of rebellion, than he had a passionate reflux of emotion toward his father. He took his hand, saying: "Forgive me!" while M. de Claviers returned the pressure, and answered in an affectionate voice, but so firm, so virile,—the voice of a man who, having reached the evening of his days, girds up his loins and declares that he has not gone astray in his faith.

"Forgive you, and for what, my poor boy? For loving, and for feeling an impulse of rebellion of your whole heart before an obstacle in which all boys of your age, and even of your class, would see to-day, as you do, only a prejudice? For being young, and for having this longing to employ your energy to some purpose, which you cheat by playing at soldiering,—for it is only a game and you know it perfectly well? Suppose that to-morrow the people who rule us order you to execute one of their infamous jobs, the burglarizing of a church, what shall you do?"

As he uttered these words, which by their unconscious divination proved how much he thought about his son, the marquis was looking at his idea. He did not notice the young man's sudden start. On the latter's lips was an exclamation which he did not utter. He listened to the words in which his father continued, with an interest all the more intense, because M. de Claviers was not in the habit of discussing his convictions. He asserted them by his mere presence. Doubtless his affection for Landri warned him that that was a fateful moment, such as most frequently occurs unexpectedly, in the relations of a father and son, when a word misunderstood may lead to tragic dissensions; and as if he were determined to justify in advance the sternness of his veto by arguments impossible of refutation even by him who was destined to be their victim, he explained himself, he confessed himself, or, better still, he thought aloud:—

"Do you think that I have not gone through such rebellions? Do you think that I, too, when my father spoke to me as I am speaking to you, did not ask myself if he were not a man of another century, who did not understand his epoch and who wished to involve me in his error? Do you think that I was not attracted by action, by actions of all sorts, by war, diplomacy, the tribune? that I never heard the voice of the tempter whispering: 'One does not serve the government, one serves France?' How many of my friends listened to that voice! I do not judge them. I could not do it, and I do not repent. This is why. Listen. What I am going to say will seem to you a long way from the starting-point of our conversation. But I do not lose sight of it.—No, I could not do it, because by dint of studying her, I realized that this France, offspring of the Revolution, had other workmen than me to employ, in its barracks, its public offices, its assemblies, and that we were very little able to serve her elsewhere. You have told me sometimes that I had the heart of an 'émigré.' It is true. But who saved France from dismemberment in 1815, if not the 'émigrés,' and Louis XVIII, first of all. Had there been no 'émigrés,' had not the King, supported by that handful of loyal subjects, made himself felt during twenty years in the councils of the coalition, the country would have been partitioned. What did they preserve for it, for that country which was so cruelly hostile to them?—A principle. Who will measure the strength of principles, of social truths, maintained by a group of men, by a single man sometimes, if he is called the King? Ah, well! the disease of France, offspring of the Revolution, does not lie in facts, nor in men, but in lack of principles, or in false principles, which is worse. I am not unjust to her, to this France I speak of. She has worked hard during these hundred years. She is working hard. And what endurance, what a sturdy will, what impetuosity! With all these is she bankrupt in all her aspirations—yes or no? Yes or no, does this country hold in Europe an inferior place to that she held in the worst days of the old monarchy? She is no older than England, however, her great rival in the Middle Ages! Has she progressed in social tranquillity? Has she found stability, that test of all political doctrines, as the regular beating of the pulse is the test of health? The fact is that the Revolution tried to base society on the individual, and that nature insists that it be based on the family. When I understood that great law, I understood the nobility. I understood then that our prejudices were profound social truths, elaborated by that result of experience during long ages which is called custom, and transformed into instinct. It is a profound social truth that there is no increase in the strength of a country unless the efforts of successive generations are combined, unless the living consider themselves as enjoying the usufruct only, between their dead and their descendants. But that is the law of primogeniture and entails! Another profound social truth: families must be deeply rooted in order to endure; they must have territorial interests, they must be amalgamated with the soil. But that means patrimonial domains, which are left undivided that they may not be sold!—Another profound social truth: there must be diverse environments, in order that there may be morals, and there are no environments unless there are classes, and distinct classes. But that means the three estates! Another profound social truth: every individual is simply the sum of those who have preceded him, a single moment in a long lineage. By marrying him to another individual at the same stage of development of her family, there is the chance of obtaining a superior creature, of solidifying acquired characteristics. But that means race!—All these truths the old France put in practice, and they were incarnate in the great Houses! The great Houses! On the instant that I realized their importance and that they were a working-out of the very laws of the family, the rôle of the noble in the presence of the Revolution was made clear to me: to maintain his House first of all. If we had all acted on that theory, what a reserve force France would have had for the hour of the inevitable crisis! However, there are still enough of us who fulfilled that duty, each as he could, especially in the provinces, and in that sturdy rural aristocracy which you will find in existence to-day, as in '71. But, even if I were alone of my kind, I should be no less assured of my duty. If we are fated never to be wanted again, let us at least make a noble end. Decenter mori. An aristocrat should either remain an aristocrat or die. I have remained one. The misfortunes of the time have not allowed me to add a page to the history of the Claviers-Grandchamps, but I have written that history, and I have maintained our house in its place. I have sounded the splendor of the name, as our ancestors said. What more can I say, Landri? Your father has continued his father, who had continued his. They all ask you by my mouth: 'Will you continue us?'"

"I revere you and love you," replied the young man; and it was true that that profession of faith, pronounced by the old nobleman among the trees of the hereditary domain, assumed an almost painful grandeur. After an interval of a hundred years the Claviers-Grandchamp of Condé's army expressed his thoughts by the mouth of his grandson with that self-consciousness which is one of the characteristics of the thoroughbred. He realized that, before they disappear, the social species like the animal species spend their last vigor in producing most perfect types in which all the excellences of all that have gone before are consummated. Once more Landri had a realizing sense of the superiority of that man who, for lack of a suitable environment, had spent his long life in attitudinizing, and for motives so profound, so blended with the most generous idealism! He was too intelligent not to understand the bearing of the lofty philosophy amassed by M. de Claviers in his solemn harangue. In spite of himself, as was so often the case, his mind acquiesced in ideas which, none the less, he did not choose to accept. In what utter solitude they had confined his father! His heart, too, rebelled against it. "The profound social truths," as the marquis had said, are but cold friends of mature years. A lover of less than thirty will always sacrifice them to a glance from two bright blue eyes, to a reflection of the light upon golden hair. Images of that sort were still floating before Landri's eyes; they gave him strength to argue with his father.

"But in that old France, which you claim to continue, the classes intermingled, and by marriages, too. Colbert's daughter was a duchess, Monsieur de Mesmes' daughter a duchess, Gilles Ruellan's daughter a duchess, and Colbert's father was a draper, Monsieur de Mesmes' father a peasant of Mont-de-Marsan, and Gilles Ruellan had been a carter."

"That is true," rejoined M. de Claviers. "But in those days France was sound. She was like those strong constitutions which can safely indulge in deviations from a regular diet. The great houses were not attacked. The great social truths which their existence alone represents to-day did not need to be defended in every detail. There is not enough 'irreconcilability' in our time, even among us, for me to renounce mine. I admired nothing so much in my youth as the attitude of the Comte de Chambord, when he carried his white banner,—and how many understood it, even among our friends? No, Landri, one does not compromise in the defence of a vanquished principle. One can never defend it too vigorously."

"Then, if I should come some day to ask your consent—" the young man queried, with a tremor.

"To marry Madame Olier? I shall refuse to give it."

"And if I should do without it?" he ventured to say.

"You will not do without it. She is the one, do you hear, she is the one who will not allow it. I know you, my Landri," continued the father, in an affectionate tone in striking contrast to the evident inflexibility of his decision. "For you to love this woman so dearly, she must be very pure and of a very delicate sense of honor. It was she who insisted that you should speak to me before she gave you her answer, was it not? Such a woman will never consent to marry you against your father's declared wish. If she were not magnanimous and high-minded to that degree, you would not love her."

"And if it were so, you would not be touched?"

"There is no question here of my emotions, my son, nor of yours. It is a question of our name. Military heroism is not the only sort. There is a family heroism. As a soldier, you would consider it a perfectly natural thing to sacrifice your life. A man of a certain name should consider it natural to sacrifice his happiness. But is there really so much at stake? It is a crisis, and it will pass away. In any event," he added, in a tone of affectionate banter, "you haven't asked for my consent. So that I have not refused it. We have talked about plans, probabilities, supposititious cases—nothing more. All the same, be agreeable to Marie de Charlus this evening. Don't be too angry with her for having distinguished you, as our grandmothers used so prettily to say. And now let us enjoy what my grandmother left us. Here we are out of the forest and in the park. If the fearless woman had not stayed here, during the Terror, everything would have been cut down, devastated, burned, pillaged. I never return to Grandchamp without giving her a thought."

He ceased to speak, and his blue eyes were filled with pious veneration as he looked at the château, a sedate and grandiose structure in Mansart's very earliest manner. In the eighteenth century a Claviers-Grandchamp, to whom a friend, in gratitude for a service rendered him, had bequeathed a fortune made in the Compagnie des Indes, had reconstructed it inside without touching the façade. In front lay an immense garden à la française. Twelve gardeners were required to keep up this marvel, laid out in flower-beds, ponds and tree-lined paths, with many bronze groups about the ponds, and stone statues in the paths. In that closing hour of a lovely day, in that atmosphere now so delicately tinged with gray, the garden was a beautiful sight. Like those of Versailles, and of the whole seventeenth century, it bore the physiognomy of nature respected in its strength and at the same time guided, regulated and harmonized in its expansions. It was in truth visible "order," the order of the society of olden time whence the Claviers-Grandchamps had sprung. The trees, which were still vigorous, but pruned and trimmed, did not put forth their leaves until they had been disciplined.

At the close of this conversation, Landri's wounded sensibility found a symbol of his destiny in the aspect of that garden. He, too, like those trees, bore witness to the effects of discipline. No more than they could he develop freely. He should never marry Valentine,—M. de Claviers reasoned too justly. She would never enter a noble family without the consent of its head. The allusion made by the far-sighted and implacable marquis to the possibilities of his military career, finished freezing his heart. What should he do, in either case? The tree in the hedge which pushes its branches beyond the line fixed by the gardener destroys the fine ensemble, and it will never bloom. It retains the marks of the hatchet that pruned it. In the hedge they added to its beauty. They are a mutilation when it stands by itself. Such is the fate of the member of a caste who cuts loose from it and essays to live for himself. But nobility, great houses, caste, mésalliances,—were not all these ideas a mere phantasmagoria, a superstition, the imaginary residuum of an abolished reality, an absurd anachronism in the France of to-day?—Away from his father the son would have answered yes. He could not do it at that moment, in that carriage where he could hear the slightest movement and the very breathing of that man, so intensely alive, who imparted to his beliefs that ardent flame of his individual life which gave them their inspiration. The prestige of his father's presence acted anew upon Landri, with such force that he could not even blame the paternal determination, against which he would rebel to-morrow, but at a distance,—and he fell into a fit of melancholy which M. de Claviers finally observed. With his temperament the "Émigré" was most worthy to utter the words of Don Diego, savage and sublime in his dauntless manliness:—

Il n'est qu'un seul honneur, il est tant de maîtresses.[3]

He had almost quoted it in characterizing his son's passion as a mere passing crisis, and once more there was a world of compassion, a world of affection in the tone in which he renewed the conversation, in order to divert his mind from his thoughts:—

"Can you imagine the existence of that woman here, under the Terror? You know that a denunciation against her was the cause of the proposal of that villain Roland, in a committee of the Legislative Assembly, in November, '92, that the decree of the 20th of September should be suspended so far as the wives of 'émigrés' were concerned. If it had not been for the procureur-syndic de Thury, a former gardener of ours, her being legally divorced would have availed her nothing, they would have taken everything from her, and her life with the rest. She never ceased to correspond with her husband. She went twice to see him, and she received him here three times. One shudders to think of those interviews! But what courage! What heroism, to repeat my former word! It was of us that she was thinking, she was determined to defend the inheritance, the House. With her jewels she might have passed all those years happily in Germany or in England, and she died, worn out with grief, in 1804. From veneration for her memory, my grandfather would never allow anything to be changed inside the château, nor my father, nor I. Nothing, nothing, nothing. When I am no longer here, I authorize you to have the telephone put in, as you are more up-to-date than your old father," he concluded, laughingly, "but that's all!—Ah! there's the worthy Bressieux conspiring with Chaffin again. They are far greater changes that he has in his head than the installation of a telephone. It seems that certain details are not in style, and thereupon Monsieur Chaffin comes and bores me with dissertations on door-knobs and tiles at the back of the fireplace, and shutter-fastenings, which Bressieux has taught him. Nothing, nothing, nothing! I will change nothing. I don't know where I have read that line of an English poet, 'The Siren loves the sea, and I the past.'—Come, come, Bressieux!" he cried in his strong, resonant voice through the window of the automobile, "don't spoil Chaffin for me altogether. He will end by refusing to live at Grandchamp any longer, because it's not pure enough."

Louis de Bressieux was in fact standing at an angle of the château, intently considering—so it seemed, at all events—the detail of the decoration of a window on the ground floor. He had not yet changed his hunting costume, and the visor of his velvet cap concealed his eyes. Beside him stood a man of small stature, thick-set, with hair once red, now turning gray,—one of those men whose crabbed countenance leads one at a glance to judge them to be very frank and downright. His gleaming eyes, shifting and impenetrable, indicated that he concealed many complexities behind the rough bonhomie of his manners. He was Landri's former tutor, promoted twelve years before to the rank of general factotum, which was not likely to be a sinecure with the very large income of the Marquis de Claviers, and his expenditures, which, alas! were much larger. He called him, it will be remembered, "my good Chaffin," as he said "my good Jaubourg," and "the worthy Bressieux." A learned connoisseur of human nature has said: "He who does not make up his mind to be a dupe will never be magnanimous"; and the admirable Marquis de Claviers-Grandchamp was truly magnanimous. How surprised he would have been if, at the moment when he called to Bressieux, one of those modern machines—the objects of his half-sincere, half-simulated aversion—had been at hand to record and transmit to him the conversation which his sudden arrival had interrupted!

"The affair must be settled within ten days, at the latest," Bressieux was saying. "The two American dealers are to sail December eighth. I know them. They won't postpone their sailing. They want to carry the tapestries with them. If the thing drags, they'll back out. The other dealers haven't the means to make up the whole amount. In that case it's a public sale, with all its risks. Everybody will know that the marquis is embarrassed. You won't find the four millions. It's in his interest that I speak to you."

"And it's his interest that I have in mind, no less," replied Chaffin. "Four millions? The debts would be paid,—the largest ones,—and perhaps he would consent to cut down his establishment. But he won't allow me to mention the subject. I didn't dare even to show him the summonses last week. He refuses to acknowledge, what he is well aware of, however, that he is ruined. The idea that I, who know how attached he is to this whole château,—he wouldn't let so much as a cup be sold,—should suggest to him to sell everything at one stroke, tapestries, furniture, portraits!"

"But is he absolutely driven to such a sale, or is he not?"

"He is."

"Has he any way whatever of escaping it?"

"He has not, unless millions should fall from the sky."

"Or a friend, Jaubourg, for example, should leave him his fortune?" insinuated Bressieux.

"He would leave it to Monsieur le Comte Landri," said Chaffin hastily, "who would not accept it." He continued, after a pause during which the two men avoided looking at each other, like people who know a thing, know that they know it, and do not choose to admit it: "Oh, well! it's through Monsieur le Comte Landri that I will act. I owe it to him, to him as well, that his fortune shall not be swallowed up in the pit. I will tell him the truth, and that this offer to purchase all the treasures of the château in a lump is an unhoped-for piece of luck, the only way of gaining time. It will be enough for him to revoke the general power of attorney that he gave his father, and to demand his principal. Monsieur le Marquis cannot give it to him. To avoid undergoing that humiliation before his son, he will give way.—But I hear his voice. This very evening I will speak to Landri. You shall have his answer at once."

And they went forward together to meet the motor from which M. de Claviers and Landri were alighting. The two confederates had not uttered a word which placed them at each other's mercy, and yet the real basis of this interview was one of those villainous piratical "deals" of which the international traffic in antiquities has made more than one of late years in France and elsewhere, involving the relics of historic fortunes. The "good Chaffin" was simply an unfaithful steward who had wallowed at his ease for ten or twelve years in the careless prodigality of his lord, and he was preparing to retire, pocketing a handsome percentage of a sum offered by a syndicate of dealers in curios for the treasures preserved intact at Grandchamp by the heroism of the grandmother. Louis de Bressieux, for his part, had got wind of the dealings of the wicked servitor with the second-hand trade, and had succeeded in assuring himself a broker's commission by interesting in the affair the two most famous American dealers in antiquities. It was quite true that such a sale, effected at that moment, might save the rest of the property, and that pretext was the ostensible cloak of a transaction which the two managers of the unclean intrigue were craftily carrying forward, unknown to the alleged beneficiary thereof. This silence convicted them. Such is the commanding prestige of a certain quality in man, that the felonious manager and the profit-sharing friend felt a vague remorse that embarrassed them with respect to each other when the marquis said to them with a cordial, loyal laugh:—

"It's of no use for you to try to debauch me, Chaffin and Bressieux. While I live, nothing in the château shall be touched; when I am dead, I hope that it will be the same," he added, laying his hand on his son's shoulder.

[1]"Being bound simply to observe here that it is folly to think that any of our kings ever bore frogs. On the contrary, what has been written to that effect came from the enemies of French honor, and in derision of the fact that they are descended from the Paluds meotides."

[2]Within these shady woods and forests Are wild boars and shy, timid hinds, And shoats, and young of hinds and does, And antlered stags, to woodsmen known; In brief, all pleasure, solace and delight That huntsman may in woodland fair enjoy.

[3]There is but one honor, there are many mistresses.

III
THE TRAGIC UNDERSIDE OF A GRAND EXISTENCE

"Nothing in the château shall be touched!" repeated Chaffin half an hour later. He was climbing the grand staircase on his way to the apartment that Landri occupied when he came to Grandchamp,—the apartment of the eldest son. It was twelve years already since the last-born, become the only son, had been installed therein.—"Everything shall be touched, monsieur le marquis!" And the disloyal steward's face expressed the hatred that wicked servants feel for their betrayed masters while he looked at the Beauvais panels on the walls, one of the glories of the château, the complete set of tapestries representing Chinese scenes after Fontenay, Vernensaal and Dumont. Princes, in rich Asiatic costumes, were seated on Persian carpets. Princesses, arrayed in white stuffs embellished with precious stones, rode in palanquins. Servants carried parasols. Negro boys offered fruits under canopies enwreathed with foliage.

It was long, long ago that Chaffin had first climbed those stairs and marvelled, with the stupefaction of a petty bourgeois suddenly transported into a scene of fashionable life, at all that magnificence befitting the "Thousand and One Nights!" He was then a poor professor, unattached, married, with a family of children. He had just been introduced into the château by the chaplain, as tutor to the youngest son. The priest, who had educated the older sons, was too old to undertake another task of the sort. He dreaded the presence of another ecclesiastic. Being instructed by the marquis to find some one, he remembered an instructor whom he had met in a religious boarding-school in Paris. He, on being appealed to, suggested his colleague Chaffin.

In consenting, as he had done, to entrust Landri's education to a chance tutor, M. de Claviers had conformed once more to the classic type of the Grand Seigneur. One is amazed at the extraordinary facility with which, in all times, people who bear the greatest names abandon their children to uncertain influences. Even princes are no more painstaking in this respect. A youth upon whom the future of an empire depends will sometimes have been educated by a withered fruit of the University, comparable for refinement to the Regent's Dubois! Luckily for Landri, Chaffin still had, at that time, the habits of a father of a family, if not genuine virtues. Married and having children of his own, his guaranties of honorable conduct were real. But, as he had passed his fortieth year without succeeding in anything, he was already embittered and very near looking upon humble toilers of his own sort as social dupes. The atmosphere of great luxury, which he had entered thus without preparation, spoiled him. It was agreed that he should live with his pupil. This arrangement, separating him from his home and his former life, had made him helpless against his new environment. Thereupon Chaffin had undergone the secret, gradual process of corruption inevitably forced upon the poor plebeian, when he is essentially vulgar, by the discovery of the hidden immoralities of the nobly born and the wealthy. It is a genuine apprenticeship in depravity, is this official pessimism, compounded of secret envy and mean espionage.

When the marquis—his son's education being completed—had offered him the post of secretary-manager, Chaffin was ripe for the rôle of intendant "after the old manner." M. de Claviers' expression is only too appropriate here. This appointment was for the châtelain of Grandchamp an heroic resolution: tired of the constant waste, he had determined to administer his fortune himself. That is generally the moment at which, with persons of his rank, the final ruin begins. After three months the so-called secretary settled the accounts alone, and before the end of the first year the peculations had begun. They had multiplied from settling-day to settling-day, to reach their climax in the detestable conspiracy already mentioned, which a group of usurious dealers in curios was about to execute upon the treasures of Grandchamp, with his assistance.

By what steps had the conscience of the former professor descended to that degree of dishonesty? The change in his features during the last years told the story. The arrogant unrest of the thief, always on the brink of detection, distorted his face, sharpened his eyes, imparted uncertainty to his movements. But we cease to look at the persons whom we see every day. The marquis had not observed those tell-tale indications, nor had Landri. Moreover, the moment that the knave was in their presence, he kept watch upon himself with a circumspection that became more rigid as his villainies multiplied. So it was, that, when he had reached the top of the staircase and stood before the door behind which he knew that he should find the young man, he did not knock until he had paused a moment, long enough to compose his features; and when he entered, upon the response from within to his knock, the harsh and sneering cynic had disappeared. There was only the humble and faithful retainer of the family, deeply moved but self-restrained, upon whom his devotion enjoins the most painful of measures. He hesitates no longer. His secret chokes him. He must cry out. This rôle was all the easier to maintain under the circumstances because Chaffin was hardly going to lie. His plan, formidable in its very simplicity, by which he expected to ensure himself for all time against any suspicion of complicity, consisted in setting before the marquis's heir the true situation of the house of Claviers-Grandchamp in the year of grace 1906. He proposed to be silent only concerning his own peculations and his understanding with the leaders of the final assault.

"What is it, my good Chaffin?" inquired the young man. To receive his visitor, he had risen from the lounging chair in which he had passed some terrible moments, since he had left his father, in going over again and again the details, so cruel to him, of their conversation. "What has happened? You frighten me."

At sight of his former tutor's discomposed countenance the thought of an accident suddenly flashed through his mind—that the marquis had had a stroke.

"No, nothing has happened," replied Chaffin, "nothing as yet! But I cannot bear to be silent any longer. If you had not come to Grandchamp to-day, I should have gone to Saint-Mihiel. Things cannot go on so. I should go mad. I should kill myself.—Landri, Monsieur de Claviers won't let me speak to him. I have the title of secretary, which means that I am the manager of the property. Well! if things go on as they are going, Landri, I shall be manager of nothing. There will be no property, do you hear, no property, nothing, nothing—"

"You say that my father won't let you speak to him," Landri interrupted. "You surprise me beyond measure. He is giving much thought himself to the situation of affairs. He complained to me to-day of the heaviness of his burdens. Come, calm yourself, my dear master;" and he added these words, so absolute was his confidence in that man who represented to him his early youth: "Your affection for us makes very trivial difficulties seem tragic, I am sure. Tell me what they are."

"I will give you the figures," rejoined Chaffin simply, "and you can judge whether I exaggerate. Do you know how much Monsieur le Marquis owes on his real estate—Grandchamp, the house on Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Honoré, your houses in Plaine Monceau, and the villas at Cabourg—all told? Two million five hundred and fifty thousand francs, divided as follows: seventeen hundred and fifty thousand francs to the Credit Foncier, and eight hundred thousand to another creditor. We have on this account more than a hundred and fifty thousand francs of interest a year to pay, before any other outlay."

"If it were anybody else but you I should think that I was dreaming," said Landri, after a pause. He repeated: "Two million five hundred and fifty thousand francs? And my father has an income of more than four hundred thousand! Is it possible? He doesn't gamble. His life is beyond reproach. He has no racing stable. Where has all that money gone?"

"You shall know in a moment," replied the implacable Chaffin. "First let us finish with the debts. There are others. Besides the mortgages there are the unsecured notes. Under this head he owes more than two millions more,—I mean for sums borrowed on his signature. I say nothing of overdue accounts with tradespeople, wages in arrears, and all the rest. That's another million perhaps, but it's a floating debt with which I deal as best I can. It's a daily battle. I fight it and win it! With these negotiable notes, I can do nothing. Look you, Landri. When I have told you everything you will share my desperation. The two millions, as you can imagine, are not a single debt. There are ten, fifteen, twenty different debts. There were, I should say. For to-day—But let me go into details. You are going to learn how these debts have reached such fantastic figures by the brutal piling-up of interest, very simply, and why I used the past tense. There was, for instance, a Gruet debt. I select it for it is typical, and because in connection with it the bomb has burst. In 1903 we were absolutely in need of three hundred thousand francs. Maître Métivier, our notary, obtained them for us through one Monsieur Gruet, an honest broker,—for there are such; there is this one, for instance, as you can judge,—with an office on Rue Lafayette. The loan fell due July 15, 1905. We were not ready. Gruet himself tells me of a money-lender, not overgrasping, one Madame Müller, who keeps a second-hand shop on Rue de la Chaussée-d'Antin. I go there on the chance. To my great surprise she consents. She reimburses Gruet and the notes are assigned to her before a notary. Nothing more correct, as you see. But on July 15 last the three hundred thousand Gruet francs had become three hundred and forty-six thousand five hundred Müller francs: two years' interest to the date of maturity in 1905, thirty thousand, plus sixteen thousand five hundred for 1905-1906. Let us follow it out. On this 15th of July the like inability to pay. Appeals to Madame Müller, entreaties,—it was I who made them. I would submit to much worse things for Monsieur le Marquis! A little time was given me, and one fine day this Gruet debt, which had become a Müller debt, has become an Altona debt. The first notice is served on us. I conceal the fact from Monsieur le Marquis, understand, and I go at once to this Altona. I find a man installed in a magnificent mansion on Place Vendôme, with the air of a grand seigneur I should say, if I did not know Monsieur le Marquis and you, Landri—and beautiful antiques all about him. It was a stock in trade arranged as a collection—a museum for sale at retail. This Altona receives me with the manners of a prince, and composedly, calmly, he informs me that the Müller claim is not the only one he has bought. A quantity of our other notes are in his hands or in those of his men of straw. Not all of them, but almost all. He has them to the amount of more than fourteen hundred thousand francs. He has accumulated all that he could. With no less composure he declares that he is acting for a syndicate of his brethren. There is a large number of them who have had their eyes for years on the treasures preserved at Grandchamp. How did they obtain their information concerning Monsieur le Marquis's embarrassment? How did they succeed in learning the names of the money-lenders to whom we had to apply? How did they negotiate with them? I can not tell you. I know nothing about it. This much is certain, that that first bailiff's notice was the shot that opened the engagement. In short, they are in a position to proceed against us and to have us sold up by process of law. Altona did not conceal from me his purpose to proceed mercilessly unless—"

"Unless what?" demanded Landri, as the other paused. "Finish your sentence."

"Unless we accept the offer he made me on behalf of his partners—that is evidently the coup they have prepared. 'We have calculated,' he said, still with his perfect courtesy, 'the risks of a public sale. We may gain by it, we may lose. Certain pieces which we can place advantageously at once may escape us. We prefer to make you a proposition to buy the whole in one lump. We will give you four millions cash for the lot, that is, for all the articles enumerated in the pièce justificative No. 44, in the appendix of the book on the "History of the House of Grandchamp." Both you and we will do a good stroke of business. You too avoid the possible loss of an auction. You have your debts paid and more than two millions in cash to put you on your feet again. As for us, our profit is assured. We have with us two Americans who will give fifteen hundred thousand francs for the tapestries alone. You have a fortnight to decide.'—I repeat what he said, word for word.—A fortnight! It was six days ago that I had the interview with this Altona, and I haven't yet found the courage to inform Monsieur le Marquis! And you expect me not to feel as if my brain was going."

"I am the one to tell him," cried the young man, "and instantly. You have lost six days, Chaffin, six days out of fourteen! You have failed seriously in your duty. Let us go to him."

"And tell him what?" queried the secretary, placing himself before the door toward which Landri had already taken a step.

"Why, the facts, just as they are."

"And with what result? With the result that he'll refuse to believe you, against all the evidence, and say: 'Touch Grandchamp!—they'll not dare!'—Or else he'll use the week in looking for money, enough to pay the Altona gang. It may be that he'll find it, for, after all, the tapestries and furniture and pictures and bronzes are here, and we know they're worth at least four millions, as the other man offers that. Well, then, Monsieur le Marquis finds the money. At what price? He borrows at twenty, thirty, perhaps fifty per cent. And in a year we're just where we are now, with this difference, that our two millions due on those notes will have become two millions three hundred thousand, to say nothing of getting four or five hundred thousand francs more to continue during that year a sort of life that must at any price be changed. You hear, Landri—it must! You have reproached me for neglecting my duty. It is true that I haven't been able to say to your father those horrible words: you must. Consider that all this wreck of his vast fortune is due to the fact that he would never consent to say to himself those two little words: I must. You ask me where that fortune has gone. Why, in living at the rate of five hundred thousand francs a year, when he and Madame la Marquise had four hundred thousand—as you said just now—when they married. With a pencil and paper and two columns, one of income, one of outgo, I will show you the whole thing in a nutshell. The marquis was determined to keep up the same establishment at Grandchamp that his father did with almost twice his income, and his grandfather with three times as much. Madame your aunt and madame your great-aunt carried the rest with them to the Nançays and the Vardes. Monsieur le Marquis is always cursing the Civil Code, and he is quite right. But it is the Civil Code, and it's stronger than we are and than he is. He has kept up the château as if he were your grandfather and great-grandfather. Do you know what that means? In the first place, a hundred thousand francs for the park, gardens and conservatories, plus sixty thousand for the hounds, forty thousand for the shooting, thirty-five thousand for the stables. We have got to two hundred and thirty-five thousand at once. And so with the rest. The table? We have forty people at dinner to-night, and the marquis would consider himself disgraced if his chef were not cited as one of the best in Paris! The servants? You know how many there are, and you know too that Monsieur le Marquis never dreams of parting with an old retainer without giving him a pension. We had a discussion only yesterday about young Mauchaussée. Twelve hundred francs to the father, and a house; twelve hundred francs to the son. There are more than thirty others taken care of in the same way. That makes forty thousand francs. And there are demands all day to which Monsieur le Marquis makes but one reply: 'Give.' And we give—for brotherhoods and sisterhoods, for hospitals and churches, for schools, and for the elections. Without counting the private alms, which don't pass through my hands. A hundred thousand francs put in Monsieur de Lautrec's hand, without a receipt, just when we are so straightened, to settle a gambling debt! I have the proof of it. I spoke to Monsieur le Marquis about it. I had the courage.—'If we don't help one another,' was his reply, 'who will help us?'—That he should do such things the first or second year, in '66 and '67, even down to the war, was natural. But when he saw the income of the property decreasing, the mortgages growing bigger, the unpaid bills piling up, that he did not try to stop is extraordinary. But it's the fact. I understand it so well. Every economy was a degradation of the house of Grandchamp, and degradation of a concrete sort, which he could have seen with his eyes and touched with his hands. Economies, do I say? There were the hedges trimmed every three years,—but in the interval? the avenues not so well kept,—but after the rains?—Fewer flowers in the beds, fewer horses in the stable, stag-hunting with fewer dogs and fewer whippers-in! His heart was nearly broken. He went back the next year. The debt increased. It whirled him off in its eddies. And then, he has always hoped; yesterday, it was a fortunate investment,—Monsieur Jaubourg had put him on the track of a good thing. He gained a hundred and twenty thousand francs. A drop of water in the desert! Day, before yesterday, one of your cousins. Monsieur de Nançay, died and left him a hundred thousand francs. Another drop of water. These unexpected windfalls misled him with a mirage which harmonized only too well with his hereditary instinct. It would be easier for him to break off his habits altogether, than to change—that is the conclusion at which I have arrived. On that account, Landri, I look upon this offer of Altona's as providential, you understand. Monsieur le Marquis must accept it. Grandchamp once emptied of its furnishings, which are sacred reliques to him, he will never want to come here again. No more gardens à la française. At all events we will reduce the cost of keeping them. No more stag-hunting, no more open house. With what is left he will still have enough to live very handsomely. We will let the shooting, the château perhaps. Then we will begin to redeem the mortgages. The house of Claviers-Grandchamp will be shorn of its splendor for a few years. But it will live up to its motto: E tenebris inclarescent. It will not go down forever."

Engrossed by the heat of his demonstration, Chaffin had made a false step. He had changed his tone as he dwelt upon the figures,—a terrible commentary on the harangue delivered by the marquis to his son in the forest two hours earlier, on the splendor of the name! To be sure, the heartless jubilation of the ascent of the staircase no longer gleamed threateningly in his yellow eyes; but his despicable sentiments toward his imprudent and magnanimous employer made themselves manifest in the pitiless clearness with which he thought and spoke of the disaster. He thought that he knew Landri well, knowing him to be eminently impressionable, and having formerly contributed, by dint of surreptitious criticism, to detach him from his milieu. He had seen how he stood out against the marquis on the subject of Saint-Cyr. Moreover, was it not now a question of the swallowing-up of his future inheritance? He was aware neither of the extent of the young man's unselfishness nor how deeply the genuine poesy of M. de Claviers' character stirred the chords of that tender heart. That poesy the brutal draftsman of the balance-sheet of ruin did not even suspect. His picture of the marquis's life, so foolishly ill-ordered but so generous, his indictment rather, wherein he had emphasized the grand seigneur's craze for appearances, without sufficiently setting forth his idealism and his charity, was strangely at variance with the attitude of a faithful and growling watch-dog which he ordinarily affected. Landri felt the difference, by instinct only. The revelation of the impending catastrophe impressed him much too painfully. It was enough, however, for him to feel an unconquerable longing to identify himself with his father, and he replied:—

"What? You entertain that idea, you, Chaffin? The furniture of Grandchamp sold? The treasures that our grandmother rescued so heroically in '93, dispersed? My father driven from his house by that vile crew? Never! I would rather sacrifice my own fortune!"

"Well!" insinuated Chaffin, "ask him for it."

"Don't tell me that it is swallowed up, like—" exclaimed the young man. He did not finish the sentence, but said emphatically: "I know that's not true!"

"It isn't true, in fact," rejoined the secretary. "Monsieur le Marquis still has a capital much larger than the fifteen hundred thousand francs that you inherited from Madame de Claviers. After he rendered his accounts as guardian, you gave him a general power of attorney which included the right to sell and to mortgage. You did it because he inherited a fourth of your mother's property, say five hundred thousand francs. That property consisted in part of houses. You insisted that it should remain undivided. It is sufficient, therefore, for him to be all straight with you, that he should turn over to you the fifteen hundred thousand francs, the income of which he has always paid you in full; he can do it, but on one condition, and that is a sine qua non: he must sell the personal property at Grandchamp,—the only thing that he can realize on. The lands and buildings are so loaded down with mortgages and so hard to turn into cash,—we need not talk of that. How long should you have to wait, do you suppose? And you would not be a privileged creditor. You have come of yourself to the point to which I was trying to bring you. That is the whole motive of my action, Landri. You can get Monsieur de Claviers out of this cul-de-sac, you and nobody else, and you can do it by demanding your fortune."

"I? of him?"

"Yes, you, and by withdrawing your power of attorney. He will not choose, that you should for a second suspect him of having misused it. He won't have any peace until he has restored it all to you, on the spot. If Altona's four million is offered him at that moment, he'll accept it. Grandchamp stripped of its treasures is horrible to think of, I agree. But one can refurnish a dismantled château. One can not reconstruct a squandered fortune, and with five years more of this life yours is gone, forever. I owed you the truth. I have told it to you. Make up your mind."

While Chaffin was formulating these suggestions Landri looked at him in such a way that the other had to avert his eyes. For the first time the former pupil of the dishonest steward asked himself this question: "Is this really the same man?" In the flare of a sudden intuition he caught a glimpse of the dangerous plot woven about the ancient estate, one of the artisans of which was this man who advised him—to do what? To commit moral parricide, in view of M. de Claviers' character. But it was only a gleam. This cruel advice might, after all, have been suggested to the steward, at his wits' end, by the desperation born of one of those crises in affairs in which humanity vanishes before the implacability of figures. However that might be, Landri had been wounded too deeply in his instinctive delicacy, and a restrained indignation trembled in his reply.

"I will not do that," he said. "I prefer anything to losing his heart. My first impulse was the true one. I must tell him everything, and instantly. The future of the family is at stake, and he is its head. It is for him to decide, not me. Let us go."

"I have done all that I can," said Chaffin. "You refuse. Let us go."

He opened the door, and instantly the two men found themselves face to face with Landri's valet. The man was waiting in the corridor, ready to go in as soon as his master should be free.

"Was he listening?" said Chaffin to himself. "Bah! they've known it all for a long while."

He slandered the man, who was the son of one of the old lamp-men of the château. Grandchamp was lighted throughout by oil, and it required three men specially assigned for that service!—This valet had a message to deliver, the mysterious nature of which disturbed him. Such was the exceedingly simple explanation of his standing sentry.

"A person wishes to speak with Monsieur le Comte at once. It is very urgent and very important, but it's only for a word. The person is waiting in Monsieur le Comte's bedroom."

"If it's only for a word," said Landri, himself astonished, even in his trouble, by that message and the messenger's insistence, "I will go. I will return in a moment, Chaffin, wait for me. Do you, Jean, go and find where Monsieur le Marquis is just now."

"Landri will tell Monsieur de Claviers nothing," repeated the former tutor when he was left alone. That meeting of their glances, a few moments before, had revealed to him an unsuspected energy and perspicacity in his pupil. He had accepted without further remonstrance the proposition to tell the marquis the truth, for fear of arousing suspicion. He answered it in anticipation, mentally: "But then, let him tell him all. What does it matter to me? My accounts are all straight. I have never acted without written authority.—No. He won't tell him anything. No one can speak to that man. Landri will think better of it. He's going to Paris to-morrow. He'll take advice. Advice? From whom? Jaubourg perhaps. No, he doesn't like him, and he loves, yes, adores, the marquis! The voice of the blood is like their wonderful Race; what an excellent joke!" Chaffin sneered. In thought he insulted his master twice over, in his person and in his ideas. "Landri will go and see Métivier, the notary, it's more likely. Yes, that's the better way. Métivier will send for me. When he knows the situation of affairs, he'll agree with me. This Altona offer means, at one per cent, forty thousand francs for me. By the same token, for them it means salvation."

The cunning calculator hardly suspected that if, resorting to the degrading practice of which he had instantly accused the valet, he had placed his ear against the door of the next room, he would have heard arrangements made for one of the very interviews that he had imagined. The "person"—as Jean discreetly said—who was awaiting Landri was the maître d'hôtel of the invalid on Rue de Solferino, who had come all the way from Paris to say to the young man:—

"When Monsieur Jaubourg learned that Monsieur le Comte had called to inquire for him without going upstairs, he was very much put out—more than put out, distressed. I must needs take the first train for Clermont. He is absolutely determined to see Monsieur le Comte. I am to insist that Monsieur le Comte come to-morrow if he passes through Paris again.—Monsieur Jaubourg is so ill, Monsieur le Comte! If he lasts two or three days, the skies will fall! He was very particular to tell me not to show myself, so that Monsieur le Marquis should not know of my coming. He was afraid of disturbing him too much. However, here I am."

"Tell Monsieur Jaubourg I will come to-morrow at eleven o'clock," replied Landri. The care taken by a dying man to spare his old friend a pang touched him. He felt the delicacy of it all the more keenly because his heart was frozen, as it were, by the deferential brutality of formal respect, so cruel in reality, of his former tutor. At any other time, the peculiarity of the proceeding, sending this servant a two hours' journey by railway, would have puzzled him; but a too genuine and too present anxiety suspended in him all morbid labor of the imagination, and while he was going down the stairs with Chaffin, it mattered little to him what Jaubourg's reasons were for desiring so earnestly to see him, or whether it was or was not for the purpose of insisting on his marriage to Marie de Charlus.

Jean had returned to say that M. de Claviers-Grandchamp was in the dining-room. And it was there that the son and the secretary found the improvident owner of the treasures coveted by the Altona band. The grand seigneur still wore his hunting costume. He had not had a quarter of an hour to himself since his return. He was engaged now with his major-domo—another example of his grand manner—in arranging the seats around the enormous table, which was all laid and ready. Innumerable lighted candles already shone upon the silver plate engraved by Roëttiers. The flat dishes displayed their edges of interlaced ribbons on the brilliant whiteness of the cloth, around the central épergne, a masterpiece signed by Germain. It represented the abduction of Europa, on a large rocaille pedestal. Wainscoting rebuilt in the eighteenth century, in the style of Gabriel, covered the walls of the octagonal room. Eight pillars at the eight angles, fluted, and topped by Corinthian capitals, imparted a majestic aspect, which was enlivened by four high Gobelin tapestries, of Oudry's hunting series, alternating with mirrors. On occasions like this these panels prolonged on the walls the day's amusement, as did the hunting-horns surrounded by laurel-branches, chefs-d'œuvre of Gonthière, which could be distinguished in the decorations. The cream-white tone of the woodwork harmonized with that of the cane-seated dining-chairs, and with the reflection of the central chandelier, of Venetian glass,—a caprice of one of the châtelaines of former days, the wife of the restorer of Grandchamp, whose portrait by Parrocel was set into the wall over the white marble chimneypiece. He was on horseback and wore the uniform of a lieutenant-general,—which he had earned by being wounded at Fontenoy,—the cuirass under the light blue coat, the white scarf, the red ribbon, and held in his hand the baton of a general.

This ensemble, with the soft and vivid hues of the flowers, blended with the glistening of the glasses, imparted a touch of grace amid all the magnificence, which suddenly assumed a tragic aspect in the young man's eyes. The figures set forth by Chaffin appeared on the walls as distinctly as the Mene-Tekel-Upharsin of the Biblical feast; and as suddenly he was conscious of that impossibility which the other had foreseen—the impossibility of inflicting the pain of a similar vision upon the impoverished and superb "Émigré," whose last joy this sumptuous entertainment might prove to be—a childish joy, but heartfelt and earnest in its bountiful outflow.

"Forty!" he cried as soon as he saw his son: "there will surely be forty of us. An Academy!—I made up the number by inviting our neighbors the Sicards, and some friends they have with them, the Saint-Larys. Two charming couples! I will indulge my old eyes with their youthful happiness.—Well, Chaffin, was I right in ordering dinner for forty? You won't accuse me of wastefulness again." And he laughed his frank, hearty laugh. "Look at our Parrocel, Landri. Hasn't he a look of the place? To think that I shall never see you dressed like that, even if you're a general some day and I am still in this world! Ah! the fine bright uniforms of the old days! And the spruce young officers who went into battle as to a fête, in those colors! Everything is sad with us, even heroism. But you must help me. I was seating my company. First of all I had placed Madame de Férussac opposite me, and you over here, beside—" He showed his son a card on which was written the name of Mademoiselle de Charlus. "I am putting them all awry. You are the one to sit opposite me."

"Why, no, father," said Landri hastily, "I beg you to leave me where you had put me. I assure you that I prefer that."

"Really? do you mean it?" said M. de Claviers. There was so much artless gratitude in his expression, that preoccupation about a change of seats at the table disclosed such a loving regard for the susceptibilities of the young man's heart, that the tears came to his eyelids, and when his father asked him,—

"Well, what is it? Why were you looking for me?"

"To ask you if I shall see you to-morrow before I go," he replied. Already he was preparing to postpone the revelation which he had insisted should be made instantly.

"I think not," replied the marquis. "You take the train at Clermont, don't you? At ten o'clock? In that case, surely not."—And Landri did not protest!—"You passed the night on the railway, and you are travelling again to-morrow. You must have a good rest. And I have to go and see one of my farmers, a long way off, who is asking for some repairs. You know, Chaffin, Père Chabory. He won't get them, I promise you. I will be immovable. There's no claim in his case. I shall take advantage of the errand to try my new roan a bit. A splendid beast that Régie Ardrahan sent me from Dublin—another Toby. But the English have never learned to teach a horse to trot. I shall start at half after seven, so as to have returned when my guests wake.—No, we shall not see each other again. And this evening doesn't count! We will make up for it at your next visit. I was going up to your room to urge you to call at Jaubourg's when you go through Paris, and to see him yourself, if you can. You can telegraph me how you found him."

"Landri will do as he pleases," Chaffin interjected, "but I have a despatch already—from my son—received just now, and which I came to tell you of. Monsieur Jaubourg is better, much better."

"Ah! that's good news!" exclaimed M. de Claviers. "You take a weight off my heart, Chaffin. The fête will be perfect then. This morning a ten-branched stag"; and he hummed the refrain:—

"Un dix cors jeunement.
Qui débûche à l'instant.

"And to-night a dinner of the sort that Lardin knows how to serve."—Lardin was his cook.—He hummed another hunting-song, La Bourbon:—

"La chasse, la vin, et les belles
C'était le refrain de Bourbon.

"But we must go and dress, my dear Landri, so that we may be on hand when they arrive, these 'belles'!"

"You see," said Chaffin to Landri in an undertone, as they left the dining-room behind the marquis, "you didn't speak to him, you couldn't. To-morrow you won't be able to any better. You felt it. I was sure you would. Look the situation in the face. You will do what I have advised. It's the only way. I shall wait forty-eight hours more before I tell him."

He walked away in the direction of his office before Landri had found a word to reply. He felt humiliated by the consciousness that he had justified, by his own attitude, the silence for which he had warmly rebuked his former tutor. He realized fully, however, that the motive of passionate affection to which he yielded in postponing the awakening from that blissful dream on the brink of an abyss had nothing in common with the obscure schemes of a decidedly double-faced personage. Landri had received this impression anew when the other spoke of the despatch alleged to have been sent during the day by his son. The message that he had himself received a half hour before contradicted this improvement, which was clearly fabricated by Chaffin. For what purpose? As a chance shot, and to diminish the probabilities of a consultation with the shrewd Jaubourg concerning the course to be pursued. The young man was unable to divine this reason. But it was equally true that he could no longer tell himself in good faith that it was "to spare my father anxiety." The first shock of surprise was past. His new-born reflections revealed too many riddles in the performance, and first of all this persistent abandonment of the contest, this acceptance of an event which should have been the outcome of nothing less than a desperate resistance. But in that case Chaffin was not loyal? This supposition opened horizons so dark that Landri rejected it. His memories of childhood and youth cried out against it. "He has warned me," he said to himself. "What forced him to do it? My God! how I wish I knew the truth, and above all things what my duty is!"

What was his duty? He had no sooner propounded that question than it occupied the whole field of his thought. How gladly he would have asked advice of some one! But of whom? As he passed through his library again, after he had dressed, on his way down to the salons on the ground floor, his glance fell upon a portrait of his mother, and he stopped to gaze at it, as if the face of the dead might take on life to sustain him, to give him a hint. Alas! to no purpose would his filial piety have questioned for days and days the delicate and deceitful features which had been those of the beautiful Madame de Claviers. He would have derived nothing but doubts concerning her, had the denunciator carried to the end his confidences concerning the secret sorrows of the family. That portrait was of 1878. Landri was just born, and Madame de Claviers was thirty years old. She was painted sitting down, in a red velvet evening gown, which left bare her lovely arms, her supple shoulders, her neck, a trifle long, about which gleamed a row of enormous pearls. She had a very small head, with an abundance of chestnut hair, a mouth of sinuous shape, upon which flickered a smile, but impersonal and seemingly forced. The eyes, whose expression was at once dreamy and observing, passionate and guarded, contradicted the artificial banality of that smile. It was the image of a woman, very sweet and very simple at first glance, very complex at the second, and quite unintelligible,—a happy woman, but whose happiness was of that deep-seated and perturbed sort that never comes to fruition, being condemned, by sin, to remain concealed.

Landri, without quite understanding why, had never cared overmuch for that canvas, which he preserved as a relique. His mother had bequeathed it to him expressly, in a will made during the last days of the terrible illness of which she died. Obsessed by the anxiety which consumed him, he suddenly detested that picture, and hurriedly walked away from it. That grande dame, in her festival costume, who had reigned over that life of extravagance while bearing her part in it, had no moral aid to offer him! Nor had the grandfathers and grandmothers, whose old-time faces covered all the walls of the salons once inhabited by them according to the same principle of unbridled expenditure. The marquis's guests were beginning to crowd the rooms, and the young man contemplated those family portraits over their heads: young women and old women of bygone centuries, lords and prelates, ambassadors and field-marshals, commanders of the Saint-Esprit and Grand Crosses of Saint-Louis. Those faces, by their presence alone, seemed to entreat the inheritor of their name to labor to spare them that last great outrage—to be carried away from the ancestral dwelling, to become simply a Rigaud or a Largillière, a Nattier or a Tocqué, a Drouet or a Vigée-Lebrun, in some random collection. To spare them that outrage—but how? And Landri felt that his uncertainty increased.—Yes, what was his duty? But what if Chaffin were sincere, if his outlook were just, if, in order to save his father from a final crash, it were necessary, man-fashion, to sacrifice those portraits and everything else,—the Gobelins and that series by Boucher, the Noble Pastorale, and Natoire's Mark Antony, and the Beauvais tapestries, and the gilded wainscotings of Foliot and Cagny, and the carpets from La Savonnerie, and the bronzes, and the hangings, and all that array of beautiful objects, whose frivolous magnificence inevitably demanded such assemblages as that of this evening?

Passing from inanimate things to people, Landri studied one after another, first in the salons, afterward in the dining-hall, the familiar faces of M. de Claviers' guests and of M. de Claviers himself. On the day when those Férussacs and Hautchemins and Traverses and Sicards and Saint-Larys and all the rest, and Louis de Bressieux and Florimund de Charlus, should learn of their host's downfall, would they pity him much more than his secretary did? Their egoisms, their fickleness, their indifference seemed to become visible to the son's grief-stricken imagination.

Meanwhile the dinner had begun. The servants in the Claviers-Grandchamp livery were passing to and fro behind the guests. The light fabrics of the décolleté gowns alternated with the black coats, eyes shone, lips laughed, the dishes succeeded one another, wine filled the glasses, and the marquis, at the centre of his table, contemplated the fête with eyes sparkling with life. It was as if all the Claviers-Grandchamps were entertaining in his person, superbly. Hardly more than a suspicion of dissatisfaction veiled his eyes, when, turning in his son's direction, he observed his evident preoccupation. "Poor Landri is thinking of his Madame Olier!" he said to himself; and his magnanimous old heart felt a vague remorse which he banished by raising his head and gazing at the portrait of the lieutenant-general, wounded at Fontenoy.

The voices rose higher and higher. The laughter became more and more uproarious. Complexions tingling with the country air assumed a ruddier hue in the atmosphere of the dining-hall. Landri's suffering became more and more acute. Was it possible that this fête was really the last? But what was he to do? What was he to do? He could scarcely force himself to talk of indifferent subjects with his two neighbors in turn, one of whom, at his left, was the pretty, fair-haired and insignificant Madame de Férussac. The other, clever Marie de Charlus, carried her jovial humor to ever greater lengths as the dinner proceeded. She realized that she did not exist, so far as Landri was concerned, and she yielded to the instinct that has ruined the happiness of so many love-lorn women: to make an impression at any cost on the man they love, and to disgust him rather than not be noticed at all by him. Ascribing her conduct to the atmosphere, she began to run through a long list of satirical sobriquets, such as it was the fashion in Paris, last winter, to distribute at random.

"And Bressieux," she said at one moment, "do you know what they call Bressieux? Monsieur le Vicomte de la Rochebrocante. And poor Jaubourg, on account of his swell associates among us? Jaubourg-Saint-Germain. For my part, I call it very amusing!"

"Jaubourg-Saint-Germain?" said Sicard, the spiteful damsel's right-hand neighbor. "I don't know him. True, it is amusing!"

The most amusing part of it was that the Sicard couple had their own nick-name—unknown to the parties concerned, of course:—"The three halves." This wretched pun signified that the very diminutive Madame de Sicard, married to the very diminutive M. de Sicard, was supposed to have a tender penchant for the very diminutive M. de Travers. The historian of contemporary manners would apologize for noting, even cursorily, such trifles, were it not that they have a slight documentary value. This innocent fooling of a society so threatened measured the degree of its heedlessness.

Ordinarily these idiocies of the prevailing mode annoyed Landri de Claviers. That refined and intelligent youth lacked, it must be confessed, the precious gift of smiling, which the marquis had, and which the English call by an untranslatable phrase, "the sense of humor." He took everything alike too much au sérieux. However, he did not think at that moment of taking offence at Marie's wretched taste. The epigram concerning Bressieux had suddenly reminded him that his father and himself had surprised the gentleman-broker in conversation with Chaffin. He looked at him across the table and saw that the other was looking at him. Was Bressieux mixed up in the schemes of the Altona gang? Was that possible, too?—Oh! what to do? what to do? And, above all, how to learn the truth?

The second of the sobriquets mentioned by Mademoiselle de Charlus started Landri's mind upon another scent.—Jaubourg? But he was to see Jaubourg to-morrow. Suppose Jaubourg, who knew everybody in their circle, as that absurd name indicated, suppose that Jaubourg, too, knew that imminent peril menaced their house? Suppose that was what he wanted to speak about to his friend's son, being unable to induce that friend himself to listen? And in the event that he knew nothing, why should not Landri tell him the truth, in order to obtain the advice for which his longing became more and more intense? Jaubourg was really fond of M. de Claviers-Grandchamp. The young man's mind fastened upon this idea, which he did nothing but turn over and over all the evening.

How long it seemed to him before the last carriage, rumbling over the pavement of the courtyard, had borne away the last guest! And no less long the beginning of the night, when, having gone up to his room, and being left to himself, he tried to formulate an appeal to the experience and affection of a man with whom he had never felt at his ease! He had too often encountered M. Jaubourg's interference, always concealed, in matters that concerned only M. de Claviers and himself. He had never learned anything of it except by chance. So it was to-day with this Charlus project. And with it all, Jaubourg had never manifested to Landri that good-humored affection which is the privilege of old family friends who have seen us grow up. He had kept the child, and, later, the young man, at a distance, by an attitude of constant criticism, courteous and scornful at the same time. There had always been an atmosphere of constraint between them. Chaffin's prevision was accurate on this first point. Nor had he gone astray upon the second. The more Landri dwelt on the idea of relying upon Jaubourg, the more the wonted antipathy revived. "Besides," he concluded, "sick as he is, incapable of taking any active step, ignorant of the Code, of what assistance can he be to me, if there's a conspiracy to be foiled and legal precautions to be taken?"

Then it was, as the thought of possible litigation came to his mind, that he remembered Métivier, the notary. "Where were my wits?" he thought. "Métivier's the man I must see. One can appeal from a judgment. One can resist. A notary knows how to do it. He knows the ways to borrow money. My fortune is still intact. Chaffin admitted as much. Métivier will tell me if I can use it to save Grandchamp, and how to go about it."

He reflected that, as he was to pass only half a day in Paris, he had not time to make an appointment with Maître Métivier, a very busy man, who, perhaps, would not be at his office. He did not go to bed until he had written a long and very succinct letter, which he proposed to leave at the notary's in case of his absence. He set forth in detail the whole story that Chaffin had told him, giving the names of Madame Müller and Altona, the figures given to him, the advice insinuated by his former tutor, his determination to sacrifice his personal interests absolutely in order that the château might be kept intact. He added that, being obliged to return to Saint-Mihiel, he would arrange to be at Paris as soon as his presence was necessary.

As he read the letter over he was amazed to notice how easy it seemed to him, now, to apply to his colonel for another leave, which had seemed to him impossible that morning, in view of the prospective inventories. Chaffin's revelation had changed the whole course of his thought. Other revelations, more tragical, were about to supervene, and to lead him in still another direction. He had no more suspicion of them than he had had of these the night before, when he deemed himself so unfortunate, and when the whole drama of his life seemed to him to be comprised in those two desires: not to quit his profession as a soldier, and not to lose the woman he loved. He had not, however, forgotten her, that friend who was so dear to him. As he fell asleep, at the close of that day so full of events, which preceded another day of even more cruel trial, he reverted mentally to his conversation of the morning in the little salon on Rue Monsieur. He marvelled at the unexpected détours of life, which keeps such surprises in store for us, and he reproached himself, like a true lover, for having given Valentine no place in his thoughts during the last few hours.

"But it is for her, too, that I shall go to see Métivier to-morrow," he said to himself. "This disaster to my father, which should part me from her, will draw me nearer to her, if I prove to him how devoted I am to him. Let me save Grandchamp, and he will no longer oppose my marriage. If we are ruined, Mademoiselle de Charlus's great fortune will become an argument.—And even if he should persist in saying no, my conscience would be at rest, having sacrificed myself to him, as I wish, as I am determined to do."

IV
THE TRAGIC UNDERSIDE OF A GRAND EXISTENCE
(Concluded)

This sweet and tender image of the adorable woman upon whom Landri had formed the pious habit of letting his thoughts rest every night, for years past, before closing his eyes, was there again when he woke. Such is the sorcery of a passionate love in youth. To be sure, he was much engrossed by the step he was arranging to take with respect to Maître Métivier; the confusion in their financial affairs disclosed by Chaffin was most serious, and brought with it threatening consequences in the future. Moreover, none of the obstacles against which he had bruised himself the night before had disappeared. He was still likely to receive, before the end of the week, an order to proceed to take one of the two church inventories announced as about to be taken in the neighborhood of Saint-Mihiel. He knew too well, despite the sophistical reasoning of his desire, that his father's opposition to a mésalliance would not readily give way. But he was to see Valentine Olier at two o'clock, and in spite of everything, an intimate joy had possession of him. While he was dressing and breakfasting, he constantly interrupted himself to gaze admiringly at the depths of the blue sky, at the forest bronzed by the autumn, at the garden à la française spreading beneath his windows, and at the statues, whose white lines stood out against the dense dark foliage of the yews, trimmed in the shape of balls and pyramids.

That same blue sky enveloped the château as with an aureole when he turned to look at it once more, in the carriage that was taking him to the Clermont station. He had had the good fortune not to fall in with Chaffin as he was leaving,—he had dreaded such a meeting a little,—and he had the additional good fortune to meet his father in person at a turn in the road, mounted, as he had said, on his new horse.

"I was determined to introduce him to you," cried the old nobleman as soon as his son was within earshot, "and also to bid you good-morning. Did you rest well? Good!—My farmer has hoodwinked me—he was sure to. He'll have his repairs. Chaffin will scold me.—As for this old fellow," and he patted the arched neck of the powerful Irish horse which was dancing nervously, "he tried hard to unseat his new rider.—Whoa! whoa! I am not in favor of divorce, my boy.—I have taken him down a little all the same, by giving him a chance to gallop. As for the trot, we shall not say anything about that for some time. But I'll show you what he can do."

Riding at a ditch near-by, he raised the beast, which leaped readily to the other side. There was a low stone wall a short distance away, at which M. de Claviers drove the roan straight, with no less daring and grace than if he had been five-and-twenty instead of five-and-sixty. The horse leaped the obstacle. The marquis waved his hat triumphantly.

"A second Toby!" he cried exultantly to his son. "And he's shrewd too, the beast! Oh, he is!—Adieu, my son, and don't forget Jaubourg. A despatch at once!"

He disappeared. How often Landri was destined to see again in memory that horseman, so proud of mien, riding away across the fields! "Adieu, father!" he cried in response; and it was indeed an adieu that they exchanged,—although they were to meet again,—adieu of the father to the son, of the son to the father. And neither knew it!

"He is too anxious about his friend," said Landri to himself as he left the train, an hour later, on the platform of the Gare du Nord. "I will go there first. Then to Métivier's. Place de la Madeleine—that's on my way to luncheon at the club. My father will have his telegram all the earlier. Mon Dieu! if only I have no terrible news to send him!"

As so often happens, the unhappy youth dreaded the very thing that he ought most earnestly to have desired. He had a slight sense of relief when he noticed, on reaching Rue de Solferino, that the straw was still spread in front of the house. M. de Claviers' friend was still alive. But the bulletin, posted in the concierge's lodge, contained one line, more ominous than that of the preceding day: "A very restless night. Increasing weakness." Beside it was a register on which were inscribed long columns of signatures "with currents of air," as the free-mason-colonel was wont to say in his coarse and picturesque "fichards'" slang. Our death-beds and our burials sum up, in a synopsis, as it were, our whole social individuality.

"Jaubourg-Saint-Germain" was taking his departure as if he really deserved that biting epigram. Who, pray, in Paris is sufficiently interested in the real motives of our actions to seek them beyond our gestures? The son of a stock-broker, Jaubourg had frequented a circle very different from that of his birth, for reasons which were not vanity. All his shrewdness had exerted itself to dissemble them. Moreover, if he had been a great lover he had been this also,—the social status makes itself felt even in the tender passion,—a wealthy bourgeois training among patricians. All sorts of little indications adjusted themselves to that rôle in his case. He had chosen for his abode the first floor of an old parliamentary house, spared when Boulevard Saint-Germain was laid out. The immeasurably high-studded rooms presented a seignorial aspect, in harmony with the very beautiful furniture and the tapestries that Charles Jaubourg had collected therein,—as at Grandchamp. But the furniture and tapestries did not constitute a true ensemble. The aristocratic stage-setting, which was so alive in the château de Claviers, took on here the factitious aspect of a museum. It was the work of a man who had employed the leisure acquired by the toil of his parents in not resembling them. He proceeded thus from the small to the great.

The servant who opened the door to Landri was the old maître-d'hôtel who had carried the dying man's message the night before. Jaubourg's relations with him were very analogous to those of M. de Claviers with the Mauchaussées and their like. But the châtelain knew his men "plant and root," to use again one of his favorite expressions. They were of the soil, of the neighborhood of Grandchamp; their fathers and mothers doffed their caps on the road to the defunct marquis, as they called Landri's grandfather; whereas Joseph, Jaubourg's servant, had entered his service by chance, on the recommendation of the secretary of a club. He had become attached to his master, however, with the affection that shrewd servants conceive for bachelors. He had made himself a home there. His devotion was genuine, but to a master whom he could not replace. This sentiment, composed largely of selfishness, bore no resemblance whatever to the familiar and hereditarily feudal deference with which the marquis's retainers enveloped him. There was something of the confederate in Joseph, of the safe witness, who has entered into a tacit contract of discreet silence with a rich and independent Parisian.

Jaubourg had never said a word or made a motion which authorized any person whomsoever, especially his servant, even to suspect the nature of the interest that Landri aroused in him; and yet it was with a semi-reproachful air that the wily and zealous Joseph greeted the young man. He had anticipated the ringing of the bell, a sign that he was watching for his arrival.

"Ah! how much Monsieur would have liked to see Monsieur le Comte yesterday! To-day—" He compressed his lips and touched his forehead. "Will Monsieur le Comte allow me to ask him not to contradict Monsieur in anything? Monsieur was so sick last night! The head! the head! I was afraid he'd go mad! He's better since morning. But if Monsieur le Comte would like to speak with Monsieur le Docteur Chaffin, while I go to prepare Monsieur for his visit—"

The son of the ex-tutor, who had been since the conversation of the preceding evening an object of such suspicion to Landri, occupied the room that Jaubourg, a gentleman of leisure, used for a study. A library of some size justified that title. It exhibited on its shelves the backs of rare volumes, which the collector had bought for the editions and for the bindings, and seldom opened. Pierre Chaffin had seated himself in front of a magnificent Riesener desk. The morocco top of that regal piece had certainly never before been used for such tasks as those in which he was engaged. He was correcting the proofs of a medical pamphlet, in order not to waste his time in the interval between his sittings by the bedside of the invalid, who, for his part, had written nothing at that desk, for many years, except notes accepting or declining invitations to dinner!

Between the doctor and Landri de Claviers-Grandchamp the relations had always been rather peculiar. As children they played together. Then the difference in their ranks had separated them. Old Chaffin's surly temperament—which he turned to account as knaves do their failings, by exaggerating it—reappeared in Pierre, without artifice or hidden motive. Very intelligent and energetic, taking life by its only good side, work, the head of the clinical staff affected the rough manner of the pure professional who is incessantly irritated by incompetence and pretentiousness. In his eyes all the people in society—and Landri was included in that category—were useless and incapable. Strange as such an anomaly may seem, many physicians, albeit very shrewd observers in respect to physiological symptoms, form such judgments of matters relating to the life of the mind, with the simplicity of primary-school children. Literally, they do not see it. Never had Pierre Chaffin suspected the inward drama through which the young noble was passing, torn asunder between his caste and his epoch. As his proud uncourtliness kept him away from the luxury and the festivities of Grandchamp, he was wholly ignorant of the reverse side of a society of which his father never spoke except in phrases of the most conventional and the most hypocritical respect. He was equally ignorant that he inspired in Landri a deep interest blended with generous envy. Yes, ever since their youth, the heir of the Claviers-Grandchamps had envied the student his independence in the struggle of life, and the reality of his activity. Unknown to his playmate, he had followed him through the successes of his service as intern, recommending him again and again to the illustrious Professor Louvet, his family physician. To these advances, to that regard which goes forth to meet friendship half-way, Pierre Chaffin never responded save by a stubborn coldness, in which there was some embarrassment, a defence, at once brutal and alarmed, against a sympathy of which he could not fathom the cause. There entered into it also a little of another, less generous, sort of envy,—that of the son of a salaried employee for the son of the employer, of the plebeian for the aristocrat.

He displayed no more amenity than usual on this occasion, in acknowledging Landri's greeting and his questions concerning Jaubourg's illness.

"It's acute pneumonia in its classic form," he said, raising from his proofs his broad face, surrounded by a reddish beard, to which a pair of gold-bowed spectacles imparted the expression of a German scholar. "A cold contracted by imprudence, fatigue for several days, lame back, headache. Then the peculiar chill, so characteristic of the disease, that cry of agony of the whole organism attacked, and, immediately after, thirty-nine degrees of fever. That's the first day. The second, a hundred and ten pulsations a minute, and forty respirations, instead of fourteen or eighteen. Last night, delirium. This evening or to-morrow, judgment will be pronounced on the pneumonia, and I fear it will be very harsh, considering the patient's age."

"Do you think that he will still know me?" asked Landri. "Joseph used the word madness."

"Joseph doesn't know what that word means," interposed the physician abruptly, with a shrug of the shoulders which was not far from signifying, "Nor you, either."—"I myself," he continued, "used almost the same word, which one should never do. It was not delirium that Monsieur Jaubourg had last night, it was subdelirium. The upper parts of the brain were under the influence of toxins, and the others, the unconscious parts, were free and wandering. It's a sort of poisoning peculiar to pneumonia, and which sometimes indicates its coming. It is very analogous to alcoholic poisoning. It manifests itself by a dream which expresses itself in speech and is incoherent to us. Probably, if we knew the past life of a person intoxicated in this way, we should discover that his incoherence is logical and true. Most frequently, he lives over past events. It's a phenomenon that has been carefully observed. We have given it one of those names of which society folk make sport, I know, I know. Since Molière's time we are used to such sarcasms. We call it an ecmnésique state, when the depths of the memory come to the surface, as we call this delirious dream onirique. Why does a certain microbe produce this effect when it attacks the meninges? This problem would lead us on to define what the mind is, and it is probable that you and I would not agree!—But let us drop this, which is scarcely interesting to you. I wanted simply to explain to you that Monsieur Jaubourg has never been mad, and that he has all his wits this morning. You can see him. Not for very long, and don't tire him."

Once more, in the persistently technical tone of this dry and unfeeling speech, Landri detected that instinctive hostility, unintelligible to him, which he had always encountered in Pierre. The physician had lectured in order to avoid having to talk. And not a word of inquiry as to his own father, when they had not met for more than a year! Not a word about M. de Claviers-Grandchamp, who had always been so kind to him! Pierre Chaffin had an excuse—the ill-humor in which his master, Professor Louvet, had put him by asking him not to leave Rue de Solferino. The head of the clinic obeyed his "grand pontiff,"—the students irreverently give that title to the masters on whom their futures depend,—and he relieved himself by being ungracious to one who, more than all others, represented that fashionable society to the prestige of which his chief sacrificed him. There was not the slightest failure of professional duty. A physician must not cavil at his science,—with the friends of a patient. That was nothing—that theory concerning the dreams of delirium—except a slightly pedantic excursus. It was sufficient to cause the words extorted from Jaubourg by the intoxication of his disease, if the crisis should come on in Landri's presence, to assume an entirely different meaning in the young man's mind. Alas! he had no need of that scientific "key." Unaided he would have deciphered only too easily the dying man's words! They carried their terrifying clearness with them. Nevertheless, the hypothesis of a death-bed insanity would have left room for a doubt which the scientist's lucid diagnosis had made untenable.

When Madame de Claviers' son entered his chamber, the dying man seemed to be exhausted by the high fever of the night, and to be more calm. He lay on a bed in the middle of the room, himself a curiosity for exhibition, like all the articles of furniture of that room, brought together during many years, with the painstaking zeal of a collector. This elegance of stage-setting rendered more painful the last hours of the old man, whose appearance shocked Landri, warned though he had been. The cheeks were burning, the whole face hyperæmic; the eyes shone with the unnatural brilliancy of suffering, and the hurried, almost spasmodic, dilatation of the nostrils told of the struggle against suffocation.

In his lifetime—it was already permissible to speak thus of him—Jaubourg had been the typical society man, who does not surrender; the worldling whose courageous courtesy spares others the contact and the spectacle of his degeneration. That degeneration was complete to-day, ominously undeniable and irreparable. But as a matter of habit the Parisian had mustered energy to make a last toilet. His face was washed and shaved, his sparse gray locks brushed, his hands cared for. He had put on a dressing-jacket of soft silk. Puerile yet pathetic details, which indicated his desire not to leave a too perverted image of himself in the memory of his visitor, the only one whom he had admitted during the last half-week. He had expressly forbidden Joseph to notify the few relations—very distant they were—that he still possessed. He had trembled lest they should suspect a condition of affairs which he had made it a point of honor to conceal for twenty-nine years. Yes, every effort of his life had had but one aim: to leave his fortune to the son he had had by another man's wife, without causing the world or that other man to wonder. The world—he had succeeded in hoodwinking it almost absolutely by such prodigies of diplomacy! The stories told by two or three members of his family, such as Madame Privat, had not gone outside a very small circle, and intimates with the perspicacity of a Bressieux are rare. The friendship which Jaubourg had manifested for M. de Claviers since his widowhood, and which, by a strange but very human anomaly, was sincere, would have put that noble-minded man's suspicions to sleep, if he had conceived any. But that great heart did not know what it was to distrust! It was he whom Jaubourg by his will had made his sole legatee, without informing him or anyone else. His reflections had led him to this roundabout method of assuring to Landri his three millions at least. He had, as we have seen, carried his scrupulosity to the point of being persistently cold in his treatment of the young man, who, like everybody else, must never know the truth.

The adulterine father had anticipated everything, everything except the death-agony among the hallucinations of memory! On his death-bed he was to destroy this masterpiece of his prudence, and, we must add, of a chivalry instigated perhaps by a tacit rivalry with the magnanimous friend whom his passion had caused him to betray. He had failed therein, for the first time, in yielding to the unspeakable craving to see once more, before taking his departure forever, that son who bore another's name and who was so dear to him.

Few men have the strength to die absolutely alone. Jaubourg had alleged to himself the pretext of talking to the young man of the project of marriage with Mademoiselle de Charlus, to which he attached very great importance. He had not foreseen the loss of energy under the attacks of his malady, or the animal cry of nature in rebellion.

"You have come, my friend," he said in a short, jerky voice, in which there was already a hint of the death-rattle. "You have come," he repeated; "thanks." And he pressed the hand that the other held out, in a passionate grasp. What a contrast to the guarded and quickly withdrawn clasp that he had always given him, as if unwillingly and with the ends of his fingers! This had been one of the most painful to the sensitive Landri of all the indications of his antipathy. "I wanted to speak to you—before I die—For I am going to die." And, as the other protested: "What's the use of lying? I feel death coming. I haven't much strength. Every word tears me apart." He pointed to both sides of his chest. "I must speak quickly—I wanted to talk to you," he insisted,—"about your marriage—"

"To Mademoiselle de Charlus?" rejoined the young man. He had noticed that Jaubourg, like Chaffin a moment earlier, did not mention M. de Claviers. "He doesn't really care for him, either," he thought, recalling the last words that the marquis had shouted after him as they parted. "It's the disease," he reflected further. "And I had thought of consulting him about the tricks of our creditors—and I find him in this state!"—He added, aloud: "My father told me how deeply you had interested yourself for me in that matter, and I thank you heartily, you understand,—heartily."

"Claviers mentioned it to you?" rejoined the dying man; and added, with feverish anxiety, "and you replied?"

"That I shall never marry a woman I do not love, and that I do not love Mademoiselle de Charlus."

"I was sure of it!" groaned Jaubourg, leaning forward sorrowfully. A hoarse cough shook him, which he tried to check with his handkerchief, upon which spots like rust appeared. "Don't call," he summoned strength to say to Landri, who was putting out his hand to touch the button of the electric bell. In face of the manifest terror of that appeal, he remembered the doctor's recommendations. He obeyed. The invalid, exhausted by the paroxysm of coughing, smoothed his hand to signify his gratitude. He had thrown himself back, with his eyes closed. He reopened them, to resume: "But she loves you! And she is charming! And then, there's the future—I don't know what you will find when Claviers is no longer there. I have never been able to make him talk about his money matters. He doesn't know where he stands himself. Ah! I tremble for you. I have done what I could. But this Charlus marriage—everything would be straightened out, everything. This Chaffin, in whom he has such blind confidence, what is he? I have never been able to find out that, either. Oh! my poor, poor Landri!"

His excitement increased. The young man did not yet interpret in their true meaning words which, however, clothed with a new aspect that strange nature; did they not betray a preoccupation wholly intent upon him, in a man whom he regarded as a friend of his father exclusively? On the other hand these words of distrust in connection with Chaffin corresponded too nearly with the feeling aroused in his own mind for him not to follow them up.

"Do you, too, look upon Chaffin with suspicion?"

"For a very long time," Jaubourg replied. "You will ask me: 'In that case, why do you place yourself in his son's care?' Louvet forced him on me. I did not refuse. I didn't think that I was so seriously ill! And then, the son isn't the same sort as the father. But you don't know what it is, to feel at times that you are going off, that you are speaking, that you have spoken. And then you don't remember what you have said—not a word. Everything is black before the mind. How I suffered from that impression last night! Joseph swore that I didn't say anything. You can believe him. He is reliable, perfectly reliable.—My God! that feeling is coming back!—My head!—it aches. Oh! how it aches! It's as if I had a pain in my mind!"—He took his head in his hands and pressed it. Another paroxysm of coughing bent him double; he came out of it repeating: "No! no! no! no!" Then, as if that almost convulsive denial had renewed his strength, he added, speaking more jerkily than ever: "I know why you won't marry this girl, who is so rich, who would rescue you if Claviers has squandered everything! I know why. You still love the other."

"What other?" queried Landri. The overmastering compassion that he felt for the invalid's evident agony did not prevent him from starting at that direct allusion. One fact stood out in his memory: Valentine imploring him not to go up to Jaubourg's room, not to see him. Were they acquainted, then? His surprise was so great that he insisted almost harshly: "What other, I say? Whom are you referring to?"

"To that Madame Olier," said Jaubourg. "Oh! Landri, not those eyes, not that voice! I can't stand that!—Look you,—I say nothing against her. I know that no one ever spoke ill of her. But at Saint-Mihiel you saw her constantly—I know that. She is a widow. I know that too, and where she lives. I should have found a way to know her, if it had been necessary. I know everything that concerns you, you see. I have always found a way to know it, day by day, ever since you were born. You mustn't think of marrying her. If she loves you for yourself, she ought not to think of it, either. In the first place, Claviers will never consent. And secondly you must be rich. I want you to be rich—I want it.—You don't understand. You must not understand.—Ah! I have always loved you so dearly, you know, Landri, and I have never been able to show it. It was my duty not to. It's my duty now.—My head is getting confused again, like yesterday.—But I don't want—I don't want—No. No. No. I won't say anything.—Go away, Joseph. Go away, Chaffin. They're looking at me. They shall not know. They shall not know.—My Landri! my own Landri!"

"Neither Joseph nor Chaffin is here," said the young man. "Calm yourself, Jaubourg. Calm yourself."

He made him lie down again, very gently. Those few sentences from the dying man's lips had moved him to the inmost depths of his being. With what a passionate interest the man must have followed him in order to have obtained such detailed information concerning incidents of so private a nature! M. de Claviers did not even suspect Madame Olier's existence before their conversation in the forest, and Jaubourg knew everything about her! He knew everything about him, he had said, "day by day, ever since he was born." What did those enigmatic words mean, and uttered, too, in such a tone? And those other words: "I have always loved you so dearly! I have never been able to show it. It was my duty not to!"