PS 
 
 35 
 A\LS 
 
 CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PS 3500.A1L9 
 
 The lover's progress, 
 
 3 1924 022 231 348 
 
The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924022231348 
 
The Lover- s Progress 
 
The 
 Lover's Progress 
 
 Told by Himself 
 
 BRENTANO'S Publishers 
 UNION SQUARE NEW rORK 
 
 M . CM. £sf I. 
 
COPYRIOHT, 19(5l, BY 
 
 BKKNTANO'! 
 
TO 
 ALL WHO LOVE 
 
 " Jeune, j'aimai ; le temps de mon bel Sge, 
 Ce temps si court, I'amour seul le remplit. 
 Quand i'atteignis la saison d'Stre sage, 
 Toujours j'aimai, la raison me le dit. 
 
 "Mais I'Sge vient, et le plaisir s'envole, 
 
 Mais mon bonheur ne s'envole aujourd'hui ; 
 Car j'aime encore, et I'amour me console — 
 Bien n'aurait pu me consoler de lui." 
 
 Madcune d'ffoudetot. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 OHAFTEB PAGE 
 
 PKOEM 1 
 
 BooA; Is LotU 
 
 I. "The Child is Father oe the Man" ... 9 
 II. The Voice op Nature 33 
 
 III. The Declaration 59 
 
 IV. Love and War 85 
 
 V. Striving 113 
 
 VI. The Way of the World 148 
 
 "BooK. II : Sal fa 
 
 I. " When a Man's Single " 183 
 
 II. Tinsel and Limelight 210 
 
 III. The Eeturn of Love 240 
 
 IV. Question and Answer 260 
 
 V. From Jot to Sorrow 384 
 
 VI. The Furnace op Paris 319 
 
 VII. When All Things Pail 358 
 
 BooAL ///.' Hejperis 
 
 I. Restless Years 399 
 
 II. Savoy 438 
 
 III. The Goal at Last . 456 
 
 IV. From Death to Life 483 
 
The Lover- s Progress 
 
The Lover- s Progress 
 
 PROEM 
 
 I SAT in the garden at Les Gharmettes, the vines on 
 one hand, the orchard on the other, while before me 
 stretched the little terrace where Eousseau grew his 
 flowers. Beyond it I could see the weather-beaten house, 
 precipitously roofed with slates, which showed darkly 
 against a background of distant mountains, the crests 
 and crags of Dauphin6. It was springtime, the plants 
 around me were putting forth new leaves, and blossoms 
 gleamed here and there among the trees of the orchard. 
 But the heavens were overcast, and in spite of all the 
 tokens of nature's revival, a grayish melancholy had de- 
 scended upon the quiet scene. 
 
 It was only on rising and turning toward the south- 
 east that I espied a patch of light blue sky, below 
 which some white specks were scintillating — clouds, so 
 a stranger might have thought, but I recognized them 
 as the loftiest of the snowy peaks that part Savoy from 
 Italy. And for a moment my spirit went yearningly 
 
rHE L 
 PRO 
 
 OFER'S 
 GRESS 
 
 toward them. I knew them^ and I loved them well, and 
 most of all I loved the land that sloped down beyond 
 their glorious barrier. Italy! the desire of the poet's 
 heart, the delight of the whole wide world ! My Italy, 
 mine! For was she not the parent of my sires, and was 
 I not myself one of her children, whatever birthplace 
 chance might have assigned to me ? Assuredly it was 
 the blood of her race that pulsed so warmly in my veins, 
 despite long exile in Northern climes. The men of my 
 name had mated with Celt and Anglo-Saxon and Scan- 
 dinavian, but from generation to generation they had 
 transmitted to some of their offspring the fire of a 
 Southern ancestry, the glow of heart and spirit that 
 animates the Children of the Sun. 
 
 Thus it was with fervor that I gazed at the patch of 
 blue sky visible above the peaks and glaciers of the Mau- 
 rienne Alps. And I longed to bend my steps that way 
 again, to cross the mountains yet once more, and de- 
 scend into the land of beauty and song and love and 
 rapture. But it was not to be. I turned away almost 
 sadly, and took a few steps over the ground which Kous- 
 seau had so often trod. And all at once the thought 
 came back to me that this garden of Les Charmettes, so 
 quiet, so deserted, so gray beneath the hazy sky, was 
 also a spot where beauty and song and love and rapture 
 had once reigned supreme. A sweetness now seemed to 
 permeate the brooding melancholy — the sweetness of old 
 love-dreams, of fervent vows, delirious prayers, sighs 
 
r'HE LOFER'S j 
 
 PROGRESS J 
 
 full of yearning, transports of delight. The pages of 
 the " Confessions " passed one by one before my mind's 
 eye; I saw Jean- Jacques, I saw Madame de Warens; the 
 flowers they loved bloomed forth afresh, and a simple, 
 tender strain seemed to come from the old harpsichord 
 which stood in the drawing-room — a strain that accom- 
 panied the reverie into which I sank. 
 
 I also had known love's rapture, its fickleness, its tor- 
 ments, its despair. All my past life seemed to rise 
 before me, with memories of sweet and bitter hours, en- 
 trancing and dolorous experiences. In the land of my 
 birth, among that Anglo-Saxon race whose language 
 I spoke, but whose nature in many respects was so dif- 
 ferent from my own, love was currently regarded as 
 a mere incident in the life of a man. Women, it was 
 conceded, might make it their first thought, but the 
 proud male had only to treat it as a pastime, to which 
 he might turn for relaxation from the cares of money- 
 grubbing or gross ambition, even as he might turn to 
 golf or whiskey or tobacco. Yet for my part I was con- 
 scious of , the fact that love had decisively afEected the 
 whole tenor of my life, that it had been the mainspring 
 of most of my actions, that it had brought me almost 
 every joy and every pang that I had known. 
 
 I had never sought for money, unless it were to dower 
 the loved one; I had never cared a straw for fame, since 
 fame, it had seemed to me, was only to be reached along 
 the path of all-absorbing ambition. And ambition, in 
 
^ CfHE LOFER'S 
 
 T- J- PROGRESS 
 
 nine hundred and ninety-nine cases out of every thou- 
 sand, is love's sworn foe; for, after all, though some 
 may chant its praises, it is nought but egotism crystal- 
 lized. And among the manifold powers that love pos- 
 sesses is that of easily consoling one for lack of fame, 
 whereas fame without love is really not worth the 
 having. 
 
 Thus I had trod love's path, scorning all else besides. 
 And in the fulness of time love had rewarded me. My 
 hair was now gray, yet I still loved, for age has never 
 been love's barrier, though it has sometimes proved 
 its precipice. And contentment now filled my heart. 
 Never in all my seven-and-forty years had I felt so 
 supremely happy. But ah ! when I looked back along 
 life's road, and recalled its many stages, what anguish 
 did I not find there! And there was folly, too, the folly 
 born of love, and the madness which supreme passion 
 brings in its flairing train. 
 
 But I was happy now, so why should I recall sad days 
 of long ago ? Was it not best to let the dead past bury 
 its dead ? Should I not bring suffering back if I lin- 
 gered in contemplation of the two fair spirits that were 
 now rising before me, each so beautiful and yet so dif- 
 ferent, the one apparently all candor and artlessness, 
 the other full of charm, sweetness, and passion tinged 
 with tragical distress? But they seemed so far away 
 that I could almost think it was another, not myself, 
 who had suffered by and for and with them, I was not 
 
rHE LOF-£R'S 
 PROGRESS 
 
 unmoved as I gazed at them. The " might have been " 
 can never leave us wholly unmoved; but poignancy had 
 departed from my feelings; those aerial forms were like 
 visions of life's wreckage, personifications of two tragic 
 acts in the drama of a lover's progress. And as that' 
 thought came to my mind I remembered my calling, 
 and for the first time it occurred to me to write this 
 book. 
 
 A thousand memories were already ascending from 
 the past; childhood, youth, and early manhood bounded 
 forward, disputing pride of place, and throwing my 
 mind into confusion. To collect my thoughts I retraced 
 my steps to the bench on which I had previously sat, 
 and then once more I remembered where I was. Jean- 
 Jacques came back to me, and Madame de Warens also; 
 and again I mentally turned the pages of the " Confes- 
 sions." Ah! those "Confessions" — are they not the 
 supreme dolorous record of genius and weakness, the 
 very transcript, as it were, of a suffering human soul ? 
 The spot was still full of them. Excepting that a room 
 had been added to the house, it was virtually the same 
 as in Eousseau's time. One could follow his every foot- 
 step, identify the scene of every incident that he de- 
 scribed. And other memories likewise arose. Lamar- 
 tine had sat where I was sitting; Hugo had paced the 
 terrace before me; yonder tree had been planted when 
 a sapling by Eugene Sue. Ah! what a crowd of literary 
 pilgrims and battlers, the most renowned, the most 
 
r'HE LOVER'S 
 . PROGRESS 
 
 popular, like the humblest of the brotherhood, had 
 come at one or another time to Les Charmettes to pay 
 homage to the man of nature and truth. The vulgar 
 perchance no longer read his books, but his descendants 
 had filled the whole nineteenth century. True, he had 
 known how to make Nature speak, whereas they in 
 many instances had merely made her gabble. Never- 
 theless, his spirit had survived, and it still permeated 
 literature even at the dawn of a new age. 
 
 I had bethought myself of writing the drama of a 
 lover's life, of availing myself in part, perhaps, of per- 
 sonal experiences: giving them quite a new setting, 
 changing them here and there, and imagining various 
 connecting and complementary incidents in accordance 
 with the recognized rules of literary craftsmanship. 
 But why should I do such a thing as that ? Why should 
 I scrape and polish, make use of artifice and trickery ? 
 Why not simply tell the story of my life, pen a Confes- 
 sion of my own ? Eeticence, such as might be asked by 
 the hypocrisy of the age, was not required, for I had no 
 tale of vile horrors to unfold. Where Cardan* had 
 fallen, I had remained erect; where Eousseau had erred, 
 I, by grace of love, had kept in the right path — not 
 always the path laid down by the scribes and pharisees, 
 for to me their laws were as nothing, but simply the 
 path indicated by the sense of love. 
 
 Yet there had come moments when love had filled me 
 * Cardarms de vita sua. 
 
rHE LOFER'S y 
 
 PROGRESS / 
 
 with weakness, transported me almost to madness; when 
 I had been a rebel in the midst of society, which ill 
 brooks any departure from the semblance of propriety 
 with which it cloaks its corruption. And for years my 
 life had been romance — real romance, in the midst of 
 the workaday nineteenth century. This was not surpris- 
 ing, for, as I haTs already said, the old spirit of my 
 Italian sires, the spirit of love and battle and adventure, 
 still displayed itself in one or another of each generation 
 of my race. It had carried one of my grandfather's 
 brothers to India, to fight, love, and be murdered there 
 in old Company days; it had made one of my father's 
 brothers a nineteenth-century condottiere, battling in 
 either hemisphere, an example largely followed by one of 
 my own brothers, whereas others of my kith and kin, in 
 whom the old-time fire had not sprung up, pursued in 
 quietude the even tenor of their lives. 
 
 What that spirit, turned less to adventure than to 
 love, made of me follows hereafter. If after reflection 
 I have penned my narrative in the form of a novel, it is 
 because at the present time a novel has at least a chance 
 of being read, whereas the mere reminiscences of a 
 nonentity add, fatally, surely, to the many heavy re- 
 mainders in the hands of the booksellers. Yet the 
 reader will bear in mind that this narrative is a novel 
 in appearance only. Every page of it is based on per- 
 sonal experience; the joys and the pangs that it tries to 
 describe were really felt. In part the names of persons 
 
X> Cr'HE LOFER'S 
 -I PROGRESS 
 
 and places are real, in part they are fictitious. Eever- 
 ence and sorrow for the dead, affection and solicitude 
 for the living, have influenced me in that respect, but 
 I have not sought to spare myself. Perhaps, however, 
 any charity that I have shown to others may find reward 
 by inclining even the reader, who knows me not, to 
 extend some little charity to me. 
 
rHE LOFER'S ^ 
 
 PROGRESS y 
 
 'BooKI 
 
 LOTIS 
 
 ' Deep as first love, and wild with all regret ; 
 O Death in Life, the days that are no more ! " 
 
 " The Child is Father of the Man " 
 
 LoTis and I were girl and boy together. It was at 
 the house of her grandfather that we first met. I had 
 just taken my penknife from my pocket to sharpen a 
 lead-pencil, when she entered the room where I was 
 waiting for my people. She swept in like a gust of 
 wind, then stopped and looked at me in surprise. I 
 fancy I can see her now with her slim, lithe figure, her 
 wavy chestnut hair, and her dark eyes, which peered 
 wonderingly out of her somewhat pallid face. Truth 
 to tell, I did not then scrutinize her; I was too shy. 
 But I gave just one glance in her direction before bend- 
 ing my head over my pencil, which I began to sharpen 
 desperately. 
 
 Lotis looked at me till I thought she would never 
 cease, and I believe that my cheeks turned crimson. 
 
J rf CfHE LOVER'S 
 J- PROGRESS 
 
 But matters became still worse when she stepped toward 
 a side-table to take a little work-basket which she had 
 come to fetch, for in doing so she burst into a peal of 
 laughter which filled me with confusion. I felt certain 
 that she was laughing at me, though I could not tell 
 exactly why. She herself was prettily and primly 
 dressed, and perhaps she had noticed something peculiar 
 in my clothes. As a matter of fact, I was growing fast; 
 my jacket was too short for me, and I wore that day a 
 pair of ready-made trousers which were horribly baggy 
 about the seat. A kind parent in buying them had in- 
 sidiously declared that, with my growing propensities, 
 I should speedily " fill them out." For my part, I in- 
 finitely preferred to wear them out, so as to have done 
 with them as soon as possible, a desire which the gig- 
 gling of Mademoiselle Lotis only tended to accentuate. 
 But amid a last burst of merriment she flitted from the 
 room, while I, sensitive as I was, sank upon a- chair 
 overcome with mortification. 
 
 Maitre Verdier, Lotis's grandfather, was, I should ex- 
 plain, a notary, resident in the outskirts of Paris. My 
 people, in the course of negotiations with respect to 
 some house property, had become almost intimate with 
 him, and more than once already I had accompanied my 
 stepmother to his etude. That day it happened that he 
 was ill with rheumatic gout, and thus I had remained 
 waiting in his reception salon while my father and my 
 brother Edwin went together into the little room where 
 
rHE LOrER'S J J 
 
 PROGRESS 2__ 
 
 the old gentleman lay back in a large arm-chair, with 
 his ailing limb resting on a velvet hassock. And this 
 explains how it was that Lotis and I met for an instant 
 in the salon. 
 
 At that time my father, Eichard Letty, had been liv- 
 ing in Paris for some few years as the representative of 
 a London newspaper of world-wide renown. Twice 
 married, he had a family of eleven children by his two 
 wives, and I, Charles, was his fourth son. I was bom 
 at the end of ^November, 1853, in a gloomy house on 
 Campden Hill, and my earliest recollections are of the 
 flower- walk in Kensington Gardens, and of Queen Vic- 
 toria and the Prince Consort riding in an open carriage 
 with an accompaniment of outriders in scarlet along 
 Kensington High Street. My mother, who was a York- 
 shire woman, the daughter of a doctor belonging to a 
 county family, had a very sweet and intellectual face, 
 with a prominent brow and deep-set but lustrous eyes. 
 She possessed great talents as a musician, and no small 
 knowledge of languages and classical literature. 
 
 Among other books of hers which I have in my pos- 
 session now is a copy of Lempri^re's " Classical Dic- 
 tionary," annotated by her with names and references 
 additional to those of the learned author. During her 
 girlhood she had for some years resided in France, at 
 Lisienx, in Normandy; and though I unhappily lost 
 her when I was in my fourth year, I can still recall that 
 she used to talk of the bands of wolves that would come 
 
J ^ Cr'HE LOFER'S 
 
 ^ ■^ 1 PROGRESS 
 
 into the town and attack girls and boys there in winter- 
 time. She was the mother of seven of my father's chil- 
 dren, and her health failing her after the birth of my 
 younger brother Aubrey, she went to reside at a farm in 
 Sussex, where my godfather raised live stock. It was 
 there — for I went with her — that I first learnt to love 
 the country; and it was then, too, that I first gazed with 
 childish awe upon the sea. 
 
 After a time my mother's health seemed to improve 
 somewhat, and I well remember how on the autumn 
 morning fixed for our return to town she expressed her- 
 self as feeling much stronger and livelier. !Nevertheless, 
 my father had ordered a saloon carriage — then regarded 
 as a great luxury — for the homeward journey, and in 
 that carriage, while the train was travelling at full speed, 
 my mother, to the consternation of us all, suddenly ex- 
 pired. The frightful scene rises before me now. I can 
 still picture the arrival at London Bridge, the gaping, 
 inquisitive crowd pressing forward to catch a glimpse 
 of the poor dead gentliewoman, while I sobbed bitterly 
 beside her corpse. 
 
 For a few years longer I myself and my brother Au- 
 brey remained in the charge of a nurse, a worthy West 
 Country woman, while my grandmother came to man- 
 age my father's establishment at the house on Campden 
 Hill,, I grew up with a detestable temper : long fits of 
 suUenness and stubbornness, followed by outbursts of 
 puerile rage. My father often had occasion to correct 
 
rHE LONER'S J- J 
 
 PROGRESS -* J 
 
 me, but floggings only seemed to make me worse. At 
 last, four years after my mother's death, he married 
 again, choosing as his bride a tall and beautiful woman 
 several years his junior. Unlike my own mother, she 
 possessed no great accomplishments, but she had a golden 
 heart, most gentle, affectionate, and winsome. 
 
 The time had come, however, for me to go to a board- 
 ing-school, and thus I was sent to join one of my elder 
 brothers, who was being educated in Sussex. I had two 
 elder brothers, Arnold and Edwin, from whom I was 
 separated by a gap of several years. Both my sisters, 
 Marian and Jessica, and my brother Walter, who had pre- 
 ceded me, were now dead. The school where I was sent 
 was situated at a little watering-place, which at the pres- 
 ent time is a large and prosperous town. I remained 
 there five years, studying diligently. It was a school 
 where a willing lad — and I with my thirst for knowledge 
 was as willing as any — had every facility for learning; 
 but the discipline was extremely lax, and those who did 
 not choose to learn came away knowing nothing. 
 
 My favorite subjects were history, geography, lan- 
 guages, and drawing. I wanted to know all about the 
 world, and all that had ever taken place in it; while as 
 regards the taste for art, the love of the beautiful, which 
 soon arose within me, that was hereditary in my family. 
 I never mastered much Greek — in point of fact, little of 
 it was taught at The Gables — but the head master was 
 a strong Latinist, and for my part I took to Latin read- 
 
J y, Cr'HE LOVER'S 
 
 ^4- 1 PROGRESS 
 
 ily, and have ever been thankful for it. I was not in- 
 clined toward athletics, though occasionally I played 
 cricket. And thereby hangs a tale. One day, while 
 fielding a ball " down south " near the sea, I fell among 
 the rushes of a marsh, thereby earning the obvious nick- 
 name of "Moses," which was promptly corrupted into 
 "Noses," on the assumption that my own nose was 
 large enough for two. " Noses " I remained among my 
 schoolfellows for the rest of my time at The Gables. 
 Sensitive and pugnacious, I fought half a dozen boys on 
 account of that invidious appellation, but it only seemed 
 to gain fresh force and appropriateness from the facility 
 with which my antagonists succeeded in " tapping my 
 claret," thanks to the extreme prominence of my unfor- 
 tunate organ of smell. 
 
 But whatever my nickname might be, I was not un- 
 popular among my school-fellows. My father, I should 
 mention, was largely mixed up in books, newspapers, 
 and other publications. Every "half," when I re- 
 turned to The Gables from my holidays, I took with me 
 a box of books which were in immense request among 
 my school-fellows, and each week I regularly received 
 copies of two illustrated newspapers, whose advent was 
 always awaited with interest by masters and boys alike. 
 I myself evinced decided literary leanings. In collabo- 
 ration with a chum I started a manuscript school news- 
 paper, and I wrote serial ghost and pirate stories, illus- 
 trated by myself with copious splashes of red ink or 
 
rHE LOFER'S ^ - 
 
 PROGRESS ^ J 
 
 Termilion paint to represent the necessary gore. At 
 night-time also in the west room, after the lights had 
 been extinguished and -we were all in bed, I told stories 
 to the other fellows — stories of every conceivable kind, 
 in part based on imagination and in part borrowed from 
 books that I had read, the " Arabian Nights " being 
 blended with "Minnegrey," and Ainsworth's "Oving- 
 dean Grange " with " The Count of Monte Cristo." 
 
 I was an insatiable reader; I devoured every book that 
 came into my hands, whether I could understand it or 
 not. But I most loved the poets, such as Byron, Shel- 
 ley, Keats, Herrick, Tennyson, and Longfellow. It 
 was my delight on half-holidays to go and lie on the 
 downs with a volume of poetry to keep me company. 
 And often, too, I went to the brink of the cliffs, or down 
 to the pebbly shore to read aloud some favorite poem 
 while the music of the waves accompanied my voice. I 
 loved the sea, paddled in it, bathed in it, swam in it, 
 learnt to know it under every aspect, in every mood. It 
 seemed to me to have a voice which told strange, sad, 
 and beautiful things, and often would I lie quite silent 
 trying to interpret its words. Again, the breezy, un- 
 dulating downs were a delight to me. How often did 
 I climb them, roll down them, career along their ridges, 
 offering my cheeks the while to the moist gusts from 
 the open, and drinking in health and strength, while 
 feasting my eyes on the immensity of sky and sea and 
 billowy upland! 
 
J A CfHE LOVER'S 
 
 ^ ^ 1 PROGRESS 
 
 But a great change was in store for me. My father 
 remoTed from England to France, and after a time I 
 went there with my brother Aubrey, Arnold our elder, 
 now a young man of twenty, taking charge of us on the 
 journey. It was late at night when we reached Paris, 
 which fairly dazed me with its noise, its trafl&c, its thou- 
 sands of lights blazing under the hot July sky. But we 
 drove to a very quiet outlying quarter, Passy, where my 
 father was renting a large furnished ground floor, pend- 
 ing more permanent arrangements. And there I found 
 two little step-brothers, Horace and Fred, and a step- 
 sister, Agnes, awaiting us in the charge of their young 
 mother, by whom I was received with all kindness and 
 affection. In those days she treated me as if I were her 
 own child, and later she became for me a sister, a con- 
 fidante, a true friend, one who, knowing her sex, strove 
 to keep me in the right path when I at last reached the 
 flush and the intoxication of youth. 
 
 I was now in my twelfth year, but although I had 
 learnt and translated most of La Fontaine's fables at 
 school in England, I could not speak French, nor could 
 I understand much of the French that was spoken to me. 
 Nevertheless, I was almost immediately sent to a day- 
 school in Passy, where I first learnt what it was to have 
 my ears pulled and to be stood by way of punishment in 
 a corner of the playground during " recreation," instead 
 of being flogged or having to write out an imposition of 
 so many hundred lines according to the English custom. 
 
rHE LOFER'S j. y 
 
 PROGRESS ^ / 
 
 One other matter which at that time greatly exercised 
 my boyish mind may be recalled. The older part of 
 Passy is built on a slope descending toward the Seine, 
 and a little yard adjoining our ground floor overlooked 
 a long and carefully-tended garden, in which one day 
 I saw a lady walking. She was a woman of striking 
 presence, tall, stately, but sad-looking, with glossy brown 
 hair and a somewhat angular face, rouged and powdered. 
 As a matter of fact, she was very old. In spite of all 
 last fard many wrinkles could be detected on her coun- 
 tenance, and her glossy hair had all the trimness of a 
 wig. As she came slowly down the garden path with 
 her train of brocaded silk sweeping the gravel behind 
 her, she reminded me of sundry portraits of Queen 
 Elizabeth, and my brother Arnold having at that mo- 
 ment entered the little yard, I asked him if he knew 
 who she was. 
 
 He looked at her, laughed lightly, and in a sarcastic 
 way replied: "Oh, she is well known about here, it 
 seems; she was the mistress of King Charles X." 
 
 I did not then exactly know what a king's mistress 
 might be, but, with more or less understanding, I had 
 read of notorious women to whom at one or another 
 period the misfortunes of France and of other countries 
 had been attributed. And from that time forward the 
 stately, withered creature in the garden at Passy exer- 
 cised a strange fascination over me. I used to watch 
 for her, and as I did not like to put any further ques- 
 2 
 
J O Cr'HE LOVER'S 
 
 -' " 1 PROGRESS 
 
 tions to Arnold, whose manner with me was rather 
 supercilious and abrupt, I turned to some school his- 
 tories of France in the vain hope of finding her name 
 and misdeeds chronicled therein. But those little books 
 told me nothing; I only found the usual brief account 
 of Charles X.'s reign, the fatal ordinances, and the 
 three glorious days of July. 
 
 The old lady — I heard a servant say that she was a 
 countess — often walked in her garden during the sum- 
 mer evenings, always arrayed in splendid, if old-fash- 
 ioned, gowns, at times also followed by a lame spaniel, 
 while at others a maid attended her, ready to throw 
 a velvet cloak over her shoulders should the air prove 
 chilly after the sunset. And I found that she never 
 went beyond those garden walls. She lived in solitary 
 state, in a strange old house at the far end of the gar- 
 den, attended by four servants — a cook, two maids, and 
 a gardener, who usually answered the clanging bell at 
 the iron gate. Her only visitor was a swarthy priest, 
 who called each day shortly after noon and remained a 
 quarter of an hour, perhaps to. pray with her, perhaps 
 to hear her confess her sins. How she occupied the 
 greater part of her time I cannot say. I only know that 
 she sadly paced her garden in the gloaming like some 
 spirit of the ancien regime, some spectre of old Ver- 
 sailles, ever sumptuously gowned in silk and velvet, 
 powdered and painted, too, as if still awaiting some 
 visit from the dead king by whom she had been loved. 
 
rHE LOFER'S ^ j q 
 
 PROGRESS 2_1. 
 
 and for whom she yet adorned herself and kept herself 
 thus cloistered even in the last days of her old age. 
 When I looked at her I often thought of Madame de 
 Maintenon, the Comtesse Dubarry, and the Duchess of 
 Kendal, of whose raven — the supposed reincarnation of 
 her royal lover — I had already read, either in Thack- 
 eray's "Georges" or in Mahon's "History." The 
 loneliness of that woman's life seemed like retribution 
 for past errors. Who she really was, what she had 
 done, I never learnt; but in these later years, when the 
 thought of her has recurred to my mind, it has seemed 
 to me that in the cheerless solitude of her life's close 
 one might find the inspiration for. some passionate and 
 pathetic tale, to be called " The King's Mistress." 
 
 But time went on, and I had begun to speak French 
 with some little fluency, when rather serious trouble 
 arose in our home, which, after a few months, had been 
 transferred to another part of Passy. My father became 
 involved in an intricate and very costly lawsuit with 
 a notorious and wealthy quack doctor, from whom he 
 had wished to purchase a house in the vicinity of Paris, 
 a castellated structure standing in beautiful grounds. 
 It was in connection with that house and lawsuit that 
 I became acquainted with Lotis. I have related how 
 she first flashed upon me in her grandfather's salon, and 
 I must now mention that on various occasions afterward 
 — Thursday half-holidays and go forth — I was sent with 
 letters and law papers to Maitre Verdier's house, a villa 
 
20 <rr'HE LOVER'S 
 -t PROGRESS 
 
 at Saint Mand6, a Parisian suburb, then little more than 
 a village, east of Paris, and so far from Passy that to 
 reach it I had to cross the city in its entirety. 
 
 Although Maitre Verdier had an office on the ground 
 floor of his house, he was seldom in it; and now and 
 again when I went thither, his senior clerk took me to 
 a little sitting-room which he much affected, or else 
 to the garden, where in sunny weather he occasionally 
 spent his afternoons. The notary was about sixty, small 
 and shrivelled, with a bald head and a very shrewd face. 
 His practice had formerly been a large one, but he had 
 made plenty of money, and nowadays did little work. 
 
 One very warm afternoon toward the end of the spring 
 of 1867, on going to the garden to see Maitre Verdier, 
 I found him reclining in an arm-chair, with a handker- 
 chief spread over his face, presumably to keep off the 
 flies. Two ladies, both engaged in needlework, were 
 with him. One, a gray-haired, comfortable-looking 
 dame, I knew to be Madame Verdier, but I had never 
 before seen the other, who was dark, short, and angular, 
 like the notary himself. He, on being roused, promptly 
 threw his handkerchief over his head, sat up, blinked, 
 and adjusted his spectacles. I stood there waiting while 
 he perused the letter which I had brought for him— a 
 letter written by my brother Edwin, who, my father 
 being an indifferent linguist, was at that time acting as 
 his French secretary and general assistant. 
 
 Now, I had walked some distance from the railway 
 
rHE LOFER'S. P;- 
 
 PROGRESS ^ 
 
 station under the glowing sun, and I was hot and dusty. 
 Big drops of perspiration were coursing down my fore- 
 head, when Madame Verdier, noticing my discomfort, 
 removed some sewing materials from a spare chair, and 
 invited me to sit down. Just then, however, the notary 
 himself rose, as if to go to his office with the letter I had 
 brought him, and I thought it my duty to follow; but 
 he checked me, saying: 
 
 " Ifo, no, mon ami. Eemain there and rest. I will 
 give you an answer to take to your father presently." 
 
 Thus I was left alone with the two ladies, the elder of 
 whom, after commenting on the sudden warmth of the 
 weather, said to me with a smile : 
 
 "Well, and how do you like Paris? Are you learn- 
 ing French rapidly ? " 
 
 Then, before I could reply, she went on to explain to 
 her companion, who hitherto had not raised her head 
 from her embroidery, that I was a son of the Monsieur 
 Letty of whom she had heard. At this the other quickly 
 looked up with a little ejaculation of surprise; and as 
 she turned her face on me, I saw that, although it was 
 somewhat sharp of outline, it was by no means un- 
 pleasant. 
 
 But Madame Verdier was speaking to me again. 
 
 "My daughter, Madame de Louvadour," said she, 
 " knows some of your relations quite well. You have 
 an aunt, Madame Fennell, living with her daughter in 
 Brittany, have you not? " 
 
PP (T'HE LOFER'S 
 
 '^'^ 1 PROGRESS 
 
 I answered affirmatively, thougli in a somewhat hesi- 
 tating tone. Madame Pennell, as the notary's wife 
 called her, was known among us as an aunt, but she was 
 simply a kinswoman of distant degree on my mother's 
 side. I myself had never seen her, as I acknowledged 
 to Madame Verdier when she questioned me further. 
 Then, as the two ladies went on talking, I gathered 
 that the younger one, Madame de Louvadour, lived 
 with her husband in Brittany, at the same little seaside 
 village as my Aunt Pennell, and that she was merely 
 visiting at Saint Mand§ with her daughter Louise. It 
 was her practice, it seemed, to stay with her parents for 
 a few weeks each springtide, and that year, on account 
 of the Great Exhibition, her visit was being prolonged. 
 I understood, moreover, that it was through some inter- 
 position of my Aunt Fennell, of whom I shall have occa- 
 sion to speak in detail hereafter, that my father had 
 been brought into relations with Maltre Verdier. 
 
 " "Well," said Madame de Louvadour graciously, " you 
 must make up for lost time, and go some day to see your 
 Aunt Pennell. I am sure she would be glad to know 
 you. Saint Bgarec is quite a little place, but the scenery 
 is lovely, and we are close to the sea. You like the sea, 
 do you not ? English boys are generally very fond of it. 
 Your father ought to take you to Saint iSgarec for the 
 holidays some summer." 
 
 I listened, and replied in monosyllables, though I was 
 gradually feeling more at ease with the two ladies. The 
 
rHE LOFER'S P .^ 
 
 PROGRESS -^ 
 
 sullennesB and moodiness of disposition which had been 
 so apparent in my childhood were qiiite departing from 
 me now. In England, perhaps, I should not have 
 changed, but it is virtually impossible for a lad to re- 
 main sullen in France. And in those days, moreover, 
 far more than now, Paris was essentially a city where 
 politeness and all the little courtesies of life prevailed. 
 After I had been there a few months, I had thoroughly 
 learnt the little French bow of the times. I never en- 
 tered or quitted a shop without saluting, and I never 
 presumed to address a lady, or listen to her or reply to 
 her otherwise than with my head uncovered. 
 
 But there came a diversion. We were seated in the 
 back garden, and all at once a girl came bounding along 
 a walk that led from the gate in front of the house. It 
 was Madame de Louvadour's daughter Louise, or, as I 
 prefer to remember and to call her, Lotis, she in whom 
 before long all my thoughts were to be centred. She 
 darted to her mother like a genuine wilding, her creamy 
 face flushed by the heat, her dark eyes sparkling, her 
 hat awry, her chestnut hair waving around her. 
 
 " Oh, mamma! " she exclaimed, "we have been ever 
 so far through the Bois de Vincennes. It was so de- 
 lightful! There are such funny little rivers there, and 
 I jumped across them. And see" — ofEering a large 
 bunch of wild-flowers — " I gathered all these for you! " 
 
 Her mother kissed her, and, while smoothing her 
 hair, said with a smile to Madame Verdier: " Chassez 
 
2/1 Cr'HE LOFER'S 
 
 ~J- J- PROGRESS 
 
 le naturel, il revient au galop, ^' signifying in this in- 
 stance that, however much one might try to curb an 
 impetuous nature, it promptly asserted itself. 
 
 Lotis — I shall hereafter give my reason for calling her 
 thus — was in truth at that time an impetuous child, one 
 of Nature's wild offspring. When I had first seen her, 
 a few weeks previously, I had thought her very prim in 
 appearance, but, as I afterward learnt, each spring when 
 she came from Brittany to visit her grandparents an 
 efEort was made to put her on her best behavior. And 
 for a few days she certainly tried to attune herself to 
 civilization and its ways, but her natural spirits soon 
 regained the ascendancy. Even as she was wont to do 
 in Brittany, she would make her escape from the house, 
 go ofE on a ramble, and return flushed with the excite- 
 ment of her escapade, while the whole household was 
 upset with anxiety as to what might have become! of her. 
 
 That day, however, she had gone out with a maid, 
 who came in almost breathless a few moments after- 
 ward. 
 
 "Mademoiselle ran on in front," explained the ser- 
 vant apologetically. "I tried to stop her, madame, but 
 she would not listen." 
 
 Lotis laughed, while her mother, who had been ex- 
 amining her, said with sudden severity: 
 
 " Oh, you careless child, you have torn your frock! 
 How did you do that ? " 
 
 " She would jump over the brooks, madame, and run 
 
rHE LOFER'S pr 
 
 FPOGRESS _J 
 
 away from me," put in the maid; " and siie caught her 
 frock among some brambles, I believe." 
 
 " Well, you will hare to mend that yourself," said 
 Madame de Louvadour to her daughter; "perhaps that 
 will teach you to be more careful." 
 
 "Oh, it's quickly done, mama; you'll see. Give me 
 a needle," Lotis replied, losing naught of her high 
 spirits. 
 
 "Yes, I know, di la six, quatre, deux,"* said her 
 mother; "but that won't do. You must mend that 
 rent in a proper manner." 
 
 Just then Lotis, for the first time apparently, caught 
 sight of me, and instead of answering became confused. 
 
 Our parts were reversed. Attired as I was that day 
 in my Sunday best, and having recovered from the heat, 
 I — though my boots were somewhat dusty — was the trim- 
 looking boy, and she with her hat askew, her hair in 
 disorder, and her torn frock, was the wild, untidy girl. 
 But both her mother and her grandmother were evi- 
 dently very fond of her, and scolding went no further. 
 
 "Louise," said Madame de Louvadour, "this young 
 monsieur" — I grew an inch at hearing myself thus 
 spoken of — " is a cousin of your friend Amy. You can 
 talk English to him." And to me she added: "My 
 daughter speaks English very well. She was at Jersey 
 for a whole year, and since her return to Saint Egarec 
 we have seen a great deal of Madame Fennell and her 
 * Signifying rapidly and anyhow. 
 
-jX ^HE LOVER'S 
 
 1 PROGRESS 
 
 daughter, Mademoiselle Amy, who are our nearest neigh- 
 bors. Louise is rery fond of talking in English with 
 them." 
 
 In my turn I was now becoming embarrassed, while 
 Lotis, who had recovered her assurance, looked at me 
 rather pertly. If Nature at that time was instinctively 
 and gradually attracting me toward the other sex, if the 
 perusal, with more or less understanding, of some of the 
 most passionate poets of the language had already led 
 me to conjure up visions of fair beings dispensing bliss 
 to men, I was yet very shy, very timid, with young girls, 
 of whom, indeed, I knew absolutely nothing. Both my 
 own sisters had died in early childhood, and my little 
 step-sister was barely seven years old. But Lotis had 
 reached that transitional stage when womanhood is nigh 
 its dawn. She was not awkward-looking, as so many 
 are at that time; she was fairly tall and almost boyish 
 in her figure, slim like myself, and I thought that she 
 might be older than I was. Something said by one of 
 the two ladies raised the question of my age. 
 
 "I was thirteen last November, madame," I replied 
 on being interrogated. 
 
 " VraimentJ Not yet fourteen! Why, I thought 
 you sixteen," said Madame de Louvadour. " You look 
 quite serious and tall. You are taller than Louise, and 
 she will be fifteen next January." 
 
 True, I did look older than my age, that had often 
 been remarked of me; and like a boy who knows not his 
 
rHE LOFER'S ^y 
 
 PROGRESS ^/ 
 
 happiiiesB, but is all haste to become a man, I was rather 
 proud of it. And I almost regretted that I had con- 
 fessed my real age to Madame de Louvadour, for it 
 seemed as if Lotis, on hearing that I was nearly a year 
 younger than herself, eyed me in a supercilious fashion. 
 But at last, invited thereto by both ladies, I ventured to 
 address her in English, and to my surprise she answered 
 me readily and well, showing only the faintest suspicion 
 of a foreign accent, which seemed, indeed, to add a 
 music to my native tongue. And she spoke of Brittany 
 and of my Aunt Fennell and Cousin Amy, whom I had 
 never seen, expressing great surprise thereat, as though 
 it were impossible for people to be related and never 
 meet. Madame de Louvadour, who understood a little 
 English, broke in now and again with some remark, 
 and our conversation became at last so animated that we 
 failed to notice the return of Maitre Verdier, who for 
 a moment stood there listening, with an amused smile 
 on his face, and his letter for my father in his hand. 
 
 Then I had to take my leave, bowing both to the old 
 gentleman and the two ladies; but carried away by that 
 chat in English, which had almost taken me back to 
 England once more, I was on the point of ofEering my 
 hand to Lotis, when she, rising from her grandfather's 
 armchair, in which she had installed herself, gravely 
 made me a most f ornial Parisian bow. I saw her mother 
 smile, and the next moment I was gone, secretly an- 
 noyed with both myself and the young girl. 
 
5 o Cr'HE LOVER'S 
 
 JL PROGRESS 
 
 Perhaps ten days elapsed before I returned to Saint 
 Mand6. The very end of May had now come, and that 
 day again the sun shone out warmly. All at once, as 
 I was going down the Avenue de la Demi-Lune toward 
 the notary's house, a girl turned sharply out of a side 
 road; at the first glance I recognized Lotis. She gave 
 a little exclamation of surprise, and came toward me. 
 
 " You are going to grandpapa's ? " she asked me in 
 English, using that language without hesitation. 
 
 "Yes," I replied; adding that I was taking Maltre 
 Verdier a number of papers. 
 
 "Then I will go back with you," she resumed, and 
 without more ado she began walking by my side. 
 
 Villas with large and umbrageous gardens spreading 
 out behind lofty iron rails, painted a silvery gray, lined 
 the avenue, over the sidewalks of which the verdure of 
 the chestnuts and acacias threw a pleasant shade. For 
 a moment we remained silent; I simply gave a glance or 
 two at Lotis, observing with some egotistical satisfaction 
 that, although she might be the older, I was the taller 
 by quite half a head. For the rest, timidity came upon 
 me again. I should have liked to talk to her, but I did. 
 not know what to say, or, rather, how to begin. She 
 meanwhile looked round on all sides, eying one garden 
 after the other. 
 
 " Oh, what beautiful lilac! " she suddenly exclaimed, 
 pointing to some tall bushes beside which we were pass- 
 ing. " Our lilac at grandpapa's is all over." 
 
rHE LOFER'S ^^ 
 
 PROGRESS -^y 
 
 She looked up covetously, then made a spring with 
 her arm raised, in order to clutch at a flowering branch; 
 but it proved to be beyond her reach. 
 
 "Shall I get you some?" I asked; and in response 
 to her bright glance, I raised a walking-stick I was that 
 day carrying — one belonging to my brother Edwin, 
 which I had borrowed without permission — and by this 
 means I promptly hooked down one of the branches. 
 There was nobody to be seen in the avenue, and thus we 
 could pilfer the lilac at our ease. It rather delighted 
 me to do so, for some undeflnable feeling was attracting 
 me toward Lotis, and this venial theft would establish 
 complicity between us. 
 
 But she wished to secure a somewhat large branch, 
 and found the wood rather hard to break. 
 
 " Let me cut it," said I. " Hold the stick a moment, 
 will you ? " 
 
 Then I felt for my clasp-knife, opened it, and turned 
 to the branch. But at that moment irrepressible mirth 
 came over Lotis. Still holding my stick, she laughed 
 and laughed again, shaking the while almost from head 
 to foot. With one cut I had severed the branch, the 
 lower part of which sprang up again, while the flower- 
 ing shoots fell upon the ground. But Lotis's merriment 
 galled me, for, plainly enough, it was at me that she 
 was laughing. And I could not tell why. At last one 
 of those sudden fits of passion which had so often come 
 on me in my earlier years burst forth. I lost all self- 
 
-,^ Cr'HE LOFER'S 
 
 J^ 1 PROGRESS 
 
 control, stamped my foot, and turned on her, saying 
 impetuously: 
 
 " Why do you laugh at me — why ? You laughed at 
 me the first time you saw me, and you laugh at me when 
 I cut those flowers for you! Well, you shan't have 
 them: perhaps that will teach you to be not so rude! " 
 
 Then, stooping, I picked up the branch of blossom, 
 and hastily flung it over the garden rails. 
 
 Lotis had ceased laughing. She was looking at me 
 with a strange expression in her dark eyes, and her lips 
 were compressed. I was already vaguely regretting my 
 action, yet I asked again: 
 
 " Why did you laugh ? " 
 
 " I laughed because you made me," she replied; " you 
 looked so funny." 
 
 My blood boiled up afresh. 
 
 " What is there funny about me ? " I retorted. 
 
 "You held your knife in your left hand, and you 
 looked so dreadfully awkward. You did just the same 
 when I flrst saw you : you were sharpening your pencil 
 with your left hand." And at the recollection of it she 
 smiled anew. 
 
 For a moment I remained speechless. So that was 
 the reason of her merriment ! At our first meeting I had 
 fancied that her laughter had been caused by my clothes, 
 and this time again I had imagined something similar. 
 But no; she had simply laughed at me because I was 
 left-handed. Several years previously, during some 
 
rHE LOVER'S J J 
 
 PROGRESS J^ 
 
 summer holidays in England, an injury to my right arm, 
 which I had carried for some weeks in a sling, had 
 tended to make me left-handed in various respects, par- 
 ticularly as regards the use of knives, scissors, and sim- 
 ilar things. And perhaps I did look awkward with my 
 knife in my left hand, though I should have seemed 
 more awkward still had I tried to use it with my right. 
 However, Lotis's explanation mollified me considerably. 
 I was not as yet quite in a mood to apologize for my 
 hastiness and temper, but I glanced up at the lilac- 
 bushes, and saw that there was still some blossom on 
 them. 
 
 "There is some left," said I; "shall I get it for 
 you?" 
 
 "No; I don't want it now," she answered; and, 
 tarrying only to give me a scornful look, she turned 
 upon her heels and walked ofE down the avenue in the 
 direction whence we had come. 
 
 I was astonished. For a moment I thought of run- 
 ning after her, and then I lingered, watching her till 
 she was out of sight. Not once did she look round. 
 Plainly enough she had that afternoon slipped out of 
 the house for a solitary ramble, according to her wont, 
 and her people might be disturbed about her. So they 
 were, as I found when I arrived at the notary's resi- 
 dence; but I lacked the moral courage to say that I had 
 seen her. I felt like a culprit, for had it not been for 
 my display of temper, my childish sensitiveness at being 
 
J2 Cr'HE LOF 
 
 £_ J- PROGR 
 
 playfully laughed at, she would have gone home 
 me. In my worry I lingered at the villa as long a 
 seemly, in the hope she would return thither; and 
 I came away, I again loitered for fully half an he 
 the avenue. She, no doubt, imagined that I ha 
 that time gone home, for all at once I saw her wa 
 toward her grandfather's house in a quiet, unconc( 
 way. Then the impulse came on me to go to he: 
 ask her pardon, and I was already crossing the ro 
 do so when she perceived me, and hurried her foots 
 passing on with averted face. If anger swiftly re 
 me, at least it swiftly fell; but, plainly enough, foi 
 ness was slow in coming from her. Therein perhaj 
 a lesson, but I only felt abashed and vexed as I st 
 on my homeward journey. 
 
 Three or four weeks went by,' during which I 
 than once found myself thinking of Lotis in a Vi 
 puzzled fashion; and when at last I was once more 
 missioned to go to Saint Mand6, I experienced 
 little emotion. But on reaching the villa, I found 
 both Madame de Louvadour and her daughter ha 
 turned to Brittany several days previously; and, 
 happened, more than a year elapsed before I saw 
 again. 
 
rHE LOFER'S J y 
 
 PROGRESS JO 
 
 II 
 
 The Voice of Nature 
 
 The Great Exhibition year, when Paris was crowded 
 with emperors, kings, princes, and viceroys as it had 
 never been crowded since the armies of the Holy Alli- 
 ance had entered it in triumph at the first fall of Napo- 
 leon, passed away slowly. I saw many of the sights, the 
 festivities, pageants, and reviews, and one Sunday I was 
 with my father in the Bois de Boulogne, gazing at the 
 imperial cortege, when Berezowski, the Pole, fired upon 
 the Tsar, perhaps the first event of any really historical 
 character that I have witnessed. 
 
 But changes came in the following year. My father's 
 great lawsuit, which embraced actions tried at Ver- 
 sailles, at Saint Germain, and in Paris also, where Jules 
 Favre pleaded on our side, ended adversely for us, with 
 a loss of some thousands of pounds. Then, while my 
 brother Arnold prepared himself for a scientific career 
 in England, Edwin took to journalism on his own ac- 
 count, anfi a cousin, Baskcombe Letly, came to Paris to 
 act as my father's assistant. Finally, my stepmother 
 and the junior members of the family were sent to Saint 
 Maur, a West of Prance watering-place, I alone remain- 
 ing with my father, who removed to bachelor quarters 
 3 
 
jy, Cr'HE LOVER'S 
 
 Jt- -L PROGRESS 
 
 in the Eue de Miromesnil, near the Elys6e Palace. The 
 Chateaubriand family occupied most of the house^ where 
 the doorkeeper was an ex-Zouave, full of stories of 
 Algeria. His wife became our servant, but, though we 
 lunched at home, we generally dined at a restaurant. 
 
 I was now studying at the Lyc6e Bonaparte, then the 
 smart college of Paris, where my hours were from ten 
 to twelve and from two to four. But this attendance 
 did not end my day, for I had home work to do, and 
 work again with a tutor, who was to push me on in 
 order that I might soon take my bachelor's degree. 
 Moreover, my father engaged a German master, who 
 gave me lessons two or three times a week. And withal, • 
 though I often had to work at my studies until late at 
 night, I began to render my father assistance. I trans- 
 lated for him, and even tried my hand at writing para- 
 graphs for one or another of his news-letters. In those 
 days one of his maxims, which I have often remembered, 
 was, "In any case, whether your sentence be good or 
 bad, always let it say something." 
 
 But as time went on, much of the work that fell to 
 me was among the artists of Paris. A number of 
 draughtsmen were always busy for my father; they had 
 friends who were painters and sculptors, and thus I was 
 soon familiar with the studios of both banks of the Seine 
 — those of the Quartier Latin like those of the Qnartier 
 Pigalle. At times I used to go thither after leaving 
 Bonaparte in the afternoon; then also on Thursday half- 
 
rHE LOFER'S ^ -, 
 
 PROGRESS JJ 
 
 holidays, aad occasionally even on Sundays. My artist 
 acquaintances seemed to take a fancy to me; they called 
 me by my Christian name; they made me sit down and 
 partake of la fortune dupot if I called at meal-time. 
 
 Many little incidents showed the kindly solicitude of 
 those genial, and in many respects careless, men for 
 my dawning youth. There would come a cessation of 
 Rabelaisian pleasantries such as they indulged in among 
 themselves, and, though I was often confronted by pic- 
 tures of the nude, the girls who sat as models were 
 invariably cloaked or bundled out of sight as soon as 
 I arrived. I said nothing of those things, but it was 
 only natural that I should begin to think of them, 
 though for the most part I was content to sit and watch 
 in silence, while one painted his canvas, or another pen- 
 cilled his boxwood, or another modelled his clay. The 
 Salon of 1868 was the first I saw; I came from it in en- 
 thusiasm, transported, longing to be an artist in my 
 turn, and perchance a revolutionary; for a friend had 
 taken me just once to Manet's studio, then in the Eae 
 Guyot, and I had been impressed by what was told me 
 of the doctrines of the " new art." 
 
 But my father was not minded to make an artist of 
 me, nor yet a writer, although he availed himself of the 
 little help I gave him. He wished me to become an 
 advocate, an English advocate practising at the Paris 
 Bar, as is allowable by French law, provided one dnly 
 qualifies one's self for such a career. There was then 
 
36 
 
 rHE LOrER'S 
 PROGRESS 
 
 only one such advocate in Paris, but I believe there are 
 now several, who find clients among English residents 
 and English companies with interests in France, and 
 who make very considerable incomes. Thas my father's 
 idea was a sound one; but events frustrated its realiza- 
 tion. Moreover, although I might have acquired enough 
 knowledge to become a fairly good .consulting advocate, 
 and although I possess a voice which would carry almost 
 anywhere, I have never been able to speak in public. I 
 tried once, and failed lamentably. 
 
 But the summer of 1868 arrived at last, and with it 
 came my holidays." I was still a mere child, fourteen 
 and a half years old, but my mind was full of many 
 things — my studies, art, law, politics, and what not 
 besides; and people were kind enough to say of me that, 
 although I was not handsome, I had a most expressive 
 face. I was becoming also a little vain, neat in dress, 
 addicted to wearing gloves and carrying a walking-stick, 
 as was indeed a favorite practice among my well-groomed 
 class-mates at Bonaparte. But I did not smoke, and 
 my only beverages were coffee, milk, and claret largely 
 diluted with water, with perhaps, once or twice in the 
 course of a month, a glass of Here de Strasbourg with 
 some of my artist friends. I was still growing, and 
 looking, as Madame de Louvadour had put it, more 
 " serious " than ever, in such wise that I often passed 
 as being eighteen years old. 
 
 As soon as my holidays had begun I left Paris for 
 
rHE LOFER'S ^ 
 
 PROGRESS J/ 
 
 Saint Maur, to join my stepmother there. And it was 
 particularly now, on seeing the youth springing from 
 the child, the butterfly emerging from the chrysalis, 
 that she began to take a kindly interest in me. Saint 
 Maur is by the sea, on the lunits of Brittany, and one 
 of the largest colonies of English people to be found in 
 France has gathered both within and around it. A 
 well-known English novelist once occupied the quaint 
 old house where I found my stepmother and her chil- 
 dren residing. There were visitors there as well : first, 
 my grandmother, whom I had not seen for some years, 
 and then my Aunt Fennell and her daughter Amy, 
 whom I had never seen before. 
 
 Aunt Fennell was a somewhat masculine-looking 
 woman, tall and hard-featured; but she had a kind 
 heart, and her occasional grimness of manner was solely 
 due to her penurious circumstances. Her husband, 
 some years deceased, had been an officer in the Eoyal 
 Navy, but had thrown up his profession in a fit of pique, 
 and ever afterward had vegetated, losing most of his 
 private means in speculation. Finally, he had died, 
 leaving .his widow and daughter with perhaps sixty or 
 seventy pounds per annum to live upon. Thereupon 
 Aunt Fennell, who was a proud woman, bent on asking 
 nothing from others, had expatriated herself with her 
 daughter Amy, coming in the first instance to Saint 
 Maur, where living in all truth was cheap, though yet 
 too expensive for her slender purse, in such wise that 
 
jO Cr'HE LOVER' 
 
 J" -I PROGRES 
 
 she had finally betaken herself to Saint l&garec in Finii 
 t^re, attracted thither, it seemed, by Monsieur de Louvs 
 dour, who had been a French naval ofiQcer and a con 
 rade-in-arms and friend of Lieutenant Pennell durin 
 the Crimean War. 
 
 I have indicated that life in Paris and intercours 
 with my " smart " schoolfellows at Bonaparte had begu 
 to give me a little polish. Nevertheless, in coming t 
 Saint Maur, full of memories of my seashore days i 
 Sussex, I had looked forward to enjoyment difEerer 
 from what I found there. The season was at its heighl 
 and the sands were always thronged with people. Ther 
 was a casino and music and dancing, and a genera 
 aping of the doings of really fashionable watering-placei 
 Thus I was vastly disappointed. Inland I found som 
 solitude, but little picturesqueness, and only on exploi 
 ing the banks of the llran, which thereabouts flows int 
 the sea, did I come upon a few spots whose cham 
 attracted me to linger and dream the hours away. 
 
 Meanwhile Aunt Fennell, though personally enlivenei 
 by the stir of Saint Maur during those summer daye 
 never wearied of talking of the quietude and beauty o 
 Saint i^gareo, her home, a little place in the recesses o 
 a bay which broadened out into the Atlantic; a primi 
 tive place, where there was virtually no " society," wher 
 some of the peasants still wore long hair, baggy breeches 
 and vests quaintly embroidered; a romantic place, wher 
 there were strange legends and chapels, with menhir 
 
rHE LOVER'S jf^ 
 
 PROGRESS Jy 
 
 and dolmens telling of the Druids; and a picturesque 
 place also, where a great forest of oak trees, descending 
 to the very shore, actually dipped its branches in the 
 waters of the bay, over which one gazed toward the 
 granite isles of Penfret — isles serving like a stockade to 
 curb the violence of Biscay's tumultuous waves. 
 
 I listened, charmed, and often, if I were alone with 
 my cousin Amy, I turned to her for further particulars. 
 She was a young woman of two or three and twenty, 
 fair, and outrageously freckled, with a nondescript nose 
 and light eyes, which seemed to be faded. Nowadays, 
 one situated as she was would go out into the world, 
 work, and make some kind of position for herself; but 
 only the teaching profession, as governess, music-mis- 
 tress, and so forth was then open to young women of 
 her class, and she seemed content to dwell with her 
 mother in a remote corner of Brittany, giving a few 
 lessons here and there. She appeared to be of a som- 
 nolent nature, much given to reverie, and perchance 
 religious thought. 
 
 But she brightened up a little after we had spoken to- 
 gether of Madame de Louvadour, who she knew had seen 
 me at Saint Mand6 the previous year; and she expa- 
 tiated on the subject of Lotis, which I with sudden re- 
 ticence had refrained from broaching. Lotis, or Louise 
 as Amy called her, was a wilding, no doubt, and per- 
 haps a trifle romantic, but she had a good heart and 
 frank nature, and seemed likely to grow into a beauty. 
 
yif) Cr'HE LOVER'S 
 
 't^ 1 PROGRESS 
 
 She was not of Breton origin; her father came from 
 Annis — the province to which La Eochelle had belonged 
 — but after completing his term of service in the French 
 navy in some post at Lorient, he had acquired an oilcake 
 mill between Saint Egarec and Plouarneau and had 
 settled down there. 
 
 Now, Aunt Pennell talked so much of Saint Egarec, 
 and Cousin Amy so much of the Louvadonrs, that before 
 long I could think of nothing else. There was the for- 
 est dipping its branches in the waves, and there was 
 Lotis paddling among the rocks. I longed to see them 
 both, and, briefly, when my aunt's stay at Saint Maur 
 came to an end I went with her to her own place. The 
 matter was not arranged without difficulty. My step- 
 mother was rather vexed at my evident desire to flee 
 Saint Maur; but my aunt herself suggested taking both 
 me and Aubrey for a few weeks, if we were willing to 
 put up with a rather rough life and simple fare. Au- 
 brey, however, was very delicate and remained at home, 
 I alone being entrusted to the care of my aunt, who 
 after endless discussions was prevailed upon to accept 
 some small payment for my board. 
 
 It was a long journey, with frequent changing of 
 trains. Eennes, Redon, Lorient, Eosporden, marked 
 our first stages, and at Eosporden we climbed into a 
 creaky old diligence, which lumbered along the badly- 
 kept road leading to Saint Egarec. It was night when 
 we were put down there, outside a dirty little inn with 
 
rHE LOFER'S . j 
 
 PROGRESS ^^ 
 
 a bush over its doorway. Next a man and a barrow had 
 to be obtained to wheel my aunt's box to her house, I 
 carrying my own few things in a bag. Amy of course 
 was with us, and we walked all three behind the barrow 
 through the darkness. It was indeed a very dark 
 August night. The moon would not rise till eleven 
 o'clock, and no stars were to be seen, for a haze coming 
 from the sea had spread over the sky; thus we had to 
 pick our way carefully. We drew near to the sea, whose 
 breath was borne toward us ou the breeze, and at last 
 we reached the house, where all was dark and silent. 
 But a dog barked, and the door was opened, and in the 
 sudden glow of light which then flashed on us I saw an 
 old man of the fisher class, who with his wife had kept 
 an eye on the place in Aunt Fennell's absence. 
 
 Ah! the strange house it was, all gray granite — gran- 
 ite walls, a great granite chimney-piece, and granite 
 flags as flooring. Bruno, the dog, a rough-coated mon- 
 grel, came up to snifE me, then licked my fondling hand. 
 Mother Logoff, the fisherman's wife, had been warned 
 by letter of our arrival, and had got things ready for us. 
 There was a fire smouldering in the big hearth and a 
 table laid, and we ate eggs and cheese and bread, and 
 drank tart cider. Then up a dark wooden stairway — 
 for the house had an upper floor — I was taken to my 
 room: small, with whitewashed walls, a little military 
 iron bedstead, two rush -seated chairs, a big press, and 
 an oaken floor. Quickly did I fall asleep after the long 
 
, J Cr'HE LOFER'S 
 
 ^^ 1 PROGRESS 
 
 day's journey, to dream of the forest which I should see 
 on the morrow, and of Lotis, whose surprise I pictured, 
 and of the sea, whose voice below my window seemed to 
 reach me even in my slumber. 
 
 When I awoke it was daylight. The sun-rays were 
 darting through some chinks in the shutter; for a mo- 
 ment I remained gazing at them, then I remembered 
 everything and sprang out of bed. I opened the win- 
 dow, threw back the shutter, and looked out. Ah, how 
 beautiful! The house stood on rising ground less than 
 a hundred yards from the ocean, which stretched far 
 away till it almost mingled with the sky. When I 
 glanced down to the right I saw a large walled garden, 
 full of trees and bushes, amid which appeared a well- 
 built slated house, whose shutters were closed. Then 
 in the same direction, but beyond the garden, where 
 sundry patches of bright color indicated the presence of 
 flowers, came yet higher walls, uniformly gray, with 
 another building, dismal of aspect, from whose roof rose 
 an iron cross. This was evidently a convent, of which 
 Aunt Pennell had previously spoken to me. 
 
 But I turned my eyes toward the sea, which shimmered 
 under the early sunbeams. Eight away in the open the 
 waves were joyously leaping, bounding it seemed to the 
 assault of a number of rocky islets, against which they 
 broke sonorously, throwing up clouds of spray, and so 
 completely spending their force that on entering the bay 
 they subsided into a foamless swell, which glided toward 
 
rHE LOFER'S ^ y 
 
 PROGRESS ^J 
 
 the shore. And when I carried my eyes to the left 
 I could scarcely restrain an exclamation, for there was 
 the forest, clad in its greenery, the forest with its oak 
 trees throwing ont their branches toward the water. A 
 slight space intervened between them and the sea, but 
 the tide was creeping up and would soon bathe the fore- 
 most of the giant trunks. One tree, black, leafless, 
 dead, lay across the intervening space, uprooted by the 
 incessant attack of the waters, and here and there I dis- 
 tinguished the stamps of other trees, which the receding 
 tides had probably carried away. It was evident that 
 the sea was slowly destroying the forest, encroaching on 
 it year by year. 
 
 At that time it was merely with boyish curiosity that 
 I observed this destruction, but nowadays, when I pic- 
 ture it, I think of the thousands of years which ttie 
 ocean must have given to its untiring assault. In vain 
 did the rocky islets — once, no doubt, part of the main- 
 land — seek to stay its course; though it might be baffled 
 in its first rush, it tried again and again, and finally 
 crept round them and glided up to the forest, whence it 
 snatched perchance two, three, four trees every year. 
 
 But I was roused from my contemplation by the noise 
 of a shutter opening, whereupon I again turned my eyes 
 toward the house standing in the large garden. Yes, 
 there was a shutter and a window open on its upper 
 floor. For a little while, however, I saw nobody, then 
 a head, a mass of wavy chestnut hair appeared, and 
 
yj y, Cr'HE LOVER'S 
 
 ^^ 1 PROGRESS 
 
 Lotis looked down toward the shrubs and trees. But 
 I only saw her for a moment; she quickly went back 
 into her room, and I turned to dress, impelled by some 
 sudden impulse to be up and about before her. When 
 I had slipped on my socks and trousers I found that 
 there was no wash-stand in my room, and remembered 
 that I had been told to wash down-stairs, so I threw my 
 other clothes over my arm and went down. The house 
 was quite silent, but I found my aunt already in the 
 kitchen, where she had lighted a fire. It was not quite 
 seven o'clock. 
 
 Aunt Fennell kept no servant. Mother LegofE, La 
 Jeanne as she was called, simply came to perform some 
 rough work now and then. For the rest, there was 
 little to do. Amy, I found, went into Plouarneau twice 
 a week to attend to the English correspondence of a sar- 
 dine packer, while on other days she gave lessons to 
 Lotis, or sat and sewed with her mother. As soon as 
 she came down that morning — ^just as I had finished 
 dressing — we breakfasted off coffee and milk, served in 
 large bowls, in which we soaked some bread. And then 
 I explored the house, first visiting a kind of parlor on 
 the ground floor, a large, dingily-furnished room with 
 faded hangings at the windows, and an almost thread- 
 bare carpet spread over the granite flags. A glass door 
 led into a long garden containing shrubs, bush fruit 
 trees, a variety of vegetables, and a well-kept flower- 
 border, running alongside a wall over which rose and 
 
rHE LOVER'S y, c 
 
 PROGRESS T--J 
 
 clematis climbed profusely. And there were rose-bushes 
 and marguerites in abundance, with large fuchsias and 
 hollyhocks and sunflowers galore. There was a yard, 
 too, with a well, a shed, and a stone pigsty which had 
 been turned into a fowl-house. 
 
 Followed by Bruno, who was a good friend already, 
 I continued exploring the quaint little place, when all 
 at once I heard loud talking and laughter in the kitchen 
 which opened into the yard, and on returning thither 
 I was surprised to find Lotis before me. She had slipped 
 across the little lane which separated her parents' house 
 from Aunt Fennell's, and there she was rattling on in 
 English, questioning Amy about Saint Maur, and re- 
 counting an infinity of little incidents which had oc- 
 curred at Saint Egarec during the past few weeks. I 
 had been wondering what her greeting would be like, 
 whether she would receive me distantly, haughtily, like 
 one who, remembering the incident of the lilac blossom, 
 felt that she had a grievance. But she herself never 
 once referred to our sudden quarrel. 
 
 " I felt sure it was you," she said directly she saw me. 
 "They would not tell me who was coming." 
 
 Then I learnt that, as the Legoff s were unable to read. 
 Aunt Eennell's letter announcing her return home had 
 been carried for perusal to Madame de Louvadour's in 
 such wise that Lotis had heard that Madame FenneU 
 was bringing one of her nephews to stay with her for a 
 few weeks. But which nephew could it be, since Aunt 
 
46 
 
 rHE LOFER'S 
 PROGRESS 
 
 Eennell had several ? This matter seemed to have exer- 
 cised Lotis's mind, but she had come to the conclusion 
 that the visitor vrould prove to be myself. 
 
 " Mamma says she will be pleased to see you all this 
 afternoon, if you will come across," she continued, as 
 I stood looking at her. "Papa will be back from the 
 works at four o'clock." 
 
 She was certainly getting very pretty, far prettier than 
 a certain watchmaker's daughter whose bright glance 
 I often encountered on my way to and from the Lyc6e 
 Bonaparte in Paris, and whom I had thought somewhat 
 like her. I fancy that she even then noticed the ex- 
 pression of admiration in my eyes, for her own sparkled 
 rather proudly. But she suddenly asked me if I had 
 been down to the shore, and when I told her no she 
 offered to take me. 
 
 For a moment I hesitated; her manner seemed to be 
 unduly p&tronizing; but Aunt Pennell, who was already 
 making some preparations for the midday meal, turned 
 to Amy, saying: 
 
 "Perhaps you had better go with them to prevent 
 them from getting into mischief." 
 
 "Oh, Madame Pennell!" cried Lotis, with comical 
 astonishment. 
 
 "Yes, yes," said my aunt. "I think I could trust 
 Charlie by himself; he looks reasonable enough; but 
 you are too lively, Louise, yon know. One can never 
 tell what you may be up to." 
 
rHE LOVER'S y. ^ 
 
 PROGRESS x/ 
 
 Amy, without saying a word, put on a straw hat and 
 followed us. That morning we did not go far, the tide 
 was rising and would have cut us off had we tried to 
 follow the shore as far as the forest. But we strolled 
 about and watched the sea, and Lotis told me the names 
 of all the distant spots we could perceive. The rocky 
 islets yonder were called " The Sheep " and " The 
 Pigs " ; the cape jutting out on the southeast was the 
 Pointe de Trdvignan; up the creek nearer to us was 
 Plouarneau, and so forth. 
 
 But we became livelier. Lotis sat herself down on the 
 sands, doffed her shoes and stockings, and ran to meet 
 the advancing tide, climbing among the rocks, waiting 
 till she was surrounded by water, then, feigning to be in 
 great distress, until at last, like a nimble, sure-footed 
 goat, she leapt out of the reach of the waves. I followed 
 her, she was my leader; often did we grasp each other's 
 hand to steady ourselves as we alighted on some slippery 
 rock, and once in stumbling I cut my foot, but was too 
 proud to speak of it. Lotis for her part was like the 
 very daughter of the shore of which she knew each rock, 
 each corner. Bruno was with us, while Amy sat out of 
 reach of the waves beside our shoes, paying, it seemed, 
 little attention to what we did. With the ocean before 
 her she remained peering blankly into the distance with 
 those faded eyes of hers, which never sparkled, never 
 irradiated with the faintest gleam of light her plain, 
 dull, freckled face. Often did she thus remain in silent 
 
y, O <T^HE LOFER'S 
 
 ^° 1 PROGRESS 
 
 contemplation. Ah! what is it that they dream of, that 
 they watch for, that they see, those poor, shrinking, 
 silent girls to whom no lover ever comes ? 
 
 Biit with us, under the warm ■ sunbeams, amid the 
 dark rocks and the sparkling water, all was health and 
 gayety and love. For that day Love assuredly wound 
 about me the first light links of his endless chain. Be- 
 fore I even knew my heart I was losing it, like one who, 
 although very young in years, was by virtue of heredi- 
 tary temperament almost ripe already for the joys and 
 sufferings of life. 
 
 When Lotis and I were not on the shore or in the for- 
 est, we often sat with her mother, Madame de Louva- 
 dour, who seemed to take a great fancy to me. She was 
 in poor health at that time, and generally received me 
 in her bedroom, a very large apartment with one window 
 overlooking the sea, and another the beautiful garden of 
 the house. As the bedstead stood in a deep alcove which 
 was curtained off, one might have thought one's self in . 
 a comfortable sitting-room, for there were a piano, 
 a book-case, some settees, and several armchairs. I 
 often chatted there with Madame de Louvadour, who 
 interrogated me about my people, my studies, my boyish 
 hopes and plans. And one day she asked me to read to 
 her, which I did, she seated meantime in her armchair 
 by the window, her everlasting embroidery on her lap, 
 while Lotis placed herself on a stool beside her and sim- 
 ply listened, her chin resting on her hands and her large. 
 
rHE LOFER'S ^^ 
 
 PROGRESS ^y 
 
 dark eyes raised toward me. The book I read was Man- 
 gin's "Mystferes de rOc6an," and the chapters first 
 chosen were those on the stranger denizens of the waters 
 — the octopus, the kraken, the holothnria, and the legen- 
 dary sea-serpent. My French accent was then far from 
 perfect, and now and again Madame de Louvadour, 
 after gently hinting that I had mispronounced one or 
 another word, repeated it correctly. While we were in 
 her company, Lotis and I, we nearly always spoke 
 French; but Lotis's good-by at the hall door — ^for she 
 never failed to come down the stairs with me — was in- 
 variably in English. 
 
 And I spoke some English with her father, a hand- 
 some, grizzled man of fifty, who wore the ribbon of the 
 Legion of Honor in his top buttonhole. He talked to 
 me of Paris and the Emperor who had decorated him, 
 and took me to see the oilcake works on the road be- 
 tween Saint Egarec and Plouarneau. These works only 
 brought him in a small income, perhaps £400 a year; 
 but in that comer of Brittany such an income was in 
 those days almost wealth, and Monsieur de Louvadour, 
 with his jovial manners, appeared fairly well content 
 with his position. 
 
 But while I got on well with Lotis's parents, I seemed 
 to make yet more progress in her favor. We seldom 
 went into Saint Egarec, though I visited the quaint old 
 church there, and made a drawing of it in a sketch-book 
 I had brought with me from Saint Maur. Most of our 
 
CO 'THE L 
 
 J J- PRO 
 
 LOFER'S 
 GRESS 
 
 time was given to the shore, the bay, and the forest. 
 Once or twice we sallied forth alone, biit as a rule Amy 
 came with us — ever taciturn, absorbed in some reverie 
 of her own. 
 
 One day, while Lotis and I were among the rocks, I 
 saw two nuns passing gravely across the sands. To my 
 surprise. Amy went up to them, and remained talking 
 to them for quite a long time. Hitherto I had imagined 
 her to be an uncompromising Protestant like her mother, 
 my aunt, who never ceased talking of Catholic super- 
 stition. And here I ought to mention that the Louva- 
 dours were Protestants also, in a measure of the old 
 Huguenot type. Curiously enough, there were then 
 eight or nine Protestant families at Saint Egarec, lost 
 almost in the midst of an intensely devout Catholic com- 
 munity. They had neither church nor minister, but 
 met on Sundays at Monsieur de Louvadour's house, 
 where prayers and the Scriptures were read now by one, 
 now by another. 
 
 When Amy joined us after her conversation with the 
 nuns, I could not help making some remark on the 
 subject. 
 
 "They are very good women," she curtly replied to 
 me, with a little sigh and a far-away look. 
 
 We were bored somewhat, Lotis and I, by her silent 
 dreaming. She was like a troubU-fite whose gravity 
 checked our mirth. For I, serious, pensive, self-con- 
 tained myself during my earlier years, was becoming 
 
rHE LONER'S CT 
 
 PROGRESS JJ_ 
 
 gay as I had never been before. I devised plans for 
 escaping from Amy. My stepmother had given me ten 
 francs as pocket-money when I had bidden her good-by, 
 and for half a franc a time old LegofE was only too ready 
 to row me and Lotis about the bay. Amy being content 
 to remain meanwhile upon the shore. One day, too, 
 when we went to the forest together, I contrived to slip 
 away from her while she was musing near the "Cal- 
 vary" of a little chapel hidden among the trees. I 
 made a sign to Lotis, and, she being nothing loath, we 
 both ran ofE. 
 
 Ah, that forest ! the beautiful old trees, the magnifi- 
 cent oaks, with big bunches of mistletoe high among 
 their branches! Thither in days of old had the Druids 
 come to celebrate their mysterious rites. But to me, 
 who had lately reperused in a Tauchnitz edition the 
 " Idylls of the King," the great wood rather suggested 
 something Arthurian — Broceliande and Vivian and Mer- 
 lin. However, on that particular day after our joint 
 escape from the musing Amy, it occurred to Lotis to 
 escape from me also. She suddenly disappeared, and 
 I found myself alone. In vain did I search and call : 
 I could not find her, and no answer came. I heard 
 nothing save the rustling of the leaves above my head. 
 I felt very vexed, and sat down for a moment. Then, 
 after a few more fruitless calls, I rose and turned chance- 
 wise into a glade, trusting to my luck to find my way 
 out of that maze of trees. But just then a faint cry 
 
^P Cr'HE LOVER'S 
 
 ^^ JL PROGRESS 
 
 reached me, and I retraced my steps, searching on all 
 sides, until, beneath a big oak tree, I at last saw some- 
 thing gleaming. It was Lotis's straw hat, and at the 
 sight of it I ran to seize her. The tree was hollow, and 
 she had been hiding in it; but she sprang out, laugh- 
 ing, as soon as I came up. Then, just as I had caught, 
 hold of her hands, I saw a large tuft of mistletoe over- 
 head, a few steps away from us, and, yielding to a play- 
 ful impulse, I pushed her under it and eagerly kissed 
 her cheek. 
 
 But she was greatly displeased; she flushed and freed 
 her hands. 
 
 "You have hurt me," shri said; "you are very 
 rough ! " 
 
 I begged her pardon, stammering. Mere playfulness, 
 boyish memories of English Christmases, had suggested 
 that kiss, but now that it had been given I felt almost 
 ashamed. Yet, at first, Lotis, though there was a 
 strange expression in her eyes, did not speak of it; she 
 only complained that I had hurt her hands. 
 
 "Amy will be vexed. Let us go back to her," she 
 said at last. 
 
 Our spirits seemed to have fallen. "We walked back 
 towards the chapel in silence. I scarcely dared to turn 
 my eyes on Lotis, but I suddenly detected that she was 
 glancing at me. 
 
 " Why did you kiss me like that? " she abruptly in- 
 quired, coming to a halt. 
 
rHE LOFER'S ^ o 
 
 PROGRESS -JJ 
 
 I hesitated, then replied: 
 
 "Because yoa were under the mistletoe." 
 
 But the strange expression in her eyes changed to one 
 of astonishment. In spite of her sojourn in Jersey she 
 knew nothing of the English custom, and I had to ex- 
 plain it to her. At Christmas-time, said I, there was 
 mistletoe in all our houses, and one kissed the girls 
 under it — for fun. 
 
 " For fun ? " said Lotis, echoing my words. 
 
 Then she turned her eyes away and laughed. Never- 
 theless, during the remainder of our walk she kept at 
 arm's length from me, as if she were distrustful. 
 
 Near the chapel we found Amy, who did not appear 
 to have remarked our absence. She was deep in con- 
 versation with an elderly priest, who, after glancing at 
 us, raised his hat and went into the buUding. 
 
 Four days later, for the last time that year — I had 
 already stopped at Saint ifigarec five days longer than 
 had been originally arranged — we again reached the for- 
 est, after a ramble along the shore; but when Amy sug- 
 gested that we should go as far as the chapel, Lotis 
 refused. Amy and I might go if we were so inclined, 
 but she preferred to remain beside the sea. Since our 
 previous excursion her manner toward me had been de- 
 cidedly changing. Nevertheless, I did not then divine 
 her thoughts. 
 
 When, however, we were near home again, and out of 
 my cousin's hearing, she suddenly asked me : 
 
Cy, cr'HE LOVER'S 
 
 O'r 1 PROGRESS 
 
 " "Why did you not go into the forest with Amy, as I 
 said?" 
 
 "Why, you would not come!" I answered. "We 
 would have gone if yoli had been willing." 
 
 Then, with a sparkle in her eyes, she retorted, almost 
 in a tone of disdain : ■ , 
 
 " There is too much mistletoe." 
 
 Not one word of love had yet been spoken between 
 us, but to me that retort came like a revelation. If 
 I had almost forgotten my kiss, it had undoubtedly 
 lingered in Lotis's recollection. She was my senior, on 
 the eve of womanhood, and doubtless she had put her 
 own interpretation on that kiss. I long remained awake 
 that night, pondering over her words. New feelings 
 were rising in me. Playfulness had certainly prompted 
 me to give, that kiss, and yet it might unknowingly have 
 been a kiss of love. Should I have thought of kissing 
 Amy had I caught her in that fashion ? And, again, 
 had I not deliberately pushed Lotis under the mistletoe 
 in order to snatch that kiss from her ? At all events, 
 one thing was certain now — I did love her; she was be- 
 coming all the world to me. The thought that she had 
 remembered my kiss, that she resented it, and was 
 guarding herself from any repetition of it, all enlight- 
 ened and fired my mind. 
 
 And it was then, vaguely recalling the classic legend 
 of the beautiful nymph, Neptune's daughter, who was 
 changed into a tree that she might escape a lover's im- 
 
rHE LOVER'S cc 
 
 PROGRESS JO 
 
 portunity — it was then that in thought I first gave that 
 name of Lotis to my heart's desire. For although I had 
 snatched that one kiss, she now escaped me; she was 
 unwilling that I should ever kiss her again; she was 
 becoming constrained and cold, like one who, caring 
 nothing for me, wished to make me regret my presump- 
 tion. The same gnawing thought ever assailed my 
 heart: Oh, why was I not older, her senior by a year, 
 as she was mine? For then, I thought, her manner 
 might have changed, whereas now she regarded me as 
 a child, only considering my years, and caring naught 
 for the fact that I was taller and stronger than herself. 
 My youth rose up like a barrier. She would always be 
 beyond me; never might I hope to overtake her; and at 
 that thought my heart filled despairingly, and I burst 
 into tears, like the very boy I was, bewailing my boyish- 
 ness, and smarting from love's first wound. 
 
 Two days later I quitted Saint Bgarec. On the eve 
 of my departure I went to take leave of Monsieur and 
 Madame de Louvadour, who spoke to me very kindly, 
 expressing the hope that they would see me there again. 
 But Lotis was not present; she had gone to a friend's 
 in the town, and her mother showed some annoyance at 
 her failure to return. I came away with a heavy heart. 
 Between whiles, during my sojourn at Saint Egarec, 
 I had made myself as pleasant and useful to my aunt as 
 I could, and she had told me that, if my people were 
 willing, I might come back the following year. But 
 
56 
 
 rHE LOFER'S 
 PROGRESS 
 
 why should I come back, since Lotis cared nothing for 
 me ? I would go away and never see her again. As- 
 suredly that would be better. 
 
 I passed a restless night, and rose soon after dawn, 
 though the diligence would not leave Samt Egarec till 
 half-past seven. For a long time I lingered in my room, 
 glancing every now and then out of the window at 
 Lotis's shutters, which remained stubbornly closed. At 
 last I was called, and had to go down-stairs. After 
 breakfast Amy bade me good-by, and set ofE on one of 
 her bi-weekly walks to Plouarneau, while my aunt went 
 into the dingy salon to write a letter to my stepmother. 
 Thus I remained in the kitchen with Mother Legoff, 
 who had come to render some assistance with the wash- 
 ing that day. Her husband, eager to earn another half- 
 franc, was to carry my bag to the diligence, and as he 
 was expected every moment. Amy on departing had left 
 the house-door open. 
 
 All at once I heard a sound of footsteps, no heavy 
 tread, however, but a light and nimble one, and Lotis 
 entered, with fresh cheeks and smiling eyes. 
 
 " I have come to say good-by," said she. 
 
 I could hardly answer. My heart was full. So I had 
 wronged her; she had at least come to say a parting 
 word. 
 
 "Good-by," I stammered. 
 
 Then she offered me her hand. 
 : But Mother LegofE, who, though she did not under- 
 
rHE LOFER'S ^« 
 
 PROGRESS -J/ 
 
 stand our words — ^for we spoke English — could perceive 
 that this was our farewell, hastily intervened: 
 
 "What! are you not going to kiss each other, after 
 playing about so long and being such friends ? On ne 
 se quitte pas com' pa " (one does not quit one another 
 like that). And the good woman laughed in a playful, 
 kindly way. 
 
 I know that I crimsoned, and I could see a flush rising 
 to Lotis's face. But although she seemed to stiffen, 
 with her head thrown slightly back, she made no real 
 movement of retreat. So, still holding her hand, I 
 kissed her on either cheek with all the fervor of my 
 heart. And what delight was mine when swiftly yet 
 softly she kissed me back, likewise on both cheeks. Our 
 eyes were moist as we shyly glanced at one another. 
 
 "-<J la ionne heure! That is as it should be," quoth 
 Madame LegoflE in her genial way. 
 
 Then we smiled, feeling more at ease again. 
 
 "Will you come back next summer?" Lotis asked 
 me. 
 
 " Yes, I hope so. My aunt has told me I may come." 
 
 Even as I spoke, the thought occurred to me that 
 a whole year was a very long time to wait. And a sim- 
 ilar thought must have come to Lotis, for she suddenly 
 exclaimed : 
 
 "But we shall go to Paris in the spring, mamma 
 and I. Won't you come to grandpapa's at Saint Mande ? 
 We shall be there in April." 
 
- O cr'HE LOFER'S 
 
 D*^ 1 PROGRESS 
 
 My heart leapt. This was delight indeed! 
 
 "Yes, yes, I will come," I responded eagerly, and I 
 would have added more, but just then my aunt returned 
 from the salon with her letter ready, and Legofi likewise 
 slouched in to fetch my bag. 
 
 "You have no time to lose, Charlie," said my aunt, 
 after kissing me and plying me with all sorts of recom- 
 mendations. "There, good-by, be a good lad, and 
 come and see us again next August." 
 
 I bade good-by to Mother Legoff and forced a silver 
 coin upon her, and then for the last time shook hands 
 with Lotis. 
 
 " About April the fifteenth, I think," she said, as the 
 others moved toward the door. 
 
 I undierstood, and looked at her in rapture, instinc- 
 tively returning the caress which seemed to dart from 
 her glance. She and my aunt and Mother LegofE stood 
 on the doorstep while I walked up the road with the old 
 fisherman. I looked back again and again and waved 
 my hand. And the last time that I did so — on reaching 
 a point where the road turned to the right — I found 
 that Aunt Fennell and Mother Legoff had gone back 
 into the house. But Lotis was still on the step, and it 
 seemed to me that before she sprang from it to cross the 
 lane to her home, she pressed her fingers to her lips as 
 if to send me yet another farewell kiss. 
 
rHE LOVER'S -^ 
 
 PROGRESS Jy 
 
 in 
 
 The Declaration 
 
 Almost immediately after my return to Paris I went 
 with my father to CompiSgne, where the Imperial Court 
 was then installed. We slept at the quaint Hotel de la 
 Cloche, hut were constantly at the chateau for the pur- 
 pose of delineating and describing the life there. Napo- 
 leon III. was always desirous of advertising himself with 
 the English nation, and for years a good deal of the 
 pomp of his reign was illustrated by artists working 
 under my father's control. Among them, I remember, 
 was a certain Moulin, who combined artistic pursuits 
 with the duties of a private detective, being, indeed, 
 one of the special guardians of Napoleon's person. With 
 him I went on more than one occasion to the Tuileries, 
 notably to inspect the private apartments of the Empress 
 and the Prince Imperial, concerning which I made many 
 notes for my father. 
 
 Excepting the balls and the banquets, I saw virtually 
 everything at Compi6gne — the stag-hunts, the eurSes, 
 the shooting and the afternoon garden-parties, besides 
 attending a performance at the theatre in the palace. 
 One of our artists had sketched the " house " on a pre- 
 vious occasion, but further particulars were wanted for 
 
A^ Cr'HE LOVER'S 
 
 ^^ 1 PROGRESS 
 
 an article, and I was appointed to collect them. As at 
 that age, fifteen, I did not yet possess a dress-suit of 
 my own, my father contrived to procure one for me in 
 the town. 
 
 The Vicomte de la Perri^re, a chamberlain of the 
 Empress, placed me in a little corner of the house be- 
 hind a large party of ladies, whose bodices were cut out- 
 rageously low. Never before had I found myself near 
 such a display of feminine charms, such round shoul- 
 ders, white arms, graceful or opulent figures. A violent 
 blending of perfumes was wafted towards me by their 
 fans, and there was whispering and faint laughter, that 
 added to the spell. At the first entr'acte, when one of 
 the ladies rose, her fan, which had been lying in her 
 lap, instead of being girdled to her waist, as was largely 
 the fashion that year, fell to the floor, and I was near 
 enough to be able to pick it up for her. As she leant 
 forward to take it, wearing the lowest of corsages, with 
 a posy of crimson roses to show ofE the whiteness of her 
 bosom, she addressed to me with her thanks a smile of 
 such placid effrontery that I lowered my eyes in confu- 
 sion. Prom where I sat I could perceive that Napoleon 
 frequently cast sidelong glances on the beauties of his 
 Court, and scarcely looked at the stage. I myself saw 
 virtually nothing of the performance, and when I left 
 the house my pulses were throbbing. The boy was 
 becoming a man. 
 
 But I had to return to Bonaparte. Rossard, my pri- 
 
rHE LOVER'S /. J. 
 
 ■L PROGRESS 
 
 vate tutor, or coach, was not unlike the repetiteur who 
 first led the notorious King Milan of Servia astray. His 
 wife having some little money, he very generously spent 
 it for her. He took me to caf§s, tried to teach me bil- 
 liards, for which, with my clumsy left-handedness, I had 
 no taste, and on one occasion we went together "behind 
 the scenes " at the Cirque de I'lmperatrice, where his 
 brother was employed. I then first came face to face 
 with women in tights and short skirts, who smoked pink 
 cigarettes and addressed almost everybody as "mon 
 petiU" They disturbed me — why should I deny it? — 
 but I did not think them beautiful : they were too coarse 
 after the ladies of the Imperial Court; and, besides, 
 I was still boy enough to find a greater attraction in the 
 horses, the performing dogs, and the grotesquely-attired 
 monkeys. 
 
 I also went with Eossard to some so-called literary lec- 
 tures in the Eue de la Paix, at which many adversaries 
 of the Empire congregated; and then or a little later 
 I first set eyes on Gambetta drinking absinthe and hold- 
 ing forth to some friends at the Caf6 de Londres, at 
 the corner of the Eue Duphot. But Eossard preferred 
 the caf6s of the Boulevard Montmartre, notably the 
 Variet6s, where, among actors, playwrights, and critics, 
 he met a well-to-do relative — a retired colonel, who wore 
 stays, and swore the loudest oaths I have ever heard. 
 An actress of the theatre next door was the colonel's 
 particular friend. 
 
Xp CJ^HE LOFER'i 
 
 ^^ 1 PROGRESi 
 
 I did not receive much pocket-money, but acquaint 
 ances occasionally gave me tickets for the theatre, and 
 once or twice I even went in with the claque,* concern- 
 ing which I wrote an article, the first I ever had printed. 
 " Once a Week " paid me a guinea and a half for it, and 
 thereupon, fancying myself on the highroad to wealthy 
 I got into various scrapes, running up extravagant ac- 
 counts with a stationer and a glover, whom my fathei 
 eventually had to pay. 
 
 However, even as my brother Edwin had done before 
 me, I was now largely helping him in his work, notably 
 with materials for fashion articles, which with him were 
 quite a hobby. I found time to accompany artists to 
 the great costumers of the period. I saw gowns which 
 had been made for empresses and queens, became learned 
 in silks and laces, bonnets, boots, and even false hair. 
 At last I blossomed forth with a fashion article all my 
 own, one of the most approved pattern, in which at 
 least every sixth word was French. This insured its 
 appearance in print, and I received a couple of guineas 
 for it. 
 
 Thus each day brought me nearer to woman. Stand- 
 ing on the margin of Parisian life, with all its intoxi- 
 cating glitter before me, I might have become lost in it 
 hut for my love for Lotis. My father, placing great 
 
 * The hired applauders. Personally I received no remunera- 
 tion ; like others, I was only too glad to see the performance for 
 nothing. 
 
rHE LOVER'S A J 
 
 PROGRESS ^J 
 
 reliance in me, granted me more liberty than was pru- 
 dent. Wten I went out alone, I was simply required 
 to be in by ten o'clock, unless it was known that I had 
 a ticket for a theatre. My father himself occasionally 
 took me of an evening to a little caf6 on the Boulevard 
 des Italiens, where he met some friends. On the whole, 
 however, my hours were fairly regular, if not always 
 well employed; for when I went to Eossard's, compara- 
 tively little time was given to lessons. 
 
 Happily, amid it all the image of Lotis was constantly 
 before me. It was of her that I dreamt if I came home 
 fevered; it was for her that I yearned if young passion 
 arose within me. She was not painted; she was fresh, 
 like the spray of the ocean; her voice was music; there 
 was no coarseness in her words. And her eyes — I always 
 saw them — were fixed on me, like those of a good angel, 
 watching to shield me from harm. 
 
 The cynic smiles on reading that passage, and the 
 materialist man of the world, who has never known a 
 real transport of the heart in his life — there are many 
 such — mutters " Preposterous! " while the fool, think- 
 ing himself wise, declares: "A very bad ease of calf- 
 love indeed! " But it is not for cynics, nor for mate- 
 rialist men of the world, nor even for fools — of whom 
 there is no end — that these pages are written. And 
 they put forward no claim to be of universal applicabil- 
 ity. When, in course of time, the true romance here 
 given became known in its broad lines to a friend of 
 
64 
 
 rHE LOFER'S 
 PROGRESS 
 
 the Lover's family, a distinguished military man, that 
 friend burst forth, almost indignantly: 
 
 " Been in love with a girl of virtually your own age 
 ever since you were fifteen — why, sir, it is ridiculous! 
 I was in love myself when I was fifteen — head over heels 
 in love — but with a woman of thirty. And a splendid 
 creature she was, too! " 
 
 The Lover, at that time eighteen, calmly replied: 
 
 " Are the young girls for the old men, then ? " 
 
 And the gallant warrior collapsed. 
 
 Yet it must be conceded that his case is the case of 
 many. While there are innumerable boy and girl 
 romances, such as my own, though they are more often, 
 perhaps, of briefer duration, it is a fact that youth in 
 its first flush is frequently attracted by maturity of 
 charms. There is no hard and fast rule either way, but 
 I take it that the youth, when he first awakens, turns 
 rather to the girl if his heart be the stronger, and rather 
 to woman, the goddess, if his senses exercise most sway 
 in his nature. What has gone before will have shown 
 that I myself was not unmoved by the sight of feminine 
 beauty in its ripeness; but the emotions thus kindled 
 were transient, or if they tended to last, they became 
 wholly associated with the thought of Lotis — a thought 
 which instinctively elevated and purified them. 
 
 So far as mere years were concerned, she ought to 
 have been younger than myself. In point of fact, she 
 counted from January, 1853, 1 from the end of Novem- 
 
rHE LOVER'S X^ 
 
 PROGRESS ^J 
 
 ber in tlie eame year; thus tliere was some ten months' 
 difiEerence between us. But, then, a strong Southern 
 element had entered into my blood and my brain. I 
 had inherited a duplex nature. As an Anglo-Saxon, 
 through my mother, I was still boyish, timid in giving 
 expression to my feelings; but as an Italian, through 
 my father, those feelings were intense. Before long, 
 however, ardor of thought was bound to overcome timid- 
 ity of manner. Moreover, the men of my race had 
 always matured rapidly, almost invariably throwing ofE 
 their best work, whatever it might be, in their younger 
 years. And circumstances, surroundings, tastes, educa- 
 tion, all tended to precocity in me. Finally, in those 
 young days I felt the power of romance and poetry; and 
 thus, in the midst of the workaday world, still a school- 
 boy, but living in an atmosphere of journalism and art, 
 which prompted me to try pen and pencil and brush 
 myself, I strove in the recesses of my heart and mind to 
 create an ideal for my life — an ideal which gradually 
 found both its sweetest and its most intense expression 
 in Lotis. 
 
 When she came to Saint Mande during the Easter 
 holidays of 1869 I went there. She looked so charming 
 now, so dainty in her first long frocks and with her coils 
 of splendid hair gathered loosely in a net. I was not 
 often alone with her, but I went shopping with her 
 mother and herself on three or four occasions. Madame 
 de Louvadour made many purchases at each of her an- 
 5 
 
A A cr'HE LOFER'S 
 
 ^ JL PROGRESS 
 
 nual visits to Paris. She bought for the most part very 
 simple things, often very cheap ones, but her taste was 
 always exquisite. We went, I remember, to the Petit 
 St. Thomas, and to two or three modistes. I saw Lotis 
 try on hats and smile at herself and me in looking- 
 glasses; I carried the ladies' parcels, took numbers for 
 them at the omnibus stations, and generally acted as 
 their cavaliere servente. Lotis seemed to have shaken 
 off her wildness with her girlhood; she now carried her- 
 self very demurely in the Paris streets; and yet her eyes, 
 when turned on me, would sometimes sparkle mischiev- 
 ously, particularly if on parting I tried to hold her hand 
 a little longer than was strictly fitting. That little 
 hand, how deftly and tantalizingly it contrived to elude 
 the pressure of my own ! 
 
 Her visit kept me enraptured until summer. More- 
 over, I now devised various pretexts for writing to Aunt 
 Fennell and Amy, and sending them trifling little pres- 
 ents. In return I secured news of the Louvadours, even 
 messages from Lotis, and best remembrances from her 
 mother. But the summer shone forth at last, and I 
 again spent the end of it at Saint i^garec. This came 
 about curiously, after a little crisis in my life. I had 
 read the "Life of Jesus" by Eenan, and also that by 
 Strauss — the latter in an English translation — and con- 
 siderable differences arose between me and my step- 
 mother, who was of very evangelical Church of England 
 views. She wished me to be confirmed, and was much 
 
rHE LONER'S X- 
 
 PROGRESS ^/ 
 
 distressed by my refusal, which was based upon grounds 
 that need not be enumerated here. Briefly, the matter 
 caused some unpleasantness at our home at Saint Maur, 
 where most of the family were then assembled, and when 
 my father and stepmother set off on a little tour I was 
 sent to Saint Egarec, as into a kind of banishment, in 
 the belief that Aunt Fennell, a masterful woman in 
 religious matters, would prevail over me by dint of argu- 
 ment and exhortation. 
 
 My fate was bliss to me. Though I had been chaffed 
 about some verses which I had foolishly left lying about, 
 none knew my secret, none divined my love for Lotis. 
 It is needless that I should detail every incident of my 
 sojourn at Saint Egarec that year — ^how after sundry 
 discussions with Aunt Fennell I pacified her by assuring 
 her that I would give serious thought to all she had said 
 to me, and how cordially I was welcomed by the Louva- 
 dours, and how blissful were all the hours that I spent 
 near Lotis, strolling along the shore, boating in the bay, 
 wandering through the forest, or scouring the moorland. 
 Yet one hour cannot be thus briefly dismissed, since it 
 influenced my life for years. 
 
 Monsieur de Louvadour had been called away to 
 Lorient on business for a few days, when one evening, 
 about half -past nine o'clock, just as Aunt Fennell, Amy, 
 and I were ready to retire for the night — for we kept 
 early hours — there came a ring at the front door, which 
 was not yet locked and barred. Amy opened it and 
 
As? Cr'HE LOVER'S 
 J- PROGRESS 
 
 Lotis hurried in, asking somewhat excitedly for me. I 
 went to her at once. 
 
 " There is a fire somewhere on the road to Plouar- 
 neau," she said. " Mamma is most anxious about the 
 works. Kerolet (a man whom the LouTadours employed) 
 is going there. Will you come ? " 
 
 I put on my hat, and we all went into the road. The 
 sky was oyercast and we could see nothing, but the 
 breeze from the southeast wafted a strong smell as of 
 something burning toward us. Kerolet stood there, 
 carrying a lighted lantern, and I asked him if he 
 thought that the fire was at the works. He eniSed and 
 muttered : 
 
 " May be, for it smells very strange." 
 
 Just then a window of the Louvadours' house opened, 
 and Lotis's mother appeared at it. 
 
 " Louise," she called, " you must not go; it is sense- 
 less. Kerolet will do all that can be done. " 
 
 " But Monsieur Charles is coming with me, mamma; 
 I shall be all right." 
 
 " Oh, is Monsieur Charles there ? Well, you may 
 perhaps go then. But, Monsieur Charles, don't let her 
 go near the buildings if there is a fire. It is dreadful. 
 I am quite alarmed, for the smell is exactly like that of 
 something oily burning." 
 
 I assured her that Mademoiselle Louise would be in 
 safety with me, and we thereupon hurried off after 
 Kerolet, whose swinging lantern cast a little light upon 
 
rHE LOrER'S X^ 
 
 PROGRESS ^y 
 
 the road ahead. It was quite aa escapade, yet at that 
 moment I certainly premeditated nothing. I felt anx- 
 ious about the works, and should in any case have gone 
 there with Kerolet. 
 
 After passing the first houses of Saint ifigarec we 
 turned into the highway to Plouarneau. It was rather 
 a eool night after a hot day, but Lotis had not taken 
 time to put on cloak or jacket; she simply wore a little 
 knitted wrapper about her head. On reaching the 
 highway I offered her my arm, which she immediately 
 accepted. I had more than once given my arm with 
 boyish gallantry to her mother, but to herself never be- 
 fore that night. Still, this was no time for love-mak- 
 ing; we were anxious, and walked quickly toward the 
 works, which were about three-quarters of a mile away. 
 As we drew near them the smell of something burning 
 became much stronger, but we saw no flame. Impene- 
 trable darkness enveloped the countryside. 
 
 At least ten minutes had elapsed after our first knock- 
 ing when the watchman, who slept on the premises, 
 opened the gate, and meantime a couple of big dogs had 
 been barking furiously. "We went in and thoroughly 
 explored the place — the store-houses, filled with sacks 
 of flax and hemp-seed, barrels of oil and piles of oil-cake, 
 the crushing mills, the little engine-house, and the 
 offices also. But nothing seemed amiss. The strong 
 smell as of something burning even abated, and there 
 was no sign of fire anywhere. 
 
7/0 CJ-'HE LOVER'S 
 
 f_ JL PROGRESS 
 
 At last Kerolet suggested that he should climb through 
 a skylight to the roof to ascertain if any fire could be 
 distinguished in the vicinity. We left him to do so with 
 the watchman's help and went into the yard again, Lotis 
 and I, walking toward a wall, beyond which spread 
 some cultivated land. I had again given her my arm, 
 my right arm, I well remember it, and I thought it 
 would be sweet indeed to walk on like that side by side 
 forever. But when we were near the wall we had to 
 stop, and she then looked up at the sky. 
 
 "The haze is lifting," she said. "The stars are 
 coming out; there are two yonder already." 
 
 I looked up in my turn, and we lingered there, gazing 
 at those twin stars — perchance our own — ^and watching 
 for others. I could feel the warmth of her confiding 
 arm resting on mine, and suddenly my left hand sought 
 hers and clasped it. All was very still; the dogs had 
 quietly returned to their kennels, and she herself made 
 no niovement. The darkness hid her face, and it grad- 
 ually emboldened me. I gently called her by her name : 
 
 "Louise." 
 
 But she did not reply. She remained as if dreaming. 
 
 "Louise," I said again, "I want to tell you some- 
 thing. May I?" 
 
 Still she gave no answer. It only seemed to me that 
 the little hand which she had surrendered to my grasp 
 gradually, softly, returned its pressure. Then love 
 burst every bond of restraint, timidity, doubt, fear, and 
 
rHE LOFER'S >y j 
 
 PROGRESS /■ 
 
 leapt from mj lips precipitately in accents eager to 
 conquer. 
 
 "Louise, I want to tell you a secret. I love yon. 
 I've always loved you, ever since that day when I kissed 
 you in the forest, ever since that day when I threw the 
 lilac hloBSom away, ever since you laughed at me because 
 I was left-handed. But you will not laugh at me now, 
 will you ? And you won't be angry ? for I love you so 
 dearly. You are all the world to me — so good, so 
 beautiful " 
 
 Still the darkness enveloped her; I could not see her 
 eyes. Perhaps their lids had fallen. But her arm was 
 now resting more heavily on mine, and our hand-clasp 
 had tightened. 
 
 " You will let me love yon, won't you, Louise ? " I 
 continued. "You won't treat me as a child because 
 I'm just a little younger than you are? You won't 
 send me away? I should die if I never saw you again! 
 But you won't be so cruel as that ? Oh, tell me, Louise 
 — tell me that you will let me love you! " 
 
 Then faintly came the words: 
 
 " If you promise to be very good." 
 
 Heaven descended with that ingenuous answer, voic- 
 ing a pure heart. I released her arm, but it was only 
 to take both her hands and raise them to my lips in 
 gratitude. Again and again I kissed them, devoutly, 
 rapturously. And once more I pleaded: 
 
 " I will do everything you wish, I promise you. Only 
 
^y CfHE LOFER'S 
 
 /^ 1 PROGRESS 
 
 try me! And, Louise, Louise, do you think you can 
 love me a little too — oh, ever so little, just a very little, 
 to help me, to make me a man ? I shall be so strong, 
 I will work so hard, Louise, if you will only love me 
 a little." 
 
 And her answer came in her softest voice : 
 
 "I have always loved you, Charlie — always liked you 
 very much." 
 
 Then and there, in the intensity of my rapture, I 
 should have clasped her to my heart; but life is full of 
 trivial obstacles,' and at that very moment Kerolet and 
 the watchman returned to the yard, each with his flash- 
 ing lantern. Forcing back our emotion, we hastily 
 joined them. 
 
 " I can see no sign of anything," said Kerolet. " I've 
 been on the roof and looked all round. If there's a fire 
 anywhere, it must be a long way off, beyond Plouarneau. 
 We've had our walk for nothing at all." 
 
 Those last words made me start, and involuntarily 
 I glanced at Lotis. I could now see her face, which 
 shone quite golden in the light from the lanterns. And 
 as she shyly averted her eyes from mine, I could detect 
 the faint ripple of a little smile about her lips. 
 
 " Tout de meme," said I; "we shall be able to tran- 
 quillize Madame de Louvadour." 
 
 " Qa, c'est vrai " (that is true), Kerolet replied. 
 
 There was no irony intended either by him or me; 
 yet nowadays, looking back, I cannot help smiling. So 
 
rHE LOFER'S y ^ 
 
 PROGRESS /J 
 
 far as the fire was concerned, Madame de Louvadour 
 was fully tranquillized; but what would she have thought 
 had I or Lotis told her about ourselves ? 
 
 However, we bade the watchman good-night and went 
 ofE, Kerolet again walking in front to light our way. 
 He seemed eager to get home; but we loitered, Lotis 
 and I, and when he was a dozen yards ahead he checked 
 his pace for our convenience. He thought, no doubt, 
 that mademoiselle was tired. 
 
 I had given her my arm again, and once more my left 
 hand clasped hers, and in whispers I continued pouring 
 forth love's tale. Once, in my confusion, I called her 
 Lotis. 
 
 " Lotis ? What is that ? " she asked me in surprise. 
 
 I laughed at my error, and told her how in thought 
 I had given her that name the previous summer, at the 
 same time lightly touching on the old classic fable which 
 I had associated with our escapade in the forest. 
 
 " It is a very pretty name," said she. " Lotis — Lotis: 
 I like it better than Louise, don't you ? You may call 
 me Lotis if you like, Charlie, when we are together." 
 
 " But you won't try to run away from me, like the 
 real Lotis did from her lover, will you?" I asked. 
 " You will always be mine — only mine ? " 
 
 She pressed my hand by way of answer, and for a 
 moment we walked on in silence, so close together that 
 our hips brushed one against the other. The darkness 
 persisted, clouds hovered above us, and only a few stars 
 
7^ Cr'HE LOFER'S 
 
 *^ Jl progress 
 
 twinkled here and there. Yet that slow and lingering 
 walk was rendered all the sweeter by the shrouding ob- 
 scurity. Even as it had emboldened me to open my 
 heart, so now, after a while, it encouraged Lotis to rest 
 her head upon my shoulder. Her wrapper had fallen 
 back; I felt her hair against my cheek, and could inhale 
 its perfume. And suddenly, inclining my own face to 
 hers, I sought her lips. I kissed her on them, and she 
 kissed me back. It was bliss supreme, so delicious that 
 again and again I sought her little mouth. And no 
 "kiss snatched hasty, from the sidelong maid" was 
 mine; each time it became longer and more rapturous, 
 until I quivered with emotion. Ah ! those sweet kisses, 
 kept secret by the darkness, those long-drawn kisses, 
 ever so silent, for fear lest Kerolet should hear them! 
 The last and longest was exchanged as we were reach- 
 ing the first houses of Saint ifegarec. And then, in a 
 few rapid, whispered words, we finally plighted our 
 troth. 
 
 " You will wait for me, Lotis, won't you ? Yon will 
 wait till I am one-and-twenty ? It won't be so very 
 long, you'll see. And I'll work my hardest, and I'll 
 make a fortune for you; I am earning money al- 
 ready." 
 
 "But I don't want a fortune, Charlie; I shall have 
 a dowry, you know. And I'm sure that papa and 
 mamma like you a great deal already — mamma talks of 
 you so often. But, Charlie, we had better not tell them 
 
rHE LOFER'S y^ 
 
 PROGRESS /J 
 
 now; they will say we are so young. Papa often says 
 that one ought not to marry too young." 
 
 "Then they won't worry you; they won't want to 
 marry you to somebody else; they will let you wait? " 
 
 ",0h, I will wait as long as you wish, Charlie; but 
 you must come here often to see us — very often if you 
 can. Can't you come more often than you do ? " 
 
 " I'll try — I'll do my best." And, with sudden in- 
 spiration, I added: " May I tell Amy? I think she is 
 a friend. If she were willing, I might send her letters 
 for you, and you might give her yours for me — ^for you 
 will write to me, won't you ? Shall I ask her ? " 
 
 " Yes, I think you might," said Lotis. " I think she 
 knows; she said something the other day, but I pre- 
 tended not to understand her. " 
 
 What! Amy knew; she had detected something — 
 she, the girl with the far-away, pensive look, who gen- 
 erally seemed unconscious of her surroundings? But 
 there was no time for further words; we were a few 
 steps from home, and could merely press each other's 
 hand before separating. 
 
 Amy became our first confidante. When I told her 
 of my love she simply said : 
 
 "I thought it would happen, Charlie; I didn't tell 
 you, but I knew that Louise cared for you. I guessed 
 it by the way she talked of you when you were not here. 
 And I am glad you care for her; I'm glad that she 
 won't be like me " 
 
76 
 
 rHE LOFER'S 
 PROGRESS 
 
 Her voice broke, and for just one moment I felt very 
 grieved for her. But love is selfish, and again I turned 
 to my own tale. Everything was soon arranged. She 
 would send me, she said, any letter or message that 
 Louise might entrust to her, and I might write to her, 
 enclosing notes for Louise; but I must not do so more 
 than once or twice a month, for Aunt Fennell would 
 think it strange if too many letters should come from 
 me. Looking backward, I cannot help thinking that, 
 circumstanced as she was, neglected, uncared for, left 
 to wither her life away. Amy — ah, the irony of the 
 name ! — hoped to find some dolorous solace for her own 
 sorrow in fostering our young love. But, whatever the 
 motive that inspired her, my heart goes out to her even 
 now in gratitude and afEection. 
 
 I was in high spirits during my last days at Saint 
 flgarec that year. Even the parting hour was almost 
 joyous, for we knew, Lotis and I, that, thanks to Amy's 
 affectionate complicity, we should be able to exchange 
 many loving words before we met again at Saint Mand§. 
 I fancy that Aunt Fennell had detected the love-light 
 in our eyes, for more than once during that last week 
 I caught her looking very hard at us, and I had to check 
 my exuberance. 
 
 But I returned to Saint Maur, and thence to Paris 
 and Bonaparte. And, fearful lest Lotis's letters to me 
 should fall into the hands of others, I arranged with 
 a bookseller in the Bue Caumartin to take them in. 
 
rHE LOVER'S ^y 
 
 PROGRESS // 
 
 Ah., those letters! I cannot print them, even were 
 I minded to do so, for they are gone beyond recall. All 
 I possess of that far-ofE time are a few sketch-books, 
 containing little impressions of the shore at Saint Egarec, 
 the forest. Aunt Fennell's house, and the Louvadours' 
 garden. And there are three attempts to portray Lotis 
 herself, but none that does justice to her or is worthy of 
 reprodiiction. And scribbled here and there in those 
 little books are boyish verses, the earliest effusions of my 
 heart. Of these let a few poor specimens suffice : 
 
 "Oh, she is heay'n! Her tender smile 
 Doth ever guard my heart from guile. 
 Her eyes are soft and yet so bright 
 No need have I of other light. 
 Kind is her hand which takes my own 
 That I may not face life alone, 
 And kinder still the lips so dear 
 That offer me my daily cheer : 
 Of all I love those lips the best. 
 For they her love for me confest." 
 
 And, again, a so-called " Song of Lotis " : 
 
 "Fairest and oh, how sweet, how sweet! 
 All sing her sov'reign charm, 
 The poppy proud doth kiss her feet, 
 
 The briar fears to harm ; 
 And all saluting wave the trees. 
 And love confessing sighs the breeze; 
 While the fond sea with am'rous mirth 
 Leaps to caress the raptured earth! 
 
7S 
 
 rHE LONER'S 
 PROGRESS 
 
 " lovel for she's my own, my own I 
 Thy lips are roses fair, 
 No lily's white can match thy own. 
 
 No silk excel thy hairl 
 And so enchanting is thy voice. 
 The sunbeams, list'ning, all rejoice. 
 And dance away to tell the grove, 
 'Harkl Lotis comes to meet her lovet ' " 
 
 I well remember the first letter I received from my 
 sweetheart, through Amy, in answer to one of my own. 
 It was in English — the language we always spoke when 
 we were by ourselves — and if short, it was charming, 
 girlishly reticent, yet instinct with every promise. After 
 I had learnt it by heart, I hid it away in a cupboard 
 near the head of my bed. As Lotis had been somewhat 
 wild in her girlhood, it might be thought that she was 
 very imperfectly educated; but she was a quick learner, 
 and had been at school at Saint Bgarec, Plouarneau, 
 and Saint Heliers, in Jersey, besides which both her 
 mother and Amy had taught her a good deal. Her 
 handwriting was open and simple, and she expressed 
 herself admirably. Whenever she used her own tongue, 
 she was never at a loss for any of those subtle nuances 
 which make the French language so delightful to those 
 who can appreciate delicate shades of meaning. But, 
 as I have said, her letters and mine exist no more. 
 
 The year 1869 passed away, and an eventful one be- 
 gan. In the spring, after the execution of the notorious 
 
rHE LOFER'S ^^ 
 
 PROGRESS /y 
 
 Troppmann, the acquittal of Prince Pierre Bonaparte, 
 who had shot Victor Noir the journalist, and the fer- 
 ment in Paris in which Henri Eochefort was so prom- 
 inent, my father went to Ireland, to conduct a news- 
 paper inquiry into the agrarian agitation there, and I 
 was left in possession of our rooms in the Eue de Miro- 
 mesnil, whither a cousin of mine, Baskcombe Letty, to 
 whom I have previously referred, came a few hours 
 a day to attend to some parts of my father's Paris work. 
 For the rest, beyond my attendance at Bonaparte, I was 
 virtually my own master. 
 
 My connection with Bossard, my whilom mentor, was 
 now severed; for he had suddenly disappeared, carrying 
 off a carriage-builder's daughter, and leaving his wife to 
 shift for herself. She, apparently, was searching Paris 
 for the runaway pair. But before long I had serious 
 trouble of my own. Not only did news from Saint 
 Egarec fail me for some weeks, but Amy, when writing 
 during the winter, had hinted at a great impending 
 change at Madame de Louvadour's. I had written for 
 explanations, but none came, and so great was my worry 
 that I could not continue studying. I imagined that 
 the change alluded to by Amy was some proposed mar- 
 riage for Lotis, who was now over seventeen; and, rush- 
 ing to extremes, as young love ever does, I almost pic- 
 tured myself as forsaken, cast aside. My cousin perceived 
 that I was not well, and finally arranged that I should 
 have leave of absence from Bonaparte. I then worked 
 
O^ Cr'HE LOVER'S 
 
 "^ 1 PROGRESS 
 
 on and off with him, or visited some of my artist friends, 
 or met sundry young French journalists with whom Eos- 
 sard had made me acquainted. I accompanied some of 
 these pressmen to the Oaf6 de Suede or the Oaf6 de 
 Madrid, and listened to the political chatter there; or . 
 else we went to uproarious public meetings in the Belle- 
 ville quarter and others. Thus my time was not alto- 
 gether lost, for I witnessed several of the little incidents 
 of the Empire's agony, and acquired some knowledge of 
 politics and politicians which was useful to me after- 
 ward. 
 
 Speaking of that desultory life of mine reminds me 
 that when Madame de Louvadour first learnt that I 
 went to caf 6s in Paris, she strongly expressed her dis- 
 approval of it; but on finding, when I took cofEee at her 
 house after d6jeuner, that I did not smoke or attempt 
 to touch the cognac of which her husband invariably 
 partook, she seemed considerably mollified. During 
 mj last sojourn at Saint Egarec I had often sat with 
 Lotis and her parents after dSjeuner, telling little stories 
 of things that I had seen in Paris or at CompiSgne, or 
 elsewhere; and it was then, I fancy, that I really won 
 Monsieur de Louvadour's good favor. ludeed, I think 
 that it was my account of the Imperial Court at Com- 
 piSgne that first showed Lotis herself that I was no 
 longer a little boy. 
 
 But her silence was sorely distressing me now, and 
 when I went to Saint Mand6 to inquire whether she and 
 
rHE LOFER'S O j 
 
 PROGRESS "^ 
 
 her mother would come there that spring, and learnt 
 from a consequential clerk that nobody was expected, 
 and that Maitre Verdier and his wife were en voyage, 
 I nearly broke down, imagining the very worst. Of 
 course, Lotis was about to be married, and her grand- 
 parents had gone to attend the wedding! Such is youth- 
 ful imagination. 
 
 The picture I conjured up in my despair was very 
 different from the truth. I suddenly received an aston- 
 ishing intimabion from Amy: Madame de Louvadour, 
 then in her forty-second year, had given birth to a son. 
 And this was the great predicted change in the Louva- 
 dour household, for the birth of that boy would make 
 the greatest difference all round, particularly to Lotis, 
 as half the family property, of which she was to have 
 inherited the entirety, would now go to her brother. 
 At the same time. Amy doubted if the baby would live, 
 for it was a sickly child with a huge head. The mother, 
 it seemed, was very ill, and the father infatuated, in 
 spite of everything, with the birth of a son and heir. 
 As for Lotis, she sent me the fondest love, and would 
 soon write to me. 
 
 I marvelled at it all, and then thought that what had 
 happened might perhaps bring Lotis nearer to me : for 
 I had feared that her circumstances might place difficul- 
 ties in our way. I possessed nothing. My father made 
 a large income, but did not save money, and I was de- 
 pendent on my education, natural talents, and energy 
 6 
 
Oy CfHE LOVER'S 
 
 "-^ ± PROGRESS 
 
 to fight my way in the -world. That was what I longed 
 to do — ^not for fame, nor for money for myself, but to 
 acquire the means of winning my heart's desire. Ah! 
 how I longed to be up and doing! But the outlook was 
 not bright. If I should secure my laccalaurmt that 
 summer — as I could easily do — and should afterward go 
 up to the Law School, there would be all the terms to 
 follow. I should at least have to become a licentiate 
 before entering on my stage — those three years of pro- 
 bation fixed by law. Some five years would thus elapse 
 before I could become a full-blown avocat. I should 
 then be two-and-twenty, and practice would not come 
 at once. Oh, it was too long to wait! My father's 
 plans for me, however sound from the general stand- 
 point, were vitiated by a fatal flaw — ^they would rob me 
 of Lotis! And heart and brain alike protested at the 
 thought of it. 
 
 When my father returned from Ireland he found me 
 ailing, and before the term at Bonaparte — whither I had 
 returned — was over he sent me to Saint Maur, thinking 
 that the sea-air would do me good. Doubtless it did 
 invigorate me; y^t I was ever trying to devise some pre- 
 text for going on to Saint i^garec, for I knew that I was 
 expected there by Lotis. Since her long silence she had 
 written me two of the sweetest and most touching letters 
 in the world about her little brother Pierre and her ail- 
 ing mother. Ah! my love had a golden heart, and 
 I yearned to be near her; but, unfortunately, my step- 
 
rHE L 
 PRO 
 
 LOFER'S 
 GRESS 
 
 S3 
 
 mother, on the plea that I was not well, and required to 
 be properly looked after, seemed determined to keep me 
 at Saint Maur. Truth to tell, she divined that I was in 
 love, at first picturing my attachment as some mere boy- 
 ish amourette, and then alarming herself with the sup- 
 position that the object of my affections might perhaps 
 be some very undesirable person in Paris, a city where 
 life offers every temptation. She was inclined to find 
 fault with my father for leaving me there alone. I well 
 remember how coaxingly on the afternoon of the fifteenth 
 of July — a memorable date — she tried to induce me to 
 confide in her; and how I hesitated, and told her only 
 part of the truth, stubbornly keeping back all mention 
 of the Louvadours and Saint Egarec — which she herself 
 had never visited, though Aunt Fennell occasionally 
 came to Saint Maur — and simply vowing, in reply to 
 the affectionate and delicately-worded questions put to 
 me, that the one I loved was as true, as pure, as spotless 
 a girl as she, my stepmother herself, had been when 
 she had married my father. 
 
 Ah ! that dear stepmother of mine — sister and friend 
 as she became to me — she was still young then, only in 
 her twenty-eighth year, tall, dark-haired, blue-eyed, 
 with a peach-like bloom upon her cheeks. I should 
 have ended by confiding everything to her that after- 
 noon, I know; but some visitors arrived, and before she 
 went to them in the salon she only had time to kiss me, 
 and tell me that she was right glad to know that I loved 
 
9/1 Cr'HE LOFER'S 
 
 -J- 1 PROGRESS 
 
 nobody unworthy of me, and that I must confide every- 
 thing to her some other time, because she might be able 
 to guide and comfort me. 
 
 I went out to shake off the emotion born of that con- 
 verse, and ended by seeking a corner of the sands where 
 I could lie myself down, and sob and think unnoticed. 
 When I returned home in the evening, an hour after 
 our usual dinner-time, I found that a telegram had just 
 arrived from my father in Paris. It was to this effect: 
 
 " Send Charles as soon as possible. War with Prus- 
 sia declared." 
 
 At last Destiny had come for me, as for countless 
 others. 
 
rHE LOFER'S o- 
 
 PROGRESS "J 
 
 IV 
 
 Love and War 
 
 I WEOTE a long, passionate, almost incoherent, letter 
 to Lotis, sealed it with tears and. kisses, and returned to 
 Paris. When, where, and how should I see her again ? 
 
 The thousand events of those stirring days pass before 
 my mind's eye like cinematographic pictures. I see 
 a regiment marching along the crowded boulevards amid 
 a delirious roar of "To Berlin! to Berlin!" I see a 
 great demonstration on the Place Venddme, and Emile 
 Ollivier — the man with "a light heart" — on the bal- 
 cony of his ministerial offices. I see and roughly sketch 
 the departure of Napoleon and his son from Saint Cloud, 
 the Empress smiling between her tears, and the great 
 dignitaries of State shouting, "Vive I'Empereur!" 
 Then there suddenly comes a wild rumor of a great 
 French victory. Flags flutter from every window of 
 Paris; people embrace each other in the streets; and on 
 the Place de la Bourse, where I find myself on my way 
 to my father's bankers, a tenor, Capoul, climbs an om- 
 nibus and sings the "Marseillaifie." That "Marseil- 
 laise" bursts forth on all sides; at every theatre, every 
 open-air concert, the immortal strains of defiance ring 
 out and stir the heart. 
 
QA Cr'HE LOVER'S 
 
 "^ -L PROGRESS 
 
 But war is not song and plaudit, though both may go 
 in its train; war is grimness and death. Ah, the sultry 
 August night, when the wreck of regiments shattered at 
 Weissenburg and Worth stole silently through Paris, 
 grimy and ragged, now limping, now with arms in 
 slings, now leading wounded horses by the bridle. 
 Women — the thoughtless daughters of the gaslight — 
 shuddered and turned pale beneath their paint, and 
 men gazed stupefied or swore fierce oaths. 
 
 Yet this was only like a vision of far-oflf things; Paris 
 herself was to drain the cup of war's grimness and hor- 
 ror and desolation. I see great naval guns and marine 
 artillerymen pouring through the city; fire, axe, pick, 
 spade, and trowel are busy; spaces are cleared, ditches are 
 dug, lunettes are thrown up, chevaux-de-frise bristle be- 
 fore every gate of the fortifications. Two hundred thou- 
 sand sheep are bleating, forty thousand oxen are lowing in 
 the Bois de Boulogne; the Avenue de la Grande Armee, 
 the Champ de Mars, and the Tuileries Gardens are full 
 of troops; the spaces between the forty arches of the 
 viaduct of the Point du Jour serve as barracks for Breton 
 Mobiles, whose bagpipes are ever playing weird, melan- 
 choly strains. And while wealthy people pour out of 
 Paris, poor people flock into it. Carts, crowded with 
 immigrants or crammed with furniture, jolt over the 
 roads beside the wagons laden with produce, that are 
 likewise converging toward the city. The suburban 
 villas and cottages are fast deserted, while the forts 
 
rHE LOFER'S O^ 
 
 PROGRESS "/ 
 
 around are armed and garrisoned by dint of desperate 
 efEorts. 
 
 But elsewhere war rushes on. Emile Ollivier's fool- 
 ish Government has fallen, and Palikao's mendacious 
 Government rules in its stead. Colossal French vic- 
 tories have been proclaimed and then denied. The 
 invader is everywhere successful. Bazaine is shut in 
 under Metz, and urged to it by fear for his throne, the 
 wretched Emperor orders MacMahon to march to Ba- 
 zaine's rescue. Feeling runs higher and higher in Paris ; 
 all who are not irrevocably committed to the Imperial 
 cause abandon it, like rats scuttling from a sinking ship, 
 and thus, when the dread news of Sedan at last arrives, 
 revolution sweeps down, and the tottering Empire 
 expires. 
 
 Ah! that fourth of September — a beautiful sunlit 
 Sunday. I see it still. That morning I am received by 
 General Trochu, to whom my father has sent me respect- 
 ing a permit to go in and out of Paris. But aides-de- 
 camp and orderlies are hurrying to and fro, and the gen- 
 eral is ever on the move, speaking to one in a corner, to 
 another at the doorway of his room. At last, after 
 glancing at a note of recommendation signed by Lord 
 Lyons which I have brought him, he says to me: "I 
 must consider it. Come back to-morrow." 
 
 So I go off home, and when I come out again I meet 
 battalions of National Guards descending the Rue Eoyale 
 amid a roar of "Dethronement! dethronement! Long 
 
PP Cr'HE LOFER'S 
 
 "" 1 PROGRESS 
 
 live the Eepublio!" They march across the Place de 
 la Concorde, and find mounted gendarmes barring the 
 bridge which leads to the Corps L^gislatif . For a mo- 
 ment sabres flash ominously in the sunshine, but an 
 officer gives a command, the ranks of the gendarmes 
 open, and the Will of the People sweeps on, I in its 
 wake. Inside the Palais Bourbon deputies implore us 
 to remain calm, but the cries of "Dethronement!" 
 never cease, and the rush into the assembly hall is not 
 very long delayed. I am wedged in a corner beside a 
 statue while men fight their way in and out, and when 
 at last a wave carries me off, it lands me on the floor of 
 the house near the tribune, where Gambetta, with an- 
 other by his side, is declaring that " Louis Napoleon 
 Bonaparte and his dynasty have forever ceased to reign 
 over Prance! " 
 
 Ah! the explosion of applause, the " Bravos! " burst- 
 ing like shells, and the cries of " Vive la Eepublique! " 
 crepitating like a fusillade. But at last the word goes 
 round: " To the Hotel de Ville! " And then out into 
 the sunshine again, into the delirious crowd, where men 
 are shouting, laughing, and singing patriotic songs. 
 The joy is universal. The incubus of the Empire hav- 
 ing been shaken off, the genius of France will now assert 
 itself in its might. It is as if the Germans were already 
 driven back beyond the Eliine, as if nothing could pos- 
 sibly threaten Paris now that the Republic has returned ! 
 
 For forty-eight hours I myself shared the general ex- 
 
rHE LOFER'S o^ 
 
 PROGRESS "X 
 
 citement. There was much to be seen and to be done. 
 I was ever hurrying from one to another of my father's 
 artists, or jotting down brief notes, or making thumb- 
 nail sketches of passing incidents. As I haye said, des- 
 tiny had come for me. I was going forward naturally, 
 simply, as to a preordained career from which there was 
 no escape. I never met with trouble when alone, but 
 on two occasions when my father and I were together 
 we were arrested on the suspicion that we might be 
 spies. This was really the fault of my father, who 
 evinced no caution and invariably talked to me in Eng- 
 lish. For my part, as I spoke French like a native, had 
 French manners, and wore French clothes, there was 
 nothing to distinguish me from any other young Pari- 
 sian who had not as yet joined some military corps. 
 
 But four days after the Eevolution I was grievously 
 disturbed by a letter from Lotis. Her grandparents 
 were at Saint Egarec, the old notary having returned 
 thither after paying a flying visit to Saint Mand6 to 
 place his valuables in safety; but Monsieur de Louva- 
 dour, who had offered his services to the military authori- 
 ties even before Sedan, was about to leave in order to 
 take up a command. And my darling poured forth her 
 heart to me. She was alarmed for her father and for 
 me also; indeed, though I was not a soldier, I seemed 
 to be the nearer to danger. What would happen when 
 the Germans reached Paris ? Might there not be bom- 
 bardment arid conflagration, fighting in the very streets ? 
 
QQ <T'HE LOVER'S 
 
 7 -L PROGRESS 
 
 The wildest stories were then current in some parts of 
 the provinces, and Lotis knew not what to think. She 
 was very unhappy. Such awful things were taking 
 place, so many poor soldiers were dead or dying, and 
 immunity seemed certain for none. 
 
 More than a year had now elapsed since our last meet- 
 ing. Many a boy-and-girl romance would not have sur- 
 vived such a separation, but it was otherwise with ours. 
 I had secured a portrait of my sweetheart, one which, 
 with her mother's approval, she had given to Amy, to 
 whom a little later I had sent two photographs of myself, 
 one of them being intended for Lotis. But Amy having 
 shown it to Madame de Louvadour, the latter had been 
 pleased to ask for it, a request which was of course 
 granted. Lotis had told me all this in one of her let- 
 ters, adding — I quote from memory : " Though I cannot 
 always write, I go into the salon every day to wish you 
 good-morning. Mamma has bought a frame for your 
 portrait, which stands on the pier- table under the look- 
 ing-glass." On the other hand, her own portrait, which 
 I had obtained from Amy, was hidden in a pocket-book 
 which I always carried with me. 
 
 But our love was most fanned by our correspondence. 
 Still somewhat timid in speech so far as the expression 
 of my feelings was concerned, I only needed a pen and 
 a sheet of paper to pour forth every passionate, heartfelt 
 vow and promise and entreaty. Yet now it seemed as if 
 we were to be wholly parted, robbed even of the delight 
 
rHE LOFER'S ^ j- 
 
 PROGRESS y-' 
 
 of those dear letters. The Germans would surround 
 Paris, and I should hear nothing of Lotis, nor she of 
 me. Perhaps I should never see her again. For two 
 days after the receipt of her sorrowful letter I was in 
 a state of torment, which grew to a perfect fever of des- 
 peration. I said before that I would not spare myself 
 in this narrative, nor will I. My father at that time 
 relied largely on my help; I could not well absent my- 
 self for an hour. I knew all that perfectly, and yet it 
 was impossible for me to resist my craving to go to Saint 
 Egarec and see Lotis. Oh, I must go, or I should die! 
 My love had mastered me; I was a cipher in its grasp. 
 To see her, to kiss her, to speak with her, if only for 
 a moment — I must do it somehow, no matter what 
 might be the consequences. 
 
 In all this the philosopher will say there was lack of 
 character: " This youth had no sense 6t duty, and conld 
 not control his passions. His reason ought to have told 
 him that he was following the vn-ong course." No 
 doubt; but it is difficult for reason to prevail when one 
 loves. If those who boastfully claim that they have 
 always subordinated their affections to their reason speak 
 the truth, they have never really loved; for there is no 
 love unless one knows that divine and poignant hour 
 when everything else is swept away, and love alone re- 
 mains. For my part, I made but one concession to 
 reason. As soon as I had satisfied my craving I would 
 return. 
 
Qp CfHE LOVER'S 
 
 " -/ PROGRESS 
 
 While I went about Paris on September 10th I could 
 think of nothing but that journey, and when I left one 
 of our artists toward the close of the afternoon I had 
 fully resolved upon it. The Germans were believed to 
 be no nearer than Laon, so that I should surely have 
 time to go and return before they could reach Paris. I 
 had about ninety francs (£3 128.) in my pocket, rather 
 more than half the amount being my own — the proceeds 
 of some recent article — and the balance my father's, 
 held by me for current expenses. Strictly speaking, I 
 had no right to use the latter for the purpose I did, but 
 payment for some other newspaper work of mine was 
 about due, and would shortly be made to my father for 
 me, and thus I did not hesitate. I hurried to the Gare 
 Montparnasse, whence trains were still running freely, 
 and at seven o'clock I started on my journey, leaving — 
 I own it — never a word of warning behind me. All 
 went well until I reached the great junction of Le Mans, 
 but there some military trains were blocking the traflSc 
 in such wise that we were delayed for several hours, and 
 only reached Eennes at 10 a.m. Then came fresh difii- 
 culties, the service being quite disorganized by the trans- 
 port of troops, provisions, and materiel de guerre. 
 Briefly, it was nearly midnight on the 11th when at last 
 I alighted at Eosporden station. 
 
 Midnight, and no diligence, but nearly ten miles to 
 walk! A railway porter took me to an inn which was, 
 fortunately, still open, and after a sup and a bite I set 
 
rHE LOrER'S f.j 
 
 PROGRESS yj 
 
 out, turning up the collar of my autumn overcoat, for 
 the night was cool. I know not what may be the case 
 nowadays, but only a portion of the country thereabouts 
 was then cultivated; it was mostly moorland, hilly in 
 parts, and intersected by several little streams. There 
 were no villages between Eosporden and Saint Egarec, 
 but here and there, at long intervals, stood a low cottage 
 or a squalid tavern. 
 
 Exhilarated by some wine I had drunk at Eosporden, 
 I at first walked on briskly; but it soon occurred to me 
 that it would be useless to reach Saint Egarec while 
 everybody was asleep. And gradually embarrassment 
 stole over me. I could not go to Aunt Pennell's, for 
 she would want a thousand explanations; I must see 
 Lotis privately, secretly, and come away unseen by any- 
 body else. JBut how was I to manage it ? When I had 
 gone half my journey I sat down by the roadside to rest 
 and think, and I gradually fell into a doze. I was 
 roused at last by the rattle of a light cart going toward 
 Eosporden, and I thereupon got up, stretched myself, 
 and slowly resumed my march. I had formed a plan. 
 Lotis was an early riser; by half -past six she would cer- 
 tainly be awake, if not up and about. I knew her win- 
 dow, and must attract her attention. 
 
 When the sun rose, at half -past five, I went down to 
 a little brook which almost skirted the road and washed 
 my face and hands, after the fashion of my schoolboy 
 days. Freshened by those primitive ablations, I set ofi 
 
QA CfHE LOVER'S 
 
 7^ 1 PROGRESS 
 
 again, and paBsed througli Saint Egarec, where people 
 were already stirring, and at last turned into the lane 
 by which Aunt Fennell's house and the Louvadours' 
 were reached. 
 
 On looking up at the window of Lotis's room, I saw 
 that the shutters were still closed. Surely, however, 
 she must be awake, and I was already stooping for a 
 pebble which I intended to throw at the shutters, when 
 those of another window — one which overlooked the 
 lane — were thrown back lightly. At this I was on the 
 point of taking to my heels; but Lotis herself looked 
 out, and I remained there in amazement. She, on her 
 side, would have raised a cry had I not warned her : 
 
 "Hush! Don't let anybody know I'm here. Can 
 you come down and let me into the garden ? " 
 
 For an instant she hesitated, then disappeared. A 
 few minutes later the garden-gate was quietly opened, 
 and I slipped inside, following her on tiptoe to a little 
 patch of shrubbery — almost an arbor — ^where some gar- 
 den-chairs, a table, and a bench were set out. 
 
 " Oh, Charlie," said she, "how you did surprise me! 
 How is it you are here? Have you left Paris? Are 
 you going to stay here? I'm so glad, for poor papa 
 went away yesterday." 
 
 At first with hesitation, then rapidly, to get it over, 
 I told her the truth; and while I ^poke, nervously fond- 
 ling her hand the while, I saw on her face, in her eyes, 
 the reflection of all the feelings which swayed her heart 
 
rHE LONER'S f^c; 
 
 PROGRESS y-J 
 
 in turn — surprise, pain, alarm, sorrow mingling with 
 her delight at seeing me. 
 
 " Oh, Charlie," she said at one moment, " I'm sorry 
 if I distressed you by my letter. But I did not want 
 you to come away like that, though I'm very, very glad 
 to see you. ^ But surely you never doubted me ? Yon 
 know that I gave you my promise " 
 
 " Oh, I did not doubt you," I replied. " How could 
 I doubt ? But I felt that I should die if I did not see 
 you, dear, if I did not tell you once again that I love 
 you, Louise, so that if anything should happen, you 
 should know that my last thoughts would be for you." 
 
 And I spoke on passionately and fondly, and kissed 
 her hands again and again as we sat beside each other 
 on the garden bench. 
 
 She was terribly agitated. Ah, the selfishness of love, 
 to have sought that distressing interview with that dear 
 girl, who had parted from her father only the previous 
 day, to wring her heart anew when her tears were 
 scarcely dry, all for that dolorous, egotistical satisfac- 
 tion of seeing her for a moment, and kissing her, and 
 mingling my tears with hers! 
 
 There was no time to be lost. I told her that I was 
 not going to Aunt Pennell's, and that she must not let 
 my aunt or my cousin or her own people know that she 
 had seen me. All this amazed her, and when I added 
 that I meant to go back to Eosporden by the diligence 
 at half-past seven, and return at once to Paris, she could 
 
96 
 
 rHE LOFER'S 
 PROGRESS 
 
 scarcely believe me. What! I had come all that way — 
 by rail a matter of three hundred and seventy miles — for 
 the sake of seeing her for half an hour at the utmost! 
 She herself now strove to detain me. As I was there, 
 why should I not go to Aunt Pennell, and stay with her 
 for a day or two ? But now that my craving was at least 
 partly satisfied, I felt that I must return to Paris as soon 
 as possible. As for Aunt Fennell, I said, I had no ex- 
 cuse to give her for my journey; and if I should tarry 
 I might be unable to get back to Paris, especially as the 
 railway service was in such confusion that my journey 
 had already taken twice the usual time. She felt the 
 force of my words, and said no more on the subject. 
 However, we lingered there a little longer. She told 
 me something of her people, and suddenly mentioned 
 that she now slept in the room overlooking the lane, 
 having given her own chamber, which faced the garden, 
 to her grandparents. 
 
 "It was fortunate you did not throw that stone, 
 Charlie," she said, with a smile in her moist eyes; "you 
 would have startled grandmamma dreadfully." 
 
 I blessed the luck which had stayed my hand, and 
 again fondling her, my arm about her waist, I sought a 
 kiss — a lover's kiss, even such as I had taken one happy 
 night on the highroad. It was for that embrace that 
 I had come, and she could not refuse it. But scarcely 
 had I released her from my quivering, lingering clasp 
 when I started with dismay, for yonder, in the garden. 
 
rHE LOFER'S ^- 
 
 PROGRESS y/ 
 
 was a servant looking toward us. Lotis flushed and 
 shrank into a corner. Then, with sudden decision, she 
 called lightly, in a loud whisper, as it were: "Eosa! 
 Eosa!" 
 
 The servant drew near; she was a pretty girl, perhaps 
 twenty, with long, narrow eyes which sparkled mischiev- 
 ously. I fancied I had seen her before. 
 
 " She is grandmamma's maid ; she came with her from 
 Saint Mand§," Lotis whispered to me. 
 
 Then she herself rose, and spoke to the girl in an 
 undertone. I heard very little, but I readily understood 
 that she was telling her to say nothing of my presence 
 there. Eor my part, I was almost overwhelmed by the 
 thought that our secret, hidden from so many, was now 
 at a servant's mercy. But the girl, who recognized me, 
 I think, from having seen me at Saint Mand6, seemed 
 very favorably disposed. 
 
 "Mademoiselle need not fear," said she; "I shan't 
 say anything, even if I am asked. And, besides, it isn't 
 forbidden to love one another when one's young." 
 
 Then her mischievous eyes went smilingly from Lotis 
 to me. 
 
 But the parting moment had come, and we walked 
 lightly toward the garden-gate, Lotis and Eosa keeping 
 on the side nearest to the house, in order to mask my 
 retreat in case any of the others should be stirring. On 
 the way I felt in my pocket for a coin, which I suc- 
 ceeded in slipping into the maid's hand, though she at 
 7 
 
gS 
 
 rHE LOFER'S 
 PROGRESS 
 
 first seemed disinclined to take it. , Then for another 
 moment we lingered near the gate, Eosa glancing up at 
 the house while Lotis and I exchanged our last words, 
 vowing to write to one another whenever opportunity 
 should arrive, and to he true and constant to the prom- 
 ises we had exchanged. Yet it seemed as if something 
 were wanting, some additional pledge of affection, with- 
 out which we could not separate. And at last, on glanc- 
 ing back, my love perceived a few roses still blooming 
 on a bush. She went to it, and, regardless of the thorns, 
 plucked two of the flowers. And when she gave them 
 to me, with smiling eyes, I clasped and kissed her once 
 again. 
 
 "Good-by — ^good-by!" I said, in a choking voice. 
 " God bless you, darling, and watch over you — over all 
 of you, your father especially. And remember, Louise, 
 it is forever, is it not ? Always you, and only you! " 
 
 Then, half blinded by my tears, I ran up the lane into 
 the highway. 
 
 In the diligence going to Eosporden I counted my 
 money, and was alarmed on finding how much I had 
 spent. I had foolishly travelled second class from Paris 
 to Eennes, when I might well have gone third. But it 
 was my liberality to Madame Verdier's maid that had 
 caused all the mischief. Was it a ten or a twenty franc 
 piece that I had given her? I could not be certain on 
 the point, though I had meant it to be the former. At 
 all events, after careful calculation, I found that I had 
 
rHE LOFER'S ^(^ 
 
 PROGRESS 77 
 
 not enough money to carry me back to Paris, quite irre- 
 spective of the question of eating and drinking. No, I 
 was eight or nine francs short. What was to be done ? 
 
 Brought to bay by circumstances, I at last took the 
 only sensible course, for however extravagant my con- 
 duct, I was not quite a fool. I had more than enough 
 money to pay the fare to Saint Maur, and, though the 
 delay worried me, thither I went to acquaint my step- 
 mother with the position, and obtain what I needed to 
 get back to Paris. 
 
 When, in a somewhat nervous state, I presented my- 
 self before her early that evening, she was astonished, 
 but glad to see me. She had been in great anxiety, for 
 my father had telegraphed to her that I had disappeared, 
 and that he feared some misfortune had overtaken me, 
 unless indeed I had gone to her. 
 
 "What is the matter, Charlie?" she said to me. 
 "Why did you leave your father? Where have you 
 been ? You disappeared on Saturday; it is now Monday 
 evening. Have you been all, this time coming from 
 Paris?" 
 
 " No, I've been to Saint ifigarec," I answered. 
 
 "What! to Aunt FenneU's? Oh, Charlie, this is 
 dreadful ! Everybody was so proud of you, but do you 
 know what they all say now? Tour grandmamma is 
 here, and your Uncle Whitehead passed through Saint 
 Maur yesterday going to Tours, and he said, and they 
 all say, that you must have run aWay because you were 
 
jQfl CJ^HE LOVER'S 
 J- PROGRESS 
 
 afraid of staying in Paris with your father now that the 
 Germans are coming! " 
 
 Never before had I felt so ashamed or so indignant. 
 
 "Oh, mamma, mamma!" I cried passionately — I 
 
 always called her thus to her last hour — " it isn't true 
 
 at all. I didn't think of that for one moment. I want 
 
 to go back, go back at once; that's why I've come here, 
 
 'because I haven't enough money left me." 
 
 Then she made me tell her the whole story. By de- 
 grees I confessed everything, and though at first she still 
 scolded in her quiet way, she soon smiled tenderly, and 
 more than once I could detect that she was moved. I 
 sat on a stool at her feet like a little boy and held her 
 hand, and now and again, as embarrassment came over 
 me while I proceeded with my tale, I hid my face in her 
 lap. She was then very gentle and kind; she passed 
 her hand across my forehead, and when she found how 
 feverish I was, and learned that I had spent two nights in 
 travelling, she insisted on my going to bed. She herself 
 brought me up something to eat and drink, and while 
 she sat with me I showed her my photograph of Lotis, 
 whom she had heard of as a pupil and friend of Amy's, 
 but had never seen. She smiled approval of the por- 
 trait, and I felt rather conceited, I fear, when she 
 remarked : 
 
 " Well, at all events, Charlie, I must say that you 
 have good taste." 
 
 But I suddenly remembered my roses, which, toward 
 
r HE LOVER'S jf^j 
 
 PROGRESS ^ ^^ 
 
 the close of my journey, I had wrapped for protection and 
 safety in my handkerchief. Poor flowers! they were 
 fading fast, and I knew not how to revive them. I 
 must let them die, and remain content with the memory 
 of their bloom. But she, my stepmother, did what 
 none other would have done. She saw my distress, and 
 that very evening she made me a tiny bag — flannel, 
 with a satin lining — and in it I carried the dry petals of 
 those roses throughout the remainder of the war. Man 
 already in some respects, exceeding the average height 
 and weight of my age — I stood, I know, between five 
 feet six and seven, having grown but an inch or two 
 after that eventful year — I was still in others quite a 
 romantic child. And even as in olden days pages wore 
 their lady's glove or badge, so I wore that little bag — 
 hanging by a silken cord from my neck and resting on 
 my heart — ^to remind me alike of my darling love and 
 my best and dearest friend. 
 
 A telegram had been sent to my father announcing 
 my return on the morrow, and when I went down in the 
 morning ready to start, I found my stepmother in cloak 
 and bonnet. 
 
 "Are you coming to the station with me?" I asked 
 her, feeling surprised but well pleased. 
 
 "I'm going with you, Charlie," said she. 
 
 At this my astonishment changed into vexation and 
 shame. 
 
 "What! to Paris? Oh, mamma," I said, "surely 
 
jf.y CT^HE LOFER'S 
 
 ■'■ ^^ 1 PROGRESS 
 
 you don't imagine that I shan't go back ? You don't 
 want to take me to Paris as if I were a little boy ? I 
 shall go straight there, I promise you." 
 
 "Oh, I've no fear about that," she answered. "I 
 can quite trust you; but suppose I want to go? " 
 
 "But you mustn't," said I. "Paris may be sur- 
 rounded, and you may be unable to leave again." 
 
 " By what the papers say, I don't think there is any 
 fear of that. Besides, I have spoken to grandmamma, 
 and she will look after everything with Mademoiselle 
 Laic (the governess of my step-sister and step-brothers) 
 if I cannot get back for a little while. " 
 
 " But the Germans," I urged ; ' ' you may get into dan- 
 ger, there's no telling, and I shall be blamed; it will 
 be said that it is all my fault." 
 
 " Kot at all, Charlie," she retorted, smiling. " Can't 
 you understand? Didn't you come away to see your 
 sweetheart? Surely, then, I may go to see my hus- 
 band." 
 
 To me that seemed both unanswerable and exquisite. 
 T looked at her. She was, as I have said, a beautiful 
 woman, and at that moment the light of love sparkled 
 in her large liquid eyes. I did the only thing I could 
 to show what I thought and felt — I took her hand and 
 kissed it, while it dawned upon me that, whatever she 
 might have said the previous night, she had found in 
 her heart some excuse, if not justification, for what 
 I had done. 
 
rHE LOFER'S j f. ^ 
 
 PROGRESS ^J 
 
 We bade all the others good-by, and started on our 
 journey. The line was fortunately clear that day — Sep- 
 tember 13th — and we reached Paris late the same night. 
 My stepmother remained there two or three days, leav- 
 ing either on the 16th or 17th, I do not remember ex- 
 actly which. I only know that on the 19th Paris was 
 finally cut off from the rest of the world. 
 
 And my father ? it may be asked. Well, in all truth, 
 he never said one word to me on the subject of that 
 extravagant escapade. I do not know how much my 
 stepmother then told him, but she certainly prevailed 
 on him to say nothing. There were, however, times 
 when I felt confused — ^the times when I caught him 
 glancing at me with an expression suggestive of amuse- 
 ment. 
 
 Whatever I may do hereafter, I am not now writing 
 a history of those days, and I have yet so much to tell 
 that I must hurry this part of my narrative to a close. 
 Besides, who has not heard and read something of the 
 Siege of Paris ? Of my own experiences I will simply 
 say that, out and about all day, I largely gave my even- 
 ings to writing or recopying thumb-nail sketches. Not 
 a balloon left without carrying articles or letters that 
 my father and I had prepared. We were on the most 
 friendly terms with Nadar and the Godards, by whom 
 the balloon service was organized, and, the weight of 
 each letter accepted by the post-ofiBce being limited to 
 one-eighth of an ounce, most of our correspondence 
 
TQ/i Cr'HE LOVER'S 
 
 ^ J- PROGRESS 
 
 went out in the pockets of the aeronauts. Late at night 
 a messenger would come to tell me that, wind permitting, 
 a balloon would sail from some appointed spot early in the 
 morning, and then it was necessary to get everything 
 ready and trudge away through the dark and deserted 
 streets, where the only sound was the booming of some 
 distant cannonade. I constantly wrote to my step- 
 mother, Lotis, and Amy, and even sent budgets of news 
 to Madame de Louvadour, assuming as my excuse that 
 she and her parents — the Verdiers — would doubtless be 
 glad to know what was occurring in Paris. Thus my 
 dear girl heard from me twice over, through Amy and 
 through her mother, and I gradually tightened the links 
 connecting me with her kinsfolk. 
 
 But when I was not writing, there were all the new 
 phases of Parisian life to be observed, meetings and 
 demonstrations to be attended, and I likewise contrived 
 to witness something of two of the earlier sorties. Un- 
 fortunately, after some five or six weeks, my father's 
 health began to fail him. He was then only fifty, but 
 he had made an early start in life, like myself, and had 
 been tried in his time by severe illnesses. He needed 
 a sufficiency of good food, and was by no means inclined 
 to take to horseflesh. I myself could eat anything. The 
 reader who may have thought me fretful or lackadaisical 
 is mistaken if he imagines that love in those days in- 
 clined me to reject my food, and to allow myself to 
 waste away. No, indeed; and thus I ate horseflesh 
 
rHE LOFER'S j f^ h 
 
 PROGRESS ^ '^J 
 
 readily, and even with zest, prepared as it was by Mad- 
 ame Saby, our concierge's wife, who was a first-rate 
 cook, never at a loss for the proper sauce or condiment. 
 
 But even as one of our friends, turning with nausea 
 from the primest joints of man's noblest conquest, tried 
 to subsist on boiled oats, the husks of which irritated 
 the coating of his stomach and left him with an incur- 
 able complaint, so my father attempted to live for a time 
 on bread and jam. On the fourth da,y he gave it up in 
 despair, and, things going from bad to worse, he began 
 to think seriously of leaving the beleaguered city. This 
 was by no means easily managed, but at last, about mid- 
 November, after making all needful arrangements with 
 our artists and others with respect to the balloon post, 
 he and I quitted Paris as American citizens, the British 
 Embassy having no status in the matter, as Great Brit- 
 ain had not yet recognized the French Eepublic. 
 
 At Versailles we recruited ourselves, and there I first 
 set eyes on some of the leaders of the invading armies. 
 At that time I hated the Germans quite as much as any 
 Frenchman did, and what I saw of their arrogance and 
 brutality at Versailles made my hatred the more bitter. 
 During the week I spent there I more than once set eyes 
 on the old King of Prussia, afterward known as the 
 Emperor William, and I caught just one glimpse of Bis- 
 marck, standing outside the Prefecture, clapping a Ger- 
 man ofiScer on the shotilder, and laughing loudly in the 
 bluffest manner imaginable. That laughter angered me 
 
jf)A Cr'HE LOFER'S 
 
 ^ ^^ 1 PROGRESS 
 
 intensely. Paris starved — Bismarck laughed: that was 
 how I put it in my youthful indignation. 
 
 But amid all the generals and royalties and famous 
 war correspondents there was one personage in whom 
 I became intensely interested: David Dunglass Home, 
 otherwise Sludge the medium, immortalized by Brown- 
 ing — a tall, lanky man with yellowish hair, pale cheeks, 
 and sunken eyes. Such was the modern wizard, the 
 new Cagliostro. When we first met Home — my father 
 and I — he was fasting; for unlfess he fasted for a certain 
 time, said he, it was in vain that he called spirits from 
 the vasty deep and elsewhere. They only obeyed his 
 summons when his flesh was vanquished ; when his soul, 
 emerging from materiality, attained to full possession of 
 its psychic powers. But he complained bitterly that 
 for crystal-gazing he could find no pure boy or girl in 
 or around Versailles. He needed a child destitute of all 
 knowledge of evil, yet endowed with adequate intellec- 
 tual perception; but, alas! the French race was utterly 
 corrupt, from the cradle upward. 
 
 Nevertheless, he gave stances. He claimed to have 
 brought the spirit of the great Frederick down from 
 heaven, for the delectation of King William, and to 
 have conjured that of Napoleon from a very different 
 region, for the information and guidance of Moltke. I 
 listened to his stories, doubting them every one, yet 
 weirdly fascinated. Charlatan, conjurer, impostor — 
 whatever he may have been, he was assuredly no common 
 
PROGRESS ^ ^ / 
 
 man. Most of his stances, to which, flocked all the 
 ornamental members of the German general staff, the 
 petty potentates. Serene Highnesses, and so forth, took 
 the form of consultations as to the probable duration of 
 the resistance of Paris; and it would seem that Home's 
 predictions, as voiced by the spirits he summoned, 
 proved fairly accurate. Some who believe in spiritual- 
 ism may in these later days have sighed for such another 
 medium to forecast the probable duration of the Boer 
 War. 
 
 After various adventures, at last I reached Saint Maur 
 with my father, who almost immediately afterward went 
 to England. And now I became a war correspondent 
 entirely on my own account. December had arrived, 
 and I was just seventeen. My stepmother was loath to 
 let me leave her, but I was each day becoming more in- 
 dependent; so I travelled to Le Mans, where all the sup- 
 plies both for the army of the Loire and for the relief of 
 Paris were collected, acquired information there, and 
 sent it to England. I had no direct commission from 
 any newspaper. I forwarded everything I wrote to my 
 eldest brother, Arnold, who was then attached in a sec- 
 retarial capacity to a scientific institution in London, 
 and he, having some connection among newspapers, 
 placed my "copy" for me. It was all printed, and 
 I was urged to send more and more. When, after writ- 
 ing an account of the camp of Conlie — one of the great 
 scandals of Gambetta's war administration — I learned 
 
tqS? Cr'HE LOFER'S 
 J. PROGRESS 
 
 that it had been largely quoted, and even taken as the 
 text for a leading article in the " Times," I felt consid- 
 erably elated. After all, there was perhaps something 
 in " that awful self -■willed boy," as some of my relatives 
 so kindly called me. 
 
 I had at that moment returned to Saint Maur, and 
 while I was still there Amy wrote to me that Monsieur 
 de Louvadour was dead. He had not been killed in 
 action; indeed, he had been chiefly employed — at Brest 
 and elsewhere — in the organization of some of the naval 
 contingents. Pleurisy or pneumonia had carried him 
 off, and his wife and Lotis were overwhelmed with grief. 
 The news gave me a great shock, but I went almost im- 
 mediately to Saint l&garec, with my stepmother's full 
 approval. Well do I remember the scene which met my 
 eyes there — the dim room, where a little lamp was burn- 
 ing, the widow lying on a couch, the Verdiers deep in 
 their armchairs, and Lotis garbed in black, with pallid 
 face and large, desolate eyes. I could not control my- 
 self: it was to her that I went with arms outstretched. 
 But Madame de Louvadour sat up, and I recovered 
 my self-possession. We spent a very mournful evening, 
 talking of that bereavement and of the war — Paris, the 
 Loire army, the Conlie scandal, and other matters. 
 They all regarded me as a family friend, and accepted 
 my sympathy as natural. When I left to go to Aunt 
 Fennell's, where I was to spend the night, Lotis came 
 down with me to the hall-door, as in the old days, and 
 
rHE LOVER'S jf^(^ 
 
 PROGRESS ^y 
 
 there, with a great sob, she threw herself into my arms, 
 and we exchanged one of our long, silent kisses. But it 
 was a kiss of pure affection and mutual sorrow. Death 
 had passed, and passion was silenced. 
 
 I saw her again on the following day, and we were 
 even able to exchange a few words respecting ourselves. 
 She was unchanged and so was I, and that sufficed. 
 France was almost in the last throes of disaster, misery 
 and desolation were around us, and all that we could do 
 was to renew our vows and possess ourselves in patience, 
 in the hope that the black clouds would some day lift 
 and happiness return. 
 
 I went back to Saint Maur and thence to the front, 
 though not without opposition on the part of my people. 
 At an earlier stage, in consequence of my wild journey 
 to Saint Egarec, an impression had prevailed among 
 them that I was lacking in courage, and wished to keep 
 as far as possible from the invading armies. !N'ow, on 
 the contrary, I was warned of all sorts of dangers, and 
 told that it was not right for a lad of seventeen to career 
 about the country as a newspaper correspondent. My 
 father, still in England, wrote me on the subject, but 
 I had not quite won my spurs yet, and although my 
 cousin Baskcombe came over with a direct commission 
 from one of the papers to which I had been contribut- 
 ing, through Arnold, I resolved that I would not relin- 
 quish my designs. Arnold, or my father, had previ- 
 ously placed a few of my articles with an evening 
 
J jf^ cr'HE LOFER'S 
 
 ■' ■' ^ 1 PROGRESS 
 
 journal, and this must now be my outlet, since the 
 morning daily which had commissioned Baskcombe was 
 closed to me. 
 
 Now, after the great battle of Le Mans, in which at 
 least 130,000 combatants contended for three days amid 
 snow and ice, Baskcombe, with other correspondents, 
 was shut up in the town, unable to communicate with 
 England for some little time, whereas I escaped in a 
 train, from which our men fired on the Uhlans gallop- 
 ing up, and wrote a long article descriptive of the fight- 
 ing and its results. It was, I think, the earliest account 
 of Chanzy's overthrow, with the exception of brief tele- 
 grams, to appear in England. An article on some minor 
 engagements which followed was lost in transit, but a 
 series of others, generally illustrative of the woeful re- 
 treat, reached London safely. 
 
 It was a wonderful and an awful business. A Siberian 
 temperature, incessant snowstorms, whole regiments de- 
 serting, railway lines blocked for miles by trains crammed 
 with supplies for Paris; roads similarly blocked by all 
 the endless impedimenta of Chanzy's forces; horses dying 
 by the wayside; famished soldiers cutting steaks from the 
 flanks of the dead beasts and devouring them raw; others 
 — hundreds, if not thousands — without proper footgear; 
 some in boots of English make, whose composition soles 
 had disappeared, leaving the uppers behind, others in 
 sabots, others, again, merely with rags around their feet, 
 and yet others who trudged along absolutely barefooted. 
 
rHE LOVER'S J J J 
 
 PROGRESS ^ ^ ^ 
 
 their toes frost-bitten, until they fell despairing and ex- 
 hausted on the snow to perish there. Now and again, 
 perhaps, one of these poor wretches was hoisted on to 
 some baggage-wagon, but ambulances, remedies, cordials 
 were out of the question. 
 
 Stoutly shod, wearing a heavy coat of Irish frieze 
 specially sent me by Arnold, I myself largely walked, 
 only now and again securing a seat in one of the few trains 
 which were run over some short distance for some very 
 special military purpose. There could be no thought of 
 a mount when horses were dying of exhaustion and star- 
 vation all around one. And I slept anywhere, even as 
 thousands slept, glad some nights of a corner on the 
 stone flags of a cottage deserted by its owners, and in- 
 vaded by the exasperated soldiery. A basket as a pillow 
 on those arctic nights was a luxury, and a room whose 
 window-panes were not broken a paradise. But I pass 
 all that, as I have passed the actual fighting — Le Mans, 
 Saint-Jean-sur-Erve, Sill§-le-Guillaume. I will merely 
 say that although I was at times moved to pity and to 
 horror by things I saw, the feelings which most swayed 
 me were curiosity and wonder, mingled with despair and 
 disgust at finding the Germans ever victorious. 
 
 Toward the end of that miniature " retreat from Mos- 
 cow," which a French author has called " La retraite 
 infernale," though snow and ice are not usually asso- 
 ciated with the nether kingdom, my father, having re- 
 turned from England, went back with me from Eennes 
 
J T ^ <rr'HE LOFER'S 
 
 J- PROGRESS 
 
 to Laval, where Chanzy had established his headquarters, 
 and guided and assisted me in the preparation of two or 
 three final articles. Shrewd and practical, he knew 
 exactly what the English public wanted, and his advice 
 was valuable to me. But difficulties always overtook 
 him that year. He aroused suspicion, we were again 
 arrested as spies, and for a few hours, owing to the fe- 
 rocity of the local National Guard, our lives were in the 
 greatest danger. Things were set right, however, as 
 soon as we had fought our way to headquarters with the 
 help of a few gendarmes, two of whom wore the Queen's 
 Crimean medal. A day or two later we returned to 
 Saint Maur. Then Paris fell, and forty-eight hours 
 afterward I was on my way thither with my father and 
 my brother Aubrey, now a lad of fifteen, whose turn 
 had come to have some experience of stirring events. 
 
 Before starting I wrote to Lotis, through Amy, assur- 
 ing her of my ever-constant love, and telling her that, 
 however terrible might be the position of France, 
 brighter days were perhaps coming for all of us. And 
 I sent, I remember, a brief note to Madame de Lonva- 
 dour, mentioning that I would go to Saint Mand6 and 
 send Maitre Verdier information concerning the state 
 of his house there. I will candidly confess that I was 
 anxious to ingratiate myself with the old gentleman, for 
 he, it seemed, would have much to do with any plans 
 which might be formed for Lotis now that her father 
 was dead. 
 
rHE LOFER'S j j j 
 
 PROGRESS ^^J 
 
 Striving 
 
 Oif receipt of a fairly favorable report from me, 
 Maitre Verdier came from Saint ifigarec to put Ms house 
 to rights, and also to sell his charge, or practice; for 
 although he meant to live at Saint Mande again, he felt 
 unfit for further work after the shock of that disastrous 
 war. Unluckily, his plans were upset by the advent of 
 the Commune, which sent him back to Brittany. My 
 hopes of seeing Lotis and her mother at Saint Mand^ 
 that spring were thus dashed to the ground. In lieu 
 thereof I found myself with my father and Aubrey in 
 the midst of a formidable insurrection, 
 
 From the time of the armistice between the French 
 and German Governments to the end of the so-called 
 Bloody Week I saw and helped to chronicle nearly every- 
 thing of any interest both in and around Paris: the 
 entry of the Germans on March 1st; the rising of the 
 18th, when the regular Government fled helter-skelter 
 to Versailles; some of the combats in the suburbs, nota- 
 bly at Asnidres; the bloody demonstration in the Eue 
 de la Paix; the club meetings in the churches, with 
 women orating from the pulpits; the fall of the Ven- 
 ddme column; the entry of the Versailles troops; the 
 8 
 
;- j^ y, Cr'HE LOrER'S 
 
 ■^ ^'r -I PROGRESS 
 
 attack on the Blys6e Palace (sketched by me from a bal- 
 cony, which was carried away by a shell a few minutes 
 after I had left it); the street fighting generally; the 
 conflagrations; and the shooting of many of the rebel 
 prisoners. 
 
 My father and my brother Aubrey had several 
 startling adventures and lucky escapes. My closest 
 shave, perhaps, was on the Thursday of the Bloody 
 Week, when an English friend, myself, and a stranger, 
 while speaking together in the deserted Kue Saint 
 Lazare, were fired upon by Communists secreted in the 
 Passage du Havre. The stranger, poor fellow! fell in 
 the arms of my friend and myself, bespattering us with 
 his blood and brains, and one bullet just grazed my 
 neck, while a couple of others found their billets in the 
 shutters of a pork-butcher's shop before which we were 
 standing. Had not my friend forced open the door, 
 which the terrified pork-butcher strove to shut in our 
 faces, neither he nor I would have escaped alive. 
 
 But j)assons. The Commune and my adventures and 
 those of others during its last sanguinary days have little 
 bearing on this present narrative. If I have recalled 
 a few incidents of the insurrection and the war that pre- 
 ceded it, it has been simply to show how the boy became 
 a man, how he was seasoned and hardened for the battle 
 of life. Ah! he still had in many respects a very tender 
 and loving heart, but he was learning to control at least 
 some of his emotions, and to realize that he had a very 
 
rHE LOFER'S j j ^ 
 
 PROGRESS J 
 
 great deal to do if he was to win his heart's desire. It 
 was not sufficient that he shouM love Lotis, or that she 
 should love him : to join them together he himself must 
 coerce destiny — secure a good permanent position, gain 
 money. 
 
 I often thought of it even amid the excitement of the 
 Commune. Lotis and I had at one time indulged in a 
 dream which might have found fulfilment had the Pates 
 been at all propitious. Prior to the war her father had 
 often spoken of enlarging his works, and as he had also 
 acquired an interest in the Plouarneau sardine fishery, 
 it had seemed likely that he would need assistance in his 
 enterprises. I had more than once heard him say how 
 much he regretted his advancing years, for there was 
 plenty of money to be made if one were only young and 
 energetic. And Lotis, in her girlish, loving way, had 
 pictured me installed at Saint ^garec, becoming her 
 father's assistant, and winning her by dint of services 
 and energy. Assuredly her people were at that time 
 most kindly disposed toward me. And, on my side, as 
 my father had many sons, I should not be missed by 
 him. His plans for me could be put aside without 
 much difficulty if an opening with the Louvadours pre- 
 sented itself. Even the difference in age was not an 
 insurmountable barrier in the eyes of Lotis and myself. 
 She would still be o,nly in her twenty-second year when 
 I attained my majority, and she would wait and I would 
 wait, both happy in living side by side, seeing each other 
 
J T A CfHE LOFER'S 
 J- PROGRESS 
 
 each day, and nursing and maturing that love of ours. 
 But a first blow had been dealt to the dream by the 
 birth of Lotis's brother Pierre; and then accursed war 
 had come, and her father had died. Everything was 
 altered now, and if I was to win her, it could only be in 
 some other way than that which she had thought of. 
 
 When the Commune was over and I went to Saint 
 Maur, I found Aunt Fennell there, in such bad health 
 that my stepmother had insisted on her coming, in 
 order to surround her with comforts. And now I ob- 
 tained from Amy information which Lotis had not given 
 me in her letters. The affairs of the Louvadours were 
 in an unsatisfactory state. The war had injured the 
 business, which was now being managed by a local man, 
 in whom Amy expressed little confidence. Madame de 
 Louvadour, also, seemed to be greatly changing. Al- 
 though her husband had been dead only some six or 
 seven months, it was rumored that she already thought 
 of marrying again. She was then forty-two or forty- 
 three years old, and of course many widows remarry at 
 that age; yet when I heard the report I felt extremely 
 indignant. But Amy explained that the widow doubted 
 whether she could carry on the family business in a sat- 
 isfactory manner unless she remarried. She had both 
 herself and her children to consider. Each had a claim 
 upon the estate, but Pierre, the boy, was an infant, and 
 Louise still only in her nineteenth year, so that she 
 could not as yet demand her patrimonji unless she 
 
rHE LOFER'S j^ j. ^ 
 
 PROGRESS ^ ^ / 
 
 Bhould be prematurely emancipated by marriage, or by 
 a decision of the "family council," composed of her 
 chief relations. Money matters were further compli- 
 cated by the fact that, in accordance with a not infre- 
 quent practice, only a portion of the dowry assigned to 
 Madame de Louyadonr on her marriage had been actually 
 paid by Maitre Verdier, the remainder still being held 
 by him, though of course he paid interest on it annually. 
 Thus, in various respects the retired notary held the key 
 of the position, and any settlement of the family afEairs 
 without his approval seemed impossible. 
 
 I here ought to mention that, in addition to his 
 daughter, Madame de Louvadour, he had a son. Mon- 
 sieur Paul Verdier, an architect, who seemd likely to 
 become a successful man. I had caught a glimpse of 
 Monsieur Paul on one occasion at Saint Mande. Unlike 
 his sister, who resembled her father, he was of his 
 mother's nature, burly and bearded, with big eyes and 
 a bulldog neck. As an only son, he was his parents' 
 favorite; they were only too ready to do anything for 
 him, even to the detriment of his sister, Madame de 
 Louvadour. 
 
 She had thought of another way out of her difficulties. 
 Failing a husband competent to direct the business, 
 might it not be sold ? Louise's share might then be set 
 aside for her, or she might be married off. She was 
 certainly of a marriageable age, and her mother, whose 
 own matrimonial projects began to lose something of 
 
Y tQ (THE LOVER'S 
 
 ■^ ^ ^ J. PROGRESS 
 
 their strictly business character, arrived at the conclu- 
 sion that this would be the best course; for when she 
 became a blushing bride again the presence of a grown- 
 up daughter in her home would be inconvenient. 
 
 Had I heard all this at any one time, I should have 
 been distracted, but it came to my knowledge in frag- 
 ments. Still, I learned in the first instance quite enough 
 to feel anxious. However Lotis might regard me, she 
 was in the hands of her mother and her grandparents, 
 and Heaven alone could tell what might happen. 
 
 Trouble came indeed. That summer after the Com- 
 mune I found quite a revival of life at Saint Maur. 
 Young folk were forgetting their mourning; war was 
 quite over now, and the prevailing spirit was that which 
 Shirley suggested when he wrote: 
 
 " Now lovers' eyes may gently shoot 
 A tender flame that will not kill; 
 The drum was angry, but the lute 
 Shall whisper what you will." 
 
 Now, there was a fairly good lawn in the grounds of 
 my stepmother's house, and we utilized it for croquet, 
 a game so eminently adapted for flirtation that every 
 few days quite a number of young people, French and 
 English, assembled there. Of course, I took part in the 
 general enjoyment; nevertheless, I was looking forward 
 to the privilege of escorting Aunt FenncU and Amy to 
 Saint Egarec again, when, to my intense astonishment, 
 
rHE LOrER'S j^ jf. 
 
 PROGRESS ^ ^ y 
 
 the Louvadours themselves arrived at Saint Manr, on 
 a visit to one of their connections, a Monsieur Granval, 
 a retired petty functionary, whose advice Lotis's mother 
 now sought in her difi&culties. 
 
 They naturally visited at our house, and my step- 
 mother and my sweetheart became good friends. Lotis 
 seemed to be growing more beautiful every day, and 
 nobody could help remarking the exquisite proportions 
 of her figure and the shapeliness of her neck and arms, 
 whose whiteness was enhanced by her mourning gown 
 with loosely-fitting sleeves. Woman, the goddess, was 
 emerging from the girl, and I adored her now with all 
 the passion of my young manhood. Madame de Louva- 
 dour having business on hand, Lotis often came to our 
 house, attended simply by a maid, and once there, she 
 readily joined in our games. On the first occasions it 
 was with pride that I heard the older men who were 
 present inquire admiringly: "Who is that beautiful 
 girl?" but when the younger ones hastened to make 
 love to her, I became so wildly jealous that on more 
 than one occasion I behaved like an idiot. 
 
 At Saint Egarec I had had her entirely to myself, but 
 here she was surrounded by flatterers and admirers, and 
 I was powerless to intervene. Our love was our secret, 
 and it was on herself alone that I could rely. It was 
 my stepmother who usually pacified and consoled me. 
 She had then, I think, never spoken to Lotis of our 
 attachment, of which she was supposed to know noth- 
 
7-0/1 Cr'HE LOFER'S 
 
 ^ ^^ -/ PROGRESS 
 
 ing; but she pointed out to me that any display of vexa- 
 tion or temper would probably avail me nothing with 
 my innamorata herself, though it would assuredly com- 
 promise her with others if it were in any degree public. 
 
 " You must not mind those little things, Charlie," she 
 said to me. " Suppose you should some day marry 
 Mademoiselle de Louvadour — which I really begin to 
 doubt — ^you surely won't shut her up in a cage? A 
 woman — and a young and beautiful woman especially — 
 likes some admiration. It is simple enough; it does not 
 mean that she is unfaithful to any promises she may 
 have made. Besides, jealous love is very ardent, no 
 doubt, but it is not the best love: that is all confidence." 
 
 Nevertheless, there were some little tiffs between Lotis , 
 and myself. But more serious trouble was at hand. On 
 two occasions during that month's stay at Saint Maur 
 she was asked in marriage. Her suitor the first time 
 was a middle-aged friend of Monsieur Granval; but 
 rejection ensued, on account of difference in religion, 
 the Louvadours being Protestants, whereas the would-be 
 bridegroom was a devout Catholic. Then, however, a 
 relation of my own, a cousin — Eobert Letty — ^resident 
 in England, having come to Prance on a fortnight's 
 holiday, was immediately smitten, and imagined that 
 he would conquer. I was horrified, particularly as Lotis 
 smiled on him in a manner which I interpreted as evi- 
 dence of partiality. What angered me above all else 
 was that, while things moved very rapidly, the constant 
 
rHE LOFER'S j -^ j 
 
 PROGRESS -^ ^^ 
 
 presence of others prevented me for several days from 
 exchanging a word with her in private. 
 
 However, Madame de Louvadour was just then full of 
 the idea of selling the works at Saint Egarec, and Mon- 
 sieur Granval had suggested that some suitor for Lotis 
 might buy them. When it was ascertained, therefore, 
 that my Cousin Eobert, while enjoying a position of 
 some six hundred pounds a year, possessed very little 
 capital, and proposed, moreover, to take his bride to 
 England, instead of living in France, he promptly 
 received his conge, to my intense delight. 
 
 For some three weeks I had been living in alarm and 
 dread. Hardly a day had passed without some distressing 
 incident, and I longed to see my love by herself, and 
 have a full and frank explanation with her. Thus, 
 directly after my Cousin Eobert had been rejected, I 
 tried to arrange a meeting. At Saint Egarec Amy 
 would have helped me, but at Saint Maur, where she 
 was a stranger, in constant attendance, too, upon her 
 ailing mother, she found it difficult to do anything. 
 Eobert still being at our house, recovering from his 
 repulse, Lotis, of course, could not now come there. 
 Besides, although I knew it not at the moment, 
 Madame de Louvadour was angered with all of us. 
 
 Now, she and her kinsman Granval, whom I had 
 begun to think she might marry — he was a widower, 
 with a married son in the Government service — were 
 constantly going about together; and when, after writ- 
 
r :,0 (THE LONER'S 
 
 ■'^'^ 1 PROGRESS 
 
 ing a note lor Lotis, I prowled around Granval's sub- 
 urban house, seeking some means of getting this note 
 delivered, I saw them, widow and widower, come out 
 together and walk toward the town. It was then about 
 three o'clock in the afternoon; the spot was quiet, 
 almost lonely, there being very few passers-by. Accord- 
 ingly, as soon as an opportunity arrived, remembering 
 the old Latin tag about Fortune favoring the brave, 
 I got over the garden wall, which some may think a 
 very impudent proceeding on my part; but, then, the 
 man who cannot act with decision in a critical moment 
 is not worth his salt. Besides, it all seemed very simple 
 to me, for I knew the house and grounds, having visited 
 there three or four times since Madame de Louvadour's 
 arrival. 
 
 I opened one of the garden gates from inside, in order 
 that it might appear that I had found it open and had 
 come in that way; then I walked to the drawing-room, 
 the glass doors of which were thrown back, for the 
 afternoon was very warm. As I had hoped, I found 
 Lotis there, and, -excepting some servants, nobody else 
 was in the house. A maid, I believe, had taken her 
 little brother to the seaside. 
 
 My girl was lying on the sofa, looking quite ill. I 
 had felt inclined to be reproachful, but my heart went 
 out to her when I noticed the pallor of her cheeks and 
 redness of her eyelids. 
 
 " What is the matter, Louise ? " I exclaimed. " Good 
 
rHE LOFER'S r -> , 
 
 PROGRESS ^^J 
 
 heavens! you have been crying. What is it? Tell 
 me." 
 
 Even as I spoke a foolish dread came over me : Had 
 she been crying because her mother had rejected my 
 cousin's suit ? 
 
 But she sprang up, raised a finger to her lips, and 
 took me to the chalet-like summer-house, being unwill- 
 ing to speak in the drawing-room, for fear lest the ser- 
 vants should hear us. Besides, if we should be dis- 
 turbed, it would be easier for me to escape from the 
 summer-house into the road. 
 
 Again I asked her why she had been crying, but she 
 did not seem disposed to tell me; then, as I mentioned 
 my cousin's suit, saying that if he had dared to go to 
 her mother, it must have been in the belief that he 
 would be accepted — indeed, he had asserted something 
 to that efEect — she answered, with some show of annoy- 
 ance: 
 
 " I never told him he would be accepted. He seemed 
 very nice, and we were very friendly; but, then, he was 
 your cousin, and I could not be unfriendly with him." 
 
 " But did he not speak to you," I asked, " before he 
 went to your mother ? " 
 
 " Yes, he said something," she replied, with a sud- 
 den smile in her moist eyes, " but I gave him no answer 
 myself. I only said that he must speak to mamma, 
 because. that was the proper thing to do in France." 
 
 I wafi astounded, then began to understand the error 
 
J ^y, Cr'HE LOVER'S 
 
 ^^ 1 PROGRESS 
 
 into which Eobert had fallen. The English girl who 
 says "Ask papa" is deemed to be a consenting party; 
 but when a French girl of the lourgeoisie simply informs 
 a suitor that he must address himself to her parents, it 
 does not necessarily follow that she herself regards him 
 favorably. At the same time, in Lotis's case I suspected 
 her of some mischievousness, though she told me, again 
 smiling, that when my cousin had tried to kiss her, she 
 had escaped him. 
 
 " I really think he is in love with you," I said to her; 
 " he seems dreadfully worried. He declares that he was 
 only rejected because he had not a little more ready 
 money and would not live in France. Oh, Lotis, I do 
 wish I were rich and a little older! I would marry you 
 to-morrow. Don't you think that your mother and 
 grandfather would accept me ? " 
 
 "I don't know, Charlie; but mamma does nothing 
 now but talk of marrying me to somebody suitable. If 
 it were not for grandpapa she would take almost any- 
 body, I believe, so as to get rid of me. She is so un- 
 kind, and all because she wants to marry again herself! 
 I don't care whether I ever marry at all, but I certainly 
 won't marry twice." 
 
 I was in consternation. Her mother had been perse- 
 cuting her, and this was why she had been crying. 
 
 " But you still care for me, dear, don't you ? " I said 
 pleadingly. "You remember all we used to think 
 of " 
 
rHE LOVER'S J y r 
 
 PROGRESS ^^J 
 
 Lotis, however, went on speaking about her mother. 
 
 "I can't understand mamma at all," she said, "she 
 is so changed. If papa were still alive, things would be 
 diflferent. But I told mamma, before she went out, that 
 I would not be married to a person I could not care for; 
 and I said to her that if I was in her way, I would ask 
 grandpapa to let me live with him." 
 
 Plainly enough there had been a stormy scene, but 
 for the moment I hardly gave it a thought. 
 
 " At Saint Mande ? " said I, delighted at the idea of 
 her being so near to Paris. 
 
 " Yes. Grandmamma is getting very weak, and might 
 like to have me with her. And in that way mamma 
 could marry again as she pleased, and sell the works, 
 and give my money to grandpapa to keep for me." 
 
 At the mention of that money I always felt embar- 
 rassed. It had been referred to more than once by 
 Lotis, but I had never asked her for precise figures. 
 
 " Is it very much ? " I now timidly inquired. 
 
 "Well, mamma says that everything is worth about 
 one hundred and twenty thousand francs, besides what 
 will come to her from grandpapa when he dies." 
 
 Then I gathered that, as her mother claimed some 
 jointure in the division of the estate, her own share of 
 her father's property would amount to about thirty 
 thousand francs.* Of course, she would subsequently 
 inherit something from her mother also. 
 * £1,200. 
 
rpX Cr'HE LOFER'S 
 
 ^ J- PROGRESS 
 
 "Listen, Charlie," she continued: "I may not be 
 able to come to your house again, on account of your 
 cousin. It is a pity it happened. When I told mamma 
 that I would not marry anybody I did not care for, she 
 said I was becoming too independent, altogether too 
 English, and that she would send me away somewhere 
 if I were not careful. I don't mind if she does; but 
 I shall try to get grandpapa to take me." 
 
 " And I may come to see you ? " I said. 
 
 " I don't know. Mamma seems quite angry with all 
 of you about the afEair of your cousin, and I know she 
 has written all sorts of things to grandpapa." 
 
 " But you surely don't mean that you will never see 
 me again!" I cried. Never had I felt such a pang 
 before. The thought that I was perhaps losing her was 
 torture beyond endurance. And as she did not imme- 
 diately answer, I went on wildly: " Oh, Louise, Louise! 
 There has been nothing but unhappiness ever since you 
 came here! We were so happy at Saint figarec. But 
 it is all your mother's fault; she is mad. I cannot 
 understand her. As you just said, she used to be so 
 kind. And if you go to your grandfather's, and she 
 prejudices him against us so that I cannot call there, 
 what are we to do? I shan't even be able to write to 
 you as I did when you^ were at Saint ilgarec. Oh, 
 Louise, tell me what is to be done! " 
 
 She made a gesture as if to say that she did not know. 
 
 "Ah! you love me no longer," I retorted. "If you 
 
rHE LOFER'S j ^y 
 
 PROGRESS ^^/ 
 
 did, you would help me to find a way. But ever since 
 you have been here, there have been others round you, 
 and I'm nobody now— nobody." 
 
 "Oh, Charlie," she cried, "how can you speak to 
 me so cruelly! You know it is not true! " 
 
 But I scarcely heard her. 
 
 "There is no hope for me. It is all over!" I con- 
 tinued. " To think it should end like this, when I love 
 you as I do. Ah, I can't bear it, I can't ! I shall kill 
 myself!" 
 
 " How can you say such things — as if nobody cared 
 for you! " she cried again, while tears started from her 
 eyes. 
 
 I looked at her. In my agitation I had risen from 
 my seat, and she herself was leaning beside a window, 
 so that while we spoke she might keep watch upon the 
 house. And when I saw her there before me, looking 
 so beautiful in her simple black gown, with two tears 
 trickling down her cheeks, I threw out my arms despair- 
 ingly to clasp her. 
 
 "Oh, Louise!" I gasped. "I did not mean it. I 
 know you care for me. I have been foolishly Jealous 
 lately, but you will forgive all that, will you not ? Oh, 
 if you only knew how I love you, how I long for you, 
 my darling, my darling! " 
 
 I was showering kisses on her face, her neck, her 
 hands, which she had raised to restrain me. Often had 
 I embraced her before, but never as I embraced her now. 
 
r pX) Cr'HE LOrER'S 
 
 " -I PROGRESS 
 
 My blood surged as I held her there beside the window; 
 my temples throbbed; my cheeks glowed, fired by an 
 eager flame. And as her little lips strove to escape my 
 own, an expression of supreme distress came into her 
 dark eyes, whose lids were partially lowered. 
 
 "Oh, Charlie, leave me! leave me!" she entreated 
 in quivering accents. " Oh, Charlie, if you love me, 
 leave me ! " 
 
 Could I resist her voice, her words appealing to me, 
 with intensity of supplication, in the name of the love 
 which linked us together ? They thrilled me with emo- 
 tion. I mastered myself; I staggered back, my madness 
 past, my heart full of intense shame and grief and an- 
 ger with myself for having dared, if only for an instant, 
 to approach with such wild passion her whom I adored. 
 He who loves truly, and would be truly loved, seeks not 
 to compel; he only sues. For a moment we remained 
 face to face, yet scarcely glancing at each other, such 
 was our distressful embarrassment. Then, as I sank 
 upon a chair, I entreated her forgiveness in a tremulous 
 voice, broken by many sobs. 
 
 " Forgive me, Louise! forgive me! I was not myself. 
 The thought of losing you maddened me ! Do not say 
 you are angry. I will never offend you again. It is all 
 over now. Don't be afraid of me; talk to me; tell me 
 what you want me to do, and I will do it, whatever it 
 may be, like a slave who knows no will but yours. And 
 all I want is to see you again, for if you go away where 
 
rHE LOVER'S Y yf^ 
 
 PROGRESS •'^y 
 
 I cannot see you I shall be unable to live. You know 
 that I love you, Louise— that I have loved you all these 
 years; and you, yourself, have told me that you still 
 care for me." 
 
 " And so I do, Charlie," she replied. " Why do you 
 distress yourself, and me as well, in thinking that I 
 don't love you, as you do at times ? " 
 
 She was recovering her equanimity. No word of re- 
 proach for my passionate frenzy came from her lips. 
 She simply raised her hands to her hair to smooth it, 
 and though for awhile she kept her eyes averted, she 
 at last sat down on a garden chair near me, even let- 
 ting me take her hand again, as if she had no further 
 fears. 
 
 "Oh, I didn't think that," I answered; "but you 
 are so beautiful, Louise — everybody admires you; and 
 I know that, after all, I am only a boy, and can do 
 nothing — nothing as yet. It is that which tortures me 
 to desperation." 
 
 Again at the thought of my youth and my powerless- 
 ness hot tears welled into my eyes. 
 
 "Listen," she said, turning and looking at me ear- 
 nestly. "You mustn't grieve, Charlie; you must work 
 very hard, and by and by you will be able to come to 
 grandpapa's. I can do nothing now, no more than you 
 can; but I am sure I do not care for anybody else. And 
 I won't — no, I won't marry anybody until I am twenty- 
 one, for I know that was papa's wish. So you must not 
 9 
 
T jQ cr'HE LONER'S 
 
 ^ -L PROGRESS 
 
 worry now." And with a little smile once more on her 
 face, she added: " Won't that satisfy yon? " 
 
 I kissed her hand. 
 
 " Yes, yon are very good and kind; you always are," 
 I said. Then, in a low voice, almost a whisper, I asked 
 her: "And you've forgiven me, quite forgiven me, for 
 everything, haven't you, Louise?" 
 
 The gentle pressure of her hand answered me; and 
 for a moment we remained silent, gazing from the sum- 
 mer-house over the grounds, where the leaves of the 
 trees hung limply in the hot embrace of the sunshine. 
 
 Presently she said : ' ' Grandmamma still has her maid, 
 Eosa — you remember ? " 
 
 "Yes," I answered. 
 
 " I was thinking you might perhaps see her when you 
 go back to Paris." 
 
 I understood. , Eosa knew of our love, and might 
 prove a useful auxiliary should Amy's services now 
 fail us. 
 
 "I will see her directly I get back," I said. "If I 
 could only meet her sometimes, I might give her letters 
 for you." 
 
 Lotis nodded. It was this that she had been thinking 
 of. Then, for a little while, I lingered there, speaking 
 gently, making a thousand promises at which she often 
 smiled. When, however, it became imprudent for me 
 to tarry there any longer, and we stood up to bid each 
 other farewell, face to face and very near, I saw her eye- 
 
'CT-HE LOVER'S j jj 
 
 JL PROGRESS ^O^ 
 
 lids quiver. And then I did not dare to seek her lips. 
 Assuredly she knew that I could now love her with pas- 
 sion, so was it not best that I should show her that I 
 could still love her with all purity of affection and rever- 
 ence also ? Thus I kissed her on the cheek, and on the 
 brow, and on the hand. She smiled divinely, and as if 
 to reward me for my forbearance and to give me for 
 all the time to come a pledge and a rapturous memory 
 which should bind me to her, she herself threw loving 
 arms about me, her bosom resting against my heart. 
 And thus we parted in confidence and hope, though we 
 knew not when or where we should again meet. 
 
 A few days later Lotis and her mother left Saint Manr, 
 and shortly afterward my Cousin Eobert returned to 
 England, lamenting his failure to take a beautiful Eng- 
 lish-speaking French bride back with him. His im- 
 petuous proposal had done much harm. Though I 
 knew not exactly what he had said at his interview with 
 Madame de Louvadour, it seemed as if she were much 
 offended. None of us saw her prior to her departure. 
 When Amy and Aunt Eennell called at Monsieur Gran- 
 val's house, they were told that madame was out, which 
 may have been true or not. 
 
 It was about this time that my love became known to 
 various members of my family. Directly Eobert had 
 left, I spoke to my stepmother. She, like Aunt Fen- 
 nell, considered that my cousin was certainly the better 
 match for Louise, as regards both position and age; 
 
J. j^ Cr'HE LOFER'S 
 
 ^ O'^ J. PROGRESS 
 
 nevertheless, she was extremely kind to me, discussing 
 everything with great gentleness, pointing out all the 
 difficulties that lay before me, and saying that the 
 wrench would pain me less if it took place then than if 
 I persevered, and finally found the realization of my 
 dream impossible. 
 
 She made some communication on the subject to my 
 father, then in England; and among the large number 
 of his letters which I have preserved, I have found one 
 showing how he regarded the matter in the light of such 
 information as he then possessed. I append a few ex- 
 tracts as specimens of parental opinion and advice in the 
 year of grace 1871 : 
 
 " My deae Ohakles: 
 
 " I am sorry to hear that you have again been giving 
 way to that excitable and romantic nature of yours, and 
 making yourself extremely unhappy. ... It seems 
 that you will not take your mamma's advice, and try to 
 forget the young lady for whom you have formed an 
 attachment. . . . You have greater abilities than either 
 of your elder brothers possessed at your age; but for 
 that very reason you must act sensibly, and not entangle 
 yourself in difficulties which can only hamper you in 
 your career. . . . 
 
 " You cannot marry on what you now earn, and by 
 the time you are in a good position the young lady 
 will have married somebody else. She is marriageable 
 already, and I can quite understand that her relations 
 should wish to settle her in life with as little delay as 
 possible. As you yourself cannot think of marrying yet 
 
rHE LONER'S f J J 
 
 PROGRESS ^JJ 
 
 awhile, however much you may be in advance of your 
 years, what you have to do is to call up some of that 
 energy which you use so well at times, and at others so 
 curiously misplace. You should reason with yourself 
 like a man and forget this attachment, for yon have no 
 possible right to spoil the young lady's chances or those 
 of your elders, who are in a better position than yourself. 
 
 " I do not say that she is so very much older than you 
 are, but it is always best for the wife to be younger than 
 the husband. ... At present your future wife is prob- 
 ably some little girl in short frocks, playing with her 
 dolls. That is what you ought to say to yourself; and 
 your first care should be to work steadily, and do all you 
 can to make your way in the world. If you only do 
 that, there will be plenty of parents with charming 
 daughters only too willing to listen to your proposals. 
 
 "I shall be over in another fortnight. I think of 
 going to the South of France in the autumn, and should 
 like you to go with me. It would be a change for you, 
 and help you to forget all the trouble which you have 
 been creating for yourself. 
 
 " Your affectionate father, 
 
 " EiCHAED Lettt." 
 
 On the blank spaces at the end of this letter I jotted 
 down, according to a habit I had acquired, the essential 
 portions of my answer, some extracts from which follow : 
 
 " Mt deae Father: 
 
 " I am very grateful for your letter and advice, and 
 I assure yoa I shall do nothing rash or foolish. But 
 when you tell me to give up my attachment, the only 
 
,;- jy, CfHE LOVER'S 
 
 ^ OH- 1 PROGRESS 
 
 answer possible is that I cannot. . . . Mile, de L. gave 
 Eobert no intentional enconragement. On my side, 
 though I was very much upset, I did nothing; I left 
 everything to her own feelings. So it cannot be said 
 that I tried to spoil her chances or those of my elders 
 and betters. As a matter of fact, Eobert's proposal was 
 rejected on its merits by Mme. de L. herself, and Louise 
 was not called upon to say yes or no. . . . 
 
 " She has gone away, and I do not expect to see her 
 again for a long time; but she has told me that she will 
 not let her relations marry her regardless of her own 
 feelings, that she does not wish to marry till she is one- 
 and-twenty, and that she cares very much for me. I 
 know that there are many diflSculties, and that what she 
 and I have thought of may never happen. But if she 
 does not wish to marry at present, why should she be 
 forced to? And if she chooses to wait, why should I 
 not hope? As for getting on in the world, I am not 
 particularly ambitious for myself; but I know that if 
 Mile, de L. and I are ever to be married we must have 
 the necessary means. And so I certainly intend to work 
 very hard and steadily. . . . 
 
 " Eemembering, too, what you have often said about 
 fast life in Paris, I think it may please you to know 
 that, loving Louise as I do, I don't care a bit for any- 
 thing of that kind. If I can only marry her by and by, 
 
 there will never be any trouble with me as with . 
 
 When a man loves a good and beautiful girl like her, 
 the thought of her keeps him on the right path. So, 
 while I do not mean to pester and distress her, I want 
 to go on hoping and doing what I can to overcome the 
 difficulties. 
 
 " You may be sure I shall not worry you or anybody 
 
rHE LOFER'S jjc 
 
 PROGRESS -J -J 
 
 with my troubles . . . but if when the time comes 
 Louise is still unmarried and willing to have me, I am 
 confident you wiU not ofEer any objection to such a 
 daughter-in-law. Meantime, I only ask that obstacles 
 should not be put in my way, as if purposely, by some 
 of my own relatives; and that, as I am no longer a child, 
 but fully know my own mind, they should not keep on 
 casting my age in my teeth, as if it were something to 
 be ashamed of. I cannot help Robert's troubles, though 
 I understand his disappointment. He makes a point of 
 regarding me as a child, I know; but perhaps he will 
 some day discover his mistake. 
 
 "I shall be delighted to go to the South of France 
 with you. We are all looking forward to your arrival 
 here. 
 
 " With love, 
 
 "Your very affectionate son, 
 
 " Chaelbs." 
 
 My letter was virtually unanswerable, and Madame de 
 Louvadour and her daughter having gone nobody knew 
 exactly whither, my stepmother and my father did not 
 insist on the subject of my " unhappy attachment," for 
 which, no doubt, a speedy death was anticipated. Amy 
 still being at Saint Maur with her mother, I could not 
 ascertain whether Lotis had returned to Saint ifegarec 
 or not. 
 
 During our farewell interview I had pointed out that 
 even if I were unable to write to her, for fear of my 
 letters falling into the hands of others, she perchance 
 might manage to write to me. However, I heard noth- 
 
136 
 
 rHE LOVER'S 
 PROGRESS 
 
 ing from her, and had to remain patient, pending an 
 opportunity to coinmunicate with Bosa, the maid, at 
 Saint Mand6. 
 
 This opportunity arrived during the autumn. Before 
 starting for the South of France, where he had some 
 business to attend to, my father asked me to accompany 
 him on a tour round the environs of Paris, as he wished 
 to rent a house there, whither my stepmother and her 
 children, so long resident at Saint Manr, might remove, 
 in such wise that we should all be together once more. 
 
 We spent quite a week in house-hunting, beginning 
 with some villages south of Paris — Bourg-la-Reine, Pon- 
 tenay-aux-Eoses, Sceaux, Antony, and Chdtenay. But 
 all was ruin in that direction. Most of the villa resi- 
 dences had little more than their four walls standing. 
 The Germans during the siege had stripped hundreds of 
 houses of all their woodwork, doors, panelling, flooring, 
 window-frames, and what not besides. Common furni- 
 ture also had been burnt for firing, and valuable furni- 
 ture had either been sent direct to Germany by oflScers 
 themselves, or sold to Moses of Berlin, Aaron of Prank- 
 fort, and all the other Jews who, to the number of some 
 thousands, had followed in the wake of the invading 
 armies. 
 
 Then, on working our way round to the western envi- 
 rons, we found that the artillery-fire on both sides had 
 caused the greatest devastation there. And again on 
 the north and on the east as well there was every sign of 
 
rHE LOFER'S j jy 
 
 PROGRESS ^J/ 
 
 pillage and destruction, merely the bare shells remain- 
 ing of houses which had once looked so gay or so cosey 
 in their bright or their umbrageous gardens. It is well 
 within the truth to say that if four or five thousand 
 houses around Paris had been wrecked by artillery-fire, 
 at least ten thousand had been wantonly pillaged and 
 virtually destroyed by the unscrupulous invader. 
 
 At last, on the east of Paris, at Fontenay-sous-Bois, 
 which had been within the French lines during the Ger- 
 man siege, we found, my father and I, a house in fair 
 condition. That is, it required complete renovation; 
 but it had retained all its doors and window-frames, and 
 comparatively little of its flooring had been taken up for 
 firewood. It was perhaps three or four years old, and 
 contained fifteen rooms, with extensive cellarage. 
 
 There was also a large garden, but this, not unnatu- 
 rally, required replanting. A railway station whence 
 one could reach Paris in fifteen minutes was also near at 
 hand, but my great delight, when I went to an upper 
 window, was to see the trees of the Bois de Vincennes 
 waving before me. Yonder, on the other side of all 
 that greenery, was Saint Mand6, whither went all my 
 hopes and thoughts. 
 
 My father and I became co-tenants of that house, for 
 although I was only in my eighteenth year, the owner 
 judged by my appearance that I was over age and in- 
 sisted on making me a party to the lease. 
 
 Having covenanted to do some of the decorative work. 
 
T j9 (THE LOFER'S 
 
 •^ JL PROGRESS 
 
 we secured the house at a very low rental. Indeed, I 
 drove so good a bargain that the landlord exclaimed: 
 " Well, if I had a daughter I wanted to get married, I 
 would ofEer her tci you ! ' ' whereupon my father chuckled 
 and glanced at me slyly. I merely smiled, but a young 
 Cockney of the present day would probably have coupled 
 with his thanks the remark that he was not just then 
 " taking any." 
 
 Workmen were put into the place, and my father and 
 I went to the South of Prance. It was very late in the 
 autumn when we installed ourselves at Pontenay, and 
 indeed winter had come when my stepmother and the 
 juniors of the family at last arrived from Saint Maur. 
 Meantime my Aunt Fennell died, and Amy on return- 
 ing to Saint ifegarec, for the alleged purpose of selling 
 her belongings there, repaired to the convent near Ma- 
 dame de Louvadour's house, and not only embraced 
 Catholicism, but became a novice also. 
 
 I was, I think, the only member of our family whom 
 that transformation failed to surprise. I remembered 
 many little incidents of past days tending to such a con- 
 version, such an ending to a life in which love, our 
 earthly love, had had no part. The wooer had not 
 come, and Amy, in the silence of her despair, had re- 
 treated into those quiet cloisters to seek the Celestial 
 Bridegroom — the only one for whom she might now 
 hope. I never saw her again; I only know that she has 
 long been dead. 
 
rHE LOFER'S ^ ,^ 
 
 PROGRESS ^ Jy 
 
 Her retirement into the convent deprived me of all 
 news of Saint ifigarec, and made it the more urgent that 
 I should communicate with Eosa, the Verdiers' maid, 
 at Saint MandS. But although I often prowled round 
 the notary's house it was long before I came upon her. 
 When I did so it was in the Grand'me, just as she was 
 coming out of a shop, carrying a few little parcels. 
 
 " Excuse me," said I, "but are you not Mademoiselle 
 Eosa, and do you not live at Maltre Verdier's ? " 
 
 She looked at me in surprise, then smiled with those 
 long eyes of hers, which were becoming impudent. 
 
 "Yes, monsieur," she answered. "What is there 
 for your service ? " 
 
 " Why, don't you remember Saint .^garec? " I asked. 
 
 She hesitated for just a moment, then exclaimed : 
 
 " What! is it you, monsieur? I thought I had seen 
 you somewhere before. But how you have changed. 
 Why, you have mustaches now!" And again she 
 smiled, this time all over her face. 
 
 I told her that I wished to speak to her, and without 
 more ado she walked down the street with me. In fact, 
 it seemed rather to please her to be seen talking with a 
 young stranger who wore a frock-coat and a silk hat. 
 
 In answer to my questions she gave me all the infor- 
 mation she had. Mademoiselle Louise was not at Saint 
 Mand§, and had not been there. She had stayed for a 
 time somewhere in Aunis — her father's native part — and 
 had afterward gone to Saint ]Sgarec. There was still 
 
T/iC) CfHE LOFER'S 
 
 'T- 1 PROGRESS 
 
 talk of marrying her, lor she, Rosa, often heard the 
 matter mentioned at Maltre Verdier's ; but Madame de 
 Louvadour's own matrimonial plans had apparently 
 failed. 
 
 As for myself, Eosa remembered the notary saying 
 one day that Monsieur de Louvadour had brought up 
 his daughter very badly, allowing her to run about with 
 le petit Letty, and to acquire independent English ways 
 unsuited to a demoiselle of good family. And some- 
 thing of mine addressed to Mademoiselle Louise bad 
 been found by her mother, N"o, it was not a letter, it 
 was some verses, Kosa thought. And once again she 
 smiled, this time almost sarcastically. 
 
 Those wretched verses, how I cursed them! Unfor- 
 tunately, there had been many of them, and I knew not 
 whether those which had been found were particularly 
 compromising or not. At all events, before the girl 
 could acquire further information, it would be impru- 
 dent to call at Maitre Verdier's house. 
 
 For the rest Eosa was quite willing to help me, but 
 how? Mademoiselle Louise might not come to Saint 
 Mand6 for a long time unless Madame Verdier's health, 
 which was already bad, should take a turn for the worse. 
 Thus, all I could then do was to arrange with Eosa to 
 forward me any important news. I did this when we 
 reached the end of the street, where there was a little 
 cul-de-sac in which we loitered. 
 
 Though the girl feigned a desire to help me and Louise 
 
rHE LOVER'S J y, J 
 
 PROGRESS ^^ 
 
 for the love of the thing, I made her accept a couple 
 of louis. If not a Parisienne by birth, she was one by 
 training, and would have thought me extremely mean 
 had I allowed her to depart without some earnest-money. 
 So Parisienne, indeed, was she in her ways, and such 
 were her smiles and glances that, although conceit was 
 not a prominent trait of mine, I fancied that she wished 
 me to kiss her in that quiet corner. She was certainly 
 pretty, with a bright dimpled face; but I had not in- 
 herited the manners of the Due de Lauzun, who always 
 kissed the maid as well as the mistress, and I therefore 
 skipped what he regarded as a very pleasant feature in 
 the programme of love. 
 
 And now I set to work in real earnest. In part by 
 my own enterprise, in part by my father's help, I secured 
 various openings. There was no further question of the 
 law for me. I plunged into that career of journalism 
 which, in France at all events, may lead to everything, 
 provided that one only quit it when the psychological 
 moment arrives. 
 
 As for academical studies, as it was now unnecessary 
 for me to become a Licentiate or a Doctor in Law, I 
 could content myself with a mere haccalaureat. On 
 the other hand, Germany being the coming country, 
 I took up German again in a more serious spirit than 
 formerly. Still, the professor of the Ecole Turgot, with 
 whom I read, was often more inclined to discuss the 
 theories of Schopenhauer than to explain to me a diffi- 
 
J. . ^ n-'HE LONER'S 
 
 -'■^^ 1 PROGRESS 
 
 cult passage in Schiller. For the rest I gave my father 
 assistance, which paid amply for my board and lodging; 
 and some three or four days a week were devoted to my 
 own press work. 
 
 I had all the confidence of youth, and cast my net 
 widely. I wrote little articles for French journals, and 
 often very long ones for English periodicals. I wrote 
 on politics, on Paris fashions, sport, and theatricals, and 
 even took up horticultural and agricultural subjects. I 
 knew a great many people in Paris, I had kept on 
 friendly terms with several old school-fellows at Bona- 
 parte, young men of good families or great abilities who 
 were making their way in the world. And these con- 
 nections were often very useful to me. 
 
 Before long, theatrical subjects became a specialty of 
 mine. I dealt with them at length, because in those 
 days even more than now English playwrights and man- 
 agers were dependent on the French stage. I supplied 
 one English journal with from two to three columns of 
 matter weekly — gossip, criticism, elaborate analyses of 
 plays, and so forth, securing for this purpose an entrie 
 into every house of entertainment in Paris. 
 
 And there I elbowed many celebrities, finding myself 
 at times in a stall by the side of Dumas _/?Zs, at others 
 listening to Offenbach's criticism of his rivals and glori- 
 fication of his own particular genius. I was the first to 
 circulate that amusing prediction of his, which summed 
 up his self-admiration in a few words. Somebody had 
 
rHE LOFER'S j . j 
 
 PROGRESS ^"t-J 
 
 said that, after the terrible lesson of the war. Prance 
 intended to become very serious and to discard all the 
 frivolities of past days. In stage matters, for instance, 
 there would be no more vulgar farces or vaudevilles or 
 opiras-bouffes. 
 
 "What!" exclaimed the maestro of the Grande 
 Duchesse, drawing up his little figure and waving his 
 bony hand. " No more operas-bouffes ? I tell you that 
 the whole world will always, always play the music of 
 Jacques Offenbach! " 
 
 As for Dumas fils, whom I have mentioned above, 
 I always found him extremely cordial. He often gave 
 me information, even stopping me in the street to do 
 so; and when he took to writing pamphlets-;— the out- 
 come of the death of the unfaithful Madame Dubourg 
 at the hands of her infuriated husband, and of young 
 bouillon Duval's insane attempt at suicide on Cora 
 Pearl's doormat — he sent me early proofs of them with 
 charming little notes. 
 
 My expenses as a journalist were not so large as might 
 be thought. I virtually paid for my board and lodging 
 in work, and an afternoon or an evening in Paris only 
 cost me a few francs. I had just begun to smoke — ^per- 
 haps four or five cigarettes a day — but when I went to 
 a caf6 I could stop there an hour or more for the price 
 of a mazagran or a bock. 
 
 Of course, I occasionally offered consommations and 
 even cigars to friends, and there were extra expenses if 
 
Y y, y, cr'HE LOVER'S 
 
 ^^^ 1 PROGRESS 
 
 I went to Versailles to attend the court-martials of some 
 of the last Communist prisoners, or to glean information 
 respecting important political affairs; for at that time it 
 was at Versailles that the National Assembly met. But, 
 on the whole, a couple of pounds a week sufficed for 
 everything, excepting my clothes. And my earnings, 
 after averaging at the outset ten shillings a day, rose to 
 double that amount. In lucky weeks I made as much 
 as ten pounds, and I may be pardoned for recalling it: 
 in years I was still a boy. 
 
 Going into Paris three or four times a week, I occa- 
 sionally broke my journey at Saint Mande; but nothing 
 notable occurred there until late in the spring of 1873, 
 when Madame Verdier died. Kosa informed me of this 
 in a brief and badly-spelled note, adding, woman-like, in 
 a postscript that Madame de Louvadour and Mademoiselle 
 Louise had arrived three days previously. 
 
 At last I saw my sweetheart once more! We arranged 
 everything splendidly, Kosa and I. About a week after 
 the funeral — Madame de Louvadour having gone with 
 her father into Paris — Louise and the maid met me in 
 the Bois de Vincennes, near the Porte Jaune, toward 
 Nogent, and I spent a most delightful hour. My dar- 
 ling had not changed; the mourning for her father had 
 been replaced by the mourning for her grandmother, 
 and it seemed as if I had only parted 'from her on the 
 previous day. 
 
 But we had much to tell one another. I spoke to her 
 
rHE LOFER'S j . ^ 
 
 PROGRESS ^^J 
 
 of all my enterprises, my hopes, and the money I was 
 l>eginning to save; she to me of sundry matrimonial 
 proposals which had come to nothing, of further losses 
 in the business at Saint Egarec through the manager's 
 misconduct, of her young brother's extreme delicacy, 
 which rendered him quite an invalid, and of various 
 plans which her mother had formed for the future. 
 
 It was certain now that Madame de Louvadour was 
 to marry Monsieur Granval; indeed, but for Madame 
 Verdier's death, the marriage would have taken place 
 immediately. Under the circumstances, it would prob- 
 ably be celebrated very quietly in two or three months' 
 time. And then Louise would certainly come to live 
 with her grandfather, and help to keep house for him. 
 I should be very near to her, and able to see her often. 
 The thought of it enraptured me. 
 
 That meeting in the Bois de Vincennes, that stroll 
 along secluded paths under the waving foliage, through 
 which here and there the sunshine gleamed, was not 
 marked by much effusiveness on either side. Louise 
 was a little sad, as was but natural after her grand- 
 mother's death; and besides, although Kosa loitered 
 now and then, as if designedly, she was always within 
 sight and hearing. But if we were not merry, we spoke 
 feelingly. We whispered, too, and what we did not 
 whisper we told each other with our eyes; and the caress 
 of our lingering hands had a sweetness unknown to the 
 most passionate embrace. 
 10 
 
146 
 
 rHE LONER'S 
 PROGRESS 
 
 I went home that day intoxicated with joy. Louise 
 was still mine, even as I was hers, and love was good, 
 and life also. 
 
 I was then using a large room at the top of our house 
 for my work. It had been intended for a billiard-room, 
 I believe, but none of us played the game, so it was sim- 
 ply furnished with a book-case, a table, and two or three 
 chairs. The three windows faced the Bois de Vincennes, 
 and when I wrote there I could see the trees, and picture 
 Saint Mand6 beyond them. 
 
 That afternoon, as soon as I returned from the 
 wood, I went upstairs, opened one of the windows, and 
 looked out. All the crests were waving in the breeze 
 of spring, which bore their rustling music toward me. 
 And Louise must still be under them; she coald hardly 
 have reached home as yet. Oh, how I loved her, and 
 how strong and how confident I felt! One thing would 
 suffice : I had her pledge, and I must be resolute, turn- 
 ing neither to right nor to left, yielding to none of the 
 facile pleasures ofEered so temptingly all around me in 
 Paris, but fighting my way onward until I reached my 
 goal. 
 
 Within the book-case beside me there was a little vol- 
 ume which I well loved, the first prize I had ever won 
 at school in my dear old Sussex days. A modest little 
 work it was, a simple tale by Mrs. Hofland, but within 
 its covers was written, " Gained by Master Charles 
 Letty, for excelling his class in English and for great 
 
rHE LOFER'S j- ^ y 
 
 PROGRESS ^H-Y 
 
 merit"; and on the back, amidst some scroll-work, 
 appeared one word, the title — "Enekgt." 
 
 Was it with some childish prescience that in my ninth 
 year I had picked that little book out of twenty or thirty 
 others, in accordance with the practice which prevailed 
 of allowing us to choose our own prizes? I knew not; 
 but now that nine more years had gone, and that I stood, 
 yet in the morning of life, but on the threshold of man- 
 hood, I felt that energy was indeed everything. 
 
 It was energy that had helped to advance me beyond 
 my years; it was energy which was giving me a position; 
 and it was by energy alone that I could secure not only 
 the prize of school-days, but the prize, the glorious 
 prize, that I had asked of life — ^love incarnate in sover- 
 eign beauty, endowed with all nobility, and fervor, and 
 tenderness, and truth. 
 
 I kissed my hand to the trees, as if I thought they 
 might waft my kiss to Lotis, and then I seated myself 
 at my table and worked gayly until the dinner-hour. 
 
j^g <T'HE LOVER'S 
 
 ■L PROGRESS 
 
 ri 
 
 The Way of the World 
 
 Mt father was again in England during the summer 
 of 1873, and although extra work fell upon me in con- 
 sequence thereof, I was able to do it in my own way, 
 and give more attention to my love affairs. 
 
 Late in July Lotis arrived at Saint Mand6 to take up 
 her residence there. Madame de Louvadour was mar- 
 ried again, the works at Saint Egarec had been sold for 
 about two-thirds of the value which the family had first 
 set upon them, and my girl was now to reside with her 
 grandfather, and help to keep house for him. She was 
 now nineteen years and six months old, and becoming 
 quite womanly. 
 
 For a moment, about the end of August, I was in a 
 state of anxious trepidation, for my father, then on the 
 point of going to Berlin, where the first great meeting 
 of the Emperors was to be held, wished me to accom- 
 pany him. My brother Edwin went instead, however, 
 and thus I retained my liberty. 
 
 I saw Lotis privately once or twice, and one day in 
 September, acting on her suggestion, I called at the 
 villa at Saint Mand§. Monsieur Verdier, at this time 
 about five-and-sixty years of age, was still physically 
 
rHE LOVER'S J y, f) 
 
 PROGRESS T-y 
 
 strong, but his mind seemed to be weakening. After 
 receiving me cordially enough, he began to talk of my 
 father's long-finished law-suit as if it were still in 
 progress. 
 
 However, my visit led to others. I used to sit and 
 listen to the old gentleman's rambling anecdotes, and 
 now and again, contrive to stroll round the garden with 
 Lotis, and exchange a few words with her about our 
 own affairs. At those times I always found her most 
 affectionate, taking the greatest interest in my hopes 
 and schemes. 
 
 But trouble was brewing at home. My stepmother 
 became very ill. She had no constitutional predispo- 
 sition to consumption, but she had apparently been im- 
 prudent at Saint Maur, bathing in and out of season, 
 catching cold and neglecting herself. And unhappily 
 it was now certain that her lungs were seriously affected. 
 
 The very best medical advice was procured; and I con- 
 stantly accompanied her on her visits to the physician, 
 one of the leading members of the Academy of Medicine, 
 who eventually took charge of her case; while at home 
 I spent hours beside her, as by the. side of a very dear, 
 ailing sister. For a year or so the insidious disease did 
 not seem to make much progress beyond the stage it had 
 unfortunately reached, and thus, like my father himself, 
 I strove to remain hopeful. 
 
 It was now that I truly learned to know my step- 
 mother's exquisite qualities. If I did not read to her. 
 
J en CJ-'HE LOFER'S 
 
 ^ J^ ■/ PROGRESS 
 
 we talked, and one or another problem or duty of life 
 usually became our theme. And not unnaturally those 
 conversations abounded in allusions to my affairs. 
 
 As Lotis remained unmarried, my hopes of becoming 
 her husband no longer seemed to my stepmother to be 
 so unreasonable as formerly. Again, she was in one 
 respect well pleased with the constancy of my affections, 
 since they shielded me, as it were, in the midst of that 
 world of Paris, where shame and corruption were elbowed 
 at every step. But at the same time she feared for me 
 if by any chance I should fail in my endeavors. For 
 what would become of me should I lose Lotis? How 
 often does it not happen that a man, failing in the 
 attainment of some high hope, is thrown off his balance 
 and swept away ! 
 
 I smiled, and repeated to myself that love was good 
 and life also, for assuredly it would give me my sweet- 
 heart, and preserve my sister and friend for many years 
 to come. 
 
 But a great blow fell on me in the winter. Monsieur 
 Verdier and Louise left Saint Mande to reside with the 
 former's son. Monsieur Paul, in Paris. The old gentle- 
 man was lapsing into second childhood, and could not 
 be left with his granddaughter and a few servants. On 
 the other hand. Monsieur Paul was fast making a large 
 fortune. An architect by profession, as I have previ- 
 ously mentioned, he was now at the head of some of the 
 great building enterprises which followed all the de- 
 
rHE LOVER'S J CT 
 
 PROGRESS ^ J^ 
 
 gtruction of the war and the Commune aroand Paris. 
 It seemed quite possible that he might before long 
 become a millionaire. 
 
 I had occasionally met him at Saint Mandd during 
 the autumn, and had heard him talk of all that he was 
 doing and meant to do. He was a jovial man, a loud 
 talker, and a big eater — one of those noisy, bustling 
 fellows who seem to carry all before them. Younger 
 than his sister, Madame de Louvadour, he must then 
 have been about forty years of age, and had remained 
 a bachelor, holding, he told me, that a man ought not 
 to marry until he had made a fortune, as he could then 
 "pick and choose." 
 
 Under the circumstances it was only natural that his 
 father and his niece should go to live with him; but his 
 house was near the Champs Elys6es, a great distance 
 from Fontenay, and thus my visits to Lotis could no 
 longer be so frequent. 
 
 "When I first went to Monsieur Paul's, early in 1873 — 
 it must have been during the first week in February — I 
 was astounded. The place was what the Parisians call 
 an hotel. A brougham was waiting in the courtyard, 
 and a liveried servant in the hall. Marble and bronze 
 and costly hangings were all around me. In the room 
 into which I was shown I found pictures which had 
 commanded attention at the last Salons of the Empire. 
 I felt sick at heart. 
 
 But old Monsieur Verdier came in, and we began to 
 
J r;^ CfHE LOVER'S 
 
 ^D'^ 1 PROGRESS 
 
 talk. He seemed to be in better bealtb that day; as a 
 matter of fact, the failure of his faculties was of an in- 
 termittent character. He rattled on about his son's 
 enterprises, talents, and rapidly increasing wealth; and 
 when Lotis joined us, exquisitely gowned in a grayish 
 silk, she insisted on showing me everything. She took 
 me into seven or eight rooms, never sparing me a detail, 
 but displaying an almost childish delight at finding her- 
 self surrounded by so much luxury. 
 
 Of course, it was only natural; and I could not grieve. 
 I admired as she bade me, yet my heart sank more and 
 more. She was certainly very kind. When we peeped 
 into Monsieur Paul's unoccupied cabinet de travail, she 
 let me kiss her, and she kissed me back. She listened, 
 too, while I spoke of my work, and told me that I might 
 continue writing to her, addressing my letters to Eosa, 
 who after serving her grandmother had now become her 
 own maid. 
 
 Nevertheless, I felt that this change in her circum- 
 stances boded no good to me. Monsieur Paul was a 
 bachelor, and might perhaps never marry. His name 
 had been closely associated in my hearing with those of 
 two or three notorious women of the stage. And if he 
 should not marry, and Lotis should become his heiress, 
 how would it be possible for me to aspire to her hand ? 
 
 I still pegged away at my profession, and my income 
 was increasing, for I now selected from among current 
 French wood engravings subjects to be electrotyped for 
 
rHE LOFER'S jcj 
 
 PROGRESS ^ JJ 
 
 English publications, thereby earning in " commissions " 
 between two or three pounds a week for work which, 
 although it required some judgment and artistic taste, 
 never occupied me for more than an hour at a time. 
 
 Thus I was making fully four hundred pounds a year, 
 if not more, and I saved all the money I could; but the 
 more I tried, the harder did the fight become. If I 
 rose, Lotis rose also; and it seemed as if I should never 
 lessen the distance between us. 
 
 But I went to Monsieur Paul's again, on this occasion 
 to an entertainment given during Carnival time, and 
 I saw Lotis officiating, with the help of an elderly con- 
 nection, as mistress of the house. She was radiant that 
 evening, still simply gowned as became a young girl, but 
 displaying charms which brought a crowd of flatterers 
 and wooers around her. 
 
 I could only join the throng, happy at finding her 
 glance turned on me now and again, though its expres- 
 sion was not quite pleasing — for it showed, I fancied, 
 undue consciousness of triumph. 
 
 Bat I never complained now. I was learning to imi- 
 tate the ways of all around me, to smile on those whom 
 I most disliked, to praise things which I detested. 
 When I wrote to Lotis after that entertainment, I con- 
 gratulated her on her success, and the little I added to 
 relieve my feelings was worded in a bantering spirit. 
 She answered in much the same strain. She had been 
 highly amused by the adulation showered on her, but 
 
T cyi Cr'HE LOFER'S 
 
 Jt- 1 PROGRESS 
 
 had kept, she said, a little corner in her heart for some- 
 body, to whom she sent her fondest love. 
 
 I cannot say what might hare happened had I re- 
 mained in Paris all that year. I might or might not 
 have been able to change the course which things now 
 took, and which the reader will in some measure have 
 divined. 
 
 As it happened, however, I went for some months to 
 Vienna, where a great international exhibition was being 
 prepared. In this I was guided by my desire to make as 
 much money as I could, since Cupid, unless laden with 
 bags of gold, seemed to have little chance in the modem 
 world. Before I started Lotis wrote me briefly, approv- 
 ing of my design, and sending me every good wish. 
 
 My father was going to Vienna also, having business 
 matters of his own, including some quasi-official duties, 
 to attend to, while on my side I had several very good 
 newspaper commissions, both English and French. I 
 arranged with a couple of colleagues to take over my 
 ordinary work in Paris during my absence, and set out 
 with my father and a friend, a French painter, at first 
 journeying rather leisurely, visiting Carlsruhe and 
 Munich, then quitting the train at Passau and proceed- 
 ing to Vienna by boat down the Danube. 
 
 Although the Vienna World Show was not a financial 
 success, owing to the folly of some nervous journalists 
 who scared all Europe by magnifying a few unlucky 
 cases of cholera into a perfect epidemic, it was none the 
 
rHE LOVER'S J ce 
 
 PROGRESS ^JJ 
 
 less most interesting, reflecting the greatest credit on 
 those who had planned it. And althongh many timid 
 foreigners kept away, the city was full of life and bustle. 
 I became very friendly with a young diplomatist attached 
 to the Austrian Foreign OflBce, and by his help secured 
 an audience of Count Andrassy, then Chancellor of the 
 Empire. 
 
 Andrassy was an able man, no doubt; the manner in 
 which he spoke to me on the subject of my audience — 
 the navigation of the Danube and its connection with 
 other great rivers of Central Europe by means of a sys- 
 tem of canals, projects which are only finding realiza- 
 tion nowadays — ^proved it. But he was also a bom 
 actor, with almost a Disraelian touch in his nature. 
 His hair perhaps was naturally inclined to curl, but it 
 is certain that he crimped it elaborately. And the atti- 
 tudes he struck were theatrical in the extreme. 
 
 Proud of his hands, which were very white and well 
 formed, he was constantly thrusting them forward as if 
 to invite admiration, and he carried himself with a swag- 
 ger, which at one moment suggested the swashbuckler, 
 at another the rake. It was very amusing at the " Cor- 
 pus Christi " procession to see how, with a lighted taper 
 in his right hand, he pirouetted to speak to those around 
 him, how he passed his left hand through his ringlets, 
 and how he smiled on pretty women in the crowd. His 
 gallantries were said to be numerous, and very exalted 
 names were coupled with his own. 
 
;• r/5 cr'HE LOVER'S 
 
 J ^ PROGRESS 
 
 I frequently saw the Emperor during that first stay of 
 mine at Vienna. He was then in his prime, with a well- 
 built figure and a really commanding expression in spite 
 of his tip-tilted nose. At a ball at the Hofburg, a very 
 pompous affair, I set eyes on the unfortunate Empress 
 Elizabeth, then in the zenith of her beauty; while at 
 a reception at Schoenbrunn, the then youthful Crown 
 Prince Eudolph was present, all high spirits and boyish 
 gallantry. 
 
 In the hall where the bufEet was set out that eyening, 
 the Emperor, I remember, quaffed Dreher's beer while 
 others drank champagne, and then went on to a balcony 
 to smoke, in silence and solitude, one of his favorite 
 cigars, a slender Virginia with a straw running through 
 it. 
 
 On Sundays I often went with my father or others to 
 Laxemburg to stroll about the grounds of the castle, or 
 to row on the lake; and I recollect that one day when 
 I was on the water with a young Frenchman and two 
 Hungarians, we all sang the " Marseillaise " to the 
 amazement of everybody else. It had probably never 
 been heard there since Austerlitz and Wagram. 
 
 On other Sundays and high days I betook myself to 
 the "Neue Welt" at Hietzing to hear the orchestra 
 which Johann Strauss conducted with incomparable 
 maestria. The "Blue Danube" was then beautiful 
 indeed, and there was real blood in "Wiener Blut." 
 But I had the. good fortune to hear Strauss play and 
 
r HE LOVER'S J c>y 
 
 PROGRESS -^Z 
 
 improvise in a marvellous manner at a friend's house. 
 He was then still a very handsome man, and it used to 
 be said in Vienna: "You may be sure that every third 
 woman you meet in the streets is in love with Johann 
 Strauss." 
 
 Bub all things come to an end, and my stay could not 
 be unduly prolonged. I was already anxious to return 
 home early in August, when my father suggested a trip 
 into Styria, which took us a week, and was followed by 
 an excursion through a part of Hungary. 
 
 It was all interesting and instructive, but I was be- 
 coming very uneasy, for after receiving two short notes 
 from Lotis, the last dated about the end of June, I had 
 been without tidings of her. And although I had cer- 
 tainly not pined away in Austrian society, its attractions 
 had begun to pall. At last, about the end of August, 
 I returned to Paris, whence my father went to Eng- 
 land, leaving me to attend, on his behalf as well as 
 my own, the famous trial >of Marshal Bazaine at Ver- 
 BaUles. 
 
 I was present throughout those proceedings, during 
 a part of which I exchanged impressions with old Ville- 
 messant, the editor of the Paris " Figaro," whom I well 
 knew — ^indeed, he had printed little articles of mine — 
 while at other times I had for my neighbor Manet, the 
 famous painter, who summed up Bazaine's appearance 
 in very few words: " For a pig, he is a pig," a remark 
 which was. of course, suggested by the marshal's aston- 
 
J rS? Cr'HE LOFER'S 
 
 ^ J" 1 PROGRESS 
 
 ishing corpulence, Ms triple chin, and his huge flabby 
 chops pendent on either side of his white, unhealthy 
 face. 
 
 I gave great attention to the evidence, and have always 
 held that Bazaine was rightly convicted of having failed 
 to do his duty in the defence of Metz. 
 
 But my first care on my return to Paris had been to 
 call at Monsieur Paul Verdier's, where I had learned 
 that the architect, the old notary, and Mademoiselle 
 Louise were still at the seaside — Villers-sur-Mer — and 
 that nothing was known of the date of their return. 
 Bosa, of course, was in attendance on Lotis, so that 
 I could not apply to her for information. 
 
 I called at the house now and again, but learned 
 nothing; and had it not been for my stepmother's bad 
 health, I might perhaps have gone to Villers on an ex- 
 ploring expedition, for my girl's absence did not alto- 
 gether explain her long silence. 
 
 However, my thoughts suddenly took another turn. 
 The German war indemnity was finally paid ofE in Sep- 
 tember, and the last regiments of the army of occupa- 
 tion evacuated French territory. In spite of the tem- 
 porary scarcity of gold and silver, so-called "business" 
 was improving. Building speculation had been going 
 on in and around Paris for some time past, and now 
 ordinary Bourse speculation, which for a time had been 
 largely confined to the war loans, was reviving. 
 
 Well, in those days I frequented the now defunct Caf6 
 
r'HE LOFER'S j en 
 
 PROGRESS -Jy 
 
 Gr6try, on the Boulevard des Italiene. It was a noisy 
 place in the evening, as the Petite Bonrse then aasem- 
 bled on the pavement in front of it. As a rule, I only 
 went there in the afternoon when I had a letter or a 
 short, pressing article to write, for at that time of the 
 day perfect quietude prevailed. 
 
 But I chanced to drop in one September evening, and 
 found among the customers an old school-friend whom 
 I had met occasionally of recent years. His name was 
 Moutonnet; he was the son of a retired general ofiScer, 
 and was two or three years my senior. He had taken to 
 finance, and had an interest in a small banking-house in 
 the Kue Eichepance. 
 
 Not unnaturally we talked of our respective circum- 
 stances. Moutonnet seemed to be making plenty of 
 money, and I myself should have had nothing to com- 
 plain of, had it not been for my so-called " unfortunate 
 attachment," which was then rendering me quite des- 
 perate. At last one day — ^for Moutonnet and I now 
 became quite " chummy " and met several times — I con- 
 fided to him that I was head over heels in love, and 
 seemed to have no chance of marrying the girl I wanted 
 unless I could make money more rapidly than I was 
 doing. 
 
 I had turned the matter over in my mind; I knew 
 that my people would be horrified if I should lose my 
 savings, and that my reputation as the prudent — ^nay, 
 the model — member of my family would be gone for- 
 
rX/) crHE LOVER'S 
 J. PROGRESS 
 
 ever. But I could wait no longer; I must make & for- 
 tune, and lay it at the feet of Lotis. 
 
 Briefly, I began to speculate through Moutonnet, and, 
 as always happens — aux innocents les mains pleines — 
 the iSrst ventiares made on my account proved successful. 
 This helped to keep me in great good humor throughout 
 Bazaine's trial, which took place in October; but after- ' 
 ward I lost my winnings and more money besi'des, and 
 lived in a perfect fever of anxiety, studying quotations 
 day by day, losing precious time over them, and scamp- 
 ing my newspaper work into the bargain. 
 
 Was I becomiiig a gamMer ? Had I got that passion 
 in my blood? It seemed hardly likely, for, although 
 I had long been in the habit of attending the race-meet- 
 ings, with a Jockey Club press ticket dangling from my 
 buttonhole, had I not contented myself with chronicling 
 gossip and results, and noting the gowns worn by the 
 SUgantes «f the day, in order to describe them in fashion 
 articles ? Now and again I had certainly staked a trifle 
 on a horse, for the fun of the thing, but I had never in 
 the slightest degree plunged, never felt afEected by what 
 some call " the glamour of the turf." But this Bourse 
 gambling was different; it took hold of me, and sowed 
 in my mind the first seeds of demoralization. 
 
 My capital being very limited, and sundry fears min- 
 gling with my desire to make money, my operations 
 were on a very small scale. From October until mid- 
 December I had various ups and down, but at the tam 
 
r HE LOVER'S jAj 
 
 PROGRESS ^^ 
 
 of the year, thanks to Moutonnet, who was assuredly 
 very shrewd and very kind, I found that I had increased 
 my capital, which I had placed with Moutonnet's house, 
 from a few hundreds to a trifle over a thousand pounds. 
 And assuredly I should have continued speculating if 
 family troubles had not suddenly absorbed my attention. 
 
 My brother Arnold, who resided in England, had 
 come to Fontenay to spend Christmas there; but all at 
 once he was taken ill, and by the middle of January 
 was dead, to the great grief of all of us. The blow was 
 a heavy one for my father, who thus lost his eldest son, 
 the most capable of all, one who in his scientific career 
 would assuredly have risen to distinction. 
 
 And here I should mention that already, in 1872, my 
 stepmother had lost one of her sons, Fred, the young- 
 est, the Benjamin of our family. Now my eldest, like 
 my youngest, brother was gone, and all was desolation. 
 What particularly horrified me was that Arnold had been 
 only in his twenty-ninth year, and still a bachelor, but 
 contemplating marriage at no distant date. 
 
 I remember that I awoke one night and thought of 
 it. Would the same thing happen to me? Should I 
 die before I had gained my heart's desire ? I had never 
 previously felt any dread of death, though assuredly my 
 life had often been in danger a few years previously, but 
 now I was horrified by the thought of it. And there 
 came to me an eager thirst for life— for life in its en- 
 tirety. I, man, was incomplete without my helpmate, 
 11 
 
jA^ cr'HE LOFER'S 
 
 ■' ^^ 1 PROGRESS 
 
 woman, and I must make a last efEort to win her, lest 
 I should be cut ofE in my youth and my pride, knowing 
 her not, full of grief and yearning for what might 
 never be. 
 
 But I must now go back a little. Lotis, instead of 
 returning to Paris, had gone with her grandfather from 
 Villers to Saint Maur on a visit to her mother, now 
 Madame Granval. I had learned this on calling one 
 day at her uncle's house. 
 
 A little later, in November, while again on my way to 
 Monsieur Paul's, I caught sight of her driving with him 
 in his brougham down the Champs Elys^es. I there- 
 upon turned back, as it was useless to go to the house in 
 her absence; but I wrote mentioning that I had seen 
 her, and telling her how grieved I felt at having had no 
 reply to the more recent letters which I had addressed 
 to her through Eosa. 
 
 This time an answer came, but not from Lotis herself; 
 it was written by Eosa, who, in a few nngrammatical 
 sentences, informed me that Mademoiselle had been un- 
 able to answer my letters, as she had been greatly occu- 
 pied with her grandfather, whose health was very bad 
 indeed. She sent me, however, a ion souvenir, and 
 hoped to write before long. 
 
 Eosa's note irritated me, but Just at that moment my 
 financial worries reached a climax, and I did nothing. 
 Then Arnold arrived from England, fell ill, and every- 
 thing became confusion. It was not until after his 
 
rHE LONER'S J Ay 
 
 PROGRESS J 
 
 death — ^with which I acquainted Lotis, who this time 
 replied with a few kind words written on a visiting-card 
 — ^that I finally made up my mind to act. 
 
 I should have liked to consult my stepmother, but 
 my brother's death had given her a great shock, and 
 her own malady was now making alarming progress. 
 For a while I waited, watching for a favorable oppor- 
 tunity to talk to her. 
 
 But suspense was anguish, and at last I burnt my 
 ships, writing Lotis a long letter as in the old days, re- 
 calling all the past, reminding her that she was now oue- 
 and-twenty, and that I myself should attain my majority 
 that year, and telling her that my feelings for herself 
 were unchanged, that she was the one desire of my heart 
 and hope of my life. 
 
 Alas! I said, I had not much to ofEer her; but what 
 I had was hers. I would settle on her my little capital, 
 which was about equivalent to what she. had inherited 
 from her father; and further, I would insure my life 
 for her benefit. For the rest, I believed I could earn 
 about ten thousand francs (£400) a year, and I had all 
 confidence in the future. It was a small income, no 
 doubt, but perhaps a start might be made on it, unless 
 she desired to wait longer, in which event her will would 
 be law, however much I might regret her decision. 
 
 From the moment of posting that letter I counted the 
 hours, the days. But no answer came; and so, in fever- 
 ish despair, I wrote once more, begging Lotis to let me 
 
164 
 
 r HE LOVER'S 
 PROGRESS 
 
 Bee her, to find a means of granting me an interview, 
 pointing out that if I called at her uncle's house I should 
 be unable to speak to her priyately, and that whatever 
 might be the matter — for I feared some great trouble — 
 she at least ought to tell me what it was. 
 
 Five days later (I would have gone in the interval to 
 Monsieur Paul's, only that I feared I might lose my 
 self-control) I received a note from Eosa, asking me to 
 be at the corner of the Avenue Marigny and the Champs 
 Elysees on the following Saturday. 
 
 At last! I was in a fever of excitement, and it was 
 only on repairing to the place of assignation that it 
 seemed to me a rather strange one for Lotis to select, 
 the spot being so public and so near also to her uncle's 
 house. However, I reached the Avenue Marigny, and 
 had not been there three minutes when I saw Bosa ap- 
 proaching. Alas! she was alone. The truth appeared 
 to me in a lightning-flash : this was the end; Louise had 
 thrown me over, and did not wish to see me any more. 
 
 "And Mademoiselle?" I asked the girl when she 
 reached me, for I did not go forward to meet her, de- 
 spair and horror had made me feel too faint. 
 
 "She could not come, so I came alone. Monsieur 
 Charles." 
 
 " Have you brought me a letter then ? " I inquired 
 nervously. 
 
 "No; Mademoiselle asked me to speak to you. Mon- 
 sieur Charles." 
 
r HE LOVER'S j£.^ 
 
 PROGRESS -* ^-J 
 
 " Yes," said I, recovering some self-possessioa, for I 
 did not wish to give way to my emotion in public. 
 " W&U, I am glad you came. I should like to have a 
 talk with you. Where shall we go ? " And as she gave 
 no answer, I added : " We cannot chat here. There are 
 too many people about. Let us go round to the Cours- 
 la-Beine. That is quieter." 
 
 We walked thither. And on the way, still affecting 
 composure, I inquired after the health of Lotis, Mon- 
 sieur Paul, and Maitre Verdier. The former were very 
 well, but, according to Bosa, the old gentleman was at 
 death's door. 
 
 When we reached the Cours-la-Reine, we found it vir- 
 tually deserted. The weather was too cold to think of 
 sitting down, so we walked to and fro. And now, hav- 
 ing postponed the inevitable as long as possible, I asked 
 Bosa what she had to say to me. She herself hesitated. 
 
 " Oh, I think I know what it is,*^* I resumed, rather 
 bitterly. " Don't be afraid. I am not angry with you, 
 and I shall not make a scene. The fact is that Made- 
 moiselle Louise loves me no longer, and has decided that 
 she will not marry me. Is it not so ? " 
 
 "Oh, mademoiselle is still very fond of you; I am 
 sure of it," the girl replied. " And if she could marry 
 you. Monsieur Charles, she would do so, but it is not 
 always easy " 
 
 " She is now virtually her own mistress," I retorted; 
 " she can decide as she pleases. Kobody can force her 
 
T AA Cr'HE LOVER'S 
 
 ^ ^^ -L PROGRESS 
 
 into a marriage she dislikes, or do more than delay 
 a little one that she desires." 
 
 "No doubt; but there are many things, many obsta- 
 des. Ah! life is not all roses, certainly not." 
 
 "But why did not Mademoiselle Louise write to me 
 and tell me everything, or come here to-day herself?" 
 said I. " She ought not to have cast me off like this, 
 all at once, without a word. It is too cruel. I have 
 been waiting to hear from her for months past, but have 
 had nothing excepting your notes and the card she sent 
 me when my brother died. Was she afraid to tell me 
 the truth then? I don't like to think that she felt 
 afraid of me. I don't believe I should even have had 
 the courage to reproach her." 
 
 " Oh, she did hesitate. Monsieur Charles; she did not 
 make up her mind at once. And I told her it would 
 be better to write, but she would not do so; she pre- 
 ferred to send me." 
 
 " Oh, she ought to have come! she ought to have told 
 me herself! Tell her, Rosa — tell her that I must see 
 her. Beg her to come, to give me half an hour — any- 
 where she pleases. You will be with her; she need fear 
 nothing from me. Only I must — yes, I must speak to 
 her! " 
 
 Then, in spite of all my efforts to bear up, my voice 
 broke, and I began to sob, hiding my face the while with 
 my hands. 
 
 Rosa proved sympathetic. " It is very sad," she said. 
 
rHE LOFER'S jAy 
 
 PROGRESS / 
 
 " I will tell her. Monsieur Charles. I will try; perhaps 
 she will come " 
 
 "When? where?" I gasped. 
 
 " I do not know, but perhaps she might meet you at 
 Saint Mand6; we are going there next week to attend 
 to some matters at Maitre Verdier's house." 
 
 " Then let it be there," said I, " or in the Bois, as 
 she desires; there would be few people about at this 
 season." 
 
 "Bat you will not be violent. Monsieur Charles?" 
 
 " Violent, my girl ? Why, I have not the strength to 
 harm a fly ! Tell her I love her and reverence her as 
 much as ever, that, however unhappy I may be, I will 
 treat her with all gentleness. For it is not her fault, it 
 cannot be her fault, if she gives me up; it is fate, 
 accursed fate. I am too poor; that is the reason, is it 
 not, Eosa?" 
 
 " Well, yon see. Monsieur Charles, mademoiselle has 
 been living en grand luxe for more than a year now, and 
 of course that changes one's ideas." 
 
 "Yes," I said, "I understand it. Paris, with its 
 wealth and its glitter, has done all the harm." 
 
 Ah ! how yearningly did I recall the old modest days 
 at Saint Bgarec — ^the little oil-cake works, the free life 
 on the shore and in the forest. If those days had only 
 lasted she would have been mine. 
 
 " Besides," said I, " I have seen her so seldom of late. 
 I went to Vienna, with her approval it is true, but les 
 
jAQ CfHE LOVER'S 
 
 ^" 1 PROGRESS 
 
 absents ont toujours tort. Do you think it would have 
 made any difference if I had remained here, or if I had 
 gone to Villers on my return ? " 
 
 Kosa Bhook her head doubtfully. 
 
 "I do not think so. Monsieur Charles. Although 
 mademoiselle hesitated, I have seen it coming for a long 
 time. Still, she would often have liked to see yoii. I 
 think she would even like you to come to the house 
 again, as a visitor, as a friend, after a little time." 
 
 I started, then shook my head, 
 
 " No, that would be impossible. Besides, if she mar- 
 ries — for she is going to marry — she has chosen some- 
 body, has she not ? " 
 
 How eagerly I awaited the girl's answer! Ah! if 
 Louise had simply decided that what I had proposed 
 was impracticable, if she were still free from any pledge 
 to another, there would be some consolation then, and 
 perchance some hope. But it was as I had feared: she 
 had chosen; for Bosa nodded. 
 
 " Oh, she is not marrying exactly for love," said the 
 girl, with a peculiar smile. "And I think she might 
 still be pleased to see you if you were very prudent. 
 Monsieur Charles. Not that she has told me so; it is 
 only an idea of mine, because she really was very much 
 in love with you." 
 
 My eyes met Rosa's glance and fathomed it. I under- 
 stood the shameful meaning of those words with which 
 natural perversity had inspired her. She was a bom 
 
rHE LOFER'S jAf. 
 
 PROGRESS ^ ^y 
 
 camerisie, one whose own character was not above sus- 
 picion, and who amid a certain kind of intrigue would 
 have found herself in a congenial element. 
 
 There are men who listen only too readily to such 
 suggestions as hers. But if I loved Lotis with passion 
 as well as with all affection of the heart, I could not 
 share her with another, I could not play the part of a 
 lover by the side of a husband. And oh, it would mean 
 baseness and mire, the utter desecration of all that I had 
 adored. 
 
 Thus I was unable to restrain my indignation, and as 
 hot words of protest rushed from my lips Eosa recoiled. 
 Then, however, raising her eyebrows, she exclaimed : 
 
 "Dame! when one has not the means. Monsieur 
 Charles, one must not be too exacting." 
 
 Ah, the perverse creature! And to think that she 
 was my love's own servant, her frequent, almost constant 
 companion. Perchance it was she who had changed, 
 corrupted her, poisoned her pure heart. But I remem- 
 bered in time that, if I were to let my anger carry me 
 away, I should lose my last hope, my last chance, for 
 she alone might still assist me; and, after all, she per- 
 haps meant well, according to her lights. So I tried to 
 smile as I said to her: 
 
 " Don't let us speak of it. It was perhaps natural 
 that you should have had that idea, but you don't under- 
 stand how I love Mademoiselle Louise." Then, after a 
 short pause, I asked, desirous as I was of learning every- 
 
^ ^^ Cr'HE LOVER'S 
 
 -'/^ 1 PROGRESS 
 
 thing: " And who is it that she is going to marry ? You 
 know, don't you ? " 
 
 " Why, yes^she is going to marry Monsieur Paul." 
 
 This time I staggered. Monsieur Paul, her uncle! 
 Good G-od! 'No, no, surely that was impossible! 
 
 But Eosa was again speaking. 
 
 " Oh, I expected it all along. I noticed how he used 
 to look at her " 
 
 I scarcely heard these words. Rebellion and fury 
 were gathering in my heart. Ah! I understood it all 
 now. That boisterous, hairy, sanguineous, bull-necked 
 beast, with the goggle eyes and the gross appetite! The 
 hog — ^yes, the hog, was he going to lay his fleshy hands 
 on Louise — my bride? It should never be — I would 
 kill him first! 
 
 " I don't say that mademoiselle loves him," remarked 
 Eosa, as if she hoped to assuage my fury; "but then 
 one does not marry exactly for love — and he is certainly 
 very pleasant and generous; he has given mademoiselle 
 the most beautiful jewelry " 
 
 I waved my hand to silence her. She was right, and 
 he was right, and Lotis was right also. No, one did not 
 marry for love; and he, having made his pile, now had 
 a right to " pick and choose," even as he had foretold. 
 And as for Lotis, when opulence was offered her, why 
 should she prefer mediocrity ? It was unreasonable of 
 me to expect her to sacrifice a thousand pleasures for 
 the gratification of my love. And why should I grieve ? 
 
rHE LOFER'S j >j j 
 
 PROGRESS ■'/-' 
 
 Whatever there might be in the past, she certainly did 
 not love me now. Had she loved me, she would never 
 have accepted another; she would have sacrificed and 
 have braved everything in order to be mine. 
 
 Nevertheless, while those thoughts flashed through 
 my mind, my agitation remained extreme; I still shook 
 as I stood in front of Bosa, and it was only by a great 
 effort that I was able to pull myself together. 
 
 For another moment I reflected. It was all so loath- 
 some and horrible that I now almost recoiled from the 
 idea of seeing her again. And yet, and yet, suppose 
 there should be a chance, the faintest glimmer of a 
 chance. Oh, I must leave no effort untried, I must see 
 her, I must speak to her, even if by doing so I should 
 only increase my own despair. 
 
 " Listen," I said to Eosa. " You have executed your 
 commission, and you have said perhaps some sensible 
 things. If Mademoiselle Louise is bent on marrying 
 her uncle, by virtue of a dispensation, as unhappily 
 your French law allows, I cannot prevent her. But, as 
 I said before, I desire to see her once again, if only to 
 bid her good-by. Besides, I have all her letters, and 
 she may wish me to return them. Do you know if she 
 has kept mine, Rosa ? " 
 
 " Not lately at all events. Monsieur Charles. I have 
 seen her destroy them directly she had read them. She 
 feared, no doubt, that they might compromise her if 
 they were found." 
 
TJ2 CfHE LOFER'S 
 
 / 1 PROGRESS 
 
 I sighed. 
 
 " Well, that does not matter. But prevail on her to 
 let me see her when you go to Saint Mand§. Write or 
 telegraph to me which day it will be. Use every effort, 
 I beg you. I shall not be ungrateful." And, taking 
 out my pocket-book, I slipped a hundred-franc note into 
 Eosa's hand, " Mind you say to her," I added, "that 
 I was greatly grieved when you told me everything, but 
 that you left me very calm, quite calm. For I do not 
 wish her to imagine that I intend to upbraid or distress 
 her." 
 
 Eosa nodded, and promised to do her best; and, while 
 she tripped away under the trees, I hailed a passing cab, 
 and drove to the Gare de Vincennes. 
 
 I have no recollection of that journey home, but I 
 know that I spent one of the most awful nights that 
 have fallen to my lot in life. While I lay awake in my 
 dark room the most torturing visions appeared to me. 
 I shuddered and I wept at the sight of them. Oh, my 
 Lotis! my bride! Promised to me for years, and now 
 never to be mine ! 
 
 To that, perhaps, I might have reconciled myself had 
 it been death that snatched her from me; but I thought 
 of the other, the man whose wealth had robbed me of 
 my treasure, and fury then possessed me once more. I 
 had heard of all his vulgar amours, and I groaned at the 
 thought of that which was to be. 
 
 Ah, what a mockery was everything! What was the 
 
rHE LOFER'S , >^ _ 
 
 PROGRESS ^ /J 
 
 use of striving, of setting one's heart on a high ideal, of 
 keeping one's self for the chosen one, when swine, 
 already gorged to bursting, swept down and gobbled up 
 life's prizes ? 
 
 On the morrow I could not hide my distress from my 
 stepmother. I told her all, and she, in her alarm at 
 what I might now do, entreated me, amid her expres- 
 sions of sympathy, to bear up like a man in my grievous 
 trial. But I bade her have no fears. Henceforth I 
 would devote myself to her, lavish on her whatever pure 
 affection I could find in my heart. 
 
 Again I wrote to Lotis — oh, merely a note, repeating 
 what I had said to Eosa about my desire to bid her 
 good-by. And she was doubtless reassured by the calm- 
 ness of style which I affected, for a meeting was fixed 
 for the ensuing Friday. How I lived in the interval I 
 scarcely know — ^utter despair, insane hopes, alternately 
 possessed me — but at last the day came, and I went forth 
 to meet my love for the last time. 
 
 It was a cold afternoon, that of March 6th, and as I 
 took my way through the Bois de Vincennes, where all 
 the bare trees were sighing, I became extremely de- 
 pressed, although on rising in the morning I had vowed 
 to be cheerful, and even to make a last efiort to regain 
 the love I had lost. 
 
 We met near the Lac DaumesnU, at a spot which 
 I well knew, and which was very convenient for Lotis, 
 being only a few minutes' walk from her grandfather's 
 
j^y, Cr'HE LOFER'S 
 
 ^ /"t ± PROGRESS 
 
 house. She was in furs, aad wore a thick veil, so that 
 I could scarcely see her eyes; and she remained silent, 
 somewhat embarrassed, as I took her gloved hand and 
 kissed it. Eosa, of course, was in attendance, and when 
 she evinced some inclination to stray while we walked 
 slowly along a path, Lotis quickly found her voice to 
 summon her back again. 
 
 This convinced me that any effort of mine would be 
 thrown away. She was nervous, yet determined. So 
 at first, speaking, as usual, in English, for that was the 
 language we always used together, I simply repeated 
 what I had written, adding that circumstances had so 
 parted us that I could understand her unwillingness to 
 wait any longer for me, and I supposed I must bear it. 
 It would at least be something to know that she was 
 well off and happy, whatever might be my own lot. 
 
 " But surely you do not think that I wish to see you 
 unhappy, Charlie ? " she responded in a plaintive little 
 way. " So many things have happened, and circum- 
 stances, as you say, are so different from what they used 
 to be, that what we thought of had to be put aside. 
 There were family interests to be considered. I had 
 to listen to what mamma and grandpapa said, and I 
 think it is perhaps best for both of us. But I should 
 like to remain good friends — and — and to help you if 
 I can." 
 
 "To help me?" I replied. "I don't understand 
 you." 
 
rHE LOVER'S jy c' 
 
 PROGRESS ^ /J 
 
 "Why, you yourself will Bome day be thinking of 
 marrying " 
 
 "Never!" I cried passionately. "Never! Never!" 
 
 For a moment she was taken aback. From the calm- 
 ness with which I had previously spoken to her she had 
 judged me to be almost reconciled to my fate. But she 
 resumed, almost coaxingly: 
 
 " Yes, you will. And I know so many people now. 
 I was only thinking the other day that a young girl I 
 know. Mademoiselle Juliette Marie, would be just the 
 match for you. She is so pretty and inclined to litera- 
 ture, and has a fair dowry, too, I think " 
 
 " Oh, Louise, how can you talk to me like that! " I 
 replied. " You know — ^you must know — that it is im- 
 possible. When a man loves as I have loved you, it is 
 the only love that his heart can ever know. No, my'^ 
 dear, I cannot take a bride from your hands, even 
 though the young lady you might choose for me should 
 be perfection itself; and I could not marry unless I 
 loved, whatever others may — " I stopped short, for 
 fear of ofEending her. " But do not worry about me," 
 I resumed; "I have many things to occupy me. My 
 poor stepmother is in the worst possible health; I do 
 not think she can live another year, and I want to show 
 her all the attention I can, for she has been very good 
 to me." 
 
 "lam so sorry," replied Lotis. "It is like grand- 
 papa. He is certainly sinking, and I don't know what 
 
176 
 
 rHE LOVER'S 
 PROGRESS 
 
 we should do if lie were to die suddenly. Everything 
 would then have to be postponed, and that is why Paul 
 wishes " 
 
 But she also remembered, and paused in time. Yet 
 I fully understood her. She called him Paul now; she 
 had forgotten to say "my uncle." And he was in a 
 hurry; he did not wish his beautiful bride to escape 
 him. Wise man! And I thought of how I had vainly 
 waited and striven for years. 
 
 Surely it was useless to talk further. What more 
 could we say ? But all at once I remembered her letters. 
 
 " Eosa told me," said I, " that you had destroyed the 
 letters I wrote you; it was the only thing to do with 
 them. But I still have yours. I have not brought 
 them with me. Would you like me to send them you 
 through Eosa ? " 
 
 " Oh, no, please don't! I had to destroy yours, you 
 know. I never kept even the early ones for very long, 
 because mamma might have found them. She did once 
 find some verses, but she did not understand them prop- 
 erly, and after a time she forgot about it." 
 
 " Then, shall I destroy your letters ? " I asked. 
 
 "Yes, please do; it, is the best plan," she said. 
 
 " Very well, it shall be done. I see you can still trust 
 me, 'Louise. You are not afraid of me putting them to 
 any improper use ? " 
 
 "Oh, Charlie, no! Of course I trust you; I should 
 not have come to-day if it were otherwise." 
 
rHE LOFER'S ^-^« 
 
 PROGRESS ^ // 
 
 " I am very pleased to have seea you to bid you good- 
 by," I answered. "Yet there is another little favor 
 you might grant me." 
 
 " What is it ? " she inquired, as if pleased at the pros- 
 pect of doing something to oblige me. 
 
 " Would you mind raising your veil a little bit ? " I 
 said; "it tantalizes me. I should so like to see your 
 face just once more." 
 
 There was the slightest shade of hesitation in her 
 response: 
 
 " Oh, I merely put it on because it was so cold when 
 I left home." 
 
 Then she raised the thick veil which hitherto had 
 masked her to the- lips, and I saw her for the last time. 
 For an instant her glance wavered and shrank. Was 
 she ashamed, then? Was she wondering whether I 
 thought her base? Oh, the idol, the beautiful idol, 
 with eyes like heaven, but with feet of clay! 
 
 I looked at her. She was very beautiful — ^beautiful 
 with all the beauty of woman now, not with the beauty 
 of the girl. And I remembered all the past: Saint 
 Mande — her laughter at my awkwardness; our first chat 
 in English; the quarrel over the lilac-blossom. Saint 
 Egarec — the shore and the forest; the boyish kiss stolen 
 under the mistletoe; the declaration of my young love; 
 the long, sweet, silent kisses exchanged on our home- 
 ward walk; the roses given me as a farewell pledge in 
 the midst of war's alarms. And, again, there was Saint 
 13 
 
J- ^o CfHE LOrER'S 
 
 -'/^ 1 PROGRESS 
 
 Maur— the first bitter jealousy; the first serious fears, 
 followed by vows of constancy and passion's impetuous 
 embrace. 
 
 And all was gone — gone forever! In one brief year 
 Mammon, the insatiate monster, had consumed her 
 heart! Nevertheless, though everything was past, I 
 could not resist an impulse to recall it — oh, very briefly! 
 — in a few feeling words, as one may recall some sweet 
 and rapturous dream. 
 
 She, however, gave a little smile, 
 
 " We were very foolish," she said. 
 
 " Foolish! " Ah, that was the last blow! When one 
 can look back on the past, on rapture, delight, the first 
 thrilling kiss, the first fervent vow, and say, " We were 
 very foolish," one is changed beyond recall. In other 
 days, had I heard such sacrilegious words, a cry of hor- 
 ror and passionate reproach would have sprung from my 
 lips. But now, though I shuddered with anguish, I 
 simply said : 
 
 " I shall always remember it " — adding, with a glance 
 at her — " and you ? " 
 
 Her eyes shrank once more and their lids quivered, as 
 if again touched for just one second by the light wing 
 of love — as if, indeed, she felt that she had done some- 
 thing unworthy of her, something which might bring 
 her regret hereafter. 
 
 Ah, in the very midst of defeat I remained victorious! 
 She would never be mine, and yet she would be mine 
 
rHE LOVER'S J y^ 
 
 PROGRESS /7 
 
 forever. No matter how she might strive, she would 
 never entirely forget. She might go to the man to 
 whom she had sold herself — the hull-necked, goggle- 
 eyed Plutus of her choice — but it was my kisses that she 
 would feel in the very midst of his. They would come 
 back irresistibly. They would hover over her pillow to 
 remind her of what might have been. 
 
 And in the midst of her wealth and her luxury, her 
 diamonds, her silks and laces, her carriages and horses 
 and splendid entertainments, there would come at times, 
 as there always does come, with mysterious spontaneity 
 a sudden thought, a little pang. And that would be 
 the revenge and punishment of Love, who never wholly 
 pardons those who forsake his shrine. 
 
 She had pulled down her veil again. 
 
 " It is cold," she said. 
 
 That was true, though she may have said it only as an 
 excuse for her action. But no matter, I could gain 
 nothing by detaining her any longer. 
 
 " Well, my dear," said I, " I do not wish you to catch 
 cold. I thank you very much for coming. Are you going 
 back by rail ? May I go with you as far as the station ? " 
 
 " Oh, we drove over! The carriage is waiting at the 
 house." 
 
 "Then I need not go. Good-by! Bemember that 
 I want you to be happy — very happy." 
 
 "Crood-by, Charlie! I am sure I wish you to be 
 happy too." 
 
J Qq Cr'HE LOVER'S 
 J- PROGRESS 
 
 As I had been taught to do in my younger days, I 
 again took ofE my hat and bent my head over her gloved 
 hand. Just the little formal kiss of gallantry and 
 homage to woman, and all was finished. 
 
 "Good-by!" 
 
 "Good-by, Charlie!" 
 
 She went off through the trees, and for an instant 
 I lingered watching her. Ah! Lotis she had been in 
 the past; Lotis she was now; Lotis she would ever be — 
 the maid who escaped her lover. Into what would the 
 gods change her, they who had changed the other into 
 a tree ? 
 
 Directly I got home I went to my room, took her let- 
 ters and carried them to my stepmother, who was sit- 
 ting in an armchair beside the fire in the little salon. 
 
 "Mamma, dear," I said, "I want you to destroy 
 these; I haven't the heart to do it myself. Will you 
 burn them? Oh, you may look at them if you like; 
 there is nothing in them which you may not see." 
 
 As I was handing her the three or four little packages 
 something slipped from between them. It was the tiny 
 bag which I had worn, almost as a talisman, during 
 the war and the Commune, amid the snow and ice of 
 Chanzy's rout, and the butchery and the conflagrations 
 of the Bloody Week. 
 
 " Oh, I will not have that burnt, mamma! " I cried. 
 " It was you who made it. Wait a moment." 
 
 I opened the bag and let the little shrivelled remnants 
 
rHE LOFER'S jOj 
 
 PROGRESS 
 
 of the rose-petals fall into the envelope of one of Lotis's 
 letters; and the bag I placed in my pocket, saying: 
 
 "I know what I will put in it — another time." 
 
 I would not then say more, lest I should distress that 
 dear friend who was sick unto death. But before long 
 the day would come when I should ask for a little lock 
 of her dark hair, and the bag — her bag — would be its 
 resting-place. 
 
 She was already glancing at one of the letters. 
 
 " Read as much as you like," I said, " but bum them 
 all as you go on. I will come back by and by." 
 
 And then, having borne up so long, I left the room, 
 for I lacked the courage to remain. 
 
rHE LOFER'S jOj 
 
 PROGRESS ^"J 
 
 'BooK II 
 
 SALT J 
 
 ' Speak of me as I was; nothing extenuate. 
 Nor set down aught in malice." 
 
 '■^fVhen a Man' $ Singk" 
 
 " You saw plenty of pretty girls in Spain, I suppose," 
 said Moutonnet to me, as he sat back in Ms chair and 
 wiped his mustaches, while our waiter removed the 
 tureen and the soup-plates. 
 
 I had asked Moutonnet to dine with me in a quiet 
 way, and we had gone to Maire's at the corner of the 
 Boulevard Saint Denis and the Boulevard de Strasbourg, 
 for in those times Maire had in his cellars as good Bur- 
 gundy as could be found anywhere, and Burgundy was 
 just the wine to drink on the evening of a raw day, fol- 
 lowing the last snows of winter. And the meal we had 
 ordered was a very simple one, a consomme, some fish, 
 a pheasant, vegetables, and fruit as in season. Mouton- 
 net did not care for sweets, nor did I; but we had chosen 
 from the wine card a " Batard de Montrachet " of '68, 
 
J Oy, (THE LOFER'S 
 
 ^ ^^ 1 PROGRESS 
 
 to be followed by a " La-T^che " of the war year. The 
 latter we knew would render us impervious to all the 
 winds of the night. 
 
 "Well, yes," said I, answering Moutonnet's ques- 
 tion; " though not in the north. But when I got away 
 frona the fag end of the Carlist war, I spent some time 
 in Andalucia, and there one certainly finds some splen- 
 did creatures." 
 
 " That is what all the books say," replied Moutonnet, 
 as if to warn me that the information I imparted was 
 not precisely novel. 
 
 " And they are right! " I answered fervently. 
 
 We started on the fish, and, while I ate, my mind 
 strayed back to some of my more recent ezperiences. 
 
 For a time I had become a wanderer on the face of 
 the earth. Such had been my wretchedness at Fontenay 
 that, in spite of my stepmother's distressing condition, 
 I had betaken myself to Germany in the summer of 
 1874, she herself suggesting it, in the hope that change 
 of scene might efface from my mind the unhappy memo- 
 ries over which I brooded. 
 
 But in October a telegram had summoned me home 
 again, for she was dying; and, indeed, although I trav- 
 elled at express speed, she barely had time to recognize 
 me and speak to me, before she sank into her last sleep. 
 Then, for it was invariably thus, I had to make all the 
 arrangements for the funeral, even as I had previously 
 done when my youngest and then my eldest brother had 
 
rHE LOrER'S J D c 
 
 PROGRESS ^^3 
 
 died. My father was always too grief-stricken and ill 
 to attend to Buch matters. For years did this go on. 
 Even when I was far away I was recalled to undertake 
 the distressing duty of burying one or another of my 
 kith and kin. I could not act as a nurse, but I became, 
 as it were, the family sexton. 
 
 By some I was credited with exceptional fortitude, 
 infinite capacity for enduring sufEering, ability to come, 
 go, act, and order, when others were prostrate. And 
 some, I fancy, thought me callous. For my part, I only 
 know that at those times I often moved as in a dream, 
 fuU of the deepest anguish, even if I did not show it. 
 
 "And Germany?" said Moutonnet, as he looked up 
 from his plate. 
 
 I understood him. 
 
 "Well, I liked the Viennese very well, and some of 
 the South German girls also; but those of the north are 
 not to my taste," I answered. " Besides, when all is 
 said, there is nothing so charming as the thoroughbred 
 Parisienne." 
 
 Moutonnet laughed and retorted : " Oh, there are 
 some very charming Americans, and I have sometimes 
 seen a pretty English girl in Paris. Don't you admire 
 your own countrywomen ? " 
 
 "Oh! I know them so little," said I, which was true. 
 
 After yielding for awhile to all the grief caused me by 
 my stepmother's death, I had returned for a few months 
 to Germany, going thence to London, which I thus re- 
 
tS?A cr'HE LOFER'S 
 
 " JL PROGRESS 
 
 visited for the first time since my boyhood. Biit I had 
 felt out of my element there, and before long had gladly 
 accepted a newspaper commission to- proceed to Spain. 
 There, particularly when my principal duties were over, 
 and I lingered in the South, at Seville, Granada, and 
 more especially Cadiz, I had experienced something liise 
 a revival of life. 
 
 Was this simply the work of time, or did it come from 
 the change of atmosphere, the novelty and charm of my 
 surroundings? In all probability a great many influ- 
 ences had been at work within me. And, moreover, 
 there was still some little determination left in my char- 
 acter, although it was not perhaps of the best sort. I 
 had formed, with more or less assurance, a kind of reso- 
 lution that I would not live for others as I had largely 
 done in the past. I would live first of all for myself, 
 and secure at least such satisfactions as seemed to be 
 obtainable in the world of the nineteenth century. 
 
 I had allowed a caprice, in which the heart had no 
 part, to beguile some of my hours in Southern Spain, 
 and had generally amused myself during my last month 
 there, consorting with young Spaniards who did vir- 
 tually nothing but smoke cigarettes, attend the paseo, 
 make love, gamble, and shout "More horses! more 
 horses! " at the bull-fights. 
 
 It had all seemed very pleasant, and I had come to 
 the conclusion that one ought to give no more time than 
 was strictly necessary to earning one's living, and that 
 
rHE LOt^ER'S rPy 
 
 PROGRESS "/ 
 
 all the rest would be best employed iu amusement. 
 Thus I had at last come back to Paris full of the idea 
 that after elbowing its enjoyments so long I would now 
 myself partake of some of them. 
 
 I thrust all the past as far back into the recesses 
 of my being as I coald. It was of no use brooding 
 or crying over spilled milk. I had done so long 
 enough. 
 
 Yet I was not wholly a cynic. For instance, I was 
 ready to admit that some women were worthy of all 
 honor and reverence, but unfortunately, they were a 
 very small minority beside the others. And man, for 
 the most part, was such as those others made him. Now 
 and again one happily met one of the few whom one 
 could truly honor, and then one might indulge in some 
 feeling; but with the rest one must steel one's self, con- 
 sorting with them, no doubt, smiling at them, but plac- 
 ing very little trust in anything they might say or do. 
 Among them there was no such thing as "always" or 
 " never." They were compounded of weakness, and 
 must be taken as they were. 
 
 The only difficulty that occurred to me in devising 
 this philosophy was how to distinguish the minority of 
 the true women from the great majority of the false 
 ones. For fear of a mistake, perhaps the best course 
 would be to have as little to do with the sex as possible; 
 but in the mood in which I had returned from Spain — 
 a mood in which I regarded passion as permissible, but 
 
J OO Cr'HE LOFER'S 
 
 "" J- PROGRESS 
 
 love as folly — that solution hardly pleased me, and I was 
 rather at a loss how to proceed. 
 
 But our waiter had brought the pheasant, which I 
 asked him to carve. 
 
 " You must let us have the La-T4che now," I added. 
 
 ^' The sommeiller will hring it to monsieur in a mo- 
 ment." 
 
 It came, carried reverently, recumbent in its basket, 
 which the sommeiller tilted slightly in order to fill our 
 glasses. 
 
 " Well, mon cher," I then said to Moutonnet, "I was 
 very glad to get back and see you again. Here's to your 
 very good health." 
 
 " To yours," he responded — " and to fortune." 
 
 We clinked glasses and drank, then turned to the 
 pheasant. In another moment, however, I said to him : 
 
 " Do you know, mon cJier, you seem to be particularly 
 interested in women this evening. I hope you have not 
 fallen in love during my absence; it is a dangerous 
 game." 
 
 " Oh, no, I haven't, but I am thinking of getting 
 married." 
 
 "Is that not worse?" I inquired with a laugh, in 
 which he joined. 
 
 " Joking apart," said he, " I really have some idea of 
 it. We want to extend our business, my partner and 
 I, and I have something in view which might add nearly 
 half a million francs to our capital." 
 
rHE LOFER'S j O f. 
 
 PROGRESS ^ "y 
 
 "Indeed! then you are to be congratulated. But 
 avec fa?" 
 
 "Oh, no beauty, but a quiet, lady-like girl! Her 
 father is in the linen business, and has been a client of 
 ours for some time past." 
 
 I glanced at him. He was a well-built, good-looking 
 young fellow, and his father having been a general 
 oflBcer, he afEected a military carriage, wearing his hair, 
 moreover, in the genuine Saint Cyr style, while his fair 
 mustache was supplemented by little side-whiskers ex- 
 tending to the cheek-bones, after the fashion adopted at 
 that period by all young French ofl&cers. And, noting 
 his expressive eyes and regular features, it occurred to 
 me that he might well have aspired to the hand of some 
 very charming girl. But no; he preferred half a mil- 
 lion francs, and he was right, though, as I was not 
 covetous personally, I thought single blessedness might 
 be the best life of all. 
 
 "When is it coming off?" I asked him. "This 
 spring ? " 
 
 " Oh, no; not before the autumn in any case. I am 
 pretty confident, but there are several matters to settle. 
 Besides, if it does not come off, there will be no harm 
 done. ' One lost, ten found,' you know." 
 " That's precisely my opinion." 
 " But you were badly hit a few years back." 
 " True; but that is all ancient history now." 
 Yet even as, with a smile, I spoke those words, my 
 
YCif) Cr'HE LOFER'S 
 
 y J- PROGRESS 
 
 heart felt a little pang, and a well-remembered face 
 arose before my mind's eye. In spite of every effort, 
 pang and vision were often to come to me like that 
 whenever anything recalled my early dream. 
 
 Ah, I thought, how foolish it was to give one's heart, 
 for once given it could not be recovered! Moutonnet 
 was not so stupid. He regarded marriage as a matter 
 of business, and that was how I myself ought to have 
 done. 
 
 But here I was crying over spilled milk again. That 
 would never do, so I drank some more Burgundy, in 
 the hope that the generous wine would help me to shake 
 off my unwelcome memories: " Get back into thy sepul- 
 chre, Past, and come not to disturb the Present! " 
 
 We finished the dinner, and while the bill was being 
 prepared Moutonnet exclaimed: 
 
 " Well, let us go and amuse ourselves. It is not often 
 that I have a chance." 
 
 " I'm willing," I replied, " but I need a pilot. Paris 
 becomes terra incognita after an absence of a few 
 months, and I have been away for virtually two years. 
 It is wonderful how things change here." 
 
 But I did not pursue the topic. It was dangerous to 
 muse on the instability of everything connected with 
 mankind. 
 
 We walked westward along the boulevards, smoking 
 our cigars. The cold wind which had prevailed during 
 the day had fallen, and the evening seemed to me almost 
 
rHE LOVER'S J f.j 
 
 PROGRESS ^ y^ 
 
 pleasant, though perhaps that was only an illusion of 
 mine, created hy Maire's Burgundy. 
 
 "Let us go to the Par ad is," said Moutonnet all at 
 once. " You know it, don't you ? " 
 
 " I have some recollection of such a place." 
 
 " It was started by Trani, who used to run the Maillots- 
 Dramatiques." 
 
 " Ah, yes, I remember." 
 
 The Maillots had been a small but notorious house, 
 much frequented by men about town, its feminine 
 artistes being far more conspicuous for their charms 
 than for any histrionic talent. Yet something akin to 
 the sacred lamp of burlesque had been kept burning 
 there for a time by the manager, Achille Trani, who 
 regarded a ripertoire of "leg-pieces" as a sure means 
 of fortune. 
 
 We turned out of the boulevards, threaded two or 
 three side-streets, and at last saw a vivid illumination, 
 amid which appeared the inscription, " La Paradis Pari- 
 sien." The entrance was spacious, but I noticed that 
 a large part of the building facing the street was occu- 
 pied by an ironmonger's business. 
 
 After paying and passing down a vestibule some five- 
 and-twenty feet in width we reached a semicircular 
 promenade, where a fair number of people were stroll- 
 ing to and fro, while others were gathered on the red 
 velvet settees ranged below a succession of large mirrors. 
 Light iron columns supported the rather low ceiling of 
 
J f^^ CfHE LOVER'S 
 
 ^ y -^ J- PROGRESS 
 
 the promenade, and beyond these columns were the 
 stalls, on either side of which were a few open boxes, 
 compartments with partitions about waist high. A 
 rather narrow staircase led to an upper floor where there 
 was a second promenade, and a balcony or amphitheatre 
 with perhaps eight tiers of seats. 
 
 The decorations were all red, cream, and gold, and 
 the abundance of mirrors on every side increased the 
 brightness of the auditorium, though I noticed that, for- 
 reasons of economy no doubt, several of the gas brackets 
 had remained unlighted. 
 
 "N"ot many people for a Saturday evening?" I re- 
 marked to Moutonnet, as I glanced down at the stalls, 
 which were half empty. 
 
 "No, but it is scarcely nine o'clock; there will be a 
 crush presently." 
 
 " I doubt it; the place reeks of paper, mon cher. Just 
 study some of the people." 
 
 They formed a motley crowd. There was a fair 
 sprinkling of inveterate viveurs of a certain class, the 
 old marcheurs of those days, together with some younger 
 exquisites; but the number of seedy or shabby individ- 
 uals who had certainly never paid for admission was 
 remarkable. And the women were by no means the 
 pick of their unhappy class — au contraire. 
 
 " I believe they admit them for nothing, to draw the 
 men," said Moutonnet to me, as I pointed them out to 
 him. 
 
rHE LOFER'S y^j 
 
 PROGRESS ^ yJ 
 
 " Ah! yes, that explains it." 
 
 But we went down-stairs again. On the stage some- 
 thing like a little comedy, of which we had seen the fag 
 end, had just finished, and a man was now putting some 
 performing dogs through their tricks, while the orches- 
 tra, a small one, played a kind of polka tune, which 
 after a time jarred on my nerves. 
 
 We sauntered along the promenade, only glancing at 
 the stage now and again, for performing dogs did not 
 particularly interest us. All at once, a curtain at one 
 end of the promenade was thrust aside, and a man ap- 
 peared, coming it seemed from the stage. I recognized 
 him instantly. It was Fieron, a former music-publisher 
 whom I had frequently met in the days when the chron- 
 icling of things theatrical had been a specialty of mine. 
 Tall and ruddy, with sandy whiskers, invariably clad in 
 black from head to foot, he had the reputation of being 
 a shrewd and pushful fellow. He was about to pass me 
 without recognition, when I accosted him: 
 
 " Is that the way to greet old friends ? " said I. 
 
 "What! is it you? Where have you fallen from? 
 It is a century since you were seen." 
 
 " Don't speak of it; I only came back three days ago; 
 I have been travelling. And you, have you an interest 
 in some ' machine ' here ? I saw you coming from the 
 stage." 
 
 Fieron smiled. 
 
 "Why, I have just undertaken the management," 
 13 . . • 
 
J f^y, CTHE LOFER'S 
 
 ^ V'T A PROGRESS 
 
 said he; and with a wave of his hand he added, in ' 
 a lower tone: "Things have not heen going well here, 
 you know. Trani's done for; he has no energy left 
 him, unless it be to spend money. Ah ! he knows how 
 to make that fly. But don't you fear, I shall put every- 
 thing in order." Then, in his usual voice, but very 
 rapidly, he went on: "You have been travelling, you 
 say. Where have you been ? Do you still write about 
 theatricals? Have you seen any novelties that might 
 suit me ? " 
 
 " Well, I have been in Spain; but I returned by sea 
 to England, and spent a few weeks in London before 
 coming here." 
 
 " London! Did you go to the music-halls ? " 
 
 " Yes, I went to several and to the theatres, too — oh, 
 simply to amuse myself." 
 
 " But did you see anything ? " 
 
 " It all depends on what you want." 
 
 "What I want, mon cJier. Why, I want something 
 that Paris has never seen, something to draw a house, . 
 something to make money with! " And again he waved 
 his arm as if it had been a semaphore. 
 
 I was perplexed. How could I suggest anything on 
 the spur of the moment ? I needed time to collect my 
 thoughts, and remember what I had seen in London. 
 
 " If you have a moment come upstairs to my cabinet," 
 resumed Fieron. " Chaumont, one of our agents, is 
 there, and I think of going to London with him, for he 
 
rHE LONER'S- j^f^c: 
 
 PROGRESS VJ 
 
 speaks English and I don't. Perhaps you may be able 
 to give us some information." 
 
 " Willingly," said I, " but let me introduce my friend. 
 Monsieur Moutonnet, banker, of the Rue Eichepance — 
 Monsieur Fieron, manager of the Paradis Parisien." 
 
 "Enchanted to make your acquaintance, monsieur," 
 said Fieron, with, his very best smile, for the word 
 "banker" coupled with my old school friend's name 
 always proved effective. 
 
 The two men shook hands h I'anglaise, and we all 
 three went upstairs. On passing the buffet some refresh- 
 ments were ordered, and we repaired to the managerial 
 sanctum — a first room where a young fellow, a clerk of 
 some kind, sat writing, and a second room, which was 
 empty. After shutting the door Fieron took off his hat, 
 and sat down in his writing-chair, while Moutonnet and 
 I installed ourselves side by side on a divan. 
 
 "Trani has not come yet," said Fieron. "He went 
 to dine somewhere. Oh, he is finished, you know. And 
 all over an insane passion — La Bambola, out premiere. 
 She twists him round her little finger. And the worst 
 is she can't dance; she is getting too fat. You'll sec 
 her by and by. You have heard of it, haven't you? " 
 added Fieron, turning to Moutonnet. "All Paris 
 knows it." 
 
 " Of course," said the other, with a smile. 
 
 " I have to keep her," Fieron resumed ; " that is the 
 one condition which Trani insists on; for all the rest he 
 
ig6 
 
 rHE LOFER'S 
 PROGRESS 
 
 gives me a free hand, salary, of course, and a share in 
 the profits if we make any." 
 
 Then he paused, for, after knocking at the door, 
 a waiter entered with the refreshment which had been 
 ordered. 
 
 " Tell Inspector Francois to find Monsieur Ohau- 
 mont," said Pieron. " He is somewhere in the house; 
 I thought he was waiting here for me." 
 
 A few minutes later Chaumont in his turn appeared 
 — a tall, burly man he was, with black hair and white 
 mustaches, a badly brushed hat, and a very long and 
 shabby overcoat. "Chaumont," said Fieron, "this is 
 Monsieur Letty, an old friend of mine; he has just come 
 from London, and has seen everything. Show him 
 some of the English programmes you have, and he 
 will pick out what struck him as being the best num- 
 bers." 
 
 Chaumont produced several programmes, more or less 
 soiled, and I went through them with him. But Fieron 
 had exaggerated. I had not seen everything; while as 
 regards some of the " shows " that I had witnessed, my 
 memory was hazy. 
 
 Vocalists were out of the question; the Parisians would 
 never care to hear English songs, said Fieron, in which 
 he was wrong, for four years later there were already 
 five or six English girls singing, as well as dancing, with 
 success on the French music-hall stage. However, I 
 marked a few things in Chaumont's programmes, call- 
 
rHE LOFER'S j ^^ 
 
 PROGRESS ^ y/ 
 
 ing particular attention to one troupe composed of two 
 men and a girl, who performed a wonderfully grotesque 
 devils' dance — tlie men being in black, with long fair 
 wigs, while the girl was arrayed in vivid scarlet, after 
 the fashion of Mephistopheles. 
 
 Apart from these there was nothing particularly orig- 
 inal in the "turns" I had marked, and as Keron con- 
 tinued repeating, " Ah ! what I want is a perfect novelty, 
 a show that Paris has never seen," I tried to think of 
 something else. 
 
 And all at once an inspiration came to me. During 
 my recent stay in London I had seen a couple of panto- 
 mimes, less from a desire to follow the fortunes of Cin- 
 derella or Jack and the Beanstalk than to witness once 
 more the harlequinades which I had thought so marvel- 
 lous in my early boyhood. A harlequinade in the gen- 
 uine Old English style — how would that be taken by the 
 Parisians? But directly I spoke of clowns, Fieron 
 interrupted me: " Oh, clowns; we have had all that at 
 the circus for years." 
 
 But I explained to him that there was a great deal of 
 difference between the circus clown and his colleague of 
 the stage. And I described a harlequinade : clown and 
 pantaloon, harlequin and columbine, policeman, goose, 
 sausages, and all the business. Fieron gradually became 
 interested. At last he laughed. " What do you think, 
 Chaumont?" said he. 
 
 "I don't know," the other replied; "but it would 
 
ig8 
 
 rHE LOFER'S 
 PROGRESS 
 
 be novel, certainly. I don't think there has ever been 
 a show like that here." 
 
 " Are these pantomimes still being played ? " Pieron 
 inquired. 
 
 " I cannot tell you," said L " It depends on circum- 
 stances, I think, how long the theatres keep them run- 
 ning. But you will see for yourself when you get to 
 London. When do you start ? " 
 
 " On Monday. "Well, I am much obliged to you, 
 Letty. I shall be back in a week. Come and see me. 
 "Will you and your friend have anything more to drink ? 
 No ? Then good-by. Oh ! I will give your name at the 
 contrSle, and Monsieur Moutonnet's also, if he likes ? " 
 
 " Unchante," said Moutonnet, as he rose with me to 
 take leave. A man may be , as rich as Crcesus, yet he 
 always likes to have free admission to a house of enter- 
 tainment. The privilege of going in and out as he 
 pleases flatters his vanity. 
 
 Nevertheless, as I went down-stairs again I said to 
 Moutonnet: "You won't often find me here unless 
 the show greatly improves. But here's the ballet; per- 
 haps it will be a little better than the rest." 
 
 The music was certainly extremely tuneful and rhyth- 
 mical, almost Strauss-like, and the orchestra, if small, 
 worked well together. But the dancing was not so sat- 
 isfactory. There were few girls on the stage, and most 
 of them discharged their duties in a very perfunctory 
 manner. As for La Bambola, she, as Fieron had led 
 
rHE LOFER'S ^-^^ 
 
 PROGRESS -^ yy 
 
 me to expect, was a massive creature with dark hair and 
 big arms. But the claque applauded her entrie vigor- 
 ously, and three rounds of clapping followed her pas 
 seul, which was very deficient in agility, though marked 
 by some of the science of the terpsichorean art. How- 
 ever, the ballet included another leading rSle. 
 
 All at once a slim, lithe creature, with fair hair or 
 wig, bounded on to the stage, expressing by step and 
 gesture her passion for the buxom Bambola, who lan- 
 guidly feigned affright and modesty. No applause 
 greeted the entree of "the lover," though she was evi- 
 dently the best dancer of all the girls present. 
 
 " What is her name ? " I asked Moutonnet, who, after 
 consulting a programme he had bought, made answer : 
 
 "Salta^LaSalta." 
 
 " She can dance," said I. 
 
 " Yes," replied he; " she looks rather nice, too." 
 
 Neither of us had glasses, but we concentrated our 
 gaze upon La Salta; and so far as I could judge at that 
 distance, allowing for " make-up" and all the rest, she 
 had rather a pretty face, while her limbs, if slender, 
 were unquestionably well shaped. But the claque only 
 favored her with one round of applause, reserving all its 
 enthusiasm for the somewhat elephantine graces of the 
 premiere danseuse. 
 
 When the ballet was over, and we turned down the 
 promenade again, a couple of Bourse friends accosted 
 Moutonnet, with the result that we all adjourned to one 
 
yf)f) Cr'HE LOFER'S 
 
 ^^^ -/ PROGRESS 
 
 of the little bufEets upstairs, where a very lively girl did 
 her utmost to make us spend our money. We were 
 none of us tipplers, but it amused us to make her drink 
 curayoa and champagne alternately; and when we had 
 ' carried things as far as we conveniently could, we all 
 went off, feeling extremely well pleased with ourselves 
 for our idiocy. 
 
 During the following days I settled down. I wished 
 to secure permanent quarters in Paris, and after some 
 hunting I discovered a place that suited me, a little 
 appartement de garfon, or bachelor's flat, in the Kue 
 Pasquier. It was on the fifth floor, and was composed 
 of bedroom, sitting-room, kitchen, and antechamber, 
 the latter being little more than a passage. But there 
 was a balcony, and both the bed and the sitting-room 
 overlooked the patch of greenery around the " expiatory 
 chapel " erected to the memory of Louis XVI. and 
 Marie Antoinette. For that very reason the rent was 
 rather high; still, I did not hesitate. 
 
 I gave Moutonnet as a reference, and was immediately 
 accepted as a tenant. Then I had to furnish. I went 
 one afternoon to the H6tel Drouot, and bought some 
 substantial second-hand goods, and for everything else 
 I gave a commission to an upholsterer in the Eue de 
 I'Arcade. In a week everything was ready, and I only 
 awaited the spring sunshine to go and sit on my balcony, 
 smoke, and read my newspaper there. 
 
 I was not at this time making the same income as 
 
rHE LOFER'S ^^ j 
 
 PROGRESS ^^-^ 
 
 formerly. Putting everything together, newspaper work 
 and work which I had arranged to do for my father dur- 
 ing my stay in London, I could only absolutely rely upon 
 some £250 a year. But I was not pressed for ready 
 money, for I still had funds in Moutonnet's house on 
 which I received a small percentage of interest. 
 
 After my stepmother's death and the breaking up of 
 our home at Fontenay, and the return of my father, 
 brother, and sister to England, I had continued to pay 
 my way without having to draw upon the fruits of my 
 former thrift and speculation. It was only during the 
 latter part of my sojourn in Spain that I had got into 
 some little difficulties through foolishly yielding to the 
 fascinations of a private roulette table, at which a duke 
 and a marquis acted as croupiers. This had necessitated 
 recourse to Moutonnet; nevertheless, allowing for what 
 he had then sent me, and the sums I had drawn since 
 my arrival in Paris, for the purchase of furniture, the 
 payment of six months' rent in advance, and other mat- 
 ters, I still had a nest-egg of about £700. 
 
 And thus, although I knew that I could not live in 
 Paris as I should like to live on £250 per annum, I 
 could afford to take things easily and wait for some op- 
 portunity to enrich myself, preferentially in a manner 
 that would require no great exertion — ^for my last 
 months in Spain had made me rather lazy. 
 
 I had been installed less than a week in the Eue 
 Pasquier when one morning, on glancing through the 
 
P^P crHE LOFER'S 
 
 ^^'^ J- PROGRESS 
 
 papers which, my concierge, or doorkeeper, with whom 
 I had arranged for attendance, had brought me with my 
 coffee, I found in the theatrical gossip a paragraph an- 
 nouncing the approaching debuts at the Paradis Parisien 
 of the wonderful " Three Devils," who of recent months 
 had achieved phenomenal success in London and else- 
 where. 
 
 This suddenly reminded me of Fieron, whom I had 
 quite forgotten. So he had taken my tip in one respect. 
 But what about the harlequinade ? I felt that I ought 
 to see him, and accordingly, during the afternoon, after 
 a long chat on politics with some acquaintances at the 
 Caf6 Napolitain, I strolled down to the Paradis. 
 
 I should here mention that the house, wedged in as it 
 was between other buildings, had then only one entrance 
 or exit. There was no stage-door, such as most even of 
 the old theatres and halls of Paris possessed. Public 
 and artistes alike had to enter or leave by the one broad 
 passage which I have previously described. On arriving 
 on the afternoon I am now referring to, I found the iron 
 gates ajar, so I slipped inside, and on giving my name 
 at the controleur'' s desk, was immediately passed on. 
 Monsieur Fieron was in his cabinet, I learned, and I 
 knew my way thither. 
 
 " You are the very man I have been wanting," ex- 
 claimed Fieron when he perceived me. "You did not 
 leave me your address, and I have just sent to Monsieur 
 Moutonnet to ask for it." Then turning to a com- 
 
rHE LOVER'S ;?/0 5 
 
 PROGRESS ^'^J 
 
 panion who eat in an armchair smoking, he intro- 
 duced us. 
 
 The other was Trani himself, the famous Achille 
 Trani, -who, after making a fortune with "leg-pieces" 
 at the Maillots-Dramatiques, had started the Paradis, 
 and was now the very devoted slave of his premiere dan- 
 seuse, the buxom Bambola. Trani was then already on 
 the wrong side of fifty, gray, tall, and corpulent, but 
 with a sensual mouth and sleepy eyes. 
 
 We exchanged courtesies, and I then told Fieron that 
 I had read of the approaching debuts of the so-called 
 " Three Devils," who were no doubt the English troupe 
 that I had told him of. 
 
 "Yes, I saw them in London," he replied. "Oh, 
 a wonderful performance ! You were quite right. They 
 will make a great hit here. And I have engaged a pan- 
 tomime company as well for a little later, and some ele- 
 phants to follow." 
 
 "Elephants!" said I. "Why, where will you put 
 them? Your stage is so little." 
 
 "Oh! we will arrange matters. They will make a 
 good show. But I want to speak to you. Have you 
 any spare time on your hands ? " 
 
 " Yes," I replied, adding just a few words about my 
 circumstances. 
 
 " Well, all these English artistes are coming here, and 
 nobody in the house speaks a word of English. We shall 
 have trouble at rehearsals and performances. We want 
 
P^^ q-'HE LOFER'S 
 
 ^^^ J- PROGRESS 
 
 an interpreter. Chaumont, no doubt, will find lodgings 
 for them, but lie cannot be always here." 
 
 I began to understand. 
 
 "Again," said Pieron, "we are making several 
 changes. I am going to take the treasury into my own 
 hands, but I cannot do everything. There must be a 
 secretary. Now, will you take the post of secretary and 
 interpreter, say two till five in the afternoon, and eight 
 till ten in the evening ? " 
 
 " And what salary ? " 
 
 " Three hundred francs a month." 
 
 I protested. I hardly thought it worth while to accept 
 such an offer. True, my newspaper work was chiefly for 
 weekly journals; and my father's, being now connected 
 with books, could be done at any hour. On the other 
 hand, if afternoon employment might be welcome, it 
 was rather hard to give up all one's evenings. And Bo 
 I talked of the strain which the duties might put on me. 
 
 " Oh, you will find plenty of time for everything! 
 You are young; you are energetic. I remember what 
 you used to do. That is why I have made you the 
 offer." 
 
 That appeal to my former energy touched me. I had 
 returned to Paris dreaming of amusement, and I found 
 work waiting to be done. Could I refuse it ? More- 
 over, the energy which Fieron himself always displayed 
 was contagious, and I was never near him without feel- 
 ing inspirited. However, I did not think the suggested 
 
rHE LOFER'S ^^t 
 
 PROGRESS '^^J 
 
 salary sufficient, and so we haggled while Trani — ^who 
 alone was never moved by his manager's energy — sat 
 there silently smoking. 
 
 At last we agreed on three hundred and fifty francs, 
 with a rise directly the fortunes of the house should im- 
 prove. It was a decisive campaign which was being 
 undertaken. As I learned a little later, Trani had mort- 
 gaged some property in the environs of Paris to raise the 
 needful funds, and according to the result of Fieron's 
 ventures he would either possess a new fortune or be 
 ruined. So good, however, did the result prove that 
 Fieron kept his word with me, and before long my salary 
 was increased to five hundred francs. 
 
 I entered upon my duties on the day following my 
 acceptance of them. For the moment, the " Devils " 
 not having arrived from London, no interpreting was 
 required, but there were arrears of correspondence to be 
 cleared off, agreements to be drafted, and paragraphs to 
 be prepared for the press, while the evening bill also 
 passed through my hands. 
 
 After taking various instructions on my first after- 
 noon, I was busy writing, paying as little attention as 
 possible to the people who came and went, for I sat in 
 the outer room and Fieron in the inner one, when after 
 an interval of a little peace there came a timid rap at 
 my door, which the last visitor had closed behind him. 
 
 "EntrezI" I called in a tone of some annoyance, 
 and, on looking round to see who the newcomer might 
 
p^X (THE LOFER'S 
 
 "^^^ J- PROGRESS 
 
 be, I perceived a rather tall, slim, fair girl, gowned in 
 black, mth just a touch of color, purple or violet, in her 
 hat. Her veil was raised, and though there might be 
 a few touches of " make-up " about her eyes, her cheeks 
 looked quite fresh for one of the profession. 
 
 She seemed much surprised on seeing me, but inquired 
 if she might speak to Monsieur Pieron. He, however, 
 at that moment came to his own door. 
 
 "Ah, Salta! it's you. Well, is everything comfort- 
 able ? " he asked. 
 
 " That is just what I came to speak about. Monsieur 
 Fieron. La Bambola would not let me into the room at 
 all at first; and when I insisted she spread her things all 
 over the place, declaring, too, that both looking-glasses 
 were her property, and that I was not to use them " 
 
 " But this is absurd ! Was not Duval there ? Didn't 
 you go to him?" 
 
 Duval was the Hgisseur, or stage manager. 
 
 " Yes," said Salta, " he came and tried to reason with 
 her. But oh! la, la, you should have heard her! I 
 could not help laughing, and that put her in a worse 
 rage than ever. She would have torn my eyes out if 
 she could have reached me; but, fortunately, she is not 
 quite so active as I am." 
 
 Salta paused, and a little smile appeared in her eyes. 
 For a second I caught her glance. Decidedly she was 
 a pretty girl. 
 
 " Oh, this dressing-room question will drive me mad I " 
 
rHE LOFER'S P/0 7 
 
 PROGRESS ^/ 
 
 cried Fieron. " Why cannot you girls agree ? Yon will 
 have to do so, somehow or other. I will not be badgered 
 like this!" 
 
 " Cannot you put me in my old room again, mon- 
 sieur?" asked Salta, who retained her calmness. 
 
 " Impossible, my child ! You know very well that we 
 have engaged twelve more girls. We've got to find room 
 for them. And La Bambola can no longer keep that 
 room to herself. Well, well, 1 will see her; I will speak 
 to her. I shall come down to-night. You are surely 
 not afraid of her, a big girl like you ? " 
 
 Salta laughed. Her teeth, I noticed, were very white. 
 
 "I do not fear her myself," said she, "but I don't 
 wish her to get hold of my things and tear them." 
 
 "Oh, she would not do that! I will see her and 
 Duval also. And mind, Salta, you must not provoke 
 her in any way, or I won't answer for the conse- 
 quences." 
 
 " Oh, I do not provoke her. Monsieur Fieron! I do 
 not want to speak to her at all." 
 
 " That is where you are wrong. Be amiable, very 
 amiable. Make her a present." And with this prac- 
 tical advice Fieron, who had some papers in his hand, 
 turned to me. 
 
 Salta understood that the interview was over, and so 
 with a "Thank you. Good-day, gentlemen," she 
 tripped from the room. 
 
 I thought that Fieron was about to give me some 
 
P^X> CTHE LOFER'S 
 
 ^" J- PROGRESS 
 
 instructions, but in lieu thereof he sat down near me, 
 and said: 
 
 " You heard her, Letty ? Ah, mon cJier ! it exasper- 
 ates one to think of that idiot Trani! There's nothing 
 to be done with La Bambola. Unless she has her own 
 way in everything, she goes to him, flings her fat arms 
 round hie neck, sobs and declares that we have insulted 
 or wronged her. And she destroys all discipline. It is 
 of no use for Duval to fine her; she snaps her fingers 
 at him." 
 
 " Is Trani so infatuated as that ? " said I. 
 
 "Infatuated! yes, indeed. The manager of a house 
 like this must never show any weakness for one of his 
 girls. He is a lost man if he does! They must be 
 driven, not fondled or coaxed. Do I ever ogle them, or 
 try to kiss them, or offer them suppers ? No, indeed ! 
 That's all very well for fools! And don't let any of 
 them entangle you, Letty. I think you are steady. I 
 remember that when you used to live in the environs 
 and come up to first performances and so on, you always 
 rushed off to catch your last train, instead of joining 
 the supper-parties. That's the right thing to do. Show 
 your contempt for the girls and they will obey you. 
 But Trani, Trani, he has become a mere child in the 
 hands of La Bambola. Ah, a senile passion is the worst 
 of all!" 
 
 Fieron returned to his room, and for a moment I re- 
 mained thinking. He was right unquestionably. Yet 
 
rHE LOFER'S ^^^ 
 
 PROGRESS ^uy 
 
 he had not fathomed the reason of my early self-control; 
 he did not know that a true and pure love had then 
 fortified and upheld me. Ah ! at the thought of those 
 days the little pang returned once more to my heart, 
 the vision rose before my mind's eye. 
 
 By an effort, however, I rid myself of both, and my 
 thoughts took quite another turn. It was all very well 
 for Fieron to talk : all men were not misogynists. The 
 great majority were such as the women made them. As 
 for supper-parties, they were often very pleasant affairs, 
 so why should I shun them? And then, decidedly, 
 that Salta was quite a pretty girl. 
 14 
 
^jf^ OTHE LOVER'S 
 
 ■L PROGRESS 
 
 II 
 
 Tinsel and Limelight 
 
 FiEEON had put his foot down, and not only did 
 order reign at the Paradis Parisien, but both the orches- 
 tra and the corps de ballet had been strengthened, the 
 refreshment department improved, the agreement with 
 Bertrand, the chef de claque, revised. 
 
 Under previous arrangements Bertrand had paid so 
 much a year for his "privilege," and in return had 
 received nightly a far larger number of tickets than was 
 necessary to staff the claque. Those tickets which he 
 had not employed for that purpose had been sold by 
 him at half-price, and with the free " paper " scattered 
 among tobacconists and oaf 6 proprietors, had, helped to 
 swell the seedy crowd thronging the promenades. Much 
 less free " paper " was now distributed, however, and 
 Bertrand himself received fewer tickets than formerly, 
 while orders went forth that all women must henceforth 
 produce tickets or pay cash if they wished to secure 
 admittance. 
 
 This meant for the time a falling off in the numerical 
 strength of the audience; and in Bertrand 's case some 
 money was sacrificed, for as he received fewer tickets he 
 paid less for his privilege. But Fieron knew what he 
 
rHE LONER'S 2T T 
 
 PROGRESS ^ 
 
 was doing. He wished to attract people with money in 
 their pockets, and his first care was to get rid of the 
 impecunious loafers and the more dowdy women. 
 
 Strictly speaking, the " promenade " audience, after 
 this weeding out, was not more select than previously, 
 for vice is vice, whatever its habiliments; but it was 
 certainly better dressed. 
 
 The reader must not imagine, however, that the Para- 
 dis Parisien was a mere haunt of vice. As every man of 
 the world is aware, houses of that kind, wherever situ- 
 ated, attract persons of a certain character, in which 
 respect the Paradis was neither better nor worse than 
 hundreds of others. For the rest, the people who sat 
 in the stalls were, as the world goes, quite respectable; 
 and on Sundays the house was generally crowded with 
 family parties. 
 
 However, in order to draw an audience which should 
 take a genuine interest in the performances, it was nec- 
 essary to provide a thoroughly good "show," and this 
 became Fieron's chief business. 
 
 The Paradis opened every evening at eight, but it was 
 never full till nine or half-past nine o'clock, and during 
 the first forty minutes not more than a hundred people 
 were scattered about the house. Those forty minutes 
 were therefore appropriately filled up with an exhibition 
 of dramatic art, by way, perhaps, of showing in what 
 contempt the free-and-easy "hall" held the conceited 
 " theatre." 
 
p;-p Cr'HE LOFER'S 
 
 ^^ ^ J- PROGRESS 
 
 In the farcical sketches or comediettas thus played as 
 curtain-raisers to empty stalls and promenade, the chief 
 parts were generally taken by a jovial rubicund individ- 
 ual, Pascal by name and a pork-butcher by trade; for 
 alas! his nightly stipend at the Paradis only provided 
 him with daily bread, and man (especially if he be a 
 paterfamilias) cannot subsist on bread alone. Thus 
 Pascal kept a charcuterie, to which his wife and an 
 assistant attended when he was absent on his profes- 
 sional duties. 
 
 The shop was near the Place Saint Michel, on the 
 confines of the Quartier Latin, and I well remember 
 going thither one night with some colleagues of the 
 house, when, seated in the back parlor, we sampled a 
 great variety of viands, from truffled galantine to black 
 pudding, taking Bayonne ham and/oie gras on our way. 
 
 We were Pascal's guests on that occasion, but as we 
 felt it wrong to banquet entirely at his expense, we pro- 
 vided the wine on a more than liberal scale. But then, 
 as one of our party put it, champagne was the best tip- 
 ple in the world with which to wash down a saveloy. 
 
 A host of memories arise when I recall those days of 
 my connection with the Paradis Parisien. I see again 
 our various English companies: first those marvellous 
 contortionists and dancers, the so-called " Three Devils," 
 two brothers and a sister, the children (I am not romanc- 
 ing) of a clergyman of the Church of England. They 
 attracted half Paris from the moment of their first 
 
rHE LOVER'S yj J 
 
 PROGRESS "^ ^ J 
 
 appearance at the Paradis, whence they passed, after re- 
 peated renewals of their original engagement, to one of 
 the fashionable open-air concerts in the Champs Elys^es. 
 
 Then, too, there was the Miagolari trio, which was 
 ultra-English in spite of its Italian name, a trio that 
 made itself famous all the world over by its ineffable 
 "Cats' Chorus," which sent the jaded Parisians into 
 roars of laughter. And there were successive harle- 
 quinade companies, in which Fred Evans, Tom Lovell, 
 and others, well remembered in the pantomimic world, 
 took Paris by storm. 
 
 " These English are mad," said the Boulevardier when 
 he first beheld the antics of the clown and pantaloon, 
 but none the less, he grinned and came again and again 
 to witness the droll performances with which English 
 boys were in those days so familiar. 
 
 There was, however, one little hitch with the harle- 
 quinades at the Paradis. The Powers of the State would 
 not tolerate the well-known policeman whom Mr. Clown 
 is so fond of fooling and defying. It was useless to 
 argue that Eobert was allowed on the English stage; 
 the chef de cabinet of the Minister of the Interior sol- 
 emnly declared that it would be subversive of all law 
 and order to permit an imitation representative of 
 Authority — even foreign Authority — to be tricked and 
 bludgeoned in public by mountebanks. And thus the 
 policeman had to be cut out of our harlequinades. 
 
 But we had other English or American " attractions " 
 
yjyj CfHE LOVER'S 
 
 ^^ T- 1 PROGRESS 
 
 to compensate for this little hitch. There was a certain 
 Miss Eagle from the States, who flew across the hoase 
 and clung to trapezes with her teeth; and there was the 
 ebony herculean Dimonio, with his cageful of treacher- 
 ous tigers and leopards, who were far more difficult to 
 manage than any lions. 
 
 Eventually also we had some performing elephants, 
 three adults and a baby, for whom stables had to be im- 
 provised in the rear and at the sides of the stage, the 
 dressing-room accommodation being cut down to a mini- 
 mum amid the frantic protests of every member of the 
 company. For forty-eight hours all was riot and rebel- 
 lion at the Paradis: Duval, the stage manager, swore, 
 Fieron thundered, Trani groaned at finding his blissful 
 quietude disturbed, and I locked the door of my room 
 and parleyed through a little wicket with the angry 
 insurgents, some of whom wished to throw up their 
 engagements forthwith. 
 
 But one of those ideas of genius for which he became 
 renowned occurred to Fieron, and quieted the storm. 
 The elephants were coming, said he; they must be 
 lodged, and during their engagement half the dressing- 
 rooms must be given up.' But to show how much he 
 appreciated the general willingness to undergo some 
 little inconvenience for the good of the house, he would 
 ofEer the whole company a ball and a supper, with cham- 
 pagne and even a tombola in which there would be a 
 large number of handsome prizes. 
 
r HE LOVER'S 2Tc: 
 
 PROGRESS J 
 
 This proposal was eagerly accepted, and although 
 some damsels continued squabbling among themselves 
 over the dressing-room arrangements, one and all de- 
 clared that Eieron himself was a gentleman. 
 
 We brought the elephants through Paris late at night, 
 an officier de paix leading the procession and thirty 
 policemen acting as an escort. The Boulevard caf6s 
 were then just closing, and directly the people quitting 
 them perceived our cortlge they began to follow us in 
 such wise that we had an uproarious mob at our heels 
 when we reached the Paradis. There, while the police 
 were charging the noisy crowd, we got the animals 
 down the paved vestibule as far as the lower promenade 
 without much trouble, but at that point a diflQculty 
 arose. 
 
 These elephants had invariably performed on the terra 
 firma of circuses, and would not trust themselves to the 
 flooring with which the stalls had been covered. "When 
 the leader, after much coaxing, put one foot forward 
 and felt the boards creak beneath him, he drew back in 
 alarm. Quite an hour was spent in vain efEorts to in- 
 duce one or another animal to advance, and meantime 
 the upper parts of the house were crowded with mem- 
 bers of the company and guests anxious to dance, the 
 orchestra was there with its instruments in readiness, 
 the supper-tables were spread, and the prizes of the 
 tombola stood on a large etagere waiting to be claimed. 
 
 But there could be no festivities until the elephants 
 
2tA (THE LOrER'S 
 J PROGRESS 
 
 were stabled, and many were beginning to doubt whether 
 that would ever be effected, when the trainer at last 
 induced the " baby " to follow him over the newly laid 
 flooring. The others then made up their minds to do 
 likewise; and yet one of them, having got half-way 
 across, would go no farther until the juvenile was 
 brought back to where he stood, when, judging by the 
 gesticulations of their trunks, the " baby " reassured his 
 elder respecting the dangers of the road. 
 
 At all events, as soon as the former went stagewards 
 again the other followed. A loud burst of applause 
 greeted this denouement, the orchestra struck up the 
 "Marseillaise," and as it was now past four in the 
 morning, and too late to dance, we all rushed upon the 
 supper and made short work of it. 
 
 But although the elephants soon became accustomed 
 to working on the stage, other trouble ensued with at 
 least one of them, a clever but surly beast called Billy. 
 Whatever may be the power of music to soothe the 
 savage beast, on Billy its effect was distinctly irri- 
 tating. 
 
 There was a member of the orchestra who occasionally 
 played cornet solos during an interval in the perform- 
 ance, but after the arrival of the elephants he no sooner 
 blew his first notes than Billy started trumpeting in the 
 most outrageous manner, to the great confusion of the 
 unfortunate musician and the amazement of most of the 
 audience, who, as they could not see the elephant, were 
 
rHE LOVER'S p r -7 
 
 PROGRESS ^-'/ 
 
 at a loss to account for the piercing noise which sud- 
 denly assailed their ears. And alas I Billy's hatred of 
 music culminated in a yet more serious misdeed. 
 
 He occupied on one side of the stage a flimsy wooden 
 box, the door of which was only breast-high, in such 
 wise that he could easily pass his head and trunk over 
 it. Now, one afternoon Jer6me, the assistant ballet- 
 master, was putting half a dozen girls through certain 
 steps, while Duval himself, in the absence of Orlando 
 Nigra, our chef d'orchestre, played an accompaniment 
 on a cottage piano which had been placed on the stage 
 much too close to Billy's quarters. 
 
 Billy, who did not like the music, signified his dis- 
 approval by repeated shrieks, then stamped about an- 
 grily, and at last thrust out his trunk and swept a pile 
 of music off the piano, to the great amazement of Duval, 
 who nevertheless continued playing. 
 
 I had left my room for a moment and was leaning 
 over the balcony to see if Salta were anywhere about, 
 when all at once I saw Billy throw himself against his 
 door, break it open, and rush upon the hateful piano. 
 Duval's legs just saved his life, J6r6me jumped off the 
 stage into the orchestra, the girls shrieked and vanished, 
 while Billy, after throwing the piano over, caught it up 
 — yes, caught it up for an instant with his trunk, and 
 then let it fall with an awful, discordant crash which 
 overcame us all. 
 
 He himself, faint, perchance from his great effort. 
 
yjQ Cr'HE LOVER'S 
 
 ^^ " JL PROGRESS 
 
 bewildered and terrified by the lugubrious burst of sound 
 in which the thunder of heaven seemed to mingle with 
 all the lamentations of hell, sank upon his knees, his 
 anger so utterly spent that he did not even stir when 
 some side scenery, after tottering for a moment, swooped 
 down across his monstrous buttocks. 
 
 His trainer, absent at the time, but lodging near at 
 hand, was sent for, and Billy was got back into his box. 
 But the piano was shattered, and Fieron, declaring it to 
 be worth a thousand francs (£40), demanded payment 
 of that amount. Personally, I would not have given 
 a hundred francs for the instrument; and besides, the 
 trainer pleaded, correctly enough, that as the manager 
 had failed to provide a proper lodging for his beasts, no 
 liability for accidents rested with himself. 
 
 A lawsuit was threatened> but after some heated argu- 
 ments between Fieron and the tra,iner/ I interpreting 
 between them, a compromise was arrived at, the animals 
 giving a few extra performances to compensate for the 
 massacre of the piano, which, as Nigra said to me a few 
 days afterward, was really a blessing in disguise, for a 
 new one had long been sadly needed. 
 
 Friends of mine, to whom I have at times told the 
 story of Billy and the piano, have occasionally objected 
 that, however strong an elephant may be, he cannot 
 raise such a heavy instrument with his trunk; but I 
 assure the reader who is inclined to be incredulous that 
 I have invented nothing, and that the incident was 
 
rHE LOFER'S o r/o 
 
 PROGRESS ^^ y 
 
 ■witnessed by certainly fifty people, many of whom I 
 know to be still alive, 
 
 Orlando Nigra, our chef d'orchestre, to whom I have 
 Just alluded, did much to promote the success of the 
 Paradis Parisien. Tall, yellowish, and gray-haired, he 
 sprang from a branch of a distinguished Italian family 
 which had fixed itself at Lyons; but his father having 
 renounced the law to become a strolling player, Orlando 
 had first seen the light at Eouen. 
 
 When only five years of age he had appeared in his 
 first part, that of a little girl, in his father's company. 
 At twelve he had made his dibut in Paris; but music, 
 not acting, was his passion, and in his nineteenth year 
 he had become chef d'orchestre at a little public ball- 
 room at Montmartre. Thence he had passed to the 
 Elys6e Montmartre, thence to the notorious Jardin 
 Mabille, and now he was conducting at the Paradis, and 
 providing it with some of the prettiest little ballets ever 
 danced in Paris. 
 
 The stage, unfortunately, was deficient in depth; but 
 if a great numerical display was out of the question, 
 Nigra devised ballets which were all charm and poetry 
 and gracefulness. His music was full of melody, with 
 a lilt and a freshness that inspirited one. Perhaps he 
 succumbed rather too readily to the fascinations of the 
 mouvemeni de valse, some waltzes of his composition, 
 notably the "Valse des Lilas," having become very 
 popular in Paris; but he was undoubtedly a born musi- 
 
PP^ cr'HE LOFER'S 
 
 ^^^ -/ PROGRESS 
 
 cian, one who with proper training and a less erratic life 
 might have figured, perchance, among the world's emi- 
 nent composers. 
 
 He and I became friendly from the outset. We dis- 
 cussed the corps de ballet together, and I found him 
 quite as incensed as Fieron was at having to retain La 
 Bambola as premiere danseuse. A pose langoureuse was 
 virtually all that she could now fittingly accomplish, 
 and the real dancing had to be left to Salta and the 
 others. 
 
 A right motley crew were those ladies of the ballet. 
 They looked just lovely on the stage, for they made up 
 extremely well, and occasionally had very good figures, 
 besides which, Grevin being our designer, their cos- 
 tumes were often quite picturesque; but away from the 
 tinsel and the limelight few of them were attractive. 
 
 If Duval and J6r6me knew how to swear, the girls, 
 or at the least many of them, could answer back in slang 
 as foul as was ever heard in the Paris markets; and they 
 were perpetually quarrelling among themselves over 
 some dressing-room question or some private affair, in 
 which figured a lover or a husband. Some four or five 
 were married, and one whom we usually called Clotilde 
 was the mother of several children. 
 
 I shall never forget my amazement when one after- 
 noon she came to my room, and said: " Will yon please 
 tell Monsieur Fieron that I wish to take my usual leave, 
 and should like it to begin on Monday?" 
 
rHE LOVER'S ^yj 
 
 PROGRESS ^^^ 
 
 Her usual leave ? What did she mean ? I questioned 
 her, and presently discovered that during her four years' 
 connection idth the Paradis she had thrice taken three 
 weeks' leave, on each of those occasions presenting her 
 husband with offspring. 
 
 Amid the pitiless struggle for life, confronted by the 
 necessity of earning bread for her family — for her hus- 
 band was a worthless fellow who loafed about the wine- 
 shops — ^three weeks' leave was all that the unlucky 
 Clotilde could afford to take. How dreadful! When 
 I spoke to Pieron about it, he shook his head. 
 
 "Yes, I know," said he; "they regard her here as 
 a phenomenon. Nobody would believe it, would they ? 
 When you see her, Letty, tell her she may have her 
 leave and half-salary as usual. And here, give her this 
 louis from me." 
 
 I saw Clotilde as she was quitting the house that 
 night, and stopped her to deliver the message and the 
 money, to which I added something from my own purse. 
 She thanked me in the most fulsome language, but sud- 
 denly shrank into a comer and put the money out of 
 sight. She had just perceived her husband watching 
 her from the other end of the promenade; and a moment 
 afterward, when he and she went off together, I began 
 to fear from the eagerness of the man's manner that 
 Keren's money and my own would not be put to the 
 purpose for which we had intended it. Alas! such is 
 life. 
 
222 Cr'HE LOFER'S 
 JL PROGRESS 
 
 As the membere of the company came and went 
 through the auditorium, it happened that when the 
 ballet girls took their departure the four or five who 
 were really stylish and good-looking often tarried in the 
 promenade with their acquaintances among the loungers 
 there; but the majority slipped away quietly, and were 
 only noticed on account of the simplicity of their attire, 
 which contrasted with all the finery of the other women 
 who were present. 
 
 And there was one, veiled and gowned invariably in 
 black, who from the moment of passing between the 
 curtains at the end of the promenade walked on swiftly, 
 never once pausing or giving sign of recognition unless 
 somebody of the house happened to cross her path. On 
 those occasions she just bent her head by way of salute, 
 then passed on toward the exit. 
 
 This was Salta, who was all smiles, gayety, and nim- 
 bleness upon the stage, and who lapsed into a silent 
 rigidity of manner directly she had quitted it. If ever 
 a stranger attempted to bar her way as she left the house 
 — for she was occasionally recognized, and those who 
 had seen her dance could not do otherwise than admire 
 her — she brushed past him in such a scornful, defiant 
 manner that he seldom had any heart left him for im- 
 portunities. 
 
 Moreover, Pran9oig, the chief inspector on the ground- 
 floor promenade, had strict orders to prevent any ladies 
 of the establishment from being pestered by persons 
 
rHE LOFER'S ^^, 
 
 PROGRESS ^-^J) 
 
 among the audience. It occurred to me that Salta 
 tipped him, for he often "escorted her down the vesti- 
 bule, and gave orders for a cab to be called. 
 
 I seldom spoke to her unless she came to my room to 
 say that she wished to ask something of Fieron. We 
 nodded if we passed each other in the auditorium, and 
 that was all. As for conversation " behind the scenes," 
 I seldom went thither unless I had to explain something 
 for our English artistes, or wished to inspect the ele- 
 phants, the tigers, or the leopards. 
 
 In its way the foyer de la danse at the Grand Opera 
 house is certainly a pleasant place, but only fools can 
 imagine that there is anything fascinating behind the 
 scenes of an ordinary theatre. 
 
 Nevertheless, though I saw very little of Salta apart 
 from her performances, I began to take quite an interest 
 in her. For one thing, she was lady-like; she did not 
 use vile language such as even La Bambola fired ofE in 
 her moments of exasperation; secondly, she was cer- 
 tainly pretty; and, thirdly, she danced extremely well. 
 
 It seemed to me indeed outrageous that the claque 
 should reserve nearly all its efforts for La Bambola, 
 though, of course, this must have been in part Salta's 
 fault; she either lacked the means or was unwilling to 
 grease Bertrand's palm. 
 
 In this respect it occurred to me to look for her agree- 
 ment, whereupon I discovered that her salary was only 
 six hundred francs, or twenty-four pounds a month. 
 
pp^ Cr'HE LOVER'S 
 
 '^'^H- 1 PROGRESS 
 
 whereas La Bambola, as Trani's favorite sultana, drew 
 more than double that amount, besides living entirely 
 at his expense. But I noticed that Salta's engagement 
 would expire about the end of June, and as she was cer- 
 tainly worth more than twenty francs a night and cos- 
 tumes, it seemed to me that I might perhaps help her 
 to secure a rise during the ensuing season. 
 
 I spoke of her to Nigra. 
 
 "A clever girl," said he; "she dances as if she had 
 the devil in her — le diaUe au corps." 
 
 Bat he knew nothing of her private life or circum- 
 stances. His interest in the girls ceased from the 
 moment the ballet was over. Every night on leaving 
 the Paradis he betook himself to the Brasserie des 
 Martyrs, and stupefied himself with beer and tobacco 
 till two o'clock in the morning. Thus did a man of 
 great talent, who had the elements of genius in him, 
 fritter away his life. 
 
 However, he was preparing a new ballet, the " Ballet 
 of the Billow " as it was called, and a few fits of inspi- 
 ration, helped on, I fear, by absinthe, enabled him to 
 turn out something at once clever and striking. The 
 'music was full of melody and rhythm, and there was 
 only one passage in it at all suggestive of Strauss's 
 "Blue Danube," which the second and third-rate com- 
 posers of those days so often took as their model when 
 they desired to express the flow of water. 
 
 Kehearsals did not progress very smoothly on account 
 
rHE LOVER'S ^^ - 
 
 PROGRESS ^^J 
 
 of the jealousy of La Bambola, who, though unable to 
 take the part of the Billow herself, was unwilling to see 
 it taken by Salta. Nigra, however, did his best for her. 
 It was toward her that the Billow bounded; it was upon 
 her that it poured its frenzied passion. She figured in 
 the ballet as the centre of gravitation, like an island or 
 a rock in mid-ocean, caressed by all the surrounding 
 wavelets and ripples which danced attendance on the 
 impetuous Billow. 
 
 And at last Fieron and Nigra, having expended all 
 their eloquence on her, she deigned to smile at the idea 
 that she would be regarded as the object of universal 
 adoration. 
 
 " The Billow " proved a success from the very first; 
 indeed, we were in luck's way that season. Trani be- 
 came quite lively again, and Fieron, though he said 
 little, often rubbed his hands with satisfaction. 
 
 As for the claque, matters went on as before; and 
 I ought to mention here that whatever may now be the 
 case, the Parisians of those days were the worst ap- 
 plauders in the world. They would look and listen, 
 and if pleased they would laugh and exchange words of 
 approval among themselves; but they never clapped, or 
 stamped, or signified their pleasure in a manner audible 
 to the performers on the stage, unless they were incited 
 to it by hearing others do so. 
 
 Thus the proper business of the claque was to rouse 
 
 and stimulate applause, to fan enthusiasm, to help on 
 15 
 
226 cr'HE LOFER'S 
 -t PROGRESS 
 
 success, and, if desirable, to turn success into triumph. 
 Apart from that, the, vanity of certain artistes induced 
 them to pay Bertrand a monthly stipend to applaud 
 their entrie, recall them, and so forth, quite irrespective 
 of the sentiments of the audience generally. 
 
 Now " The Billow " had been running for ten days 
 or so, when one evening Bertrand failed to appear at 
 the Paradis. Some sudden indisposition had fallen on 
 him, and in his absence his duties had to be discharged 
 by Baron, his lieutenant. The latter was a man of flve- 
 and-forty, an authentic French Baron who had squan- 
 dered his substance and sunk into such crapulous pov- 
 erty that he was content to live on the pittance of four 
 or five francs a day which Bertrand paid him for his 
 services. 
 
 When I heard of Bertrand's illness, I went to the 
 wine-shop where the claque was mustered, and found 
 Baron standing treat to all and sundry with money 
 which his employer had entrusted to him for very differ- 
 ent purposes. Of course he was intoxicated; he had 
 been drinking steadily for the last three hours, and was 
 reaching that condition which is known as maudlin. I 
 shook him and expostulated with him, but in vain. It 
 was certain that he could not properly do his work that 
 evening. I therefore made the necessary arrangements 
 myself. Some of our regular men were there, and with 
 their help I disposed a sufficient force in various parts 
 of the house in accordance with Bertrand's usual system. 
 
rHE LONER'S pp-y 
 
 PROGRESS ^^/ 
 
 At the same time, as Baroa could stiJl walk upright 
 and was not noisy — ^indeed, he carried his head in a de- 
 jected fashion, as if ruminating over his past splendor 
 and present penury — I took him with me in the hope 
 that he would presently recover. I sat him on my left 
 in the centre of the balcony, where I had marshalled 
 the principal squadron of my regiment, while on my 
 other hand I had an old veteran, who knew fairly well 
 which turns Bertrand was in the habit of " warming." 
 
 And all went off very well indeed. Every now and 
 again, when I was about to start the applause, I gave 
 Baron, who had sunk into a doze, a vigorous dig in the 
 ribs, at which he invariably awoke, sat up, stared, 
 clapped like a maniac, and then lapsed into somnolence 
 again. 
 
 During the short interval before the ballet it suddenly 
 occurred to me that for once in a way I might give Salta 
 her due, and I therefore issued orders for a vigorous 
 entree. My right-hand companion remarked that this 
 was not Monsieur Bertrand's practice, but I answered 
 that we were going to change all that in accordance with 
 the orders of the administration ; and thus when Salta 
 bounded upon the stage, instead of the one little round 
 of clapping which Bertrand had been unable to refuse, 
 we gave her such a flattering reception that the poor 
 girl became momentarily confused, and made one or 
 two mistakes. 
 
 But our applause had undoubtedly directed attention 
 
P oJP Cr'HE LOFER'S 
 
 " J- PROGRESS 
 
 to her, and when after her principal figure, whicli she 
 danced that evening with supreme elegance, I again 
 gave the signal : Allez, mes enfants, chaudemeni et tous 
 ensemble (" Come, my lads, warmly and all together! "), 
 the greater part of the house followed us. 
 
 I lookied behind me; people were applauding all round 
 the upper promenade. I leaned over the balcony; the 
 lower promenade, so far as I could see it, was clapping 
 vigorously, while hands were raised throughout the 
 stalls. Old Prince Murat, an habituS of the house, was 
 so carried away that, forgetting his gout, he actually 
 rose from his seat and stood there applauding. Then 
 I gave a final signal : " Sis ! bis .' " * I called, and half 
 the house took up the cry. Salta, for the first time in 
 her career, had to repeat her figure. 
 
 I did not, however, forget La Bambola, for that would 
 have been dangerous; but, clap her as we might, it was 
 impossible for us to arouse enthusiasm in her favor, 
 whereas from that moment everything that Salta did — 
 and, as a matter of fact, she surpassed herself — aroused 
 genuine applause. Indeed, the audience escaped con- 
 trol; success became triumph, and when at last the cur- 
 tain fell, shouts of "Salta! Salta!" burst forth spon- 
 taneously from a dozen parts of the house. 
 
 From motives of diplomacy — for I had to remember 
 La Bambola — I did not let my men join in that call; 
 we remained mere spectators and listeners, while the 
 * The French equivalent of the English encore. 
 
rHE LOFER'S PP^ 
 
 PROGRESS ^^y 
 
 shouts grew louder and louder, and the muffled thunder 
 of scores of stamping feet rolled through the auditorium. 
 She had to trip before the curtain, slim, yet shapely, in 
 her travesty, with her fair hair dancing about her shoul- 
 ders, and her fresh young arms wafting kisses to the 
 applauding throng. 
 
 Something stirred me; I could remain there no longer. 
 Besides, Baron was wide awake now, venting expressions 
 of amazement. So I left him with the others, and went 
 up the gangway to the promenade, where I met Fieron, 
 who knew that I had taken Bertrand's place. 
 
 "What is the matter with them all, Letty?" he 
 asked. " Was it spontaneous ? Did you start them ? " 
 
 "Well, we started the applause as usual," said I; 
 "but it has all been genuine enough." 
 
 "Nigra was right," he responded; "cette petite has 
 the devil in her. Still, it would have been better if this 
 success had come a little later. I was thinking of re- 
 newing her engagement for next season, and she will 
 now be asking for more money for a renewal." 
 
 " But surely she is worth more than we give her," I 
 answered. 
 
 "Perhaps so," said he; "all the same, I am sorry 
 I did not renew her engagement when we started this 
 new ballet. The worry is that if she has a rise La Bam- 
 bola will want one also." 
 
 That night all was confusion behind the scenes. La 
 Bambola, I heard, flew into a frantic passion and up- 
 
P ,^ Cr'HE LOVER'S 
 
 ^J^ 1 PROGRESS 
 
 braided everybody, throwing sundry pomatum pots and 
 brushes at Trani when he repaired to her dressing-room 
 for the purpose of pacifying her. He could not deny 
 that Salta was the better dancer, but he implored his 
 mistress to rest content with being the most beautiful 
 and adorable of women. 
 
 But the idea that Salta danced better than herseK 
 was gall to the favorite sultana. It was all nonsense, 
 she cried; it was the work of a cabal, and if Salta was 
 to be called before the curtain every night she herself 
 would not appear on the stag6 again. 
 
 "I only wish she wouldn't," said Duval to me when 
 he related the story. " However, the patron calmed 
 her at last by promising her some diamond bracelet or 
 other for which she had been hankering." 
 
 In the end an arrangement was arrived at. Salta was 
 called every evening, but, like a good-natured girl, she 
 invariably led La Bambola before the curtain with her, 
 and the latter's wounded pride found some solace in the 
 magnificent bouquets which were tossed to her by Trani's 
 orders. 
 
 A few days went by, perhaps a week, and now Salta, 
 whenever she took her departure, had some difficulty in 
 running the gauntlet of admirers whom she encountered 
 on her way. 
 
 But there came a change in the programme. Some 
 well-advertised trapeze business was substituted for an- 
 other turn about the time of the girls' departure from 
 
rHE LOFER'S -, , ^ 
 
 PROGRESS ^J^ 
 
 the house, and the result was that the lower promenade 
 became almost deserted when they passed through it, 
 most of the spectators having betaken themselves to the 
 upper one, whence a full view of the trapezes was 
 obtained. 
 
 One evening, then, my duties over, I sat smoking in 
 the lower promenade while the ladies of the ballet went 
 by. The last to appear was Salta, who gave me just 
 a friendly little nod as she walked toward the exit. I' 
 saw her turn to right and left, as if looking for Inspector 
 I'ran9ois; but as she finally entered the vestibule, I 
 thought no more of the matter. 
 
 I was not interested in the trapeze performance, which 
 I had seen two or three times already, so I took a copy 
 of a late evening paper, " Le Soir," from my pocket, 
 and began to read it. But all at once I heard my- 
 self addressed by name, and on looking up saw Salta 
 standing before me; she had returned to the prome- 
 nade. 
 
 " Monsieur Letty," she was saying, " will you do me 
 the service to put me into a cab ? I cannot see Frangois 
 anywhere." 
 
 "Certainly," I responded; and folding up my paper 
 on the way, I went down the promenade with her. 
 
 When we were in the vestibule between the cloak- 
 room and the contrdle, she turned to me, and said : 
 
 " You will excuse me for troubling you, will you not ? 
 — ^but I live a long way off, in the Rue de Ponthien, and 
 
2 02 CT'HE LOFER'S 
 
 >^ 1 PROGRESS 
 
 I have to take a cab every night, for it is too far to walk 
 at so late an hour. " 
 
 "Oh, I am only too pleased to be of help to you," 
 said I. "We shall find some boys about, and I will 
 send one of them for a cab." * 
 
 " Perhaps you would not mind going with me as far 
 as the Faubourg," she retorted; "one can find plenty 
 there. The fact is " — and here some slight hesitation 
 became manifest in her manner — " the fact is, there is 
 somebody at the entrance who has been annoying me 
 for several evenings; he is always waiting there when 
 I leave. He has been sending flowers to my dressing- 
 room, and letters, too, by Madame Brunon" (one of 
 ■* the dressers), " and I cannot get rid of him, no matter 
 what I try." 
 
 "Do you know him at all?" I asked, unable to 
 restrain a smile. 
 
 "Oh no; he is a perfect stranger," she answered, 
 smiling also. " But he has been trying to get my 
 address, and I do not wish him to know it, for I do not 
 like his looks at all; and so I thought it might be best 
 to take a cab in the Faubourg this evening, for if I took 
 one just outside he might hear you give the address to 
 the driver." 
 
 This was artless, as I explained to her; for one might 
 
 * All this is changed nowadays, but at the time I am writing of 
 there were no proper arrangements for procuring cabs outside the 
 Paradis. 
 
rHE LOVER'S ~ J J 
 
 PROGRESS '^JJ 
 
 give any address to the cabman on starting, and another 
 on the road. 
 
 "Oh, I never thought of that! How foolish of 
 me!" she replied, with a sunny gleam in her eyes, 
 which shone out through the black veil she was wear- 
 ing. 
 
 " Nevertheless, I shall be pleased to go with you to 
 the Faubourg," said I, "for in that way one may foil 
 this gentleman all the better." 
 
 As we drew near to the gates I saw there a tall, 
 swarthy, over-dressed man, with something bright, 
 probably a diamond pin, in his necktie. His dark eyes 
 flashed first on Salta, then on me. 
 
 "Pay no attention to him," I said to her; "let me 
 give you my arm. We will walk away together; that 
 will be the best plan." 
 
 She took my arm, and I detected that she was trem- 
 bling slightly. I just eyed the stranger as we passed 
 him, and noticed an expression of mingled resentment 
 and mortification on his face. He was forty or there- 
 abouts, well built and fairly good-looking, though his 
 features, of a Spanish type, were strongly marked. 
 
 But without a pause we crossed the foot pavement 
 and then the little square in front of the Paradis. On 
 reaching a short street leading to the Faubourg I glanced 
 back. The stranger, after some hesitation, was crossing 
 the square, and I could hear him viciously striking the 
 paving stones with his walking-stick. 
 
2 J A (THE LOVER'S 
 
 '^J^ 1 PROGRESS 
 
 "Is he following us?" asked Salta, somewhat ner- 
 vously. 
 
 "Oh, it does not matter if he does," I answered; 
 " we shall get rid of him in the crowd in the Faubourg," 
 
 But he evidently renounced his intentions, whatever 
 they may have been, for when I looked back a second 
 time he had disappeared. Both Salta and I then began 
 to laugh. 
 
 "I am glad he has gone," she said, "for I should 
 never have forgiven myself if you had had any trouble 
 with him on my account. " 
 
 "I hardly expected any," I said; "besides, I should 
 simply have applied to the first police agent. And, by 
 the way, why do the police quit the entrance of the 
 Paradis ? They seem to go ofE at a certain hour and 
 only return when we are closing. I must speak to 
 Fieron about it." 
 
 But we had now reached the Faubourg, and I soon 
 saw an empty cab there. I hailed it, and helped Salta 
 to get in. 
 
 " Are you going back to the house ? " she asked. 
 
 "Oh! no; my work is over. I am going home." 
 
 Then, after an instant's hesitation, she said with a 
 smile: " If you had lived in my direction I would have 
 put you down on the way." 
 
 "Well, I do — in the Eue Pasquier," I replied; "and 
 I will accept your kind offer if you think you can trust 
 yourself with me." 
 
rHE LOFER'S , ^ -, - 
 
 PROGRESS '^OD 
 
 In point of fact, the more I saw of Salta, the more 
 she attracted and fascinated me, and I eagerly availed 
 myself of the chance to remain with her a little longer. 
 
 " Oh, I should not have asked for your help. Monsieur 
 Letty, if it were otherwise. You are not a stranger ; you 
 helong to the administration," she retorted, still smil- 
 ing. She seemed, indeed, to have become quite lively. 
 
 I got into the cab, to the driver of which I had pre- 
 viously given her address — I intended to stop him when 
 we passed my street — and seated by Salta's side, I said 
 to her while we rolled along : 
 
 "I am glad to have a moment's conversation with 
 you, for I have a confession to make." 
 
 "A confession!" she replied, and it seemed to me 
 that she drew back into her corner as if suddenly dis- 
 trustful of what I might intend to say. 
 
 "Why, yes! I am told that yon have been having 
 more trouble with Madame Bambola, and I am afraid 
 I have been in part the cause of it." 
 
 Then I talked to her of her recent success, and notably 
 of the evening when for. the first time she had been called 
 before the curtain. Eespecting my own services, I 
 merely mentioned that I had taken charge of the claque 
 on that occasion, owing to Bertrand's illness; but I 
 pointed out that had she come to some arrangement 
 with Bertrand, she would probably have reaped success 
 much sooner. 
 
 "Everybody admired your dancing; I often heard 
 
236 
 
 rHE LOFER'S 
 PROGRESS 
 
 people praising it," I said. " The house only required 
 stimulatiug, and Bertrand would have done it for you if 
 you had come to terms with him. " 
 
 " Well, I do pay him something," she replied, " though 
 it is only a trifle. I cannot afford to give much, and, 
 besides, I wished to live a quiet life, and feared I might 
 have to leave if Bambola became too spiteful." Then, 
 with a touch of sadness, she added: "I hardly know 
 what I should do if I lost my engagement." 
 
 "Why, if you were to leave the Paradis," said I, "there 
 would be plenty of other houses ready to take you." 
 
 " But the moment is a bad one; here we are in May 
 already. I have no doubt I should get another engage- 
 ment, but I might not start on it till the winter, and 
 that would never do." 
 
 " I understand. Fieron does not pay you enough to 
 enable you to put money by." 
 
 " Oh, if I had only myself to think of, I should be 
 well content," Salta answered. 
 
 "You have others to provide for?" I asked tenta- 
 tively, expecting to hear that she had to keep some old 
 crone of a mother, some specimen of the " Cardinal " 
 type subsequently immortalized by Hal6vy. But her 
 answer surprised me. 
 
 " Yes, my father," she said in a sad voice. 
 
 Her father 1 Some ne'er-do-well, no doubt — some 
 drunkard living on her earnings. 
 
 But after a moment she resumed: 
 
rHE LOVER'S y jy 
 
 PROGRESS ^J/ 
 
 " You know my real name. Monsieur Letty, do you 
 not?" 
 
 "Yes; I have seen your engagement — Gabrielle De- 
 fresne, is it not?" 
 
 " That is it. Did you ever hear of Olivier Defresne ? " 
 
 "Olivier Defresne! No." 
 
 " And of Olivier Gloriat ? " 
 
 "Gloriat! The tenor?" 
 
 " Yes; he is my father. That was his stage name." 
 
 " But I thought he was dead; he has not been heard 
 of for years." 
 
 "No, he is not dead," said Salta softly; "he is in a 
 maison de sanU at Neuilly. Cepauvrepdre ! The war 
 ruined him, and he lost his mind." 
 
 Then by degrees, in a few brief sentences, she told 
 me the story. After a short but very brilliant career, 
 Defresne had retired from the stage with ample means; 
 but misfortune had fallen on him, and he had been 
 placed in a maison de sante by his wife, Salta's mother, 
 who on her side had belonged to the ballet at the Grand 
 Opera. She was now dead, and Salta alone remained 
 to provide for her unhappy father, on whom she ex- 
 pended a considerable part of her monthly salary. 
 
 I was deeply touched by that simple narrative, and 
 when she had finished I immediately asked her: 
 
 " Does Pieron know this ? " 
 
 " I fancy not, but Monsieur Trani does." 
 
 "But why not make an appeal to the profession? 
 
2oS Cr'HE LOVER'S 
 
 _£ J PROGRESS 
 
 Let me do something. I know most of the theatrical 
 and musical critics; there are many people who would 
 be delighted to get up a benefit for your father." 
 
 " Oh, it is not necessary. So long as I have work 
 I would rather not accept any charity at all." 
 
 The brave girl! I was quite moved now. So she was 
 not only pretty and talented, but she had a good heart 
 also, and she lived, it seemed, a virtuous life amid 
 a thousand temptations. A little logement on the fifth 
 floor of a quiet house in the Eue de Ponthieu sufficed 
 her, whereas many others, no prettier and less talented 
 than herself, would have had their mansion and their 
 country house, their lackeys and their equipages. 
 
 " Well, if ever you do need help, let me know," said 
 I. "To begin with, you must have an increase of salary 
 at the Paradis. You must let me engineer that for you." 
 
 " Oh, willingly! I can accept that," she answered. 
 
 And again we reverted to the subject of her success, 
 the " Ballet of the Billow " and the Paradis generally. 
 
 But all at once, to my amazement, the cab stopped. 
 I had quite forgotten the Eue' Pasquier, and here we 
 were at Salta's door. I helped her to alight, and jested 
 about my forgetfulness. 
 
 " Shall you take the cab back ? " she asked me. 
 
 "No; it is only a short distance, and a walk will do 
 me good," I replied, while I felt for my purse in order 
 to pay the driver. 
 
 But she would not let me do so. 
 
rHE LOFER'S P ^^ 
 
 PROGRESS ^Jy 
 
 "No, no. Monsieur Letty, I beg. You have been 
 very kind to me this evening, and I am not nngratefnl ; 
 but I never allow anybody to pay for me." 
 
 She had her pride, and I could divine the feeling that 
 lay beneath it, the delicacy of motive that prompted her 
 refusal. 
 
 " Well, I have had my share of the vehicle," I said, 
 " so at least I ought to pay half the fare. Don't let us 
 quarrel about it. Give me a franc; I will add one to it, 
 and that will settle everything." 
 
 For a moment she demurred even to this suggestion, 
 but finally gave way. The cab rolled off, and she rang 
 the house-bell. When the concierge polled the string 
 which opened the door, she offered me her hand. 
 
 " Good-night, Monsieur Letty, and again thank you." 
 
 "Good-night," I responded. "You will remember 
 — won't you? — if you should need any help for your 
 father. And rely on me about your salary; I will do 
 the best I can." 
 
 Then, as she slipped into the house, I turned down 
 the Rue du Colys6e on my way home. All was in order 
 in my rooms, which I had made, I thought, quite com- 
 fortable; yet now for the first time I experienced a feel- 
 ing of loneliness as I entered them. When I had lighted 
 my lamp, I sank into an armchair, indifferent to the 
 letters and papers which Badoux, my concierge, had laid 
 on the table in readiness for me ; and for a long, long 
 time I remained thinking of Salta. 
 
y/in (THE LOFER'S 
 
 ^^^ 1 PROi 
 
 \GRESS 
 
 III 
 
 The Return of Love 
 
 I SPOKE to Fieron about the habits of the police in 
 departing from the entrance of the Paradis between ten 
 and eleven o'clock, and a letter written to the Prefec- 
 ture led to orders being given that two men should 
 always remain on duty there. This, I thought, would 
 check the importunities of such individuals as Salta's 
 swarthy admirer. Inside the house we had our own 
 police force, composed of some half-dozen stalwart in- 
 spectors, to help whom four Gardes de Paris attended 
 nightly. 
 
 Behind the scenes, moreover, two firemen were sta- 
 tioned, and about ten o'clock an ofiBcer called to see if 
 everything, were in order. But we had no outbreaks of 
 fire, and it was only now and again — on Saturdays or 
 Sundays — that the military were called upon to eject 
 some student who had become unpleasantly lively. 
 
 I did not see Salta for two or three evenings after 
 driving with her to the Kue de Ponthieu, for a succes- 
 sion of little incidents kept me in my office about the 
 time when she left the house. However, I had requested 
 Francois to watch over her, and as he reported nothing, 
 I concluded that she had not been annoyed again. 
 
rHE LOFER'S ^ y, y 
 
 PROGRESS ^^I 
 
 On the other hand, she was certainly attracting spec- 
 tators to the house. Two or three joumaliets who wrote 
 theatrical gossip spoke to me about her, and one night, 
 just after the performance of the ballet, Privat, of the 
 " Kabelais," who had come to my room, waxed so enthu- 
 siastic that I suggested he should " write her up." 
 
 " Oh, mon cher .'" he replied, " I should be delighted, 
 and if it can oblige you, I wiU do so at half-price." 
 
 " But if you admire her so much," said I, " why not 
 do it for nothing ? " 
 
 "Ah! that is impossible. I am not greedy, but it 
 would be against all rules. I have written the ' Cour- 
 rier des Th^dtres ' in the ' Eabelais ' ever since the war, 
 and I have never inserted in it a line of praise that has 
 not been paid for. A louis for three lines — those are 
 the terms; but, as I said before, I will give Salta six for 
 her little bit of gold." 
 
 " Six are not enough," I retorted, feeling rather net- 
 tled; "perhaps nine might do. Come! it shall be full 
 price or nothing. I will toss you for the amount. Here 
 yoil are," I added, taking out my purse; "here is my 
 stake, sixty francs, and yours is to be nine lines, which 
 you must submit to me, remember, for my approval." 
 
 I knew the man to be an inveterate gambler, and, in- 
 deed, he at once accepted my proposal. We tossed, and 
 I lost, so, with a little snigger of satisfaction, he pock- 
 eted the three louis. 
 
 " And the nine lines ? " said I. 
 16 
 
py. P Cr'HE LOVER'S 
 
 ^^^ J- PROGRESS 
 
 " Oh, give me a pen, and I will write them here." 
 
 I motioned him to my writing-table, and after a min- 
 ute or two he handed me a sheet of paper on which he 
 had written something to this efEect: 
 
 "Has La Taglioni come to life again? One might 
 almost think so, for never since her time have we wit- 
 nessed such sylph-like grace, such a true sense of the 
 poetry of motion, as the beautiful Salta displays in the 
 ' Ballet of the Billow,' which is nightly attracting the 
 whole elegant world to the Paradis Parisien." 
 
 "Not bad," said I, smiling; "but it is rather short, 
 and wants rounding off." 
 
 " Short ? Oh, there are nine" lines in it. But wait a 
 moment; I will add this: ' Salta's performance is a sight 
 which fascinates the eye, and which, once beheld, can 
 never be forgotten.' " 
 
 I could not help laughing. 
 
 " You are smitten again, Privat," I exclaimed. 
 
 "Smitten!" he retorted, with a shrug of the shoul- 
 ders. " Oh, I admire her; but this is simply a matter 
 of business. But, dites done, Letty, if anybody is in 
 love with Salta it must be yourself. A man does not 
 pay three louis for a woman when he cares nothing 
 about her." 
 
 I was taken aback. A hundred thoughts flashed 
 through my mind. In love, I, with Salta? Then in 
 my turn I shrugged my shoulders, and, forcing a laugh, 
 replied : 
 
rHE LOFER'S o/f o 
 
 PROGRESS ^yJ 
 
 "Why, mon cher! I only did it to try my luck. I 
 hoped to win and make you insert the paragraph for 
 nothing. All the Bam.e, I do not regret my money; she 
 is a good little girl, and deserves helping." 
 
 Privat smiled sarcasticaUy; 
 
 " So they all do," said he; " but in your case, Letty, 
 you have the proverb to console you — ' Unlucky in play, 
 lucky in love,' remember." 
 
 " Love! " I retorted. " Oh, I long since sent love to 
 all the devils!" 
 
 " That's what we all do, but he invariably comes back 
 again, unfortunately." 
 
 "He does not come here; Fieron forbids it," I said, 
 in order to turn the conversation into another channel, 
 for somehow Privat's remarks had irritated me. 
 
 "Fieron? Ah, yes; he professes to be a woman 
 hater. Well, frankly, that is not my manner; I adore 
 them — I adore them all." 
 
 Then we both laughed. Ah, that old rascal Privat! 
 He was five-and-fifty at the very least, but his hair was 
 as black as jet, and his mustaches were curled in the 
 most conquering of styles, and he wore his hat slightly 
 tilted, and his frock-coat tightly buttoned at the waist, 
 like the old beau he was. 
 
 Women and play had been the passions of his life. 
 When he had not squandered his money on one he had 
 done BO on the other. If he was so keen in journalistic 
 ■ matters, if he charged one woman for praising .her in his 
 
yyiy, Cr'HE LOFER'S 
 
 ^H-H- 1 PROGRESS 
 
 " Oourrier des ThSAtres/' it was only in order that he 
 might offer a dinner to another, or, if he were short of 
 funds, try his luck at the baccarat table. 
 
 That evening, having my three louis in his pocket, 
 some inspiration must have come to him, for all at once 
 he took his departure, and for a few minutes I remained 
 alone. 
 
 And now what ha had said of Salta and myself came 
 back to me. Was I in love with her ? "Was it love that 
 had caused me to do what I had done — to make the 
 claque force on her success, to act so eagerly as her 
 escort when she complained of annoyance, and now, 
 again, to pay a ridiculous price for a somewhat silly pufE 
 in the columns of the " Rabelais " ? 
 
 The little siren! I really liked her. But love? Ah! 
 no, no; I had done with love forever, and at that mo- 
 ment a little well-known pang came back to me. I saw 
 the past arise, the past and Lotis. This time I made no 
 effort to drive those visions from me. They were almost 
 welcome, for they were visions of warning and guidance. 
 
 But my duties for the night were over. I put on my 
 hat, turned down the gas, and left my room. It was 
 a Saturday, and the house was crowded. Some minutes 
 elapsed before I could descend the stairs, and in the 
 lower promenade I found myself caught in quite a crush. 
 
 However, I was elbowing my way through the throng 
 toward the vestibule, when I suddenly found myself 
 beside a woman who was moving in the same direction. 
 
rHE LOVER'S yyic 
 
 PROGRESS ^4w> 
 
 It was Salta, and she gave me a charming little smile of 
 recognition, while I exclaimed in surprise: 
 
 "Whj, I thought you had gone long ago! You are 
 late this evening, mademoiselle." 
 
 "Yes; Monsieur Fieron came behind, and kept me 
 talking with him about my engagement." 
 
 " And have you arranged matters with him ? " I in- 
 quired. 
 
 "Not yet; I promised him an answer for Monday." 
 
 For the moment, however, we spoke no further on 
 the subject, for a band of promenaders bore down on us, 
 and Salta, at any rate, was in danger of being swept 
 away. I instinctively caught hold of her arm. 
 
 " Let me pilot you," I said. 
 
 Perhaps a couple of minutes elapsed before we were 
 free of the crush, and in the interval I had released her, 
 but only in order that she might take my arm in the 
 orthodox fashion. And arm-in-arm, among a number 
 of people who were now leaving the house, we walked 
 down the vestibule. 
 
 Old Bassaget, the principal contrdleur, gave us a sharp 
 glance as we passed him; .but Salta evinced no inclina- 
 tion to remove the hand which rested on my arm; and 
 although it suddenly occurred to me that I might be 
 compromising her, I could not without rudeness with- 
 draw the support which I had proffered. Besides, she 
 walked divinely, and I took a keen pleasure in regulating 
 my step by hers. 
 
2^6 
 
 rHE LOFER'S 
 PROGRESS 
 
 We passed out of the Testibule into the night, going 
 mechanically toward the Faubourg, and for another 
 minute neither of us spoke. To me there was some- 
 thing intoxicating in that slow and rhythmical walk side 
 by side. But I was anxious to obtain further informa- 
 tion about the renewal of her engagement, and so I at 
 last inquired : 
 
 "Did Fieron's offer answer your expectations?" 
 
 "Well, I think he might have made it a little 
 more," she answered. "He proposed eight hundred 
 francs." 
 
 "Eight hundred! You must not accept it. When 
 he and I spoke of the matter the other day, he said he 
 would go to a thousand, so if you hold out for a little 
 while you will certainly get that amount. If anything, 
 it is still too little, and in any case you must not bind 
 yourself for a longer period than next season, for you 
 will soon be having larger offers from other houses. Did 
 you have a good reception to-night ? " 
 
 "Why, yes," she answered, laughing; "it was rather 
 a noisy one, but you know what the Saturday audience 
 is like." Then, after a pause, she added: "I would 
 accept nine hundred; I told Monsieur Fieron so, for 
 that would make as nearly as possible thirty francs a 
 night. Surely that is not too much now that I am 
 being called so often ? " 
 
 "Too much! Of course it is not. But what did he 
 say?" 
 
rHE LOFER'S ^ y, y 
 
 PROGRESS ■^'r/ 
 
 " Oh, he declared that the expenses ■vrere enormous, 
 and that he could hardly make both ends meet." 
 
 " You must not believe that," said I; "he is coining 
 money fast. Look at the houses we have been having! 
 You must certainly stand out for your nine hundred 
 francs, and costumes, of course." 
 
 " Yes, I will, and I dare say we shall come to terms. 
 I do not wish to leave the house " 
 
 "No, no!" I exclaimed impulsively. "You must 
 not leave. Fieron is certain to speak to me about the 
 matter to-morrow, and I wUl see what I can do. I did 
 my best the other day when we first discussed it." 
 
 But we had now reached the Faubourg, and I began 
 to hesitate. Must I hail a cab and put her into it ? It 
 was a beautiful evening, quite warm, and the streets 
 were thronged with people enjoying, as it were, a fore- 
 taste of summer. Salta herself seemed to appreciate it. 
 
 "I do not see an empty cab," I said to her, after 
 a moment. " Are you very tired ? Shall we walk a 
 little farther?" 
 
 " Oh, I am not tired at all," she answered; " I should 
 like to walk. What a lovely night it is! It is quite 
 pleasant to breathe a little fresh air." 
 
 " Then let us walk part of the distance. Which way 
 shall we go?" And, referring to our direct route, I 
 added: "I am afraid there is not much fresh air or 
 gayety in the Eue de Provence." 
 
 " But we might take the boulevards," she responded. 
 
248 
 
 rHE LOVER'S 
 PROGRESS 
 
 to my surprise; "I have not seen them of an evening 
 for ever so long." 
 
 Then she paused in some confusion, I was looking 
 at her, and could read her thoughts in her eyes, even as 
 she, no doubt, was able to read mine. She was think- 
 ing that I might not like to be seen walking down the 
 boulevards with her, and I was thinking that I should 
 certainly compromise her if I acted as her escort in the 
 presence of all Paris. 
 
 But did we care what people might say or think? 
 For my own part, whatever resolutions I might form 
 when I was alone, I no sooner found myself in her pres- 
 ence than I surrendered to her charm. Though I would 
 not as yet acknowledge it, the die was cast, and I was 
 caught in the toils once more. 
 
 "Well, yes; let us go down the boulevards," I said, 
 with a smile. " After all, we are our own masters. " 
 
 From the Faubourg we turned on to the Boulevard 
 Montmartre, which we found still thronged with people, 
 for it was only a few minutes past eleven o'clock, and 
 besides, it was Saturday. And we joined the stream of 
 promenaders going westward, Salta still resting her hand 
 on my right arm, and walking with that rhythmical step 
 of hers which made it delightful to be beside her. I 
 could not keep back a compliment. 
 
 "How beautifully you walk!" I said. "Do you 
 know, I have never seen a woman walk like that since 
 I was in Spain, where they walk so well." 
 
rHE LOrER'S ^y. f. 
 
 PROGRESS ^^y 
 
 "Vous trouvezf" she answered with a smile; "it 
 comes to me quite naturally." 
 
 "Ah, you are right there," I retorted; "it must 
 come naturally, it cannot be acquired." 
 
 But the sights around us began to engage our atten- 
 tion. On one side big omnibuses crowded with passen- 
 gers were rolling along amid streams of cabs, of both 
 the brougham and the victoria pattern, their lamps fill- 
 ing the roadway with a multitude of flaehing stars. 
 And on our other side the caf6s were brilliantly illu- 
 minated, while hundreds of people sat at the little tables 
 set out over part of the f ootwalk. And, here and there, 
 among the dusky trees, appeared bright patches of 
 color, the blue, red, and yellow glasses of the kiosks, 
 where some of the news-vendors were beginning to 
 put the unsold copies of the evening newspapers to- 
 gether. 
 
 And the crowd itself was the usual one of the boule- 
 vards on a Saturday night. There were the thousand 
 daughters of the gaslight in their conspicuous finery; 
 some brazen-faced, and darting bold glances at the men 
 in the crowd or at the cafS tables; others passing almost 
 timidly with a glance of urgent entreaty in their eyes — 
 a glance which told of hunger lurking beneath purple 
 and fine linen. 
 
 And there were, again, others of that unhappy sister- 
 hood, faded and desperate ones, prowling in shady cor- 
 ners; and yet others still, whose laughter and whose 
 
or/o CJ'HE LOVER'S 
 
 ^O^ 1 PROGRESS 
 
 ^— — ^— — — ' ' ■'■'■ I m .i ■■III— ^^M^^^^^^— — — ^^^— ■■i^i w iii^— ^M 
 
 coarse jests rang out from the oaf 6 " terraces," where 
 they sat with their conquests of the hour. 
 
 But people were coming from some of the theatres, 
 and thus the vacant caf6 tables were speedily occupied, 
 while family parties walked hastily homeward, or raised 
 despairing eyes to the crowded omnibuses. A few 
 hawkers were still offering the " Courrier du Soir " for 
 sale, and now and again some miserable-looking outcast 
 dived under one of the nearest caf6 tables to pick up 
 the stump of a cigar. 
 
 Viveurs, moreover, strolled by on their way to sup- 
 per or the baccarat table, while respectable bourgeois, 
 slackening their pace, debated whether they should 
 betake themselves to Ville d'Avray or Fontenay-aux- 
 Eoses for their usual Sunday outing on the morrow. 
 Then an acquaintance passed me, nodding a frietidly 
 good-night and just glancing at Salta, whom he did not 
 recognize. 
 
 But all at once, while we were passing the Oaf 6 Eiche, 
 where there was somewhat of a crush, so that we could 
 only advance slowly, I heard an exclamation : 
 
 " Why, that is the petite who dances so well at the 
 Paradis!" 
 
 "What! Salta?" 
 
 "Yes; she "has somebody with her. Jannet swore to 
 me that he knew her to be a rosiere." * 
 
 " Nonsense! All those girls have lovers." 
 
 * The recipient of a prize for exemplary virtue. 
 
rHE LOVER'S p CT 
 
 PROGRESS ^^ 
 
 I started violently. Had I been alone a fracas would 
 certainly have followed. But Salta's hold on my arm 
 tightened, and she whispered : 
 
 " I beg you, pay no attention." 
 
 And as she moved on I did likewise, muttering an 
 expletive. When we were past the caf6, however, I 
 stopped and said to her: 
 
 "I am very sorry; I almost feared something of the 
 kind when we decided to come along the boulevards." 
 
 " It was my fault," she answered, adding with some 
 little sadness in her smile: "But I am accustomed to 
 it; I hear that kind of thing said so often." 
 
 I looked at her. "We were standing near one of the 
 gas-lamps, and she wore that evening a veil of more 
 open texture than usual. It was this which had facili- 
 tated recognition, and which now enabled me to see that 
 her eyes were moist. 
 
 And in the light from the lamp she looked very 
 charming in her little mantle and her simple yet taste- 
 ful gown. Gold was gleaming in her fair hair, and if 
 her veil blurred the outline of hercheeks, I saw her lips, 
 red like rose-buds, and the little dimple in her chin, 
 which was full and rounded. And her head was posed 
 so gracefully, and I divined so much — for had I not 
 often seen her dancing in her boyish travesty? — that 
 I was ready to bow down before her young beauty and 
 her charm and worship her. 
 
 Thus, then and there, on that very Boulevard des 
 
2^2 CfHE LOVER'S 
 
 _£ J- PROGRESS 
 
 Italiens, at a few steps from the crowd through which 
 venal vice was prowling to and fro, amid the rumble of 
 the omnibuses and the rattle of the cabs, I yielded to 
 the sudden imperious impulse of my heart, and voiced 
 my feelings. 
 
 " You are so beautiful, Salta, that it is, perhaps, only 
 natural for those who do not know you to pass such 
 remarks. Ah! the man who wins you will be a happy 
 one. For my part, I dare not hope." 
 
 I saw the color rising to her cheeks beneath her veil 
 while we tarried there yet another instant. But she 
 evinced no resentment; indeed, she took my arm again 
 — for we had momentarily parted company — and I felt 
 the pressure. of her hand as she said: 
 
 "Oh, pray do not speak like that! It makes me 
 very unhappy." 
 
 " Unhappy to be admired, to be loved ? " 
 
 " Yes; for there are things which I will tell you of — 
 but not now, not here. Oh, I do not blame you ! You 
 must have thought it strange of me to come with you 
 this evening— and that other night." 
 
 " Not at all," said I, "It has all been due to chance, 
 and it has really pleased me very much. But do not 
 think I wish to worry you. I cannot help saying that 
 you are beautiful, for it is the truth, and that the man 
 who wins you will be a happy one, for I am convinced 
 of it. As for the rest, though I admire you and esteem 
 you, particularly on account of what you told me the 
 
•'HE LOFER'S ^ - _ 
 
 PROGRESS "^JJ 
 
 other night, I know that I have no title whatever to 
 your regard." 
 
 "You are the first who has spoken to me as a friend 
 since I have been at the Paradis," she responded gently. 
 
 That answer quickened the beating of my heart. Was 
 it possible that this beautiful girl could care for me, if 
 only as a friend ? Again, as we passed a street lamp, 
 our glances met, and I perceived a softness in Salta's 
 eyes that lent me hope. 
 
 The crowd was now dwindling fast; nevertheless, in 
 order to avoid it, we kept as near to the trees as pos- 
 sible, and while passing the cab-rank near the Eue du 
 Helder an inspiration suddenly came to me. It was 
 getting late, and we still had some distance to go in 
 order to reach the Eue de Ponthieu. Would it not, 
 therefore, be best to take a cab ? We should be able to 
 talk in it more freely than among all those people on 
 the pavement. 
 
 I did not say this to Salta, but seeing a victoria on 
 the rank, I suggested that we should take it. She 
 assented readily: 
 
 " Yes; it is getting late, and I do not wish to be home 
 too late, for my concierge, who is very particular, would 
 be complaining." 
 
 Then, as soon as we were seated in the vehicle and 
 were rolling toward the Eue Eoyale, she told me, in ref- 
 erence to her desire to return home at a reasonable hour, 
 something more about her circumstances and her history. 
 
pr^ CfHE LOFER'S 
 
 ^T" J- PROGRESS 
 
 Her mother, who had been dead some fifteen months, 
 had passed away in the little logement which she, Salta, 
 still occupied. It was on the fifth floor, like my own in 
 the Eue Pasquier, but it overlooked the inner courtyard 
 of the house, and was therefore much less expensive. 
 
 And she lived there quite alone, receiving nobody, 
 unless it were a few very old friends of her parents, 
 among whom was the septuagenarian TilofE, the well- 
 known composer of "The Jacobins." She herself did 
 most of her own household work, and for the rest, the 
 doorkeeper's wife, with whom she seemed to be on 
 familiar terms, assisted her. 
 
 With respect to her profession, she was the pupil of 
 her mother, who, after the ruin of the family, had 
 opened a small school in the Eue Saint HonorS; but, 
 so far as really serious learning was concerned, she had 
 begun late, for prior to the war of 1870, in which year 
 she had reached her fourteenth birthday, it had not 
 been imagined that she would have to earn her living. 
 Heredity, however, had given her both the figure and 
 the natural grace and nimbleness of the born danseuse. 
 
 Her first engagement had been at the Chdtelet, where 
 she had figured in so-called "fairy pieces," and whence 
 she had passed to the Galte, where she had found a little 
 more scope for her talents. Still, she had simply been 
 vegetating there, when TilofE, her father's friend, hear- 
 ing that Trani had a vacancy, had taken her to him, in 
 such wise that she had joined the ballet at the Paradis 
 
r HE LOVER'S jr'c 
 
 PROGRESS '^JJ 
 
 at a small salary, -which had been gradually increased as 
 Nigra came to recognize her merits. 
 
 " And you live like that by yourself ? " said I, as our 
 cab turned up the Faubourg Saint HonorS. "You 
 must feel very lonely. Have you no relatives, except- 
 ing your father?" 
 
 "None that I care to see," she replied. "But no, 
 I do not feel so very lonely — unless it be at times. As 
 you know, I often go down to the house in the after- 
 noon to practise or rehearse; then, every Thursday I go 
 to Neuilly to see my father; and on Sundays, if I am 
 not in a matinee, I sometimes spend the day with the 
 TilofEs. They live in the country, at Joinville. You 
 know their story, do you not ? " 
 
 I nodded. A few years previously, while living at 
 Fontenay-sous-Bois, I had more than once come upon 
 old TilofE, who, like myself, often returned home at 
 night by the train des thedtres. 
 
 A tall, cadaverous-looking man he was, with a perfect 
 mane of white hair, and much eccentricity of manner; 
 but he was a great musician, both as a composer and 
 as an instrumentalist, and, aged though he might be, 
 the beautiful daughter of the Due de Pierrefonds had 
 fled her home for love of him, and become his wife 
 as soon as she was able to marry without the paternal 
 consent. 
 
 Many romances are to be found in the lives of the 
 great musicians, yet none is more striking, perhaps. 
 
256 
 
 rHE LOFER'S 
 PROGRESS 
 
 than that of the old leonine Tiloff and his high-born 
 and beautiful bride. 
 
 But I turned to Salta. 
 
 " So you will be going to Joinville to-morrow, as it is 
 Sunday?" I asked. 
 
 " Oh, no! Monsieur TilofE has gone to Bordeaux, to 
 conduct some concerts there," she answered. " He will 
 not be back yet awhile. I shall stay at home till it is 
 time to go to the house." 
 
 "At home! In such beautiful weather as this?" I 
 remonstrated. " Look at the sky. It is covered with 
 stars; there is not a cloud to be seen. It will surely be 
 a very fine day to-morrow." 
 
 "Yes," she answered, looking up at the spangled 
 canopy; "the summer has come already." 
 
 "Would you let me take you somewhere?" I sug- 
 gested. " We might go into the environs; I know them 
 well. You are not afraid of me, surely ? If you were, 
 you would not have told me all you have. Besides, I 
 promise you that I will not pay you court, since you do 
 not wish it; only you have forgotten to tell me why it is 
 that you will not let anybody admire you, unless it be 
 on the stage. Why is it? You promised to tell me, 
 you know." 
 
 But our cab was now turning into the Eue du Colys^e, 
 and in two or three minutes we should be at Salta's door. 
 
 "I have not time now," she answered; "I will. tell 
 you to-morrow." 
 
rH£ LOFER'S ^^« 
 
 PROGRESS '^Oi 
 
 " To-morrow! You will come with me, then? " 
 
 "Yes— if you like." 
 
 " Where shall we meet, then — somewhere near here ? " 
 
 Then, as she hesitated and reflected, I made a sugges- 
 tion. I understood by her manner that she did not wish 
 to meet me too near her home, so I proposed the Stras- 
 burg statue, on the Place de la Concorde, as our place 
 of rendezvous. It would only take her some four or five 
 minutes to walk there, and I added that she must, of 
 course, come in the morning, for we should have to be 
 at the Paradis by seven in the evening, and a mere after- 
 noon in the country would not be enough. 
 
 At last all was arranged; she would meet me not later 
 than eleven, and I promised to he at the statue by half- 
 past ten, in order that she might in no case have to wait. 
 
 But our driver had pulled up, and I alighted to help 
 her out of the cab. 
 
 "I shall drive back to the Eue Pasquier," I said; 
 " so do not let us quarrel about the fare, as we did the 
 other night." 
 
 " Oh, but I must pay half! " she insisted. 
 
 " Well, we will settle it to-morrow. You will remem- 
 ber? Not later than eleven. You will certainly find 
 me waiting. Good-night till to-morrow." 
 
 "Yes, till to-morrow. Good-night." 
 
 I pressed her hand, waited till the door opened, and 
 then drove away. 
 
 Ah, my fine resolutions — ^the new philosophy that 
 17 
 
orfi Cr'HE LOVER'S 
 
 J J- PROGRESS 
 
 I had brought back with me from Spain ! Where were 
 they now ? In love ? Why, I was head over heels in 
 love — ^intoxicated with love. To think that I had re- 
 garded nine out of every ten women as worthless and 
 false! How insane of me ! 
 
 Only a few months had elapsed since my return to 
 Paris, and now I had met a girl with as good and as 
 true a heart as ever was. And she was charming, she 
 was beautiful, she had every good quality. And she 
 cared for me; I felt it, though this perhaps was due less 
 to any merit of my own than t6 the circumstance that 
 chance — pure chance — had enabled me to tender her 
 some sympathy in the midst of a lonely, self-sacrificing, 
 courageous life. 
 
 Perhaps even I had simply crossed her path at what 
 is a fateful hour in a woman's existence, and perhaps 
 another, coming at that moment, might have gained 
 her confidence and friendship as easily as I seemed to 
 have done. 
 
 Only one thing was certain: she was too proud, too 
 upright, to yield to the seductions which encompass 
 those of her class. She welcomed applause, she revelled 
 in her profession, but she was intent on providing for 
 herself and her stricken father, and she would not sell 
 her beauty. She must be won, and only love could win 
 her. Would mine, the love which had returned to me 
 like welcome balm after two fretful and cynical years, 
 prove strong enough to achieve that conquest ? 
 
rHE LOFER'S prn 
 
 PROGRESS '^jy 
 
 Full of these thonghts as my cab rattled over the 
 paving-stones, I again raised my eyes to the sky, where 
 the stars veere shining like the beacons of a million 
 hopes, and I felt inspirited. I thrust back into nihility 
 — ^forever, so I thought — each pang that could come 
 from the past, and I vowed that I would not look behind 
 me again, but go ever forward, yielding once more to all. 
 the powers of love and life, the guidance of good Mother 
 Nature, who assuredly could not wish her children ill. 
 
 And this time might she triumph — she who in the 
 past had promised me Lotis, and who now offered me 
 the hope of winning Salta! Mammon was not always 
 victorious. If the daughter of the bourgeoisie, well 
 bred, taught to believe in honor and rectitude and good 
 faith, succumbed to the fascinations of the Golden Calf, 
 perchance the despised girl of the ballet, exposed to 
 every temptation, the girl at whom great ladies sneered 
 in their drawing-rooms whence no splendor or affecta- 
 tion of propriety could remove the stigma of conjugal 
 frailty and venality — perchance she, commonly regarded 
 as the lowest, the most worthless of all who minister to 
 man's amusement, might find the strength to reject the 
 bribes of the wealthy, and choose the simple path of love 
 and nature. 
 
 And, in any case, whether she became mine or not, 
 I loved her with my whole heart; and to know that I 
 could love again, in spite of all the torture of the past, 
 was in itself both comfort and delight. 
 
pX^ (THE LOFER'S 
 
 ^^^ 1 PROGRESS 
 
 IF 
 
 ^estion and Answer 
 
 A EADIANI morning, the sun and the blue of early 
 summer overhead, and Salta in all her loveliness beside 
 me. For the first time since her mother's death she 
 had cast off her black garments, and now in her pretty 
 costume of pearl-gray cashmere, with silken trimmings 
 of a slightly darker shade, she looked daintily bewitch- 
 ing, as supple as ever, but less slim and girlish, for gray 
 lent relief to the delicate roundness, the gentle curves of 
 a figure in which early womanhood was blooming with 
 all its sweet and adorable charm. 
 
 And the hat, in itself a little poem, which crowned 
 her fair hair, streaked here and there with gold, suited 
 her exquisitely, whether the eye sought harmony of 
 color or unity of lines. 
 
 My delight was intensified by a discovery which I had 
 made at my first glance — she wore no veil, and thus 
 I could freely feast my eyes upon her beauty. Her 
 white forehead — for women did not then compete with 
 poodles in the arrangement of their hair — her pink and 
 well-shaped ears, in the lobes of which small " buttons " 
 set with turquoises were gleaming ; her slender nose with 
 its quivering nostrils; her liquid eyes, now blue, now 
 
rHE LOFER'S ^J^j 
 
 PROGRESS ^^^ 
 
 gray, according to the light ; the rosebuds of her mouth, 
 the dimple of her chin — all were ofEered to my gaze. 
 
 And how velvety seemed her cheeks! I could not 
 detect on them one speck of powder, the faintest trace 
 of the rouge which her profession compelled her to ap- 
 ply every evening. Color came to those soft, smooth 
 cheeks, but it was the natural glow of fresh young blood, 
 telling of health, of liveliness at the prospect of a happy 
 day, and of consciousness of the admiration that sparkled 
 in my glance. 
 
 There was only one thing amiss. Having lacked time 
 and opportunity to bring a sunshade in keeping with 
 her costume, she had brought a black en-cas as a substi- 
 tute. In the first moment of my delight at meeting her 
 I had not noticed it, but when she spoke of the matter, 
 I found the en-cas very black, dreadfully black — so op- 
 pressively black that it seemed to me it would assuredly 
 cast a shadow over hours which I longed to find all azure 
 and rose color. But there was nothing to be done ap- 
 parently, Eo we took a cab, a victoria, and I told the 
 man to drive to the Gare Saint Lazare. 
 
 "Where are we going?" Salta asked me when we 
 were seated in the vehicle, each slightly turned toward 
 the other, and exchanging happy smiles. 
 
 "To Chatou," I said; "we can have dejeuner there 
 and then walk along the avenue beside the river to 
 Croissy and the islands, if yon are not too tired. We 
 can come back by way of Bougival and Eueil. Be- 
 
2^2 (THE LOVER'S 
 J- PROGRESS 
 
 sides, the tramway line from Marly to Kueil passes 
 Bougiyal." 
 
 " We mast not get back too late," said Salta, with 
 a faint suggestion of alarm in her smile. 
 
 " Fear nothing; there will be plenty of trains," I an- 
 swered. " I hare a little list of them in my pocket." 
 And, consulting my watch, I added: "It was good of 
 you to come so early; it was a quarter to eleven when 
 you arrived. We shall have a train to Chatou at twenty 
 minutes past, so we have plenty of time before us." 
 
 We were then driving up the Eue Tronchet, and as 
 my glance strayed past Salta to the shops on her side of 
 the way I suddenly saw that one of them was open. 
 Quick as thought I sprang up and stopped the driver. 
 Salta was all amazement. 
 
 "But cannot you see," I said to her, "it is an um- 
 brella and parasol shop? We may find something to 
 your taste, and if so, we will leave your en-cas there, for 
 it is so black it makes me feel quite sad." 
 
 She began to laugh, but nevertheless she alighted and 
 accompanied me to the shop. 
 
 " Are you superstitious then ? " she asked. 
 
 "Yes, dreadfully, particularly in matters of color, 
 and I also believe in omens." 
 
 The shop was a small one, and there was little display 
 in its window; but among other sunshades I saw two or 
 three of various grayish tints. So we entered and in- 
 spected them, and Salta chose a fairly pretty one, for 
 
rHE LOVER'S J3/^? 
 
 PROGRESS ^J 
 
 which about twice its value was asked by the shop- 
 keeper, an old Jewish-looking man, who had opened 
 that fine Sunday morning on the chance of doing a little 
 business, for the great bulk of the Paris shops, particu- 
 larly the Magasins de Nouveaut6's, were already at that 
 date adopting " Sunday closing." 
 
 "It is too dear," said Salta. "Why, at the Prin- 
 temps I should not pay half that price." 
 
 " But the Printemps is not open to-day, madame," 
 replied the shopkeeper. 
 
 That was an unanswerable objection, and besides we 
 had no time to haggle. 
 
 "Here, pay yourself!" I exclaimed, tendering a 
 louis, while Salta burst into protests. "And please 
 keep this en-cas till to-morrow. Madame or I will call 
 for it." 
 
 I hurried her from the shop, declaring that we would 
 settle matters in the cab, and this with much animation, 
 which brought quite a flush of color to her cheeks and 
 made her look prettier than ever, she insisted upon do- 
 ing. I had to take a louis from her, and hand her the 
 few francs' change which the shopkeeper had given me. 
 
 " How unreasonable you are!" I said. "It was my 
 idea to buy that sunshade. You would not have bought 
 it, for you found it too dear, and now I shall be re- 
 proaching myself for having made you spend that 
 money. Won't you accept anything from me then ? " 
 
 And as she simply laughed, having recovered her 
 
264 
 
 rHE LOFER'S 
 PROGRESS 
 
 equanimity now that she had forced her louis on me, 
 I added: " I hope you do not mean to behave like that 
 all day. You are my guest, you know, for I invited you; 
 and from this moment I mean to pay for everything." 
 
 But she shook her head, saying that she intended to 
 pay her own share of the expenses. At this I was in 
 despair, and a cri du cceur escaped me. 
 
 " You will spoil my day," I said. " The idea of offer- 
 ing you a few hours' enjoyment made me so happy!" 
 
 " But I shall enjoy myself very much," she answered, 
 "and so will you. And is it not better thus? We 
 shall be two comrades, sharing everything." 
 
 Her smile as she said that enraptured me. Ifeverthe- 
 less, I still tried to have my own way, though the only 
 point on which I could wring consent from her was that 
 I should defray our expenses for the time being, and 
 that we should have a general settlement in the evening. 
 
 But we had now reached the Gare Saint Lazare, just 
 in time for our train, and although I took first-class 
 tickets, Salta, on reaching the platform, at once pro- 
 posed that we should travel in an impSriale.* Indeed, 
 before I could express my fears for her pretty gown and 
 
 * For the enlighteninent of the reader who has never been to 
 Paris, I may here explain that in the trains running through the 
 environs of the city the second-class carriages often have upper 
 floors, roofed in, but quite open on both sides. These impiriales, 
 as they are dalled, are reached by precipitous little gangways at 
 either end of the coach. 
 
rHE LOFER'S pAr 
 
 PROGRESS ^^J 
 
 caation her about the inconvenience to which she might 
 be put by smoke and dust, she tripped up one of the 
 black gangways, and I had to follow. 
 
 "It will be" much more amusing," said she, "and we 
 shall see the country so much better." 
 
 All her happy spirits had returned now that money 
 was no longer in question, and we thoroughly enjoyed 
 our ride, the more so as only two or three other passen- 
 gers, whose backs were turned to us, shared our particu- 
 lar imperiale. 
 
 Ah, the little exclamation of relief when we passed 
 through the gap in the fortifications, and the delight 
 when we crossed the fl.rst bend of the Seine at AsniSres! 
 Thwe, at Bois Colombes and La Garenne, all the white 
 villas were smiling amid the greenery of early summer. 
 But presently came the plain of Nanterre, with its great 
 stretch of market gardens, a league of lettuces and cab- 
 bages; and far away on our left towered the height of 
 Mont Val6rien. 
 
 Salta, however, looked ahead toward the next bend 
 of the river, and while she leaned out of the carriage 
 I became fearful for her safety, and caught hold of her 
 hand, which she allowed me to retain in my own; then, 
 on alighting at Chatou, I received her almost in my 
 arms as she sprang from the little gangway. Others 
 might look and pass remarks about our spirits, but we 
 were like children out for a holiday, and our only 
 thoughts were of ourselves. 
 
pXX (THE LONER'S 
 
 ^^^ 1 PROGRESS 
 
 We went straight to the Seine, and the H6tel de la 
 Marine being farther up stream than I had thought, we 
 decided to patronize another riverside restaurant, whose 
 building and arbors had been freshly painted for the 
 summer. 
 
 Of course we took dSjeuner in an arbor, a little box 
 of a place, about which, apart from the trellis-work, 
 there was only a meagre show of greenery. But that 
 did not matter, nor did the menu matter much. There 
 was, I know, the usual friture of Seine fish, and we 
 drank white wine with a pierre-^-fusil flavor. I am 
 certain also that I partook heartily of everything set 
 before me. 
 
 For the man who cannot eat heartily cannot love. 
 Love is health, not sickliness, and if the true lover 
 neither gorges himself with meats, nor soddens himself 
 with wine, on the other hand, he does not reject his 
 food. He chooses the happy mean, and thrives thereby, 
 leaving greediness to the glutton and loathing to the 
 simpleton, who, imagining his heart to be wrung when 
 his stomach simply is out of order, should turn his 
 thoughts to pills rather than to beauty. He, no doubt, 
 belongs to the class which imagines that lovers may 
 touch their mistresses by becoming pale, languid, and 
 emaciated. But we all know what the old song tells us 
 on the subject. 
 
 As for Salta, she, I am glad to say, likewise ate with 
 a ready appetite, to which I carefully ministered, while 
 
rHE LOFER'S ^Ay 
 
 PROGRESS / 
 
 the waiter was as attentive and as obsequious as waiters 
 always are when a young man and a beautiful young 
 woman, who are perpetually smiling at each other, take 
 lunch in semi-privacy. 
 
 Another arbor near us was occupied by some young 
 feUowB of the boating class, whom we heard talking and 
 laughing together. Accordingly, until the white wine 
 had made us merry and careless, we ourselves lowered 
 our voices for fear of being overheard, and this lent a 
 delightful suggestion of secrecy and mysteriousness to 
 the earlier part of our meal. 
 
 Then, having noticed that the waiter glanced at me 
 curiously when I once addressed Salta in his presence 
 by her name — ^her stage name — I resolved to be more 
 cautious in future. But it was annoying to have no 
 name to call her by. Circumstanced as we were, I did 
 not care to use the expression ma cMre, which has many 
 meanings, and I was quite at a loss in the matter, when 
 I suddenly remembered her real name, Gabrielle. 
 
 In a few minutes I found an opportunity to address 
 her by it, and a quick glance, a flutter of her eyelids, 
 a trifle more color in her cheeks, responded to my 
 audacity. But we were comrades — ^were we not? — I 
 added. She herself had said so, and comrades called 
 each other by their Christian names. Besides, Gabrielle 
 was such a pretty name. Had there not been the " belle 
 Gabrielle" famous in song and story, whom, by the 
 way, she greatly resembled ? 
 
pX <P Cr'HE LOVER'S 
 J- PROGRESS 
 
 She laughed at this as at some high-flown compliment, 
 but I told her. that the " belle Gabrielle " had really 
 been fair like herself, with much the -same dash of gold 
 in her hair, and I traced points of resemblance in her 
 white brow, her blue-gray eyes, her red and smiling lips. 
 Then, as she only laughed the more, I added that I 
 would send her the volume of Sainte-Beuve's " Lundis," 
 containing his portrait of the famous favorite, to show 
 her that I was inventing nothing. 
 
 "And my name, my Christian name, I will wager 
 you cannot guess it," said I- " You have never heard 
 it, have you?" 
 
 Alas! no. I was simply Monsieur Letty to her. 
 Some of the staff at the Paradis called me le petit Letty, 
 or r Anglais, among themselves, but none was acquainted 
 with my Christian name. 
 
 However, as we were now getting merry, she feigned 
 some attempts at guessing it, selecting in turn the most 
 uncommon and outrageous names she could think of — 
 Tiburce, Pancraoe, On^sime, Anatole, Z^phyrin, Ignace. 
 No, no! said I; it was none of those. It was an Eng- 
 lish name, or, at least, a name which was written in the 
 same fashion both in French and in English. 
 
 Thereupon, with an assumption of artlessness which 
 the sparkle in her eyes belied, she inquired: 
 
 " Is it a dog's name, then ? " 
 
 We both exploded. But no, said I, amid my laugh- 
 ter; it was neither Bob, nor Willy, nor Benny, nor any 
 
rHE LOFER'S ^/ _ 
 
 PROGRESS ^Cy 
 
 of the other names which French Anglomaniacs were 
 so fond of bestowing on their poodles. It was a very 
 simple name, and began with the letter C. Then, at 
 the first attempt, she guessed it, and for a moment 
 became almost pensive, as if she were turning the name 
 over in her mind. 
 
 We took coffee, and, at her suggestion, I smoked just 
 one cigarette before we sallied forth, walking slowly 
 toward Croissy. The river flowed on our left below the 
 avenue we were following, and across it rose the heights 
 and foliage of La Malmaison and Bougival. 
 
 The afternoon was a splendid one; the water shim- 
 mered beneath the sun-rays, but the heat was tempered 
 by a light breeze, laden with all the pleasant odors of 
 woods and fields and gardens. There were happily few 
 people about. Here and there one saw an angler by the 
 waterside, or a little party of promenaders strolling 
 along the avenue; but at Croissy, whither people flocked 
 to boat and bathe after mid-June, the season had not 
 yet begun. 
 
 Thus quietude and almost solitude were ours, and as 
 we walked, Salta leaning lightly on my arm the while, 
 I began to speak about myself, for the guessing of my 
 Christian name had reminded me that she really knew 
 very little of either my position or my past life. 
 
 "So you really are English," she said to me when 
 I had told her something of my parentage and boyhood. 
 
 " Yes," I answered; " what made you doubt it ? " 
 
2 70 <T'HE LOVER'S 
 
 ^ J- PROGRESS 
 
 " Why, the way in which everybody pronounces your 
 name, Letty — & Vltalienne. Besides," she added, with 
 a smile, "one might think you had lived in Paris all 
 your life." 
 
 Then I explained to her that my people were certainly 
 of Italian origin, and had originally written their name 
 Letti, but they had long been English. And that point 
 elucidated, I spoke of my own arrival in Prance and of 
 my school-days at Bonaparte. 
 
 But all at once I found myself pausing with embar- 
 rassment in the very middle of a sentence: for other 
 memories had come back, memories of my early love, 
 and they afEected me strangely. She, who had been 
 listening with interest, was plainly surprised by my sud- 
 den silence and gravity. 
 
 Should I tell her the truth? Would it be wise? 
 Does not the man who woos a woman keep back, in 
 nine cases out of every ten, at least until he has won 
 her, all mention of any previous love ? And yet some 
 feeling — perhaps love itself — ^prompted me to tell every- 
 ■ thing to Salta. A vague ide,a came to me that by doing 
 so I might perchance find the way to her heart, which, 
 however favorably disposed, was hardly mine as yet. 
 Thus, while we walked on slowly, I said: 
 
 " Life is full of change, is it not ? What you have 
 told me of yourself shows that you have known many 
 changes; and so have I. My father wished to make 
 a lawyer of me; then I myself decided to become a jour- 
 
rHE LOVER'S 0*7 7 
 
 PROGRESS / 
 
 nalist; and now here I am, secretary at a theatre, merely 
 dabbling in journalism in order to gain a little extra 
 money. And, besides, I ought to have been married by 
 now, whereas I am still single. " 
 
 I was not looking at her as I spoke, but I was aware 
 that she glanced at me on hearing those last words. 
 
 " Yes," I added, " I was virtually engaged to be mar- 
 ried for several years, but it never came ofE." 
 
 My voice must have sounded very melancholy, for, 
 without any hesitation, Salta asked me : 
 
 "Did she die?" 
 
 " Oh, no; she threw me over: I was not rich enough 
 for her." 
 
 " Then she did not love you." 
 
 "Oh, I think she did — I am sure she did: at one 
 time — in fact, for years. But her circumstances changed ; 
 her people — or, rather, her uncle — ^became very rich, 
 and she married him." 
 
 "Her uncle!" exclaimed Salta, in a tone suggestive 
 of both repulsion and incredulity. 
 
 " Yes. He was over forty, fat and goggle-eyed, and 
 she married him, for he was very wealthy." 
 
 We took a few steps in silence; then Salta said, in 
 a gentle voice : 
 
 " And you loved her very much, n'est-ce-pas f " 
 
 " Yes, certainly I did. Oh, it's all over now! I have 
 never seen her since, and have scarcely even given her a 
 thought; but talking of my youth brought it all back." 
 
2 7 P (rfHE L OVER ' S 
 
 ' JL PROGRESS 
 
 "It must hare been a hard blow for you," rejoined 
 Salta, whose hand pressed my arm, as if in sympathy. 
 
 "It was at the time, and it disgusted me with all 
 women. I could not put faith in any of them." 
 
 " But all women are not like that." 
 
 "Oh, of course not! I know it now," I answered, 
 with a smile. " It is you who have shown me that." 
 
 " I ? " she ejaculated. 
 
 ^ " Yes. I am sure that you keep your word; and your 
 life would not be what it is if you were one of the women 
 who, in one way or another, sell themselves for money." 
 
 She flushed crimson, but made no answer. 
 
 We had at that moment reached the bridge which 
 spans the two arms of the Seine girdling the long island 
 of La Chauss6e ; and as some other promenaders came 
 up to us, our conversation changed. 
 
 I suggested that we might sit down and rest awhile 
 on the island when we reached it, for I did not wish her 
 to tire herself; and, to calm any fears she might have 
 of returning late to Paris, I pointed out that it was only 
 half -past two o'clock, and that when we reached Bougi- 
 val a tram-car would take us to Eueil Station in a few 
 minutes. 
 
 Thus, on reaching the island midway across the 
 stream, we quitted the bridge and strolled over the 
 grass, under the rustling poplars, until I discovered 
 a pleasant nook near the waterside, where we could sit 
 down. 
 
T 
 
 'HE LOFER'S ;, « -, 
 
 PROGRESS '^/J 
 
 Now and again, athwart the bushes, we could just 
 espy a boat passing up or down the river, and we could 
 hear the twittering of the birds among the branches 
 overhead; but otherwise all was very quiet. The sun 
 had been shining on the spot throughout the morning, 
 and the grass seemed quite dry; so Salta sat down, and 
 I beside her. 
 
 " It is as if we were at the end of the world," said she. 
 
 "It is a real lovers' nook," I replied. "And see, 
 there have been lovers here." 
 
 As I spoke I pointed with my walking-stick to an old 
 shrivelled, faded glove which lay on the grass near us — 
 a woman's glove, dropped, lost there undoubtedly, dur- 
 ing the previous summer. We both began to laugh. 
 
 " If she lost her glove, she must have lost her heart," 
 said I. "A woman would not lose one without the 
 other." 
 
 " Oh, I have mine on," retorted Salta, looking at her 
 gloved hands with quite a provoking smUe. 
 
 "I wish you hadn't," I said. "I do not wish yon 
 to lose them; but I know you have very pretty little 
 hands indeed. I noticed them during dejeuner." 
 
 She raised a warning finger. 
 
 " Ton know what was agreed between us ? " said she. 
 
 " I know that I made a foolish promise which I can- 
 not keep." 
 
 " Then you are as bad as you take the women to be: 
 
 you are not a man of your word." 
 18 
 
2'7/i CfHE LOVER'S 
 
 f^ -/ PROGRESS 
 
 " It is you who make me break it." 
 
 "I?" 
 
 "YeSj by looking so pretty. If you will promise 
 never to look pretty, I will promise never to court you." 
 
 This was not original; I had read it somewhere. 
 However, she could not help smiling, and I took one of 
 her hands and said: "Do yoii know that you are the 
 first woman who has made my heart beat since the affair 
 I told you of ? " 
 
 She smiled again, but this time with incredulity. 
 
 " Perhaps that was not very long ago ? " she said. 
 
 "It was; it happened in '74. It was early in the 
 spring that year I received my congL" 
 
 She counted up the months, and" found they made 
 over two years; then she smiled once more. 
 
 " You don't believe me," said I, " but I assure yon it 
 is quite true." 
 
 " But you told me last night that you had been in 
 Spain. You praised the way in which the Spanish 
 women walked." 
 
 My eyes fell. True, there had been something in 
 Spain, and that embarrassed me for a moment; but if 
 I were bent on frankness, I must be frank to the end. 
 
 " You are right," I said. " I am not a monk or an 
 angel. But whatever may have happened in Spain, my 
 heart had no part in it. Besides, I was free of all ties. 
 I had been cast aside, and I did not know you then. 
 Do you think it so very inexcusable on a man's part if 
 
rHE LOFER'S P ■y C 
 
 PROGRESS ^/J 
 
 he goes a little bit astray wlien all his hopes have been 
 crushed, when his whole life has been changed, and he 
 finds himself cast among strangers, with nobody whom 
 he can really care for, no true affection to guide him ?" 
 
 "I do not know; I am not a man," she answered, 
 adding, after a little pause: " At least you are frank." 
 
 "Is it not best to be frank with those one loves? " I 
 asked. "Do you dislike frankness? Do I offend 
 you?" 
 
 She raised her glance to mine — a soft yet eloquent 
 glance, which told me that frankness and sincerity were 
 welcome to her ; as if, indeed, they were something she 
 had often sought and seldom found in the life she led, 
 surrounded by vulgar amours, amid admirers who only 
 thought of making her their toy. 
 
 " If you were a young girl fresh from school, I might 
 not speak like this," said I, " and certainly I will not 
 say a word to offend you; but you know what life is. 
 Our surroundings at the Paradis tell the whole tale, and 
 your credit is all the greater for living as you do amid 
 so much temptation, so many examples of weakness. I 
 marvel at it when I think you have nobody beside you, 
 young as you are, too " 
 
 " I am not so young," she answered. 
 
 " No ? How old are you, then ? " 
 
 " I shall be two-and-twenty in August." 
 
 I looked at her. Yes, she might be that age, though 
 I had thought her a year or two younger. 
 
276 
 
 rHE LOFER'S 
 PROGRESS 
 
 " And how old do you take me to be ? " I asked. 
 
 That question brought back her smile. She gave me 
 another glance, and answered : 
 
 "Twenty-seven? twenty-eight?" 
 
 "No; I shall only be three-and-twenty this year," 
 And, noticing her surprise, I added: "I have always 
 looked older than my years. It does not worry me now, 
 but I fear I shall seem quite an old man by the time 
 I am five-and-forty," 
 
 She, however, was thinking of something else. 
 
 " What you told me of your marriage was not really 
 serious, then," said she, "for you were so very young." 
 
 "Indeed, it was serious. Let me tell you exactly 
 what happened." 
 
 Then I recounted, at no great length, but with all 
 frankness, the story of my attachment for Lotis, how it 
 had begun when I was a mere bpy and she a mere girl, 
 how it had grown with my early manhood, how I had 
 striven against all obstacles, and how I had been defeated 
 in the end. 
 
 Her eyes opened with wonder as I proceeded ; once or 
 twice she smiled, and once her hand, which I was still 
 holding, returned the pressure of my own. When I fin- 
 ished, it seemed to me that there was a strange com- 
 mingling of feeling and happiness in her glance. 
 
 "And so," I concluded, "I am now all alone. My 
 people are in England, and I dare say I shall never 
 return to live among them. But if I am lonely, I am 
 
r HE LOVER'S ^yy 
 
 PROGRESS // 
 
 much happier than I was even a few months ago, for 
 then, however beautiful women might be, whatever 
 good they might seem to do, I distrusted them all, 
 whereas everything seems changed at present. You 
 have brought me back hope and faith and love, for — 
 why should I hide it? — I love you, Salta; I love you, 
 Grabrielle; I do indeed." 
 
 I raised the gloved hand that I was holding to my 
 lips. It was the first woman's hand that I had kissed 
 since I had bidden Lotis farewell. But Salta was 
 trembling; I could tell it. Her eyes were turned away 
 from me, and she spoke no word. 
 
 "We have not known each other very long," said I, 
 " and I do not ask you for an answer now; but give me 
 a little hope, and perhaps some day, when you know me 
 better, you will listen to me and be willing to marry 
 me " 
 
 But she recoiled, and withdrew her hand from my 
 grasp. 
 
 " I cannot marry; it is impossible! " she cried. 
 
 I started, and remembered what she had said to me 
 on the previous night, when I had first spoken to her of 
 love. Had she really kept something from me, then? 
 Was there something in her life at variance with what 
 she had already related ? 
 
 In any case, I felt certain that no blame rested on 
 herself; and, oh! I should not hesitate, for I loved her, 
 I needed her, and her past, whatever it might be, should 
 
0-7^ Cr'HE LOVER'S 
 
 /" J- PROGRESS 
 
 be buried with my own. But I wronged her abomin- 
 ably by that momentary suspicion, for scarcely had I 
 asked her, "Impossible! Why is that? Tell me," 
 than she responded: " You forget my father." 
 
 Her father ? What of him ? Misfortune had clouded 
 his mind, but that was no fault of hers; and if I mar- 
 ried her there would be two to provide for him until 
 death should release him from his living grave. 
 
 But tears had started from her eyes. She was sob- 
 bing, and all that I could do, in my surprise, was to 
 take her hand again, pass an arm about her waist, and 
 ask her why she was so distressed. At last she answered : 
 
 "I told you last night that it must not be. When 
 I first spoke to you about my father I did not say every- 
 thing. It is true that misfortune dealt him the last 
 blow, but he had been strange for some years previously; 
 that was why he retired from the stage when still so 
 young." 
 
 How dreadful! A shadow seemed to fall; it was as if 
 that black en-cas, left behind in Paris, had suddenly 
 intervened between me and the sun. Ah! I was right; 
 there were such things as omens. I needed no further 
 explanations to understand that Salta feared lest the 
 fatal taint of insanity should have been transmitted to 
 herself. 
 
 Yet surely that was a mere fancy of hers. Madness 
 may be hereditary at times, but it" is not always so. 
 Even in families where such heredity can be traced it 
 
rHE LOFER'S p^f. 
 
 PROGRESS ^/y 
 
 may fix itself on one child and not on another, and at 
 times it may skip an entire generation. Besides, per- 
 haps she exaggerated. Assuredly there was no sign of 
 insanity in her; everything I had seen of her — every- 
 thing that she had told me of her life — ^indicated good 
 sense and courage. 
 
 " How did it begin ? Tell me about it," I said. 
 
 But she herself did not know very much. Her father 
 had always possessed a whimsical nature. Extremely 
 mean at times, he had been foolishly prodigal at others. 
 Now and again he had thrown up an engagement for 
 no apparent reason, while on certain evenings, when an 
 audience was already waiting for him, he had abruptly 
 refused to sing, although his voice was at its best, and 
 so forth. 
 
 But in the lives of the great vocalists, as in those of 
 the great musicians, there are frequent instances of 
 erratic behavior, and had it not been for the loss of his 
 fortune consequent upon the war, Gloriat, it seemed, 
 would simply have been a somewhat eccentric man of 
 talent. High talent, like genius, is undoubtedly allied 
 to madness; but where would the world be, said I, if all 
 men of talent whose behavior was occasionally odd were 
 set down as lunatics ? Salta, however, then told me of 
 a conversation between her mother and old Tiloff, the 
 composer, which she had heard some years previously. 
 
 "They were talking about me," she said. "I was 
 in the next room, though they did not know it, and 
 
pi>^ cr'HE LOFER'S 
 
 '^"^ J- PROGRESS 
 
 I heard my mother say what a cruel misfortune ours 
 was, for it would not be right for a madman's daughter 
 to marry." 
 
 " But what did TilofE say ? " I asked. " Many people 
 regard him as being quite mad, though he also is only 
 queer." 
 
 " Yes, he is eccentric," she replied. " That very day 
 he laughed at my mother, and said that the madmen 
 were the men of genius, and that if their sons and 
 daughters ceased to marry no more genius would be left 
 in the world. But my mother replied that she should 
 not allow me to marry. She even spoke to me about it 
 before she died." 
 
 " What did she say then ? " I asked. 
 
 " She repeated what she had said to Monsieur Tiloff," 
 replied Salta in a faltering voice; "she told me that 
 I must not marry, for it would be dreadful if I should 
 have children afflicted like my father." 
 
 Plainly enough Madame Defresne had believed in the 
 hereditary nature of her husband's disorder. Still, 
 I was not convinced. 
 
 "Have you had other relatives similarly stricken ? " 
 I asked. 
 
 " No, I do not think so; I never heard of any," said 
 Salta, as she wiped her eyes. 
 
 " Your grandfather on your father's side — was there 
 anything the matter with him? Do you remember 
 him?" 
 
rHE LOFER'S ^Pt 
 
 PROGRESS 
 
 " Ho; I was born after his death. I only know that 
 he was killed in a railway accident." 
 
 " You never heard that he was like your father ? " 
 
 "No, never." 
 
 "You see, then," said I, "your fears are foolish." 
 And, with an attempt at jocularity, I added : " You feel 
 sensible enough yourself, do you not?" 
 
 " I do not know," she answered, with a little shake 
 of the head. "I have strange fancies at times, and 
 when I am on the stage all changes; I seem to be in 
 another world. I forget everything; it is as if I were 
 in a dream." 
 
 "As a danseuse you live your part, just as a great 
 actress lives hers," I exclaimed, " and that is why you 
 do everything so well, why everybody admires and ap- 
 plauds you. There is no madness in that. You have 
 been lonely like myself, and you have thought too much 
 of those things. You must let me love you, Gabrielle; 
 I will drive all such fancies away." 
 
 I saw her bosom heave, and the pressure of her hand 
 in answer to my clasp filled me with renewed hope. So I 
 drew very near to her, and almost in a whisper continued : 
 
 " Shall it be so ? You will let me love you, and when 
 you think you like me well enough you will marry me, 
 and I " 
 
 But she turned on me a glance which made me pause 
 — a glance in which love seemed to battle with infinite 
 distress. 
 
P f>P CfHE LOrER'S 
 
 ^"^ -t PROGRESS 
 
 "Ho, no; not marry you. I dare not," she stam- 
 mered; " for some day you might regret it, and I would 
 have you regret nothing. You have been so kind to 
 me ; and it is true I was quite alone, and all the men 
 I met thought me like the others, because I danced, 
 whereas you " 
 
 She stopped short, her heart too full for further 
 words; and I myself shook with emotion before I an- 
 swered her. 
 
 " Kind to you ? Who would have the heart to be 
 otherwise ? But I have done very little. "What I should 
 like would be to make yon very, very happy, for I adore 
 you, Gabrielle; I love you with all my heart, all my 
 strength. I will do everything to give you happiness." 
 
 But her distress seemed to increase. "Happiness!" 
 she gasped. "Yes; I should like to be happy, but to 
 rivet myself to you would be so wrong." 
 
 " Oh, do not refuse me! " I cried. " You will drive 
 me to despair. I want you more than ever now. You 
 love me, too; I feel it, I know it; so why refuse me? 
 I love you so!" 
 
 And all at once the thought that, like my first love, 
 she in turn might escape me and leave me desolate, with 
 yearning never to be satisfied, filled me with an agony 
 I could not endure. I sobbed and stammered : 
 
 "It is awful! Never, never will a woman I love be 
 mine. Oh, Gabrielle, take some pity on me ! You do 
 not know how I love you, how I want you! " 
 
rHE LOFER'S pD j 
 
 PROGRESS ^^J 
 
 Then she, ia whose eyes there now shone a soft, caress- 
 ing light, which brightened till it became a flame of 
 ardent feeling, caught hold of my hands, and said : 
 
 "Listen! I will not bind you to me, yet if you love 
 me, Charles, if you want me, I will be yours — ^your wife 
 for you and me; for, it is true, I love you — ^yes, I love 
 you as much as you love me." 
 
 I uttered a cry of rapture, and would have clasped her 
 to my heart; but she checked me for an instant longer, 
 saying: 
 
 "In that way, if anything should happen, you will 
 only have to let me go; and, for the others, I care not 
 what they say or think." 
 
 " Let you go! " I cried. " Never while I live! '" 
 
 But at that moment she released my hands and fell 
 upon my neck. Our lips met, wildly, hungrily, and the 
 heavens disappeared from above us; we heard no more 
 the rustling of the trees, nor the twittering of the birds, 
 nor the murmur of the river beyond the bushes. Only 
 she and I and love were left in all the world. 
 
284 
 
 rHE LOFER'S 
 PROGRESS 
 
 V 
 
 From "Joy to Sorrow 
 
 Ah! I had never lived before that hour. All my 
 youth had passed in striving and in longing, and my 
 ideal had ever fled my clasp, leaving me tantalized, 
 athiret, unblessed. But everything had altered now. 
 One had come, and by her side I trod enchanted ground. 
 
 And she was woman in all that can render woman 
 adorable to man. Tenderness of heart, beauty, fresh- 
 ness, the sovereign flame of passion, she offered all to 
 me. With her the legend of Love and Psyche was re- 
 versed. When she folded her arms about my neck, I 
 was raised from earth and set among the gods. I was 
 not sorry now that the plenitude of happiness had been 
 so long denied me; I was glad that fate had kept me 
 unsated, in reserve for her: 
 
 "Bliss was in it that dawn to be alive, 
 But to be young was very heaven." 
 
 My Salta, my Gabrielle, given me in bridal by man- 
 kind's master, love, and by its mother, nature! No 
 mayor, no priest had read us any homily, or bidden us 
 love, comfort, keep, honor, or obey; and thus for society 
 we were rebels. Yet, mated as we were, we were mar- 
 
rHE LONER'S ;yj?i 
 
 PROGRESS ^ 
 
 tied — married at as lofty and as holy an altar as an; 
 that man in his superstitions has ever raised. 
 
 These pages are simply pages of record, not of argu 
 ment, yet I cannot let this subject pass without a te\ 
 words. There are those who regard marriage as a sacra 
 ment, as an ordinance of the Deity they worship, anc 
 it is only natural that these should deem it necessary t( 
 have their unions blessed by a minister of their faith 
 To all such religious folk, who are entitled to their owi 
 beliefs, but are not entitled to interfere with the hon 
 est beliefs of others, I would say that Salta and I trans 
 gressed no religious law in the course we took, becausi 
 (like thousands who dispense with religious marriage] 
 we acknowledged none. 
 
 We belonged to no church whatever. True, I had 
 been baptized in the Church of England, but I had 
 always refused to be confirmed in it, while she had beer 
 baptized a Catholic, bat had never taken her first Com- 
 munion. Yet we were not atheists. I doubt if w£ 
 could have loved as we did had we not believed ii 
 a supreme beneficent Power; but we accepted none oi 
 the churches, and as their laws did not govern us w( 
 did not transgress them. 
 
 Again, we infringed no moral law. We were faithful 
 one to the other; I sought no other woman, she listened 
 to no other man. The whole essence of the moral law 
 in matrimony is to take one spouse and cleave to him oi 
 her. 
 
pJP/5 (rr'HE LOVER'S 
 1 PROGRESS 
 
 I loved Salta: I was resolved to comfort her, to keep 
 her in sickness and in health, forsaking all other, and 
 ahove everything I honored her and adored her for the 
 sterling worth of her nature and the priceless gift of her 
 love. She shared my feelings. Thus there remained 
 but the civil law, with which we did not comply. 
 
 Ah! those laws of marriage, religious and moral and 
 civil, in how many millions of instances are they accepted 
 throughout Christendom only to be set at nought! Let 
 all the divorce courts, all the police courts, the columns 
 of fifty thousand newspapers answer. . 
 
 Yet, so long as they are not found out, the married 
 men who deceive their wives, the married women who 
 betray their husbands, are quite respectable, because 
 they are married, because they have knelt at some altar 
 raised by priests, or signed their names in a register in 
 some ofiBce set up hy the State. 
 
 And the man and the woman who simply confess their 
 love to one another, exchange their vows in privacy, and 
 adhere to them in all constancy and honor, are, for- 
 sooth, disreputable, because they are not married, be- 
 cause they have knelt at no other altar than that of 
 Truth, because they have signed their names in no other 
 register than that of their own hearts. 
 
 And human society, reared on lies, wallowing in cor- 
 ruption, battening on hypocrisy and deceit, regards 
 them with horror and scorn, unfit to be associated with, 
 as if, indeed, their purity might besmirch its own filth. 
 
rHE LONER'S 287 
 PROGRESS £_ 
 
 But I will be perfectly frank witli the reader. While I 
 refuse to regard as reprobates those who, mating, choose 
 to dispense with all ceremony of marriage, yet remain 
 true and constant one to the other, I myself have never 
 had any objection to marriage — at least, in its civil form. 
 
 Indeed, society being constituted as it is, and human 
 nature, even when full of the best intentions, being so 
 liable to waywardness and error, the simple registration 
 of the union of man and woman is at least advisable. 
 The trouble is that the State, in taking upon itself the 
 duty of registration, imposes a contract in which many 
 of the provisions are absurd, while others — those regu- 
 lating release from the contract — are sometimes cruel 
 and sometimes absolutely unmoral. 
 
 In France, when I met Salta, no divorce law at all 
 existed, and in the one city of Paris there were thou- 
 sands of couples living as we lived — mated, yet not mar- 
 ried. To-day there is a larger number of such unions, 
 consequent in part on the increase of the population, in 
 part on the absurd provisions of the divorce law now in 
 force, though the latter is appealed to annually in thou- 
 sands upon thousands of instances. 
 
 Alas for human frailty and error ! And how well one 
 can understand that people should refuse to bind them- 
 selves down when relief, should it afterward be needed, 
 remains uncertain, at the mercy, perchance, of some 
 trifling incident, or the acumen, the prejudice, the 
 stupidity of a judge. 
 
pPP cr'HE LOFER'S 
 
 ^"" 1 PROGRESS 
 
 Yet can they truly love— those who refuse to marry 
 from a fear of failing to obtain relief hereafter should 
 they need it? For love is faith and confidence, and 
 only in exceptional circumstances can the thought of 
 separation find any part in it. 
 
 In Salta's case those circumstances existed. Yielding 
 to a dread which I secretly vowed to dissipate, she re- 
 fused to bind me to her, and she gave herself to me with 
 a sublimity which intensified my adoration. As was 
 only natural, loving her as I did, I had first offered to 
 marry her legally; I was ready to do so still. I felt that 
 I should always be willing to make her my wife in the 
 presence of men, even as she was my. wife already in the 
 presence of Love and Truth. 
 
 And for the rest I was not adamant, nor was she. 
 We loved, and those who would blame us should look 
 into their own hearts, their own lives, before raising 
 their hands to cast a stone. 
 
 Our position could not long remain unknown, par- 
 ticularly at the Paradis, for although we made no ex- 
 hibition of our love we were not ashamed of it, and did 
 not practise concealment. 
 
 Now, at that time, at one end of the lower promenade, 
 near the curtained doorway by which performers reached 
 the stage, a certain set, composed chiefiy of friends of 
 the house, assembled nightly. At the head of it was 
 Achille Trani's younger brother, Ludovic, a jovial man 
 with a good-looking but sensual face. He held no posi- 
 
rHE LOFER'S P/^n 
 
 PROGRESS " 
 
 tion at the Paradis; he Bimply spent his evenings there, 
 but being the director's brother, his will was virtually 
 law at that end of the promenade. 
 
 Among others of the set were two young bachelor 
 painters, first, Henri Clouet, a personal friend of my 
 own, for we had known each other in boyhood; and, 
 secondly, Gustavo Sinais, a landscape painter of the 
 " open-air " school, whose pictures nowadays command 
 high prices, for he has risen to the front rank of his 
 profession. 
 
 Again, there was an architect, a flourishing young 
 haberdasher with a shop on the boulevards, a couple of 
 journalists, some old viveurs, and two or three cadging 
 hangers-on whose professions and whose means were 
 delightfully vague. 
 
 Thanks to Ludovic Trani, the set virtually had a box 
 at its disposal, besides monopolizing some of the red 
 velvet settees in such wise that outsiders could only find 
 a seat, at that end of the promenade, when the hdbitu&s ■ 
 betook themselves either to their box or to the upper 
 promenade to view, for instance, some trapeze perform- 
 ance. 
 
 Their usual corner was known to the staff as " the 
 lions' den," a name originally given, I believe, to a box 
 at the Paris Opera House in Louis Philippe's tiine, when 
 young men of fashion were called "lions." 
 
 However, the lions of the Paradis were neither very 
 dandified nor very terrible. They talked of women, 
 19 
 
p-o-n CfHE LOVER'S 
 
 7^ JL PROGRESS 
 
 they ogled a few of those who frequented the prom- 
 enade, and they jested with two or three of the ballet 
 girls who were merrily inclined; but they also discussed 
 the Parisian topics of the hour, in politics, literature, art, 
 social scandal, and so forth, while smoking their cigars 
 or cigarettes, and imbibing cofEee, beer, or Chartreuse. 
 
 'Now, on the evening of the Monday following my 
 excursion to Croissy with Salta I went behind the stage 
 some ten or twelve minutes before the dancing of the 
 ballet, and when Salta came from her dressing-room I 
 contrived to exchange a few words with her, and arrange 
 how we should meet when she quitted the house. 
 
 As I returned to the promenade, through which I had 
 first passed without being noticed, I found myself con- 
 fronted by Ludovic Trani and three or four members of 
 his set. 
 
 " Tiens I " Ludovic exclaimed, smiling broadly, " here 
 is the happy man! My felicitations, mon cher! " 
 
 There was no mistaking his meaning; he knew some- 
 thing of the truth. Nevertheless, I endeavored to feign 
 astonishment. 
 
 " What, you play the ignorant ? But it is not worth 
 while, my dear Letty, there are witnesses." 
 
 And, before I could put in a word, he turned to Sinais 
 the painter, who was chatting with another member of 
 the set, and said: " Here is Letty putting on the finest 
 assumption of innocence I ever beheld. Tell him where 
 you saw him on Sunday." 
 
rHE LOFER'S -^ f. j 
 
 PROGRESS y^ 
 
 Sinais smiled, and looked at me before he anBwered. 
 For a moment I had felt inclined to make myself rather 
 nasty with these gentlemen, but I had become less chol- 
 eric than in my boyhood; and, besides, denial was use- 
 less. The situation had to be faced, and the best plan 
 was to get it all over as soon as possible. 
 
 "I have nothing to hide," I said to Sinais. " If you 
 saw me yesterday, you may say it." 
 
 Of course he had said it already — behind my back. 
 
 "I only just caught sight of you," he responded, 
 smiling again. 
 
 "Where was that?" 
 
 " At the Gare Saint Lazare." 
 
 " A.nd I was not alone, n'esi-ce-pas ? You are quite 
 right — I am perfectly willing to admit it." 
 
 Then they all laughed. And Ludovic, tapping me 
 on the shoulder, added : 
 
 " Besides, there was that paragraph in the ' Babelais ' 
 this morning. Privat was here just now, and told us 
 that you paid for it." 
 
 " Privat's tongue is too long," I replied. " Never- 
 theless, it is quite true; I did pay for it." 
 
 "The patron did not appear to like it very much," 
 said Ludovic, referring to his brother. 
 
 " I cannot help that. If he won't do his duty to his 
 artistes, perhaps others will." 
 
 " Quite so; and, it is understood, let us say no more 
 about it, Only I must tell you that it gave me a shock 
 
202 <rr'HE LOFER'S 
 
 y 1 PROGRESS 
 
 at first to think that you, the alter ego of Fieron, the 
 great woman-hater, should be caught in the toils of love 
 as if you were simply one of us. Ah! but it did me 
 good. I do not believe there are any real woman-haters 
 in the world. What do you think, Monsieur Eota? " 
 
 He addressed a black-bearded man between five-and- 
 thirty and forty years of age whom I had seen roaming 
 about the Paradis on two or three previous occasions. 
 A quiet, silent man he was, whom I never saw drinking 
 or smoking, but who inspected and felt everything, and 
 looked at everybody "under the nose," as the French 
 express it. 
 
 His own nose was a peculiar one, flattened somewhat, 
 as if by a severe blow. And he was evidently very 
 short-sighted, for now and again when he pulled a little 
 black book out of his pocket he raised it close to his 
 pince-nez while nervously jotting down some note or 
 other. I had taken him for a mere journalist, but on 
 hearing him addressed by name, I was enlightened. 
 
 He had just written a novel called "La Matraque," 
 a terribly truthful study of dissolute life among the 
 Parisian working-classes, which was appearing serially 
 in an evening journal, and causing no little scandal. I 
 also knew that he had created an uproar some years pre- 
 viously by his outspokenness on matters of art. He and 
 Sinais were friends, and it was through the latter that 
 he occasionally came to the Paradis to take notes of cer- 
 tain phases of life which were to be observed there. 
 
rHE LOFER'S 0/5 : 
 
 PROGRESS "-^ 
 
 "Women-haters," he said, slowly shaking his head 
 "they certainly make none in Paris." 
 
 " Of course not," added Sinais; "it is all afEectation, 
 Fieron's turn will come next." 
 
 But just then a round of applause was heard, anc 
 Ludovic exclaimed: 
 
 " Mes enfants, come with me. If only by way a\ 
 congratulation la belle Salta deserves our plaudits thif 
 evening." 
 
 He and several others crowded into the box which th< 
 set virtually reserved for itself; and feeling rather anx- 
 ious as to what they might do, I approached the lo'vi 
 partition separating the promenade from the stalls ir 
 order to obtain a view of the stage. Eota went with 
 me, and we stood there chatting and watching the prog- 
 ress of the ballet. 
 
 Salta, radiant with happiness, moved by the enthusi- 
 asm of love, surpassed herself that evening, and thert 
 was no cause either for the claque or for Ludovic Trani'i 
 band to stimulate the applause of the audience. 
 
 " Is it she ? " Eota asked me after a moment. 
 
 I nodded. 
 
 " She has style. And the other, the dark one, is Ls 
 Bambola, n'est-ce-pas ? " 
 
 " Yes," I replied. " Tou see the difEerence betweer 
 them. La Bambola can scarcely put one foot before the 
 other." 
 
 But Eota smiled sarcastically. 
 
P^^ CT^HE LOVER'S 
 
 '^V^ -/ PROGRESS 
 
 " She can move quickly enough, when occasion re- 
 quires," said he. And noting my surprise he went on: 
 " Yes, Trani and she were my neighbors last summer at 
 Saint Aubin, on the sea-coast. Oh, very pleasant neigh- 
 bors; they kept us all in a state of alarm." 
 
 " How was that ? " I inquired. 
 
 " Why, they were always quarrelling; they roused us 
 at dead of night with their shouting and shrieking. He 
 is dreadfully afraid of her." 
 
 "I know that." 
 
 " One night, I remember, the noise was so outrageous 
 that I went to my window. And there was La Bambola, 
 with a knife in her hand, chasing Trani up and down 
 the road. It was very comical as well as very alarm- 
 ing." 
 
 I laughed. 
 
 "Well, we ought to have Trani on the stage now," 
 I said, " to induce La Bambola to bestir herself. But 
 I quite believe you; he is both infatuated with her and 
 afraid of her. I cannot understand a man being mas- 
 tered by a woman in that fashion." 
 
 Eota began to scrutinize me with his somewhat imper- 
 tinent eyes as if I were a curious animal. 
 
 "But you are desperately in love with the other, 
 according to what they say," he remarked. 
 
 I shrugged my shoulders. 
 
 " It is not the same thing. I will say nothing of La 
 Bambola, but Salta is a thoroughly good girl. You do 
 
rHE LOFER'S 20 < 
 
 PROGRESS ^yJ 
 
 not know her story, whereas I do. She is there on that 
 stage like a jewel amid a heap of dross." 
 
 Eota smiled sarcastically once more. 
 
 " A perfect peach in a basket of damaged ones," said 
 he. 
 
 " Yes, something of that kind." 
 
 " Well, you know the story, of course. One damaged 
 peach may spoil a dozen sound ones." 
 
 "Ah! but she has been in th.e midst of it all for 
 years, and the examples of the others have had no efEect 
 on her." 
 
 " It is simply a question of time. If I had a perfect 
 peach and wished to keep it perfect, I should remove it 
 from the reach of contamination." 
 
 I looked at him. He was not handsome, but there 
 was an expression of natural kindliness on his face as he 
 spoke those words. 
 
 " That is much my own opinion," said I, " but there 
 is a difficulty; she loves her profession " 
 
 " More than she loves you ? " 
 
 " Oh, you ask me too much! " I answered, laughing. 
 " I have got to find that out. In any case, much will 
 depend on myself." 
 
 " Ah! you are right there. At all events, I wish you 
 a better fate than Trani's." 
 
 Then we dropped the subject. He asked me several 
 questions about the house generally, but declined my 
 ofEer to take him " behind," as he had to leave early. 
 
2g6 
 
 r HE LOVER'S 
 PROGRESS 
 
 I spoke to him, however, of his novel " La Matraque," 
 and the sensation it was creating. 
 
 " Your methods are not very gentle," said I. 
 
 " Perhaps not. But it is of no use courting the pub- 
 lic; it must be taken by violence." 
 
 " But is not that a thing it resents ? " 
 
 " Oh, only for a little while; it grows accustomed to 
 it, even likes it occasionally." 
 
 "At all events, you make as many enemies as you 
 make friends." 
 
 "No doubt. It is very simple; most people do not 
 like to hear the truth when it is at all unpleasant." 
 
 Then he oflered me his hand, and went off toward the 
 exit, through the jostling crowd, quiet, thoughtful, and 
 unnoticed, ambitious certainly, yet scarcely imagining 
 that he would some day be ranked among the most 
 famous of the world's battlers. 
 
 After facing Ludovic Trani and his friends, I myself 
 had to do battle with Pieron, who tackled me on the 
 subject of Salta directly I reached my office the follow- 
 ing afternoon. 
 
 He was at first quite irate, and charged me with all 
 sorts of high crimes and misdemeanors. It was en- 
 tirely my fault if Salta desired a large rise in her salary. 
 I had worked the claque on her behalf, I had inserted 
 puffs in the newspapers, I had done everything I could 
 against the interests of the house which employed and 
 paid me. La Bambola had been infuriated by the para- 
 
rHE LOFER'S ^_^ 
 
 PROGRESS ^9/ 
 
 graph in the "Babelais," and to set matters right 
 twenty louis would have to be spent on puffs of her own 
 performances. And Salta would have renewed her en- 
 gagement for eight hundred francs a month, whereas it 
 would now be necessary to give her a thousand. 
 
 " "Well," I replied, "if you do not think her worth a 
 thousand, don't give it to her, don't renew her engage- 
 ment at all." 
 
 "Oh!" he exclaimed, "is that your game? Are 
 you going to take her away ? " 
 
 "Not in the sense you mean," I retorted; "I don't 
 wish to take her to any other house. But I should like 
 her to give up the stage altogether." 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 " Ah! you are all the same," he cried. " As long as 
 you are simply one of the audience you see no objection 
 to a girl showing her figure on the stage, but directly 
 you become her lover it horrifies you. Well, if that is 
 your idea, you have your work cut out for you. If 
 I know anything of Salta, she has got it in her; and 
 nothing that you may say will ever make her throw up 
 her profession." 
 
 " Perhaps not. "We shall see." 
 
 " And yourself — do you mean to leave us ? " 
 
 "Not unless you wish me to do so. When do we 
 close?" 
 
 " Well, it depends on the weather. It has been get- 
 ting very warm lately, but as the houses are still good. 
 
2g8 
 
 rHE LOFER'S 
 PROGRESS 
 
 I shall keep open as long as I can — say, if possible, until 
 July 15tli." 
 
 " And you reopen ? " 
 
 " On September 20th. Of course there will be work 
 for you and me during the latter part of the holidays, 
 but that can be arranged. For the present we will leave 
 matters in abeyance. If Salta wishes it, I will renew 
 her engagement at nine hundred, not a sou more, re- 
 member. Tell her so." 
 
 I smiled. That was her own figure. 
 
 "Well, we will consider it," I replied. "I think I 
 have been of some service to you, but I frankly acknowl- 
 edge that I did overlook the interests of the house in my 
 desire to help Salta. If only you knew, however " 
 
 " Oh, I don't want to know anything. I have heard 
 it too often before. When a man is fool enough to fall 
 in love, he is lost — quite lost. Ah, if it had only been 
 one of those girls who are always laughing and joking — 
 if it had only been a frolic — I should have said nothing! 
 But the silent girl who goes her way, setting her nets 
 for the unwary, she is the very one to be feared! She 
 will lead you a long way, Letty, you will see. I am not 
 angry with you — no, not at all. I pity you, mon cher — 
 I pity you." 
 
 Then, before I could put in a word, he strode into his 
 own room. What a croaker ! What a bird of ill-omen! 
 I shrugged my shoulders, and turned to my work. 
 
 Pending the arrival of the summer holidays, Salta 
 
rHE LOFER'S ^DO 
 
 PROGRESS yy 
 
 and I were not so much together as I could have wished. 
 Yet she was more often in the Eue Pasquier than in the 
 Eue de Ponthieu. We had given our respective land- 
 lords the usual six months' notice, and as a slightly 
 larger flat would he vacant in my house in December, 
 I was inclined to take it in lieu of the one which I now 
 occupied. 
 
 Salta shared these views, for she liked the house, and, 
 indeed, the little patch of greenery about the Expiatory 
 Chapel delighted her. But she remained firm in her 
 intention to persevere with her profession, and from 
 a pecuniary point of view she had the best of the argu- 
 ment. Granting that I might be able to keep her in 
 sufficient comfort, there still remained the question of 
 her father, and she therefore felt it incumbent on her to 
 earn money. 
 
 I accompanied her to Neuilly the first time she went 
 there, being intrt)dueed simply as a family friend to Dr. 
 Debay, who kept the maison de sanie. I then set eyes 
 on Olivier Defresne or Gloriat, the once famous tenor, 
 a tall, superbly-built man, with long curly gray hair and 
 a mousquetaire's mustaches. 
 
 His insanity was of a peculiar kind. Excepting in 
 certain respects his past life was quite a blank to him. 
 He did not recognize his own daughter; she was simply 
 the lelle demoiselle who came to see him so often, and 
 if she happened to call him father he did not appear to 
 notice it. 
 
90/1 (THE LOFER'S 
 
 ^ ^ -L PROGRESS 
 
 Again, he hated the sound of music; he never at- 
 tempted to sing. None would ever have imagined thai 
 he had been a great vocalist. But, on the other hand, 
 he had two large blackboards set up in his room, and, 
 chalk in hand, he spent the greater part of his time 
 in making elaborate calculations on them. These cal- 
 culations referred apparently to former speculations 
 which had largely contributed to his ruin. He be- 
 gan them twenty times afresh every day, and, as he 
 had a habit of ciphering on the walls if the blackboards 
 remained covered with figures, an attendant effaced 
 the latter with a cloth every morning, afternoon, and 
 evening. 
 
 For the rest, Defresne was quite a child and perfectly 
 harmless. My first visit did not seem to interest him, 
 but on the third occasion, when I accompanied Gabrielle 
 to Neuilly, he ezclaimed, in one of those sudden fits of 
 semi-lucidity which come at times to the most clouded 
 brain: 
 
 "Ah, ah I so the telle demoiselle has brought her 
 amour eux (her lover). That is right, but wait a mo- 
 ment, my children; one must be prudent — very prudent. 
 One cannot marry without money — plenty of money. 
 And you have so little! But I will show you — wait, 
 wait!" 
 
 Then he turned excitedly to one of his blackboards 
 and began to calculate. You bought Rentes at such 
 a price — good; they went up and up. Ah! what a 
 
rHE LOFER'S O/O / 
 
 PROGRESS -J 
 
 profit! But you held on to them, for they would rise 
 still higher; it was certain, positive. And then you 
 sold — ah, what a nice little pile! But it was not yet 
 enough; and forthwith he plunged into other operations 
 which would yield millions in no time. 
 
 Salta and I, however, had started, full of embarrass- 
 ment, at the mention of our love and marriage. She, 
 the dear girl, had moist eyes and flushed cheeks, which 
 could not escape the notice of Dr. Debay, who happened 
 to be present, and who, perhaps, had already guessed 
 the truth. 
 
 But the climax came when the lunatic, finishing his 
 calculations, raised a cry of triumph. He had made us 
 millionaires; we could marry now, and he jovially offered 
 his congratulations to the daughter whom he did not 
 know, whom he took for a stranger, and to me, her 
 lover! In our position it was so poignant, so awful, 
 that my darling broke down. She threw herself in her 
 father's arms and swooned, while he, in his amazement, 
 cried : 
 
 "What! what! you owe me no thanks. I am rich, 
 very rich; it is easy to make money. Wait a moment; 
 you shall see." 
 
 And forthwith he began a fresh calculation on the 
 other board. 
 
 But Salta, as soon as with our help she revived, was 
 led to another room, where some women of the house 
 attended to her, and for a few moments I remained 
 
002 CTHE LOFER'S 
 >^ 1 PROGRESS 
 
 with Dr. Debay. I told him the truth. What else 
 could I do ? 
 
 "She is a charming girl, and she has an excellent 
 heart," he said gravely. 
 
 "I would marry her to-morrow," I cried, "but she 
 will not have it. Her mother put into her mind the 
 idea that her father's complaint is hereditary. Do you 
 think it is, doctor? " 
 
 " Ah ! yon ask me too much. Those are things one 
 cannot tell," he replied. "I have no knowledge of 
 other members of her family being similarly affected. 
 And Defresne's malady being largely the outcome of 
 misfortune, there should be a preventive in the daugh- 
 ter's case — that is, if she be liable to anything of the 
 kind, which I have never noticed. 
 
 " A preventive ? " I said. 
 
 "Yes; happiness," he answered, very gravely. "Do 
 all you can to make her as happy as possible. She de- 
 serves it, and there is nothing like happiness to efface 
 certain impressions from the mind. That is all that 
 can be done; the future will tell us the rest." 
 
 I pressed his hand. A worthier man I never met. 
 And, ah! he was right. I must make my love very, 
 very happy, for she deserved it. 
 
 There was one point, however, which I did not then 
 speak about. Indeed, it only occurred to me some days 
 later when thinking of Salta's curious punctiliousness 
 in money matters. Might that not conceal the germ of 
 
rHE LOFER'S jf^j 
 
 PROGRESS J^J 
 
 some disorder similar to her father's? I felt afraid 
 when that idea occurred to me, and I dared not probe it 
 lest in doing so I should mar our happy hours. 
 
 For the rest, there were some charming features in 
 our arrangements. At that period of her life Salta, 
 perhaps, was simply a variety of the New Woman. She 
 and I became partners, as it were. At her suggestion 
 we had a common fund, to which we contributed 
 equally, and out of which we paid our joint expenses. 
 With the rest of our earnings we could do as we pleased, 
 spend money on ourselves, or put it by. She seemed 
 to be of a thrifty nature, and though she often made 
 a difficulty about accepting a present from me, she 
 would say at times, when referring to her little sav- 
 ings: 
 
 " If you want any money for yourself, I will lend you 
 some." 
 
 " But I have money at Moutonnet's," I replied. 
 
 " Oh, you had better not touch that, because it is 
 bringing you interest. " 
 
 " But if I borrow money from you, will you not want 
 interest ? " 
 
 " Not if you pay me back regularly." 
 
 " But suppose I wish to pay interest ? " 
 
 " But if I will not take it ? " 
 
 " Yes, you will — ^yon will be glad to take it." 
 
 " Not at all. I am not mercenary, though I do like 
 to have money matters in order." 
 
jQy, cr'HE LOVER'S 
 
 •J^^ 1 PROGRESS 
 
 "But you don't know how I mean to pay you 
 the interest!" I cried. "I shall give it you in 
 kisses." 
 
 And then, catching her in my arms, I paid her in 
 advance at least a thousand per cent, for the first loan 
 which I might require, though, in fact, the only one 
 I needed was that of her love and charm. 
 
 Ah, those exquisite hours! When she found I had 
 a kitchen in the Eue Pasquier, she insisted on sending 
 some of her own batterie de cuisine thither. Her 
 mother had taught her to cook, and though I made my 
 concierge's wife do all the rougher work, she herself 
 prepared many a little lunch, of which we partook right 
 gayly, seated close together in the sitting-room, near the 
 window, which was open to admit the warm breezes of 
 June. I had placed some flowering plants on the bal- 
 cony, and cut flowers perfumed and adorned the whole 
 flat. Many a morning did we go together to the flower- 
 market of the Madeleine to make all necessary pur- 
 chases. 
 
 Lunch over, we went out again, walking side by 
 side to the Paradis. I did my best to imitate her 
 light, rhythmical walk, and as we moved on together 
 in unison, people often paused to glance at us, or, 
 rather, at Salta, with her radiant face and her divine 
 step. 
 
 But there were other outings — our strolls along the 
 boulevards when we quitted the Paradis at night, our 
 
rHE LOFER'S jf^M 
 
 PROGRESS J^J 
 
 excursions into the country on Sundays. One Sunday, 
 after luncMng in a tree at Eobinson, we found ourselves 
 at the open-air ball at Sceaux, where for a while we 
 looked on, laughing. Bat the sight of all the couples 
 revolving in the shade cast by the old chestnut trees 
 filled Salta with longing. 
 
 " Can you dance, Charles? " she asked me. 
 
 "Very little," I replied, in trepidation. 
 
 I knew the step of a polka, the figures of a quadrille, 
 and years previously I had tried to waltz, but the idea 
 of exhibiting my clumsiness and lack of practice in pub- 
 lic beside her grace and skill appalled me. There was, 
 however, sach a glitter in her eyes, such a coaxingness 
 in her manner, that I was unable to resist. 
 
 I consented to follow her guidance, and when the 
 orchestra started on the then still popular " Valse des 
 Eoses," she carried me oflE into a transport of delight. 
 Many a couple gave ovei: before the music ceased, but 
 nothing could tire Salta or make her dizzy, and I was 
 spirited away in her clasp like a toy, yet a toy which felt 
 the power of the love flushing in our cheeks, languish- 
 ing in our eyes. 
 
 A crowd had formed around us, and when we stopped 
 
 we had no little diflBculty in making our way through 
 
 it. Some complimentary remarks brought smiles to our 
 
 faces, but all at once we heard a young counter-jumper, 
 
 out for his Sunday, exclaiming: 
 
 " Why, don't you know ? That is Salta, who dances 
 30 
 
3o6 
 
 r'HE LOFER'S 
 PROGRESS 
 
 in the 'Billow' at the Paradis; I recognized her at 
 once." And thereupon we fled.* 
 
 But the season ended, and we quitted Paris. I was 
 not sorry to get away, for during the week preceding 
 our departure I had more than once noticed a curious 
 expression on Salta's face. She was pensive, too, at 
 times, and I began to wonder if anything were troubling 
 her. 
 
 A change of scene would doubtless do her good, and, 
 indeed, our first days at Berni^res on the coast of Nor- 
 mandy, between the mouth of the Orne and the Cal- 
 vados rocks, were delightful. But at the end of July 
 she spoke to me : she was enceinte. 
 
 The news startled me at first, then filled me with rap- 
 ture. I found in it the most delightful proof of our 
 passion, the most eloquent testimony of the love she had 
 so often whispered when I pressed her to my heart. A 
 child, hers and mine! At the thought of it I felt that 
 I loved her more than ever. 
 
 And now I again spoke to her of marriage, but to my 
 great distress she threw herself into my arms, weeping, 
 shaking with dread. All her fears of insanity had come 
 back; even if she herself were spared, how would it be 
 with the child ? And no, no, she could not marry me 
 now; we must wait to see what would happen. 
 
 * This story, told jestingly to some of the Lover's Mends, liter- 
 ary men and others, served as the basis for a similar but mora 
 elaborate incident in a weU-ltnown French novel. 
 
rHE LOFER'S 2<9 7 
 
 PROGRESS J^/ 
 
 Again, other matters distressed her; she would have 
 to renounce her profession for a time, and, earning 
 nothing, how would she manage? In addition to her- 
 self and her father there would now be the child to pro- 
 vide for. But the child would be mine as much as hers, 
 I protested; she herself was mine also, and therefore her 
 father was mine, and she must not indulge in a doubt, 
 a fear of any kind. 
 
 None the less, she spoke of writing to Fieron, of tak- 
 ing her place in the ballet again in September, and 
 dancing in it as long as possible. And when I again 
 protested she cited the example of Clotilde, to which 
 I have previously referred. It was useless, even danger- 
 ous, to oppose her openly in such a matter at such a 
 time. I took another course. 
 
 I wrote privately to Fieron, acquainting him with the 
 situation, in such wise that when she in her turn wrote 
 to him he replied that there was no hurry, as his autumn 
 programme was not yet settled. He would see her in 
 September, and of course he should be glad to have her 
 back if she were then disposed to go to him. This vir- 
 tually left matters in abeyance, while in a measure paci- 
 fying Salta, who at last began to recover some of her 
 spirits. 
 
 Nevertheless, I feared lest she might brood amid the 
 comparative solitude of Bernieres, a little place desti- 
 tute of amusements. We had gone thither from choice, 
 in order to be alone; but diversion now seemed ad vis- 
 
jf^O Cr'HE LONER'S 
 
 -J^" J- PROGRESS 
 
 able, and, she yielding to my desires, we repaired to 
 Trouville, by way of Caen and Lisienx. And at Trou- 
 ville we found animation and gayety, whicb for a time, 
 indeed, dissipated my darling's fears. 
 
 She seemed to accept everything, even consenting to 
 the spending of much more money than we had intended 
 to spend when starting on our holiday. We were not 
 precisely extravagant, but Trouville in those days was 
 still as expensive a watering-place as any in France, and 
 more than once I had occasion to draw upon my funds 
 at Moutonnet's. 
 
 At the same time I did some work. I wrote a series 
 of articles on life at Trouville, Deauville, and the vari- 
 ous watering-places which line the coast as far as Dives; 
 and Salta was always at my elbow, prompting me with 
 a suggestion or calling my attention to a gown. ■ We 
 were very fond of talking chiffons, and over and over 
 again were delighted to find how well our tastes agreed 
 in matters of feminine attire. 
 
 But bad news having arrived from Neuilly, we re- 
 turned to Paris sooner than we had intended. After 
 flourishing physically, to all appearance, for many years, 
 Defresne was suddenly breaking up. His heart was 
 seriously affected, and Dr. Debay told us that, though 
 he might possibly last another seven or eight months, 
 the end might come at any time without warning. 
 
 Salta was greatly moved, and, hoping that the doctor 
 might be able to cheer her, I again spoke to him about 
 
rHE LOFER'S ^^^^ 
 
 PROGRESS J^y 
 
 herself, this time ia her presence. He chided her gently, 
 paternally, telling her that she must not think of such 
 things; that there was no reason whatever to regard her 
 father's complaint as hereditary; and that with respect 
 to the fancies which distressed her, her present condition 
 might work a great and most beneficial change. 
 
 As regards the influence of motherhood on women, 
 he held views shared by several scientific authorities. 
 He cited curious instances of transformations following 
 the birth of a first child. And he bade my dear one be 
 very hopeful and very happy. But instead of going 
 back to the stage at present, he said she must wait and 
 possess herself in patience, as there ought to be no dis- 
 turbing influence now, for the very reasons which gave 
 her fear. 
 
 And Debay talked so well, impressing on her that if 
 she only did as he told her she would be wondering in 
 a few months' time how she could ever have been so 
 foolish, that when we left him she was almost reconciled 
 to the prospect of "resting" until the following year. 
 
 I resumed my duties at the Paradis, and Clotilde, who 
 danced fairly well, took Salta's place in the ballet. As 
 usual, the autumn season did not begin very brilliantly, 
 but some good turns had been secured for a little later. 
 Salta came down to the house with me every afternoon, 
 and while I was engaged in my room sat in the audito- 
 rium watching some rehearsal, or went off shopping 
 with Clotilde, with whom she became quite friendly. 
 
-j.^ CTHE LOVER'S 
 
 J^^ 1 PROGRESS 
 
 Then, as the larger flat in the Eue Pasqaier was 
 vacated by its tenants sooner than we had anticipated, 
 we took possession of it by arrangement with the land- 
 lord. Salta's furniture, removed from the Kue de Pon- 
 thieu, was added to mine, and after we had made a few 
 purchases the place looked quite comfortable. 
 
 Having now engaged a servant, we took nearly all our 
 meals at home. We seemed, indeed, to be settling down 
 to a quiet bourgeois life. But we had only my earnings 
 and my funds at Moutonnet's to depend upon, and I 
 could see that this often preyed on Salta's mind. I told 
 her, however, in a jocular way, that I was only making 
 advances, and that she would have to repay me her 
 share of our outlay when she went to work again. 
 
 In November her father died quite suddenly, even as 
 Debay had foreshadowed. We were able to bury him 
 privately, but the news of his death, with which the 
 official returns acquainted some journalist at Neuilly, 
 appeared in the Paris papers, and old opera-goers imme- 
 diately trotted out their recollections of Gloriat, his 
 rdles and his eccentricities. I committed more than 
 one journal to the flames for fear lest Salta should 
 see it. 
 
 She bore up remarkably well, however, fully recogniz- 
 ing that death was, indeed, a happy release for the un- 
 fortunate man who had so long remained within a living 
 grave, and had not even known her to be his daughter. 
 Poor dear girl ! I strove to lavish affection on her, for 
 
rHE LOFER'S y r t 
 
 PROGRESS -J 
 
 now even her mad father was gone, and she had only 
 me left. 
 
 Without neglecting my duties at the Paradis, I spent 
 as much time as I could at home, writing articles, work- 
 ing on compilations which had been entrusted to me, 
 while Salta busied herself with various preparations for 
 our child. We sat in the same room in constant com- 
 munion together, and great hopes again rose within me. 
 The child would come; my love, in the joy of her 
 motherhood, would lose all her fears, and we should be 
 happy forever. 
 
 Clotilde, who, as I have mentioned, was a married 
 woman, often called upon us, and there were numerous 
 confabulations with her. Then, as time went by, I 
 found Salta utterly unwilling to nurse her child. I was 
 told one morning that it must be sent away, that a 
 worthy woman who had reared two of Clotilde's chil- 
 dren would take charge of it; and when I expostulated, 
 pointing out to my love that, even if she did not feel 
 strong enough to suckle the child herself, we might at 
 least engage a nurse and keep the little one with us, she 
 looked at me in astonishment. 
 
 "Oh, Charles, you are not reasonable!" she ex- 
 claimed. " However could we manage with a nurse and 
 the baby here? I shall be at home so little." And 
 when I would have protested, she added : " Oh, I am 
 going back to the Paradis directly it is all over. Fieron 
 wants me: Nigra is composing a new ballet for the 
 
jjP Cr'HE LOVER'S 
 
 -J J. PROGRESS 
 
 spring; and I will not have you slaving as you do to 
 keep me." 
 
 " Slaving ? I do nothing of the kind." 
 
 " Yes, you do, and you are spending all the money 
 at Moutonnet's. Things must not continue like this. 
 Besides, I must go back — I want to. You do not know 
 how I have suffered all these months. I have done all 
 you wished me to do, and now you must do something 
 for me." 
 
 And thereupon she opened her heart. She yearned 
 to be upon the stage again; and, besides, she was so 
 badly needed at the Paradis that Fieron would certainly 
 give her any salary she asked. Again, the child would 
 be well looked after at Madame Martin's until we could 
 take it back. We should go to see it occasionally. 
 Surely there could be no better arrangement. 
 
 But a bitter feeling came over me. She seemed to 
 love her profession more than all else; it was as if I 
 occupied only the second place in her heart, as if the 
 bhild would come even after myself. On that point 
 I dared not speak — besides, I had yet to see Nature's 
 power — ^but I hinted, in a jesting way, that she was 
 fonder of the Paradis than of me. 
 
 She burst into protests. No, no ! that was not true. 
 On the contrary, she wished to be with me as much as 
 possible. It was I who no longer loved her so much as 
 formerly. Had I grown tired of her then ? Did I not 
 want to have her once more wholly to myself? And 
 
rHE LOFER'S jjj 
 
 PROGRESS -J 'J 
 
 she added loving words — enticing, passionate words, the 
 words of an amorosa. 
 
 I was vanquished; I could only assent to her pro- 
 posals, and take her in my arms and cover her face and 
 neck with kisses. Then, as usual, our disagreement 
 ended in a jest. 
 
 " Oh, don't eat me ! " she exclaimed. " Keep some ap- 
 petite for dejeuner, or you will not he able to touch it." 
 
 " But appetite comes while eating," I replied. And 
 we both laughed. 
 
 The child was born toward the end of February; it 
 was a girl. I registered it at the municipal oflBices of 
 our arrondissement as Charlotte Gabrielle Letty, the 
 recognized daughter of Charles Letty and Gabrielle 
 Defresne. 
 
 The English law regulating the status of children 
 born out of wedlock is simply a relic of barbarous big- 
 otry; the French law is far more merciful. A father 
 may recognize his child and give it his name; and 
 should he afterward marry the mother, he may fully 
 legitimate it. It is a significant circumstance that the 
 number of children thus recognized by their fathers in 
 Paris increases annually. This shows that the only 
 quarrel of the parents is with the marriage laws, and 
 that the fathers have no idea of shirking the duties of 
 paternity. 
 
 Salta gazed at our daughter with mingled wonder and 
 anxiety. The little one seemed strong and healthy, and 
 
jjy, cr'HE LOVER'S 
 
 O^^ ± PROGRESS 
 
 while I kissed the mother and pressed her hand, I 
 pointed out to her how foolish all her fears had been. 
 But all at once, after looking at the infant, which had 
 been laid beside her for a little while, she burst into 
 tears, exclaiming: 
 
 " Oh, I knew that something would happen! She 
 cannot see me; she is blind! " 
 
 Clotilde, who had come to our rooms to help, began 
 to laugh. 
 
 " Why, did you not know, my dear? Babies cannot 
 see properly till they are nine days old; they just dis- 
 tinguish the light — that is all." 
 
 Salta, somehow, had never heard of this, and was at 
 first rather inclined to disbelieve us; but we chaSed her 
 so merrily that she at last realized her error, and smiled 
 through her tears. 
 
 On the morrow old Madame Martin, whose daughter 
 — a young married woman, who had lately presented her 
 husband with a son — was to nurse our Charlotte at the 
 same time as her own babe, arrived from Blevy, near 
 Dreux; and, with a thousand recommendations, the 
 little one was committed to her charge. A fortnight 
 later Salta said to me in the morning : 
 
 " I shall go down to the Paradis with you, Charles, 
 this afternoon." 
 
 I wished her to wait a little longer, but no arguments 
 were of any avail. That same day she signed a new 
 agreement with Fieron, who agreed to pay her twelve 
 
rHE LOP^ER'S jTt; 
 
 PROGRESS J^ J 
 
 hundred and fifty francs a month; and before the end 
 of March she appeared in Nigra's new ballet, " Daphnis 
 and Chloe," she, of course, figuring in it as Daphnis. 
 
 Her success was extraordinary. She did not merely 
 dance : she acted, and half Paris came to see how won- 
 derfully, how tenderly, she interpreted the dawning of 
 young loTe. It was in a transport of delight that I car- 
 ried her home on the evening of the first performance. 
 
 "Nigra says I was rather too girlish," she remarked 
 to me, as she nestled by my side in the cab. 
 
 " But it was beautiful, ma chSriej that timidity, that 
 hesitancy, was full of charm." 
 
 " Do you know what I was thinking of ? " she asked. 
 " I tried to fancy that La Bambola was you " 
 
 I caught her in my arms, and kissed her passionately. 
 We were lovers once more. Again it seemed as if noth- 
 ing save our passion existed upon earth. 
 
 But four days later, about ten o'clock in the morn- 
 ing, a telegram was handed me. It came from Bl^vy: 
 "Charlotte very ill." That was all. HI? What could 
 be the matter with the child? I was astounded and 
 alarmed, but broke the news to Salta as gently as pos- 
 sible. 
 
 We ought to go to BlSvy at once, I said, but it was 
 difficult to manage. We could not go and return before 
 the evening performance. Meron would be infuriated 
 if anything should go wrong with the ballet, and yet 
 our child was of more importance than all the rest. 
 
9 rX Cr'HE LOVER'S 
 
 •^ J- PROGRESS 
 
 But Salta seemed quite overwhelmed, and I speedily 
 realized that she was in no condition either to travel 
 or to play her part. I telegraphed, therefore, both to 
 Pieron and to Clotilde, and the latter, as soon as she 
 arrived, agreed to remain with Salta throughout the 
 day, to take her part that evening, and to return to our 
 rooms and stay there until I could get back. 
 
 Ah, that journey! It was very cold ; snow had fallen 
 during the night, and when I reached the nearest station 
 to B16vy — Morvilliers, I fancy — I had to walk a league 
 across country, over a barren plateau, where the cold 
 March wind blew in all its violence. And on reaching 
 the Martins' house I found that my child was dead. 
 She had not been ill. 
 
 I was told that she had accidentally fallen from her 
 cradle and had split her skull; but they, not daring to 
 reveal the truth at once, had at first reported illness, 
 subsequently sending a. second message announcing the 
 little one's death. That second telegram must have 
 reached Paris after my departure. Thus Salta now 
 knew the truth. 
 
 It seemed abominable; there must have been gross 
 carelessness. But, ah! when parents thus place their 
 little ones in charge of others they must expect such 
 things to happen. It was the old, old story of all the 
 thousands of little Parisians sent away by their mothers 
 and fathers to fill the cemeteries of the provinces. 
 
 Nevertheless, I evinced some resentment, to which 
 
rHE LOFER'S ^ r -7 
 
 PROGRESS -J^ / 
 
 the Martins replied with protests. Their house was cer- 
 tainly clean, and the child's foster-mother, who seemed 
 much grieved, was as healthy-looking a young woman 
 as could be found. In my own mind I attributed the 
 misfortune to the carelessness of a young girl of the 
 family, who looked conscience-stricken. She had prob- 
 ably been nursing the child and had let it fall. 
 
 I had to remain at Bl§vy that night. On the follow- 
 ing afternoon came the funeral, in accordance with 
 Catholic rites, for the little one in its last moments had 
 been hurriedly baptized. The snow fell again as we 
 wended our way through the village toward the tiny 
 church, as strange an edifice as I have ever seen, its 
 nave half filled by a tomb of one of the Dampierres. 
 Women flocked into it, and when the procession went 
 on to the cemetery it was quite a large one, in spite of 
 the inclement weather. 
 
 I saw the little coffin lowered into the grave. I bade 
 a last farewell to that child of mine who in life had 
 never seen me, who would never know me, never call 
 me father; and I felt grieved indeed when I thought of 
 all that might have been. My heart went out in agony 
 to the mothei", who in time would assuredly have learned 
 to love her child and mine, the pledge of our mutual 
 passion, the florescence of all our rapture. Ah, fate 
 was cruel, and life's promises were mere deception ! 
 
 But at last I quitted the cemetery, and went to the 
 parsonage to pay the priest and give him something for 
 
jjO Cr'HE LOFER'S 
 
 J^ " J. PROGRESS 
 
 his poor; and then I again set out acroes the bleak 
 plateau, and contrived to return to Paris in the guard's 
 Tan of a luggage train. By that means I reached home 
 late at night. 
 
 Salta, to whom I had telegraphed, was waiting for 
 me, and we fell into each other's arms, mingling our 
 sobs and tears. At that hour, no doubt, she bitterly 
 regretted that she had not kept her child. Ah, had she 
 only done so, had our little Charlotte lived, how differ- 
 ent might everything have been! 
 
rHE LOFER'S jr q 
 
 p R nap Rss o y 
 
 VI 
 
 The Furnace of Paris 
 
 Was it some such change as Dr. Dehay had predicted ? 
 Was it only the effect of grief — ^grief tinged with remorse 
 for the loss of that little one committed to the charge of 
 strangers on the morrow of its birth, and now forever 
 beyond the reach of a mother's love ? I could not tell ; 
 but from that hour I became conscious of a complete 
 transformation of Salta's nature. 
 
 At first, during the earlier stages, before I myself was 
 also carried away into the whirl of a passionate and 
 reckless life, I tried to think what influence might be 
 at work in my love's heart and mind. And there were 
 times when I attributed all the responsibility to myself. 
 
 There were latent fires in my nature; I had occasion- 
 ally done very extravagant things, and in the lives of 
 some of my kith and kin I could recall various purple 
 patches. If, therefore, a man's influence on the woman 
 he loved were as great as some asserted, perhaps my 
 nature had so acted on Salta's as to lead to the trans- 
 formation which I noticed. 
 
 But at other times I doubted the truth of those theo- 
 ries, however eminent the scientists by whom they had 
 been propounded, and sought an explanation of the 
 
jjf) Cr'HE LOVER'S 
 
 O^^ ± PROGRESS 
 
 change in Salta's own nature and heredity. Had not 
 Debay prescribed happiness — perfect happiness for her ? 
 And was happiness hers at present ? 
 
 I myself, though greatly grieved by the unfortunate 
 death of our child, was disposed to forget that distress- 
 ing episode in our life. I had seen so little of the in- 
 fant, and if I mourned its loss, this was assuredly more 
 for the mother's sake than for its own. I had relied on 
 the child to lead Salta toward such a life as should place 
 her beyond all danger by giving her in its highest form 
 the happiness she needed. But death had passed, that 
 hope had been destroyed; and now other satisfactions 
 must be found. 
 
 It is certain that the child's death preyed for a time 
 upon her mind. On two or three occasions I awoke at 
 night and found her sobbing beside me. 
 
 According to the social code she was guilty of no 
 crime; she had simply done what thousands of mothers 
 do every day, and she had undoubtedly acted with the 
 very best intentions. Yet within her there existed a 
 deep sense of rectitude. She had always shown that 
 she had a conscience. Her filial piety had been great, 
 her faithfulness to me was entire, and thus she now 
 lamented our child's death as a grievous transgression, 
 the outcome of dereliction of duty. 
 
 But I felt that she must not remain unhappy, that all 
 such thoughts must be banished from her mind, and 
 I strove to banish them as best I could. Another child 
 
rHE LOFER'S ^o r 
 
 PROGRESS J^^ 
 
 would, perchance, have meant solvation both for her 
 and me. Alas! none came. 
 
 But pasBion was still ours — passion which brought f or- 
 getfulness and which flared with ever-growing intensity. 
 It also made us careless, brought us cravings, whims, 
 which we gratified regardless of consequences. None 
 was dependent on us now, neither father nor child. 
 Our money was our own; we could spend it as we 
 pleased. And it was in this respect that the transfor- 
 mation both of Salta's nature and of my own became 
 most marked. 
 
 Her success on the stage most certainly contributed to 
 the change in her. In her early and more penurious 
 days the thought of the future had haunted her ; but 
 now success had come, she knew that if she should leave 
 the Paradis she could immediately secure a more remun- 
 erative engagement elsewhere; indeed, she had many 
 ofEers, and thus she yielded to the delights of the pass- 
 ing hour, the intoxication of a triumph which would 
 assuredly last forever. 
 
 Ah, the applause, the flattery, the flowers, the love- 
 letters, and all the glamour of her calling, set in a blaze 
 of light, amid music's voluptuous strains! There were 
 nights when on quitting the stage she came to me throb- 
 bing; when, as we drove home, she cast herself into my 
 arms, impatient for my kiss. Then on merry nights 
 she would hand me the letters she had received that 
 evening, and jest about them. I read a few, and now 
 
^PP CTHE LOVER'S 
 
 O^'^ 1 PROGRESS 
 
 and again they worried me; but she laughed the more 
 fl,t any sign of jealousy. 
 
 " Fi! que c'est vilain," she would say. " You think, 
 then, that I could love another ? " 
 
 And her glance, her manner, as she spoke filled me 
 with rapture. Ah ! she was mine indeed, and I would 
 love her so well, so passionately, so intensely, so thor- 
 oughly, that never should she even have a chance of 
 loving any other. Then delirium followed intoxication : 
 all thought of the morrow was swept away; we lived for 
 our passion only. And, like herself, I ceased to think 
 of money, save as of a means of ministering to our 
 pleasures. 
 
 Men admired her, women envied her. Well, they 
 should admire and envy her yet more. I desired her to 
 he very beautiful. Nothing delighted me so much as 
 to see her exquisitely gowned, whatever might be the 
 dressmaker's charges. 
 
 Jewels were sent her, and she returned them with 
 scorn; but I was resolved that she should lack nothing 
 she might desire. Ah, if I had only been a millionaire, 
 to lodge her in a palace and cover her with gems! 
 
 I had kept up my intercourse with Moutonnet, whose 
 first matrimonial plans had fallen through, in such wise 
 tjiat he was still unmarried. There was, however, all 
 likelihood that he would make a rich widow his wife 
 before many more months were over. He had on two 
 or three occasions lunched with us in the Rue Pasquier, 
 
rHE LOVER'S 22 7 
 
 PROGRESS J^J 
 
 and before our extravagant life began he had expressed 
 to me his great admiration of Salta: each a charming 
 and sensible girl, said he, one in a thousand — a girl 
 whom a man could esteem as well as love. 
 
 I went to him when the fever of passion came upon 
 me, to speak about the money which I had placed with 
 his firm. Between four and five hundred pounds of it 
 were left, and I wished to speculate again. He was 
 quite willing to help me, but advised me to be very 
 cautious. Any big venture, however, was out of the 
 question, as I could only provide a limited amount of 
 "cover." 
 
 Finally, I agreed to join him in some operations of his 
 own, and once again there came success. He himself 
 gained over two thousand pounds in one month, and I 
 more than three hundred. Ah! life would be all roses 
 now; money could be made so easily! What was the 
 use of worrying, of killing one's self with work ? 
 
 I still discharged my duties at the Paradis, where I 
 now received six hundred francs monthly, but I virtually 
 did nothing else: I had no time. I no longer rose at 
 six o'clock in the morning to vmte an article before 
 even touching my cafS au lait: I was too sleepy. 
 
 "When I unfolded the "Eabelais," I looked at the 
 Bourse article, and the " Courrier des Thedtres." The 
 rest of the paper had little' interest for me — unless some 
 big scandal were occupying the Parisians. As for poli- 
 tics or literature, no sensible person could waste time 
 
jjy, q-'HE LOFER'S 
 
 J"^^ 1 PROGRESS 
 
 oyer either. The proper course was to take one's ease, 
 eat, drink, and be merry; and I found no difficulty in 
 that. As Dumas _^fe once put it, a man is always merry 
 while he is ruining himself; it is only when he is ruined 
 that he becomes sour-tempered. 
 
 When I drew my first profits from Moutonnet, I 
 bought Salta some jewelry. Hitherto she had allowed 
 me to give her only ordinary trinkets — brooches, hat- 
 pins, a gold-mounted comb, a little necklet, some ear- 
 rings, and a gemel-ring, on which I had had our names 
 engraved; but she now made no difficulty about accept- 
 ing a marquise and a bracelet, for which I gave nearly 
 a hundred pounds. 
 
 The old Jew dealer, one of the Jews who haunt the- 
 atrical circles, tried also to tempt me with a pair of " six- 
 point and collet "stars — diamonds, of course — but he 
 wanted over three hundred pounds for them; so I told 
 him to call again the following month, withstanding his 
 coaxing suggestions that I should give him a third of 
 the money down and my bill and Salta's for the balance. 
 I felt that the stars could wait a little longer, particu- 
 larly as I was intent on another project. 
 
 La Bambola always drove to and from the Paradis in 
 a brougham or a victoria provided by Trani, so why 
 should not Salta and I do the same ? The next morn- 
 ing, therefore, I went to Briant, the jobmaster of the 
 Rue de la P6pini6re, and arranged for a vehicle by the 
 month — a brougham for the time being, and a victoria 
 
rHE LOVER'S J 2 C 
 
 PROGRESS J'^J 
 
 as soon as the fair weather came; and, having the 
 money with me, I paid a month's hire in advance. 
 
 On my way home, well pleased with what I had done, 
 I encountered Clotilde, with a marchande cl la toilette, 
 an old hag who was always trying to sell something to 
 the Paradis girls, besides plying as loathsome a calling 
 as could be found. However, I was in a very good 
 humor with myself just then, and when I heard that 
 the woman had some genuine old lace for sale, I took 
 her and Clotilde to a caf 6, where, after treating them, 
 I examined the lace. 
 
 As it needed some rather delicate repairing, I secured 
 it at a fair price, and then, taking a cab, drove to the 
 Eue Bleue, where in those days one of the best lace- 
 menders in Paris — a Frenchwoman, married, curiously 
 enough, to the representative of an English illustrated 
 newspaper — carried on her business. Many a time had 
 I seen equipages from the Paubourg Saint Germain 
 waiting outside her door. 
 
 I knew her well, and not only did we promptly come 
 to terms, but she promised to put some other work aside 
 to attend to that which I had brought her. The lace 
 would be ready within a week, and, knowing Salta's 
 tastes, I felt sure that it would console her for any regret 
 she might have experienced in the matter of the dia- 
 mond stars, with which the Jew had tempted her as 
 well as myself. 
 
 I had not told her about my visit to Briant's, but 
 
326 
 
 rHE LOVER'S 
 PROGRESS 
 
 when after dejeuner she spoke of sending for a cab so 
 that we might drive to the Paradis, I replied that I had 
 ordered a vehicle, and that it would be at the door at 
 a quarter to two o'clock. She did not seem to under- 
 stand, but when the time came and she set eyes on the 
 brougham — as natty a turn-out as Briant could provide 
 — she was delighted. 
 
 Of course, La Bambola tossed her head on hearing of 
 Salta's "equipage"; but as I was very desirous that 
 peace should reign at the Paradis, I asked her that same 
 evening to come to supper at our rooms one night dur- 
 ing the week. I had spoken to Trani previously and 
 also to Fieron, but while the former had accepted the 
 invitation with alacrity, the latter, even as I expected, 
 had sententiously replied: "I do not participate in 
 folly." 
 
 However, I made up a little party. Ludovic Trani, 
 Sinais, Nigra, and Duval agreed to join us, the two lat- 
 ter promising to bring their better halves, to whom, by 
 the way, they were not legally married. We — Salta 
 and I — called the supper a house-warming, which it had 
 been impossible to have sooner on account, first, of her 
 health, and, secondly, of our bereavement. Though we 
 now kept both a cook and a maid, I arranged to have 
 everything excepting the wines provided by an acquaint- 
 ance, whose expertness in catering en ville was known 
 to me. 
 
 On the evening fixed for the supper I was passing the 
 
rHE LOFER'S ypy 
 
 PROGRESS -J / 
 
 buffet on the upper floor of the Paradis, when I sud- 
 denly heard somebody calling: 
 
 " Waiter, bring us some cofEee, and let it be black as 
 the devilj hot as hell, and as sweet as love! " 
 
 A roar of laughter followed, but one of our inspectors 
 looked very irate, and was about to expostulate, with the 
 customer, when I intervened. For I had recognized old 
 TilofE, the composer of "The Jacobins," the friend of 
 Salta's father, the husband of the beautiful Laure de 
 Pierrefonds who had fled her ducal home for love of him. 
 
 He sat there, garbed in black as usual, with a mass of 
 white hair streaming around his head. He had an ex- 
 ceptionally lofty brow, and his finely-cut features and 
 shapely hands might well have tempted a sculptor. I 
 had seen him two or three times since Salta and I had 
 been living together, and he had once called on us in 
 the Eue Pasquier, before we had removed, however, 
 from the smaller to the larger flat. And not a word of 
 reproach had ever passed Ms lips with respect to our 
 position. Indeed, when I had attempted to explain 
 matters to him he had prevented me, saying : 
 
 "Not a word! You love one another; that suffices. 
 Love is the master — the sovereign master. Do I not 
 know his power ? "What do I not owe to him myself! " 
 
 He had even begged us to visit him and his wife at 
 Joinville, assuring us that we should be well received 
 there ; however, we had not gone. That evening, after 
 he had ordered coffee for himself and a couple of friends 
 
OoR Cr'HE LOFER'S 
 
 ^ -I PROGRESS 
 
 in the eccentric fashion which I have described, I went 
 to him, laughing, to say that he must not get excited, as 
 it set a had example. 
 
 " But what brings you here this evening ? " I added. 
 
 " I have come to see my friend Nigra and admire his 
 work," he answered, "and to see the lovely Salta, who 
 is your work, young man! " 
 
 "Nonsense!" I replied, still laughing; "she is not 
 my daughter." 
 
 "Ah, but who opened her eyes to love? Who im- 
 parted to her the celestial fire? It was you, young 
 man; you cannot deny it! " 
 
 As all this was said in a very loud voice, with at least 
 a couple of hundred people within hearing, I began to 
 wish that TilofE had remained at Joinville. But he 
 calmed down, patted me on the arm, and asked me to 
 join him and his friends. I did so, and when the lat- 
 ter, after drinking their coffee, strolled away to see 
 something of the performance, I inquired of Tiloff if he 
 would like to go behind to speak with Salta. He 
 assented, and we went down-stairs. 
 
 La Bambola and Salta shared the same dressing-room, 
 the one over which they had waged a battle royal at the 
 time when I first became connected with the Paradis. 
 We passed — Tiloff and I — down the passage, where now 
 and again a door stood ajar, allowing a glimpse of tights, 
 bare arms, spangles and muslin, and on reaching the 
 loge we wanted I knocked. 
 
rHE LOVER'S ■y2n 
 
 PROGRESS J^y 
 
 "Who is there?" 
 
 "Letty, I bring you a visitor. May we come 
 in?" 
 
 " Wait a moment! " was the reply, in a shrill falsetto, 
 which I recognized as La Bambola's. 
 
 So we waited, and I warned Tiloff that he must com- 
 pliment her on account of her jealous feelings. 
 
 "Yes, yes, I know," said he; "have no unworthy 
 fears!" 
 
 At last we were permitted to enter. My first glance 
 was for Salta, who stood there quite ready to go on, ex- 
 cepting that she had not yet thrown over her shoulder 
 the goat-skin which formed part of her costume as 
 Daphnis. But Tiloff was already bending before La 
 Bambola, who sat at one of the mirrors, still in the 
 hands of a dresser. A pair of split tights, hers un- 
 doubtedly, lay across a chair. 
 
 "Most charming Chloe, I salute you! Ah, who 
 would not be Daphnis to be loved by such a Chloe! " 
 
 Thus Tiloff in his wonted manner, while I struggled 
 with my smiles. 
 
 " And who would not be Chloe to be loved by sucb a 
 Daphnis?" he continued. "Pray, may I claim the 
 privilege of my age?" Whereupon, never waiting for 
 an answer, he kissed them both in turn, regardless of 
 "make up." La Bambola had to bring a crayon into 
 play again; nevertheless, she took it well. 
 
 Then we began to talk, and after a moment Salta, 
 
-, ^^ Cr'HE LOFER'S 
 
 Jj^ 1 PROGRESS 
 
 speaking of our house-warming, asked Tiloff if he would 
 join us. 
 
 "I shall be enchanted," said he— " enchanted. But 
 I must warn my wife, for what would Baucis say should 
 Philemon leave her without tidings? " 
 
 "But it is too late for a telegram!" I exclaimed. 
 Truth to tell, I hardly liked the idea of Tiloff joining 
 us. We certainly had a spare bed to offer him, but he 
 was very eccentric, and might give us no little trouble. 
 
 He explained, however, that his two friends who were 
 in the house belonged to Joinville, and would undertake 
 to warn his wife. Thus the matter was settled. But 
 the invitation had made him still more lively. 
 
 " To sup by the side of beauty and talent," he cried 
 — "to partake of the ambrosia of the gods and to sip 
 their nectar! My children, I accept your hospitality, 
 but on one condition — we must now offer a libation to 
 Love, the master of us all! " 
 
 This meant champagne, and again I felt annoyed, for 
 Tiloff, the best-hearted man in the world, full of talent 
 if not genius, had occasional lapses when drink was at 
 his disposal. However, on the champagne being 
 brought, I did not allow him more than one glassful. 
 Duval and Mgra fortunately joined us, and as a little 
 wine still remained in the bottle, I gave it to J6r6me, 
 whom I saw passing down the passage. Two or three 
 of the girls were there, and one of them voiced her 
 opinion of our conviviality as follows: 
 
PROGRESS JJ^ 
 
 "Are they not happy, ces cocos la? Just look at 
 them tossing ofE their champagne. Why, if we feel 
 faint and send for a drink there is quite a fuss! " 
 
 The supper began well, for we were all in high spirits. 
 Even Trani was gay, the night being his best time. He 
 usually woke up about 10 p.m., from which hour until 
 two in the morning he made some amends for his silence 
 and somnolence during the day. 
 
 Our party was not noisily disposed, still, there was 
 no reason why we should refrain from laughing or even 
 from having a little music, as only some servants slept 
 above us, while the tenants of the flat below were absent 
 in the country, whither they had gone to attend the 
 wedding of some relative. It was this which had en- 
 couraged Salta and me to give the supper at home. 
 Moreover, I had greased our concierge's palm that 
 morning, and his wife had been engaged to assist in the 
 kitchen. 
 
 The dining-room of our flat being ridiculously small, 
 the repast was served in the salon, a long room deco- 
 rated in the conventional style of those days, with a 
 white marble chimney-piece, white doors and wainscot- 
 ing, gray and gold wall-paper, and a waxed parquetry 
 flooring, in the centre of which an Aubusson carpet was 
 spread. 
 
 The prevailing color of the window-hangings and 
 upholstery was a shade of blue, chosen by myself as best 
 suited to Salta's complexion, which amid the general 
 
--,^ Cr'HE LOVER'S 
 
 Jj'^ 1 PROGRESS 
 
 scheme of white, blue, and gray lost none of its delicacy 
 and freshness. But it was otherwise with La Bambola, 
 who looked as yellow that evening as if she had the 
 jaundice. I had placed her on my right on one side of 
 the table, Trani being on Salta's right on the other side, 
 for the English system of host and hostess seating them- 
 selyes at the head and foot of the table is seldom fol- 
 lowed in Prance. 
 
 The catering arrangements were quite satisfactory, for 
 I had kept the little weaknesses of my guests in mind 
 when settling the menu. Moreover, I had provided 
 beer as well as wine, for I was aware that Nigra cared 
 nothing for the finest vintage in the world, but found 
 the inspiration for his most tuneful compositions in the 
 absinthe which he sipped before dinner and the cliches 
 which he quaffed afterward. 
 
 For the others there was wine of divers kind, but Salta 
 and I confined ourselves to champagne diluted with Eau 
 de Seltz, a fad I had borrowed from some of the manu- 
 facturers of Reims and Bpernay, with whom I had 
 lunched a few years previously. Of -course it means 
 murder so far as the wine is concerned, but in the result 
 one is pleasantly exhilarated, while escaping intoxication. 
 
 Our supper, then, with its diversity of viands and bev- 
 erages, was a "go-as-you-please" affair; but this, per- 
 haps, made it the more enjoyable. We began talking 
 directly we sat down. Just then Paris was revelling in 
 a somewhat comical scandal, in which a famous Parisian 
 
rHE LOVER'S J o J 
 
 PROGRESS J J J 
 
 dentist and some of his fair clientes were concerned, and 
 this interested the ladies immensely, especially as La 
 Bambola herself had patronized the incriminated " medi- 
 cal artist." Sinais chaffed her unmercifully, until, 
 noticing the expression in Trani's eyes, I kicked him 
 under the table. 
 
 But there were all sorts of other subjects to be dis- 
 cussed — the doings at rival houses; fe sport, in which 
 both the Tranis were interested; the absurdity of 
 Fieron's behavior in refusing to join us; the political 
 situation; the spring fashions; the art world; and the 
 lafit immoral novel. 
 
 The latter brought up the question of psychology, 
 over which Ludovic Trani, a great admirer of Eota's 
 novel, " La Matraque," waxed enthusiatic. But Sinais, 
 although a personal friend of Beta's, was not at all 
 psychologically inclined. 
 
 "Psychology! " said he. "Why, it is like the wolf 
 in Little Eed Eiding Hood; it has long arms, the better 
 to stifle enthusiasm! " 
 
 "No, no!" exclaimed Tilofl!, to whom Salta, on 
 whose left he sat, allowed more wine than was prudent, 
 "the greatest musicians have been psychologists, and 
 that has never stifled enthusiasm in them. Even 
 Wagner " 
 
 " Oh, Wagner! " retorted Sinais. " We are French- 
 men, and I'm from the South. We children of the sun 
 do not need your psychology. We leave it to those who 
 
- ^ , CJ-'HE LOVER'S 
 
 JJ4- 1 PROGRESS 
 
 dwell under inclement skies. Bad weather is its foster- 
 mother." 
 
 "But the Greeks had their psychological schools," 
 Ludovic protested. " You cannot say that their skies 
 were inclement." 
 
 " The world has changed since then," the other airily 
 responded; "it is only the people of the North who 
 worry themselves about psychology nowadays. In the 
 South folk are content to liye and take things as they 
 come." 
 
 "That is what I observed in Spain," said I, "but it 
 is a spirit of decadence which prompts such a mood." 
 
 " Decadence ! Oh, that may be true enough of Spain, 
 but not of the South of France." 
 
 " I agree with you there, but just see how wrong you 
 are. You Southerners do not take things as they come. 
 You are all bent on conquering Paris, Le Midi monie.* 
 The Southerners are everywhere nowadays — in politics, 
 literature, art, and science." 
 
 " That shows that they are no fools," said Sinais. 
 
 " Well, some of them do foolish things," remarked 
 Duval, who was both a Parisian and a Bonapartist. 
 " Take Gambetta, for instance " 
 
 " Oh, Gambetta is an Italian Jew! " 
 
 "I cannot believe that, because the Jews are not 
 fools." 
 
 * This expression was current in Paris long before Alphonse 
 Daudet introduced it into "Numa Roumestan." 
 
rHE LOFER'S y n c 
 
 PROGRESS JJJ 
 
 But Tiloff, who for two or three minutes had been 
 dreaming over his wine, delivered himself of an aphorism : 
 
 " The worst fool is the wit devoid of judgment, and 
 there are many such," said he. 
 
 Sinais, though scarcely a wit of any kind, seemed to 
 think that this observation was directed against himself, 
 for he retorted hastily: 
 
 "You forget the old fool." 
 
 "Well, yes; there are old fools, but they are alto- 
 gether exceptions, whereas of young fools there is no 
 end." 
 
 " But which is the worst? That is the point." 
 
 "The very worst fool of all," exclaimed Ludovic 
 Trani, with a sneer, "is the man who imagines he is 
 loved for himself." 
 
 An uproar followed. The women were scandalized, 
 and so were most of the men. Had not TilofE been 
 loved with passion and enthusiasm ? Did not La Bam- 
 bola adore Trani, and were not " Mesdames " Duval 
 and Nigra fervently attached to their spouses? I sat 
 back in my chair, smiling fatuously, then rejoined : 
 
 "I know a bigger fool than any of those; that is the 
 man who imagines every woman can be bought." 
 
 Salta glanced at me slyly, while the other women con- 
 tinued tearing Ludovic to pieces. But sensibly enough, 
 by way of creating a diversion, Nigra seated himself at 
 Salta's piano, and began to play a lively waltz. The 
 instrument was one which had belonged to Madame 
 
33^ 
 
 rHE LOVER'S 
 PROGRESS 
 
 Defreene, and which had been thoroughly overhauled 
 at the time of its transfer from the Eue de Ponthieu to 
 the Eue Pasqaier. 
 
 The supper was now virtually over. Kflmmel, Char- 
 treuse, and other liqueurs had been served, and most of 
 the gentlemen had lighted cigarettes. But Sinais sug- 
 gested a song, and La Bambola, who imagined that she 
 had a voice — why is it that dancers always fancy they 
 can sing ? — inflicted her falsetto on us for several min- 
 utes, much to the horror of Tiloff, who stopped both 
 his ears regardless of Achille Trani's scandalized 
 glances. 
 
 At last, however. La Bambola's song being finished, 
 Nigra swung himself round on the music-stool, ex- 
 claiming : 
 
 "Allans, maiire, all this is small beer! The place 
 belongs to you; play us something." 
 
 "Yes," said Duval, assuming a knowing air, "the 
 chorus of ' The Jacobins,' for instance." 
 
 "Ah, my children!" Tiloff answered, shaking his 
 white head. " ' The Jacobins '—that is so very long 
 ago; it is ancient music now. I have quite forgotten 
 it." 
 
 " But you still compose," said Trani. " I saw a para- 
 graph quoted from ' Le M6nestrel ' the other day saying 
 that you had some new work in hand. A new opera, 
 is it not ? " 
 
 " A new opera! N"o, no; I only amuse myself nowa- 
 
rHE LOFER'S j j y 
 
 PROGRESS ^>^/ 
 
 days. But it is true; I sold something to Choudens 
 lately; just a few trifles " 
 
 " Gome, come, then," said Nigra; "you have no ex- 
 cuse. Here, sit down and play. Give us the primeur 
 at yonr new work." 
 
 But Tilofl was still shaking his head, when La Bam- 
 hola and Salta hegan to entreat him in the usual caress- 
 ing feminine manner, and the former, before I could 
 prevent it, took a bottle still half full of champagne 
 from a pier-table behind her, filled a glass, and handed 
 it to the old composer. 
 
 "You were not so timid just now," said she, "when 
 you kissed me in my dressing-room. Here, drink this; 
 it will give you strength." 
 
 "Timid!" he replied, putting on his mock heroic 
 manner again. " No, lovely Chloe, or perhaps I should 
 now say Hebe, I am not timid. And as you desire it 
 I will play you something, but after first pledging your 
 charms in this nectar, which brings warmth to the 
 blood, light to the eyes, wit and genius to the brain." 
 
 He drank the champagne, tossed his hair back, and 
 sat down at the piano. Never before had I so well 
 nnderstood how much such an instrument might be 
 made to yield under the touch of a proficient musician. 
 
 It was a composition of his own that he played us, a 
 study, all power and gayety at the outset, but subsiding 
 gradually into a soft, dreamy, lulling strain — a genuine 
 invitation to sleep, so persuasive, so irresistible that. 
 
J oS? Cr'HE LOFER'S 
 
 JJ" 1 PROGRESS 
 
 when I at last glanced round me with eyes already seek- 
 ing repose, I saw several of the others nodding in their 
 chairs. But at the moment when I thought the com- 
 position finished, there came a light clear note, followed 
 by a perfect revival of sound, which grew more and 
 more intense, till one and all sat up again. 
 
 "The Sleeping Beauty would not have needed any 
 kiss," said Duval; "that would have roused her." 
 
 " Is that what Choudens is going to publish ? " Nigra 
 inquired. 
 
 "Yes; that is one of my little things," replied TilofE 
 
 gayiy- 
 
 "And the other?" 
 
 " Well, there is something I am keeping for myself — 
 a dance. Yes, mon cher I You are not the only one to 
 write dance-music, you know." 
 
 And TilofE laughed. He was started now. That last 
 bumper of champagne had done its work. His wrinkled 
 cheeks were glowing, and there was a flame in his eyes. 
 
 "Well, let us have the dance," resumed Nigra, after 
 lighting another cigarette. 
 
 " Yes, yes! " cried the women in chorus; " the dance 
 — the dance!" And one of them added: "What a 
 pity the room is not clear! We might foot it to the 
 music." 
 
 " Oh, you will all foot it one day! " cried TilofE, with 
 a grim smile. 
 
 " But what is it — a waltz, a polka, a quadrille ? " 
 
rHE LOFER'S j jq 
 
 PROGRESS Jjy 
 
 " It is one and all of those— the greatest dance in the 
 world." 
 
 " But surely it has a name ? " 
 
 "Yes, indeed." 
 
 "And you call it?" 
 
 "'The Dance of Death.' Oh! others have tried to 
 set it to music before me, but not in the same way. 
 Listen, my children; the prelude first." 
 
 Then, once again, amid the sudden silence, Tiloff 
 turned toward the piano and swept the keyboard. Lu- 
 dovic Trani would have protested, but remained agape, 
 horrified and spellbound by the intrusion of Death in 
 the midst of conviviality. 
 
 Yet there was nothing worse than a certain majestic 
 solemnity in the prelude to the composition. It was 
 afterward that came the torture — exquisite torture — 
 when the piano sighed and shuddered, wailed, protested, 
 and groaned beneath TilofE's magic touch. He grew 
 more and more excited, throwing his head back and 
 gazing with wild eyes into the infinite, while at inter- 
 vals, as if unwilling that we should lose aught of his 
 meaning, he described each fearful episode in clarion 
 tones : 
 
 "The death of beauty— she shrinks, she shudders! 
 See, the roses fade! Ah, the vanity of the bosom of 
 marble, the white and sculptured arms ! Here are the 
 worms; here is rottenness, foulness; here is death, 
 death, death!" 
 
-,^^ CfHE LOVER'S 
 
 OH-'^ 1 PROGRESS 
 
 An icy blast seemed to sweep through that room, so 
 lively a few minutes before. And horror kept us silent, 
 unable to protest, while Tilofl's Toice rang out : 
 
 "The death of the viveur! Death? "Why death? 
 Observe his wonder, his amazement. Aha! he did not 
 expect it, but it comes all the same — death, death! " 
 
 From where I sat I could see that Trani's 'hands were 
 quivering, dancing up and down, as if in accompani- 
 ment to the music. I myself felt supremely ill at ease. 
 And still no word was spoken, except by that sepulchral 
 pianist, who, with his rigid face, his white hair, his bony 
 form, his flaring eyes, and his weird and horrible enthu- 
 siasm, seemed like some spectre of the King of Terrors. 
 
 " The death of the forsaken mistress! " he cried piti- 
 lessly. "Kind death, good death, take me; give me 
 forgetfulness and peace! Why should I live, since he 
 has ceased to love me ? Come, then, kind death, good 
 death; take me, death, death, death! " 
 
 And again: 
 
 " The lover! He is snatched from his beloved's arms! 
 Farewell to rapture and delight ! 'So warm bosom shall 
 cradle him again; he shall know no embrace henceforth 
 than that of the cold and clammy earth ! Ah, vanity of 
 vanities; even love itself shall dissolve in death, death, 
 death!" 
 
 He now almost sang the words, and it was awful to 
 hear him. But the lover's wail of despair changed in 
 a frantic gasping battling: 
 
rEE LOVER'S jy, J 
 
 PROGRESS -J'r^ 
 
 "The death of the millionaire! My gold, my wealth 
 — ^my beloved wealth! I will not leave thee; no, no, 
 no! But in vain does he struggle; he is seized, he is 
 carried off — here a mouvement de galop — a mere penni- 
 less pauper in the grasp of death ! " 
 
 But that wild gallop of the man of wealth, hurried 
 away to join the starveling in the grave, was followed 
 by a soft and tender strain. 
 
 "Ah, pianissimo!" continued Tiloff, his own voice 
 sinking almost to a whisper; " the death of the child, 
 the little innocent, life's flower nipped in the bud! But 
 Paradise opens. Hark! the angels sing, and only the 
 grief-fraught wail of the parents ascends distressfully 
 amid that chorus of welcome. Ah ! the little child, so 
 pure, so lovely and so fondly loved " 
 
 But he said no more. I had started from my chair, 
 for Salta had suddenly fallen back in hers, white as 
 a ghost, shaken by a tremor from head to foot. 
 
 "Nigra, Nigra!" I gasped, "stop him — stop him! 
 Duval, take him away! Not another word — ^not another 
 note!" 
 
 My cry aroused them all from their stupor and hor- 
 ror. While I sprang toward Salta they seized Tiloff, 
 lifted him from the music-stool, and dragged him, de- 
 spite his struggles, to the other end of the room. Pull 
 of amazement and anger, he protested violently. 
 
 "But I have not finished; there is the death of the 
 soldier falling for his country, the death of the con- 
 
jyjy Cr'HE LOVER'S 
 
 J^'^ JL PROGRESS 
 
 queror, the death of the just man passing away in all 
 serenity " 
 
 And then, as they still expostulated and scolded, he 
 freed himself by a sudden effort from their grasp, and, 
 drawing his bony figure erect, laughed like the very 
 fiend. 
 
 "What! are yon afraid?" he cried tauntingly — 
 " afraid to die ? Is that why you all look so glum ? I 
 am much nearer to the grave than any of you. I am 
 seventy-four, but I am not afraid of death — no, no, 
 indeed! " 
 
 But Ludovic Trani, who amid his cynicism at least 
 retained some feelings of compassion, interrupted him 
 sternly : 
 
 " See what you have done! " he exclaimed, pointing 
 to Salta, whom I was trying to revive with the help 6t 
 Madame Nigra. " Do you not know that she lately lost 
 her child ? " 
 
 For a moment TilofE gazed at the scene in stupefaction. 
 Then, raising both hands to his head, he brushed his 
 hair back, cleared, as it were, his brain, and muttered: 
 
 "It is true — her child — I had forgotten." 
 
 Then he sprang forward, cast himself at Salta's knees, 
 sobbing and saying: 
 
 "My poor little one — my poor little one! Forgive 
 me— forgive me! " 
 
 But Achille Trani, who was stamping about the room, 
 anxious to be gone, turned on him angrily : 
 
rHE LOFER'S j/l 7 
 
 PROGRESS J'V-J 
 
 " It is all your folly. You talked about wits having 
 no judgment, but you certainly have none yourself. 
 You have made her quite ill. She won't be able to 
 dance to-night. There will be a nice to-do with 
 Fieron." 
 
 Salta, however, had now revived, and tears had come 
 to her relief. I let Madame Nigra and the maid, who 
 was still up, and nearly as scared as ourselves, lead her 
 to the bedroom, and then got rid of the Tranis, the 
 Duvals, and Sinais. I had intended to give our spare 
 room to TilofE, but the Kigras offered to take charge of 
 him, and I was not sorry to see him go. He was full of 
 another idea when he bade me good-night. 
 
 "I will compose a requiem — something soothing, 
 something cheering. You shall see," he said. " I will 
 give it her; it will comfort her, it will do her good." 
 
 But I did not answer. I hurried him away in the 
 wake of the Nigras. Ah, those men of genius! They 
 were very wonderful, very extraordinary, but they were 
 not fit for daily companionship. Fortunately, some of 
 them understood it, and considerately shut themselves 
 up far away from their less gifted but also less trouble- 
 some fellow-beings. 
 
 That supper was the first and last given at our rooms 
 in the Eue Pasquier. We even shunned the salon, and 
 the piano was never opened. We lived more and more 
 en ville, seeking gay companionship. 
 
 Of an afternoon I hurried through my office work, or 
 
jy,/, CfHE LOVER'S 
 
 JH-^ 1 PROGRESS 
 
 shirked it altogether, in order to take Salta to the horse 
 show, or the Salon, or some charity tite, or some matinee 
 at a theatre. On Sundays we drove to Longchamp, 
 where I hacked horses with English " bookies." And 
 at night, on leaving the Paradis, we betook ourselves to 
 boulevard cafes and restaurants, where we associated 
 with folk of the journalistic and theatrical worlds. 
 
 It was as if that glimpse of the spectre of death, con- 
 jured up by TilofE, had inspired us with a renewed thirst 
 for all the pleasures and excitements of life. We lived ' 
 entirely in the present. We took no thought of the 
 morrow. Sufficient unto the day was the evil thereof. 
 
 One night, on meeting Ludovic Trani and Privat of 
 the "Eabelais" at a boulevard restaurant, we joined a 
 Bupper-party to which they belonged. Two girls of the 
 Bouffies Parisiens were present, and one of them, called 
 Irma, was quite merry at having shown her contempt 
 that day for a particular friend of hers whom she grace- 
 fully called mon singe, " my monkey." As some rather 
 curious stories were told of this individual, I inquired 
 his name of Privat, who sat next to me. 
 
 " What, do you not know, mon cher ? Verdier — Paul 
 Verdier, the great contractor." 
 
 Good heavens! Lotis's husband ! 
 
 I was amazed at the answer, and glanced curiously at 
 the girl whose "monkey" Monsieur Paul had now 
 become. She was a pert creature, with irregular features 
 and impudent ways, coarse in speech and extravagant in 
 
rHE LOVER'S -jyj r 
 
 PROGRESS J^J 
 
 attire. But I was not surprised at his tastes, for I liad 
 heard of his scandalous amours before his marriage. 
 
 " I've had quite enough of his billiard-ballj" Irma was 
 saying, referring to her admirer's baldness. " He is not 
 at all amusing, so I told him that he had better go back 
 to his wife." 
 
 "But she is pleading for a separation, is she not?" 
 said somebody at the other end of the table. 
 
 "Oh, she does not dare. When she makes herself 
 nasty, he tightens the purse-strings." 
 
 So that was the end of Lotis! This was the first and 
 last time subsequent to our parting that I ever heard of 
 her, though in after years, during the Panama scandals, 
 I often saw Verdier's name in print. 
 
 Perhaps we may have met in a crowd at the races, at 
 the Salon, or elsewhere, without knowing it; yet even 
 this is unlikely, for I am confident that I should have 
 recognized her among a thousand. But then in Paris, 
 as in London, one may live almost cheek by jowl with- 
 out ever meeting, and this in all likelihood was the case 
 of Lotis and myself. 
 
 However, I could not help pitying her when I glanced 
 at the girl from the BoufEes. To be neglected for such 
 a creature as that! How abominable! And how vile a 
 blackguard must her husband be! As that thought 
 flashed through my mind there once more came to me 
 a little pang, the first of the kind that I had felt for 
 many a day. 
 
34^ 
 
 rHE LOVER'S 
 PROGRESS 
 
 Perhaps I was unusually taciturn that night after my 
 return home with Salta, who for her part was very gay, 
 for she asked me all at once : 
 
 " What is the matter with you ? Tu est tout drdle." 
 
 " Oh, it is nothing," said I— "nothing at all." 
 
 But she looked at me rather anxiously. We both had 
 lucid moments in the midst of our folly, and she sus- 
 pected that some money matter might be troubling me. 
 I assured her, however, that there was no trouble of the 
 kind. Moutonnet had given me the best news, and 
 I was awaiting the end of the month with all confidence. 
 Then, as she again pressed me, I said to her smiling: 
 
 "It is nothing of all that, my dear; but you know 
 whom that girl from the Boufles was talking about at 
 Bignon's ? " 
 
 "Yes; a Monsieur Verdier — a big contractor and 
 financier, is he not ? " 
 
 " Quite so. But do you know who his wife is ? " 
 
 Salta shook her head, and I briefly told her the 
 truth. • 
 
 She listened in amazement as I spoke of Lotis, and all 
 at once, in a tone of passionate reproach, she exclaimed: 
 
 "You have been thinking of her! You love her 
 still!" 
 
 "Thinking? Well, yes; I felt disgusted at what I 
 heard. But I don't love her. How can I ? It would 
 be absurd! " 
 
 But Salta had burst into tears. 
 
rHE LOVER'S j^ ^ 
 
 PROGRESS J^/ 
 
 "Oh I I knew it would come. You love me no 
 longer! " she sobbed. 
 
 " My darling, I hare never loved you more in all my 
 life!" 
 
 As I Bpoke I caught her in my arms, and tried to kis.: 
 away her tears. But she was not easily consoled. 
 
 " You would not think of that woman if you did not 
 love her still/' said she. 
 
 "I do not love her; I simply pity her because her 
 husband treats her as he does. "Would you like me to 
 treat you in that way ? You are the only one I love — 
 don't you know it ? Do I ever neglect you ? " 
 
 She smiled faintly. 
 
 "You men are all the same. You will neglect me 
 some day." 
 
 "ITo, I could not if I tried. You are too beautiful 
 and too good to me, and I am too grateful to you for 
 having made me so happy." 
 
 " And you do not love the other at all ? " 
 
 " No, not a bit. Since the day I told you all about 
 her, I have never given her a thought until this 
 evening." 
 
 At last she let me pacify her, and I resolved that she 
 should have no further occasion to imagine me unfaith- 
 ful, even in thought. Truth to tell, I banished the 
 image of Lotis from my mind easily enough. If she 
 were unhappy, it was her own fault, for she had 
 married Monsieur Paul with her eyes open. And, now- 
 
jy, O cr'HE LOVER'S 
 
 Jy" -/ PROGRESS 
 
 adays, it was not for me to seek her and tender con- 
 solation. 
 
 Perchance I might have done bo had I been absolutely 
 free, but I owed myself entirely to the one who had 
 given me all she had to give — ^her heart, her beauty, her 
 charm, her flame of passion — ^her very life. Ah! I 
 would not have her jealous any more than I would have 
 her grieve for the loss which had befallen us both. Doubt 
 and sorrow must both be banished. Even as Dr. Debay 
 had once said to me, she must be happy, very happy. 
 
 And, again, I must not lose her. My own happiness 
 was bound up in hers. In bygone days how foolish had 
 I thought the young viveurs who killed themselves 
 because a mistress left them! I recalled three or four 
 instances of the kind which had occurred since 1870, 
 and which I had previously treated as acts of sheer 
 insanity. I had written about them in newspapers, 
 gravely deploring the folly of youth, and expatiating on 
 the degeneracy of the times. 
 
 But now I felt that I myself would be unable to live 
 should Salta ever leave me. Her path was strewn with 
 a thousand temptations, and, in the world around us, 
 constancy seemed a thing unknown. 
 
 Yet never did I lack her smile or her caress. What- 
 ever passion she might show for the pleasures of life, 
 she always came back to me in the hours when we were 
 alone, at times as if to express her recognition of some 
 enjoyment I had procured her, at others as if to show 
 
rHE LOFER'S jj^ 
 
 PROGRESS J'f-y 
 
 that she was still the woman I had. wooed, the woman 
 who had given herself to me, and who was not to be 
 bought by any other. 
 
 She was changed, and so was I in many ways, but love 
 still held us fast in bonds of constancy; and nowadays, 
 when I look back on her unswerving affection, even in 
 the furnace of Parisian life, and remember many of 
 those we knew, or came in contact with, butterflies flit- 
 ting hither and thither, I feel that she was a woman 
 among a thousand, whom destiny should have set among 
 happier, better, and nobler things. 
 
 With the influences I have enumerated at work within 
 me — a desire to prevent her from grieving, from feeling 
 jealous, from thinking of the offers of others — ^I tried to 
 devise pleasures for her, strove to keep her gay and smil- 
 ing, to gratify each fancy I might detect in her glance, 
 each taste which I knew she possessed. But that month 
 ended badly. 
 
 Contrary to my expectations, there was very little in 
 the way of gains to draw from Moutonnet, whose opera- 
 tions had been interfered with by a great political crisis, 
 that of the " Seize Mai," when the Due de Broglie came 
 into ofiBce and inaugurated the so-called "Government 
 of Moral Order." On the other hand, it worried me to 
 draw to any large extent on the funds belonging to me 
 which Moutonnet had in hand, the bulk of that money 
 being needed for the emergencies of speculation. For 
 just one moment then I felt embarraesed. 
 
5 r/1 (rfHE LOVER ' S 
 
 •JJ^ 1 PROGRESS 
 
 Fortunately, credit remained — ^glorious credit! — the 
 resource of plungers and spendthrifts. We had no diflS- 
 culty at all in running up bills on one side and another. 
 The job-master was duly paid, but the little account 
 from Salta's dressmaker remained unsettled; indeed, 
 that account became a large one. 
 
 But then that was chiefly the dressmaker's fault. He 
 suggested things, and his suggestions were accepted. 
 Besides, his prices were so high that it was only natural 
 he should wait for his money. He belonged to a class 
 that dresses coming women, and Salta, no doubt, was 
 regarded by him as a coming woman. 
 
 Outwardly, moreover, there was every sign of pros- 
 perity about her and me. The very victoria in which we 
 drove shopping, our address, which was of a good class, 
 Salta's position on the stage, all inspired confidence. 
 Provided one only possesses a fair amount of pocket- 
 money to pay for little daily trifles, it is astonishing how 
 easily one may live in Paris — for a time at all events — 
 at the rate of three or four thousand pounds a year. 
 
 Newspaper readers must know it is so, for now, as 
 then, plenty of adventurers live in that fashion. And 
 Salta and I were not adventurers. Our joint earnings 
 amounted to over a thousand a year, apart from what 
 I might make through Moutonnet; and thus, although 
 our conduct was extravagant in the extreme, it was in 
 no degree worse than, for instance, that of the penniless 
 English peer, who, earning nothing at all, lives at the 
 
rHE LOVER'S J CT 
 
 PROGRESS OJ^ 
 
 same rate as we did, on the ofE-chance that he may some 
 day marry an American heiress, whose "poppa" wDl, 
 perchance, offer a composition to his creditors. 
 
 The peer's excuse is that, money or no money, he 
 must l^eep tip his rank. My excuse in the matter of 
 Salta and myself was my passion. Now, it will he said, 
 rightly enough, that neither rank nor passion is a proper 
 excuse for living heyond one's means; but I venture to 
 submit that if I am to be kicked down-stairs for availing 
 myself of the facilities offered me to get into debt, the 
 same treatment should, in all fairness, be meted out to 
 some hundreds of thousands of His Majesty's lieges, 
 including not a few noble peers of Parliament. 
 
 I write this looking backward, but I must frankly say 
 that no idea of the propriety or impropriety of running 
 into debt troubled me at the time I refer to. I was con- 
 fident that things would right themselves. If Mouton- 
 net had not brought off his coup that month, he would 
 assuredly do so in a short time, and we should then be 
 in clover again. We were perfectly honest, and in 
 a month or so we should pay everybody. 
 
 Moreover, Salta was thinking over various proposals 
 which would remove her from the Paradis and increase 
 her income, while I had been approached, through 
 Moutonnet, about a rather important concession con- 
 nected with the great International Exhibition — ^the first 
 to be held in Paris since the war — which was then being 
 planned. 
 
J cp (TT'HE LOFER'S 
 
 -^J -L PROGRESS 
 
 I have previously mentioned that I had kept up some 
 occasional intercourse with various old school friends. 
 Among these was Moutonnet himself, whom I had 
 known at Passy before going to the Lyc6e Bonaparte. 
 At the latter college there was one who had long sat 
 beside me, and who, living in the same neighborhood as 
 myself, had gone to and fro with me, morning and after- 
 noon. He had since taken to the law, my intended pro- 
 fession, and since my return from Spain I had occasion- 
 ally come across him, once or twice in the street, again at 
 the Paradis, and again, quite recently, at the opening of 
 the Salon, when he had lunched beside Salta and myself. 
 
 But between 1871 and 1874, when I was absorbed in 
 journalism, we had met even more frequently, and I had 
 even lunched at his parents' residence and met politi- 
 cians there. For his father had been a deputy ever 
 since the war, and had now become a member of the 
 Due de Broglie's Government of Moral Order. Thus it 
 was possible that I might be able to do something in the 
 matter of the concession I have referred to. 
 
 Nobody will deny that men often make their way in 
 the world by the help of school and university con- 
 nections. In that respect camaraderie does more in 
 Prance, perhaps, than in any other country. The " old 
 boys " of the Paris colleges meet at annual dinners, and 
 I am acquainted with several instances in which such 
 meetings alone have resulted in one " old boy " doing 
 another a good turn. 
 
rHE LOFER'S y c j 
 
 PROGRESS JJJ 
 
 As regards the concession I have spoken of, I was not 
 asked to embark in any scandalous jobbery. It was 
 merely a matter first of inducing my friend, whom I 
 will here simply call Gaston, to speak to his father, 
 whose private secretary he had become; and then of 
 seeing the father himself, and prevailing on him to say 
 a word to the colleague with whom the chief decision in 
 all Exhibition matters rested. 
 
 This kind of thing was done every day in Paris, and 
 all that those behind me desired was to obtain a prefer- 
 ence over other competitors offering similar terms, for 
 a higher tender than their own seemed unlikely, 
 although the competition in these matters was very 
 keen. 
 
 A Minister, confronted by two similar offers, naturally 
 gave the preference to parties whom he knew, or who 
 were influentially recommended to him; and in those 
 days, at all events, it occasionally happened that favored 
 parties were allowed to revise their tenders. Thus it 
 was a question of trying to exercise some little influence, 
 and if the concession should be secured through any 
 agency of mine, I was to receive an honorarium. 
 
 An understanding having been arrived at and com- 
 mitted to writing, I set to work, wrote to my friend 
 Gaston, congratulating his father and himself on their 
 accession to office, and mentioning that I should like to 
 see him if he had a spare moment to give me. 
 
 In reply he asked me to call at the Ministry one mom- 
 S3 
 
or^ <T'HE LOVER'S 
 
 ODH- 1 PROGRESS 
 
 ing; and there, bo far as his influence with his father 
 was concerned, I settled everything. After a long chat 
 about one thing and another, he kept me to dejeuner, 
 in spite of my protests that I was expected at home. 
 Those protests he only laughed at, for he knew of my 
 attachment to Salta, and had twitted me on what he 
 called my expensive tastes. 
 
 Five of us, I think, sat down to dejeuner, served by 
 the official flunkeys. The Minister and his wife were 
 momentarily absent from Paris, but in addition to Gaston 
 and myself, our party comprised two attaches of the 
 cabinet du ministre, and a functionary of the Ministry 
 of the Interior, which I may mention was not Gaston's 
 department. 
 
 This functionary, like myself, was a chance guest, 
 and at the end of the meal, when the servants had re- 
 tired and we sat smoking over our coffee, he began to 
 speak of the violent attacks which some of the leading 
 organs of the English press were then making on the 
 Due de Broglie's recently constituted Administration. 
 
 Gaston, I may mention, had introduced me to the 
 others, both as an old school friend and an English jour- 
 nalist, and I had allowed him to do so, even as I had 
 allowed him to infer that my connection with the Para- 
 dis was more a matter of amusement than of gain, due 
 chiefly to the interest which I took in Salta. 
 
 Thus the gentleman from the Ministry of the Interior 
 poured forth his soul to me, growing particularly angry. 
 
rHE LOFER'S ,rr 
 
 PROGRESS JJJ 
 
 I remember, with the " Daily News," which was just 
 then attacking MacMahon and Broglie and Moral Order 
 most unmercifully. 
 
 As a matter of fact, I took little interest in the mat- 
 ter. I seldom read the political news at that time, and 
 my connection with the English press had ceased almost 
 entirely. But when I quitted Gaston, the functionary 
 I have been speaking of likewise came away, and between 
 us we took a cab — the only one to be found; it being 
 arranged that he should alight in the Bue Cambac^rSs, 
 leaving me to drive on to the Bue Pasquier. And on 
 the road he said to me : 
 
 "How is it that, living all these years in France, you 
 are not decorated with the Legion of Honor ? Many of 
 the foreign correspondents have the ribbon. Perhaps 
 you do not care for it ? " 
 
 " I have never thought of it," said I. " Besides, such 
 a decoration is not recognized in England unless one 
 obtains the royal permission to accept it." 
 
 "No doubt; but you have made Paris your home: 
 you are quite a Parisian." 
 
 And thereupon he gave me to understand that if 
 I cared to have the ribbon, the Minister would not hesi- 
 tate to grant it. They were worried at the " Bureau de 
 la Presse " over the very hostile attitude which several 
 prominent English newspapers had lately assumed with 
 respect to French afEairs, and anybody who might try to 
 bring English folk to a better way of thinking would be 
 
3S^ 
 
 rHE LOFER'S 
 PROGRESS 
 
 suitably rewarded. Such services would be beneficial to 
 both sides. Nobody could desire bad blood between the 
 two countries. The English were not Socialists. They 
 could not wish to see another Commune in Paris. A 
 conservative French Government was best for every- 
 body, and if the Orleans princes should assume power, 
 the best relations would ensue, for assuredly they had 
 very friendly feelings toward England, where they had 
 resided so many years. 
 
 In response to my companion's hints and questions, 
 I told him frankly that I could not influence the opin- 
 ions of the Paris correspondents of the English press 
 (for this was one of his objects), but, on the other hand, 
 I would see what I myself could do as a journalist, since 
 the views he had expressed were in a measure my own. 
 
 At that time, though I honored Thiers for his former 
 services, I distrusted Gambetta and his band. I did 
 not believe in the duration of the Eepublic, and if I 
 had a rather poor opinion both of MacMahon and of 
 the Oomte de Paris, I was a great admirer of the Due 
 d'Aumale, the one strong and capable man among the 
 Orleanist princes. So the functionary and I parted on 
 the best of terms. I was to see him again at the Minis- 
 try of the Interior, and in due course I should have 
 a right to sport a little strip of red ribbon in my button- 
 hole. 
 
 As I drove away to the Eue Pasquier I regretted that 
 I had of recent times so foolishly neglected my real pro- 
 
rHE LOFER'S j e'7 
 
 PROGRESS JJ/ 
 
 fession. I felt that I mast get back into harness again 
 somehow or other. Were there not untold possibilities 
 in journalism ? Did it not lead to everything ? 
 
 I hardly knew as yet how I should keep my promises 
 to the functionary, but that was a detail. I was in 
 luck's way; I had been bom under a propitious star, as 
 Moutonnet had said to me one afternoon when I had 
 drawn a pile of money from him. I should not only be 
 a Chevalier of the Legion of Honor, which would de- 
 light Salta — for women particularly appreciate that kind 
 of thing— ^but.I should secure the Exhibition concession, 
 and pocket an honorarium of some ten thousand francs; 
 apart from which Moutonnet would certainly make 
 another coup before many weeks were over. 
 
 Why, then, indulge in misgivings? I was loved by 
 the only woman for whose love I cared, honors and 
 money would soon be pouring in, and so vogue la gdlere ! 
 The furnace of Paris was assuredly heaven, and blissful 
 was the fever that came upon one in its scorching 
 atmosphere. 
 
 I reached the Paradis very late that afternoon, and 
 Pieron was in an execrable temper, but I did not care 
 for him. Before I quitted my office I wrote a note to 
 L6vy, the jeweller, telling him that if he still had the 
 six-point and collet stars which he had shown me, I 
 should like to speak to him about them. My dear girl ! 
 It was she who brought me luck. I must really make 
 her a present. 
 
J eg CJ^HE LOFER'S 
 
 J- PROGRESS 
 
 VII 
 
 When All Things Fail 
 
 The end came rapidly. Blow after blow fell upon 
 me, and swept everything away. After all, it was but 
 natural that my seeming prosperity should vanish, for 
 the edifice I had reared was simply a frail house of cards, 
 liable to collapse at the slightest shock. In the first 
 instance defeat overtook Moutonnet, and such money of 
 mine as was in his keeping did not fully discharge my 
 liabilities toward him. 
 
 I heard of the disaster on returning home with Salta 
 one night, when I found a brief note from Moutonnet 
 awaiting me. I could not do otherwise than show it to 
 Salta, and for a moment we were both overcome. What 
 should we do ? I thought of all those to whom we were 
 indebted, and felt sorely distressed. 
 
 Money must assuredly be found, but how? Ah, if 
 that matter of the concession at the Exhibition had only 
 been settled ! Unluckily there were difficulties in the 
 way. Gaston had spoken to his father, and the latter 
 had seemed willing to move in the afEair, but his col- 
 league, on whom everything depended, had appar- 
 ently some proUgS of his own to whom the concession 
 might go, in spite of all efforts to the contrary. In 
 
rHE LOVER'S J en 
 
 PROGRESS Jjy 
 
 any case, no decision would be arrived at for a tew 
 months. 
 
 Tlie political situation was at that moment absorbing 
 the attention of the Government; France was becom- 
 ing divided into two bitterly hostile camps, on one 
 side the Monarchists under MacMahon and Broglie, on 
 the other the Eepublicans under Thiers and Gambetta, 
 and Ministers, fighting for supremacy, could give 
 little attention to the details of their administrative 
 duties. 
 
 But, again, what was to be done ? I added up various 
 sums which I knew to be owing, recalled the dates at 
 which certain bills I had given would mature, and felt 
 more worried than ever. But Salta cast her arms about 
 me. Why did I grieve ? It was unfortunate that the 
 money was lost, said she, but nobody as yet was pressing 
 us, and, perhaps, everything might be retrieved, for did 
 not Moutonnet end his note with the words: " The pres- 
 ent state of the market cannot last; there will be a 
 rebound very shortly, and we shall both come out all 
 right if you will follow me " ? 
 
 Perhaps so; nevertheless I must pay him my present 
 liabilities, and provide him with fresh cover; and how 
 could I possibly do so? I should need several thou- 
 sand francs. But again Salta told me not to grieve, 
 and kissed me and carried me ofE into our room, say- 
 ing: 
 
 " La nuit parte conseil " — sleep brings ideas. 
 
36 
 
 „ Cr'HE LOFER'S 
 
 ^ 1 PROGRESS 
 
 Then for a few hours came forgetfulness, to be fol- 
 lowed, on waking, by greater anxiety than ever. 
 
 " I have not been able to think of anytbing," I said 
 to her in the morning, while we were partaking of our 
 first breakfast in the dining-room — she her chocolate, 
 and I my cofEee. "Moutonnet will not worry me for 
 a time about the thousand francs I owe him, but I can- 
 not follow him any farther." 
 
 " Then the money will be really lost," she replied. 
 
 "I fear 80." 
 
 She played for a moment with her spoon, and then 
 looking at me across the table, suggested : 
 
 " There is the jewelry " 
 
 "The jewelry?" 
 
 " Yes, the things you have given me. At the Mont 
 de Pi^te you might " 
 
 " No, no! I won't have that! The jewelry is yours, 
 and this is a matter of mine." 
 
 " It is mine as well." 
 
 "Not a bit of it! How can you be liable for my 
 speculations ? It is true that we have not kept to our 
 original conventions. I have let you spend here, in the 
 house, much more money than your proper share, and 
 I am afraid I owe you a great deal." 
 
 " But you spend all your money on me." 
 
 " Oh, no; that is exaggerated. If I pay the bill when 
 we have dinner or supper in town, I at least eat mj 
 share of the meal." 
 
rHE LOFER'S jAj 
 
 PROGRESS -J 
 
 " Yes, but you forget tlie victoria, and the jewelry, 
 and the lace, and all the other things. You did not buy 
 them for yourself." 
 
 " Ah! they were presents. They have nothing to do 
 with our every-day life." 
 
 " The victoria has." 
 
 " But you needed it." 
 
 "Not at all. Oh, I do not mean to scold you for 
 having hired it; I like it very much," she answered, 
 with a smile. " But if you make difficulties with me, 
 I shall not keep it beyond the end of this month, for I 
 do not wish you to fret about money." 
 
 " You must not get rid of it like that! " I protested. 
 " If you give it up now people will be making remarks, 
 and everybody to whom a sou is owing will be coming 
 to ask for it." 
 
 "Let them come! Besides, if you do not follow 
 Moutonnet, how will you be able to pay for the victoria 
 next month?" 
 
 "In one way you are right," I answered. "I 
 had forgotten that we shall not want the caniage 
 next month, as we shall be going away for our holi- 
 days. " 
 
 That allusion to the holidays reminded us of other 
 matters. Quite apart from paying those to whom we 
 were indebted, we should need money for various pur- 
 chases, and, again, money for our expenses while we 
 were absent from Paris. 
 
J6. 
 
 rHE LOVER'S 
 PROGRESS 
 
 " You see," said Salta, "it is best to follow Mouton- 
 net. You must take tlie jewelry." 
 
 It was a tempting offer, yet I struggled against it. 
 
 "But I do not need it," she repeated. "I do not 
 wear any jewelry on the stage just now, and if I want 
 any for the new ballet in the autumn, I can always take 
 it out again. The Mont de Piet6 ought to lend you 
 enough on it." 
 
 Thereupon she went to fetch her case and laid it on 
 the table. And, woman-like, she locked the door of the 
 dining-room, for she did not wish the maid to come 
 upon us while we were examining the things. 
 
 There were a variety of trinkets and ornaments, but 
 the most valuable were the stars which I had purchased 
 of old L6vy on credit, giving him in exchange a coaple 
 of bills, one at two and the other at four months, neither 
 of which had yet matured. Salta believed that I had 
 paid the man something on account, but in reality I had 
 simply shown him my contract respecting the Exhibition 
 concession and a note from my friend the Minister's son 
 in order to inspire him with confidence. Moreover, he 
 had been hawking the stars about for several months 
 without finding a purchaser for them, and thus after 
 interviewing Badoux, my concierge, whom I paid liber- 
 ally and who always spoke well of me, he had handed 
 me the ornaments against my signature. 
 
 The thought that they were not paid for made me 
 hesitate about pawning them, but it was too late to tell 
 
rHE LOFER'S jAj 
 
 PROGRESS J^J 
 
 everything to Salta, and besides, as she herself said, the 
 whole situation was to be summed up in the words: 
 Moatonnet or nothing. 
 
 Thus, in the end, I took the jewelry, excepting a few 
 trinkets in every-day use, to the Mont de Pi6t6, or 
 rather to one of its commissionnaires, for I had heard 
 that the latter were, at times, more liberal than the in- 
 stitution itself. Nevertheless, I could only obtain an 
 advance of one hundred and sixty pounds, and came 
 away almost regretting that I had not followed the 
 device of an acquaintance who had once told me that 
 if a man wished to pawn anything of value and had 
 a little money in his pocket, his best course was to go 
 to England, as a good London pawnbroker would lend 
 him a great deal more on his pledge than the Paris 
 Mont de Pi6te ever advanced to anybody; for if its rate 
 of interest was low, it greatly under-estimated every- 
 thing that was tendered to it. 
 
 However, I went to Moutonnet, paid what I owed, 
 and handed him an additional hundred pounds, a 
 drop, as it were, in the ocean of speculation. But I 
 saw that my promptness pleased as well as surprised 
 him, and after I had talked to him somewhat confi- 
 dently about the concession at the Exhibition, he said 
 to me: 
 
 "Well, I will leave things as they were. You are 
 good for another five or six thousand francs if we are 
 unlucky again, are you not ? " 
 
3^4 
 
 rHE LOVER'S 
 PROGRESS 
 
 "Oh, of course!" I answered. "I could find that 
 easily in a week or two." 
 
 "Then I shall merely take what you have given me 
 as something on account of cover. Besides, I do not 
 imagine that I shall have to ask you for more. I have 
 heard something, and this time, I think, we shall not 
 only get our losses back, but a good bit besides." 
 
 He was quite confident and gay, though on the last 
 settlement he had lost almost as many thousands as 
 I had lost hundreds. But then he had capital to draw 
 upon in the event of loss, and I was virtually staking 
 my all. 
 
 Another fortnight began, and I spent it in a fever of 
 anxiety against which even Salta's caresses were for a 
 time powerless. There were occasions when I felt 
 almost angry with her. She, whom I had known so 
 particular in money matters, now seemed to care noth- 
 ing about them. She refused to let gloomy forebodings 
 worry her, and was ever trying to rouse me when she 
 saw me looking thoughtful. 
 
 At this time I made desperate efiorts to settle the 
 matter of the concession at the Exhibition, but without 
 any better result than previously. " All in good time," 
 I was told. It was necessary to wait; the matter had 
 been submitted to the Commissary-General, whose views 
 must be known before any decision could be arrived at. 
 
 Thus the days went by, one hour full of hope, the 
 next full of dread. And to prolong the former I, who 
 
rHE LOFER'S ^Xr 
 
 PROGRESS J'-^J 
 
 hitherto had always been a very temperate man, took to 
 drinking absinthe. Oh! just one drop in the evening 
 before dinner, for I felt that more would not be advisa- 
 ble. I had heard of, even known, so many men whom 
 it had ruined — young writers, young poets, whose intel- 
 lects had been destroyed by indulgence in that green 
 poison. But just one glassful could surely do little, if 
 any, harm. Besides, did not the world seem fairer 
 afterward? Did not the liveliest hopes and fancies 
 spring from the curdling fluid ? As soon as prosperity 
 should return I would give it up again; but now, de- 
 pressed as I found myself, I really needed something to 
 buoy me up. And one day at a caf6, when an acquaint- 
 ance sat down beside me, I took a second glass, just by 
 way of keeping him company. Prom that time two 
 glasses became my daily ration, pending the hour when 
 I should find three necessary. 
 
 But one evening Privat came to my room at the Para- 
 dis. He was in the merriest spirits, for he had won fifty 
 louis at baccarat the previous night, and when he told 
 me of it, quite a craving came on me to try my luck 
 also. We went to his club together, and for the first 
 time since Salta and I had been living together I allowed 
 her to return home alone. I did not see her beforehand, 
 for fear lest she might object, and lest Privat should 
 turn me into a laughing-stock; I simply sent a note to 
 her dressing-room, saying that I was called away and 
 should perhaps be rather late. 
 
jAA CfHE LOVER'S 
 
 O^^ 1 PROGRESS 
 
 Privat's club was a semi-respectable place where a 
 good many journalists and authors were occasionally 
 found. A well-known French novelist, who for years 
 frequented it almost every night, squandered his entire 
 fortune at its baccarat table and died penniless at the 
 Maison Dubois, where he had been placed by the charity 
 of some of his friends. 
 
 For my part I lacked the means to plunge, having 
 that night only seven or eight louis in my pocket, and 
 these I had merely increased to twelve or fourteen when 
 I came away about two o'clock in the morning, feeling 
 that a dull game of baccarat with repeated fluctuations 
 of luck was not likely to enrich one in my position with 
 sufficient speed. 
 
 Besides, though I found Salfca fast asleep, I noticed 
 her handkerchief lying on the coverlet, and it imme- 
 diately occurred to me that she had been crying. Ah! 
 whatever I might do, I must not give her cause for 
 grief. It was bad enough to drink absinthe; I must 
 not neglect her, send her home alone, and stop out late 
 at night. I vowed that it should never occur again, 
 and, by and by, when in going about the room I acci- 
 dentally roused her, I hurried to her side to entreat her 
 forgiveness; telling her also where I had gone and what 
 I had been doing. At first she refused to believe me, 
 but I showed her the few louis I had won and cited 
 Privat as a witness. 
 
 "Oh, Privat!" she replied; "who would believe 
 
rHE LOFER'S o A y 
 
 PROGRESS J / 
 
 him ? Besides, you men always screen one an- 
 other." 
 
 " But Privat never screens me. Why, it was he who 
 told everybody that I had paid for that first notice you 
 had in the ' Eabelais ' last year. But I'll find you other 
 witnesses if you will not believe me. You surely do not 
 think that I have been running after anybody else ? I 
 only wanted to make a little money." 
 
 " It is nearly as bad," said she, relenting, and passing 
 her arms about my neck. " Do you not know that I am 
 very jealous — quite as jealous about the money you are 
 always thinking of as about anything else ? " 
 
 " Then you shall not be jealous any longer," I re- 
 plied. " I won't worry any more. Things may take 
 their own course. I will do nothing but love you, as 
 I used." 
 
 "That is what I want you to do," she whispered 
 between two kisses. "And why should you grieve? 
 Perhaps Moutonnet will have a lot of money to give you 
 next week; and if he does not, we shan't die of it, 
 shall we?" 
 
 Those last words, which, alae ! I soon had occasion to 
 recall, seemed to me at that moment almost blasphe- 
 mous. I know not if other men have felt at times as I felt 
 in those days. Far above and beyond any worry about 
 indebtedness, I was still possessed by an intense desire to 
 make the one I loved the most envied of women. Noth- 
 ing was too good for her; few things were good enough. 
 
3^S 
 
 rHE LOFER'S 
 PROGRESS 
 
 I would have liked to place her on a throne, to compel 
 the admiration and homage of one and all. 
 
 It was that which I still dreamt of over my second 
 glass of absinthe, dui-ing the hour which I always took 
 to myself before dinner, and it was that which made my 
 brooding the more melancholy whenever pecuniary cares 
 asserted themselves. 
 
 When she had spoken of giving up the livery-stable 
 victoria at the end of the month, I had suggested a practi- 
 cal reason for keeping it; but, apart from what creditors 
 might say or do, the thought was present in my mind 
 that such relinquishment would be like abdication. As 
 a matter of fact, a livery-stable carriage was not good 
 enough for her. She ought to have had a mansion and 
 stables of her own, with six horses in them, and at least 
 three carriages in the coachhouse. 
 
 Again, how I envied those American millionaires! 
 There were three or four constantly in Paris at that 
 time — old men with ugly wives, on whom the adorn- 
 ments of wealth were lavished to no purpose; for all the 
 diamonds, all the silk, all the lace, all the cunningly- 
 contrived corsets, all the false hair, and all the com- 
 plexion-improvers in the world could not for one mo- 
 ment make them look beautiful. And here was I, unable 
 even to provide my love with a setting worthy of the 
 beauty which all who knew her recognized! It was 
 monstrous, abominable; it was as if destiny did every- 
 thing in the wrong way. 
 
rHE LOFER'S jAf. 
 
 PROGRESS J^y 
 
 But there came another blow. Once again political 
 troubles upset Moutonnet's calculations. He himself 
 was badly hit — for this time he had plunged — and I had 
 no idea where to obtain the money to discharge my lia- 
 bilities toward him. No hope of retrieving the position 
 was possible; ruin stared me in the face. 
 
 Yet this blow unnerved me less than the first had 
 done. Perhaps I was becoming accustomed to misfor- 
 tune. At all events, the possibility of such a denouement 
 had been covertly haunting me, in spite of all my efforts 
 to remain cheerful; thus I was in a measure prepared for 
 my downfall. 
 
 Moreover, on this occasion I was alone when the col- 
 lapse became known to me. Salta had gone shopping 
 with Clotilde, and I was returning home about five in 
 the afternoon, in order to finish an article extolling the 
 Broglie Government — ^for I had been trying to keep the 
 promises I had made to the functionary of the Ministry 
 of the Interior — when on my way I heard a couple of 
 newspaper hawkers shouting something about a slump 
 at the Bourse. Forthwith I bought a paper, a glance at 
 which told me everything. There was no hope of any 
 recovery; settling day was at hand, and I was at the end 
 of my tether. 
 
 I went straight home, walking thither as if in a dream, 
 
 but to all appearance very calm. My first explosion came 
 
 when I caught sight of my unfinished article lying on 
 
 my writing-table. I took up the sheets of " copy " and 
 34 
 
->_^ CfHE LOVER'S 
 
 J/^ 1 PROGRESS 
 
 tore them to shreds. That cursed Government! It was 
 at the bottom of everything ! It had ruined me, and if 
 I wrote about it at all, it would be to attack it as fiercely 
 as I could. 
 
 But I sat down and lighted a cigarette. Now that the 
 end had come, the one essential thing was to place Salta 
 beyond the reach of annoyance. She must leave me — if 
 not that day, at least on the morrow. The rooms were 
 in my name, and no rent was owing; indeed, it was paid 
 till the end of the year, it being customary in Paris when 
 taking a flat of the better class to pay one or two quar- 
 ters' rent in advance. Thus, I would give notice for 
 December, and Salta would be free to remove her own 
 furniture, as well as anything else she might fancy, 
 leaving me behind to face the creditors. 
 
 I took a little list of them out of my pocket. Some 
 bills I knew were made out to Monsieur Letty, others to 
 Madame Letty, others, again, to Madame Salta. I marked 
 my list accordingly, and was annoyed to find how large 
 was the amount for which Salta might be made person- 
 ally liable. 
 
 With the ordinary tradesmen I might arrange to take 
 everything on my own shoulders; but the dressmaker, 
 the lingere, the modiste, the hosier in the Eue Saint 
 Honor6 who made her tights, and the man in the Fau- 
 borg Montmartre who supplied her with dancing shoes, 
 would all look to her, and her life might be made a 
 misery. 
 
rHE LOVER'S jyj 
 
 PROGRESS -J/ ^ 
 
 It Was wonderful how quickly money went. During 
 the last four months or so we had got rid of about a 
 thousand pounds, and we owed very nearly eight hun- 
 dred, irrespective of Moutonnet, whose claim against me 
 would probably run to three hundred more. Another 
 large item was that owing by me to L6vy for the diamond 
 stars, and a third was the dressmaker's bill, which 
 amounted, I believe, to about a hundred and sixty 
 pounds, while another sixty were due to the modiste, the 
 lingere, and the hosier. 
 
 Further, my tailor, bootmaker, and shirtmaker had to 
 be reckoned with. Fortunately, the servants' wages, 
 excepting those of the current month, were paid, and 
 the accounts at the butcher's and the grocer's were not 
 large, as we so often took our meals en ville. 
 
 Nor was the wine merchant's bill very heavy. But it 
 really seemed extravagant to be owing a matter of twenty 
 pounds to one's laundress, when she had been paid ten 
 pounds on account only six weeks previously. There 
 was something wrong with that bill, and, if necessary, I 
 should dispute it. 
 
 But, after all, of what use was it to cry over spilled 
 milk ? We had gone the pace, and now came the day of 
 reckoning. The best course was to see Fieron, or, 
 preferentially, Trani, and obtain an advance for Salta 
 in order that she might move from the Rue Pasquier 
 and pacify her personal creditors. 
 
 All was success at the Paradis, which was now a recog- 
 
~^j Cr'HE LOFER'S 
 
 J/^ 1 PROGRESS 
 
 nized institution of Parisian life. The first year of 
 Pieron's management had yielded a net profit of nine 
 thousand pounds, which, during the present year, would 
 probably rise to eleven or twelve thousand. Indeed, if 
 the house could only be enlarged, as was being suggested, 
 there would practically be no limit to the takings. 
 
 Of course, a considerable portion of the profits was 
 derived from the sale of refreshments, but if the artistes 
 did not attract the entire crowd, they were at least the 
 raison d'etre of the establishment, and I did not think 
 that either Trani or Fieron would be so mean as to refuse 
 to help Salta out of a difficulty. I felt that I must speak 
 to her about it as soon as she came home. 
 
 I lit another cigarette, and went on to the balcony to 
 wait for her. My mind was made up. I had recovered 
 some of the decision of character which had marked my 
 youth. I refused to look into the future or to recall the 
 past. By an effort of will I compelled my mind to dwell 
 on the present only, to concentrate itself upon the 
 scheme I had formed for saving Salta. 
 
 It annoyed me that she should be late, for I wished to 
 catch Fieron before the house opened. As a rule we 
 dined early, on account of her dancing, and the maid 
 had already told me that dinner was quite ready. What 
 could Salta be thinking of ? How foolish of her to stop 
 out like that with Olotilde! 
 
 But all at once I saw the victoria turn into our street 
 from the Boulevard Haussmann, a circumstance which 
 
rHE LOFER'S jtj -y 
 
 PROGRESS . J/ J 
 
 rather surprised me, for, as a rule, tlie carriage arrived 
 by way of the Eue Neuve des Mathurins. However, I 
 wasted no time in thought, but rang for the servant and 
 told her that she might serve the soup, as madame was 
 coming up the stairs. Then I went in person to open 
 the door of our flat. 
 
 Salta looked at me very seriously, almost anxiously, as 
 she came in, but said nothing until I had followed her 
 into our room, where she took off her hat. I did not 
 mean to speak to her until after dinner, when the ser- 
 vants would be having their own meal in the kitchen 
 and we should be free from intrusion. But after I had 
 kissed her, she took hold of my hands, saying: 
 
 "Listen: I have something to tell you." 
 
 A presentiment came upon me that she already knew 
 the truth. 
 
 "You have heard of what has happened?" I ex- 
 claimed. 
 
 "Yes; and you? — I thought you did not know it 
 yet." 
 
 Then she told me that, like myself, she had heard a 
 man crying an evening paper, and had bought one. 
 
 "I was not quite certain," she said, "but I feared 
 that the news was bad." 
 
 " Yes, it is ruin," I retorted. 
 
 " My poor Charles, I am so sorry for you ! " she re- 
 plied, as she lovingly returned the kiss I had given 
 her. 
 
2 7// CJ-'HE LOVER'S 
 
 O/Jh 1 PROGRESS 
 
 " You must not think of me," I answered; " you must 
 think of yourself." 
 
 She protested, but I cut her short. The dinner was 
 waiting, I said, and it would be better to talk things over 
 afterward. Then I led her into the dining-room, and we 
 took our seats. My calmness seemed to surprise her 
 greatly. 
 
 When we had started on the soup, Caroline the maid 
 being in attendance, I asked her about her shopping, 
 just as I might have done on any other evening; and 
 although her wonder evidently increased, she forced her- 
 self to answer me in her usual degagee manner. But we 
 hurried over our repast, for neither of us was hungry; 
 and as soon as we could dismiss Caroline, telling her that 
 she might clear away afterwards, I began to unfold the 
 scheme I had thought of. 
 
 "I do not desire to distress you, ma cJierie," I said. 
 " It is best that we should both look at things from a 
 practical point of view. Is it not so ? " 
 
 " Yes, certainly," she responded, as if well pleased by 
 that exordium. 
 
 " We cannot continue living like this. Before many 
 days are over, people will be coming here and pestering 
 us for money, and we shall have virtually none to give 
 them. Now, you must not be worried on account of 
 liabilities that I have contracted, and I therefore think 
 
 it would be best if — if — for a time, at all events " 
 
 At the moment of speaking the fatal words I began to 
 
rHE LOVER'S jy c 
 
 PROGRESS J/ J 
 
 tremble, but I promptly mastered myself and finished 
 my sentence: " If we separated." 
 
 She looked at me in speechless amazement. ^ 
 
 "You understand," I said, "I must not drag yon 
 down with me. At the present moment I am simply 
 like a dead weight hanging on to you, and it is not right 
 that I should spoil your life, your career. Unfortunately, 
 if there are matters which I can take on myself, there 
 are others for which people will look to you. Ah! I am 
 sorry that I pawned that jewelry — or, rather, that I gave 
 the proceeds to Moutonnet. I was lacking in courage 
 that day: I ought to have cut my losses. If you had 
 that jewelry at the present moment, it would enable you 
 to pay some of the people who will be worrying you. 
 But I have thought of something else " 
 
 She, however, was recovering from her stupor, though 
 it seemed as if she had not heard my last words. 
 
 " Separate! " she cried. " Ah, so you no longer love 
 me!" 
 
 Love her ! Never had I loved her more. But I forced 
 back my anguish, and spoke sternly, almost cruelly. 
 
 "We must be practical," I said; "you yourself ac- 
 knowledge it. My love has only done you harm. I see 
 it clearly now. If I had not sought you, you would have 
 been without a care at the present time; but I came into 
 your life and spoiled it. At least, then, let me do, let me 
 suggest what I can to extricate yon from this unfortunate 
 position." 
 
37^ 
 
 rHE LOFER'S 
 PROGRESS 
 
 Thereupon, in spite of her frequent interruptions, I 
 explained my scheme. She had better take rooms for 
 herself, and remove whatever she desired from the Kue 
 Pasquier, while I endeavored to secure her an advance 
 from the Paradis. As she seemed to be indispensable 
 there, she might renew her now expiring engagement on 
 somewhat higher terms; and Trani, who was now rolling 
 in money, would doubtless consent to let her have some 
 seven or eight thousand francs, which she might refund 
 out of her salary at the rate, perhaps, of four or five 
 hundred francs a month. She could then distribute 
 some five or six thousand francs among the people who 
 troubled her, the balance serving for her removal -to 
 other quarters, and for her more immediate require- 
 ments. As for the rest, I should remain in the Kue 
 Pasquier until December, and do what I could with all 
 those creditors who would look to me for the payment of 
 their claims. 
 
 " And you think I shall consent to that! " she cried 
 scornfully when I had finished. " Oh, if you care no 
 longer for me, as your manner seems to show, if you 
 have had enough of me, you may go! You are free. I 
 told you on the first day that you would always be free, 
 for I knew that I might bring misfortune on you " 
 
 " Noj no! You have made me very, very happy! " I 
 protested. " Whatever misfortune there may be is my 
 own work." 
 
 But she waved her arm and replied: 
 
rHE LONER'S y^y 
 
 PROGRESS J// 
 
 "Happy! Then why do you wish to leave me? I 
 also had thought of a plan, but since you wish to sepa- 
 rate, I need not tell it you; it would be useless. Go, as 
 you desire we should part; but I shall stay here. I am 
 not afraid of the people to whom we owe money." 
 
 " But, my darling, it is impossible," said I. " Oh, I 
 do not wish to leave you! God knows that the mere 
 thought of it wrings my heart! Yet what else can be 
 done ? You cannot stay here. I have to face Moutonnet 
 and L6vy, and all the others. It worries me that I can- 
 not rid you of everybody." 
 
 " But I am responsible as much as you are," she 
 retorted. " It was I who told you to go on speculating, 
 and you bought the jewelry for me. I ought not to have 
 let yon do it. It is all my fault." 
 
 Then, as I continued protesting, she caught hold of 
 my hands and said : 
 
 " Listen, Charles. We have been mad — we have both 
 been mad. We ought to have continued living as we 
 did at first. Were we not happy then ? Did I not make 
 you happy?" 
 
 I could hardly restrain my tears. Ah! yes, she had 
 made me happy; and what would I not have given to 
 have seen the past return ? But she continued speaking : 
 
 " Yes, it was my fault. I felt so grieved and so afraid 
 when we lost our little one. It seemed like a curse on 
 me. I wanted to forget everything, and I wanted you 
 to forget as well, for I saw how grieved you were. And 
 
37S 
 
 rHE LOVER'S 
 PROGRESS 
 
 then afterwards, when we had become extravagant, and 
 you lost the money at Moutonnet's, I told you about the 
 jewelry, because I saw how very worried yon were, be- 
 cause I feared you might leave me then, if we could not 
 go on living as we did. I knew that I had always vexed 
 you when I made difficulties about money matters. I 
 used to think that you took me for a miser " 
 
 "Oh, Gabrielle, do not speak like that! "I cried. 
 "You were right in making difficulties — a thousand 
 times right! But I wanted to see you very beautiful and 
 very much admired, and my only regret is to have failed, 
 and to have brought things to this dreadful pass." 
 
 At this her old smile suddenly returned. 
 
 " Then you did not find me beautiful enough when 
 you first made love to me? Did you think I wanted 
 anybody but you to admire me ? " 
 
 I kissed her, and she went on : 
 
 " We were both wrong. It is true I did wish to live 
 a little like the others; after all our troubles, I wanted 
 to enjoy myself — but with you, only with you. I heard 
 so much about it, too; I saw so much, and they were all 
 so gay. And, besides, when I was called like that night 
 after night at the house, I lost my head; I seemed to be 
 living in a dream " 
 
 "And I did nothing to bring you back to reality," I 
 answered, passing my arms about her. " You must not 
 reproach yourself. I am the one to be blamed. I also 
 lost my head; I ought to have been firmer." 
 
rHE LOFER'S jy^) 
 
 PROGRESS J/ y 
 
 Then I sighed, thinking that I had indeed wrecked 
 our lives. Ah! the early days, the exquisite days, gone 
 for ever! 
 
 "It was madness; we were both mad," she repeated. 
 " Ah, if I had not believed such foolish things! " 
 
 Her eyes had filled with tears, and for a moment she 
 rested her head upon my shoulder, weeping silently. 
 She was thinking of her father's insanity, her child, and 
 all the rest. I knew it well. 
 
 " Listen, my darling," I said at last, after striving to 
 comfort her. "You do not like my plan. It was the 
 only one I could think of, but perhaps there may be a 
 better. Do not imagine that I want to give you up; 
 I only want to do what may be best for you. But you 
 said just now that you had thought of a plan yourself. 
 What was it ? Tell it me, and if I can, I will do as you 
 desire." 
 
 " You really do not wish to leave me ? " she asked. 
 
 " No; how can I ? Do I not know you to be the best 
 woman in the world ? Where could I find such another 
 — one who would love me as you do ? " 
 
 "And would you like to live again as we lived be- 
 fore?" 
 
 " Oh, I wish it were only possible! But how ? " 
 
 " Listen. You must let me do as I please. Do you 
 know where I went before coming home ? " 
 
 "No " 
 
 "I went to see Leroy, of the Fantaisies. That was 
 
38o 
 
 rHE LOFER'S 
 PROGRESS 
 
 why I was so late. I drove to his house after leaving 
 Clotilde. I had been thinking over it before, and when 
 I saw that the Bourse news was so bad, I did not hesi- 
 tate. But wait a moment: I will show you something." 
 
 She rose and went to our room. I knew Leroy, and 
 was aware that he had again and again tried to take her 
 from the Paradis. When she returned, she handed me 
 a letter, saying : 
 
 " I got him to write this. Eead it, " 
 
 I took the letter, which ran as follows: 
 
 "Madame: 
 
 " I have the honor to inform you that, if you will place 
 your services at my disposal, in such manner as shall be 
 hereafter agreed between us, for the whole of the Ex- 
 hibition season next year (six months, May till October, 
 inclusive), I will pay you a salary of two thousand five 
 hundred francs (one hundred pounds) a month, with a 
 premium of eight thousand francs (three hundred and 
 twenty pounds) on the signing of the agreement. And 
 if you are able to come to me during next autumn, I will 
 engage you at the rate of seventeen hundred and fifty 
 francs (seventy pounds) per month, until the opening 
 of the Exhibition season. Your part to be that ot premier 
 sujet travesti. Costumes to be supplied by me. Accept, 
 madame, the assurance of my distinguished consideration. 
 
 " Leeot, 
 " Director of the Pantaisles Prangaises and the Concert 
 des Nations, Champs Elys^es." 
 
 She smiled almost triumphantly when I looked up at 
 her. 
 
rHE LOFER'S jOj 
 
 PROGRESS J" ^ 
 
 " You Bee," she said, " will that not settle every- 
 thing?" 
 
 "It is a good offer," I replied, "and if you get the 
 eight thousand francs, you will be able to pay your 
 creditors — at least most of them." 
 
 " Our creditors," she answered. 
 
 "Oh, no! not mine. I will not allow it. I cannot 
 take your money, my dear. As it is, a lot of it has gone 
 on me already, and it is that which worries me." 
 
 She looked very vexed, and with a sudden flush re- 
 torted : 
 
 " My money is earned honestly! " 
 
 "No doubt, but " 
 
 "But men do not like taking money from women. 
 That is it, is it not?" 
 
 I made a little gesture of assent, while she resumed : 
 
 " Why is that ? Why should not one help the other ? 
 You used to say to me: 'You cannot love me if you 
 will not take a present from me.' May I not say the 
 same to you? Besides, I am as much responsible for 
 the trouble as you are. You would have ceased speculat- 
 ing if it had not been for me." 
 
 " But, my dear," said I, " even if I were willing to let 
 you do as you desire, eight thousand francs would not 
 suffice for all the creditors. That amount would keep 
 yours quiet for a long time; but divided among mine as 
 well, it would do little, if any, good. L6vy alone will 
 want over seven thousand francs." 
 
3^2 
 
 rHE LOVER'S 
 PROGRESS 
 
 " Oh! but I mean to take the jewelry out of pawn," 
 she cried. " You can return the stars to L6vy. He will 
 be glad to have them; and if he makes a fuss, we can 
 quiet him with a few hundred francs. They are not 
 worth anything like what he charged for them. You 
 can threaten him with an action for deception.* We 
 can get all the jewelry back for little more than four 
 thousand francs. And after giving L6vy the stars, we 
 can sell the other things. I am sure we could get two, 
 perhaps three, thousand francs for them; that would 
 give us seven, and L6vy would be paid. How much do 
 we owe altogether ? " 
 
 "Twenty thousand; but if Levy's claim is cancelled, 
 we shall only be owing thirteen." 
 
 " And we shall have more than half the money! " she 
 cried. 
 
 "There would still be Moutonnet," I objected. "I 
 left him out of the reckoning, you know." 
 
 "Yes, but he will wait; I am sure of it. He is a 
 friend." 
 
 " I am afraid he is hard hit himself." 
 
 " But listen. We will begin by paying the others half 
 of what we owe them. We will sell everything here 
 that we do not require ; we will find a little place just 
 large enough for ourselves; we will save as much money 
 as we can every month, and pay something to everybody. 
 
 * The offence known in French law as tromperie sur la qualiti 
 de la marchandise. 
 
rHE LOFER'S jO^ 
 
 PROGRESS J" J 
 
 If we give Moutonnet five hundred francs a month he 
 will he well content. We will he very economical; we 
 will get rid of the victoria, and keep only one servant, 
 and hefore the Exhibition opens we shall have paid 
 almost every one. Oh, Charles, will you do it? Will 
 you? You will make me so happy!" 
 
 She looked quite radiant as she spoke, and I caught 
 her in my arms again. Ah, the divine creature ! Oh, 
 God, to be loved like that ! Yet I with my pride still 
 hesitated, for I knew that for every franc I should be 
 able to contribute towards throwing off the burden of 
 our indebtedness she would be contributing two or three. 
 For a moment she remained gazing at me, with an ex- 
 pression of coaxing entreaty in her lustrous glance. 
 Then, hesitatingly, almost bashfully, she inquired : 
 
 "Is it because I am your mistress that you refuse? 
 Would you refuse if I were your wife ? Would you still 
 marry me?" 
 
 My heart leaped. Never in my life had I felt such 
 emotion. I had brought her to this pass, and now she 
 wished to be my wife! How could I answer her other- 
 wise than by covering her with kisses of love and grati- 
 tude? 
 
 " You asked me often," she said in a low voice, almost 
 a whisper, " and I would not consent. Perhaps I was 
 wrong, yet not entirely; for yon knew what I feared. 
 Oh, it was not altogether an idle fear, for I have been 
 mad; yes, I have. But it is over now; I mean to be 
 
384 
 
 rHE LOFER'S 
 PROGRESS 
 
 very sensible. Tell me, Charles, will you still take 
 me?" 
 
 " To-morrow, if you like," I answered, in a transport. 
 
 " That is too soon," she retorted, laughing. " There 
 are all the formalities. But you are sure you will not 
 regret it ? You know that I have never loved anybody 
 but you." 
 
 " I not only know that, but I know there is nothing I 
 would not do for you, Gabrielle," I cried. 
 
 "Oh! I only want you to love me very, very much. 
 You must never spend a lot of money on me again. You 
 will not want to do so when we are married. We shall 
 be reasonable, you will see. A man is not extravagant 
 with his wife as he is with his mistress, and a woman is 
 more careful when she is married. I did not always 
 think that, but I feel sure of it now, and that is why I 
 think it better to be married, if you are willing." 
 
 " Don't ask me any more if I am willing," I replied; 
 " you know I am. I should like to marry you, and carry 
 you away, and live alone with you for ever." 
 
 "But we have to pay those people. Listen! You 
 must not be too jealous ; you must let me continue 
 dancing for another two years. Then, if it is possible, 
 I will give it up, and be nothing but your wife. " 
 
 " You will marry me then ? " said I, not quite under- 
 standing her. 
 
 But she gave me a reproachful glance. 
 
 " Do you wish the marriage deferred ? Perhaps you 
 
rHE LOVER'S jO c- 
 
 PROGRESS J" J 
 
 think that you ought not to let me continue dancing at 
 all after you have married me," she said gently and 
 somewhat sadly. 
 
 "I did not mean that. I should like you to give it 
 up, as you know, but I admit that it is quite impossible 
 at present. Let it be as you say. How soon can we 
 marry — in a fortnight, three weeks? " 
 
 " About that. We shall have to get our papers. The 
 holidays will have just begun, and everything can be 
 done very quietly." 
 
 " Yes, very quietly. And during the two years I will 
 work very hard. Perhaps I may have made another 
 position by then. There is only one thing that annoys 
 me, dear. If you leave the Paradis, I shall have to leave 
 also, for there will certainly be trouble with Fieron; and 
 I doubt if Leroy would have a good berth for me. But 
 no matter! I will get back to journalism if necessary. 
 I will do anything; I will earn money somehow. You 
 have made a man of me again, Gabrielle. I shall never 
 be able to show you enough love and gratitude " 
 
 I paused and looked at my watch. Good heavens! 
 how the time flew ! It was past eight o'clock, and we 
 should be late at the Paradis. However, we hurriedly 
 put on our hats and tripped down the stairs. The vic- 
 toria had been waiting outside for twenty minutes or so. 
 I told the man to drive as fast as possible, and on the 
 road Salta and I made our final arrangements. 
 
 The idea that I might have to leave the Paradis wor- 
 
-ox Cr'HE LOFER'S 
 
 J^^ J- PROGRESS 
 
 ried her somewhat, and she suggested that she might 
 show Leroy's letter to Fieron that evening, telling him 
 that if he would give her the same terms on the expira- 
 tion of her present engagement, which ended with the 
 season — that is, in about another week — she would re- 
 main with him. This, of course, was tantamount to 
 putting a pistol at his head; nevertheless, situated as we 
 were, it seemed the best plan to follow. 
 
 While Salta hurried to her dressing-room I went to 
 my office, where I found Fieron in a temper over various 
 mishaps Which had just come to his knowledge. Some- 
 thing had gone wrong in the refreshment department, 
 and he had heard from Duval that Clotilde had sent 
 word to say she could not come that night, as one of her 
 children was very ill. 
 
 "It is all nonsense!" said Fieron. "The lad was 
 here yesterday. She brought him when she came to 
 rehearsal, although she knows that it is forbidden, and 
 he was playing about the dressing-rooms. I saw him 
 myself. But, then, those girls always have some excuse 
 or other." 
 
 " Clotilde was with Salta this afternoon," I replied. 
 " I did not hear of anything being amiss then. I will 
 speak to Salta about it by-and-by, if you like." 
 
 " Yes, do. I should like to get to the bottom of it. 
 In any case, Clotilde will be fined." 
 
 The ballet began at half -past nine o'clock, and a few 
 minutes before it I went behind the stage. The evening 
 
rHE LOf^ER'S jPy 
 
 PROGRESS >^ / 
 
 was very oppressive; there was not a breatli of air in any 
 of the passages; but, on the other hand, the evil smell 
 from the artists' lavatories, about which there had been 
 endless complaints, was even worse than usual. How- 
 ever, I found Salta, and spoke to her respecting Clotilde. 
 
 "I drove her home, you know, before I went to 
 Leroy's," she answered, "and her boy certainly did 
 look poorly. He seemed quite feverish when I kissed 
 him; but I did not think it v6ry serious. He must have 
 suddenly got worse." 
 
 "Fieron thought it some excuse that Clotilde had 
 invented at the last moment," I replied. " Tell him 
 what you saw when you go to him by-and-by. Perhaps 
 he will then let her ofE. She cannot afEord fines, poor 
 creature ! " 
 
 When the ballet was over, Salta came to the ofBce. I 
 had warned Fieron that she wished to speak to him, and 
 he, no doubt, concluded that it was merely with refer- 
 ence to Clotilde's child. Thus, when Salta calmly in- 
 formed him of Leroy's proposals, and gave him the rival 
 manager's letter to read, his surprise was almost as great 
 as his anger. I could see the letter shaking in his hand 
 as he held it under the gas jet. 
 
 First came a storm of reproaches. She was going to 
 leave the Paradis, was she — the Paradis which had made 
 her, to which she owed everything ! Ah ! well, he ought 
 to have expected it. No such thing as human gratitude 
 existed. And when Salta responded that she was quite 
 
qS?S? CT^HE LOFER'S 
 
 •^ J- PROGRESS 
 
 willing to remain if he would give her the same terms as 
 were ofEered by Leroy, he asked her if she thought him 
 mad. Leroy might be a fool, but he, Fieron, was not. 
 He would enter into no engagement so long in advance. 
 Besides, who could say that there would be any Exhibi- 
 tion at all ? The country was fast reaching a state of 
 turmoil; Monarchists and Eepublicans would soon be 
 cutting one another's throats, and, in his opinion, instead 
 of an Exhibition, there would be civil war. Moreover, 
 he would certainly pay no premium. It was ridiculous 
 to think of it! Then he turned on me, insinuating that 
 I had devised everything, in such wise that the discus- 
 sion became a dispute, which at one moment threatened 
 to degenerate into something worse. 
 
 Salta alone remained calm, and at last, noticing her 
 glances, I ceased replying to Pieron. 
 
 " Then it is understood, Monsieur Pieron," said she, 
 " my engagement will end next week, with the season ? " 
 
 " Yes, it is understood," he answered; and, once more 
 turning to me, he added: "And you will do well to go 
 too, Letty; I will not detain you. I want no conspira- 
 tors here. You can draw an extra month's salary on the 
 fifteenth, in lieu of notice." 
 
 "Very well," I replied; " that settles it. Bonsoir." 
 And I led Salta from the room. 
 
 That night she wrote to Leroy, who before noon on the 
 morrow came round to the Hue Pasquier to say that he 
 would have a proper agreement drafted within the week. 
 
rHE LOFER'S -, O^ 
 
 PROGRESS J^y 
 
 Salta received him alone, for I had gone to see Mouton- 
 net. The latter, as I had anticipated, was badly hit, but 
 he accepted my proposal to pay him five hundred francs 
 in about a week's time, and to give him bills at succes- 
 sive dates for the balance of his claim. 
 
 When I returned home, I found Salta somewhat 
 poorly. She complained of feeling feverish, but this I 
 largely attributed, as she herself did, to all the emotion 
 and worry through which she had just passed. I went 
 down to the Paradis, leaving her at home and promising 
 to return early. I did so, and found her in just the same 
 state: neither worse nor better. I thereupon inquired 
 if she would like me to send for EiviSre, the doctor 
 attached to the Paradis, to certify that she was too un- 
 well to dance that evening. But she scouted the sug- 
 gestion. She did not wish to place Fieron in any 
 embarrassment. 
 
 The Paradis people had been very good to her on the 
 whole, and she desired to part from them in as friendly 
 a way as might be possible. Besides, she felt quite well 
 enough to dance. Her indisposition was only some 
 trifling affair which she would shake off on the morrow. 
 
 Thus she drove to the house with me as usual, and the 
 only thing we did by way of precaution was to take a few 
 wraps with us for use on the return journey at night. 
 When I went to my office, I found Fieron as calm as if 
 nothing had happened the previous evening. He was 
 perfecting certain arrangements for a touring company 
 
Qr^ff cr'HE LOFER'l 
 
 • J7 J- PROGRESi 
 
 which was to start directly the holidays began, and ] 
 helped him to draft some announcements. In the midsi 
 of it all he told me that he should be absent for two oi 
 three days, having to leave for Lille the following morn- 
 ing. Trani had gone to the seaside already, and La 
 Bambola was to join him there. 
 
 " However," said Pieron, " there is nothing to worry 
 about. The house will get on all right with Duval and 
 you, Letty, in charge of it; and I shall, of course, be 
 back for treasury." 
 
 In the house, during the evening, I came across In- 
 spector Fran9ois, with whom I exchanged a few words. 
 The ballet was being danced, and I noticed that Clotilde 
 was again absent. 
 
 " Yes," said Pran9ois, " her little boy is very ill. He 
 has caught some nasty fever, it seems. It is not sur- 
 prising, however, for the smell behind is something 
 dreadful, and the lad was there the other day." 
 
 " Fortunately, there is to be new drainage during the 
 holidays," I replied, " and we have only four more nights 
 to play. But I am sorry for Clotilde's boy." 
 
 Then I thought rather anxiously of Salta, though, on 
 again looking at the stage, it seemed to me that she was 
 dancing with her wonted hrio. 
 
 When we met in order to go home together, I asked 
 her how she felt. 
 
 "Oh, I am still feverish," she said, "and I have a 
 dreadful headache." 
 
rHE LOFER'S j^r 
 
 PROGRESS Jy^ 
 
 " You speak quite huskily," I replied. " You must 
 have caught cold." 
 
 " Yes, I think that must be it. My throat seems very 
 sore. I will have some tisane vrhen we get home." 
 
 On reaching our flat, the cook, on hearing that mad- 
 ame had a bad throat, suggested boiling some figs, and 
 using the liquor as a gargle; but there were no figs in 
 the house, and all the grocers' shops were closed. Ac- 
 cordingly Salta, who would eat no supper, contented 
 herself with drinking a little tisane. 
 
 We then went to bed, and she sank into a heavy sleep, 
 while I for a time remained awake beside her, listening 
 to her somewhat stertorous breathing. But I gradually 
 dozed off and slept for, perhaps, two hours — at all events, 
 it was about three in the morning when I suddenly 
 awoke. Salta was shaking my arm. A night light was 
 burning on the pedestal table, and I looked at her. She 
 was livid, and her features seemed to be distorted. 
 
 " Whatever is the matter, my darling ? " I cried. 
 
 She answered me very faintly : 
 
 " I do not know, but I can hardly breathe. There 
 seems to be something in my throat. It hurts me very 
 much. There are dreadful shooting pains " 
 
 "I must go for a doctor," I replied, springing out of 
 bed, and hastily putting on my clothes. " I will send 
 Caroline to you in a moment." 
 
 The servants, unfortunately, did not sleep in our flat, 
 but at the top of the house, and after I had called Caro- 
 
,^P cr'HE LOFER'S 
 
 Oy JL PROGRESS 
 
 line the maid, who was a great dawdler, quite a quarter 
 of an hour elapsed before she came down-stairs. Mean- 
 time I could not leave Salta, though, beyond raising her 
 slightly in the bed, I was unable to do little, if anything, 
 for her relief. 
 
 Her condition quite alarmed me now. She coughed 
 dolorously, and occasionally there was expectoration, 
 which seemed to bring her some slight relief, but this 
 was only for a moment. For the most part she lay there 
 well-nigh stifling. However, ditectly the maid came 
 iuto the room I hurried off to seek medical assistance. 
 
 Down below, Badoux the concierge kept me waiting 
 some moments before he pulled the string which opened 
 the street-door; but at last I found myself outside, and 
 sped along the Eue Neuve des Mathurins, where I knew 
 that a doctor resided. 
 
 Neither Salta nor myself had ever had occasion to 
 consult a medical man during our sojourn in the Eue 
 Pasquier. She at the time of our daughter's birth had 
 employed a midwife; for the rest, we enjoyed the best 
 of health. However, I found the house where lived the 
 doctor of whom I had heard, and then had to wait fully 
 ten minutes before the concierge deigned to open the 
 door; and when I had climbed two -flights of stairs in 
 the dark, I had to ring at another door, and wait till 
 a sleepy servant came and told me that monsieur le doc- 
 teur was absent — in attendance on some countess or 
 other, who had sent for him two hours previously. It 
 
rHE LONER'S jf.j 
 
 PROGRESS OVJ 
 
 was a case of some dangerous illness following child- 
 birth. 
 
 But I did not listen to the man's explanations. I 
 asked him if he knew any other medical man in the 
 neighborhood. Yes; there was Dr. Jeusy, in the Eue 
 Godot de Mauroy, and Dr. Picard, in the Eue Vignon. 
 He did not know the numbers, but Dr. Picard lived in 
 a house on the left-hand side going toward the boule- 
 vards, and there was a black-and-gold plate beside the 
 door. 
 
 I rushed down the Eue Vignon, and found Dr. 
 Picard's house, for daylight was now breaking. On 
 being shown into the doctor's bedroom, I briefly ex- 
 plained the case, and begged him to come. He was an 
 old man, with slow, methodical ways; nevertheless, he 
 promised to be at my rooms in less than half an hour. 
 
 Thereupon I went home again, to find, alas! that 
 Salta was much worse. There had been a little hemor- 
 rhage — there were spots of blood on the bedclothes; 
 and now she could scarcely breathe at all. With the 
 help of Caroline, I again raised her in bed, then opened 
 both windows wide. 
 
 When I returned to the bedside, she feebly offered me 
 her hand. It was quite hot, but I sat there holding it 
 and gazing at her till the doctor came; and every now 
 and again the dolorous expression in her half-closed eyes 
 — an expression telling of intense physical oppression — 
 changed to one in which I read unutterable things : her 
 
jQyj Cr'HE LOFER'S 
 
 •jyT- 1 PROGRESS 
 
 love and anxiety for me, her agony at the thought of 
 a parting that was perhaps coming, and her longing to 
 tar^y yet awhile, so that we might live together the new 
 life she had planned, the life that was to have redeemed 
 us both. 
 
 Ah! remember it, all ye who squander your hours, 
 who live amid the follies of the present, without thought 
 of the future — seldom, if ever, is it given to man to re- 
 trace his steps, to begin his life anew as he would begin 
 it. How I, after restless years, was privileged to start 
 on a fresh and very different career, the sequel of this 
 narrative will show. But destiny, marching on, did not 
 allow me to make that start with Salta. Salta died — 
 snatched away in the heyday of her beauty, the flower 
 of her years, at the very moment when she would have 
 saved herself and me. 
 
 And, oh! I cannot tell the story of her death; my 
 pen refuses to write it. My eyes even now fill with 
 tears, my heart shudders, at the thought of her agony, 
 her piteous farewell glances. In five brief days diph- 
 theria killed her — diphtheria of the merciless form which 
 is known to French medical science by the expressive 
 name of la diphthSrie foudroyante — thunder-striking. 
 It had been contracted, perchance, amid the evil smells 
 at the Paradis, or else through kissing Clotilde's little 
 boy, who succumbed to the same dread disease four-and- 
 twenty hours before my loved one breathed her last. 
 
 And, ah, the irony of fate! There is perhaps no 
 
rHE LOFER'S t^ r 
 
 PROGRESS JyJ 
 
 more infectious disease, yet I, who had embraced her, 
 kissed her, lain beside her, slept beside her, remained 
 unscathed. A gargle of chlorate of potash was provided 
 for me, yet I never used it. Another might well have 
 died, even as she died; but my appointed hour had not 
 yet come. Once again death crossed my path, left me, 
 as if in mockery, and carried off the one I loved. In 
 my youth it had robbed me of my best friend, my 
 stepmother ; later it had taken my child ; and now 
 it snatched away the idol of my heart, the creature of 
 rapture and charm with whom love had blessed me. 
 
 Ah! I bow to medical science, I honor its endeavors; 
 but I believe in destiny. 
 
 No means of saving my dear one was left untried. 
 Picard called in a colleague; there was treatment of 
 various kinds — with nitrate of silver and chlorine, I 
 fancy; tracheotomy was performed, but it was scarcely 
 possible even to prolong her life. I remained with her 
 the whole time, and when I would have flung myself 
 upon her to kiss her at the moment when I divined that 
 she was expiring, they pulled me back. I must not kiss 
 her, they cried, or I should die myself! But death 
 seemed welcome, and I struggled with them, and was at 
 least able to catch hold of her white hand and press my 
 lips to it. 
 
 As I gazed at her through my tears, it seemed incred- 
 ible that she, whom I had known so full of health and 
 vigor, who had been the very incarnation of motion. 
 
OqA Cr'HE LOFER'S 
 
 Oy- J- PROGRESS 
 
 which is the essence of life, should be now lying before 
 me rigid, never to move again. Oh! my Salta, my 
 Gabrielle, my love, my wife! to think that she was 
 dead! How unexpected and how crushing was that 
 blow! I know not how I was able to survive it. 
 
 All collapsed at the same moment. Several creditors 
 came pressing for their money, and the little I had went 
 to them. Fieron had sent me my salary two days be- 
 fore, but some difficulty arose about the money owing 
 to Salta, which I, of course, could not legally claim. 
 Moreover, Fieron had left Paris with his touring com- 
 pany the day before she died, and scarcely knowing how 
 dangerous was her condition. 
 
 Thus, when I had paid the servants, who, dreading 
 contagion, were eager to be gone, and the more noisy 
 creditors who came clamoring for their due in that hour 
 of death, I had not even enough money left me to bury 
 her as I desired. The only person who stood by me at 
 all stanchly was Badoux, the door-porter of the house, 
 who, seeing my distress, offered to lend me a hundred 
 francs of his savings, if they could be of any use. Thus 
 there was at least some heart in a mere concierge, even 
 when he was married to a vixen; for it was Madame 
 Badoux who, with her eager, shrewish tongue, had 
 brought the tradespeople upon me at that dolorous 
 time. 
 
 I had to bury my poor girl in forty-eight hours; and 
 I was at a loss where to turn, when I remembered one 
 
rHE LOFER'S j^y 
 
 PROGRESS Oy / 
 
 whom I had befriended more than six years previously, 
 the director of a newspaper, whose liberty and life had 
 been in the greatest danger at the time of the Com- 
 mune, when, after escaping over the roof of his house 
 from the emissaries of Eaoul Eigault, he had come to 
 me for assistance, for he knew that I went in and out of 
 Paris freely, thanks to the passports which I held, one 
 given me by the Commune itself, one obtained from the 
 Versailles authorities, and, again, one of the usual Eng- 
 lish type. Those passports enabled me to smuggle him 
 out of the city, and thus save him from the fate which 
 afterward overtook the Archbishop and the other 
 hostages. 
 
 So I went to him in that hour of distress, and told him 
 the position, adding that money was due to Salta from 
 the Paradis, that Fieron was either at Lille or Douai, 
 and that I had telegraphed to both towns in such wise 
 that funds would certainly be forthcoming in a day or 
 two. But I needed a loan at once in order that I might 
 perfect the funeral arrangements. 
 
 That journalist, who was a Jew, replied by offering 
 me all the money I might need, not as a loan, but as 
 a gift. And he did more: he saw in what a pitiable 
 condition I was, ill, exhausted by grief and sleepless 
 nights, so he came with me and helped me to make all 
 snitable arrangements. And we buried her unostenta- 
 tiously, but decently, and all the flowers of summer were 
 scattered upon her grave. 
 
39^ 
 
 rHE LOFER'S 
 PROGRESS 
 
 Ah! Salta, love and spouse of my early manhood, in 
 whom passion was blended with exquisite tenderness of 
 heart, in whom at one hour appeared all the seductive 
 charm of a siren, and at another the foresight of a sibyl, 
 who when seeking to banish the dread born of an un- 
 happy heredity, and the grief born of our child's death, 
 was moved, woman-like — and in part by my fault — to 
 partake of the frivolous delights of the world, and who, 
 having tasted them, would have reverted to better and 
 nobler things, if your spirit has been able to follow the 
 later career of the lover whom you loved so fondly, it 
 must, I know, have been consolation to you to find that 
 after the stress and storm, the weakness, the collapse 
 into which your death plunged him, he at last strove to 
 live as you, in your last lucid hours, would hare had 
 him live. 
 
 And if in the course of years he loved again and found 
 happiness with another, it was you who for all time set 
 faith in woman in him. Lotis had left him a cynic, 
 regarding almost every woman as false; but you, Salta, 
 left him a believer, feeling, knowing that he who won 
 a true woman's heart gained the greatest and most pre- 
 cious of the boons that life can offer. 
 
rHE LOFER'S 
 PROGRESS 
 
 399 
 
 •BooK 111 
 
 HESPERIS 
 
 " Her angel's face, 
 As the great eye of Heaven, shynSd bright. 
 And made a sunshine in the shady place." 
 
 Restless Tears 
 
 If this narrative, instead of being a record of certain 
 phases of a human life, were simply a novel, it might 
 well have ended with the previous chapter; indeed, 
 so far as art — otherwise artificiality — is concerned, the 
 pages which now follow will possibly suggest something 
 like an anti-climax to the critic who, regulating his 
 opinions on certain literary models, is disposed to lay 
 down arbitrary laws, from which, in his estimation, 
 there should be no departure. But death is the only 
 arbitrary law known to real life, which is all anti-climax 
 and antithesis. 
 
 Occasionally, in these later days, I have found a book 
 described as being so artistic and so true to life — a prop- 
 osition which is utter nonsense, for nothing in its details 
 
y, f^f) CfHE LOVER'S 
 
 H-^^ 1 PROGRESS 
 
 is less artistic than life itself. He who would write the 
 truth must sacrifice, at least, some artistic element, and 
 he who would pen an artistic work must arrive at some 
 compromise with truth. 
 
 Alphonse Daudet reached a high degree of artistic 
 excellence in his novel " Sapho," which he ended as it 
 ought to end — artistically. But if he had given us the 
 real Sapho, and had carried his own career a few chap- 
 ters farther, how different would have been the result! 
 
 In his case the facts, were strongly suggestive of anti- 
 climax, as a brief recital of them will show. Having 
 been rescued from his mistress, the original of the Sapho 
 of the book, Daudet was provided with money by a 
 wealthy protector and friend, and shipped to Corsica 
 and Algeria in order that he might recruit his health by 
 travel. 
 
 Now, what might one take to be the feelings of a man 
 who had just lived " Sapho " ? Would one picture his 
 mood as mirthful ? Yet Daudet, just separated from 
 his mistress, put pen to paper and wrote "Le Don 
 Quichotte Proven9al," subsequently renamed " Tartarin 
 of Tarascon." 
 
 To employ a somewhat vulgar but very expressive 
 phrase, this gives the show away. If " Sapho " as pre- 
 sented to the public were anything like a true record of 
 facts, Daudet would not have written " Tartarin " till 
 at least some years after his experiences as Sapho's lover. 
 As a book, " Sapho " belongs to a much later date, but 
 
rHE LOFER'S y, f^ j 
 
 PROGRESS "7^ ^ 
 
 I refer here to the actual intrigue on which it was based. 
 The truth of the matter is that " Sapho " is not what 
 the French, in the strict sense, call a livre vScu, a book 
 actually lived by its author. 
 
 Although Daudet came from Southern France, his 
 nature was far more nervous than passionate; he could 
 not physically have lived the part of Sapho's lover. It 
 follows that " Sapho " is mainly a work of imagination 
 and compilation, artistically admirable, no doubt, but 
 compounded of tit-bits culled from the note-books in 
 which Daudet jotted down the good things he heard 
 and noticed, with here and there a thrust of natural 
 irony and a flight of original fancy. 
 
 As a matter of fact, though critics now often declare 
 the psychology of Dumas' " Dame aux Camillas " to be 
 " all wrong," there is far more real individual life, and 
 therefore truth, in that work than there is in " Sapho." 
 It is life idealized, no doubt, but it is not a concoction, 
 a compilation, a blending of twenty lives, twenty difEer- 
 ent passions, in order to make up one which shall be 
 artistic. 
 
 Dumas fils inherited, be it remembered, a dual nature. 
 In the days of the "Dame aux Cam61ias," which he 
 wrote with his heart, he seemed likely to prove a replica 
 of his father ; but later his mother's characteristics 
 triumphed, he became a very difEerent man, and turned 
 out very difEerent work. 
 
 Ah, Marguerite Gautier, when I look at her portrait 
 33 
 
yif^y Cr'HE LOFER'S 
 
 H-^^ 1 PROGRESS 
 
 by Vidal, how well I can understand the tenderness of 
 Dumas in his isarlier years! That woman with her dark 
 hair, her almost classical features, her large liquid eyes 
 and pensive smile, had assuredly some elements of good- 
 ness in her composition. I cannot doubt it, if only by 
 reason of the extraordinary physical resemblance between 
 her and the friend of my youth — my young stepmother. 
 
 One day, indeed, my father, while examining some 
 prints in a shop on the Paris quays, discovered a large 
 colored lithograph which looked like a portrait of his 
 own wife. And he bought it and framed it in gold, 
 and hung it up in our rooms, where it long remained 
 unidentified; for although the artist's name figured on 
 it, there was no title. But at last one day I discovered 
 another copy in the possession of Charles Yriarte, and 
 eagerly asked him if he knew whom the portrait repre- 
 sented. 
 
 "Why," he replied, "that is the real Marguerite 
 Gautier, 'la Dame aux Camillas.' " 
 
 I was astounded, and never dared to tell the truth 
 either to my father or to my stepmother, who was then 
 still alive. They would have felt grieved and have de- 
 stroyed the portrait, or, at least, have hidden it away. 
 And I liked to gaze on it at times and trace the mar- 
 vellous resemblance between the exemplary English- 
 woman and the Magdalen of modern Paris. 
 
 To look at them, they might have been twin sisters; 
 and though she whom the portrait represents — with 
 
rHE LOFER'S AO ^ 
 
 PROGRESS T^ -^ 
 
 great fidelity, so Yriarte asBured me — may have erred 
 and sinned, I, for one, shall always believe that she had 
 a nature capable of better things, even as Dumas would 
 have us think. 
 
 Of recent years I have now and again seen Madame 
 Bernhardt in the part of Marguerite, one which, for the 
 present generation, she has made her own. Unfortu- 
 nately, I have never been able to do justice to the great 
 actress's merits in this rdle, for her "make-up" has 
 invariably robbed me of my illusions. I know that the 
 real Marguerite had a peach-like complexion, black hair 
 glossed with bluish reflections like the plumage of a 
 raven, fine black eyebrows, and long dark eyelashes; 
 and, therefore, when I see Madame Bernhardt appear 
 upon the stage en Monde with light brown, almost 
 golden, hair, for me the play is almost spoiled. 
 
 But passons. I have been loitering, if not straying 
 from my path, and I must lead the reader to other 
 scenes, very different from those which have hitherto 
 occupied my pen. 
 
 When I had buried my love I found myself virtually 
 stranded. With the exception of my clothes, a few of 
 my books and papers, everything at the Eue Pasquier 
 was sold, and the proceeds of the sale were distributed 
 among some of my creditors. I did not see Fieron, but I 
 wrote to him advising him to divide Salta's unpaid salary 
 among those to whom she was personally indebted, and 
 I sent him a list of the parties. Nevertheless several at 
 
/I f^^ cr'HE LOFER'S 
 
 ^^"r 1 PROGRESS 
 
 once came to me, and as some of the furniture at the 
 Eue Pasquier had belonged to her, they undoubtedly 
 had a claim against a part of the money which the sale 
 produced. 
 
 Amid one demand and another all became confusion, 
 and I was reduced to great straits. The only memen- 
 toes of my love which I preserved were a portrait of her, 
 and the gemel-ring bearing both our names, which I re- 
 moved from her finger before she was laid in her coffin. 
 I took a little furnished room at Batignolles over a cafe, 
 and when I had paid a month's rent, thirty-five francs, 
 in advance, I had hardly enough money left to keep me 
 alive for a week. 
 
 Thus I speedily learned the road to the pawnshop, 
 not to carry diamonds thither, but to obtain loans on 
 portions of my wardrobe. I also borrowed a few louis, 
 but, as a rule, I shunned my former associates, and 
 I was too proud, and, in a way, too much ashamed of 
 the predicament in which I had placed myself to think 
 of applying for assistance to any of my own people, with 
 whom I had long ceased to correspond. 
 
 Yet I certainly lacked the energy to extricate myself 
 from my trouble without help. I was stunned, dazed 
 by the blows which had fallen on me. I had no idea 
 how I should ever earn a living again. I had disgusted 
 the editors of the papers for which I had formerly writ- 
 ten by throwing up my duties without warning, amid 
 the feverish excitement which had come upon me in my 
 
rHE LOFER'S ///OC 
 
 PROGRESS ^^J 
 
 reckless life. Besides, how could I write ? My mind 
 always dwelt on the one thought that my love was dead, 
 and that I should never see her again. 
 
 I returned several times to the cemetery, where I saw 
 the flowers laid upon her grave shrivel and decay. One 
 day when I had borrowed twenty francs from a friend 
 I replaced them by a bead wreath ; and whenever I left 
 the cemetery I went to a wine-shop and drank absinthe. 
 It was of inferior quality to that which was sold at the 
 oaf 6s, but then it was cheaper. I should have paid 
 fourpence for a dose at a cafe, and the waiter would 
 have needed an extra penny as a tip, whereas I could 
 get three doses for sixpence in a wine-shop, and three 
 doses brought me forgetfulness and something resem- 
 bling comfort. Thus I was already on the high-road to 
 degradation. 
 
 Meantime I ate when and where I could. I made 
 some interesting experiments. I found that I could go 
 without food for three days at a stretch without feeling 
 any great inconvenience, provided I had my absinthe 
 and a little tobacco. But when I lacked absinthe and 
 tobacco, two days' fasting was my limit, for at the end 
 of the second day I became feverish and drowsy. 
 
 When I had only a few coppers to spend I bought 
 a penn'orth of fried potatoes at a street corner; and 
 when I was in funds I went to an eating-house which 
 many of the Batignolles cabmen patronized, and regaled 
 myself there with an ordinaire — ^broth and beef — costing 
 
4o6 
 
 rHE LOVER'S 
 PROGRESS 
 
 threepence-halfpenny, to which I added one penn'orth 
 of bread and half a pint of wine, value twopence. 
 
 But I had my pride, and preferred stinting myself 
 with respect to food in order to pay my laundress and 
 wear clean linen. My clothes were still respectable. 
 With me it was a case of la mishre en habit noir. And 
 this, it seemed, was to be the end of one who had long 
 been regarded as the model member of his family, self- 
 willed undoubtedly, but held to be in some respects 
 gifted, and destined, perhaps, for lofty things. 
 
 Every few days, at times when I went to bed at night, 
 at others when I awoke in the morning, I formed good 
 and almost energetic resolutions. I felt that I must 
 rouse myself from this state of collapse, that I owed an 
 effort to Salta's memory if not to my own interests. 
 What would she have said if she had seen me now? 
 But, somehow, I could do nothing; I was like a piece of 
 mechanism the mainspring of which had been broken, 
 and nothing but thorough repairing could set me going 
 again; yet, as I have already said, pride made me shun 
 those who might have helped me. 
 
 One day in the street I saw Sinais coming in my direc- 
 tion. He was a good fellow in his way, and there was 
 no reason why I should not speak to him; but I bolted 
 into a passage to conceal myself till he had passed. And 
 thus days and weeks went by. 
 
 The three or four people of whom I borrowed trifling 
 sums were old friends, altogether unconnected with the 
 
rHE LONER'S /tn7 
 
 PROGRESS ^ / 
 
 Paradis, which I avoided as I would have avoided hell 
 itself. One day, however, I ran up against Baron, Ber- 
 trand's drunken acolyte on the claque, and he told me 
 that Pieron, Trani, and everybody else were infuriated 
 with me for not having warned them sooner of Salta'a 
 desperate condition in order that they might do what- 
 ever was needful for her. The circumstances of her 
 burial had become known through my Jewish friend, 
 and nasty things had been said and even printed on the 
 subject. 
 
 But any reproaches addressed by Pieron to me were 
 preposterous. Had it not all come like lightning, and 
 had I myself been in any condition to warn others of 
 what might happen ? Besides, I knew what they would 
 have liked, a big procession, a crowd of people, speeches 
 by the graveside, and all the rest of it. Everything 
 considered, I was well pleased that, with a friend's help, 
 I had buried her myself amid tears and silence. 
 
 At last, what I would not do from a feeling of false 
 pride and mortification was done by another. One day 
 when I was in sore straits I broke down in the presence 
 of a family friend on whom I had called, and he com- 
 municated with my people. Kind hands then led me 
 away from scenes of grief and trouble and desperation. 
 A man's father is always his best friend, and mine was 
 no exception to the rule. He came to Paris — it was 
 a very painful moment for both of us — and helped me 
 to settle some of my more pressing affairs. Por instance. 
 
yj r.Q Cr'HE LOFER'S 
 
 ^^" -L PROGRESS 
 
 the pledged jewelry was taken out of pawn, L6vy's stars 
 were returned to him, and the other things were sold. 
 
 Then my father told me that he wished to visit Ma- 
 deira and the Canary Islands, and purposed taking me 
 with him. There were newspaper articles to be written 
 and afterward adapted to form the chapters of a book, 
 which he wished to provide with numerous illustrations. 
 Thus for a while I bade good-by to Paris, and though 
 I wrote but little, for writing meant too much thinking, 
 it brought me relief to take up pencil and brush and 
 depict scenes and incidents in the islands of the South- 
 ern Sea. 
 
 Ah ! the magic sunsets aboard ship on the evenings of 
 early autumn, sunsets which only the genius of Turner 
 could transfer to canvas; the journeys, too, across Ma- 
 deira in hammocks, along narrow and rugged mountain 
 paths, the waterfalls toppling over the rocks on one 
 hand, the ocean spreading, gloriously blue, on the other; 
 and then the shady ravines, the woods of chestnut-trees, 
 the hedges of roses and geraniums, the vines now climb- 
 ing over trellises, now studding terraced ledges, and the 
 great clifE of Cabo Girao, the highest in the world, 
 whence a break-neck path leads down to a fisher village 
 called Cama de Lobos, "the den of the sea- wolves," 
 otherwise the seals, according to Madeirense tradition, 
 though for centuries no seals have been found near the 
 island. 
 
 But other scenes arise before me. The peak of Tene- 
 
rHE LOrER'S AOO 
 
 PROGRESS ^ y 
 
 riffe springs out of the ocean, I land at Santa Cruz, and 
 go one day to the church of La Concepcion to gaze on 
 the boat-flags wrested by the islanders from Nelson — the 
 only English colors of whose possession proud Spain 
 . can boast. And I ride also to a fiesta at Laguna, and 
 I visit Grand Canary before a steamer carries my father 
 and me northward again, this time to Cadiz, where I 
 had once found life so easy, and love so facile and so 
 unreliable. 
 
 But nowadays I am in no frolicBome mood. So far as 
 extravagance is concerned, the lesson I have received has 
 done me good; and in other respects I shrink from the 
 passing amour. If I think of love at all it is only in 
 connection with one whose hair was tinged with gold, 
 whose eyes were blue, whose shoulders were white like 
 those of Venus emerging from the sea. And for me 
 the raven tresses, the glorious black eyes, the creamy 
 arms of the daughters of Cadiz have lost all charm. 
 
 When I had lingered in that region a few years pre- 
 viously, I had been chaffed, for a time at any rate, about 
 my coldness of disposition, which had seemed unusual 
 not only to young Spaniards, but also to Englishmen 
 domiciled in Southern Spain. If, indeed, I was some- 
 what cold at that time, it was because I carried in my 
 heart the memory of Lotis. But assuredly I was far 
 colder now, for Salta retained sovereign possession of 
 my soul. 
 
 To me, Lotis had only been a dream whose fulfilment 
 
yj jf) Cr'HE LOFER'S 
 
 T-^ ^ 1 PROGRESS 
 
 one might yet try to find with another; whereas Salta 
 had heen reality — reality lost forever. I often thought 
 of her, I often recalled our last long conversation. I 
 could still hear her saying: "Will you do it, Charles, 
 will you ? • You will make me so happy! " 
 
 Alas! alas! those words had come too late! Ah, the 
 dear girl! When her image appeared before me, all my 
 mother came into my eyes; I could not restrain tears of 
 grief and joy — grief at the thought that I had lost her, 
 a poignant joy at the thought that she had died so full 
 of love for me. 
 
 But we went on to Cordova, my father and I; and 
 thence across the Sierra Morena to Merida and Badajoz, 
 and next across Portugal to Lisbon and afterward 
 Oporto. There were no feminine charms to attract my 
 attention in the land of Camoens. I saw but one pretty 
 and graceful woman dui;ing all the months we stayed 
 there, and she was a Spanish operatic singer, for 
 whose smiles a fierce rivalry had sprung up between the 
 king's tailor and the minister of one of the Great 
 Powers. The reader may be incredulous with respect 
 to the former admirer, but I assure him that the royal 
 tailor was in those days quite a personage in Portugal, 
 besides being a very handsome if somewhat elderly 
 man. 
 
 At another time I might have thought it good sport 
 to try my own luck against that of the tailor and that 
 of the diplomatist, but although I was reviving to life 
 
rHE LOFER'S y, t j 
 
 PROGRESS ^^ ^ 
 
 and had my cliance — for I was often privileged to sit 
 beside the lady at lunch at the hotel where my father 
 and I were staying, and to engage her in conversation 
 (for she liked to talk of Paris), besides going to the 
 theatre and joining in the levies which she held in her 
 dressing-room, when young sprigs of the Portuguese 
 nobility presented her with homage and flowers — I was 
 never more than the very respectful admirer of her 
 talents, which were considerable. 
 
 Besides, after a time I went north into the Douro 
 region, and remained long amid the hills and the quinias 
 and the peasantry, spending three or four hours in the 
 saddle every day, and giving the rest of my time to 
 brush or pencil work. I had taken to riding during my 
 previous sojourn in Spain, and having served my ap- 
 prenticeship in those days on a young entire barb, by 
 whom, much to the delight of my Spanish friends, I 
 had been thrown several times before I mastered him, 
 I now had no diflSculty whatever with the ugly but 
 sure-footed Douro nag which carried me up and down 
 some of the most villainous break-neck roads in the 
 world. 
 
 One lived on fruits and vegetables, English tinned 
 provisions, salt cod, and now and again a scraggy 
 chicken, though at long intervals our arrieiro rode 
 eighteen miles or so to procure a little fresh meat. 
 For we were far from civilization, among folk believ- 
 ing in the spells of bruxas, who dug up the corpses 
 
yj T 2 cr'HE LOFER'S 
 
 ^ J- PROGRESS 
 
 of infants to feast on them, and in the midnight gallop- 
 ing and prowling of wehr-wolves — some of whom were 
 the great dread of young mothers, since the only means 
 by which they might escape the fate of becoming 
 wolves at night was to drink the blood of some new- 
 born babe. 
 
 At last, however, when I had swallowed altogether 
 several pounds of quinine by way of warding ofE inter- 
 mittent fever, I returned traz os monies to Oporto and 
 sailed for England, where I remained until February 
 of the following year, still engaged in work for my 
 father, living, as it were, automatically, without ambi- 
 tion, without thought of the future, or of love or 
 woman. 
 
 ' But in February Pope Pius the Ninth died, and 
 twenty-four hours afterward, a newspaper commission 
 having suddenly been obtained for me (I myself should 
 not have troubled about it), I was on my wiay to Eome. 
 As the reader is aware, I was inclined toward none of 
 the churches, but at the same time I harbored no feel- 
 ings against any of them, for I considered that men 
 were free to believe as they pleased. 
 
 Thus, in Paris, as a newspaper correspondent, I had 
 formerly had some intercourse with ecclesiastics who, if 
 not occupying very exalted stations, were men of real 
 influence, as often happens in the Catholic Church. 
 And one of these to whom I now went — halting in Paris 
 a few hours for that purpose — gave me a letter of Intro- 
 
rHE LOFER'S /f T J 
 
 PROGRESS ^^ J 
 
 duction * to a prelate of the Court of the Vatican, who 
 had long lived in Paris and spoke perfect French. For 
 I then knew no Italian. 
 
 The Southern languages, however, came to me rather 
 easily, a circumstance which I have always attributed to 
 the Latin forced into me in my younger days. During 
 my sojourns in the Peninsula I had encountered some 
 diflSculty with Spanish, which is compounded of many 
 elements ; but Portuguese, that is, the ordinary written 
 language, had subsequently seemed to me to be almost 
 child's play. When I was first in Italy, I occasionally 
 tried a Spanish or a Portuguese word on the natives, at 
 times with ludicrous results, though at others it was 
 immediately understood. But so far as Bome and 
 the Papal election were concerned, French carried me 
 through everything. 
 
 Some of the articles which I wrote at that time were 
 kindly preserved by others, and of late years chance has 
 brought them into my possession. Thus, although this 
 
 * This was certainly done less for my own sake than for that of 
 English people generally. Go to a Catholic ecclesiastic, even of 
 high degree, admit frankly that you are a Protestant, but tell him 
 that you wish to put English people right on a Church matter of 
 importance, and there are nine chances out of ten that you will 
 find him disposed to help you, unless, indeed, he be of the news- 
 paper-hating class. In my own case I always kept my belief in 
 the background, but more than one was in those days desirous of 
 securing my conversion, and the hope of bringing that about 
 brought me help in other ways. 
 
^ jyj CJ^HE LONER'S 
 
 ^^y- -L PROGRESS 
 
 book purports to be the Lover's, not the Journalist's, 
 Progress, I cannot resist the temptation to refer to them, 
 not in order to point out any merits of my own, but to 
 show how reliable was the information given me by those 
 in whose hands I placed myself. 
 
 I passed all the papabili, or eligible candidates, for 
 the Papacy in review, and began by scouting the chances 
 of the foreigners Schwarzenberg, Hohenlohe, Ledochow- 
 ski, Bonaparte, Broussais-St.-Marc, CuUen, Howard, 
 and Manning, alluding, by the way, to the bitter hos- 
 tility between the two English cardinals which had 
 made itself manifest (so I was told) at more than one 
 recent meeting of members of the sacred college. 
 
 The candidate of the Eomans themselves, particularly 
 of the lower orders, was Panebianco, a former Francis- 
 can friar, with a stern, frowning face, who owed his 
 popularity solely to his name, "White bread," which 
 the poor regarded as of happy augury. And next in 
 popularity came Canossa, a tall Dantesque Lombardian, 
 who was scarcely more pleasing to look upon than his 
 rival Panebianco. But I added that neither was likely 
 to be elected. 
 
 Then Moretti had not been a cardinal long enough to 
 have any real chance, Luca's prospects were very faint, 
 and so were those of Simeoni; while Pranchi was cur- 
 rently regarded as possessing the "evil eye." Finally 
 I put Di Pietro out of court, as he was both a gourmand 
 and a prodigal, in debt upon every side; and Monaco 
 
CJ^HE LOFER'S AlK 
 
 J- PROGRESS 
 
 La Valletta as being both too young and too niggardly, 
 in wbicb respect he had a very bad reputation among 
 the Romans. 
 
 I next came to the very old men with one foot already 
 in the grave, whose age and infirmities seemed to give 
 them just a chance of success. Among these there was 
 San Filippo, the Sardinian, who had already had two 
 attacks of apoplexy, and who retained little lucidity of 
 mind ; and there was Morichini, who was nearly blind, 
 and whom paralysis had almost bereft of the power of 
 speech. To make either of these the incarnation of 
 infallibility on earth seemed absurd. 
 
 But I came at last to the three candidates whose 
 chances appeared to be really serious. I took Pecci 
 first, Bilio second, and Mertel third; and, as all the 
 world knows, Pecci was elected, and has reigned since 
 those days over the Catholic Church as Leo XIII. 
 
 Here, word for word, is what I wrote of him in one 
 article : 
 
 "This Cardinal, a man of great energy, who when 
 Papal delegate at Benevento purged the province, in 
 a few months, of the brigands with which it had been 
 infested for many years, was the avowed foe of Anto- 
 nelli, and it was only after the latter's death that he 
 was recalled to Rome and promoted to the functions of 
 Camerlingo, which are said by some to affect his chances. 
 He was ordained Cardinal while Nuncio at Brussels, 
 King Leopold I. having made an application to Gregory 
 
4i6 
 
 rHE LOFER'S 
 PROGRESS 
 
 XVI. in his favor. His religious views are broad, and 
 his political views are distinguished by much common 
 sense. He possesses a very considerable chance of elec- 
 tion, and he is undoubtedly one of the few whose eleva- 
 tion would both redound to the credit of the Church 
 and reassure foreign Powers." 
 
 Since February, 1878, those anticipations have been 
 fully justified. Of recent years I have occasionally read 
 in newspapers and magazines that Cardinal Pecci's elec- 
 tion was unexpected. I smile as I remember all that 
 was told me, at the time, of his prospects of success. 
 Indeed, had not journalistic prudence (a thing almost 
 unknown nowadays) restrained me from "plunging" 
 on the "tips" I obtained, I should have written in his 
 favor even more strongly than I did. » 
 
 I left Eome in the spring, and at first went southward 
 to Naples, and then farther into a land of marshes and 
 malaria, myrtle and oleander. Afterward, retraciug my 
 steps, I travelled northward to Florence, where the roses 
 were beginning to bloom, then by way of busy Bologna 
 to lonely and silent Eavenna, where Dante sleeps, and 
 where my own progenitors had dwelt in far-ofE cen- 
 turies, before their share in some conspiracy made them 
 remove to Murano, whence they came as glass-workers 
 to England in Stuart days. And of course I wished to 
 see Murano also, and the cittei unica, incomparable 
 Tenice, of which it is the island suburb. 
 
 Italy seemed to me an enchanting land, a land of 
 
rHE LOFER'S // T" -7 
 
 PROGRESS ^^ / 
 
 beauty and song, and love and glory. One of my uncles 
 had followed the Liberator from Palermo to Naples, hut 
 I was the first Letti of my generation to tread the ances- 
 tral soil. And remembering how many great English 
 men and women had loved Italy, recalling Milton, 
 Byron, Shelley, Keats, Landor, the Brownings, and 
 George Eliot, I felt that although I could not express 
 my feelings as the poets did, I could love that land even 
 more fervently than they, for assuredly some of her 
 blood still coursed in my veins, and to her I owed my 
 being. 
 
 Many of the poets came back to me during those brief 
 weeks. How natural was their enthusiasm! And, 
 again, in that clime where passion masters one so easily, 
 how readily one could understand and excuse the lapses 
 of a man like Byron, though it jarred on my feelings to 
 remember that he sank even to a Margarita Cogni, who 
 thrashed him almost nightly in the Mocenigo Palace. 
 
 But I could not tarry. It was necessary that I should 
 go to Paris, for now that I was in some measure myself 
 again, various communications had passed between me 
 and Moutonnet, who, to my great satisfaction, had in- 
 formed me that his friends had ended by securing the 
 Exhibition concession, the preliminary negotiations for 
 which had, long previously, been opened by myself. It 
 was unlikely that they would find the affair as remuner- 
 ative as they had originally hoped, but something was 
 due to me and would enable me to come to an arrange- 
 27 
 
y, jO qrUE LOVER'S 
 
 y-^ " JL PROGRESS 
 
 ment with my Paris creditors. So I went back, did the 
 best I could with everybody, and retained a small sum 
 for my more immediate requirements. 
 
 I should never have forgiven myself had I left Italy 
 without seeing Venice and Eavenna, yet it would have 
 been far better if I had returned to Paris directly my 
 Eoman commission was ended, for I might then have 
 obtained some regular work in connection with the Ex- 
 hibition, whereas now I could hear of no vacant berth. 
 I knew, however, that my father was coming to Paris 
 a little later, and thus I remained there almost in idle- 
 ness, merely sending a few letters to an English provin- 
 cial journal for which I had written on and ofE since 
 1873. 
 
 But one day I came across Leroy, the director-propri- 
 etor of the Pantaisiee Prangaises, who also carried on 
 one of the concerts in the Champs Elys6es. We spoke 
 of Salta, whose death had greatly shocked him; and he 
 told me in the course of conversation that he was in 
 a bit of a difficulty through his regisseur, or stage man- 
 ager, in the Champs Elysees, having injured himself by 
 slipping down the steps leading to the dressing-rooms, 
 which were situated underneath the stage. I know not 
 what devil within me prompted me to tender my ser- 
 vices, but I certainly did so; and that very evening 
 I virtually ran the show. 
 
 It was like a relapse, and certainly it was quite unex- 
 pected, even by myself. I had imagined, I had vowed 
 
rHE LONER'S y, J f. 
 
 PROGRESS T- y 
 
 that I would never again have anything to do with the- 
 atrical or music-hall matters; yet here I was in the 
 midst of that life again. This time at least I had no 
 fears of losing my heart. I knew that my love had heen 
 a woman among a thousand. 
 
 And that first evening, when I had taken stock of the 
 company with Leroy, I realized that the feminine por- 
 tion of it was clearly of the class which, as Fieron put 
 it, needed to he "driven, not coaxed." I asserted my 
 authority by inflicting a few fines, and scowling on any 
 girl who presumed to be impudent, or even over-merry^ 
 and in two or three days everything was in apple-pie 
 order. 
 
 The only person of the company with whom I became 
 at all friendly was the conductor of the orchestra, a 
 clever young Austrian, who was delighted to find that 
 I knew Vienna. And for five or six weeks, until the 
 manager, whose locum tenens I had become, returned to 
 his duties, I regulated all the performances, and kept 
 nearly a score of unruly girls in order. 
 
 Leroy, who was a kind of universal provider in the 
 matter of entertainments, was at that time running 
 some dancing-halls, and offered me the control of one 
 when my services were no longer needed in the Champs 
 Elys6es. For a moment I hesitated, but it was neces- 
 sary to draw the line somewhere, and I drew it at danc- 
 ing-halls, which might well be called by a slightly differ- 
 ent name. 
 
y, j^ q-'HE LOFER'S 
 
 4-^^ 1 PROGRESS 
 
 An additional reason for refusing, had one been 
 needed, lay in the fact that the chef d'orchestre, with 
 ■whom I should have been associated, was the notorious 
 Markowski, who, many years previously, had introduced 
 the mazurka to Western Europe, and who was now in 
 his very last stage — that of chronic fuddle. 
 
 Looking backward, I think that Leroy's ofEer of the 
 management of an establishment akin to the Moulin 
 Eouge of nowadays was the only one I ever refused 
 when I was in want of work. In the result I remained 
 for a time in very needy and awkward circumstances, 
 amid all the splendor of Paris during the Exhibition 
 season. But having made my bed, I had to lie on it. 
 
 Ultimately my father came from England, and when 
 he returned to London, I likewise went thither, to assist 
 him in various literary enterprises. Amid the — to me 
 — depressing life and climate of the British metropolis 
 I gradually became as limp as a rag. A country life in 
 England would have delighted me, but London life 
 I have always regarded with distaste. 
 
 I threw ofE a quantity of work during that sojourn 
 among my fellow-countrymen, but it was work of the 
 kind into which one can put no enthusiasm, which one 
 does purely and simply by way of earning a living, with- 
 out even the satisfaction of thinking that, however mod- 
 est it may be, it is at least benefiting, providing for 
 somebody dear to me. In old days I had worked quite 
 as hard, and often in quite as uninteresting a manner. 
 
rHE LOFER'S A2 T 
 
 PROGRESS ^ 
 
 but the hope of winning Lotis had then inspirited me; 
 and now who was there that I could hope to win ? To 
 work for self, more than was necessary to provide one 
 with necessaries and a few comforts, seemed the height 
 of absurdity. 
 
 But at last I went abroad again — at first to Paris, 
 then to Germany once more. I found myself in Berlin 
 for the third time, and I sojourned for a few weeks in 
 the Spreewald, among the Wends, who interested me, 
 and about whom I wrote a few articles. My experiences 
 among some of the Portuguese peasantry had given me 
 a vague taste for folklore and primitive manners and 
 customs, which came as relief after the monotonous life 
 ' of cities. 
 
 In Portugal much of my time had been spent in the 
 saddle; in the Spreewald it was spent in a kahn, or 
 punt, for the region is a kind of rural Venice, an intri- 
 cate network of water courses, which are often the only 
 means of communication between one hamlet and an- 
 other. Thus, the Jcahn conveys the children to school, 
 the bridal couples to their weddings, the doctors to the 
 bedsides of the sick, and the dead to their graves. Even 
 the postman goes punting from village to village. 
 
 I stayed at Liibbenau and Lehde and Leisse, at Leipe 
 and Burkow and Oldendorf. I drank Jcrock (the local 
 name for scJinaps) and weiss-bier, the latter out of nar- 
 row glasses a foot high; I saw Wendish dances, when, 
 to the accompaniment of fiddle and horn, the partners 
 
^PP Cr'HE LOVER'S 
 
 H-'^'^ 1 PROGRESS 
 
 whirled madly, with their hands linked above their 
 heads; and I heard both lively and melancholy Wendish 
 songs. 
 
 I went to a wedding also, helped to escort the bridal 
 pair to the nuptial chamber, and saw the bed blessed. 
 This, however, was after a dance in front of the ceme- 
 tery — a dance of defiance, as it seemed to me, proclaim- 
 ing life's triumph over the grave; for in the espousals 
 just celebrated there was the promise of offspring, of 
 continuity for the human race, however relentlessly 
 Death might ply his sickle. 
 
 Again, on the morning of a funeral I saw the eldest 
 son of the house betake himself to the cattle-shed, make 
 the animals get upon their legs, place cheese before 
 them, and announce that their master's body was about 
 to be removed. 
 
 I strolled, too, among the centenarian trees of Eeiga ; 
 rested in the savanna-like hayfields ; watched the storks 
 — for whom nest-boxes were invariably provided in the 
 trees nearest to each house; smoked a long porcelain 
 pipe ; and sketched, now in pencil, now in water-colors, 
 the big lads, who had " more of cheek and less of brow " 
 than was right, and the strapping lassies, who on week- 
 days freely displayed their strong bare arms and legs. 
 
 On Sundays and festivals, however, they were gor- 
 geous in gowns of the brightest hues, their short skirts 
 always edged with a strip of contrasting color, their cor- 
 sets often of black velvet, and thair aprons invariably 
 
rHE LOVER'S A 2 2 
 
 PROGRESS ^'^J 
 
 embroidered. On tbose occasions, also, they wore shoes, 
 or sabots, with scarlet, mauve, white, or magenta stock- 
 ings, while huge wing-shaped rufiEs, fastened with large 
 white bows, encircled their necks, and brilliant ker- 
 chiefs of floral patterns were tied, often so as to form 
 a pair of horns, about their heads. 
 
 By the time I left the Spreewald (bound for Paris 
 once more) a good many men and women condescended 
 to shake hands with me. At first, as I was a stranger, 
 they had contented themselves with ofEering me a single 
 finger of the right hand. 
 
 Experiences of that kind helped to make life some- 
 what interesting. But the rolling stone gathers no 
 moss, and whenever I returned to Paris, which always 
 remained my headquarters, I had a hard fight to make 
 both ends meet. Often when I had a little money 
 before me I went away, now into the French provinces, 
 or farther if my means allowed of it. 
 
 In former years I had been a Parisian, particular as 
 to gloves, neckties, and boots; now, however, I was a 
 carelessly attired adventurer, a commingling of the 
 Wandering Jew and Childe Harold, the latter of course 
 without the poetry. Something was wanting to make 
 me settle down, to restrain me from wasting any more 
 of life's best years. No man, not even my father, had 
 any influence with me. A woman alone could guide 
 me to the haven of rest. 
 
 Yet what woman would care to take such a man as 
 
. yy. Cr'HE LOVER'S 
 
 ^^H- 1 PROGRESS 
 
 myself ? I had certainly shaken ofE one bad habit into 
 which misfortune, not disposition, had led me. I 
 scarcely, if ever, touched such drink as absinthe now. 
 If I felt lonely and moody I sought solace in tobacco, 
 the customary refuge of the companionless. I was 
 beginning to get bald, but otherwise I remained much 
 the same as formerly. 
 
 Again, I was not dissolute. The simply venal amour 
 disgusted me. The memory of the two women I had 
 loved and lost — the one who had married another and 
 the one who was dead — shielded me from courses to 
 which others might have taken. But I had none the 
 lees spoiled my life. I visited nowhere now. I knew of 
 no fasaily in which there was a daughter to whose hand 
 I might aspire. Besides, I had no means, no position 
 but the most precarious. 
 
 And yet I felt, I often felt, that if I could find a 
 woman who would put her hand in mine, I might even 
 now make a fresh start in life and strive for happiness. 
 I could not offer her the youthful enthusiasm which I 
 had dedicated to Lotis; perhaps, too, I could not offer 
 her the ardent passion which had entered into my love 
 for Salta; yet assuredly I could give her affection and 
 gratitude. 
 
 Oh ! to live the life which Salta had planned for us 
 both before death had snatched her away, the life which 
 was to have begun as soon as we should have been free 
 of our burden of indebtedness — to have with me some 
 
r 
 
 'HE LOFER'S /1 2 ^ 
 
 PROGRESS ¥-^J? 
 
 one whom I could care for, whose presence beside me 
 would prove an incentive to efEort, whose smile would 
 be a reward, whose companionship would make life 
 worth living! 
 
 Of course there was Paul Verdier's plan — that of first 
 making a " pile " and then picking and choosing one's 
 bride — a plan which my father also had suggested when 
 he had written to me,* that if I made my way in the 
 world, there would be plenty of parents with charming 
 daughters only too willing to listen to my proposals. 
 
 All that, no doubt, was worldly-wise. But I could 
 not toil for somebody I did not know, and I did not 
 wish to buy a bride with the offer of a position. I 
 wanted somebody to take me as I was, and comfort me 
 and make me a man again. As I have already said, 
 men could do nothing with me, but a woman might 
 still mould me as she listed, make me what she liked, 
 if only she would give me a little love. 
 
 Are there others to whom such feelings come? I 
 know not. I pretend to no knowledge of my fellow- 
 men. I have simply recorded in these pages the feel- 
 ings which were mine at various periods of my earlier 
 life, and however absurd, however improbable they may 
 seem to others, let it be remembered that human nature 
 is full of intricacy, improbability, absurdity, and con- 
 tradiction. If others, therefore, have never felt like 
 myself, they should at least refrain from saying that 
 * See ante, p. 132. 
 
426 
 
 rHE LOFER'S 
 PROGRESS 
 
 such feelings were impossible. Perhaps they may think 
 , I was a little mad; perhaps, indeed, I was. 
 
 There were times when my last dream seemed ridicu- 
 lous to myself, beyond all possibility of fulfilment. I 
 had known love, I had enjoyed my allotted share of it, 
 and now it had doubtless gone forever. Henceforth the 
 little jog-trot of daily life would probably be my only 
 portion. At all events, it was of no use worrying, and 
 thus I went to my caf6 as usual, read the newspapers 
 there, smoked a cigarette, and occasionally joined ac- 
 quaintances in a game of piquet or dominoes, living the 
 while on earnings which amounted on the average to 
 scarcely three pounds a week. 
 
 All at once, however, I made a little money, and the 
 idea of going to Italy again occurred to me. It came 
 about in rather a curious fashion. A young sculptor, 
 a few years my junior, whose father I had well known, 
 had lately inherited a few thousand pounds, and in- 
 tended visiting several of the Italian cities with a couple 
 of companions. As the three of them could do nothing 
 in any ordinary way, they proposed travelling leisurely 
 by road in a carriage of their own — just as the English 
 "milord" travelled in the eighteenth century on at 
 least a part of his " grand tour." To do such a thing 
 at the end of the summer of 1880 seemed a trifle absurd, 
 but my young friend and his associates were not to be 
 diverted from their purpose. 
 
 It was suggested that I should make one of the party. 
 
rHE LOFER'S y, ^ ^ 
 
 PROGRESS y'^/ 
 
 but I was not rich enough to travel in that style, and 
 I was not a sponger. At the last moment, however, I 
 told them that I might perhaps meet them at Turin, 
 which they hoped to reach by way of the Mont Cenis 
 road. As they would be some time travelling through 
 Burgundy and Dauphin^, I could overtake them by rail, 
 this being feasible so far as money was concerned, thanks 
 to some work which had just come to me — a matter of 
 advertising and "puffery " placed in my hands by a big 
 Parisian firm, with the junior cashier of which I had 
 become acquainted through lunching at the same res- 
 taurant. 
 
 Thanks to my knowledge of the inner working of the 
 Paris press, I was able to do what the firm desired, and 
 by taking money from both sides I secured nearly forty 
 pounds. Then a check for another twelve pounds or so 
 reached me from an English newspaper, and I set off, 
 intending to overtake or intercept my artist friends even 
 before they arrived at Turin. I got as far on the road 
 as Eauze in Savoy, but that time, at all events, I went 
 no farther, for in the vicinity of Eauze I met my fate. 
 
428 
 
 rHE LOVER'S 
 PROGRESS 
 
 !I 
 
 Savoy 
 
 It happened thus On the day after my arrival at 
 Eauze I lunched at Dorlu's restaurant, then lighted 
 a cigar and strolled out of the town, intending to go as 
 far as Saint- Modeste, on the margin of the Lac de Vil- 
 laret. But the road forks when one is half a mile from 
 Eauze, and instead of bearing to my left, I went to the 
 right. 
 
 At Saint Sorlin I crossed a stream flowing toward the 
 lake, and the road then became an upward one. Hills 
 arose on either side of me, and I realized that I had 
 taken the wrong direction. A railway line ran on my 
 right, however, the line by which I had reached Eauze 
 the previous morning, and I remembered passing two 
 or three little stations, one of which must surely be 
 within a mile or two. So I continued climbing the 
 road, and I presently perceived another stream with 
 a saw-mill, before which I halted. 
 
 Then quitting the road, I followed the watercourse 
 for a short distance and caught sight of a cascade com- 
 ing from the hills above me. It was distinctly striking, 
 so taking a sketch-book from my pocket, I rapidly made 
 a little drawing of it. I did not then know, as I do at 
 
rHE LOFER'S ^P^ 
 
 PROGRESS y^y 
 
 present, that one afternoon in the year 1813 the sister 
 of Marshal Ney, through falling into the whirlpool 
 below the cascade, was drowned in it amid the shrieks 
 of her friend Queen Hortense, the mother of Napoleon 
 III. 
 
 But an old tower on a hill had attracted my attention, 
 and when I ascended the hillside I found remnants of 
 tombs with defaced Latin inscriptions around the tower, 
 while on the verge of a neighboring wood were a num- 
 ber of canes bearing a wild fruit, a cross between the 
 blackberry and raspberry, it seemed, which I plucked 
 and ate. For a while I lingered near the tower, viewing 
 the surrounding hills, some of which were covered with 
 splendid chestnut trees. And when I returned to the 
 road again I decided to follow it a little farther. At 
 the top of the incline came a village whose name I 
 learned was La Boisse. 
 
 Every step I had taken since leaving Eauze had car- 
 ried me farther from the lake, which I could now only 
 have seen by climbing the mountainous hills which 
 barred the horizon on the west. But from La Boisse 
 the road ran downward to another village, Nerens, 
 where I was told I should find a railway station. So, 
 as it was not yet three o'clock, I resolved to push on 
 thither, and return to Eauze by rail about dinner time. 
 
 The afternoon was warm, for it was the end of 
 August, but the road for some distance beyond Eauze 
 had been lined with plane trees, furnishing a pleasant 
 
y, ^^ (THE LOVER'S 
 
 "i-J^ 1 PROGRESS 
 
 shade. Unfortunately there was no foliage to shelter 
 me from the sun beyond La Boisse, and after a time I 
 regretted that I had not retraced my steps. 
 
 It was at Eauze, I should mention, that I hoped to 
 meet my artist friends, who had acquainted me with 
 their line of route, and who would probably arrive there 
 in a few days, by the very road, indeed, along which 
 I was now trudging in the sunshine. Eauze, as its 
 name implies, is a spa whose waters have long been 
 renowned for their medical properties; and the town, 
 now considerably larger than it was at the time of which 
 I am writing, is quite fashionable and gay during the 
 spring and summer. In 1880, however, things were 
 very dull in the month of August, and when I had 
 examined the few Roman antiquities, baths, arch, and 
 temple, with which, having been in Rome itself, I was 
 scarcely if at all impressed, I had found nothing of par- 
 ticular interest to me within the town. 
 
 Fortunately the surrounding country, which Lamar- 
 tine celebrated both in prose and in verse, is very charm- 
 ing, in parts quite beautiful, with its belt of mountains 
 and its great lake, from a tower above which Rousseau 
 viewed the sunrise described in " Emile." I had already 
 caught a glimpse of the lake from the train which had 
 brought me to Eauze, and that afternoon I should have 
 liked to view it at my ease. But I had foolishly mis- 
 taken my way, and here I was tramping almost aimlessly 
 along a dusty road in the full sunlight. 
 
rHE LOFER'S // 5 7 
 
 PROGRESS ^-^ 
 
 Beyond La Boisse I met very few people — two or three 
 peasants on foot, a mral postman, staff in hand, and an 
 old man who, much to my amusement, was vainly try- 
 ing to urge on a recalcitrant donkey, which he addressed 
 as " sacre Bourbaki." I did not think I should have 
 any better luck with the animal than its owner had, so, 
 after a few words of sympathy, I passed on, still going 
 toward Nerens. And there, indeed, I found a railway 
 station and a porter, who, with a smile, informed me 
 that there would be no train to Eauze till half-past 
 seven o'clock that evening. 
 
 " My usual luck," I thought as I turned away to find 
 an inn or caf6 where I might procure some refreshment. 
 Nerens did not appear to be a very large place, but, as 
 a good many children were just leaving school, I con- 
 cluded that it might shelter, perhaps, two thousand 
 souls, if one counted, not only the houses which fringed 
 either side of the road, but also those which on one hand 
 climbed the hills and on the other dotted the green 
 plain. The schools were very large and well-built; the 
 church was an almost handsome modern building; and 
 there was a stone fountain on a little square — a fountain 
 with a basin, whither a horse had been led to drink, 
 while a housewife filled a pail at a spout protruding 
 from a lion's mouth. 
 
 But, on looking around me, I perceived an inscrip- 
 tion: "Caf6 — Estaminet." That was what I wanted, 
 so I crossed the road to the house of entertainment, and 
 
^ 9p ^HE LOVER'S 
 
 ^O'^ 1 PROGRESS 
 
 entered it. I found myself in a long and somewhat low 
 room, where three men sat at a little table. 
 
 The coolness of the atmosphere inside was welcome 
 after the glare of the August sun. I sat down, ordered 
 something to drink from a girl who came from an inner 
 room, and then took stock of the establishment. Be- 
 sides a number of little tables, chairs, and stools, it con- 
 tained a billiard-table and a small cornptoir, covered 
 with bottles of liqueurs and syrups. Two or three news- 
 papers were lying about, and I picked up one to read it. 
 
 But before long I began to take an interest in the 
 three men who sat near me. One was a young soldier 
 — a corporal — with a gay face. He wore the uniform of 
 a line regiment, but as he had no belt and sword-bay- 
 onet, I concluded — correctly, as it happened — that he 
 was home on furlough. He and another — a man of 
 thirty, with fair mustaches — were playing piquet, while 
 their companion, a dark little fellow who looked some- 
 what of a simpleton, sat by, smoking and watching the 
 game. 
 
 It was becoming an interesting one. Prom where 
 I sat I could see the hand which the soldier had just 
 taken up. His adversary had been leading throughout, 
 but this time luck seemed to have changed; indeed, 
 when the corporal had discarded five cards and taken 
 five others from the remnant of the pack — the talon, as 
 the French call it — he was in possession of a seizidme 
 majeure and " fourteen " of kings. That settled it, for 
 
rHE LOVER'S y, J J 
 
 PROGRESS "f^JJ 
 
 he announced " ninety," and the other flung down his 
 cards in disgust. 
 
 But the onlooker made some foolish remark, at which 
 the young corporal laughed. 
 
 " Ah, sacre Bourbaki! " said he. 
 
 This surprised and amused me, though why man, as 
 well as beast, should be called "Bourbaki" in that 
 region I could not tell. However, while I was smiling 
 I chanced to catch the soldier's eye, and he smiled back 
 at me in a knowing way. Then, his adversary having 
 claimed his "revenge," a fresh game began, while the 
 onlooker, suddenly remembering something he had to 
 do, slouched ofE. 
 
 I drew nearer to the players, to watch them, and after 
 I had passed the match-pot from my table to theirs, to 
 enable them to light up afresh, they and I, while the 
 cards were being redealt, exchanged remarks about the 
 game. There was nobody in the establishment but our- 
 selves, and, with the freedom of cafe life in France, it 
 was not surprising that we should get into conversation. 
 
 But all at once the door of the establishment was 
 thrown open, and a somewhat elderly woman came in, 
 exclaiming: 
 
 "Louis! Louis! your uncle has fallen from the wall ! 
 I believe he has killed himself! Ah, mon Dieu! mon 
 Dieu ! I cannot pick him up ; you must come at once." 
 
 Louis, who was the soldier, put down his cards and 
 rose to his feet. Both he and his companion looked 
 28 
 
y. jy. Cr'HE LOFER'S 
 
 H-O'i- 1 PROGRESS 
 
 quite startled. Then, as they hurriedly followed the 
 woman, I did likewise, carried away by that impulse to 
 offer assistance which comes naturally to most people 
 when they hear of an accident. We crossed the road to 
 a somewhat old house, passed through it, and reached a 
 large garden, where a big, corpulent man lay groaning 
 on the ground. He was injured, no doubt, but his 
 groans showed that he was quite alive. 
 
 The woman, however, had again begun calling: 
 
 "Marie! Marie! where are you? Ah, mon Dieu! 
 mon Dieu ! She is not there. She must have gone to 
 La Fanny's. Yet the doctor must be fetched." 
 
 " Go for him yourself, aunt. We will carry uncle 
 indoors," replied the corporal. 
 
 Then, as the woman went o£E, still calling and grum- 
 bling, he bent over the prostrate man to ask him where 
 he was injured. 
 
 "It is my shoulder," the other gasped. "I fell on 
 it. Something seems to have gone into my body. " 
 
 We raised him as carefully as we could, carried him 
 into the house, and laid him on a bed in a ground-floor 
 room. Then, while Louis, his nephew, was bending 
 over him and again asking about his injury, I heard 
 a light footfall behind me, and on turning, found myself 
 face to face with a girl, apparently between eighteen and 
 twenty years of age, who seemed greatly surprised to 
 find us all there. 
 
 But Louis' friend, who answered, I found, to the 
 
rHE LOFER'S // ? C 
 
 PROGRESS 'V-JJ 
 
 name of Pierre, gave her a few particalarB, addressing 
 her the while as Mademoiselle Marie. And as they 
 talked together I looked round the room, and now and 
 again at the girl also. A few inches shorter than myself, 
 she had a shapely figure, and was dressed in some dark 
 material, with a little white collar and a Cambridge blue 
 bow. 
 
 Her light brown hair, parted in the middle and waved 
 on either side, was gathered behind in a rather long net, 
 such as I had seen worn in London and Paris many 
 years previoasly. She had a very healthy complexion, 
 with a dash of bright color in either cheek, and her ears, 
 which somehow immediately attracted my attention, 
 were small and well formed. Her nose, however, was 
 irregular, inclined to be tip-tilted, and her mouth was 
 full and ruddy. Young though she was, a suspicion of 
 a wrinkle could almost be detected on her forehead, 
 which was what the French call a stubborn one. But 
 she had very beautiful brown eyes, hazel eyes, which 
 were soft and moist at that moment with solicitude for 
 the injured man. 
 
 She went to -him; she slipped a pillow under his head, 
 which lay rather low; she brought a bottle of eau de vie 
 de marc and a liqueur glass from another room, and 
 made him drink, all in a simple, matter-of-fact way, 
 like one who did not lose her head in a moment of 
 trouble. "When she joined Louis in trying to examine 
 the injury, I noticed that the young corporal "thou'd " 
 
43^ 
 
 rHE LONER'S 
 PROGRESS 
 
 and " thee'd " her — they were related, undoubtedly — 
 and for a moment I almost fancied them sweethearts. 
 It pleased me to discover, as I soon did by the conversa- 
 tion, that they were simply brother and sister, and that 
 the man on the bed was their Uncle FranQois. 
 
 He was merely clad in trousers and shirt, and the girl 
 wished to remove the latter garment, at least in part, in 
 order to attend to the injury; but his arm was bent in 
 sach a manner, and he gave such a groan each time it 
 was touched, that the only course seemed to be to cut 
 the shirt-sleeve away. Mademoiselle Marie had already 
 taken a pair of scissors to do so, when her aunt and the 
 doctor came in. ' The latter, a tall, brusque man with 
 iron-gray hair, an ex-military surgeon, so I discovered, 
 at once took the scissors and did what the girl had 
 meant to do. 
 
 The sufferer's right arm was dislocated at the shoulder 
 in a peculiar way, which, for lack of the requisite medi- 
 cal knowledge, I cannot properly describe; but the 
 patient had put things fairly correctly when saying that 
 " something seemed to have gone into his body." After 
 the doctor had examined the arm he caused the bed to 
 be moved away from the wall, and two other men having 
 come in, three of our party (we were six men in all) held 
 the patient on the bed while three others — the doctor, 
 Louis, and myself — ^pulled away to get the humerus into 
 its right position again. At least, such was my impres- 
 sion, but I did not trouble about the exact purpose of 
 
rHE LOVER'S /f 7 7 
 
 PROGRESS ^-J/ 
 
 our efforts; I contented myself with doing what the 
 doctor told me. Throwing off our coats and waistcoats, 
 we made repeated attempts, and quite a quarter of an 
 hour elapsed before the dislocation was set right. When 
 our tug-of-war was over, beads of perspiration stood on 
 the foreheads of one and all. 
 
 Allowing for his occasional groans, old FranQois had 
 borne up wonderfully well; and when the doctor asked 
 if he did not feel better, he almost laughed, so great 
 was his relief. His wife, however, had sunk upon a 
 chair, gasping, "Ah! mon Dieu!" every two minutes, 
 while the girl had stood near at hand in watchful readi- 
 ness to render any service which might be required. 
 
 She opened a press, took out some old linen and cut it 
 into large bands as the doctor directed, and even offered 
 to go to his house when he wished to send for some- 
 thing. But one of the men went instead; and, some 
 water being required, a lad who had slipped into the 
 house hurried off to get it. He was a clumsy lad, how- 
 ever, and came back awkwardly carrying an earthenware 
 basin which he had filled almost to the brim. Perhaps 
 he stumbled against something; at all events I had just 
 turned my head when I heard a crash. The basin had 
 fallen from his hands and lay in fragments on the floor, 
 over which the water spread rapidly. 
 
 "Ah! sacre Bourbaki!" cried the doctor and the 
 other men in chorus, while the old woman raised her 
 arms with a frantic, " Mon Dieu ! mon Dieu ! " 
 
y. jO Cr'HE LOVER'S 
 
 ^J^ JL PROGRESS 
 
 But while the lad's ears were being pulled by one of 
 the men present (his father), the girl hurried from the 
 room to fetch some more water in another vessel. And 
 she likewise brought with her an empty pail and a cloth. 
 Then Louis and I stooped down; and while helping her 
 to pick up the fragments of crockery, which were tossed 
 into the pail, I noticed that she glanced at me rather 
 shyly, wondering, it seemed, who I was and how I hap- 
 pened to be there. But she was soon wiping up the wet 
 on the floor, and had scarcely finished doing so when 
 her uncle, seeing how hot we looked, exclaimed: 
 " Marie, give the gentlemen some wine, I am sure they 
 need it." 
 
 " Oui, mon oncle," she replied, and cheerfully tripped 
 away again, making two or three journeys, bringing 
 bottles of wine and glasses, which Louis filled with the 
 cool refreshing ^iccofo. Then, as she had only provided 
 refreshment for the men, she was called upon to do the 
 same for her aunt and herself, for Aunt Toinette needed 
 something to set her right after the " turn " which the 
 accident had given her, and she, Marie, who had been 
 working so hard, must likewise join us. Finally, we all 
 clinked glasses and drank to the prompt recovery of the 
 patient, to whom the doctor turned once more. 
 
 The men's services being no longer required, I fol- 
 lowed Louis the corporal and his friend Pierre outside, 
 for we had all three left our headgear and forgotten to 
 pay our scores at the caf6 over the way. The women 
 
rHE LOVER'S /f 3n 
 
 PROGRESS ^oy 
 
 came with us to the door of the house, and Aunt Toi- 
 nette, whom a drop of grape-spirit had quite revived, 
 profusely thanked me for my services, which I smilingly 
 deprecated, while glancing at Mademoiselle Marie, whose 
 cheeks became yet brighter when her eyes for an instant 
 met my own. She seemed to me a very nice girl, pretty 
 in her way and quite housewifely and sensible. When 
 she smiled, the dimples in her cheeks, which carried me 
 back to other times and another face, made her look 
 charming. I cannot vouch for it, but I probably felt 
 attracted toward her already. 
 
 I went to the caf6, however, with the others, and 
 there we had a parting glass together, and talked about 
 the accident with sundry customers who came in, for 
 the villagers were now returning home from their work. 
 Of course, what had happened to Uncle Pran9ois while 
 he was repairing the coping of his wall was soon the 
 subject of general conversation. 
 
 Amid it all I became quite friendly with the young 
 corporal, to whom I gave a cigar, and when I was about 
 to take my leave he offered to accompany me as far as 
 the railway station. Before doing so he ran across to 
 his uncle's house, whence he returned saying that things 
 were all right, and we then walked down the road to- 
 gether. On the way he told me that they would begin 
 vintaging the next morning, for one of his father's vine- 
 yards was planted with pineau and persan, whose fruit 
 always ripens a fortnight earlier than that of the mon- 
 
y, y, f^ CfHE LOFER'S 
 
 ^H-^ 1 PROGRESS 
 
 vine, which is the more generally found in 
 Savoy. 
 
 Now, vintaging was a subject which interested me. I 
 had seen it in Teneriffe, Germany, Hungary, and many 
 parts of Prance and the Peninsula; so when my com- 
 panion, to whom I had explained that I was simply 
 waiting at Eauze for some friends with whom I was 
 going to Italy, suggested that if I returned to Nerens 
 on the morrow he would gladly show me how they vin- 
 taged there, I gave him a half-promise to come back. 
 The sun was just setting at that moment, but turning 
 to the hillside behind us, he pointed to a house on the 
 left, saying: 
 
 " That is our place. We shall be in the vineyard 
 when you arrive, but you will find somebody at the 
 house to direct you. Besides, you have only to ask for 
 the MoUaret, that is the name of the vineyard, or else 
 for old Jean-Baptiste." 
 
 " Jean-Baptiste," said I. " No surname ? " 
 
 "Yes — Ducos; but everybody calls my father Jean- 
 Baptiste. He is as well known as the white wolf here- 
 abouts." 
 
 Then we parted, but only for the night; for on the 
 following morning, before nine o'clock, I was again at 
 Kerens, whither this time I repaired by train from Eauze. 
 
 I did not return, however, because I had found the 
 attractions of the village irresistible. I simply did so 
 for lack of other occupation, for on reaching Eauze at 
 
rHE LOrER'S y, y, J 
 
 PROGRESS ^r-^ 
 
 night, I had found a telegram awaiting me — a telegram 
 announcing that the journey to Italy had been aban- 
 doned by its promoters. 
 
 From particulars supplied a little later, I learned that 
 my friend the sculptor had got no farther than Bur- 
 gundy, where he had been greatly taken with a chateau 
 which he found for sale; and he had decided to buy it, 
 in lieu of spending his money among the hotel-keepers 
 of France and Italy — a course sensible enough in itself, 
 though the life, worthy of Pantagruel, which was after- 
 ward led in that chateau for two merry years, cost a far 
 larger sum than the Italian trip would have done. 
 
 The chateau itself ultimately became the grand prize 
 in a lottery started by an artistic society, to which my 
 friend, its purchaser, sold it for about half what it had 
 cost him; and he, through his wild extravagance, was 
 reduced in after years, I am sorry to say, to carving 
 ornaments over the portes-cocMres of seven-storied 
 houses in Paris. 
 
 All that, however, is another tale. At the moment 
 I am writing of I was rather indignant with those to 
 whom my journey to Savoy was due, and though the 
 telegram I received ended with a pressing request that 
 I should return to Dijon and meet them there, I did not 
 go. Had I done so, I should probably have spoiled my 
 life again. 
 
 I simply resolved to remain for the rest of the week 
 in Savoy, returned to Netens, spent a very hot but 
 
rHE LOFER'S 
 PROGRESS 
 
 merry day among the vines, helping as well as watching, 
 and again went back to Bauze to sleep. But on the 
 morrow I paid my hotel bill at the fashionable spa, and 
 transferred my quarters to Nerens altogether, this time 
 intending to stay there some days, to collect materials 
 for a short series of papers on life in a Savoisian village; 
 for, apart from the vintaging, I had found tobacco being 
 cultivated somewhat extensively, which to me was an- 
 other interesting subject; and I had also been promised 
 some novel experiences, such as catching crayfish in the 
 Keranche, and participating in a frog-hunt in the 
 marshes. 
 
 There were two or three hostelries in the village, but 
 I selected one called the II6tel de la Poste, which stood 
 on the hillside. Its name seemed to be a relic of the 
 old posting days, and when I objected that there was no 
 posting road near it, I learned that the original hotel 
 had stood beside the highway, but had been pulled 
 down, the owner removing to the house on the hill, to 
 which he had given the name of his former establish- 
 ment. 
 
 La Poste was a clean and pleasant place. During my 
 first week it cost me less than four francs a day to live 
 there, and later, when I became a pensionnaire, I paid 
 only eighty francs (£3 4s.) a month for everything — 
 bed, board, lights, and attendance. The food might 
 not have suited an epicure, but it was good, wholesome, 
 and abundant; and what more could a young man. 
 
rHE LOFER'S y, y, ^ 
 
 PROGRESS 'f^^J 
 
 unless finically inclined, desire ? After my life in the 
 Alto Douro, the SpreewaJd, and other parts, I could 
 have roughed it anywhere. 
 
 But I must get back to my first days at Nerens, my 
 friend Louis the corporal, and his people. Let me first 
 take his father, Jean-Baptiste, as he was called, a man 
 midway between seventy and eighty years of age, straight 
 as an arrow, witli scarcely a gray hair on his head, his 
 face clean-shaven save for some small side-whiskers, his 
 profile strikingly resembling that of the Iron Duke, 
 excepting that his nose was somewhat less prominent. 
 
 Though Jean-Baptiste was simply a tiller of the soil, 
 little more than a peasant farmer, his father had been 
 an officer attached to the person of Eugdne de Beau- 
 harnais. Viceroy of Italy; and Jean-Baptiste himself 
 had not only seen the great Napoleon more than once, 
 but had exchanged kisses with Marie-Louise and her 
 son, the hapless Eaglet, in their travelling carriage, 
 when, escorted by foreign bayonets, they had quitted 
 Prance, never to return thither. 
 
 Later, Jean-Baptiste had given his services in favor of 
 the plebiscitum, confirming the transfer of Savoy from 
 the Sardinian to the French Crown — a transfer which 
 was eagerly accepted by a large number of the Savoyards, 
 and quite Avillingly by the others, their sympathies being 
 far more French than Italian. In that respect I have 
 never found but one opinion in Savoy itself — namely, 
 that since the duchy could not remain an independent 
 
y, . y. CT'HE LOVER'S 
 
 ^H-H- 1 PROGRESS 
 
 State, it was far preferable that it should become French, 
 instead of Italian. 
 
 But passons. After Jean-Baptiste came his wife, 
 Eosalie — La Eosine, as her relatives called her — a slim, 
 aetiv.e woman, much younger than her husband. She 
 was a Bossu by birth, her family claiming to descend by 
 the left hand from one of the hunchbacked dukes of 
 Savoy, who, however ugly they might be, appear to 
 have had plenty of beautiful mistresses. As those who 
 know the history of the house of Savoy are aware, some 
 hunchbacked prince or princess has been born at every 
 few generations over a term of hundreds of years; and 
 it was the dread of this family curse which for a time 
 restrained the present King of Italy from marrying. 
 
 La Eosine, whatever her family origin, had enter- 
 tained no such fears when taking Jean-Baptiste for her 
 husband. She had borne him eight healthy children — 
 five boys and three girls. There was Joseph, who had 
 taken to commerce, and made Lyons his home; An- 
 thelme, who had followed similar courses; Addle, who 
 had become Sister Ursule, of the Order of the Char- 
 treusines; Prangois, who was postmaster at KTerens; 
 Christine, who was engaged to be married; Louis, who 
 was now serving his term in the army; Marie, to whom 
 I have previously referred ; and Constant, who was mak- 
 ing his ddbut in life in a solicitor's office, also at Lyons. 
 
 Lyons, indeed, is the city whither nearly all the 
 Savoyards of a migratory disposition first betake them- 
 
rHE LOFER'S' ^7 ^ r 
 
 PROGRESS ^"f-J 
 
 selves on reaching man's estate or womanhood. Per- 
 haps a third of them, after making a little money in the 
 second city of Prance, go on to the capital. The migra- 
 tion is incessant, and the aecent of the social ladder — 
 to a certain level, at all events — ^remarkable. One con- 
 tinually finds the peasant's grandson a doctor, a barris- 
 ter, a merchant, or a functionary. 
 
 The attraction toward the towns and a higher life 
 seems to be irresistible. Of all Jean-Baptiste's children . 
 I'ran9ois was the only one disposed to remain at Kerens; 
 Christine meant to go elsewhere as soon as she should 
 be married; and I found that Marie, who had already 
 been at Lyons, Marseilles, and Nice, simply awaited an 
 opportunity to follow her sister's example. 
 
 Truth to tell, Jean-Baptiste's family was a large one 
 for France, and his land, however well tilled, would not 
 have suflB.ced to keep one and all in comfort. At the 
 time of my arrival at Kerens, however, it was the holi- 
 day season, and a good many members of the family 
 were assembled at home. The first time I joined them 
 at souper, after the last day's work in the MoUaret vine- 
 yard, there were nearly a score around the board, inclu- 
 sive of children; for three of Jean-Baptiste's sons — 
 Joseph, Anthelme, and rran9ois — were married men 
 with families. And whenever I passed through the vil- 
 lage with Louis the corporal, every third or fourth per- 
 son he met proved to be a cousin or an uncle or an aunt, 
 or something of that kind. 
 
44^ 
 
 rHE LOVER'S 
 PROGRESS 
 
 The old General whose tomb, covered with the names 
 and dates of battles, was the most conspicuous monu- 
 ment in the village cemetery had been La Eosine's 
 uncle; Bonnet the notary, now mayor of Nerens, in suc- 
 cession to Jean-Baptiste himself, was the latter's cousin- 
 german; the local chemist was a cousin in the second 
 degree; the doctor was a kinsman; there were ties of 
 relationship with one of the schoolmistresses, with the 
 principal barber, and with the owner of the chateau of 
 Iferens, which stands on one of the wooded hills in the 
 direction of Dr6sy. 
 
 Thus, during the first days of my stay at La Poste, it 
 seemed to me as if I had been carried back some cen- 
 turies into a clannish state of society, though of course 
 these good folk bore a variety of names : Ducos, Bossu, 
 Dizin, MoUard, Tissot, Canet, Bonnet, M^rel, Petizon, 
 and so forth. 
 
 So far as I am personally concerned, the worst is that 
 when I go to Nerens nowadays — fo? I have been going 
 there on and off for the last twenty years — I am expected 
 to remember all these families, embrace men and women 
 on both cheeks, drink wine with them, and even recog- 
 nize the infants born since my last visit. For, by mar- 
 riage, they have all become my kinsfolk, my French 
 cousins, so to say, and without counting those now resi- 
 dent in Paris and Lyons, there must be about a hundred 
 of them in or around Nerens itself. 
 
 In the early days of my first sojourn there I experi- 
 
rHE LOFER'S y, y, y 
 
 PROGRESS 9-9-/ 
 
 enced some disappointment. Mademoiselle Marie re- 
 mained with her Uncle Franqois Bobbu and her Aunt 
 Toinette, who, worldly-wise, had only one son, an un- 
 married man of five or six-and-thirty. Thns Marie had 
 taken it on herself to assist in nursing her uncle, with 
 the result that I obtained only an occasional glimpse of 
 her when I called to inquire how the patient was pro- 
 gressing. But I was now on the best of terms with her 
 brother Louis, and, indeed, the trifling help which I had 
 rendered on the day of the accident had made the whole 
 family friendly with me. 
 
 Although, through the very nature of my life, I had 
 often found myself alone, I was, I think, of a compan- 
 ionable disposition. I had travelled, I could tell a few 
 stories and anecdotes, and I could in a measure under- 
 stand these people among whom I now found myself 
 cast. For them at first I was "I' Anglais," or "le 
 camarade de Louis'" ; then I became Monsieur Letty 
 and Monsieur Charles, and at last simply Charles. 
 
 Old Jean-Baptiste and I got on well from the outset. 
 By official permission he had the only still in the vil- 
 lage, and I used to assist him in distilling, both for him- 
 self and for others, the spirit yielded by the stalks and 
 husks of the grapes after the making of the wine. I 
 listened also to his stories of Napoleon, the King of 
 Rome, and the great marshals, and in return I told him 
 of the old Emperor William, and Bismarck and Moltke, 
 whom I had often seen in Berlin since the war year. 
 
y, yiO OTHE LONER'S 
 
 "rf^" 1 PROGRESS 
 
 But between the vintaging of the persan and the mon- 
 deuse grapes I accompanied half a dozen of the family 
 on a frog-hunt in the marshes. These lay in the plain 
 between the hills against which Kerens nestled and the 
 mountains shutting off the valley of the Cheran. My 
 window at La Poste faced the plain and the mountains, 
 and when I left it open at night-time, I could distinctly 
 hear the frogs croaking. Eecalling the old stories of 
 the lords of other days, who compelled the peasantry to 
 beat the marshes with staves, night after night, in order 
 to keep the frogs quiet, I could well understand them 
 doing so if the creatures were in any degree as noisy and 
 as plentiful as I found them in the marshes of Kerens. 
 
 We started one evening between seven and eight 
 o'clock, when darkness ha^ closed around us. I met 
 the others by arrangement at old Francois Bossu's house 
 in the village, where, while waiting, I had the privilege 
 of a brief Ute-h-tete with Mademoiselle Marie, who had 
 agreed to come with us. The party also included her 
 brothers Louis and Constant, her sister Christine, a 
 cousin called Olympe, and the dark young fellow whom 
 I had seen at the caf § on the day of the accident. 
 
 One of the girls brought an old basket with her, but 
 each of the others, myself included, was provided with 
 a lidded water-can. Each also had a fagot of straw 
 slung over the back, for the purpose of making straw 
 torches; but Aunt Toinette provided me with a lantern. 
 
 We set off through the village with our cans on our 
 
rHE LOFER'S ..^ 
 
 PROGRESS 9^9^ y 
 
 arms, and on reaching the vicinity of the marshes re- 
 moved our shoes, sooks, and stockings, which we depos- 
 ited in a convenient spot. The men rolled np their 
 trousers as high as possible, the girls fastened their 
 skirts about their thighs — there was no mock modesty, 
 and besides it was night — and forthwith we took to the 
 water. 
 
 In parts it was only ankle-deep, and, to say nothing 
 of the great beds of water-cress, there arose from it 
 luxuriant herbage which yielded two crops of fodder a 
 year. Elsewhere, however, the water came quite to the 
 knees, and I was warned of spots where horse-leeches 
 abounded. 
 
 But the hunt began, each having his or her can slung 
 over the left arm, and in the left hand carrying a wisp 
 of straw lighted at my lantern, while with the right 
 hand a grab was made at every frog that could be seen. 
 'No sooner was it caught than it was thrust into the can; 
 and no searching was necessary, for there were hun- 
 dreds, even thousands, on the surface of the water, one 
 and all motionless, their eyes fixed upon the light of the 
 torches, while they croaked and croaked incessantly. 
 
 For me it was a novel and at first an unpleasant ex- 
 perience. I had eaten frogs, or rather frogs' legs, many 
 a time in Paris; but to find myself wading through 
 that mass of amphibians — ^harmless though they were — 
 seemec^ rather gruesome; and I was a clumsy grabber. 
 Besides, my lantern was constantly being requisitioned 
 
A Cf) CfHE LOVER'S 
 
 ^J^ J- PROGRESS 
 
 for relighting the torches of the others, who were very 
 expert, and knew neither qualms nor fears. 
 
 Each time that Mademoiselle Marie stooped she caught 
 a frog, popped it into her can, and then began again. 
 Cries rang out here and there: "This way! this way, 
 Louis! There is such a quantity here! " " Be careful, 
 Olympe; there are leeches yonder." " Nom de ton- 
 nerrel I've got a leech on my foot! " 
 
 Then the little dark fellow, who followed Made- 
 moiselle Marie as if he were her shadow, slipped and sat 
 down in the water. Everybody roared, myself included, 
 though I was perpetually in fear of the same mishap 
 occurring to me; and Louis of course repeated, "Ah! 
 sacr& Bonrbaki!" 
 
 He was near me at the time, and I asked him what 
 might be the exact meaning of that oft-repeated ex- 
 pression. He went on catching frogs, and answered, 
 laughing : 
 
 "What! do you not know? It dates from the war. 
 It began in Eranche Comt§ and came here. Everybody 
 who is clumsy or foolish is called 'Bourbaki.' You 
 have heard about the army of the East, have you not ? " 
 
 "Of course," said I; "I half suspected what you 
 have told me; but I wanted to make sure." 
 
 To think that the name of Bourbaki should become 
 a synonym of "fool"! With the incessant migrations 
 of the Savoyards, it might in time spread throughout 
 France; and it all seemed somewhat unjust. General 
 
rHE LOFER'S act 
 
 PROGRESS ^J-^ 
 
 Bourbaki, whose disastrous retreat on Pontarlier in 1871 
 ended in the army of the East seeking refuge in Swit- 
 zerland, was certainly neither a skilful nor a fortunate 
 general; but when one remembered his great courage 
 and his despairing attempt upon his own life after dis- 
 aster overtook him, it was .hard that his name should 
 survive among the peasantry of Eastern and Southeast- 
 em France as a taunt and reproach, to be addressed to 
 donkeys and blockheads. 
 
 But all at once Mademoiselle Marie exclaimed: "I 
 think I have nearly a hundred. Have we not enough, 
 Louis?" 
 
 "No, no! we must catch some more. I promised 
 three or four dozen to Aunt M6rel." 
 
 So the hunt went on for another quarter of an hour. 
 When it was over we returned to the spot where the 
 shoes and stockings had been left, dried our legs in the 
 grass as best we could, and as soon as we were shod 
 betook ourselves homeward. The frogs, one atop of 
 another in the cans, remained quite silent. For my 
 part, I believe, I had caught only sixteen, but then that 
 was a first attempt. 
 
 On reaching Jean-Baptiste's, I had to go inside and 
 drink a drop of grape-spirit with them all. The girls 
 dipped sugar in theirs, and sucking the sugar, called it 
 a canard, or duck. It was La Eosine who served us, 
 for Jean-Baptiste himself was in bed. He invariably 
 went to bed soon after sunset, and got up between three 
 
y, rp <rr'HE LOVER'S 
 
 T^J^ -g PROGRESS 
 
 and four in the morning. Perhaps it was that which 
 kept him so vigorous and young. 
 
 However, I was bidden to supper on the succeeding 
 evening in order to partake of the frogs, and as I had 
 expressed a desire to see them killed and dressed, it was 
 arranged that I should go over to the house in the after- 
 noon. Then after a cheery good-night I took my leave 
 and hurried along the path to the H6tel de la Poste. 
 
 It was between five and six o'clock on the following 
 afternoon when I went round to Jean-Bap tiste's again. 
 There had been a perfect massacre there. The old man, 
 whom I found knife in hand, had already decapitated 
 between one and two hundred frogs. He stood in an 
 outhouse before a block, below which were twq baskets, 
 one on the right, the other on the left. 
 
 A lad, one of his grandsons, passed him the frogs one 
 by one, and he decapitated them at the edge of the 
 block, the heads falling into one basket, while he tossed 
 the bodies into the other, whence La Eosine and Chris- 
 tine took them in order to cut away all but the edible 
 parts, that is the hind legs and some adjacent portions. 
 Prom these the skin and the feet were removed, the 
 limbs, as soon as ready, being thrown into a clean pail; 
 but, horrible to relate, they retained some power of mo- 
 tion. "When I peeped into the pail I beheld a seething 
 mass of legs, which contracted, struggled, and battled 
 as if anxious to leap away and escape even in death. 
 
 Of course, it was simply a natural phenomenon, but 
 
rHE LOVER'S yf c^ 
 
 PROGRESS ^DJ 
 
 it gave me a "turn," as the saying goes, and before 
 long I went into the yard to smoke. And then I sud- 
 denly saw Mademoiselle Marie trip down the house steps 
 with something in her hands. 
 
 " I have caught a rat," said she, as she came toward 
 me, with one of those smiles which made her look so 
 charming. 
 
 " A rat! You are joking," I exclaimed, unwilling to 
 believe her. 
 
 But I looked and saw that with one hand she was 
 firmly grasping a rat round the body, while keeping his 
 head in a little wooden box, about the size of a mouse- 
 trap, which she held in the other. Her nerve quite 
 amazed me. But she went on, laughing: 
 
 "I found him in the storeroom where we keep the 
 eggs and potatoes. He did not try to run away when 
 he saw me. He sat up like a squirrel,, and played with 
 his mustaches with his fore-paws. But I noticed this 
 little box, so I took it, and then caught him round the 
 body and pushed his head into the box. Oh ! he would 
 like to bite me, but he cannot." 
 
 "What do you mean to do with him?" I asked 
 again, marvelling at the girl's pluck, for I had more 
 than once heard women shriek at the mere sight of 
 a mouse or a beetle. " Had you not better drop him 
 and let me hit him over the head with my stick ? " 
 
 " Oh! he might run away," she answered; " but you 
 may help me to bold the box, if you like." 
 
J, t-y, cr'HE LOVER'S 
 
 ^J^ 1 PROGRESS 
 
 I did so, passing my hand over hers to steady it. And 
 then I saw her right thumb and fore-finger advance 
 until she had tightly gripped Master Eat round the 
 neck. He struggled, and the claws of one of his hind 
 legs scratched the girl's wrist, tearing away a strip of 
 skin; but she never wavered: she pinched him firmly, 
 and in another moment he was dead. 
 
 " You are hurt! " I exclaimed, when I perceived her 
 wrist, from which a few spots of blood were oozing; but 
 she simply laughed, and ran off holding the dead rat by 
 the tail to show it to her father. 
 
 The animal was a biggish one, about eighteen inches 
 long, from the tip of its snout to that of its tail. And 
 Jean-Baptiste jokingly suggested that it should be 
 cooked with the frogs. 
 
 " That will be to your taste, will it not. Monsieur 
 r Anglais," said he, "since you were in the Siege of 
 Paris?" 
 
 "No, no, P6re Ducos," I replied; "I drew the line 
 at horseflesh then, and I will draw it at rats now." 
 
 We had quite a banquet that evening. The frogs' 
 legs, having been duly floured, were cooked in boiling 
 butter in a huge oval frying-pan, quite two and a half 
 feet long, with a four-foot handle. I sat at the board 
 between La Rosine and Mademoiselle Marie, and we all 
 regaled ourselves. Under a floury coating of a golden 
 hue the flesh of the frogs was as white and as tender as 
 chicken's breast. Dishful followed dishful. 
 
rHE LOVER'S // CC 
 
 PROGRESS ^QJ 
 
 The jugs of light refreshing wine, made for summer 
 use, were passed from hand to hand. Glasses were 
 ever chinking; healths innumerable were drunk. But 
 although both the door and the window of the living- 
 room had remained open, the bright wood fire had made 
 it very warm; so when the meal was over we carried 
 chairs and stools outside and sat, some of us in the yard, 
 others by the roadside, looking now at the starry sky, 
 now at the village below us, now at the black mass of 
 mountains which barred the plain, where the marshes 
 gleamed when the moon rose up, to the delight of the 
 frogs, who croaked gayly and unsuspectingly, without 
 a thought, it seemed, of all their kinsfolk whom we had 
 just devoured. 
 
 I chatted and smoked by the side of Louis, who in a 
 few days would be returning to his regiment. I should 
 have preferred to have been near Mademoiselle Marie, 
 but her kinsman, the little darkie, Claude Dizin by 
 name, though I always thought of him as " Bourbaki," 
 had placed himself beside her, as was his habit when- 
 ever a chance presented itself. Those manners of his 
 were beginning to annoy me. The presumptuous youth ! 
 That plucky, housewifely, sensible girl seemed to be far 
 too good for him. 
 
45^ 
 
 rHE LOFER'S 
 PROGRESS 
 
 III 
 The Goal at Last 
 
 It was early during my second week at the H6tel de 
 la Poste that the thought that I wanted Marie Duces 
 as my wife began to exercise my mind. In the result, 
 I came to a monthly arrangement with my hostess, re- 
 solving to remain at La Poste throughout September. 
 
 My departure had been spoken of once or twice at 
 Jean-Baptiste's house, and I noticed some little surprise 
 when I mentioned that I was going to stay a little 
 longer. But the surprise soon passed off. After all, 
 the English were known to be eccentric. They never 
 did anything like other people. Besides, if I chose to 
 live at La Poste doing little or nothing, I was free to 
 follow that course, provided I paid my bills. Perhaps 
 I was rich, and could afford to idle my time away. 
 
 I was not quite so idle, however, as those good folk 
 imagined. I spent a good many mornings in redraft- 
 ing my notes, and after writing to Paris I found a 
 French periodical willing to take a few articles and 
 sketches. Then I got acquainted with the parish priest 
 and the mayor, who was likewise the local notary, and 
 I became interested in some stories of excavations that 
 bad been attempted a good many years previously, for 
 
rHE LOFER'S . ^y 
 
 PROGRESS "rJ / 
 
 the purpose of uncovering the Eoman colony of Neronia, 
 which was said to have occupied the site of the modern 
 Nerens. 
 
 It was virtually certain, I was told, that a Eoman 
 temple lay buried near the railway station. But the 
 railway authorities had prevented all efforts to uncover 
 it; and besides, in some attempts made on other land, 
 half a dozen lives had been lost. At a depth of forty feet 
 or so below the present surface of the soil, a great gap or 
 vacant space had been found. Men had fallen into it, 
 and their bodies had never been recovered. Elsewhere 
 metal tools had slipped into cavities, and strange sounds 
 had been heard, as if the tools had fallen upon flag- 
 stones. Apart from the question of Eoman antiquities, 
 a curious old cemetery had been found in the vicinity 
 of the H6tel de la Poste, a cemetery which, in the curb's 
 opinion, had been the resting-place of some schismatical 
 sect, Waldenses or Huguenots. 
 
 All these matters interested me and kept me busy. 
 I inspected sites, examined fragments of ancient stone- 
 work, medals and weapons which had been discovered, 
 and thus obtained materials for another article, which 
 suggested the vote of a government grant for excava- 
 tions at Nerens. Unfortunately, nothing came of it, 
 and the cause of archaeology at Nerens still awaits the 
 liberality of some American millionaire who may wish 
 to possess a Koman temple for transference to Chicago 
 or Pittsburg, where its discovery by the excavators of 
 
y, cQ q-'HE LOFER'S 
 
 y-J'-' J. PROGRESS 
 
 the future — say, a.d. 4000 — might provoke a lively 
 controversy as to the real origin of what will then prob- 
 ably be the extinct American nation. 
 
 However, if archaeology in some measure interested 
 me, I was not learned enough to make it a pursuit; so 
 I turned to Jean-Baptiste's tobacco-fields, and, when 
 the leaves were gathered, assisted in laying them one by 
 one in the cart which conveyed them to the drying-shed, 
 where they were threaded on long strings. That being 
 done, I had little excuse left me for loitering about the 
 old man's dwelling. Besides, of what use was it for me 
 to make love to his daughter ? I could not settle down 
 at Kerens, and wherever I might install my home, I 
 should need the means to provide for a wife. 
 
 I was not alarmed about the immediate future, for I 
 was spending very little money at La Poste, and could 
 continue living there for several months, thanks to the 
 money provided for my Italian trip. But that was not 
 enough to marry on. Fortunately, assistance came 
 to me. 
 
 A letter from my father, forwarded from the address 
 which I always retained in Paris, wherever I might be, 
 informed me of some work required by an English pub- 
 lishing firm, the revision and editing of some American 
 translations of foreign authors. I could do this work 
 quite as well at Nerens as elsewhere, for it was easy to 
 procure the few books I needed through the manager of 
 Hachette's stall at Eauze. So I accepted the commis- 
 
rHE LOFER'S /I en 
 
 PROGRESS ^Jy 
 
 sion, which, as there were several volumes to be checked 
 and revised, represented ahout one hundred pounds. 
 And now it was that, feeling somewhat inspirited, I 
 once more allowed my thoughts to turn to love. 
 
 The dream, the impossible dream in which I had 
 indulged more than once amid a restless, fitful life came 
 back again. It was the dream of a loving woman, nat- 
 ural, courageous, and practical, who would take me as 
 I was, who would put her hand in mine and face life 
 with me. Social station was not a thing I looked for, 
 nor did I seek high accomplishments. I needed a 
 woman whom civilization had not spoiled. 
 
 Although I was not tired of life as yet (for one in his 
 seven-and-twentieth year to have asserted such a thing 
 would have been mere priggishness), I was undoubtedly 
 tired of much of the artificiality, the pretence, the 
 hypocrisy, the thousand compromises with nature and 
 ordinary rectitude which I had observed in one or an- 
 other phase of life, one or another circle, political, lit- 
 erary, artistic, as well as bourgeois. How many times, 
 indeed, had I not found the literary man or the artist, 
 who jeered at the bourgeois and called him a philistine, 
 ten times worse than the object of his scorn, consumed 
 by insufferable vanity, eccentric from a mere craving for 
 notoriety, seldom sincere even in his work, his one great 
 object being to astonish fools, and thereby secure imme- 
 diate celebrity, that vapid, flashy celebrity which is the 
 craze of modern times. 
 
460 
 
 rHE LOVER'S 
 PROGRESS 
 
 And I knew how utterly ignoble and self-seeking was 
 political life, in which for one man who acted in accord- 
 ance with his conscience, there were a hundred guided 
 by personal interest alone; while as for the gay life of 
 cities, I had tasted of it, and realized what a sham and 
 a mockery it was. 
 
 Excess is always followed by revulsion; a surfeit of 
 artificiality and convention must necessarily bring one 
 back to nature. I knew that I could not change the 
 things I had learned to loathe, that I must perforce 
 remain " among them "; but " of them " I need not be. 
 If I could only win the woman, the helpmate I required, 
 all the rest would be very easy. 
 
 A secluded country life was out of the question, for 
 some years, at any rate. I could only earn my living by 
 my pen, and it was essential that I should dwell in or 
 near a great city. But I wished to be able to isolate 
 myself in some degree, to have a home whence artifi- 
 ciality might be banished, where simple and natural 
 love might grow and prosper. 
 
 And the more I thought of Marie Ducos, the more 
 I felt she was the girl to help me make such a home. 
 She was young and charming, with a bright face and 
 a shapely figure. The glance of her brown eyes had set 
 my heart beating more than once. She was gay, too, 
 in such a way that in her company I often felt quite 
 boyish again. Yet she was a very sensible, housewifely, 
 industrious girl, fully prepared to fight the battle of 
 
rHE LOFER'S y. A j 
 
 PROGRESS- ^^^ 
 
 life, and to help the man whom she might take to° 
 win it. 
 
 Again, though she was not learned in books, she was 
 naturally clever like the rest of her family. She had at 
 least received a very fair elementary education. I had 
 heard her read a newspaper to her mother; I had seen 
 her check her father's account with the tobacco regie. 
 
 Here I may point out that no other woman in the 
 world has such a mathematical head as the average 
 Frenchwoman. Ever since my boyhood I had observed 
 among the trading classes of Paris in what an unobtru- 
 sive and yet masterly manner women helped their hus- 
 bands to manage their businesses. And, again, I knew 
 that none is more able than a Frenchwoman to make a 
 little money go a long way. 
 
 There was yet something else that attracted me toward 
 Marie Duces. Whatever I might think of the general 
 system of life created by our modern civilization, I was, 
 as I had always been, and as I am to-day, a fervent 
 believer in woman doing her utmost to make her appear- 
 ance attractive. It is not essential that she should dress 
 expensively, but at least let her dress in good taste, and 
 in a manner that shall bring out her good points and 
 conceal her imperfections. How absolutely this is for- 
 gotten by those who slavishly follow the current "fash- 
 ions" can be seen any day in the streets, in the course 
 of a few minutes. 
 
 Now, although Marie Ducos was still sufBciently a 
 
46. 
 
 rHE LOFER'S 
 PROGRESS 
 
 child of nature to join in frog-fishing in the marshes at 
 night, and to wade in the Neranche catching crayfish 
 in the afternoon, although she had remained unspoiled 
 by such town life as she had yet seen, she had acquired 
 some of the polish which that life always gives, being 
 assisted in this respect by some little natural coquetry. 
 
 She had stayed nearly three years at Lyons with a rela- 
 tive who kept a fairly large dressmaking establishment 
 there, and when I heard of it, and found her making 
 gowns for some of her people at Nerens, I was quite 
 delighted. Nothing else was needed to draw me toward 
 her. 
 
 She was much surprised when I first spoke to her 
 about her work, while La Bosine gasped on hearing me 
 talk of the trimming of a bodice and the cut of a skirt. 
 As for the men, they positively roared. Well, well, 
 they had always known that Englishmen were very 
 eccentric, but, nom d'une pipe, they had never imag- 
 ined that they were dressmakers. In this perhaps there 
 was some little sarcasm, an allusion to the very strange 
 attire of sundry English lady visitors at Eauze. 
 
 Of course it was useless for me to tender suggestions 
 or even opinions respecting garments intended for La 
 Kosine and other village dames. Their skirts had been 
 cut in such and such a fashion ever since they could 
 remember, and they would not have tolerated any alter- 
 ation. But Mademoiselle Marie seemed to appreciate 
 some of my suggestions with respect to herself. 
 
rHE LOVER'S .Aj 
 
 PROGRESS "t^J 
 
 I presented her ■with a number of fashion papers I had 
 bought at Eaaze, and after we had studied them to- 
 gether, she made herself a Sunday costume that sent 
 all the girls of Nerens into fits of jealousy, and gave 
 me an eagerly awaited opportunity to tell her that she 
 looked quite charming. 
 
 But I soon discovered that I must hasten my wooing. 
 Old Madame Matagrin, an eccentric and wealthy kins- 
 woman, who owned a chdteau some four or five miles 
 away, had a fancy for Marie, and had taken her to Nice 
 as a kind of companion during the previous winter. 
 They had stayed on the Eiviera until May that year, 
 since when the girl had remained with her parents. 
 But La Matagrin, as we called the old lady, proposed to 
 take her to Nice again during the coming season, and 
 would certainly start in November. There was talk, 
 moreover, of Marie living with her altogether. Thus 
 I had no time to lose. 
 
 There had already been some little passages between 
 us. She knew that I admired her. And one day, after 
 we had been speaking of her work, and she had talked 
 of setting up in business at Lyons or another large 
 town, I had responded by telling her something of my 
 own circumstances, and of the work that I had lately 
 undertaken. She was aware, therefore, that I was not 
 idling my time away. Again, though I occasionally felt 
 annoyed at finding Bourbaki, the little darkie, near her, 
 her glance and manner seemed to indicate that she was 
 
4H 
 
 rHE LOVER'S 
 PROGRESS 
 
 not altogether indifEei'ent to my admiration. In fact, 
 I recalled moments when we had been talking chiffons 
 together, which made me take a very hopeful view of 
 my prospects. 
 
 At last one afternoon, as I felt tired of writing, I 
 strolled over to Jean-Baptiste's house, by way of whiling 
 away the time.' The old man, however, was in the fields 
 with his two journaliers, or laborers, and in the living 
 room I found Marie sewing by herself. My heart began 
 to beat as I realized my opportunity. I went in and 
 asked after everybody. 
 
 Christine, I was told, had gone into the village to 
 make some purchases, and La Eosine had run over to 
 see La M§lanie, the wife of her son Fran9ois, the post- 
 master. Thus Marie was quite alone for the moment; 
 and it embarrassed her slightly, I fancy, when, muster- 
 ing up my courage, I took a stool near her. However, 
 she bent her face over her needlework, and it was only 
 by the nervous motion of her hands, the abrupt precip- 
 itancy of certain stitches, that I at first detected any 
 emotion on her side. I myself suddenly felt very awk- 
 ward, almost timid. I had my chance, and hardly 
 knew how to avail myself of it. A desperate fear came 
 upon me lest I should say something that she would not 
 like. I must not offend her, or I might lose her. I 
 seemed to be almost a boy again, and it was only by 
 degrees that I threw ofE that strange awkwardness and 
 took confidence. 
 
rHE LOFER'S , /: . 
 
 PROGRESS ^^J 
 
 " You are very industrious," I said at last. " I nevei 
 find you otherwise than busy." 
 
 "Dame! one has to work. Monsieur Charles; one hae 
 to earn one's living." 
 
 " No doubt; but you never seem to rest. You wort 
 a great deal more than your sister does." 
 
 She did not reply, so I tried again in another way. 
 
 " But as Mademoiselle Christine is going to be mar- 
 ried, she must have other thoughts on her mind," 1 
 said. " She is getting impatient, perhaps." 
 
 There came a little laugh, and the answer: 
 
 " Perhaps you might ask her." 
 
 Then, with sudden inspiration, I inquired: 
 
 "But when are we going to your wedding. Made- 
 moiselle Marie ? " 
 
 "Mine?" she exclaimed, suddenly raising her head 
 and looking at me with frank surprise. But something 
 in the expression of my face doubtless disturbed her, foi 
 her glance wavered, and she again bent over her needle- 
 work. 
 
 "You do not mean to say that you have refused 
 him? " I resumed, growing bolder and bolder. 
 
 "Whom?" 
 
 " Why, Bourbaki — Claude, as you call him." 
 
 This time she laughed outright. 
 
 " But you are always together," said I. " If ever ] 
 find him here, it is always beside you." 
 
 This remark made her grave again. 
 30 
 
J, A A Cr'HE LOFER'S 
 
 ^^^ 1 PROGRESS 
 
 " We were at Bchool together; he is a camarade and 
 a relation," she replied. 
 
 " But he is in love with you; everybody can see it." 
 
 Her smile returned. 
 
 " It takes two to make a marriage," said she. 
 
 "No doubt. Perhaps you have chosen somebody 
 else?" 
 
 No answer was returned to this suggestion, but I 
 noticed how swift became her stitches. 
 
 " Do you mean to wear St. Catherine's cap, then ? " 
 I ekclaimed. " What a pity! " 
 
 At this something suggestive of rebellion appeared 
 upon her face. 
 
 "You are very curious, monsieur," she said. 
 
 "That is because I take so much interest in you. 
 Who would not ? You are so charming! " 
 
 Perhaps I had gone too far, for she bent her head 
 lower than ever, and her stitches became quite pre- 
 cipitate. 
 
 "But tell me," said I, "have you never thought of 
 marrying ? I am sure you must have been asked. Ah, 
 you are smiling now! I guessed correctly, did I not? 
 And would you not take them ? How many have there 
 been?— three? four?" 
 
 At this she looked up with a very roguish expression 
 on her flushed face, thought for a moment, and then, 
 while straightening her work, replied : 
 
 " Perhaps ten." 
 
rHE LONER'S yfAy 
 
 PROGRESS ■f^/ 
 
 " Ten ? And you refused them all ? How cruel you 
 must be!" 
 
 " But if I did not care for them ? " she answered. 
 
 "You are right; one ought not to marry a person 
 one does not care for. But perhaps you are Tcry diffi- 
 cult to please. I wish I knew what you desire in a hus- 
 band; I would try to find one for you." 
 
 " You do not think, then, I can find one for myself ? " 
 
 " Oh, I do not mean that; but Kerens is such a little 
 place." 
 
 " I have not always lived at Nerens," said she. 
 
 "Of course not. Oh, I understand now! There is 
 somebody at Lyons or at Nice. Is that it ? " 
 
 She smiled vaguely, in that tantalizing, coquettish 
 way which leaves a lover in an agony of doubt. For a 
 moment, however, I changed the subject. 
 
 " You like Lyons and Nice better than Nerens, do 
 you not ? " I asked her. 
 
 "Yes, I do." 
 
 " And Paris ? Would you like to go to Paris ? " 
 
 Her eyes sparkled, and I continued : 
 
 " I know somebody who would very much like to take 
 you to Paris." 
 
 Once more she became very grave. 
 
 " Only in that case," said I, burning my ships, "you 
 would have to give him a different answer to that which 
 you gave the ten others. Do you think you could ? " 
 
 Then just for an instant the soft brown eyes met 
 
468 
 
 rHE LOFER'S 
 PROGRESS 
 
 mine, and their expression was not unfavorable, though 
 it was tinged with hesitancy, almost doubt. 
 
 " You do not think I am jesting, do you ? I assure 
 you I have never been more serious in my life," I said. 
 " Don't you know why I have stayed at Nerens ? Don't 
 you know that I have merely done so to be near you, 
 because I love you ? The very first day I saw you, at 
 the house of your Uncle Francois, I thought what a 
 good and charming girl you were, and how I should like 
 to have such a girl for my wife." 
 
 I was holding her hands now, for in her agitation she 
 could not continue sewing; but the brown eyes shyly 
 evaded mine, and -the cheeks, always bright, were at 
 present aflame with color. 
 
 "Will you not give me an answer, Marie?" I con- 
 tinued. " Do you think me too old ? Perhaps I look 
 older than I am. I shall be seven-and- twenty in Novem- 
 ber. Do you think that very old ? " 
 
 In the precocious days of my youth I had been taunted 
 so mercilessly about my juvenility that the question of 
 age always pursued me. Once I had been deemed too 
 young; now, perhaps, I should be regarded as too old. 
 But at last Marie, still looking away from me, shook her 
 head. 
 
 " You are twenty, are you not ? " I asked. 
 
 Then, while she gently withdrew her hands, her voice 
 came back to her. 
 ' " I shall be twenty in November," she replied. 
 
rHE LOVER'S y,Af. 
 
 PROGRESS '¥-^y 
 
 In November, too! At that moment it seemed more 
 than a coincidence that our birthdays should fall in the 
 same month. But as she returned my smile, she said : 
 
 " Mine is an unlucky day — the thirteenth." 
 
 " But not a Friday ? " I protested. 
 
 "I do not know." 
 
 "Wait a moment," I said; "I can tell you." And 
 taking out my pocket-book, I consulted a little perpet- 
 ual calendar by which one could ascertain the day of 
 the week of any date in the nineteenth century; and 
 I promptly discovered that November 13th of the year 
 of her birth had fallen on a Tuesday. But there was 
 something else, for I found that the_ date of my own 
 birth, November 29th, had been a Tuesday also. 
 
 This made us merry, and dissipated Marie's embar- 
 rassment. While we talked she turned on me the frank 
 and open glance and smile which have now been mine 
 for more than twenty years. 
 
 "But you have not given me an answer," I said to 
 her at last. 
 
 " I will give it you the next time you come." 
 
 "What, to-morrow?" 
 
 "Ifo" — ^laughing — "the next time you come to 
 Nerens — next summer. " 
 
 My face fell. I took it seriously, though I am now 
 convinced that, knowing me to be at her mercy, she was 
 only playing with me. 
 
 " That is a long time to wait," 1 said. 
 
.^f^ CTHE LOFER'S 
 
 ^/^ J. PROGRESS. 
 
 " But I am going to Nice with Madame Matagrin." 
 
 " I know, and that is why I should like to have your 
 answer now. Surely you can give me one. Things 
 cannot be done in a day; but if you were willing, I 
 should at least like to — to finish everything next spring 
 when you come back from Nice. Cannot you let me 
 have an answer before you go there ? " 
 
 She smiled again, and then replied: 
 
 "I will try." 
 
 " And, meantime, may I come here to see you as usual ? 
 You want to know me a little better before you answer 
 me, do you not ? May I say anything to your parents ? " 
 
 "I will speak to my mother," said she. 
 
 That was the answer of a sensible girl, and it made me 
 very hopeful. So far as she herself was concerned, I felt 
 that I had almost won her. Then as the yard dog began 
 to bark I went towards the door, but the animal had 
 simply become suspicious of some urchins passing along 
 the road, so I suddenly turned back again, and to my 
 surprise I found that Marie was looking at me. She had 
 not thought I should see her, and though she swiftly 
 averted her glance, the expression which, for an instant, 
 I observed in her eyes thrilled my heart. 
 
 I went to her once more and pleaded my suit as fer- 
 vently as I could; but the only answer which she returned 
 to my prayers was that which she had given me pre-, 
 viously, namely, that she would speak to her mother., 
 I had to remain content with it. What was I to think ? 
 
rHE LONER'S y, jY 
 
 PROGRESS ^/^ 
 
 She had given me such a look, and now, with the dancing 
 Bmile in her eyes, she seemed to be playing with me 
 again. Ah! what a fool I was! And I imagined that 
 
 * 
 
 I knew something of women ! 
 
 Bat as she intended to speak to her mother, it was 
 as well that she should tell her all that was needful. So 
 I entered into details respecting my circumstances, 
 speaking of what I believed I could earn, and of getting 
 a home together for the ensuing spring. And seeing 
 how sedately she listened to me, I went further. I knew 
 that Louis, her brother, had been designated by the 
 commandant of his battalion to attend the Ecole d' Armes 
 at Joinville, near Paris, where all the fencing-masters of 
 the French army were trained; so I told her that as 
 Louis would be near at hand, I would make all arrange- 
 ments with him with respect to the home to which I 
 would take her, if she gave me the answer I longed for. 
 
 Various little difficulties arose, however, when I event- 
 ually talked matters over with the old people, as I had 
 to do after Marie had spoken to La Eosine. They were 
 not opposed to the match. Indeed, La Eosine told me 
 plumply that she had long since guessed that I came to 
 the house for her daughter. But they at first feared I 
 should take Marie to England, which they pictured not 
 only as a cold, but as a dismal, country enveloped in 
 perpetual fogs. I assured them, however, that I had 
 no such intention, and strove, moreover, to dissipate 
 their ignorance of my native land. 
 
^^P Cr'HE LOFER'S 
 
 y/^ 1 PROGRESS 
 
 But they even considered Paris to be very far away. 
 None of their children at that time had gone further 
 afield than Lyons, which they themselves visited once 
 or twice a year; But on this point I pacified them by 
 promising to bring their daughter to see them every 
 summer. And I reverted to the subject of Louis, who 
 would remain twelve months at Joinville, and would 
 often be able to visit us in Paris. 
 
 Then came the. question of religion, on which the 
 parents almost quarrelled together, for whereas Jean- 
 Baptiste proclaimed himself to be a Voltairean, La 
 Eosine was very pious. I knew, however, that the for- 
 mer had allowed his eldest daughter, Ad^le, to become 
 a Chartreusine nun. His views, apparently, were that 
 women needed religion and men not. But I told them 
 that I was quite willing to be married by the cure, if it 
 were desired. Henri IV., at the suggestion of Sully, 
 had deemed Paris to be well worth a Mass, and I was of 
 the same opinion with respect to the girl I loved. 
 
 I was aware, moreover, that she was no bigot, what- 
 ever might be her faith. Her sister, Christine, always 
 went to confession, and she never. At least, she had 
 ceased doing so since her fifteenth year, invariably reply- 
 ing to her mother's entreaties that as she did no wrong 
 she had nothing to tell Monsieur le Cur6. 
 
 No difficulties arose with respect to pecuniary ques- 
 tions. We were both young; we had to work and make 
 our way in the world. That was only natural. Marie 
 
rHE LONER'S //7 2 
 
 PROGRESS "t/J 
 
 would be ultimately entitled to a share of the family 
 property, but beyond some little savings of her own 
 she would have no immediate dowry. I was told, how- 
 ever, that I need not purchase house linen, as she would 
 bring enough, and to spare, with her. 
 
 The preliminaries having been arranged so far, every 
 everting, on arriving at Jean-Baptiste's house, I found a 
 chair set for me beside my fiancee, for she had not been 
 so cruel as to keep me waiting for her own answer when 
 her parents consented. We had even had another long 
 talk together, and while telling her how much I loved 
 her, I had added something about my past lifey just what 
 it was well to say, and no more. One woman whom I 
 had loved had jilted me; another was dead. 
 
 And she answered, laughing, that she was not jealous 
 of the past, for she herself had had some amourettes 
 such as fall to the lot of every good-looking girl. It was 
 quite true, moreover, that she had had at least ten serious 
 offers — five or six in the village* three or four at Lyons, 
 and one, again, during her stay at Nice. Well, I had 
 won her; why and how I am unable to say. I have just 
 asked her, and the only answer I can get is: " I do not 
 know. Can one tell how those things come ? Perhaps 
 it was destiny." 
 
 There was some little trouble with Bourbaki, her 
 darkie admirer, who evinced great mortification when 
 he found that I was the accepted wooer. For a moment 
 I could not help thinking of myself and Lotis and Mon- 
 
A^y, Cr' HE LOVER'S 
 
 ^/^ J- PROGRESS 
 
 Bieur Paul. How circumstances changed! In the long 
 ago another man had carried off my girl, and now here 
 was I in my turn supplanting a lover of some years' 
 standing. But there was an important difference in the 
 two cases. Marie had never given a promise to her kins- 
 man, who had simply persevered with his suit through 
 sheer Savoyard stubbornness, whereas Lotis's promises 
 to me could have been counted by the dozen. But such 
 is the game of life, such is the struggle for happiness. 
 
 I wrote to my father, telling him that I intended to 
 marry, and he replied that it was probably the best thing 
 I could do. Then, the work which I had secured 
 through him having been done in a satisfactory manner, 
 I was able to arrange with the firm employing me to 
 represent them in Paris in a variety of ways. That 
 settled everything, assuring me of a small regular income 
 in addition to other earnings. 
 
 As it was necessary that I should enter upon my duties 
 as soon as possible, I became desirous of hastening the 
 wedding. I interviewed old Madame Matagrin, and 
 though she insisted on taking Marie to Nice, having 
 made all arrangements to that efEect, and being unable 
 to find anybody else at such short notice, for it was now 
 October, she consented to part with her early in February. 
 And thus the wedding was fixed for that month. 
 
 We spent a day together at Eauze — that is, in the 
 company of La Eosine — on which occasion I bought my 
 girl a few trinkets, including a ring set with garnets. 
 
rHE LOrER'S /I » c 
 
 PROGRESS ^/J 
 
 the emblem of constancy. The question of a marriage- 
 chain — ^a light gold chain from seven to eight feet long, 
 and costing from fourteen to twenty pounds — such, in- 
 deed, as. every self-respecting wife of Nerens possessed, 
 was also debated and negatived, as we were to live in 
 Paris, where such things were never worn. 
 
 Soon afterwards we parted. I went to Paris, my 
 fiancee to Nice; and while she was basking in the sun- 
 shine of the Riviera, I began house-hunting in the Pari- 
 sian suburbs, for we had arranged to have a little house 
 of our own with a garden, if one could indeed be found 
 at a reasonable rental. 
 
 I would not try the eastern side of Paris, for although 
 that would have brought me near to Joinville, where 
 Marie's brother Louis was already perfecting himself in 
 fencing and gymnastic exercises in order that he might 
 in due course be promoted to the position of maitre 
 ffarmes, it would also have revived all the memories of 
 Fontenay and Saint Mand6. So I searched westward, 
 and at Sevres, between Meudon and Saint Cloud, I at 
 last found the very house I needed. 
 
 It was a queer little place, all ground-floor and cellarage, 
 but it had been built strongly enough to admit of a first 
 floor being added by the owner, should he care for it. 
 The cellars were large and light, all stone and concrete, 
 with iron girders, being far better built, indeed, than 
 are most London "basements." Above ground came 
 four rooms — a kitchen, a dining-room, and two bed- 
 
476 
 
 rHE LOVER'S 
 PROGRESS 
 
 chambers, one of whicli was turned into my workroom. 
 There was also a little dressing-room occupying the space 
 which would be needed for a staircase, should an upper 
 floor ever be erected. And cTerything was clean and 
 fairly new. 
 
 But the garden was the best of all. It contained quite 
 sixty fruit-trees, in addition to a number of chasselas and 
 other vines; and not only were there plum and cherry, 
 apple and pear, almond and medlar, but apricot and 
 peach also — tall standard peach-trees, from which I gath- 
 ered bushels of luscious fruit during the years I lived 
 there. I doubt if the peach-tree can be grown satisfac- 
 torily as a standard anywhere in England. 
 
 The owner of this little property was a garfon de 
 recettes, or bill collector, of the Bank of Prance. He 
 had built the house for himself, but having lost his wife, 
 desired to let it, and the rent he asked was twenty-eight 
 pounds a year. Paris was of easy access by a tramway 
 line running to the Louvre, so I immediately came to 
 terms with the landlord's agent, a local architect, and 
 set about furnishing the house, being assisted in that 
 respect by the architect and his wife, the latter of whom, 
 I remember, purchased all my crockery and kitchen 
 utensils. 
 
 Somehow or otlier I always made friends wherever I 
 went. On my side I bought a dog, a young Pomeranian 
 rejoicing in the absurd name of Toto, who served me 
 faithfully and well, and — attended by an elderly woman 
 
rHE LOFER'S /f 7 7 
 
 PROGRESS ^ / / 
 
 of Sevres; occasionally visited by Louis, who approved 
 everything; receiving, too, every eight or ten days a 
 letter from Nice, and at least on two or three occasions 
 a little hox of flowers — I lived in the house with my dog 
 until the new year came, working the while with all the 
 energy that had returned to me, now that I once more 
 had an object in life. 
 
 Meantime I had procured the papers I needed in order 
 to be married. First came a copy of my birth certificate, 
 which had to be put into French by a " sworn trans- 
 lator," who charged me thirty francs for doing so; sec- 
 ondly, there was a "certificate of custom" delivered to 
 me by the solicitor to the British Embassy, which cer- 
 tificate set forth, among other things, that a British 
 subject over twenty-one years of age did not require the 
 consent of any relatives to his marriage. 
 
 And stamps and visas had to be affixed to every paper, 
 now at the British Consulate, now at the Ministry of 
 Foreign Affairs, now at the municipal offices of Sevres. 
 And a notice of my intended marriage was placarded at 
 these municipal offices as well as at Nerens. The cere- 
 mony, so far as civil marriage was concerned, would be 
 gratuitous, I learned. But the preliminaries, owing 
 to the fact that I was a foreigner, had cost me nearly 
 four pounds. 
 
 Then, on my return to Nerens, I had scarcely embraced 
 my dear girl, when a difficulty arose. The cur6, hearing 
 that I was by repute a Protestant, would not at first 
 
yi'yR CfHE LOFER'S 
 
 •r/" ± PROGRESS 
 
 marry me at all. Next he wished to conBult his bishop. 
 But matters were set right in one way or another. I told 
 a few falsehoods, I fear, and Jean-Baptiste, for his part, 
 threatened to take the cur6 at his word, and dispense 
 with any religious ceremony. 
 
 As the priest had not imagined that we should treat 
 Kerens to the scandal of a purely civil marriage, he sud- 
 denly gave way. I went to see him at his house. We 
 had met before, in connection with antiquarian matters, 
 and I had told him of my sojourn in Eome at the time of 
 the elevation of Leo XIII. So we had a friendly talk. 
 
 He asked me what I really was, and I told him that 
 I did not know, that my beliefs and opinions were more 
 or less hazy; but I pointed out that I had never been 
 confirmed in what he called the Anglican faith. Then 
 he wished me to promise that my children should be 
 baptized as Catholics, and I told him that their mother 
 should do exactly as she desired in the matter. 
 
 Finally, he asked me if I had ever killed or robbed 
 anybody. I answered that I had robbed nobody, but I 
 believed I had picked off a German during the war, with 
 the rifle of a wounded Mobile; and as I had not belonged 
 to the French army, perhaps that was murder. But I 
 added that if I had not shot the German he would prob- 
 ably have shot me. So that passed; and after exhorting 
 me to lead a godly life and study half a dozen Catholic 
 theologians, whose works he cited to me, the worthy old 
 man put no further difficulties in the way of the wed- 
 
rHE LOFER'S J 7n 
 
 PROGRESS ^/y 
 
 ding, but proudly showed me his cabinet of coins, and 
 gave me a billet de confession as if I had been a true son 
 of the Church. 
 
 At last, then, came the happy day, a cold, snowy Sat- 
 urday, February 19th. Several of my bride's relatives, 
 the women-folk, were irate with me, I remember, for 
 not having chosen a date after Lent, for then, said they, 
 the weather would have been pleasant and sunny, and 
 they would really have been able to enjoy themselves. 
 But, as one of them put it, the men were so impatient, 
 they had no sense. 
 
 We all met at the bride's home, and, bad as the weather 
 might be, there was, none the less, a procession of seventy 
 or eighty people., Jean-Baptiste went first with his 
 daughter, who was dressed in gray. La Rosine came 
 afterwards with her eldest son, Joseph, who had arrived 
 from Lyons. I followed with my future brother-in-law, 
 Louis, who had obtained leave for the occasion, and was 
 to be one of my witnesses. My other witness and garpon 
 d'honneur was a friend of my own, a jovial Parisian a 
 few years my junior, who this time had come with me to 
 Nerens, and who kept all the girls there, and even all 
 the mothers, merry during his sojourn in their midst. 
 He walked with the demoiselle d'honneur, my bride's 
 cousin Olympe, a little brown berry of a girl, with eyes 
 like coals of fire. And I could hear the pair of them 
 laughing behind me the whole of the way to the mu- 
 nicipal offices. 
 
y, O^ Cr'HE LOFER'S 
 
 ^^^ 1 PROGRESS 
 
 The mayor, wearing his tricolor sash, married us. He 
 read a number of clauses of the code, and when he had 
 finished, and we had signed our names, I received two 
 certificates, one on a sheet of paper, the other in the form 
 of a neatly-got-up marriage-book, the first page of which 
 recorded the ceremony, whilst the subsequent ones con- 
 tained blank spaces for the registration of children. 
 There were twelve such spaces, so it seemed as if we 
 were expected to have twelve children. However small 
 French families may be, the State at least indicates, by 
 its marriage-books, what it awaits of each newly-wedded 
 pair. 
 
 We went on to the church, Jean-Baptiste still having 
 his daughter on his arm, although I was now legally her 
 husband. It was only afterwards that I was privileged 
 to take her. And a dreadful thing happened when we 
 left the church, a thing of which I had had no warning. 
 The tinman of Nerens was an expert fife-player, and he 
 and two or three others now took the head of the pro- 
 cession and played us home. 
 
 In my time, I have more than once desired to intro- 
 duce my bootmaker to other people's tailors, but never, 
 no, never, has that desire been so keen as it was while 
 I walked through the snow from the church of Nerens 
 to my father-in-law's house. I was told afterwards that 
 the tinman played beautifully, but, however that may 
 have been, I heartily wished him and his companions at 
 the bottom of the Lac de Villaret. 
 
rHE LOFER'S /, Q j 
 
 PROGRESS ^ 
 
 After reaching the house, we had to throw sweets by 
 the bagful to some scores of children, who cried " Vive 
 la Marine!" in their shrillest voices. And later there 
 was a feast, of which I only remember that we ate and 
 drank amid a perfect babel of conversation, in which my 
 Parisian witness and garpon d'honneur played a con- 
 spicuous part — that is, whenever he was not making 
 desperate love to Marie's demoiselle d'honneur. 
 
 There was something of the gamin de Paris in his 
 composition, and in the evening he was particularly 
 anxious that Marie and I should not slip away unnoticed, 
 since by ancient custom (according to his account) it was 
 the special privilege of the gar f on d'honneur to remove 
 the bride's garters on the bridal night. But that of 
 course was mere jovial fooling. 
 
 My father-in-law likewise distinguished himself that 
 evening, for he sang, or tried to sing, several of B6ran- 
 ger's songs: II reviendra — "He will come back" — 
 following "Napoleon in Heaven." And he again told 
 how he had been hoisted by his father into Marie liouise's 
 travelling-carriage, and how she had embraced him, and 
 how he had exchanged kisses with the King of Bome, 
 when the latter was quitting France for ever. It was 
 this that had made Jean-Baptiste a fervent Bonapartist, 
 to which circumstance he had owed his removal from the 
 mayoralty of Nerens, some years previously. 
 
 At last, however, with the connivance of M61anie, the 
 wife of my brother-in-law the postmaster, Marie and I 
 31 
 
J, Op CfHE LOVER'S 
 
 T^" J- PROGRESS 
 
 were able to slip away. It had been arranged that we 
 should remain at the postmaster's till the Monday, and 
 we ran thither, hand in hand, through the snow, which 
 was again falling, and opened the door with a key which 
 had been given us. 
 
 Ah ! what relief it was to escape from all the noisy 
 merrymakers! We groped our way down a dark passage 
 and opened the door of a room where, as M61anie had 
 told us, we found a bright fire burning. The place was 
 warm and cheerful. I took off the cloak which my wife 
 had thrown around her, and made her seat herself in an 
 armchair before the blazing logs. And all the rest is her 
 secret and mine, and that of the god who benignly had 
 led us thither. 
 
rHE LOFER'S /ig^ 
 
 PROGRESS ^ ^ 
 
 IV 
 From Death to Life 
 
 After remaimng at Nerens a few days longer than we 
 had intended — for it was difficult to escape from so many 
 kinsfolk — we at last set out for Sevres, travelling chiefly 
 by night, and arriving in Paris about six o'clock in the 
 morning. The old woman whom I had left in charge of 
 our house, putting up a little folding bedstead in the 
 caJ)inet de toilette for her accommodation, was there to 
 receive us, and my wife was quite content with what I 
 had provided. Nevertheless, she re-arranged many little 
 things, particularly in the kitchen and the bedroom, in 
 accordance with her own tastes. 
 
 On the first afternoon I took her into the town to show 
 her the shops, in order that she might choose her trades- 
 people, but rainy weather had set in, and we did not long 
 remain out of doors. On the morrow she unpacked her 
 trunks, as well as a large case full of house-linen which 
 had been sent on in advance, and while she was thus 
 engaged I was continually running in and out of the 
 garden, although it rained almost incessantly. 
 
 It was wet, too, on the morrow; but again I was in 
 the garden for some hours on and ofE, for now that the 
 snow had gone it was necessary to repair the damage of 
 
y, Oy, Cr'HE LOFER'S 
 
 "r"^ 1 PROGRESS 
 
 ■winter and make preparatione for sowing, since we in- 
 tended to grow our own vegetables, as well as flowers — 
 a practice to which we have steadily adhered for the last 
 twenty years, if I except therefrom some three years 
 spent in London. 
 
 That evening, when I went to bed, I felt slightly 
 feverish, but thought nothing of it. On the following 
 morning, however, I awoke quite unable to speak, and 
 almost unable to move. I even had great difficulty in 
 breathing, such was the weight upon my chest. I had 
 never before had any serious illness. I had braved the 
 snow and ice of the war, the mists and malaria of the 
 Douro, the heat of Andalucia — I had done a thousand 
 things which might have brought on some grievous 
 malady, but I had inevitably escaped scot-free, as if I 
 possessed an iron constitution. 
 
 Something unusual, however, had happened now. 
 What could be the matter with me ? And all at once, 
 as I lay thinking, a dreadful vision arose out of the past, 
 which I had been trying to bury for ever since I had met 
 the dear girl whom I had lately made my wife. It was 
 a vision of Salta, my poor dead Salta, in her last days, 
 when diphtheria had snatched her from my side. I had 
 escaped contagion then, but now what was this? Not 
 diphtheria, perchance, yet something almost as dan- 
 gerous. 
 
 My wife lay sleeping beside me, and I touched her 
 arm to waken her, even as Salta had touched mine to 
 
rHE LOFER'S a J? ^ 
 
 PROGRESS -f <^J> 
 
 waken me. And when my wife looked at me and found 
 I could not speak, she was much alarmed. I motioned 
 with my hand, however, that I wished to write, and 
 thereupon, springing out of bed, she went for pencil 
 and paper. 
 
 " I am very ill," I wrote; " I do not know what it is; 
 but try to find somebody, and send for a doctor." 
 
 My wife dressed herself, spoke to me, felt me, and 
 found she could do nothing. Then she went away for 
 a few minutes, and, on coming back, told me that she 
 had despatched a neighbor's boy for a medical man. I 
 lay there waiting for a long time, and a slight cough 
 came upon me, a cough which I dreaded, for it pained 
 me exceedingly each time that it recurred. 
 
 Between eight and nine o'clock, I think, a doctor 
 arrived, a little, clean-shaven, elderly man with gold 
 spectacles. His name was Le Pilleur, and I afterwards 
 learned that politically he was a violent Ked Eepublican, 
 but that he had written well-known books on European 
 spas and bathing-places. He was undoubtedly a clever 
 man, for, in conjunction with my wife, he ended by 
 snatching me from the very jaws of death. 
 
 Among my papers I have lately found a whole bundle of 
 his prescriptions, for in France the medical practitioner, 
 unless it be in certain rural districts, does not supply his 
 patients with medicine, which has to be purchased of 
 a chemist. By the aid of Le Pilleur's prescriptions, I 
 might, perhaps, be able to trace the march of my illness. 
 
yiOA (THE LOFER'S 
 
 'r"^ 1 PROGRESS 
 
 which was pneumonia in a yery severe form, with a 
 variety of complications. But this would have little 
 interest for the reader, and I will therefore only mention 
 that I find leeches and blisters specified in the prescrip- 
 tions more than once, as well as digitalis, which would 
 point to some heart trouble having supervened. 
 
 For the rest, I myself only know that I lay in bed for 
 more than nine weeks, that I had more than one relapse, 
 and that I was long delirious, recognizing nobody, and 
 at one period becoming quite violent. And throughout 
 that time my young wife, the girl who, some eight or 
 nine days before I fell ill, had taken me for better or 
 for worse, nursed me with a skill and a devotion equalled 
 no doubt by other brave women, but surpassed by none 
 of them. Even when I was violent she, with her strong 
 arms, held me until the paroxysm had passed. More- 
 over, she herself did not despair even when the doctor 
 almost gave up the case; she wrestled with death and 
 overcame it. 
 
 Such was her honeymoon, a honeymoon of silent tears 
 and prayers, blended with unflagging energy! And 
 when I was saved, when I recognized her again, and 
 could feel and appreciate the delicate touch of her kind 
 hands, I knew even better than I had known before that 
 my choice had been the right one; for no princess in all 
 the lands could have shown more love, and courage, and 
 skill, and endurance, and solicitude than she, the young 
 dressmaker, the daughter of a peasant farmer, had dis- 
 
rHE LOFER'S ^Oy 
 
 PROGRESS y"/ 
 
 played in that grim fight with death, that battle for the 
 life of the man she loved. 
 
 I was her first child; I emerged from that illness a 
 poor, puny, shrunken babe, long unable to rise and walk; 
 and she, who had been my sweetheart, and for so brief 
 a space my bride, was now my mother — the kindest 
 mother in all the world, finding time for everything, 
 relying on her own strength, unwilling to take any 
 assistance unless, indeed, it were to run errands. 
 
 Even some of these she would not intrust to others. 
 When I became convalescent, she always went in person 
 to fetch my milk from a neighboring cowkeeper's, and 
 insisted on seeing the cow milked before her, paying for 
 the milk which she thus purchased fifty per cent, beyond 
 the usual price, a significant little circumstance at which 
 she often laughed in after days. 
 
 Fortunately, she had no pecuniary cares. In accord- 
 ance with a memorandum which I was able to write on 
 the first day of my seizure, both she and the doctor com- 
 municated with my people and with those for whom I 
 was working, and money was sent her from England 
 regularly. But she was in a strange place, far from her 
 own kindred — even Louis, who was now again at Join- 
 ville, could only call on Sundays — and thus she found 
 herself virtually alone, face to face with the burdens and 
 trials of life, instead of the happiness which I had hoped 
 to give her. 
 
 To me, however, that illness was like a blessing. I 
 
y,0 Cr'HE LOFER'S 
 
 "^OO ± PROGRESS 
 
 emerged from it born afresh. The past appeared to 
 recede into the far distance till it almost vanished from 
 my memory. I seemed to be a little child, with just a 
 Tague idea that this was not my first appearance in the 
 world, that I had lived somewhere before, under other 
 circumstances, amid other surroundings. I had cast 
 off many haunting memories amid the ravings of my 
 delirium, of which my wife never spoke to me for years, 
 and perhaps the intensity of my fever had wrought some 
 modification of my brain. 
 
 A very eminent man once told me that he was the 
 dullest of youths, but was struck down by brain fever 
 in his twenty-second year, to which circumstance he 
 attributed all the talent — some have called it genius — 
 which he displayed in his after years. In a minor degree, 
 that severe illness may have effected a change in me. I 
 only know that from that hour my life became in many 
 respects very different from what it had been. 
 
 Yet I must not withhold from love its due. Love 
 6ertainly participated in effecting that change. I could 
 not look at that brave, good wife of mine otherwise than 
 with eyes of adoration. I belonged to her entirely, for 
 I owed my life to her, and I felt I must give her all the 
 love of which my heart was capable, now that it seemed 
 quite young again. 
 
 Something brought Coventry Patmore's famous poem 
 to my mind, and I thought of her as the Angel in my 
 House — a good angel that had come to make a sunshine 
 
rHE LOVER'S y. Of) 
 
 PROGRESS y"y 
 
 in the shady places of my heart, a star, too, which had 
 shone forth over my path to lighten my darkness, a star 
 which would be the guide of my new, my later life. I 
 would call her my evening star; I would give her a name 
 — not Venus, that would be absurd, nor Hesperus, for 
 that was masculine; but Hesperis would suit her. 
 
 I well remember the first day I was allowed to get up 
 and sit in an armchair. The fine weather had come, but 
 a mist had risen from the Seine during the night, and 
 the morning remained hazy. As a matter of fact, I 
 ought to have remained in bed till the afternoon, but 
 I was tired of lying there, and so I was allowed to rise 
 after my light breakfast. She, my young wife, had such 
 strength in her round white arms that, as I have already 
 mentioned, she had been able to hold me in moments of 
 delirium, and now, after wrapping me up in accordance 
 with the doctor's directions, she almost carried me from 
 . the bed-chamber to the dining-room. 
 
 It was near the glass door of the dining-room that she 
 seated me, in order that I might look out into our 
 garden. It was still misty, however, and the panes of 
 the door were clouded by moisture. She would have 
 opened the door to wipe the glass had she not feared for 
 me, but I told her that it did not matter, for by-and-by 
 the sun would come and dry everything. 
 
 Then, having ascertained that I was quite comfortable, 
 she tripped away into our room, and I could hear her 
 moving and making the bed, like the active, industrious 
 
jirin Cr'HE LOFER'S 
 
 ^y^ 1 PROGRESS 
 
 woman she was. For a moment she sang snatches of the 
 songs of Savoy amid her work, for her heart was gay at 
 the thought that I was now fast recovering. I listened 
 till I heard her no longer, and then turned my eyes 
 toward the garden. 
 
 Amid the mist which was slowly dispersing I seemed 
 to distinguish vague- shapes, vague scenes. By degrees 
 I fell into a reverie; something of the past came back 
 to me. I was in Sussex now; yonder were the downs, 
 and yonder was surely a patch of light blue sea. But 
 those glimpses of the surroundings of boyhood vanished, 
 to be followed by others. And all at once I seemed to 
 see Lotis before me — Lotis, whom I had loved so enthu- 
 siastically, and on losing whom I had deemed life no 
 longer worth living. She had been a very dear girl; she 
 had loved me, no doubt, at one time particularly; but a 
 day had come when she had felt that, much as she liked 
 me, she could not sacrifice position and ease for my sake. 
 And so she had turned aside to follow another path. 
 
 Could I blame her ? If I had held her to her prom- 
 ises; if she, from a sense of rectitude, had insisted upon 
 keeping them, should we have been happy ? "Would she 
 not always have pined for something which I could not 
 give her ? Perfect love would have been unknown to us. 
 
 Ah! the wrench had been a painful one, yet it had 
 been necessary. By quitting me she had caused me 
 intense sufEering; she had left me in despair, with my 
 life, my career in jeopardy. But had she reihained true 
 
rHE LOFER'S Af^j 
 
 PROGRESS yx-^ 
 
 to me merely in words, in outward sliow, would she not 
 have made me sufEer still more ? With her desires else- 
 where, how could she have loved me as I had wished 
 to he loved ? She had gone, and she had done rightly. 
 I forgave her freely for any suffering which she had 
 caused me. My only sorrow now was that she herself 
 had failed to find happiness along the path she had 
 chosen. 
 
 But another vision arose before me. I saw Salta, the 
 dear creature of charm and passion and grief, a sterling 
 woman, weighed down by heredity and environment. 
 She had loved me tenderly at times, almost wildly at 
 others, hut ever truly and devotedly. And I felt that 
 I should always revere her memory, and deplore the 
 ghastly suddenness, the abominable cruelty of Death 
 laying his brutal, hands upon one so young, so loving, 
 and so fair. 
 
 And I remained intensely grateful to her, for even in 
 the midst of folly horn of circumstances she had shown 
 me the beauty of a true woman's heart; while, when the 
 crash had come, she had awakened to consciousness of 
 our joint errors in a manner that proclaimed all the 
 goodness inherent in her nature. Ah! if our child had 
 only lived, if she had loved her profession less, if — as had 
 been suggested to me — I had been able to remove her to 
 other surroundings, our story might have proved a long 
 and happy one. 
 
 Nevertheless, life's laws are often inexorable, and. 
 
^Q2 Cr'HE LOVER'S 
 
 ^7 1 PROGRESS 
 
 given the course imparted to our love, it was a question 
 whether the dream, the loving resolution of her last days, 
 could ever have found fulfilment after what had gone 
 before. Perhaps that was the stern lesson of it all. 
 She had pointed out the right path to me, and she had 
 died that I might seek it with another. 
 
 Another, ah, how different! And yet no; there was 
 more than one point of resemblance between them. 
 When I remembered what had first attracted me to Salta, 
 and what, later, had drawn me toward her who was now 
 my wife, I felt profoundly astonished. Had not Salta 
 seemed to me so sensible and brave? Had not the 
 thought of her filial piety touched me deeply? And 
 my wife, was she not full of courage and good sense ? 
 Had she not proved her powers of devotion ? Yes, there 
 was something of the same type of womanhood in both 
 of them. 
 
 Physically they might differ, but even in that respect 
 there was a tenderness in my wife's smile that recalled 
 the smile of Salta, even as her brown eyes vaguely sug- 
 gested those of Lotis. Did I not love her for herself 
 then ? Did I love her simply because she reminded me 
 of others ? What an abominable thought ! The explana- 
 tion of it all must be that I had found in her what I 
 had hoped to find in the others — the realization of some 
 dimly conceived ideal which had previously escaped my 
 eager quest. 
 
 But I remembered a famous theory propounded by 
 
rHE LONER'S //n ? 
 
 PROGRESS ^yJ 
 
 psychologists — the theory of the man who errs, who 
 deceives his wife, attracted towards another woman by 
 the very circumstance that in one or another respect she 
 suggests his wife to him. In many points she may be 
 utterly unlike her, but she may have her glance or her 
 smile, or simply her hair or her voice, or something 
 similar in her manner or her cast of mind. And it is 
 that vague resemblance which attracts the man and leads 
 him on, though he is often only dimly conscious of it. 
 
 In like way the impression made upon my mind by 
 Salta when I had first known her had proved lasting, 
 and had influenced me, drawn me towards one in whom 
 I found, repeated and accentuated, the very qualities 
 which had wrought that early impression. 
 
 Some, perhaps, may say that in Salta there had been 
 a flaw, the work of heredity and surroundings, for which 
 she, poor girl, had not been responsible. But it was not 
 for me to inquire into all that. I myself was by no 
 means flawless. And I only know that she and I had 
 loved, and that I should always think of her as of a dear 
 first wife. Again, if there had been flaw or not in her, 
 I could certainly see none in the brave child of nature 
 who had now put her hand in mine. 
 
 Nature! As a matter of fact, the three women I had 
 loved had all been Nature's children. That again was 
 a bond of resemblance between them : a proof that my 
 mind, whatever its evolutions, had always been influenced 
 by the same ideal. Lotis assuredly had been nature's 
 
y.^. CfHE LOVER'S 
 
 4^y» 1 PROGRESS 
 
 child before Paris and wealth had spoilt her; and Salta 
 had even remained nature's offspring amid a life full of 
 artificiality. 
 
 There was yet another point of contact — the physical 
 health enjoyed by the three women to whom my heart 
 had gone. I do not think I could have loved a sickly 
 girl, however good, however sweet her nature. I remem- 
 bered Lotis, all agility and strength and health, on the 
 seashore and in the forest; I remembered Salta, the very 
 incarnation of untiring motion; and now there was my 
 Marie, strong enough to have wrestled in the Olympian 
 games. Her facie, no doubt, was not a perfect one; but 
 her full mouth was a mouth of sterling kindliness, and 
 her eyes were beautiful with all the frankness of a soul 
 that has nothing to conceal. 
 
 Fools preach the gospel of ugliness in these later days,- 
 a gospel which simply owes its being to the fact that day 
 by day the beauty of the human form diminishes, in 
 such wise that man condemned to live in the midst of 
 ugliness must make a virtue of necessity; but if the 
 human race is ever and ever losing something of its 
 stature and its comeliness, this is simply the result of the 
 life it leads. Let it give up its excess of strong drink, 
 its artificial excitements, the thousand vices bom of its 
 civilization, let it live a natural life, and beauty may yet 
 return. 
 
 Now that men become each year shorter and more 
 puny, quacks arise to declare that it is far better thus, 
 
rHELOFER'S AOK 
 
 PROGRESS -tyJ 
 
 that the little man is much healthier than he who is tall 
 and sturdy. Every paradox is devised even by so-called 
 men of science to console mankind in its physical down- 
 fall. Athletics doubtless play their part in checking the 
 work of deterioration, but the root of the evil lies in the 
 feverish and vicious life which vaunted civilization has 
 brought with it. And the sins of the fathers are visited 
 on the children. 
 
 How can generations, gorged with spiced meats, sod- 
 dened by strong drink, stupefied by excessive smoking, 
 have healthy and handsome offspring? Unless the 
 world, some centuries hence, is to be peopled by hid- 
 eous dwarfs, dwelling amid the marvels of science, 
 man and woman must revert to a natural and a simple 
 life. 
 
 It was for that I longed on that morning of my resur- 
 rection. There were pages in my career which I would 
 willingly have blotted out; yet I did not wish to begin 
 my life all over again. I should never have known what 
 I did had I not passed through trouble and suffering; 
 but experience had made my craving for nature and sim- 
 plicity more intense than it had ever been before. And 
 it seemed to be within reach of satisfaction now that I 
 possessed the wife I needed. 
 
 Ah, the dear creature! my young, untiring helpmate 
 from the far-off land of vale and lake and mountain, 
 strong and valiant as an Amazon, full of good sense, yet 
 gifted with a tender and loving heart, spouse and mother. 
 
496 
 
 rUE LOVER'S 
 PROGRESS 
 
 ally and counsellor, all in one. How could I ever recom- 
 pense her for what she had done for me ? 
 
 She was not a woman of fulsome words; she proved 
 her love by deeds, by the side of which the eloquence of 
 language paled. I tried to picture her future days as 
 days of cloudless happiness. I knew not the secrets 
 of the years to come. Had I known them, I should 
 perhaps have felt somewhat disheartened by the prospect 
 of great trouble and great toil, by the threat of a cruel 
 disaster destined to throw me down again, and to compel 
 me to begin my life afresh even once more, and to struggle 
 to repair the mischief wrought by others. 
 
 That disaster came in the course of years, but she was 
 by my side ready to inspirit me. Indeed, whatever I 
 have been, whatever I have done since the day I married 
 her, I am her work and love's. 
 
 But all that belongs to another tale, the tale of " The 
 Lover Married," a tale which could hardly be written yet 
 awhile, if ever. And on that May morning, when for 
 the first time for more than two months I sat by the 
 window of my house at Sevres peering into my garden, 
 tht! future was unknown to me. I was simply aware 
 that I had passed through storm and stress, that I had 
 shed many tears and endured some bitter suffering in 
 my seven-and-twenty years, and it seemed to me that 
 fate owed some happy hours both to me and to her whom 
 I loved. 
 
 Again I looked through the window of the door lead- 
 
rHE LOVER'S ^iO V 
 
 PROGRESS -¥■)// 
 
 ing to the garden. Ah ! the sun was shining now, the, 
 mist was vanishing, the fruit trees were decked in green- 
 ery and blossom, the whole garden seemed quite trim. 
 
 I called my wife. 
 
 "Marie! Marie! can you come a moment? I want 
 you!" 
 
 She hastened to me. 
 
 " Look at the garden ! " I said to her. " What a mass 
 of blossom ! Is it not beautiful ? " 
 
 She smiled. 
 
 " But look at the beds," I continued. " Why, there 
 are a lot of things springing up ? Have you had a man 
 here ? I know I dug the ground yonder, but I did not 
 BOW anything." 
 
 She smiled again. 
 
 "I sowed the things," she said. "Yes, when you 
 began to get a little better. When I saw you sleeping 
 quietly I used to run out for just a few minutes now and 
 then " 
 
 "Yon good girl! You thought of everything," I 
 answered, my eyes moist with happiness, as I took her 
 hand and kissed it. 
 
 But she suddenly made a little gesture and her face 
 contracted. 
 
 " What is the matter ? " I asked her anxiously. 
 
 For a moment she turned aside; then, bending her 
 
 head towards me, she whispered something which filled 
 
 me with fresh emotion. Ah! I was blessed indeed, for 
 33 
 
498 
 
 rHE LOFER'S 
 PROGRESS 
 
 here was promise of love's crovfn, tlie flower and fruit 
 of life. And to think that she had none the less con- 
 centrated her thoughts on me, placing me before self, 
 before all else, in order to save me from death! Once 
 more I caught hold of her hand and kissed it, then raised 
 my lips to hers in very gratitude. I was too weak to 
 embrace her as I should have liked to have done. 
 
 But for a moment she remained there beside me, her 
 hand still in mine. The dog, too, had found his way 
 into the room, and was resting his nose on my knee, 
 looking up at me with his faithful doggy eyes. And 
 before us spread the garden, all blossom, young greenery, 
 and sunshine. Ah ! Love was good, for he brought joy 
 as well as tears; and Life, ever rejuvenescent, was good 
 also. Glory, eternal glory, to them both! 
 
 Press ofl. J. Little t Co. 
 
 AstoT Place, I 
 
 , New York