M'^p'^^^' 
 
CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 THIS BOOK IS ONE OF A 
 COLLECTION MADE BY 
 
 BENNO LOEWY 
 1854-1919 
 
 AND BEQUEATHED TO 
 CORNELL UNIVERSITY 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PQ 2151.G4 1860 
 
 Germaine. 
 
 3 1924 027 686 132 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 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/cu31924027686132 
 
GEEMAINE. 
 
 BY 
 
 EDMOND ABOUT, 
 
 AUTIIOK OF "the KOMAN QUESTION," ETC. 
 
 TRANSLATED 
 By MARY L. B O OTH. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 J. E. TILTON AND COMPANY. 
 
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GEEMAINE. 
 
 CHAPTER I, 
 
 THE DUCHESS' NEW YEAR'S. GIFT. 
 
 "VTEAE THE middle of the Eue de I'Universite, be- 
 -^^tween the numbers 51 and 57, are four mansions, 
 which may well be classed among the finest in Paris. 
 The first belongs to M. Pozzo di Borgo, the second to 
 the Count du Mailly, the third to the Duke de Choiseul, 
 and the fourth to the Baron de Sanglid. The latter 
 forms the angle of the Eue Bellechasse. 
 
 The hotel de Sangli6 is a princely dwelling. The 
 gate opens upon a court-yard, carefully gravelled, and 
 tapestried with vines a century old. The porter's lodge 
 is at the left, concealed beneath a thick ivy, where the 
 sparrows and the porter chatter in unison. On the right, 
 at the bottom of the court-vard, a broad flight of steps, 
 
 (8) 
 
GERMAINE. 
 
 shaded by an awning, leads to the vestibule and the 
 principal escalier. The ground floor and the first story 
 are occupied by the baron, who enjoys the sole posses- 
 sion of an immense garden, bounded by several others, 
 and peopled by larks, sparrows, and squirrels, who come 
 and go in full liberty, as if they were the denizens of a 
 forest, and not citizens of Paris. 
 
 The Sanglie arms, painted in medallion, are blazoned 
 on the walls of the vestibule. The design is a Sanglier 
 d'or on a field gules. The escutcheon is borne by two 
 greyhounds and surmounted by a baron's crest, with the 
 device Sanglie au eot. Half a dozen actual grey- 
 hounds, grouped to suit their fancy, gambol at the foot 
 of the escalier, gnaw the veronicas blooming in the 
 Japan vases, or lie at fuU length on the carpet, stretch- 
 ing their slender serpentine necks to the sun. The foot- 
 men sit on the Beauvais benches with theii- arms folded 
 decorously, as befits the servants of a noble house. 
 
 On the first of January, 1853, at nine in the 
 morning, all the servants of the hotel Sanglie held a 
 tumultuous congress within the vestibule. The baron's 
 intendant, M. Anatole, had just distributed their New 
 Year's gifts among them. The steward had received 
 five hundred francs, the valet de chambre two hundred 
 
THE duchess' new YEAE'S GIFT. 6 
 
 and fifty, and the scullion, the least favored of all, was 
 gazing with inexpressible tenderness on two beautiful 
 new louis d'ors. There were some jealous faces among 
 the assembly, hut not a single discontented one, and each 
 was saying in his own way, that it was a pleasure to 
 serve such a rich and generous master. 
 
 The gentlemen in question were grouped somewhat 
 picturesquely around one of the heaters. The earliest 
 risers were already in fuU livery ; the rest were still 
 wearing the sleeved-jacket which forms the undress of 
 all domestics in Paris. The valet de chambre was dressed 
 in black with list shoes, the gardener resembled a villager 
 in his Sunday clothes, the coachman appeared in a knit 
 jacket and laced hat, and the porter wore a gilt belt and 
 sabots. Here and there along the walls might have 
 been seen a whip, a curry-comb, a blacking-brush, and 
 an indefinite number of feather brooms. The master 
 slept till noon like a man who had passed the night at 
 the club, and the servants had plenty of time to attend 
 to their duties. Each one was spending his money in 
 advance, and castles in the air rose rapidly. All men, 
 whether great or small, are in some way related to the 
 milkmaid who counted her chickens with her milk-pail 
 
GERMAINE. 
 
 « With this and what I have beside," said the steward, 
 "I shall increase my annuity. Thank God! I have 
 some bread already laid upon the shelf — one ought not 
 to want for any thing in his old age." 
 
 " Parbleu ! " returned the valet ; " you are a bachelor ; 
 you have only yourself to care for. But I have a fam- 
 ily; I shall give my money to the young man at the 
 Bourse. He will speculate for me in stocks." 
 
 "That is a good idea, Monsieur Ferdinand," exclaimed 
 the scullion. "Carry him my forty francs too, when you 
 go. 
 
 "What a child!" replied the valet, with a patronizing 
 air. " What could they do on the Bourse with forty 
 francs ? " 
 
 "Well then," said the youth, stifling a sigh, "I will 
 put them in the savings' bank." 
 
 The coachman burst into a loud fit of lano-hter. 
 "Here is my savings' bank!" cried he, stroking his 
 stomach. "Here is where I have always invested my 
 capital, and it has paid me a good interest, has it not. 
 Father Altroff?" 
 
 Father Altroff, a porter by profession, and an Alsatian 
 by birth, who was tall, strong, muscular, big-beUied, 
 broad-shouldered, large-headed, and as rubicund as a 
 
THE duchess' new TEAR'S GIFT. 7 
 
 young hippopotamus, winked knowingly in reply, and 
 made a little sound with his tongue which was worth a 
 long poem. 
 
 The gardener, a fine flower of Normandy, clinked his 
 money in his hand, and answered the last speaker, — 
 " Come ! come ! one cannot drink a thing, and have it 
 too. There is no such investment as a good hiding- 
 place in an old waU or a hollow tree. Money that is 
 weU hidden, the notaries cannot spend ! " 
 
 The assembly all cried out against the simplicity of 
 the good man who thus buried his crowns alive instead 
 of setting them at work. Fifteen or sixteen exclamations 
 arose at once. Every one had his say, betrayed his 
 secrets, mounted his hobby, and shook his cap and bells. 
 Every one smote his pockets, and noisily caressed the 
 certain hopes, the clear and liquid happiness, that had 
 been disbursed to him that morning. The gold mingled 
 its sharp and ringing voice in this concert of vulgar pas- 
 sions ; and the clink of the twenty-franc pieces, more 
 heady than the fumes of wine or the smell of powder, 
 intoxicated these weak brains and quickened the throb- 
 bings of these churlish hearts. 
 
 At the height of the tumult, a little door was opened 
 on the escalier, between the aroimd floor and the first 
 
8 GEBMAINE. 
 
 story, and a woman, clothed in black, shabby garments 
 hastily descended the stairs, crossed the vestibule, opened 
 the glass door, and disappeared in the court-yard. 
 
 It was the work of a moment; yet, notwithstanding, 
 this sombre apparition extinguished the mirth of all the 
 good-humored valets. They rose on her passage with 
 marks of profound respect. The noisy exclamations 
 lodged in their throats, and the clinking of the gold 
 ceased in their pockets. The poor woman had left be- 
 hind her a wake of silence and of gloom. 
 
 The valet de chambre, a blustering fellow, was the 
 first to recover himself. 
 
 " Sapristi ! " cried he, " I fancy I have seen Poverty 
 pass in person. Here is my New Tear's day spoiled 
 already ! You will see that nothing succeeds with me now 
 till Saint Sylvester's. Brrr ! I am chilled through." 
 
 "Poor woman!" said the steward. "She has had 
 hundreds and thousands, and see her now! Who would 
 believe that she is a duchess ? " 
 
 " Her rascally husband has squandered every thing." 
 
 " A gambler ! " 
 
 "A glutton!" 
 
 "A libertine, who trots on his old legs from morninf 
 till night in the train of all the petticoats ! " 
 
THE duchess' new YEAR'S GIFT. 9 
 
 "He does not interest me, — he has nothing but what 
 he deserves." 
 
 " Does any one know how Mademoiselle Germaine 
 is?" 
 
 " Their negress says that she is at the point of death. 
 She spits blood by mouthfuls." 
 
 " And no carpet in her room ! She might be cured 
 in a warm climate, — at Florence or in Italy." 
 
 " She wiU be an angel before long." 
 
 "It is those who are left who are to be pitied." 
 
 " I don't know what the duchess will do then ; their 
 accounts are closed with all the tradesmen. Even the 
 baker talks of refusing them credit." 
 
 " What rent do they pay ? " 
 
 " Eight hundred. But I don't believe that monsieur 
 has ever seen the color of their money." 
 
 " If I were he, I should rather let the little lodging 
 be vacant than to let people in it who are a disgrace to 
 the house." 
 
 " Are you a brute ? Would you have the Duke de 
 La Tour d'Embleuse and his family picked up from the 
 public sidewalk ? These paupers are the plague-spots 
 of the faubourg, — we all have an interest in hiding 
 
 —what do I care for 
 
10 GEKMAINE. 
 
 that? Why don't they work? Dukes are men, like the 
 rest of us." 
 
 " Boy," replied the steward gravely, " you are talking 
 at random. They are not men like the rest of us, — one 
 proof of it is that I, with my superior talents, can never 
 be a simple baron for a single hour in my life. Be- 
 sides, the duchess is a sublime woman, and does things 
 of which neither you nor I would be capable. Could 
 you eat boulli at every meal for a whole year ? " 
 
 " Bah ! that would not be pleasant." 
 
 "Well, the duchess cooks a dinner every two days, 
 because the duke, her husband, does not like sops. Mon- 
 sieur dines on a good tapioca au gras, with a beefsteak 
 or a couple of chops, while his poor wife swallows the 
 last morsels of the boiled fragments. What do you think 
 of that ? " 
 
 The scullion was touched to the heart. "My good M. 
 Tournoy," said he to the ^steward, "these people are very 
 interesting. Can't we make them some presents by 
 means of their negress ? " 
 
 " No, indeed ; she is as proud as they ; she will take 
 nothing from us. Yet I am of the opinion that she does 
 not get a breakfast every day." 
 
 This conversation might have lasted some time longer, 
 if it had not been interrupted by the entrance of M 
 
THE duchess' new YBAE'S GIFT. 11 
 
 Anatole. He came just in time to cut short the words 
 of the chasseur, who was opening his mouth for the first 
 time. The assembly dispersed hastily, each orator carry- 
 ing away with him his implements of labor, and nothing 
 was left in the hall of deliberation but one of those 
 gigantic brooms commonly called a wolf's head. 
 
 Meanwhile, Marguerite de Bisson, Duchess de La 
 Tour d'Embleuse, was walking with rapid steps in the 
 direction of the Eue Jacob. The passers who jostled 
 her elbow in hastening to give or receive their New 
 Year's gifts, thought her one of the tribe of destitute 
 Irish who shuffle along the macadamized streets of Lon- 
 don in pursuit of a penny. The daughter of the Duke 
 of Brittany, and wife of an ex-governor of Senegal, the 
 duchess wore on her head a straw bonnet, dyed black, 
 the strings of which were twisted like twine. An imi- 
 tation veil, torn in five or six places, partly concealed 
 her features, and gave her a strange appearance, — her 
 beautiful face, thus marked by white spots of unequal 
 size, seemed disfigured by the smallpox. An old crape 
 shawl, blackened by the cares of the dyer and reddened 
 by the inclemency of the weather, hung heavily about 
 her, the fringe sweeping the snow of the side-walk. 
 The gown which was hidden beneath was so much 
 
12 GERMAINB. 
 
 worn -that the stuff was hardly discernible. It would have 
 been necessary to examine it very closely to recognize 
 a former mohair, uncalendered, cut in the folds, frayed 
 on the bottom, and eaten by the corrosive mud of the 
 pavements of Paris. The shoes which supported this 
 lamentable edifice no longer possessed either form or 
 color. No linen was visible, either at the neck or the 
 wrists. Sometimes, in crossing a street, the dress was 
 raised a little on the right, disclosing a gray woollen 
 stocking and a single skirt of black fustian. The hands 
 of the duchess, which were reddened by the piercing 
 cold, were hid beneath her shawl; and if she dragged 
 her feet in walking, it was not from carelessness, but 
 simply from the fear of losing her shoes. 
 
 By a strange contrast, which you may sometimes have 
 remarked in others, the duchess was neither thin nor 
 pale, nor in any way disfigured by poverty. She had 
 received from her ancestors the gift of that rebel 
 beauty which resists every thing, even hunger. One 
 sometimes sees prisoners fatten in their dungeons till 
 the hour of their death. At the age of forty-seven, 
 Madame de La Tour d'Embleusp was still in posses- 
 sion of much of the beauty of youth. Her hair was 
 jet black, and she had thirty-two teeth, all of which 
 
THE duchess' new YEAE's GIFT. 13 
 
 were capable of bruising the hardest bread. Her 
 health was less blooming than her figure; but that was 
 a secret between herself and her physician. The 
 duchess was approaching that critical and sometimes 
 fatal season, when the wife disappears that she may 
 give place to the grandmother. More, than once had 
 she been seized with strange sutfocations, and she 
 often dreamed that the blood was rising in her throat 
 and strangling her. Inexplicable flushes of heat mounted 
 to her brain, and she awakened in a bath of perspi- 
 ration, in which she wondered that she did not die. 
 Doctor Le Bris, a young physician but an old friend, 
 I had prescribed for her a mild regimen, without fatigue, 
 and especially without anxiety; but what stoical soul 
 could have passed through trials as harsh a,s hers with- 
 out having been -moved by them ? 
 
 Duke Cesar de La Tour d'Embleuse, son of one of the 
 emigres who had shown himself most faithful to his king 
 and most rabid against his country, had been magnificently 
 recompensed for the services of his father. In 1827, 
 when scarcely forty years of age, he had been appointed 
 by Charles X. governor-general of the French posses- 
 sions in Western Africa. He held the Moors and the 
 yellow fever at bay during twenty-eight months' stay in 
 - 2 
 
14 GEEMAINE. 
 
 the colony, and then asked leave of absence to go to 
 Paris and marry. He _was rich, thanks to the indem- 
 nity of a thousand million of francs ; he doubled his 
 fortune by espousing the beautiful Marguerite de Bisson, 
 who possessed an income at Saint Brienne of sixty thou- 
 sand francs. The king signed his marriage contract 
 and the Ordinances on the same day, and the duke 
 found himself married and beggared at one blow. The 
 new government would gladly have welcomed him among 
 the throng of deserters, and it was even said that the 
 ministry of Casimir Perier made him some advances ; 
 but he scorned every proferred office, at first through 
 pride, and afterwards through an unconquerable indo- 
 lence. Whether it was that he had expended all his 
 energies in three years, or whether the easy Parisian 
 life retained him by an irresistible attraction, his sole 
 occupation during ten years was to drive his horses in 
 the Bois du Boulogne, and to air his yellow gloves in 
 the green-room of the opera. Paris, to him, was. a new 
 world; for he had lived in the country under the inflex- 
 ible rule of his father, until the day of his departure for 
 Senegal, — he tasted pleasures so late in life that he had 
 not time to be palled with them. 
 
 Every thing seemed good to him,— the enjoyments of 
 the table, the gratifications of vanity, the excitement of 
 
THE duchess' new YEAR'S GIFT. 15 
 
 play, and even the austere joys of the family. At home, 
 he showed the assiduity of a young husband, and abroad 
 the impetuosity of a youth just freed from control. His 
 wife was the happiest woman in France, but she was not 
 the only one whose felicity he fashioned. He wept with 
 joy at the birth of his daughter in 1835 ; and in the 
 excess of his happiness, he purchased a country-house 
 for a dancer of whom he was enamoured. The dinners 
 which he gave at home had no rivals, unless it were 
 his suppers at the house of his mistress. The world, 
 which is always indulgent to men, pardoned him this 
 waste of his life and of his fortune. It was thought 
 that he managed matters handsomely, since his pleasures 
 outside never awakened a mournful echo in his house- 
 hold. How could one reproach him for scattering every- 
 where about him a little of the superfluity of his purse 
 and his heart? No woman pitied the duchess, and in 
 fact she was not to be pitied. He carefully avoided 
 compromising himself; he never appeared in public 
 except with his wife ; and he would rather- have lost a 
 rubber than have sent her alone to a ball. 
 
 This double mode of living, and the circumspection 
 with which a gay man knows how to conceal his pleas- 
 ures, soon encroached upon his capital. Nothing costs 
 
16 GERMAINE. 
 
 dearer in Paris than secrecy and discretion. The duke 
 was too fine a lord to haggle. He neither knew how 
 to refuse any thing to his own wife nor to the wife of 
 another. Do not think that he was ignorant of the 
 enormous breaches that he was making in his fortune; 
 but he counted on play to repair them. Men to whom 
 Fortune has come while sleeping, accustom themselves 
 tp a boundless confidence in destiny. M. de La Tour 
 d'Embleuse was as lucky as those who touch the cards 
 for the first time. It was estimated that his gains in 
 the year 1841 more than doubled his income. But 
 nothing is lasting in this world, not even success in 
 play; and the truth of this, the duke soon experienced. 
 The liquidation of 1848, which brought to light so much 
 poverty, proved to him that he was ruined without rem- 
 edy, and he saw a bottomless abyss opening beneath his 
 feet. Another man would have lost his reason; he did 
 not even lose his hope. He went sti-aight to his wife, 
 and said to her gayly, — "My dear Marguerite, this 
 villanous revolution has ruined us. We have not a 
 thousand francs that we can call our own." 
 
 The duchess was not expecting such a revelation; 
 she thought of her daughter and burst into tears. 
 
 "Never mind," said he, "the storm wiU blow over. 
 
THE duchess' new YEAE'S GIFT. 17 
 
 Count on me ; I count on luck. They say that I am a 
 light man — so much the better! I shall come' to the 
 surface." 
 
 The poor woman dried her tears, saying, — "Eight, 
 my friend. You will work ? " 
 
 " Me ! For shame ! I shall wait for Fortune, — she 
 is a capricious sprite, but she loves me too well to quit 
 me point-blank without hope of return." 
 
 The duke waited eight years in a little apartment of 
 the h6tel Sanglie, over the stables. As soon as they 
 had time to find him out, his old friends aided him 
 with their purse and their credit. He borrowed with- 
 out scruple, as he had always lent without security. 
 Several employments were offered him, all of which 
 were honorable. A manufacturing company wished to 
 add him to their board of directors with an allocation 
 equivalent to a salary, but he refused for fear of dero- 
 gating from his dignity. "I am willing to sell my 
 time," said he, "but I do not intend to lend my name." 
 Thus he descended, one by one, all the rounds of the 
 ladder of poverty, discouraging his friends, wearying his 
 creditors, closing every door against him, and forfeitmg 
 the name which he would not compromise; yet without 
 ever taking in earnest the threadbare coat that hg wore 
 2* 
 
18 GBEMAINE. 
 
 in the street, or the hearth that was fireless for the lack 
 of a bit of fuel. 
 
 On the first of January, 1853, the duchess carried 
 her -wedding-ring to the pawnbroker's. 
 
 One must be wholly destitute of all human aid to 
 pledge an article of so slight value as a wedding-ring. 
 But the duchess had not a centime in the house; and 
 one cannot live without money, although credit may be 
 the main-spring of the trade of Paris. Many things 
 may be procured without paying for them, when you 
 can throw on the counter of the merchant a noble name 
 and an imposing address. You can furnish your house, 
 fill your cellar, and replenish your wardrobe, without 
 letting the tradesman see the color of your money; but 
 there are a thousand daily expenses which can only be 
 met, purse in hand. A coat may be bought on credit^ 
 but the mending must be paid for in ready money. It is 
 sometimies easier to buy a watch than to buy a cabbage. 
 The duchess had a remnant of credit with a few trades- 
 men, which she husbanded with religious care ; but as to 
 money, sfte knew not where tq find it. The Duke da 
 La Tour d'Embleuse possessed no more friends; he had 
 speQt them all like the rest of his fortune. Many * 
 college chum loves us tp the ^ount of a thousand 
 
THE duchess' new YEAR'S GIFT. 19 
 
 francs, — this boon-companion is the man to lend us a 
 hundred louis, and that charitable neighbor represents 
 the value of a thousand crowns to us. Beyond a cer- 
 tain figure, the lender is released from all the obligations 
 of friendship, — he has nothing to reproach himself with, 
 he has done a great deal for you, he owes you nothing 
 more, and he has the right to look away when he meets 
 you, and to deny himself to you when you call at his 
 house. The friends of the duchess had detached them- 
 selves from her, one after another. The friendship of 
 women is assuredly more chivalrous than that of men ; 
 but, in both sexes, affection is lasting only among equals. 
 One feels a delicate pleasure in climbing a steep stair- 
 case two or three times, and seating one's gelf in full 
 dress by the side of a humble pallet ; but there are few 
 minds heroic enough to live familiarly with the misery 
 of another. The dearest friends of the poor woman, 
 those who called her Marguerite, had felt their hearts 
 grow cold in the carpetless and fireless apartment; and 
 they came there no longer. When any one spoke to 
 them of the duchess, they praised her and pitieci her 
 sincerely, saying, "We love each other still, but we 
 hardly ever meet, — it is her husband's fault." 
 
 In this lamentable abandonment, the duchess had had 
 
20 GEEMAINE. 
 
 recourse to the last friend of the unfortunate, — the 
 creditor who lends at a high interest, but without ob- 
 jection and without reproach. The pawnbroker had in 
 safe keeping her jewels, her furs, her laces, the best 
 of her linen and her wardrobe, and the last mattress 
 but one of her bed. She had pledged them all under 
 the eyes of the old duke, Avho had calmly seen his ar- 
 ticles of furniture departing one by one, and had gayly 
 wished them a pleasant journey. This incomprehensible 
 old man lived in his house like Louis XV. in his 
 kingdom, without care for the future, saying, "After 
 me, the deluge ! " He rose late, breakfasted with a 
 good appetite, passed an hour at his toilette, dyed his 
 hair, plastered his wrinkles, rouged his cheeks, polished 
 his nails, and displayed his graces in Paris until the 
 hour .of dinner. He was not at all surprised to see a 
 good meal on the table, and he was too discreet ever 
 to ask his wife where she had found it. If the pit- 
 tance was meagre, he made the best of it, and smiled 
 on adversity as formerly on good fortune. When Ger- 
 maine commenced to cough, he jested pleasantly with 
 her on this bad habit. It was long ere he perceived 
 that she was wasting away; the day wherein he did 
 perceive it, he felt an intense vexation. 
 
THE duchess' new YEAE'S GIFT. 21 
 
 When the physician informed him that the poor child 
 could only be saved by a miracle, he called him Doc- 
 tor Croaker, and said, rubbing his hands, — " Come, 
 come, all this will be nothing ! " He did not really 
 know himself whether he assumed these flippant airs 
 to reassure his family, or whether his natural levity 
 rendered him incapable of feeling sorrow. His wife 
 and his daughter adored him as he was. He treated 
 the duchess with the same gallantry as on their wed- 
 ding morning, and danced Germaine on his knees like 
 a child. The duchess never suspected him of being 
 the cause of his own ruin; she had seen a perfect 
 man in him for twenty-three years, and she took his 
 indifference for courage and firmness, continued to hope 
 in him. in spite of every thing, and believed him capa- 
 ble of one day raising his house again by a stroke 
 of good fortune. 
 
 Germaine had four months to live, in the opinion of 
 Dr. Le Bris, — she would sink in the early spring 
 days, and the white lilacs would blossom on her tomb. 
 She had" a foreboding of her destiny, and read her 
 condition with an acuteness which is very rare among 
 consumptives, — nay, more, she even suspected the dis- 
 ease that was undermining the health of her mother. 
 
22 GERMAINE. 
 
 She lay by the side of the duchess, and, in her long 
 iiiglits of sleeplessness, she often shuddered at the diffi- 
 cult breathing that broke the slumbers of her dear 
 nurse. — "When I am dead," thought she, "mamma will 
 soon follow me. We shall not be separated long, — 
 but what will become of my poor father?" 
 
 Every care, every privation, every physical and men- 
 tal suffering was to be found in this little corner of 
 the hotel Sanglie. And in Paris, where wretchedness 
 abounds, it is questionable whether there was a single 
 family more completely miserable than that of La Tour 
 d' Embleuse, whose last resource was a wedding ring. 
 
 The duchess hastened at first to the branch office 
 of the Mont de Piete in the Rue Bonaparte, near the 
 Ecole des Beaux-Arts. She found the house closed: 
 was it not a holiday ? The idea occurred to her that 
 the agent in the Eue Conde might have opened his 
 shop, and she retraced her steps to his door, — this 
 also was made fast. She knew not where to apply 
 next, for establishments of this kind are not common 
 in the faubourg Saint-Germain; but, nevertheless, the 
 duke must not commence the year by fastino- ; so she 
 entered a little jeweller's shop in tlie Odeon Square, 
 and she sold her ring for eleven francs. The mer- 
 
THE duchess' new YEAE'S GIFT. 23 
 
 chant promised to keep it at her disposal for three 
 months, in case she wished to redeem it. 
 
 She tied the money in a corner of her pocket-hand- 
 kerchief^ and walked without stopping to the Rue des 
 Lombards. Here she entered a druggist's, bought a 
 bottle of cod liver oil for Germaine, crossed the mar- 
 ket, selected a lobster and a partridge, and returned, 
 draggled to the knees, to the hotel Sanglie. She had 
 forty centimes remaining. 
 
 The apartments which she occupied there were slightly 
 built, and had been added about thirty years before for 
 the servants of the hotel. The four rooms of which 
 they consisted were separated by wooden partitions. 
 The antechamber opened on one side into the draw- 
 ing-room, and on the other into a long passage, that 
 led to the duke's sleeping-room. From the drawing- 
 room you passed into the chamber of the duchess, and 
 thence into the dining-room, which terminated the suite, 
 and connected the apartment of the duchess with that 
 of her husband. 
 
 Madame de La Tour d' Embleuse found her only 
 servant, old Semiramis, in the antechamber, weeping 
 silently over a piece of paper. 
 
 " What have you there ? " asked she. 
 
24 GEBMAINE. 
 
 "Madame, it is all that the baker has brought us. 
 We can have no more bread if we do not pay him 
 his money." 
 
 The duchess took the bill, — it amounted to more 
 than six hundred francs. " Do not weep," said she ; 
 " here is a little money ; go to the baker in the Rue 
 du Bac; you will buy a Viennese roll for monsieur, 
 and some brown bread for ourselves. Carry this into 
 the kitchen ; it is monsieur's breakfast. Is Germaine 
 awake ? " 
 
 "Yes, madame, the doctor saw her at ten o'clock. 
 He is still in the chamber of M. the duke." 
 
 Semiramis departed on her errand, and Madame de 
 La Tour d' Enibleuse directed her steps towards her 
 husband's room. As she opened the door, she heard 
 the duke's voice, clear, joyous, and ringing as a bell — 
 
 "Fifty thousand francs' income! I knew well that 
 the lucky vein would return!" 
 
ASKING IN MARRIAGE. 25 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 ASKING IN MARRIAGE. 
 
 DOCTOR CHARLES Le Bris is one of the best 
 loved men in Paris. The great city has her spoiled 
 children in every art ; but I do not know of one whom she 
 pets with greater tenderness. He was born in an obscure 
 little city of Champagne, but pursued his studies in the 
 College Henri IV. A relative, who practised medicine in 
 the country, destined him at an early age for the medical 
 profession. The young man attended the lectures, fre- 
 quented the hospitals, competed for the iniernat, practised 
 under the eye of the professors, carried off all the diplomas, 
 and gained certain medals which serve to ornament his 
 cabinet. His sole ambition was to succeed his uncle, and 
 to finish the patients whom the good man had commenced. 
 But when they saw him appear armed to the teeth with 
 his successes and his title of doctor, the sanitary officers 
 of the place, his uncle included, demanded why he had 
 not settled in Paris. His new paletot fitted him so well, 
 and he joined to his talents such fascinating manners, that 
 3 
 
26 GBBMAINB. 
 
 they divined at the first glance that all the patients would 
 fall into his hands. The venerable relative found himself 
 much too young to think of retiring, and the rivalry of 
 his nephew restored to him the vigor that he had lost 
 before ; in short, the poor fellow was so badly received, 
 and they put so many spokes in his wheels, that through 
 desperation he returned to Paris. His former masters 
 appreciated him, — they procured him a practice. Great 
 men can afford to dispense with jealousy. Thanks to their 
 generosity, Doctor Le Bris made himself a reputation in 
 five or six years. He is beloved here as a scholar, there 
 as a dancer, and everywhere as a charming and excellent 
 man. He is ignorant of the first elements of quackery, 
 says very little about his success, and leaves to his patients 
 the care of telling that he has cured them. His abode 
 is not a temple, — he lodges on the fourth floor in an 
 obscure quarter, whether from modesty or coquetry, no one 
 knows ; but the poor people about him do not complain 
 of such a neighbor : he attends them so sedulously that he 
 sometimes forgets his purse at the head of their bed. 
 
 M. Le Bris had been the physician of Mademoiselle 
 de La Tour de Embleuse during three years, and had 
 watched the progress of the malady without being able, 
 to do any thing to check it. It was not that Germaine 
 
ASKING IN MARRIAGE. 2T 
 
 was one of those children, condemned from their birth, 
 who carry within them the seeds of an liereditary disease, 
 — her constitution was robust, her chest was broad, and 
 her mother had never been known to cough. A neglected 
 cold, a damp room, and deprivation of the necessaries 
 of life, had done the mischief. Despite the cares of the 
 doctor, the poor girl had gradually grown pale as a waxen 
 statue ; her strength had gone ; and appetite, gayety, breath, 
 the joy of breathing the free air, all had failed her. Six 
 months before the opening of our story, M. Le Bris had 
 consulted with two celebrated physicians regarding the 
 patient. She could yet be saved; — one lung was left, 
 and less than this was sufficient for nature, but it was 
 necessary to carry her without delay to Egypt or to Italy. 
 
 " Yes," said the young doctor, " the only prescription 
 which we" can order is a country-house on the banks of 
 the Arno, a quiet life, and the comforts which wealth 
 alone can buy. But see ! " He pointed with his finger to 
 the tattered curtains, the . rush-bottomed chairs, and the 
 red tile-floor of the drawing-room. "Behold her death- 
 warrant ? " 
 
 In the month of January, the last lung was attacked, — 
 the sacrifice was accomplished. The doctor had trans- 
 ferred his cares to the duchess ; his last hope was to luU 
 
28 
 
 GEEMAINE. 
 
 the daughter gently to sleep, and to save the life of the 
 mother. 
 
 He made his visit to Germaine, felt her pulse for form's 
 sake, offered her a box of bonbons, kissed her forehead 
 fraternally, and passed into the chamber of M. de La Tour 
 de Embleuse. 
 
 The duke was still in bed. His toilet was not made, 
 and his face bore the traces of his sixty-three years. 
 
 "Well, handsome doctor!" cried he, with a burst of 
 laughter; "what kind of a year do you bring us to-day? 
 Is Fortune at last in need of me? — Ah, gypsy, if ever 
 I catch thee! — You are a witness, doctor, that I am 
 awaiting her in my bed." 
 
 "Monsieur the duke," returned the doctor, "since we 
 are alone, we can talk of serious matters. I have not 
 concealed from you the state of your daughter." 
 
 The duke made a little sentimental grimace, and said, 
 — "Eeally, doctor, is there no hope? Do not disclaim 
 it, — you are capable of a miracle!" 
 
 The doctor sorrowfully shook his head. "AH that I 
 can .do," returned he, « is to soothe her dying days." 
 
 "Poor little girl! Do you know, my dear doctor, that 
 she awakens me every night by coughing? She must 
 suffer terribly, though she denies it. If there is really 
 
ASKING IN MARRIAGE. 29 
 
 no longer any hope, her last hour will be one of deliver- 
 
 ance. 
 
 "This is not all that I have to say to you, and you 
 must pardon me if I begin the new year with mournful 
 tidings.'' 
 
 The duke started up abruptly. " What do you mean ? " 
 cried he ; " you terrify me ! " 
 
 "Madame the duchess has disquieted me for several 
 months past." 
 
 "Ah! for once, doctor, you are too free with your ill 
 omens. The duchess, thanks to God, is in excellent health. 
 I wish that I were as well as she." 
 
 The doctor entered into details which overthrew the 
 carelessness and levity of the old man. He saw himself 
 alone in the world, and a shudder ran through his frame. 
 His voice fell, and he clung to the hand of the doctor 
 like a drowning man to the last straw. 
 
 "My friend," cried he, "save me! — I mean, save the 
 duchess. She is all that is left to me, — what will become 
 of me without her ! She is an angel, — my guardian angel ! 
 Tell me what must be done to cure her ; I will obey you 
 like a slave." 
 
 " Monsieur the duke, the duchess must have a calm and 
 easy life, without emotion, and above all, without privation ; 
 3* 
 
30 
 
 GERMAINE. 
 
 a suitable diet of choice and varied food, a comfortable 
 
 house, a good carriage " 
 
 "And the moon, must she not?" cried the duke impa- 
 tiently. " I thought that you had more sense, doctor, and 
 better eyes. A carriage ! a house ! choice food ! Go, find 
 them for me, if you want me to give them to her ! " 
 
 " I bring them to j'ou, and you have only to take them," 
 answered the doctor quietly. 
 
 The eyes of the old man sparkled like those of a cat in 
 the dark. "What mean you? speak!" cried he. "Do 
 not keep me in suspense ! " 
 
 "Before teUing you any thing further. Monsieur the 
 duke, I need to remind you, that, for the last three years, I 
 have been the best friend of your family." 
 
 "You may say the only one, — no one wiU contradict 
 you.'' 
 
 "The honor of your name is as dear to me as to you, and 
 if " 
 
 " Very well ! very well ! " 
 
 "Do not forget that the life of the duchess is in danger, 
 and that I pledge myself to save her, pn)vided that you 
 furnish me with the means." 
 
 "The devil ! it is for you to furnish them to me! You 
 We been talking to me for the last hour like the 
 
ASKING IN MAEEIAGE. 31 
 
 walking philosopher in The Forced Marriage. To thfe 
 point ! doctor, to the point ! " 
 
 " I have come to it. Have you ever met the Count de 
 Villanera in Paris ? " 
 
 " The one with black horses ? " 
 
 " Precisely." 
 
 " The finest team in Paris ! " 
 
 " Don Diego Gomez de ViUanera is the last scion of a 
 noble Neapolitan family, transplanted to Spain in the reign 
 of Charles V. His fortune is the largest in the whole 
 Peninsula; if he cultivated his estates and worked his 
 mines, he would have a revenue of four or five millions ; as 
 it is, he has an income of fourteen hundred thousand francs, 
 which is but little less than that of Prince Ysoupoff. He 
 is thirty-two years old, and has a handsome face, a finished 
 education, an honorable character " 
 
 "Add: — And Madame Chermidy." 
 
 " Since you know that, you shorten the way for me. 
 For reasons which would be too long to relate, the count 
 wishes to quit Madame Chermidy, and to marry according 
 to his rank into one of the most illustrious families of the 
 faubourg. He cares so little for fortune, that he will secure 
 to his father-in-law an income of fifty thousand francs. The 
 father-in-law whom he wishes is yourself; he has charged 
 
Z2 GEEMAINE. 
 
 me to sound your inclinations. If you say yes, he ■will 
 come to-day to ask the hand of your daughter, and the 
 marriage will take place in fifteen days." 
 
 This time, the duke sprang from the bed, and stared the 
 doctor full in the face. 
 
 " You are not insane ? " he cried. " Tou are not mock- 
 ing me? You cannot forget that I am the Duke de La 
 Tour d'Embleuse, and double your age? Is this really 
 true that you have told me ? " 
 
 "The precise truth." 
 
 "But he does not know, then, that Germaine is iU?" 
 
 " He knows it." 
 
 "Dying?" 
 
 "He knows it." 
 
 " Given over ? " 
 
 "He knows it." 
 
 A cloud passed across the features of the old duke. He 
 seated hunself in the corner of the cold chimney-place^ 
 without perceiving that he was ahnost naked, leaned his 
 elbows upon his knees, and buried his face in his hands. 
 
 " This is unnatural," resumed he. " You have not told 
 me all. M. de Villanera must have some secret motive for 
 asking the hand of a corpse." 
 
 " It is true," returned the doctor. « But pray return to 
 your bed ; it is a long story to relate." 
 
ASIiING IN MARRIAGE. S3 
 
 The duke again rolled himself up in the coverlet. His 
 teeth were chattering with cold and impatience, and he 
 fixed his little eyes upon the doctor with the restless curios- 
 ity of a chUd who watches the opening of a box of bonbons. 
 M. Le Bris did not keep him waiting. 
 
 " You know what is the position of Madame Chermidy ? " 
 asked he. 
 
 " The consolable widow of a husband whom no one has 
 ever seen." 
 
 " I met M. Chermidy three years ago, and can assure 
 you that his wife is not a widow." 
 
 " So much the better for him !. Peste ! to be the husband 
 of Madame Chermidy ! That is a sinecure which must 
 bring in a good salary ! " 
 
 " See how rashly people judge ! Monsieur Chermidy is 
 an honorable man, and even an officer of some merit. I 
 do not know how well-born he may be; at thirty-five, he 
 was a captain in the merchant service, sailing long voyages. 
 He obtained an appointment on one of the government 
 ships as subsidiary lieutenant, and after two years' service, 
 the minister gave him an officer's commission. It was in 
 1838 he laid his heart and his epaulette at the feet of 
 Honorine Lavenaze. She had for her sole patrimony her 
 eighteen years, the large eyes that you know of, an Arle- 
 
84 GEHMAINE. 
 
 sian cap that coifed her ravishingly, and an ambition that 
 knew no bounds. She was not nearly as beautiful as she is 
 now ; I know from her own mouth that she was as thin as a 
 rail, and as black as a young raven. But she was in sight, 
 and therefore was sought after. She presided at the coun- 
 ter of a tobacconist's, and all the nautical aristocracy of 
 Toulon, from the maritime prefect to the youngest mid- 
 shipman, came to smoke and to sigh around her. But 
 neither the vapor of incense nor the smoke of cigars could 
 turn this strong head ; she had sworn to be prudent tiU she 
 had found a husband, arid no temptation made her swerve 
 from her virtue. The officers sumamed her Croquet for 
 her harshness; the citizens called her Ulloa because she 
 was besieged by. the French marine. 
 
 "She did not lack honorable proposals; they are abun- 
 dant in seaport towns. On his return from a long cruise, 
 a naval officer has more illusions, more simplicity, and 
 more credulity, than he had on the day of his departure ; 
 the first woman who presents herself to his eyes appears 
 to him as beautiful and as holy as the France which he 
 has just found again, — it is his country in a silk gown ! 
 The goodman Chermidy, simple as a sea-wolf, was pre- 
 ferred for his candor ; he carried off this refractory sheep 
 in the face of his rivals. 
 
ASKING IN MAEEIAGE. 35 
 
 " This fine fortune, which might have made him enemies, 
 did not injure his prospects in the least. Although he 
 lived in retirement, alone with his wife, in an isolated 
 country-house, he obtained a very pretty captaincy without 
 having asked for it. Since that time, he has seen France 
 but at rare intervals ; always at sea, he has economized 
 for his wife, who in turn has economized for him. Hono- 
 rine, embellished by dress, ease, and that wealth of the 
 body, emhonpoiivt, reigned for ten years over the depart- 
 ment of the Var; the only events which signalized her 
 reign being the .bankruptcy of a coal merchant and the 
 removal of two paymasters. At the close of a scandalous 
 suit in which her name was not mentioned, she judged 
 it proper to show herself on a broader scene, and took 
 the apartments in the Eue du Cirque, which she still 
 occupies. Her husband steered towards the banks of New- 
 foundland as she rolled towards Paris. You witnessed 
 her debut. Monsieur the duke ? " 
 
 "Yes, morbleu! and I can say that few women could 
 have made their way better. It is nothing to be beauti- 
 ful and witty; the great art consists in feigning the 
 millionnaire, and that secures the offer of millions." 
 
 " She arrived here with two or three hundred thousand 
 ■francs, gleaned discreetly from the public offices. She 
 
36 GBEMAINE. 
 
 raised such a dust on the Bois du Boulogne, that you 
 ■would have said that the queen of Sheba had just landed 
 at Paris. In less than a year, she had made people talk 
 of her horses, her dresses, and her furniture, while no one 
 could pronounce positively concerning her conduct. I, 
 who am speaking to you, attended her for eighteen months 
 before perceiving a shadow of the truth, and I should 
 have kept my illusions much longer, if chance had not 
 thrown me in the presence of her husband. He dropped 
 in on her, with his trunks, one day when I was there on 
 a professional visit. This was in the c(jmmencement of 
 the year 1850, three years ago or thereabouts. The poor 
 devil arrived from Newfoundland, with his face sunburned 
 a foot deep. He was to set out again at the end of a 
 month for a five years' station in the China seas, and 
 tljought it very natural to embrace his wife between the 
 two voyages. The livery of his servants ttiade his eyes 
 twinkle, and he was dazzled by the splendor of his furni- 
 ture. But when he saw his beloved Honorine appear in 
 a morning toilette, which represented two or three years 
 of his pay, he forgot to fall into her arms, put about with- 
 out saying a word, and ordered his baggage to be carried 
 to the dep6t of the Lyons railroad. It was thus that 
 M. Chermidy ushered me into the confidence of madame; 
 
ASKING IN MARRIAGE. 37 
 
 I have since learned much more of her through the 
 Count de Villanera." 
 
 " Have we come to the point now ? " demanded the 
 duke. 
 
 "A moment's patience. Madame de Chermidy had 
 singled out Don Diego some time before the arrival of her 
 husband. She occupied the next box to him in the bal- 
 cony of the Italiens, and she glanced at him with such 
 eyes that he soon procured an introduction to her house. 
 Every man will tell you that her drawing-room is one of 
 the most agreeable in Paris, although no woman is ever 
 seen there except the mistress of the mansion. But she 
 multiplies herself to infinitude. The count fell passion- 
 ately in love with her, through the same spirit of emula- 
 tion that had destroyed the unfortunate Chermidy. He 
 adored her the more blindly that she left him all the 
 honors of war, and seemed to yield to an irresistible pen- 
 chant which threw her into his arms. The most intelligent 
 man suffers himself to be taken by such a bait, and there 
 is no scepticism that can hold out against the semblance 
 of real love. Don Diego is not a hairbrained and inex- 
 perienced youth. If he had divined an interested motive, 
 or surprised a calculated movement, he would have put 
 himself upon his guard, and all would have been lost. 
 4 
 
38 GEEMAINB. 
 
 _ But the cunning actress pushed artifice even to heroism. 
 She exhausted her treasury and expended her last sou 
 in making the count believe that she loved him for him- 
 self alone. She even exposed her reputation, of which 
 she had taken so much care, and she would have been 
 foolishly compromised, if good care had not been taken. 
 The countess-dowager of Villanera, a devout woman, fine 
 in her old age and dignity, and resembling a Velasquez 
 portrait escaped from its frame, was acquainted with the 
 amours of her son and found no fault with them. She 
 liked better to see him attached to a woman of the world 
 than lost in those dangerous pleasures in which one ruins 
 and degrades himself. 
 
 "The delicacy of Madame Chermidy was so sensitive 
 that Don Diego could never succeed in giving her a trifle. 
 The first thing that she accepted after a year's intimacy, ' 
 was a stock-receipt for an income of forty thousand francs. 
 She was then pregnant with a son, who was born in 
 November, 1850. Now, Monsieur the duke, we are at 
 the heart of the question. 
 
 " The accouchement of Madame Chermidy took place in 
 the village of Breteche-Saint-Nom, behind Saint- Germain. 
 I was present. Don Diego, ignorant of our laws, and 
 believing that every thing was permitted to persons of his 
 
ASKING IN MABRIAGE. 39 
 
 condition, wished at once to acknowledge the child. The 
 eldest son of the family of Villanera takes the title of 
 Marquis de los Montes de Hierro. I explained to him 
 the legal axiom, Is pater est, and proved to him that his 
 son must either be named Chermidy, or not be named at 
 all. The captain had passed through Paris in the month 
 of January, just in time to save appearances. We were 
 deliberating by the bedside of the mother. She explained 
 that her husband would certainly kill her, if she attempted 
 to impose on him this legal paternity. The count added, 
 that the Marquis de los Montes de Hierro should never 
 sign himself Chermidy. In short, I registered the infant 
 at the mayoralty under the name of Gomez, born of un- 
 known parents. 
 
 "The young father, both happy and unhappy at the 
 "same time, shared the knowledge of this event with 
 the venerable countess. She wished to see the child, 
 ordered it to be brought to her, and has brought it 
 up herself in her hotel in the faubourg Saint-Honore. 
 He is now two years old; he grows finely, and already 
 resembles twenty-four generations of the Villanera. Don 
 Diego worships his son; he cannot endure to see in 
 him a nameless child, and, what is worse, an adulterine. 
 Madame Chermidy would be a woman to remove moun- 
 
40 GERMAINE. 
 
 tains to secure to her heir the name and the fortune 
 of the Villanera. But the one most to be pitied is 
 the poor dowager. She foresees that Don Diego will 
 not marry for fear of disinheriting his beloved son, 
 that he will turn his fortune into money to put it in 
 his possession, that he will sell the family estates, and 
 that of this noble name and these vast domains noth- 
 ing will be left at the end of half a century. 
 
 "In this extremity, Madame Chermidy was inspired 
 with a flash of genius. 'Marry,' said she to Don Di- 
 ego. ' Seek a wife from among the first nobility of 
 France, and prevail on her in the marriage contract to 
 recognize your child as her own. By this means the 
 little Gomez will be your legitimate son, noble on the 
 father's and mother's side, and heir to all your Spanish 
 possessions. Do not think of me; I sacrifice myself.' 
 
 "The count has submitted this project to his mother, 
 who will sign it with both hands. The noble lady has 
 lost her illusions concerning Madame Chermidy, who 
 had cost Don Diego four millions, and who talked of 
 retiring to a cottage to bewail her lost happiness 
 while thinking of her son. M. de Villanera was duped 
 by this false resignation; he thought that he should 
 commit a crime in abandoning such a heroine of ma- 
 
ASKING IN MARRIAGE. 41 
 
 ternal love. At last, to silence Ms scruples, Madame 
 Chermidy wliispered four words ia his ear, — Marry for 
 a little while. The doctor will find you a wife among 
 his patients.' I thought of Mademoiselle de La Tour 
 d' Embleuse, and therefore have broached the subject to 
 you. Monsieur the duke. This marriage, strange as it 
 may seem to you at first sight, and giving you as it 
 does a little grandson who is not of your blood, assures 
 to Mademoiselle Germaine a prolonged existence and a 
 peaceful end, it saves the life of madame the duchess, 
 and lastly" — 
 
 "It gives me an income of fifty thousand francs, does 
 it not? "Well, my dear doctor, I thank you. Tell M. 
 de Villanera that I beg to be excused. My daughter 
 may be to bury, but she is not to sell." 
 
 "Monsieur the duke, it is true that it is a bargain 
 that I propose to you, but if I believed it unworthy 
 an honorable man, I should not meddle with it, beheve 
 me." 
 
 "Parbleu! doctor, each one understands honor in his 
 own way. We have the honor of the soldier, the 
 honor of the shopkeeper, and the honor of the noble- 
 man, which will not permit me to be grandfather to 
 the little Chermidy. Ah! M. de Villanera intends to 
 4* 
 
42 GBRMAINE. 
 
 legitimate his bastards! It is Louis XIV. throughout 
 — but we are allied to the family of Saint Simon. 
 Fifty thousand francs' income ! I have had a hundred 
 thousand, Monsieur, without ever having done any thino- 
 for them, either good or bad. I shall not derange the 
 traditions of my ancestors to gain fifty!" 
 
 "Observe, Monsieur the duke, that the family de Vil- 
 lanera is worthy to be allied to yours. The world 
 will have nothing to say.'' 
 
 "Nothing more is wanting than to offer me a ple- 
 beian son-in-law! I confess, that, under any other cir- 
 cumstances, Don Diego Gomez de ViUanera would suit 
 me exactly. He is well born, and I have heard his 
 family and himself praised. But the devil! I do not 
 want it to be said, 'Mademoiselle de La Tour d'Em- 
 bleuse had a son two years old on her wedding day!'" 
 
 "No one will say any thing, — no pne will know any 
 thing. The acknowledgment will be secret, — and why 
 should it be spoken of? Neither the law nor society 
 makes any difference between a legitimate child and a 
 child legitimated." 
 
 "Fancy Germaine at Saint Thomas d' Aquinas, under 
 the canopy before the high altar, with M. de ViUanera 
 on her right, Madame Chermidy on her left, a two 
 
ASKING IN MARRIAGE. 43 
 
 yeai-s' old bantling in her arms, and the undertaker be- 
 hind her! It is simply abominable, my poor doctor. 
 Let us say no more about it. Are they very compli- 
 cated, these ceremonies of acknowledgment?" 
 
 "There is no ceremony at all. A sentence in the 
 marriage contract, and the child is legalized." 
 
 "That is one sentence too much. Let us say no 
 more about it. Not a word to the duchess, — promise 
 me." 
 
 "I promise.'' 
 
 "But is the poor duchess really so ill? Why, she 
 steps like a girl of fifteen ! " 
 
 "The duchess is in a serious condition." 
 
 "And do you believe, in good faith, that she could be 
 cured by money?" 
 
 " I will answer for it, if I can persuade you to " 
 
 "You can persuade me to nothing at all. Ah! I am 
 one of the old school! And see if there is not some 
 merit in my refusing you ; we have not perhaps at this 
 moment ten louis in the house. On the honor of a 
 nobleman, if any one should die here, I don't know 
 where we should find any thing to bury him with. The 
 more's the pity! noblesse oblige ! The Duke de La Tour 
 d'Embleuse cannot take little boys to wean; and espec- 
 
44 GERMAINE. 
 
 ially the little boy of Madame Chermidy ! 1 had rather 
 end my days on the straw. Doctor, I am glad that you 
 have put me to the proof; I bear you no malice for it. 
 One never truly knows himself, and I was not too sure 
 of the figure I should make in the presence of an in- 
 come of fifty thousand francs. You have felt the pulse 
 of my honor, and it is in perfect health, thank God! — 
 Does M. de Villanera oifer the capital, or only the in- 
 come ? " 
 
 " At your choice, Monsieur the duke." 
 
 "And I have chosen poverty. gue! Did I not 
 just tell you that Fortune was a capricious sprite? We 
 have been sometimes friends and sometimes foes. Now 
 she is making. me advances again — but no, no! Adieu, 
 my dear doctor ! " 
 
 M. Le Bris rose from his chair. The duke retained 
 him by the hand. "Observe," said he, "that I am doing 
 a heroic deed. Are you a player? do you understand 
 cards ? " 
 
 "I j)lay whist." 
 
 " Then you are not a player. But know, my friend, 
 that when one once lets a vein of good luck escape him, 
 it never returns. In refusing your propositions, I re- 
 nounce all hope in the fiiture, I condemn myself in per- 
 petuity." 
 
ASKING IN MARRIAGE. 45 
 
 " Accept, then, Monsieur the duke, and do not challenge 
 adverse fortune. What! I hring you health for the 
 duchess, ease for yourself, a tranquil and peaceful, end 
 for the poor child who is dying amid privations of every 
 kind; I raise up your house, which is crumhling to dust; 
 I give you a grandson ready made, a magnificent child, 
 who can join your name to that of his father, and all 
 this at what price? In consideration of a sentence of 
 two hnes inserted in a marriage contract, — yet you re- 
 pulse me for a dealer in shame and a giver of evil coun- 
 sels. You had rather condemn yourself, your wife, and 
 your daughter, to death, than to lend your name to a lit- 
 tle stranger. You fancy that you would he guilty of 
 high treason against the nobility; but do you not know 
 at what price the nobility has been preserved both in 
 France and elsewhere since the crusades ? We must 
 admit reasons of state. How many names have been 
 preserved by a miracle or by address! How many 
 genealogical trees have been revived by a plebeian 
 graft!" 
 
 " Almost all of them, my dear doctor ; I could cite you 
 twenty without going out of the street. Besides, the 
 Villaneras are more than good; — one can ally himself 
 to such people without scruple. One condition, however. 
 
46 GEEMAINE. 
 
 — the business must be done in broad daylight, with- 
 out hypocrisy. My daughter may acknowledge a strange 
 child in the interest of two illustrious houses of France 
 and Spain ; and if any one asks why, we will answer, 
 for reasons of state. But you will save the duchess ? " 
 "I answer for it." 
 " And my daughter also ? " 
 
 The doctor shook his head slowly. The old man re- 
 sumed, -in a voice of resignation, — 
 
 "Well! one cannot have every thing at once. Poor 
 child. "We would gladly have shared our prosperity with 
 her. Fifty thoiisand francs' income ! I knew well that 
 lucky v6in would return ! " 
 
 At this monient the duchess entered, and her husband 
 recounted the offers of M. Le Bris to her with a child- 
 ish dehght. The doctor rose and offered his chair to the 
 poor woman, who had walked since morning without rest- 
 ing. She leaned her elbow on the bed, face to face with 
 the duke, and listened with closed eyfes to all that he 
 had to say to her. The old man, as fickle as one whose 
 reason is tottering, had forgotten his own objections; he 
 saw but one thing now in the world, namely, fifly thou- 
 sand francs' income. He pushed his giddiness so far as. 
 to speak to the duchess of her own danger, and of the 
 
ASKING IN MAEEIAGB. 47 
 
 importance of saving her own life; but this revelation 
 glided over her heart without wounding it. 
 
 She unclosed her eyes, and turned them mournfully 
 towards the doctor. " Alas ! " said she, " Germaine, then, 
 is condemned irrevocably, since this woman is willing to 
 inarry her to her lover ? " 
 
 The doctor attempted to persuade her that all hope 
 was not lost. She stopped him by a gesture, saying: 
 "Do not lie, my poor friend. These people have put 
 confidence in you. They have asked of you a girl so 
 sick and so hopeless that they would not have to fear 
 her recovery. If she should live by any accident, — if she 
 should, some day, place herself between them to claim 
 her rights and to discard the mistress, M. de Villanera 
 would reproach you with having deceived him. You have 
 not exposed yourself to this ? " 
 
 M. Le Bris could not help blushing, for the duchess 
 spoke the truth ; but he extricated himself from this embar- 
 rassing position by praising Don Diego. He depicted him 
 as a noble spirit, a chevalier of the olden time who had 
 strayed into our century. " BeUeve me, Madame," said he 
 to the duchess, "if our dear patient can be saved at all, she 
 will be by her husband. He does not know her; he has 
 never seen her; he loves another; and it is with a very 
 
48 GEEMAINU. 
 
 sad expectancy that he has determined to place a lawful 
 wife between his mistress and himself. But the more inter- 
 est he has in awaiting the hour of his widowhood, the more 
 wiU he make it a duty to retard it as long as possible. Not 
 only will he surround his wife with aU the cares which her 
 condition demands, but he is the man to establish himself 
 as nurse beside her, and to watch her night and day. I 
 guai-antee that he will take the marriage in earnest, like all 
 the duties of life. He is a Spaniard, and incapable of tri' 
 fling with the sacraments ; he has a reverential adoration 
 for his mother, and a passionate tenderness for his child. 
 Be sure that from the day on which you bestow on him 
 your daughter's hand, he will have nothing more in com- 
 mon with Madame Chermidy. He will carry his wife to 
 Italy; I shall be of the party, and you also, and if it 
 pleases God to work a miracle, we three will be there to 
 aid him.'' 
 
 " Parbleu ! " added the duke. « Every thing is possible ; 
 every thing may happen, — who would have said this 
 morning that I should fall heir to an income of fifty thou- 
 sand francs ? " 
 
 At these words, the duchess repressed a flood of tears 
 that gushed to her eyes. " My friend," returned she, « it is 
 a sorrowful thing when parents inherit from their children. 
 
ASKING IN MARRIAGE. 49 
 
 If it pleases God to call my poor Germaine to himself, I 
 shall bless his rigorous hand with tears, and shall await by 
 your side the hour that will reunite us ; but I wish that the 
 memory of my dear angel should be as pure as her life. 
 For more than twenty years I have preserved an old bou- 
 quet of orange blossoms, withered like my youth and my 
 happiness, — I wish to be able to place it on her coffin." 
 
 " Pshaw ! " cried the duke, " that is just like a woman ! 
 You are ill, Madame, and orange blossoms will not cure 
 you." 
 
 " As to me . . . . " said she. Her glance finished the 
 ' sentence, and even the duke understood it. 
 
 " This is the way ! " said he ; " all die together at your 
 ease ! And what wiU become of me ? " 
 
 " You wiU be rich, my good father," said Germaine, 
 opening the door of the dining-room. 
 
 . The duchess sprang up like lightning, and ran to her 
 daughter. But Germaine did not need to be supported. 
 She embraced her mother, and advanced to the bed with a 
 firm and resolute step, — the step of martyrs. 
 
 She was clothed in white, like Pauhne in the fifth act of 
 Polyeucte. A pale ray of the January sun fell on her fore- 
 head, and illumined it with an aureola. Her colorless face 
 was like an effaced page, and the lustre of two great black 
 5 
 
60 GBRMAINE. 
 
 eyes was alone visible there. A mass of golden hair, thick 
 and fine, clustered about her head. Beautiful hair is the last 
 adornment of consumptives ; they keep it to the end, and it 
 is buried with them. Her transparent hands fell by her 
 side among the folds of drapery, and such was the ema- 
 ciation of her whole person, that she resembled one of those 
 celestial beings who have neither the beauties nor the 
 defects of the mortal woman. 
 
 She seated herself familiarly on the side of the bed, put 
 her right arm round her father's neck, and extended her 
 left hand to the duchess, drawing her gently towards her ; 
 then pointing to the chair, she said to M. Le Bris, — "Sit 
 down there, doctor, that the family may be complete. I 
 am not sorry for having listened at the door, — I was so 
 afraid that I was not good for miich any longer ! Tour 
 discussion has shown me that I can stOl do something here 
 below. You are witnesses that I do not regret life, and 
 that I gave it up for lost more than six months ago. 
 Besides, the earth is a gloomy abode for those who cannot 
 breathe without suffering. My only regret was to leave to 
 my parents a future of sorrow and wretchedness; now I 
 am tranquil. I shaU marry Count de Villanera, and adopt 
 the child of this lady. Thanks, dear doctor, it is youwho 
 have saved us. Thanlis to you, the misconduct of these 
 
ASKING IN MARRIAGE. 51 
 
 people will restore comfort to my excellent fatter, and life 
 to this noble woman. As for me, I shall not die useless. 
 There remains as my only wealth the memory of a pure 
 life, and a poor little name, spotless as a communicant's 
 veil, — these I give to my parents. Mamma, I beg you not 
 to shake your head. Sick people must have their own way, 
 must they not, doctor ? " 
 
 "You are a saint. Mademoiselle," answered he, extend- 
 ing her his hand. 
 
 " Yes ; they are waiting for me on high ; my niche is 
 all ready for me. I shall pray to Grod for you, my 
 worthy friend, who scarcely ever pray yourself." 
 
 While thus speaking, her voice had an serial ringing 
 and unearthly tone, — a tone which reminded one of the 
 serenity of the skies. The duchess started on hearing it ; 
 it seemed to her that the soul of her daughter was about 
 to take flight like a bird through the open door of its 
 cage. She clasped Germaine in her arms, exclaiming: — 
 
 " No, thou shall not quit us ! We will all go to Italy, 
 and the sunshine will cure thee. M. de Villanera is a 
 man of feeling." 
 
 The sick girl slightly shrugged her shoulders, and re- 
 plied, " The man of whom you speak wiU do much better 
 to remain in Paris, where he finds his pleasure, and leave 
 
62 
 
 GERMAINE. 
 
 me peacefully to pay my debt. I know to what I pledge 
 myself in taking his name. Great God ! what would they 
 say if I should play them the trick of recoverino- ! Mad- 
 ame Chermidy would have me expelled from the world by 
 authority of law. Doctor, shall I be forced to see M. de 
 Villanera ? " 
 
 The doctor made a slight affirmative sign. 
 "Well," said she, "I will be civil to him. As to the 
 child, I will embrace him willingly, — I have always loved 
 children." 
 
 The duchess looked towards the sky, like a shipwrecked 
 man towards the shore. "If God is just, he will not 
 separate us," said she; "he will take us all together." 
 
 "No, my dear mamma, you must live for my father. 
 You, papa, will live for yourself!" 
 
 " I promise it ! " returned the old man naively. Neither 
 the duchess nor her daughter suspected the monstrous 
 egotism that was hidden beneath this answer. They were 
 moved by it to tears, and the physician was the only one 
 who smiled. 
 
 Semiramis announced that the duke's breakfast was on 
 the table. "Adieu, ladies," said the doctor; "I. am going 
 to carry the tidings to Count de Villanera. It is likely 
 that you will receive a visit from him to-day." 
 
ASKING IN MARRIAGE. 53 
 
 " So soon ? " demanded the duchess. 
 " There is no time to lose," returned Germaine. 
 " Meanwhile," said the duke, " let us attend to the most 
 urgent business, — let us breakfast." 
 
 5* 
 
64 GERMAINE. 
 
 CHAPTEE m. 
 
 THE "WEDDING. 
 
 "1 fl" LE BRIS had a chariot at the door. He drove to 
 -'-'-'- • a celebrated confectioner's on the Boulevard, bought 
 a violet-wood box, filled it with bonbons, entered his car- 
 riage again, and soon alighted at the door of Madame 
 Chermidy. The beautiful Arlesian was the proprietor 
 of the house, though she only occupied - the first floor. 
 The porter was one of her servants, and two strokes of the 
 beU announced the entrance of each visitor. 
 
 The doors opened of their own accord to admit the 
 young doctor. A footman removed his paletot from his 
 shoulders with so much address that he hardly knew it, 
 and another ushered him without announcement into the 
 dining-room. The count and Madame Chermidy were just 
 sitting down to table. The mistress of the house gave 
 him both cheeks to kiss, and the count cordially shook 
 him by the hand. 
 
 The covers were laid without a cloth upon an oval table 
 
THE WEDDING. 55 
 
 of carved oak. The hall was lined with ancient wainscot 
 and modern painting, — a celebrated banker of the Chaus- 
 see d'Antin, who handled the brush in his leisure moments, 
 had presented Madame Chermidy with four large panels 
 of still life. The ceiUng was a copy of The Banquet of 
 the Gods, executed in the Farnese style. The carpet was 
 from Smyrna, and the flower stands from Macao. A large 
 Flemish chandelier, with a round paunch and lank arms, 
 was hooked pitilessly into the centre of the ceiling, with- 
 out respect for the assembled gods. Two sideboards, 
 carved by Knecht, displayed a profusion of porcelain, 
 crystal, and silver. On the table, the chafing-dishes were 
 of silver, the tea-urn of silver-gilt, the plates of antique 
 Chma, the flasks of Bohemian and the goblets of Venice 
 glass. The knife-handles came from a Saxon service, 
 made to order for Louis XV. 
 
 If M. Le Bris had been fond of antitheses, he might 
 have drawn a sufiiciently interesting comparison between 
 the furniture of the woman Chermidy and that of Madam 
 de La Tour d' Embleuse. But the physicians of Paris are 
 imperturbable philosophers, who travel between luxury and 
 poverty without marvelling at either, as they pass from cold 
 to heat without ever taking cold. 
 
 Madame Chermidy was enveloped in a wadded wrapper 
 
56 GERMAINE. 
 
 of white satin ; and in this costume she resembled a jewel 
 in its casket, or a cat on an eider coverlet. You have 
 seen nothing more brilliant than her person, and notliing 
 more downy than her robe. She was thirty-three years 
 old, — a fine age for women who have known how to pre- 
 serve themselves. Beauty, that most perishable of all 
 earthly property, is the one whose management is found 
 the most difficult. Nature gives it, — Art may add a little 
 to it, but one must know how to protect it. Prodigals who 
 waste it and misers who hoard it arrive in a few years at 
 the same result, — the woman of genius is she who uses it 
 with a sage economy. Madame Chermidy, born without 
 passions and without virtues, temperate in all pleasures, and 
 always calm at heart with the appearance of a Southern 
 impetuosity, had taken as much care of her beauty as of 
 her fortune. She husbanded her bloom as a tenor husbands 
 his voice. She was one of those women who say witty 
 nothings at every %rn, but always knowingly ; quite 
 capable of throwing a million out of the window to make 
 two come in at the door ; but too prudent to crack a nut 
 with her teeth. Her old admirers of Toulon would scarcely 
 have recognized her, so much had she changed for the 
 better. Without being as fair as a Fleming, her com- 
 plexion had acquired a pearl-like brilliancy. The rosy 
 
THE WEDDING. 67 
 
 glow of health flushed her cheeks ; her little, round, and 
 pouting mouth resembled a ripe cherry which a sparrow had 
 parted with his beak ; and her eyes sparkled in their brown 
 irids like the flame of vine-shoots on the hearth of a fire- 
 place. Carelessness and good-nature formed the delicious 
 mask of her charming countenance. Her hair, of a bluish 
 black and growing very near her eyebrows, parted evenly 
 over a white forehead, like the wings of a raven over a 
 December snow. Every thing about her was youthful, 
 fresh, and smiling ; and it was necessary to have good eyes 
 to perceive at the corners of her beautiful mouth two 
 almost imperceptible wrinkles, fine as the blonde hair of a 
 new-born child, but which concealed an insatiable ambition, 
 an iron will, a Chinese perseverance, and an energy capable 
 of every crime. 
 
 Her hands were, perhaps, rather short, but white as 
 ivory, with plump and tapering fingers, and well-shaped 
 nails at the ends. Her foot was thS short foot of the 
 Andalusians, rounded like a flat-iron. She showed it as 
 it was, and did not commit the folly of wearing long 
 buskins. All her little body was short and plump, like 
 her feet and hands ; the waist rather thick, the arms 
 rather fleshy, the dimples rather deep — too much em- 
 bonpointf if you please, but the dainty embonpoint of a 
 quail, or the savory roundness of a ripe fruit. 
 
58 GBRMAINE. 
 
 Don Diego followed her with his eyes and infantine 
 admiration. Are not lovers children at every age? Ac- 
 cording to the ancient theogonies, Love is a baby five 
 years and a half old, yet Hesiod assures us that he is 
 older than Time. 
 
 The Count de ViUanera is descended in a direct line 
 from those Spaniards, chivabic to absurdity, whom the 
 divine Cervantes has ridiculed, not without admiring them 
 a little. Nothing in him betrays his Neapolitan origin. 
 It was said that his ancestors had emigrated with their 
 arms and baggage no further into the country than into 
 the traditionary virtue of heroic Spain. He is a young 
 man, — serious, rigid, and cold, a little stiflF in his man- 
 ners, but with a heart of fire and a soul of passion. He 
 speaks little, and never without reflection, and he never 
 has been guilty of a falsehood in his life. He does not 
 like to argue ; therefore he converses ill. He very rarely 
 laughs, but his smile is full of a certain grace which does 
 not lack dignity. Gayety, I admit, would ill become his 
 figure. Fancy Don Quixote young and in a black coat. 
 At the first glance, one remarks nothing but his long, black, 
 glossy, and pointed mustaches. His long nose is sharply 
 curved, like the beak of an eagle ; his eyes, eyebrows, 
 and hair are black; and his complexion the color of a 
 
THE WEDDING. 59 
 
 Portugal orange. His teeth would be fine if they were 
 not so long, and if he did not smoke; they are cased 
 in an enamel which is rather yellow, but so solid that 
 it would serve for mill-stones. The white of his eyes 
 draws slightly also on the same tint; — yet no one can 
 deny that he has beautiful eyes. As to his mouth, it is 
 excellent; two lips as rosy as an infant's are just visible 
 beneath his thick mustache. His arms, legs, feet, and 
 hands are of an aristocratic length, — he has the figure 
 of a grenadier and the bearing of a prince. 
 
 If you ask me how such a man could have fallen into 
 the hands of Madame Chermidy, I answer that the lady 
 was more attractive and more skilful than Dulcinea del 
 Toboso. Men of the temperament of Don Diego are not 
 the most difficult to capture, — the lion throws himself 
 into the snare more heedlessly than the fox. Artless- 
 ness, rectitude, and all the generous qualities, are only so 
 many defects in our armor. Each one makes the world 
 in his own image ; and an honorable heart does not 
 easily suspect the calculation and intrigue of which it 
 is itself incapable. If any one had told M. de Villa- 
 nera that Madame Chermidy loved him through interest, 
 he would have shrugged his shoulders. She had asked 
 him for nothing, and he had offered her every thing. 
 
60 GERMAINE. 
 
 In accepting four millions, she had done him a favor; 
 he was her debtor to the amount of four millions. 
 
 However, on seeing the glances which he cast on her 
 from time to time, it was easy to divine that the fortune 
 of the Villaneras might change hands in the space of 
 eight days. A dog crouched at the feet of his master 
 is not more respectful nor more attentive than was he. 
 In his large, black eyes might be read the impassioned 
 gratitude which every chivalrous man vows to the woman 
 who has chosen him, and the religious admiration of a 
 young father for her who has given him his child. 
 There might be seen also an unsatisfied desire, a hum- 
 ble submission of strength to caprice, a fear of refusal, 
 and a restless entreaty, which proved that Madame Cher- 
 midy was a woman of sense. 
 
 The little doctor, who was seated opposite the count, 
 formed a singular contrast to him. M. Le Bris is what 
 is called in France a gentil gargon. He may lack an 
 inch or two of the medium height, but he is compact 
 and well shaped. His face is not without character, yet 
 no one would ever notice what kind of a nose he has. 
 His expression says a great deal, his description tells 
 you nothing. He dresses with a neatness akin to ele- 
 gance ; his chestnut whiskers are well trimmed, and his 
 
THE WEDDING. 61 
 
 hair is parted behind. He is not plebeian in appear- 
 ance, — far from it, — yet it is difficult to define why 
 he is not so. No marriageable girl would refuse him 
 on account of his personal appearance, yet I should be 
 greatly surprised if any one ever throws herself into 
 the river for him'. At the age of forty he will incline 
 to corpulency. 
 
 I know of no physician better fitted for practice. He 
 travels from morning till night through all grades of 
 society, and is at home everywhere. He is a plebeian 
 Alcibiades, who adapts himself without difficulty to the 
 customs of every country. He is beloved in the fau- 
 bourg Saint-Germain for his reserve, in the Chaussee 
 d'Antin for his wit, and in the Eue Vivienne for his 
 frankness. The women of all classes labor actively for 
 his renown, — and do you know why? It is because 
 at the bedside of every patient, whether young or old, 
 handsome or ugly, he shows an amiable assiduity, ^ — a, 
 sort of medium gallantry, at once partaking of respect 
 and love. He has never defined the nature of this 
 feeling to others, perhaps he never has defined it 
 clearly to himself. But it inspires all the women with 
 a kindly feeling for him, which promises to be of great 
 service in his profession. 
 
 6 
 
62 GERMAINE. 
 
 His old comrades in the hospital have named him, 
 for this reason, The Key of Hearts. I know a house 
 where he was called, and not without reason, The Tomh 
 of Secrets. His young patients in the faubourg Saint- 
 Germain reproach him with going behind the scenes 
 every evening in the Imperial Academy of Music, and 
 term him la Mart aux Eats; but his discretion in the 
 greenroom has caused him to be sumamed le Nouveau 
 continent. 
 
 ""Well, Tomb of Secrets," said Madame Chermidy to 
 him with her slight provincial accent, "have you found 
 some one to suit me ? " 
 
 "Yes, madame.'' 
 
 "Is it the consumptive girl that you spoke of?" 
 
 "Mademoiselle de La Tour d'Embleuse." 
 
 " Good ! we will not degrade ourselves. I have 
 always taken an interest in consumptive people, — in 
 coughing women, — and you see that Heaven is reward- 
 ing me now." 
 
 "Doctor," demanded the count, "have you spoken 
 of the conditions ? " 
 
 " Yes, my dear Count ; they accept them all." 
 
 Madame Chermidy uttered a cry of joy. " The affair 
 is settled! Long live Paris, where duchesses axe to 
 be bought for cash!" 
 
THE WEDDING. 
 
 63 
 
 The count bent his brows. The doctor rejoined 
 
 quickly : 
 
 " Ah ! madame, I know your heart, — if you had been 
 with me, you would have wept." 
 
 "Is it very touching, then, for a duchess to sell her 
 daughter? An episode in the slave market?" 
 
 " Say, rather, an episode from the life of martyrs." 
 
 "You are complaisant towards Don Diego!" 
 
 The doctor related the scene in which he had played 
 a part. The count was moved. Madame Chermidy 
 took out her handkerchief and wiped two fiiie eyes, which 
 had no manner of need of it. 
 
 "I am very glad," remarked the count, "that this is 
 her own resolution. If her parents had accepted it of 
 themselves, I might have judged them harshly." 
 
 « Before judging them, it is necessary to know whether 
 they had any bread in the house this morning." 
 
 « Bread ! " 
 
 "Bread, literally." 
 
 "Adieu," said the count, «I am going to wish my 
 mother a happy new year; slie was asleep when I left 
 the house this morning. I shall inform her of the result 
 of your proceedings, and ask her what Inust be done. 
 "What, doctor, are there really people who want for bread?" 
 
64 ^ GERMAINE. 
 
 " I have met some few of them in my lifetime. Unfor- 
 tunately, I had not, as to-day, a million to offer them." 
 
 The count kissed the hand of Madame Chermidy, and 
 hastened to the house of his mother. The pretty woman 
 remained in tete-k-tete with the doctor. 
 
 " Since there are some people who want bread, doctor," 
 said she, "let us take a cup of coffee. . . . How can I 
 see this martyr of consumption ? for I must know to whom 
 I entrust my child." 
 
 "At the church, perhaps, on the day of the marriage." 
 
 " At the church ! She is able to go out, then ? " 
 
 " Doubtless — in a carriage." 
 
 "I thought her further advanced than this." 
 
 "Would you wish, then, a marriage in extremis?" 
 
 "No, but I wish to be sure. Divine goodness, doctor, 
 what if she should take it into her head to get well ! " 
 
 " The medical faculty would be completely astonished." 
 
 "And Don Diego would be completely married! and 
 I would kill you, you Key of Hearts ! " 
 
 "Alas, madame, I do not feel myself in any danger 
 then." 
 
 "How, alas!" 
 
 "Pardon me, it was the physician that spoke, and not 
 the friend." 
 
 " And after she is married, will you still attend her ? " 
 
THE WEDDING. 65 
 
 "Mirst we let her die without assistance?" 
 
 " Dame ! why does one marry her ? it is not that she 
 may live forever?" 
 
 The doctor repressed a movement of disgust, and 
 answered in the ■ most natural tone, like a man whose 
 virtue was not oiRcious : 
 
 "Men Dieu! madame, it is a fixed habit, and I am 
 too old to correct it. We physicians care for our patients 
 as the Newfoundland dogs draw drowning men from the 
 water. It is, a matter of instinct. The dog blindly saves 
 the enemy of his master, and I shall attend the poor 
 creature as if we all had an interest in saving her." 
 
 After the doctor's departure, Madame Chermidy sought 
 her dressing-room, and put , herself into the hands of her 
 waiting-maid. For the first time for many years, she 
 suffered herself to be dressed without heeding it, — she 
 had many other cares to occupy her mind. This marriage 
 which she had arranged, this skilful contrivance which 
 she had applauded as a stroke of genius, might yet turn 
 to her confusion and her ruin. Nothing was needed but 
 a caprice of nature or the stupid honesty of a physician, 
 to foil her best-laid plans and to frustrate her dearest 
 hopes. She began to doubt every thing, — her doctor^ her 
 star, and her lover. 
 
 6* 
 
66 GEBMAINE. 
 
 Towards three o'clock, the defile of callers commenced 
 in her drawing-room. She was forced to smile on every 
 pair of whiskers that approached her, and go into ecstasies 
 over forty boxes of bonbons, all of which came from the 
 same shop. She heartily cursed the friendly importunities 
 of New-year's day, but she suffered none of the cares 
 which were consuming her to escape, and all who quitted 
 the room together, sung her praises on the staircase. 
 
 She had one very precious talent in a mistress of a 
 house,- — -she knew how to make everybody talk. She 
 spoke to each one of what interested him most, and 
 drew men unconsciously into their own element. This 
 uneducated woman, who was too indolent and too rest- 
 less to hold a book in her hand, made herself a 
 capital of useful knowledge by turning over the acquire- 
 ments of aU her acquaintances ; and they all took it 
 with the best will in the world. We are so made that 
 we inwardly thank any one who forces us to utter our 
 favorite tirade, or to relate the story that we teU well. 
 He who draws out our wit is never a fool ; and when 
 one is contented with himself, he is discontented with no 
 one else. The most intelligent men labored for the rep- 
 utation of Madame Chermidy, sometimes by furnishing 
 her with ideas, and sometimes by saymg with a secret 
 
THE WEDDING. 67 
 
 complaisance, — "She is a superior woman; she under- 
 stands me." 
 
 In the course of the afternoon, she laid hands on a 
 renowned homceopathist, who had charge of the health 
 of the most illustrious families of Paris, and found means 
 to question him in the presence of seven or eight persons 
 on the point- which preoccupied her. 
 
 '• Doctor,'' said she, " you who know every thing, tell 
 me whether consumptive people are ever cured?" 
 
 The homceopathist replied gallantly, that she would 
 never have any quarrel with such a malady. 
 
 " I am not in question,'' returned she. " But I am 
 interested with all my heart in a poor child whose lungs 
 are in a sad state." 
 
 " Send me to her, madame. There is no cure impossi- 
 ble to homoeopathy." 
 
 " Tou are very kind. But her physician, a simple aUo- 
 pathist, assures me that she has but one lung; even that 
 is attacked." 
 
 "We can cure it." 
 
 " The lung, may-be. But the patient ? " 
 
 " The patient can live with a single lung ; that has been 
 seen. I do not promise you that she will ever be able to 
 climb Mont Blanc on a run, but she may live very com- 
 fortably for several years by means of care and globules." 
 
68 GEEMAINE. 
 
 " This is a promise for the future ! I never could have 
 believed that any one might live with but one lung." 
 
 "We have numerous examples of it. Autopsy has 
 demonstrated • " 
 
 " Autopsy ! but one only makes an autopsy upon dead 
 bodies?" 
 
 " You are right, madame ; I know that I seem to have 
 utfered an absurdity, but hear me, notwithstanding. In 
 Algeria, the cattle of the Arabs are generally phthisical. 
 The flocks are badly tended; they pass the night in the 
 fields, and often take diseases of the chest. Our Mussul- 
 man subjects have no veterinary surgeon, they leave to 
 Mahomet the care of curing their cows and oxen. They 
 lose a great many by this negligence, but they do not 
 lose all. The animals sometimes recover without the aid 
 of art, and despite all the ravages which the disease has 
 made in their bodies. One of our brother physicians in 
 the African army has seen cows killed in the slaughter- 
 houses of Bildah, cows that had i-ecovered from the pul- 
 monary consumption, and had lived for several years with 
 but a single lung, and that in a very bad state. This is 
 the autopsy of which I wished to speak." 
 
 "I understand," replied Madame Chermidy. "Then if 
 all our acquaintances were killed, some would be found 
 among them whose lungs are not whole?" 
 
THE WEDDING. 69 
 
 ■<' And who are not much the worse for it. Precisely, 
 madame." 
 
 An hour later, a new circle was gathered about the draw- 
 ing-room fire. Madame Chermidy saw an obdurate old 
 allopathist enter, who did not believe in miracles, who will- 
 ingly made the worst of every thing, and who wondered 
 that so fragile an animal as man could ever attain his 
 sixtieth year. 
 
 " Doctor," said she, " you ought to have come a moment 
 sooner; you have lost a fine panegyric on homoeopathy. 
 
 M. P , who has just gone out, boasts of being able to 
 
 make us all live with but one lung. "Would you have con- 
 tradicted him ? " 
 
 The old physician raised his eyebrows with an imper- 
 ceptible shrug of the shoulder. " Madame," returned he, 
 " the lung is at once the most delicate and the most indis- 
 pensable of aU our organs ; it renews life at each second by 
 a prodigy of combustion which Spallanzani and the greatest 
 physiologists have been able neither to explain nor describe. 
 Its contexture is of a fearful fragility, ,and its function 
 exposes it to unceasing dangers. It is in the lung that our 
 blood comes in immediate contact with the external air. If 
 we reflected that this air is ahnost always either too warm 
 or too cold, or mixed with deleterious gases, we would not 
 
70 GERMAINE. 
 
 breathe once without making our will. The celebrated 
 Kant, a German philosopher who prolonged his life by dint 
 of prudence, took care, when taking his daily hygienic 
 walk, to close his mouth and to breathe exclusively through 
 his nostrils, so much did he fear the direct action of the 
 ambient atmosphere upon his lungs." 
 
 " But, my dear doctor, are we all then condemned to die 
 of consumption ? " 
 
 " Very many do die of it, madame ; and the homoeopa- 
 thists do not prevent them." 
 
 " But some are cured, however ? Let us see, — I will 
 suppose that a young and healthy man marries a beautiful 
 consumptive girl. He takes her to Italy, devotes himself to 
 her cure, and surrounds her with the cares of a man of 
 your school. Is it not possible in two or three years " 
 
 " To save the husband ? It is possible : still I would 
 not answer for it." 
 
 " The husband ! the husband ! but what is his danger ? " 
 
 "The danger of contagion, madame. Who knows 
 whether the tubercles which form in the lungs of a con- 
 sumptive patient do not scatter seeds of death in the sur- 
 rounding air. But pardon me ; this is neither the time nor 
 the place for developing a new theory, of which I am the 
 author, and which I intend one day to submit to the Acad- 
 
THE WEDDING. 71 
 
 emy of Medicine. I will relate to you only one fact whicli 
 has fallen under my observation," 
 
 " Speak on, my dear doctor ; it is both pleasure and profit 
 to listen to a savant like you." 
 
 " Five years ago, madame, I attended the wife of a tailor 
 in the Rue Richelieu, a poor little creature who was horri- 
 bly consumptive. Her husband was a tall German, solid, 
 well built, and as ruddy as an apple. These people adored 
 each other. In 1849 they had a child that did not live. 
 The wife died in 1850 ; I had done aU I could to save her. 
 I was asked for my bill, and I did not pass the house again 
 for two years. At last the tailor sent for me. I found him 
 in his bed, so changed that I would not have known him. 
 He was in the third stage of phthisis. I spied a little 
 woman weeping at his pillow ; it was his new wife ; — he 
 had been foolish enough to marry again. The sick man 
 died according to the programme, and the widow has inher- 
 ited his disease. I visited her yesterday, and though it has 
 been taken in time, I can answer for nothing." 
 
 Madame Chermidy closed her doors at five o'clock, 
 and lost herself in very melancholy reflections. 
 
 She had never despaired of becoming Countess de 
 Villanera. Every woman who betrays her husband as- 
 pires necessarily to widowhood; much more, when she 
 
72 GEEMAINE. 
 
 has a lover rich and single. She had every reason to 
 believe that Chermidy would not be immortal. A man 
 who Uves between sky and sea is an invalid in danger 
 of death. 
 
 Her hopes had taken strength since the birth of the 
 little Gomez. She held the count by a bond which is 
 all-powerful over honorable souls, — that of paternal love. 
 In marrying M. de Villanera to a dying woman, she se- 
 cured her son's future and her own. But now, on the 
 eve of accomplishing this triumphant project, she discov- 
 ered two dangers which she had not foreseen. Ger- 
 maine might recover. If she perished, she might in- 
 volve the count in her fate by bequeathing to him the 
 germ of death. In the first case, Madame Chermidy 
 would lose every thing, even to her child; for by what 
 right could she reclaim the legitimate son of Don Di- 
 ego and Mademoiselle de La Tour d'Embleuse? On 
 the other hand, if the count must die after his wife, 
 she did not care to marry him. She felt herself too 
 young and too beautiful to play the r61e of the second 
 wife of the tailor. 
 
 "Happily," thought she, "nothing is concluded yet. 
 The count is in love, and he is a father, — I will 
 make him do as I please. 1£ it is absolutely neces- 
 
THE WEDDING. 73 
 
 sary that he should marry in order to adopt his son, 
 we will find another patient whose death is surer, and 
 whose ailment is not contagious." She said, to reassure 
 herself, that the old allopathist was an original, who 
 was capable of inventing the most absurd theories. She 
 had heard it maintained that the consumption was some- 
 times transmitted from father to son ; but she thought it 
 probable that Grermaine would keep for herself disease 
 and death, as her wedding paraphernalia. But what 
 disquieted her the most was the possibility of one of 
 those marvellous cures which foil all the calculations of 
 human prudence. She began to hate Doctor Le Bris 
 as much for his scruples as for his talent; and she at 
 last resolved to stay the proceedings of Don Diego until 
 she had taken all necessary precautions. 
 
 But evjents had taken a rapid stride in the course of 
 the day, and at ten o'clock in the evening the count 
 came to inform her that her plans had been followed 
 to the letter. 
 
 Don Diego, on quitting the table, had hastened at 
 once to his mother's house. The old countess was a 
 woman of the same stamp as her son, tall, thin, bony, 
 outlined about as gracefully as a board, encamped majes- 
 tically upon two large feet, black enough to frighten 
 7 
 
74 GEEMAINE. 
 
 little cMldren, and grimacing an aristocratic smile be- 
 tween bandeaux of gray hair. She listened to the 
 recital of Don Diego with the rigid and disdainful con- 
 descension of the lofty virtues of olden times for the 
 petty vices of to-day. On his side, the count did not 
 attempt to extenuate any thing that was reprehensible 
 in his marriage calculations. These two persons, hon- 
 orable by nature, but drawn by the force of circum- 
 stances into one of those slippery bargains which are 
 sometimes concluded at Paris, thought only of the means 
 of doing a thing worthily, which their ancestors would 
 not have done at all. The dowager did not spice the 
 conversation with even a mute reproach, — the time for 
 remonstrances was past, the only point in question now 
 was to secure the future of the family by preserving 
 the name of Villanera. 
 
 When every thing was arranged, the countess entered 
 her carriage, and ordered her coachman to drive to the 
 hotel Sangli6. The baron's footman conducted her to 
 the duchess' apartments. Semiramis opened the door, 
 and ushered her into the drawing-room, where M. and 
 Madame de La Tour d'Embleuse received her beside 
 a little blazing fire, made of strange materials, — two 
 of the kitchen shelves, a straw chair, and a few rows 
 
THE WEDDING. 75 
 
 of cloak pegs. The duchess had made as much of a 
 toilette as she was able ; but her black velvet robe 
 was blue in all the folds. The duke wore the ribbon 
 of his orders over a coat which was shabbier than a 
 writing-master's. 
 
 The interview was solemn and cold. Madame de La 
 Tour d' Embleuse could not bear any good-will to those 
 people who were speculating on the approaching death 
 of her daughter. The duke was more at his easej — 
 he essayed to be charming. But the rigidness of the 
 dowager paralyzed all his graces, and he felt himself 
 chilled through his whole frame. Madame de Villanera, 
 by an error which is often committed in first meetings, 
 included the duke and the duchess in the same judg- 
 ment. She suspected them both of avidity, and fancied 
 that she read in their countenances a sordid joy at the 
 bargain. However, she did not forget the pressing in- 
 terests which brought her there, but coldly made known 
 the motives of her step. She discussed the conditions 
 of the marriage as a notary would have done ; and 
 when every point had been agreed upon, she rose from 
 her fauteuil, and said, in a metallic voice : 
 
 "Monsieur the duke, and Madame the duchess, I have 
 the honor to ask the hand of Mademoiselle Germaine de 
 
76 GERMAINE. 
 
 La Tour d'Embleuse, your daughter, for Count Diego 
 Gomez de Villanera, my son." 
 
 The duke replied, that his daughter was honored by 
 the choice of M. de Villanera. 
 
 The marriage day was fixed by common consent, and 
 the duchess went in search of Germaine to present her 
 to the dowager. The poor child was ready to die of 
 fright on being brought before this tall spectre of a 
 woman. The countess was pleased with her, spoke to 
 her in a motherly way, and kissed her forehead, saying 
 to herself: "What a pity that she must die! she might 
 have been the very daughter-in-law to suit me ! " 
 
 On her return, Madame de Villanera found Don Diego 
 playing with the child in a room strewn with toys. The 
 father and son formed an amusing tableau, — a stranger 
 would have smiled at it. The count handled the fragile 
 creature with timid tenderness, — he trembled lest a move- 
 ment of his powerful arms should break his child in 
 pieces. The little boy was large of his age, but awk- 
 ward, ugly, and shy to excess. In the year that he had 
 been separated from his nurse, he had seen but two 
 human beings, his father and his grandmother, and he 
 had lived between these two colossi like Gulliver in the 
 Isle of Giants. The dowager had sequestered herself for 
 
THE WEDDING. 77 
 
 his sake, — she made and received but very few visits, 
 for fear of betraying the secret of the house. The only 
 accomplices in this clandestine education were five or six 
 old servants who had grown gray in the livery, — men 
 of another age and another clime. You would have 
 called them the wrecks of the army of Gonsalvo, or the 
 shipwrecked of the Invincible Armada. In the shadow 
 of this strange family circle, the boy grew up joylessly. 
 He had no companions of his own age, and it was a 
 useless trouble to teach him how to play. Some children 
 at two years of age know how to say every thing ; he 
 could hardly articulate five or six words of two syllables. 
 A father is always a father: — such as he was, Don 
 Diego adored him ; but he was afraid of Don Diego. 
 He called the old duchess mamma, but could seldom be 
 persuaded to kiss her without crying. As to his mother, 
 he knew her by sight ; he met her sometimes in an 
 obscure cross-road of the Bois du Boulogne, far from the 
 avenues frequented by the crowd. She left her chariot 
 at a distance, and came on foot to the carriage of the 
 count, where she kissed the child stealthily and gave 
 him bonbons, exclaiming, with sincere affection, f* Ah ! my 
 poor boy, can I never call thee mine ? " It would not 
 have been prudent to take him to her house, even if the 
 7 * 
 
T8 GEBMAINE. 
 
 duchess had permitted it. Madame Chermidy was careful 
 to save appearances. All Paris suspected her position, 
 but the world makes a great difference between a woman 
 suspected and a woman convicted. There were even to 
 be found here and there a few people innocent enough 
 to answer for her virtue. 
 
 Madame de Villanera informed her son that the pro- 
 posal was made and accepted. She praised Germaine 
 without speaking of her family, and portrayed the desti- 
 tution in which the La Tour d'Embleuse were living. 
 Don Diego sought an expedient by which to render them 
 prompt assistance without humiliation. The countess 
 wished simply to open her purse to the old duke, quite 
 sure that he would not refuse to empty it, but the count 
 thought it more delicate to buy the corbeille immediately, 
 and to slip a thousand louis for the bride in one of the 
 drawers. This alms, thus concealed beneath flowers, 
 would serve to pay the most urgent debts, and to support 
 the family for the next fifteen days. No sooner said 
 than done, — the -mother and son hastened to make the 
 purchases. Before going out, Madame de Villanera kissed 
 ,the orange cheeks of her grandson, saying, " So, my poor 
 bastard, you shaU have a name for your New Year's 
 gift!" 
 
THE WEDDING. 79 
 
 Nothing is impossible in Paris, — the corbeille was im- 
 provised in the course of a few hours. The stuifs, the 
 laces, the cashmeres, and the jewelry were sent home the 
 same evening. The countess took pains to arrange every 
 thing herself, and to place the rouleau of gold in the 
 pin-drawer. At ten o'clock the corbeille set out for the 
 hfitel Sanglie, and the count for the hotel Chermidy. 
 
 Germaine and her mother turned over the treasures 
 which had been sent them with a cold curiosity. Madame 
 de La Tour d'Embleuse admired the ornaments of her 
 daughter very much as Clytemnestra admired the sacri- 
 ficial fillets designed for the brow of Iphigenia. Ger- 
 maine reminded her parents of the chapter of Bernardin 
 de Saint Pierre in which Virginia expends her aunt's 
 money in small presents for her family and friends. 
 " What shall we do with all these," said she ; " we who 
 have no longer either friends or family? Here are a 
 great many fine things wasted ! " The duke opened the 
 drawers with a lofty disdain, like a man who had been 
 familiar with the greatest splendor; but his indifference 
 did not hold out in sight of the gold. Plis eyes sparkled. 
 Those aristocratic hands, which had so often been opened 
 for giving, clutched together as eagerly as the claws ^ of 
 a miser. He hastily disembowelled the rouleaux and 
 
80 GERMAINE. 
 
 flashed the tawny gold in the glare of the smoky lamp, 
 and bent his ear with delight to the sound of the tinkUng 
 discs which were ringing out so joyously the funeral knell 
 of Germaine. 
 
 Passion is a brutal leveller, which equahzes all men. 
 Had it been nine o'clock in the morning, M. the duke de 
 La Tour d'Embleuse might have played his part in the 
 concert of the domestics under the vestibule of the hotel. 
 However, education resumed the ascendency. He shut 
 up the money in the drawer, and said, with well feigned 
 indifference, — " This belongs to Germaine, — lay it by 
 carefully, my daughter. You must lend us a little to 
 make the pot boil. We have dined but poorly to-day ; if 
 I were as rich as I shall be a month hence, I" would 
 take you all to sup at the restaurant." The dying girl 
 divined the secret envy of the old man. You cannot 
 imagine with what tender eagerness, with what respectful 
 pity, Germaine forced him to empty the coffer, while the 
 duchess arranged his toilette that he might go to sup in 
 the city. He returned towards two o'clock in the morn- 
 ing. His wife and daughter heard an unequal step in 
 the corridor which ran along their chamber, but neither 
 opened their lips, and each one held her breath to make 
 the other believe that she was sleeping. 
 
THE WEDDING. 81 
 
 Don Diego and Madame Chermidy passed a stormy 
 evening. The beautiful Arlesijta commenced by stating 
 to her lover all her objections against the marriage. The 
 count, who never argued, answered by two reasons 
 which admitted of no reply, — " The affair is concluded, 
 and it was you who wished it." — She changed her tac- 
 tics, and tried the effect of menaces. She threatened to 
 break with him, to quit him, to take back her child, to 
 make an exposure, to die. The little lady was beautiful 
 in her anger The count entreated her pardon, but 
 without abating any thing of his resolution. He yielded 
 like one of those good steel springs which are bent with 
 infinite difficulty, and which rebound with the rapidity of 
 lightning. Then she opened the floodgate of her tears, 
 and exhausted the arsenal of her caresses. For three 
 quarters of an hour she was the most unhappy and the 
 most loving of women. You would have thought, to see 
 her, that she was the victim and Germaine the execu- 
 tioner. Don Diego wept with her, — the tears rolled 
 over his face like rain over a bronze statue. He com- 
 mitted every faint-hearted offence that love dictated. He 
 spoke of the future countess with a coldness approaching 
 contempt ; he swore on his honor that she could not live 
 lona;. He offered to show Germaine to Madame Cher- 
 
82 GERMAINE. 
 
 midy before the nuptials. But his word was given, and 
 the Villaneras never retracted what they had once prom- 
 ised. All that she could obtain was that he would come 
 to see her until the day of the ceremony, clandestinely, 
 without the knowledge of any one, and, above all, of his 
 mother. 
 
 The next morning, Madame de Villanera accompanied 
 him to the hotel de Sanglie, and presented him to his 
 new relatives. This was a visit of ceremony, which 
 lasted a quarter of an hour, at the most. Germaine 
 nearly fainted in his presence. She said afterwards that 
 his harsh countenance frightened her, and that she fan- 
 cied that she saw the man who would put her in the 
 ground. As for him, he felt ill at ease. Nevertheless, 
 he found a few words of courtesy and acknowledgment, 
 with which the duchess was touched. 
 
 He came every day without his mother while the banns 
 were being published. He brought a bouquet, according 
 to the established custom. Germaine entreated him to 
 choose flowers without scent, — she could not support 
 odors. These daily interviews embarrassed him and 
 fatigued Germaine ; but it was necessary to conform to 
 usage. M. Le Bris feared for a moment that the patient 
 would succumb before the appointed day. The fears of 
 
THE WEDDING. 83 
 
 the doctor gained over Madame Chermidy. When she saw 
 that Germaine was really doomed, she was alarmed lest 
 she should die too soon, and interested herself in her life. 
 Sometimes she even accompanied the count to the Rue 
 de Poitiers, and awaited him in her carriage. 
 
 The duchess understood that she could not marry her 
 daughter from the entresol of the h6tel Sanglie, and she 
 hired handsomely furnished apartments, at a thousand 
 francs a month, in a neighboring house. Germaine was 
 carried there without accident on a sunny day. It was 
 there that Don Diego came to pay his court, — the old 
 countess came too, as often as he, and remained much 
 longer. She was not long in comprehending Madame de 
 la Tour d'Embleuse, and the ice was soon broken. She 
 admired the virtues of this noble woman, who had walked 
 for eight years under lowly portals without once bending 
 her head. On her side, the duchess recognized in Mad- 
 ame de Villanera one of those choice spirits which the 
 world does not appreciate, because it never looks beneath 
 its outer covering. The bed of Germaine served as the 
 connecting link between these two mothers. The old 
 countess more than once disputed with Madame de la 
 Tour d'Embleuse the fatigues and disgusts of the duty of 
 nurse. It was which should take upon herself the most 
 
84 GEEMAINE. 
 
 painful tasks and drudgeries in wliieli the devotion of 
 the subhme sex displays itself. 
 
 The old duke gave his wife a supplement of cares, 
 which she could well have dispensed with. The money 
 had restored to him a third youth, — a youth without 
 excuse, whose dull and repugnant follies interested no one 
 any longer. He lived away from home, and the discreet 
 solicitude of the duchess dared not inquire concerning his 
 actions. Pie was seeking, he said, to divert himself from 
 his domestic sorrows. The gold of his daughter glided 
 through his fingers, and God alone knows whose were the 
 hands that picked it up ! In his eight years of wretched- 
 ness, he had lost that need of elegance which ennobles 
 even the vices of a well-born man. No pleasure came 
 amiss to him, and he sank so low as to bring to the 
 pillow of Germaine the nauseating odors of an estaminet. 
 The duchess trembled at the idea of abandoning this aged 
 infant in Paris, with more money than was needed to kill 
 ten men. To carry him to Italy was not to be thought 
 of. Paris was the only spot in which he had known 
 what it was to live, and his heart was chained to the pave- 
 ments of the Boulevards. The poor woman felt herself 
 distracted by two opposing duties. She would gladly have 
 rent herself in twain, that she might both soothe the last 
 
THE WEDDING. 85 
 
 moments of her daughter, and lead back the ■wandering 
 old age of her incorrigible husband. Germaine ■witnessed 
 from her couch the internal struggles which ■were con- 
 vulsing the duchess. By suffering together, the mother 
 and daughter had learned to have but one soul in common, 
 and to understand each other ■without saying a word. One 
 day, the patient declared positively that she would not quit 
 France. 
 
 " Am I not comfortable here ? " said she. " What is the 
 use of tossing an expiring torch about on the highways .' " 
 
 At this moment, Madame de Villanera entered with the 
 " count and M. Le Bris. 
 
 " My dear Countess," exclaimed Germaine, " do you ab- 
 solutely insist on sending me to Italy ? I can do what I 
 have to do much better here, and I do not want my 
 mother to leave Paris." 
 
 " Well ! let her remain ! " rejoined the countess, with 
 her Spanish impetuosity. " We do not need her, — I can 
 take care of you better than any one else. You are my 
 daughter, do you understand, — and we will prove it to 
 you." 
 
 The count insisted on the necessity of the journey, and 
 the doctor chimed in the chorus with him. " Besides," 
 added M. Le Bris, " the duchess will really do more harm 
 
86 GERMAINE. 
 
 than good. Two invalids in one carriage will not help 
 matters much. The journey is good for you, — it would 
 fatigue the duchess." 
 
 The truth was, the kind-hearted gentleman was anxious 
 to spare the duchess the sight of the death-struggles of 
 her daughter. It was agreed that Madame de La Tour 
 d'Embleuse should remain in Paris. Germaine was to 
 set out accompanied by her husband, her mother-in-law, 
 her son, and the doctor. 
 
 M. Le Bris had pledged himself rather hastily to leave 
 his practice. The journey might cost him dear, if it lasted 
 long. The difficulty was not in finding another physician 
 to take charge of the duchess and his other patients, — 
 but Paris is a city in which the absent are in fault, and 
 he who does not show himself every day is quickly for- 
 gotten. The young doctor had a solid friendship for Ger-. 
 maine ; but friendship never extends so far as to self- 
 forgetfulness ; — that is one of the privileges of love. 
 
 On his side, Don Diego had set his heart on doing his 
 duty thoroughly, and he wished to take with his wife her 
 own physician. He asked M. Le Bris what he made a 
 year. 
 
 " Twenty thousand francs," said the doctor. " Of these, 
 I receive five or six thousand." 
 
THE WEDDING. 8T 
 
 "And the rest?" 
 
 "Are bad debts. "We physicians do not have recouise 
 to the sheriff." 
 
 "Would you go to Italy for twenty thousand francs a 
 year ? " 
 
 "My poor count, don't let us speak of years. The 
 rest of her days may be numbered by months, — perhaps 
 even by weeks." 
 
 " Say two thousand francs a month then, and come 
 with us." 
 
 M. Le Bris struck hands with the count. Interest is 
 mingled with all human affections. It plays its r61e in 
 comedy as well as tragedy. Love and hatred, crime and 
 virtue, life and death, never come in contact without jost- 
 ling a brilliant and high-sounding personage, who calls 
 himself Money. 
 
 The doctor was charged with remitting to M. the Duke 
 de La Tour d'Embleuse the price of his daughter. Don 
 Diego would never have known how to have given a 
 million to a nobleman. M. Le Bris, who knew the duke, 
 easily acquitted himself of the commission. He carried 
 him an inscription de rente for fifty thousand francs, and 
 said: 
 
 "M. the duke, here is the health of the duchess." 
 
88 GEEMAINE. 
 
 " And mine also," added the old man. " You have ren- 
 dered us se^s^ice, doctor, and I wish to attach you to my 
 household." 
 
 "It is already done," replied the young man adroitly. 
 
 He had attended them all for nothing for the last three 
 years. 
 
 On the morning of the marriage, Germaine's wedding 
 dress was brought her to try on. She gently lent her- 
 self to the mournful mockery. The dressmaker per- 
 ceived that a point of the corsage was ripped. 
 
 "I will repair this,'' said she. 
 
 "What is the use?" returned the dying girl, "I shall 
 not use it." 
 
 They brought her her veil and coiffure. She re- 
 marked the absence of the orange-blossoms. "That is 
 right," said she, "I feared that they would have insisted 
 on them." 
 
 These preparations wore an air of funereal sadness. 
 "Mamma," said Germaine, "do you remember those 
 lines of Jasmin, the translation of which you read me 
 in the Revue des Deux Mondes ? 
 
 'The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom, 
 So fair a bride shall leave her home! 
 
THE WEDDING. 89 
 
 Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay, 
 So fair a bride shall pass to-day!' 
 
 " How does the poem end ? I cannot remember. Ah ! 
 now I have it! 
 
 'The roads should mouni and be veiled in gloom. 
 So fair a corpse shall leave its home. 
 Should mourn and should weep, ah, well-away! 
 So fair a corpse shall pass to-day ! ' " # 
 
 The duchess burst into tears. Germaine entreated 
 pardon for her thoughtlessness. "Wait," said she, "you 
 shall see me before the enemy! I shall bear your name 
 worthily. Am I not the last of the La Tour d'Em- 
 bleuse?" 
 
 The witnesses of Don Diego were the Spanish Am- 
 bassador and the Secretary of Legation of the Two 
 Sicilies ; those of Germaine were Baron de Sangli^ 
 and Doctor Le Bris. The whole faubourg had been 
 invited to the marriage mass. M. De Villanera's acquaint- 
 ances were the elite of Paris, and the old duke was 
 not sorry to be publicly resuscitated as a millionnaire. 
 Three quarters of the guests were punctual at the ren- 
 
 * The translator is indebted for this rendering to Longfellow's 
 exquisite version of " The Blind Girl of Castfel Cuille." 
 
 ,8* 
 
90 GERMAINE. 
 
 dezvous ; — despite the discretion of all the parties con- 
 cerned, everybody suspected something ; — in any case, 
 it was a rare and curious spectacle, the marriage of a 
 dying girl. As the clock struck midnight, two or three 
 hundred carriages, just from the ball or theatre, opened 
 their doors before the entrance of Saint Thomas d'Aquin. 
 
 The bride descended the steps in the arms of Dr. 
 Le Bris. The crowd found her less pale than they had 
 hoped for, — she had begged her mother to put a little 
 rouge on her cheeks, in which to play the comedy. 
 
 She advanced with a firm step to the prie-Dieu de- 
 signed for her. Her father gave her his hand, and 
 ■walked triumphantly on her left, ogling the assembly. 
 The singular old man could not suppress an exclama- 
 tion on perceiving in the crowd a charming countenance, 
 half unveiled. " What a handsome woman ! ' he ex- 
 , claimed, as if on the Boulevard. 
 
 It was Madame Chermidy, who had come to judge 
 with her own eyes how much longer the bride had to 
 live. 
 
 After the ceremony, a post-chaise with four horses 
 carried the travellers in the direction of the barriere 
 Fontainebleu ; it wheeled about, however, at the exterior 
 
THE WEDDING. 91 
 
 boulevard, and returned to the h6tel de Villanera. It 
 was necessary to take the little Gomez, and to give 
 Germaine a few hours' repose. It was Doctor Le Bris 
 who bore the bride to her nuptial chamber. 
 
92 GERMAINE. 
 
 CHAPTEE IV. 
 
 TOXJR IN ITAiY. , 
 
 r^ EEMAINE SLEPT but little on the first night 
 V>^ of her nuptials. She was laid in a large, canopied 
 bed, in the middle of a strange chamber. An alabaster 
 night-lamp, suspended from the ceiling, dimly lighted 
 the tapestries. A thousand grimacing figures detached 
 themselves from the walls and seemed to dance around 
 her bed. For the first time in twenty years, the duch- 
 ess, who had never been absent from her daughter, was 
 missing, — she was replaced by Madame de Villanera, a 
 tall, attentive shadow, but frightfully grim and forbidding. 
 In such gloomy surroundings, the poor girl could neither 
 wake nor sleep. She closed her eyes that she might 
 not see the tapestries ; but she quickly opened them 
 again, for other and more fearful images glided beneath 
 her eyelids. She fancied that she saw Death standing 
 before her, as he is represented in the missals by the 
 illuminators of the Middle Ages. "If I sleep," thought 
 she, "no one wiU wake me, — they have put me here 
 
TOUR IN ITALY. 93 
 
 to die." A large clock on the mantel-piece marked the 
 time. The sharp tick of the pendulum and the unva- 
 rying regularity of the movement grated on her nerves. 
 She entreated the countess to stop it. But erelong 
 the silence appeared to her more terrible than the 
 noise : she caused life to be restored to the innocent 
 machine. 
 
 Towards morning, fatigue became stronger than care, 
 and Germaine let fall her heavy eyelids. But she 
 awoke almost immediately, and saw with terror that her 
 hands were crossed upon her breast. She knew that 
 it was in this position the dead are buried, and she 
 threw her little fleshless arms from beneath the cov- 
 ering, and clung to the bedstead as " if to life. The 
 countess disengaged her right hand, kissed it gently, 
 and held it in her own as she knelt by her side. Then 
 only did the sick girl fall into a slumber, in which she 
 continued until daybreak. She dreamed that the count- 
 ess was standing at her right with white wings and an 
 angelic countenance. At her left, she saw another wo- 
 man, but whose face she could not recognize; all that 
 she could see was a black guipure veil, two great cash- 
 mere wings, and diamond claws. The count was walking 
 with a restless step from one woman to the other, and 
 
94 GERMAINE. 
 
 each was -whispering in his ear. At last the heavens 
 opened, and a beautiful, rosy infant descended from the 
 clouds and flew, smiling like the cherubs, towards the 
 sleeper. She stretched out her arms to receive him, 
 and the movement awakened her. 
 
 As she opened her eyes, a curtain was noiselessly 
 drawn aside, and she saw the old countess enter in travel- 
 ing costume, with the little Gomez running by her side. 
 The child smiled instinctively at this beautiful little white 
 woman with golden hair, and made a show of climbing 
 on the bed. Germaine attempted _to take him, but she 
 was not strong enough. Madame de Villanera Ufted him 
 Uke a feather, and laid him gently among the pillows of 
 his new mother. . 
 
 " My daughter," said she, with ill-restrained emotion, 
 " I present to you the Marquis de los Monies de Hierro." 
 
 Germaine clasped the child in her arms, and kissed 
 him two or three times. The little Gomez submitted 
 with a good grace, and even gave her a kiss in return. 
 She gazed at him long and steadily, and felt her heart 
 warm towards him. I know not what struggle was going 
 on in her thoughts, but after an imperceptible effort, she 
 said, in a half audible voice, " My son ! " 
 
 The dowager embraced her for these words. " Mar- 
 quis," said she, "this is thy little mother." 
 
TOUR IN ITALY. 95 
 
 "Mother!" repeated the child, smiling. 
 
 "Wilt thou let me be thy mother?" asked Germaine. 
 
 "Yes/' said he. 
 
 " Poor little fellow, it •wiU not be for long ; no ! " 
 
 "No," echoed tne child, without knowing what he was 
 saying. 
 
 From this moment, the mother and child were friends. 
 The little Gomez would not leave the room, but insisted 
 on being present at the toilette of Germaine. She was 
 holding him on her knees when the count entered to 
 wish her good morning and to kiss her hand. She felt 
 a little shame at being thus surprised, and let the child 
 slip down on the carpet. 
 
 Germaine had as yet loved no one but her mother and 
 her father. She had never been to boarding-school, she 
 had had no female friends, and she had never met the 
 tall brothers of her schoolmates in the parlor. The waste 
 of love and friendship which is made in boarding-schools, 
 and which prematurely wastes the hearts of young girls, 
 had never encroached upon the wealth of her affections. 
 She therefore loved her mother-in-law and her son with 
 a prodigality which was in no danger of exhaustion ; she 
 confessed for Doctor Le Bris a fraternal tenderness ; but 
 she imagined it impossible to love her husband, — this 
 
96 GERMAINE. 
 
 « 
 
 alone was beyond her power ; it were better to renounce 
 all thoughts of it. Not that the count was a disagree- 
 able man, — any other than Germaine would have found 
 him perfect. Of all her travelling companions, he was 
 assuredly the most patient, the most attentive, and the 
 most delicate, — a knight charged with escorting a young 
 queen would not have performed his duty better. It was 
 he who arranged every thing for the advance and the re- 
 pose, regulated the pace of the horses, chose the inns, and 
 prepared the lodgings. They travelled by slow journeys; 
 halting twice in the distance of ten leagues. 
 
 This style of travelling might have exhausted the pa- 
 tience of a young and healthy man ; — Don Diego only 
 feared lest they might go too fast and fatigue Germaine. 
 He was a smoker, as I told you before. From the first 
 day of the journey he limited himself to two cigars a day, 
 one in the morning before setting out, and the other at 
 night, before retiring. But one morning, the invalid said 
 to him: 
 
 " Have you not been smoking ? The scent lingers 
 about your clothes." 
 
 He left his cigars at the first inn, and smoked no more. 
 
 The sick girl accepted every thing from her husband 
 without thanking him for any thing. Had she not given 
 
TOUR IN ITALY. 97 
 
 him more than he could ever repay to her? She re- 
 peated to herself constantly that Don Diego only watched 
 over her through duty, or rather to acquit his conscience ; 
 that friendship had no share in his attentions ; that he 
 was coldly playing the role of a good husband ; that he 
 loved another woman ; that he did not belong to him- 
 self; that he had left his heart in France. She finally 
 reflected that this man, who seemed so eager to prolong 
 her life, had married her in the hope that she would 
 soon die, and she grew indignant at seeing him attempt 
 to delay by his efforts the event which he hastened by 
 his wishes. 
 
 She was as harsh towards him as she was gentle 
 towards every one else. She occupied the back of the 
 carriage with the old countess. Don Diego, the doctor, 
 and the child sat facing them, with their backs to the 
 horses. When sometimes the little Gomez climbed upon 
 her knees, or the dowager, put to sleep by the monotonous 
 motion, let her head fall upon this wasted shoulder, she 
 lulled the countess and played with the child; but she 
 could not endure that her husband should even ask her 
 how she felt. 
 
 She answered him one day with cutting irony, "I am 
 getting on finely, — my sufferings are on the increase." 
 9 
 
98 GERMAINB. 
 
 Don Diego feigned to look at the landscape through the 
 carriage window, and she saw large tears fall upon the 
 wheels. 
 
 The journey lasted three months without effecting any 
 change either in the health or the humor of Germaine. 
 She grew neither better nor worse, — she lingered. She 
 saw all Italy pass by her carriage windows without 
 interesting herself in any thing, neither would she fix 
 upon any place of abode. It is true that in winter, Italy 
 strongly resembles France. It freezes a little less there, 
 but it rains much more. 
 
 The climate of Nice would have done her much good. 
 Don Diego had hired in advance a beautiful villa on the 
 English promenade, with a garden of orange trees in fuU 
 bearing. But she grew weary of seeing a whole people 
 of consumptives defiling past the house from morning till 
 night. The doomed ones who are exiled to Nice are 
 afraid of each other, and each one reads his own face in 
 the paleness of his neighbor. " Let us go to Florence ! " 
 said she. Don Diego ordered horses for Florence. 
 
 She found that this city had a festal air, which seemed 
 to mock her wretchedness. The first time that she took 
 an airing, on hearing the music of the Austrian regi- 
 ments, and seeing the rosy-cheeked flower-girls throwing 
 
TOtJE IN ITALY. 99 
 
 bouquets into her carriage, she bitterly reproached her 
 husbaod for exposing her to so cruel a contrast. Pisa 
 remained, — they carried her to Pisa. She wished to see 
 the Gampo Santo and the terrible masterpiece of Orcagna. 
 These funereal paintings, — these pictures of Death as the 
 mistress of Life so worked on her imagination, that she 
 left the place more dead than alive. 
 
 She expressed a desire to go to Rome. The air of 
 this city was not likely to do her much good, but she 
 had reached that point at which the doctor refuses nothing 
 to his patient. She saw Rome, and fancied she was en- 
 tering an immense Necropolis. Its deserted streets, its 
 empty palaces, and its spacious churches, with here and 
 there a solitary devotee kneeling in the vast space, wore, 
 in her eyes, a sepulchral air, and she could not endure 
 their mournful suggestions. 
 
 She set out again for Naples, which she did not like 
 much better. She was lodged at Santa Lucia. The blue 
 waters of the most beautiful gulf in the world ebbed and 
 flowed before her eyes, and the smoke of Vesuvius curled 
 beneath her windows, — it was the very place to live or to 
 die in. But she grew impatient of the street noises, the 
 shrill cry of the hackmen, the heavy step of the Swiss 
 patrols, and the rude songs of the fishermen, and exe- 
 
100 GEEMAINE. 
 
 crated this clamorous and bustling city, in which one was 
 not even permitted to suffer in peace. They offered to 
 find her a quieter retreat in the neighborhood, — she chose 
 to go in search of it herself, and made such a frenzy 
 of exertion that she was exhausted for several days. 
 The doctor marvelled that she had resisted so many 
 fatigues, — it must either have been that Nature had 
 constructed her frame of very solid materials, or that a 
 strong will retarded the fall of the crumbling edifice. 
 
 They showed her Sorrento and Castellamare, and drove 
 from village to village for eight days without finding a 
 place to suit her. One evening she took a fancy to 
 visit Pompeii by moonlight. " It is a city after my own 
 heart," said she, with a bitter smile. "It is right that 
 ruins should condole together.'' She insisted on loitering 
 for two hours over the uneven pavement of the dead 
 city. It is a delightful promenade for a healthy mind. 
 The day had been beautiful, the night was almost warm. 
 The moon lighted up the surrounding objects like a 
 winter's sun, and the silence added a sweet and solemn 
 charm to the scene. The ruins of Pompeii have not 
 the overwhelming grandeur of those Roman monuments 
 which inspired Madame de Stael with such grandiloquent 
 phrases; they are the remains of a city of ten thousand 
 
TOUR IN ITALY. 101 
 
 inhabitants, and both the public and private edifices have 
 a slightly provincial air. On entering these narrow 
 streets and opening these little houses, one penetrates to 
 the fireside of antiquity, and is received at the home 
 circle of a people that is no more. 
 
 You find, within, a singular mixture of the artistic 
 feeling which distinguished the ancients, and the bad 
 taste which belongs to the plebeian citizens of all ages. 
 Nothing can be pleasanter than to discover beneath the 
 dust of twenty centuries, a miniature garden, with its 
 microscopic jet of water, its tiny marble waterfowl, and 
 its statue of Apollo in the midst. Behold the residence 
 of a Roman citizen who lived on his income in the year 
 79 of the Christian era ! The champagne gayety of the 
 doctor sparkled pleasantly amidst these curious ruins. 
 Don Diego translated to his wife the interminable stories 
 of the guide. But the feverish impatience of the invalid 
 destroyed all the pleasure of the excursion. The poor 
 girl was no longer herself, -^ she was the victim of 
 disease and approaching death. She walked only that 
 she might feel that she was living, and only spoke that 
 she might hear the sound of her own voice. She went 
 forward, retraced her steps, asked to see a second time 
 what she had seen before, stopped on the way, and taxed 
 9* 
 
102 GERMAINE. 
 
 her ingenuity to find out caprices which no one could 
 satisfy. Towards nine o'clock, a chiU seized her, and 
 she proposed to return to the inn. " I should like to die 
 here," said she; "I could rest here in peace." But she 
 reflected, on second thoughts, that Vesuvius might not 
 yet have spoken his last word, and that he might pos- 
 sibly pour a sheet of fire over her tomb. She spoke of 
 returning to Paris, and threw herself on her bed with a 
 shiver of ill omen. 
 
 The dowager supped by the bedside. The child had 
 long since gone to sleep. The landlord of The Iron 
 Orown invited the gentlemen to descend to the dining- 
 room, as they would be much more comfortable there 
 than in a sick-room, and would have company besides. 
 The doctor accepted the proposition, and Don Diego fol- 
 lowed him. 
 
 The company consisted of two persons, — a fat French 
 painter, who was a merry fellow, and a young English- 
 man red as a prawn. They had seen Germaine enter, 
 and had easily guessed of what disease she was dying. 
 The painter professed a careless philosophy, like all men 
 who have a good digestion. " For my part, Monsieur," 
 said he to his neighbor, "if ever my lungs are attacked, 
 which is not at all likely, I shall not stir out of my way 
 
TOUR IN ITALY. 103 
 
 a hair's breadth for it. One may be cured anywhere, — 
 he may die anywhere. The air of Paris is perhaps the 
 one which suits consumptives the best. Let them talk of 
 the Nile ! that report has been spread by the innkeepers 
 of Cairo. "Without doubt, the vapor of the river is good 
 for something, — but the sand of the desert! No one 
 reckoned on that ! It penetrates your lungs, lodges there, 
 accumulates, — and good-night to you ! . . . But you an- 
 swer, that if one must die he has a right to choose a 
 place to die in. I have heard that idea before. Have 
 you ever travelled in Tunis ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " You never saw any one's throat cut there ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Then you have lost something. When a Tunisian is 
 condemned to death, they give him tUl sunset to find a 
 place where he would like to have his throat cut. Early 
 in the morning, two executioners take him arm in arm, 
 and carry him out into the country. Whenever they 
 come to a pretty landscape, a fountain, two palm-trees, 
 the surgeons say to their patient: 'How do you like 
 this place ? We shall not find a better one.' ' Let us 
 go further,' says the poor wretch; 'there are flies here.' 
 So they walk about until they find a place that suits 
 
104 GERMAINE. 
 
 him. Generally, he does not decide on one before sun- 
 down. He then kneels down, and his neighbors draw 
 their knives and familiarly cut off his head. But he 
 has the consolation of dying where he chooses. 
 
 " I once knew a dancer at Paris who was possessed 
 with the same idea. She selected a plot of ground in 
 Pere la Chaise, which she visited frequently, and always 
 with a new delight. Her six feet were situated in one 
 of the pleasantest quarters of the cemetery, surrounded 
 by citizens' monuments, and fronting on the principal 
 avenue. But you Englishmen are especially given to 
 this fancy. I met one once who wanted to be buried at 
 Etretat because it had a pure air, because it was in 
 sight of the sea, and because the cholera had never been 
 there ! I have heard of another who bought a burial- 
 place in evei'y country that he passed through, so as not 
 to be taken unawares. Unfortunately, he died on the 
 voyage from Liverpool to New York, and the captain 
 threw him overboard." 
 
 Don Diego and the doctor could willingly have dis- 
 pensed with this discourse ; and were about to entreat 
 their neighbors to change the subject of their conversa- 
 tion, when the young Englishman spoke. 
 
 "Well, sir," said he, "as for me, I was as ill two 
 
TOUR IN ITALY. 105 
 
 years ago as the young lady that passed us. The phy- 
 sicians of London and Paris had signed my passport to 
 the other world, and I too sought a place to die in. I 
 chose the Ionian isles ; the southern part of Corfu ; and 
 installed myself there to bide my time ; but I grew so 
 well that it was indefinitely postponed." 
 
 The doctor joined in the conversation with that uncere- 
 moniousness which prevails at the Italian tables d'h6te. — 
 " Were you consumptive ? " asked he. 
 
 " Iq the last stage, if the Faculty did n't lie to me." 
 He cited the names of the physicians by whom he had 
 been treated and given over. He told how he had 
 ended by taking care of himself, without new remedies, 
 in the country, away from noise, in the expectation of 
 death, and under the sky of Corfu. 
 
 Doctor Le Bris asked permission to auscultate him. 
 He refused with a comical terror. He had heard the 
 story of the physician who killed his patient to know 
 how he had cured him. 
 
 An hour afterwards, the count was seated by the bed- 
 side of Germaine. Her face was flushed, and her breath 
 panting. " Come here,'' said she to her husband, " I 
 want to talk with you seriously. Do you remark that I 
 am better this evening? I am, perhaps, on the road to 
 
106 GBRMAINE. 
 
 recovery. Here are your prospects compromised! What 
 if I should live ! I have already made you lose three 
 months — no one expected it. We have tenacious lives 
 in our family — it will be necessary to kill me. You 
 have the right to do so — I know it ; you have paid for 
 it. But leave me a few days more — the light is so beau- 
 tiful! It seems to me that the air is easier to breathe." 
 
 Don Diego took her hand — it was burning. " Ger- 
 maine," said he, "I have just dined with a young 
 Englishman, whom I will show you to-morrow. He was 
 worse than you — so he assures me — the climate of 
 Corfu has cured him. Shall we go to Corfu ? " 
 
 She sprang up hastily and looked him in the eyes, 
 and exclaimed with an emotion which partook of de- 
 lirium : 
 
 "Do you tell the truth?— Can I live? — Shall I 
 see my mother again ? Ah ! if you save me, my whole 
 life will be too short for my gratitude. I will serve 
 you like a slave — I will educate your son — I will 
 make a great man of him ! . . . Oh ! wretched that I am ! 
 it is not for this that you have chosen me. You love 
 that woman, you regret her, you write to her, you long 
 for the time to see her again, and aU the hours of 
 my life are thefts from your happiness! 
 
TOUR IN ITALY. 107 
 
 She was at the worst during the next two days, in 
 this inn-chamber, and they thought she would die on the 
 ruins of Pompeii. She was well enough to rise, how- 
 ever, in the first week of April. They took her to 
 Naples, and embarked in a packet for Malta, whence an 
 Austrian steamer transported them to the port of Corfu. 
 
108 GEBMAINE. 
 
 M 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE DUKE. 
 AND IVIADAME de La Tour d'Embleuse had 
 
 • bid adieu to tlieir daughter in the sacristy of 
 Saint Thomas d' Aquinas. The duchess wept bitterly, 
 the duke took the separation more lightly, to console 
 his wife and daughter, perhaps also because he found 
 no tears in his eyes. In his heart, he did not think 
 that Germaine would die. He alone, with the old 
 Countess de Villanera, believed in the miracle of a cure. 
 This Chevalier of Luck declared that one good fortune 
 never came alone. Every thing seemed possible to him 
 now that his star was in the ascendant and the vein 
 had returned. He commenced by predicting the re- 
 covery of his wife, a prophecy that was soon verified. 
 
 The duchess, like all her family, was of a robust 
 constitution. Fatigue, watching, and privation had had 
 much to do with the disease which a critical period of 
 life had brought upon her, and to this had been added 
 the constant anguish of a mother in momentary expecta- 
 
THE DUKE. 109 
 
 tion of her child's last sigh. Madame de La Tour 
 d'Embleuse suffered more from. Germaine's pain than 
 from her own. As soon as she was separated from her 
 dear anxiety, she grevT gradually tranquil, and shared less 
 acutely in the suiferings that were no longer before her 
 eyes. We endure as much from imagination as we do 
 from feeling, but a grief at a distance loses something 
 of its poignancy. When wc see a man run over in 
 the street, we feel a physical pain as though we our- 
 selves had been crushed by the wheels,' — -the reading 
 of the accident in the City Items of a newspaper scarcely 
 moves us. The duchess could neither be calm nor happy, 
 but she at least escaped the direct action of the danger 
 upon her nervous system. She never felt secure; she 
 never opened a letter from Italy without trembling; but 
 she had a few moments' respite between the arrival of 
 each mail. A settled grief, which habit rendered famil- 
 iar to her, succeeded the excruciating anguish by which 
 she had been tortured, and she experienced the doubt- 
 ful relief of an invalid who passes from the acute to 
 the chronic stage of his disorder. 
 
 A friend of the young doctor visited her two or three 
 times a week, but M. Le Bris was still her true physi- 
 cian. He wrote to her regularly as well as to Madame 
 10 
 
110 GERMAINE, 
 
 Chermidy, and though he studied never to deceive, the 
 two correspondences resembled each other but slightly. 
 He repeated to the poor mother that Germaine was 
 still living, that the progress of the disease had been 
 stayed, and that this suspension of its fatal course really 
 gave them reason to hope for the miracle. He did not 
 boast of having cured her, and he said to Madame 
 Chermidy that God alone could postpone the widowhood 
 of Don Diego, that science was impotent to save the 
 young Countess de Villanera. She was stUl living, and 
 the progress of the disease seemed checked, but only 
 like a traveller who reposes at night the better to pur- 
 sue his journey on the morrow. Germaine was debili- 
 tated during the day, and feverish and restless at the 
 approach of night. Sleep refused her its relief, appe- 
 tite came by caprice, and she rejected the dishes with 
 disgust as soon as she had tasted them. Her emacia- 
 tion was frightful, and Madame Chermidy herself would 
 rejoice at seeing her. Her lucid and transparent skin 
 revealed every joint and muscle, and her cheekbones 
 seemed starting from her face. In fact, Madame Chermidy 
 must really be very impatient to ask for any thing more. 
 The duke did not know all this, and he was already cele- 
 brating his daughter's recovery by very equivocal rejoicings. 
 
THE DUKE. Ill 
 
 At the age sacred to wisdom, this old man, whose gray hairs 
 one would have respected if he had not taken the trouble 
 to dye them, resisted the fatigues of pleasure better than a 
 youth, and it was easy to see that he would sooner be at 
 the end of his crowns than at the end of his desires 
 and his strength. Men who have not entered into life 
 young find an extraordinary reserved force in their latter 
 years. ' 
 
 He had but little ready money, miUionnaire though he 
 was. The first half-yearly payment of his income would 
 fall due on the 22d of July ; in the mean time it was neces- 
 sary to live on the twenty thousand francs of the corbeille. 
 This was sufficient for the household expenses and the little 
 debts, which were more pressing than the large ones. If 
 the duchess had had the disposal of this modest sum, she 
 would have placed the establishment on an honorable foot- 
 ing ; but the duke always held the money under his key 
 whenever there happened to be any in the house. He paid 
 very few of the creditors, politely declined to buy any more 
 furniture, and, despite the remonstrances of the duchess and 
 common sense, persisted in retaining apartments at twelve 
 thousand francs, in which he was scarcely ever at" home. 
 He gave Semiramis a louis from time to time for the 
 kitchen expenses, but never thought of asking her how 
 
112 GERMAINE. 
 
 much was due her for wages. He bought two or three 
 costly garments for the duchess, who was destitute of the 
 most necessary linen ; but what he spent each day for his 
 personal expenses was a secret between his coffer and him- 
 self. 
 
 Do not think, however, that he was guUty of the pitiful 
 meanness of those husbands who throw away money by 
 handfuls, yet wish to know to a eehtime the expendi- 
 tures of their wives. He accorded to the duchess 
 as much liberty for trifling expenses as he reserved 
 to himself for great ones. He was always so polite, so 
 assiduous, and so tender, that the poor woman adored him 
 with all his faults. He inquired after her health with 
 almost filial solicitude, he repeated to her at least once a 
 day, " You are my guardian angel ! " and he bestowed such 
 flattering names on her that, without the testimony of her 
 mirror, she might have believed herself still at twenty. 
 This certainly did him credit, • — the worst husband is but 
 half contemptible when he leaves a sweet illusion to his 
 victim. A great artist, who, has seen society with the eyes 
 of Balzac, and has painted it better, M. Gavai'ni, has put 
 this strange saying into the mouth of a woman of the peo- 
 ple, — " My lover is a complete rascal, — but the king of 
 men ! " Translate the sentence into the language of nobU- 
 
THE DUKE. 113 
 
 ity, and you will comprehend the obstinate love of the 
 duchess for. her husband. 
 
 Yet the old man was rapidly descending all the scales of 
 vice that a well-born man could descend. When the news 
 of his good fortune came to be known in Paris, he found a 
 number of old acquaintances again who had been in the 
 habit of turning their heads on meeting him. He was 
 invited into some of those saloons of the faubourg Mont- 
 martre, where the most honorable and elegant men go to 
 carry good and to seek bad company. He found furniture 
 here and there which he had bought with his own money, 
 and learned the time from clocks which he himself had paid 
 for. The passion for play, which had been slumbermg in 
 him for several years, was awakened more ardently than 
 ever ; but he played hke a dupe at those suspicious tables 
 where the police come from time to time to sweep away the 
 spoils. This dangerous society, which excels in flattering 
 the vices by which it lives, gave a triumphal reentry to 
 the Duke de La Tour d'Epibleuse. They applauded this 
 posthumous youth, which came forth from wretchedness 
 like Lazarus from the tomb, and proved to him that he was 
 but twenty, — he endeavored to prove it for himself. He 
 took his seat at late suppers, to the great detriment of his 
 stomach ; he drank champagne, smoked cigars, and broke 
 10* 
 
114 GEEMAINli. 
 
 bottles. In these reunions, dignity was left at the door, yet 
 new comers from the country, deluded strangers in Paris, or 
 sons just escaped from tutelage, admired the lofty manners 
 and aristocratic bearing of the fallen old man. The ipen 
 respected him more than he respected himself; the women 
 saw in him a ruin which they themselves had made, but 
 which still held firm, despite every thing. In a certain 
 class of society, they make more of a veteran who has 
 squandered an income of a hundred and twenty thousand 
 livres, than of a soldier who has lost both arms on the field 
 of battle. 
 
 He followed this society, wherever it led him. He was 
 assiduous at the first representations of the minor theatres, 
 and was seen behind the scenes of the Folies Dramaiiques. 
 That respect for his name which had accompanied him in 
 the early part of his career, seemed to have wholly aban- 
 doned him. He became in two months the most notorious 
 old man in Paris. Perhaps he would have placed more 
 restraint on his conduct, if the rumor of his actions could 
 have reached the ears of his family. But Germaine was in 
 Italy, and the duchess was immured in the faubourg; he 
 had, therefore, no reason for circumspection. 
 
 The contrast between his name and his conduct soon 
 gave him a second-rate popularity which almost intox- 
 
THE DOKB. 115 
 
 icated him. He might have been seen, after the play, 
 in a coffee-house of the Temple boulevard, in the midst 
 of a circle of the lowest comedians and supernumera- 
 ries, who drank punch in his honor, gazed at him ad- 
 miringly with their bloodshot eyes, and disputed for the 
 honoi' of shaking hands with a duke who was not at 
 all proud. He fell still lower, if possible ; he even 
 broke the barriers with his company, and seated himself 
 before a salad-bowl of red wine at the table of an 
 estaminet. It is very difficult, in the nineteenth cen- 
 tury, to keep low company in an elegant manner. The 
 Court of Louis XV. tried the experiment with some 
 success ; and two or three noble lords have tried since 
 to revive the traditions of these merry days, but all in 
 vain. The most lofty soul degenerates with incredible 
 rapidity in the unhealthy amusements and nauseating 
 fetes of the faubourgs; the only debauches which they 
 can long resist are those which cost them dear. That 
 contentment with a little, which is a virtue among 
 working men, is the lowest degree of abasement among 
 men of pleasure. 
 
 The poor duke was in the lowest depth of degrada- 
 tion, when two hands were stretched out to him through 
 very different motives. The saviors were the Baron 
 de Sanglie and Madame Chermidy. 
 
116 GEEMAINE. 
 
 M. de Sangli^ had been in the habit of calling, from 
 time to time, at the house of the La Tour d'Embleuse; 
 — he had a right to this privilege as their former land- 
 lord, the groomsman of Germaine, and the friend of the 
 family. He always found the duchess at home ; the 
 duke, never. But aU Paris gave him news of his de- 
 plorable friend, and he resolved to save him, as he had 
 formerly lodged him — for the honor of the faubourg. 
 
 The baron was one of those men whom we still 
 call a perfect gentleman. He was not handsome, and 
 his physiognomy was somewhat in keeping with his 
 name. His large, ruddy face was almost hidden in the 
 forest of red beard ; he was robust as a huntsman, and 
 inclined to corpulency; you would not have taken him 
 for more than forty, though he was in reality fifty 
 years of age. The Barons de Sanglid date from an 
 epoch when they built with solidity. Rich enough to 
 conduct his menage like a prince, and without an occu- 
 pation, he treated himself like a friend, took care of his 
 own person, and lived in order to live well. His dress 
 and his mien were equally aristocratic. His morning 
 costume was loose, substantial, and comfortable, with an 
 air of coquettish negligence ; his evening toilette was 
 irreproachable, yet free from studied elegance. He was 
 
THE DUKE. 117 
 
 one of those few men whose dress never strikes the 
 eye, and whose clothing seems to have grown on them, 
 and to be the natural foliage of their persons. His 
 coats were from London, and the rest of his apparel from 
 Paris. He was choice of his body, that other vesture 
 of the man; he rode on horseback every day, and fre- 
 quented the tennis-court; for the evening, he was a 
 subscriber to two operas, and a member of a club. A 
 skilful player, good table companion, and royal drinker; 
 fine connoisseur of cigars, great lover of pictures, the 
 rider to win in a steeple-chase, — yet too wise to throw 
 away his fortune on a costly stud, indifferent to new 
 books, careless about politics, a willing lender to all who 
 would pay him again, impulsively generous to those who 
 had nothing, plain with men, and chivalric with women, 
 he was amiable and agreeable, like all intelligent ego- 
 tists. To do good without incommoding one's self, is 
 the essence of the most finished egotism. 
 
 To save the poor duke was by no means an easy 
 operation. The baron would never have succeeded in it 
 without the aid of that powerful auxiliary, vanity. This 
 was still just visible above the surface, in this mournful 
 wreck of the aristocratic virtues, — the baron seized him 
 by it as one clutches a drowning man by the hair of 
 his head. 
 
118 GERMAINB. 
 
 He sought him out in the dens where he was defiling 
 his name and his caste. He struck liim roughly on the 
 shoulder, and said to him with the bluntness which so 
 adroitly conceals flattery, — "What are you doing here, 
 my dear duke? this is not the place for you. Every- 
 body is wishing for you in the faubourg, both men and 
 women, — do you understand me? The La Tour d'Em- 
 bleuse have always maintained their rank since the days 
 of Charlemagne, — you have no right to bankrupt your 
 ancestors. Besides, we all need you. Eh, morhleu! if 
 you bury yourself here in the prime of life, who is 
 there to teach us the secrets of elegance, — the arts of 
 running through a fortune with grace, and of pleasing 
 the women, — things in which we are degenerating every 
 day?" 
 
 The duke replied grumblingly, like a drunken man 
 inopportunely awakened. He was sleeping off the effects 
 of his new fortune in peace, and he did not care to 
 resume the annoying restraints which society imposes 
 on its votaries ; an unconquerable indolence chained him 
 to those easy pleasures which exacted nothing from dress, 
 decency, or intellect. He protested that he was per- 
 fectly satisfied, that he asked nothing better, and that 
 every one was at liberty to take his pleasure where he 
 could find it. 
 
THE DUKE. 119 
 
 " Come with me," rejoined the baron, " and I swear to 
 give you amusements more worthy of you. Don't fear 
 to lose by the change, — we live well in our circle, — 
 you know that better than any one. Don't' imagine that 
 I come here to carry you back to your family, — I should 
 have sent you a missionary for that. What the devil ! 
 I too belong to your school; I despise neither wine, nor 
 love, nor play ; but I M'ill maintain against all the world, 
 yourself included, that a Duke de La Tour d'Embleuse 
 should drink, ruin, and damn himself only in the com- 
 pany of his peers." 
 
 It was by arguments of this sort that the old man 
 became converted. He returned, not to virtue, for that 
 road was too long for his old hmbs, but to elegant vice. 
 M. de Sangli^ took him to a fashionable tailor of the 
 Boulevards hke a rebellious recruit to the regimental cap- 
 tain, and made him don the livery of the fashionable 
 world. This singular subject had always idolized his old 
 person, but economized in his worship. He had continued 
 to dye and to paint, and did not neglect any practice, 
 which could restore to him a semblance of youth ; but he 
 did not scorn to appear newer than his coat. They proved 
 to him by a few yards of fine cloth that a new dress 
 rejuvenated the whole mien, and he confessed of his own 
 
120 GEEMAINB. 
 
 accord, that tailors were not 'to be despised. This was 
 a great step in advance ; a man well-dressed is half saved. 
 Fathers understand this well; when they come to Paris 
 to rescue a prodigal son from vicious company, their first 
 care is to take him to a tailor. 
 
 The baron charged himself with bringing out his pupil. 
 He introduced him to his club. They dined well there, 
 and M. de La Tour d'Embleuse did not lose by his change 
 of cooks. Before his conversion, the highly spiced food 
 and adulterated drinks of the estaminets had irritated his 
 stomach, burned his tongue, and excited a quenchless thirst ; 
 to allay this, he had drank the more, and the poor man 
 seemed thus involved in a vicious circle, from which he 
 could escape only through death. The duchess shuddered 
 sometimes at his burning breath. She dared not confess 
 her terrors, but she discreetly placed cool and perfumed 
 diet-drinks by his bedside, which he left to spoil. The 
 table d'hote insensibly reestablished him, although he 
 denied himself nothing there. The bait of gaming re- 
 tained him under the rod of his preserver. The members 
 of the club played whist and ecart^ with boldness, but 
 without intemperance. The most daring games of whist 
 rarely cost more than a louis each, and such an amuse- 
 ment has no dangers for a millionnaire. When he van- 
 
THE DUKE. 121 
 
 tured a high stake at a table of ecarte, no one had the 
 
 right to call him to reason ; but at least they could 
 
 agree among themselves to spare his purse. Every one 
 
 knew him, and was interested in him as a convalescent. 
 
 A player behaves like a sage or a madman, according as 
 
 he is urged on or restrained by those about him. They 
 
 held him back, but so delicately that he never felt the 
 
 curb. 
 
 I 
 The most aristocratic drawing-rooms opened their 
 
 folding-doors to him. All aristocracy has a natural free- 
 masonry, and a duke, whatever he may have done, has an 
 indefeasible right to the indulgence of his peers. The 
 faubourg Saint-Germain, like the respectful sons of Noah, 
 covered the errors of the old man with a mantle of pur- 
 ple. Men treated him with consideration; women with 
 kindness, — in what clime have they ever been wanting 
 in indulgence towards profligates ? They regarded him as 
 a traveller returned from unknown countries, though no 
 woman dared ask of him an account, of his journey. He 
 adapted himself without embarrassment to the tone of 
 good society, for to all the faults of youth he united that 
 flexibility of spirit which is its finest ornament. He was 
 found to be worthy of his name and his fortune, and 
 11 
 
122 GEEMAINE. 
 
 every one justified the choice of M. de Villanera in ac- 
 cepting him as a father-in-law. 
 
 The bardn had promised him more exciting pleasures: 
 he kept his word. He did not imprison him in the fau- 
 bourg as in a fortress, but carried him into a less starched 
 circle, on the threshold of the fashionable world; into 
 those salons which are aspersed without proof, yet not 
 without reason. He was introduced there to widows whose 
 husbands never were in Paris, to wives legally married 
 but embroiled with their families, to marchionesses exiled 
 from the faubourg in consequence of a scandalous process, 
 and to noblewomen living in princely style without any 
 known income. This intermediate society is bounded on 
 one side by high life, and on the other by the demi-monde. 
 I should not advise a mother to take her daughter there ; 
 but many sons go there with their fathers and depart as 
 they came. One does not find there the austerity of man- 
 ners, the patriarchal life, the perfect breeding, and the 
 pure and elevated language which prevails in the old 
 drawing-rooms of the faubourg, but he can dance at his 
 ease, play without being cheated, and no one steals his 
 overcoat from the anteroom. It was in one of these 
 drawing-rooms that the duke fell into the company of 
 Madame Chermidy. 
 
THE DUKE. 123 
 
 She recognized him at the first glance, having seen 
 him on the day of the wedding. She knew that he 
 was the grandfather of her son, the father of Germaine, 
 and a millionnaire at the expense of Don Diego. A 
 woman of the temper of Madame- Chermidy never for- 
 gets the face of a man to whom she has given a million. 
 She would not have been sorry to know him more inti- 
 mately, but she was too cunning to risk a step in 
 advance. The duke spared her three fourths of the 
 way. As soon as he knew who she was, he introduced 
 himself with an impertinence which would have glad- 
 dened the eyes of every honest woman in Paris. 
 Nothing flatters virtuous women more sensibly than to 
 see those who are not so handled without gloves. 
 
 The duke did not intend to insult a pretty woman, 
 and thus to abjure the religion of his whole life ; but 
 he was accustomed to speaking to people in their own 
 language, and he thought he knew the nationality of 
 Madame Chermidy. He seated himself familiarly by her 
 side, saying: 
 
 " Madame, permit me to introduce one of your old 
 admirers, the Duke de La lt)ur d'Embleuse. I have 
 already had the pleasure of seeing you at Saint Thomas 
 dAquin's. You know that we are distantly related — 
 
124 GERMAINB. 
 
 allied through our children — permit me, then, like a 
 good cousin, to offer, you my left hand." 
 
 Madame Chermidy, who reasoned with the quickness 
 of lightning, comprehended the position in which this 
 speech placed her, at the first word. Whatever answer 
 she might invent, the duke had the advantage of her. 
 Instead of accepting the hand which he offered, she rose 
 with a gesture of grief and dignity which set off all her 
 voluptuous beauty of form, and moved towards the door 
 without turning her head, like a queen outraged by the 
 vilest of her subjects. 
 
 The old man was taken in the snare. He hastened 
 after her, and stammered some words of apology. The 
 beautiful Arlesian cast a burning glance on him, in 
 which he fancied he caught the sparkle of a tear, and 
 answered under her breath, with well-restrained or well- 
 feigned emotion, " llonsieur le due, you do not know — 
 
 you cannot understand . Come to-morrow at two ; 
 
 I shall be alone, we will talk together." 
 
 With this she vanished like a woman who will listen 
 no longer, and five minutes after her carriage wheels 
 rumbled over the gravel of the court-yard. 
 
 The poor duke had been warned ; he knew the lady 
 by heart, for M. Le Bris had painted her to him in 
 
THE DUKE. 125 
 
 her true colors. But lie reproaclied himself for what 
 he had done, and lived till the morrow in a surprise 
 which was not exempt from remorse. They say, never- 
 theless, that a man warned is twice armed. 
 
 He was punctual at the rendezvous, and found himself 
 face to face with a woman who had been weeping. 
 
 "Monsieur the duke," said she, "I have done my 
 best to forget the cruel words which you addressed to 
 mo last evening, — I have not yet succeeded, but that will 
 come in time ; let us say no more about it." 
 
 The duke persisted in reiterating his excuses ; he was 
 struck with deep admiration. Madame Chermidy had 
 spent the whole morning in making an irresistible toi- 
 lette. She certainly appeared more beautiful than last 
 night at the ball. A woman in her boudoir is like a 
 picture in its frame. She profited by the disorder into 
 which her charms had thrown M. de La Tour d'Em- 
 bleuse, to envelope him in the web of a captivating elo- 
 quence. She at first employed the timid respect which 
 suited a woman in her position. She expressed an exag- 
 gerated veneration for the illustrious family into which 
 she had introduced her son, and claimed the honor of 
 having chosen the La Tour d'Embleuse from among 
 twenty noble houses, and of thus having raised up by 
 11* 
 
126 GBRMAINB. 
 
 her wealth one of the most glorious names of Europe. 
 The voluptuous movements and melancholy languor which 
 accompanied this exordium persuaded the old man much 
 more than the words, and he doubted no longer that 
 he had insulted his benefactress. 
 
 "I understand," resumed she, "that you have no great 
 esteem for me. But yours is a noble soul, and you 
 would pity me, notwithstanding, if you knew the story 
 of my hfe." 
 
 She had that expressive pantomime of the people of 
 the South, which gives so much probability to the 
 grossest falsehoods. Her eyes, her hands, and her Uttle 
 restless foot, all spoke together with her lips, and seemed 
 to attest of her veracity. Once having listened to her, 
 you were as firmly convinced as if you had held an 
 inquest and examined witnesses. 
 
 She mentioned her birth, in middle life, on a rich 
 estate of Provence. Her parents, large manufacturers, 
 had destined their daughter and their fortune, she said, 
 to a wealthy merchant. But love, that stern master of 
 human life, threw her into the arms of a simple officer. 
 Her family had disowned her until the moment when 
 the brutality of M. Chermidy — who soon .showed the 
 cloven foot — had forced her to flee from the conjugal 
 
THE DUKE. 127 
 
 roof. Poor Chermidy! a -woman has always the best 
 of the play against a husband who is in China ! 
 
 Once widowed, or nearly so, she had come to Paris, 
 and lived there modestly till the death of her father. A 
 larger inheritance than she had hoped for, had enabled 
 her to maintain a good position. Some fortunate specu- 
 lations increased her capital, and she became rich. She 
 was seized with ennui ; — at thirty, it was hard to live 
 in solitude. She had fallen in love with the Count de 
 Villanera at first sight, without knowing him, in the bal- 
 cony of the Italian opera. 
 
 The duke could not help saying to himself that the 
 Count de ViUanera was a lucky fellow. 
 
 She then proved by glances, which were glowing 
 with a candor admitting of no doubt, that M. de Villa- 
 nera had never given her any thing except his love. Not 
 that he lacked generosity; but she was not the woman 
 to confound affairs of the heart with affairs of interest. 
 She had pushed disinterestedness even to sacrifice ; she 
 had yielded her child to the old Countess de Villanera, 
 and had finally abandoned it to another mother. She 
 had even restored his liberty to her lover. The count 
 was married; he was travelling to reestablish the health 
 of his bride, and he did not even write to the poor for- 
 saken one to give her news of her little Gomez. 
 
128 GERMAINE. 
 
 She finished her discourse by dropping both her arms 
 with an abandon full of grace. " And now," she sighed, 
 "behold me more lonely than ever, in this void of the 
 heart which has once already destroyed me. Consola- 
 tions, I have none : distractions, I can find in plenty. 
 But I have no heart for pleasure. I know a few men 
 of the world. They come here every Tuesday evening 
 and chat round my fire. I dare not invite M. le Due 
 de La Tour d'Embleuse to these melancholy reunions ; 
 I should be too much humiliated and too deeply pained 
 at his refusal." 
 
 The clock of Madame Chermidy certainly struck less 
 truly than did that of Doctor Le Bris, but the bell was 
 so melodious that the duke suffered himself to be de- 
 luded like a child. He pitied the pretty woman, and 
 promised to come from time to time to bring her news 
 of her son. 
 
 The drawing-room of Madame Chermidy was, in truth, 
 the rendezvous of several distinguished men. She knew 
 how to attract them and to retain them about her by a 
 less heroic means than that of Madame de Warens, — 
 she made them love her at a less expense. Some knew 
 her position, others believed in her virtue ; but all were 
 persuaded that her heart was free, and that the last pos- 
 
THE DUKE. 129 
 
 sessor, whether he styled himself Villanera or Chermidy, 
 had left the succession open. She availed herself of this 
 to use all her admirers to the profit of her fortune. 
 Artists, authors, men of business, and men of leisure, 
 all served her simultaneously, in proportion to their 
 means ; they were so many employes whom she paid 
 in hopes. A stockbroker carried over for her twenty 
 thousand francs a month; a painter purchased her pic- 
 tures, and a skilful speculator bought her real estate. 
 These were all gratuitous services ; but no one wearied 
 of being useful to her, because no one despaired of in- 
 teresting her. To those busybodies who worried her, 
 she showed her house — a house of glass. She placed 
 her most trifling actions in broad daylight, to reassure 
 the susceptibility of Don Diego, perhaps also to' oppose 
 a barrier to those who made light of her virtue. 
 
 The duke profited by the entree which had been offered 
 him, and his presence in the drawing-room of the Rue du 
 Cirque was not useless to the reputation of Madame Cher- 
 midy. It checked sundry rumors about the count's mar- 
 riage which were in circulation, and proved to a few credu- 
 lous minds that nothing had ever passed between the little 
 woman and M. de Villanera. How could it be supposed 
 that Madame Chermidy would invite the father-in-law of,. 
 her lover, or that he would come if she did .^ 
 
130 GEEMAINE. 
 
 She wielded this new acquaintance as skilfully as the 
 old ones. It was important that she should know the true 
 condition of Germaine, and the precise number of days she 
 had to live. One fine morning, M. de La Tour d'Embleuse 
 intrusted her with all the letters of Doctor Le Bris. 
 
 Their perusal produced such a revulsion of feeling that 
 she would have fallen ill, had she not been stronger than 
 all diseases. She saw herself betrayed by the doctor, by 
 the count, and by nature. She pictured to herself the 
 most odious future that the imagination of a woman could 
 conceive. A rival of her own choice was depriving her of 
 her lover and her son, and without crime, without intrigue, 
 without calculation, and with the support of every civil and 
 religious law. 
 
 Notwithstanding, she took courage on reflecting that M. 
 Le Bris might have wished to deceive the duchess. She 
 determined to see the letters of Germaine, and counted on 
 the duke to satisfy her sinister curiosity. 
 
 M. de La Tour d'Embleuse was a prey to one of those 
 final passions which finish the body and soul of an old 
 man. All the vices which had been drawing him in 
 difierent directions for the lapse of half a century, had 
 abdicated in favor of this new and single love. When 
 engineers collect all the rivulets dispersed over the plain 
 
THE DUKE. 131 
 
 into one canal, they create a stream deep enough to float 
 ships. 
 
 The Baron de Sanglie, the duchess, and all who were 
 interested in him, were struck with astonishment at the 
 change in his manners. He lived as soberly as a young 
 aspirant who is hoping to rise through the favor of 
 women. He was seldom at the club, and he never 
 played there. The care of his toilette occupied his morn- 
 ings. He had resumed the habit of riding on horse- 
 back, and he rode in the Bois du Boulogne every day 
 from four to six. He dined with his wife whenever he 
 was not invited to Madame Chermidy's. In the evening 
 he went into society to meet her, and as soon as she 
 left the ball, he went to bid his wife good-night, t^nd to 
 betake himself to his bed. The fear of compromising 
 her whom he loved, restored to him those habits of dis- 
 cretion which had veiled his early excesses, and the 
 duchess believed him out of danger at the moment when 
 he was lost without remedy. 
 
 Madame Chermidy, who was an artist in seduction, 
 affected to treat him with filial tenderness. She received 
 him at all hours, even when at her toilette; she refused 
 him neither her hand nor her forehead to kiss ; she fon- 
 dled him airily, listened to him with complaisance, accepted 
 
132 GEEMAINB. 
 
 his caresses as marks of generosity, expressed no timidity, 
 and never seemed to suspect the brutal passion which she 
 inflamed every day. To keep him at a distance, she 
 employed but a single weapon, namely, humility. She 
 suffered him to give her all the names with which love 
 can inspire a man, but she never once forgot to call him 
 Monsieur le due. The old simpleton would have sacri- 
 ficed all his fortune that Madame Chermidy might have 
 been once wanting in respect to him. 
 
 He sacrificed at first what, to an honest man, is dearer 
 than all the world, — the sanctity of the paternal name. 
 He borrowed the letters of Germaine from the duchess, 
 under the pretext of rereading them, and the noble 
 woman wept for joy on confiding so precious a treasure 
 to her husband. He hastened without delay to the Rue 
 du Cirque, where he was received with open armis. 
 These letters, which the sick girl had scrawled with her 
 little trembling hand, — these letters, in which she had 
 never failed to put some kisses for her mother in a badly- 
 drawn frame beneath the signature, — these letters, which 
 the duchess had moistened with her tears, — were spread 
 out like a game of cards on the drawing-room table 
 between a ruined old man and an unprincipled woman. 
 
 Madame Chermidy, concealing her hatred beneath a 
 
THE DUKE. 133 
 
 mask of compassion, eagerly sought some symptoms of 
 death in the midst of these protestations of tenderness, 
 but she was but indifferently satisfied. The odor which 
 exhaled from this correspondence was not that which 
 draws vultures in the rear of an army; it was the per- 
 fume of a poor little flower, which languishes in the 
 blasts of winter, but which would blossom in the sun- 
 shine if the south wind scattered the clouds. The cruel 
 Arlesian found that the hand was still very firm, that the 
 mind was not yet weakened, and that the heart was beat- 
 ing with dangerous strength. This was not all, — a 
 strange suspicion stung her. The invalid spoke with too 
 much complaisance of the attentions of her husband. She 
 accused herself of ingratitude ; she reproached herself 
 with her miserable requital. Madame Chermidy foamed 
 with rage at the idea that the husband and wife might 
 end, perhaps, by becoming attached to each other ; that 
 pity, recognition, and habit might unite their young 
 hearts, and that she would one day see seated between 
 Don Diego and Germaine a guest whom she had not 
 invited to their nuptials ^ — ^Love. 
 
 This profanation of the letters of Germaine took place 
 a few days after her arrival at Corfu. If Madame Cher- 
 midy could have seen her innocent foe with her own 
 12 
 
134 GBBMAINE. 
 
 eyes, we cannot but believe that she would have felt less 
 fear than pity. The fatigues of the voyage had thrown 
 the poor child into a deplorable condition. But the mis- 
 tress of Don Diego was incessantly conjuring phantasmal 
 cures, and dreaming every night that she was supplanted 
 without remedy. The day that changed her suspicions 
 to certainty, would, she felt, make her capable of every 
 crime. In the mean time, through the spirit of prudence 
 and vengeance, through the ennui of a pretty woman 
 without occupation, and through speculation on a capital 
 of interest and perversity, she amused herself by despoil- 
 ing M. La Tour d'Embleuse. She thought it a good jest 
 to take from him the million which had been given him, 
 promising herself to restore it after the death of his 
 daughter, — it was a bit of consolation which she ad- 
 judged to herself in case of misfortune. 
 
 The difficulty was not to make him give her the in- 
 scription de rente. The duke placed himself with all he 
 possessed at her feet every day. He was of the race 
 and character to ruin himself without proclaiming it, and 
 to conquer without sounding the trumpet of victory. A 
 well-bred man never compromises a woman, though she 
 may have despoiled him of his whole fortune. But 
 Madame Chermidy thought that it would be more worthy 
 
THE DtrKE. 135 
 
 of her to take a million without giving any thing in ex- 
 change, and still to preserve her ascendency over the 
 giver. 
 
 One day, when the old man was raving on his knees, 
 and repeating for the hundredth time the offer of his 
 fortune, she took him at his word, and said quietly, "I 
 accept. Monsieur le due." 
 
 M. de La Tour d'Embleuse grew dizzy as a young 
 £erouaut at the cutting of the balloon cord. He fancied 
 himself in the seventh heaven. But the lady gently 
 checked his transports, saying, "When you shall have 
 given me a million, do you think that I am paid ? " 
 
 He protested to the contrary, but his eyes said with 
 some reason that for virtue at sale, a million is not a 
 bad price. 
 
 She answered the thoughts of her adversary. "Mon- 
 sieur le due, the women among whom you do me the 
 injustice to class me are valued according to their wealth. 
 I have inherited four millions, and have gained three 
 more in business ; and my fortune is so free that I can 
 realize it without loss in a month's time. You see, there- 
 fore, that there are few women in France who have the 
 right to put themselves at a higher price; it also proves 
 to you that I am able to give myself for nothing. If I 
 
136 GEBMAINE. 
 
 love you sufficiently, and that may come in time, money 
 must not come between us. The man to whom I give 
 my heart will have the rest into the bargain." 
 
 The duke fell rudely to the ground from the height 
 of his felicity. He was as unhappy in keeping his mill- 
 ion as he had been delighted in receiving it. Madame 
 Chermidy appeared to pity him. " Do not weep, you 
 great child," said she ; " I commenced by telling you that 
 I accepted. But take care ; I shall make my own con- 
 ditions." 
 
 M. de La Tour d'Embleuse smiled like a dying man 
 who sees the heavens open to him. 
 
 " It was I who enriched you,'' continued she. " I knew 
 you of old ; at least, I knew your reputation. You have 
 squandered your fortune with a grandeur worthy of the 
 heroic ages ; you are the last representative of the true 
 noblesse in these degenerate days ; you are also, without 
 knowing it, the only man in Paris who is capable of 
 deeply interesting the heart of a woman. I have always 
 regretted that you had not as incalculable a fortune as 
 Don Diego's, — you would have been grander than Sar- 
 danapalus. For the want of better, I made him give you 
 a million. One does what they can. But I went the 
 wrong way to work, and the event has not answered my 
 
THE DUKE. 137 
 
 expectations. You have a scrap of paper in your drawer 
 which brings in nothing just yet. You get twenty-five 
 thousand francs on the twenty-second of June, and, till 
 then, you vegetate. You will contract debts, and your 
 revenue will only enrich your creditors. Give me, then, 
 your inscription de rente, and I will sell it through my 
 broker. Be tranquil, — I will take the capital for my- 
 self, you will never see it again ; but in return, it is 
 absolutely necessary that you should accept the income. 
 It will not be fifty thousand francs that you will have, 
 but eighty or a hundred thousand, perhaps more. I know 
 the Bourse thoroughly, though women don't frequent it; 
 I know that one can make as much as he likes there 
 with a few millions of ready money. Investments in 
 state stocks are admirable inventions for citizens who 
 wish to live modestly and without care ; for those of our 
 stamp, who fear neither risk nor labor, huzza for specu- 
 lation ! It is gaming on a large scale, and you are a 
 gamester, are you not ? " 
 
 "I was once." 
 
 "You are still! We will play together; our inter- 
 ests, our pleasures, our hopes, and our fears shall be in 
 common." 
 
 "We wiU be one!" 
 
 12* 
 
138 GEEMAINE. 
 
 " On the Bourse, at least." 
 
 " Honorine ! " 
 
 Honorine appeared to fall into a profound revery. 
 She buried her face in her hands; but the duke seized 
 her wrists, and put an end to this eclipse of beauty. 
 Madame Chermidy gazed at him intently, as if to read 
 the depths of his heart, and said, with a melancholy 
 smile : 
 
 " Pardon me. Monsieur le due, and forget these cas- 
 tles in the air. We were lost in the future, like the 
 Babes in the "Wood. It was a happy dream, — but let 
 us think no more of it. It does not belong to me to 
 despoil you, even to enrich you. "What would folks 
 say, — what would you think of me yourself? If Madame 
 the duchess knew what we had done ! " 
 
 Madame Chei-midy knew well that to render a wife 
 odious to her husband, it is sufficient to utter her name 
 in moments like these. The duke rejoined haughtily 
 that his wife knew nothing of his business, and that 
 he never permitted her to meddle with it. 
 
 "But you have a daughter?" resumed the temptress; 
 "all that you possess should revert to her. I am 
 wronging her." 
 
 ^'But my daughter has a son, who is yours, also," 
 
THE DUKE/ 139- 
 
 replied the duke. "Your fortune and mine will go to- 
 gether to the little marquis, — are we not one family?" 
 
 " You have said the same thing to me once before, 
 Monsieur le duo; but then it gave me less pleasure 
 than to-day." 
 
 Madame Chermidy locked up the inscription de rente, 
 and took good care not to sell it. The lady had an 
 instinct for substantials, and wisely mistrusted the insta- 
 bility of human affairs. From this day, the duke be-' 
 came the partner of his fair friend. He had the right 
 of drawing from her treasury, and, till further orders, 
 he found with her as much money as he wanted. It 
 was all that he could obtain from this generous and 
 smiling virtue. Honorine provided for the old man's 
 comfort with minute tenderness ; she made him quit 
 the apartments which he was occupying; she removed 
 him, with the duchess, to the Champs Elysees, where she 
 furnished a house for them ; she took care that they 
 lacked for nothing in the family; and she even pro- 
 vided for the expenses of the kitchen. This done, she 
 rubbed her little hands, and said to herself, laughingly: 
 "I have blockaded the enemy; and if ever war is declared, 
 I will starve them without pity." 
 
140 GEEMAINE, 
 
 DEAR 
 day I 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 LETTERS FROM COREtT. 
 DOCTOR LE BEIS TO MADAME CHEEMIDT. 
 
 CoEFtr, April 20, 1853. 
 
 EAR MADAME, — I did not foresee on the 
 day I left you, that our correspondence would 
 be so long. Don Diego expected it no more than I ; 
 could I have warned him of it, I know not whether 
 he would have taken the heroic resolution of depriving 
 himself both of your letters and your society. But all 
 men are liable to err, physicians most of all. Do not 
 show this sentence to my confreres. 
 
 " We had a stupid voyage from Malta to Corfu, in 
 a dirty little steamer, whose chimney smoked abomina- 
 bly. The wind was against us, the rain prevented us 
 nearly all the time from going on deck, and the waves 
 dashed into our cabin windows. Sea-sickness spared no 
 one but the invalid and the child, — Providence always 
 favors those who are coming into life, and those who 
 are going out of it. "We had for our society an Eng- 
 
LETTERS FROM CORFU. 141 
 
 lish family returning from the Indies, — a colonel in the 
 Company's service, with his two daughters, yellow as 
 Eussia leather. Nothing but claret is improved by these 
 long journeys. The ladies did not honor us with a 
 single word ; what excuses them a little is that they 
 could not speak French. At the least sign of clear 
 weather, they went on deck with their albums to sketch 
 landscapes, which looked like plum puddings. After an 
 eternal journey of five days, the boat brought us into 
 harbor without even the variety of a shipwreck. The 
 way of life is paved with delusions. 
 
 "While waiting till we can find a nest in the country, 
 we are lodged at the Hotel Victoria in the capital of the 
 island. We count on being able to leave at the end of 
 the week, but I dare not affirm that we shall all go on 
 our legs. My poor patient is at the last extremity; the 
 voyage has fatigued her more than sea-sickness would 
 have done. Madame de Villanera does not quit her for 
 a second, Don Diego behaves admirably, and I do my best 
 — that is to say, very little of any thing. It is useless 
 to attempt a treatment which will add to the sufferings 
 without availing any thing towards a cure. How happy 
 you are, Madame, in having a beauty which is joined to 
 such perfect health! 
 
142 GERMAINE. 
 
 "If this crisis be not the last one, I shall try ammonia 
 or iodine. Iodine succeeds in some cases; Messieurs 
 Pierry and Chartroule use it with success. Be kind 
 enough to send us Doctor Chartroule's inhaling apparatus, 
 with a supply of iodated cigarettes, — you will find them 
 at Dublanc's pharmacy, in the Rue du Temple, near the 
 Boulevard. The ammonia may be of some use too ; but 
 a miracle is the only remedy which we can count on 
 seriously. Thus then, live in peace, love us a little, and 
 help us to do our duty to the end. Old Gil, whom the 
 countess brought to wait on her, took the fever in Italy, 
 although it was not the season for fevers, and we have 
 one patient the more and one servant the less. 
 
 " Happiness and health have one splendid representa- 
 tive in the household in the person of little Gomez. You 
 will be delighted when you see him again. He grows 
 while we look at him, and I believe — God forgive me 
 — handsomer. He will be less of a Villanera than we 
 thought at first. Indeed, the deuce will be in it if he is 
 not a little like his mother. He is no longer shy ; he 
 embraces everybody, and lets himself be embraced in 
 turn, and presses his lips to their faces with an ardor 
 that will be dangerous among the little girls some day. 
 
 "Don Diego is negotiating with a descendant of the 
 
LETTERS FROM CORFU. 143 
 
 doges for a house which suits him tolerably." The coun- 
 try is divided into a multitude of pleasant estates, 
 adorned by crumbling chateaus. I have visited several 
 of the gardens ; they are generally more habitable than 
 the adjoining houses. There are farms, castles, and cot- 
 tages in this aristocratic disorder, which preserve an air 
 of grandeur in the midst of their dilapidation. If we 
 rent the Villa Dandolo, we shall not be uncomfortable 
 there ; it will only be necessary to put a few panes in the 
 windows. The sea-view on the south is magnificent, and 
 the garden is rank with fine plants. Our neighbors are 
 noble ; some of them speak French, it is said. But who 
 knows if we shall have time to make their acquaint- 
 ance? 
 
 "I shall not regret city life, although one lives there 
 well enough. It is beautiful, and reininds me of Naples 
 in some places. The esplanade, with the palace of the 
 Lord Commissioner and the suburbs, forms an English 
 town. The English have constructed gigantic fortifica- 
 . tions at the expense of the Greeks, which make of the 
 place a miniature Gibraltar. Every morning, I witness 
 the manoeuvres of a Scotch regiment, whose bagpipes are 
 my dehght. The Greek city is ancient, and curiously 
 built J with high houses, small arcades, and a pretty face 
 
144 GERMAINE. 
 
 at every window. The Jews' quarter is hideous, but there 
 are pearls in the filth for the pencil of Gavarni. The 
 population is' Greek, Italian, Jewish, and Maltese, and is 
 laboring hard to become English. We have a theatre, 
 where they are giving Verdi's Joan d'Arc. I went one 
 evening when my patient's pulse was a little less than a 
 hundred and twenty a minute. At the end of the first act 
 the whole assembly rose respectfully while the orchestra 
 played God save the Queen, — it is an established usage 
 in all the English possessions. Don't be surprised that 
 the death of Joan d'Arc is represented before an Eng- 
 lish public, — the author of the libretto has taken care to 
 modify the story to suit their tastes. Joan defends 
 France against some kind of enemies — Turks, Abys- 
 sinians, or Champenois, I know not which — wearing, her- 
 self, a cuirass of silvered paper, and sporting a flag the 
 size of a fan till a herald rushes on the stage, exclaiming 
 to the king: 
 
 ' Rotto fe '1 nemico, fe Giovanni fe spinta.' 
 
 " The heroine is cai-ried out on cushions, a scarf stained 
 red indicates that she is mortally wounded. She raises 
 herself with difficulty, sings a song at the top of her 
 voice, and expires in the midst of applause. All the 
 people of Corfu are persuaded that Joan died with a 
 wound and a roulade. 
 
LETTERS FROM CORFU. 145 
 
 "The count suffered me to ^o alone to the theatre, 
 although, as you know, he dotes on Verdi. Was it not at 
 a representation of Ernani that his eyes met yours for 
 the first time? But the poor fellow is literally immolat- 
 ing himself to his duty. What a husband will he be for 
 his definitive wife ! 
 
 "The journals bring us news from China which you 
 must have read with as much interest as we. It seems 
 that the flat-nosed celestials have abused two French 
 missionaries, and that the Ndiade has been sent to pun- 
 ish the guilty. If the Ndiade has not changed her com- 
 mandant, we shall wait with impatience for news of the 
 expedition. Each for himself, and God for us all. I 
 wish my friends every imaginable prosperity, without 
 praying for any one's death. The Chinese, they say, 
 are bad marksmen, although they boast of having invented 
 powder ; yet it needs nothing but a lucky bullet to make 
 several people happy. 
 
 "Adieu, Madame. If I wrote to you as I loved you, 
 my letter would never end ; but after the pleasure of 
 chatting with you, duty calls me into the next room. 
 Pleasure and duty! — two steeds very difiicult to yoke 
 together. But I do my best, and if that does not recon- 
 cile every thing, think that it is not easy to steer between 
 13 
 
146 GEEMAINB. 
 
 Scylla and Charybdis. Love me if you can, pity me if 
 you will; do not curse me, come what may; and if I send 
 you by the next mail a letter sealed with black, do me 
 the justice to believe firmly, that I have not the least 
 claim to your gratitude. 
 
 " Kissing the prettiest hand in Paris, I am 
 
 "Your devoted servant, 
 " Charles Lb Bkis, 
 
 "D. M. P." 
 
 THE COUNTESS DOWAGER DE VILLANERA TO MADAME 
 DE LA TOUR d'eMBLEUSE. 
 
 Villa Dandolo, May 2, 1853. 
 " Dear Duchess, — I am worn out, but Germaine is 
 better. We all moved this morning, — or rather, I moved 
 them. I had the accounts to settle, the invalid to wrap 
 in piUows, the child to watch, the carriage to find, and 
 almost the horses to harness. The count is good for 
 nothing, — that is a family talent. It is a proverb in 
 Spain, — 'As unhandy as a Villanera.' The little doctor 
 buzzed about me like a fly on a coach-wheel, until I had 
 to seat him in a comer. I cannot endure to have peo- 
 ple bustling about me when I am in a hurry, they bin- 
 
LETTERS FEOM CORFU. 147 
 
 der more than they help. And that ass of a Gil, too, took 
 it in his head to have a chill, although it was not the 
 day for it! I am going to send him to Paris to be 
 cured, and I beg you to find me some one in his place. 
 I planned every thing, arranged every thing, and did 
 every thing for the best, and found means of being in-doors 
 and out-doors, at home and in town at one and the same 
 time. At last, at ten o'clock, fouelte cocher ! Fortunate- 
 ly, the roads are magnificent, — macadamized like the 
 Boulevards. We rolled on velvet to our cockle-shell, and 
 here we are ! I have unpacked my people, opened my 
 parcels, made my beds, and prepared dinner with the 
 help of a native cook, who wanted to pepper every thing 
 even to the milk-porridge. They have eaten, talked, and 
 walked; they sleep at last, and I am writing by the pil- 
 low of Germaine, like a soldier on a drum the night 
 after battle. 
 
 "The victory is ours, on the honor of an old captain. 
 Our daughter shall get well, or she shall tell why. But 
 she has made me pass fifteen wretched nights in that 
 city of Corfu ! She decided not to sleep, and it was all 
 in vain that I rocked her like a child. She ate only to 
 please me; nothing invited her; and when one does not 
 eat, good-by to strength! She had but a breath of life. 
 
148 GBRMAINB. 
 
 that seemed at each moment ready to take flight; but I 
 kept good watch of it ! Take courage ; she has dined 
 this evening, she has drank an inch of Cyprus wine, and 
 she sleeps. 
 
 "I have often heard say, that the more anxiety a child 
 gives its mother, the more she loves it. I know nothing 
 of it by experience, for all the Villaneras from father to 
 son are rugged as oaks. But since you have confided to 
 me the fragile casket of this beautiful soul, since I have 
 kept watch over our child to keep Death from approach- 
 ing her, since I have learned to endure, to respire, and 
 to suffocate with her, I feel my heart. I was but half a 
 mother till I reflected the agonies of another. I am 
 worth more for it, I am better, I ascend in rank. It is 
 through suffering that we draw near the mother of 
 God, that model of every mother. Ave Maria, mater 
 dolorosa ! 
 
 "Fear nothing, my poor duchess; she will live. God 
 would not have given me this deep love for her if he 
 had resolved to snatch her from this world. He who 
 rules hearts, measures the strength of our feelings by the 
 duration of their object, and I love our daughter as if 
 she were to be ours forever. Providence mocks at ava- 
 rice, ambition, and all human passions; but it respects 
 
LETTERS FROM CORFU. 149 
 
 legitimate affections; it thinks twice before separating 
 those who love each other in the bosom of their family. 
 Why would it have bound me so closely to our Ger- 
 maine, if it had designed to slay her in my arms ? It 
 would be a cruel sport, unworthy the goodness of God. 
 Besides, the interests of our race are bound up with the 
 life of this child. If we should have the misfortune to 
 lose her, Don Diego will certainly make a misalliance 
 some day or other. Saint James, to whom we have built 
 two churches, will never suffer a name like ours to be 
 traUed ia the dust by Madame Chermidy. 
 
 " I hope nothing from Doctor Le Bris ; savants do not 
 know how to cure sick people ; the only true physicians 
 are God in heaven and Love on earth. Consultations 
 and remedies which are bought with money will never 
 increase the sum of our days. Mark, now, what we have 
 invented to obtain her life. Every morning, my son, my 
 grandson, and I, pray God on our knees to take from 
 our lives to add to that of Germaine. The child joins 
 his hands with ours, while I repeat the prayer; Heaven 
 must be deaf indeed if it does not hear us. 
 
 " Don Diego loves his wife ; I say it advisedly. He 
 loves her with a pure love, freed from all taint of earth- 
 liness. If he loved her otherwise in the state in which 
 13* 
 
150 GEBMAINB. 
 
 she now is, he would horrify me. He has that religious 
 adoration for her which a good Christian vows to the 
 saint of his church, to the Virgin of his chapel, to the 
 chaste veiled image which shines from the innermost re- 
 cess of the sanctuary. It is the nature of us Spaniards; 
 we know how to love purely, heroically, without any 
 mundane hope or any other recompense than the pleasure ~ 
 of falling on our knees before a worshipped image. Ger- 
 maine is nothing else here below: the perfect image of 
 the saints in Paradise. When Saint Ignatius and his 
 glorious companions enrolled themselves under the banner 
 of the Mother of God, they gave to all men a chivalric 
 example of the purest love. 
 
 " "When she is cured — ah ! we shaU see. Just wait 
 till the poor little pale virgin shall have recovered the 
 flush of youth! At present, she is but a cage of trans- 
 parent crystal, enclosing a soul. But when the healthful 
 blood shall course through her veins, when the air of 
 heaven shall gladden her lungs, when the fragrant per- 
 ,fumes of the country shall speak to her heart and 
 make her temples throb with pleasure, when bread and 
 wine, those gifts from God's own hand, shall have re- 
 stored her strength, when an impatient vitality shall 
 make her run till out of breath beneath the great 
 
LETTERS FROM CORFU. 151 
 
 orange-trees of the garden, tlien she will acquire a new 
 beauty, — and Don Diego has eyes ; he will know how 
 to compare his former infatuation with his present 
 happiness. I shall not need to show him how much 
 superior is a noble and chaste loveUness, heightened by the 
 lustre of birth and the splendor of virtue, to the shame- 
 less charms of a wanton. He is on the right road. 
 During the four months that we have been away from 
 Paris, he has neither written nor received a letter; and 
 forgetfulness is springing up in his heart now that he 
 is far from the unworthy being who was destroying him. 
 Absence, which strengthens honorable passions, quickly 
 kills those which had their existence only in pleasure. 
 " Perhaps, also, our Germaine may suffer herself to 
 be infected with the contagion of love. Hitherto she 
 has loved none but me of the whole family. I do not 
 speak of the little marquis — you know that she adopted 
 him from the first — but she testifies an indifference to 
 my poor son which almost amounts to hatred. She no 
 longer treats him harshly, as before, but she suffers his 
 attentions with a sort of resignation; she endures his 
 presence, she is not surprised at seeing him near her, 
 she is becoming accustomed to him. Yet good eyes are 
 not needed to read in her countenance a secret impa- 
 
152 GERMAINE. 
 
 tience, a subdued hatred which rebels at instants, per- 
 haps even the contempt of a virtuous child for a man 
 who has been guilty of errors. Alas, my poor friend! 
 indulgence is a virtue of our age ; the young do not 
 practise it. Yet I ought to acknowledge that Germaine 
 carefully conceals her little dislikes. Her politeness 
 towards Don Diego is irreproachable ; she talks with 
 him whole hours without complaining of fatigue, she 
 listens to him and replies at times, she receives his 
 attentions with cold but resigned gentleness. A less 
 sensitive man would not perceive that he was hated, — 
 my son knows and forgives it. He said to me yester- 
 day, — 'It is impossible to detest one's friends with more 
 grace and sweetness. She is the angel of ingratitude.' 
 " How will all this end ? "Well ; believe me. I have 
 confidence in God, I have faith in my son, and I have 
 hope for Germaine. We will cure her, even of her 
 ingratitude, especially if you will come to our aid. I 
 learn that the duke is walking like a good boy in the 
 path of virtue, and that fathers point him out as a 
 model to their sons. If you can venture to leave him 
 for a month or two, you will be received with open 
 arms. In case that the charming convert also wishes 
 to take the country air, there is something to let in 
 our immediate neighborhood. 
 
LETTERS PROM CORFU. 153 
 
 " Farewell, then, for a little while, my excellent friend, 
 dear sister of my joys and sorrows. I love you more 
 and more as our daughter becomes dearer to me. 
 The distance which separates us cannot chill so true a 
 friendship ; we see each other no more, and we write 
 but seldom, but our prayers meet every day before the 
 throne of God. Countess de Villaneka. 
 
 " P. S. Do not forget my servant ; and, above all, 
 let him be young. Our Methusalehs of the hotel Vil- 
 lanera will never become acclimated here." 
 
 geemaine to her mother. 
 
 Villa. Dandolo, May 7, 1853. 
 
 "Mt deak Mamma, — Old Gil, who will give you 
 this letter, will tell you how healthy it is here. It was 
 not at Corfu that he took the fever, but in the Roman 
 Campagna, so have no fears. 
 
 "I have been quite ill since my last letter, but my 
 second mother must have told you that I am much 
 better. Perhaps M. de ViUanera may have written to 
 you also, — I do not ask an account of his actions. I 
 have been well enough for some time past to scribble 
 three or four pages of paper, — but will you believe 
 
154 GEEMAINB,. 
 
 me when I tell you that I have not had time? I 
 spend my life in breathing, — it is a very pleasant oc- 
 cupation, which takes me ten or twelve hours every day. 
 
 "I suffered greatly in the crisis which I passed. I 
 never remember having been so bad in Paris. Many, 
 in my place, would have wished for death, yet I clutched 
 life with incredible obstinacy. How one changes ! And 
 whence is it that I see things no longer with the same 
 eyes? 
 
 "It is doiibtless because it would have been too sad 
 to have died far from you, without your dear hands to 
 close my eyes. Yet do not think that I lacked atten- 
 tion. If I had succumbed, as the doctor thought, for a 
 little time, you would have had one consolation. The 
 saddest thought when we hear that those we love have 
 died at a distance, is that they have suffered for want 
 of care. As to me, nothing fails me, and everybody is 
 good to me, even M. de Villanera. You must think of 
 this, dear mamma, if any thing should happen to me. 
 
 " Perhaps the friendship and compassion of those about 
 me may have also contributed a little to attach me again 
 to life. When I took leave of you and of my father, 
 I bade adieu to every thing. But I did not know then 
 that I should carry with me a true famUj% The doctor 
 
LETTERS FROM CORFU. 155 
 
 is perfect ; Jde acts as though he hoped to cure me. 
 Madame de Villanera (the real one) is another mother. 
 The marquis is an excellent little fellow, and old Gil 
 has been full of attention. I did not want to sadden all 
 these people by the sight of my death struggles, and this 
 is why I came through the crisis. So much the worse 
 for those who counted on my death, — they have some 
 time to wait. 
 
 "You asked me to describe our house, so that your 
 thoughts might know where to find me when they 
 wished to pay me a visit. M. de Villanera, who draws 
 very well for a nobleman, will send you the plan of 
 the chateau and garden ; I took the liberty of asking 
 this favor of him, as it was for you. In the mean 
 time, content yourself with knowing that we inhabit one 
 of the most picturesque of ruins. At a distance, the 
 house resembles an old church demolished in the Revo- 
 lution, — I would not believe at first that any one could 
 live in it. Five or six inclined planes of masonry, prac- 
 ticable for carriages, with an uneven pavement and 
 balusters, ever so little broken, lead to the grand flight. 
 All this holds together by the force of habit, for it is a 
 long time since there was any cement there. The gilly- 
 flowers and climbing plants have crept into every crevice, 
 
156 GBEMAINB. 
 
 and the road smells like a garden. The house is in the 
 midst of a wood, at a quarter of an hour's walk from 
 the nearest village. I do not exactly know yet of how 
 many floors it consists; the rooms are not all one above 
 another, — you would say that the second story had slid 
 to the ground in an. earthquake. On one side the en- 
 trance is on a level with the ground, and on the other 
 there is a breakneck descent. It is in such a hurly- 
 burly that you must look for your daughter, my dear 
 mamma. I seek her there sometimes myself, but I never 
 find her. 
 
 "We have at least twenty empty chambers, with a 
 magnificent billiard-room where the swallows have built 
 their nests. I have begged them to be left in peace. 
 What am I myself here, but a poor little martin, fleeing 
 from the cold? My room is the best closed of any in 
 the house. It is as large as the Chamber of Deputies, 
 and is painted in oil from top to bottom. I like that 
 better than paper ; it is neater and decidedly cooler. 
 M. de ViUanera bought me at Corfu a new set of fur- 
 niture of English manufacture. My bed, my chairs, and 
 my fauteuils, roll at ease in this immensity of space. 
 The good countess sleeps in the next room with the 
 little marquis. When I say that she sleeps, it is only 
 
LETTEES FROM CORFU. 157 
 
 not to offend her; I see her at my side when I close 
 my eyes, and I find her in the same place when I open 
 them ; but it would not be best to tell her that she has 
 not been in bed all night. The doctor is a little further 
 off, on the same floor. He has installed himself as com- 
 fortably as he could; those who take care of others are 
 capable of taking care of themselves. M. de Villanera 
 perches somewhere under the roof, if it be really true 
 that there is a roof. Our Greek and Itahan servants 
 sleep in the open air, — it is the custom of the country. 
 
 " I have four windows opening on the east and south, 
 through which the hght and air have free entrance after 
 nine o'clock in the morning. They help me up and 
 dress me, and open the windows one by one, so that 
 the sea air may not reach me too abruptly. About ten 
 o'clock, I go down into my gardens. I have two ; one 
 on the north of the house, bounded by a wall more com- 
 plicated than the great wall of China; and another on 
 the south, washed by the sea. The north garden is 
 planted with olive-trees, jujubes, and Japanese medlars ; 
 the other is a forest of orange-trees, fig-trees, citrons, 
 aloes, nopals, and gigantic vines, which thrust themselves 
 everywhere, climbing over every tree and scahng every 
 wall. M. de Villanera said yesterday that the vine was 
 14 
 
158 GERMAINE. 
 
 the goat of the vegetable kingdom. Ah, what a beau- 
 tiful thing it must be, my poor mamma, to roam where 
 one chooses, like this vine, in perfect liberty ! I have 
 never known that happiness in aU my life. But if I 
 live ! 
 
 "I am beginning to crawl along the alleys quite 
 merrily. Eight days ago they were impenetrable; for 
 Count Dandolo's gardener was one of the purely roman- 
 tic school, with a passion for wild luxuriance and untutored 
 grace. They have cut out the trees indiscriminately, as 
 in a virgin forest. I demanded favor for the orange- 
 trees, for you must know that I am reconciled to the 
 odor of the flowers. But they must not be in my cham- 
 ber; I can only endure them in the open air. The 
 perfume which cut flowers exhale in a room, mounts to 
 my brain like an odor of death, — and that saddens 
 me. But when the plants are dancing in the sun, under 
 the sea-breeze, I rejoice with them ; I mingle in their 
 gayety, and blossom in their company. How beautiful the 
 earth is ! how happy every thing that hves ! and how sad 
 it would be to quit this delicious world, which God has 
 created for the pleasure of men! Yet, notwithstanding, 
 there are some who commit suicide. The fools! 
 
 "It was said in Paris that I would not see the leaves 
 
LETTERS PROM CORFU. 159 
 
 bud. I could not have consoled myself for dying so 
 soon without having felt the spring. They have budded, 
 these dear little April leaves, and I am still here to see 
 them. I touch them, smell them, nibble them, and say 
 to them, ' See ! I am among you yet. Perhaps the sum- 
 mer may be granted me beneath your shade. And if we 
 must fall together, oh! linger long on these beautiful 
 trees, cling closely to the branches, and live that I may 
 hve ! ' 
 
 " Can there be any thing gayer, more alive or more 
 varied than these young shoots? They are white on the 
 poplars and willows, red on the pomegranates, blonde as 
 my hair on the tops of the evergreens, and violet at the 
 ends of the citron boughs. "What will their color be six 
 months from now ? We will not think of that. The 
 birds are building their nests in the trees, the blue sea is 
 gently laving the sands of the shore, the generous sun is 
 shedding his full golden rays on my poor thin and color- 
 less hands, and I feel an air filling my lungs which is 
 soft and penetrating as your voice, my mother. I fancy 
 to myself at times that this warm sun, these blossoming 
 trees, these singing birds, are so many friends, who are 
 pleading for my life and who will not let me die. I 
 would nake friends with the whole earth, I would interest 
 
160 GEEMAINE. 
 
 all nature in my fate, I would move the rocks themselves, 
 so that at the last moment there should arise from the 
 four corners of the earth such a wail and such a prayer 
 that God himself would be touched by it. He is good, 
 he is just ; I never have disobeyed him, I never have 
 harmed any one. It would not cost him much to let me 
 live with the rest, confounded in the throng of breathing 
 beings. I take up so little room ! And it does not cost 
 much to feed me. 
 
 "Unhappily there are some who would wear mourning 
 for my recovery, and who could not console themselves 
 for seeing me alive. What must be done about that? 
 They are in the right. I have contracted a debt; I 
 ought to pay it, if I am an honest girl. 
 
 "My dear mamma, what do you think of M. de Vil- 
 lanera ? What do they think of him at Paris ? Is it 
 possible that any one so frank, so patient, and so gentle 
 as he, can be a wicked man ? I met his eyes a few days 
 ago for the first time, — they are beautiful eyes, and one 
 might easily be deceived by them. 
 
 "Adieu, my good mother; pray for me, and try to 
 persuade my father to go to church with you some day. 
 If he would do this for the sake of his little Germaine, 
 his conversion would be complete, and I, perhaps, might 
 
LETTERS FROM CORFU. 161 
 
 be feaved ! There must be a reward on high for those 
 who bring back a soul to God. But who should have 
 favor in Heaven, if you have not, dear saint? 
 "With unbounded love, 
 
 "I am your dutiful daughter, 
 
 " Geemaine. 
 
 " P. S. The kisses for my father are on the right 
 of the signature; yours, on the left." 
 
 14* 
 
162 GERMAINE. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE NEW SERVANT. 
 
 THE DUKE did not show the countess' letter to 
 Madame Chermidy, but he let her read that of Ger- 
 maine. "Tou see," said he, "that she is half saved." 
 
 " You are a lucky man ; every thing succeeds with 
 you," answered she, with a forced smUe. 
 
 "Except love." 
 
 " Patience ! " 
 
 " One cannot be expected to have much of that at my 
 age." 
 
 "And why not?" 
 
 "Because he has no time to lose." 
 
 "Who is this old Gil who brings your letters? — a 
 courier ? " 
 
 "No, he is a valet for whom a substitute is needed. 
 Madame de ViUanera begs the duchess to send her a 
 good one in his place." 
 
 "That is not easy in Paris." 
 
 " I shall speak to the steward of my friend Sanglid." 
 
THE NEW SERVANT. 163 
 
 " Don't you want my assistance ? Le Tas always has 
 half a dozen valets in her train, — she is a veritable intel- 
 ligence office.'' 
 
 "If Le Tas has any protdg^ to provide for, I shall be 
 glad to take him. But remember that we must have a 
 trustworthy man — a nurse." 
 
 "ie Tas must have nurses; she has easrery thing." 
 
 Le Tas was the waiting-maid of Madame Chermidy. 
 She was never seen in the drawing-room, even by sur- 
 prise, yet the most intimate friends of the family were 
 flattered by making her acquaintance. This woman was 
 an abigail of some two hundred and seventy pounds' 
 weight, and was a countrywoman and distant relative of 
 Madame Chermidy. Her name, like that of her mistress, 
 was Honorine Lavenaze ; and to meet this difficulty, they 
 had availed themselves of her deformity to nickname her 
 Le Tas. This living phenomenon, — this heap of quaking 
 flesh, this pachyderm, had followed Madame Chermidy 
 and her fortunes 'for fifteen years. She had been the 
 accomplice of her success, the confidant of her frailties, 
 and the receiver of her millions. Seated in the chimney 
 comer like a familiar demon, she read her mistress's future 
 in the cards, and promised her the sovereignty of Paris, 
 like one of Shakespeare's witches ; she raised her courage. 
 
164 GEEMAINE. 
 
 consoled her sorrows, plucked out her white hairs, and 
 served her with canine devotion. She had gained neither 
 bank-stock nor annuity in the service, nor did she wish 
 it. Older by ten years than Madame Chermidy, and 
 obese to infirmity, she was sure of dying before her mis- 
 tress and of dying in her house: — one does not dismiss 
 a servant who* can carry away his secrets. Besides, Le 
 Tas had neither ambition, cupidity, nor personal vanity; 
 she lived in her beautiful cousin, and was wealthy, bril- 
 liant, and triumphant in the person of Madame Chermidy. 
 These two women, so firmly knit together by a friendship 
 of fifteen years, formed but a single individual, — it was 
 a two-faced head, like the masks of the ancient comedians. 
 On the one side, it smiled at love, and on the other, grim- 
 aced at crime ; one showed itself because it was beautiful, 
 the other hid itself because it was frightful. 
 
 Madame Chermidy promised the duke to think of the 
 matter, and the same day she consulted with Le Tas as 
 to how they could best send the proper servant to Corfu. 
 
 Madame Chermidy was fully decided to put a period 
 to Germaine's convalescence, but she had too much prur 
 dence to take upon herself any risks or perils. She 
 knew that to be criminal is always to be unskilful, and 
 her position was too good to be hazarded on an unlucky 
 throw. 
 
THE NEW SBRTANT. 165 
 
 "You are right," said Le Tas, decidedly; "there must 
 be no crime; that we must begin with. A crime never 
 profits the author; others reap the benefit. A robber 
 kills a rich man on the highway, and finds a hundred 
 sous in his pockets, — the rest goes to the heirs." 
 
 " But here I am the heir ? " 
 
 " Of nothing at all if we are taken in the act. Listen 
 to me. In the first place, she may die a natural death. 
 Next, if any one should lend her a helping hand, we 
 must not know of it." 
 
 "How can that be?" 
 
 "By interesting some one in her death. Suppose a 
 sick man should say to his servants, 'My children, take 
 good o^re of me, the day when I die you shall each 
 have a thousand francs income.' Do you believe that he 
 would have long to live ? I rather think some intelligent 
 knave would be found among the number to follow the 
 doctor's directions in his own way. He would soon have 
 his thousand francs income, and the heirs " 
 
 " "Would inherit. I understand. But we have only 
 one servant to find, — what if we should light on an 
 honest man ? " 
 
 "Are there any, then?" 
 
 " Le Tas, you calumniate humanity. There are a great 
 
166 GEEMAINE. 
 
 many men who would not stake their head for an income 
 of a thousand francs." 
 
 "For my part, I am sure that if we send a little fel- 
 low there — such as I know a plenty of — a genuine 
 Paris blackguard, pale as a green apple, spoiled by his 
 fellows, jealous of his masters, envious of the luxury he 
 sees, and vile as the sewers, — he would comprehend his 
 future prospects within fifteen days." 
 
 " Perhaps. But what if he should fail in his blow ? " 
 
 " Then take a man of experience, — find a practitioner 
 who is skilled in the business, and makes it his trade." 
 
 "You are thinking of the country, my child." 
 
 " Dame ! there were some very fine subjects at Tou- 
 lon." 
 
 "Do you wish me to look fcr a servant in the gal- 
 leys?" 
 
 "There are some who have served their time out." 
 
 " But how can we find them ? " 
 
 "By looking for them. We can afford to take trouble 
 for the right man." / 
 
 A few hours after this conversation, Madame Cher- 
 midy, beautiful as incarnate virtue, did the honors of her 
 drawing-room to the most honorable men of Paris. 
 
 She numbered among her constant visitors a good- 
 
THE NEW Servant. 167 
 
 humored old bachelor, who was an instructive and amus- 
 ing talker, a great reader of new books, an amateur of 
 first representations, a capital narrator of unpublished sto- 
 ries, as irreproachable in his narrations as correct in his 
 toilette, and faithful to the traditions of old French gal- 
 lantry. He was chief of the prefecture of police. 
 
 Madame Chermidy carried him a cup of tea with her 
 own hands, and sweetened it with an ineffable smile. She 
 gossiped a long time with him, exhausted his repertory, 
 and took the liveliest interest in aU that' he chose to 
 relate. For the first time in many months she neglected 
 her other guests, and departed from her habits of strict 
 impartiality. 
 
 The excellent man was in a transport, and he shook 
 the snuff from his frill with visible satisfaction. 
 
 However, as one is never such good company that he 
 must not leave at some time, M. Domet discreetly made 
 his way towards the door a few minutes before midnight. 
 There was stiU a score of lingerers in the drawing-room. 
 Madame Chermidy called him back, with the gracious 
 effrontery of the mistress of the house towards deserters. 
 
 " Dear M. Domet," said she, " you have been too 
 charming for me to give you your liberty so soon. 
 Come here — by my side — and tell me one more of those 
 stories that you tell so well." 
 
168 GERMAINE. 
 
 The excellent man obeyed with a good grace, although 
 it was his rule to go to bed early and to rise early; 
 but he protested that he had emptied his budget, and 
 that unless he invented, had nothing more to tell. A 
 few frequenters of the house formed a circle around 
 him to tease him a little by cross-questioning. They 
 made a thousand demands, each more indiscreet than 
 the other; they wanted the truth concerning the Iron 
 Mask, the real author of the Junius letters, the mysteries 
 of the ring of Gyges, the Gunpowder Plot, and the Coun- 
 cil of Ten, and that he should show the assembly one 
 of the springs of government. He answered all their 
 rallying, gayly and adroitly, with that good-humor which, 
 in old men, is the fruit of a tranquil life ; yet he was 
 not at ease, but fidgeted about in his easy-chair lUie a 
 fish in the frying-pan. At last, Madame Chermidy, with 
 her usual goodness, came to his aid, saying, " It was I 
 who delivered you to the PhiUstines; it is but just 
 that I should free you from them. But on one condition, 
 mark!" 
 
 "I accept it with my eyes shut." 
 
 "It is said that^ almost all the crimes that are com- 
 mitted are done by persons who have already once un- 
 dergone judicial punishment — returned convicts forgats 
 
 . . . liheres — is that the word ? " 
 
THE NEW SERTANT. 169 
 
 " Yes, madame." 
 
 " Ah, well ; explain to us what is a forgat liber e" 
 
 The courteous official took off his spectacles, wiped 
 them with a corner of his handkerchief, and replaced 
 them on his nose. AU who were remaining in the draw- 
 ing-room gathered round him and prepared to listen. 
 The Duke de La Tour d'Embleuse leaned against the 
 mantel, little suspecting that he was assisting at his 
 daughter's murder. Men of the world have an epicurean 
 curiosity, and the mysteries of crime are a rich regale 
 for their palled appetites. 
 
 " Mon Dieu ! madame," exclaimed the chief of the 
 police, "if it is but a simple definition that you ask of 
 me, I shall retire in good season. Returned convicts 
 are men who have finished their term in the galleys. 
 Permit me to kiss your hand, and take leave." 
 
 "What! is thataU?" 
 
 " Absolutely. And note that there is not a man in 
 France who knows the men of whom you speak better 
 than I. I have not seen a single one of them ; but I 
 have their memoranda in my portfolio ; I know their past 
 and present history, their occupation, and their resi- 
 dence, and I could mention them all to you by their names, 
 their surnames, their aliases, and their soubriquets." 
 15 
 
170 GBBMAINB. 
 
 "It was thus that Caesar (be it said without com- 
 parison) knew all the soldiers of his army." 
 
 " Cassar, madame, was more than a great captain ; he 
 was the first official of his age." 
 
 "Were there any forgats liheres in the Roman re- 
 public?" 
 
 " No, madame ; and soon there wiU be none in France. 
 We are beginning to follow the example of the English, 
 who have substituted transportation for the galleys. Pub- 
 lic security will gain by this, and the prosperity of our 
 colonies wUl not lose by it. The galleys were the school 
 of all the vices ; the transported convicts will grow 
 moral through labor." 
 
 " So much the worse ! I regret the returned convicts ; 
 they made such an interesting figure in the novels of the 
 circulating library ! But tell me, M. Domet, who are 
 these people? What do they do? What do they say? 
 Where do they live? How are they dressed? Where 
 can one find them? How can one know them? Do 
 they stiU have letters on their back?" 
 
 "A few have — the veterans of the order. The brand- 
 ing was suppressed in 1791, established again in 1806, 
 and definitively abolished by the law of the twenty-eighth 
 of April, 1832. A returned convict resembles an honest 
 
THE NEW SERVANT. 171 
 
 man in every respect, — he dresses as he likes, and prac- 
 tises ihe profession he has learned. Unfortunately, they 
 have almost all learned to steal." 
 
 '' But are there no honest men among the number ? " 
 
 " Not many. Think of the education of the galleys ! 
 And besides, it is very difQcult for them to gain an 
 honest livelihood." 
 
 " And why so ? " 
 
 "Their antecedents are known, and employers do not 
 like to take them into their shops. Then their comrades 
 in the work-room despise them, and if they have money, 
 and set up in business on their own account, they cannot 
 find journeymen." 
 
 " They are known then ? But by what sign ? If one 
 of them should come here to enter my service, how 
 could I know what he was ? " 
 
 " There is no danger. They are forbidden to stay in 
 Paris, because their surveillance would be too difficult. A 
 residence is assigned them in little provincial towns, and 
 the local police never takes its eyes off them." 
 
 " And what if they come to Paris without your permis- 
 sion?" 
 
 "Their ban would be broken, and we should trans- 
 port them by virtue of a decree of the eighth of Decem- 
 ber, 1851." 
 
172 GERMAINE. 
 
 " But then there is nobody in the fapis- francs ! " 
 
 « Tlie municipal council of the department of the Seine 
 have ordered the houses of which you speak to be demol- 
 ished. There are no longer either game for the dens or 
 dens for the game." 
 
 " Divine goodness ! we are approaching the golden age. 
 M. Domet, you are scattering my illusions one by one. 
 You are depriving life of its poesy." 
 
 " Beautiful lady, life can never want for poesy to 
 those who have the happiness of seeing you." 
 
 This compliment was expressed with such a flourish 
 of rustic gallantry that all the audience applauded. M. 
 Domet blushed to his eyes, and looked down at the 
 toes of his shoes ; but Madame Chermidy soon recalled 
 him to the question. "Where are the returned con- 
 victs?" asked she. "Are there any of them at Vau- 
 girard ? " 
 
 "No, madame, there are none in the department of 
 the Seine." 
 
 "Perhaps, then, there are some at Saint-Germain?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "At Compiegne?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "At Corben?" 
 
 "Tes." 
 
THE NEW SERVANT. 173 
 
 " How many ? " 
 
 "You hope, perhaps, to find me at fault?" 
 
 "That I do!" 
 
 " Well. There are four of them." 
 
 "Their names? Come, Csesar!" 
 
 "Eabichon, Lebrasseur, Chassepie, and Mantoux." 
 
 "Why, that is a verse." 
 
 "You have divined at once the secret of my mne- 
 monics." 
 
 "Let us repeat them: Eabichon . . . . " 
 
 "Lebrasseur, Chassepie, and Mantoux." 
 
 "This is something very curious. Now we are all 
 as learned as you. Eabichon, Lebrasseur, Chassepie, and 
 Mantoux. And what are these honest men doing there?" 
 
 "The first two are in a paper-mill on trial, the 
 third is a gardener, and the fourth has a locksmith's 
 shop." 
 
 "Monsieur Domet, you are a great man; pardon me 
 for having doubted your erudition." 
 
 "Provided that you do not doubt my obedience." 
 
 It was one in the morning. M. Domet departed, and 
 
 all the disciples of Madame Chermidy rose, one after 
 
 the other, and devotedly kissed the little white hand 
 
 which was caressing the hope of a crime. But while 
 
 15* 
 
174 GERMAINE. 
 
 receiving their adieux, the pretty woman was murmur- 
 ing between her teeth the mnemotechnic verse of poor 
 M. Domet: Eabichon, Lebrasseur, Chassepie, and Man- 
 toux. 
 
 The duke was the last to depart. "What are you 
 thinking of?" said he; "you are preoccupied." 
 
 "I am thinking of Corfu." 
 
 " Think of your friends in Paris." 
 
 " Good-night, Monsieur le due. I believe that Le 
 Tas has found you a domestic. She has yet to make 
 the necessary inquiries; we will speak of it again one 
 of these days." 
 
 The next morning Le Tas took the cars to Corbeil. 
 She took lodgings in the hStel de France, and walked 
 the city until Sunday, visiting all the paper stores, buy- 
 ing flowers of all the gardeners, and scrutinizing the 
 passers in all the public streets. On Sunday morning 
 she lost the key of her travelling-bag. She went out 
 in search of a locksmith, and found a little shop on 
 the Essonne road, the master of which was blowing his 
 forge, despite the law of dominical rest. The sign bore 
 the words: Mantoux Peu-de-Chance, Locksmithing of 
 all hinds done here. The locksmith was a small man, 
 gf from thirty to thirty-five, dark, well made, alive and 
 
THE NEW SEBVANT. 175 
 
 awake. One did not need to look twice at him to 
 divine to what sect he belonged ; he was one of those 
 who make Saturday their Sabbath. The love of gain 
 sparkled in his little black eyes, and his nose resem- 
 bled the beak of a bird of prey. Le Tas asked him 
 to return with her to the hotel to force a lock. He 
 acquitted himself like one who understood his business, 
 and when it was finished Le Tas detained him still 
 longer through the charms of her conversation. She 
 began by asking him if he was satisfied with his bu- 
 siness. He replied in the tone of a man disgusted with 
 life. Nothing in his whole life had ever succeeded with 
 him. He had served as a groom, and been discharged 
 by his master. He had then entered into an appren- 
 ticeship to a mechanic, but the malice of some of the 
 customers had injured him greatly. At twenty, he had 
 launched with some companions into a magnificent 
 scheme, — a branch of locksmithry, which promised to 
 afford them all a fortune, — but despite his zeal and 
 skill he had failed shamefully, and had worked hard 
 for ten. years without recovering from his fall. From 
 this time the name of Little-luch had clung to him. 
 He had established himself at Corbeil, after a long stay 
 in the South, The city authorities knew him well. 
 
176 GERMAINE. 
 
 and were interested in his welfare, and he received a 
 visit from the commissary of the police from time to 
 time ; yet work was very scarce, and but few houses 
 were open to him. 
 
 Le Tas compassionated his misfortunes, and asked him 
 why he did not go and seek his fortune elsewhere. 
 
 He replied sadly, that he had neither the taste nor 
 the means for travelling; he had been for a long time 
 in Corbeil. Where the goat is tied, there he must 
 browse. 
 
 "Even when there is nothing to browse upon?" said 
 Le Tas. 
 
 He nodded for the only reply. 
 
 "If I understand physiognomy aright," continued Le 
 Tas, "you are as honest a man as I am a woman. 
 Why do you not find a place in a family, since you 
 have served before? I am at service in Paris, with a 
 lady who treats me kindly, — I think I know a place 
 that would suit you." 
 
 "Thank you with all my heart, but I am forbidden 
 to stay in Paris." 
 
 "By the physician?" 
 
 "Yes, my lungs are delicate." 
 
 "Luckily the place is not in Paris. It is out of 
 
THE NEW SERVANT. 177 
 
 France down in the neighborhood of Turkey, in the 
 country where they cure consumptives by putting them 
 to warm in the sun." 
 
 " I should like that well, if the place were a good one. 
 But many things are needed to cross the frontier, — 
 money, passports ; I have none of these." 
 
 " Every thing will be provided you if you suit mad- 
 ame. But you must come to Paris for an hour or two 
 to see her." 
 
 "Ah, that I can do. Nothing would happen to me, 
 even if I pass a whole day with you." 
 
 " Surely not." 
 
 "If the matter is settled, I should like to take another 
 name on my passport. Mine has brought me quite mis- 
 fortune enough already, and I shall leave it in France 
 with my old clothes." 
 
 " Bah ! you are right. It is what is called changing 
 one's skin. I will speak of you to madame, and if the 
 affair can be arranged; I will drop you a line." 
 
 Le Tas returned the same evening to Paris. Mantoux, 
 sumamed Little-luck, fancied that he had met a beneficent 
 fairy in the disguise of an ape. Golden visions hovered 
 round his pillow; he dreamed that he became rich 
 and honest at the same stroke, and that the Academie 
 
178 GEEMAINE. 
 
 Frangaise decreed him an income of fifty thousand francs 
 as a reward of merit. He received a letter on Monday 
 evening, on the receipt of which he broke his ban, and 
 arrived on Tuesday morning at the house of Madame 
 Chermidy. He had cut his hair and shaved his beard, 
 but Le Tas took good care not to ask him why. 
 
 The splendor of the establishment dazzled him, and he 
 was completely abashed by the severe dignity of Madame 
 Chermidy. The beautiful miscreant had assumed the 
 manners of an imperial censor. She summoned him be- 
 fore her, and questioned him on his past history with the 
 air of a woman not to be deceived. He lied like a pro- 
 spectus, and she took care to believe him. When he had 
 furnished all the necessary information, she said: 
 
 " My lad, the place which I am about to give you is 
 one of trust. A friend of mine, the Duke de La Tour 
 d'Embleuse, is in search of a servant for his daughter, 
 who is dying in a foreign land. Good wages wiU be 
 given for a year or two, and an annuity of twelve hun- 
 dred francs after the death of the young lady. She is 
 given over by all the Paris physicians. The wages will 
 be paid by the family; as to the annuity, I am respon- 
 sible for it. Conduct yourself like a faithful servant, and 
 await the end with patience: you will lose nothing by 
 waiting. 
 
THE NEW SERVANT. 179 
 
 Mantoux swore by the God of his fathers that he 
 would nurse the young lady like a brother, and would 
 force her to live a hundred years. 
 
 " That is right," rejoined Madame Chermidy. " Tou 
 shall attend this evening, and I will present you to the 
 Duke de La Tour d'Embleuse. Show yourself to him as 
 you really are, and I answer for it that he will take 
 you." 
 
 " Whatever may happen," murmured she to herself, 
 "the knave will see in me his dupe instead of his 
 accomplice," 
 
 Mantoux waited at table, not without having received 
 a good lesson from his protectress, Le Tas. The guests 
 were four in number; there were as many servants in 
 attendance to change the plates, and Mantoux had noth- 
 ing to do but to look on. Madame Chermidy had deter- 
 mined at all events to give him a lesson in toxicology. 
 She thought it might not be useless to teach him some- 
 thing of the nature of poisons, and had chosen her guests 
 accordingly. They consisted of a court counsellor, a pro- 
 fessor of medical jurisprudence, and M. de La Tour 
 d'Embleuse. 
 
 She insensibly led the doctor to take up the chapter 
 of poisons. The men who are learned in this delicate 
 
180 GEEMAINE. 
 
 science are usuaUy chary of their knowledge, but they 
 sometimes forget themselves at the table; and indeed, one 
 may well be excused for teUing in private the secrets 
 which he takes care to hide from the public, when he 
 has for his auditory a magistrate, a grand seignior, and 
 a pretty woman, five or six times a millionnaire. The 
 servants count for nothing, — they are not supposed to 
 have any ears. 
 
 Unfortunately for Madame Chermidy, the poisons came 
 before the champagne. The doctor was cautious, and 
 jested a great deal without committing any indiscretion. 
 He entrenched himself in curious archaeological facts, de- 
 clared that the science of poisons was checked in its pro- 
 gress, that we had mislaid the recipes of Locusta, Lu- 
 crezia Borgia, Catherine de Medicis, and the Marchioness 
 de BrinviUiers ; he laughingly regretted these precious 
 lost secrets, and bewailed the subtle poison of young 
 Britannicus, the poisoned gloves of Jeanne d'Albret, the 
 Emperors' dust, and the household liquid which trans- 
 formed Cyprus wine into Syracuse ; not forgetting, on the 
 way, the fatal bouquet of Adrienne Lecouvreur. Madame 
 Chermidy observed that the young locksmith was listen- 
 ing with all his ears. " Tell us of the modern poisons,'' 
 said she to the doctor ; " those which are used in our 
 day, poisons in active service." 
 
THE NEW SERVANT. 181 
 
 " Alas ! madame, we have fallen very low," was his 
 rejoinder. " The difficulty is not to kill people, — a pis- 
 tol shot will do that, — but to kill them so as to leave 
 no traces. This is all that poison is good for, — its only 
 advantage over the pistol. Unfortunately, as soon as a 
 new poison is discovered, a new method is also found for 
 verifying its presence. The Demon of Good has wings 
 as long as the Genius of Evil. Arsenic is a good work- 
 man ; but Marsh's apparatus is at hand to test the work. 
 Nicotine is not a stupid discovery, and strychnine is a 
 very respectable production, but the counsellor knows as 
 well as I that both strychnine and nicotine have found 
 their masters, or, in other words, their antidotes. 
 
 " Phosphorus has been adopted with a show of rea- 
 son. It was said that the human body contained 
 quantities of phosphorus, — if chemical analysis dis- 
 covered it in the body of the victim, it might be 
 answered that nature herself had placed it there. But 
 we have confounded these reasonings with our science. 
 Certainly, it is not difficult to kiU people, but it is 
 almost impossible to do it with impunity. I could point 
 out to you the means of poisoning twenty-five people 
 in a closed room without giving them any beverage. 
 The experiment would not cost ten sous; but the 
 16 
 
182 GEEMAINK. 
 
 assassin's head would go into the bargain. A chemist 
 of great skill has just invented a subtle composition 
 which also has its charms; on breaking the tube which 
 contains it, the people about it fall dead like flies. But 
 nobodj will be persuaded that they died a natural 
 death.'' 
 
 " Doctor," asked Madame Chermidy, " what is prussic 
 acid ? " 
 
 " Prussic or/ cyanohydric acid, madame, is a poison 
 which is not to be bought, very difficult to manufacture, 
 and impossible to preserve pure, even in sealed glasses." 
 
 " And it leaves traces ?" 
 
 "Magnificent ones! It dyes people blue, — -it was 
 thus that Prussian blue was discovered." 
 
 "You are laughing' at us, doctor. You have no 
 respect for the most sacred thing in the world — a 
 woman's curiosity! I have heard of some kind of 
 African or American poison which kills men by the 
 prick of a pin; is it only an invention of the 
 novelists ? " 
 
 "No, it is an mvention of the savages; they use it 
 on the points of their arrows. A pretty poison, madame, 
 which does not keep its victim suffering, — a thunder- 
 bolt in miniature. The most curious part of the matter 
 
THE NEW SERVANT. 183 
 
 is that they eat it with impunity. The savages use it 
 in their sauces and their battles, in war and in the 
 kitchen.'' 
 
 "You just told us its name, but I have forgotten it." 
 " I have not told you, madame, but I am ready to 
 do so. It is the curare. It is sold in Africa, in the 
 Mountains of the Moon ; its venders are the anthro- 
 pophagi." 
 
 This was all Madame Chermidy got for her dinner. 
 The doctor carefully guarded the terrible depository which 
 every physician carries about him. But the duke was 
 touched by Mantoux's sobriety and attention. He took 
 him into the service of his daughter. 
 
184 GERMAINE. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 rnSTE WEATHEK. 
 
 IN READING the history of the French Revolu- 
 tion, -we are often surprised at finding whole months 
 of profound peace and cloudless happiness, in which the 
 passions are hushed, fears luUed, and hatreds at rest, 
 while parties walk hand in hand like brothers, and 
 enemies embrace each other on the public square. These 
 peaceful days are but resting-places prepared from stage 
 to stage along the bloody journey. 
 
 Such silences are also to be found in the most rest- 
 less or the most unhappy life. Passions and diseases, 
 the revolutions of the body and the soul, do not con- 
 tinue their route without some moments of repose. Man 
 is so feeble a being that he can neither act nor suffer 
 without cessation ; if he did not pause from time to time, 
 he would too soon exhaust his vital forces. 
 
 The summer of 1853 was one of those moments of 
 respite for Germaine which come so seasonably to the aid 
 of human weakness. She profited by it; steeped her- 
 
PINE WEATHER. 185 
 
 self in happiness, and took a little strength for the 
 trials she had yet to pass through. 
 
 The cUmate of the Ionian isles has a mildness and 
 equability without parallel. The winter is nothing else 
 than a transition from autumn to spring, while the 
 summer is of a fatiguing serenity. From time to time 
 a fleeting cloud hurries over the Seven Isles, but it 
 never pauses on its way. One may live there for three 
 months in the vain expectation of a drop of rain. In 
 this arid Paradise, the natives do not say as in other 
 countries, " Tiresome as rain ; " but : " Tiresome as fair 
 weather." 
 
 But the fair weather did not weary Germaine; on the 
 contrary, it was slowly healing her. M. Le Bris wit- 
 nessed this miracle of the blue sky with admiration ; he 
 gazed on the work of Nature, and watched the action of 
 a power superior to his own with passionate interest. 
 He was too modest to attribute to himself the honor of 
 the cure, but honestly confessed that the only infallible 
 medicine was that which came from above. 
 
 Yet to merit the aid of Providence, he thought best 
 
 to do a little himself. He had received Chartroule's 
 
 oidometer froni Paris, together with a supply of iodated 
 
 cigarettes. These cigarettes, which are composed of aro- 
 
 16* 
 
186 GERMAINE. 
 
 matic herbs and sedative plants, introduce the medica- 
 ments into the lungs, accustom these most delicate organs 
 to the presence of a foreign substance, and prepare the 
 patient to inhale the pure iodine through the tubes of the 
 apparatus. Unluckily the apparatus arrived in pieces, 
 though it had been packed by the duke himself, and 
 brought with infinite care by the new domestic. They 
 were obliged to send for another, which took some time. 
 
 At the end of a month of the anodyne treatment, Ger- 
 maine experienced a sensible improvement. She was less 
 feeble during the day, she could better endure the 
 fatigues of an airing, and she did not he down so often 
 to rest. Her appetite was better, and moreover, regular, 
 and she no longer rejected the dishes after tasting them. 
 She ate, digested, and slept tolerably well. The fever at 
 evening was considerably abated, and the night-sweats 
 which inundate all consimiptive patients gradually dimin- 
 ished. 
 
 The heart of the sick girl was not slow in entering 
 also into convalescence. Her despair, her petulance, and 
 her hatred of all who loved her, gave place to a gentle 
 and touching melancholy. She was so happy at feeling 
 her Ufe renewed, that she would gladly have thanked all 
 heaven and earth for it. 
 
PINE WBATHEE. 187 
 
 Convalescents are great children, who cling for fear of 
 falling, to every thing about them. Germaine would not 
 suffer her friends to leave her side ; she feared soli- 
 tude; she wished to be reassured every moment, and 
 constantly repeated to the countess, " Is it not true that I 
 am better?" adding, in a low voice, "that I shall not 
 die ? " The countess would answer, laughing, " If Death 
 comes to take you, I will show him my face, and he 
 will keep at a distance." The countess was as vain of 
 her ugliness as other women of their beauty, — coquetry 
 thrusts itself everywhere. 
 
 Don Diego patiently waited till Germaine should 
 return to him. He was too proud and too delicate to 
 importune her with his attentions, but he stood within 
 call, ready to take the first step as soon as she sum- 
 moned him by a glance. She soon grew accustomed 
 to this discreet and silent friendship. The count had 
 something grand and heroic in his ugliness, which women 
 appreciate more than mere beauty. He was not one of 
 those who make conquests, but who inspire passions. His 
 long and swarthy countenance and bronzed hands were 
 contrasted with a certain effect by his white linen cos- 
 tume. His large, black eyes flashed lightnings of warmth 
 and tenderness, and his deep, ringing voice was capable 
 
188 GBEMAINE. 
 
 of the gentlest and most musical inflections. Germaine 
 ended by finding a resemblance between the Spanish 
 grandee and a tamed lion. 
 
 When she walked under the old orange-trees of the 
 garden, or among the tamarisks by the sea-shore, leaning 
 on the arm of the old countess, or with little Gomez 
 clinging to her skirt, the count quietly followed them at 
 a distance without affectation, a book in hand. He 
 never assumed the anxious air of a lover, or confided his 
 sighs to the breeze. You would have called him an 
 indulgent father, who wished to watch over his children 
 without restraining their sports. His affection for his 
 wife consisted of Christian charity, a compassion for 
 weakness, and that bitter joy which a noble heart always 
 feels in the accomplishment of a difficult duty. Perhaps 
 there was also mingled with it a little excusable pride. 
 There is no more glorious victory than to snatch from 
 death its certain prey, and to create a being anew whom 
 disease had almost destroyed. Physicians know this pleas- 
 ure ; they attach themselves sincerely to those whom they 
 have brought back^frbm the other world, and have for 
 them all the affection of a creator for his work. 
 
 Habit, which always draws people together, had accus- 
 tomed Germaine to converse with her husband. There is 
 
PINE WEATHER. 189 
 
 no hatred that can hold out against daily intercourse ; 
 one is forced to speak and answer, and though this 
 pledges nothing, yet life is only endurable at the price of 
 friendship. She called him Don Diego; he simply called 
 her Germaine. 
 
 One day (it was in the middle of June) she was lying 
 in the garden on a Smyrna carpet. Madame de Villa- 
 nera was seated near her, mechanically telling a large 
 coral rosary, while the little Gomez was stuffing his pock- 
 ets with the unripe oranges that had fallen from the 
 trees. Just at this moment, Don Diego passed at a little 
 distance, a book in his hand. Germaine raised herself, 
 and invited him to take a seat. He did not wait to be 
 urged, and put the book in his pocket. 
 
 " What were you reading there ? " asked she. 
 
 "You will laugh at me," answered he, blushing like a 
 school-boy at fault. "It was Greek." 
 
 " Greek ! do you know how to read Greek ! how could 
 a man like you have the patience to learn it ? " 
 
 " By the merest chance. My tutor might have been 
 a fool like so many others, — he happened to be a 
 scholar." 
 
 " And you read Greek for amusement ? " 
 
 " Homer, yes. I am in the middle of the Odyssey." 
 
190 GERMAINE. 
 
 Germaine feigned a little yawn. "I read Homer in 
 Bitaubd," said she. "There was a sword and a casque 
 on the cover." 
 
 "Then you would be very much surprised if I should 
 read you Homer in Homer, — you would not recognize it 
 at aU." 
 
 " Much obliged ! but I do not like stories about 
 battles." 
 
 "There are none such in the Odyssey. It is a novel 
 of society, — the first that was ever written, and perhaps 
 the best. Our fashionable authors have imagined nothing 
 more interesting than the story of this country squire, 
 who left his home to gain a fortune, and who, returning 
 after an absence of twenty years, found an army of knaves 
 installed in his house to court his wife and devour his 
 estate, and slew them all with his trusty arrows. It is 
 an interesting drama, even for the public of the market- 
 place. Nothing is wanting; neither the trusty servant 
 Eumoeus, nor the goat-herd who betrays his master, nor 
 the wise virgins, nor the foolish ones whom Telemachus 
 is charged to hang at the denouement. The only fault in 
 the story is that it is always translated with exaggeration. 
 The young rustics who besieged Penelope have been 
 transformed into so many kings, the farm-house has been 
 
FINE WEATHER. 191 
 
 changed into a palace, and gold has been scattered every- 
 where. If I dared translate to you a single page, you 
 would be struck with the simple and familiar truth of 
 the story, you would see with what innocent delight the 
 poet speaks of the ruby wine and the juicy meat, and 
 how enthusiastically he admires the well-joined doors and 
 polished floors. Ton would see, too, with what fidelity 
 nature is portrayed, and you would find in my book the 
 sea, the sky, and the garden which is spread before us.'' 
 
 " Let us try," said Germaine. " You will see how soon 
 I will fall asleep." 
 
 The count obeyed with a good grace, and began to 
 translate the first book at sight, unrolling before the eyes 
 of Germaine the glorious Homeric style, richer, more 
 varied, and more sparkling than the brilliant tissues of 
 Beyroot or Damascus. His translation was the freer that 
 he did not understand all the words ; but he did what was 
 better, he understood the poet. He cut short some te- 
 dious passages, interpreted certain obscure sentences in his 
 own fashion, and added to the text a spicy commentary. 
 In short, he interested all of his beloved auditory with 
 the exception of the Marquis de los Hierro, who screamed 
 with all his might to interrupt the reading. Children are 
 like birds ; they always sing when others are talking. 
 
192 GEEMAINE. 
 
 I do not know whether the young couple reached the 
 end of the Odyssey ; but it is certain that Don Diego had 
 found means to awaken his wife's interest, and that was 
 a great deal. She fell into the habit of hearing him read 
 and of taking pleasure in his company, and she was not 
 long in seeing in him a man of superior mind. He was 
 too timid to speak in his own name, but the presence of 
 a great poet inspired him with boldness, and his own 
 ideas found daylight under cover of the words of another. 
 Dante, Ariosto, Cervantes, and Shakespeare were the 
 sublime mediators who were charged with the task of 
 drawing these two souls together and rendering them dear 
 to each other. Germaine felt herself in nowise humiliated 
 by her own ignorance and the superiority of her hus- 
 band, — a woman rejoices in being nothing in comparison 
 with him she loves. 
 
 They grew into the habit of living together and of 
 meeting in the garden for reading and conversation. It 
 was not gayety that made the charm of these interviews, 
 but a certain calm and friendly serenity. Don Diego did 
 not know how to laugh, and the laughter of his mother 
 resembled a nervous grimace, and the doctor, with his 
 Champenois frankness and mirth, seemed to strike a 
 false note when he threw his grain of salt into the con- 
 
FINE WEATHER. 193 
 
 versation. Germaine coughed sometimes, and she still 
 wore on her countenance that unquiet expression which 
 the neighborhood of death gives. And meanwhile these 
 cloudless summer days were the first happy days of her 
 youth. , 
 
 How many times during this quiet of family life was 
 the count's mind troubled by the memory of Madame 
 Chermidy ? No one knew, and I shall not venture to 
 answer the question. It is possible that solitude, idleness, 
 the. privation of those exciting pleasures so alluring to 
 men, and lastly, the sap of spring-time which mounts to 
 the brow of man as to the branches of trees, made him 
 more than once regret his noble resolution. The Trap- 
 pists, who turn their back on the world after having en- 
 joyed it, find arms ready in their cell wherewith to resist 
 the' temptations of the past, — these weapons are fasting 
 and prayer, and a discipline mortifying enough to slay the 
 old man within them. There is still more merit in fight- 
 ing, like Don Diego, as an unarmed soldier. M. Le Bris 
 covertly watched him as a patient whom it was necessary 
 to preserve from a relapse. He rarely spoke to him of 
 Paris, and never of the Eue du Cirque; and on reading 
 one day in a journal that the Ndiade had been despatched 
 to Ky-Tcheou in the Japan sea to demand reparation for 
 17 
 
194 GBEMAINE. 
 
 the insult offered to the missionaries, he quietly tore the 
 paper into atoms that the name of M. Chermidy might 
 not be called in question. 
 
 There are hours in the East -when the southern 
 breezes intoxicate the senses of man more completely 
 than Malmsey wine, — the heart melts like wax, the 
 will unbends, and the mind grows enervated. He 
 strives to think, and the thoughts escape him like a 
 wave gliding through his fingers. He takes a book — 
 some old and pleasant friend — and sits down to read; 
 his eyes wander at the first line, his gaze swims, and 
 his eyelids open and shut without his knowing why. 
 It is in such hours of half slumber and gentle quie- 
 tude that our hearts open of their own accord. The 
 sterner virtues win an easy triumph when the piercing 
 cold reddens our noses and bites our ears, and when 
 the December wind contracts the fibres of the flesh and 
 the will. But when the jasmines shed their pungent 
 perfumes everywhere about us, when the fragrant ole- 
 anders rain their blossoms on our heads, when the 
 musical pines, swaying in the wind, ring out their 
 silvery murmur, and when the white sails range them- 
 selves afar on the sea like mystic Nereids, then must 
 one be both deaf and blind to see or understand any 
 thing else than love. 
 
PINE WEATHER. 195 
 
 Don Diego noticed one day that Germaine was im- 
 proving remarkably. Her cBeeks were fuller and rounder, 
 and the furrows in her beautiful countenance were grad- 
 ually filling up, while the sinister wrinkles became 
 effaced. A more healthful color tinged her vividly 
 beautiful face, and her golden hair no longer wreathed 
 a death's head. 
 
 She had been listening for some time to the reading, 
 and, overcome at the same moment by weariness and sleep, 
 had let her head fall backward, and was reclining at 
 full length in the pillows of the fauteuil. The count 
 was alone with her. He laid his book on the ground, 
 softly approached her, and, throwing himself on his 
 knees before the young girl, was about to press his 
 lips to her forehead, when he was suddenly restrained 
 by an instinct of delicacy. For the first time, he thought 
 with horror of the manner in which he had become the 
 husband of Germaine. He was ashamed of the bargain; 
 he felt that a kiss obtained by stealth would be some- 
 thing like a crime, and he forbade himself to love his 
 wife until he was sure of being loved by her. 
 
 The tenants of the Villa Dandolo did not live in so 
 profound a solitude as might have been imagined. Iso- 
 lation is only to be found in large cities, where each 
 
196 GERMAINE. 
 
 one lives for himself without troubling himself about Ms 
 neighbors. In the country, the most indifferent draw 
 together; no one fears an hour's journey, man realizes 
 that he was born for society, and seeks the conversation 
 of his fellows. 
 
 But few days passed on which Germaine did not re- 
 ceive a visit. The neighbors came to see her at first 
 through curiosity, afterwards through kindness, and finally 
 through friendship. The corner of the island in which 
 they were staying was inhabited through the whole sea- 
 son by five or six families in moderate circumstances, 
 who would have been poor in the city, but who wanted 
 for nothing on their estates because they knew how to 
 content themselves with little. Their castles were falling 
 to ruin, and they had no money wherewith to repair 
 them ; but they carefully maintained the escutcheon in 
 the doorway, which dated as far back as the crusades. 
 The Ionian isles are the faubourg Saint-Germain of the 
 East, — you find there the lofty virtues and the petty 
 caprices of nobility, pride, dignity, decent and laborious 
 poverty, and a certain elegance in the most destitute 
 phase of life. 
 
 The owner of the villa, Count Dandolo, would not 
 have been disowned by his ancestors, the doges. He was 
 
PINE WEATHER. 197 
 
 an active and intelligent man, awake to political affairs, 
 and hesitating between the Grecian party and Eng- 
 lish influence, though inclined to the Opposition, and 
 always ready to pass a harsh judgment on the acts of 
 the Lord Commissioner. He closely followed the old 
 and new intrigues which were dividing Europe, watched 
 the progress of the British lion, discussed the Eastern 
 question, disquieted himself ah<fht the influence of the 
 Jesuits, and presided over the lodges of the freemasons 
 of Corfu. He was, on the whole, an excellent little man, 
 who displayed more activity in sailing round a glass of 
 water than a sea-captain would in circumnavigating the 
 globe. His son Spiro, a handsome young man of thirty, 
 had suffered himself to be won by English ideas, like all 
 the rising generation, mingled with the officers, and was 
 seen in their boxes at the theatre. The Dandolos might 
 have lived elegantly on the proceeds of their estates ; 
 but at Corfu the people are as poor as the soil is rich. 
 Every one is ready to sell, but nobody ever thinks of 
 buying. The count and Spiro spoke the three languages 
 of the country — English, Greek, and Italian — with flu- 
 ency ; they knew French besides, and their friendship was 
 valuable to Germaine. Spiro interested himself in the 
 fair invalid with all the warmth of an unqccupied heart. 
 17* 
 
198 GEEMAINB. 
 
 He sometimes brought with him one of his friends, 
 Doctor Delviniotis, professor of chemistry in the faculty 
 of Corfu. M. Delviniotis Towed to the invalid a friend- 
 ship the more earnest inasmuch as he had a daughter 
 of the same age. He consulted with M. Le Bris, 
 talked in Italian with the count and Madame de VU- 
 lanera, and grieved over not knowing French well 
 enough to make a fuDBr acquaintance with Germaine. 
 He might often have been seen seated before her for 
 hours, seeking a sentence, or gazing at her in silence 
 with that mute and respectful politeness which prevails 
 throughout all the East. 
 
 The most noisy of the company was Captain Brd- 
 tiguieres, an old Frenchman, who had settled in Corfu 
 in 1814. He had quitted the service at the age of 
 twenty-four, with a pension and a wooden leg. This 
 tall, meagre, and bony body limped merrily, drank dry, 
 and laughed high in the face of old age. He travelled 
 a league on foot to dine at the Villa Dandolo, where 
 he told tales of a soldier's life, stroked his gray mus- 
 tsiches, and maintained that the Ionian isles belonged 
 of right to France. He was always a welcome guest, 
 for his gayety enlivened the whole household. Some- 
 times, on pouring out a bumper, he would say, in a 
 
FINE WEATHER. 199 
 
 sententious tone, — "Ah, well! when one is loved and 
 esteemed, he can drink as much as he likes without 
 fear of harm." Germaine dined with a good appetite 
 whenever the captain was there. The sight of this 
 merry cripple, who clung so eagerly to life, inspired her 
 with a gentle hope, and forced her to have faith in the 
 future. M. Bretiguieres petted the little marquis, called 
 him general, and danced him on his knee, while he 
 gallantly kissed the hands of the invalid, and served 
 her with the devotion of an old page, or a troubadour in 
 retirement. 
 
 She had an admirer of a different school in the per- 
 son of Mr. Stevens, magistrate of the royal court of 
 Corfu. This honorable official applied to his body a 
 treatment of a thousand pounds sterling a year. A 
 neater, sleeker, rosier, or more portly man has never 
 been seen, — he was the picture of tranquil and well- 
 fed health. Egotistical as all old bachelors, serious as 
 all magistrates, and phlegmatic as all Englishmen, he 
 nevertheless concealed beneath his blissful rotundity a 
 large share of sensibility. Health appeared to him so 
 precious a gift that he would gladly have shared it 
 with all the universe. He had known the young Eng- 
 lishman of Pompeii, and had followed with interest the 
 
200 GERMAINE. 
 
 different phases of his cure. He told naively how he 
 had felt but an indifferent sympathy with the youth 
 while pale and dying, but had loved him better from 
 day to day, in proportion as he saw him returning to 
 life, and had become his intimate friend on the day on 
 which he could shake hands with him without making 
 him wince. This was also the secret of his regard for 
 Germaine. He avoided attaching himself to her so 
 long as he believed her condemned to death, but from 
 the moment when she appeared again to take hold of 
 life, he opened his heart and bade her enter. 
 
 The nearest neighbors of the household were Madame 
 de Vitre and her son, and they became in a short 
 time the most intimate friends. The baroness was a 
 Norman woman, who had taken refuge in Corfu with 
 the wreck of her fortune. As she shunned all mention 
 of her history, no one knew what had driven her from 
 her country ; but what was evident to all . eyes was, 
 that she lived like a good woman, and brought up her 
 son admirably. She was forty years of age, and pos- 
 sessed a not unusual comeliness; she would have been 
 taken in France for a farmer's wife of the pays de 
 Gaux. But she occupied herself in her household, her 
 olive-trees, and her dear Gaston, with a systematic ac- 
 
FINE WEATHER. 201 
 
 tivity and an indefatigable zeal which betrayed her 
 race. Greatness is a gift that reveals itself in the 
 most varied scenes and positions in life; it is as vis- 
 ible in labor as in repose, and shines no more bril- 
 liantly in a drawing-room, than in a laundry or a farm- 
 yard. Madame de Vitre, between her two servants, and 
 clothed like them in the national costume so like the 
 habit of the Carmelites, was as imposing as Penelope 
 embroidering the tunic of young Telemachus. Gaston 
 de Vitre, who was fair as a young girl of twenty, led 
 the rude and active life of a country squire. He 
 worked with his own hands, pruned the trees, gathered 
 the oranges, and trimmed the pomegranate hedge, whose 
 red fruits were just bursting in the sun. In the morn- 
 ing he wandered through the dew, with his gun on his 
 shoulder, in pursuit of the fig-peckers and thrushes; 
 and in the evening he read with his mother, who was 
 his preceptor and the nurse of his intellect. Without 
 care for the future, ignorant of the world, and confin- 
 ing his thoughts to the horizon which bounded his gaze, 
 he suspected the existence of no other pleasures than 
 a fine day of hunting, a volume of Lamartine, or a 
 sail on the sea in his pleasure-boat ; his was a virgin 
 heart, as white and as pure as those spotless sheets of 
 
202 GEEMAINB. 
 
 paper which look longingly at the pen, inviting it to 
 write. When his mother took him to the Villa Dan- 
 dolo, he perceived for the first time that he was a little 
 ignoramus; he blushed at the idleness iu which he had 
 lived, and — he regretted that he had never learned 
 medicine. 
 
 Visits are always long in the country. People are 
 forced to travel so far to see each other that they feel 
 reluctant to separate again. The Dandolos, the Vitres, 
 the judge, the captain, and Doctor Delviniotis sometimes 
 passed whole days about the fair convalescent. She 
 retained them with joy, without probing the secret mo- 
 tive that prompted her to do so. Already had she 
 commenced to shun occasions of being alone with her 
 husband. ' As declared love flees from intruders, and 
 seeks the privacy of a tSte-k-tete, so does growing love 
 seek the distraction of numbers and excitement. As 
 soon as we begin to feel ourselves in the possession 
 of another, it seems to us that strangers and indifferent 
 persons protect us against our weakness, and that we 
 should be defenceless if they were not there. 
 
 Madame de Villanera served unconsciously the secret 
 wish of Germaine. She retained Madame de Vitrd near 
 her, and became more attached to her from day to day. 
 
PINE WEATHER. 203 
 
 Don Diego had not yet come to that point where a lover 
 impatiently endures the company of strangers; his affec- 
 tion for Germaine was stUl disinterested, because she was 
 cool and tranquil. He sought before all else to divert 
 his young wife and gradually to attach her again to life. 
 It may be, too, that this man, as timid as all men who, 
 are really strong, shrunk from explaining to himself this 
 new feeling which attracted him towards her. He feared 
 to stand between two opposing duties, and he could not 
 conceal from himself that he was pledged for life to 
 Madame Chermidy. He beUeved her worthy of his love, 
 and he esteemed her despite her frailty, as one esteems 
 the woman, whether innocent or guilty, of whose love he 
 is certain. If any one had come with proofs in hand to 
 tell him that Madame Chermidy was not worthy of him, 
 he would have experienced a feeling of anguish instead 
 of relief. One does not break easily with three years of 
 happiness, or say, rubbing his hands : " God be praised ! 
 my son is the child of an intrigante ! " 
 
 The count felt, therefore, a sort of mental uneasiness, a 
 secret disquietude, which opposed his growing passion. 
 He feared to read his own thoughts, and stood before his 
 heart as before a letter, of which he dared not break the 
 seal. 
 
204 GERMAINB. 
 
 In the mean time they sought each other, met, and 
 were happy together, thanking from the bottom of their 
 hearts those who hindered them from being alone. The 
 circle of friends which gathered around them sheltered 
 their love as the great elms which surround the Norman 
 orchards protect the frail efflorescence of the apple- 
 trees. 
 
 The reception-room was the garden, where there was 
 a continuous shower of little oranges. Germaine reclined 
 in her fauteuil and smoked her iodated cigarettes, the 
 count watched the growth of her life, Madame de Vil- 
 lanera played with the child like a great black Faun of an- 
 tiquity with its swarthy offspring, and the friends swayed 
 to and fro in the large rocking-chairs which had been 
 imported from America. From time to time, Mantoux or 
 another house-servant served coffee, ices, or sweetmeats, 
 according to the usages of Eastern hospitality. The 
 guests wondered a little that the mistress of the house 
 was the only one of the whole company that smoked. 
 They smoke everywhere in the East. You throw away 
 your cigar at the door, but the mistress of the house 
 offers another while wishing you good morning. Ger- 
 maine, whether it was that she had grown more indulgent 
 to the single fault of her husband, or whether she took 
 
FINE WEATHER. 205 
 
 pity on these poor Greeks who did not know how to 
 live without their tobacco, decreed one fine morning that 
 the cigarette should henceforth be permitted throughout 
 the extent of her empire. Don Diego smilingly re- 
 minded her of her former repugnance. She blushed a 
 little as she hastily replied: "Oh, I have read in Monte 
 Christo that the Turkish tobacco is a perfume, and I 
 know that they can smoke no other here in sight of the 
 shores of Turkey. It was quite different with your odious 
 cigars, the very sight of which made me ill." 
 
 Erelong the large chibouk with its red bowl and am- 
 ber mouthpiece, and the crystal narghila, bubbling so 
 melodiously and coiling its long, pliant stem on the grass 
 like a serpent, made their debut both in the house and 
 in the garden. At the end of July, the odious cigars 
 timidly escaped from some invisible receptacle, and they 
 found grace in the eyes of Germaine. These tokens 
 proved that she was decidedly better. 
 
 It was at this time that the elect of Madame Gher- 
 midy, Mantoux surnamed Little-luck, took the part of 
 poisoning his mistress. 
 
 There is always some good in the most vicious man, 
 and I must admit that for two months Mantoux had been 
 an excellent domestic. When the duke, who was igno- 
 18 
 
206 GEEMAINB. 
 
 rant of his history, had procured him a passport under the 
 name of Mathieu, he strode over the frontier with joy 
 and gratitude. Perhaps he dreamed in good sooth, like 
 the valet of Turcaret, of founding a family of honest 
 men. The sweetness of Germaine, the spell which she 
 cast upon all about her, the good wages which she paid 
 her people, and the little hope which she had of living, 
 inspired this contraband valet with kindly feelings. He 
 knew much better how to pick a lock than to prepare a 
 glass of sugared water, but he strove not to appear like 
 a novice, and he succeeded. He belonged to an intelli- 
 gent race, who are at home everywhere, skilful in every 
 craft, and even in every art, and he applied himself so 
 assiduously, made such progress, and learned his business 
 in so short a time, that his masters were satisfied with 
 him. 
 
 Madame Chermidy had advised him to conceal his re- 
 ligion, and to deny it at need, if any one questioned him ; 
 she knew well how intolerant the Spaniards of the old 
 school are towards Israelites. Unfortunately this new- 
 made honest man could not hide his features. Madame 
 de ViUanera suspected him of being at least a converted 
 Jew, but, like a good Spaniard, she made little difference 
 between converts and heretics. She was the best woman 
 
PINE WEATHER. 20T 
 
 in the world, yet she would have sent them all pell-meU 
 to the stake, quite sure that the twelve apostles would 
 have done the same. 
 
 Mantoux, who had already more than once compounded 
 with his conscience, did not scruple to deny the religion 
 of his fathers ; he even consented to attend mass with the 
 other servants ; but by one of those contradictions so 
 common to man, he could never prevail upon himself to 
 eat the same food as his comrades. Without placarding 
 his refusal, he threw himself upon vegetables, fruits, and 
 herbs, and played the part of a Pythagorean or a vege- 
 tarian. But he consoled himself for this regimen when 
 he was sent on an errand to town. He went straight to 
 the Jews' quarter, fraternized with his people, talked in 
 the semi-Hebraic jargon which serves as a bond to the 
 widely scattered nation, and feasted on the kaucher meat, 
 or that which had been killed by the sacrificer according 
 to the commands of the law. It was a consolation which 
 failed him when he was in the galleys. 
 
 In conversing with his co-religionists, he learned many 
 things, one of which was that Corfu was a magnificent 
 country, a veritable land of promise, in which one could 
 live cheaply and count himself rich with twelve hundred 
 francs' income. He learned, too, that English justice was 
 
208 GERMAINE. 
 
 rigorous, but that with a good boat and two oars, one 
 could easily escape its pursuit. It sufficed to put the 
 prow towards Turkey; and the continent was but a few 
 miles off, — one could see it, almost touch it. And 
 lastly, he learned where arsenic could be bought at the 
 lowest price. 
 
 Towards the end of July, he heard it affirmed by 
 several persons that the young countess was on the road 
 to recovery. He was sure of it from the evidence of his 
 own eyes, and he daily expected to see her perfectly 
 restored. Every evening, on bringing her a glass of eau 
 sucree, he remarked with M. Le Bris the mitigation of 
 the cough and the decrease of fever. One morning he 
 witnessed the opening of a case, which had been much 
 better packed than the one he had brought from Paris. 
 He saw taken from it an elegant apparatus of copper 
 and crystal, — a little machine so simple and so appetizing 
 that one regretted on seeing it that he was not consump- 
 tive. The doctor eagerly mounted it on its pedestal, and 
 said, regarding it affisctionately, " Behold, God willing, the 
 safety of the countess ! " 
 
 These \yords were -the more painful to Mantoux as he 
 had just cast his eyes on a charming little estate, with a 
 cottage embowered in trees, — a nest just after the heart 
 
FINE WBATHEE. 209 
 
 of an honest family. The idea occurred to him of break- 
 ing this engine of destruction, which menaced his coming 
 fortune. But he reflected, on second thoughts, that they 
 would show him the door, and that he would lose his 
 wages together with his annuity; so he sorrowfully re- 
 signed himself to being merely a good servant. 
 
 Unfortunately his comrades prated loudly of the vege- 
 table diet to which he had condemned himself. Madame 
 de Villanera, taking alarm at this, informed herself of 
 every thing, and decided that he was an incorrigible Jew, 
 who had relapsed into heresy with all its consequences. 
 She asked him whether it suited him better to find a 
 place at Corfu or to return to France. It was in vain 
 for him to lament and ask pardon, and to entreat the 
 charitable intervention of Germaine, — Madame de Villa- 
 nera would not listen to reason on this point. All that 
 he could obtain was permission to remain till the arrival 
 of his substitute. 
 
 He had a month before him : this is how he profited 
 by it. He bought several grains of arsenious acid, and 
 hiS it in his chamber. From this he took a pinch suffi- 
 cient for the ration of two men, and dissolved it in a 
 large glass of water. This glass he placed in the pantry 
 upon a high shelf only to be reached by mounting a 
 18* 
 
210 GERMAINE, 
 
 chair; and without loss of time he poured a few drops 
 of this poisoned liquid into the eau sucree of the invalid. 
 He promised himself to repeat it daily, to kill his mis- 
 tress slowly, and to merit, despite the little apparatus, the 
 benefactions of Madame Chermidy. 
 
LETTERS FROM CHINA AND PARIS. 211 
 
 "'T/'OU do r 
 -L as if i 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 LETTERS FROM CHINA AND PARIS. 
 
 "to m. mathieu mantoux, care of count de vil- 
 laneea, villa dandolo, cokfu. 
 
 WitJiout date. 
 'OU do not know me, but I know you as well 
 had made you. You were once a gov- 
 ernment boarder in the naval school of Toulon, — it was 
 there 1 saw you for the first time. I met you afterwards 
 at Corbeil; you did not do a brilliant business there, and 
 the police had its eye on you. You have had the good 
 hap to light on a silly fool of a Parisienne, who has pro- 
 cured you a fine place, with the hope of a pension. The 
 lady of the Rue du Cirque and her waiting-maid take 
 you for an honest simpleton ; and it is said that your 
 masters honor you with their confidence. If the invalid 
 whom you are nursing had taken her passage to the 
 other world, you would be rich and respected, and could 
 live in competence in any country you chose. Unfortu- 
 
212 GERMAINE. 
 
 nately she has not decided, and you have not wit enough 
 to put her on the right road. So much the worse for 
 YOU ! You will keep your nickname, Little-luck ! The 
 commissary of police is in search of you. He is on 
 your track. If you do not take your measures, be sure 
 that he will find you yonder. You see that I have found 
 you, since I write to you! Have you any curiosity to 
 go and gather pepper at Cayenne? "Work, then, slug- 
 gard ! your fortune is in your own hands as sure as I 
 
 am called But you do not need to know my 
 
 name. I am neither Rabichon, nor Lebrasseur, nor Chas- 
 sepie. I am, in the hope that you will comprehend your 
 
 own interests, 
 
 "Your friend, x. T. Z." 
 
 MADAME CHEKMIDT TO DOCTOK LE BRIS. 
 
 Pakis, August 13, 1853. 
 
 "Key of Hearts, my charming friend, I have some 
 astonishing and delightful news for you. Madame S^- 
 vigne would have made you wait two pages for it; I go 
 more quickly to work, and give it to you in the first 
 line. I am a widow, my friend! a widow in good ear- 
 nest ! a widow without remedy ! as much a widow as 
 though the notary had declared me so! I have received 
 
LETTERS FROM CHINA AND PARIS. 213 
 
 the official news, the mortuary certificate, the compliment- 
 ary condolences of the Minister of the Navy, the sword 
 and epaulettes of the defunct, and a pension of seven 
 hundred and fifty francs to keep me from want in my 
 old age. Widow ! widow ! widow ! There 's no prettier 
 word in the French language. I dress myself in black ; 
 I walk the streets, and I long to stop the passers and 
 teU them that I am a widow. 
 
 "I have proved on this occasion that I am no ordi- 
 nary woman. I know of more than one who would have 
 Avept, either through human weakness or to quiet her 
 nerves. I ? I laughed like a fool, and threw myself on 
 Le Tas^ neck, who hadn't the .strength to hinder. Cher- 
 midy is no more ! we shall have no more of Chermidy ! 
 no more Chermidy, upon my word! we have a right to 
 say the late Chermidy! 
 
 "You know. Tomb of Secrets, that I never loved this 
 man. He was nothing to me. I bore his name and his 
 ill-humor ; two or three boxes on the ear, which he gave 
 me, were the only ties which love ever formed between 
 us. The only man whom I have ever loved, my true 
 husband, my husband in the sight of God, never was 
 called Chermidy. My fortune did not come from this 
 sailor, I owe him nothing, and I should be very hypocriti- 
 
214 GERMAINB. 
 
 cal to weep over him. You witnessed our last inter- 
 view; do you remember the conjugal grimace which 
 embellished his features? If you had not been present, 
 he would not have contented himself with that, — these 
 sailor husbands are capable of every thing. The cards 
 have often predicted that I should die a violent death, — 
 it was because the cards knew M. Chermidy. He would 
 have wrung my neck sooner or later, and have danced 
 at my funeral. It is I who laugh, and dance, and talk 
 nonsense; — it is a case of legitimate self-defence. 
 
 "But come, his death is an interesting story. You 
 never saw such a piece of Chinese workmanship, — I 
 wish I could put it on my what-not. All my friends 
 came here yesterday to offer me their condolence. Their 
 faces were heavy with mourning, but I told them the 
 story, cheered them up, and lightened the load in the 
 twinkling of an eye. We laughed without stopping till 
 half an hour after midnight. 
 
 " You must know, my dear doctor, that the Ndiade was 
 stationed before Ky-Tcheou. I have never succeeded in 
 finding the place on the map, and I am in despair. The 
 geographies of the present day are strangely incomplete. 
 Zy-Tcheou ought to be at the south of the peninsula of 
 Corea, on the Sea of Japan. I have found Kin-Tcheou, 
 
, LETTERS PEOM CHINA AND PAEIS. 215 
 
 it is true, but that is in the province of Ching-King, on 
 the gulf of Leou-Toung, in the Yellow Sea. Put yourself 
 in the place of a poor widow who does not know in what 
 latitude she was deprived of her husband ! 
 
 " Be that as it may, the magistrates of Ky-Tcheou, or 
 Kin-Tcheou at the mouth of the river Li-Kiang, had 
 maltreated two French missionaries. The governing 
 mandarin, the powerful Gou-Ly, father of the city, de- 
 voted all his leisure to playing tricks on strangers. 
 There are three European factories in tliis agreeable 
 place, and a French mercer officiates as consular agent. 
 A flag was suspended before the door of his house, 
 and the two missionaries lodged with him. Gou-Ly 
 arrested the two priests, and accused them of having 
 preached a strange religion. It ill became them to 
 defend themselves, since they had come there precisely 
 for that purpose. They were condemned to death ; and 
 the rumor was spread that they had been executed. It 
 was at this juncture that the admiral despatched the 
 Ndiade to see something of what was going on. The 
 commandant ordered Gou-Ly on board. Can't you fancy 
 my husband tete-a-tete with this Chinaman? Gou-Ly 
 protested that the missionaries were in perfect health, but 
 that they had infringed the laws of the counti-y, and 
 
216 GERMAINE. 
 
 must remain in prison for six months. My husband de- 
 manded to see them; the maadarin offered to show them 
 to him through the grating. He went the same evening 
 to the gates of the prison. He saw two missionaries in 
 ecclesiastical costume gesticulating at the window. The 
 French consul recognized them, and everybody was sat- 
 isfied. 
 
 " But the next morning, the consul was informed that 
 the two missionaries had positively been slaughtered eight 
 days before the arrival of the Ndiade. More than 
 twenty witnesses testified to the fact. M. Chermidy again 
 put on his uniform, landed his men, returned to the 
 prison, and forced the doors, despite the gestures of the 
 missionaries, who stretched out their arms to send him 
 back to the ship. He found in the cell two wax figures, 
 modelled with Chinese perfection, — they were the mis- 
 sionaries which had been shown to him the night before. 
 
 " My husband fell into a towering passion. He could 
 not endure that any one should deceive him, — it is a 
 trait that I have long known in him. He returned on 
 board his ship, and swore a great oath that he would 
 bombard the city if the murderers were not punished. 
 The mandarin sabmitted, trembling like a leaf, and 
 ordered the judges to be sawed asunder between two 
 
LETTERS FROM CHINA AND PARIS. 217 
 
 planks. For once, my husband had nothing more to 
 say. 
 
 " But the laws of the countiy permit every one that 
 is condemned to death to furnish a substitute. There 
 are special agencies which, by means of five or six 
 thousand francs and some fine promises, persuade a poor 
 devil to let himself be cut in twain. The Chinese of the 
 lowest class, who grovel pellmell among the animals, do 
 not cling prodigiously to life. You comprehend how this 
 is! They willingly decide to lead a short life and a 
 merry one, when they are offered a thousand piastres to 
 spend in three days. My husband accepted the sub- 
 stitutes, witnessed the punishment, and made his peace 
 with the ingenious Gou-Ly. He carried his clemency 
 so far as to invite him to dinner the next day, together 
 with the magistrates who had been punished by proxy. 
 This was acting like a good diplomate ; for what is di- 
 plomacy but the art of pardoning injuries as soon as one 
 has avenged them? 
 
 " Gou-Ly and his accomplices came to dine in great 
 state on board the Ndiade. The dessert was illuminated 
 by a magnificent conflagration, — the ship had taken fire 
 and blazed like a match. The pumps were played in 
 good time, the accident was laid on the shoulders of 
 19 
 
218 GERMAINE. 
 
 a cook, and apologies were made to the venerable 
 Gou-Ly. 
 
 " Do you find the story tedious ? Patience ! "We have 
 only one day longer to live. The mandarin wished to 
 reciprocate his politeness ; he invited him for the next 
 day to one of those banquets which are the triumph of 
 Chinese prodigality. We are but poor spendthrifts com- 
 pared with these originals. The nobleman who spent 
 five hundred francs for his own dinner at the Cafe de 
 Paris was an object of admiration ; that was nothing at 
 all to the Chinese. They announced to the command- 
 ant ragouts spiced with costly pearls, swallows' nests 
 lined with the tongues of golden pheasants, and the cele- 
 brated peacock-egg omelette, which is made at the table, 
 killing each female to obtain her single egg. My Cher- 
 midy, as simple as his own oars, never once suspected 
 that he was to pay the bill. He licked his lips at these 
 ofiicial reports, and' promised himself to hsten with all his 
 ears to the diversions which enliven a Chinese festival. 
 
 " He landed with the consul and an escort of four sol- 
 diers in the midst of a delightful, drenching rain. You 
 may believe that he had not forgotten to put on his full 
 uniform. A deputation of magistrates received him with 
 all the prescribed compliments. I suppose he was not 
 
LETTERS PEOM CHINA AND PARIS. 219 
 
 displeased with tlie harangue. If Chinese adore com- 
 pliments, sailors do not detest them. lie was hoisted on 
 one of the little horses of the country, — I fancy I see 
 him from here, trotting on his pony, like a long pair of 
 tongs ! The animal (be it said without equivocation), 
 plunged into the mud up to his knees, — the Chinese 
 streets are macadamized with two ends in view, driving 
 and navigation. Twelve boys, dressed in rose-colored silk, 
 with peacock feathers in their hands, walked on each side 
 of him, singing the praises of the great, the mighty, and 
 the invincible Chermidy, and urging on his steed with 
 their plumes. The little ones tickled his nostrils, while 
 the tall ones irritated the inside of his ears so well and 
 so long that the animal reared furiously. The rider fell 
 from his seat with the clumsiness of a sailor. The chil- 
 dren ran to him, all asking at the same time if he were 
 hurt, if he needed any thing, if he wanted water to wash 
 himself, or if they should bring him something to smell 
 of; and while talking, they took their little knives from 
 their pockets and cut his throat, without noise, without 
 scandal, until the head was completely severed from his 
 body. The consul escaped to tell the tale, but I fear 
 that he would have told nobody, had it not been for the 
 aid of the four sailors who saved his life and brought 
 
220 GERMAINE. 
 
 him back to the ship. I stop here — the piece loses its 
 interest as soon as the hero is buried. You can learn the 
 rest from the journals and from the inclosed letter which 
 the officers of the Ndiade have taken the trouble to ad- 
 dress me. I sincerely regret the death of the mandarin 
 Gou-Ly. If he were now living, I would give him a 
 pension of swallows' nests for the rest of his life. Since 
 my happiness depends on a double widowhood, I have 
 always vowed to divide a million between the charitable 
 souls who should deliver me from my enemies. There 
 were five hundred thousand francs in my secretary for 
 this mandarin who is dead. 
 
 "Tomb of Secrets, you will burn my letter, won't you? 
 Burn also the journals that speak of this affair. Don 
 Diego need not know that I am free while he himself 
 is in chains. Let us spare our friends too bitter regrets. 
 Above all, do not tell him that black becomes me. 
 
 "Take good care of the person to whom you have 
 devoted yourself. Whatever may happen, you will have 
 the credit of making her live beyond all hope. If any 
 one had told you that you were leaving Paris for seven 
 or eight months, would you have gone so willingly? 
 When she recovers — or something else — you must re- 
 turn to Paris, and we will find you a new practice; for 
 
LETTEES PBOM CHINA AND PARIS. 221 
 
 I am sure that all your patients except myself have 
 completely forgotten you. 
 
 "M. de La Tour d'Embleuse, ■who does me the honor 
 to dine at my house occasionally, asks me to find you a 
 new servant. I selected the first one that I sent to 
 you hastily, — he has been represented to me within the 
 last few days as a dangerous man. Discharge him, 
 therefore, at once, or keep him on your own responsi- 
 bility until the arrival of his substitute. 
 
 "Adieu, Key of Hearts. My heart has long been 
 open to you, and if you are not the best of all my 
 friends, it is not my fault. Preserve my husband and 
 my son to me, and I shall be for life, 
 
 "Tours devotedly, 
 
 " HONOEINE." 
 
 THE OFFICEES OF THE NA'lADE TO MADAME CHEEMIDY. 
 
 HoNG-KoNG, April 2, 1853. 
 
 " Madame, — The officers and midshipmen of the Ndi- 
 ade fulfil a painful duty in joining their regrets to the 
 natural grief which the loss of Captain Chermidy will 
 cause you. 
 
 "A base treachery has deprived France of one of her 
 19* 
 
222 GBBMAINE. 
 
 most honorable and experienced officers; you, madame, 
 of a husband whose gentleness and goodness all can 
 appreciate ; and us of a chief, or rather a comrade, who 
 did us the honor to lighten our weight of the service 
 by reserving its heaviest duties to himself. 
 
 "In sending you the insignia of the rank which he 
 had earned so laboriously, our sole regret, madame, is 
 in being unable to add that star of the brave which 
 he long since merited, as well by the duration as by 
 the importance of his services, and which would doubt- 
 less have awaited him at port at the end of a cruise 
 which we must finish without him. 
 
 "In a grief like yours, madame, the pleasure of ven- 
 geance is but a feeble consolation. Notwithstanding we 
 are proud in being able to say to you that we have 
 given our brave commandant a glorious funeral. As 
 soon as the consul and the four sailors who had wit- 
 nessed the crime brought the news to us on board 
 the ship, the oldest lieutenant, succeeding the excellent 
 officer we had lost, ordered the people of the Euro- 
 pean factories to evacuate with their merchandise ; and 
 opened a steady fire upon the town, which reduced it to 
 ashes in less than two days. Gou-Ly and his accom- 
 plices believed themselves in safety in the fortress. A 
 
LETTERS PROM CHINA AND PARIS. 223 
 
 company of marines landed under the command of one 
 of our number, and besieged them for a week with two 
 pieces of ordnance, which had been transported to the 
 shore. Our men behaved admirably — they avenged 
 their commandant. The Ndiade did not set sail to rejoin 
 the fleet until it had punished the mandarin and his 
 colleagues without mercy. At the moment we write, 
 there is no longer a city called Ky-Tcheou ; nothing 
 remains of it but a heap of smouldering ashes, which 
 may well be styled the tomb of Captain Chermidy. 
 
 " Accept, madame, our assurances of the profound sym- 
 pathy with which we have the honor to be 
 
 "Your most hvimble and faithful servants." 
 
 [Followed by the signatures. j 
 
224 GEBMAINE. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE CRISIS. 
 
 THE HAPPIEST epoch in the life of a girl is the 
 year preceding her marriage. Every woman who 
 looks back through the past wiU dwell with a feeHng 
 of regret upon that winter, blest above all others, when 
 her choice was made but was stiU unknown to the world. 
 Then a crowd of timid and wavering suitors were flock- 
 ing eagerly around her, disputing for her bouquet or her 
 fan, and enveloping her in an atmosphere of love which 
 intoxicated her. She had distinguished in the crowd 
 the man to whom she would give herself, but she had 
 promised him nothing; and she felt a kind of pleasure 
 in treating him like the rest, and concealing her prefer- 
 ence. She took pleasure in making him mistrust the 
 reality of his happiness, in moving him from fear to 
 hope and from hope to fear, and in trying his love for 
 her at every meeting. But in her heart, she sacrificed 
 all his rivals to him, and laid at his feet all the homage 
 which she feigned to welcome. She resolved to reward 
 
THE CRISIS. 225 
 
 him richly for so much patience and resignation. And 
 in chief, she relished the peculiarly feminine pleasure of 
 commanding all and obeying but one. 
 
 This triumphal period had been wanting in the life of 
 Germaine. The year which preceded her marriage had 
 been the saddest and the most miserable of all her un- 
 happy youth. But the year which followed it brought 
 her some compensation. She lived at Corfu in a circle 
 of passionate admirers. All who approached her, both 
 old and young, felt for her a sentiment akin to love. 
 She wore on her beautiful forehead that shadow of mel- 
 ancholy which tells all the world that a woman is 
 unhappy. This is an attraction which men with diffi- 
 culty resist. The most courageous fear to offer them- 
 selves to one who lacks for nothing; but sorrow 
 emboldens the most timid, and every one seeks to con- 
 sole it. Physicians were not wanting to this sad soul. 
 Young Dandolo, one of the most brilliant men in the 
 Seven Isles, surrounded her with his cares, dazzled her 
 with his wit, and proudly imposed his friendship upon 
 her with the authority of a man who has always been 
 successful. Gaston de Vitre hovered about her with 
 restless solicitude. The handsome youth felt a new life 
 springing up in him. He had not changed his habita 
 
22.6 GERMAINE. 
 
 in the least; his work and his pleasures went on as 
 before ; but when he read by the side of his mother, 
 he saw suns glitter among the pages of the book; he 
 stopped as though dazzled in the midst of his reading; 
 and would fall into a revery over the dullest lines. The 
 good-night kiss that he gave his mother burned her 
 forehead; and when he knelt to pray, with his brow 
 restmg against his bed, he saw strange images gliding 
 beneath his eyelids. 
 
 He no longer slept soundly the whole night through 
 as he formerly had done ; his slumbers were strangely 
 broken. He rose long before daybreak, and strolled 
 through the fields with feverish impatience. His gun 
 seemed lighter on his shoulder, and his feet sped more 
 hastily over the parched grass. He ventured further 
 out on the sea, and his robust arms delighted in 
 wielding the oars with new vigor ; but whatever was the 
 aim of his sail or his walk, an invisible charm drew 
 him every day into the neighborhood of Germaine. He 
 came there both by land and by sea, and constantly 
 turned towards her, Uke the needle towards the pole, 
 without being conscious of the power that attracted him. 
 She welcomed him as a friend ; she was always glad 
 to see him, and she did not hide it. Notwithstand- 
 
THE CRISIS. 227 
 
 ing, he was always in haste to depart; he had only 
 called in passing, his mother was expecting him, he 
 could hardly stay to sit down. But the setting sun 
 found him stiU by the side of the dear convalescent ; 
 he was astonished to see that the days were so short 
 in the month of August. 
 
 Mr. Stevens, who was a heavy man with an important 
 air, marched round the fauteuil of Germaine with the 
 step of a regiment of infantry, and bestowed on her 
 those deliberate and measured attentions which make 
 the power of a man of fifty. He brought her bon- 
 bons and told her stories, and lavished on her those 
 minute cares to which a woman is never insensible. 
 Germaine did not despise this good, substantial friend- 
 ship, so paternal in its manner, yet less paternal than 
 that of Doctor Delviniotis. She also bestowed a kind 
 glance on Captain Br^tiguieres, — that excellent man, 
 who was satisfied with a feather. She felt a tender 
 friendship for M. Le Bris ; and the little doctor, accus- 
 tomed to pay an innocent court to all his patients, did 
 not know exactly what he felt for the young Countess 
 de Villanera. She visibly improved, and this growing 
 beauty might in a single instant break away the fragile 
 barrier which separated friendship from love. 
 
228 GEEMAINE, 
 
 All these ill-defined sentiments, which it is more 
 difficult to name than to describe, made the joy of the 
 household and the happiness of Germaine. She found 
 a great difference between her last winter in Paris and 
 her first summer in Corfu. The viUa and the garden 
 breathed- nothing but gayety, hope, and love ; merry 
 voices and shouts of laughter resounded everywhere. 
 The guests rivalled each other in wit and good-humor, 
 and Germaine felt herself bom again iu the gentle 
 warmth of these devoted hearts that were beating for 
 her. If she took care to feed the flame by a little 
 innocent coquetry, it was only the better to secure the 
 conquest of her husband. 
 
 The painful memories of her marriage were gradually 
 becoming effaced from her mind. She had forgotten 
 the lugubrious ceremony of Saint Thomas d'Aquin, and 
 looked on herself as a betrothed, awaiting the time 
 when she should be led to the altar. She thought no 
 more of Madame Chermidy, nor ever felt the internal 
 shudder inspired by the fear of a rival. Her husband 
 appeared to her like a new man ; and she thought of her- 
 self as a new woman, bom but yesterday. Is it not to be 
 born a second time to escape from certain death? She 
 dated back her birth to the spring-time, and would say. 
 
THE CRISIS. 229 
 
 smiling : " I am a child four months old." The old 
 countess confirmed her in the illusion by carrying her in 
 her arms like a little girl. 
 
 The presence of the young marquis was the only 
 thing that could have recalled her to reality. It was 
 difficult to forget that this child had a mother, and 
 that this mother might come some day to reclaim the 
 happiness that had been taken from her. But Ger- 
 maine had accustomed herself to regard the little 
 Gomez as her own son. Maternal love is so innate 
 in the heart of women, that it becomes developed long 
 before marriage. "We see little girls of two years, 
 ofiering the breast to their dolls. The Marquis de los 
 Montes de Hierro was Germaine's doll. She neglected 
 herself to attend to her son. She had finished by find- 
 ing him handsome, — a thing which proved that she 
 had a true motherly heart. Don Diego looked at her 
 with pleasure when she clasped the little swarthy gnome 
 in her arms ; he rejoiced to see that his wife was no 
 longer frightened at the hereditary grimace of the 
 Villaneras. 
 
 Every evening at nine o'clock, masters and servants 
 assembled in the drawing-room for prayers. The old 
 countess was strongly attached to this religious and aris- 
 20 
 
230 GERMAINE. 
 
 tocratic usage. She read the orisons herself in Latin. 
 The Greek servants joined with devotion in the common 
 prayers, despite the schism which separates them from 
 the Christians of the West. Mathieu Mantoux knelt in 
 an obscure comer, from which he could see every thing 
 without being seen, and strove to read the ravages of 
 arsenic in the countenance of Germaine. 
 
 He had not once failed to poison the glass of water 
 which he had brought to her every night. He hoped 
 that the arsenic thus taken in small doses would acceler- 
 ate the progress of the malady without leaving any visi- 
 ble trace. It is a prevailing prejudice among the igno- 
 rant classes; they all believe in the action of slow poi- 
 sons. Master Mantoux, rightly surnamed Litik-luck, had 
 no means of knowing that poison kills its victims at a 
 smgle blow, or not at all. He believed that the milli- 
 grammes of arsenic introduced into the body would col- 
 lect together to form grammes, without counting on the 
 indefatigable work of nature, which is incessantly repair- 
 ing all internal disorders. If he had taken a better les- 
 son in toxicology, or had recalled the example of Mithri- 
 dates, he would have understood that microscopic doses 
 produce quite a different effect from that which he 
 wished. But Mathieu Mantoux had never read the 
 story. 
 
THE CRISIS. 231 
 
 What would have astonished him still more, is that 
 arsenic, taken in small doses, is a remedy for phthisis. 
 It does not always cure, it is true, but it gives a sensible 
 relief to the patient. The molecules of arsenic burn in 
 the lungs on coming in contact with the external air, 
 and produce a factitious respiration. It is something to 
 be able to breathe at one's ease, and Germaine realized 
 it. Arsenic checks the fever, sharpens the appetite, facili- 
 tates sleep, and restores flesh; it does not destroy the 
 effect of other remedies ; it sometimes assists it. 
 
 M. Le Bris had oflen thought of treating Germaine by 
 this method, but had always been restrained by a very 
 natural scruple. He was not sure of saving the patient, 
 and this diabolical arsenic always reminded him of Mad- 
 ame Chermidy. The less timorous physician, Mathieu 
 Mantoux, accelerated the effects of the iodine and the 
 recovery of Germaine. 
 
 Germaine inhaled the pure iodine from the first of 
 August to the first of September. The doctor was 
 present at every inhalation, and M. Delviniotis often kept 
 him company. This mode of treatment is not infallible, 
 but it is mild and gentle. A current of hot air slowly 
 dissolves a centigramme of iodine, and carries it without 
 pain or effort info the lungs. Pure iodine does not in- 
 
232 GEEMAINE. 
 
 toxicate the patient like the tincture, nor parch the mouth 
 like the iodohydric ether, neither does it provoke the 
 cough; its only fault is that of leaving in the mouth a 
 slight taste of rust, but to this one soon becomes habitu- 
 ated. M. Le Bris and M. Delviniotis gently accustomed 
 Germaine to the new medicament. In her impatience 
 she wotild gladly have dealt abruptly with her malady, 
 and have swept it away by main force; but they only 
 permitted her one inhalation every morning, and that of 
 very short duration, lasting three minutes, or four at the 
 most. In time they increased the dose, and as the re- 
 covery progressed, they gave her as much as two centi- 
 grammes a day. 
 
 The cure went on with incredible rapidity, thanks to 
 the discreet collaboration of Mathieu Mantoux. A stran- 
 ger, on being introduced at the Villa Dandolo, would 
 never have suspected that there was an invalid there. 
 At the end of a month, Germaine was as fresh as a 
 flower and as round as a fruit. In this beautiful garden, 
 where nature had accumulated all its wonders, the sun 
 looked on nothing more brilliant than this young girl, 
 just newly created, who rose from her malady like a gem 
 from its casket. Not only was her countenance again 
 tinged with the glow of youth, but the fulness of health 
 
THE CRISIS. 233 
 
 had completely metamorphosed her emaciated body. The 
 soft waves of a generous blood slowly inflated her rosy 
 and transparent skin ; the springs of life, relaxed by 
 three years of suffering, were joyfully regaining their 
 natural tension. 
 
 The witnesses of this miraculous transformation blessed 
 science as we bless God. But Doctor Le Bris was, per- 
 haps, the happiest of all. The recovery of Germaine ap- 
 peared to others but a hope, to him alone a certainty. By 
 auscultation he daily verified the decrease of the disease; 
 he saw the cure in its causes and its effects, and meas- 
 ured as with a compass the ground which he had gained 
 over death. Auscultation, that admirable method which 
 science owes to the genius of Plippocrates, permits the 
 physician to read the body of his patient like an open 
 book. The invisible springs that are in motion in us 
 produce, in their movements, a sound which is as regular 
 as the ticking of a clock. The ear of the physician, 
 when accustomed to listen to this harmony of health, 
 detects the smallest internal disorder by unmistakable 
 signs. The malady tells its own story to the intelligent 
 observer, who witnesses the progress of life or death as 
 a spectator concealed behind a door divines the slightest 
 incidents of a duel or a quarrel. A dull sound points 
 20* 
 
234 GERMAINE. 
 
 out to the physician the parts of the lung into which the 
 air no longer penetrates ; and a peculiar rattle indicates 
 to him those constantly increasing cavities which charac- 
 terize the last stage of phthisis. M. Le Bris soon dis- 
 covered that the parts impermeable to the air were daily 
 becoming more circumscribed, that the rattle was gradu- 
 ally disappearing, and that the air was merrily whisthng 
 again through the vivified cells which enveloped the 
 cicatrized cavities. He had drawn an exact chart of the 
 ravages which the disease had made in the chest of his 
 patient, at the request of the old countess, and every 
 morning, he traced with the pencil a new outhne, attest- 
 ing the progress of the recovery. Balzac has imagined 
 a singular invalid, who saw his life daily shrinking, 
 through the symbol of a piece of shagreen. Doctor Le 
 Bris's sketch shrunk every morning in token of the 
 safety of Germaine. 
 
 On the 31st of August, M. Le Bris set out for a walk 
 to the city, as happy as a conqueror. The country was 
 quite to his taste, but he did not disdain a turn on the 
 esplanade to the tune of the fifes and bagpipes. By look- 
 ing at the smoke of the steamboats, he fancied that he 
 brought himself neai-er to Paris. He dined wilUngly at 
 the table of the Enghsh ofacers, and walked with pleasure, 
 
THE CRISIS. 235 
 
 through the public streets. He admired the soldiers 
 dressed in white, with straw hats, yellow gloves, and 
 varnished shoes, as they went, followed by their little 
 family, to buy their slice of ham and bread for sand- 
 wiches. He feasted his eyes on the tempting display 
 of ripe fruits which the venders had arranged on their 
 stalls with English cleanliness. One was rubbing his 
 prunes on his sleeve to make them shine, and another 
 was brushing the velvety down of his peaches with a 
 hat-brush. There was a tempting confusion of melons as 
 large as pumpkins, citrons as large as melons, prunes as 
 large as citrons, and grapes as large as prunes. Perhaps 
 the young doctor also looked with some complaisance at 
 the pretty Greek girls leaning on their window-siUs in a 
 frame of flowering cactus. In this easy-going country, 
 the little Bourgeoises do not scruple to fling kisses to the 
 stranger who passes by, as the flower-girls of Florence 
 throw bouquets into the carriages. If their father hap- 
 pens to see them, he boxes their ears roughly in the 
 name of morality, and this gives a little variety to the 
 scene. 
 
 While the doctor was innocently attending to his 
 pleasures. Count Dandolo, Captain Bretiguieres, and the 
 Vitres were dining together at M. de VUlanera's. Ger- 
 
236 6ERMAINE, 
 
 maine ate with a good appetite, — it was Gaston who had 
 forgotten how bread tasted. He dined with his eyes, 
 poor httle fellow, and was neither for the repast, nor 
 for the conversation, but simply for Germaine. 
 
 Nevertheless, the conversation grew very interesting 
 over the dessert. M. Dandolo described the English 
 policy in the extreme East with a few bold strokes, and 
 showed la grande nation established at Hong-Kong, 
 Macao, Canton, and everywhere. "You, or at least 
 your children, will see the EngUsh masters of China 
 and Japan," he concluded. 
 
 " Stop there ! " interrupted Captain Br^tiguieres. " What 
 are you going to give to France, then ? " 
 
 " All that she asks ; that is to say, nothing. France is 
 a disinterested country. She passes her life in conquer- 
 ing, the world, but always scruples at keeping any thing 
 for herself." 
 
 " We know that very well. Count ; France has always 
 been wanting in egotism. She has done more for civih- 
 zation than any other country in Europe, yet she has 
 never asked her reward. The universe is our debtor; 
 we have furnished it with ideas for three or four hundred 
 years, and it has given us nothing in exchange. When I 
 think that we have not even the Ionian isles ! " 
 
THE CRISIS. 237 
 
 "You had them, captain, and you did not think it 
 worth while to keep them." 
 
 " Ah ! if I had but my two legs ! " 
 
 " What would you do, captain ? " asked Madame de 
 Villanera. 
 
 " "What would I do, madame ? My' country has no 
 ambition for herself; I would have it for her. I would 
 give her the Ionian isles, Malta, the Indies, China, 
 Japan, and I would no longer tolerate this universal 
 monarchy." 
 
 " M. de Br^tiguieres," said Germaine, " is like that 
 teacher whose scholar had stolen a iig. He preached 
 him a sermon on the evils of gluttony, and ate the fig 
 by way of peroration." 
 
 The captain stopped short, and blushed to the ears. 
 "I believe,'' said he, "that I have gone further than I 
 meant. Where were we?" 
 
 "We were everywhere," returned Count Dandolo. 
 
 "That is true, since we were speaking of England. 
 Do you believe that if the affair of Ky-Tcheou had 
 happened' to an English vessel, it would have contented 
 itself with bombarding the city ? Not so stupid ! The 
 English would have gained thereby a favorable com- 
 mercial treaty, a hundred millions cash, and fifty leagues 
 of territory." 
 
238 GERMAINE. 
 
 "Do you believe that?" demanded Count Dandolo. 
 
 " I am sure of it." 
 
 ""Well, what are we disputing about, then? we are 
 both of the same opinion." 
 
 "What was this affair of Ky-Tcheou?" asked Ger- 
 maine. 
 
 "Is it possible that yoii have not read of it, madame?" 
 
 "We have no journal, my dear Count, except you." 
 
 "Ah, well; Ky-Tcheou is a great affair. The Chi- 
 nese have killed two missionaries, and a commander, 
 and the French have razed the city so completely that 
 even its name remains no longer on the map. If you 
 ask me what will come of all this, I answer, nothing 
 at all will come of it." 
 
 M. de Villanera joined for the first time in the con- 
 vei-sation. "Is the story of which you speak of recent 
 date?" asked he. 
 
 " Quite fresh ; the news came by the last packet. 
 Have you never heard of the Ndiade ? — have you not 
 read the death of Captain Chermidy?" 
 
 Count de Villanera turned pale. Germaine looked at 
 him fixedly to detect a symptom of joy, the old countess 
 rose from the table, and M. Dandolo passed into the 
 drawing-room, without having related the story of Ky- 
 Tcheou. 
 
THE CRISIS. 239 
 
 Germaine availed herself of the moment when coffee 
 was being served to the guests to draw M. Villanera 
 out to the foot of the garden. The sun had set two 
 hours before, and the night was as warm as a sum- 
 mer's day. The husband and wife sat down together 
 on a rustic bench by the sea-shore. The moon had 
 not yet appeared on the horizon', but the falling stars 
 were threading the sky in every direction, and the 
 waves were illuminating the shore with their phospho- 
 rescent light. 
 
 Don Diego was still completely blinded by the news 
 he had just heard. He had received, a violent shock ; 
 but the impression had been so sudden that he had 
 not yet had time to analyze his feelings, or to know 
 if it gave him pain or pleasure. He was like a man 
 who had fallen from a roof, and was feeling himself 
 to know if he were dead or alive. A thousand rapid 
 thoughts confusedly crossed his mind, like torches which 
 flash in the night without dissipating the darkness. 
 Germaine was neither calmer nor more collected. She 
 felt that this hour must decide her life, and that her 
 physician was no longer M. Le Bris, but Count de 
 ViUanera. Meanwhile, these two young beings, though 
 shaken to the depth of the soul by violent emotion, 
 
240 GEKMAINE. 
 
 remained side by side for a few moments in profound 
 silence. A fisherman who skimmed the shore assuredly 
 took them for two lovers, absorbed in the contempla- 
 tion of their happiness. 
 
 Germaine was the first to speak. She turned to- 
 wards her husband, grasped both his hands, and said to 
 him, in a stified voice: 
 
 " Don Diego, did you know it ? " 
 
 "No, Germaine," was his reply. "If I had known 
 it, I should have told you ; I have no secrets from 
 you." 
 
 " And what do you say to the news ? Has it troub- 
 led or relieved you?" 
 
 " I do not know what to answer, — you plunge me 
 in a cruel embarrassment. Leave me time to collect 
 and reckon with myself. It cannot gi%''e me any pleas- 
 ure, — that you know well. But if I teU you that it 
 troubles me, you will thence conclude that I had made 
 engagements depending on this fatal chance. Is not 
 that what you are thinking of?" 
 
 "I am not quite sure what I am thinking of, Don 
 Diego; my heart beats so loudly that it would be very 
 difficult for me to hear any thing else. The only thing 
 which I see clearly is, that this woman is free. If she 
 
THE CRISIS. 241 
 
 promised you to become a widow, she has kept her 
 word sooner than you. She arrives first at the appointed 
 
 rendezvous, and I fear " 
 
 "What do you fear?" 
 
 "I fear that I am in the wrong, since my life sep- 
 arates you from your happiness, and my health is taking 
 away from you even the hope of it." 
 
 "Your life and your health are gifts from God, Ger- 
 maine. It is a miracle of heaven that has preserved 
 you ; and now that I know what a woman you are, 
 from the bottom of my heart 1 bless the decrees of 
 Providence." 
 
 " I thank you, Don Diego, and I recognize your heart 
 in these kind and pious words. You are too good a 
 Christian to rebel against a miracle. But do you regret 
 nothing ? — speak to me without disguise. I am well 
 enough now to listen to any thing." 
 
 "I regret but one thing, — that of not having given 
 you my first love." 
 
 " Plow noble you are ! This woman never was worthy 
 of you. I have never seen her ; but I instinctively detest 
 and despise her.'' 
 
 "You must not despise her, Germaine. I love lier no 
 longer, for my heart is full of you, and there is no room 
 21 
 
242 GERMAINE. 
 
 left in it for the image of another ; but you do wrong to 
 despise her, I swear it to you." 
 
 "Why do you wish me to be more indulgent to her 
 than the world is ? She has failed in her duties, — de- 
 ceived the honest man who had given her his name. 
 How can a woman betray her husband ! " 
 
 " She is culpable in the eyes of the world ; but I 
 should not blame her : — she loved me.'' 
 
 " Ah ! who would not love you, my friend ? You who 
 are so good, so great, so noble, so handsome ! Do not 
 deny it and shake your head. My taste is no worse than 
 that of others, and I know very well what I am saying. 
 It is true that you do not resemble M. Le Bris, nor 
 Gaston de Vitr^, nor Spiro Dandolo, nor any others who 
 are favorites with women ; yet it was on seeing you for 
 the first time that I comprehended that man is the no- 
 blest work of God." <<,«■ 
 
 "You love me then a little, Germaine?" 
 
 " Oh ! for a long time ! — Ever since the day you first 
 came to the h6tel de Sanglie. Yet it was a very wicked 
 purpose that brought you to our house. When the doc- 
 tor proposed the bargain to my parents, I thought that I 
 was to marry a villain, and I resolved to endure you with 
 patience, and to quit you without regret. But when I 
 
THE CRISIS. 243 
 
 met you in the drawing-room, I blushed with shame for 
 yon, and I regretted that so base a calculation wa^s born 
 in such a noble brain. Then I began to maltreat you, — 
 do you know the reason why ? I should have died of 
 chagrin if you had suspected that I loved you. That 
 was not in our compact. During all the journey in Italy, 
 I studied to give you pain. Could I have behaved with 
 so much ingratitude if you had been indifferent to me ? 
 But I was furious at seeing that you treated me so well 
 only for the acquittal of your conscience. And then, in 
 spite of myself, I thought of the other who was awaiting 
 you in Paris. And then, I feared to fall into a de- 
 lightful habit of loving and being happy, which would 
 soon be broken by death. And then, I was very ill, 
 and I suffered cruelly ! 
 
 " The day that you wept at the carriage window, I saw 
 you, and I longed to throw myself on your neck and ask 
 your pardon ; but pride restrained me. I am of a noble 
 race, my poor friend, and I am the first of our blood who 
 was sold for silver. Notwithstanding, I very nearly be- 
 trayed myself that evening at Pompeii. Do you remem- 
 ber it? For my part, I have forgotten nothing, neither 
 your gentle words, nor my harshness, nor your cares, so 
 tender and so patient, nor the wrong which I have done 
 
244 GERMAINE. 
 
 you. I have held a bitter chalice to your lips, and you 
 have drained it to the dregs; but do not think that -I 
 have been too happy myself. I was not sure of you, 
 and I feared to be deceived as to the meaning of your 
 kindness, and to mistake tokens of pity for expressions of 
 love. What reassured me a little was the pleasure which 
 you had in being with me. When you were walking in 
 the garden around my divan, I watched you askance, and 
 often feigned to be asleep to draw you closer to me. I 
 had no need to open my eyes to see if you were there ; 
 I saw you through the Uds. In whatever place you may 
 be, I divine your presence, and I could find you with my 
 eyes shut. When you are near me, my heart swells and 
 beats so loudly that it fills my bosom. When you speak, 
 your voice sings in my ears, and I grow intoxicated as I 
 listen to you. Whenever my hand touches yours, it 
 thrills me with a strange, delightful shudder. When you 
 quit me for an instant, — when I can neither see nor hear 
 you, there seems a great void around me, and I feel 
 a loneliness which overwhelms me. Now, Don Diego, 
 tell me if I love you. For you have more experience 
 than I, and you cannot be mistaken about it. I am 
 nothing but a little ignoramus, but you must remember it 
 it were thus that you were loved at Paris." 
 
THE CBISIS. 245 
 
 This naive confession fell like dew on the heart of 
 Don Diego. He was so deliciously refreshed by it, that 
 he forgot not only his present cares, but also his past 
 pleasures. A new light illumined his soul; at a single 
 glance he compared his former passion, as restless and 
 turbid as a stormy torrent, with the limpid, calm tranquil- 
 lity of legitimate happiness. It is the story of all young . 
 husbands. When one lays his head on the conjugal pil- 
 low for the first time, he perceives with a sweet surprise 
 that he has never slept well before. 
 
 The count tenderly kissed both Germaine's hands, 
 exclaiming : 
 
 " Yes, you love me, and no one else has ever loved 
 me like you. You transport me into a new world full 
 of honorable delights and remorseless pleasures. I know 
 not but I may have saved your life, but you have 
 repaid the debt liberally in opening my blinded eyes 
 to the holy light of love. Let us love each other, Ger- 
 maine, and fling the rein to our hearts. God, who has 
 united us in marriage, will rejoice to gather two more 
 happy ones into his generous bosom. Let us forget the 
 whole earth to belong to each other, — let us close our 
 ears to all the rumors of the world, whether from China 
 or from Paris. Here is the terrestrial paradise ; let us live 
 21* 
 
246 GERMAINE. 
 
 in it for ourselves alone, blessing the hand which has 
 placed us here." 
 
 "Let us live for ourselves and for those who love 
 us," replied she. "I should not be happy if our mother 
 and our child were not with us. As for them, I have 
 loved them openly from the beginning. How they re- 
 semble you, my friend! When the little Gomez comes 
 into the garden, it seems to me that I see your own 
 smile playing in the grass. I am very happy in having 
 adopted him. That woman will never take him away 
 from me, will she ? The law has given him to me 
 forever ; he is my heir, my only son ! " 
 
 "No, Germaine," returned the count, "he is your 
 eldest son." 
 
 Germaine opened her arms to her husband, knit her 
 hands about his neck, drew him towards her, and gently 
 touched her lips to his. But the emotion of this first 
 kiss was stronger than the poor convalescent. Her eyes 
 closed, and her limbs bent beneath her. As soon as she 
 had recovered, she regained the house on her husband's 
 arm, leaning with her whole weight, and walkmg half 
 suspended, like a child taking his first steps. 
 
 "You see that I am still very weak, in spite of 
 appearances," said she, "I thought myself robust, and 
 
THE CRISIS. 247 
 
 see, a mere gleam of happiness throws me down again. 
 Do not speak too kindly to me, — do not make me too 
 happy, — treat me carefully until I am saved. It would 
 be too sad to die when life is opening so brightly ! 
 Now I am going to hasten my recovery, and to nurse 
 myself with all my might. Return to the drawing- 
 room, — as to me, I run to hide myself in my chamber. 
 Adieu till to-morrow, my friend. I love you ! " 
 • She went up to her room, and threw herself on her 
 bed, confused and agitated. A luminous point sparkling 
 in the corner attracted her attention, — it was the flame 
 of the night-lamp, reflected in one of the little globes 
 of the iodometer. She sent a benediction to this benefi- 
 cent apparatus, which had already restored her life, 
 and which must restore her strength in a few more 
 days. The idea occurred to her to hasten her recovery 
 by taking a good quantity of the iodine, unknown to the 
 doctor. She arranged the apparatus, drew it near her 
 bed, and drank the violet vapor with avidity. She in- 
 haled it with joyful haste ; she experienced neither disgust 
 nor fatigue ; she swallowed long draughts of health and 
 vigor. She was proud of proving that the doctor had 
 been too prudent, and she took pleasure besides in com- 
 mitting an act of heroic folly, and in risking her life 
 through love for Don Diego. 
 
248 GERMAINE. 
 
 It was never known how much iodine she inhaled, 
 nor how long she prolonged this fatal imprudence. 
 When the old countess stole from the drawing-room to 
 learn how Germaine was, she found the appara,tus bro- 
 ken on the floor, and the patient a prey to a violent 
 fever They did what they could until the arrival of 
 Doctor Le Bris, who returned from the city on horse- 
 back at midnight. All the guests slept at the Villa 
 Dandolo to await news of her. The doctor was terrified' 
 at her agitation ; he knew not whether to attribute it 
 to an immoderate use of the iodine, or to some violent 
 emotion. Madame de Villanera secretly accused Count 
 Dandolo ; Don Diego accused himself. 
 
 The next morning M. Le Bris discovered an inflam- 
 mation in the lungs which might terminate in death, 
 and he called in Doctor Delviniotis and two other phy- 
 sicians for a consultation. The doctors differed as to the 
 cause of the illness, but none of them dared answer for 
 her cure. M. Le Bris had lost his wits like a captain 
 who finds a reef of rocks at the entrance of the harboi-. 
 M. Delviniotis, who was a little calmer, although he 
 could not refrain from weeping, timidly pointed out a 
 faint ray of hope. "It may be," said he, "that we 
 have to do with an adhesive inflammation, which will 
 
THE CEISIS. 249 
 
 reunite the cavities and repair all the intei-nal injuries.'' 
 The poor little doctor sorrowfully shook his head at this 
 theory. It was as if one should say to an architect, — 
 "Your house is not plumb, but it may be that an earth- 
 quake will restore its balance." All were agreed that 
 the disorder was at a crisis, but M. Delviniotis himself 
 dared not affirm that it would not terminate in death. 
 
 Germaine was delirious. She no longer recognized 
 any one. In every man that approached her, she fan- 
 cied that she saw Don Diego, and in every woman, 
 Madame Chermidy. Her confused words were a strange 
 mixture of tenderness and imprecations. She asked con- 
 stantly to see her son. The little marquis was brought 
 to her ; she repulsed him angrily, saying, " That is not 
 he. Bring me my eldest son; the son of that woman. 
 I am sure that she has taken him away again ! " The 
 child vaguely comprehended the danger of his little 
 mamma, although he had not yet any notion of death. 
 He saw everybody weeping around him, and he joined 
 in the chorus with loud cries. 
 
 It was then seen how much the young wife was 
 beloved by all about her. For eight days, the friends 
 of the family encamped around her, sleeping where they 
 could, eating what they found, thinking only of the 
 
250 GERMAINE. 
 
 invalid, and not at all of themselves. The two physi- 
 cians were chained to the pillow of Germaine. Cap- 
 tain Br^tiguieres could not remain quiet; he paced the 
 house and the garden, and the jerking step of his 
 wooden leg was to be heard everywhere. Mr. Stevens 
 abandoned his business, his bench, and his habits. 
 Madame de Vitre constituted herself nurse under the 
 orders of the countess. The two Dandolos ran to 
 and from the city from morning till night, seeking 
 physicians who knew not what to say, and medicines 
 which were good for nothing; the people of the neigh- 
 borhood shared in the anxiety ; bulletins from Germaine 
 were despatched every morning to all the neighboring 
 chateaux, and family remedies and secret panaceas that 
 had been transmitted from father to son flowed in from 
 every side. 
 
 Don Diego and Gaston de Vitre bore a strange 
 resemblance to each other in their sorrow. One would 
 have taken them for the two brothers of the dying 
 girL Both remained aside, , seated under a tree or 
 upon the sands of the shore, plunged in a dull and 
 tearless stupor. If the count had had leisure to be 
 jealous, he would have been desperately so of this 
 youth ; but each of the witnesses was too much occu- 
 
THE CRISIS. 251 
 
 pied with the danger of Germaine to observe the 
 countenance of his neighbor. Madame de Vitr^ alone 
 cast an anxious glance from time to time on her son, 
 and then hastened to the bedside of Germaine, as if 
 warned by a secret instinct that this was to labor for 
 the safety of Gaston. 
 
 The dowager de Villanera was terrible to behold. 
 This great, dingy woman, unclean and uncombed, let 
 her hair hang in disorder from beneath a cap in rags. 
 Like her son, she shed no tears, but a poem of grief 
 might have been read in her large, haggard eyes. She 
 spoke to no one, she saw no one, she suffered the 
 guests to do the honors of the house themselves ; her 
 whole being was absorbed in the safety of Germaine, 
 and her whole soul was struggling with an iron will 
 against the impending danger. Never did the Genius 
 of Good assume a wilder or more savage shape. An 
 infuriate devotion, a rabid friendship, and an exasper- 
 ated tenderness, were read in the lines of her furrowed 
 countenance. It was neither a woman nor a nurse, 
 but a female demon, who had grasped Death by the 
 throat. 
 
 But the countenance of Mathieu Mantoux expanded 
 sweetly in the sunshine. As aU the masters were dis- 
 
252 GEEMAINE. 
 
 puting the tasks of servants, this faithful servant ad- 
 judged to himself the leisiire of a master. He inquired 
 every morning after Germaine's health, only to know 
 whether he should not soon come into his twelve 
 hundred francs' income. He attributed the death of his 
 mistress to the glass of sugared water that he had so 
 patiently prepared for her every evening, and thought, 
 rubbing his hands, that all comes in good time to him 
 who knows how to wait for it. At noon, he took his 
 second breakfast. To digest it at his ease and after 
 the manner of a proprietor, he walked for an hour or 
 two about the little estate on which he had fixed his 
 choice. He observed that the hedges were badly 
 trimmed, and resolved to support them by a trellis, in 
 the fear of thieves. 
 
 The sixth of September, M. Delviniotis himself lost 
 all hope. Mathieu Mantoux knew it, and he sent a 
 little note addressed to "Mademoiselle Le Tas, care of 
 Madame Chermidy, Eue du Cirque, Paris." 
 
 The same day, M. Le Bris wrote to M. de La Tour 
 d'Embleuse : 
 
 "MoNSiETjR THE DuKE, — I dare not ask you to 
 come to her. When you receive this letter she will 
 be no more. Break the news carefully to the duchess." 
 
THE WIDOW CHBEMIDY. 263 
 
 CHAPTEE XL 
 
 THE WIDOW CHEEMIDY. 
 
 rpHE LETTER of Mantoux and the formal promise 
 -'- of the death of Germaine reached Madame Chermidy 
 on the twelfth of September. 
 
 The beautiful Arlesian had lost all hope and all 
 patience. No one wrote to her from Corfu ; she was 
 without news of her lover and her son ; and the doctor, 
 occupied with more important cares, had not even con- 
 gratulated her on her widowhood. She began to doubt 
 M. de VUlanera, and to compare herself to Calypso, 
 Medea, the yellow-haired Ariadne, and all the other 
 abandoned heroines of mythology. She was astonished 
 sometimes to find that her pique was turning to love. 
 She caught herself sighing when no one was present, in 
 the most genuine manner in the world. The memory of 
 the three years which she had passed with the count 
 strangely troubled her heart. She reproached herself, 
 among other follies, for having held the curb too short 
 22 
 
254 GBRMAINE. 
 
 and the bit too high, — for not having satiated him with 
 happiness, and slain him with affection. "It is my own 
 fault," thought she ; " I have accustomed him to do with- 
 out me. If I had known how to manage him, I should 
 have become the necessity of his life, — I should only 
 have to make a sign, and he would quit his wife, his 
 mother and all for me.'' 
 
 She often asked herself whether absence were not in- 
 juring her in the mind of Don Diego, and reflected on 
 the vulgar saying, "Out of sight, out of mind." She 
 thought of embarking for the Ionian isles, and of falling 
 like a bomb-shell into the household of her lover, and 
 carrying him off by main force. A quarter of an hour 
 would suffice to relight those fires which were but half 
 extinguished, and to renew a habit which had only been 
 interrupted. She saw herself hand to hand with the old 
 countess and Germaine ; she withered them by her elo- 
 quence, her beauty, and her will; she took her son in 
 her arms, she fled with him, and the irresistible smile of 
 the child drew along the father. "Who knows but that 
 a well-acted scene might kill the invalid ? " thought she. 
 "We see very healthy women faint at the play; a 
 good drama after my fashion might make her faint for 
 ever." 
 
THE WIDOW CHERMIDY. 255 
 
 A more human and therefore more probable feeling 
 made her regret the absence of her son. Slie had 
 brought him into the -world ; she was his mother after 
 all, and she regretted having parted with him for the 
 benefit of another. Maternal love finds a resting-place 
 everywhere ; — it is a tolerant guest, and endures the 
 neighborhood of the worst passions. Madame Chermidy 
 wept a few genuine tears on reflecting that she had 
 alienated the ownership of her son, and abdicated the 
 name of mother. 
 
 She was sincerely unhappy. It is only in the theatre 
 that true unhappiness is a privilege of virtue. Dis- 
 tractions were not wanting — she had only to choose 
 among them — but she knew from experience that 
 pleasure gives no consolation. For more than ten 
 years her life had been as restless and exciting as a 
 holiday, but she had paid the costs with her peace of 
 mind. There is nothing more vacant, unquiet, and 
 miserable than the existence of a woman who lives on 
 pleasures. The ambition which had sustained her since 
 her marriage was, henceforth, of little value ; it was 
 hke the bruised reed which breaks in the hand of the 
 traveller. She was rich enough to disdain to increase 
 her fortune; there is but little difference between a 
 
256 GERMAINE. 
 
 revenue of a million or of five hundred thousand, — a 
 few horses more in the stable, or a few lackeys more 
 in the court, add almost nothing to the happiness of the 
 master. The only thing that could have amused her for 
 a little while was a noble name to wear in society. She 
 thought more than once of procuring herself one in a 
 legitimate way, and she found fifty to choose from, — there 
 are always some such names for sale at Paris. But 
 she had a right to be fastidious in her choice, — she 
 who had so nearly called herself Madame de ViUanera! 
 She could not decide. 
 
 In the mean time, she took the whim of publicly giving 
 Don Diego a successor ; perhaps he would reclaim his 
 property when he saw it in the hands of another. But 
 she feared to furnish weapons to her enemies. Germaine 
 was not yet saved ; it was playing a heavy stake ; it 
 would not fail to close the door of marriage. Besides, it 
 was in vain that she looked around her ; she saw no man 
 who was worth a caprice, or the succession to M. de Vil- 
 lanera for a single day. The supernumeraries who shifted 
 the scenes in her drawing-room never knew how near 
 they had been to happiness. 
 
 She found nothmg to occupy her leisure with better 
 than to finish the moral ruin of the old duke. She ac- 
 
THE WIDOW CHERMIDY. 257 
 
 complished the task which she had marked out for her- 
 self with the minute attention, the patient care, and the 
 indefatigable perseverance of that indolent sultana who 
 amused herself in her master's absence with plucking one 
 by one the feathers of an old paroquet. 
 
 It is true that she would have preferred avenging her- 
 self directly on Germaine ; but Germaine was at a dis- 
 tance. If the duchess had been within her reach, she 
 would have given her precedence. But the duchess never 
 quitted her chamber except to go to church, — Madame 
 Chermidy could not meet her there. She might indeed 
 have starved the ducal household, but this operation 
 would have taken time. In regaining their fortune, the 
 La Tour d'Embleuse had regained their credit. The fair 
 enemy of the family had none but the duke in her 
 power, — she swore to make him lose his reason, and she 
 succeeded in it. 
 
 In the Kussian baths, when the patient quits a heated 
 stove-room, his body accustomed to a high temperature, 
 the pores of his skin dilated by heat, his blood rushing 
 rapidly through his veins, and his face the color of a 
 full-blown peony, he is taken under a fascet of cold 
 water, and an icy douche is thrown upon his head, which 
 chills him to the bones. Madame Chermidy treated the 
 22* 
 
258 GEBMAINE. 
 
 I, 
 
 duke in the same manner. This kind of treatment agrees 
 very well with the Kussians, it is said ; but it was death 
 to the poor old victim. He was the victim of the most 
 odious coquetry that ever tortured the heart of man. 
 Madame Chermidy persuaded him that she loved him, 
 Le Tas swore it to hirn ; and if he had been contented 
 with words, he would have been the happiest sexage- 
 narian in Paris. He passed his life in the Rue du 
 Cirque, and he suffered martyrdom there. Every evening 
 he expended there as much eloquence and passion, reason- 
 ing and prayer, true and false logic, as Jean Jacques 
 Rousseau has collected in the New Heloise ; every evening 
 he was shown the door with good words. He swore 
 never to return; he passed a long and sleepless night in 
 cursing the author of his woes| and he hastened the 
 next morning to his executioner with a senile impatience. 
 All his intellect, all his will, and all his vices, were ab- 
 sorbed and confounded in this single passion. He was no 
 longer either husband, or father, or man, or nobleman : 
 he was the patito of Madame Chermidy. 
 
 The experiment succeeded so well that, happy or un- 
 happy, the poor man stood on the brink of the tomb. A 
 prolonged torture was killing him slowly, — the grace he 
 entreated would have killed him at once. 
 
THE WIDOW CHERMIDY. 259 
 
 After a summer of these daily sufferings, his intellectual 
 faculties had declined sensibly. He had scarcely any 
 memory; at least he forgot every thing that was not 
 relatiug to his love. He interested himself in nothing ; 
 private and public affairs, his household, his wife, his 
 daughter, all were equally indiGEerent to him. The 
 duchess tended him like a child whenever he chanced 
 to be with her; unfortunately he was not yet childish 
 enough to be shut up at home. 
 
 When he received the letter of Doctor Le Bris, he 
 read it over two or three times without comprehending 
 it. If the duchess had been there, he would have begged 
 her to read and explain it to him. But he broke the 
 seal on the threshold of his door as he was on his way 
 to the Rue du Cirque, and he was in too much haste to 
 turn back. By force of re-reading it, he at length divined 
 that his daughter was in question. He shrugged his 
 shoulders, and exclaimed while hastening, "This Le Bris 
 is always the same. I do not know what he has against 
 my daughter. The proof that she will not die is that she 
 continues so well." However, he reflected that the doctor 
 might really have spoken the truth. The idea terrified 
 him. "It is a great misfortune for us," said he, running 
 the faster. "I am an inconsolable father. There is no 
 
260 GERMAINE. 
 
 time to lose. I must tell Honorine. She will sympathize 
 with me, — she has a good heart. She will have pity on 
 
 me ; she will wipe away my tears, and who knows ? " 
 
 He smiled with an idiotic air as he entered the drawing- 
 room. 
 
 Never had Madame Chermidy been so radiant or so 
 beautiful. Her face was a sun, triumph shone in her 
 eyes, her fauteuil seemed a throne, and her voice rang 
 like a trumpet. She rose to meet the duke, — her feet 
 scarcely touched the carpet, and her head, in a superb 
 joy, appeared to reach the lustre. The old man stopped, 
 stupid and aghast, at seeing her thus transfigured; and, 
 stammering a few unintelligible words, fell heavily into 
 an arm-chair. 
 
 Madame Chermidy seated herself by his side. " Good 
 morning. Monsieur le due," cried she. " Good morning, 
 and good-by." 
 
 He turned pale, and repeated vacantly, " Good-by ? " 
 
 "Yes, adieu. Don't you ask where I am going?" 
 
 "Si." 
 
 "Well! you shall know; I am going to Corfu." 
 
 "By the way, I really believe that my daughter is 
 dead. The doctor wrote me so this morning. I am very 
 unhappy; Honorine, you must pity me." 
 
THE WIDOW CHERMIDY. 261 
 
 "Ah! you are unhappy! and the duchess also is un- 
 happy! and the old ViUanera should shed black tears 
 down her swarthy cheeks ! But I ! I laugh, I triumph, 
 I bury, I marry, I reign ! She is dead ! she has paid 
 her debt at last ! she has restored to me all she took 
 from me ! I regain possession of my lover and my son ! 
 Why do you look at me with such astonished eyes ? Do 
 you think I am going to restrain myself? It is quite 
 enough to have swallowed my rage during eight long 
 months. So much the worse for those who are darkened 
 at my happiness ; they have only to shut their eyes ; for 
 my part, I blaze ! " 
 
 This audacious joy restored to the old man a glimmer 
 of reason. He rose proudly to his feet, and said to the 
 widow : " Do you know what you are doing ? You are 
 rejoicing before my face over the death of my child ! " 
 
 "And you," returned she, insultingly, "you rejoiced 
 before my face over her life ! Who was it that took 
 care to bring me news of her recovery ? who was it that 
 came to tell me: — she is better? Who was it that 
 forced me to read her letters and those of Doctor Le 
 Bris? Here for eight months you have been stabbing 
 me with her health, — it is the least that you can do to 
 give me a quarter of an hour to regale myself with her 
 death!" 
 
262 GERMAINB. 
 
 " But, Honorine, you are a terrible woman." 
 
 "I know what I am. If your daughter had lived, as 
 was threatened, she would not have been hid from me. 
 She would have driven every day in the Bois with Don 
 Diego, with my son, and I should have seen it from my 
 carriage ! She would have had a hotel in Paris, and I 
 should have waited in vain before the door! She would 
 have written on her cards the name of Villanera, which 
 is mine : — I have it now, parbleu ! it is well earned. 
 And you are not willing I should take my turn ! " 
 
 "Then you still love M. de Villanera?" 
 
 "Poor duke! do you believe that one forgets a man 
 like Don Diego in a day ? Do you think that one 
 brings into the world a child like my son, — a bom 
 marquis, — only to make a gift of him to a consumptive ? 
 Do you fancy that I have demanded from God, during 
 three years, the death of my husband, — I! who never 
 pray ! to do nothing with my liberty ? Do you suppose 
 that Chermidy went to Ky-Tcheou to be killed by the little 
 Chinese boys, in order that I might remain a widow in 
 perpetuity ? " 
 
 "Are you going to marry Count de ViUanera?" 
 
 "So I flatter myself!" 
 
 "And I?" 
 
THE WIDOW CHEEMIDY. 263 
 
 "You, my good man! Go, console your wife; you 
 should have done that in the first place." 
 
 " What shall I tell her, Honorine ? " 
 
 " Tell her any thing you hke, — adieu ; I have my 
 trunks to pack. Do you need any money ? " 
 
 The duke betrayed his disgust by a shrug of the 
 shoulders. Madame Chermidy perceived it. " So our 
 money is repugnant to you ? " said she. " Very well ! you 
 shall have no more of it." 
 
 The old man went out without knowing where, like a 
 drunken man. He wandered till evening through the 
 streets of Paris. At ten o'clock he was seized with 
 hunger; he entered a carriage, and ordered himself to 
 be driven to the club. He was so much changed 
 that M. de Sanglie was the only one who recognized 
 him. 
 
 "What the devil have you been doing?" asked the 
 baron; "your face is all awry, and you seem to be stag- 
 gering. Sit down here, and let us talk together." 
 
 "I shall be very glad to," said the duke. 
 
 "How is the duchess? I am just from the country, 
 and X have not had time to pay her a visit." 
 
 "Did you ask after the duchess?" 
 
 «Tes, how is she?" 
 
264 GEBMAINB, 
 
 "She is weeping." 
 
 " He is mad," thought the baron. 
 
 "I really believe," continued he, without changing his 
 tone, "that Germauie is dead, and that Honorine is glad 
 of it. This is horrible, — and I told her so." 
 
 " Germaine ! Come, my poor friend, think what you 
 are saying ! Germaine — Madame de ViUanera is 
 dead?" 
 
 " Madame de ViUanera ? — that is Honorine. She is 
 going to marry the count. Stop, I have the letter in 
 my pocket. But what do you think of Honorine's con- 
 duct?" 
 
 The baron read the doctor's letter at a single glance. 
 " Is it long since you learned this ? " asked he. 
 
 " This morning as I was going to visit Honorine." 
 
 "And does the duchess know any thing of it?" 
 
 " No ; I know not how to tell her. I wanted to ask 
 Honorine — " 
 
 "The devil take Honorine!" 
 
 "So say I too." 
 
 They called to the baron from the whist table to finish 
 his game, but he replied without troubling himself that 
 he was busy, and begged some one to take his place. 
 This done, he turned to the duke and wished to finish 
 
THE WIDOW CHEEMIDY. 265 
 
 the confession, but the old man interrupted it, exclaiming 
 in a hollow voice, " I am hungry ; I have eaten nothing 
 to-day." 
 
 "Is it possible?" 
 
 " Yes ; order me a dinner. You must lemJ me some 
 money too. I have none now." 
 
 "How is that?" 
 
 "I know very well — I had a million. But I have 
 given it to Honorine." 
 
 The duke ate with the voracious appetite of a mad- 
 man. After dinner his ideas grew clearer — his mind 
 was fatigued rather than diseased. He recounted to the 
 baron the insane passion which had possessed him for 
 the last six months, and explained to him how he had 
 been despoiled of every thing by Madame Chermidy. 
 
 The baron was an excellent man. He was moved 
 on learning that the family which he had seen raised 
 up within a few months had fallen again, lower than 
 ever. Most of all, he pitied the duchess, who must surely 
 succumb to so many blows. He took it upon himself 
 to inform her by degrees of the iUness and death of 
 Germaine, and he gave his attention to the old duke, while 
 endeavoring to strengthen his weakened understanding. He 
 reassured him as to the consequences of his foolish 
 23 
 
266 GERMAINE. 
 
 generosity, since it was evident that M. de Villanera 
 would not leave his father-in-law in want ; and, through 
 the confessions and concealments of the old man, he 
 studied the strange character of Madame Chermidy. ^ 
 
 The audwjrity of a healthy mind is all powerful over 
 a disordered brain. After two hours' conversation, M. 
 de La Tour d'Embleuse threaded the chaos of his 
 thoughts, mourned his daughter's death, trembled for the 
 health of his wife, bewailed his own foUies, and es- 
 teemed the widow Chermidy at her just value. M. de 
 Sanglie led him back to his house much better, if not 
 fully cured. 
 
 Early next morning the baron paid a visit to the 
 duchess. He met the old duke on the threshold of 
 the door, and forced him to return with him. For 
 three days he kept his eyes on him; he walked with 
 him, amused him, and sought to distract him from his 
 one absorbing thought. On the sixteenth of September 
 he took him himself to the house of the pitiless Hono- 
 rine, and proved to him, by her porter, that she had 
 set out with Le Tas for the Ionian isles. 
 
 The duke was less troubled by this news than might 
 have been expected. He lived quietly shut up at home, 
 occupying himself with his wife, and demonstrating to 
 
THE WIDOW CHERMIDY. 267 
 
 her, with extreme delicacy, that Germaine had never 
 been really cured, and that they ought to be prepared 
 for the worst. He interested himself in the most tri- 
 fling details of the household, recognized the necessity 
 of making some purchases, borrowed two thousand francs 
 from his friend Sangli^, put the money in his pocket, 
 and left for Corfu on the morning of the twentieth of 
 September, •without taking leave of a single person. 
 
268 GBEMAINB. 
 
 CHAPTEE XII. 
 
 THE "WAR. 
 
 ON THE eighth of September, Germaine, who had been 
 given over without remedy, deceived the fears of 
 her friends and her physicians; she began to recover. 
 The fever that had been devouring her abated in a 
 few hours, like those wild tropical storms which uproot 
 the trees, overthrow the houses, shake the mountains, 
 and are stayed by a sunbeam in the midst of their 
 career. 
 
 This happy revulsion was so suddenly accomplished 
 that neither Don Diego nor the countess could believe 
 in it. Man always accustoms himself more quickly to 
 joy than to sorrow; yet despite this, they remained 
 some days in suspense. They feared to be duped by 
 a false hope, they dared not congratulate each other on 
 so unexpected a miracle, and they asked themselves if 
 this seeming recovery were not the final effort of a 
 being clinging obstinately to life, the last flicker of the 
 lamp that was expiring. 
 
THE WAR. 269 
 
 But Dr. Le Bris and M. Delviniotis knew by sure 
 signs that the sufferings of this poor little body were 
 really ended. In eight days the inflammation had re- 
 paired the ravages of a long illness. The crisis had 
 saved Germaine, — the earthquake had replaced the house 
 on its foundation. 
 
 The young girl found it perfectly natural to Uve and 
 to be healed. Thanks to the delirium of the fever, 
 she had passed the gates of death without perceiving 
 them, and the violence of the malady had deprived her 
 of the consciousness of danger. She awoke like a child 
 on the brink of a well, unconscious of the depth of 
 the abyss beneath her. When they told her that she 
 had been near dying, and that her friends had de- 
 spaired of her life, she was greatly surprised; she had 
 not suspected that she was returning from such a dis- 
 tance. When they promised her that she should live 
 a long life, and should suffer no more, she raised her 
 eyes lovingly to the ivory crucifix suspended over her 
 bed, and said, with a sweet and trustful gayety, — "The 
 good God really owes me this, — I am sure that I have 
 passed through purgatory." 
 
 She regained her strength in a little while, and health 
 was soon blooming in her cheeks again. You would have 
 23* 
 
270 GERMAINE. 
 
 said that Nature was in haste to adorn her for happi- 
 ness. She entered into possession of this new hfe with 
 the impetuous joy of a young Pretender, who leaps with 
 one bound into the throne of his fathers. She would 
 have liked to be everywhere at once, — to enjoy at a 
 breath all the pleasures that were restored to her, both 
 motion and repose, solitude and society, the dazzling 
 brightness of day and the mellow glimmer of twihght. 
 Her little hands clung joyously to every thing about her; 
 she overwhelmed her husband, her mother-in-law, and 
 her child with caresses, and sought to pour out her 
 happiness by a thousand demonstrations. Sometimes she 
 wept without cause, but her tears were tears of joy; 
 little Gomez kissed them from her eyes, as a bird drinks 
 the dew from the calyx of a flower. 
 
 Every thing is pleasure to a convalescent. The com- 
 monest functions of life are sources of inefiable joy to 
 him who has been on the verge of death. All his 
 senses vibrate deUciously at the slightest contact with 
 the external world; the heat of the sun seems softer to 
 him than a mantle of ermine, the light of day rejoices 
 his eyes, the perfume of the flowers intoxicates him, the 
 sounds of nature fall upon his ears like the sweetest 
 melody, and even bread seems good to him. 
 
THE WAR. 271 
 
 Those who had shared the sufferings of Germaine felt 
 themselves born again with her. Her convalescence 
 quickly reestablished all the companions of her sorrows. 
 Cloudless foreheads again beamed around her, and a 
 common joy made every heart to beat in unison. All 
 the fatigues and anguish that had been endured were 
 forgotten, gayety again was queen of the house, and 
 the first fine day effaced the traces of watcliing and 
 tears from every countenance. The guests of the Villa 
 Dandolo thought no more of returning to their own 
 houses ; they fancied themselves already at home. United 
 by happiness as they had been by anxiety, they lingered 
 around Germaine Jike a happy family around an adored 
 child. When the doctor wrote to Madame de La Tour 
 d'Embleuse to inform her of her daughter's safety, each 
 one wished to say a word to the happy mother, and the 
 pen passed from hand to hand. This letter reached 
 Paris on the twenty-second of September, two days after 
 the ecUpse of the old duke. 
 
 Madame Chermidy and her inseparable Le Tas landed on 
 the evening of the twenty-fourth at the city of Corfu. The 
 captain's widow had made her preparations in haste; 
 she had hardly taken time to collect a hundred thou- 
 sand francs for the salary of Mantoux and any unfore- 
 
272 GBRMAINE. 
 
 seen expenses. Le Tas had counselled her to wait in 
 Paris for more positive tidings, but one so easily believes 
 what they desire, that Madame Chermidy took Germaine 
 for dead and buried. From Trieste to Corfu she lived 
 on deck, lorgnette in hand, wishing to be the first to 
 discover land. She was tempted to stop all the ships in 
 the offiiag to ask if they bore no letters to her address. 
 She inquired anxiously if they would not reach port in 
 the morning, for she did not feel able to pass a night in 
 waiting, and she intended to go straight to the Villa 
 Dandolo. Her impatience was so evident that it was 
 whispered among the passengers that she was going to 
 Corfu to receive a large inheritance, and they designated 
 her as the heiress. 
 
 The sea was quite rough for two days, and every- 
 body was sick except the heiress of Germaine. She had 
 not time to feel the rolling ; perhaps even her feet did 
 not touch the deck of the ship ; she was so light that 
 she hovered instead of walking. "When she slept by 
 chance, she dreamed that she was floating in air. 
 
 The vessel anchored in the harbor at twilight, and it 
 was after nine when the passengers and baggage were 
 landed on shore. The sight of the dim lights that were 
 glimmering sparsely enough here and there through the 
 
THE WAR. 273 
 
 city produced a disagreeable effect upon Madame Cher- 
 voidj. When we reach the end of a journey, that hope 
 which has hitherto borne us on its wings suddenly aban- 
 dons us, and we fall rudely upon reality. That which 
 seemed the surest to us veils itself in doubt, and we 
 no longer count on any thing, but begin, instead, to 
 ■ prepare ourselves for the worst. A chill seizes us, 
 whatever may be the ardor of the passions by which 
 we are animated ; we are tempted to look at every thing 
 on the darkest side, we regret that we have come, and 
 we wish that we might only retrace our steps. This 
 impression is the more painful when we are landing 
 alone in an unknown country. "When no one is awaiting 
 us at the port, and we fall a prey to the polyglot knaves 
 who buzz so persistently about travellers, our first feeling 
 is that of mingled anger, disgust, and discouragement. 
 Madame Chermidy reached the Trafalgar House in a 
 most execrable humor. 
 
 She hoped to learn there the death of Germaine. The 
 first thing that she learned, however, was that the French 
 language was not very well known in the hotels of Corfu. 
 Madame Chermidy and Ze Tas possessed but one foreign 
 language between them; the Proven9al, which did them 
 but little good in this country. They must wait for an 
 
274 GERMAINE. 
 
 interpreter, and sup in the mean time. The interpreter 
 arrived after, the landlord had gone to bed ; he rose out 
 of humor, grumbling because he had been awakened on 
 business that did not concern him. He knew neither M. 
 nor Madame de Villanera ; they certainly could never 
 have come to the island, for all travellers of distinc- 
 tion stopped at the Trafalgar House. It could not be 
 supposed that M. and Madame de Villanera, if they were 
 wealthy people, had been misled elsewhere. The Eng- 
 lish Hotel, the Albion, and the Victoria House, were all 
 establishments of a lower class, unworthy of lodging M. 
 and Madame de Villanera. 
 
 "With this tirade the landlord went to bed again, and 
 the interpreter offered to go out in search of information. 
 He remained absent part of the night. Le Tas slept in 
 the mean time ; while Madame Chermidy fretted impa- 
 tiently at her curb, and wondered more than once that 
 a person who had a hundred thousand francs in her 
 pocket could not purchase a simple piece of information. 
 She awakened poor Le Tas, who could do nothing but ad- 
 vise her to sleep, instead of putting her blood in a whirl 
 "You must understand that if the child had taken her 
 departure for the other world, the city would not have 
 been hung in black for it," said she. "We shall hear 
 
THE WAR. 275 
 
 in the country; everybody there must know the Villa 
 Dandolo. Go to bed quietly; it will be light to-morrow. 
 "What do you risk by it? Be sure that if she is dead 
 and buried, she will not rise again in the night time." 
 
 Madame Chermidy was about to follow her cousin's 
 advice, when the servant came with an important air to 
 inform them that M. and Madame de Villanera had 
 landed on the island in April, with their physician and 
 all their household ; that they were then all very ill ; that 
 they had gone to the Villa Dandolo ; and that if they had 
 not got better, they must have all died long ago. The 
 impatient widow showed the servant the door, and threw 
 herself on the bed, where she tossed restlessly till 
 morning. 
 
 The next morning she hired a carriage, and ordered 
 herself to be driven to the Villa Dandolo. The coach- 
 man could not tell her what she wished to know, and 
 the peasants whom she met on the way- listened to her 
 questions without understanding them. She mistook every 
 house on the road for the Villa Dandolo, — all the houses 
 on the island look pretty much alike. When her coach- 
 man pointed out to her a slate roof, half hidden by the 
 trees, she pressed both hands to her heart. She gazed 
 attentively on the face of the country to read there the 
 
276 GERMAINE. 
 
 great news that she was burning to hear. UnhappUy 
 the gardens, roads, and forests are impassive spectators 
 of our pains and pleasures. If they interest themselves 
 at all in our fate, they know how to conceal it, for the 
 trees of the park never put on mourning at the death 
 of their master. 
 
 Madame Chermidy chafed at the slowness of the 
 horses. She would gladly have ascended the planes 
 which led to the villa at fuU gallop. She could hardly 
 remain in the carriage, but threw herself from one 
 window to the other, scrutinizing the house and the fields, 
 and seeking in vain for a human figure. At last, she 
 sprang to the ground, ran to the villa, found all the 
 doors open, but met nobody. She turned back, and 
 hastily crossed the north garden, — it was empty. A 
 little gate and a steep flight of steps led to the garden 
 on the south. She sprang to the bottom, and ventured 
 in the walks. 
 
 Under the shade of an old orange tree, by the side 
 of the sea-shore, she saw a lady in white, walking with 
 a book in her hand. She was too far off to recognize 
 the face, but the color of the dress gave her food for 
 thought, — one does not dress in white in a house of 
 mourning. All the observations which she had made in 
 
THE WAR. 277 
 
 the last five minutes combated each other in her mind. 
 The almost total desertion of .the villa might make her 
 believe in the death of Germaine. The doors were open, 
 the servants absent, the masters gone, — and where ? 
 Perhaps to Paris. But how was it, then, that nothing 
 was known of it in the city? Could Germaine have re- 
 covered? Impossible in so short a time. Could she stiU 
 be ill? But then they would be nursing her; they 
 would not leave the doors open. She was hesitating 
 whether to advance to the white walker, when a child 
 leaped across the alley, and plunged among the trees like 
 a frightened hare crossing a forest footpath. She recog- 
 nized her son, and recovered her courage. "What do I 
 fear?" thought she; "no one has the right to drive me 
 hence. Be she living or dead, I am a mother, and I 
 come to see my son." 
 
 She walked straight to the child. The little Gomez 
 was frightened at seeing a lady in black, and ran cry- 
 ing to his mamma. Madame Chermidy advanced a 
 few steps in pursuit of him, and stopped short face to 
 face with Germaine. 
 
 Germaine was alone in the garden with the Marquis 
 de Ids Montes de Hierro, Her guests had just taken 
 leave of her. The countess and her son had ac- 
 24 
 
278 GBEMAINE. 
 
 companied Madame de Vitr4 home, the doctor had 
 gone to the city with the Dandolos and M. Delviniotis, 
 the house was abandoned to the servants, and they 
 took their usual siesta wherever sleep had surprised 
 them. 
 
 At the first glance, Madame Chermidy recognized 
 the woman whom she had seen but once, and whom 
 she had never expected to see again. Despite the 
 cool deliberation and well-balanced mind with which 
 Nature had endowed her, she recoiled a step, like the 
 soldier who sees the bridge he was about to cross 
 suddenly blown into atoms before his eyes. She was 
 not the woman to lull herself by chimeras, — she compre- 
 hended her position with its remotest consequences in an 
 instant. She saw her rival fuUy cured, her lover gone, 
 her child in the hands of another, and her future lost 
 forever. The fall was the rougher that the fair aspirant 
 fell from so high. The Titans of mythology felt not 
 more keenly the thunderbolts that cast them down 
 after they had piled mountain upon mountain to the very 
 gates of heaven. 
 
 The hatred towards the yoimg countess, which she 
 had nourished ever since the day when she had first 
 began to fear her, suddenly rose to colossal proportions, 
 
THE WAR. 279 
 
 like those trees at the theatre which spring from the soil 
 and mount to the ceiling at the touch of the machin- 
 ist. The first idea which struck a spark from her cruel 
 spirit was that of a crime. A strength, centupled by- 
 rage, trembled in her muscles. She asked herself why 
 she did not break in pieces with her own hands the 
 fragile barrier which separated her from happiness. For 
 an instant, she was the sister of those Thyades who 
 tore live tigers and lions to shreds in the excess of 
 divine fury. She repented having left at the hotel 
 a Corsican poniard, — a terrible trinket with a blade as 
 blue as a watch-spring, and as long and phant as a 
 whalebone, a hilt of ebony inlaid with silver, and a 
 sheath of enamelled platina. She had always displayed 
 it on her mantel, — and she hastened in thought to the 
 familiar weapon, seized it in spirit, and stroked its point 
 in imagination. She thought directly afterward of the 
 sea, which was gently beating against the edge of the 
 garden. Nothing was easier or more tempting than to 
 bear Germaine there as an eagle bears off a lamb to 
 his eyrie, to stretch her in three feet of water, to 
 stifle her cries under the waves, and to repress her 
 struggles until a last convulsion should create another 
 Countess de Villanera. 
 
280 GEEMAINE. 
 
 Happily the distance is longer from the thought to* 
 the act than from the arm to the head. Besides, the 
 little Gomez was there, and it may be that his presence 
 saved the life of Germaine. The clear gaze of a chUd 
 has more than once sufficed to paralyze a criminal hand. 
 The most perverted beings experience an involuntary 
 respect for this sacred age, more august even than old 
 age itself. Old age is a smooth lake, which has suffered 
 all the impurities of life to sink to the bottom ; childhood 
 is a spring gushing forth from the mountain which, though 
 restless, is clear because pure to its source. Old men 
 have the knowledge of good and evil ; the ignorance of 
 children is like the spotless snow of the Jungfrau, which 
 no foot-print has sullied, not even a bird's. 
 
 Madame Chermidy conceived, caressed, debated, and 
 rejected the idea of acrime while closing her parasol 
 and saluting Germaine, who did not know her. 
 
 Germaine welcomed her with that frank grace and 
 cordiality which belong only to the happy. There was 
 nothing in the visit of an unknown lady to surprise 
 her ; almost every day she received some friendly neigh- 
 bor who had been interested in her illness and came 
 to congratulate her on her recovery. The widow en- 
 tered into conversation with a confused faltering, which 
 betrayed her agitation. 
 
THE WAR. 281 
 
 " Madame," said she, " you could not have expected — 
 indeed I did not expect myself — if I had known 
 — Madame, I have just come from Paris. Your father, 
 the Duke de La Tour d'Embleuse, who honors me with 
 his friendship " 
 
 " You know my father then, madame ? " interrupted 
 Germaine, eagerly; "you have seen liim very lately?" 
 
 " Within eight days." 
 
 " Let me embrace you ! My poor father ! how is 
 he ? he writes to us so seldom. Give me news of my 
 mother ! " 
 
 Madame Chermidy bit her lips. 
 
 "But you, madame,'' resumed she without replying, 
 " I did not hope to find you so well. The last letter 
 which the duke received from Corfu " 
 
 "Yes, madame, I was very low, but they were not 
 ready for me yet in Paradise. Sit down here by my 
 side. By this time my father and mother are free 
 from all anxiety. Oh ! I am really saved. Do you 
 not see it in my countenance? Look at me closely." 
 
 "Yes, madame. After what we were told in Paris, 
 this is indeed a miracle." 
 
 "A miracle of friendship and love. The countess, my 
 mother, is so good to me ! my husband loves me so ! " 
 24* 
 
282 GERMAINE. 
 
 " Ah ! . . . What a beautiful child it is playing down 
 there ! He is yours, madame ? " 
 
 Germaine suddenly rose from her seat, looked the 
 widow in the face, and sprang back in terror, as though 
 she had trodden on a serpent. "Madame," she said to 
 the unknown, "you are Madame Chermidy!" 
 
 Madame Chermidy rose in turn and marched straight 
 to Germaine, as if to run her through the body. Anger, 
 surprise, and all the emotions with which she was sti- 
 fling, burst forth in a deep sob, and two large tears rolled 
 down her cheeks. Germaine knew not that one could 
 weep for rage. She pitied her enemy, and said naively 
 in sympathy, " Poor woman ! " 
 
 The tears dried instantly, like drops of rain in the 
 crater of a volcano. 
 
 " Poor woman ! and to me ! " replied Madame Cher- 
 midy harshly. "Well, yes, I am to be pitied since I 
 have been deceived ! since my confidence has been abused ! 
 since heaven and earth have conspired together to betray 
 me! since they have stolen from me my name, my for- 
 tune, the man whom I love, and the son whom I bore 
 with pains and shrieks ! " 
 
 Germaine was dismayed by this burst of wrath. She 
 turned her eyes towards the house, as if to call for aid. 
 
THE WAR. 283 
 
 "Madame,'' said she, irembling, "if it is for this that 
 you have come to my house " 
 
 " To your house ! and you are going to call your ser- 
 vants to drive me away ! Eeally, this is admirable ! It 
 is I who am in your house ! But you have nothing that 
 is not mine ! Your husband, your chUd, your fortune, the 
 very air you breathe, all comes from me, all belongs to 
 me ; all is a trust which I have confided to you, — you 
 owe me every thing, and you will never repay me. You 
 were vegetating at Paris on a wretched truckle-bed, the 
 physicians had condemned you to death, you had but 
 three months to live — you promised it! Your father 
 and mother were dying of hunger. Without me, the 
 family of La Tour d'Embleuse would be now but a heap 
 of dust in a pauper's grave. I have given you every 
 thing — father, mother, husband, child, and life — and you 
 dare tell me to my face that I am in your house! In- 
 grate!" 
 
 It was difficult to reply to this burst of savage elo- 
 quence. Germaine crossed her hands on her breast, 
 exclaiming, "Men Dieu! madame, I have sounded my 
 conscience in vain ; I am guilty of nothing, except of not 
 dying. I never made any pledges to you, — I meet you 
 now for the first time. It is true that had it not been 
 
284 germaine; 
 
 for you I should have died long ago; but if you have 
 saved my life, it has been against your will, the proof of 
 it is that you come to taunt me with the very air I 
 breathe. Was it you who gave me for a wife to Count 
 de Villanera? Perhaps. But you chose me because you 
 thought me hopeless. I owe you no gratitude for that. 
 Now, what can I do to serve you ? I am ready to do 
 any thing but to die." 
 
 " I ask nothing of you, I wish nothing, I expect noth- 
 ing." 
 
 " Then why do you come here ? Good God ! 
 
 You believed me ill, and you thought to find me dead." 
 
 "I had the right. But I ought to have known your 
 family better; the La Tour d'Embleuse have never paid 
 their debts." 
 
 At this coarse insult, Germaine lost patience. "Ma- 
 dame," said she, " you see that I am well. Since you 
 only came here to bury me, your business is ended ; there 
 is nothing more to detain you." 
 
 Madame Chermidy resolutely seated herself on the 
 stone bench, saying, "I shall not go without seeing Don 
 Diego." 
 
 " Don Diego ! " exclaimed the convalescent " You 
 shall not see him ! I will not suffer him to see you ! 
 
THE WAR. 285 
 
 Listen, madame. I am still very weak, but I shall find 
 the strength of a lioness to defend my happiness. It is 
 not that I doubt him, — he is good ; he loves me as a 
 sister; he will love me soon as a wife. But I will not 
 have his heart rent by a struggle between the past and 
 the future ; — it would be horrible to condemn him to 
 choose between us. Besides, you see very well that his 
 choice is made, since he writes to you no longer." 
 
 " Child ! you have not learned love in the midst of 
 your diet drinks. You do not know the empire that we 
 gain over a man by making him happy! You do not 
 know what threads of gold, closer and finer than those 
 of the spider, we weave around his lieart! I have not 
 come unarmed to declare war ; I bring with me the mem- 
 ory of three years of satisfied but never satiated passion ; 
 you are free to oppose to it your sisterly kisses and 
 school-girl caresses. Perhaps you think to have extin- 
 guished the flame which I have lighted! Wait only till 
 I breathe upon it, and you shall see a magnificent 
 blaze!" 
 
 "You will speak with him? If he be weak enough 
 to consent to that fatal interview, his mother and I will 
 know how to prevent it." 
 
 « What do I care for his mother I, too, have claims 
 on him, and I wUl enforce them." 
 
286 GERMAINE. 
 
 "I do not know what claims a woman can have who 
 has behaved Uke you, but I know that the church and 
 the law gave the Count de Villanera to me on the day 
 when they gave me to him." 
 
 "Hear me. I leave you the free disposal of all the 
 property you possess. Live, be rich and happy, make 
 your family prosperous, watch over the old age of your 
 parents, but leave me Don Diego. He is nothing to you 
 as yet, — you yourself have confessed it. He is not 
 your husband, he is only your physician, your nurse, the 
 assistant of Doctor Le Bris." 
 
 "He is every thing to me, madame, since I love 
 him." 
 
 " Ah ! ■ is it so ? "Well, let us change our tune. Give 
 me back my son ! he, at least, is mine ; I hope that 
 you will allow that. When I ceded him to you, I made 
 my conditions; you have not kept your word, I am free 
 from mine." 
 
 " But if you love little Gomez, madame," replied Ger- 
 maine, "you will not think of despoiling him of his name 
 and fortune." 
 
 "What is that to me? I love liim for my own sake, 
 hke all mothers. I had rather have a bastard to 
 embrace every morning, than a marquis to call you 
 mamma." 
 
THE WAR. 287 
 
 " I know that the child was yours, but you have given 
 him away, and you have no moue right to claim him 
 again than I have to restore him to you." 
 
 " I. shall demand him of the courts ; I shall unveil the 
 mystery of his birth. I risk' nothing now, — my husband 
 is dead, he will not kill me ! " 
 
 "You will lose your suit." 
 
 " But I wiU gain a fine scandal. Ah ! Madame de 
 Villanera clings to the honor of her illustrious name, the 
 right to which Italy disputes with Spain ! They have 
 done infamous things to glorify it! But I will take this 
 haughty de Villanera by the ears, I will trail it in the 
 dust from court to court, I will print it in all the journals, 
 I wiU amuse the estaminets of Paris with it, I will 
 insert it in the police gazettes, and the old countess wiU. 
 burst with rage. The lawyers may plead in vain, and 
 the judges may do their best ; I shall lose my suit, but 
 all the future Villaneras will be stained with Cher- 
 midy!" 
 
 She spoke with so much warmth that she attracted the 
 young marquis' attention. He was ten paces off, gravely 
 occupied in planting boughs in the sand to make a little 
 garden. He quitted his work, and ran defiantly with his 
 fist clenched towards Madame Chermidy. Oa seeing him 
 
288. GBEMAINE. 
 
 thus approach, Germaine said to the widow, "Madame, 
 your passion must have abstracted you strangely. You 
 have been reclaiming your child for more than an hour; 
 but have you not yet thought of embracing him?" 
 
 The marquis offered his cheek with a very bad grace, 
 saying to his terrible mother in the broken language of 
 children of his age, — " Madame, what dost thou say to 
 mamma ? " 
 
 "Marquis," replied Germaine, "madame wants to carry 
 you away to Paris; wUl you go with her?" 
 
 He threw himself into Germaine's arms by way of 
 answering, casting furtive glances at Madame Cher- 
 midy. 
 
 "We all love him," said Germaine. 
 
 "You too? that is artful." 
 
 "It is natural, — he resembles his father." 
 
 "Look at me," said the widow to her son; "don't you 
 remember me?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "I am your mother." 
 
 "No!" 
 
 "You are ray son. My son!" 
 
 "No, not thine; I am mamma Germaine's." 
 
 "Haven't you another mother?" 
 
THE WAR. 289 
 
 "Yes; mamma Nera. She has gone home with mam- 
 ma Vitre." 
 
 " It seems that everybody is his mamma but me. 
 You don't remember seeing me in Paris ? " 
 
 " Paris, where is that ,'' " 
 
 " Where I used to give you bonbons." 
 
 " Where are the bonbons ? " 
 
 " Come, children are little men, — ingratitude cuts with 
 their te^th. Marquis de Los Montes de Hierro, listen to 
 me. All these mammas are those who have brought you 
 up. But I am your real mother, your only mother, the 
 one who made you ! " 
 
 The child understood nothing, except that madame was 
 scolding. He wept bitterly, and Germaine had great 
 trouble to quiet him. 
 
 "You see, madame," said she to the widow, "that no 
 one detains you here, not even the marquis." 
 
 "This is my ultimatum," answered she proudly. But 
 a well-known voice cut short her words. It was Doctor 
 Le Bris, who had returned from Corfu at full speed. 
 He had seen Le Tas at the window of the Trafalgar 
 House, and had come on a gallop to bring back the 
 news. Madame Chermidy's coachman, whom he found at 
 the gate of the Villa, gave him a terrible fright by 
 25 
 
290 GEEMAINE. 
 
 telling him that he had brought a lady there. He ran 
 over the house, awakening every sleeper that fell in his 
 ■way by a vigorous kick, and descended the steps of the 
 garden, four at a time. 
 
 The doctor did not think Madame Cherinidy capable 
 of a crime, yet he breathed a sigh of relief on finding 
 Germaine as he had left her. He felt her pulse before 
 speaking a word, then said : 
 
 " Countess, you are a little agitated ; I think it would 
 do you good to be alone. Rest here, if you please, wlule 
 I conduct this lady back to her carriage." 
 
 He gave this order smilingly, yet with such an air of 
 authority that Madame Chermidy accepted his arm with- 
 out reply. 
 
 " Come, my fair patient," said he, after they had taken 
 four steps together, "I hope you do not intend to undo 
 my work? What the devil brings you to this country?" 
 
 "What sort of a letter did you write to the old duke?" 
 said she, naively. 
 
 " Ah ! that is it ! Well, we did have a hard week ; 
 but the fair weather has come again." 
 
 "Is there no help for it. Key of Hearts?" 
 
 "None, as sure as I am a living man." 
 
 " And what do you gain by it ? " 
 
THE WAE. 291 
 
 " The satisfaction of having done my duty. Then it is 
 a remarkable cure, — such are not made by dozens." 
 
 " My poor friend, some prophesy that you will make 
 your way in the world ; for my part, I am afraid that 
 you will vegetate all your life. Men of talent are some- 
 times very stupid." 
 
 " "What would you have ? One cannot please every- 
 body. La Fontaine has said the same thing in rhyme 
 somewhere." 
 
 " "What will become of me ? I have lost all ! " 
 
 " Do you really think so ? " 
 
 ""Without a doubt." 
 
 " You count your millions for nothing, then ? You are 
 a prudent woman ; you have provided against solitude." 
 
 " Is what you say really your opinion ? " 
 
 "Mine, as well as others.'' 
 
 " Don Diego's among the number ? " 
 
 "Perhaps." 
 
 ""Well, they are very unjust. I will freely restore all 
 he has given me." 
 
 " You know very well that he will not take it. Adieu, 
 madame." 
 
 "Have you still that Mathieu whom the duke sent 
 you from Paris ? " 
 
 "Yes; why?" 
 
292 GERMAINB. 
 
 " Because I wrote to you to distrust him." 
 
 "It was for that very reason that I hindered them 
 from dismissing him." 
 
 Madame Chermidy returned precipitately to the city. 
 Her retreat very much resembled a defeat, and Le Tas, 
 who was awaiting the news at the window, divined at 
 the first glance that the field of battle remained in pos- 
 session of the enemy. The widow mounted the staircase 
 out of breath, threw herself in a fauteuil, and said to her 
 accomplice : " Accursed journey ! " 
 
 " Has she escaped ? " 
 
 " She is cured." 
 
 " "What efirontery ! Have you seen the count ? " 
 
 " Not I ! They hid him so well that I could not un- 
 earth him. Le Bris almost turned me out of doors." 
 
 "If he finds his practice again, I will lose my name. 
 Go on, go on, my good man ; the reckoning will come ! 
 And my little Jew? is he a fool then?" 
 
 " Or else a rascal. He has deceived us, like all the 
 rest." 
 
 " Great gods ! Whom to trust, if we cannot count on 
 a convict ! After all, they may have showed him the 
 door." 
 
 " No, he is still with them." 
 
THE WAE. 293 
 
 "Then there is one resource left. You surely are not 
 going to throw the helve after the hatchet?" 
 
 " Nonsense ! I must see Don Diego." 
 
 "You shall see him." 
 
 "Wiat if we rent a cottage somewhere in his neigh- 
 borhood ? " 
 
 "That is a good idea. If ever you have him alone, 
 you can make him do what you like. You are superb 
 now!" 
 
 "It is anger. I have reclaimed the child, and have 
 spoken of a suit. He will be alarmed ; he will come to 
 me." 
 
 " If he does come, you will carry him off ? " 
 
 "Like a feather!" 
 
 "Perhaps you were wrong in speaking of a suit. He 
 is too proud to yield to any thing of that sort. Attacking 
 a Spaniard by threats is like caressing a wolf by strok- 
 ing him the wrong way.'' 
 
 "If threats avail nothing, I have still another idea. I 
 make my will in favor of the marquis, I give hirn back 
 his millions to the last sou, and I kill myself." 
 
 " An admirable expedient ! that will further your wishes 
 greatly ! " 
 
 " How dull you are. I shall kill myself without doing 
 25* 
 
294 GERMAINE. 
 
 any harm. The will will pirove that I do not care for 
 money, and the knife will prove that I do not care for 
 life ; but I shall stab myself only when some one turns 
 the knob of the door." 
 
 Le Tas thought the idea excellent, although it was not 
 wholly new. " Good," cried she ; " he is a simpleton, a 
 chevalier, — he will never suffer a woman he has once 
 loved to commit suicide for the sake of his fine eyes. 
 These men ! what fools they are ! If I had been hand- 
 some as you, I would have made them march." 
 
 "Meanwhile, my child, it is we who must march, 
 and that to-morrow." 
 
 " So soon ! well, forward then ! " 
 
 The next morning, the two women, escorted by a ser- 
 vant, drove to the south of the island. They found a 
 pretty little cottage in the neighborhood of the Villa 
 Dandolo, for sale or to let with the adjoining enclosure. 
 It was the little chateau which Madame de. ViUanera 
 had selected for M. de La Tour d'Embleuse, in case 
 he should come to pass the summer at Corfu. It was 
 also the chateau en Hspagne of poor Mantoux, sur- 
 named Little-luck. The cottage was hired on the 24th 
 of September, furnished the 25th, and occupied the 
 26th, early in the morning. The iafit was then made 
 fenowrt to Don DiegQ. 
 
THE WAR. 295 
 
 For the last three days the count had been in tor- 
 tures. Germaine had told him of the visit which she 
 had received. The poor child knew not how he would 
 take the news, yet she wished to be the first to carry 
 it to him. In announcing to Don Diego the arrival 
 of his former mistress, she could assure herself in an 
 instant whether he were really cured. A man taken by 
 surprise has not time to compose his countenance, and 
 the first expression that betrays itself on his features 
 is always the true one. Germaine played a bold game 
 in submitting her husband to such an ordeal, — a 
 gleam of joy in the eyes of the count would have 
 killed her as surely as a pistol shot. But women are 
 thus constituted; and their heroic love prefers a cer- 
 tain danger to an uncertain happiness. 
 
 M. de Villanera was really cured, for he received the 
 news of her landing as one receives disagreeable tidings. 
 His brow became clouded with a sadness which was 
 not at all exaggerated, because it was sincere. He 
 seemed neither indignant nor scandaKzed; this proceed- 
 ing of Madame Chermidy's, though impertinent to all the 
 others, was excusable to him. Pie did not frown like 
 a governor on learning that an enemy had effected a 
 descent on his territory, but grew sad, like a man 
 
296 GERMAINE. 
 
 ■when some unforeseen accident has broken in on the 
 midst of his happiness. 
 
 Germaine could not repress a little anger in repeat- 
 ing to him the woman's insolent proposals and audacious 
 pretensions. The doctor chimed in with her, and the 
 old countess loudly regretted not having been there to 
 have thrown the hussy out of the gate, or into the 
 sea, — the sea being one of the gates of the garden. 
 But Don Diego, instead of espousing the quarrel of thg 
 family, applied himself to healing their wounds and 
 soothing their anger. He defended, or rather pitied his 
 former mistress, like a gallant man who loved her no 
 longer, but was yet flattered by her love for him. He 
 performed this duty with so much delicacy that Ger- 
 maine gave him thanks for it, for it gave her one 
 more occasion of appreciating the integrity and noble- 
 ness of his soul. She willingly permitted him to give 
 his pity to Madame Chermidy, quite sure herself of 
 possessing all his love. 
 
 The dowager was much less tolerant. The demand 
 for the child and the threat of a scandalous suit had 
 exasperated her. She would hear of nothing less than 
 delivering up the widow to the magistrates of the Seven 
 Isles, and having her shamefully expelled as an adven- 
 
THE WAR. 297 
 
 turess. "Mr. Stevens is our friend," said she, "and he 
 surely will not refuse to do us this little favor." She 
 discovered that her visit to Germaine might be con- 
 strued into an attempt at murder, since the presence of 
 so venomous a creature might easily have proved fatal 
 to the convalescent ; the doctor did not say no to it. 
 
 The count essayed to calm his mother. "Don't be 
 afraid," said he ; " she will institute no suit. She is 
 not so unnatural as to compromise her own son at the 
 same time with ourselves ; her anger has made her 
 forget herself. It is very easy for us to talk calmly, — 
 we who are happy. She has a right to be indignant, 
 and to regard me as a criminal, — I have abandoned 
 her without cause. I have not written to her once in 
 the space of eight months, and I have ended by giving 
 my whole soul to another. She would curse me still 
 more, if I should tell her that the happiest days of my 
 life have been those passed far from her, by the side 
 of my Germaine, and that my heart is so full of love 
 that a drop more would make it overflow. Let me 
 dismiss her with friendly words. Why should I not 
 open my heart to her, and show her that there is no 
 room left for her? A single hour would suffice to 
 change this wounded and bitter love into a pure and 
 
298 GERMAINE. 
 
 lasting friendship. She will think no more of making 
 a scandal, but will remain worthy of meeting us in 
 society without embarrassment, and of coming sometimes 
 to ask after her son. There are very few women who 
 are not exposed to jostling an old mistress of their 
 husband in some drawing-room, yet they do not tear 
 out her eyes ; the past and present live in harmony 
 as soon as the line which separates them is clearly 
 defined. Consider, besides, that our position is not that 
 of all the world. Whatever we may do, — whatever this 
 unhappy woman may do herself, — she will always be, 
 in the eyes of God, the mother of our child. Had she 
 been his nurse only, we should have made it our duty 
 to secure her against misery ; shall we refuse an inno- 
 cent and prudent measure then, that may save her from 
 crime and from despair?" 
 
 Don Diego spoke so earnestly that Germaine gave 
 him her hand, saying, "My friend, I declared to this 
 woman that she never should see you again; but if I 
 had heard you speak with so much reason and judg- 
 ment, I should have sought you myself to have led 
 you to her. Take the carriage, lose no time, hasten 
 to take leave of her, and forgive her the wrong she 
 has done me as I forgive her." 
 
THE WAE. 299 
 
 "Not so fast!" returned Madame de Villanera. "If 
 he takes the carriage, I will unharness the horses with my 
 own hands. Don Diego, you did not consult me when 
 you took a mistress, neither would you listen to me when 
 I told you that you had fallen into the hands of a 
 wanton, but now since you have consulted me, you 
 shall hear me to the end. It was I who married 
 you. For the interests of our family, I suffered you 
 to make a treaty which would have been base among 
 citizens, but which was excusable by the importance of 
 the interests at stake. God has permitted an affair so 
 unworthily begun, to turn out well, — Heaven be praised 
 for it! But it shall never be said that during my life 
 you quitted the house of your pure and lawful wife 
 to go to that of your former mistress. I know very 
 well that you do not love her, but you do not de- 
 spise her enough to show me that you are cured. This 
 Chermidy has had you for three years in her clutches; 
 I shall not expose you to fall into them again. You 
 may shake your head in vain; the flesh is weak, my 
 son; I know it by your experience, in default of my 
 own. I know men, though they have never paid court 
 to me, — when one has witnessed the same play for 
 fifty years, he knows something of the secret of the 
 
800 GERMAINB. 
 
 plot. Believe me, — the best of men is not to be 
 trusted. You may be the best, if you like, I grant 
 it to you. You are cured of your love; but these 
 parasitic loves are of the family of the acacia. Pull 
 up the tree, bum the roots, and then the sprouts 
 spring up by thousands ! What is there to assure me 
 that the sight of this woman will not make you lose 
 your reason? He who has drank will drink; and you 
 have drank so deeply that we all thought you drowned. 
 Ah ! if you had been married three or four years, — 
 if you were living as you will be living erelong, by 
 God's help, — if the marquis had a brother or a sister, 
 perhaps I might loosen the curb. But suppose that 
 your madness should return again, — I should have done 
 a fine thing in marrying you to this angel ! This is 
 why you will not go to see Madame Chermidy, even 
 to -take leave of her, my dear Count; or, if it please 
 you to go in spite of me, you will find neither your 
 wife nor your mother here on your return." ' 
 
 Don Diego did as he was told, but he was ill at ease 
 during the three days following. M. Le Bris changed 
 his patient, — he had to take care of the brain of his 
 friend. He attempted to root up the obstinate illusions 
 which the count had kept in respect to his former mis- 
 
THE WAR. 301 
 
 tress, he pitUessly broke the brilliant bubbles with, which 
 the poor man had suffered himself to be dazzled; he 
 related all that he knew of her past history in its 
 minutest details, and showed her to him as ambitious, 
 mercenary, and profligate, in short, in her true colors. 
 "They call me the Tomb of Secrets," thought the doctor 
 while unwinding his skein of slander, "but justice has 
 the right to open tombs.'' He saw that Don Diego still 
 doubted, — he made him read the last letter that he had 
 received from Madame Chermidy. The count was seized 
 with horror on finding in it an incitement to assassina- 
 tion, flanked by a reward of five hundred thousand 
 francs. 
 
 At this juncture, M. de La Tour d'Embleuse arrived, 
 and they saw a living proof of the villany of Madame 
 Chermidy. The old man had travelled without accident, 
 thanks to that instinct of self-preservation which we share 
 in common with beasts; but his mind had scattered all 
 its ideas by the way, like a necklace of pearls whose 
 string is broken. He knew enough to find his way to 
 the Villa Dandolo, and fell upon the astonished family 
 with no more emotion than if he had just come from his 
 bedchamber. Germaine threw herself upon his neck 
 26 
 
302 GERMAINE. 
 
 and loaded him with caresses ; he suffered himself to be 
 embraced like a dog by a child. 
 
 "How good you are!" said she. "You knew I was 
 in danger, and hastened to me ! " 
 
 "What! is it true?" was his reply. "You are not 
 dead, then? Why did you say so? I am very glad 
 of it, — that is, not too much so. Honorine is furious 
 against you. Isn't she here? She came to**^ marry de 
 Villanera. What if she should pardon me ! " 
 
 No one could draw from him a single word about 
 the health of the duchess, but he talked of Honorine 
 as long as they wished. He recounted the happiness 
 and the misery she had given him ; all his conversar 
 tion turned upon her, and all his questions tended 
 towards her ; he wished to see her at any price, 
 apd he employed the astuteness of a whole tribe of In- 
 dians to discover the address of his adored Honorine. 
 
 The unexpected aiTival of this remnant of the old 
 man was a deep grief to Germaine and a cruel enlight- 
 enment to Don Diego. Madame de ViUanera, who had 
 never had any sympathy for the duke, took but little 
 interest in the ruin of his intellect ; but she triumphed in 
 having at hand a victim of Madame Chermidy. She 
 
THE WAK. 303 
 
 carefully seated herself by the side of M. de La Tour 
 d'Embleuse, and drew from him all the secrets of his 
 downfall and ruin, playing with a skilful touch on this 
 cracked instrument, the harsh notes of which were heav- 
 enly music to her maternal ear. 
 
 The duke had been raving senselessly for some hours, 
 when Madame Chermidy made it known to Don Diego 
 that she was in the neighborhood and expecting him. 
 The count showed M. Le Bris the letter, and said, 
 shrugging his shoulders, " What would you answer in 
 my place ? " 
 
 "I should offer her money. She came here to take 
 possession of your name, your person, and your fortune. 
 "When she found that the countess was not dead, she 
 gave the name up for lost and fell back upon the rest. 
 When she sees that she must also dispense with your 
 person, she will content herself with the money." 
 
 "But this suit, this scandal with which she threatens 
 us?" 
 
 " Offer her money.'' 
 
 "But her son?" 
 
 "Money, I tell you. It may be that you will need 
 a great deal. You give two sous to the beggars that 
 beg in a blouse, ten to those who beg in a vest, and a 
 
304 GERMAINB. 
 
 hundred to those who beg in a black coat ; calculate from 
 that how much you must offer to those who beg in a 
 coach and four." 
 
 " Will you go and see how much she asks ? " 
 "Parbleu! you have hired me by the month; we do 
 not count the visits." 
 
 The doctor ordered the carriage, and drove to Madame 
 Chermidy's. When he entered, the actress was already 
 on the stage. Seated languidly in a great fauteuil with 
 her hair unbound and her arms hanging listlessly by her 
 side, her melancholy eyes strayed absently about her, 
 and, 
 
 "Dreaming, vaguely gazed on every side." 
 
 " Good morning, madame," said the doctor. " You can 
 put yourself at your ease, it is only I." 
 
 She rose with a start, and ran towards him, ex- 
 claiming : 
 
 "Is it you, my friend! You wounded me the other 
 day, — is it thus that you should greet me after so long 
 an absence ? " 
 
 "We will not speak of that, if you please. I do not 
 come now as a friend, but as an ambassador.'' 
 
 " Shall I not see him, then ? " 
 
THE WAR. 305 
 
 '' No ; but if you insist on seeing somebody, I will show 
 you the Duke de La Tour d'Embleuse." 
 
 " Is he here ? " 
 
 "He came this morning. A fine work you have 
 made ! — there was no need of signing it ! " 
 
 "I am not responsible for all the old fools that go 
 mad for me." 
 
 " Nor for the millions that they lose in your house ? 
 Agreed." 
 
 " Really, Key of Hearts, do you take me for a moneyed 
 woman ? " 
 
 " Immensely so ! How much do you want to return to 
 Paris and remain quiet ? " 
 
 « Nothing." 
 
 " Your passage shall be paid, though it cost a million." 
 
 "There are two of us, — I have brought Le Tas with 
 me." 
 
 "Perhaps we will double the sum." 
 
 "What would you gain by it? If I am what you 
 suppose, I can take the money to-day and make an 
 exposure to-morrow. But I am worth more than all 
 of you." 
 
 "Much obliged!" 
 
 "Stop, my fine ambassador, take this to the king your 
 26* 
 
306 GERMAINE. 
 
 master, and tell him that if he has any commissions for 
 the other world, he may send them to me this evening." 
 
 "What! all for tragedy? grown desperate already!" 
 
 "Yes, my friend. This is my last will and testament. 
 The paper is not sealed, you can read it if you choose.'' 
 
 " Au fait ! here or there ! " 
 
 He reads : " * This is my last wUl and testament. 
 
 "'On the eve of voluntarily quitting a life which the 
 desertion of Count de Villanera has rendered odious to 
 
 me 
 
 " What a farce ! " exclaimed he, abruptly breaking off 
 the reading 
 
 "It is the simple truth.'' 
 
 " Strike out this sentence. In tjie first place, it is badly 
 written " 
 
 "Women write nothing well but letters, — testaments 
 are not their specialty.'' 
 
 " I continue : 
 
 " ' I, Honorine Lavenaze, widow Chermidy, being of 
 sound mind and body, do give and bequeathe all my real 
 estate and personal property to Gomez, Marquis de los 
 Monies de Hierro, only son of Count de Villanera, my 
 former lover. Signed.' " 
 
 " And to-morrow morning it will be terribly attested." 
 
THE WAR. 307 
 
 "I wager not!" 
 
 " Do you challenge me to die tlien ? " 
 
 "Yes, I do. Certes." 
 
 " And why should I not kill myself, if you please ? " 
 
 " Because that would give too much pleasure to three 
 or four good people of my acquaintance. Adieu, Mad- 
 ame." 
 
 The door had hardly closed upon the doctor, when 
 Le Tas quitted an adjoining chamber, in company with 
 Mantoux. 
 
308 GEEMAINE. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE KNIFE. 
 
 MATHIEU MANTOUX could not console himself 
 for the recovery of Germaine. He bitterly ac- 
 cused the druggist of having sold him adulterated arsenic. 
 In his grief he neglected his duty, and wandered dream- 
 ily about the villa. The end of his promenades was 
 always this pretty little estate, of which he had been the 
 owner in anticipation; by force of contemplating it, he 
 had grown to know it in its least details as though he 
 had been brought up there from his earliest childhood. 
 He knew how many windows there were in the house, 
 and there was not a tree in the garden that did not 
 recall to him some souvenir. He had broken the en- 
 closure more than once, — the feat was not difficult. 
 This terrestrial paradise was shut in by a hedge of aloes 
 and cactus, a foi-midable defence if any one had taken 
 care to keep it in order; but three or four of the aloes 
 had blossomed in August, and the flowers had killed the 
 
THE KNIFE. 309 
 
 plants. The impregnable barrier was thus broken in 
 several places, and the meagre form of Mantoux wound 
 its way without hinderance into the forbidden enclosure. 
 
 About four in the afternoon of the twenty-sixth of 
 September, this melancholy varlet strolled along by the 
 side of the hedge, musing on his bad luck, and thinking, 
 with a bitter pleasure, of his first interviews with Le Tas, 
 and of the kind welcome of Madame Chermidy. On 
 comparing his present situation with that which he had 
 dreamed of, he fancied himself the most miserable of 
 men, — one always imagines he has lost what he has 
 failed to gain. The apparition of an enormous mass 
 moving heavily in the garden broke his train of thought ; 
 he rubbed his eyes, and asked himself for a moment if 
 it were Le Tas or her shadow, — but shadows are not 
 so substantial. Le Tas perceived him, and beckoned to 
 him to hasten; she was just thinking on the means of 
 meeting him. 
 
 " So, here you are then, you fine nurse ! " cried she, on 
 approaching him. "You have taken good care of your 
 mistress, — she is well again ! " 
 
 He replied with a great sigh: " Litth Iwh!" 
 
 "We are alone," resumed Le Tas, "no one can hear 
 us, and there is no time to lose. Are you glad to see 
 your mistress well?" 
 
310 GEEMAINE. 
 
 " Certainly, mademoiselle. Yet your mistress promised 
 me something very different." 
 
 " What did she promise you ? " 
 
 "That madame would soon die, and that I should 
 have an income of twelve hundred francs." 
 
 "You would have liked that better, would you?" 
 
 "Dame! then I should have been my own master; 
 and now I must serve others for the rest of my days." 
 
 "And it never occurred to you to give a finishing 
 stroke to the complaint?" 
 
 Mantoux gazed at her with visible perturbation ; he 
 knew not whether he had to do with a judge or an 
 accomplice. She freed him from his embarrassment by 
 adding, "I know you, I saw you at Toulon. When 
 I unearthed you at Corbeil, I knew your whole history." 
 
 " Then you, too, are concerned .in it ! You had a 
 purpose in sending me here ? " 
 
 " To be sure ! If there had been no work to do, I 
 should have sought for an honest man. There are 
 enough of them, thank God! there are even too many!" 
 
 " This is the reason, then, of the income of twelve 
 hundred francs?" 
 
 " Of course." 
 
 " I wager that it was you who wrote me the anony- 
 mous letter." 
 
THE KNIFE. 311 
 
 "Who else could it have been?" 
 
 "But what interest have you in it?" 
 
 "What interest? Your mistress has stolen her hus- 
 band from mine, — do you understand now?" 
 
 " I am beginning to." 
 
 "You should have begun before, you fool." 
 
 " I did not understand, it is true ; nevertheless, I have 
 been at work." 
 
 "With what?" 
 
 "I bought arsenic, and gave her a little every day." 
 
 " Upon your word ? " 
 
 " Upon my honor." 
 
 "You did not give her enough." 
 
 " I was afraid of being detected, — : arsenic is so easily 
 found again in dead bodies." 
 
 " Coward ! " 
 
 "Hold! one cannot afford to have his throat cut for 
 twelve hundred francs." 
 
 " Madame would have given you all that you asked." 
 " She should have told me so. Now it is too late." 
 " It is never too late. Come and speak to her." 
 Mantoux awaited the. departure of M. Le Bris in an 
 apartment adjoining the drawing-room. A few words of 
 the conversation passed through the key-hole and came 
 
312 GERMAINE. 
 
 to his ears, yet, despite this, he but half comprehended 
 the bargain that they wished to make with him. He 
 saluted Madame Chermidy with respectful distrust. The 
 widow did not judge proper to enter into any explana- 
 tion with him so long as she had received no answer 
 from Don Diego. She was greatly agitated, and paced 
 up and down the drawing-room, listening to Le Tas 
 without understanding her, and looking at the convict 
 without seeming to see him. The courtesy of Count de 
 ViUanera was so well known to her that she saw the 
 most alarming symptoms in his absence and silence. 
 
 " He loves me, then, no longer !" said she to herself. 
 " Were it but indifference, I could easily rekindle him ! 
 But they must have blackened me in his eyes'; they 
 must have told him all. He despises me, or he never 
 would have treated me in this manner ! To offer me 
 money through that odious Le Bris ! And in such terms ; 
 great gods ! If he views me with the same eyes as his 
 ambassador, if he esteems me no longer, I may work in 
 vain, he will never return to me — widowed or not, he 
 is lost to me for ever. Then what is the use .... 
 
 unless for pure vengeance ? Well, be it so — 1 will 
 
 avenge myself! But wait. If he does not hasten hither 
 on reading my message, then all indeed is lost!" 
 
THE KNIFE. 313 
 
 "Madame," interrupted Mantoux, «I must go to 
 wait at dinner, and if madame has any commands for 
 me " 
 
 " Go to wait at dinner," said she. "But you are 
 mine. Eemember that. Hear all that they say, and re- 
 peat it to me." 
 
 "Yes, madame." 
 
 "A moment! Perhaps M. de Villanera will come 
 here this evening ; in that case, I shall not need you. 
 Notwithstanding, you may walk about here to-morrow 
 morning. If he should not come — but that is impossible 
 — hasten here as soon as he has gone to bed. The time 
 makes no difference ; Le Tas will be asleep perhaps ; 
 but riilg, and I will open the door myself." 
 
 "You need not, madame. I have been a locksmith, 
 and I have my tools stiU." 
 
 " Well, I shall expect you. But I am sure the count 
 will come.'' 
 
 Mantoux waited at table ; but it was in vain that he 
 bent both ears to the conversation ; the name of Madame 
 Chermidy was not even spoken. They dined in private 
 with a single guest, Mr. Stevens. The old countess 
 asked him whether the English law permitted magistrates 
 to eject vagabonds without trial. Mr. Stevens answered 
 27 
 
814 GEEMAINE. 
 
 that the legislation of his country protected personal lib- 
 erty even in its abuse. 
 
 "That is right," rejoined the doctor, with a smile; 
 "and what as to adventuresses?" 
 
 "It treats them a little more severely." 
 
 " But when they have a fortune of five or six mill- 
 ions ? " 
 
 "My dear doctor, if you know any of that sort, pray 
 send them all to England. They wiU open their doors 
 to them; they will crown them with roses, and marry 
 them to lords." 
 
 Madame de ViUanera made a grimace, and they spoke 
 of something else. 
 
 During the whole meal, the old duke kept his eyes 
 fixed on the face of Mantoux. This imbecile graybeard 
 who had lost his memory was still capable of recognizing 
 a man whom he had seen but a single time at the table 
 of Madame Chermidy. He took him aside after dessert, 
 and led him mysteriously to his chamber. "Where is 
 she ? " said he. " You know ; show me where she is hid, 
 for they will not tell me." 
 
 " Monsieur le due, I do not know who " 
 
 " I mean Honorine ! You know her ; Honorine, the 
 lady of the Rue du Cirque." 
 
THE KNIFE, 315 
 
 "Madame Chermidy?" 
 
 " All ! you see you know her ! I was sure of it ! I 
 was sure tliat you had seen her ! My daughter also has 
 seen her, the doctor too, everybody, in short, but me ! 
 Take me to her, I will make your fortune." 
 
 " I swear to you, monsieur, that I do not know where 
 Madame Chermidy is." 
 
 " Tell me, you simpleton. I will never breathe of it ; 
 the secret shall remain between us. Show her to me 
 to-night or I will cut your throat," he added, ia a nien- 
 acing tone. 
 
 The convict started us though the old man had read 
 his conscience. But the duke had changed his tune — ■ 
 he was weeping. 
 
 "My child," said he, "I have no secrets from you; I 
 will tell you of the misfortune that is hanging over our 
 heads. Honorine will certainly kill herself to-night; she 
 said so to the doctor, and she has sent her will to my 
 son-in-law. They laugh. They pretend that she will 
 not, that she only wishes to frighten us; but I know her 
 better than they. She will surely kill herself, why should 
 she not ? She has killed me. Did you notice that great 
 knife that lay on her mantel at Paris ? She plunged it 
 into my heart one day, — I remember it well. It is with 
 
316 GERMAINB. 
 
 that knife she will stab herself to-night if I do not arrive 
 in time. "Will you guide me to her house?" 
 
 Mantoux protested that he did not know the lady's 
 address, but he could not succeed in persuading the old 
 madman. Until ten o'clock at night, M. de La Tour 
 d'Embleuse followed him everywhere, through the garden, 
 the pantiy, and the kitchen, with the patience of a savage. 
 "Do what you will," he muttered to himself, "you must 
 go to her at last, and I will follow you ! " 
 
 They go to rest early in the Ionian isles. At midnight 
 all the house slept except the duke and Mantoux. The 
 convict descended like a cat the rickety staircase which 
 led to his chamber, without making the slightest noise. 
 In crossing the north garden he fancied that he saw a 
 shadow gUding among the olive-trees. He struck out 
 into the open country, and crept along the hedges by cir- 
 cuitous paths towards the estate that he knew so well. 
 The pursuing shadow followed him at a distance as far 
 as the hedge of the enclosure. He asked himself whether 
 fear had not troubled his sight, and rendered him the 
 victim of an hallucination; and, summoning his courage, 
 he retraced his steps and sought the enemy. The road 
 was deserted, and the apparition was lost in the night. 
 
 A deep darkness enveloped the little cottage. The 
 
THE KNIFE. 317 
 
 only lighted window was that of Madame Chermidy's on 
 the ground-floor, — Mantoux understood that he was ex- 
 pected. He unrolled a bunch of false keys, which he had 
 wrapped in a cloth to smother their clanking, but before 
 he had time to pick the lock of the door, Madame Cher- 
 midy opened it for him. "Speak low," said she, "Ze 
 Tas has just gone to sleep." 
 
 The two accomplices entered the room, and the first 
 object that struck the eyes of Mantoux was the poniard 
 of which the duke had spoken. 
 
 "Well," asked the widow, "has M. de Villanera re- 
 tired?" 
 
 " Yes, madame." 
 
 " The wretch ! What did they say of me at dinner ? " 
 
 " They did not speak of madame." 
 
 "Not a word.?" 
 
 " No ; but after dinner, the duke asked me for ma- 
 dame's address. He was very much cast down." 
 
 "Did he say nothing else?" 
 
 ^'He talked a great deal of nonsense. He said that 
 madame was going to kill herself, and that she had made 
 her will." 
 
 "I said so — I wrote so — to force the count to come 
 to see me. But has he really gone to bed?" 
 27* 
 
318 GEEMAINB. 
 
 "Oh, I am sure of it, madame. Monsieur's room is 
 very near ours, — he put out Ms light at eleven o'clock." 
 
 " Listen ; if they spoke ill of me at the table, tell me 
 ■without fear ; I shall not be angry, I shall even be pleased 
 with it." 
 
 "They did not open their lips about madame." 
 
 " Ah ! I tell them that I am going to kill myself at 
 night, and they do not even take the trouble to say that 
 it serves me right ! " 
 
 "They concerned themselves no more about madame 
 than if she were not living." 
 
 "Very well; I wiU remind them that I am stiQ alive. 
 Le Tas tells me that you have given arsenic to the coun- 
 tess?" 
 
 "Yes, madame, but it had no eflfect." 
 
 "If you should stab her, that might have some effect, 
 perhaps." 
 
 " Oh, madame 3 to stab her ! that is a bad job ! " 
 
 "What is the difference, pray?" 
 
 "In the first place, madame, the countess was sick, 
 and the disease would have taken the blame. To kill a 
 well person is much more work ! " 
 
 "Tou wUl be paid according to the work." 
 
 "And what if I am taken?" 
 
THE KNIFE. 319 
 
 " There is no danger of that ; find a boat and flee to 
 Turkey; justice will not pursue you there." 
 
 "I wished to remain here, — I thought of buying an 
 estate." 
 
 " Land may be had for nothing among the Turks." 
 
 "That makes no difference. What madame asks of 
 me is worth fifty thousand francs." 
 
 "Fifty thousand!" 
 
 "Ah! I hope- that madame will not haggle about the 
 price." 
 
 "Well, be it so; the bargain is settled." 
 
 "And ready money?" 
 
 "Eeady." 
 
 " Have you the money by you ? — for you know that if 
 you do not pay me, I cannot go to Paris to recover the 
 debt." 
 
 "I have a hundred thousand francs in my escritoire." 
 
 " Give me five minutes for reflection." 
 
 "Take them." 
 
 Mantoux turned towards the mantel, mechanically took 
 up the Corsican dagger, tried the point on his finger, and 
 bent the blade against the shelf. Madame Chermidy did 
 not even look at him, — 'She was awaiting the result of 
 his deliberations. 
 
320 GERMAINE. 
 
 "I have it," said he at length, but not aloud. "I had 
 rather stay here than to go to Turkey, in the first place, 
 because our nation are treated better here than there ; 
 secondly, because I know a little Italian, while I shall 
 never learn Turkish! and lastly, because this house and 
 garden which you have hired suit me exactly.'' 
 
 " How the devil can you ? " he silently asked 
 
 himself. 
 
 "I have found a way. Instead of giving the sword- 
 thrust to madaine, I give it — to you, to you ! In the 
 first place, I get a hundred thousand francs instead of 
 fifty thousand. Then nobody wiU think of accusing or 
 pursuing me, since you have made your will, that you 
 might kill yourself to-night. They will find you in your 
 bed, pierced with your own dagger, and wUl see that 
 you kept your word. And lastly, without meaning to 
 offend you, I had rather kill a wretch Eke you, than 
 an honest woman like my mistress, who has always 
 treated me kindly. I thus make my first step in the 
 path of virtue; and I trust that the God of Abraham, 
 of Isaac and of Jacob, wiU take it kindly that I have 
 done his work." 
 
JUSTICE. 321 
 
 CHAPTER XIV, 
 
 JUSTICE. 
 
 THE SHADOW which had Mowed Mantoux from the 
 Villa Dandolo to the house of Madame Chermidy 
 was the Duke de La Tour d'Embleuse. 
 
 An instinct, as unerring as reason, had told the ma- 
 niac that Mathieu was expected that night at the house 
 of the fair Arlesian. He awaited the hour of his de- 
 parture at the bottom of a dark corridor, and when he 
 heard the convict open the door of his room, he knew 
 enough to stifle his voice, and to repress the nervous 
 laughter which shook his old body from head to foot. 
 Before descending the staircase, at the heels of his 
 guide, he had the precaution to take off his shoes, and 
 he travelled with bare feet the whole way over sharp 
 flints, thorns, and briars, which marked every step with 
 blood. He heeded neither the pain, the fatigue, the in- 
 terminable windings, nor the length of the road; the 
 dominion of a fixed idea rendered him insensible to 
 
322 GERMAINE. 
 
 every thing, — he feared nothing but to lose his guide, 
 or to be seen by him. When Mantoux quickened his 
 steps, the duke flew after him as if he had wings; 
 when the convict turned his head, he threw himself on 
 his face, and crept into the ditches, or glided under a 
 thorny hedge of cactus or pomegranate. 
 
 He paused at last at the edge of the enclosure. A 
 secret voice told him that the single window that 
 gleamed on the ground-floor was Madame Chermidy's. 
 He saw his guide stop at the door. A woman opened 
 it, and his old heart bounded with an extravagant joy 
 on recognizing the syren that had drawn him hither. 
 
 She was not dead then ! He could see her, could 
 speak to her, and perhaps could attach her again to 
 life! His first impulse was to spring towards her, but 
 he restrained himself, and cowered down out of sight. 
 He was sure that she would not kill herself in the 
 presence of the domestic. He resolved to wait till she 
 should be alone, then to force his way into the house 
 to surprise her, and to wrest the dagger from her hand. 
 
 He kept his covert for a long hour, without perceiv- 
 ing the lapse of time. He loved Madame Chermidy 
 as he had loved neither his wife nor his daughter. 
 Thoughts of devotion, of abnegation, of disinterested at- 
 
JUSTICE. 323 
 
 tentions, and of humble slavery, were springing up in 
 his brain. This absolute, unreasoning, unmeasured, and 
 unrestricted love was no new sentiment to him, — it 
 was thus that for the last sixty years he had loved 
 himself. His egotism had changed its object without 
 changing its character. He would have immolated the 
 whole world to the caprices of Madame Chermidy, as 
 he would formerly have done to his own interest or 
 pleasure. 
 
 Since the day on which the ingrate had quitted him, 
 he had not lived. His heart could not beat except at 
 her side, and his lungs could only breathe the air 
 which she breathed. He wandered through the world 
 hke an inert body launched in empty space. 
 
 At times, during this vigil, a glimmer of reason lit 
 his brain, and he would say to .himself, "I am an old 
 fool! Why did I take it into my head to speak to 
 her of love. Love ill becomes a graybeard of my years ! 
 Let her but grant me her friendship, and I shall have 
 all I deserve! Let her but suffer me m her house 
 like a father, and I shall find paternal feeUngs in some 
 corner of my heart. She ' is unhappy, she weeps over 
 the desertion of ViUanera, — I will console her by words 
 of sympathy." The hope of seeing her so soon gave 
 
824 GBEMAINB. 
 
 him a fever. His eyes, fatigued with sleeplessness, stung 
 him grievously, but he hoped to relieve them by tears 
 on falling at the feet of Honorine. In the deep sor- 
 rows of life, our eyes slake their thirst in tears. M. 
 de La Tour d'Embleuse, seated in a corner of the 
 garden facing the house, resembled an animal who h'as 
 hastened three days in the desert in pursuit of water, 
 and who pauses with burning eye and lolling tongue 
 within the last bound of the coveted spring. 
 
 The last light was extinguished in the chamber, and 
 the window over which his gaze had brooded became 
 confounded with the rest in the darkness. But the 
 house, though invisible to an indifferent spectator, was 
 not so to M. de La Tour d'Embleuse, and the window, 
 towards which his last desire was strained, shone like a 
 sun to his dazzled eyes. He saw Mantoux quit the 
 house and fly through the fields at a' maddened speed 
 without turning his head. Then he ventured from his 
 hiding-place, and crept like a cat to the window, from 
 which his fixed and haggard eyes had not yet swerved. 
 He did not even think of going to see whether the 
 door was closed, so much had this window possessed 
 him! He leaned his elbows on the sill; he felt the 
 sash and the panes; he pressed his face against the 
 
justIce. 325 
 
 glass, glued his nose and mouth to it, and refreshed 
 his parched lips by the cooling touch. 
 
 Profound midnight reigned within as without, — but 
 his diseased senses fancied Madame Chermidy- on her 
 knees at the foot of the bed, with her head buried in 
 her hands and her beautiful rosy lips just opening in 
 prayer. He tapped gently on the window to attract 
 her attention, — no one replied. Then he fancied he 
 saw her sleeping ; for the most contradictory hallucina- 
 tions rose successively in his mind. He reflected a long 
 time on the means of gaining access to her without 
 awakening her suddenly and frightening her. To attain 
 this end he felt capable of any thing, even of demolish- 
 ing a wall with no other tools than his ten fingers. 
 By feeKng the window, he discovered that the panes 
 were set in a leaden sash, and he undertook to take 
 one out with his nails. He set about the task at once, 
 and applied himself so heartily that he soon accomplished 
 it. His nails were bent on the lead or broken against 
 the glass, and his fingers, hacked in twenty little gashes, 
 were all bleeding at the same time ; but he did not 
 give them a thought, and if he stopped from time to 
 time, it was but to lick ofi" the blood, to bend his ear 
 
 28 
 
326 GEEMAINE. 
 
 to watch- for the sounds within, and to assure himself 
 that Honorine was still sleeping. 
 
 When the pane had been loosened on three sides, he 
 took it gently by the bottom and shook it slightly, 
 pausing every time that the glass creaked a little or 
 that too violent a shock rattled the whole window. At 
 last his patience was rewarded; the transparent sheet 
 was left in his hands. He stooped and laid it down 
 noiselessly upon the gravel of the walk, leaped up tri- 
 umphantly, laying his finger on his lips, and returned 
 to inhale the air of the chamber through the opening he 
 had made. He inflated his lungs with greedy volup- 
 tuousness ; it was the first time that he had breathed 
 for ten days. 
 
 He reached his hand into the chamber, groped along 
 the inside of the window, found the fastening and seized 
 it. The panes were small, the opening narrow, the sash 
 cut his arm and crippled his movements ; but the win- 
 dow yielded, creaking on its hinges. The duke started 
 at the noise, and thought that all was lost. He fled 
 to the bottom of the garden and climbed into a tree, 
 his eyes riveted on the house and his ear open to every 
 sound. He listened a long time, hearing nothing but 
 the melancholy plaint of the toads that were singing 
 
JUSTICE. 327 
 
 by the road-side. He tten descended from his post of 
 observation, and crept on his hands and knees to the 
 window, now crouching down that lie might not be seen, 
 and now rising that he might see and hear. He re- 
 turned to the spot from which fear had chased him, 
 and he assured himself that Honorine was still sleeping. 
 The casement had ceased creaking and stood wide 
 open. The night air was filling the house without 
 awakening the beautiful sleeper. The duke climbed the 
 window and glided stealthily into the room. He trem- 
 bled with joy and fear, like a tree shaken by the wind. 
 He reeled on his feet, without daring to steady himself 
 by the furniture about him. The room was lumbered 
 with articles of all kinds, trunks open and shut, and 
 even overthrown furniture. The duke made his way 
 through this disorder with infinite caution. He waEied 
 on tiptoe, brushing past every thing without touching it, 
 and groping his way with his mangled fingers. At each 
 step he murmured, in a low voice, " Honorine ! are you 
 there ? do you hear me ? It is I, — your old friend, — 
 the most unhappy, the most devoted of all friends. Do 
 not be afraid; fear nothing, not even that I shall re- 
 proach you. I was mad at Paris, but the voyage has 
 cured me. It is a father come to console you. Do not 
 kill yourself; I should die!" 
 
328 GERMAINE. 
 
 He stopped, held his breath, and listened attentively. 
 He heard nothing but the beatings of his own heart. 
 Terror seized him; he seated himself for an instant 
 on the floor to calm his emotion and to cool the blood 
 that was boiling in his veins. 
 
 " Honorine ! " cried he, springing to his feet again, 
 "are you dead?" Death itself made answer. He 
 stumbled against a table, and his hands dabbled in a pool 
 of blood. 
 
 He fell on his knees, leaned his arms upon the bed, 
 and remained tUl daylight in the same position. He 
 did not ask himself how this had happened ; he felt neither 
 surprise nor regret ; — the blood rushed to his brain, and 
 all was over. His head was now but an empty cage, 
 from which reason had taken its flight forever. He 
 passed the remaining hours of the night with his elbows 
 leaning upon a corpse which grew gradually colder and 
 colder until morning. 
 
 When Le Tas came in the morning to see if her 
 beautiful cousin was awake, she heard through the door 
 a shrill and discordant cry, which resembled the scream 
 of a jay. She opened it, and saw an old man covered 
 with blood, who shook his head from side to side, as 
 if to cast it from his body. The Duke de La Tour 
 
JUSTICE. 329 
 
 d'Embleuse was crying, "Aca! Aca! Aca!" It was aU 
 that remained to him of the gift of speech, the noblest 
 of man's privileges. His face was grimacing horribly, 
 his eyes opening and shutting as if by springs; his 
 limbs were paralyzed, his body nailed to the fauteuil, his 
 hands lifeless. 
 
 Le Tas had never known but one human feelinff — 
 she adored her mistress. It is the lot of poor rela- 
 tions to attach themselves furiously to their family 
 either for love or hatred. The mammoth woman threw 
 herself upon her mistress with a cry that has its only 
 parallel in deserts. She wept as tigresses should weep 
 over their young. She tore the knife from the wide, 
 deep wound which had ceased its bleeding; she folded 
 this beautiful lifeless body in her arms; covered it with 
 wild caresses. If souls could be divided in twain, she 
 would have resuscitated her beloved Honorine at her 
 own cost. Erelong grief was succeeded by rage. Ze 
 Tas did not doubt for a moment that the duke was 
 the assassin. She threw the corpse on the bed, and 
 fell with her whole weight upon M. de La Tour d'Em- 
 bleuse. She beat him unmercifully, bit his hands, and 
 sought his eyes that she might tear them from the 
 sockets ; but the duke was insensible to physical pain ; 
 28 
 
330 GBEMAINE. 
 
 he replied to her violence by that uniform cry, which 
 was henceforth to be his sole language. Animals have 
 different tones whereby to express- pain and pleasure; 
 the man who falls into paralytic idiocy sinks to the 
 lowest place in the scale of creation. Le Tas grew 
 weary of beating him before he suspected that he had 
 been beaten. 
 
 Meanwhile Germaine, as fresh and smiling as the 
 dawuj had awakened her mother and husband, presided 
 at the toilette of her son, and descended to the garden 
 to breathe the balmy autumnal air. M. Le Bris and 
 Mr. Stevens were not long in joining them. The sea 
 breeze was gently lifting the leaves glistening with 
 dew; the fragrant oranges and enormous cedrats swung 
 fully ripe at the end of the green twigs; the wrinkled 
 jujubes and the sonorous pistachios were falling pell- 
 mell at the bottom of the trees ; the olives had 
 spotted with black the pale foliage of the olive-trees ; 
 the heavy clusters of the yellow grape hung on the 
 sides of the trellises in the midst of vine-branches 
 reddened by the first frosts ; the figs of the second 
 harvest were distilling honey in large drops ; and a 
 few forgotten pomegranates laughed amidst their leaves, 
 like those rosy-cheeked nymphs of Virgil who hid them- 
 
JUSTICE. 331 
 
 selves that they might be seen the better. The season 
 of flowers was past ; but the beautiful red and yellow 
 fruits are the savory flowers of autumn, and the eyes 
 delight in feasting upon them. 
 
 All the family were gathered around little Gomez, 
 who was teasing a tame tortoise. M. de La Tour 
 d'Embleuse alone was wanting at the early rendezvous ; 
 his windows were still closed, and they respected his 
 slumbers. Mathieu Mantoux, who had redoubled his 
 zeal since the doctor had kept him in his situation, 
 was btisUy washing his linen at the side of a little 
 brook which ran into the sea. 
 
 The servant of Mr. Stevens came in great haste to 
 call his master. A crime had been committed in the 
 neighborhood, the whole district was in commotion, and 
 they ran to the judge as to the fire. Mr. Stevens, before 
 taking leave of his friends, asked the messenger for some 
 particulars of the affair. 
 
 "I know nothing about it," replied the man. "They 
 say that it is a French woman who has been found 
 dead in her bed." 
 
 "Near here?" interrupted the doctor. 
 
 "Within a quarter of a league." 
 
 "Is she a new-comer?" 
 
332 GERMAINE. 
 
 "I think so, though her maid speaks nothing but 
 French, and no one could understand " 
 
 "You saw her maid? A large woman?" 
 
 " Enormous." 
 
 "Then it is all right," said M. Le Bris. "Dear 
 Mr. Stevens, the breakfast-bell has rung, and if you 
 will believe me, the best thing that you can do is to 
 come to the table. The corpse is getting along finely, 
 I warrant you." 
 
 Mr. Stevens, who was a serious man, did not under- 
 stand the joke. "Does the English law punish "people 
 who promise to kiU themselves and do not keep their 
 word ? " added the doctor. 
 
 " No ; but it punishes the suicide when it is proved." 
 
 "I should quarrel with the English law." 
 
 " Seriously, doctor," rejoined Mr. Stevens, " have you 
 any reasons for believing this a false alarm?" 
 
 "I will give you my word that the lady in question 
 has not received a single scratch. I know her of old, 
 — she loves her white skin too well to make holes 
 in it." 
 
 " But what if she has been murdered ? " 
 
 " Do not fear it, my excellent friend. Do you know 
 any thing about birds in aviaries?" 
 
JUSTICE. 333 
 
 "Not much. 
 
 " Then you do not know the difference between the 
 blue and the black tomtits ? " 
 
 «No." 
 
 " Well ; the blue tomtits are pretty little creatures 
 that suffer themselves to be killed without resistance, 
 while the black tomtits are the ones that kill them. 
 The lady in question is of the latter kind. Let us 
 go to breakfast." 
 
 " But I do not understand it," said Mr. Stevens. 
 " Why have they summoned me ? " 
 
 "Most subtle judge, if they have sought you here, it 
 is not to have the pleasure of chatting with you ; it is 
 to attract somebody else who will not stir for it. What 
 do you say, my dear count ? " 
 
 "He is right," said the dowager. 
 
 The count did not answer. He was more moved than 
 he cared to show. Germaine gave him her hand, saying, 
 " Go with Mr. Stevens, my friend, and let us hope that the 
 doctor speaks the truth." 
 
 "Parbleu!" said M. Le Bris, "I will go too, though 
 I have not been invited. But if the lady be not dead 
 without remission, I swear on my doctor's cap that the 
 count shall not speak a word to her." 
 
334 GBEMAINB. 
 
 Mr. Stevens, the count, and the doctor entered the 
 carriage. Ten minutes after, they stopped at the door 
 of Madame Chermidy. As soon as they came within 
 sight of the house" the doctor changed his mind, and 
 thought that an accident had really happened. A dense 
 crowd was besieging the enclosure, and the police, who 
 had hastened hither at the news of the crime, were not 
 strong enough to restrain the public curiosity. 
 
 "The devil!" said M. Le Bris, "can it be that the 
 little lady has killed herself to play us a trick ! I did 
 not think her strong enough for that ! " 
 
 M. de Villanera bit his mustache without speaking. He 
 had loved Madame Chermidy during three years, and had 
 believed himself sincerely loved by her. His heart was 
 rent with anguish at the thought that she might indeed 
 have killed herself for him. The memories of the past 
 rebelled against all the doctor's affirmations, and were 
 victoriously pleading the cause of Honorine. 
 
 The crowd opened a passage to Mr. Stevens and his 
 companions. Under conduct of the police, they reached 
 the mortuary room. Madame Chermidy was lying on 
 the bed in the dress which she had worn the evenin" 
 before. Her beautiful face was horribly contorted; her 
 half-opened hps disclosed both rows of small teeth, 
 
JUSTICE. 335 
 
 clenched by the last convulsion of agony; her eyes, 
 ■which no pious hand had closed in time, stared Death 
 in the face with a horrid fright The dagger was in the 
 middle of the room in the place where Le Tas had thrown 
 it. The blood had spurted upon the carpets, the hang- 
 ings, the furniture, everywhere. A large pool, congealed 
 before the chimney-piece, denoted that it was there the 
 unfortunate had received her death-blow, while a dark-red 
 train showed that she had had strength enough to walk 
 ' to her bed. 
 
 The waiting-maid, who had called the justice and raised 
 the neighborhood, was silent. One would have said that 
 she had spent her fiiry in exhausting her strength. 
 Crouched in a corner of the chamber, her eyes riveted 
 on the corpse of her mistress, she watched the coming 
 and going of the lawyers; even the arrival of the count 
 and M. Le Bris failed to rouse her from her torpor. 
 
 Mr. Stevens, followed by his clerk, who had preceded 
 him on the scene of the crime, observed the condition 
 of the place and dictated the description of the corpse, 
 with the impassibility of justice. The doctor was en- 
 treated to assist at the inquest. He commenced by de- 
 claring aU that he knew, summarily exposed the causes 
 which might have impeUed Madame Chermidy to suicide, 
 
336 GERMAINE. 
 
 recounted the conversation which he had had with her 
 the night before, and repeated the contents of the will 
 which he himself had carried to M. de Villanera. The 
 declarations of the dead woman, the place in which her 
 body had been found, the weapon with which she had 
 been stabbed and which belonged to her, the closed doors 
 of the house, the proximity of her waiting-maid who had 
 heard no noise, — aU the known circumstances confirmed 
 the idea of a suicide. 
 
 This word, pronounced half aloud, produced the effect 
 of an electric shock on Le Tas. She rose with a start, 
 ran to the doctor and looked him in the face, exclaiming, 
 " Suicide ! it is you who speak of suicide ? Tou know 
 well that she was not the woman for that ! Poor angel ! 
 she was so blooming ! she was so healthy, — she might 
 have lived a hundred years if you had not murdered 
 her ! Besides, the old man is not here, — where have 
 they carried him ? Find him ! let them bring him here ! 
 — you wiU see that he is covered with her blood." Then, 
 spying Count de Villanera, who had tlirown himself into 
 an arm-chair and was weeping silently, she cried, "You 
 are here then! you should have come sooner. Ah, Mon- 
 sieur the count, you pay your debts of love in a droU 
 way ! " 
 
JUSTICE. 337 
 
 While the judge and the doctor were on their way to 
 the next room, where a painful surprise awaited them, 
 Le Tas dragged the count by the arm to the bedside, and 
 forced him to gaze on his former mistress, and to hear 
 a funeral oration which made his hair stand on end. 
 " Look ! look ! " cried she, in the midst of sobs ; " see 
 those beautiful eyes which used to smile on you so 
 tenderly, those rosy lips which gave you such kisses, 
 these long black locks you so often untied yourself, — 
 for you would do my work ! Do you remember the first 
 time that you came to the Rue du Cirque ? How, when 
 they had all gone, you went down on your knees to kiss 
 this hand ! Err ! how cold it is ! And the day when 
 the boy was born, do you remember that ? Who cried ? 
 who laughed? who swore fidelity till death? Embrace 
 her then a little, faithful chevalier, kiss her now ! " 
 
 The count, motionless, rigid, and cdlder than the 
 corpse he gazed upon, expiated in a single moment 
 three years of unlawful happiness* 
 
 They brought in the Duke de la Tour d'Embleuse, 
 who was paying very dearly too, for a life of egotism 
 and ingratitude. 
 
 The blood with which he was covered, his presence in 
 the room of Madame Chermidy, the missing pane in the 
 
 29 
 
338 GERMAINE. 
 
 window, the wounds on his hands, and, above all, the loss 
 of his reason, made them believe for an instant that he 
 was the assassin. The doctor examined the wound of 
 Madame Chermidy, and discovered that the dagger had 
 pierced the heart quite through. Death must have been 
 instantaneous; it was therefore impossible that she could 
 have dragged herself to her bed. Mr. Stevens, when 
 dining the day before with the duke, had remarked the 
 derangement of his mental faculties. M. Le Bris ex- 
 plained to him in a few words how the homicidal mania 
 might have sprung up in a disordered brain in a single 
 night. If it were true that he had committed the crime, 
 justice had nothing to do with a maniac. Nature had 
 condemned him to a near dissolution after a few months 
 of an existence worse than death. 
 
 But on examining the corpse of Madame Chermidy 
 more closely, they found in her clenched hand a few 
 hairs shorter and coarser than those of a woman, and of 
 a color more natural than those of the old duke. The 
 clerk, on raising an overturned table, picked up a livery- 
 button bearing the arms of Villanera. And lastly, the 
 drawer in which Madame Chermidy had placed bank- 
 notes to the value ot a hundred thousand francs was 
 found empty. It was necessary, therefore, to seek some 
 
JUSTICE. 339 
 
 other assassin than M. de La Tour d'Embleuse. They 
 questioned Le Tas, but could gain no light from her. 
 She only struck her forehead and exclaimed wildly, 
 "Fool that I was! it is he. The wretch! That I could 
 roast him alive ! — but to what end ? he would tell every 
 thing. Bury my mistress and throw me to the dogs; 
 as for him, let him go to the devil I " 
 
 Justice transported itself the same day to the Villa 
 Dandolo. On their return, they found Mathieu Mantoux 
 just sewing a button on his red plush waistcoat. They 
 noticed that the button was a new one, and that his hair 
 was precisely the color of the specimen found in the 
 fingers of Madame Chermidy. On seeing himself ar- 
 rested, he cried out by force of habit, "Always Little- 
 luck!" Mr. Stevens ordered him to be taken to the 
 Chateau Guilfort, west of the city, near the sea-shore. 
 He was fortunate enough to escape during the night, 
 but only to fall into one of the large nets which the 
 fishermen set at night and take up in the morning. 
 
340 GERMAINE. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 IF YOU have ever seen the sea in the equinoctial 
 season, when the yellow waves mount foaming to the 
 top of the pier, when the pebble-stones noisily clash 
 against the beach, when the wind howls from black 
 clouds and the surges toss tumultuously through tangled 
 sea-weed, shapeless waifs, and the debris of wrecks, come 
 again some day in the summer, and you will recog- 
 nize it no longer. The glittering pebbles are ranged 
 side by side on the edge of the shore, the sea is spread 
 like a shining sheet beneath the laughing azure of the 
 sky, the oxen lie on the cliffs and lazily stretch their 
 nostrils to scent the salt breeze, white sails are seen 
 unfurling in the distant horizon, and the Paris belles 
 are opening their pink parasols on the promenade of 
 the quay. 
 
 The Count and Countess de Villanera, after a long 
 journey, the details of which have never been known in 
 
CONCLUSION. 341 
 
 Paris, returned three months since to their hotel in the 
 faubourg Saint-Honore. The countess-dowager, who had 
 accompanied them, and the Duchess de La Tour d'Em- 
 bleuse, who had joined them at the death of the old 
 duke, share without jealousy the management of the 
 large household and the education of a lovely child, — a little 
 girl two years old. She resembles her mother, and is 
 therefore much more beautiful than was her elder broth- 
 er, the late Marquis de los Montes de Hierro. 
 
 Doctor Le Bris is still the physician and most inti- 
 mate friend of the family. M. de la Tour d'Embleuse 
 and little Gomez both died in his arms; the one at 
 Corfu; the other at Rome, where he had taken the 
 typhoid fever. 
 
 The little marquis had, it is said, a private fortune of 
 six or seven millions, — the bequest of a distant relative. 
 On the death of the child, his parents sold aU his prop- 
 erty, and dispensed the proceeds in deeds of charity. 
 
 A chapel has been built in the southern part of the 
 isle of Corfu on the site of the Vnia Dandolo. It is 
 served by a young priest of exemplary wisdom and mel- 
 ancholy, — M. Gaston de Vitre. 
 
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