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 u 
 

AUTHOE'S PEEFACE. 
 
 I AM certain that if Sir Walter Scott and De Balzac 
 had taken it into their heads to write their memoirs, 
 and especially if they had faithfully recorded in them 
 everything of interest that they could tell the public 
 with respect to the composition of their admirable 
 novels, we should be far less exposed than we have 
 been for twenty years past to the reading of a large 
 number of badly written books; while the young 
 people who look forward to a literary career would, 
 instead of dissipating their energies and talent as, 
 they do, emaciating and emasculating themselves by 
 hasty productions having only the remotest affinity 
 with literature, at last be in possession of such a 
 grammar as would teach them the elements of art, 
 and spare them painful gropings. 
 
 I am very far from attaching to my books — even 
 through modesty — the importance which the entire 
 world will always assign to the works of the two 
 
VI - , PEEPACE. 
 
 writers whom I have just named ; but I am convinced 
 that there will at all times be something useful for 
 the world to learn in the most insignificant produc- 
 tions of every writer who treats his art seriously; It 
 is on this score alone that — disregarding the feeling 
 of repugnance which I feel at the thought of occupying 
 the public with my own personality — I am going to 
 try to settle a question which twelve years ago made 
 some stir in the salons and critical world, and which 
 I should have allowed to rest with the many others 
 which are more interesting to myself than to anyone 
 else, if M. Sainte-Beuve, one of my best friends, had 
 not very shortly before his death dissuaded me from 
 my purpose. I speak of the origins of my first 
 novel, of the book to which the little, and all the 
 little, of what I am is due — of " Fanny." 
 
 When I published this first " study," which was 
 to bring so inuch abuse upon me, and by way of 
 compensation make me so many enemies — who have 
 done me- good service — criticism at once manu- 
 factured an opinion concerning its production, an 
 absurd opinion, showing superabundantly how little 
 these clever men, who pretend to teach us our trade, 
 are acquainted with it themselves. This opinion 
 
PEEFACE. Vll 
 
 was that the author of the new novel could be 
 nothing but a "worthy young man" who had met 
 with " the adventure on the balcony," and who, 
 probably to console himself, found nothing better 
 to do than to relate it to the public. 
 
 I shall not here give the psychological arguments 
 which prove to demonstration that the sufficiently- 
 contemptible and ridiculous action attributed to me 
 is simply impossible. This would take me too far 
 afield, and would, moreover, lead me to drop the 
 conversational tone which I desire to preserve in 
 these intimate disclosures. The critic Eigaud — he 
 has died of it since — then ruled over the Journal 
 des D&hats in all the glory of his pedantry. He 
 was not satisfied with making the above-mentioned 
 foolish accusation against me ; he went beyond it, 
 declaring that such a " tale " could not have been 
 invented by a man of letters, for intuition could not 
 go so far. Then dwelling on this assertion, which 
 his immunities as a critic gave him no authority 
 to make, he unkindly insinuated that I was not even 
 so much as the hero of the adventure, but simply 
 the confidant of that hero and his avenger. Now, 
 at the period when I published " Fanny," in the 
 
VIU PEEPACE, 
 
 month of May, 1858, I numbered neither more nor 
 less than thirty-seven summers, a very fair total for 
 a "worthy young man;" I had been married for 
 twelve years ; I had, in short, had experience of 
 life in its severest and most cruel aspects. 
 
 As for the illusions which constitute the torment 
 of Fanny's lover, I shall not affirm that I have never 
 shared them in my tenderest youth, but I am able to 
 say that they had been left far behind on the day 
 when I wrote the first line of my book. The truth is 
 that the adventure in question, taken in its entirety, 
 b). its philosophic and physiological deductions, and 
 in its logic, had never happened eicher to myself or 
 to anyone of my acquaintance. None the less do I 
 maintain that the important fact in the book, 
 the brutal fact stripped of all its details, the 
 fact which must alone have decided the success of. 
 the publication, restoring, as it did, reality to the 
 situation of adultery, which — ^perhaps designedly — 
 had hitherto been disguised, none the less, I say, has 
 the torment of adulterous lovers — in other words, 
 the groundwork, the moeality of the adventure — 
 become a sort of common-place, so often must it 
 have reproduced itself. " It's the history of us all, 
 
PEEFACE. ix 
 
 the history of everybody that you have related," was 
 one day said to me by the Due de Morny, who had 
 seen many colours in his life. " So I flatter myself," 
 I replied, with all the immodesty of which I am 
 capable. 
 
 And that was, no doubt, the reason why the 
 public was taken by it. 
 
 But does it follow that because I repel with all 
 my strength, as I should repel an accusation of 
 cowardice, the imputation of having, by the publica- 
 tion of " Fanny," divulged an adventure which had 
 befallen me in conjunction with a woman, I claim 
 to have invented everything in the book, to have 
 drawn nothing in its composition from my character, 
 my youth, my passions, my habits, my weaknesses ? 
 Clearly not. If the public, which has a continually 
 increasing curiosity concerning what goes on behind 
 the scenes in all the arts, does not know this, it 
 is well to teach it that art is not the reproduction 
 but the imitation of nature ; that the artist, though 
 a creator, is not God, and that even when he creates 
 he can produce nothing except from himself. 
 
 The only question now between the reader and 
 myself is to determine in what proportion the ground- 
 
X PBEFACB. 
 
 work, the characters, and the various incidents of 
 "Fanny" have been observed or invented; what 
 those incidents are which belong to myself alone; 
 how, why, and on what occasion the idea of the book 
 entered my mind, took root there, and developed. I 
 still believe that such an inquiry will be of interest, 
 and will injure neither the future of the book nor 
 myself. For this reason I shall undertake it without 
 any concealment or contrivance. 
 
 And first, as to the mother idea. 
 
 Here, at the outset, I am obliged to enter upon 
 the path of retrospective personal recollections. 
 
 I do not know very pertinently — that is to say, by 
 experience, although I have not shrunk from deliver- 
 ing myself on this matter in some of my novels — 
 what are the manners, the modes of thought and 
 feeling, and the genuine passions of the most youthful 
 among the young people of the present epoch. The 
 men belonging to the generation which came into the 
 world between the years 1815 and 1830 are far 
 better known to me. I am one of themselves. We 
 had certainly our faults, but we had also our good 
 qualities. Of these, one of the -greatest — one which 
 future generations must recognise in us if they are 
 
PEEFACE. Xi 
 
 not altogether devoid of justice — was the love of 
 distinguished things, the taste for " good form " and 
 for distinction, which led us in our loves — I do not 
 say " in our fancies " — to scorn grisettes, chamber- 
 maids, loreLtes, and lasses born in the remotest 
 confines of the civilized word, in favour exclusively 
 of women who, by their birth, their habits, and their 
 education, approximated to a certain ideal of grace, 
 propriety and seductiveness, and were truly worthy 
 to bind us, as my grandfather used to say, " to their 
 chariot-wheels." 
 
 Before taking i' important steps" to win one of 
 them, we went to the pains of paying our court to 
 her. Now-a-days, I am told, five will combine for 
 the purpose of keeping a woman. We should have 
 blushed at the bare idea of voluntarily sharing the 
 favours of a sweetheart even with the Pope himself. 
 There was, however, invariably "a particular indi- 
 vidual" with whom we had to reckon without 
 acknowledging the fact to ourselves — the husband. 
 But we habitually found means for evading any 
 mortification that a situation of the kind had for us. 
 It is true that when he came in somewhat late of an 
 evening we were obUged to crouch ii^ the recesses of 
 
xu pebfacb; 
 
 a cupboard; but tben some one generally came to 
 keep us company there. Sometimes he took advan- 
 tage of us after the manner of those who throughout 
 life seek to profit as much as possible by every 
 situation, even by such a one as well-bred people 
 ought to be content with suspecting ; looking down 
 upon us from his elevation as a husband, making us 
 execute his commissions, and often going near to 
 inviting us to pull off his boots. But we were com- 
 pensated for all these slight annoyances by the 
 Ute-d-Ute. Nevertheless, even when he did not 
 inspire us with jealousy, he existed in our eyes 
 not under the form of the ridiculous character of 
 comedy, but as a man upon whom we were in a 
 measure dependent, who held our happiness in his 
 hands, who had it in his power to impede our 
 appointments, to coarsely or dramatically interrupt 
 our connection, in short, to molest us, to humiliate 
 us, to annoy us in a thousand ways. 
 
 Thus, in my youthful imagination, the husband, 
 the unfortunately obligatory complement of every 
 intrigue, was not as yet a terrible, sinister being ; 
 but he was not ridiculous, he had to be reckoned 
 with. 
 
PBEFACE. xiii 
 
 That is one point gained. 
 
 Let us pass on to the second. 
 
 One day, as I was crossing the Boulevard des 
 Itahens, in the neighbourhood of the Turkish Baths, 
 since pulled down, I witnessed an atrocious scene 
 which will never fade from my memory. A tall,- 
 strong man, of about forty years of age, elegantly 
 dressed, and with a rosette in his button-hole, meeting 
 in the crowd another man, evidently belonging hke 
 himself to the class of " well-bred people," raised 
 his hand against him without uttering a word, and 
 struck him violently. The man assaulted, instead of 
 retaliating, as all the spectators expected, contented 
 himself with folding his arms, looked proudly at the 
 man who was hitting him, and, following herein the 
 precept of the Gospel, appeared to be waiting for 
 the other to renew his attack. And he did ! It lasted 
 for more than a quarter of an hour. The more heavily 
 the blows were rained— and always on the cheek 
 with the open hand — the more did the singular man 
 who received them, clenching his fists, clenching his 
 eeth, frightful in his stoicism, persist in abstaining 
 from retaliation. Some passers-by at last interfered, 
 and, separating the two men and sending them off in 
 
XIV PEEPACE. 
 
 opposite directions, succeeded in putting an end to 
 the blackguardly scene. For myself, wishing to be 
 in the secret, I searched the crowd for someone 
 capable of giving me information. This was, happily, 
 not difi&cult, for it was the hour at which the Bourse 
 empties itself, and all the chatterers in Paris were 
 there, with the curious. The giver of the blows was 
 a member of high financial circles, and had the 
 happiness of being husband to one of the most 
 beautiful and most recognised women in society. - 
 The other, the wretch whom he had settled so 
 well, had for twenty years been his intimate friend. 
 As may be supposed, the latter had not failed to 
 debauch the wife of the former, who, in the end, had 
 discovered everything. Inde ircB. Between this and 
 the launching out into such violence as that which I 
 had just witnessed, there intervened but the thick- 
 ness of an opportunity. And, in spite of his 
 brutiality — nay, by reason of it — this frightful 
 husband, who breathed not a word, and who 
 struck so hard, raised in my young observant 
 soul Georges Dandins, a thousand cubits high. The 
 denouement of the whole affair, which I was to learn 
 later on, though it took nothing from the character of 
 
PBEFACB. XV 
 
 the outraged husband, was singularly to redeem the 
 too Christian humility of his intimate. The latter 
 was a member of an aristocratic club, where his 
 adventure, as soon as it was known, made an 
 enormous sensation. On the evening of the same 
 day, the president of the club sent for him, told him 
 that, after the forbearance which he had displayed 
 on the Boulevard, he could no longer make one of an 
 association of gentlemen, and that, in consequence, 
 he invited him to be so kind as to give in his 
 resignation. 
 
 But the other — still stoical — replied : 
 
 " Sir, special considerations of the gravest nature, 
 with which I consider it needless to acquaint you, 
 compel me to deprive myself of the pleasure of calling 
 to account the person who insulted me to-day. But 
 between yourself and me these considerations do not 
 exist. You have just spoken to me in a tone which 
 I consider offensive to my dignity, and you shall give 
 me satisfaction for doing so." 
 
 Is it now understood how the situation of the 
 eternal trio — 'tis as old as the world — of the trio 
 composed of wife, husband and lover, far from 
 remaining conventional, stereotyped, as it had 
 
XVI PEEFACE, 
 
 never ceased to be since, following Boccapcio, the 
 story-tellers of the Eenaissance had made it so, was 
 at last in my mind assuming reality? The lover 
 remained in a fine light with his seductions — for if 
 there were none of these where would be the reason 
 of his existence ? — and the husband was for the first 
 time formidable in his sole capacity of husband, 
 without any recourse to daggers or poison. As 
 for the wife, the hour had come when day was at 
 last to dawn before my eyes on the most seductive 
 of the three characters. 
 
 In the house in which I dwelt there was at that 
 time — be easy, fair readers, I shall mention neither 
 street nor number — there was a young and beautiful 
 woman whom I often perceived at her window, and 
 with whom — my age, opportunity, and vocation 
 assisting me — I had entered upon one of these 
 charming relationships wherein the eyes have more 
 occupation than the lips, relationships which cause 
 keen regret for youth, and which I have sought to 
 detail in the early chapters of my novel entitled 
 "Tragic Loves." Of the age, face, figure, character 
 and position of this lady I shall here say nothing to 
 the reader, for this would only cause me to digress 
 
PEEPACE, XVU 
 
 from my subject ; what it is important that he should 
 
 know forthwith is that, at the end of four months, I 
 
 knew nothing about this charming woman, not even 
 
 her name, having as yet spoken to her only on the 
 
 staircase of the house in which we were living. 
 
 "What I said to her requires no commentary, and 
 
 may be translated by all the various readings 
 
 imaginable of the pretty phrase, " I love you." 
 
 Nevertheless, her manners, her gait, her language, 
 
 even her dress, and especially a certain experience 
 
 of things which was visible in her, and which added 
 
 no little charm to our incipient relations, rendered it 
 
 easy for me to perceive that she was married, and 
 
 that I had not to do with a young girl ; but, had I 
 
 been offered the throne of Prance and the hand of the 
 
 most seductive woman in the world into the bargain, 
 
 it would have been impossible for me to give the 
 
 slightest information respecting the person of my 
 
 beloved's putative husband. 
 
 But one morning, as I was leaning on the railing 
 of my balcony, lying in wait for the pretty face which 
 I was in the habit of encountering on the story 
 below, I perceived, not the white skin heightened 
 deliciously by fine, black hair, the pretty chestnut 
 
 B 
 
XVUl PBBFACE. 
 
 eyes, the vermilion lips, in short the arch countenance 
 that was ■wont each day. to plunge me into 
 lengthened ecstacy, but — horror ! — a smoking cigar, 
 issuing from a mouth adorned with a moustache, 
 the said mouth belonging to a gentleman whom 
 hitherto I had never seen, and who was strutting 
 about his abode, in the morning hours, in his shirt 
 sleeves. It was the "master of the house." 
 
 Well ! I must confess, now that I have taken it 
 into my head to make a complete confession, that 
 although I was no novipe at adventures of this kind, 
 and although the phantoms of the husband's whom I 
 had succeeded in embarrassing, rose at that instant 
 in my memory, this infernal husband, for some 
 reason or other, did not suit me ; it seemed to me 
 that he had caught me in a traitorous fashion; I 
 could not swallow him at all. 
 
 The truth is that things had by no means passed 
 between us as they ought always to* pass according to 
 custom. I had not selected my man. He had not been 
 introduced to me. He was of my own age, nearly of 
 my own height and figure. To find myself in rivalry, 
 as had before happened, with worthy men who were 
 over fifty,' who were bald; "obese, and- afflicted ^ith 
 
■PEEFACE. XIX 
 
 gout, gravel and rheumatism, and who exercised the 
 self-styled liberal professions as notaries, physicians 
 and bankers, seemed in my eyes to be — all morality 
 apart — in no wise inconvenient. But to have for my 
 partner a young man of twenty-five, tall, slender, 
 strapping, with a good figure, like your humble 
 servant, wearing a fine moustache, like the same 
 also, and in my eyes (proh pudor /jy possibly beloved 
 by his wife, this ruf&ed me beyond all expres- 
 sion. The only difference existing between us was 
 that he was fair while I was dark. This was not 
 sufficient to reassure me. And, my imagination 
 assisting me, I occupied myself in coining all kinds 
 of chimeras. 
 
 The woman whom I loved appeared to me abso- 
 lutely incomprehensible. To deceive an old husband 
 did not clash with my ideas of justice. But a young 
 one — 'twas frightful. 
 
 Nevertheless, I was not yet jealous. 'And if any- 
 one had told me that I might become so, I should 
 have fallen upon my ofi&cious adviser. A lover 
 jealous of a husband ! In what sublunary world did 
 such a thing as that take place ? Alas ! had I had 
 more experience I should have known, that at Paris 
 
XX PBEFACE. 
 
 even, and throughout the universe, such was never- 
 theless always the case. 
 
 i do not consider it necessary to enter here upon a 
 detailed account of the causes — most of them infinitely 
 petty and puerile — which began to enlighten me re- 
 specting the perfectly novel sentiments which I could 
 feel stirring within me. But I must not neglect to 
 mention a very special sentiment of mingled wrath 
 and humiliation which tormented me unceasingly at 
 the thought that in nothing was I superior to the 
 husband whose place I had usurped. In fact, neither 
 in age, education or position could I believe myself 
 to be other than his equal. This especially annoyed 
 me on account of his wife. I was almost angry 
 with her for having chosen myself when so many 
 men existed who would have esteemed themselves 
 fortunate to be loved by her, and who would 
 have done her more honour. Eeflect that I 
 was only twenty-four, that I was employed by 
 Jacques Lafitte, the banker, at a salary of fifteen 
 hundred francs. What, then, would have become of 
 me if the husband had really been my superior? 
 What if I had had to do with one of those men of 
 honourable standing in society who, by their ex- 
 
PBBPAOE. XXI 
 
 perience, their maturity of intellect, their entire life, 
 command public esteem, and who everywhere, and on 
 all occasions, take naturally and as of right, the first 
 place ? Certainly I should have been jealous of him, 
 and jealous to death. The proof is that I was about 
 to become so, only in a measure, it is true, and owing 
 to a cause for which I had not to blush to myself. 
 The facts are as follow : — 
 
 Some women imagine that the surest means of 
 keeping a lover of unassured fidelity in the right 
 path, and of retaining him, is to inspire him with 
 jealousy. A false and absurd maxim, but one to 
 which I was about to become a victim. With time 
 and the assistance of a few obsessions I had finally 
 consented to visit my neighbour's apartments. It 
 was not without repugnance that I had decided upon 
 doing so, for it would have revolted me to play the 
 part of a friend towards the husband, and as long as 
 I could, I withstood his advances, even going so far 
 as to give him only the tips of my fingers to shake 
 when he offered me his hand. 
 
 It was of no use ; I hated him instinctively. Yet he 
 had done me no harm. He was his wife's husband, 
 and that was enough. It must be said further that 
 
XXH PEEFAGE. 
 
 he was so to an excessive - degree, and showed' it. 
 overmuch, as though he were afraid that people might, 
 doubt the fact. Thus, he was not restrained by my 
 presence from taking her hand and kissing it, from 
 paying her comphments .upon her beauty, and from 
 making allusions, which I considered horribly out of 
 place, to their intimate life. They had only one room 
 ' and one bed, which to me was indecent and horripilant. 
 On her side, the wife — and, heavens ! how pretty she 
 was ! — who might so easily have avoided these unsea- 
 sonable effusions, at least before me, affected, on the 
 contrary, to provoke them. I supposed at that time 
 that she had a heart vast enough to adrhit us both. 
 With a cahner mind to-day^so many things have 
 happened since then —I believe that there was on her 
 part only lack of habituation, with, perhaps, the 
 unconscious desire of lulling the vigilance of her 
 Argus.,, The most serious part of it was, that in 
 our private interviews she invariably defended him 
 whenever I attacked him. And I can assure you that 
 I made little enough scruple about doing so. Two great 
 shocks rescued me from an intrigue which threatened 
 to degenerate into a torture : I had the horrible grief 
 of losing my mother ; then I, iu turn, was married. 
 
PEEPACB. XXUl 
 
 Here it is of importance to confess that from the 
 age of sixteen my sole idea had been to consecrate 
 my life to the literary art ; that with me this was an 
 irresistible vocation and a passion ; that I spent my 
 nights in preparing myself by the severest studies for 
 the works which I constantly shrank from elaborating 
 only because I did not feel myself experienced enough 
 to undertake them; that I studied myself with the 
 completest good faith, I might say with innocence, 
 with ingenuousness ; that I observed the world and 
 Ufe with the stern patience of the artist who has 
 promised to himself that he will succeed ; that, — in 
 spite of the sinister prophecy df the great De Balzac, 
 to whom, in the presence of our common friend 
 Gavarni, I had just confided my plans for the future, 
 and who, laying one hand upon my shoulder and 
 piercing my eyes with his disconcerting gaze, had 
 said to me : " My dear fellow, humanity is infamous; 
 you wish to see all and to say all, hence you will be 
 a martyr," — I did not feel myself capable of becoming 
 enthusiastic except for truth alone ; that I pursued it 
 everywhere, in all places, in myself, in my incipient 
 sensations, in others, observing their good quahties 
 with as much interest as their vices ; add to this tlaat 
 
XXIV PEEFACE. 
 
 I had an ardent imagination, a heart that was almost 
 entirely fresh, and that opened without effort to every 
 emotion, the noble ambition of doing well, the desire 
 of lending lustre to my name, and you will not be 
 surprised that although there was as yet no intention 
 on my part of making use of them in the composition 
 of a book, the facts which I have just narrated, related 
 as they all were to the same social situation and the 
 same literary notion, should have remained and 
 become systematised in my mind. 
 
 No naturalist could tell by what series of predeter- 
 mined phases an acorn falling between two clods of , 
 earth — weather, sun, and rain assisting — finally 
 becomes an oak a hundred feet in height, twelve feet 
 in circumference at the base, laden with foliage and 
 branches, dazzling, superb, and suggesting to the 
 observer the idea of a world. Similarly, it would, in 
 spite of my goodwill, be impossible for me to explain 
 by what series of different phenomena an idea 
 springing up in a brain, growing larger and develop- 
 ing as time goes on, can ultimately become embodied 
 in the form of a book, which book shall bring 
 disquiet to th« minds and emotion to the hearts 
 of all who read it. 
 
PEEFACB. XXV 
 
 Ten years after the events which I have just 
 related, and which I acknowledge were now pretty 
 well forgotten, I found myself engaged in an intrigue, 
 one of a purely intellectual and friendly kind, but 
 one that was forthwith to give substance to my 
 previous observations of "adultery," or rather, of 
 " three-cornered families," if I may borrow from the 
 repertory of society a term as expressive as it is 
 exact. 
 
 I am now speaking of a woman " accomplished 
 in every respect," who held in Parisian society a 
 position as honourable as it was distinguished. 
 
 This woman — married, a mother, and beautiful 
 enough to drive all the saints distracted — had, in 
 remarkable contrast, the face of an angel, the figure, 
 the walk, the manners of an angel, the gentle speech 
 of an angel ; and every one, including her' own best 
 friends, those whom she received at her house, and 
 whose hands were clasped daily by herself and her 
 husband, told things about her — ^yes, things — that 
 would make a peony blush. By their account this 
 charming woman, adorable in her countless perfec- 
 tions, whose lips, eyes, look, smile, hands, feet, 
 shoulders, arms, surpassed in chastity, purity, 
 
XXVI PEEFACE. 
 
 and angelic sweetness anything that Eaphael-had 
 been able to paint in his pictures of the Virgin — 
 well, by their account, this delicious woman, this 
 unique and peerless woman, had had more than 
 one weakness, and she had loved her lovers, not 
 after the fashion of those days, which was some- 
 what reserved and almost Platonic, but with the 
 sensual ardour which women have lost, at least in 
 France, since the happy time of the Abb6 de 
 Brantdme. 
 
 All this was wanting in detail, and I was foolish 
 enough not myself to seek to verify the truth or 
 falsehood of these strange assertions. But, having 
 become the lady's friend, and speaking much to her 
 about ourselves, I almost unthinkingly made the 
 completest and most charming study of living 
 character that was ever granted an artist to make. 
 My graceful model was endowed with such an " out- 
 ward" nature, she veiled herself so little, that I 
 deserved no credit for studying her. The most 
 curious part of the matter was that while making 
 her talk, impelling her to admissions, soliciting con- 
 fessions which were denied me only for form'ssake — 
 and, when I think of it, what a strange, what an 
 
PREFACE . XXVii 
 
 extraordinary situation it was for both of us ! — I used • 
 sometimes to say to her : " Do you know that you 
 are a type, and the most enchanting of all types ? 
 What a misfortune it is that you have not in my place 
 an artist of genius to see you and listen to you and 
 admire you. Merely by depicting your character, he 
 would make an imperishable masterpiece." 
 
 As she was, before all things, a woman of the 
 world, gracious and kind, she habitually replied : 
 " Why should you not some day be this artist ? I ask 
 nothing better than to continue to sit to you. Make 
 your masterpiece. Above all, make it like." 
 
 I was to make it only too like. 
 
 But at that time I should have been alarmed, as at 
 the thought of an abuse of- confidence, to make use 
 of a single one of the amorous anecdotes which she 
 used to relate playfully to me in her soft voice, 
 disguising real names. Her character, moreover, 
 appeared to me so complete, so finished — to make 
 use of an expression from the studio which is full of 
 justness — that it was enough for me to probe it with 
 the idea of painting it some day. I was at times 
 in raptures over it.. But how, and by what con- 
 catenation of ideas or circumstances was I ultimately 
 
XXVlll PEEFACB. 
 
 to form the intention of writing my book, and 
 especially of blending in this book various incidents 
 and characters which I had observed, and of intro- 
 ducing them into, and making them form part of, 
 a feeble, an absolutely imaginary, adventure ? The 
 sole reason was, that these incidents harmonised with 
 one another, that they all had relation to the same 
 physiological and social fact, that the characters 
 assumed an unexpected aspect in the light of the 
 incidents, and showed to advantage in it. The artist, 
 be it well known, has no modes of procedure except 
 Nature — or, rather, it is Nature alone who provides 
 him with all his modes. 
 
 Owing to the simple reason tha/t I felt myself 
 endowed with the qualities of an observer, the facts 
 which I remarked around me, which I studied and 
 which I investigated from the love of art, grouped 
 themselves in a perfectly natural manner in my mind 
 as though they had possessed a direct relation one to 
 another. This intellectual operation even took place 
 so naturally that my will had most commonly no 
 share in it. Everything was done, so to speak, 
 externally to myself. I have always constructed the 
 plots of my novels in the way that M. Jourdain 
 
PBEFAGB. Xxix 
 
 talked prose, without consciousness of the fact, but 
 perfectly convinced that "it had come!" It is to 
 this that I attribute the tone of truth and reality 
 which enlightened critics have often been pleased 
 to recognise in my books. And now the reader is 
 aware by what sequence of observations and circum- 
 stances the plot of "Fanny" was conceived. 
 
 The general plan of the work being established in 
 my head, it was necessary to think of the characters. 
 There are only three, as is known, and that of the 
 chief personage, the heroine, had already been 
 discovered. In order to comply with that most 
 imperious law of art, the law of contrasts, I drew up 
 that of the husband in accordance with the most 
 vigorous principles of this law. As for the lover, I 
 do not disown having given him the most striking 
 characteristics which I myself possessed at his age. 
 I acknowledge that had I found myself at four-and- 
 twenty in his place, in the different situations of which 
 he has experience, I should have behaved as he does. 
 Some of my friends, the oldest and most intimate 
 among them, have often told me that they had 
 recognised in the language of the personage in 
 question the forms of phrases which have always 
 
XXX PBEFACE. 
 
 been the most familiar with me when speaking. 
 ' " You have halved yourself, in order to portray 
 yourself in the parts of lover and husband," my old 
 fellow student, Alexandre Dumas the younger, wrote 
 to me a few days after the publication of my book. 
 With all due deference to him, the truth is that I 
 had put very little of myself into the character of 
 the husband. 
 
 The book, however, was being elaborated quite of 
 itself within me — ^indeed, almost apart from me — 
 while I applied myself to my ordinary occupations. 
 But I could not make up my mind to write the first 
 line of it. I did not feel that the germ was ripe 
 enough. The time had not yet come. All revolved 
 in my head about two ideas, as about two poles : 
 the lover jealous of the husband, and the secret 
 torture of adultery. Por a long time I remained — if 
 I may be allowed the comparison — like a woman 
 who is in the seventh month of her preg- 
 nancy, and who waits from day to day 
 for the moment of her delivery, asking herself 
 whether this moment will be still longer delayed, 
 and fretting at her inability to do anything that 
 will accelerate it. As I wished to write under the 
 
PEBFACE. XXXI 
 
 pressure of direct emotion, of passion genuinely felt 
 I came, by dint of stimulating my imagination, to 
 believe that the adventure living within me was a 
 real one, and that I was really in love, jealous, and 
 unhappy. And I am able to assert that I was ; but 
 I still abstained from writing. 
 
 At last, one day in the month of January, 1858, as 
 I was entering the Eue de la Chaussee-d'Antin on my 
 way to the Bourse — it would be superfluous to ask 
 whether I was thinking of my novel — a half-frozen 
 shower happened to fall, and, not liking to get wet, I 
 took shelter in the entrance to the Hotel du Cardinal, 
 Feseh. There, in the midst of twenty persons, who 
 had all sought shelter in the entry, I felt within me 
 something that reproached my indolence. The 
 moment had come. I might have gone home in 
 order to set to work. I preferred to "take immediate 
 advantage 'of the inclination — I was going to say the 
 
 inspiration — which I felt. 
 
 So there I stood, and, drawing a pencil and a Stock 
 
 Exchange note-book out of my pocket, began, 
 
 altogether heedless of the persons who surrounded me, 
 
 to write the first chapter. 
 
 •' " TUe "House is set ohliqiiely on a sandy knoll on IKe 
 
XXXH PEEFACB. 
 
 edge of the strand, looking aside at the Ocean as though 
 dist;rustful of him." 
 
 I wrote the entire chapter thus in the gateway, 
 and I experienced an indescribable emotion. An 
 emotion so sweet and so strong ! I was perfectly 
 cognisant of the value that it had for me, and now 
 that I was at last in ppssession of it I would not let 
 it slip. As the rain still continued, I entered a cab 
 and drove to the Bourse. There, instead of busying 
 myself with matters which on such a day had little 
 interest for me, I took refuge in the office for stock- 
 brokers' clerks, and wrote the second chapter with 
 the same pencil and in the same pocket-book. 
 
 " If I have voluntarily exiled myself in this frightful 
 solitude it is because it has been, and still is, my 
 misfortune to love." 
 
 And indeed I was then in love, in love with all the 
 forces of my soul, I can assert it upon my honour. 
 But with whom? With an ideal, a supreme ideal, 
 composed of all the graces and all the seductions of 
 womanhood, and simultaneously of all the torments 
 and all the joys with which a woman is capable of over- 
 powering us. Never had I been in a like condition 
 There was an element of religion in the oollectedness 
 
PEE FACE. XXXIU 
 
 with which I listened to the inward voice that was 
 dictating my book to me. Nevertheless I was aware 
 that in Paris I should be disturbed too often to be 
 able peacefully to achieve and bring to a happy 
 termination a work which demanded all my attention, 
 care and solicitude. 
 
 That same evening I took flight to a small estate 
 at Aunay, which I had bought from my father-in- 
 law, M. Blanqui. There, all to myself — for I was 
 quite alone, having only a gardener to wait on me — I 
 rose before daybreak, and, crouching over the fire, 
 wrote on a little table, taking barely two hours out of 
 the twenty -four for my walks and meals. I had so 
 identified myself with my subject, I felt my types to 
 be so aUve, and my work progressed so quickly, that 
 I anticipated finishing it in the country. Alas ! I 
 became disheartened when two thirds of my task 
 were accomplished, and on returning to Paris I was 
 sensible of such fatigue that I was on the point of 
 throwing the whole thing aside. 
 
 My first visit was to my friend Gustave Maubert. 
 
 "What are you doing just now? " he enquired of 
 me with interest. 
 
 " I am writing a novel."' 
 
XXxiv PKEPACE. 
 
 " Pooh ! " 
 
 " Yes, I am."' 
 
 " "Well, tell me your novel." 
 
 I, related the whole of it to him — that is to say, 
 exclusively as far as the balcony scene, which was 
 the point at which I had stppped. 
 
 Flaubert, who is good-natmre itself, and who has 
 always given me proofs of the sincerest friendship, 
 praised me highly, encouraged me like a kindly 
 fellow- worker, and then said, suddenly : — 
 
 " However, it won't do to finish like that. Tell me 
 what follows." 
 
 " But it is there that I have stopped." 
 
 " What matter ! Tell me how you intend to 
 conclude." 
 
 " In order," I replied, " on the one hand to obey 
 the law of progressions, without respect to which no 
 novel is possible, and on the other, to yield to the 
 logic of things, of events and characters, I see myself 
 obliged to terminate the book with a certain scene, 
 and it seems to me, even before I have written it, to be 
 so bold a one that, although I judge it indispensable to 
 the conclusion of the book, which, without it, would 
 not exist,' I dare not write it. It frightens me," 
 
PEEPACE. XXXV 
 
 " Tell me the scene," said Flaubert. 
 
 Forthwith I improvised the balcony scene ; then I 
 continued, and brought the narrative to its close. 
 
 " Fool that you are ! " returned Flaubert, " this 
 scene is the success of the book. And you hesitate ? 
 You are not worthy to hold a pen. I renounce you 
 for my friend." 
 
 But in truth I hesitated no longer, the proof 
 being that on the following morning, after two hours' 
 work, I had written the words " The end," at the 
 foot of the last page of the manuscript. 
 
 I had taken fourteen years to meditate it ; eleven 
 days had sufi&ced me for the writing of it. 
 
 But before considering about getting it printed, I 
 deemed it well to comply with what I regarded 
 as an obligation of conscience. I went to see the 
 thousand times too kind and charming woman, who 
 had authorised me to adapt her seductive person and 
 amiable disposition to the incidents with which I 
 have generously gratified the heroine of my novel. 
 
 "I come," I said to her, "to ask of you a fresh 
 service. It is to be so kind as to listen to the reading 
 of your supposititious adventure." 
 
 This was uncompromising, but she did not even 
 
XXXyi JEBFACE. 
 
 frown. A further trait in het character. 1 read 
 clearly. I was, nevertheless, terribly moved. As 
 for her, she literally hung on my lips ; she did 
 not lose a word of what I read. It interested her 
 immensely. She uttered cries of pleasure. At times 
 she would interrupt me and say, "That is not 
 accurate. This expression as too forced. In similar 
 circumstances I should not have acted so, I should 
 not have said that." 
 
 And I modified the manuscript. 
 
 " I almost wish," I said on leaving her, "to put your 
 name beside my own on the cover of the volume." 
 
 "How foolish you are for a sensible man!" she 
 replied. 
 
 We have never again spoken about it since. 
 
 And now that my confession is finished, I cannot 
 conceal from myself the fact that in writing it I have 
 fust done perhaps a dangerous, but certainly an oddly 
 audacious thing. No Writer, to my knowledge, has 
 ever gone so far in his frankness, as to confide to 
 the _public: — who did not ask for them — ^the . secrets 
 of his comedy, Who knows whether the good 
 faith with which I have disguised nothing in my 
 
PBEI^ACI!. XXXVil 
 
 narrative, shall not be turned against me and cause 
 me annoyances without number! We are always 
 punished for acting rightly. Our troubles, our 
 sorrows, our torments, our mischances always proceed 
 only from our best feelings. Hard, dry souls are the 
 only ones to escape suffering in this world. Straight- 
 forwardness has to be paid for, good-faith is costly, 
 sincerity is a ruin. It seems to me just now that 
 I can hear a chorus of pretty readers blaming me, 
 rallying me, imprecating me. 
 
 "What !" they say to me, " you have been guilty 
 of this clumsiness? Without being forced, to it, 
 without any of us asking you to do so, here you 
 come suddenly, after twelve years' silence, without 
 a word of warning, and light-heartedly rob us of 
 our illusions. And so you have robbed us of the 
 tears which your book made us shed, of the gentle 
 emotions which we experienced as we read it? So 
 they were not your due ? How, after interesting us 
 so powerfully in the narrative of a lov6-story, the 
 greatest merit of which, in our eyes, proceeds from 
 the quality of reality in which it is, as it were, 
 steeped, can you come and tell us quietly tha it 
 was nothing but a fiction? But people are not 
 
XXXVUl PHEPACE.' 
 
 allowed to behave in that manner, Mr. Author ; 
 well-bred people don't do that kind of thing, and you 
 are committing something worse than suicide." 
 
 Fair ladies, allow me. In writing my book I did 
 nothing but what had been done with far better 
 authority before me by those of my predecessors who 
 had had the happiness of making your mothers and 
 grandmothers weep. If it is absolutely necessary for 
 a "love-story" to have happened to its narrator in 
 order to interest and please you, why are you pleased 
 and interested when reading " Othello," " Eomeo 
 and Juliet," "The New Heloise," "Paul and Vir- 
 ginia," "Manon Lescaut"? Moreover, on this 
 principle, not a shadow of literary art would be left, 
 or, rather, all literary art would be reduced to the 
 level of the " miscellaneous items " which are to be 
 found on the third page of the newspapers. We must 
 not push our materialism so far. The important 
 element in a book does not consist of the incideiits, 
 but of the juice, the soul of it, the breath of passion 
 which animates it. Now, know this : If a man had 
 the genius of the divine Shakespeare, and desired to 
 do so, he could not, without having first experienced 
 it, express in all its sincerity a passion so keen, so 
 
PREFACE. XXxix 
 
 truthful, so young, so truly human, as tha,t which, 
 as you condescend to tell me, moves throughout 
 " Fanny," from the first line to the last. 
 
 Let us understand one another in good faith ; the 
 adventure about which we are now commencing 
 actually happened. Yes, it has happened more than 
 a hundred thousand times — once, perhaps, to your- 
 self, madame, who are reading me, and that is the 
 reason why you understand so well. And it especially 
 happened to me, but it happened at the time when I 
 was writing in my study, and nowhere else. 
 
 Whatever the cause of it may be, the moment 
 that passion penetrates a man's heart, and that he 
 expresses it well or ill, by word of mouth or with the 
 pen, this passion exists in the highest degree. It is 
 touching and worthy of interest. Be advised, there- 
 fore, my dear sisters, and cease to ■ show me the 
 politeness of regretting that I was not a witness of 
 a scene which might have flattered my curiosity, 
 but which, had I been situated like the lover in 
 "Fanny," w;ould certainly have caused me much 
 pain., 
 
 I have felt only too keenly the terrible throbs 
 of jealous hearts, and I am acquainted only too well 
 
xl -PEBPACE. 
 
 with the poignant, unspeakable pangs of love when 
 it is at conflict with itself. And, good heavens ! 
 who among us has been able to live for twenty years 
 in the adorable Inferno of Parisian society without 
 having had his heart crushed at least once by one of 
 the sirens who constitute its charm and its grace ? 
 Name him to us, all of you, my sisters, whose allure- 
 ments have drawn us thither, and keep us there. 
 
 But, above all, forgive me the confession which I 
 have just made, and, as I take leave of you, allow 
 me, while thanking you for the attention which you 
 have been kind enough to afford me, to make one 
 further, observation to you respecting " Eanny." It 
 shall be the last. What would you say of a man 
 who, after having had the honour of being dis- 
 tinguished by one of you, would go and — I do not 
 say cry the secret of his happiness from the house- 
 tops — ^but tell it to the pubhc? Who would not 
 blush to detail in the eyes of this mocking and -listless 
 pubhc your refinements, your beauties, the perfections 
 of your persons and the quahties of your souls. 
 
 Some men of letters, you have been told, have 
 done so. The thing is very possible. There is a great 
 deal of vanity in some of my fellow-writers. As far- 
 
PREFACE. xH 
 
 as I am concerned, I have always regarded an action 
 of the kind as a meanness, or rather — to use the 
 proper word — a sacrilege, and had I the misfortune 
 to have such a one on my conscience, I should 
 condemn myself to write no more in order to expiate 
 my crime. 
 
 Paris, June, 1870. 
 
FANNY. 
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 The house is set obliquely on a sandy knoll on 
 the edge of the strand, looking aside at the Ocean 
 as though distrustful of him. It is a low house 
 with a flat roqf, the latter covering a ground-floor 
 pierced by a high door and six windows, and 
 having a cracked plaster chimney quite at the top. 
 When I saw it for the first time and at a 
 distance, as I was crossing the solitary dunes, 
 it had so mournful an appearance that I felt 
 a heaviness of heart. Neglect was inscribed in 
 gaping crevices on its roughened wall, in deep 
 
44 , PANNY. 
 
 chinks on the ravaged tiles of the roof ; its closed 
 door, shaking on a single hinge, creaked at each 
 pressure from the wind, while the fog, then 
 rising from the liquid mountains of the ocean, 
 wrapped it in a shroud. 
 
 It was cold. A keen and whistling north wind 
 shook the crests of the waves, made them dance 
 and whirl, and rent them into shreds. Hillocks 
 of sand, strewn with rubbish and planted with pale 
 nettles and thistles, flowed back to the warped 
 threshold. Behind, the grass, encroaching upon 
 the site of a garden, stretched like a dark, green 
 patch. A miserable tree shrinking against the wall 
 on the land side could with difficulty keep back its 
 boughs, which were tormented furiously by the 
 hurricane. It had lost all its foliage, with the 
 bare exception of a few scanty sprays towards its 
 foot. 'It drew itself up piteously between the 
 gusts, and the leaden spout, torn from its hooks 
 and hanging by one end above it, beat it and tore 
 it in the cruel swaying to and fco to which it was 
 ceaselessly compelled by the wind. 
 
 I, wishing to exile mysfelf from the world,. 
 
FANNY. 45 
 
 recalled this tumble-down farmhouse which had 
 been bequeathed to me by my father, and which 
 formed part of a domain now sold. I came to 
 it in quest of silence and solitude. But I did 
 not repair the threshold, nor did I cultivate the 
 garden, I left the chinks on the roof through 
 which the rain filtered into the low room ; I left 
 the crevices in the wall wherein was absorbed 
 the. harsh hurricane of the autumnal nights ; I 
 did. not refasten the hinge of the door ; I did not 
 lift with my hands the leaden spout ; I took no 
 pity on the old tree, which writhed like one 
 crucified against the wall, because Fate had 
 taken no pity upon me. 
 
 But I made my abode in the only room, 
 without effecting any change in its sordid furni- 
 ture. A wooden bench was my seat ; a heap of 
 wrack was my bed. Never did I make a bright 
 fire blaze in the brick fire-place. I fed on the 
 hard, black bread which sailors eat, and I drank 
 rain-water drawn from the cistern behind the 
 house.- 
 
 And from the day on which I took up my 
 
46 FANNY. 
 
 abode until the day on which I am writing 
 this, I did not leave the mournful house. 
 Lying on the hard, salt leaves, or seated on 
 the narrow bench with bent knees, hanging 
 arms, clasped hands, and sunken , head, I 
 suffered the days to elapse with indifference. 
 Like those great oxen which in my childhood 
 I used to see kneeling in the deserted pasture, 
 1 chewed the bitter cud of my recollections. 
 
 Sometimes, however, I crossed the tottering 
 threshold with the heavy step of a man who has 
 not slept off his intoxication, and wandered 
 slowly round my accursed dwelling. I looked 
 gravely upon it in the cold, pale light of a 
 November , dawn as upon a neglected tomb 
 rotting beneath the grass, and I was ever 
 astonished to see it upright and piteous, not- 
 withstanding the wind-gusts which beat upon 
 it. 
 
 But I never left it. And what was there 
 outside that could attract me ? On one side the 
 ocean spread his raging billows with a despairing 
 and monotonous rpar; on the other the green- 
 
FANNY. 47 
 
 spotted sand extended further than the eye could 
 reach ; above rolled the heavy, silent clouds. No 
 other house but mine showted its mournful outline 
 against the dull sky, and the headland of brown 
 rocks in front of me ceaselessly thrust out its long, 
 threatening arm into the bosom of the sea. 
 
48 FANNY. 
 
 CHAPTEE II. 
 
 If I have voluntarily exiled myself in this fright- 
 ful solitude, it is because it has been, and still is, 
 my misfortune to love. But think not that some 
 terrible occurrence separated me from my 
 mistress. Would to God it had been thus ! I 
 should still be able to bless her ! 
 
 For a long time I had loved her without daring 
 to tell her so. So many things separated us that 
 I shrank from contending against them. More- 
 over, I was only twenty-four. I blushed when 
 our eyes met ; I was abstracted, moved, trem- 
 bling, when in her presence. At last she under- 
 stood that I loved her, and, like one rising to 
 push aside a barrier, she quietly, and with her 
 own fair hand, removed every obstacle, 
 
FANNY. 49 
 
 Oh, it was, above all, for this that I wor- 
 shipped her ! And then she was so tender and 
 so beautiful ! At thirty-five she had preserved 
 all the freshness and sprightliness of early youth, 
 and to these charms she added that indefinable 
 repose which women derive from experience. 
 
 She was tall, slender, with very slight shoulders, 
 a delicate figure and modest lips, and the con- 
 fidence of her gait had a firmness in it that 
 revealed an active soul in an agile body. When 
 she stood, she usually suffered her bare, queenly 
 arms to hang down, bringing them together in 
 order to cross her hands before her ; then the 
 great folds of her garnet velvet dress fell straight 
 to her little arched feet and rested behind on 
 the ground, while, walking with measured steps, 
 she carried her pure and radiant head slightly 
 advanced on her gently curving, swan-like neck. 
 
 When seated, she was fond of resting her 
 cheek upon her right hand, while she, at the 
 same time, stretched out her left arm over the 
 glossy satin of her chair, brushing it with her 
 slender fingers as with fingers of ivory. Her 
 
 D 
 
50 FANNY. 
 
 faix, ashen hair, smooth and light on the crown 
 of her head, played in curly locks on her temples, 
 on her dull-tinted cheeks and all about her neck ; 
 her straight, sweetly formed nose, her exquisite 
 nostrils, her low, flat forehead, her undimpled 
 chin, were in harmony with her arched eye- 
 brows and her refined and well-matched lips ; 
 lastly, her soft, dark blue eyes, with their .wide, 
 black pupils, and tender shroud of prominent 
 eyelids, fringed with tufted lashes, had an expres- 
 sion of tenderness, innocence, surprise and purity, 
 which proYoked and ravished me. 
 
 At the very first I loved her to distraction, and 
 I have the same love for her still. As for her, 
 she loved me as she knew how to love : with 
 inner reservation, with limits. Her air, pleasing 
 and natural as it was, awed me. Even while she 
 clasped me to suffocation in her arms, I could 
 feel that she was still holding me at a distance. 
 It is thus that queens and empresses must love 
 their lovers. This is in the first place the reason 
 why I began to suffer and why you see me 
 here. 
 
FANNY. 51 
 
 As I would fain have spent every moment of 
 my life beside her, I sought every opportunity of 
 meeting her, I could not content myself with the 
 two hours which she granted me every week — 
 she had so many things to look after !— and I used 
 to pursue her imprudently everywhere, often re- 
 maining for whole hours with my face to the 
 wind and my feet in the snow, in order to see 
 her pass at some turning in the Bois, gracefully 
 cowled in rose-coloured silk behind the window 
 of her rapid brougham. Every evening with 
 inexpressible heaviness of heart I used to go and 
 wander in the fog beneath her blazing windows, 
 or, wrapped in my cloak and mingling with the 
 attendants would watch to see her coming out 
 beneath the peristyle of the Theatre des Italiens ; 
 or again, with my shoulder leaning against a 
 doorpost, I would wait long in order to see her 
 going into a hall, with flowers twined in her hair 
 and her shoulders bare to the breasts, and I would 
 then look to see whether her white satin bodice 
 swelled and strained to the pressure of her bosom 
 when she had perceived me ; and, as I bowed 
 
:S2 FANNY. 
 
 respectfully to. her, Ifound it very hard to refrain 
 from falling at her feet. 
 
 There, in the heavy atmosphere saturated with 
 -with acrid scents, beneath the dazzling rays 
 darting arrow-like from the heart of the chande- 
 liers, I watched her moving in her grace. I 
 followed her with my eyes as, with a curved 
 wrist on the arm of an old man bedecked with 
 orders, who called her affectionately by her 
 Christian name, she went round among the 
 groups with an air and step that distinguished 
 her from all women. I gazed long upon her 
 while, half-lying against the back of a broad seat, 
 she politely, but without coldness, received the 
 homages of earnest youths, or while, hanging 
 with motionless bust and head, and with arm 
 extended- on the shoulder of some indefatigable 
 waltzer, she whirled romid in billows of gauze 
 and laces to the rhythmic harmonies of flute and 
 violin. Then her eyes gleamed like bright stars 
 beneath the fretted flowers among her curls ; her 
 teeth shone like pearls between her parted lips ; 
 her moist cheeks and white shoulders grew rosy 
 
FANNY. 53 , 
 
 as at the contact of my lips, while each time that 
 she glided round, the tip of her httle foot showed 
 beyond the edge of her dress which was caught 
 backwards by the swiftness of the motion. But 
 neither the seductiveness of homage, nor the 
 excitement of the waltz, nor even my presence 
 succeeded in moving her. She accepted every- 
 thing with a look of happiness, but with an even 
 tranquillity of countenance which seemed more 
 than the appeal in her gaze to disquiet and leave 
 colourless the men whose eyes encountered her 
 own. Yet I never caught on her part any of 
 those captivating and half-mocking modes of con- 
 duct which are the false expression of the strife 
 between an affected heart and an undecided in- 
 tellect, which cloak and season advances, which 
 anger hope without discouraging it. But why 
 was it that the presence of her lover never dis- 
 turbed her ? It was in vain that I gazed my eyes 
 out in looking at her ; she did not seem to 
 perceive me. 
 
 She was a woman to her finger-tips. 
 
54 FANNY. 
 
 CHAPTEE III. 
 
 The wished-for morning dawned at last ! Up at 
 daybreak, I took a childisli pleasure in personally 
 adorning my apartment. I decorated it with 
 fresh flowers ; I drew the pink, large-flowered, 
 brocade curtains, so as to sift and softly tint the 
 briUiance of too strong a light ; I skilfully arranged 
 the muslin hangings, and with my own hands 
 smoothed the cappadine counterpane on my bed ; 
 and with a sigh I myself set the unheeding clock, 
 the pendulum of which never went fast enough 
 then. 
 
 On a small table of West India wood I 
 placed candied fruits and fancy biscuits in china 
 saucers, surrounded by Bohemian glasses and a 
 flask or two of Marsala. I had dismissed my 
 
FANNY. 55 
 
 valet until the evening, and I at last found myself 
 absolute master of my dainty nook ; I would be 
 free within it, like a bird beneath the foliage of 
 solitary woods, rounding and pressing with its 
 restless breast the nest of its loves. To what 
 pains did I not go in order to anticipate the 
 slightest wishes of the woman I worshipped ! 
 With my own hands I stuck the pins into the 
 velvet pin-cushion ; from her red morocco jewel- 
 box I drew the comb with tort-oise-shell teeth 
 which she employed for smoothing the locks dis- 
 arranged by the pressure of my trembling hands ; 
 I stirred the languishing fire that blushed as it 
 buried itself in ashes ; I drew her easy chair to 
 the hearth ; I looked on the divan for the thick 
 cushion on which I used to kneel at her feet, 
 in the attitude of a devotee contemplating his 
 idol. 
 
 And when everything was thus arranged, and the 
 golden hand as it approached the chosen figure, 
 seemed to say to me : " You will soon hear 
 the hour of your pleasure strike," I was more 
 restless and more moved than ever, going con- 
 
56 FANNY. 
 
 stantly on tip-toe from the window to the door, 
 just as a faithful dog, tortured by impatience, 
 runs to and fro as he discerns his master's 
 step. 
 
 And I said to myself : 
 
 " Now she too is casting stealthy glances at the 
 clock. She knows that I am waiting for her. 
 Now she is standing in front of her mirror, and 
 fastening the string of her velvet cloak beneath 
 her chin : she is curling the rebel locks on her 
 pure brow ; she is wrapping the dark shawl about 
 her shoulders, and fastening it at her breast with 
 the cameo brooch ; she is putting on her gloves, 
 and is growing impatient ; and now she is heaping 
 the folds of her black veil over her blue eyes ; she 
 is crossing her empty rooms ; she passes on ; she 
 presses the bolt pf the lock ; she goes out ; she 
 descends ; she glides past the walls. I shall see 
 her ! " 
 
 And then there was nothing further ! 
 
 Oh! time is long when you are waiting and 
 are in despair ! What if some obstacle were to 
 supervene ! — a visit, a child's whim ! Unhappy 
 
FANNY. 57 
 
 fellow that I am ! She will not come ! She is 
 late! 
 
 And yet it had been so sweet to receive her 
 here, once more, in this room so well prepared 
 for her ! So sweet to take her in mj' arms on 
 the very threshold, and bear her away into 
 hiding like a treasure ! So pleasant to touch her 
 hands and hair ; to see her at last raise her 
 beautiful eyes freely towards me ; to hear her say 
 thou to me in her silken voice. 
 
58 FANNY. 
 
 CHAPTEE IV. 
 
 She was coming at last ! Croiiclimg against the 
 leaf of the half-opened door, I hearkened to the 
 rustlings of her dress and the sound of her boots 
 as they creaked on the staircase carpet. She 
 was coming in, her cheeks purpled with cold, out 
 of breath, with tears on her eyelashes ; and, with- 
 out raising her veil, without uttering a word, 
 she was throwing herself prone upon my breast, 
 fastening her arms about my neck, and, timorous 
 and startled as a bird, listening tremulously, with 
 eagerness of ear and feature, to the slightest 
 noise in the house or street. 
 
 And when she had at last stilled her terrors ' 
 and ventured to leave the threshold, it was like 
 a dazzling vision shedding floods of light in the 
 
FANNY. 59 
 
 confined apartment. By her mere presence she 
 lent an unheard-of worth to the most insignificant 
 objects. It seemed to me as though everything 
 then took life, as the woods, sleeping in shadow 
 and silence, awake in the first days of spring. 
 
 Sometimes, however, bright rays of sunshine 
 passed through the opening between the curtains, 
 traversed the intervening space, and were shat- 
 tered at the back of the alcove on the clear 
 surface of a mirror. The flowers in the baskets 
 placed in front of the windows were shedding 
 their leaves one by one and strewing the carpet 
 with their fresh petals. Speaking in whispers, 
 with incoherent words, of ourselves alone, and 
 holding each other's hands, we at first gazed 
 passionately at each other, absorbed in delicious, 
 deep emotion, which gave gentle pain to our 
 hearts, and brought tears to our eyes. Our 
 outpourings were infinite as our love, our 
 beatitude was infinite ; but our thoughts went no 
 further than the discreet walls of the silent 
 room. The whole world was for us contained 
 within them. 
 
6o FANNY. 
 
 And how we devoured each other with caresses ! 
 What sweet energy in our embraces ! What 
 greed in our kisses ! What feverish quivering 
 in our gestures while I silently disputed with 
 her for the possession of the disordered garments, 
 which, pale with vague terror, she held clutched 
 upon her ! In desperation I threw myself upon 
 my knees before her. I entwined her yielding 
 figure in my arms, and she, curving in my 
 embrace, laid the palms of her hands upon my 
 forehead, gently held me back and turned away 
 her head as though she were afraid of my eyes. 
 
 And, as though to annihilate myself before her, 
 I fell prostrate and gave long kisses to her naked 
 feet. I would fain have died there, with my lips 
 pressed upon the childish, pink and white feet, 
 which she buried in the swansdown rug, while 
 she quivered beneath her coverings like the angel 
 of unrest half shadowed in the plumage of her 
 wings. 
 
FANNY. 6l 
 
 CHAPTBE V. 
 
 The first moment of tmnult past, it seemed as 
 if it were nothing to her to find herself again 
 in my home, and submitting to the wild eager- 
 ness of my embrace. Then, more mute, more 
 serious, more absorbed than myself, she appeared 
 in all her splendid disorder — with loosened hair, 
 uncovered shoulders, bare arms, and calm and 
 dainty lip — to be as much at her ease as though 
 she were seated in her great velvet chair by 
 her own drawing-room fireside. I do not know 
 what she would not have done with the most 
 natural and dignified air. Nothing took her 
 by surprise; nothing shocked her. 
 
62 FANNY. 
 
 CHAPTEE VI. 
 
 On every occasion we had a world of fresh 
 thoughts to exchange. "We told each other of the 
 weariness of waiting, the enervation of anxiety, 
 the mournfulness of absence, the aspirations of 
 hope, and, further, of the consolation which 
 severed lovers find in thinking ceaselessly of each 
 other. Fanny in particular gave herself up to 
 this spiritual union, with all the expansiveness of 
 a youthful soul. My tender confidences reached 
 her like a vapour of incense, burying her in a sort 
 of sweet torpor. With mute bursts of gratitude, 
 with rosy cheek, and quivering nostrils, and 
 smiling, swimming eyes, she marvelled at the 
 abundance of my words, as also at the graceful 
 images which took flight from my lips. She could 
 not weary of listening to me. 
 
FANNY. 63 
 
 " Again ! speak again ! my Eoger ! " she would 
 say. 
 
 And, with her elbow sunk in the pillow, her 
 temple resting on her hand, her body bent, her 
 feet hanging down, she would caress my brow 
 and hair, gazing at me with all her eyes as though 
 to distinguish the subtlest lineaments of my 
 thought, while I, on my knee and with clasped 
 hands, would smile with pleasure, like an en- 
 couraged child, and it would seem to me then, 
 that it was our two souls which were united 
 in a vague, sweet embrace, with voluptuous 
 thrillings. 
 
64 FANNY. 
 
 CHAPTEE VII. 
 
 But it was especially at the time when she was 
 preparing to leave that my love and sorrow burst 
 forth. Pensively, and with emotion, she used to 
 rest her blue, limpid eyes upon mine. She would 
 affectionately take both my hands, which I, 
 turning away in vexation, would endeavour to 
 withdraw. Then she lectured me prettily, like a 
 mother ; stroked my cheeks kindly, kissed me, 
 went away, returned and kissed me once more. 
 
 " I shall never see you again ! " I would cry, 
 in sadness. 
 
 " Be quiet, Eoger," she used to say, stifling 
 my voice in a kiss. 
 
 Finally, I would strain her for a last time long 
 to my heart, and very often while thus embracing 
 each other, we could feel the hot tears flowing 
 upon our lips. 
 
FANNY, 65 
 
 CHAPTEE VIII. 
 
 She went away nevertheless and my life with 
 her. Leaning with melancholy upon the ledge 
 of my window I used to watch her through the 
 spaces in the Venetian blind as she passed along 
 the street. She walked slowly, simple, tranquil, 
 beautiful. The ends of her veil fluttered gently 
 over her shoulders, caressing her face on each 
 side. The edge of her dress, with its puffings of 
 silk, rustled upon her track. Both her hands, 
 advanced in front of her waist, clasped the folds 
 of the dark cashmere which shrouded her from 
 neck to ankle. 
 
 She did not turn round. She kept close to 
 the walls in order to avoid' the jostling of the 
 passers-by. At last she txirned the corner of the 
 
66 FANNY. 
 
 street. She disappeared ; and I forthwith threw 
 myself upon my bed and hid my face in my 
 hands, calling in distraction upon all my scattered 
 memories, that I might seek once more to possess 
 her. 
 
FANNY. 67 
 
 CHAPTEE IX. 
 
 The first time she came she was not astonished, 
 but she observed all her surroundings, and 
 touched everything with a certain reserve. 
 There were two broad swords crossed over a 
 panel; I remember that she looked at them. 
 So, too, she paused for a long time before the 
 portrait of my mother, who had been very 
 beautiful, as also in front of my desk, with its 
 load of letters and books. But with a discretion 
 that was full of grace she passed on smiling, 
 without touching the letters. 
 
68 FANNY. 
 
 CHAPTBE X. 
 
 I WAS happy ! How I despised them, all others 
 than myself, because she did not love them ! I 
 looked upon the world from a distant height ; 
 unfettered, I soared above it all with indifference, 
 but full of pride. It seemed to me that all the 
 perfumes of earth and all the smiles of heaven 
 were centring upon me ; the glances which met 
 mine appeared to gleam with flashes of envy, 
 and the confused murmur of heaving crowds 
 resounded in my ear like distant acclamations. 
 Panny's image burdened my memory, and stood 
 out amid all my thoughts. She was at once 
 more irritating than a dream, and more comforting 
 than hope. Never had I suspected the possi- 
 bility of so many seductive qualities in a human 
 
FANNY. 69 
 
 being, so much choiceness in a heart, so much 
 gracefulness in reserve, so much modesty in 
 surrender. 
 
 A mingling of enthusiasm and musing, of 
 illusioiis and discouragement, of melancholy and 
 childishness, had been sufficient to enable me to 
 win her love. Nevertheless, she appeared to me 
 to be somewhat deadened to attentions and 
 services. She had doubtless received so much love ! 
 Still beautiful, more beautiful than she perhaps 
 believed; she increased each one of her graces 
 by the timid effort which she put forth to avoid 
 the apathy which distantly she could feel coming 
 with the years. Especially there were days when 
 her gaze consented to more of humanity in its 
 penetration, when her lips met with a more 
 affectionate expression of meditation, when her 
 hair, flowing in soft ringlets upon her smoothly 
 chiselled temples, surrounded them with a sort of 
 sweet pity. Then I looked at her hands, plump 
 and so white, and thought that they had as it 
 were doubled themselves that their last caresses 
 might be more ample, more maternal. I listened 
 
70 FANNY. 
 
 with anxiety to the sighs uttered from her 
 struggling bosom. To me they seemed the 
 muffled protestation of a heart which was still 
 offering resistance to indifference, while, perhaps, 
 wishing to find rest in it, and which was sending 
 forth its fairest flame before shrinking in upon 
 itself and ceasing to beat. 
 
PANMY. ']f 
 
 CHAPTEE XI. 
 
 I WAS happy ! But I was soon going to be no 
 longer so. Up to that time Fanny had, with 
 the most touching dehcacy, avoided making the 
 slightest allusion to her husband in my presence. 
 With a little goodwill I might have imagined to 
 myself that she was free, and was not shared by 
 another. She had given herself in so chaste a 
 manner ! — like a queen, without haggling in the 
 least over what could not be sold. But one day, 
 — I do not know how it came about, — the name 
 of one of her children sounded softly upon her 
 lips, and from that time she could not refrain 
 from speaking to me about them. 
 
 She adored them with a love so extravagant 
 that I believe she would have left me had I not 
 
72 FANNY. 
 
 taken pleasure in hearing her relate to me a 
 thousand trivial things concerning them. For 
 my part, I always feigned the greatest interest 
 in those narratives, which she uttered with 
 extraordinary exuberance of heart ; but I 
 listened far more to the music of her words 
 than to the meaning which belonged to them. 
 I worshipped her sweet, melodious voice. And 
 then I was a little jealous of anything that she 
 loved. 
 
 She used to speak to me, therefore, about her 
 children. The youngest having been attacked by 
 a passing epidemic, I thought that I was going to 
 take an aversion to these poor little creatures who 
 had committed no offence save that of crouching 
 . shiveringly with myself into the love-nest of the 
 same heart. She then did a thing which forced 
 me to reflect very bitterly upon the total amount 
 of affection which a mother is able to give to a 
 man. She remained for six weeks without 
 seeing me. She did not stir a foot from the 
 cradle in which the sweet living treasure, 
 formed of her own heart's blood, lay struggling. 
 
FANNY. 73 
 
 She scarcely did so much as write me four 
 hues, calling upon me to suffer and to grieve 
 with her. 
 
 " Proud man, who pretend to reign alone over 
 a woman's heart," I said to myself, " see what a 
 lesson is given you by nature at the pettiest 
 complaints of a child." 
 
 Eeflecting about this child, I surprised myself 
 thinking about the husband. And soon, in spite 
 of myself, I ceased to think about anyone else. 
 I had never seen him. What motive had I pre- 
 viously had to look at the man who gave her his 
 arm to lead her into a ball-room, and who, as soon 
 as a circle of admirers had been formed around 
 her, discreetly lost himself in the crowd so as to 
 isolate her from himself? I loved, I saw none 
 but her. I lived for her alone. What was her 
 husband to me? 
 
 However, the first day when, after the cure of 
 her child, she came back to me, more affectionate 
 and more beautiful than before, she did not per- 
 ceive in me a new man ; but she discerned that 
 some secret thought claimed my attention while I 
 
74 SANK-?.. 
 
 passed my hand in silence over her bare arm. 
 Then, catching suddenly at the most cruel sus- 
 picion, she repulsed me, rose, and declared loudly 
 that I had betrayed her. 
 
 I smiled softly at this foolish accusation, and, 
 taking her hand as an invitation to reseat herself, 
 told her simply that I was hesitating about 
 asking a fresh favour from her through dread of 
 showing myself indiscreet. 
 
 "Well, what is it?" she said, still keeping 
 me at a distance, and raising her eyes towards 
 me with a look of surprise. 
 
 I replied that the past six weeks of solitude 
 had caused me to reflect mournfully upon our 
 lack of foresight. Not so much as suspecting 
 that any incident could separate us, we had. 
 contrived no opportunity of coming together. 
 At last, with an embarrassment which I could 
 not control, I stammered : 
 
 " Why am I not admitted into your 
 house?" 
 
 She did not surmise that I was disguising my 
 thought by speaking in this way, for she imme- 
 
FANNY. 75 
 
 diately beamed with smiles, and throwing both 
 her arms effusively round my neck, she confessed 
 to me with blushes that from the very first day 
 she had wished unceasingly to see me at her 
 house. 
 
 " Then why did you not speak of it ?" I said, 
 as I caressed her. 
 
 She replied by making the saucy little pout 
 of those who invite discernment, and suddenly 
 delightful plans for a common existence began 
 to spring in torrents from her lips : "I should 
 see her children ! I should love them ! " She 
 looked forward with pleasure to prepare for my 
 reception with greater elegance than ever the 
 private drawing-room in which only her friends 
 were received. "What happiness to be able nearly 
 every day to assemble around her all the objects 
 of her liveliest affection. Her^ thought would 
 henceforward be no longer obliged -to leave her 
 present children to seek for my image through 
 space, to bring it back to their midst, and cause 
 it to shine in the delicious retreat adorned by 
 herself alone in accordance with her own taste. 
 
76 FANNY. 
 
 Finally, I should henceforth occupy a larger 
 place — not in her heart, for that would be 
 impossible — but in her life, and I should 
 immediately take my share in all her joys as 
 well as in all her sorrows. It was a charming 
 dream. 
 
FANNY. 77 
 
 CHAPTEE XII. 
 
 We agreed that I should at length accept the 
 invitations of one of her friends who gave a 
 dinner-party every week. 
 
 "There are never many people," she said. 
 "You will easily be able to become friendly 
 with us." 
 
 Us ! — For the first time she in a single 
 word innocently associated her husband with 
 herself, without suspecting the anguish which 
 this association caused me. Dear Fanny ! I 
 was sensible of a vague oppressiveness causing 
 me to turn pale while she was blushing with 
 happiness. She rose as she uttered this word 
 
78 FANNY. 
 
 — one that was terrible to me, but unimportant 
 to her. The two hours were spent ; we sepa- 
 rated'. As she departed, she carried away as 
 much confidence with herself as she left behind ' 
 horrible hope to me. 
 
FANNY, 79 
 
 CHAPTBE XIII. 
 
 Yes, horrible hope ! for it is beyond my power to 
 express the uncertainties, the longings, the bitter 
 feehngs that stirred within me at the thought 
 that I was at last going to see her beneath the 
 eyes of him who ruled her life. All these 
 sensations were mingled within my heart like 
 poisons and antidotes, and from the abominable 
 medley there issued vapours so pungent that I 
 could feel my brain reeling in my head, and my 
 knees bending under me. 
 
 But this was nothing to what I was to expe- 
 rience at that too narrow table, where, beneath the 
 sheets of light shed from the globes of the lamps, 
 no guest could conceal from anyone the thoughts 
 that wrinkled his brow, At first I saw nothing, 
 
80 FANNY. 
 
 and gave random replies to the questions 
 addressed to me. I ate mechanically and with 
 constraint, striving to be attentive and polite, but 
 more haggard than an assassin who feels that he is 
 on the point of being discovered. Bewildered by 
 the clinking of glasses, the clashing of silver, the 
 ringing of porcelain ; dazzled by the reflection of 
 the touches of light on the covers of the dishes ; 
 confused by the going and coming of the 
 assiduous servants as they served everyone 
 without uttering a word, gliding noiselessly 
 over the carpets like dark, white - gloved 
 shadows, suffocated by the hot atmos- 
 phere of the room,, impregnated with pene- 
 trating flavours mingled with the odour of wines 
 and the scent of flowers, I did not look at 
 Fanny, I did not even listen to her voice. Her 
 presence at my side had become insupportable to 
 me; it was like a weight stifling me. And neither 
 did I look at him whom I had come so far to 
 seek with the terrified desire of knowing him. 
 Blinded by funereal visions I could not see him, 
 though he was seated in front of me. 
 
FANNY. 8 I 
 
 Suddenly I regained. clearness of thought as I 
 felt a woman's foot gliding upon my own and 
 pressing it with gentle force. It was she who 
 was warning me .of my too obvious abstraction. 
 I glanced at her to thank her, and then, leaning 
 back in my chair, bestowed a lengthened look 
 upon the man who had no suspicion of the 
 powerful interest' to which the study of his 
 person was about to give rise within me. 
 
82 FANNY. 
 
 CHAPTEE XIV. 
 
 He was a sort of bull .with a human face. Of 
 medium height, he protruded his lusty shoulders 
 as he ate, and his chair creaked beneath the 
 heavy flexion of his sturdy back. From where I 
 sat I could see on his forehead the stern, upright 
 arches of eyebrows bristling with coarse hairs, 
 and his clear, grey eye shone beneath with the 
 metallic lustre which gleams in the impassive 
 pupil of one much addicted to the consumption 
 of meat. 
 
 He ate, bringing his short, hairy hands close 
 together in front of him, and raising his elbows 
 the better -to lean upon his glittering knife and 
 the handle of his fork. After each plateful he 
 
FANNY. 83 
 
 took a deep breath, wiped his mouth, and drank 
 long draughts of undiluted wine. 
 
 He looked neither ill-natured nor vulgar ; he 
 looked strong. His whole person revealed extra- 
 ordinary muscular power. The surface of his 
 cheeks and of his well-shaven chin presented the 
 rigidity of marble, and his clear, open forehead, 
 surrounded by dark hair that was already growing 
 grey, disclosed a mind possessed of a will full of 
 straightforwardness and persistence. 
 
 His smile was kind ; his look without malevo- 
 lence, but clear as crystal. He looked you in the 
 face, in the eyes, and in such a manner that you 
 esteemed yourself fortunate if you avoided this 
 steel mirror which was annoying from its very 
 openness. He perhaps laughed rather bois- 
 terously, jerking his pectoral muscles above his 
 well-contracted waist, and throwing back his 
 purple face. His voice was deep and sonorous ; 
 his gestures quiet, and almost heavy. He had 
 fine teeth, and pink, shining, well-trimmed nails; 
 in short, an air of uprightness and frankness 
 was diffused over his entire person. 
 
84 ' FANNY. 
 
 He appeared to me to be forty years of age. 
 
 All at once I was as though prostrated ; I was 
 ashamed to find myself in rivalry with so power- 
 ful a nature. Involuntarily I compared myself 
 with him, and found myself puny beside him, as 
 nearly all young fellows of my age would have 
 been. How small seemed my consciousness of 
 bodily weakness, of refinement of breeding and 
 elegance, in presence of this richness of blood, 
 this amplitude of form, this cold, calm virility. I 
 seemed to myself like a sylph gazing in con- 
 sternation at the statue of a giant. What manner 
 of man was I beside him ? He only, and not I, 
 was the strong and comely expression of a man ! 
 
 And with still greater cruelty towards myself, 
 I continued my comparison from myself to her. 
 And, seeing her seated by my side, gentle and 
 fair as Eve, pure as a maiden, with her slender 
 waist, her neck slightly advanced, her look of 
 wonder shed like the shadow of vapour over her 
 charming face — knowing her to be^- so refined in 
 thought, I asked myself distractedly how she had 
 formerly found it possible to love him ! 'Twas a 
 
FANNY. 85 
 
 violent association of two natures that had not a 
 single point in common. They were mated like 
 silk and steel ! 
 
 "Oh! Desdemona!" I said to myself, "what 
 an Othello hast thou chosen !" 
 
 But she had not the faintest suspicion of the 
 frenzy that was brooding just beside her. She 
 spoke tranquilly to me, looking into my eyes with 
 an air of simplicity, and with her white hand 
 putting aside the fair locks which fluttered like 
 feathers upon her brow. And she spoke to him 
 before me without disquiet or constraint ; she 
 called him " dear" in my presence. 
 
 And he replied to her with even less of con- 
 straint, with much consideration and deference, 
 but with a very evident air of superiority. This 
 Hercules saw in her a charming but absurd 
 creature ; accordingly, he uttered only trifles to 
 her, in an amiable and paternal fashion, just as 
 fathers do to inquisitive little children. 
 
86 FANNY. 
 
 CHAPTEE XV. 
 
 When dinner was over and the guests had gone 
 to seat themselves round whist tables in the great 
 drawing-room, I went slowly up to Fanny, who 
 was warming her feet in front of the fire. Leaning 
 against the edge of the mantle-piece, I mingled 
 commonplace remarks uttered in a loud tone with 
 words of tenderness addressed to her in a whisper. 
 From where I stood I could see the backs of the 
 players bent towards the tables, where the candles, 
 set in heavy, silver candlesticks, shone softly 
 beneath their shades ; I could hear the sound of 
 the mother-of-pearl counters and the murmur of 
 the ambiguous words exchanged between the 
 partners. I expected that with a Httle skilfulness 
 we should be able to talk thus quite comfortably 
 about ourselves, the mistress of the house being 
 seated at the end of the room in front of the 
 
FANNY. 87 
 
 piano, the keys of which she was skimming with 
 the tips of her fingers. And a fresh charm, added 
 to all the rest, was that of the drowsy chords 
 trembling in the air at the same time that love's 
 secret melodies, more melodious still, were sing- 
 ing within us. But my rival, suddenly quitting 
 the group of players behind which he had 
 hitherto been standing, advanced affably to- 
 wards us, and, in the most natural way in 
 the worldj asked us what we were talking 
 about. 
 
 With an exquisite politeness that excluded 
 any form of familiarity, and that kept us, as he 
 understood it, at a distance from each other, 
 but with tranquility of tone and courtesy of 
 manner, he immediately began to lead the con- 
 versation, and I could not help following him. 
 Through the soft bursts of music, to the tender- 
 ness of the muffled vibrations of which he paid 
 little heed, he spoke to me of hunting and the 
 theatre and horses, and heaven knows what 
 besides, not even condescending to go to the 
 root of the trifling subjects which I had impru- 
 
88 > FANNY. 
 
 dently choseu, but which he now condemned 
 me to pursue as though they had been the only 
 ones which he judged worthy of me. I made 
 him two or three rather ingenious answers, and 
 he commended me with a glance, honouring 
 me with a half bow. Thus I was to him a 
 sufficiently frivolous instrument, with the chords 
 of which he dallied with his finger-tips for 
 his own amusement. And, heavens ! if he had 
 known that in my heart there was one of those 
 chords the terrible resonance of which was capable 
 of bursting forth in his ears and deafening him ! 
 
 Later on I saw him seated beside her in the 
 shadow that floated about the light from the 
 candles. Without noticing myself or anyone 
 else, and without looking at her, he was pressing 
 her hand with his own in an almost mechanical 
 fashion, dreaming, perhaps, of I kn.ow Hot what. 
 And I looked on as at the strangest and most 
 monstrous of spectacles. As for her, her eyes 
 were fixed on mine, and -she was white as an 
 ivory statue ; but she dared not stir, she dared 
 . not speak, and she yielded. 
 
FANNY. 89 
 
 CHAPTEE XVI. 
 
 Prom that time I was possessed by only one 
 thought, that of effacing absolutely from my 
 mind the image of what I had just seen. I 
 wished, at all costs, to forget what humiliated 
 me and rent my heart. How greatly did I 
 regret what. I had done ! How absurd had 
 been my desire to learn what she -had so well 
 concealed from me, what I need never have 
 known. 
 
 "Oh! no, indeed!" I exclaimed to myself. 
 " I shall hear nothing further about that frightful 
 man, I shall never again encounter that overbear- 
 ing gaze, and we shall mingle our breaths no 
 more in the atmosphere of the same room ! And 
 never again, in my presence, at least, shall his 
 
go FANNY. 
 
 hairy hand fondle yours, placid and submissive 
 woman !" 
 
 Three days later, when she came to see me, 
 she at first saw no change in me. My anger had 
 gradually deposited its sediment in my soul, and 
 my soul was now filled to the brim with limpid 
 sorrow. With the appearance of calm, I felt 
 myseK wounded unto death. Stricken to the 
 heart, I preserved my former demeanour, hke 
 those vermilion fruits whose delicate and close- 
 drawn skin covers a pulp that is being de- 
 voured by an invisible worm. Accordingly, 
 she suspected nothing. Nevertheless, while 
 I was speaking to her about ourselves, and, 
 in fact, about everything with the exception of 
 what was engaging her thoughts so completely, 
 she seemed to be waiting with anxiety. At last, 
 finding that I had exhausted my factitious 
 eloquence, and feeling myself impelled by a wish 
 to take revenge upon her for the hitherto 
 imknown sorrow of which she was the innocent 
 cause, I said bitterly to her : 
 
 " You want to know what I think of your 
 
FANNY. 91 
 
 husband ; and perhaps you will be very pleased 
 if the judgment which you are expecting is not 
 unfavourable to him. But, Fanny, you shall never 
 know the feeling with which he inspires me." 
 
 It seemed to me that, as she heard these 
 strange words, all her heart's blood gushed into 
 her face. Poor conciliating woman ! She had 
 looked forward with such sweet pleasure to 
 drawing me to her house, to seeing me a little 
 oftener, to uniting me to all the dear, sweet 
 beings that peopled her heart ! 
 
 "Why this change, Eoger?" she murmured 
 with a painful effort. 
 
 " Because ! — " I exclaimed in exasperation. 
 
 But then I saw her face covered with tears. 
 Immediately, throwing myself at her feet and 
 entwining her with my arms, I said gently to her :. 
 
 " Because I am horribly unhappy, Fanny ! 
 Because I am jealous ! " 
 
 Stupefied, she rose at these words, not 
 repelling me, but holding me back with both her 
 hands which she had laid upon my shoulders, 
 while I, devoid of comprehension, remained on 
 
92 FANNY. 
 
 my knees. Sbe looked at me long and deeply, 
 probing to the smallest recesses of my troubled 
 thought. Then she slightly elevated her 
 shoulders. 
 
 " Child ! Poor dear child ! " she said, stooping 
 to kiss me closely on the eyes. 
 
 And from that time she never reverted to the 
 subject of her own accord. 
 
 But I mused mournfully and unceasingly upon 
 it, and I could not refrain from speaking about it. 
 Then she caressed me ; she lectured me ; she 
 scolded me. 
 
 " You are wasting your time," she sometimes 
 said to me, smiling and drawing me to her when 
 I dwelt at too great a length on the cause of my 
 griefs. 
 
 And her hands were fastened about my neck 
 with dainty suppleness, her glances gently com- 
 pelled my own, her lips, with a graceful, feline 
 expression, sought vaguely for mine. But it was 
 in vain. My mouth could no longer gather itself 
 to enjoy. the kisses of love. It could only distort 
 itself for the emission of sobs. 
 
FANNY. 93 ■ 
 
 CHAPTEE XVII. 
 
 It was from that fatal day that I began to endure 
 great tortures. The image of this man had been 
 suddenly encrusted upon my memory, and, do 
 what I might, I could not succeed in tearing it 
 away. To everyone else he might be ridiculous ; 
 but do not think that he was so to me. To me 
 he was sinister, he was terrible ; and every night 
 I with terror saw him rising in my sleep to murder 
 the phantom of my happiness. 
 
 Re was very happy, for he suspected nothing. 
 This drama, which had been begun in the 
 raptures of love, and which was now being 
 prolonged amid anxieties, terrors, and despair, 
 had no existence for him. We had been so 
 prudent ! 
 
94 FANNY. 
 
 What an odious reversal of parts ! It was I 
 who was jealous of him. The ravisher suffered, 
 by and through the fact of possession. He could 
 not even fall back upon exciting the suspicions 
 of the dispossessed husband in order to make him 
 share his tortures. 
 
 And I felt myself obliged to be distrustful of 
 him, to be occupied by the thought of him ! In 
 spite of myself, I had to double like a hare in 
 order to avoid him. The supporting of this fugi- 
 tive, timorous character lowered me to a coward's 
 level. Heavens ! how gladly would I have been 
 devoid of love ! 
 
 But these evils were nothing in comparison 
 with those which the future had in store for me. 
 I had only just entered upon a path wasted with 
 quagmires, and bordered by frightful precipices, 
 and I had not even a suspicion of all the fatigues 
 which the traversing of it must involve' to me. 
 
 Thenceforward, whether, bent over the hearth 
 in my silent room, I sought to beguile my present 
 sorrow by striving to muse upon bygone loves ; 
 or, urging my fiery horse at speed across the 
 
FANNY, 95 
 
 plains, risked my life a hundred times in order to 
 break my body with fatigue, and direct upon it 
 the weariness of my brain ; or craved forgetful- 
 ness in the wild debauch, drinking deep draughts 
 of wine, which never equa,lled one drop of the 
 water of Lethe ; or staked my fortune upon a 
 single throw of the dice, that I might at least 
 suffer from an emotion other than that which I 
 abhorred ; or finally, shrouded in the curtains of 
 my alcove, spent my entire nights in sorrowfully 
 evoking the phantoms of the beloved ones whom 
 I have lost ; never, in musing, or in danger, or in 
 intoxication, or at play, or even in the recollection 
 of my dead mother, did I succeed in stifling the 
 serpent that was devouring my heart. With me, 
 the fatal vision smiled upon the loves of my 
 youth ; with me it lashed my terrified horse ; it 
 dipped its pale lips with a sneer into my glass ; it 
 rattled the dice in the leathern box ; aye, and 
 with me it dreamed of my mother. On the 
 surface of all my recollections, of all -the charm- 
 ing, moving, terrible scenes that I reconstructed 
 in my memory, were ceaselessly accentuated other 
 
g6 FANNY. 
 
 recollections and other images which, rising from 
 the depths of my soul, effaced them. And I 
 was at last obliged to accept these abominable 
 recollections, to front these fatal images, for they 
 compelled me. Vanquished by them, I faced 
 them at last ! 
 
 Then it was horrible, humiliating, mournful ! 
 Only one who loves can form a dim idea of my 
 tortures. All was distinct and clear ; not the 
 faintest doubt could be cherished. At first I 
 represented my mistress, sweet and fair, elegantly 
 dressed, with her look of surprise and purity, 
 seated beside the fireplaice in her drawing-room ; 
 or, perhaps, at her own table in the place of 
 honour, opposite to her husband, and surrounded 
 by her friends and children. Always courteous, 
 she had for each some one of those delicate 
 attentions which are the charming expression 
 of kindliness of heart. And especially to him, 
 to the ruler, did she show herself gracious. 
 Was it not necessary to anticipate the suspicions 
 of so clear-seeing a man ? - How could she abstain 
 from always showing fondness towards him? 
 
FANNY. 97 
 
 Moreover, they had both an equal share in so 
 
 many common affairs : their interests, their 
 
 children. In short, they dwelt together; they 
 
 never separated ; they saw each other at all 
 
 hours, whether they were sad or gay. And then 
 
 what natural effusiveness ! He was the lion 
 
 reigning over this adorable existence ! And I 
 
 was the timorous, pillaging wolf with burning 
 
 eye and breathless body, who, at the risk of 
 
 a thousand dangers, and by exposing himself to 
 
 a thousand degrading humiliations, to the lash 
 
 as well as to the gun, lurked, and from time 
 
 to time, in the shadow, robbed him, while he 
 
 slept, of some few remnants of his share. 
 
 Oh ! that it was which humiliated me ! But 
 
 now I come to what pierced my heart. I could 
 
 not succeed in suspending the incessant labour 
 
 of my evocations. With what pleasm-e did I 
 
 complete them, dwelling upon my griefs ? Then 
 
 the scene would change, and I depicted Fanny to 
 
 myself at evening alone with him, after the 
 
 departure of the children, in the closed room 
 
 where the tea smoked in the cups, beneath th« 
 
 e 
 
g8 FANNY. 
 
 softened light from the lamp, beside the fire 
 nestling gently in the hot ashes. Then, she was 
 looking at him with those eyes which I loved so 
 well. She'was talking with him, pleasant, com- 
 pliant, speaking little in order to leave the 
 pleasure of speech to him, submissive as is 
 fitting in a woman when she is beautiful and 
 her master is strong. And do not imagine 
 that I paused at these images of captivating 
 intimacy ! It was not possible. I continued 
 them, I exaggerated them — nay, I added others 
 to them. This, too, was inevitable. It was 
 late ; the flame was expiring on the darkened 
 hearth, the light from the dying lamp was being 
 stifled beneath the shade, every sound was being 
 hushed in house and street ; the step of the 
 belated passenger on the pavement, sonorous 
 once more, indicated an hour for rest and plea- 
 sure. The servants, too, were in bed, like the 
 children,. Thus, they were alone. And they 
 were married ! 
 
FANNY. 99 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 When I reached this point I turned pale. 
 Something in the deepest recess of my heart was 
 strugghng and dying in convulsions of despair. 
 These images, nightly evoked, made me more 
 unhappy than if my mistress had been struck 
 before my eyes. I got up, I looked at the clock, 
 and then I broke forth into laughter like a mad- 
 man, or else, covering my face with my arms, 
 buried myself in my bed and wept. 
 
lOO FANNY. 
 
 CHAPTEE XIX. 
 
 In the morning I awoke from my nightmare, 
 more worn-out than a man who is smitten with 
 tetanus ! And ever as I dragged myself- to my 
 window to breathe a little fresh air, I could feel 
 the same question unfolding on my lips like a 
 poisonous flower. 
 
 " Why did she once love him ? For she did 
 love him, as I have learnt ; she allowed him to 
 carry her off from her relations, who were unwil- 
 ling to ally themselves to a man of no fortune or 
 position. He has grown rich since then, for he 
 is energetic and patient. He possesses strength 
 of will, But why did she love him ? And above 
 
FANNY. lOI 
 
 all, why does she love me now ? We are so 
 different from each other! " 
 
 At last one day, ransacking this thought and 
 winnowing the fragments of it in my brain, I 
 thought that I was about to fathom my mistress's 
 conduct. As I recollected how sensitive she was 
 to endearments ; as I depicted to myself the most 
 intoxicating scenes of our love and compared 
 myself with her husband, I felt myself blush, and 
 something more acrid than disgust, more bitter 
 than contempt, more poisoned than hatred, rose 
 from my heart to my lips. 
 
 " That does not explain why she loves me 
 now," I said to myself, shaking my head. 
 
 Then analysis came once more to my assist- 
 ance, but only to deal me a fresh stab. 
 
 " She loves me for the sake of change," I 
 resumed, with bitterness, " for the sake of satis- 
 fying, by means of an exaggerated contrast, a 
 more refined and sentimental desire. Unless," I 
 added, without at first realising the cruelty of 
 my supposition, " it be for the sake of completing 
 her ideal 
 
102 FANNY. 
 
 "But, then," I exclaimed, starting to my 
 
 feet in an unspeakable terror, " then I am but 
 
 half of a man to her ! I occupy but the 
 
 half of a heart ! I have been measured and 
 have been found incomplete ! I am nothing but 
 an addition, an accessory ! — Oh ! horrible ! " 
 
FANNY 103 
 
 CHAPTEE XX. 
 
 Sometimes I made my escape from my abode 
 as from a prison, and went to beguile my inter- 
 minable musings amid the crowd which encumbers 
 the promenades. On finding myself again in the 
 midst of happy, indifferent, busy people, on enjoy- 
 ing in spite of myself the first balmy breathings 
 of spring, I ceased to believe myself entirely 
 wretched, and I qualified my monstrous halluci- 
 nations with childishness. 
 
 " This is jealousy," I said to myself, " and it- is 
 making me absurd." 
 
 And as at every step I met such numbers of 
 young and elegant women, leaning on the arms 
 of men who looked about with a wearied air, and 
 scarcely spoke to them, I added : 
 
104 TANNT. 
 
 " How many women live beneath tlie same 
 roof as their husbands without ever seeing them? 
 After four years of married life the husband 
 becomes a friend — perhaps not so much ! He 
 exists to all the world except to his wife!" 
 
 But my doubts, a thousand times more heart- 
 breaking than before, were not long in seizing me 
 again, and I sought in vain to drive them from 
 my mind. I knew myself well enough to be 
 convinced that I should never acquire that spirit 
 of accommodation characteristic of my age which 
 permits a woman's lover to press the hand 
 of her husband, even though he were his friend ! 
 Moreover, I was not willing to court this ruler, 
 nor comply with his humour, nor seek to gain his 
 confidence and friendship, nor become indispens- 
 able to him. Were suspicions ever to assail him, 
 I could conjecture how many platitudes I should 
 have to utter, how many lies I should have to 
 invent, how many humiliations and mortifications 
 I should have to endure in order to dispel them. 
 And I was already only too sensible of degrada- 
 tion! 
 
FANNY. 105 
 
 " I will go no farther," I would say to myself; 
 "already there is only too much mire upon my 
 path ! " 
 
 More wearied, more troubled, than at my 
 departure, I would then turn homewards. The 
 smiles of spring made me long to weep. The 
 warmth of the atmosphere dulled all my thoughts. 
 The spectacle and tumult of the crowd in the 
 end became even more insupportable to me than 
 the silence of my solitude. 
 
Io6 FANNY 
 
 CHAPTEE XXI. 
 
 In exchange for these evils which, though 
 dulled, were none the less cruel, I received no 
 consolation whatever. My pleasures were faded. 
 Doubt had soiled their fresh blossoms with its 
 foul breath. My senses were scarcely appeased 
 when I felt the hooked hand of misanthropy 
 fastening inflexibly upon my shoulder. The 
 memory of the man whom, in the logic of my 
 passion, I denominated my rival, came constantly 
 with grim irony like the phantom of eternal 
 punishment between my mistress and myself, to 
 poison our caresses. I could find traces of him 
 in the words, the gestures, the manners, the very 
 habits of the woman I worshipped. He had 
 been moulded in the arms that strained me to 
 
FANNY. 107 
 
 her heart ; he had blended with the blood that 
 circulated in disordered waves through her arte- 
 ries ; he had been imprinted upon her absorbed 
 countenance, upon her pale forehead, in her life- 
 less eyes ; he kissed me, and he sighed with her. 
 
 How, then, did I envy all my forsaken 
 friends who diverted themselves daily with the 
 gentle clink of glasses, the brilliant ring of gold 
 pieces in motion on the green cloth of the gaming 
 table, the light peals of laughter from licentious 
 women ! And all scorned lovers who with open 
 arms and melting eyes pursue in their dreams a 
 lofty shadow ! And even all separated lovers ! 
 
 "Did any of them," I said piteously to 
 myself, " ever suffer from his fruitless love as 
 much as I suffer from my divided love ?" 
 
 Cruel mockery of possession ! When thou 
 dost not weary us of thy favours thou soilest 
 them for us ! 
 
X08 FANNY 
 
 CHAPTEE XXII. 
 
 Finally, I felt myself saddened by a sort of 
 debasement, which, in spite of myself, my idol 
 had just undergone in my thought. Hitherto 
 I had paid her genuine worship ; she was the 
 realization of my purest and most angelic dream, 
 and I had grown to see in her something sacred 
 that nothing could tarnish nor degrade. But 
 now it seemed to me that she had voluntarily 
 descended from the altar on which my piety 
 had placed her to soil her feet by contact with 
 the earth. Here, as I then recognised, was the 
 first and most cruel effect of jealousy, which 
 always begins by infusing into us for the poison- 
 ing of our veins a horrible mingling of worship, 
 hatred, frenzy and contempt. 
 
FANNY. log 
 
 CHAPTEE XXIII. 
 
 In a short time I comprehended that there was 
 henceforth a duel to the death between Fanny 
 and myself. A certain grossness rising like mire 
 from the depths of my heart was polluting all my 
 thoughts ; respect was dying within me ; I had 
 brutal ideas of strife ; I experienced a bitter 
 desire to chastise rudely the inoffensive and 
 graceful being whom I loved to distraction ! I 
 wished to degrade her in my own presence, even 
 more insolently than her image had already been 
 degraded in my memory. 
 
 " How can she bring herself to it ? " I said to 
 myself with frenzy, striking my forehead with 
 my clenched fists. " Oh ! what a loathsome 
 mockery is the purity of women ! Does it not 
 
no FANNY. 
 
 appear that kisses are fleeting things, and that 
 when they have wiped their lips nothing is left 
 behind?" 
 
 At last, worn out, I began to communicate to 
 Fanny the tortures which up to that time I had 
 kept to myself alone. Men cannot suffer long 
 without weakly laying the burden of their troubles 
 upon those whom they love most. 
 
FANNY. Ill 
 
 CHAPTEE XXIV. 
 
 " You knew that I was married." 
 
 Such was the supreme reason which with an 
 air of timidity she logically opposed to my earliest 
 and as yet feeble complaints. 
 
 "And did you not know that I might possess 
 delicacy of soul," I replied, "and could you not, 
 when giving yourself, foresee the torments that 
 your love must inevitably cause me? How do 
 you live together?" I said to her after that, 
 without any preface, and exerting a great ef- 
 fort upon myself. 
 
 She blushed. She was offended. 
 
 "We must not speak of that, Eoger," she 
 replied, coldly. 
 
 But she saw me so unhappy that in pity she 
 
112 FANNY. 
 
 spoke, doing violence to her chastest feelings. 
 This was to increase my torture. 
 
 But she did not tell me all. Impelled by a 
 wild desire to be acquainted with the extent of 
 my misfortune, wishing to know at all costs at 
 what precise point he stopped short, I pressed 
 her. She blushed again with shame. As for 
 myself, I was pallid and as though suffocated. 
 She closed my lips with her hand. We remained 
 silent. She looked at me for a long time. I 
 wept ; she wept. Drinking the bitter cup to the 
 last drop of the dregs, she at last declared herself 
 ready to answer me. 
 
 Then, with an embarrassment which at first I 
 could not have suspected, with a hesitation which 
 obscured my words and stifled with their abund- 
 ance the glimmering of my intention, with a 
 cruel agitation increased by the anguish of jealous 
 hearts, I questioned her about a thousand things 
 which tended to unveil their private existence to 
 me, twisting and involving my thought in the 
 skein of evasions, circumlocutions and periphrases, 
 as though I would fain retard the moment for 
 
FANNY. 113 
 
 learning what I dreaded to hear. She answered 
 me with an air of simplicity, herself embarrassed 
 no less than I, but bravely surmounting the 
 shame of this unprecedented cross-examination 
 in order to allay the intensity of my distress, and 
 to give me an instance of the mortifications that 
 may be surmounted by a woman who loves when 
 the man whom she loves is unhappy. 
 
 And then I experienced something like a mon- 
 strous succession of endearments and blows ; 
 a nameless mingling of balms and poisons ; a 
 horrible association of mortifications and glorifi- 
 cations. The execrable fact that she was not 
 her own remained unimpaired ; but all the 
 tearful consolations, whose flattering caresses 
 could diminish whatever was corrosive or humi- 
 liating, she lavished open-handed upon me, 
 watching my face timorously for the effect 
 produced by the embarrassed but intelligible 
 words that she uttered. At a last question, 
 more brutal than all the rest, which I put to 
 her abruptly, there was such a superb outburst 
 of revolt on her part that I threw myself at her 
 
 H 
 
114 FANNY. 
 
 feet to pray for forgiveness. I must trust her. 
 I had gone too far in the suppositions of my 
 jealousy. If Fanny was divided, she was unable 
 to think of the division without horror. 
 
 Certainly, had I loved her less, I might have 
 felt elated by this cruel confession which she 
 accompanied with so many consolations, by the 
 tears which streamed upon her countenance while 
 she showed me the bleeding wound of her life. 
 I might, perhaps, have been proud and grateful, 
 or, at least, touched by so much sorrow and 
 humiliation ; but my mind was occupied by only 
 one thought, ' which carried me out of myself. 
 Apart from her I had' ceased to understand or to 
 think about anything. Thus I could find no 
 gentle word to reply, and contented myself with 
 showing some anxiety for her repose. 
 
 " Your husband must be distrustful, seeing you 
 changed ; for you loved him once." 
 
 At this abomination she shrugged her shoulders 
 without drying her tears. 
 
 "0, Eoger! Eoger!" she said to me, "the 
 misfortune is that you are, and ever will be. 
 
FANNY. 115 
 
 nothing but a child. You listen without under- 
 standing. Do you imagine our husbands think 
 about us? What woman would take a lover if 
 her husband gave her what a lover gives her? 
 Not only courtesies, attentions, assiduity, friend- 
 ship, but, above all, a little love ! " 
 
Il6 FANNY. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXV. 
 
 This painful discussion caused Fanny to grow in 
 my esteem, but it did not comfort me. "What 
 mattered to me at bottom the imperceptible 
 shade of intention? The fact, in its brutality, 
 remained. I now reproached myself for the 
 inquisitiveness of my jealousy which had robbed 
 me of the very shadow of the doubt that at times 
 I had still cherished. 
 
 The effect of Fanny's last words was, there- 
 fore, incapable of attenuating my grief, beneath 
 the burning pressure of which I thought only of 
 vanquishing what was invincible. I watched 
 my mistress's looks as though to estimate her 
 strength before attacking her again. But when 
 
FANNY. 117 
 
 our eyes had met we could not hold out for long. 
 All thought of strife disappeared from my mind, 
 all desire of resistance fled from her heart, and 
 the embrace that united us was so close that once 
 more we tasted unreservedly a minute of genuine 
 happiness. 
 
Il8 FANNY. 
 
 CHAPTBE XXVI. 
 
 Fanny must have been as much pained as I was 
 by the strange confession which I had extorted 
 from her ; but so impersonal was she that from the 
 day on which I allowed her to see all my troubles 
 she suddenly concealed from me all her own, 
 and as though she wished gracefully to invite 
 me to master the impulsiveness of my disposi- 
 tion, she now brought me nothing but smiles. 
 Poor woman ! She used to come to see me in 
 frightful weather, and her most engrossing occu- 
 pation was the forging of such falsehoods as 
 might justify her absence for two hours every 
 week. She was now braving the shames of 
 spring as she had faced the snows of winter. 
 
PANNT. 119 
 
 She never so mucli as spoke to me of the 
 annoyances which she must of necessity have 
 undergone in snatching a few hours of freedom 
 from the strict slavery of her household. She 
 laughed softly at her wet toilet as she, with 
 much difficulty, drew off her gloves, fastened up 
 her uncurled hair and stretched out tne tips 
 of her smoking boots to the fire. She was 
 proud at finding herself with me at last, happy 
 at having met nobody, pleased when she saw 
 me a little less sad. The vanquishing of 
 obstacles, the preservation of her secret, the 
 management of the world's esteem, the careful- 
 ness for my quietude — all these prevented her 
 from being sensible of fatigue. 
 
 " There is no perfect happiness," she used to 
 say to me in her tenderest tones, and with a 
 sigh ; "we are both paying sorrow the interest 
 on our love ; but this love is so sweet that the 
 interest which sorrow receives does not seem 
 exorbitant to me." 
 
 She never grew bitter during our discussions ; 
 she was never the first to speak of her duties, 
 
I20 FANNY. 
 
 which counted for much to her, and the greater 
 part of which she had sacrificed to me. With 
 her wonderful womanly instinct, she perceived 
 that she could not speak of her duties to me 
 without incensing my pride, and she respected 
 my pride as something the wounding of which 
 must inevitably cause me pain. Nor did I ever 
 surprise in her the faintest suspicion of remorse. 
 But did she feel any ? 
 
 " What precautions," I would say to myself, 
 when alone, " she must be obliged to take for 
 the concealment of our love ! What inventions, 
 and calculations, and stratagems in order to 
 succeed in avoiding all discussion concerning 
 her absences ! What concessions in order to 
 escape discovery! Poor woman, she risks 
 so much ! She has so much to lose ; and I 
 have so litttle ! Ah ! I am a wicked man to 
 torment her." 
 
 She treated me kindly, as though I were a 
 child, and, frankly, I deserved it. How many 
 things in her life I could feel that she hid from 
 me lest she should cause me pain ! 
 
FANNY. 121 
 
 I was never willing to understand that there 
 might be days on which she found it altogether 
 impossible to go out, and that the most trivial 
 visit was sufficient to keep her at home. I used 
 to suspect her on these occasions of abominable 
 calculations. I used to declare that she had lied 
 to me. I used to think that she found excitement 
 and fatigue in the division which she affirmed 
 that she detested. 
 
 I used to hate her. 
 
 " I pity you! " she would murmur, when I had 
 suffered her to view the horrors of my sickly 
 thought. 
 
 Sometimes, however, half forgetting my per- 
 sonal sorrows to penetrate into the depths of my 
 conscience, I said to myself : 
 
 "When I have tortured her greatly, when she 
 goes away from here in tears, distracted in mind, 
 and heart-broken, how does she contrive at home 
 to disguise the torments which prey upon her, 
 to mask her countenance with her customary air 
 of tranquillity, to become again the smiling woman 
 whom I used to know? Is it by caresses that 
 
122 FANNY. 
 
 she anticipates the suspicions of a husband who 
 is hard to deceive? Ah ! how well I feel that she 
 must weep with her children ! They cost her so 
 many painful endeavours ! And how well, too, 
 do I feel that they divine the secret of her tears ! 
 And how certain it is that, like herself, as good 
 and as discreet, they staunch them with their 
 little hands and do not betray them!" 
 
 She suffered dreadfully. With sorrow I saw 
 that she was growing pale. "Without mentioning 
 it to her, I noted the dark ring which marbled 
 the circle of her enfeebled eyes, and imparted to 
 her gaze a strange expression of pity ; I noted 
 her contracted lips and the furrows which now 
 ascending from her forehead were lost amid her 
 silky hair, like the visible symbols of mournful 
 thoughts ; altogether I was moved to pity by the 
 look of forlornness which in my presence imparted 
 an air of languor to her entire person. Only in 
 my presence did she relax the strictness of her 
 demeanour, and I willingly forgave her ; she 
 must have been so wearied with playing the part 
 of a happy woman. 
 
FANNY. 123 
 
 She would have been so proud to be able to 
 acknowledge everything, and to live openly with 
 me without shame ! 
 
 " Do not leave me ! " she sometimes said to 
 me ; " you are as necessary to me as light ! " 
 
 Sometimes, also, she added : 
 
 "The proof to me that I love you is that I 
 love all of you, even your sweet egotism, even 
 your anger, even your sublime injustice ! " 
 
 Then she would suddenly become silent, as 
 though some lugubrious thought which she dared 
 not avow harassed her without intermission. I 
 looked at her. She shook her head. At last, 
 wringing her hands : 
 
 "To betray, always to betray!" she would 
 exclaim. " That is the horrible thing that poisons 
 everything, even the very thought of my own happi- 
 ness. I am the most miserable of creatures. God 
 has not given me strength, and all my life I shall 
 bear the penalty of my weakness. I have always 
 lived otherwise than I wished to live ; have 
 always missed what I wished to do. To betray ! 
 Heavens, how I detest myself ! " 
 
124 FANNY. 
 
 Then I seized her in my arms to comfort her, 
 but I could find nothing to reply. 
 
 "Whom does she mean?" I used to say to 
 myself, foolishly enough. 
 
 It could only be of the fact of betrayal ; but I 
 knew her imperfectly as yet, and, applying to 
 myself the words uttered by her conscience, I 
 felt happy and proud. 
 
 AH this moved me, sometimes even to tears. 
 Then I made brave resolutions. 
 
 " Let us keep all troubles to ourselves," I said 
 to myself, " and give her nothing but con- 
 solation." 
 
 In pity, I then for a moment forgot my own 
 sorrows ; I shook off the lassitude of the abstrac- 
 tion that weighed upon me, to abandon myself to 
 the most ardent transports of passion ; I again 
 became gentle and tender, and more submissive 
 and affectionate than the faithful dog which, 
 after a long interval, encounters the gaze of his 
 beloved master. I poured out to my dear 
 mistress in torrents the wine of praise ; and I 
 became frivolous and loquacious, touching on 
 
FANNY. 125 
 
 twenty topics at once in my conversation with 
 her, laughing immoderately, and, above all, care- 
 fully avoiding the utterance of a word having even 
 an indirect bearing upon the customary subject 
 of my torments. But the assumption of this 
 heroic part, which I played but badly, did not 
 deceive her. She gazed at me in stupefaction. 
 She shook her head as she listened to me. Was 
 she conscious that on the day on which I had lost 
 my jealousy I should also have lost my love ? 
 
 But these fits of heroism on my part could not 
 last for long. It was with a sigh like that of one 
 relieved of a heavy weight, that she used to see 
 me assume my morose demeanour once more. 
 
126 FANNY. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXVII. 
 
 I ENDED, to my great disgrace, by tacitly ac- 
 cepting the situation. But thenceforward there 
 was ever between us something that could not 
 be effaced; a single, constant thought which tor- 
 mented our mutual hearts. We closed our lips 
 to prevent it from springing forth, but we felt it 
 always present within us like a sharp pang, which 
 at times wrung imprecations from us. Then a 
 single cry was sufQcient to induce a sudden ex- 
 plosion, and I, in particular, forgot the resolutions 
 of my pride to give free vent to the sorrow that 
 preyed upon me. I did not wish to speak of my 
 rival, but I spoke of him incessantly. His name 
 lacerated my memory and writhed like an asp 
 between my teeth. Scarcely was it uttered when 
 
FANNY. 127 
 
 a thousand scorching questions came in its train. 
 I wanted to know him still better. I wanted to 
 learn all that he was, all that he did, all that he 
 said. Then Fanny became grave; she thought 
 for a long time before replying to me, so as not 
 to contradict or belie herself ; then she showed 
 signs of impatience, and knit her eyebrows. 
 
 " Men are insatiable," she would say, to my 
 great surprise. "Can you not be satisfied with 
 being loved ? Why do you unceasingly busy 
 yourself with what goes on at home!*" 
 
 After these discussions I parted from her in 
 sadness, and a week afterwards I awaited her 
 coming — furious, exasperated by spite, with my 
 mouth full of sarcasms — determined to break 
 brutally with her. But, at the mere sight of her, 
 all my anger passed away like smoke, and I cast 
 myself at her feet and clasped her convalsively to 
 my heart. 
 
 Nothing surprised me more nor provoked me 
 more greatly than the dociUty with which she 
 submitted without a murmur to it all. Absence, 
 obstacles, hindrances, appeared to have no effect 
 
128 FANNY. 
 
 upon her. Whether she saw me, or did not see 
 me, it was all one. Her countenance continued 
 calm. She assumed the attitude of a victim, and 
 said nothing. 
 
 " What if I were to kill myself?" I exclaimed 
 one day. 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 " Or if some unforeseen accident separated us ? " 
 
 " What would you have?" she said. 
 
 Then she began to weep. 
 
 Being unable to pass my life at her side, I 
 should at least have wished to rule her own so 
 that her slightest inspirations might come from 
 me alone. She understood my intention, and 
 showed herself touched by it ; but she never 
 yielded to me on the delicate point which she had 
 made one of honour. 
 
 " I am obliged to submit to the position which 
 fate has assigned to me," she used to say ; " why 
 seek' to penetrate its secrets? You are grieved 
 if I speak ; you are grieved if I am silent ; try, 
 my dear Eoger, to forget these causes of sadness. 
 I forget them when I come here." 
 
FANNY, 129 
 
 "You are too exclusive!" she sometimes 
 added, half smiling and half pouting. "Accord- 
 ing to you I should love no one but yourself." 
 
 Nevertheless, impelled constantly by my fixed 
 idea, and unable to admit that she could place 
 her own will before mine, I used stratagem with 
 her, addressing myself exclusively to her pity ; 
 and at last I reached such a degree of baseness 
 that, in despair at feeling myself the only suf- 
 ferer, I exerted all my influence to exact from 
 this unfortunate woman the pursuance of a line 
 of conduct completely opposed to that which 
 her husband had marked out for her. I was 
 well aware, when acting thus, that her hitherto 
 peaceful home would become a hell, and I 
 counted upon the fact ! Through weariness, she 
 for a few days meekly followed my counsels, 
 and then she found herself in a position between 
 her two masters like that of iron softened by 
 heat between hammer and anvil. We were both 
 without intermission bruising her heart. At 
 last, impelled by the torment as well as by a 
 sort of spirit of rectitude, she said to me : 
 
130 FANNY. 
 
 "Eoger, you are advising me badly, for you 
 are making me disturb his peace." 
 
 I was struck with dismay, and ceased to 
 employ this new manner of torture, because it 
 was a cruel mortification to me to see her rise up 
 in defence of her husband. Fanny, moreover, 
 seemed to be tired of these humiliating and 
 , painful debates. 
 
 " I am afraid of wearying her," I said to myself 
 one day. 
 
131 
 
 CHAPTBE XXVIII. 
 
 But in my most violent fits of jealousy, I was 
 enraged at finding her air of chastity constantly on 
 her countenance. She always preserved it, even 
 amid the maddest intoxication of pleasure. This 
 in time became provoking. It was in vain that I 
 depraved her, seeking to stifle my love in the 
 ashes of satiety; she remained ever the same. 
 Two souls of very different natures issued from 
 her lips and eyes. The first was that of an 
 absorbed and serious Phryne, fed on the daintiest 
 and earliest of delicacies, as on the most corroding 
 spices of a passion that was from time to time 
 denoted by a strange, vague smile. Th6 second 
 
132 FANNY. 
 
 was that of an immaculate angel. Ah ! her 
 glances ! That expression of surprise which shone 
 perpetually in her blue, wide eyes, beneath the 
 loose and mobile lids. I can feel them following 
 me and ravishing me still ! I can feel them ever 
 present, resting upon my own ! They question 
 me, they fascinate me ! Shall I never forget 
 her eyes? 
 
 There was at times something in the carriage 
 of her head, in her attitude, in her gait, which 
 revealed appetites of deep and decided sensualism, 
 and even something of that monstrous practice of 
 division which debased her so greatly in my eyes. 
 Suddenly, at a single word, she would be meta- 
 morphosed, and it was as though there were a 
 different being before you. 
 
 "What manner of woman are you?" I said 
 to her after a discussion, during which she had 
 displayed to me the most opposite sentiments. 
 
 She raised her brow and looked at me with 
 her clear, tranquil eyes ; but an inward emotion 
 dilated her nostrils and faintly reddened her 
 cheeks. 
 
FANNY. 133 
 
 " I cannot live without loving," she replied, 
 slowly ; " I cannot live without being loved. My 
 qualities, my faults, are secondary matters ; they 
 belong to all women. But my passion is mine 
 alone." 
 
 And, with loyal exaltation, she added : 
 
 " Do you understand me?" 
 
134 PANNY. 
 
 CHAPTBE XXIX. 
 
 Summer succeeded to these numerous and painful 
 discussions. Every year Fanny spent this season 
 in the country, in the neighbourhood of Paris. 
 One day she announced to me with blushes the 
 sad news of her departure, but I plainly refused 
 to submit to her absence. 
 
 " We shall write to each other," she said. 
 
 This resignation exasperated me. I do not 
 know what I replied to her — I have forgotten ; 
 but I remember that I combated her resolution 
 with the energy of despair. I shed so many 
 tears, I was so troubled and unhappy, that she 
 suffered herself to be moved. Clasping me in her 
 
FANNY. 135 
 
 arms, she repeated to me a thousand times that 
 she consented to adopt any means that I devised. 
 
 " Be prudent ! Above all, do not compromise 
 me," she said between two kisses as she was 
 going away. 
 
 A week later I was proceeding in the direction 
 of Chaville. Her house stood beside the high 
 road to Versailles. When I heard midnight 
 strike by the distant clocks I scaled the wall 
 and advanced towards a summer house, the 
 situation of which she had indicated to me. As 
 I was keeping myself concealed in the shadow of 
 the trees I saw, twenty paces off, a gray, motion- 
 less form. It was she. I ran to her ; she drew- 
 me in. I closed the door. We were without a 
 light. 
 
 "Do not speak," she said in my ear, with 
 extraordinary agitation, "he has been uneasy for 
 three days past ; he has been gloomy ; he must 
 have suspicions." 
 
 This was a novel variation in the sorrow of my 
 existence, and one upon which I had not reckoned. 
 
 " Listen to this," she murmured, in tones that 
 
136 FANNY. 
 
 were abrupt through terror. " He must not 
 suspect ; he must not know ; I will not have it. 
 You are a man, and it is for you to show me what 
 conduct I ought to pursue. Speak, and if you 
 must speak of sacrifice, do not be afraid ; I am 
 strong." 
 
 And, as though she felt herself failing on seeing 
 me distracted with grief, she said bitterly : 
 
 " I had forgotten that you are yourself only a 
 child. Forgive me for having spoken to you as 
 to a man." 
 
 " Fanny," I said gravely to her, drawing her 
 so as to make her sit down beside me, "I am 
 perhaps only a child, but I have the courage of a 
 man. Surprised suddenly by this frightful news, 
 I do not know what plan to devise ; but since 
 you are so strong, decide yourself what we ought 
 to do, and I will submit to it. Must I leave you ? 
 Speak. the word. By the memory of my mother 
 you shall, if you wish it, never see me again, 
 though you were to seek me the wide world 
 over." 
 
 "I do not wish you to die ! " she said, in 
 
FANNY. 137 
 
 muffled tones, rising and tapping with her 
 foot. 
 
 , Then she seized my head in both her hands, 
 and kissed me convulsively on the lips. 
 
 But the sound of footsteps creaking on the 
 gravel hushed us. Holding each other round the 
 waist, we leaned towards the window-pane to see 
 who was walking thus in the park at such an 
 hour. It was HE ! I recognised him by the 
 breadth of his shoulders, by his greyish hair 
 which fluttered in the wind above his bare fore- 
 head. He was advancing parallel to the summer- 
 house along the broad uncovered walk, which 
 was flooded by the bright rays of the moon 
 as they fell perpendicularly upon him. He 
 walked with measured steps, his arms behind his 
 back, his head sunk, his features strained like a 
 man dragging some weighty thought after him. 
 He passed in front of us, and was lost beneath 
 the high trees. 
 
 I was obliged to uphold the unhappy woman in 
 my arms, for her knees would no longer support 
 her. 
 
138 FANNY. 
 
 " Take courage," I said to her; " your husband 
 has no suspicions. His mind is occupied ; but 
 nothing about him reveals the feyerish restless- 
 ness of jealousy. I have observed myself, and I 
 know what it is." 
 
 "Do you think so?" she exclaimed, with a 
 flood of hope, which made her quiver. 
 
 " I am certain of it. Now let us part. I 
 shall return in a week. Observe him well 
 between this and then. I do not know what is 
 troubling him, but I, whom you always denomi- 
 nate a child, I tell you this : Your husband is 
 not jealous." 
 
FANNY. 139 
 
 CHAPTEE XXX. 
 
 When she was gone I rushed in headlong pursuit 
 of the nocturnal rambler. I caught sight of him 
 again at the turning of a walk. As on the first 
 occasion, .he passed in front of me without 
 perceiving me, still gloomy and wrapped in 
 meditation. I strove to catch some involuntary 
 word that might have revealed to me the cause 
 of his abstraction. But his mouth was closed, 
 and his brow impassive. Going up again towards 
 the house, he increased his pace. On the 
 threshold he paused, looked at the starry sky 
 with startling earnestness, and stretched out his 
 arms towards it, as though some threatening 
 prayer had been breathed from his heart. 
 
 " And so he, too, is unhappy ! " I mentally 
 exclaimed. 
 
140 FANNY. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXXI. 
 
 I SPENT the following week in unspeakable 
 anguisli. I could not keep quiet. I'ears and 
 suspicions besieged my mind. And it was of 
 her alone that I thought ! Something per- 
 sistent and convincing told me that I was 
 threatened with the Ipss of Fanny. The image 
 of a violent separation reared itself before me 
 like a spectre. I knew not how to combine 
 this species of prevision with the certasinty that 
 her husband suspected nothing ; but the pre- 
 vision asserted itself so strongly that I could 
 not but consider it a warning from heaven. 
 
 On the same day of the following week, at 
 my customary hour, I set out ; but this time I 
 did not think of waiting for an appointed time, 
 
FANNY. 141 
 
 nor of hiding in order to introduce myself into 
 the presence of my mistress. No. I went 
 straight forward with the directness of a cannon 
 ball, resolved to penetrate even to her own 
 room in search of her, if I did not find her in 
 the summer-house. Fearing the worst, without 
 being able to define the reason of my fears, I 
 spurred my horse, which, close to the ground in 
 his stretching gallop, was alternately drawn 
 together and extended like a great bow tortured 
 by feverish hands. The moon threw her light 
 across the silent road that I was following, 
 striping it with silver bands, and seeming to 
 turn with melancholy towards me to pursue me 
 with her pale gaze. The trees filed past, 
 swift and dark, like phantoms caught perilously 
 in a wheel. The dogs sleeping in, the court- 
 yards rushed out, barking beneath the gates at 
 the inordinate noise of my horse's shoes beating 
 upon the stones ! And the wind which lashed 
 my face murmured exciting words in my ears. 
 
 Everything was driving me on and causing me 
 to have a presentiment of some drama in which 
 
142 FANNY. 
 
 I was to play a part. I was arming myself for 
 this part, fully determined not to succumb with- 
 out contending with all the strength which for 
 a long time past had been afforded me by despair. 
 How exaggerated I was in my expectation and 
 in my preparations ! My enthusiastic spirit 
 dreamed . of nothing but superhuman combats, 
 wild disinterestedness, heroic efforts ! 
 
 Alas ! the most vulgar of denouements was 
 awaiting me. 
 
FANNY. 143 
 
 CHAPTEE XXXII. 
 
 On crossing the wall, I was surprised to see 
 Fanny seated on a bench by the side of a walk. 
 I was more than an hour too soon, and I imme- 
 diately dreaded that her husband had not yet 
 come in. But, as soon as she saw me, she came 
 to meet me without concealment, as though it 
 were a natural thing that I should introduce 
 myself into her home by the entrance of male- 
 factors. I took her hand. Her demeanour was 
 anxious in its turn, and embarrassed. 
 
 " What has happened ? " I said to her, drawing 
 her beneath the trees. 
 
 " You were only too much in the right, Eoger," 
 she replied; "my husband is not jealous. He 
 has more confidence in me than ever. I had not 
 the trouble of questioning him. Yesterday he 
 
144 FANNY. 
 
 confided to me the cause of his secret abstraction. 
 His whole fortune, which is invested in England, 
 is compromised by the failure of a banker. He 
 left this morning to save some fragments of it, if 
 there be yet time. He must be very uneasy," 
 she added, with a sigh, "for he was never so open 
 with me before." 
 
 I could not find a single word to reply to this 
 distressing news, which, nevertheless, relieved us 
 both of so great a weight. I was stunned like a 
 man who has just received a violent blow on the 
 head. Sarcasms rose to my lips, but I did not 
 suffer them to pass. 
 
 " You make no reply, dear," she said to me. 
 
 "What reply can I make?" I exclaimed, 
 losing all consciousness of my brutality; " I pity 
 you if you are much attached to the luxury of 
 which you are about to be deprived. I pity you 
 especially on account of your children ; but — " 
 
 "But—?" she repeated. 
 
 "But I cannot pity you for having been 
 threatened with the loss of me, and for finding 
 you to-day more free than ever to love me ! " 
 
FANNY. 145 
 
 With an expression of compassion she raised 
 both hands in the air, as though to call Heaven to 
 witness. 
 
 "Let us never speak of myself," she said, 
 gently ; " I shall always be nothing but a sealed 
 book to you." 
 
 After that we walked slowly beneath the trees 
 for half an hour, without taking each other's 
 arm or uttering a word. At last she stopped 
 in front of me, took both my hands, and said to 
 me in a submissive voice : 
 
 " Why do you not speak, Eoger? " 
 " I should have nothing comforting to say to 
 you. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Because I myself, perhaps, need to be 
 comforted." 
 
 "Why, what is the matter with you?" 
 " Nothing." 
 
 We resumed our walk afresh, going at random 
 among the trees without speaking, she bending 
 down beneath the branches, and I lifting the 
 branches to let her pass. 
 
146 FANNY. 
 
 " Now you will see how we shall suffer through 
 his troubles ! " I exclaimed, suddenly. 
 
 " That must be," she repHed, tranquilly. 
 
 The close of our interview was saddened by a 
 beginning such as I had been unable to foresee. 
 Fanny's thoughts were elsewhere. So equally, 
 in spite of myself, were mine. And yet I could 
 not avoid feeling a sort of troubled joy at the 
 thought of an event which might detach her for 
 ever from her husband. 
 
 " Who knows," I said to myself, " whether her 
 ruin will not do what my grief has been unable 
 to effect ? " 
 
FANNY. 147 
 
 CHAPTEE XXXIII. 
 
 After that day we met again only at Paris. It 
 was easy for Fanny to absent herself now that 
 she no longer had to account to any one for her 
 absences. Thus we resumed our former life. 
 But what I had foreseen was realised with 
 distressing strictness. It was no longer Fanny's 
 thoughts, it was her life itself that was elsewhere. 
 I felt this more and more. Our tranquillity, our 
 pleasures, our outpourings, our joys, depended 
 absolutely upon the letters written to her by her 
 husband. If the postman did not come, she was 
 abstracted, and did not listen to me. When she 
 had received a disquieting letter in the morning, 
 she was preoccupied and silent. When the letter 
 
148 FANNY. 
 
 was of an encouraging nature, there was a sudden 
 outburst of love and merriment. But this merri- 
 ment often pained me more than her sadness, 
 and the love, the outburst of which was now subor- 
 dinate to something external to itself, revolted me. 
 
 Icy taher anxiety, dumb to her sadness, irritable 
 to her merriment, I energetically refused to accept 
 the reaction from the tidings which engaged her 
 thoughts, and I perceived that she was none the 
 more grieved, that she appeared none the more 
 anxious, for my humorousness. And that drove 
 me to despair. 
 
 At last, tired of finding myself thus bound to 
 my rival by the woman who, dividing herself 
 equally between us, gave all her thoughts to that 
 one of us whom she judged to have the most 
 pressing need of her sympathies ; indignant at 
 suffering through his troubles, and at looking 
 anxiously for his joys, upon which alone my own 
 now depended ; impelled by grief, by jealousy, by 
 misfortune, I resolved to essay a supreme effort to 
 recover my peace by separating her from him. 
 
 For a long time I had been brooding in 
 
FANNY. 149 
 
 thought over a desire to exact from Fanny the 
 greatest sacrifice that she could make for me ; 
 but, restrained by the vague dread of a refusal, 
 as mortifying as it would be painful, I put off the 
 moment of making the request from day to day. 
 An opportunity presented itself. It was she who 
 provided me with it. 
 
150 FANNY. 
 
 CHAPTBE XXXIV. 
 
 "A WOMAN who is not her own mistress," she 
 said to me one day with abrupt self-retrospection, 
 and looking at me with compassion, " cannot 
 love without making her lover the unhappiest 
 of men. The more I observe myself, Eoger, 
 the more I feel that often, in spite of myself, I 
 must cause you much pain." 
 
 Touched by this opening, I stammered out in 
 reply : 
 
 " Yet our union might be a happy one." 
 " Yes," she said, bitterly; " the only disturbing 
 element between us is love. This is the secret 
 punishment of such a union, which can last 
 only if it be common-place, and which in that 
 case must revolt a proud and delicate heart. If 
 
FANNY. 151 
 
 close and deep, it inevitably becomes its own 
 torment." 
 
 She sighed, and I answered : 
 
 " I will go further than you, Fanny. Even 
 if a lover has only a fancy for his mistress, he 
 must still be pained by a partition which 
 outrages all human feeling. Pride has, like 
 love, its jealousies, its shames, its tortures. No 
 matter how a lover loves, he is always cognisant 
 of a husband's existence. Happier, as a rule, 
 the husband is not aware of the lover's." 
 
 " That is going rather far," she said, in a low 
 voice. 
 
 Then, elevating her shoulders, she raised her 
 eyes towards Heaven, and exclaimed : 
 
 " Heavens ! What a thing is pride." 
 
 Delighted to find Fanny in such a frame of 
 mind, I became bolder. I took her hand, stand- 
 ing before her, while she looked kindly at me. 
 
 " Yetdf you were only willing," I said to her 
 with prayer-like utterance. 
 
 She blushed immediately, perceiving that she 
 had made too great an advance. 
 
152 FANNY. 
 
 " What do you wish me to understand? " 
 
 I dared not say more. But -doubtless she 
 divined my thoughts, for she pressed my hand 
 tenderly, sighed again, and exclaimed : " Child! " 
 
 I shook my head. 
 
 "Leave me!" she said suddenly, in a short 
 tone; "perhaps you will be cured. I cannot 
 make you happy. Get married ! " 
 
 She was annihilated with grief. 
 
 I roughly repulsed her hand, and looked at her 
 in anger on hearing an expression which appeared 
 to me a piece of bravado. But she was so heart- 
 broken that I had not courage enough to go to 
 extremities with her, and with my lips I mur- 
 mured : 
 
 " You know that such a thing is impossible ! " 
 
 " I have given you," she returned, " all the 
 affection that my heart could yield, and you 
 punish me for it ! " 
 
 She was offended ; it was necessary to soothe 
 her, and to promise submission ; but she felt sore 
 against me. 
 
 " But what more could I do ? " she cried. 
 
FANNY. 153 
 
 " If you love me, as I believe you do," I replied, 
 " your duty lies' plain before you." 
 
 She blushed again ; she had understood. 
 
 " My duty ! My duty ! You are very im- 
 prudent, Eoger, to utter such a word. Do you 
 not know that my strictest duty enjoins me not 
 to leave the house that is under my control ? " 
 
 " Ah ! Fanny ! " I cried, " what platitude are 
 you setting up against me to wound me ! " 
 
 " The house," she rejoined, casting down her 
 eyes, " is the post of honour entrusted to women. 
 Women who respect themselves never leave it." 
 
 I tried to interrupt her, but she went on, soothed 
 suddenly, and looking tenderly at me : 
 
 " Just reason a little, dear child ; can a woman 
 forsake her family without forfeiting her own 
 esteem ? Can she openly free herself from all her 
 duties without, in the eyes of the world, sinking 
 into the crowd of lost women ? " 
 
 " The world's opinions are melancholy enough," 
 I replied, "if you set them over against my life." 
 
 We remained silent for a few minutes. At 
 last she "resumed : 
 
154 FANNY. 
 
 "If I followed the advice which you are 
 satisfied with allowing me to guess, because 
 you are too honourable a man to give it openly 
 to me, some day you could not but make me 
 repent of it." 
 
 I tried to protest, but she interrupted me : 
 
 " Can we suppress the past ? And are you 
 not jealous even of the past ? Oh ! I am not 
 vexed with you for it ! " she added, rising and 
 throwing an arm about my neck, while she laid 
 her hand upon my breast, and tenderly fastened 
 her blue eyes upon mine. "In your place, you 
 may be sure, I should be jealous too. Why 
 did you not resist ? " she cried at last, sinking 
 upon a chair and hiding her face in her hands. 
 " Why did you not retreat while there was yet 
 time?" 
 
 " There was none, Fanny, as you well know, 
 not on the very day when, for the first time, I 
 saw you pass before me." 
 
 She rose anew on hearing this speech and 
 kissed me with mute transport. Moveless, 
 dreaming, I resigned myself to it. 
 
FANNY. 155 
 
 At last I said : 
 
 " Love, Fanny, may console many pangs, 
 obliterate many humiliations, replace many 
 affections. Tell me, what are the world's esteem 
 and the peaceful feelings of family life to the 
 absorption of one existence by another ? Is life 
 so long that we can consent to sacriiice it to so 
 many trivialities ? And, besides, what is the use? 
 Who thanks us for it ? " 
 
 " Eoger ! Eoger ! " she said, " what strange 
 morahty ! " 
 But I went on : 
 
 " Do you not feel wearied of blushing, of 
 trembling, of hiding yourself ? Are you not at last 
 ashamed of shame? And is not your heart stirred to 
 rebellion by the waiting, the waiting still and wait- 
 ing ever, to bring me the greedy kisses for which 
 my lips are hungering ? What ! In the whole 
 space of a year we succeed with much difficulty 
 in spending a hundred hours together, and is this 
 the happiness with which we are to be contented? 
 And if this happiness were even pure, unmixed, 
 absolute ! But you cannot listen to me without 
 
156 FANNY. 
 
 growing pale at the recollection of your anxieties, 
 of the dangers that you incur, of my own 
 torments ; while I, unhappy man that I am ! I 
 cannot once kiss you that a spectre does not 
 immediately — ' ' 
 
 " I beseech you," she cried, abruptly, " if you 
 love me, do not tell me that you are unhappy, 
 for that would kiU me." 
 
 "Yet," I continued, looking at her with a 
 softened expression, "if you were but willing, in 
 the world there would be no existence comparable 
 to ours. What I ask of you is the power of at 
 last charging myself with the task. of making your 
 life a peaceful one ; the power of being alone in 
 my occupation about you, in preparing and 
 smoothing beneath your feet the path of the 
 future ; the power of being alone in my love for 
 you. My desire is to become the means and the 
 end of your happiness ; to take for myself all 
 your troubles, and to give you in exchange all 
 my dreams, my pleasures, my delights. 'Tis to 
 be at once your child, your lover and your father, 
 blending upon your dear head the sweetest and 
 
FANNY. 157 
 
 surest affections. 'Tis to concentrate upon you, 
 as well the recollections of the past as the felicities 
 of the present and the prayers for the future, so 
 that you may at last become all in all to me, 
 and there may remain in my life nothing that 
 is not inspired by you, that does not flow from 
 you, that is not your very self ! If you were but 
 willing ! 
 
 " Are there not lands where those whom 
 fate has separated and love has brought 
 together, may at last taste in freedom of 
 that especial rest which results from fulness 
 of bliss, and which is life ? Often, in my dreams, 
 I fancy that we are voluntary exiles in the 
 immensity of some solitude where, beneath a 
 sky that is always blue, in the shadow of trees 
 that are always green, on the shore of a sea 
 that is always still, on carpets of moss that 
 are always in bloom, we enjoy each other, as 
 though our dual existence had ceased to .be 
 more than a palpable recollection. What evil 
 fortune could strike us there? What disquiet 
 move us? What suspicion reach us? What 
 
158 FANNY. 
 
 jealousy sadden us in the felicity of days that 
 were ever the same ? If you were but willing ! 
 
 " Would it be nothing to me to embrace 
 you unceasingly like a gentle, coaxing child ; to 
 seek unceasingly to meet the softened look of 
 your blue eyes beneath their lids ; to listen 
 long to the play of your breath between your 
 lips ; to sleep with my mouth clinging to your 
 shoulder, and my hand laid in yours ; to see 
 you every day moving, going, coming before 
 me, fairer, calmer, more graceful, than a young 
 girl's dream ? Listen farther : Would it be 
 nothing to you to thmk that you had sacrificed to 
 me all the prejudices which deck a woman's 
 heart ; that you had drawn me forth from the 
 abyss of sorrow in the depths of which I have 
 so long been struggling; and that, finally, you 
 had, of yourself alone, given me more happiness 
 than any man here below could desire ? Ah ! 
 Fanny ! never again would I weeping say : ' I 
 love you ! ' if you were but willing ! " 
 
 Fanny hung upon my lips. Intoxicated with 
 pleasure, she drank in my words. With her head 
 
FANNY. 159 
 
 sunk upon her shoulder, her arms hanging down, 
 and her eyelids drooping, she listened to them as 
 to distant music of which nothing must be lost, 
 whelmed in deep dreaming, that blended every 
 sensation and every grief. Her pink nostrils 
 dilated, her mouth murmured sweet, unintelligible 
 replies ; a gentle trembling imparted movement 
 to her hands, and caused rapid quiverings to 
 traverse her skin. At last, unable to bear it any 
 longer, she rose, and sank upon my heart. There 
 I could feel her tears flowing amid her kisses 
 upon my neck. Ah ! what a sweet embrace ! 
 
 " Let us never speak of that ! " she said at 
 last, with an expression of despair, raising her 
 face, and pressing my forehead with her hand. 
 " It hurts me too much. Dear Eoger, the 
 sacrifice which you desire to make is equal to that 
 which you ask from me. The happiness painted 
 by your persuasive lips is the fairest dream that 
 could ever enchant me ; but, alas, it is only a 
 dream. Oh, Eoger ! let us love, let us worship 
 each other, but in - pity speak to me thus no 
 more ! " 
 
l6o FANNY. 
 
 CHAPTBE XXXV. " 
 
 I DID not consider myself vanquished by this cry 
 of despair, which revealed to me so many ardent 
 aspirations and hidden griefs. We had neither 
 of us, in this loving discussion, employed our real 
 arguments. Partially satisfied with having placed 
 the supreme question of my life before her who 
 was to solve it, I determined to allow her to reflect, 
 that she might become accustomed to it. I waited 
 for a more favourable opportunity to recommence 
 the struggle and despatch my worshipped foe. 
 It was not long in offering itself. It was terrible, 
 unforeseen, and left me no alternative but either 
 to overcome the last scruples of my mistress or 
 else to lose her for ever. 
 
PANNY. l6l 
 
 CHAPTEE XXXVI. 
 
 One dayFauny appeared to me to be pre-occupied 
 in manner. She spoke quickly and much on 
 trivial topics, as though she wished to stifle some 
 matter of too grave concern. I abstained from 
 questioning her, and did not seem to perceive her 
 disquiet. Her caresses were eager, and so, too, 
 were mine, but our spirits and our wills had no 
 share in them. There came a moment when we 
 both felt that we had exhausted idle speech. Her 
 head was thrown back over my arm, and, bending 
 over her face, I was gazing upon it with mute 
 anxiety. Her stifled respiration rose to her lips 
 in lengthened sighs ; her eyelids drooped before 
 my questioning looks ; she kept her eyes turned 
 away, and was blushing. 
 
1 62 PANNY. 
 
 I took her hand without speaking a word. She 
 pressed it with feverish energy. 
 
 " Speak, in the name of heaven," I cried. 
 
 I felt that I was pale. Suddenly throwing her- 
 self with her face upon my breast, she strained 
 me convulsively in her arms. 
 
 Obscured by a thousand confused concealments, 
 the cruel story issued at last from her lips. But, 
 at the first word that she uttered, I understood 
 all. That very morning her husband had given 
 her to understand in a most communicative letter 
 that he would probably be obliged to settle in 
 England for several years. 
 
 " In this case," he added, " she naust send her 
 elder children to school, and come to join him 
 immediately with the younger." 
 
 I was overwhelmed. I was indignant with 
 Fanny for the courage which she had at last 
 found for uttering the abominable words of 
 separation. But I concealed the agonies that 
 were rending my heart, and suffered her to see in 
 my 'face nothing but the traces of profound grief. 
 Seizing her in my arms, I cried : 
 
FANNY. 163 
 
 " It shall not be, I swear it ! To separate me 
 from you would be to tear my heart out." 
 
 "What can we do?" she said, wringing her 
 hands. 
 
 " Love each other," I replied, with exaltation ; 
 " love each other with all our strength, and find a 
 resource in horrible necessity." 
 
 " A resource? " she said. 
 
 But I interrupted her. 
 
 " Fanny, this is a solemn moment ; it is no 
 longer a question of fine-drawn worldly consider- 
 ations, and jealousies of the past ; it is a question 
 of life or death. Before God I pledge you my hfe. 
 Will you give me yours ? " 
 
 She threw herself into my arms, saying again : 
 
 " What can we do ? " 
 
 " Fly together so far that no one shall ever find 
 
164 FANNY. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXXVII. 
 
 At this speech we became silent. Fanny 
 released herself slowly from my arms, laid 
 both her hands upon my shoulders, and looked 
 at me. 
 
 I cast down my eyes now, fearing her anger. 
 But how little I knew her ! She had nothing 
 but pity to show me. Cruelly divided between 
 her love and the -duty which pointed to her 
 proper position beside the head of the family, 
 now struggling in exile to save his fortune, she 
 displayed towards me more sorrow than a soul 
 can contain without bursting. She knew that 
 I must suffer terribly at the thought of a 
 speedy termination to a union so dear ; but she 
 also understood that she could not refuse 
 
FANNY. 165 
 
 obedience to the voice that was calling her. And 
 she was loaded with ineffable grief in feeling 
 that she was about to lose me, and that she 
 was once more the cause of my sorrows. 
 
 " My children ! " she cried at last, growing 
 pale, with a heartrending expression. 
 
 "My poor children! So young! Do you 
 think of them ? You who are so good, you 
 who love me, can you ask me to leave them!" 
 
 I knew at once, from the emotion that ravaged 
 my heart, that all my attempts henceforth would 
 be useless. In spite of my resistance, I felt a 
 secret protest rising within me with cries of in- 
 dignation. I myself had already ceased inwardly 
 to desire such monstrous desertion of the children 
 by their mother, or even, perhaps, such cowardly 
 desertion of the unhappy husband by the woman 
 that I loved. 
 
 But — shall I confess it ? — it was not so much 
 the wish to pass my life with Fanny that impelled 
 me once more to the struggle ; it was the settled 
 idea of putting an end to that partition which I 
 fibl^orred. I^et a moment's fr^inkness acquit me 
 
1 66 FANNY. 
 
 of the griefs that I caused ! In urging Fanny anew, 
 I felt that I suffered less from the certainty of 
 losing her than from the idea that she was going 
 to rejoin her husband. And with a horror of 
 myself which was a fresh grief to be added to so 
 many others, I said to myself : 
 
 " Now, I have more jealousy than love." 
 Meanwhile, with rather more tranquillity, but 
 still with, great sweetness, she had leaned upon 
 her elbow, had turned towards me, and was de- 
 bating all alone, I set myself again to listen to 
 her. 
 
 " If I dared — if I did not dread to give you 
 pain — " 
 
 " Speak ! I am determined to hear all. 
 Nothing to-day can make me more unhappy 
 than I am." 
 
 Then came feverish caresses. At last, growing 
 pale, she said : 
 
 " Well, I have not the horrible courage to 
 ruin him. His only resource now is in my 
 fortune — " 
 
 ""Yk^h^t! is that ai^V' I exclaimed; "give 
 
FANNY. 167 
 
 him up all that you have. Am I not rich 
 enough for us both ? " 
 But she shook her head. 
 " It is not that ! It is not that ! " 
 I looked at her ; she was confused, and sought 
 for vague words to disguise her thought. At 
 last she continued in a low tone, as though 
 she were reproaching herself for what she was 
 going to say : 
 
 " How can I condemn him to solitude, espe- 
 cially at this moment when he is struggling for 
 me as well as for himself. Never has he volun- 
 tarily caused me the slightest pain. In me he 
 loves the companion of fifteen years of his 
 life, the mother of his three children — " 
 
 " Why, then, did you deceive him ? " I said 
 to her, whelmed in wrath and sorrow. 
 
 But she crushed me with a single utterance : 
 " Because I loved you f " 
 
 And with a proud expression, which exalted 
 her above herself, she added : 
 
 "It was not for you, Boger, to reproach me 
 iiYith my treachery," 
 
1 68 FANNY. 
 
 ■ Thus, all the thrusts which I dealt her were 
 immediately followed by vigorous returns ; but I 
 could not weary of assailing her. , 
 
 "And what if we were discovered!" I ex- 
 claimed, with the certainty that this last was 
 difficult to parry. 
 
 She looked at me intently, as though she 
 thought that I intended to denounce her, in 
 order, perhaps, to possess her by this infamous 
 means ; she looked at me a long time and said : 
 
 " It would be very unfortunate." 
 
 I turned away my head ; she despatched me : 
 
 " He would wring his hands and say: 'These 
 children — ' " 
 
 But I closed her lips, and looked with shudder- 
 ing at her. Her countenance was covered with 
 tears. In spite of my agitation I admired her im- 
 personality, which she nobly extended to myself. 
 She thought only of the victim ! 
 
 " And what would he do ? " I murmured. 
 
 Hiding her face in her hands, she replied in 
 a muffled voice : 
 
 " He would, perhaps, forgive me," 
 
FANNY. 169 
 
 " We are sufficiently punished," she added, 
 sobbing, a little later. "If I submit to my duty 
 I desert you ; if I do not submit to it I am dis- 
 honoured. On all sides I see and cause nothing 
 but misfortune. Unhappy through you, through 
 him, through the thought of my children, through 
 myself, I have not even the resource of death to 
 restore peace to all. God ! who gavest me a heart, 
 was it not that I might comfort those I love, and 
 must I, then, be unable to bury their griefs, like 
 precious treasures, in this heart ! " 
 
 Thus, in the twilight of the alcove, on the laces 
 of the soft pillow, we wept, our arms entwined, 
 and our heads close together — Who wo.uld 
 have been willing to believe that for a very long 
 time past our interviews had always been spent 
 in this way ? 
 
170 FANNY. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXXVIII. 
 
 From that fatal day I understood that I had 
 nothing left to hope for from our love, and thence- 
 forward we lived in the painful expectation of 
 what another was to decide. But, as though fate 
 had resolved not to spare us in any way, the 
 solution, expected and dreaded every day, did not 
 arrive. Letters no longer frightened her alone. 
 It was I who wished for them, asked to know 
 them, and framed ardent prayers for the suc- 
 cess of the man who was not striving hard 
 enough to please me. Nevertheless, in order 
 to give the unhappy woman some courage, I 
 exaggerated my confidence, and extolled in turns 
 the well-known skilfulness, the firmness of 
 disposition, and the strength of will of he^- 
 
FANNY. 171 
 
 husband. I declared that he would retrieve his 
 fortune, that he would obtain justice, and that he 
 would be restored to his well-earned repose ! All 
 my hopes rested now on him. I had ceased to 
 think save of him ; I was impassioned for him. 
 Nay, the most unhoped-for happiness of which I 
 had glimpses in my dreams was my rival's return, 
 which would cast back the woman I worshipped 
 into his arms ! 
 
 " Why can I not assist him? " I would say to 
 myself ; " but of what use am I ? " 
 
 And I now very bitterly regretted the idiotic 
 reserve which had induced my refusal to cross 
 the threshold of his house. If I had had less 
 shy pride, if I had not desired to elevate myself 
 by the singularity of an affected delicacy which 
 did not, in my own eyes, cleanse me of my 
 deed; if I had acted as so many others would 
 have acted in my place, and become the friend 
 of the man whom I was robbing of his wife ; 
 could I but have now redeemed the scanty 
 redeemable share of my actions, I might have 
 found some alleviation for my sorrows, But 
 
172 FANNY. 
 
 I had always had more pride than good sense, 
 and I was now overwhelmed by the thought 
 that through my own fault I found myself fit for 
 nothing in the midst of a disaster wherein each 
 one was doing his duty. 
 
 In setting these subtleties over against my con- 
 science, I was not deceived by their slenderness. 
 But as a drowning man will cling to floating grass 
 without any hope of saving himself, I dwelt upon 
 my own grief, I accused myself of errors that I 
 had not committed, I misrepresented whatever 
 was honourable in my feelings and conduct, 
 because I was at my wits' end to recover a little 
 hope. 
 
FANNY. 173 
 
 CHAPTEE XXXIX. 
 
 Fanny used now to visit me as one visits an 
 incurable patient, whom one is at each visit 
 astonished to find still in existence. She could 
 find nothing to say to me to give me courage ; 
 she had so great need of it herself. If the 
 news were good she sighed ; she wept when it 
 was bad. 
 
 One day when she had unfolded in all its terrible 
 length before me the weighty chain of the most 
 secret miseries which, in terror at feeling herself 
 too weak to support them, she could foresee, I 
 suddenly broke silence, and made a simple offer 
 of my entire fortune to extricate her husband's 
 honour which, a last and horrible stake, had just 
 been thrown upon the green cloth of chance- 
 
174 - PANNY. 
 
 But even in presence of this fresh disaster 
 superposed upon the former one, and so crushing 
 as to make it disappear, she still continued what 
 it was her duty to be. 
 
 "It is a misfortune belonging to our situation," 
 she said, with extraordinary severity. " Oh, 
 Eoger, more than ever do I adore you, but I am 
 not free, and it is because I adore you that you 
 are the only man from whom I can accept 
 nothing." 
 
FANNY. 175 
 
 CHAPTEE XL. 
 
 Fate ceased at last to strike her. One after the 
 other, the letters now became more and more 
 reassuring, and already it was no longer a ques- 
 tion of honour, or poverty, or even of the separa- 
 tion which we had so greatly dreaded. At most, 
 it was only the loss of half her fortune that might 
 occasion Fanny anxiety. Then she again became 
 calm and smiling ; but I, like a wretch with two 
 wounds to dress, I could immediately feel my 
 jealousy awake more ardent than ever. Fanny's 
 husband would soon come back, and his return, 
 formerly so greatly desired, I was unable to 
 contemplate save with horror. I longed for 
 his death. I again became gloomy, suspicious, 
 interrogatory ; and our contests began once more. 
 
176 FANNY. 
 
 CHAPTEE XLI. 
 
 The thought of breaking with my mistress had 
 hitherto never occurred to me, but, gleaming Hke 
 a lightning-flash, it suddenly appeared to-me now. 
 And with it I could feel gliding into my heart the 
 sweet caress of hope. This hope, however, lasted 
 no longer than a second. In spite of myself, and 
 with quiverings of horror, I hastened to drive 
 the plan of self-enfranchisement away. 
 
FANNY. 177 
 
 CHAPTEE XLTI. 
 
 One day, after a discussion, during which I had 
 once more laid bare my new agonies before her 
 eyes, Fanny herself anticipated a thought which 
 I had never dare to reveal to her. 
 
 " I have been wanting in cleverness," she said 
 to me ; " I ought to have disguised my whole life 
 from you. No matter how improbable the things 
 I said to you might have been, you would have 
 believed them because you would have been 
 interested in doing so. I have been wanting in 
 cleverness," she repeated ; "but I never was able 
 to lie." 
 
 This confession came, upon me like a sudden 
 revelation. I immediately conjectured that, 
 
 ec[ually with so many other women, she prided 
 
 H 
 
178 FANNY. 
 
 herself upon her felicity, had the vanity to con- 
 ceal her sorrows as if they were vices, and, 
 although miserable, wished to be believed happy. 
 This suspicion disquieted me for a week ; but the 
 hope which it had restored to my heart could not 
 live. I adjured Fanny to conceal nothing of 
 her life from me, and gave her opportunities of 
 contradicting herself. With a surprise, which 
 appeared to me very real, she coldly confirmed 
 her words, and gave me back my despair. 
 
FANNY. 1 79 
 
 CHAPTEE XLIII. 
 
 Meanwhile the time appointed by her husband 
 for his return was drawing near. It seemed to 
 me that this must be the day of our rupture and 
 of my death. The thought of partition now 
 inspired me with insurmountable disgust. A 
 hundred times did I resolve to come to an under- 
 standing with Fanny on this horrible subject, but 
 I dared not. 
 
 She appeared to have actually received a 
 new life"; she was more tender and more sub- 
 missive than ever. Simultaneously she became 
 more expansive ; and as, during these later days, 
 we had talked of a thousand things that con- 
 cerned her, she imprudently continued to converse 
 with me upon the slightest incidents in her life. 
 
l8o 'FANNY. 
 
 It was this which was one day again to set us 
 facing each other in the threatening attitude of 
 foes. 
 
 I do not know how it came about, or which of 
 us was the cause of the cruel scene that was to 
 follow, but I recollect that Fanny was on the 
 point of leaving me, and that we were both 
 standing. She had just fastened the strings of 
 her bonnet in front of the mirror over the 
 mantel-piece, against" which I was leaning ; her 
 shoulders were wrapped in her shawl, and she 
 was finishing the buttoning of her gloves, glancing 
 about the while in search of her handkerchief, 
 which she had laid upon a table. We were con- 
 tinuing in semi-affectionate and familiar terms a 
 discussion which had been begun concerning 
 herself and her husband ; both of us were calm, 
 when she chanced to utter a speech which froze 
 the blood in my veins. 
 
 " I should speak falsely," she murmured, "were 
 I to say that I have no affection for him." 
 
 She had no sooner reflected upon the cruelty 
 of these words, which were the more imprudent 
 
FANNV. l8l 
 
 that they were unnecessary, than she repented of 
 liaving uttered them. She came up to me with- 
 out adding anything more or without contradict- 
 ing them, threw aside her shawl in order to put 
 her arm around my neck, patted me on the cheek 
 with the hand that was free, and raised herself on 
 tiptoe to kiss me. Her eyes were soft, and 
 asked forgiveness for the cruelty of her lips. 
 
 " You women," I said bitterly to her, slowly 
 obliging her to release herself from my breast, 
 " have no delicacy of heart." 
 
 She blushed, became gentler and more in- 
 sinuating still, and came closer in order to try 
 once more to kiss me. 
 
 But I stretched out my arm, and keeping her 
 at a distance with my hand laid upon her shoulder, 
 I said to her in a low voice that trembled with 
 passion : 
 
 " For the last few days you have been speaking 
 too much of your husband ; you have been boast- 
 ing too much of him. Did you forget that now 
 it is no longer he who is to be pitied ? " 
 
 She took my hand and pressed it warmly, 
 
I 82 FANNY. 
 
 while with closed lips, and not knowing what to 
 say, she gazed at me with beseeching tender- 
 ness. 
 
 But my anger was heightened in proportion as 
 I saw her emphasize her repentance, and I went 
 on : 
 
 " You do all the better to love him, seeing that 
 above all others he deserves your esteem." 
 
 Then she perceived that she would not succeed 
 in calming me. Not knowing what to do, she 
 made no retort to this ambiguous speech, quietly 
 unfastened her bonnet strings, laid bonnet and 
 shawl on the bed, and sat down in an easy chair 
 in front of me. With her left elbow resting on 
 the arm of the chair, her cheek propped in 
 the hollow of her hand, her gaze hovering in 
 front of her, she continued there in her habitual 
 attitude. 
 
 More beautiful than ever, with her wonderful 
 arms whose down-shaded whiteness stood out 
 against her black silk dress, her long Swede gloves 
 ascending above her wrists, her flexile and 
 curving neck, her dull complexion, and her fair 
 
FANNY. 183 
 
 hair curling playfully above her pure brow, she was 
 like some beautiful portrait by Eubens. Her 
 little feet, which were brought close together and 
 set flat upon the ground, peeped out beneath the 
 hem of her dress. Her right arm, extended across 
 her person, was sunk in the dark folds of the silk, 
 and her half-closed hand lay motionless like a 
 hand of marble. 
 
184 FANNY. 
 
 CHAPTEE XLIV. 
 
 When her husband's calamity became known to 
 the pubHc, I learnt that reports were current in 
 Paris dishonouring to him. He was wealthy 
 and proud, and so had many enemies. Such 
 reports must have been libellous, for they issued 
 only from envious lips. From motives of pru- 
 dence, I did not contradict them, but I collected 
 them. I little suspected, nevertheless, that I 
 should one day make use of them in order to 
 take my revenge. 
 
 Exasperated with passion, I waited until a 
 word, provoking me anew, should serve as an 
 excuse for my cruelty. But she was chary of 
 speaking,, conjecturing that I would interpret 
 anything she might say in the direction of my 
 
PANNY. 185 
 
 wrath. Thus we accordingly remained — she 
 awaiting the finishing blow, and I gathering all 
 my strength to strike. 
 
 At last I took my resolve, and in a single 
 phrase, sharp as a sword and assailing my rival's 
 honour in its most sacred point, I repeated the 
 infamies which I did not believe. The return 
 was quick and terrible. 
 
 " 'Tis ill done ! " she cried, rising, beside 
 herself, with purpled cheeks, and with an 
 expression of anger and abhorrence that 
 astounded me. "I will not have the honour 
 of the head of the house assailed ! I will 
 not have the man whose name I bear dis- 
 honoured ! And it is just because I have 
 deceived him, because I have stained that 
 portion of his honour which he had entrusted to 
 me, that I will suffer no one to touch the rest — 
 you least of all ! " 
 
 " You should blush ! " she cried, a little later. 
 "Even though you believed these libels you ought 
 to defend him to me — since it was with 
 me—" 
 
1 86 I'ANNV. 
 
 She broke off. I remained dumb ; she went on 
 again : 
 
 " You speak of the indehcacy of women's 
 hearts ; I will speak of the pride of men. It is 
 not only women's love that you must have to 
 make a litter beneath your feet ; it is all that they 
 cherish, all that they respect : the world's esteem, 
 their family, their children, the tranquillity and 
 the very honour of their husbands. You must 
 have everything in order to break it, and turn it 
 into ridicule. Oh, I am well punished for 
 believing that I could love you With impunity. I 
 have been prudent, and so it is not my outraged 
 husband that chastises my guilt, but — a thousand 
 times more cruel a chastisement ! — it is my love. 
 I deserve my penalty, and it is you who are 
 punishing me ! " 
 
 I still remained dumb ; she went on in this 
 way, her mouth filled with sarcasms : 
 
 " You are like all the rest ! You have only 
 pride ! You do not know how to love ! " 
 
 This tinie I replied with agitation : 
 
 " Is it not excusable in me to attack him ? " 
 
FANNY. 187 
 
 " Then attack him hke a man ! " she cried ; 
 "you who have so many reasons for loving him! " 
 
 " By heaven ! I vs^ill do so ! " 
 
 And with this, exasperated in my turn, my eyes 
 bloodshot and my teeth clenched, I advanced 
 towards her ; but she stopped three paces off, with 
 an icy look such as I had never seen' in her eyes 
 before. Then, slowly wrapping herself in her 
 shawl from head to foot like some priestess of 
 antiquity, dark, wild, despairing, she cast upon 
 me another look of contempt, and disappeared. 
 
I'ANNY. 
 
 CHAPTEE XLV. 
 
 " What was to be done to soothe her ? " 
 
 Such was the craven question which I pro- 
 posed to myself on awaking the following 
 morning. And I wrote her a long letter, so 
 submissive that I was unable to read it over 
 without shame. I tore it up and began another ; 
 but its manner was so harsh that it must inevi- 
 tably exasperate the woman I wished to move. 
 I did not finish this letter, and spent an hour in 
 pacing my room to and fro, and wringing my 
 hands. My thoughts of instant rupture awoke 
 again, and then were lulled. My frenzy was 
 re-kindled with my jealousy ; then died away. 
 I saw at last that the act to which I had wished 
 to impel Panny, was a crime that, while irreme- 
 
FANNY. 189 
 
 diably consummating the misfortune of an entire 
 family, must have rendered us unhappy for 
 ever. It terrified me to think that, had she 
 hstened to me, the images of her deserted chil- 
 dren would throughout our whole existence have 
 interposed between herself and me. But, at the 
 same time, I was not strong enough to release 
 myself. I had grown accustomed to my pains ; I 
 dared not barter them for others that were 
 unknown. No one who has not been, as I was, 
 the object of affection and tenderness, who has 
 not been the heart which unceasingly ordered the 
 impulses of another,' can picture the horrors of 
 the solitude that follows a separation. I was 
 delirious with grief and rage. At last I was 
 softened while gazing on my mistress's portrait. 
 
 " What has she done to me, after all ? " I asked 
 myself. 
 
 I shed a few tears, and, without coming to any 
 decision, dressed and went out. 
 
I go FANNY. 
 
 CHAPTEE XL VI. 
 
 It was, perhaps, eight o'clock. The warmth of 
 the latter days of the month of August purpled 
 the heavy sky. The shaidows came down like 
 scattered shrouds with the thick mist through the 
 trees in the main avenue of the Champs-Elysees. 
 The passers-by hastened in order to escape the 
 storm which was muttering in the distance. The 
 gleaming stars in the lamps here and there, 
 danced about, crossed one another and disappeared. 
 Clouds of dust raised by the wind ascended before 
 me and masked space. Midway I stopped, 
 almost between the Bond-Point and the Arc-de- 
 Triomphe. 
 
 There it was. I leaned against a tree, raised 
 my head and looked. At my feet descended the 
 
FANNY. igi 
 
 carriage-way which led from the principal entrance 
 to the avenue. Above the entrance were the four 
 half-opened windows of the drawing room. A 
 single lamp, without doubt, illuminated the room, 
 for the light which crept into the window panes 
 shone scantily and with dubious clearness. No 
 shadow passed between the lamp and the 
 panes. 
 
 " The house is empty," I said to myself, " and 
 yet Fanny is not at Chaville, since the drawing- 
 room is lit up." 
 
 At this moment the storm growled more loudly. 
 The lightning flashed. A gust of wind roared 
 through the foliage of the elms in the avenue, 
 raising whirls of leaves and sand. Then I saw 
 the shadow of a man come forward behind the 
 first window to my left, and close it. A little 
 later he closed the three others. Then the feeble 
 light which illuminated the drawing-room struck 
 redder and brighter upon the panes ; a second 
 lamp had been lit. 
 
 After that there was nothing more. The 
 deserted avenue, the storm in the black-grown 
 
192 FANNY. 
 
 sky, myself standing beneath my tree, and the 
 empty drawing - room with its four flaming 
 windows. Eleven sounded from the clock of a 
 neighbouring church. 
 
 Suddenly, the grinding of rapid wheels biting 
 the gravel sounded beside me. I had taken a few 
 steps at random, without knowing why. 
 
 " Hi ! hi ! " cried an angry voice. 
 
 I flung to the side of the carriage way. An 
 empty brougham passed first, yielding and spring- 
 ing on its axletrees in consequence of the shock ; 
 then a large travelling berlin drawn by four post- 
 horses wheeled round abruptly, while the two 
 portions of the entrance gate were thrown back 
 right and left from the inside. 
 
 I cast a startled glance into the berlin. A man 
 was leaning back within it ; it was he, I recog- 
 nised him. By his side a woman talking to him; 
 it was she. Mingled with them, on their knees 
 or in their arms, were three fair-haired children. 
 It was a rapid vision. I do not know whether 
 they perceived me ; the berlin was now engulfed 
 beneath the yawning arch of the gateway, and the 
 
FANNY. 193 
 
 two heavy portions of the gate were already 
 revolving on their hinges. They rang, as they 
 fell into their places, with a lugubrious, cavernous 
 sound. I had just stood aside to afford a passage 
 to my rival, who, in his capacity of master, was 
 re-entering his house. 
 
194 PANNT. 
 
 CHAPTEE XL VII. 
 
 " Why did he not crush me beneath his wheels ! " 
 I cried, with death in my soul, as I moved away, 
 walking at random like a drunken man. 
 
 A hackney coach was passing ; I flung myself 
 into it. 
 
 " Where to ? " said the driver, wrapping himself 
 up in his cloak. 
 
 " Wherever you like. To the Bois. Wherever 
 you will." 
 
 And I suddenly felt myself carried far away 
 from the fatal spot. 
 
 The rain soon streamed down the raised 
 windows. Crouching in a corner of the vehicle, 
 with arms folded, and cheek resting against the 
 panel-cloth, I could see in the lightning flashes 
 the dishevelling of the trees as they were 
 
FANNY. 195 
 
 tortured by the squalls. Prom time to time 
 bursts of thunder reverberated through the air. 
 
 " Will not this storm terrify them ! " I ex- 
 claimed. 
 
 I have forgotten how long a time I spent 
 blaspheming, and tearing my breast with my nails, 
 and weeping, shut up in this rolling box as it 
 passed quickly through the trees of the wood amid 
 the purpled gleaming of the lightning. I let 
 down the windows, and the rain fell in sheets 
 upon my face and hands. I leaned for awhile on 
 the ledge of the window, my face resting on my 
 arms. A horrible, cold sensation seized me. I 
 was in a fever. 
 
 "Do you wish to return home?" the driver 
 said to me from time to time, wearied by such a 
 journey. 
 
 " Home !" I said, at last, being myself wearied. 
 
 He slackened the speed of his horse, the vehicle 
 turned round, and began to roll on again. 
 
1 96 FANNY. 
 
 CHAPTEE XL VIII. 
 
 Day was breaking tearfully in an ill-dried sky, 
 ■when, raising my head, I recognised a house by 
 the roadside. It was hers. All the shutters were 
 closed, and the lights extinguished. Only an 
 extremely feeble light, like that shed through the 
 apertures of a night lamp, shone like a red speck 
 between the laths of a Venetian blind on the last 
 window to the right, a window that was next to 
 the drawing-room. I leaned for a long time over 
 the carriage door in order to look at this dying 
 speck. But I was no longer weeping ; I was 
 calm, icy, whelmed in fatigue. 
 
 "Is she sleeping now, at last?" I asked myself, 
 as I moved away. 
 
FANNY. 197 
 
 CHAPTBE XLIX. 
 
 I SPENT the days immediately following this 
 horrible night in a state of dejection, from which 
 nothing could draw me. I was waiting for some- 
 thing or other that would terminate my life and 
 my griefs. 
 
 " Nevertheless, it cannot end thus ! " I would 
 say to myself. 
 
 Twenty times a day I rang to ask for my letters ; 
 but I did not so much as open those which my 
 servant brought me. I did no more than look 
 at the handwriting of the addresses. Nothing 
 came to me from Fanny. It seemed to me 
 that she was dead. I was afraid. I mistrusted 
 my reason. 
 
 On the eighth day after our last interview I had 
 something like a presentiment that I was going 
 to see her. I prepared everything that I wished 
 
Ig8 FANNY. 
 
 to say to her. Alas ! I felt that I was conquered ; 
 I wanted to ask for forgiveness ; I wanted to 
 declare that I .was ready to submit ; I wanted 
 to beseech her to show a little pity to my griefs. 
 But I waited in vain until nightfall, counting 
 the hours by the alternately hurried and slackened 
 pulsations in my wrist. She did not come. She 
 did not write. No one afforded me an instant's 
 hope by ringing the bell at my door. 
 
 When night had fallen, I took my way to her 
 house. On arriving in front of it, in the avenue, 
 I perceived to my great surprise that all the 
 shutters were closed. The thought that Fanny 
 has gone far away, so far that I could never find 
 her again, pierced my brain like an arrow. With 
 horrible anguish, but resolutely, like a coward 
 who has taken it into his head to give proof of 
 his courage, I lifted the knocker and asked the 
 servant who came to the door whether she were 
 at home. I was white and trembliing, but he did 
 not perceive it. 
 
 " Madame is in the country," he replied. 
 
 " And where ? At Chaville ? " 
 
FANNY. 199 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 I went to a tree and leaned against it, for I felt 
 faint. 
 
 After a few minutes, I resolved to return home. 
 It partially consoled me to know that Fanny was 
 away. I understood at last the motive which had 
 prevented her from coming ; but I did not under- 
 stand why, for a week, she had not written to me. 
 I might have reflected that she too was hoping 
 for a letter from me ; but there was still too much 
 personal feeling in my ill-will. 
 
 " Perhaps she is expecting me over there," I 
 said to myself by way of comfort. 
 
 This thought had no sooner entered my mind 
 than an imperious desire to see Fanny again 
 immediately, and at all costs, took possession of 
 me. I was then a few steps from my own door. 
 I went in and called for my horse. I assisted the 
 stableman to saddle him. And I dashed into the 
 street filled with hope, pressing my knees close, 
 shaking the reins, going at full trot, riding down 
 foot-passengers without a word of warning. 
 
 I went with such speed that on arriving I feared 
 
200 FANNY. 
 
 I had missed my way, and did not recognise 
 Fanny's house when it reared itself before me, 
 dimly lighted beneath the great trees. But on 
 rising in my stirrups to look over the wall, 
 I perceived the summer-house. Then I dis- 
 mounted, and made my way into the wood to 
 fasten my horse to a branch. Next I retraced 
 my steps and saw with surprise that the park gate 
 was wide open. A man in livery was stationed 
 beside it. At the end of the avenue I could 
 see the gleaming of two lamps in a carriage stand- 
 ing at a corner of the house. Half-way between 
 the house and the gate, in the midst of an 
 extensive lawn somewhat to the left, the stained 
 glass windows of the summer-house showed 
 brilliant in the rays from a lamp within. 
 
 ."What is the meaning of all this?" I asked 
 myself as I walked along the walls to find the 
 breach by which I had entered twice before. 
 
 But I had scarcely set foot in the park when I 
 stood riveted to the spot. I had caught the sound 
 of curses and sobs. They came from the summer 
 house, twenty paces off. A cold sweat covered 
 
FANNY. 201 
 
 my entire body. I shook like the leaves of the 
 shrubs under which I crouched. 
 
 At that moment, the carriage which was in 
 waiting, started, and proceeded rapidly towards 
 the gate, the coachman doubtless obeying a call 
 which I had not heard. On arriving in front 
 of me, it stopped, and the footman opened the. 
 door. The cries and sobs had ceased. A man 
 came out of the summer-house, closing the door 
 behind him. I recognised him. Moreover, who 
 else could it have been ? He settled himself on 
 the cushions, the servant mounted the box, the 
 coachman touched up the horses, the brougham 
 started on again, passed through the gate, and 
 rolled along the echoing road, while the gate 
 was closed by the man in livery standing beside 
 it. 
 
 As soon as this man was lost among the trees 
 on his way back to the house, I advanced 
 abruptly and without precaution. But before 
 turning the handle of the door, I looked through 
 the window. In the centre of the summer house 
 stood a round table supporting a lamp. A broad 
 
202 FANNY. 
 
 divan ran all round; and lying back on this 
 divan, her face in her hands, weeping and 
 sobbing as though her heart would break, was 
 a woman. It was she ! Fanny ! I went in 
 quickly, stretched out my arms, and fell upon 
 my knees at her feet. 
 
 She had no sooner recognised me than she 
 uttered a heart-rending cry, clasped my head in 
 her arms, and stifled me against her breast. I 
 could neither speak nor breathe. She kissed 
 my hair ; she buried her face in it ; she bit it 
 to prevent herself from screaming; then she 
 raised my head, and I could feel her ' tears 
 moistening my cheeks, while her quivering lips 
 trembled upon mine, and her hands throbbed 
 as they wandered over my shoulders, my neck 
 and my head. Finally she threw herself back 
 with me, and, crushed with sorrow, spread out 
 her arms and fainted. 
 
 Then I rose. I was wholly unable to under- 
 stand the departure of the husband and the 
 tears of the wife. Nevertheless, I did all in 
 my power to recall her to life. The lamp had 
 
FANNY. 203 
 
 fallen and gone out. Groping my way towards 
 Fanny, I tore away the fastenings of her dress, 
 and removed her bodice by fragments. Then 
 by dint of endearments, entreaties, and prayers; 
 by clasping her hands in mine and warming 
 her with my breath, I at last succeeded in 
 reviving her. She suddenly heaved a long sigh, 
 and lifted herself up in my arms ; then she 
 appeared to reflect. And torrents of tears 
 gushed at last from her eyes, and she threw 
 herself upon me with such self-abandonment, 
 and with such a manifestation of pain, that I 
 could not refrain from weeping as I kissed her. 
 
 " Oh ! Eoger ! my Eoger ! " she cried at last in 
 a broken voice, " if you knew how unhappy I 
 am ! Comfort me. Love me. Help me. Oh ! 
 what good it does me to weep on your heart. 
 My dear Eoger ! " 
 
 Sobs choked her utterance. I urged her to 
 explain herself. I was as yet quite unable to 
 understand a grief through which there broke 
 like lightning-gleams cries of abhorrence and 
 indignation. 
 
204 FANNY. 
 
 " Does your husband know all ? " I said to her. 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 " No, it is not that ; but I have lied to you 
 for a year; I am the most unhappy, the most 
 humiliated, the most insulted of women. Out- 
 casts, unfortunates, the most degraded of women 
 are not lower than I." 
 
 To this cry issuing at last from her lips, I 
 knew not at first what to rejoin. I was stupid 
 with surprise. Fury shattered my limbs. I could 
 find nothing to say. I could only go away, come 
 back again, and convulsively kiss my weeping 
 mistress. Suddenly a ray of luminous foresight 
 furrowed my mind. 
 
 " If I do not take advantage of this opportunity 
 to make her confess," I said to myself, " I shall 
 never know anything. Once quieted, she will 
 say nothing." 
 
 The thought was a just one. I did well in 
 hearkening to its prompting. I accordingly put 
 forth all my eloquence, to draw from the poor 
 woman the secret which she had so long con- 
 cealed so successfully from me. I urged her, 
 
FANNY. 205 
 
 I encouraged her, I questioned her, while 
 compassionating her sorrow. Then I learnt a 
 heart-hreaking history, not all at once, but in 
 fragments, by extorting the smallest details from 
 her ; for in spite of her excitement, she was from 
 time to time reticent in the more delicate portions 
 of her narrative. 
 
 Then she made clear to me all that had hitherto 
 been obscure in her life and conduct. 
 
2o6 FANNY. 
 
 CHAPTEE L. 
 
 Hee husband was not the contemptuously kind- 
 hearted man that I had imagined. He was a 
 terrible despot. Wife, children, friends, servants, 
 all bent instinctively to his humour, and sub- 
 mitted passively to the exactions of his disposition. 
 It was not from jealousy that he oppressed his 
 wife ; it was in order to satisfy an ungovernable 
 spirit of will. In his house there was but one 
 person who should take the lead, and upon whom 
 all the others must ingeniously be modelled. 
 He was, in fact, in his own estimation, not a 
 man, but a kind of sun that gave out light and 
 heat, and imparted life to all surrounding him. 
 
 Thus, when he saw his wife, by my advice 
 deviating insensibly from the line of conduct 
 which he had marked out for her, he had first 
 experienced a feeling of great stupefaction. 
 
FANNY. 207 
 
 But, with a knitting of his eyebrows, he 
 immediately brought her into order again. 
 Nevertheless, he di,d not_ seek to fathom the 
 reason of her timid attempt at enfranchisement. 
 In his eyes every woman was a fantastic creature, 
 influenced by incomprehensible springs of action, 
 and not by any possibility to be taken seriously. 
 Evidently, he had not carried off Fanny nor 
 married her for love. No. He had coveted her 
 because she was beautiful, and he desired that 
 a beautiful woman should do the honours of his 
 house. He had carried her off because she was 
 denied him. He had married her because she 
 was rich, and because, moreover, he wished not 
 only to enrich himself, but to be the founder of 
 a family. 
 
 But, finding her submissive, he was full of 
 consideration. He made a point of causing her 
 to spend yearly twice the income which she had 
 brought him as dowry, and he even frequently 
 made her handsome presents, in order to display 
 his magnificence. In a word, he showed her 
 something of that rude attention which the Arab 
 
208 FANNY. 
 
 horsemen pay to their thoroughbreds. They 
 tend them personally with one hand, while in 
 the other they hold the whip which will chastise 
 the slightest attempt to shy. 
 
 For a long time Fanny was dominated by this 
 superior will, and passively submitted. She 
 thought through him, acted through him, lived 
 for him. At last her resignation obtained from 
 her master a semblance of freedom. Some young 
 fellows, so I understood, took advantage of this 
 to pay open and very assiduous addresses to 
 this charming woman, whose air of tranquillity 
 revealed such a lengthened habituation to • in- 
 ward revolt and undisclosed sorrows. But her 
 husband did not even suspect it. Chance alone 
 caused a compromising letter to fall into his 
 hands. The scene which followed the discovery 
 was a terrible one. Yet there were no elevations 
 of the voice, no insults nor degrading brutalities ; 
 so, likewise, there was no duel, no explanation, 
 no forced separation of the two imprudent 
 parties — things which, while taking vengeance 
 for the husband's pride, would have irremissibly 
 
FANNY. 20g 
 
 chastised it. Only, the inteihgeiit husband kept, 
 the letter. And from that time, whenever he 
 bame across the smallest desire for enfranchise- 
 ment on the part of his wife, he employed this 
 letter to make her quiver and submit. In his 
 hands a scrap of paper became a knife, with 
 which he goaded his wife to make her walk on 
 before him. 
 
 Was the man, then, altogether vile? No, 
 he was simply very proud. Had this precious 
 letter been a thousand times more explicit, he 
 would not have believed it. In his eyes it was 
 nothing but the proof of a piece of childishness, 
 a proof which, skilfully managed, might disguise 
 the childishness with the semblance of a crime. 
 But he never believed in the crime. For, how 
 could he have believed in it ? It was not possible, 
 for T}he sole reason that his wife could not 
 manifest herself criminal towards him. Be- 
 cause she was his wife. Because he was himself. 
 Thus, while he raged somewhat at the humi- 
 liating childishness, he showed himself neither 
 anxious nor unhappy. And with all his iron 
 
2IO FANNY. 
 
 heart, he again set himself, after his own fashion, 
 to love his wife. Nay, after fifteen years of 
 marriage, there were still many days on which 
 he acted towards her like a lover. 
 
 But the weapon remained a weapon in his 
 hands, and he made use of it. Thanks to it, 
 he first of all obtained from Fanny that she 
 would cease to see her mother, whom he detested, 
 because she had not, of her own freewill, desired 
 to accept him as a son-in-law. Afterwards he 
 required that she should have her children nursed 
 by a stranger, under pretence that the cares of 
 maternity would cause her to lose her taste for 
 the pleasures of society ; then, without consulting 
 her, and to serve no obvious purpose, he sold the 
 ch§,teau in which she had been born and had 
 passed her youth, with its surrounding park, 
 wherein were buried her father and her two 
 brothers. In short, thanks to this most fortunate 
 letter, there were no constraints which he did not 
 impose upon her, no vexations which he did not 
 cause her to endure; yet without unkindness, 
 and always loading her the while with attentions ! 
 
FANNY. 211 
 
 Especially before the world ! And Fanny's life 
 became a hell, in which a pitiless demon tortured 
 her with one hand while caressing her with the 
 other. 
 
 It was above all when Fanny resisted, when 
 what he required of her became too serious, and 
 conflicted too brutally with her delicacy or her 
 pride, that he in-dulged in unparalleled transports. 
 Then — but for an hour only — he lost all control 
 over himself. He was no longer the politely 
 disdainful man who bore in his countenance the 
 most exquisite shades of superiority of character, 
 and whose affable, open demeanour seemed to say 
 to everyone : " See how little I am to be feared." 
 He once more became the lion that nature had 
 moulded with her callous hands, and that educa- 
 tion had scarcely refined. His hair stood upright 
 on his forehead, like a mane. His eyes flamed 
 with gleamings as of molten gold. His dilated 
 nostrils breathed forth a hot breath. His con- 
 tracted mouth parted, and displayed admirable 
 teeth, as though he wished to bite. His fists 
 became clenched. He was terrible. And above 
 
212 FANNY. 
 
 all there was an insult with which he never failed 
 to strike his victim. The letter provided him 
 with the pretext for it ; and it was always the 
 same insult — the same infamous expression which 
 branded her brow like a red-hot iron, and which 
 degraded her as she said to the lowest rank of all 
 women. 
 
 But Fate, which makes no Compromise with 
 passions and temperaments, sometimes set itself 
 to wrestle with this athlete. Unforseen events 
 struck him ; unheard of obstacles sprung up 
 beneath his feet. It was then that he was great ! 
 He did no,t blaspheme, he did not revile Fate, 
 for he knew that - it was useless ; but he closed 
 with the events and the obstacles, and silently, 
 coldly, patiently wrestled with them. He pre- 
 vailed over Fate as a rule. When his fortune 
 was compromised he succeeded by his daring in 
 recovering possession of the greater part of it, 
 abandoning the rest, as a sort of derisive favour, 
 to his creditors and rivals. Any other man would 
 have failed in his place, for none other could have 
 exercised the same will-power as he did. But a 
 
FANNY. 213 
 
 half-success was not enough for a man insatiable 
 for brilliant successes. He had resolved that he 
 would have his vessel off the reefs on which it had 
 just been driven. He wanted to save everything, 
 freight and rigging, and the very ballast. He had 
 sworn that he would not spare to Ocean a single 
 nail. And now, recovered from his earlier efforts 
 by a week of reflection, he was setting off anew to 
 take up his post on the scene of the shipwreck, 
 more eager, more resolved than at first. And it 
 was this sudden departure which had caused the 
 ignoble dispute at which I had involuntarily been 
 present. 
 
214 FANNY. 
 
 CHAPTEE LI. 
 
 It seems that at dinner he had in a few words 
 announced his plans to his wife. He was calm, 
 reflective, almost affectionate. He bantered 
 Fanny on her look of sadness, which was caused, 
 he thought, by their absurd life in the country. 
 He played with his children. He was polite, as 
 he always was, to the servants who waited on 
 him. At dessert he rose, asked for a cigar, lit it, 
 and proceeded towards the summer-house — hold- 
 ing Fanny under the arm and uttering trifles to 
 her with an air of amiability. As the children 
 were running across the lawn after them, he 
 went up to them, kissed them, bade them good- 
 bye, and affectionately requested them to go and 
 play farther off. Then he sat down on the divan 
 in the summer house, the door of which was 
 
FANNY. 215 
 
 open, finishing his cigar and sipping his coffee. 
 At nightfall a servant brought a lamp. He asked 
 him to have his brougham got ready. Up to 
 this point he had spoken of nothing but trifles, in 
 an off-hand fashion. But when the servant was 
 gone, he rose to close the door, quietly drew a 
 stamped paper from his pocket, and said to his 
 wife : 
 
 " My dear, be so good as to place your signa- 
 ture here, beside mine, at the foot of this sheet." 
 Fanny took the pen, which he held out to her ; 
 but before writing, she said to him : 
 
 "And what is this mysterious paper I am 
 going to sign?" 
 
 " Simply a reciprocal deed of donation of all 
 our property," he replied. 
 
 Then Fanny laid the pen on the table, and 
 gently asked him for some explanations of the use 
 which he intended to make of it. He knitted his 
 brows and announced to her that for some time 
 he was about "to engage in business again, and 
 that he needed a great deal of money." 
 
 "Are we not rich enough, then ? " she said. 
 
2I() FANNY. 
 
 " Why — no." 
 
 " Do you iiiLeud to I'iHk my forluno ? " 
 
 At this speech he looked hor in Llio laco, and 
 replied coldly, as Ihougli in defiance : 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Then I shall not sign this deed," whe said, 
 growing palo at hof own coiiraffo; " for I will 
 not I'JHk the property of our (jliildron." 
 
 It was when hIig said tliiw thiittlio Htonn broko. 
 On encountering nii inioxpoctod obetaclo bofoi'o 
 him, the despot bellowed wi til passion, Vnr tlm 
 first time in his lifo he gi'tiHpod Iiih wilo's iii'ni, 
 squeezed it to make her Hign, and hruiHod it. Slio 
 endured this brutality, without reply or tcmrH. 
 Tlion gathering Inu'riodly from bin jncuiiory iiJI 
 his past grievances, he loaded bor with contcunj)!,, 
 with rooriniinatic^nH, wiili aljUHo. And aH a 
 supreme insult, the nanio word ])in'Ht at last Croni 
 bis lips. It was tlion that b'anny wcipt, and 
 sobbed, and rcHolved to Hign the dood. lie 
 immediately became calm, tlianlcod bor, and 
 triod to iakn hor band to kiss it ; but, nbowing 
 liini b(ii' bruiH(!(i arm, hIk^ Hii^id Lo bini : 
 
FANNY. 217 
 
 " It is not for that, God is my witness, that I 
 despise you, 'tis for the cowardice of your 
 insult." 
 
 Thereupon he asked her forgiveness from his 
 lips outwards, called her a child and a wrong- 
 headed creature, kissed her in spite of herself, 
 summoned his coachman, and departed. 
 
2l8 FANNY. 
 
 CHAPTBE LII. 
 
 When Fanny, yielding to my solicitations, had 
 informed me of these extraordinary events — not 
 in the order which I have observed, but in 
 incoherent fragments, mingled with cries of 
 indignation — when I had nothing left to ask her, 
 and she remained silent, having nothing left to 
 tell me, we remained for some time looking in 
 silence and with dull dread at each other, by the 
 dim light of the stars. Something formidable 
 had just risen between us which strangely 
 modified our situation. 
 
 Nevertheless, I could not forthwith apply 
 myself to the pursuit of the facts which must 
 necessarily flow from this surprising confession. 
 Seeing Fanny still pale, with disordered hair and 
 
FANNY. 219 
 
 trembling hands, I could think only of her 
 humiliation. 
 
 " How unhappy she is also ! " I exclaimed to 
 myself. 
 
 I drew her gently to me by the neck, I sought 
 her lips, and I clasped her in my arms with the 
 ardour of hope and pity. 
 
 Oh ! how long, and close, and desperate was 
 that embrace ! Energetically did it wed our 
 souls, and we then both felt that there was 
 compassion in embraces and consolations in 
 sighs, and were sensible of how greatly sym- 
 pathy is strengthened by the blending of tears. 
 
 We were alone, silent, in darkness that was 
 scantily softened by the pale glimmerings of a 
 summer night. The disorder of my mistress's 
 garments, the tearful weariness which held her 
 lying in my arms, the shame at a confession 
 which, while easing her heart, oppressed her 
 pride for the first time ; the happiness at finding 
 ourselves more loving, more united than ever, 
 after a violent discussion which might have 
 parted us — all this inspired us ' with a certain 
 
220 FANNY. 
 
 longing for mutual expansion which lacked 
 neither bitterness nor sweetness. While my 
 lips brushed her long dishevelled hair, my hand, 
 laid upon her heart, discovered accelerations of 
 movement which appeared to me to be secret 
 expressions of wrath. 
 
 Eepentance at having so long and so nobly 
 defended against my attacks the man who was 
 the tyrant of her life, wrung cries of implacable 
 irony from her lips. Anger for the insult, 
 and indignation at the undeserved humiliation, 
 clasped her arms round my neck with more 
 energy than had ever been lent to her by love, 
 while regret at having caused unhappiness to 
 the lover whose mere presence was then the 
 tenderest of consolations, as it was the swiftest 
 and surest form of vengeance, rendered her 
 submissive and beseeching. 
 
 The recollection of my rival, which was present 
 between us, imparted a desperate violence to 
 our kisses, as well as an infinite sweetness to 
 our caresses, and at this moment, at least, 
 when, without speaking, we were interchanging 
 
FANNY. 221 
 
 SO many sensations and so many quite intelligible 
 ideas, Fanny at last was, in my thought, abso- 
 lutely and for ever as indissolubly linked to me 
 as she was separated from him. 
 
FANNY. 
 
 CHAPTBE LIII. 
 
 When speech returned to us both, the passion 
 brooding within me had a sudden outburst. I 
 astounded Fanny. I uttered burning, incoherent 
 words like a madman. A sort of insanity whetted 
 Hke dagger-blades all the phrases that I uttered, 
 while fury steeped them in the most corroding 
 poisons. 
 
 The feeling of the impossibility of vengeance, 
 the certainty that my mistress's sorrows must 
 be unceasingly renewed, as well as all my own 
 past jealousies, and, more than all beside, the 
 remembrance of our deplorable discussions, of 
 which this base man was the permanent cause, 
 made me pant with wrath like a man who has 
 just received a blow without being able to rend 
 with his hands the person who has branded 
 him with it. 
 
FANNY. 223 
 
 In my frenzy it seemed to me that Fanny's 
 love lost its value in proportion to the depth of 
 her unhappiness, and blushing at this thought 
 I dreamed of slaying, and of giving my life for 
 her. But Fanny, in her present depression, 
 preferred consolation to vengeance ! 
 
 She took me in her arms again, and strange to 
 tell, it was she who bestowed caresses upon me 
 in order to soothe me. 
 
224 FANNY. 
 
 CHAPTBE LIV. 
 
 I SPENT the following day in going over again to 
 myself all that I had heard. For the first time 
 during a very long period, I felt my mind relieved 
 of doubt. A happy future unfolded itself before 
 me after all the torment of the past, like peaceful 
 valleys and plains to the eye of a traveller 
 descending the precipitous slopes of dangerous 
 mountains. The hope of a calm existence 
 refreshed my soul, and I essayed to stretch 
 myself at length beside the path which, easy 
 once more, sank softly beneath my bruised feet. 
 Serenity of days, absence of anxieties, this was 
 what was now awaiting me, and I desisted not 
 from so telling myself, while my soul transmitted 
 bursts of gratitude to chance, which was at last 
 refraining from assaults upon me. 
 
FANNY. 225 
 
 Fanny's image necessarily mingled with this 
 dream. She was the companion who had 
 followed me across the abysses of passion. She, 
 equally with myself, had suffered from the length 
 of the way, from the uncertainty of the goal, from 
 the hidden thorns upon which we thrust our 
 feet together. The same sorrow had reddened 
 our eyes, had heated our breath ; simultaneously 
 we had thirsted for repose. And as though 
 it had been needful that the weaker of the 
 two should suffer more than the other, Fanny, 
 while encouraging me to resignation and with 
 trembling hands wiping from my brow the 
 acrid sweat of despair, had hidden from me 
 private evils and fatigues which she bore nobly 
 that they might not rob me of all hope. 
 
 But now these evils, which I had just dis- 
 covered with her, were allayed. They could not 
 for a long time be renewed. Delivered from the 
 spectre which- had so cruelly pursued us, we 
 could, now that we were left to ourselves, at last 
 take ample recompense for our torture and our 
 
 terrors. Ijike two fugitives whose traces have 
 
 ? 
 
226 FANNY. 
 
 been lost, and who betake themselves to the 
 brink of fountains and the shadows of silent 
 woods to shake off the dust from their sandals, 
 we were at last about to avenge om'selves on 
 senseless Fate, by ' forgetting the torments with 
 which it had overwhelmed us. 
 
 Thus I dreamed in the solitude of my home, 
 looking at the sweet image of my dear mistress 
 which smiled in my hands encircled by the 
 aureola, as it were, of its golden frame. Thus I 
 took pleasure in arranging the stages of our 
 future before us. 
 
 Never had I fondled a more cruel illusion ! 
 
FANNY. 227 
 
 CHAPTEE LV. 
 
 The first day on which I saw Fanny again was 
 a magnificent one ! 
 
 She came to me early in the morning, deh- 
 ciously clad, as though worthily to celebrate the 
 wedding of our happiness. A dress of mauve 
 coloured silk, which harmonised sweetly with the 
 freshness of her complexion, shimmered upon 
 her delicate figure and fell gleaming to her feet. 
 Her arms, which were partially uncovered, sprang 
 from the laces on her sleeves, with dull reflections 
 like those of unpolished ivory. So, too, her fair 
 and somewhat curving neck, was to be seen 
 issuing from her corsage, which was cut low upon 
 the breast. Her hair hovered upon her cheeks. 
 
 Npt a sound disturbed om- speech, if it were not 
 
228 FANNY. 
 
 the voice of the clock to which we did not 
 hsten, and, at distant intervals, the abrupt and 
 transient rolling of vehicles, shaking the pave- 
 ment of the street. 
 
 Once niore we conversed in solitude. At table 
 Fanny ate little, smiling, as though to ask 
 forgiveness. I rose to wait upon her and kissed 
 her as I passed. She poured out for me grace- 
 fully and from a height, and my eyes followed the 
 beautiful line of her arm which was lost in the 
 shadowy breadth of her ample sleeve. Never 
 had om' room appeared so charming to us. It 
 seemed to us that we were never to leave it. 
 
 She got up and seated herself on the edge of 
 the divan. I placed myself on a cushion at her 
 feet, with my elbow on her knees, and for a long 
 time we continued to look at each other in this 
 way without saying anything. One of her hands 
 was sunk in my hair, and raised it and tossed it 
 in clusters. I printed long kisses upon the other 
 hand, which I held in my own. 
 
 " Ah \ Fanny ! if you were not married ! " I 
 said, passionately, to her. 
 
fANNY. 229 
 
 She replied : 
 
 " Ah ! Koger ! if you were not jealous ! " 
 
 I do not know How the day passed, but it 
 passed very quickly ! We looked at each other. 
 We kissed each other. We went from one room 
 to the other. She desired to know the history 
 of my life. I told it to her ; it was a very simple 
 one. She shed tears as she listened to the story 
 of my mother's death. 
 
 For the first time during a very long period we 
 were calm and happy, and felt ourselves very 
 near to each other. The fierce rancour of 
 jealousy separated us no more. Our outpourings 
 were unqualified ; so, too, was the peacefulness 
 of our souls. We had in our souls, without 
 bending beneath it, such a burden of happiness as 
 would have made the fortunes of ten lovers. 
 
 As I mentally compared this exquisite day 
 with all those that had preceded it, I suddenly 
 recollected the cause which had rendered us so 
 unhappy for nearly a year. An exclamation 
 of passion sprang from my lips, and while 
 commiserating my mistress's long concealed 
 
236 fakny. 
 
 troubles, I could not refrain from branding the 
 man who had occasioned them. 
 
 Then I was terrified to see Fanny biting her 
 lips. A swift sensation passed across her face, 
 like a silent lightning-flash furrowing a cloud. 
 Then she again began to smile, and her brow 
 became once more as calm as a fair evening sky. 
 But I sought to unravel the cause of this painful 
 sensation, and as a confused something pose at 
 last in my memory, I grew sad and thoughtful 
 again. 
 
tAiJNV. 23 i 
 
 CHAPTER LVI. 
 
 Fanny left me without appearing to suspect my 
 uneasiness. "When she was gone a thousand 
 memories filled my mind in urgent waves like 
 those of a troubled sea. Fanny's behaviour 
 seemed to me more incomprehensible than ever. 
 
 " She must be either the oddest of all women 
 or the vilest !" 
 
 And suddenly I reviewed swiftly in my memory 
 all that I knew of her ; but once more I encoun- 
 tered nothing but contradictions in her character. 
 
 Why defend my rival when I was ignorant of 
 his violence ? Why accuse him afterwards ? 
 And why now grow pale on hearing me brand 
 the actions of the man who outrages her ? Oh ! 
 can it be that a woman may endure such scorn, 
 
23^ fANKV. 
 
 such degrading vexations, and yet preserve the 
 slighte&t affection for the man who loriiireH and. 
 humiliates her '? Inexphcable enigma ! Does she 
 love? .Does she love her husband? "What 
 relation can there be between this blending of 
 natures, feelings, calculations, transactions, and 
 love, that absolute, intolerant, exclusive passion? 
 Thus I ravelled, and unravelled, and collected 
 all the facts of our common existence, without 
 being able to disentangle the inextricable skein. 
 Each in its turn boomed like a note in my ear 
 and like a sinister clamour, resoundiiag over 
 all, there recurred ceaselessly that speech from 
 Fanny's conscience which she had uttered one 
 day, and which had tortured me, " I should 
 speak falsely. if I said that I have no affection 
 for him." 
 
fA^t?*. iii 
 
 CHAPTEK LVII. 
 
 From that time, involved again more closely than 
 ever in the net of micertainty, I felt but one 
 desire, that of drawing the explanation of Fanny's 
 character from her, no longer by questioning her, 
 but by driving her to extremities. I, therefore, 
 designedly assailed her husband in her presence,, 
 and it was very diflicult for her to defend him, for 
 it was only with reference to his violence that I 
 assailed him. 
 
 At first she contented herself with remain- 
 ing silent, raising her eyes towards heaven 
 because I pitied her; then she appeared dis- 
 satisfied with the harshness of my expressions. 
 Suddenly I saw her cheeks cover with a pink 
 colour, her lips close and her eyelids droop, while 
 
^34 PannV. 
 
 I exalted her resignation in order the better to 
 depress the man who sported with it. At last 
 she returned to what eternally occupied her : 
 
 " Let us speak no more of that," she said ; " it 
 is all frightful, but I am obliged to submit to it. 
 He is myhusbajid after all." 
 
pann¥. 235 
 
 CHAPTER LVIII. 
 
 This speech neither angered nor astounded me. 
 I expected it. I smiled bitterly as I heard it 
 come from my mistress's lips. She watched me 
 pacing the room. 
 
 " 'Tis the flight of a last illusion! " I exclaimed 
 at last. 
 
 She questioned me as to the meaning of these 
 words, but I refused to answer her. 
 
 " We have had only too many discussions for a 
 year past," I said to her; "in my turn, I entreat 
 you not to occupy yourself with what passes in 
 me. Let us love each other for what we are. 
 Despair or resistance will not change us." 
 
236 fAKNV. 
 
 CHAPTEE LIX. 
 
 During her husband's absence, which lasted 
 for more than six months, great changes were 
 effected in om- relations. I saw Fanny nearly 
 every day. We both abused her freedon ! She 
 used to come and spend with me all the time at 
 her own disxJosal. W.e often took our meals 
 together. We used to meet afterwards, walking 
 or at the theatre. We used to make appoint- 
 ments in shops. There, without appearing to 
 know each other, we used to watch each other 
 from the corners of our eyes, and, touch each 
 other with our elbows, while we drove long 
 bargains over stuffs or jewellery. And then we 
 used to write each other interminable letters and 
 send each other bouquets. 
 
FANNY. 237 
 
 Fanny now overwhelme(J me with attentions, 
 as though to compensate me for the griefs which 
 she had caused to me. She discovered to me those 
 delicate kindnesses which women receive from 
 men, and of which they are themselves so sparing, 
 when they condescend to bestow them. She 
 would kiss my hand, call me her child, show 
 herself submissive, and watch to see that nothing 
 disturbed the serenity of my life. But never did 
 she seem to abase herself when treating me at 
 last as a master. She had all a queen's dignity 
 while kneeling before me. 
 
 Sometimes, when the fine autumn evenings 
 were balmier and safer than those of summer, 
 we made our escape from the town, like birds 
 wearied with the heat of the day. Leaning 
 back in a closed carriage, side by side and hand 
 in hand, we used, without uttering a word, to 
 visit the Bois, in quest of a litj;le air, and silence, 
 and solitude. Close to us passed the swift teams 
 drawing into the night large open carriages filled 
 with laughing women whose veils streamed in the 
 wind. We listened to the crunching of the wheels 
 
238 FANNY. 
 
 upon the sand, to the snorting of the horses, 
 and the cracking of the whips. AVe watched the 
 stars of the lanterns moving among the trees, or 
 the dense shadows of the pine thickets admiring 
 themselves in the stagnant water of the lakes. 
 The moon, melancholy often as she hung like a 
 silver spot in the heavens, illumined wide bush- 
 strewn spaces where, skimming the grass, there 
 rose veils of white vapour. Intoxicated by the 
 scent of the oaks, by the softness of the luminous 
 mists, we used to get out at the corner of some 
 narrow path and bury ourselves beneath the 
 arches of motionless trees, walking slowly, 
 and more completely lost in our dreamings 
 than was the green leafage in the shadow of 
 the soft night. It was a delicious moment 
 when Panny hung on my arm as though she 
 were tired, and pressed my shoulder against 
 her own. We said nothing, we felt ourselves to 
 be alive, we listened to our breathing, and as we 
 were united, we discovered a strange calm sweet- 
 ness in our silence, in the uncertainty of our 
 steps., 
 
FANNY. 239 
 
 Sometimes, however, slight discussions arose 
 between us, attenuated reminiscences of our old 
 dissensions. But taking me for what I was — a 
 child — Fanny would laughingly seem not to 
 hear my reproaches, or else, swinging up my arm 
 with a mutinous air, would say : 
 
 " Come now, let us not speak any more about 
 that, since it is past." 
 
 More and more was she penetrating my hfe on 
 all its accessible sides. She was entering into it 
 imperiously, desiring to know all, past and 
 present, and arranging at her pleasure for the 
 future. Her thought encumbered my own. She 
 gave me counsels which I followed blindly as 
 though they had been commands. She directed 
 everything in my house. The furniture seemed to 
 move of itself to take up the positions which she 
 had indicated ; the pictures changed panels ; the 
 mirrors inclined themselves at her wish in order 
 to reflect everywhere her image. It was a great 
 pleasure to me to see her thus arranging every- 
 thing that belonged to me. My house had become 
 hers, and seejned to have become feminine. The 
 
240 FANNY. 
 
 tables n.0 longer displayed spurs, or riding whips, 
 or cigar boxes, nor the walls trophies of weapons ; 
 but there were boxes of flowers everywhere, 
 white muslins trailing on the carpets, lacquered 
 and buhl furniture, and cases of scent. Xiong 
 needles and bits of ^ilk or wool might be picked 
 up from the carpets, while thimble and scissors 
 gleamed on the mantel-piece. 
 
 These six months were a sort of interval in the 
 drama of my life. We lacked nothing that could 
 make us happy, unless -it were confidence. Fanny 
 was always on her guard against a sudden attack, 
 while I, on my part, cherished a certain feeling 
 of animosity. I could not console myself for 
 having failed to vanquish the scruples of the 
 woman I loved. 
 
 I even reached such a stage of weakness that 
 I sought her advice respecting the investment 
 of my fortune. She knew nothing of business 
 matters ; but her opinions were sound, because 
 they were always dictated by a spirit of feminine 
 distrust. Did I not also bethink myself to 
 consult her about the pm-chase of horses ? As to 
 
FANNY. 24! 
 
 my dress, it was she who decided in sovereign 
 fashion, concerning its shape and colour. It was 
 she who, laughing and standing on tip-toe, herself 
 arranged my linen along the shelves of the 
 wardrobes, and interspersed it with sachets of a 
 delicate and sweet odour which she bore about 
 with her, and which I could never meet with 
 elsewhere. At last, all the moments in my day 
 were calculated. I never made a step without 
 her approbation ; I never bought a pair of gloves 
 or a cravat without her advice. She determined 
 the number of my friends. She made me neglect 
 three whose names did not please her. All this 
 I thought enchanting. She had bewitched me. 
 I could no longer do without her. 
 
^4-2 PANi^V. 
 
 CHAPTER LX. 
 
 Nevebtheless my jealousy was not dead. It 
 was not even killed ; its object, merely, had been 
 somewhat changed. Ever since the husband had 
 been absent, it was impossible for me to be 
 pained by a partition which had ceased to exist ; 
 but I was disturbed by the faintest feelings that 
 Fanny suffered me to discern. Apart from her 
 children and her mother whom she saw clandes- 
 tinely, I allow^ed her to love nobody. She used 
 to shrug her shoulders and laugh at it. Thus 
 each tyrannized the other. 
 
 One day, when taking off the body of her dress, 
 a large, square envelope — which had been 
 handed to her just as she was leaving home — 
 
PANNY. 243 
 
 leajifed out of her bosom and fell at my feet. I 
 pidked it up. It bore the London postmark. I 
 looked at Fanny, who turned pale as she held out 
 her hand to take it back. 
 
 " Your husband writes to you, then 'f" I said, 
 as I gave it to her. 
 
 " What a question !" she returned. 
 
 " Does he write to you often?" I added after a 
 moment's silence. 
 
 " Why — yes," she said ; " every week." 
 
 "Why does he write to you?" I went on, 
 ' ' since you parted after a dispute of such violence 
 that it ought to separate your hearts for ever." 
 
 Fanny looked at me in astonishment and 
 remained thoughtful. However, as I was waiting 
 for a reply, she rejoined : 
 
 "You are always astonished at the simplest 
 things. Is it not natural that my husband should 
 communicate with me about his business matters 
 and speak to me of his children ? " 
 
 " True : I had not thought of that," I mur- 
 mured. AVe spoke on other subjects ; but within 
 myself I reflected a good deal. 
 
244 FANNY. 
 
 "Do you answer your husband's letters'?" I 
 said to her at last. 
 
 Fanny turned pale again, hesitated once more, 
 and showed some slight signs of impatience. 
 Then she assumed an air of indifference. 
 
 " I reply as seldom as possible." 
 
 " Ah ! And tell me, what do you write to him? " 
 
 " I don't know. I write coldly to him. We 
 speak of business. It is not very interesting." 
 
 I in turn felt myself embarrassed, but I was 
 unable to restrain myself. 
 
 " How is it that it never occurred to you to 
 shbw me your husband's letters ? " 
 
 " Koger ! Eoger ! " she exclaimed, smiling in a 
 constrained fashion, " I think you are going mad. 
 Can a woman entrust her husband's business 
 secrets to anyone, even to him whom she loves 
 best of all?" 
 
 " That is true again," I murmured. 
 
 Fanny at once sought to profit by the advantage 
 that she had just gained. 
 
 " I should be very happy," she said, "to be 
 able to show you the letters you think so much 
 
FANNy. 245 
 
 about. They would prove to you that you 
 are wrong in fearing anything. Understand, 
 suspicious spirit, that it would be impossible to be 
 less united than are my husband and myself." 
 
 "Eeally!" 
 
 " How can you imagine the contrary, now that 
 I have confided my sorrows to you?" 
 
 " Formerly you used also to confide the secrets 
 of your family affairs to me; do not forget that, 
 Fanny." 
 
 " Oh, it is very different now ! " 
 
 "Why so?" 
 
 " Because — well, I know why." 
 
 Thereupon I reflected again. We both looked 
 at each other — she shrugging her shoulders and 
 raising her hands with an expression of pity, 
 I once more grown as gloomy as death. At last, 
 beginning to walk about, for I could not keep 
 still, I said ; 
 
 "If you speak truly, Fanny, why do you not 
 show me the letters that you address to him?" 
 
 "It is not possible. Beading mine, you would 
 understand his." 
 
246 FANNY. 
 
 " Still, I should greatly like to know the tone 
 of your letters. Why not write to him on the 
 spot, just here ? You will speak to him of every- 
 thing except what you do not wish me to know. 
 I will post the letter myself. I beseech you, Fanny, 
 since you are sure of yourself, give me this proof 
 of confidence to reassmre me, for I suffer greatly." 
 
 But, she replied again, " It is not possible." 
 
 And she assumed an offended air. 
 
 Then I gave free rein to the passion that was 
 devouring my heart. 
 
 " What is it you write to him that you do not 
 want me to know ? Have you sworn to kill me ? 
 Speak, if you have a shadow of pity in your soul ! 
 You are torturing me like an executioner." 
 
 She got up, and taking my hand, said softly : 
 
 " Eoger, I should not like to give you pain." 
 
 "Why!" I said, turning white, "could you 
 give me more ? Go ! You are a double-faced 
 woman, and you have never loved me." 
 
 She threw herself upon my neck on hearing 
 this unjust speech ; but, in spite of the kisses with 
 which she stifled my lips, I continued to speak, 
 
FAN'NY. 247 
 
 ."How could your letters give me pain, seeing 
 that you have been at variance ever since that 
 horrible dispute ? " 
 
 " Novr be reasonable ; can a woman remain at 
 variance with her husband ? " 
 
 " What ! " I cried, releasing myself abruptly 
 from her arms ; " 3'ou have actually forgiven him? " 
 
 " Not exactly," she said, dropping upon a seat ; 
 " but I have found it necessary to accept his 
 excuses. This time, however, I shall not forget 
 past outrages, you may be sure of that." 
 
 " You have forgiven him ! " 
 
 Thus I exclaimed as I stood in front of her, 
 while she gazed at me in astonishment. 
 
 "So you are devoid of self-respect? You are 
 insensible to insults "^ You are a coward ? You 
 love him ? You have lied to me ? Ah ! I should 
 never have believed it of you ! " 
 
 She remained dumb ; I resumed : 
 
 " Just tell me why for so long a time you 
 concealed from rhe that he used to insult you ?" 
 
 " I did not wish to dishonour him," she 
 replied, " If you had a little piore experience, 
 
248 FANNY. 
 
 you would not be at all astonished at what 
 happens. However, I do not want to speak of it 
 any more. It concerns no one but myself. Let it 
 be sufficient for you to know that if he allows me 
 scarcely any freedom, and if his bursts of passion 
 lead him to say base things, he is always sorry 
 for them when his anger is past. I can assure 
 you that you misjudge him. In the first 
 moment of indignation I may have exaggerated 
 the facts." 
 
 " Be silent !" I exclaimed, " if you have any 
 shame, be silent ! You do not seem to suspect 
 that in proportion as you speak, some poisoned 
 feeling strives within me with my love. Not 
 another word ! I accept even that, because I am 
 vile, because I am a craven, because I love 
 you too well, because I cannot refrain from loving 
 you ; but be quite sure of this : you could not 
 have caused me more pain. Oh ! I beseech you, 
 not another word !" 
 
 I had flung myself upon my knees before her. 
 
 " It would be too cruel an experience to despise 
 you," 
 
FANNY. 249 
 
 CHAPTEE LXI. 
 
 Whenevee Fanny and I had had one of 
 these deplorable discussions we used to part 
 with coldness, and when she was gone I 
 spent entire days in inwardly renewing the 
 arguments with my remembrance of her. I 
 repeated my assaults and her arguments, and I 
 vainly sought to fathom the secret motive of 
 her behaviour. I was too young and too inex- 
 perienced; I misjudged her. It seemed to me 
 that this complex nature of hers, combining in 
 her temperament several different temperaments, 
 ought to contemplate matters absolutely like 
 myself. I did not know then that the words 
 "feeling," "love," "refinement," "jealousy," 
 and many others represented certain ideas to 
 
250 FANNY. 
 
 her and different ideas to myself; I was not 
 aware that what would have been painful to me 
 was not painful to her ; and that goodness of 
 intention was always, in her eyes, sufficient to 
 excuse her for any deed, no matter what it might 
 be. In short, I took no account of her weakness, 
 I have since learnt to know it. 
 
 The more I exerted myself to detach Fanny 
 rom her husband, the closer I rendered ties that 
 had been stretched by fifteen years of mutual 
 existence. Panny inwardly pitied me ; but I 
 could not but be burdensome to her. I was 
 quite aware that I was importuning her, but I 
 was unable to refrain from driving her behind 
 each entrenchment where she posted herself 
 in order to hold out against me. I did not 
 so much as suspect that a change of tactics was 
 the only means of attaining my end. No one 
 had shown me that it was indispensable to 
 conceal my jealousy as being the principal cause 
 that was to alienate my mistress from me. Nay, 
 in the tokens of this jealousy I saw proofs of a 
 love that niust surely touch he^, It would, 
 
FANNY. 251 
 
 nevertheless, have been simpler to make her life 
 so peaceful a one as to compel her to the drawing 
 of comparisons — always to my advantage — be- 
 tween the two men on whom she depended. 
 
 It would have been much simpler also not to 
 love her ! 
 
 Did she love her husband ? I do not believe 
 it. She doubtless entertained towards him 
 something of that common-place sentiment which 
 results from habit, and which is pleasing to peace- 
 ful souls because it affords a natural continuation 
 to things and does not weary the spirit. More- 
 over, she was touched on seeing this despot 
 growing humane in her presence ; and she ex- 
 perienced a kind of satisfaction in receiving 
 endearments from the same hand that often 
 chastised her with harshness. This did not 
 proceed from cowardice on her part, nor from 
 innate baseness of spirit, but from a certain 
 slackness of temperament that was easy of 
 explanation at her age. In short, Fanny had 
 certainly not a virile, or even, perhaps, a very 
 if^oble soul, for §he was more incliijed to use 
 
252 FANNY. 
 
 stratagem than force, and sHe preferred to 
 degrade herself by partition, rather than dis- 
 order her Hfe ; but she possessed equity of soul. 
 She no doubt thought to redeem her conjugal 
 faithlessness in her own eyes, by complete sub- 
 mission. It was a sort of compensation to her 
 husband to endure the caprices of his tempera- 
 ment. In what shallows, in what abysses, in 
 what medleys of unspeakable things, does that 
 rare pearl, probity, seek to hide itself ? 
 
FANNV. 253 
 
 CHAPTEE LXII. 
 
 Meanwhile I was obliged to accept the fresh 
 concession of the reconcihation between man and 
 wife. But in concession after concession all my 
 esteem was departing in tears. I submitted like 
 a slave impotent to resist, with cries of secret 
 rage and with vast longings for vengeance. Ah ! 
 if Fanny had known that she alone was to 
 confess herself responsible for my abominable 
 vengeance ! 
 
254 fAnnY. 
 
 CHAPTEE LXIII. 
 
 Enbaged at my powerlessness to overcome the 
 obstinacy of her character, I betrayed her. I 
 sought in debauchery to slay both my jealousy 
 and my love. I defiled myself voluntarily, 
 knowingly, vyith the contact of the impure lips 
 of senseless luxury. Every evening, like a robber 
 lying in wait at the corner of a street, I took my 
 place in cold blood and with frightful self- 
 mockery, in the infamous haunt where I expected, 
 by sheer force of will, to .quench my thirst for 
 vengeance. Still smiling bitterly, as dupers do 
 at the thought of the credulity of their dupes, T 
 took with me to my mistress's arms the hideous 
 recollection of the degraded creatures wh ose vain 
 
B'AKN^. 255 
 
 endearments had failed to weary my animosity ; 
 and so I found means to compromise Fanny 
 with myself without any suspicion of the fact on 
 her part, and to immerse her with myself into 
 the same abominable pollutions. 
 
 teut I was a thousand times more ashamed on 
 my return than I had been blinded by passion on 
 my departure. I wrung my fists in the streets 
 and tore my hair in despair. More jealous, 
 more infatuated, more closely linked, ill-avenged, 
 chastised myself and by myself, I felt over- 
 whelmed by my deep conviction of the uselessness 
 of my efforts. A sort of physical disgust rose to 
 my lips. I abhorred myself. During the entire 
 night I roamed at random, like some shelterless 
 wretch, hoping to subdue the torment of my 
 brain by the weariness of my body. Leaning on 
 the parapets of bridges, I watched the dark 
 waters of the Seine, whirling beneath me, 
 less dark and less miry, however, than the 
 thoughts stirring in my despairing mind. I 
 trampled in the mud as though to obliterate, by 
 palpable pollutions, the impalpable yet real 
 
256 fANNY. 
 
 pollution that was now defiling iny love. And 
 ever before me, gliding like a phantom, amid the 
 shadows that intersected the lengthened streets, 
 I could see Fanny's image, with her calm air, 
 her tranquil brow, and her surprised eyes, 
 seeking as it were to provoke nie still further by 
 compelling me to be occupied about her at the 
 very moment when I was asking myself whether 
 I should not at last kill myself in order to forget 
 her. Oh! horrible state which afforded neither 
 repose nor truce to my agonies, which stimulated 
 me and overwhelmed me, which, burying my 
 despair in disgust, blasted my jealousy without 
 appeasing it ! 
 
PANNY. 257 
 
 CHAPTEE LXIV. 
 
 A CERTAIN fundamental courage supported me, 
 nevertheless. The struggles that I waged with 
 myself kept me in exercise. I was resolved to 
 seek the cure of my disease until I found it, and 
 determined, did I fail to discover it, to essay some 
 desperate enterprise, in order to carry Fanny off 
 in spite of herself. It is too little known what 
 ravages a settled idea may work in a brain. 
 Insensibility leads you to contemplating with 
 happiness things that would shock the least 
 scrupulous consciences. 
 
 After ripe reflection I made up my mind to the 
 painful sacrifice of the last concession. I was 
 like a patient who, understanding at last that he 
 
25S . lUNNif. 
 
 is incurable, comes to terms with his malady and 
 arranges to suffer as little as possible during the 
 remainder of his days. 
 
 " I forgive you everything," I said to my 
 mistress. " I will speak to you no more on 
 our everlasting subjects of discord ; I will no 
 longer investigate your conduct or probe your 
 feelings. I grant you everything, I accept every- 
 thing, apart, from this abominable position which 
 has caused me so much pain, and which has 
 lasted only too long. I will have no more of 
 it. I had rather that you were unhappy ; I had 
 rather see you dead ; I had rather die. Be loyal 
 to me, I beseech you," I added, sadly, " for it 
 hurts me dreadfully to mistrust you." 
 
 "Well, there will be no more partition," 
 replied Fanny, pressing my hand ; "do not be 
 anxious or pained any longer. On my husband's 
 return I shall take advantage of the pretext 
 afforded by his last insults to lay my own 
 conditions upon him. I shall live in his house 
 in total separation from him. And this shall be 
 for life. So, be reassured, Eoger ; be happy at 
 
FANNY. 259 
 
 last. It is not my fault that you were not so 
 before now." 
 
 " You are giving me back my life ! " I said, 
 throwing myself at her feet and clasping her 
 knees in my arms. 
 
 " Dear child ! " 
 
 " Let us bind each other by an oath ! " 
 
 This made her smile ; but she swore solemnly, 
 her hands in mine, and her gaze fathoming my 
 eyes. 
 
 " And now," I cried, " if from any motive you 
 think that you ought for once to break your 
 word, swear, swear again that you will warn me 
 of it, so that there may be no treachery between 
 us." 
 
 " Upon what will you have me swear? " she said. 
 
 " Upon my life." 
 
 She smiled afresh ; but she swore solemnly. 
 
 From that time I felt reassured. My jealousy 
 continued with me like the recollection of a 
 dream that barely disturbs us from time to time. 
 I became calm again. Life once more appeared 
 to mfe broad and fair. I had confidence. 
 
26o FANNY. 
 
 CHAPTEE LXV. 
 
 Foe this reason the husband's return caused me 
 no more annoyance than inevitably resulted from 
 the diminished frequency of my interviews with 
 his wife. Summer had returned ; Fanny was 
 again living at her country house, and I saw 
 her sometimes in the evening in the summer- 
 house in the park, and oftener in my own home 
 at Paris, when she had discovered some pretext 
 for spending a day in town. She seemed to have 
 somewhat more freedom than she had had in the 
 past — at least, she often prolonged her visits ; 
 but she appeared more anxious and thoughtful 
 than ever. I attributed her disquietude to the 
 annoyances which must be caused to her by 
 
PANNT. 261 
 
 respect for her promise. I thought that she was 
 rendered unhappy by fresh disputes and fresh 
 torments, and pitying her from my heart, I 
 encouraged her to resistance, and comforted 
 her as best I might. But she shook her head, 
 sighed, and often kissed me with a brushing of 
 her lips, as though her love had grown cold. 
 
 It was ordained that everything in our intrigue 
 should be of a strange nature, and that I should 
 never understand the behaviour of the woman 
 I loved. Just as I thought that I was discerning 
 the cause of her renewed sadness — by attributing 
 it to the dissension which respect for her oath 
 must have produced — I learnt a fact which again 
 plunged me deeper than ever into a sea of uncer- 
 tainties. 
 
 Since I had recovered repose of mind, I had lived 
 a less solitary life. My friends had returned to me 
 on seeing that I had returned to them. I was 
 again beginning to take an interest in society. 
 One day I heard to my great surprise that semi- 
 scandalous rumours were afloat concerning my 
 mistress's husband. During his last trip to 
 
2U2 FAKN5 . 
 
 England, people said, he had been captivated by 
 an Irishwoman, who had just made her dehut 
 at the Queen's Theatre ; he had taken her off the 
 boards, and had summoned her a month before 
 to come to him in France. People exclaimed 
 about the magnificence with which he had 
 surrounded her. Por the rest, she was very hand- 
 some, tall and slender like Panny, but dark, as are 
 the daughters of the north, with a beautiful pink 
 complexion, and fine silken hair that fell languish- 
 ingly in long ringlets to the rising of her bosom. 
 Enchanted by this news, I ingenuously re- 
 solved to communicate it to Panny, in order 
 to strengthen her in her resistance and to 
 provide her with a terrible argument against 
 our enemy if he still continued to torment her. 
 But a fresh surprise was in store for me, and one 
 which was to surpass all others by a prodigious 
 height. Like many other women, Panny, while 
 deceiving her husband, did not wish him to 
 deceive her. Provoked by my air of triumph, 
 she believed neither in the truth of the story nor 
 in the sincerity of my attempted proof. 
 
FANNY. 263 
 
 " Either you have been the dupe of a lie," she 
 said to me, " or you have carefully fabricated this 
 tale in order to grieve me. What you tell me 
 gives me great pain. I am so hurt by the coarse- 
 ness of your feelings that, whatever you may now 
 do, I shall never be able to forgive you. Know 
 that my husband still loves me. The sorrow that 
 he feels at our separation shows me this only too 
 clearly. I am loyally observing the oath that 
 you extorted from me. You in turn should spare 
 my susceptibility by ceasing to calumniate a man 
 whom I am making unhappy through your own 
 fault." 
 
 My astonishment was so great that it did not 
 so much as occur to me to make any reply to 
 these strange words. Fanny mortified me cruelly 
 by speaking to me of "her susceptibility," " the 
 oath extorted from her," and of my " fictitious 
 calumny," in reference to the very genuine in- 
 fidelity of the man whom I detested. According 
 to my thought, she ought to have shown herself 
 happy at hearing that he was at last voluntarily 
 withdrawing from her, just as she had long since 
 
264 FANNY. 
 
 withdrawn from him. I was looking for deeds of 
 thanks, and, lo ! I had struck upon hidden wrath, 
 grievously-wounded pride, and, finally, reproaches 
 which, in my eyes, had all the appearances of 
 jealousy. It was enough to make me lose my 
 reason. 
 
FAKNY. 265 
 
 CHAPTBE LXVI. 
 
 Fresh suspicions occurred to my mind. They 
 were a thousand times more cruel than all those 
 from which I had previously suffered ; but this 
 time it was not easy for me to accept them with ' 
 docility. Distrust had just bitten me'like a viper, 
 and the germ of the poison that it had deposited 
 within me was circulating through all my veins. 
 My more ardent jealousy was transformed on its 
 reawakening. The single excuse that was capable 
 of somewhat allaying it was annihilated for ever. 
 It was now no longer of partition, but of the 
 most cowardly treachery that I accused my 
 mistress. I then resolved at all costs to clear 
 up my doubts. I said nothing to Fanny ; I 
 
266 FANNY. 
 
 appeared to be devoid of suspicion. My counte- 
 nance lied like my speech. A perfect actor, I 
 affected the utmost freedom of mind at the very 
 time that I had death in my heart. 
 
 For the first time in my life, I acted like. a 
 man. By myself, and by myself alone, I did all 
 that was needful for the discovery of the truth. 
 Under a fictitious name, I purchased the 
 country house adjoining Fanny's. I secretly 
 took up my abode in it. Crouchiijg behind my 
 window-shutters, I listened daily to the slightest 
 sounds coming from the neighbouring house, 
 and I looked at every creature crossing its 
 threshold, as though I expected to see some 
 stranger coming to ifob me of ' the woman who 
 was my happiness. At night, I glided through 
 the fence of shrubs which separated the two 
 parks, and wandered beneath Fanny's windows 
 like a burglar studying the- dwelling which he 
 has resolved to enter. I thus came to know 
 all the habits of the family upon whom I was 
 spying. The times of their rising, of their meals, 
 of their going to bed, became familiar to me. 
 
FANNY. 267 
 
 In the morning I used to see the servants open- 
 ing the doors and windows, and hear the noise 
 of the furniture as it was being naoved about 
 in order to arrange the bed-rooms and drawing- 
 room. About eight o'clock the master used to 
 come down to smoke in the park, where he met 
 his children. At nine Fanny at last appeared, 
 in negligent country dress. She used to take 
 a few turns with them. At eleven, the breakfast 
 bell rang. At noon, the brougham was in 
 waiting at the door. The husband went out, 
 and did not return until seven o'clock to dinner. 
 
 During the afternoon I often saw my mistress 
 seated at the foot of an enormous tree that 
 covered a large area with its shadow, talking with 
 her children, reading, or occupying herself with 
 some piece of needle-work. She received 
 numerous visits. From three to six, when it was 
 fine, there was nothing round the lawn but a 
 long string of equipages, the horses of which 
 pawed the gravel and champed tbeir Ijits in the 
 shadow of the trees, while groups of youthful ladies 
 and attendant gentlemen sat on wickerwork 
 
268 FANNY. 
 
 chairs, chatted, laughed and drank iced beverages. 
 All these people went off towards evening, the 
 men caracoling beside the carriage doors, or else 
 grouped in the rear of the vehicles, smoking 
 cigars and proceeding at a slow pace. Fanny did 
 the honours with charming grace ; she often 
 changed her style of dress, and from my window 
 I could see that the women especially were 
 greatly attracted by her delicious attire. For her 
 own part, she paid no heed to it, as though she 
 had always been dressed without being aware of 
 the fact. She went out but little in the evening, 
 except when the heat was very great. Then her 
 husband always walked with her ; but most usual- 
 ly he went back to Paris at about eight o'clock, 
 returning, if at all, not until very late at night. 
 
 On the days when Fanny caijie to Paris to see 
 me, she used to go in the brougham with her 
 husband. • 
 
 "Which of us is she deceiving?" I would ask 
 myself. 
 
 I used to ride rapidly on horseback by cross- 
 roads, so as to arrive home before her, and when 
 
FANNY. 269 
 
 there I was always as little interrogatory as she was 
 full of thought. She was so ever5rwhere, with me 
 as well as in her own house. Simultaneously I had 
 a watch kept on all her husband's footsteps. He 
 never went anywhere except to the club or to see 
 his mistress. Sometimes he spent the night with 
 the latter. He talked freely of her to his friends, 
 and continued to prove himself very lavish 
 towards her. Not a suspicion, not an anxiety, 
 tormented him ; he was rich ; he had handsome 
 children and an adorable mistress. What did he 
 lack ? I envied him. 
 
 But I could not rest satisfied with being a 
 spectator of the external life of the household 
 with the secrets of which I was desirous of 
 becoming acquainted. Finding at the end of a 
 fortnight that my espionage taught me nothing, I 
 grew weary of it. I had barely obtained the 
 right of supposing that Fanny was keeping her 
 word from the fact that her husband when 
 walking with her, appeared to be taken up 
 exclusively with his children. The frequency, 
 moreover, of the visits that she received prevented 
 
270 PANNY. 
 
 me from seeing her given up to herself as much 
 as I should have wished. I resolved to introduce 
 myself into her house without her knowledge. 
 She had come to display disquieting coldness 
 towards me. She was abstracted. Often, with 
 insupportable emotion I saw her from a distance, 
 when she believed herself alone, fall upon a bench 
 and hide her tear-bathed face in her pocket- 
 handkerchief. In a week my suspicions had 
 increased a hundredfold. 
 
FANNY. 271 
 
 CHAPTEE LXVII. 
 
 It was on a beautiful night in August that I put 
 into execution the cruel plan, the outcome of 
 which was to decide my destiny. I do not know 
 what time it was, but the stars had diffused their 
 soft brightness over the heavens long before. I 
 opened thp last window on the first story of my 
 house, which was contiguous to Fanny's. I 
 fastened the blind against the wall ; I grasped 
 the balcony-railing of the adjoining house ; I set 
 one foot on the ledge of the balcony and then 
 the other: I strode across the railing. I was in 
 their home. 
 
 At first I stood motionless, listening to the 
 silence, which was disturbed only by the hurried 
 
272 , E-ANNY. 
 
 beatings of my heart. Beside me an illuminated 
 window bleached the darkened wall of the house 
 like a great square of light. Falling upon my 
 knees, I first perceived that this window was not 
 completely closed. The edges of the two sashes 
 were laid one upon the other and touching, but they 
 suffered a slender stream of light to pass between 
 them. Two white muslin curtains, stretching 
 in front of the panes, permitted me to see the 
 whole room through a medium of milky colour, 
 which had the effect of toning down objects 
 somewhat. 
 
 I can still recollect it all. At the back of the 
 room stood a large open bed, surmounted by a 
 carved ebony crown, from which hung the 
 brown stuff curtains showing in relief against 
 the whiteness of the sheets. In front of the bed 
 a narrow carpet, to the right a chest of drawers, 
 near the fireplace a roomy leathern chair with a 
 very high back. There were, I believe, other pieces 
 of furniture as well, but I did not look at them. 
 
 At first I saw nobody in the room. A large 
 lamp, capped with its green shade, lit it up irregu- 
 
FANNY. 273 
 
 larly, throwing down the hght upon the floor and 
 leaving the ceiling in darkness. The bed was 
 thus intersected in the direction of its length by 
 the zone of light. As I was bending to the panes 
 to see whether it was occupied, ashadow passed 
 slowly between the lamp and the window, and 
 was projected upon the white curtains. My heart 
 beat more loudly ; I drew back a little, and flat- 
 tened myself upon the surface of the flagstone. 
 
 I recognised him. It was he ; I can see him 
 still. The warm breath of the August night 
 sighed round me through the foliage ; a bird was 
 singing in a bush ; balmy scents were rising from 
 the earth ; but I saw, I discerned, I felt nothing 
 but him. Stretching out my neck so as to bring 
 my eye to the partial opening of the window, I 
 gazed at him in dumb astoundment, as though it 
 were an extraordinary thing to me to see him 
 standing in a room in his own house. He had 
 broad, yellow morocco sandals on his nakedjeet ; 
 a pair of very loose white flannel trousers were 
 girt about his waist. With bared breast, opened 
 collar, and shirt-sleeves rolled up to his elbows, 
 
274 FANNY. 
 
 he was pacing to and fro in the room, smoking a 
 cigar, winding up his watch, looking at himself 
 in the mirror and stretching his arms. He sat 
 down at last in the large leathern chair, crossed 
 one leg over the other, and, rocking it a little, 
 allowed his sandal to drop. 
 
 I looked at him for a long time. He was 
 reflecting. From my position I could see per- 
 fectly the sole of his naked foot, which was 
 brought to a level with my eye, and his muscular 
 arm, which was extended over the side of the 
 chair. The other arm came and went from his 
 knee to his face as he carried to his lips the 
 cigar, the fragrant fames of which were exhaled 
 in my direction. 
 
 Suddenly he turned his head towards a door, 
 which I had not yet seen, placed at the foot of 
 the bed. This door was open, and in the dark 
 frame which it described at the back of the room 
 I, mistrusting my reason, perceived a dimly- 
 outlined form lit up in front by a candlestick 
 which she carried in her hand. 
 Powers of heaven ! it was she. Good God ! 
 
FANNY. 275 
 
 thou didst not strike me dftwn at the sight of her ! 
 She entered slowly, placed her, lighted candle on 
 the drawers, and, passing through the whole 
 room in the direction of its length, proceeded 
 towards her husband, who was looking quietly 
 at her, withoiit making any attempt to rise. 
 
 She was half dressed in that negligent costume 
 which I had sometimes seen her wear in the 
 morning, when taking a turn in the park with 
 her children after leaving her bedroom. It was 
 a very loose dress of blue cashmere, open in front, 
 so as to show amid flaky cambric the rising of 
 her breast. Her bare arms issued from broad 
 sleeves. Her carelessly-knotted hair strayed over 
 her rounded cheeks and sank softly in great 
 clusters over the back of her neck, while on 
 her countenance she wore her everlasting look 
 of placid purity. 
 
 But for what purpose was she coming into this 
 room at such an hour ? Who had asked her to 
 do so ? How was it that the recollection of her 
 lover had failed to restrain her on the threshold ? 
 She did not appear even to be aware that she had 
 
276 FANNY. 
 
 taken any oath, or that throughout the world there 
 existed for her an individual man other than that 
 one who, still seated in her presence, was looking 
 at her with a calmness equal to her own. 
 
 A gleam of hope shot across my soul, but it 
 was only a gleam. Sinking upon h^nds and 
 knees, while my breath tarnished the pane, I could 
 feel my arms quivering as though the stone were 
 trembling beneath me. A cold, acrid sweat of 
 agony bathed my face and limbs ; my teeth 
 chattered in my mouth ; swooning, I fell upon 
 my breast, like an oak felled by a last stroke 
 from the axe. Nevertheless, I could distinguish 
 words, and gathering all my strength I raised 
 myself again upon my knees and fists. 
 
 Then I saw that she was walking to and fro 
 in the room hke one who feels herself at home. 
 She touched the objects lying on the furniture in 
 a purposeless, abstracted fashion, as she had 
 often done at my rooms. Her husband was 
 still looking at her. They were talking, but I 
 was too deeply moved to hear anything but a 
 slight murmur. She was walking round about 
 
FANKY. 277 
 
 him, calm and false, with her soft blue eyes, and 
 her air of meaningless simplicity. At times she 
 half smiled a faint smile. This smile, which relaxed 
 her lips, but did not light up her expression, 
 appeared to me to be somewhat forced. She was 
 neither anxious, nor dreamy, nor moved. She 
 was perfectly at ease, natural too, and tranquil 
 as ever. She was well aware that the most 
 attractive characteristic that she possessed was 
 her provoking tranquillity. 
 
 Her husband, in his turn, began to smile. I 
 could see the gleaming of his white teeth. He 
 appeared to be defending himself good humour- 
 edly against an accusation which she was bringing 
 against him, not with anger, but with bantering 
 malice, which was devoid neither of contempt nor 
 of pride. They were arguing so peaceably that 
 neither of them seemed to believe in the reality 
 of their familiar dispute. At last ^he husband's 
 expression kindled feebly beneath his square 
 brow, and as she was passing once more in front 
 of him, brushing his broad, naked foot with her 
 dress, he appeared to make up his mind, set his 
 
2^; FANNY.- 
 
 foot to the ground and into his sandal, and draw- 
 ing her quietly by the waist without encountering 
 any resistan'cTe on her part, made her sit down 
 upon his knee. 
 
 Then it was that I began to weep. Upon my* 
 cheeks and upon my lips, the hot tears my 
 eyelids were unable to restrain fell in silence. I 
 understood it all at last ; I could see the 
 profanation, though I fain would riot have seen 
 it ; I asserted that it was not a dream, although 
 I would have willingly have doubted it. I 
 cannot express the breaking away of my better 
 part within me, nor the pain that was caused me 
 on seeing the woman whom I worshipped 
 surrendering herself to the arms of another. 
 She remained seated with both hands crossed 
 upon her knees, and, looking at her husband, 
 continued to talk with calmness. Nothing on 
 earth could have been so chaste as the simplicity 
 of her attitude, as the purity of her profile, as 
 the ^expression in her blue eyes. On his part, 
 he held ,her in his arm which was curved about 
 her waist, and carelessly caressed her cheek with 
 
FANNY. 279 
 
 the hand that was free. At last she laid her 
 bent arm upon his shoulder, and turned in- 
 dolently towards him. I then could see her 
 from behind ; her hair was falling down her 
 back, and her dress was spread out upon the 
 floor in splendid shamelessness. Oh, what an 
 execrable creature, full of grace and listlessness, 
 sinking upon that manly shoulder ! 
 
 " It is not possible! " my conscience cried out ; 
 " it shall not be ! " 
 
 But bringing his thick lips close to her pure 
 cheek, the other kissed her and whispered a few 
 words in her ear. She made a gesture of dissent 
 several times with her head, without blushing. 
 He insisted with smiles, in politeness ; and she, 
 resisting gradually,' surrendered herself! Cruel 
 woman ! how she prolonged my torture ! Their 
 dumb debate lasted for some time. I do not 
 know how it came to pass that her girdle was. 
 suddenly loosed and fell amid the folds of her 
 dress. I was still weeping. She rose at last, 
 this woman of light and flowers, and, with a 
 single movement of her shoulders and arms, 
 
28o FANNY. 
 
 made her dress slip to her feet on the ground. I 
 fell back upon my knees, clasping my hands, 
 asking for mercy. She quickly released her feet 
 from the heap of materials, and, a little pale this 
 time but speechless, moved towards the bed, 
 holding her last coverings upon her breast. How 
 many times had I seen her grow pale in this 
 way ! I tore my cheeks with my nails. Her 
 husband had slowly followed her. 
 
 And not a weapon about me ! I longed 
 forthwith to cut her throat, to rend her, to 
 plunge my arms into the senseless woman's 
 heart. The whole of her blood would not have 
 sufficed to pay for my abominable torture. 
 Breathless, like a tiger that sees a lion lay claws 
 ' upon his prey, I had risen to my feet, I had 
 pushed aside the window, and with nails clenched 
 upon my teeth, and face covered with sweat, I 
 gazed, sobbing and stamping, into the room 
 without discerning anything but what was 
 horrible. And I cried : 
 
 " Pity ! Pity ! It shall not be ! I will not have 
 it!" 
 
FA.NNT. 28l 
 
 Meanwhile, beside myself and tottering, I had 
 taken a step forward ; but then my hair stood on 
 end, and my eyes were opened wide, while my 
 keen gaze pierced like a sword beneath the dark 
 curtains and enabled me at last to see. I tried 
 to advance ; I was no longer able to do so ; 
 some kind of power that desired to punish 
 me had nailed my heels to the flagstone, and 
 was making me burst forth into laughter. 
 
 I again 
 
 tried to advance, for I had heard sighs, and I 
 wanted to know , from which mouth they were 
 proceeding. With a prodigious effort of all my . 
 muscles, I succeeded in removing my shoulder 
 from the wall and made one step more ; but all 
 my blood flowed suddenly back into my swollen 
 heart, and, losing my balance, I fell like an inert 
 mass upon the balcony. 
 
282 FANNY. 
 
 CHAPTEE LXVIII. 
 
 When I recovered consciousness the window was 
 dark and closed. I passed my hands over the 
 panes without being able to make them yield. I 
 traversed the balcony throughout its length : 
 all was dark, and shut, and sleeping. A cold 
 passion possessed me. At all costs I wanted to 
 see again the woman whom I abhorred with all 
 my heart, with all my senses, with all my soul, 
 with my entire being. But how make my way 
 to her ? I hung by both hands to the railing 
 and let myself drop into the garden. Twenty 
 times I made the circuit of the house, pushing 
 against all the doors to force them ; but 
 I was too weak. At last I rolled in the dust, 
 
PANNY. 283 
 
 and there, hiding my face in my hands, I began 
 to sob. 
 
 " Betrayed ! betrayed ! " I said to myself, with 
 despairing monotony ; " and the world has not 
 fallen in upon us ! " 
 
 Suddenly I got up, and, without giving a 
 thought to anything further, darted swiftly 
 through the night, as though I had assassins at 
 my heels. I traversed the whole park, I cleared 
 the fence, I crossed the road, I entered the 
 fields, and still running straight before me, bare- 
 headed, weeping, talking toi myself, dashed along 
 like an unhappy deer that draws after him the 
 fierce pack hanging by their fangs upon his flanks. 
 
 Whither I was going I did not know. I was 
 fleeing from the sight of it. I was running at 
 full speed as far away as possible, that I might no 
 longer see the frightful image which had remained 
 within my eyes. 
 
 " Betrayed ! betrayed ! " I cried breathlessly, 
 in order to stimulate myself to speed. 
 
 I fell into holes. I got up again, bruised and 
 covered with sweat and mirei and once more set 
 
284 FANNY. 
 
 forward at random amid terrifying darkness. I 
 flung myself headlong into thorny hedges ; I left 
 fragments of my clothing behind me and passed 
 on. Invisible branches checked me suddenly, 
 striking me upon the breast ; brushwood lashed 
 my face and shoulders ; I paused, weeping ; then 
 I continued to walk quickly forward. Thus I 
 passed by deserted village streets that echoed to 
 my footsteps ; by cultivated fields where the corn 
 undulated round my legs like waves ; by hills, 
 and woods, and streams, and paths, and roads, 
 that filed round me as though the ground had 
 been caught with myselT into the whirl of a 
 mighty wheel. I could no longer breathe and I 
 was still running ; I was still weeping, I was still 
 speaking. 
 
 " 0, my. mother !" I cried, "if you but knew 
 how I am suffering!" 
 
 Suddenly I found myself with my feet in water. 
 In front of me stretched A broad, black area, 
 gliding uniformly through the shadow from right 
 to left, with lengthened and mysterious whisper- 
 ings. The moon, throwing her silver reflection 
 
FANNY. 285 
 
 aslant upon this gleaming surface, seemed an 
 enormous serpent proceeding towards me to 
 swallow me. A mist was enwrapping me. I 
 stumbled forward over the stones, but the watery 
 sheets of the rapid river hindered me from walk- 
 ing. An abominable temptation seized me. I 
 looked at the peaceful sky, where the soft star of 
 lovers was shining amid the moveless clouds ; I 
 pressed my hand long upon my heart, and 
 advanced still further. The water was rising to 
 my knees, but I still felt the miry ground about 
 my trembling feet. At last, unable to proceed 
 any further, and overwhelmed with emotion and 
 fatigue, murmuring a name, and sobbing like a 
 woman, I sank down and rolled into the water, 
 which ran swiftly and choppily along its darkened 
 course. 
 
286 FANNY. 
 
 CHAPTEE LXIX. 
 
 I HAD no knowledge of what took place after 
 that. A horrible coldness had engulfed me. 
 Hissing sounds were rending my ears. I was 
 choking. Several times I got upon my knees 
 and was ever carried away by the weight of the 
 waters. At last I became obhvious to every- 
 thing ; I thought that I was dying. 
 
 When I again found myself in life, I was in 
 my own bed with my head on fire. I opened my 
 haggard eyes. All my limbs were trembling. A 
 horrible fever was shaking my body from neck to 
 toe. Two friends were beside me, and looking at 
 me. I spoke. They shook their heads. A man 
 came and touched me on the arm. He shrugged 
 
FANNY. 287 
 
 his shoulders and went away. I again began to 
 tremble between my sheets. This lasted for 
 several days. 
 
 I afterwards learnt that some fishermen had 
 seen me lying in the morning in a swoon on the 
 brink of the Seine, my feet in the wate^ and my 
 head' lying back in the mud. They searched me, 
 found a letter in my note-book, and brought me 
 home to Paris. On the way I was delirious. 
 They thought that I was mad. And I was. 
 
 Meanwhile Fanny, who knew nothing, and 
 was astonished at not seeing me, came one 
 morning, but my valet stopped her with tears 
 on the threshold, and told what he knew. 
 
 " He tried to drown himself," he said to her, 
 " and now he is mad." 
 
 But she would not believe in the suicide, and 
 besought admittance. On that day an unspeak- 
 able weariness, as of corpses kept down in their 
 cof&ns, held me riveted upon my back with out- 
 stretched arms and open eyes. Suddenly, in 
 the framing of the door, which opened at the foot 
 of my bed, I perceived a human figure, which 
 
288 FANNY. 
 
 remained standing without venturing to advance. 
 I did not know at first what woman it was 
 who, dressed in such elegant and fresh summer 
 draperies, with bracelets on her arms and flowers 
 in her bonnet, was thus coming to see me, 
 n'ow at the point of death ; and I did not under- 
 stand why she had gathered the folds of her 
 white veil across her face, and was holding them 
 with both hands as though to prevent them 
 from falling aside. My friends had risen, and 
 were standing at the back of the room, in order, 
 as much as possible, to respect a secret that it 
 was sought to hide. The woman meanwhile 
 advanced towards me, and I could hear the 
 rustlings of her dress. She bent over my bed, 
 and raised her veil with both hands. It refreshed 
 my soul to see this fresh countenance, fashioned 
 of graces and, as it were, perfumed with health, 
 thus bending down over my face. 
 • "Fanny!" I cried suddenly, raising my arms. 
 She sank sobbing upon my breast. But 
 memory had come back to me with recognition, 
 and striking her on the forehead with my closed 
 
FANNY. 289 
 
 fists, I shook her from me, crying out like a 
 lunatic, " Begone from here ! " 
 
 She thought that I was still mad, and turned 
 away in tears ; but recovering a remnant of 
 strength in my wrath, I struck her again on 
 the shoulder, and springing out of bed, I fell 
 upon her, and rolled on the ground at her feet. 
 
ago FANNY. 
 
 CHAPTEE LXX. 
 
 When reason returned, I besought my guardians 
 witli clasped hands not to allow that woman 
 into my house again. But, incapable of suspect- 
 ing anything of what had happened, and still 
 believing in my madness, she returned every 
 day — so I have since been told — and every day, 
 wringing her hands, she asked to see me. 
 
 " The doctor has forbidden' it," replied my 
 inflexible servant. 
 
 Then she , offered gold and jewels. But when 
 she at last understood that the sight of her 
 might kill me, she went away praying God 
 to save me, and offering Him her own life in 
 exchange for mine, I knew nothing of this at 
 
FANNY. 291 
 
 the timfe. The days passed, and, thanks to the 
 attentions with which I was surrounded, life 
 gradually, to my misfortune, flowed in upon me, 
 and drove the fever away. 
 
2g2 FANNY. 
 
 CHAPTEE LXXI. 
 
 At the end of six weeks I was fully con- 
 valescent. My ^friends had already left me. 
 Several times my servant asked me whether I 
 would at last receive the lady who appeared to be 
 so fond of me and the sight of whom had one day 
 done me so much harm. But I always shook my 
 head and exclaimed : 
 
 " I shall discharge you, if you let her in," 
 Nevertheless, the desire to see her once inore 
 gradually became settled within me, and at last 
 grew to an irresistible necessity. I induced my 
 anxious servant, who could make nothing of my 
 coldness, to talk. He told me everything of 
 which I had hitherto been ignorant : she used to 
 
FANNY. 293 
 
 call every day, and he did not know what to say 
 in order to prevent her from coming in. 
 
 "If she calls to-day," I murmured suddenly, 
 with a blush, " I will see her." 
 
 I felt moved, as though some fatal hope were 
 essaying to spring up again within me. De- 
 pressed by sickness, I had lost nearly all my 
 anger, but an intense sorrow had invaded me, and 
 I thought, so disgusted was I with everything, 
 that I could not continue to live. I did not think 
 of the horrible night on which the betrayal had 
 risen up before me, save as of a evil dream. I 
 still loved and at the same time despised the 
 graceful and perfidious woman whose image 
 never left me. I was waiting for a confused 
 something which would put an end to it all. 
 
 Buried in a large easy-chair beside my window, 
 I was beginning with closed eyes to review in my 
 mind what I wished to say to the traitress, when 
 I felt myself taken by the hand, and tears and 
 kisses blending upon it. I opened my eyes. 
 She was on her knees at my feet, pale but stil 
 beautiful — tdo beautiful ! — looking at me with 
 
294 PANNi?. 
 
 eloquent tenderness. A perfume rose from her 
 to me. We did not speak. I began to weep. 
 
 She got up, embracing my head maternally 
 with both her bare arms and kissing my forehead 
 and hair. I yielded myself to her, because it 
 seemed swefet to me to receive these caresses 
 which I was entitled to receive so long as I had 
 not spoken. That was why I did not speak. At 
 last, as I was still weeping and did not kiss her, 
 she said : — 
 
 " Is your love gone, Boger ? " 
 
 "Not yet," I replied, hiding my face in my 
 hands. 
 
 But she did not understand, and stood 
 anxiously before me. 
 
 I looked at her. I was surprised. 
 
 "I beseech you, Fanny, tell me that it is a 
 dream, or, that I am mad. Tell me that I am 
 not to hate you, for it gives me too much pain." 
 
 She did not blush ; she did not turn pale. 
 True as light, perhaps, in her own estimation, 
 she caressed me softly ; she seemed astonished. 
 
 But, collecting all my strength, I raised her 
 
FANNy. 295 
 
 charming figure in my arms and made her sit 
 down in front of me. 
 
 " I know all," I said to her. 
 
 " What ■? What do you know ? " 
 
 " I have seen all." 
 
 " But what ? " 
 
 " Why have you betrayed me? " I cried. " You 
 did not yield, for it was not he who went to you, 
 but you to him; it was you who, by a base 
 interchange of parts, went to him to seduce 
 him." 
 
 She did not yet turn pale, and tried to speak. 
 But, holding her with my eye, I continued, free 
 from anger and as cold as steel : 
 
 "Must I tell you everything? I distrusted 
 you. I bought the house next door to yours at 
 Chaville— " 
 
 Here she grew pale and said : 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " A night, a horrible night ! I had been keep- 
 ing watch on you for a fortnight in vain. At 
 the risk of my life I succeeded in getting upon 
 the balcony of your house. I do not know what 
 
296 FANNY. 
 
 hour it was. Knefeling behind the window of 
 your husband's room, I saw you. I saw every- 
 thing, as I see you now. He was alone. You 
 came in — " 
 
 "It is not so !" she cried, growing still more 
 frightfully white. 
 
 She looked like a corpse seated in a chair in , 
 front of me. 
 
 •'Must I go on?" I added. " You were wear- 
 ing a dress of blue cashmere. Your hair was 
 loose, and the gleaming of your naked bosom 
 could be seen. Your feet played in your satin 
 and lace slippers. Your arms were bare. Tranquil 
 as ever, even at the moment when you are 
 perjuring yourself, you did not curse him whom 
 you came to gratify, for you have two hearts. 
 Oh, Fanny ! you love two men — him and me ! " 
 
 She shook her head rapidly, and said in a low , , 
 voice : 
 
 "It is not so ! It is not so ! You do not 
 know me ! " 
 
 "Must I go on ?" I added. " You reproached 
 him for his faithlessness, which is very real. He 
 
FANNY. 297 
 
 defended himself witH smiles. You passed a hun- 
 dred times in front of him, for you wanted to 
 fascinate him by your air of modesty, without his 
 suspecting it. And you succeeded perfectly, for 
 he drew you to his heart, and as you gave no 
 thought to me who was at death's door on witness- 
 ing this, you allowed yourself to be taken upon 
 his knees — " 
 
 " Enough ! " she cried. 
 
 Then she remained dumb, looking at me. She 
 appeared to be in horrible pain, but she did not 
 weep. Her eyes were frightfully dilated and her 
 dry lips were quivering. I cast down my eyes in 
 pity for her. Nevertheless I added : 
 
 " Know that I remained there, I who worship 
 you, and it would seem that shame and sorrow 
 do not kill, for I saw everything, and I am not 
 dead." 
 
 Like two statues made to hang over the edges 
 of tombs, we were motionlfess, looking at each 
 other. At last she said : 
 
 " You must abhor me ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
298 FANNY. 
 
 She wrung her hands. She got up. She 
 stretched out her hands towards heaven. At 
 last she threw herself upon me, as upon a prey, 
 clasped me in her arms so as to almost stifle 
 me, and, sinking down upon my knees and 
 against my breast, sought my lips, and said : 
 
 "Well, I still worship you." 
 
 But rising, I threw her to the ground, and she 
 remained there. Whelmed at my feet, her hair 
 loose, her arms locked around my knees, she 
 cried out with abundant tears : 
 
 " Mercy ! Pardon ! I had lost my senses ! 
 I was mad ! But I still love you ! Have pity 
 on me ! " 
 
 And she promised to submit to all that I 
 might require. She herself proposed flight. 
 
 " Kill me rather than repel me. Crush me 
 beneath your feet. I have been wrong, but do 
 not drive me away. I love you. You are 
 breaking my heart." 
 
 I raised her and made her sit dov?n. She was 
 ashamed now, and was hiding her face. But I 
 felt pitiless. My passion had been kindled by 
 
i panny. 299 
 
 the narrative I had given of my torture. And so 
 I left her there, the woman whose pride had so 
 long impressed me. Nevertheless, she tried to 
 do me violence, and stretched out both arms 
 towards me ; but with a gesture I flung them 
 back upon her face. 
 
 " Know that I loathe you and that I worship 
 you," I said to her. " Such is my punishment, for 
 I have taken another man's wife, and I deserve 
 to be punished. You are now nothing to me 
 but a stain., You are an idol thrown down 
 into the mire. I have seen you, you who are so 
 chaste of posture, with your heavenly face and 
 your childish eyes, I have seen you writhing 
 grotesque and hideous, and crying out like a she- 
 wolf in the fangs of a hound. Be silent ! You 
 have done worse than the creatures to which that 
 frightful man compared you. They do not lie ! " 
 
 " But he is my husband ! " she said. 
 
 " Have you no conscience ? Answer frankly, if 
 it is true that you are an intelligent being, and 
 that your fatal action was directed by reflection. 
 Who compelled you to go in quest of him ?" 
 
300 PANNY. 
 
 She made an immense effort, and replied in a 
 shaking voice : 
 
 " I saw that he was becoming alienated from 
 me. I have no love towards him since I love 
 you ; but I hold to him. Is that hot natural ? 
 Divided between the desire to preserve his 
 affection and the dread of being obliged to 
 display a like affection towards him, I wish to 
 retain him when he is drawing away, and, when he 
 approaches again, I try in vain to escape him. I 
 have yielded to duty. I feared that he might 
 leave me. The thought of my children forsaken 
 together with myself, drove me mad. Forgive 
 me. The woman that he knew at London is 
 the cause of it all. I need calmness ; spare 
 me. I have been wrong, for I love you, but I 
 am only a woman. And you do not know 
 women. You do not know that there is often 
 honesty in their betrayals." 
 
 " And your oath ? " I cried. 
 
 Again she wrung her hands. 
 
 "You speak falsely when you say that you 
 yielded to your duty. You yielded only to pride. 
 
FANNY. 301 
 
 It annoyed you to see yourself left by a man 
 whom you do not love, who does not love you, 
 who oppresses you, who despises and insults 
 you. Did you not also yield to a thirst for 
 abominable pleasure ? I tell you, I heard every- 
 thing." 
 
 At this moment we looked at each other. She 
 became purple, essayed to fly, returned towards 
 me and fell upon her knees. 
 
 " If you knew how much I detest myself ! I 
 should like to tear my heart from my body. My 
 heart is pure. It would have always been enough 
 for me to see you, to listen to you, to feel you 
 beside me. It is because I love you that you 
 are the only being who is not a man to me. 
 I love nothing on earth but you. You are my 
 life." 
 
 " You love me ! " I cried in fury. " But how 
 do you love me ? Above me, in that pure heart 
 of yours, there are vain worldly considerations, 
 social reasons, dead-level habits, — your husband. 
 Do not speak of your children ! Moreover, what 
 is a love that does not know the virtue of sacrifices, 
 
302 FANNY. 
 
 that shrinks from anything whatsoever, that is 
 limited, that has boundaries, that is not an un- 
 quahfied surrender of the person, of all its thoughts, 
 and affections, and duties, and virtues ? To ruin 
 yourself for one you love, to destroy your honour 
 and the security of your future, to go as far as 
 crime for him, and to torture your brain with 
 seeking for proofs more lofty still, is not this the 
 most radiant attestation of exclusive, intolerant, 
 haughty passion? Love, you who were never 
 aware of it, thinks of nothing, and makes reserva- 
 tion of nothing external to itself. It treads a 
 sublime renegade upon the holiest things, drawing 
 upon the happiness which it invents, and to 
 which it affords the justification of its impos- 
 sibility. But you ! a woman of pitiful devotion, 
 of narrowest virtues, of colourless duties, you 
 treat all this as madness. It is too lofty for you ; 
 you can see nothing in it. What you love above 
 all else is your house, your comfort, the luxury that 
 surrounds you, the hollow esteem of the world, 
 which cares as little about you as about any other 
 person, the most trivial gf relationships — a heap of 
 
FANNY. 303 
 
 senseless things ! You love me, you say ? But 
 would you endure to be forsaken by the world ? 
 I offered you the whole of my fortune ; with 
 happiness and voluntarily would I have given - 
 you everything ; for you I would have robbed the 
 poor. Well, would you accept the smallest 
 annoyance in order to make me happy ? Then 
 do not further outrage love, that sovereign 
 passion which will not suffer any voice save its 
 own to murmur about its throne. You think you 
 love me because you gave yourself to me ? Go ; 
 I have seen all, I tell you. You were the same 
 with him as with me. It cost you as little to 
 pass from my arms to his as to change one dress 
 for another." 
 
 She got up at last in despair and tried to go. 
 But I stopped her, and, pushing her into the 
 back of the room and leaning my back against 
 the door, I folded my arms, and cried : 
 
 " You shall hear all ! " 
 
 And then I began to breathe hard, and, finding 
 nothing further to say to her, I threatened her 
 with my fists, stamping and shouting, while she 
 
.304 FANNY. 
 
 looked aside at me with unspeakable terror. At 
 last speech sprang once more from my lips. 
 
 "I never believed in you. I felt so sure that 
 you v?ere deceiving me, that in my turn — 
 unhappy man that I am ! — I, too, sought to 
 pollute our love. Learn, now, if you did not 
 suspect it, that I, who worshipped you, have 
 deceived you with the vilest of women." 
 
 But she did not believe me, and, doubtless 
 attributing what I said to impotence of passion, 
 she made a gesture of proud denial. Crushed 
 with grief, my voice then, in spite of myself, 
 became gentle and beseeching ; all my anger fell 
 beneath the weight of pity. 
 
 " Know then," I murmured, clasping my 
 hands, "that I loved you at once as a mother, as 
 a wife, and as a child. All the piety, and respect, 
 and tenderness that love can comprise in a heart, 
 all those enchanting things, too touching not to 
 be divine, I felt towards you from the first day 
 on which I saw you passing in your grace, in your 
 sweet calm, in your .beauty. Learn that I wor- 
 shipped you devotedly ; that I thought of you alone ; 
 
FANNY. 305 
 
 that you dwelt within me like a -second soul ; 
 that I suffered more from your griefs than from 
 my own ; that, to remove any doubt from your 
 mind, I would have laughed to give my life, 
 which I esteemed only because it caused some 
 pleasure to you. See, I am weeping ! I loved 
 you altogether — your children, your mother, your 
 household, your attendants ; the provoking errors 
 of your temperament, your laces, and your 
 dresses. I believe I loved him also, because his 
 image blended ceaselessly in my mind with 
 yours. I never loved my mother as I loved 
 you. I would have forsaken her and all that I 
 venerate for your sake. You were my eternal 
 hope, my sweetest possession, the perfect image 
 of pure things — " 
 
 " Mercy ! " she said, falling again upon her 
 knees. 
 
 " Well, Fanny, for all that you trod upon this 
 respect, this incomparable love. You trod upon 
 my heart — " 
 
 " Mercy ! " she said again. 
 
 " You crushed my being as the impassive ox 
 
 u 
 
3o6 FANNY. 
 
 crushes beneath his hoof the first flowers of the 
 fields. And now, like a wretch who can love no 
 one more, like an old man who has seen all that 
 belonged to him die about him, I can feel no 
 future remaining before me. All is withered 
 and rotten in my heart. I am old ! I am a 
 hundred ! I am going to die ! I nxn a tomb ! 
 Yet you are well aware that I am quite alone 
 upon the earth — " 
 
 "Mercy! pity!" she cried, writhing upon the 
 furniture, and striking her head against the wall. 
 " Do not tell me that you are unhappy ! " 
 
 " Unhappy ! That would not express enough. 
 Language is without a word to denote what I 
 am. Ungrateful one ! It was not enough to 
 take from me my thought, my heart, my life ; 
 you must also take what I love best in the 
 world — yourself; ay, and more than yourself, 
 respect for your person." 
 
 " Pity ! pity ! " she cried agajn. 
 
 "You have murdered my youth. Well, may 
 you never feel what I feel : I worship you and I 
 abhor you ! " 
 
Saying this, I sought to strike her and to kiss 
 her simultaneously; but I rolled to the ground, 
 and when at nightfall I opened my eyes again 
 and^giroped in search of her through the silent 
 room, I could no longer find her. 
 
3o8 FANNY. 
 
 CHAPTEE LXXII. 
 
 On the following day, I felt sated with vengeance. 
 I experienced that species of cruel serenity 
 which follows upon supreme executions. I was 
 at last satisfied, like the judge who holds in his 
 hands irrefutable proof of the crime which he 
 has punished. 
 
 Turning my thoughts to her, I did not com- 
 passionate her. Nevertheless, I could foresee 
 with clearness all the heavy weariness of her 
 existence. ^ 
 
 " She will suffer for a long time,!' I said to 
 myself, " then she will hate me. Chained again 
 beneath the yoke, ■ she will in vain try to bear 
 it with courage. She is not formed for re- 
 
FANNY. 309 
 
 signation. Another will some day come to fill 
 my place. If he does not love her, she will 
 dismiss him with contempt. If he does love 
 her, then the same contests, and deceptions, and 
 tortures will begin again, and will pass through 
 the same phases. As long as she lives, she will 
 fatally pursue her chimera. The love-ideal that 
 absorbs her will not be obliterated even by the 
 snows of age ; and when wrinkles come to prove 
 to her that nothing is immutable here below, 
 she will continue to evoke the phantom of a 
 passion which has been and will still remain her 
 torment. She will isolate herself from the world 
 like soldiers upon whom the fire of twenty battles 
 has palled. Detached from and sated with every- 
 thing like them, she will go to the secret poem of 
 her recollections for the emotions of a new life. The 
 children whom she adores, will not comfort her. 
 They will perhaps despise her! — Condemned 
 to love for her own sake, she will never be able 
 to satisfy herself or anyone. Powerless for good, 
 the vain quest of the good will be her eternal 
 martyrdom. She will always lack a vice in order 
 
310 FANNY. 
 
 to be happy, while to make happy she will always 
 lack a virtue. She has too much heart and too 
 little courage." 
 
 Thus did I at last judge from a distance the 
 woman whom I had now learnt to know at the 
 expense of my happiness. I cannot say that I 
 pitied her. Although I felt overwhelmed with 
 weariness, I was, in a deadened fashion, still too 
 angry to do so. I felt myself separated from her 
 as though years and years had interposed their 
 dense barriers between us; but she was still in 
 existence to me. 
 
 The recollection of her had marked me like a 
 burning iron. I was a love-convict, and could 
 not obliterate the brand impressed upon my 
 heart. 
 
FANNY. 311 
 
 CHAPTEE LXXIII. 
 
 But if I did not compassionate her in judging 
 her, it was not possible for me to turn back my 
 thoughts upon myself without suffering in every 
 fibre of my being. All the love, and filial affec- 
 tion, and pious tenderness, and respect that was 
 within me was exhaled, as it were, in fumes and 
 dissolved in tears, which I drank — bitter liquid 
 that it was — on the cross upon which pitiless 
 fate had nailed me. This love of mine struggled 
 like a sturdy young child that has tasted of life 
 and is not willing to die. This filial affection 
 which I had naturally given her, owing to the 
 difference between our ages ; this pious tender- 
 ness with which she inspired me as with some 
 
3,12 FANNY. 
 
 sweet thing ; lastly, this respect which was as an 
 agreeable, incense to her ; all this, all that was 
 best in me, was melted within my heart 
 and escaped slowly with caressings as of 
 exhalations and perfumes. 
 
 Like a traveller surprised, on waking amid 
 immense Asiatic steppes, by a mist floating close 
 to the ground, I felt myself wavering in my reso- 
 lutions, my prudence, my courage. Everything 
 was astir about me and moving away in confased 
 shapes ; everything was taking to flight : charm- 
 ing memories, superfluous vows, tender longings, 
 regrets, desires ; everything was becoming lost in 
 silence in the distance of my dreams, and leaving 
 me alone in the midst of a vast space. And 
 from this cloudy whirl of sensations, wishes, 
 habits ; from these impalpable oscillations of 
 pains, and pleasures, and hopes, prolonged to the 
 extreme limit of my range of vision, there finally 
 issued a long phantom, which rose, rose even to 
 the sky, sadly wrapped in a pale shroud. This 
 phantom I recognised by the desolation printed 
 upon its dull face, by the apathy of its attitude, 
 
FANNY. 313 
 
 by its muteness, by the bitter smile that hovered 
 about its discoloured lips. Alas ! once before I 
 had seen it wax before me, and I had felt myself 
 shuddering with it in the coverings of its winding- 
 sheet. I was twenty years old ; I had just lost 
 my mother, and, from her freshly stirred grave, 
 icy SOLITUDE exhaled and gulfed me in its arms. 
 
 I wept. Everything about me spoke of, her. 
 I forgot all the wrong that she had done me. 
 She had left a thoiisahd traces ; she was still 
 present in the room which formerly I used to 
 arrange lovingly for her reception. Beneath the 
 ceiling which had so often sheltered her ; upon 
 the carpets which she had so often trodden ; 
 among the furniture which her dress had brushed, 
 she appeared to me still, placid and consoling; 
 Here the easy chair in which she had so often 
 sat opened towards me its velvet arms ; there 
 the cushion upon which she used to set her feet 
 retained the soft impress of her elegant boot ; 
 there the flowers that she Ipved were sadly shed- 
 , ding their leaves in their china vases ; there 
 waved the curtains which she had so often raised 
 
314 FANNY. 
 
 with the tip of her timid finger ; there was still 
 in motion the pendulum of the clock from which 
 she used never to take her eyes ; there was her 
 veil; there were her letters, sweet reflections of 
 herself; there was her comb, made balmy by 
 the perfume of her hair; and lastly, there,, cold 
 and closed like a tomb, stood the bed on which 
 we had so often wept together. 
 
 All now came back in floods to my memory ; all 
 that we had said, all that we had thought, all that 
 we had hoped. Like distant music borne on the 
 breeze of the seas, I could hear her words sounding 
 in my ears ; like emanations from flowers set 
 free by the dews of night, I could perceive in 
 my nostrils the scent of her amber skin ; and, 
 like the breath of spring, the exhalations of her 
 kisses passed across my lips. My hand, which 
 she had touched, was burning ; my brbw, which 
 she had so often buried in her bosom, was 
 burning; my eyes, which she had worshipped, 
 my mouth, which she had pressed, my breast, 
 which she had doubled with her own, were 
 burning. Oh ! what pleasure I took in touching 
 
FANNY. 315 
 
 her letters, in smiling at her portrait ! It seemed 
 to me that I was still waiting for her ; that all 
 this had not happened, and that she was about 
 to return to me, as in the early days, to sink, 
 timorous as a woodland bird, upon my shoulder, 
 and perfume my face with her freshness, while 
 both her arms were clasped around my neck. 
 But simultaneously I felt a vague something 
 standing forth within me with sighs and sobs ; 
 a vast sorrowfulness filled me ; an unspeakable 
 lassitude paralysed all my thoughts. Musing as 
 one does beside the bed of death, I said to 
 myself : " All is over ! We, who loved each 
 other, shall never meet again!" 
 
3l6 FANNY. 
 
 CHAPTBE LXXIV. 
 
 I WAS SO heart-broken, that I was afraid of 
 giving way. Thinking only of myself, her image 
 seized upon me again. Unable to pluck her from 
 my memory, I fled with this image, abruptly and 
 without looking behind me, like an incendiary 
 unwilling to hear the cries of malediction issuing 
 from the flames kindled by his cruel hand. I set 
 out without saying where I was going, in order to 
 leave, to get away. I shuddered at my courage. 
 But Memory went with me, and often as we 
 passed along. Memory arid I wept together. 
 
 One day, wearied with the sight of men, I left 
 the beaten tracks, and entered towards the north 
 upon the sands which border the mouth of the 
 
•^anHtT. 317 
 
 Loire. I walked for thirty hours without 
 stopping. At last, towards evening, I set foot in 
 a desert. There I resolved to bring it all to an end. 
 
 But I was unwilling to have it said that I had 
 killed myself without reflection, like a madman or 
 a child discouraged by strife. I therefore settled 
 here in order to strive against myself, to reduce 
 myself to despair, to learn whether a cure might 
 be afforded me by a less common-place host than 
 Death. 
 
 I have given myself a year to live a different 
 life, isolated, meditative, austere. I have re- 
 solved upon nothing, except to wait until the 
 end. Sometimes, with self-detestation, I again 
 hope. I look for I know not what. I love more 
 than ever the woman whose love has brought 
 me here. I despise her no longer. I acquit her. 
 I feel that I might perhaps have acted in the same 
 manner had I been in her place, and I assert 
 that those who would have acted differently are 
 less worthy than she. Sometimes also I loathe 
 her, and am angry with myself for not having 
 stifled her. Thus I pass unceasingly from an 
 
3i8 panny. 
 
 extreme of love and pity to an extreme of rage 
 and bate. Oh, what torture it is to love ! 
 
 My soul is nevertheless exhausted. My heart 
 beats no longer. Now especially that, for my own 
 gratification, I have just reviewed the drama of 
 my life, I experience the horrible temptation, to 
 complete it by the addition of a bloody epilogue. 
 
 But why here rather than yonder with her? 
 Because there is still left to me the modesty of a 
 shy jealousy that would not be lamented. Just 
 as the deer, when wounded to the death, seeks 
 out a cave wherein to breathe in peace its last 
 sigh, and to conceal its bones, so would I fain 
 die, if die I must, in a desert far from the 
 woman whom I have loved too well. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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