THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES ANATOLE FRANCE THE CONTINENTAL CLASSICS VOLUME VI THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD (MEMBER OF THE INSTITUTE) BY ANATOLE FRANCE THE TRANSLATION AND INTRODUCTION BY LAFCADIO HEARN HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS NEW YORK AND LONDON The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard Copyright, 1890, by HARPER & BROTHERS College Library CstEsk. CONTENTS part 1 . THE LOG Cart 1 f . THE DAUGHTER OF CLEMENTINE ..... 80 THE FAIRY ............ 80 THB LITTLE SAINT-GEORQK 111 980268 INTRODUCTION. " LET us love the books which please us," observes that excellent French critic, Jules Lemaitre "and cease to trouble ourselves about classifications and schools of literature." This generous exhortation seems especially appropriate in the case of Anatole France. The author of " Le Crime de Sylvestre Bon- nard" is not classifiable, though it would be difficult to name any other modern French writer by whom the finer emotions have been touched with equal deli- cacy and sympathetic exquisiteness. If by Realism we mean Truth, which alone gives value to any study of human nature, we have in Ana- tole France a very dainty realist ; if by Romanticism we understand that unconscious tendency of the artist to elevate truth itself beyond the range of the famil- iar, and into the emotional realm of aspiration, then Anatole France is betimes a romantic. And, never- theless, as a literary figure he stands alone : neither by his distinctly Parisian refinement of method, nor yet by any definite characteristic of style, can he be n INTRODUCTION. successfully attached to any special group of writers. He is essentially of Paris, indeed ; his literary train- ing could have been acquired in no other atmosphere : his light grace of emotional analysis, his artistic epi- cureanism, the vividness and quickness of his sensa- tions, are French as his name. But he has followed no school-traditions; and the charm of his art, at once so impersonal and sympathetic, is wholly his own. How marvellously well the author has suc- ceeded in disguising himself! It is extremely diffi- cult to believe that the diary of Sylvestre Bonnard could have been written by a younger man ; yet the delightful octogenarian is certainly a young man's dream. M. Anatole France belongs to a period of change, a period in which a new science and a new philosophy have transfigured the world of ideas with unprece- dented suddenness. All the arts have been more or less influenced by new modes of thought, reflecting the exaggerated materialism of an era of transition. The reaction is now setting in ; the creative work of fine minds already reveals that the Art of the Future must be that which appeals to the higher emotions alone. Material Nature has already begun to lure less, and human nature to gladden more ; the knowl- edge of Spiritual Evolution follows luminously upon our recognition of Physical Evolution ; and the hori- INTRODUCTION. vii zon of human fellowship expands for us with each fresh acquisition of knowledge, as the sky-circle ex- pands to those who climb a height. The works of fiction that will live are not the creations of men who have blasphemed the human heart, but of men who, like Anatoie France, have risen above the literary ten- dencies of their generation, never doubting humanity, and keeping their pages irreproachably pure. In the art of Anatoie France there is no sensuousness : his study is altogether of the nobler emotions. "What the pessimistic coarseness of self -called "Naturalism" has proven itself totally unable to feel, he paints for us truthfully, simply, and touchingly, the charm of age, in all its gentleness, lovableness, and indulgent wis- dom. The dear old man who talks about his books to his cat, who has remained for fifty years true to the memory of the girl he could not win, and who, in spite of his world-wide reputation for scholarship, finds him- self so totally helpless in all business matters, and so completely at the mercy of his own generous impulses, may be, indeed, as the most detestable Mademoiselle Prefere observes, " a child " ; but his childishness is only the delightful freshness of a pure and simple heart which could never become aged. His artless surprise at the malevolence of evil minds, his toler- ations of juvenile impertinence, his beautiful compre- hension of the value of life and the sweetness of youth, viii INTRODUCTION. his self-disparagements and delightful compunctions of conscience, his absolute unselfishness and incapacity to nourish a resentment, his fine gentle irony which never wounds and always amuses : these, and many other traits, combine to make him one of the most intensely living figures created in modern French literature. It is quite impossible to imagine him as unreal ; and, indeed, we feel to him as to some old friend unexpectedly met with after years of absence, whose face and voice are perfectly familiar, but whose name will not be remembered until he repeats it him- self. "We might even imagine ourselves justified in doubting the statement of M. Lemaitre that Anatole France was not an old bachelor, but a comparative- ly young man, and a married man, when he imag- ined Sylvestre Bonnard ; we might, in short, refuse to believe the book not strictly autobiographical, but for the reflection that its other personages live with the same vividness for us as does the Mem- ber of the Institute. Therese, the grim old house- keeper, so simple and faithful; Madame and Mon- sieur de Gabry, those delightful friends ; the glorious, brutal, heroic Uncle Victor; the perfectly lovable Jeanne: these figures are not less sympathetic in their several roles. But it is not because M. Anatole France has rare power to create original characters, or to reflect for INTRODUCTION. ix us something of the more recondite literary life of Paris, that his charming story will live. It is because of his far rarer power to deal with what is older than any art, and withal more young, and incomparably more precious : the beauty of what is beautiful in human emotion. And that writer who touches the spring of generous tears by some simple story of gratitude, of natural kindness, of gentle self-sacrifice, is surely more entitled to our love than the sculptor who shapes for us a dream of merely animal grace, or the painter who images for us, however richly, the young bloom of that form which is only the husk of Being ! L. H. THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. part I. THE LOG. December &, 1849. I HAD put on my slippers and my dressing-gown. I wiped away a tear with which the north wind blowing over the quay had obscured my vision. A bright fire was leaping in the chimney of my study. Ice-crystals, shaped like fern-leaves, were sprouting over the win- dow-panes, and concealed from me the Seine with its bridges and the Louvre of the Yalois. I drew up my easy-chair to the hearth, and my table-volante, and took up so much of my place by the fire as Hamilcar deigned to allow me. Hamilcar was lying in front of the andirons, curled up on a cushion, with his nose between his paws. His thick fine fur rose and fell with his regular breathing. At my com- ing, he slowly slipped a glance of his agate eyes at me from between his half-opened lids, which he closed again almost at once, thinking to himself, " It is noth- ing ; it is only my friend." " Hamilcar," I said to him, as I stretched my legs 1 2 THE CRIME OF SVLVESTRE BONNARD. " Hamilcar, somnolent Prince of the City of Books thou guardian nocturnal ! Like that Divine Cat who combated the impious in Heliopolis in the night of the great combat thou dost defend from vile nibblers those books which the old savant acquired at the cost of his slender savings and indefatigable zeal. Sleep, Hamilcar, softly as a sultana, in this library, that shel- ters thy military virtues ; for verily in thy person are united the formidable aspect of a Tartar warrior and the slumbrous grace of a woman of the Orient. Sleep, thou heroic and voluptuous Hamilcar, while awaiting that moonlight hour in which the mice will come forth to dance before the ' Acta Sanctorum' of the learned Bollandists !" The beginning of this discourse pleased Hamilcar, who accompanied it with a throat-sound like the song of a kettle on the fire. But as my voice waxed louder, Hamilcar notified me by lowering his ears and by wrinkling the striped skin of his brow that it was bad taste on my part to so declaim. " This old-book man," evidently thought Hamilcar, "talks to no purpose at all, while our housekeeper never utters a word which is not full of good sense, full of signification containing either the announce- ment of a meal or the promise of a whipping. One knows what she says. But this old man puts together a lot of sounds signifying nothing." So thought Hamilcar to himself. Leaving him to his reflections, I opened a book, which I began to read THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BOXNARD. 3 with interest ; for it was a catalogue of manuscripts. I do not know any reading more easy, more fascinat- ing, more delightful than that of a catalogue. The one which I was reading edited in 1824 by Mr. Thompson, librarian to Sir Thomas Raleigh sins, it is true, by excess of brevity, and does not offer that character of exactitude which the archivists of my own generation were the first to introduce into works upon diplomatics and paleography. It leaves a good deal to be desired and to be divined. This is perhaps why I find myself aware, w T hile reading it, of a state of mind which in a nature more imaginative than mine might be called reverie. I had allowed myself to drift away thus gently upon the current of my thoughts, when my housekeeper announced, in a tone of ill-humor, that Monsieur Coccoz desired to speak with me. In fact, some one had slipped into the library after her. He was a little man a poor little man of puny appearance, wearing a thin jacket. He approached me with a number of little bows and smiles. But he was very pale, and, although still young and alert, he looked ill. I thought, as I looked at him, of a wound- ed squirrel. He carried under his arm a green toilette, which he put upon a chair ; then unfastening the four corners of the toilette, he uncovered a heap of little yellow books. " Monsieur," he then said to me, " I have not the honor to be known to you. I am a book-agent, Mon- 4 THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. sieur. I represent the leading houses of the capital, and in the hope that you will kindly honor me with your confidence, I take the liberty to offer you a few novelties." Kind gods ! just gods ! such novelties as the homun- culus Coccoz showed me ! The first volume that he put in my hand was " L'Histoire de la Tour de Nesle," with the amours of Marguerite de Bourgogne and the Captain Buridan. "It is a historical book," he said to me, with a smile " a book of real history." " In that case," I replied, " it must be very tiresome ; for all the historical books which contain no lies are extremely tedious. I write some authentic ones my- self ; and if you were unlucky enough to carry a copy of any of them from door to door you would run the risk of keeping it all your life in that green-baize of yours, without ever finding even a cook foolish enough to buy it from you." " Certainly, Monsieur," the little man answered, out of pure good-nature. And, all smiling again, he offered me the " Amours d'Heloise et d'Abeilard ;" but I made him understand that, at my age, I had no use for love-stories. Still smiling, he proposed me the " Regie des Jeux de la Societe" -piquet, besigue, e"carte, whist, dice, draughts, and chess. " Alas !" I said to him, " if you want to make me remember the rules of besigue, give me back my old THE CRIME OF SYLVESTBE BONNARD. 5 friend Bignan, with whom I used to play cards every evening before the Five Academies solemnly escorted him to the cemetery ; or else bring down to the friv- olous level of human amusements the grave intelli- gence of Hamilcar, whom, you see on that cushion, for he is the sole companion of my evenings." The little man's smile became vague and uneasy. " Here," he said, " is a new collection of society amusements jokes and puns with a recipe for chang- ing a red rose to a white rose." I told him that I had fallen out with roses for a long time, and that, as to jokes, I was satisfied with those which I unconsciously permitted myself to make in the course of my scientific labors. The homunculus offered me his last book, with his last smile. He said to me : "Here is the 'Clef de Songes' the 'Key of Dreams' with the explanation of any dreams that anybody can have ; dreams of gold, dreams of robbers, dreams of death, dreams of falling from the top of a tower. ... It is exhaustive." I had taken hold of the tongs, and, brandishing them energetically, I replied to my commercial vis- itor: " Yes, my friend ; but those dreams and a thousand others, joyous or tragic, are all summed up in one the Dream of Life ; is your little yellow book able to give me the key to that ?" *' Yes, Monsieur," answered the bomunculus ; " 6 THE CRIME OF SYLVE8TRE BONNARD. book is complete, and is not dear one franc twenty- five centimes, Monsieur." I called my housekeeper for there is no bell in my room and said to her : " Therese, Monsieur Coccoz whom I am going to ask you to show out has a book here which might interest you: the 'Key of Dreams.' I will be very glad to buy it for you." My housekeeper responded : "Monsieur, when one has not even time to dream awake, one has still less time to dream asleep. Thank God, my days are just enough for my work and my work for my days, and I am able to say every night, ' Lord, bless Thou the rest which I am going to take.' I never dream, either on my feet or in bed; and I never mistake my eider-down coverlet for a devil, like my cousin did ; and, if you will allow me to give my opinion about it, I think you have books enough here now. Monsieur has thousands and thousands of books, which simply turn his head ; and as for me, I have just two, which are quite enough for all my wants and purposes my Catholic prayer-book and my ' Cui- siniere Bourgeoise.' " And with these words my housekeeper helped the little man to fasten up his stock again within the green toilette. The homunculus Coccoz had ceased to smile. His relaxed features took such an expression of suffering that I felt sorry to have made fun of so unhappy a THE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. 7 man. I called him back, and told him that I had caught a glimpse of a copy of the " Histoire d'Estelle et de Nemorin," which he had among his books ; that I was very fond of shepherds and shepherdesses, and that I would be quite willing to purchase, at a rea- sonable price, the story of those two perfect lovers. " I will sell you that book for one franc twenty-five centimes, Monsieur," replied Coccoz, whose face at once beamed with joy. " It is historical ; and you will be pleased with it. I know now just what suits you. I see that you are a connoisseur. To-morrow I will bring you the ' Crimes des Papes.' It is a good book. I will bring you the edition d"* amateur, with colored plates." I begged him not to do anything of the sort, and sent him away happy. "When the green toilette and the agent had disappeared in the shadow of the corri- dor I asked my housekeeper whence this little man had dropped upon us. " Dropped is the word," she answered ; " he dropped on us from the roof, Monsieur, where he lives with his wife." " You say he has a wife, Therese ? That is marvel- lous! women are very strange creatures! This one must be a very unfortunate little woman." " I don't really know what she is," answered The- rese ; " but every morning I see her trailing a silk dress covered with grease-spots over the stairs. She makes soft eyes at people. And, in the name of com- 8 THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. mon-sense ! does it become a woman that has been re- ceived here out of charity to make eyes and to wear dresses like that ? For they allowed the couple to oc- cupy the attic during the time the roof was being re- paired, in consideration of the fact that the husband is sick and the wife in an interesting condition. The concierge even says that the pains came on her this morning, and that she is now confined. They must have been very badly off for a child !" " Therese," I replied, " they had no need of a child, doubtless. But Nature had decided they should bring one into the world ; Nature made them fall into her snare. One must have exceptional prudence to defeat Nature's schemes. Let us be sorry for them, and not blame them ! As for silk dresses, there is no young woman who does not like them. The daughters of Eve adore adornment. You yourself, Therese who are so serious and sensible what a fuss you make when you have no white apron to wait at table in! But, tell me, have they got everything necessary in their attic ?" " How could they have it, Monsieur ?" my house- keeper made answer. " The husband, whom you have just seen, used to be a jewelry-peddler at least, so the concierge tells me and nobody knows why he stopped selling watches. You have just seen that he is now selling almanacs. That is no way to make an honest living, and I never will believe that God's bless- ing can come to an almanac-peddler. Between our- THE CRIME OF ISYLVESTRE BONNARD. 9 selves, the wife looks to me for all the world like a good-for-nothing a Marie-couche-toi-ld. I think she would be just as capable of bringing up a child as I would be of playing the guitar. Nobody seems to know where they came from; but I am sure they must have come by Misery's coach from the country of Sans-souci. " Wherever they have come from, Therese, they are unfortunate ; and their attic is cold." " Pardi ! the roof is broken in several places, and the rain comes in by streams. They have neither furniture nor clothing. I don't think cabinet-mak- ers and weavers work much for Christians of that sect !" "That is very sad, Therese; a Christian woman much less well provided for than this pagan, Hamil- car here ! what does she have to say ?" " Monsieur, I never speak to those people ; I don't know what she says or what she sings. But she sings all day long ; I hear her from the stairway whenever I am going out or coming in." " Well ! the heir of the Coccoz family will be able to say, like the Egg in the village riddle : ' Ma mere me fit en chantcmtS * The like happened in the case of Henry IY. When Jeanne d'Albret felt herself about to be confined she began to sing an old Bearnaise canticle : * " My mother sang when she brought me into the world." 10 THE CRIME OF 8TLVESTRE BONNARD. "'Notre-Dame du bout du pent, Venez a mon aide en cette heure! Priez le Dieu du ciel Qu'il me dglivre vite, Qu'il me donne un " It is certainly unreasonable to bring little unfortu- nates into the world. But the thing is done every day, my dear Therese, and all the philosophers on earth will never be able to reform the silly custom. Madame Coccoz has followed it, and she sings. That is credit- able, at all events ! But, tell me, Therese, have you not put on the soup to boil to-day ?" " Yes, Monsieur ; and it is time for me to go and skim it." " Good ! but don't forget, Therese, to take a good bowl of soup out of the pot and carry it to Madame Coccoz, our Attic neighbor." My housekeeper was on the point of leaving the room when I added, just in time : " Therese, before you do anything else, please call your friend the porter, and tell him to take a good bun- dle of wood out of our stock and carry it up to the attic of those Coccoz folks. See, above all, that he puts a first-class log in the lot a real Christmas log. As for the homunculus, if he comes back again, do not allow either himself or any of his yellow books to come in here." Having taken all these little precautions with the refined egotism of an old bachelor, I returned to my catalogue again. THE CRIME OF S7LVE8TRE BONNARD. \\ "With what surprise, with what emotion, with what anxiety did I therein discover the following mention, which I cannot even now copy without feeling my hand tremble: " LA LEGENDS D OREE DE JACQ UES DE GENES (Jacques de Voragine); tradud ion franfaise^ petit in-4:. "This MS. of the fourteenth century contains, besides the tolerably complete translation of the celebrated work of Jacques de Voragine, 1. The Legends of Saints Ferre"ol, Ferrntion, Germain, Vincent, and Droctoveus; 2. A poem On the Miraculous Burial of Monsieur Saint- Ger- main of Auxerre. This translation, as well as the legends and the poem, are due to the Clerk Alexander. "This MS. is written upon vellum. It contains a great number of illuminated letters, and two finely executed miniatures, in a rather im- perfect state of conservation: one represents the Purification of the Virgin, and the other the Coronation of Proserpine." "What a discovery ! Perspiration moistened my forehead, and a veil seemed to come before my eyes. I trembled; I flushed; and, without being able to speak, I felt a sudden impulse to cry out at the top of my voice. "What a treasure! For more than forty years I had been making a special study of the history of Christian Gaul, and particularly of that glorious Ab- bey of Saint-Germain-des-Pres, whence issued forth those King-Monks who founded our national dynasty. Now, despite the culpable insufficiency of the descrip- tion given, it was evident to me that the MS. of the Clerk Alexander must have come from the great Ab- bey. Everything proved this fact. All the legends added by the translator related to the pious foundation 12 TEE CRIME OF 8YLVESTRE BONN AMD. of the Abbey by King Childebert. Then the legenu of Saint-Droctoveus was particularly significant ; be- ing the legend of the first abbot of my dear Abbey. The poem in French verse on the burial of Saint- Germain led me actually into the nave of that vener- able basilica which was the umbilicus of Christian Gaul. The " Golden Legend " is in itself a vast and gra- cious work. Jacques de Voragine, Definitor of the Order of Saint-Dominic, and Archbishop of Genes, collected in the thirteenth century the various legends of Catholic saints, and formed so rich a compilation that from all the monasteries and castles of the time there arose the cry : " This is the * Golden Legend.' " The " Legende Doree " was especially opulent in Koman hagiography. Edited by an Italian monk, it reveals its best merits in the treatment of matters relating to the terrestrial domains of Saint Peter. Voragine can only perceive the greater saints of the Occident as through a cold mist. For this reason the Aquitanian and Saxon translators of the good legend-writer were careful to add to his recital the lives of their own national saints. I have read and collated a great many manuscripts of the " Golden Legend." I know all those described by my learned colleague, M. Paulin Paris, in his hand- some catalogue of the MSS. of the Bibliotheque du Koi. There were two among them which especially drew my attention. One is of the fourteenth cen- THE CRIME OF SYLIESTRE BONNARD. 13 tury, and contains a translation of Jean Belet; the other, younger by a century, includes the version of Jacques Yignay. Both come from the Colbert collec- tion, and were placed on the shelves of that glorious Colbertine library by the Librarian Baluze whose name I can never pronounce without uncovering my head; for even in the century of the giants of erudi- tion, Baluze astounds by his greatness. I know also a very curious codex of the Bigot collection ; I know seventy-four printed editions of the work, commenc- ing with the venerable ancestor of all the Gothic of Strasburg, begun in 1471, and finished in 1475. But no one of those MSS., no one of those editions, con- tains the legends of Saints Ferreol, Ferrution, Ger- main, Vincent, and Droctoveus; no one bears the name of the Clerk Alexander ; no one, in fine, came from the Abbey of Saint-Germain-des-Pres. Com- pared with the MS. described by Mr. Thompson, they are only as straw to gold. I have seen with my eyes, I have touched with my fingers, an incontrovertible testimony to the existence of this document. But the document itself what has become of it ? Sir Thomas Raleigh went to end his days by the shores of the Lake of Como, whither he carried with him a part of his literary wealth. "Where did the books go after the death of that aristocratic collector? "Where could the manuscript of the Clerk Alexander have gone? " And why," I asked myself, " why should I have 14 THE CRIME OF 8TLVESTRE BONNARD. learned that this precious book exists, if I am never to possess it never even to see it? I would go to seek it in the burning heart of Africa, or in the icy regions of the Pole if I knew it were there. But I do not know where it is. I do not know if it be guarded in a triple-locked iron case by some jealous bibliomaniac. I do not know if it be growing mouldy in the attic of some ignoramus. I shudder at the thought that perhaps its torn-out leaves may have been used to cover the pickle-jars of some house- keeper." August 30, 1850. THE heavy heat compelled me to walk slowly. I kept close to the walls of the north quays; and, in the lukewarm shade, the shops of the dealers in old books, engravings, and antiquated furniture drew my eyes and appealed to my fancy. Rummaging and idling among these, I hastily enjoyed some verses spiritedly thrown off by a poet of the Pleiad. I ex- amined an elegant Masquerade by Watteau. I felt, with my eye, the weight of a two-handed sword, a steel g&rgerin, a morion. What a thick helmet! What a ponderous breastplate Seigneur! A giant's garb? No the carapace of an insect. The men of those days were cuirassed like beetles; their weak- ness was within them. To-day, on the contrary, our strength is interior, and our armed souls dwell in feeble bodies. THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE SONNARD. 15 . . . Here is a pastel-portrait of a lady of the old time the face, vague like a shadow, smiles; and a hand, gloved with an openwork mitten, retains upon her satiny knees a lap-dog, with a ribbon about its neck. That picture fills me with a sort of charming melancholy. Let those who have no half-effaced pas- tels in their own hearts laugh at me ! Like the horse that scents the stable, I hasten my pace as I near my lodgings. There it is that great human hive, in which I have a cell, for the purpose of therein distilling the somewhat acrid honey of erudition. I climb the stairs with slow effort. Only a few steps more, and I shall be at my own door. But I divine, rather than see, a robe descending with a sound of rustling silk. I stop, and press myself against the balustrade to make room. The lady who is coming down is bareheaded; she is young; she sings; her eyes and teeth gleam in the shadow, for she laughs with lips and eyes at the same time. She is cer- tainly a neighbor, and a very familiar one. She holds in her arms a pretty child, a little boy quite naked, like the son of a goddess ; he has a medal hung round his neck by a little silver chain. I see him sucking his thumbs and looking at me with those big eyes so newly opened on this old universe. The mother simultaneously looks at me in a sly, mysterious way ; she stops I think blushes a little and holds out the little creature to me. The baby has a pretty wrinkle between wrist and arm, a pretty wrinkle about his 16 THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. neck, and all over him, from head to foot, the dain- tiest dimples laugh in his rosy flesh. The mamma shows him to me with pride. "Monsieur," she says, "don't you think he is very pretty my little boy?" She takes one tiny hand, lifts it to the child's own lips, and, drawing out the darling pink fingers again towards me, says, " Baby, throw the gentleman a kiss." Then, folding the little being in her arms, she flees away with the agility of a cat, and is lost to sight in a corridor which, judging by the odor, must lead to some kitchen. I enter my own quarters. " Therese, who can that young mother be whom I saw bareheaded in the stairway just now, with a pretty little boy?" And Therese replies that it was Madame Coccoz. I stare up at the ceiling, as if trying to obtain some further illumination. Therese then recalls to me the little book-peddler who tried to sell me almanacs last year, while his wife was being confined. " And Coccoz himself ?" I asked. I was answered that I would never see him again. The poor little man had been laid away under ground, without my knowledge, and, indeed, with the knowl- edge of very few people, only a short time after the happy delivery of Madame Coccoz. I learned that his wife had been able to console herself ; I did likewise. THE CRIME OF 8TLVE8TRE BONNARD. 17 " But, Therese," I asked, " has Madame Coccoz got everything she needs in that attic of hers ?" "You would be a great dupe, Monsieur," replied my housekeeper, " if you should bother yourself about that creature. They gave her notice to quit the attic when the roof was repaired. But she stays there yet in spite of the proprietor, the agent, the concierge, and the bailiffs. I think she has bewitched every one of them. She will leave that attic when she pleases, Monsieur ; but she is going to leave in her own car- riage. Let me tell you that !" Therese reflected for a moment ; and then uttered these words : " A pretty face is a curse from Heaven." " Then I ought to thank Heaven for having spared me that curse. But here ! put my hat and cane away. I am going to amuse myself with a few pages of Mo- re"ri. If I can trust my old fox-nose, we are going to have a nicely flavored pullet for dinner. Look after that estimable fowl, my girl, and spare your neigh- bors, so that you and your old master may be spared by them in turn." Having thus spoken, I proceeded to follow out the tufted ramifications of a princely genealogy. May 7, 1851. I HAVE passed the winter according to the ideal of the sages, in angello cum, libello ; and now the swal- 2 18 THE CRIME OF STLVE8TRE BONNARD. lows of the Quai Malaquais find me on their return about as when they left me. He who lives little, changes little ; and it is scarcely living at all to use up one's days over old texts. Yet I feel myself to-day a little more deeply im- pregnated than ever before with that vague melan- choly which life distils. The economy of my intel- ligence (I dare scarcely confess it to myself !) has re- mained disturbed ever since that momentous hour in which the existence of the manuscript of the Clerk Alexander was first revealed to me. It is strange that I should have lost my rest simply on account of a few old sheets of parchment ; but it is unquestionably true. The poor man who has no desires possesses the greatest of riches ; he possesses himself. The rich man who desires something is only a wretched slave. I am just such a slave. The sweet- est pleasures those of converse with some one of a delicate and well-balanced mind, or dining out with a friend are insufficient to enable me to forget the manuscript which I know that I want, and have been wanting from the moment I knew of its existence. I feel the want of it by day and by night : I feel the want of it in all my joys and pains ; I feel the want of it while at work or asleep. I recall my desires as a child. How well I can now comprehend the intense wishes of my early years ! I can see once more, with astonishing vividness, a certain doll which, when I was eight years old, used THE CRIME OF STLVE8TRE BONNARD. 19 to be displayed in the window of an ugly little shop of the Hue de la Seine. I cannot tell how it hap- pened that this doll attracted me. I was very proud of being a boy ; I despised little girls ; and I longed impatiently for the day (which, alas ! has come) when a strong white beard should bristle on my chin. I played at being a soldier ; and, under the pretext of obtaining forage for my rocking-horse, I used to make sad havoc among the plants my poor mother used to keep on her window-sill. Manly amusements those, I should say! And, nevertheless, I was consumed with longing for a doll. Characters like Hercules have such weaknesses occasionally. Was the one I had fallen in love with at all beautiful? No. I can see her now. She had a splotch of vermilion on either cheek, short soft arms, horrible wooden hands, and long sprawling legs. Her flowered petticoat was fas- tened at the waist with two pins. Even now I can see the black heads of those two pins. It was a de- cidedly vulgar doll smelt of the faubourg. I re- member perfectly well that, even child as I was then, before I had put on my first pair of trousers, I was quite conscious in my own way that this doll lacked grace and style that she was gross, that she was coarse. But I loved her in spite of that ; I loved her just for that ; I loved her only ; I wanted her. My soldiers and my drums had become as nothing in my eyes. I ceased to stick sprigs of heliotrope and ve- ronica into the mouth of my rocking-horse. That 20 THE CRIME OF STLVE8TRE BONNARD. doll was all the world to me. I invented ruses worthy of a savage to oblige Virginie, my nurse, to take me by the little shop in the Rue de la Seine. I would press my nose against the window until my nurse had to take my arm and drag me away. " Monsieur Syl- vestre, it is late, and your mamma will scold you." Monsieur Sylvestre in those days made very little of either scoldings or whippings. But his nurse lifted him up like a feather, and Monsieur Sylvestre yielded to force. In after-years, with age, he degenerated, and sometimes yielded to fear. But at that time he used to fear nothing. I was unhappy. An unreasoning but irresistible shame prevented me from telling my mother about the object of my love. Thence all my sufferings. For many days that doll, incessantly present in fancy, danced before my eyes, stared at me fixedly, opened her arms to me, assuming in my imagination a sort of life which made her appear at once mysterious and weird, and thereby all the more charming and desir- able. Finally, one day a day I shall never forget my nurse took me to see my uncle, Captain Victor, who had invited me to breakfast. I admired my uncle a great deal, as much because he had fired the last French cartridge at Waterloo, as because he used to make with his own hands, at my mother's table, cer- tain chapons-d-Tail, which he afterwards put into the chicory-salad. I thought that was very fine! My THE CRIME OF S7LVESTRE BONNARD. 21 Uncle Victor also inspired me with much respect by his f rogged coat, and still more by his way of turning the whole house upside down from the moment he came into it. Even now I cannot tell just how he managed it, but I can affirm that whenever my Uncle Victor found himself in any assembly of twenty per- sons, it was impossible to see or to hear anybody but him. My excellent father, I have reason to believe, never shared my admiration for Uncle Victor, who used to sicken him with his pipe, gave him great thumps in the back by way of friendliness, and ac- cused him of lacking energy. My mother, though always showing a sister's indulgence to the captain, sometimes advised him to fondle the brandy-bottle a little less frequently. But I had no part either in these repugnances or these reproaches, and Uncle Victor inspired me with the purest enthusiasm. It was therefore with a feeling of pride that I entered into the little lodging-house where he lived, in the Rue Guenegaud. The entire breakfast, served on a small table close to the fire-place, consisted of pork- meats and confectionery. The Captain stuffed me with cakes and pure wine. He told me of numberless injustices to which he had been a victim. He complained particularly of the Bourbons; and as he neglected to tell me who the Bourbons were, I got the idea I can't tell how that the Bourbons were horse-dealers established at "Water- loo. The Captain, who never interrupted his talk ex- 22 THE CRIME OF STLVE8TRE BONNARD. cept for the purpose of pouring out wine, furthermore made charges against a number of morveux, of jean- f esses, and " good-for-nothings" whom I did not know anything about, but whom I hated from the bottom of my heart. At dessert I thought I heard the Cap- tain say my father was a man who could be led any- where by the nose ; but I am not quite sure that I un- derstood him. I had a buzzing in my ears; and it seemed to me that the table was dancing. My uncle put on his frogged coat, took his cha- peau tromblon, and we descended to the street, which seemed to me singularly changed. It looked to me as if I had not been in it before for ever so long a time. Nevertheless, when we came to the Rue de la Seine, the idea of my doll suddenly returned to my mind and excited me in an extraordinary way. My head was on fire. I resolved upon a desperate expedient. We were passing before the window. She was there, be- hind the glass with her red cheeks, and her flow- ered petticoat, and her long legs. " Uncle," I said, with a great effort, " will you buy that doll for me ?" And I waited. " Buy a doll for a boy sacrebleu /" cried my uncle, in a voice of thunder. "Do you wish to dishonor yourself? And it is that old Mag there that you want ! Well, I must compliment you, my young fel- low ! If you grow up with such tastes as that, you will never have any pleasure in life ; and your coin- THE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. 23 rades will call you a precious ninny. If you asked me for a sword or a gun, my boy, I would buy them for you with the last silver crown of my pension. But to buy a doll for you a thousand thunders ! to disgrace you ! Never in the world ! Why, if I were ever to see you playing with a puppet rigged out like that, Monsieur, my sister's son, I would disown you for my nephew !" On hearing these words, I felt my heart so wrung that nothing but pride a diabolic pride kept me from crying. My uncle, suddenly calming down, returned to his ideas about the Bourbons ; but I, still smarting from the blow of his indignation, felt an unspeakable shame. My resolve was quickly made. I promised myself never to disgrace myself I firmly and forever re- nounced that red-cheeked doll. I felt that day, for the first time, the austere sweet- ness of sacrifice. Captain, though it be true that all your life you swore like a pagan, smoked like a beadle, and drank like a bell-ringer, be your memory nevertheless hon- ored not merely because you were a brave soldier, but also because you revealed to your little nephew in petticoats the sentiment of heroism ! Pride and lazi- ness had made you almost insupportable, O my Uncle Victor ! but a great heart used to beat under those frogs upon your coat. You always used to wear, I now remember, a rose in your button-hole. That rose 24 THE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. which you allowed, as I now have reason to believe, the shop-girls to pluck for you that large, open- hearted flower, scattering its petals to all the winds, was the symbol of your glorious youth. You despised neither absinthe nor tobacco; but you despised life. Neither delicacy nor common-sense could have been learned from you, Captain ; but you taught me, even at an age when my nurse had to wipe my nose, a les- son of honor and self-abnegation that I will never forget. You have now been sleeping for many years in the Cemetery of Mont-Parnasse, under a plain slab bear- ing this epitaph : CI-GIT ARISTIDE VICTOR MALDENT, CAPITAINE D'INFANTERIE, CHEVALIER DE LA LEGION D'HONNEUR. But such, Captain, was not the inscription devised by yourself to be placed above those old bones of yours knocked about so long on fields of battle and in haunts of pleasure. Among your papers was found this proud and bitter epitaph, which, despite your last will, none could have ventured to put upon your tomb : CI-GIT UN BRIGAND DE LA LOIRE. " Th6rese, we will get a wreath of immortelles to- morrow, and lay them on the tomb of the ' Brigand of the Loire.' "... But Therese is not here. And how, indeed, could THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 25 she be near me, seeing that I am at the rond-point of the Champs-Elysees ? There, at the termination of the avenue, the Arc de Triomphe, which bears under its vaults the names of Uncle Victor's companions-in- arms, opens its giant gate against the sky. The trees of the avenue are unfolding to the sun of spring their first leaves, still all pale and chilly. Beside me the carriages keep rolling by to the Bois de Boulogne. Unconsciously I have wandered into this fashionable avenue on my promenade, and halted, quite stupidly, in front of a booth stocked with gingerbread and decanters of liquorice-water, each topped by a lemon. A miserable little boy, covered with rags, which ex- pose his chapped skin, stares with widely opened eyes at those sumptuous sweets which are not for such as he. With the shamelessness of innocence he betrays his longing. His round, fixed eyes contemplate a cer- tain gingerbread man of lofty stature. It is a general, and it looks a little like Uncle Victor. I take it, I pay for it, and present it to the little pauper, who dares not extend his hand to receive it for, by reason of precocious experience, he cannot believe in luck; he looks at me, in the same way that certain big dogs do, with the air of one saying, " You are cruel to make fun of me like that !" " Come, little stupid," I say to him, in that rough tone I am accustomed to use, " take it take it, and eat it ; for you, happier than I was at your age, you can satisfy your tastes without disgracing yourself." . . . 26 THE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. And you, Uncle Yictor you, whose manly figure has been recalled to me by that gingerbread general, come, glorious Shadow, help me to forget my new doll. We remain forever children, and are always running after new toys. Same day. IN the oddest way that Coccoz family has become associated in my mind with the Clerk Alexander. " Therese," I said, as I threw myself into my easy- chair, " tell me if the little Coccoz is well, and whether he has got his first teeth yet and bring me my slip- pers." " He ought to have them by this time, Monsieur," replied Therese ; " but I never saw them. The very first fine day of spring the mother disappeared with the child, leaving furniture and clothes and everything behind her. They found thirty-eight empty pomade- pots in the attic. It exceeds all belief ! She had visit- ors latterly ; and you may be quite sure she is not now in a convent of nuns. The niece of the concierge says she saw her driving about in a carriage on the boule- vards. I always told you she would end badly." " Therese," I replied, " that young woman has not ended either badly or well as yet. Wait until the term of her life is over to judge her. And be careful not to talk too much with that concierge. It seemed to me though I only saw her for a moment on the stairs that Madame Coccoz was very fond of her THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 27 child. For that mother's-love, at least, she deserves credit." " As far as that goes, Monsieur, certainly the little one never wanted for anything. In all the Quarter one could not have found a child better kept, or better nourished, or more petted and coddled. Every God's- day she puts a clean bib on him, and sings to him to make him laugh from morning till night." " Therese, a poet has said, ' That child whose mother has never smiled upon him is worthy neither of the table of the gods nor of the couch of the goddesses.' " July 8, HAVING been informed that the Chapel of the Virgin at Saint- Germain -des-Pres was being repaved, I en- tered the church with the hope of discovering some old inscriptions, possibly exposed by the labors of the workmen. I was not disappointed. The architect kindly showed me a stone which he had just had raised up against the wall. I knelt down to look at the inscription engraved upon that stone ; and then, half aloud, I read in the shadow of the old apsis these words, which made my heart leap : " Cy-gist Alexandre, moyne de cette eglise, qui fist mettre en argent le menton de Saint-Vincent et de Saint* Amant et lepie des Innocens ; qui toujours en son vi- vantfutpreud 'homme et vayllant. Priez pour T?a/me de lui" 28 THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. I wiped gently away with my handkerchief the dust covering that burial-stone ; I could have kissed it. " It is he ! it is Alexander !" I cried out ; and from the height of the vaults the name fell back upon me with a clang, as if broken. The silent severity of the beadle, whom I saw ad- vancing towards me, made me ashamed of my enthu- siasm ; and I fled between the two holy- water sprink- lers with which two rival "rats d'eglise" seemed de- sirous of barring my way. At all events it was certainly my own Alexander ! there could be no more doubt possible ; the translator of the " Golden Legend," the author of the lives of Saints Germain, Vincent, Ferreol, Ferrution, and Droc- toveus was, just as I had supposed, a monk of Saint- Germain-des-Pres. And what a good monk, too pious and generous! He had a silver chin, a silver head, and a silver foot made, that certain precious remains should be covered with an incorruptible envelope! But will I never be able to know his work ? or is this new discovery only destined to increase my regrets ? August 80, 1859. ' I, that please some, try all ; both joy and terror Of good and bad; that make and unfold error Now take upon me, in the name of Time To use my wings. Impute it not a crime To me or my swift passage, that I slide O'er years." THE CRIME OF 8TLVE8TRE BONNARD. 29 "Who speaks thus ? 'Tis an old man whom I know too well. It is Time. Shakespeare, after having terminated the third act of the " Winter's Tale," pauses in order to leave time for little Perdita to grow up in wisdom and in beauty ; and when he raises the curtain again he evokes the ancient Scythe-bearer upon the stage to render account to the audience of those many long days which have weighed down upon the head of the jealous Leontes. Like Shakespeare in his play, I have left in this diary of mine a long interval to oblivion ; and after the fashion of the poet, I make Time himself intervene to explain the omission of ten whole years. Ten whole years, indeed, have passed since I wrote one single line in this diary ; and now that I take up the pen again, I have not the pleasure, alas! to describe a Perdita "now grown in grace." Youth and beauty are the faithful companions of poets; but those charming phantoms scarcely visit the rest of us, even for the space of a season. We do not know how to retain them with us. If the fair shade of some Perdita should ever, through some inconceivable whim, take a notion to traverse my brain, she would hurt herself horribly against heaps of dog-eared parchments. Happy the poets ! their white hairs never scare away the hover- ing shades of Helens, Francescas, Juliets, Julias, and Dorotheas ! But the nose alone of Sylvestre Bonnard would put to flight the whole swarm of love's heroines. Yet I, like others, have felt beauty ; I have known 30 THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. that mysterious charm which Nature has lent to ani- mate form ; and the clay which lives has given to me that shudder of delight which makes the lover and the poet. But I have never known either how to love or how to sing. Now, in my memory all encumbered as it is with the rubbish of old texts I can discern again, like a miniature forgotten in some attic, a cer- tain bright young face, with violet eyes. . . . "Why, Bonnard, my friend, what an old fool you are becom- ing! Head that catalogue which a Florentine book- seller sent you this very morning. It is a catalogue of Manuscripts ; and he promises you a description of several famous ones, long preserved by the collectors of Italy and Sicily. There is something better suited to you, something more in keeping with your present appearance. I read ; I cry out ! Hamilcar, who has assumed with the approach of age an air of gravity that in- timidates me, looks at me reproachfully, and seems to ask me whether there is any rest in this world, since he cannot enjoy it beside me, who am old also like himself. In the sudden joy of my discovery, I need a confi- dant ; and it is to the sceptic Hamilcar that I address myself with all the effusion of a happy man. "No, Hamilcar! no," I said to him; "there is no rest in this world, and the quietude you long for is in- compatible with the duties of life. And you say that we are old, indeed ! Listen to what I read in this cat- alogue, and then tell me whether this is a time to be reposing : THE CRIME OF 8TLVE8TRE BONNARD. 31 U 'LA LEQENDE DOREE DE JACQUES DE VORAQINE ; traductionfranfaise du quatorsieme siecle,par le Clerc Ale- xandre. " ' Superb MS., ornamented with two miniatures, wonderfully executed, and in a perfect state of conservation : one representing the Purification of the Virgin ; the other the Coronation of Proserpine. " 'At the termination of the "L^gende Dore"e" are the Legends of Saints Ferre'ol, Ferrution, Germain, and Droctoveus (xxviij pp.), and the Mirac- ulous Sepulture of Monsieur Saint-Germain d' Auxerre (xij pp.). " * This rare manuscript, which formed part of the collection of Sir Thomas Raleigh, is now in the private study of Signer Micael-Angelo Pollzzi, of Girgenti.' " You hear that, Hamilcar ? The manuscript of the Clerk Alexander is in Sicily, at the house of Micael- Angelo Polizzi. Heaven grant he may be a friend of learned men ! I am going to write to him !" "Which I did forthwith. In my letter I requested Signer Polizzi to allow me to examine the manuscript of Clerk Alexander, stating on what grounds I ven- tured to consider myself worthy of so great a favor. I offered at the same time to put at his disposal several unpublished texts in my own possession, not devoid of interest. I begged him to favor me with a prompt reply, and below my signature I wrote down all my honorific titles. " Monsieur ! Monsieur ! where are you running like that ?" cried Therese, quite alarmed, coming down the stairs in pursuit of me, four steps at a time, with my hat in her hand. " I am going to post a letter, Therese." " Seiqneur-Dieu ! is that a way to run out in the street, bareheaded, like a crazy man ?" 32 THE CRIME OF SJLVESTRE BONNARD. " I am crazy, I know, Therese. But who is not ? Give me my hat, quick !" " And your gloves, Monsieur ! and your umbrella !" I had reached the bottom of the stairs, but still heard her protesting and lamenting. October 10, 1859. I AWAITED Signer Polizzi's reply with ill-contained impatience. I could not even remain quiet ; I would make sudden nervous gestures open books and violent- ly close them again. One day I happened to upset a book with my elbow a volume of Moreri. Hamil- car, who was washing himself, suddenly stopped, and looked angrily at me, with his paw over his ear. Was this the tumultuous existence he must expect under my roof? Had there not been a tacit understanding between us that we should live a peaceful life ? I had broken the covenant. " My poor dear comrade," I made answer, " I am the victim of a violent passion, which agitates and masters me. The passions are enemies of peace and quiet, I acknowledge ; but without them there would be no arts or industries in the world. Everybody would sleep naked on a manure-heap ; and you would not be able, Hamilcar, to repose all day on a silken cushion, in the City of Books." I expatiated no further to Hamilcar on the theory of the passions, however, because my housekeeper THE CRIME OF 8TLVESTRE BONNARD. 33 brought me a letter. It bore the postmark of Naples, and read as follows : "MOST ILLUSTRIOUS SIB, I do indeed possess that incompar- able manuscript of the ' Golden Legend ' which could not escape your keen observation. All-important reasons, however, forbid me, imperiously, tyrannically, to let the manuscript go out of my possession for a single day, for even a single minute. It will be a joy and pride for me to have you examine it in my humble home at Girgenti, which will be embellished and illuminated by your presence. It is with the most anxious expectation of your visit that I presume to sign myself, Seigneur Academician, " Your humble and devoted servant, " MICAEL-ANGELO POLIZZI, " Wine-merchant ani Archaeologist at Girgenti, Sicily." "Well, then ! I will go to Sicily : " Extremum hunc, Arethusa, mihi concede Idljorem" October 25, 1859. MY resolve had been taken and my preparations made ; it only remained for me to notify my house- keeper. I must acknowledge it was a long time be- fore I could make up my mind to tell her I was going away. I feared her remonstrances, her railleries, her objurgations, her tears. " She is a good, kind girl," I said to myself ; " she is attached to me ; she will want to prevent me from going ; and the Lord knows that when she has her mind set upon anything, gestures and cries cost her no effort. In this instance she will be sure to call the concierge, the scrubber, the mattress- 3 34 THE CRIME OF 8TLVESTRE BONNARD. maker, and the seven sons of the fruit-seller ; they will all kneel down in a circle around me ; they will begin to cry, and then they will look so ugly that I shall be obliged to yield, so as not to have the pain of seeing them any more." Such were the awful images, the sick dreams, which fear marshalled before my imagination. Yes, fear " fecund Fear," as the poet says gave birth to these monstrosities in my brain. For I may as well make the confession in these private pages I am afraid of my housekeeper. I am aware that she knows I am weak ; and this fact alone is sufficient to dispel all my courage in any contest with her. Contests are of fre- quent occurrence ; and I invariably succumb. But for all that, I had to announce my departure to Therese. She came into the library with an armful of wood to make a little fire "uneflambee" she said. For the mornings are chilly. I watched her out of the corner of my eye while she crouched down at the hearth, with her head in the opening of the fire-place. I do not know how I then found the courage to speak, but I did so without much hesitation. I got up, and, walking up and down the room, observed in a careless tone, with that swaggering manner characteristic of cowards, " By the way, Therese, I am going to Sicily." Having thus spoken, I awaited the consequence with great anxiety. Therese did not reply. Her head and her vast cap remained buried in the fire-place; and THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 35 nothing in her person, which I closely watched, be- trayed the least emotion. She poked some paper under the wood, and blew up the fire. That was all ! Finally I saw her face again ; it was calm so calm that it made me vexed. " Surely," I thought to my- self, " this old maid has no heart. She lets me go away without saying so much as 'Ahf Can the absence of her old master really affect her so little ?" " Well, then go, Monsieur," she answered, at last, " only be back here by six o'clock ! There is a dish for dinner to-day which will not wait for anybody." Naples, Novemler 10, 1859. " Co tra calle vwe, magna, e lame afaccia" I understand, my friend for three centimes I can eat, drink, and wash my face, all by means of one of those slices of watermelon you display there on a lit- tle table. But Occidental prejudices would prevent me from enjoying that simple pleasure freely and frankly. And how could I suck a watermelon? I have enough to do merely to keep on my feet in this crowd. What a luminous, noisy night in the Strada di Porto ? Mountains of fruit tower up in the shops, illuminated by multi-colored lanterns. Upon charcoal furnaces lighted in the open air water boils and steams, and ragouts are singing in frying-pans. The smell of fried fish and hot meats tickles my nose and makes me sneeze. At this moment I find that my handker- 36 THE CRIME OF 8TLVESTRE BONNARD. chief has left the pocket of my frock-coat. I am pushed, lifted up, and turned about in every direction by the gayest, the most talkative, the most animated, and the most adroit populace possible to imagine ; and suddenly a young woman of the people, while I am admiring her magnificent hair, with a single shock of her powerful elastic shoulder, pushes me staggering three paces back at least, without injury, into the arms of a maccaroni-eater, who receives me with a smile. I am in Naples. How I ever managed to arrive here, with a few mutilated and shapeless remains of baggage, I cannot tell, because I am no longer myself. I have been travelling in a condition of perpetual fright ; and I think that I must have looked awhile ago in this bright city like an owl bewildered by sunshine. To- night it is much worse ! Wishing to obtain a glimpse of popular manners, I went to the Strada di Porto, where I now am. All about me animated throngs of people crowd and press before the eating-places ; and I float like a waif among these living surges, which, even while they submerge you, still caress. For this Neapolitan people has, in its very vivacity, something indescribably gentle and polite. I am not roughly jostled, I am merely swayed about ; and I think that by dint of thus rocking me to and fro, these good folks want to lull me asleep on my feet. I admire, as I tread the lava pavements of the strada, those por- ters and fishermen who move by me chatting, singing, smoking, gesticulating, quarrelling, and embracing each THE CRIME OF STLVE8TRE BONNARD. 37 other the next moment with astonishing versatility of mood. They live through all their senses at the same time; and, being philosophers without knowing it, keep the measure of their desires in accordance with the brevity of life. I approach a much-patronized tavern, and see inscribed above the entrance this quatrain in Neapolitan patois: " Amice, alliegre magnammo e letimmo NJin che rice ztace noglio a la lucerna : CM sa s'a Vautro munno n'ce vedimmo f Chi sa s'a Vautro munno rice taverna ?" * Even such counsels was Horace wont to give to his friends. You received them, Posthumus ; you heard them also, Leuconoe, perverse beauty who wished to know the secrets of the future. That future is now the past, and we know it well. Of a truth you were foolish to worry yourselves about so small a matter ; and your friend showed his good sense when he told you to take life wisely and to filter your Greek wines "Sapias, vina liques." Even thus the sight of a fair land under a spotless sky urges to the pursuit of quiet pleasures. But there are souls forever harassed by some sublime discontent ; those are the noblest. You were of such, Leuconoe ; and I, visiting for the first time, in my declining years, that city where your beau- ty was famed of old, I salute with deep respect your * " Friends, let us merrily eat and drink as long as oil remains in the lamp. Who knows if we shall meet again in the other world ? Who knows if in the other world there be a tavern ?" 38 THE CRIME OF 87LVE8TRE BONNARD. melancholy memory. Those souls of kin to your own who appeared in the age of Christianity were souls of saints ; and the " Golden Legend " is full of the miracles they wrought. Your friend Horace left a less noble posterity, and I see one of his descendants in the person of that tavern poet, who at this moment is serving out wine in cups under the epicurean motto of his sign. And yet life decides in favor of friend Flaccus, and his philosophy is the only one which adapts itself to the course of events. There is a fellow leaning against that trellis-work covered with vine-leaves, and eating an ice, while watching the stars. He would not stoop even to pick up the old manuscript I am going to seek with so much trouble and fatigue. And in truth man is made rather to eat ices than to pore over old texts. I continued to wander about among the drinkers and the singers. There were lovers biting into beau- tiful fruit, each with an arm about the other's waist. Man must be naturally bad ; for all this strange joy only evoked in me a feeling of uttermost despondency. That thronging populace displayed such artless de- light in the simple act of living, that all the shynesses begotten by my old habits as an author awoke and intensified into something like fright. Furthermore, I found myself much discouraged by my inability to understand a word of all the storm of chatter about me. It was a humiliating experience for a philologist. Thus I had begun to feel quite sulky, when I was startled to hear some one just behind me observe : THE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. 39 " Dimitri, that old man is certainly a Frenchman. He looks so bewildered that I really feel sorry for him. Shall I speak to him ? . . . He has such a good-natured look, with that round back of his do you not think so, Dimitri?" It was said in French by a woman's voice. For the moment it was disagreeable to hear myself spoken of as an old man. Is a man old at sixty-two ? Only the other day, on the Pont des Arts, my colleague Perrot d'Avrignac complimented me on my youthful appear- ance ; and I should think him a better authority about one's age than that young chatterbox who has taken it on herself to make remarks about my back. My back is round, she says. Ah ! ah ! I had some suspi- cion myself to that effect, but I am not going now to believe it at all, since it is the opinion of a giddy-headed young woman. Certainly I will not turn my head round to see who it was that spoke ; but I am sure it was a pretty woman. Why ? Because she talks like a capricious person and like a spoiled child. Ugly women may be naturally quite as capricious as pretty ones ; but as they are never petted and spoiled, and as no allowances are made for them, they soon find them- selves obliged either to suppress their whims or to hide them. On the other hand, the pretty women can be just as fantastical as they please. My neighbor is evidently one of the latter. . . . But, after all, coming to think it over, she really did nothing worse than to express, in her own way, a kindly thought about me, for which I ought to feel grateful. 40 THE CRIME OF 8TLVE8TRE BONNARD. These reflections including the last and decisive one passed through my mind in less than a second ; and if I have taken a whole minute to tell them, it is only because I am a bad writer, which failing is char- acteristic of most philologists. In less than a second, therefore, after the voice had ceased, I did turn round, and saw a pretty little woman a sprightly brunette. " Madame," I said, with a bow, " excuse my invol- untary indiscretion. I could not help overhearing what you have just said. You would like to be of ser- vice to a poor old man. And the wish, Madame, has al- ready been fulfilled the mere sound of a French voice has given me such pleasure that I must thank you." I bowed again, and turned to go away ; but my foot slipped upon a melon-rind, and I would certainly have embraced the Parthenopean soil had not the young lady put out her hand and caught me. There is a force in circumstances even in the very smallest circumstances against which resistance is vain. I resigned myself to remain the protege of the fair unknown. " It is late," she said ; " do you not wish to go back to your hotel, which must be quite close to ours un- less it be the same one ?" " Madame," I replied, " I do not know what time it is, because somebody has stolen my watch ; but I think, as you say, that it must be time to retire ; and I will be very glad to regain my hotel in the com- pany of such courteous compatriots." THE CRIME OF STLVE8TRE BONNARD. 41 So saying, I bowed once more to the young lady, and also saluted her companion, a silent colossus with a gentle and melancholy face. After having gone a little way with them, I learned, among other matters, that my new acquaintances were the Prince and Princess Trepof, and that they were making atrip round the world for the purpose of finding match-boxes, of which they were making a collection. "We proceeded along a narrow, tortuous vicoletto, lighted only by a single lamp burning in the niche of a Madonna. The purity and transparency of the air gave a celestial softness and clearness to the very dark- ness itself ; and one could find one's way without diffi- culty under such a limpid night. But in a little while we began to pass through a "venella," or, in .Nea- politan parlance, a sottoportico, which led under so many archways and so many far-projecting balconies that no gleam of light from the sky could reach us. My young guide had made us take this route as a short cut, she assured us ; but I think she did so quite as much simply in order to show that she felt at home in Naples, and knew the city thoroughly. Indeed, she needed to know it very thoroughly to venture by night into that labryinth of subterranean alleys and flights of steps. If ever any man showed absolute docil- ity in allowing himself to be guided, that man was my- self. Dante never followed the steps of Beatrice with more confidence than I felt in following those of Prin- cess Trepof. 42 TUB CRIME OF 8TLVE8TRE BONNARD. The lady appeared to find some pleasure in my con- versation, for she invited me to take a carriage-drive with her on the morrow to visit the grotto of Posi- lippo and the tomb of Virgil. She declared she had seen me somewhere before ; but she could not remem- ber if it had been at Stockholm or at Canton. In the former event I was a very celebrated professor of geology; in the latter, a provision-merchant whose courtesy and kindness had been much appreciated. One thing certain was that she had seen my back somewhere before. " Excuse me," she added ; " we are continually travel- ling, my husband and I, to collect match-boxes and to change our ennui by changing country. Perhaps it would be more reasonable to content ourselves with a single variety of ennui. But we have made all our preparations and arrangements for travelling : all our plans have been laid out in advance, and it gives us no trouble, whereas it would be very troublesome for us to stop anywhere in particular. I tell you all this so that you may not be surprised if my recollections have become a little mixed up. But from the mo- ment I first saw you at a distance this evening, I felt in fact I knew that I had seen you before. Now the question is, ' "Where was it that I saw you ?' You are not, then, either the geologist or the provision- merchant ?" " No, Madame," I replied, " I am neither the one nor the other ; and I am sorry for it since you have had THE CRIME OF STLVE8TRE BONNARD. 43 reason to esteem them. There is really nothing about me worthy of your interest. I have spent all my life poring over books, and I have never travelled: you might have known that from my bewilderment, which excited your compassion. I am a member of the Institute." " You are a member of the Institute ! How nice ! Will you not write something for me in my album ? Do you know Chinese ? I would like so much to have you write something in Chinese or Persian in my al- bum. I will introduce you to my friend, Miss Fergus- son, who travels everywhere to see all the famous people in the world. She will be delighted! . . . Dimitri, did you hear that ? this gentleman is a mem- ber of the Institute, and he has passed all his life over books." The prince nodded approval. "Monsieur," I said, trying to engage him in our conversation, " it is true that something can be learned from books ; but a great deal more can be learned by travelling, and I regret that I have not been able to go round the world like you. I have lived in the same house for thirty years, and I scarcely ever go out." " Lived in the same house for thirty years !" cried Madame Trepof ; is it possible ?" " Yes, Madame," I answered. " But you must know the house is situated on the bank of the Seine, and in the very handsomest and most famous part of the 44 THE CRIME OF S7LVESTRE BONNARD. world. From my window I can see the Tuileries and the Louvre, the Pont-Neuf , the towers of Notre-Dame, the turrets of the Palais de Justice, and the spire of the Sainte-Chapelle. All those stones speak to me ; they tell me stories about the days of Saint-Louis, of the Valois, of Henri IV., and of Louis XIV. I under- stand them, and I love them all. It is only a very small corner of the world, but honestly, Madame, where is there a more glorious spot ?" At this moment we found ourselves upon a public square a largo steeped in the soft glow of the night. Madame Trepof looked at me in an uneasy manner ; her lifted eyebrows almost touched the black curls about her forehead. "Where do you live, then?" she demanded, brusquely. " On the Quai Malaquais, Madame, and my name is Bonnard. It is not a name very widely known, but I am contented if my friends do not forget it." This revelation, unimportant as it was, produced an extraordinary effect upon Madame Tr6pof. She im- mediately turned her back upon me and caught her husband's arm. " Come, Dimitri !" she exclaimed, " do walk a little faster. I am horribly tired, and you will not hurry yourself in the least. We shall never get home. ... As for you, monsieur, your way lies over there !" She made a vague gesture in the direction of some dark vicolo, pushed her husband the opposite way, and called to me, without even turning her head, TEE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 45 " Adieu, Monsieur ! We shall not go to Posilippo to-morrow, nor the day after, either. I have a fright- ful headache ! . . . Dimitri, you are unendurable ! Will you not walk faster ?" I remained for the moment stupefied, vainly trying to think what I could have done to offend Madame Trepof. I had also lost my way, and seemed doomed to wander about all night. In order to ask my way, I would have to see somebody ; and it did not seem likely that I should find a single human being who could understand me. In my despair I entered a street at random a street, or rather a horrible alley that had the look of a murderous place. It proved so in fact, for I had not been two minutes in it before I saw two men fighting with knives. They were attack- ing each other even more fiercely with their tongues than with their weapons ; and I concluded from the nature of the abuse they were showering upon each other that it was a love affair. I prudently made my way into a side alley while those two good fellows were still much too busy with their own affairs to think about mine. I wandered hopelessly about for a while, and at last sat down, completely discouraged, on a stone bench, inwardly cursing the strange ca- prices of Madame Trepof. "How are you, Signor? Are you back from San Carlo? Did you hear the diva sing? It is only at "Naples you can hear singing like hers." I looked up, and recognized my host. I had seated 46 THE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. myself with my back to the fagade of my hotel, un- der the window of my own room. Monte-Allegro, November 30, 1859. WE were all resting myself, my guides, and their mules on the road from Sciacca to Girgenti, at a tavern in the miserable village of Monte -Allegro, whose inhabitants, consumed by the maP aria, con- tinually shiver in the sun. But nevertheless they are Greeks, and their gayety triumphs over all circum- stances. A few gather about the tavern, full of smil- ing curiosity. One good story would have sufficed, had I known how to tell it to them, to make them forget all the woes of life. They had all a look of intelligence; and their women, although tanned and faded, wore their long black cloaks with much grace. Before me I could see old ruins whitened by the sea-wind ruins about which no grass ever grows. The dismal melancholy of deserts prevails over this arid land, whose cracked surface can barely nourish a few shrivelled mimosas, cacti, and dwarf palms. Twenty yards away, along the course of a ravine, stones were gleaming whitely like a long line of scat- tered bones. They told me that was the bed of a stream. I had been about fifteen days in Sicily. On com- ing into the Bay of Palermo which opens between the two mighty naked masses of the Pelligrino and THE CRIME OF 8TLVE8TRE BONNARD. 47 the Catalfano, and extends inward along the " Golden Conch" the view inspired me with such admiration that I resolved to travel a little in this island, so en- nobled by historic memories, and rendered so beauti- ful by the outlines of its hills, which reveal the prin- ciples of Greek art. Old pilgrim though I was, grown hoary in the Gothic Occident I dared to venture upon that classic soil; and, securing a guide, I went from Palermo to Trapani, from Trapani to Selinonte, from Selinonte to Sciacca which I left this morning to go to Girgenti, where I am to find the MS. of Clerk Alexander. The beautiful things I have seen are still so vivid in my mind that I feel the task of writing them would be a useless fatigue. Why spoil my pleasure-trip by collecting notes? Lovers who love truly do not write down their happiness. Wholly absorbed by the melancholy of the present and the poetry of the past, my thoughts peopled with beautiful shapes, and my eyes ever gratified by the pure and harmonious lines of the landscape, I was resting in the tavern at Monte- Allegro, sipping a glass of heavy, fiery wine, when I saw two persons enter the waiting-room, whom, after a moment's hesi- tation, I recognized as the Prince and Princess Trepof. This time I saw the princess in the light and what a light ! He who has known that of Sicily can better comprehend the words of Sophocles : " O holy light ! . . . Eye of the Golden D