Blacky began to show signs of impatience and agitation. I could read him then like a book. It was time to go. I paid, got up, and while I went off to the right towards the path by which we came to the mountain, I saw Blacky go and plant himself on the left, at the opening of another path. He gave me a serious and severe look. What progress I had made during the last two hours, and how familiar Blacky's eloquent silence had become!

"What must you think of me?" said Blacky to me. "Do you imagine I am going to take the same path twice? No, indeed. I am a good guide, and I know my business. We shall make the descent another way."

We went back by another road, which was much prettier than the first. Blacky, quite sprightly, often turned around to me with an air of triumphant joy. We traversed the village, and at the station Blacky was assailed by three or four dogs of his acquaintance, who seemed desirous of a talk or game with their comrade. They attempted to block his way, but Blacky, grumbling and growling, repulsed their advances.

"Can't you see what I am doing? I am taking this gentleman to the station."

It was only in the waiting-room that he consented to leave me, after having eaten with relish the two last pieces of sugar. And this is how I interpreted the farewell look of Blacky:

"We are twenty minutes ahead of time. It isn't I who would have let you lose the train. Well, good-bye—pleasant journey!"



THE MOST BEAUTIFUL WOMAN IN PARIS

On Friday, April 19th, Prince Agenor was really distracted at the opera during the second act of "Sigurd." The prince kept going from box to box, and his enthusiasm increased as he went.

"That blonde! Oh, that blonde! She is ideal! Look at that blonde! Do you know that blonde?"

It was from the front part of Mme. de Marizy's large first tier box that all these exclamations were coming at that moment.

"Which blonde?" asked Mme. de Marizy.

"Which blonde! Why, there is but one this evening in the house. Opposite to you, over there, in the first box, the Sainte Mesme's box. Look, baroness, look straight over there—"

"Yes I am looking at her. She is atrociously got up, but pretty—"

"Pretty! She is a wonder! Simply a wonder! Got up? Yes, agreed—some country relative. The Sainte Mesmes have cousins in Perigord. But what a smile! How well her neck is set on! And the slope of the shoulders! Ah, especially the shoulders!"

"Come, either keep still or go away. Let me listen to Mme. Caron—"

The prince went away, as no one knew that incomparable blonde. Yet she had often been to the opera, but in an unpretentious way—in the second tier of boxes. And to Prince Agenor above the first tier of boxes there was nothing, absolutely nothing. There was emptiness—space. The prince had never been in a second-tier box, so the second-tier boxes did not exist.

While Mme. Caron was marvellously singing the marvellous phrase of Reyer, "O mon sauveur silencieux la Valkyrie est ta conquete," the prince strolled along the passages of the opera. Who was that blonde? He wanted to know, and he would know.

And suddenly he remembered that good Mme. Picard was the box-opener of the Sainte Mesmes, and that he, Prince of Nerins, had had the honor of being for a long time a friend of that good Mme. Picard. It was she who in the last years of the Second Empire had taught him bezique in all its varieties—Japanese, Chinese, etc. He was then twenty, Mme. Picard was forty. She was not then box-opener of the National Academy of Music; she had in those times as office—and it was not a sinecure—the position of aunt to a nice young person who showed a very pretty face and a very pretty pair of legs in the chorus of the revues of the Varietee. And the prince, while quite young, at the beginning of his life, had, for three or four years, led a peaceful, almost domestic life, with the aunt and niece. Then they went off one way and he another.

One evening at the opera, ten years later, in handing his overcoat to a venerable-looking old dame, Agenor heard himself saluted by the following little speech:

"Ah, how happy I am to see you again, prince! And not changed—not at all changed. Still the same, absolutely the same—still twenty."

It was Mme. Picard, who had been raised to the dignity of box-opener. They chatted, talked of old times, and after that evening the prince never passed Mme. Picard without greeting her. She responded with a little deferential courtesy. She was one of those people, becoming rarer and rarer nowadays, who have the exact feeling for distances and conventions. There was, however, a little remnant of familiarity, almost of affection, in the way in which she said "prince." This did not displease Agenor; he had a very good recollection of Mme. Picard.

"Ah, prince," said Mme. Picard on seeing Agenor, "there is no one for you to-night in my boxes. Mme. de Simiane is not here, and Mme. de Sainte Mesme has rented her box."

"That's precisely it. Don't you know the people in Mme. de Sainte Mesme's box?"

"Not at all, prince. It's the first time I have seen them in the marquise's box—"

"Then you have no idea—"

"None, prince. Only to me they don't appear to be people of—"

She was going to say of our set. A box-opener of the first tier of boxes at the opera, having generally only to do with absolutely high-born people, considers herself as being a little of their set, and shows extreme disdain for unimportant people; it displeases her to receive these unimportant people in her boxes. Mme. Picard, however, had tact which rarely forsook her, and so stopped herself in time to say:

"People of your set. They belong to the middle class, to the wealthy middle class; but still the middle class. That doesn't satisfy you; you wish to know more on account of the blonde. Is it not so, prince?"

Those last words were spoken with rare delicacy; they were murmured more than spoken—box-opener to a prince! It would have been unacceptable without that perfect reserve in accent and tone; yes, it was a box-opener who spoke, but a box-opener who was a little bit the aunt of former times, the aunt a la mode de Cythere. Mme. Picard continued:

"Ah, she is a beauty! She came with a little dark man—her husband, I'm sure; for while she was taking off her cloak—it always takes some time—he didn't say a word to her. No eagerness, no little attentions. Yes, he could only be a husband. I examined the cloak. People one doesn't know puzzle me and my colleague. Mme. Flachet and I always amuse ourselves by trying to guess from appearances. Well, the cloak comes from a good dress-maker, but not from a great one. It is fine and well-made, but it has no style. I think they are middle-class people, prince. But how stupid I am! You know M. Palmer—well, a little while ago he came to see the beautiful blonde!"

"M. Palmer?"

"Yes, and he can tell you."

"Thanks, Mme. Picard, thanks—"

"Good-bye, prince, good-bye," and Mme. Picard went back to her stool, near her colleague, Mme. Flachet, and said to her:

"Ah, my dear, what a charming man the prince is! True gentlefolks, there is nothing like them! But they are dying out, they are dying out; there are many less than formerly."

Prince Agenor was willing to do Palmer—big Palmer, rich Palmer, vain Palmer—the honor of being one of his friends; he deigned, and very frequently, to confide to Palmer his financial difficulties, and the banker was delighted to come to his aid. The prince had been obliged to resign himself to becoming a member of two boards of directors presided over by Palmer, who was much pleased at having under obligations to him the representative of one of the noblest families in France. Besides, the prince proved himself to be a good prince, and publicly acknowledged Palmer, showing himself in his box, taking charge of his entertainments, and occupying himself with his racing-stable. He had even pushed his gratitude to the point of compromising Mme. Palmer in the most showy way.

"I am removing her from the middle class," he said; "I owe it to Palmer, who is one of the best fellows in the world."

The prince found the banker alone in a lower box.

"What is the name—the name of that blonde in the Sainte Mesme's box?"

"Mme. Derline."

"Is there a M. Derline?"

"Certainly, a lawyer—my lawyer; the Sainte Mesme's lawyer. And if you want to see Mme. Derline close to, come to my ball next Thursday. She will be there—"

The wife of a lawyer!. She was only the wife of a lawyer! The prince sat down in the front of the box, opposite Mme. Derline, and while looking at that lawyeress he was thinking. "Have I," he said to himself, "sufficient credit, sufficient power, to make of Mme. Derline the most beautiful woman in Paris?"

For there was always a most beautiful woman in Paris, and it was he, Prince Agenor, who flattered himself that he could discover, proclaim, crown, and consecrate that most beautiful woman in Paris. Launch Mme. Derline in society! Why not? He had never launched any one from the middle class. The enterprise would be new, amusing, and bold. He looked at Mme. Derline through his opera-glass, and discovered thousands of beauties and perfections in her delightful face.

After the opera, the prince, during the exit, placed himself at the bottom of the great staircase. He had enlisted two of his friends. "Come," he had said to them, "I will show you the most beautiful woman in Paris." While he was speaking, two steps away from the prince was an alert young man who was attached to a morning paper, a very widely-read paper. The young man had sharp ears, he caught on the fly the phrase of the Prince Agenor, whose high social position he knew; he succeeded in keeping close to the prince, and when Mme. Derline passed, the young reporter had the gift of hearing the conversation, without losing a word, of the three brilliant noblemen. A quarter of an hour later he arrived at the office of the paper.

"Is there time," he asked, "to write a dozen lines in the Society Note-book?"

"Yes, but hurry."

The young man was a quick writer; the fifteen lines were done in the twinkling of an eye. They brought seven francs fifty to the reporter, but cost M. Derline a little more than that.

During this time Prince Agenor, seated in the club at the whist-table, was saying, while shuffling the cards:

"This evening at the opera there was a marvellous woman, a certain Mme. Derline. She is the most beautiful woman in Paris!"

The following morning, in the gossip-corner of the Bois, in the spring sunshine, the prince, surrounded by a little group of respectful disciples, was solemnly delivering from the back of his roan mare the following opinion:

"Listen well to what I say. The most beautiful woman in Paris is a certain Mme. Derline. This star will be visible Thursday evening at the Palmer's. Go, and don't forget the name—Mme. Derline."

The disciples dispersed, and went abroad spreading the great news.

Mme. Derline had been admirably brought up by an irreproachable mother; she had been taught that she ought to get up in the morning, keep a strict account of her expenses, not go to a great dress-maker, believe in God, love her husband, visit the poor, and never spend but half her income in order to prepare dowries for her daughters. Mme. Derline performed all these duties. She led a peaceful and serene life in the old house (in the Rue Dragon) which had sheltered, since 1825, three generations of Derlines; the husbands had all three been lawyers, the wives had all three been virtuous. The three generations had passed there a happy and moderate life, never having any great pleasures, but, also, never being very bored.

The next day at eight o'clock in the morning Mme. Derline awoke with an uneasy feeling. She had passed a troubled night—she, who usually slept like a child. The evening before at the opera, in the box, Mme. Derline had vaguely felt that something was going on around her. And during the entire last act an opera-glass, obstinately fixed on her—the prince's opera-glass—had thrown her into a certain agitation, not disagreeable, however. She wore a low dress—too much so, in her mother's opinion—and two or three times, under the fixity of that opera-glass, she had raised the shoulder-straps of her dress.

So, after opening her eyes, Mme. Derline reclosed them lazily, indolently, with thoughts floating between dreamland and reality. She again saw the opera-house, and a hundred, two hundred, five hundred opera-glasses obstinately fixed on her—on her alone.

The maid entered, placed a tray on a little table, made up a big fire in the fire-place, and went away. There was a cup of chocolate and the morning paper on the tray, the same as every morning. Then Mme. Derline courageously got up, slipped her little bare feet into fur slippers, wrapped herself in a white cashmere dressing-gown, and crouched shivering in an arm-chair by the fire. She sipped the chocolate, and slightly burned herself; she must wait a little while. She put down the cup, took up the paper, unfolded it, and rapidly ran her eye over the six columns of the front page. At the bottom, quite at the bottom of the sixth column, were the following lines:

Last evening at the opera there was a very brilliant performance of "Sigurd." Society was well represented there; the beautiful Duchess of Montaiglon, the pretty Countess Verdiniere of Lardac, the marvellous Marquise of Muriel, the lively Baroness of—

To read the name of the baroness it was necessary to turn the page. Mme. Derline did not turn it; she was thinking, reflecting. The evening before she had amused herself by having Palmer point out to her the social leaders in the house, and it so happened that the banker had pointed out to her the marvellous marquise. And Mme. Derline—who was twenty-two—raised herself a little to look in the glass. She exchanged a slight smile with a young blonde, who was very pink and white.

"Ah," she said to herself, "if I were a marquise the man who wrote this would perhaps have paid some attention to me, and my name would perhaps be there. I wonder if it's fun to see one's name printed in a paper?"

And while addressing this question to herself, she turned the page, and continued reading:

—the lively Baroness of Myrvoix, etc. We have to announce the appearance of a new star which has abruptly burst forth in the Parisian constellation. The house was in ecstasy over a strange and disturbing blonde, whose dark steel eyes, and whose shoulders—ah, what shoulders! The shoulders were the event of the evening. From all quarters one heard asked, "Who is she?" "Who is she?" "To whom do those divine shoulders belong?" "To whom?" We know, and our readers will doubtless thank us for telling them the name of this ideal wonder. It is Mme. Derline.

Her name! She had read her name! She was dazzled. Her eyes clouded. All the letters in the alphabet began to dance wildly on the paper. Then they calmed down, stopped, and regained their places. She was able to find her name, and continue reading;

It is Mme. Derline, the wife of one of the most agreeable and richest lawyers in Paris. The Prince of Nerins, whose word has so much weight in such matters, said yesterday evening to every one who would listen, "She is the most beautiful woman in Paris." We are absolutely of that opinion.

A single paragraph, and that was all. It was enough, it was too much! Mme Derline was seized with a feeling of undefinable confusion. It was a combination of fear and pleasure, of joy and trouble, of satisfied vanity and wounded modesty. Her dressing-gown was a little open; she folded it over with a sort of violence, and crossed it upon, her feet, abruptly drawn back towards the arm-chair. She had a feeling of nudity. It seemed to her that all Paris was there, in her room, and that the Prince de Nerins was in front saying to all Paris, "Look, look! She is the most beautiful woman in Paris."

The Prince of Nerins! She knew the name well, for she read with keen interest in the papers all the articles entitled "Parisian Life," "High Life," "Society Echoes," etc.; and all the society columns signed "Mousseline," "Fanfreluche," "Brimborion," "Veloutine"; all the accounts of great marriages, great balls, of great comings out, and of great charity sales. The name of the prince often figured in these articles, and he was always quoted as supreme arbiter of Parisian elegances.

And it was he who had declared—ah!—decidedly pleasure got the better of fear. Still trembling with emotion, Mme. Derline went and placed herself before a long looking-glass, an old cheval-glass from Jacob's, which never till now had reflected other than good middle-class women married to good lawyers. In that glass she looked at herself, examined herself, studied herself, long, curiously, and eagerly. Of course she knew she was pretty, but oh, the power of print! She found herself absolutely delightful. She was no longer Mme. Derline—she was the most beautiful woman in Paris! Her feet, her little feet—their bareness no longer troubled her—left the ground. She raised herself gently towards the heavens, towards the clouds, and felt herself become a goddess.

But suddenly an anxiety seized her. "Edward! What would Edward say?" Edward was her husband. There had been but one man's surname in her life—her husband's. The lawyer was well loved! And almost at the same moment when she was asking herself what Edward would say, Edward abruptly opened the door.

He was a little out of breath. He had run up-stairs two at a time. He was peacefully rummaging among old papers in his study on the ground-floor when one of his brother-lawyers, with forced congratulations, however, had made him read the famous article. He had soon got rid of his brother-lawyer, and he had come, much irritated, to his room. At first there was simply a torrent of words.

"Why do these journalists meddle? It's an outrage! Your name—look, there is your name in this paper!"

"Yes, I know, I've seen—"

"Ah, you know, you have seen—and you think it quite natural!"

"But, dear—"

"What times do we live in? It's your fault, too."

"My fault!"

"Yes, your fault!"

"And how?"

"Your dress last night was too low, much too low. Besides, your mother told you so—"

"Oh, mamma—"

"You needn't say 'Oh, mamma!' Your mother was right. There, read: 'And whose shoulders—ah, what shoulders!' And it is of your shoulders they are speaking. And that prince who dares to award you a prize for beauty!"

The good man had plebeian, Gothical ideas—the ideas of a lawyer of old times, of a lawyer of the Rue Dragon; the lawyers of the Boulevard Malesherbes are no longer like that.

Mme. Derline very gently, very quietly, brought the rebel back to reason. Of course there was charm and eloquence in her speech, but how much more charm and eloquence in the tenderness of her glance and smile.

Why this great rage and despair? He was accused of being the husband of the most beautiful woman in Paris. Was that such a horrible thing, such a terrible misfortune? And who was the brother-lawyer, the good brother-lawyer, who had taken pleasure in coming to show him the hateful article?

"M. Renaud."

"Oh, it was M. Renaud—dear M. Renaud!"

Thereupon Mme. Derline was seized with a hearty fit of laughter; so much so that the blond hair, which had been loosely done up, came down and framed the pretty face from which gleamed the dark eyes which could also, when they gave themselves the trouble, look very gentle, very caressing, very loving.

"Oh, it was M. Renaud, the husband of that delightful Mme. Renaud! Well, do you know what you will do immediately, without losing a minute? Go to the president of the Tribunal and ask for a divorce. You will say to him: 'M. Aubepin, deliver me from my wife. Her crime is being pretty, very pretty, too pretty. I wish another one who is ugly, very ugly, who has Mme. Renaud's large nose, colossal foot, pointed chin, skinny shoulders, and eternal pimples.' That's what you want, isn't it? Come, you big stupid, kiss your poor wife, and forgive her for not being a monster."

As rather lively gestures had illustrated this little speech, the white cashmere dressing-gown had slipped—slipped a good deal, and had opened, very much opened; the criminal shoulders were within reach of M. Derline's lips—he succumbed. Besides, he too felt the abominable influence of the press. His wife had never seemed so pretty to him, and, brought back to subjection, M. Derline returned to his study in order to make money for the most beautiful woman in Paris.

A very wise and opportune occupation; for scarcely was Mme. Derline left alone when an idea flashed through her head which was to call forth a very pretty collection of bank-notes from the cash-box of the lawyer of the Rue Dragon. Mme. Derline had intended wearing to the Palmer's ball a dress which had already been much seen. Mme. Derline had kept the dress-maker of her wedding-dress, her mother's dress-maker, a dress-maker of the Left Bank. It seemed to her that her new position imposed new duties on her. She could not appear at the Palmer's without a dress which had not been seen, and stamped with a well-known name. She ordered the carriage in the afternoon, and resolutely gave her coachman the address of one of the most illustrious dress-makers in Paris. She arrived a little agitated, and to reach the great artist was obliged to pass through a veritable crowd of footmen, who were in the antechamber chatting and laughing, used to meeting there and making long stops. Nearly all the footmen were those of society, the highest society; they had spent the previous evening together at the English Embassy, and were to be that evening at the Duchess of Gremoille.

Mme. Derline entered a sumptuous parlor; it was very sumptuous, too sumptuous. Twenty great customers were there—society women and actresses, all agitated, anxious, feverish—looking at the beautiful tall saleswomen come and go before them, wearing the last creations of the master of the house. The great artist had a diplomatic bearing: buttoned-up black frock-coat, long cravat with pin (a present from a royal highness who paid her bills slowly), and a many-colored rosette in his button-hole (the gift of a small reigning prince who paid slower yet the bills of an opera-dancer). He came and went—precise, calm, and cool—in the midst of the solicitations and supplications of his customers. "M. Arthur! M. Arthur!" One heard nothing but that phrase. He was M. Arthur. He went from one to the other—respectful, without too much humility, to the duchesses, and easy, without too much familiarity, to the actresses. There was an extraordinary liveliness, and a confusion of marvellous velvets, satins, and embroidered, brocaded, and gold or silver threaded stuffs, all thrown here and there, as though by accident—but what science in that accident—on arm-chairs, tables, and divans.

In the first place Mme. Derline ran against a shop-girl who was bearing with outstretched arms a white dress, and was almost hidden beneath a light mountain of muslins and laces. The only thing visible was the shop-girl's mussed black hair and sly suburban expression. Mme. Derline backed away, wishing to place herself against the, wall; but a tryer-on was there, a large energetic brunette, who spoke authoritatively in a high staccato. "At once," she was saying—"bring me at once the princess's dress!"

Frightened and dazed, Mme. Derline stood in a corner and watched an opportunity to seize a saleswoman on the fly. She even thought of giving up the game. Never, certainly, should she dare to address directly that terrible M. Arthur, who had just given her a rapid glance in which she believed to have read, "Who is she? She isn't properly dressed! She doesn't go to a fashionable dress-maker!" At last Mme. Derline succeeded in getting hold of a disengaged saleswoman, and there was the same slightly disdainful glance—a glance which was accompanied by the phrase:

"Madame is not a regular customer of the house?"

"No, I am not a customer—"

"And you wish?"

"A dress, a ball-dress—and I want the dress for next Thursday evening—"

"Thursday next!"

"Yes, Thursday next."

"Oh! madame, it is not to be thought of. Even for a customer of the house it would be impossible."

"But I wished it so much—"

"Go and see M. Arthur. He alone can—"

"And where is M. Arthur?"

"In his office. He has just gone into his office. Over there, madame, opposite."

Mme. Derline, through a half-open door, saw a sombre and severe but luxurious room—an ambassador's office. On the walls the great European powers were represented by photographs—the Empress Eugenie, the Princess of Wales, a grand-duchess of Russia, and an archduchess of Austria. M. Arthur was there taking a few moments' rest, seated in a large arm-chair, with an air of lassitude and exhaustion, and with a newspaper spread out over his knees. He arose on seeing Mme. Derline enter. In a trembling voice she repeated her wish.

"Oh, madame, a ball-dress—a beautiful ball-dress—for Thursday! I couldn't make such a promise—I couldn't keep it. There are responsibilities to which I never expose myself."

He spoke slowly, gravely, as a man conscious of his high position.

"Oh, I am so disappointed. It was a particular occasion and I was told that you alone could—"

Two tears, two little tears, glittered on her eye-lashes. M. Arthur was moved. A woman, a pretty woman, crying there, before him! Never had such homage been paid to his genius.

"Well, madame, I am willing to make an attempt. A very simple dress—"

"Oh no, not simple. Very brilliant, on the contrary—everything that is most brilliant. Two of my friends are customers of yours (she named them), and I am Mme. Derline—"

"Mme. Derline! You are Mme. Derline?"

The two Mme. Derlines were followed by a glance and a smile—the glance was at the newspaper and the smile was at Mme. Derline; but it was a discreet, self-contained smile—the smile of a perfectly gallant man. This is what the glance and smile said with admirable clearness:

"Ah I you are Mme. Derline—that already celebrated Mme. Derline—who yesterday at the opera—I understand, I understand—I was reading just now in this paper—words are no longer necessary—you should have told your name at once—yes, you need me; yes, you shall have your dress; yes, I want to divide your success with you."

M. Arthur called:

"Mademoiselle Blanche, come here at once! Mademoiselle Blanche!"

And turning towards Mme. Derline, he said:

"She has great talent, but I shall myself superintend it; so be easy—yes, I myself."

Mme. Derline was a little confused, a little embarrassed by her glory, but happy nevertheless. Mademoiselle Blanche came forward.

"Conduct madame," said M. Arthur, "and take the necessary measures for a ball-dress, very low, and with absolutely bare arms. During that time, madame, I am going to think seriously of what I can do for you. It must be something entirely new—ah! before going, permit me—"

He walked very slowly around Mme. Derline, and examined her with profound attention; then he walked away, and considered her from a little distance. His face was serious, thoughtful, and anxious. A great thinker wrestling with a great problem. He passed his hand over his forehead, raised his eyes to the sky, getting inspiration by a painful delivery; but suddenly his face lit up—the spirit from above had answered.

"Go, madame," he said, "go. Your dress is thought out. When you come back, mademoiselle, bring me that piece of pink satin; you know, the one that I was keeping for some great occasion."

Thus Mme. Derline found herself with Mademoiselle Blanche in a trying-on room, which was a sort of little cabin lined with mirrors. A quarter of an hour later, when the measures had been taken, Mme. Derline came back and discovered M. Arthur in the midst of pieces of satin of all colors, of crepes, of tulles, of laces, and of brocaded stuffs.

"No, no, not the pink satin," he said to Mademoiselle Blanche, who was bringing the asked-for piece; "no, I have found something better. Listen to me. This is what I wish: I have given up the pink, and I have decided on this, this peach-colored satin. A classic robe, outlining all the fine lines and showing the suppleness of the body. This robe must be very clinging—hardly any underskirts. It must be of surah. Madame must be melted into it—do you thoroughly understand?—absolutely melted into the robe. We will drop over the dress this crepe—yes, that one, but in small, light pleats. The crepe will be as a cloud thrown over the dress—a transparent, vapory, impalpable cloud. The arms are to be absolutely bare, as I already told you. On each shoulder there must be a simple knot, showing the upper part of the arm. Of what is the knot to be? I'm still undecided—I need to think it over—till to-morrow, madame, till to-morrow."

Mme. Derline came back the next day, and the next, and every day till the day before the famous Thursday; and each time that she came back, while awaiting her turn to try on, she ordered dresses, very simple ones, but yet costing from seven to eight hundred francs each.

And that was not all. On the day of her first visit to M. Arthur, when Mme. Derline came out of the great house, she was broken-hearted—positively broken-hearted—at the sight of her brougham; it really did make a pitiful appearance among all the stylish carriages which were waiting in three rows and taking up half the street. It was the brougham of her late mother-in-law, and it still rolled through the streets of Paris after fifteen years' service. Mme. Derline got into the woe-begone brougham to drive straight to a very well-known carriage-maker, and that evening, cleverly seizing the psychological moment, she explained to M. Derline that she had seen a certain little black coupe lined with blue satin that would frame delightfully her new dresses.

The coupe was bought the next day by M. Derline, who also was beginning fully to realize the extent of his new duties. But the next day it was discovered that it was impossible to harness to that jewel of a coupe the old horse who had pulled the old carriage, and no less impossible to put on the box the old coachman who drove the old horse.

This is how on Thursday, April 25th, at half-past ten in the evening, a very pretty chestnut mare, driven by a very correct English coachman, took M. and Mme. Derline to the Palmer's. They still lacked something—a little groom to sit beside the English coachman. But a certain amount of discretion had to be employed. The most beautiful woman in Paris intended to wait ten days before asking for the little groom.

While she was going up-stairs at the Palmer's, she distinctly felt her heart beat like the strokes of a hammer. She was going to play a decisive game. She knew that the Palmers had been going everywhere, saying, "Come on Thursday; we will show you Mme. Derline, the most beautiful woman in Paris." Curiosity as well as jealousy had been well awakened.

She entered, and from the first minute she had the delicious sensation of her success. Throughout the long gallery of the Palmer's house it was a true triumphal march. She advanced with firm and precise step, erect, and head well held. She appeared to see nothing, to hear nothing, but how well she saw! how well she felt, the fire of all those eyes on her shoulders! Around her arose a little murmur of admiration, and never had music been sweeter to her.

Yes, decidedly, all went well. She was on a fair way to conquer Paris. And, sure of herself, at each step she became more confident, lighter, and bolder, as she advanced on Palmer's arm, who, in passing, pointed out the counts, the marquises, and the dukes. And then Palmer suddenly said to her:

"I want to present to you one of your greatest admirers, who, the other night at the opera, spoke of nothing but your beauty; he is the Prince of Nerins."

She became as red as a cherry. Palmer looked at her and began to laugh.

"Ah, you read the other day in that paper?"

"I read—yes, I read—"

"But where is the prince, where is he? I saw him during the day, and he was to be here early."

Mme. Derline was not to see the Prince of Nerins that evening. And yet he had intended to go to the Palmers and preside at the deification of his lawyeress. He had dined at the club, and had allowed himself to be dragged off to a first performance at a minor theatre. An operetta of the regulation type was being played. The principal personage was a young queen, who was always escorted by the customary four maids-of-honor.

Three of these young ladies were very well known to first-nighters, as having already figured in the tableaux of operettas and in groups of fairies, but the fourth—Oh, the fourth! She was a new one, a tall brunette of the most striking beauty. The prince made himself remarked more than all others by his enthusiasm. He completely forgot that he was to leave after the first act. The play was over very late, and the prince was still there, having paid no attention to the piece or the music, having seen nothing but the wonderful brunette, having heard nothing but the stanza which she had unworthily massacred in the middle of the second act. And while they were leaving the theatre, the prince was saying to whoever would listen:

"That brunette! oh, that brunette! She hasn't an equal in any theatre! She is the most beautiful woman in Paris! The most beautiful!"

It was one o'clock in the morning. The prince asked himself if he should go to the Palmers. Poor Mme. Derline; she was of very slight importance beside this new wonder! And then, too, the prince was a methodical man. The hour for whist had arrived; so he departed to play whist.

The following morning Mme. Derline found ten lines on the Palmer's ball in the "society column." There was mention of the marquises, the countesses, and the duchesses who were there, but about Mme. Derline there was not a word—not a word.

On the other hand, the writer of theatrical gossip celebrated in enthusiastic terms the beauty of that ideal maid-of-honor, and said, "Besides, the Prince of Nerins declared that Mademoiselle Miranda was indisputedly the most beautiful woman in Paris!"

Mme. Derline threw the paper in the fire. She did not wish her husband to know that she was already not the most beautiful woman in Paris.

She has, however, kept the great dress-maker and the English coachman, but she never dared to ask for the little groom.



THE STORY OF A BALL-DRESS

When the women of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries write their memoirs they boldly present themselves to the reader thus: "I have a well-shaped mouth," said the Marquise of Courcelles, "beautiful lips, pearly teeth, good forehead, cheeks, and expression, finely chiselled throat, divine hands, passable arms (that is to say, they are a little thin); but I find consolation for that misfortune in the fact that I have the prettiest legs in the world."

And I will follow the marquise's example. Here is my portrait: Overskirt of white illusion trimmed with fringe, and three flounces of blond alternating with the fringe; court mantle of cherry silk girt by a high flounce of white blond which falls over the fringe and is caught up by Marie Antoinette satin; two other flounces of blond are placed behind at intervals above; on each side from the waist up are facings composed of little alternating flounces of blond, looped up with satin; the big puff behind is bound by a flounce of white blond. A little white waist, the front and shoulder-straps of which are of satin trimmed with blond. Belt of red satin with large red butterfly.

The world was made in six days, I in three. And yet I too am in the world—a little complicated world of silk, satin, blond, loops, and fringes. Did God rest while he was making the world? I do not know; but I do know that the scissors that cut me out and the needle that sewed me rested neither day nor night from Monday evening, January 24, 1870, to Thursday morning, January 27th. The slashes of the scissors and the pricks of the needle caused me great pain at first, but I soon paid no attention to them at all. I began to observe what was going on, to understand that I was becoming a dress, and to discover that the dress would be a marvel. From time to time M. Worth came himself to pay me little visits. "Take in the waist," he would say, "add more fringe, spread out the train, enlarge the butterfly," etc.

One thing worried me: For whom was I intended? I knew the name, nothing more—the Baroness Z——. Princess would have been better; but still, baroness did very well. I was ambitious. I dreaded the theatre. It remained to be seen whether this baroness was young, pretty, and equal to wearing me boldly, and whether she had a figure to show me off to advantage. I was horribly afraid of falling into the hands of an ugly woman, a provincial, or an old coquette.

How perfectly reassured I was as soon as I saw the baroness! Small, delicate, supple, stylish, a fairy waist, the shoulders of a goddess, and, besides all this, a certain little air of audacity, of raillery, but in exquisite moderation.

I was spread out on a large pearl-gray lounge, and I was received with marks of frank admiration. M. Worth had been good enough to bring me himself, and he didn't trouble himself about all dresses.

"How original!" exclaimed the little baroness; "how new! But very dear, isn't it?"

"One thousand and fifty francs."

"One thousand and fifty francs! And I furnished the lace! Ah, how quickly I should leave you if I didn't owe you so much! For I owe you a lot of money."

"Oh, very little, baroness—very little."

"No, no; a great deal. But we will discuss that another day."

That evening I made my first appearance in society, and I came out at the Tuileries. We both of us, the baroness and myself, had an undeniable success. When the Empress crossed the Salon of Diana, making pleasant remarks to the right and left, she had the graciousness to stop before us and make the following remark, which seemed to me extremely witty, "Ah, baroness, what a dress—what a dress! It's a dream!" On that occasion the Empress wore a dress of white tulle dotted with silver, on a design of cloudy green, with epaulettes of sable. It was queer, not ineffective, but in doubtful taste.

We received much attention, the baroness and I. The new Minister, M. Emile Ollivier, was presented to us; we received him coldly, as the little baroness did not approve, I believe, of liberal reforms, and looked for nothing good from them. We had a long chat on the window-seat with the Marshal Leboeuf. The only topic during that interesting conversation was the execution of Troppmann. It was the great event of the week.

At two o'clock we left—the baroness, I, and the baron. For there was a husband, who for the time being was crowded in the corner of the carriage, and hidden under the mass of my skirts and of my train, which was thrown back on him all in a heap.

"Confess, Edward," said the little baroness—confess that I was pretty to-night."

"Very."

"And my dress?"

"Oh, charming!"

"You say that indolently, without spirit or enthusiasm. I know you well. You think I've been extravagant. Well, indeed I haven't. Do you know how much this dress cost me? Four hundred francs—not a centime more."

We arrived home, which was a step from the Tuileries, in the Place Vendome. The baron went to his rooms, the baroness to hers; and while Hermance, the maid, cleverly and swiftly untied all my rosettes and took out the pins, the little baroness kept repeating: "How becoming this dress is to me! And I seem to become it, too. I shall wear it on Thursday, Hermance, to go to the Austrian Embassy. Wait a minute, till I see the effect of the butterfly in the back. Bring the lamp nearer; nearer yet. Yes, that's it. Ah, how pretty it is! I am enchanted with this dress, Hermance—really enchanted!"

If the little baroness was enchanted with me, I was equally enchanted with the baroness. We two made the most tender, the most intimate, and the most united of families. We comprehended, understood, and completed each other so well. I had not to do with one of those mechanical dolls—stupidly and brutally laced into a padded corset. Between the little baroness and myself there was absolutely nothing but lace and fine linen. We could confidentially and surely depend on one another. The beauty of the little baroness was a real beauty, without garniture, conjuring, or trickery.

So the following Thursday I went to the Austrian Embassy, and a week later to the Princess Mathilde's. But, alas! the next morning the little baroness said to her maid: "Hermance, take that dress to the reserve. I love it, and I'd wear it every evening; but it has been seen sufficiently for this winter. Yesterday several people said to me, 'Ah, that's your dress of the Tuileries; it's your dress of the Austrian Embassy.' It must be given up till next year. Good-bye, dear little dress."

And, having said that, she placed her charming lips at hap-hazard among my laces and kissed me in the dearest way in the world. Ah, how pleased and proud I was of that childish and sweet fellowship! I remembered that the evening before, on our return, the little baroness had kissed her husband; but the kiss she had given him was a quick, dry kiss—one of those hurried kisses with which one wishes to get through; whereas my kiss had been prolonged and passionate. She had cordiality for the baron, and love for me. The little baroness wasn't twenty, and she was a coquette to the core. I say this, in the first place, to excuse her, and, in the second place, to give an exact impression of her character.

So at noon, in the arms of Hermance, I made my entry to the reserve. It was a dormitory of dresses, an immense room on the third story, very large, and lined with wardrobes of white oak, carefully locked. In the middle of the room was an ottoman, on which Hermance deposited me; after which she slid back ten or twelve wardrobe doors, one after the other. Dresses upon dresses! I should never be able to tell how many. All were hung in the air by silk tape on big triangles. Hermance, however, seemed much embarrassed.

"In the reserve," she murmured, "in the reserve; that is easy to say. But where is there any room? And this one needs a lot." At last Hermance, after having given a number of little taps to the right and left, succeeded in making a sort of slit, into which I had great difficulty in sliding. Hermance gave me and my neighbors some more little taps to lump us together, and then shut the door. Darkness reigned. I was placed between a blue velvet dress and a mauve satin one.

Towards the end of April we received a visit from the little baroness, and in consequence of that visit there was great disturbance. Winter dresses were hung up; spring dresses were got down. At the beginning of July another visit, another disturbance—entry of the costumes from the races; departure of others for the watering-places. I lost my neighbor to the right, the mauve dress, and kept my neighbor on the left, the blue dress, a cross and crabbed person who was forever groaning, complaining, and saying to me, "Oh, my dear, you do take up so much room; do get out of the way a little." I must admit that the poor blue velvet dress was much to be pitied. It was three years old, having been a part of the little baroness's trousseau, and had never been worn. "A high-neck blue velvet dress, at my age, with my shoulders and arms!" had exclaimed the little baroness; "I should look like a grandmother!" Thus it was decreed, and the unfortunate blue dress had gone from the trousseau straight to the reserve.

A week or ten days after the departure of the dresses for Baden-Baden we heard a noise, the voices of women, and all the doors were opened. It was the little baroness, who had brought her friend the Countess N——.

"Sit there, my dear, on that ottoman," said the little baroness. "I have come to look over my dresses. I am very hurried; I arrived but just now from Baden, and I start again to-night for Anjou. We can chatter while Hermance shows me the dresses. Oh, those Prussians, my dear, the monsters! We had to run away, Blanche and myself, like thieves. (Very simple dresses, Hermance, every-day dresses, and walking and boating dresses.) Yes, my dear, like thieves! They threw stones at us, real stones, in the Avenue of Lichtental, and called us 'Rascally Frenchwomen! French rabble!' The Emperor did well to declare war against such people. (Dresses for horseback, Hermance—my brown riding-habit.) At any rate, there's no need to worry. My husband dined yesterday with Guy; you know, the tall Guy, who is an aide of Leboeuf. Well, we are ready, admirably ready, and the Prussians not at all. (Very simple, I said, Hermance. You are showing me ball-dresses. I don't intend to dance during the war.) And then, my dear, it seems that this war was absolutely necessary from a dynastic point of view. I don't quite know why, but I tell it to you as I heard it. (These dozen dresses, Hermance, will be sufficient. But there are thirteen. I never could have thirteen. Take away the green one; or, no, add another—that blue one; that's all.) Now let's go down, my dear."

Whereupon she departed. So war was declared, and with Prussia. I was much moved. I was a French dress and a Bonapartist dress. I was afraid for France and afraid for the dynasty, but the words of the tall Guy were so perfectly reassuring.

For two months there was no news; but about the 10th of September the little baroness arrived with Hermance. She was very pale, poor little baroness—very pale and agitated.

"Dark dresses, Hermance," she said, "black dresses. I know! What remains of Aunt Pauline's mourning? There must remain quite a lot of things. You see, I am too sad—"

"But if madame expects to remain long in England?"

"Ah! as long as the Republic lasts."

"Then it may be a long time."

"What do you mean—a long time? What do you mean, Hermance? Who can tell you such things?"

"It seems to me that if I were madame I'd take for precaution's sake a few winter dresses, a few evening-dresses—"

"Evening-dresses! Why, what are you thinking of? I shall go nowhere, Hermance, alone in England, without my husband, who stays in Paris in the National Guard."

"But if madame should go to see their Majesties in England?"

"Yes, of course I shall, Hermance."

"Well, it's because I know madame's feelings and views that—"

"You are right; put in some evening-dresses."

"Will madame take her last white satin dress?"

"Oh no, not that one; it would be too sad a memory for the Empress, who noticed it at the last ball at the Tuileries. And then the dress wouldn't stand the voyage. My poor white satin dress! Shall I ever wear it again?"

That is why I did not emigrate, and how I found myself blockaded in Paris during the siege. From the few words that we had heard of the conversation of the little baroness and Hermance we had a pretty clear idea of the situation. The Empire was overthrown and the Republic proclaimed. The Republic! There were among us several old family laces who had seen the first Republic—that of '93. The Reign of Terror! Ah, what tales they told us! The fall of the Empire, however, did not displease these old laces, who were all Legitimists or Orleanists. In my neighborhood, on a gooseberry satin skirt, there were four flounces of lace who had had the honor of attending the coronation of Charles X., and who were delighted, and kept saying to us: "The Bonapartes brought about invasion; invasion brings back the Bourbons. Long live Henry V.!"

We all had, however, a common preoccupation. Should we remain in style? We were nearly all startling, risky, and loud—so much so that we were quite anxious, except three or four quiet dresses, velvet and dark cloth dresses, who joined in the chorus with the old laces, and said to us: "Ah, here's an end to the carnival, to this masquerade of an empire! Republic or monarchy, little we care; we are sensible and in good taste." We felt they were somewhat in the right in talking thus. From September to February we remained shut up in the wardrobes, wrangling with each other, listening to the cannon, and knowing nothing of what was going on.

Towards the middle of February all the doors were opened. It was the little baroness—the little baroness!

"Ah!" she exclaimed, "my dresses, my beloved dresses, there they are; how happy I am to see them!"

We could say nothing; but we, too, were very happy to see the little baroness.

"Now, then, Hermance," continued the little baroness, "let us hunt around a little. What can I take to Bordeaux? After such disasters I must have quiet and sombre dresses."

"Madame hasn't very many."

"I beg your pardon, Hermance, I have dark dresses—this one and that one. The blue velvet dress! The blue velvet dress is just the thing, and I've never worn it."

And so my neighbor the blue dress was taken down, and was at last going to make her first appearance in the world. However, the little baroness herself, with great activity, rummaged round in the wardrobes.

"Nothing, nothing," she said; "four or five dresses only. All the rest are impossible, and would not accord with the Government we shall have in Bordeaux. Well, I shall be obliged to have some republican dresses made—very moderate republican, but still republican."

The little baroness went away, to come back a month later, always with Hermance, who was an excellent maid, and much thought of by her mistress. New deliberation.

"Hermance," said the little baroness, "what can I take to Versailles? I think we shall be able to have a little more freedom. There will be receptions and dinners with M. Thiers; then the princes are coming. I might risk transition dresses. Do you know what I mean by that, Hermance—transition dresses?"

"Perfectly, madame—pearl grays, mauves, violets, lilacs."

"Yes, that's it, Hermance; light but quiet colors. You are an invaluable maid. You understand me perfectly."

The little baroness started for Versailles with a collection of transition dresses. There must have been twenty. It was a good beginning, and filled us with hope. She had begun at Bordeaux with sombre colors, and continued on at Versailles with light ones, Versailles was evidently only a stepping-stone between Bordeaux and Paris. The little baroness was soon coming back to Paris, and once the little baroness was in Paris we could feel assured that we should not stay long in the wardrobes.

But it happened that a few days after the departure of the little baroness for Versailles we heard loud firing beneath the windows of the house (we lived in the Place Vendome). Was it another revolt, another revolution? For a week nothing more was heard; there was silence. Then at the end of that week the cannonade began around Paris worse than ever. Was the war recommencing with the Prussians? Was it a new siege?

The days passed, and the boom of the cannon continued. Finally, one morning there was a great racket in the court-yard of our house. Cries, threats, oaths! The noise came up and up. Great blows with the butt ends of muskets were struck on the wardrobe doors. They were smashed in and we perceived eight or ten slovenly looking, dirty, and bearded men. Among these men was a woman, a little brunette; fairly pretty, I must say, but queerly gotten up. A black dress with a short skirt, little boots with red bows, a round gray felt hat with a large red plume, and a sort of red scarf worn crosswise. It was a peculiar style, but it was style all the same.

"Oh, oh!" exclaimed the little woman, "here's luck! What a lot of dresses! Well, clear away all this, sergeant, and take those duds to headquarters."

Then all those men threw themselves upon us with a sort of fury. We felt ourselves gripped and dishonored by coarse, dirty hands.

"Don't soil them too much, citizens," the little woman would cry. "Do them up in packages, and take the packages down to the ammunition-wagon."

The headquarters was the apartment of the young lady of the red plume. Our new mistress was the wife of a general of the Commune. We were destined to remain official dresses. Official during the Empire, and official during the Commune. The first thought of Mme. General was to hold a review of us, and I had the honor of being the object of her special attention and admiration.

"Ah, look, Emile!" (Emile was the General.) "Look! this is the toniest of the whole concern. I'll keep it for the Tuileries."

I was to be kept for the Tuileries! What tales of woe and what lamentations there were in the sort of alcove where we were thrown like rags! Mme. General went into society every evening, and never put on the same dress twice. My poor companions the day after told me their adventures of the day before. This one had dined at Citizen Raoul Rigault's, the Prefecture of Police; that one attended a performance of "Andromaque" at the Theatre Francais, in the Empress's box, etc. At last it was my turn. The 17th of May was the day of the grand concert at the Tuileries.

Oh, my dear little baroness, what had become of you? Where were your long soft muslin petticoats and your fine white satin corsets? Where were your transparent linen chemisettes? Mme. General had coarse petticoats of starched calico. Mme. General wore such a corset! Mme. General had such a crinoline! My poor skirts of lace and satin were abominably stiffened and tossed about by the hard crinoline hoops. As to the basque, the strange thing happened that the basque of the little baroness was much too tight for Mme. General at the waist, and, on the contrary, above the waist it was—I really do not know how to explain such things. At any rate, it was just the opposite of small, so much so that it had to be padded. Horrible! Most horrible!

At ten that evening I was climbing for the second time the grand staircase of the Tuileries, in the midst of a dense and ignoble mob. One of the General's aides-de-camp tried in vain to open a passage.

"Room, room, for the wife of the General!" he cried.

Much they cared for the wife of the General! Great big boots trampled on my train, sharp spurs tore my laces, and the bones of the corsets of Mme. General hurt me terribly.

At midnight I returned to Mme. General's den. I returned in rags, shreds, soiled, dishonored, and stained with wine, tobacco, and mud. A hateful little maid brutally tore me from the shoulders of Mme. General, and said to her mistress:

"Well, madame, was it beautiful?"

"No, Victoria," replied Mme. General, "it was too mixed. But do hurry up! tear it off if it won't come. I know where to find others at the same price."

And I was thrown like a rag on a heap of pieces. The heap of pieces was composed of ball-dresses of the little baroness.

One morning, three or four days later, the aide-de-camp rushed in, crying, "The Versaillists! The Versaillists are in Paris!"

Thereupon Mme. General put on a sort of military costume, took two revolvers, filled them with cartridges, and hung them on a black leather belt which she wore around her waist. "Where is the General?" she said to the aide-de-camp.

"At the Tuileries."

"Very well, I shall go there with you." And on that she departed, with her little gray felt hat jauntily tilted over her ear.

The cannonade and firing redoubled and came nearer. Evidently there was fighting very near us, quite close to us. The next day towards noon we saw them both come back, the General and Mme. General. And in what a condition! Panting, frightened, forbidding, with clothes white with dust, and hands and faces black with powder. The General was wounded in the left hand, he had twisted around his wrist a handkerchief bathed in blood.

"Does your arm hurt you?" Mme. General said to him.

"It stings a little, that's all."

"Are they following us?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Listen! There are noises, shouts."

"Look out of the window without showing yourself."

"The red trousers! They are here!"

"Lock and bolt the door. Get the revolvers and load them. I can't on account of my arm. This wound is a bore."

"You are so pale!"

"Yes; I am losing blood—a good deal of blood."

"They are coming up the stairs!"

"Into the alcove—let us go into the alcove, on the dresses."

"Here they are!"

"Give me the revolver."

The door gave way violently under the hammering of the butts of the guns. A shower of bullets fell on us and around us. The General, with a single movement, fell heavily at full length on the bed of silk, muslin, and laces that we made for him. Three or four men with red trousers threw themselves on Mme. General, who fought, bit, and screamed, "Assassins! assassins!"

A soldier tore away the bell-cord, firmly tied her hands, and carried her away like a bundle. She continued to repeat, in a strangled voice, "Assassins! assassins!" The soldiers approached the alcove and looked at the General. "As to him," they said, "he's done for; he doesn't need anything more. Let's be off."

They left us, and we remained there for two days, crushed beneath that corpse and covered with blood. Finally, at the end of those two days, a man arrived who was called a Commissioner, and who wore a tricolored scarf around his waist. "This corpse has been forgotten," he said. "Take it away."

They tried to lift the body, but with fingers stiffened by death the General held my big cherry satin butterfly. They had nearly to break his fingers to get it out.

Meantime the Commissioner examined and searched curiously among that brilliant heap of rags on which the General had died. My waist appeared to catch his eye. "Here is a mark," he said to one of his men—"a mark inside the waist, with the name and number of the maker. We can learn where these dresses came from. Wrap this waist in a newspaper and I'll take it."

They wrapped me in an old number of the Official Journal of the Commune. The following day we went to M. Worth, the Commissioner and I. The conversation was not long.

"Was this dress made by you?" the Commissioner asked.

"Yes; here's the mark."

"And for whom was it made?"

"Number 18,223. Wait a moment; I'll consult my books." The dress-maker came back in five minutes, and said to the Commissioner, "It was for the Baroness Z—— that I made this dress, eighteen months ago, and it isn't paid for."



THE INSURGENT

"Prisoner," said the President of the Council of War, "have you anything to add in your defence?"

"Yes, colonel," replied the prisoner. "The little lawyer you assigned me defended me according to his idea; I want to defend myself according to mine.

"My name is Martin (Lewis Joseph). I am fifty-five years old. My father was a locksmith. He had a little shop in the upper part of the Saint-Martin Quarter, and had a fair business. We just existed. I learned to read in the National, which was, I believe, the paper of M. Thiers.

"On the 27th of July, 1830, my father went out very early. That evening, at ten o'clock, he was brought back to us on a litter, dying. He had received a bullet in the chest. Beside him on the litter was his musket.

"'Take it,' he said to me. 'I give it to you; and every time there is a riot, be against the Government—always, always, always!'

"An hour later he was dead. I went out in the night. At the first barricade I stopped and offered myself; a man examined me by the light of a lantern. 'A child!' he exclaimed. I was not fifteen. I was very slight and undersized. I answered: 'A child, maybe, but my father was killed two hours ago. He gave me his musket. Teach me how to use it.'

"From that moment I became what I have always been for forty years, an insurgent! If I fought during the Commune, it was not because I was forced, nor for the thirty sous; it was from taste, from pleasure, from habit, from routine.

"In 1830 I behaved rather bravely at the attack on the Louvre. The urchin who first scaled the gate beneath the bullets of the Swiss was I. I received the Medal of July. But the shopkeepers gave us a king. It had all to be done over. I joined a secret society; I learned to melt bullets, to make powder—in short, I completed my education, and I waited.

"I had to wait nearly two years. On June 5, 1832, at noon, in front of the Madeleine, I was the first to unharness one of the horses of the hearse of General Lamarque. I passed the day in shouting, 'Long live Lafayette!' and I passed the night in making barricades. The next morning we were attacked by the regulars. In the evening, towards four o'clock, we were blocked, cannonaded, swept with grape-shot, and crushed back into the Church of Saint-Mery. I had a bullet and three bayonet-stabs in my body when I was picked up by the soldiers from the stone floor of a little chapel to the left—the Chapel of St. John. I have often gone back to that little chapel—not to pray, I wasn't brought up with such ideas—but to see the stains of my blood which still remain on the stones.

"On account of my youth I received a ten-year sentence. I was sent to Mont Saint-Michel. That was why I didn't take part in the riots of 1834. If I had been free I should have fought in Rue Transnonian as I had fought in Rue Saint-Mery—'against the Government—always, always, always!' It was my father's last word; it was my gospel, my religion. I call that my catechism in six words. I came out of prison in 1842, and I again began to wait.

"The revolution of '48 was made without effort. The shopkeepers were stupid and cowardly. They were neither for nor against us. The municipal guards alone defended themselves. We had a little trouble in taking the guard-house of the Chateau d'Eau. On the evening of February 24th I remained three or four hours on the square before the Hotel de Ville. The members of the Provisional Government, one after another, made speeches to us—said that we were heroes, great citizens, the foremost nation in the world, that we had broken the bonds of tyranny. After having fed us on these fine speeches, they gave us a republic which wasn't any better than the monarchy we had overthrown.

"In June I took up my musket again, but on that occasion we were not successful. I was arrested, sentenced, and sent to Cayenne. It seems that I behaved well there. One day I saved a captain of marines from drowning. Observe that I should most certainly have shot at that captain if he had been on one side of a barricade and I on the other; but a man who is drowning, dying—in short, I received my pardon, I came back to France in 1852, after the Coup d'Etat; I had missed the insurrection of 1851.

"At Cayenne I had made friends with a tailor named Barnard. Six months after my departure for France, Barnard died. I went to see his widow. She was in want. I married her. We had a son in 1854—you will understand presently why I speak to you of my wife and my son. But you must already suspect that an insurgent who marries the widow of an insurgent does not have royalist children.

"Under the Empire there was nothing to do. The police were very strict. We were dispersed, disarmed. I worked, I brought up my son with the ideas that my father had given me. The wait was long. Rochefort, Gambetta, public reunions—all that put us in motion again.

"On the first important occasion I showed myself. I was one of that little band who assaulted the barracks of the firemen of Villette. Only there we made a mistake. We killed a fireman, unnecessarily, I was caught and thrown into prison, but the Government of the Fourth of September liberated us, from which I concluded that we did right to attack those barracks and kill the fireman, even unnecessarily.

"The siege began. I immediately opposed the Government, on the side of the Commune. I marched against the Hotel de Ville on the 31st of October and on the 22d of January. I liked revolt for revolt's sake. An insurgent—I told you in the beginning I am an insurgent. I cannot hear a discussion without taking part, nor see a riot without running to it, nor a barricade without bringing my paving-stone. It's in the blood.

"And then, besides, I wasn't quite ignorant, and I said to myself, It is only necessary to succeed thoroughly some day, and then, in our turn, we shall be the Government, and it will be better than with all these lawyers, who place themselves behind us during the battle, and pass ahead after the victory.'

"The 18th of March came, and naturally I was in it. I shouted 'Hurrah for the regulars!' I fraternized with the army. I went to the Hotel de Ville. I found a government already at work. It was absolutely the same as on the 24th of February.

"Now you tell me that that insurrection was not lawful. That is possible, but I don't quite see why not. I begin to get muddled—about these insurrections which are a duty and those which are a crime! I do not clearly see the difference.

"I shot at the Versailles troops in 1871, as I had shot at the royal guard in 1830 and on the municipals in 1848. After 1830 I received the Medal of July; after 1848 the compliments of M. de Lamartine. This time I am going to get transportation or death.

"There are insurrections which please you. You raise columns to them, you give their names to streets, you give yourselves the offices, the promotions, and the big salaries, and we folks, who made the revolution, you call us great citizens, heroes, a nation of brave men, etc. That's the coin we are paid with.

"And then there are other insurrections which displease you. As a result, transportation, death. Well, you see, if you hadn't complimented us so after the first ones, perhaps we wouldn't have made the last. If you hadn't raised the Column of July at the entrance of our neighborhood, we wouldn't perhaps have gone and demolished the Vendome Column in your neighborhood. Those two penny trumpets didn't agree. One had to upset the other, and that is what happened.

"Now, why I threw away my captain's uniform on the 26th of May, why I was in a blouse when I was arrested, I will tell you. When I learned that the gentlemen of the Commune, instead of coming to shoot with us behind the barricades, were at the Hotel de Ville distributing among themselves thousand-franc notes, were shaving their beards, dyeing their hair, and hiding themselves in caves, I did not wish to keep the shoulder-straps they had given me.

"Besides, shoulder-straps embarrassed me. 'Captain Martin' sounded idiotic. 'Insurgent Martin'—why, that's well and good. I wanted to end as I had begun, die as my father had died, as a rioter in a riot, as a barricader behind a barricade.

"I could not get killed. I got caught. I belong to you. But I wish to beg a favor of you. I have a son, a child of seventeen; he is at Cherbourg, on the hulks. He fought, it is true, and he does not deny it; but it is I who put a musket in his hand, it is I who told him that his duty was there. He listened to me. He obeyed me. That is all his crime. Do not sentence him too harshly.

"As for me, you have got me; do not let me go, that's the advice I give you. I am too old to mend; and then, what can you expect? Nothing can change it. I was born on the wrong side of the barricade."



THE CHINESE AMBASSADOR

In the beginning of the year 1870 some English and French residents had been massacred in China. Reparation was demanded. His Excellency Tchong-Keon, Tutor of the Heir-apparent and Vice-President of the War Department, was sent to Europe as Ambassador Extraordinary to the English and French governments.

Tchong-Keon has recently published at Pekin a very curious account of his voyage. One of my friends who lives in Shanghai, and who possesses the rare talent of being able to read Chinese easily, sent me this faithful translation of a part of Tchong-Keon's book:

HAVRE, September 12, 1870.

I land, and I make myself known. I am the Ambassador of the Emperor of China. I bear apologies to the Emperor of the French, and presents to the Empress. There is no Emperor and no Empress. A Republic has been proclaimed. I am much embarrassed. Shall I offer the apologies and presents that were intended for the Empire to the Republic?

HAVRE, September 14, 1870.

After much reflection, I shall offer the apologies and keep the presents.

HAVRE, September 26, 1870.

Yes; but to whom shall I carry the apologies, and to whom shall I present them? The Government of the French Republic is divided in two: there is one part in Paris and one part in Tours. To go to Paris is not to be thought of. Paris is besieged and blockaded by the Prussians. I shall go to Tours.

HAVRE, October 2, 1870.

I did not go, and I shall not go, to Tours. I received yesterday a visit from the correspondent of the Times, a most agreeable and sensible man. I told him that I intended going to Tours.

"To Tours! What do you want in Tours?"

"To present the apologies of my master to the Minister of Foreign Affairs of the French Republic."

"But that minister isn't in Tours."

"And where is he?"

"Blockaded in Paris."

A Minister of Foreign Affairs who is blockaded in a besieged town seemed to me most extraordinary.

"And why," the correspondent of the Times asked me, "do you bring apologies to the French Government?"

"Because we massacred some French residents."

"French residents! That's of no importance nowadays. France no longer exists. You can, if it amuses you, throw all the French residents into the sea."

"We also thoughtlessly massacred some English residents."

"You massacred some English residents! Oh, that's very different! England is still a great nation. And you have brought apologies to Queen Victoria?"

"Yes, apologies and presents."

"Go to London, go straight to London, and don't bother about France; there is no France."

The correspondent of the Times looked quite happy when he spoke those words: "there is no France."

LONDON, October 10, 1870.

I've seen the Queen of England. She received me very cordially. She has accepted the apologies; she has accepted the presents.

LONDON, October 12, 1870.

Had a long conversation with Lord Granville, Minister of Foreign Affairs of the Queen of England. I explained to his Excellency that I meant to go home at once, and that I feel I need not pay further attention to my French embassy, as France no longer exists. Lord Granville answered me:

"Don't go away so soon; you will perhaps be obliged to come back, and sooner than you imagine. France is an extraordinary country, which picks up very quickly. Await the end of the war, and then you can take your apologies to the Government that France will have decided on giving itself. Till then remain in England. We shall be most happy to offer you our hospitality."

LONDON, November 3, 1870.

I did not return to China. I am waiting in London till the Minister of Foreign Affairs is not besieged, and till there is some way of laying one's hands on the French Government. There are many Parisians here who escaped from their country on account of the war. I dined yesterday with his Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales. Three Parisian women, all three young, and all three pretty, took possession of me after dinner. We had a very interesting conversation in English.

"You are looking for the French Government, the legitimate Government?" said the first of these Parisians. "Why, it is here in England, half an hour from London. To-morrow go to the Waterloo station and buy a ticket for Chiselhurst, and there you will find Napoleon III., who is, and has never ceased to be, the Emperor of the French."

"Don't listen to her, Mr. Ambassador," laughingly said the second Parisian, "don't listen to her; she is a terrible Bonapartist. Yes, the true sovereign of France is in England, quite near London, but not at Chiselhurst; and it is not the Waterloo station you must go to, but the Victoria station. You mustn't take a ticket for Chiselhurst, but for Twickenham, and there you will find at Orleans House his Royal Highness the Count of Paris."

"Don't listen to her, Mr. Ambassador," exclaimed in turn, and also laughing, the third Parisian, "don't listen to her; she is a terrible revolutionist! The Count of Paris is not the heir to the throne of France. To find the legitimate King you must go a little farther than Chiselhurst or Twickenham; you must go to Austria, to the Frohsdorf Palace. The King of France—he is the descendant of Henry IV.—is the Count of Chambord."

If I count aright, that makes three legitimate sovereigns, and all three deposed. Never in China have we had anything of that sort. Our old dynasty has had to fight against the invasions of the Mongols and against the insurrections of the Taipings. But three legitimate sovereigns for the same country, for a single throne! One has to come to Europe to see such things.

However, the three Parisians gayly discussed the matter, and seemed to be the best friends in the world.

LONDON, November 15, 1870.

As a sequel to the three Frenchwomen, representing three different monarchs, I met, this evening, at Lord Granville's, three Frenchmen representing three different republics.

The first asked me why I didn't go to Tours.

"You will find there," he said to me, "the authorized representatives of the French Republic, and in addressing yourself to M. Gambetta you are addressing France—"

"Don't do that, Mr. Ambassador!" exclaimed the second Frenchman; "the real Government of the real French Republic is shut up in Paris. M. Jules Favre alone can officially receive your visit and your apologies."

"The Republic of Paris isn't worth more than the Republic of Tours," the third Frenchman then told me. "If we have a Republic in France, it will be neither the Republic of M. Gambetta nor the Republic of M. Jules Favre."

"And whose Republic then?"

"The Republic of M. Thiers—"

Whereupon the three Frenchmen began to dispute in earnest. They were very red, shouted loudly, and made violent gestures. The discussion about the three monarchies had been much gentler and much more agreeable than the discussion about the three republics.

During the evening these Frenchmen managed to slip into my ear, in turn, two or three little phrases of this kind:

"Don't listen," the first one said to me, "to that partisan of the Government of Paris; he is a lawyer who has come here with a commission from M. Jules Favre. So you see he has a big salary, and as he wishes to keep it—"

"Don't listen," the second one said to me, "to that partisan of the alleged Republic of M. Thiers; he is only a monarchist, a disguised Orleanist—"

"Don't listen," the third one said to me, "to that partisan of the Republic of Tours; he is a gentleman who has come to England to get a loan for the benefit of the Government of Tours; so, as he expects to get a lot of money—"

Thus I am, if I reckon correctly, face to face with six governments—three monarchies and three republics.

LONDON, December 6, 1870.

I think that his Excellency, M. de Bernstoff, Prussian Ambassador to England, takes pleasure in making fun of me. I never meet him but that he announces to me that Paris will capitulate the next day. The next day arrives and Paris does not capitulate. However, this evening his Excellency looked so perfectly sure of what he was saying that I think I can prepare to start for Paris.

PARIS, February 20, 1871.

I only left on the 10th of February. At last I am in Paris. I travelled slowly, by short stages. What a lot of burned villages! What a lot of sacked houses! What a lot of devastated forests, dug-up woods, and bridges and railroads destroyed! And these Europeans treat us as barbarians!

However, among all these ruins there is one the sight of which filled me with the keenest joy. The palace of Saint-Cloud was the summer palace of the Emperor Napoleon, and not a stone upon a stone remains. I contemplated curiously, eagerly, and for a long time the blackened ruins of this palace. Pieces of old Chinese vases were hidden in the heaps of rubbish among the wreck of marble and fragments of shell.

Where did those old Chinese vases come from? Perhaps from the summer palace of our Emperor, from that palace which was devastated, burned, and destroyed by those English and French soldiers who came to bring us civilization.

I was extremely well received by the English, who overwhelmed me with invitations and kindnesses; but none the less I hope that the palaces of Buckingham and Windsor will also have their turn.

PARIS, February 25, 1871.

I have written to M. Jules Favre to let him know that I have been waiting six months for the opportunity of presenting to him the compliments and apologies of the Emperor of China. M. Jules Favre answered me that he is obliged to start for Bordeaux. I shall have an audience in the beginning of March.

PARIS, March 7, 1871.

Another letter from M. Jules Favre. He is expected at Frankfort by M. de Bismarck. My audience is again put off.

PARIS, March 17, 1871.

At last, to-morrow, March 18th, at four o'clock, I am to be received by M. Jules Favre at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.

PARIS, March 18, 1871.

We dressed ourselves, I and my two secretaries, in our official costumes, and departed at three o'clock, accompanied by an interpreter. We arrived. The court of the house was filled with people who appeared busy and hurried, and who came and went, carrying cases and packages. The interpreter, after having exchanged several words with an employee of the ministry, said to me:

"Something serious has happened—an insurrection. The Government is again obliged to change its capital!"

At that moment a door opened, and M. Jules Favre himself appeared with a large portfolio under his arm. He explained to the interpreter that I should have my audience at Versailles in several days, and having made me a profound bow, which I returned him, he ran away with his large portfolio.

VERSAILLES, March 19, 1871.

I had to leave Paris at twelve o'clock in a great hurry. There really is a new Government at Paris. This Government is not one of the three monarchies, nor one of the three republics. It is a seventh arrangement, which is called the Commune. This morning an armed troop of men surrounded the house where I live. It seems that the new Ministry of Foreign Affairs of Paris of the Commune would have been charmed to receive a Chinese ambassador. They had come to carry me off. I had time to escape. It is not the Minister of Foreign Affairs in Paris that I ought to see, it is the Minister of Foreign Affairs in Versailles.

Good heavens, how complicated it all is! And when shall I be able to put my hand on this intangible person, who is now blockaded in Paris and now chased out of Paris?

VERSAILLES, April 6, 1871.

At last, yesterday, I had the honor of being received by his Excellency, and we discussed the events that had occurred in Paris.

"This insurrection," M. Jules Favre said to me, "is the most formidable and the most extraordinary that has ever broken out."

I could not allow such a great historical error to pass. I answered M. Jules Favre that we had had in China for millions of years socialists and socialistic uprisings; that the French Communists were but rough imitators of our Chinese Taipings; that we had had in 1230 a siege at Nankin which had lasted seven years, etc. In short, these Europeans are only beginning again our history with less grandeur and more barbarity.

VERSAILLES, May 15, 1871.

My mission is ended; I could return to China; but all that I see here interests me extremely. This civil war immediately succeeding a foreign war is a very curious occurrence. There is here, for a Chinaman, an excellent opportunity of study, on the spot and from life, of European civilization.

VERSAILLES, May 24, 1871.

Paris is burning, and on the terrace of the palace of Saint-Cloud, in the midst of the ruins of that palace, I passed my day looking at Paris burn. It is a dead, destroyed, and annihilated city.

PARIS, June 10, 1871.

Not at all. It is still the most beautiful city in Europe, and the most brilliant, and the most gay. I shall spend some time in Paris.

PARIS, June 29, 1871.

Yesterday M. Thiers, in the Bois de Boulogne, held a review of a hundred thousand men. Will there always be a France?



IN THE EXPRESS

"When one bears the name of Luynes or La Tremoille, I can readily understand the desire to continue the Luynes or the La Tremoilles; but really when one is named Chamblard, what possible object can there be in—Eh? Answer."

In this fashion young Raoul Chamblard talked while comfortably settled back in a large red velvet arm-chair. This happened on the 26th of March, 1892, in one of the parlor-cars of the express to Marseilles, which had left Paris at 8.50 that morning. It was now five minutes past nine. The train with much racket was crossing the bridge of Charentin. Young Chamblard was talking to his friend, Maurice Revoille, who, after a six weeks' leave, was going to join his regiment in Algeria.

The lieutenant of light cavalry responded to his friend's question with a vague gesture. Raoul Chamblard continued:

"However, it's my father's fixed idea. There must be Chamblards after me. And as papa has but one son, it's to me he looks to do what is necessary."

"Well, do what is necessary."

"But I am only twenty-four, my dear fellow, and to marry at twenty-four is hard. It seems to me that I'm still entitled to a little more fun, and even a good deal."

"Well, have your fun."

"That's just what I've done up to now. I have had a first-rate time! But I've taste only for expensive amusements. I don't know how to enjoy myself without money, and I haven't a cent. Do you understand? Not a cent!"

"You? You are very rich."

"A great mistake! Upon coming of age, three years ago, I spent what was left me by my mother. Mother wasn't very rich; she was worth six hundred thousand francs, not more. Papa made almost a love-match. The six hundred thousand francs vanished in three years, and could I decently do anything else as the son of my father? He is powerfully rich!"

"That's what's said."

"And it's very true. He has a dozen millions which are quite his own, and can't be hurt by an accident; and his bank still goes on, and brings him in, one year with another, besides the interest on his dozen millions, three or four hundred thousand francs more. Nothing is more solid than the Chamblard bank; it's honest, it's venerable. Papa isn't fair to me, but I'm fair to him. When you have a father in business, it's a good thing when you go out not to be exposed to meet eyes which seem to say to you, 'My dear fellow, your father has swindled me.' Papa has but one passion: from five to seven every day he plays piquet at his club, at ten sous a point, and as he is an excellent player, he wins seven times out of ten. He keeps an account of his games with the same scrupulous exactitude he has in all things, and he was telling the day before yesterday that piquet this year had brought him in six thousand five hundred francs over and above the cost of the cards. He has a seat in the orchestra at the opera, not for the ballet, but for the music only; he never goes on the stage—neither do I, for that matter. Dancers don't attract me at all; they live in Batignolles, in Montmartre; they always walk with their mothers; they completely lack charm. In short, my father is what one calls a good man. You see I continue to be fair to him. Besides, I'm always right. Yes, it's a very good thing to have an honorable father, and Papa Chamblard is a model of all virtues, and he accumulates for me with a zeal! but I think, just at present, he accumulates a little too much. He has cut off my income. No marriage, no money. That's brief and decisive. That's his programme. And he has hunted up a wife for me—when I say one, I should say three."

"Three wives!"

"Yes. One morning he came to me and said: 'This must end. Look, here's a list—three splendid matches.' There were the names, the relations, the dowries—it was even arranged in the order of the dowries. I had to yield and consent to an interview with Number One. That took place at the Salon in the Champs Elysees. Ah, my boy, Number One—dry, flat, bony, sallow!"

"Then why did your father—"

"Why? Because she was the daughter, and only daughter, of a wealthy manufacturer from Roubaix. It was splendid! We each started with a hundred thousand francs income, and that was to be, in the course of time, after realized expectations, a shower of millions! It made papa supremely happy—the thought that all his millions in Paris would one day make an enormous heap with all those Roubaix millions. Millions don't frighten me, but on the condition that they surround a pretty, a very pretty and stylish woman—a great deal of style! That's my programme. I want to be able to take my wife to the theatres without having to blush before the box-openers."

"What do you mean? Before the box-openers?"

"Why, certainly. I am known, and I've a reputation to keep up. You see, the openers are always the same—always; and of course they know me. They've been in the habit of seeing me, during the last three or four years, come with the best-known and best-dressed women in Paris. Which is to say, that I should never dare present myself before them with that creature from Roubaix. They would think I had married for money. I tried to explain that delicately to papa, but one can't make him hear reason. There are things which he doesn't understand, which he can't understand. I have no grudge against him; he's of his time, I'm of mine. In short, I declared resolutely that I would never marry Number One. Notice that I discoursed most sensibly with papa. I said to him: 'You want me to have a home' (home is his word), 'but when I should have placed in that home a fright such as to scare the sparrows, my home would be a horror to me, and I should be forced, absolutely forced, to arrange a home outside. Thus I should have a household at home and a household outside, and it's then that the money would fly!' But papa won't listen to anything! He doesn't understand that I must have a little wife who is pretty, Parisian pretty—that is to say, original, gay, jolly, who is looked at on the street, and stared at through opera-glasses at the theatre, who will do me honor, and who will set me off well. I must be able to continue my bachelor life with her, and as long as possible. And then there's another thing that I can't tell papa. His name is Chamblard—it isn't his fault; only, in consequence, I too am named Chamblard, and it's not very agreeable, with a name like that, to try to get on in society. And a pretty, a very pretty, woman is the best passport. There, look at Robineau. He has just been received into the little club of the Rue Royale. And why? It's not the Union or the Jockey; but never mind, one doesn't get in there as into a hotel. And why was Robineau received?"