At certain periods, when the brain is heavy, the digestion is inactive, and the bowels are confined, when dizziness occurs, when the blood becoming too plentiful, grows thick and congested in the veins and rises to the head, then it is that nature needs to accomplish her work. Then one seeks for a woman, one throws oneself on her who happens to be there, and is willing to lend herself to this hygienic and benevolent part. Servant or mistress, girl or wife, lady or work-girl, young or old, courtesan from a drawing-room or the pavement, one takes her, has one's pleasure of her, and goes away.

But to love long, to make of the woman the aim of our life, the spring of our actions, the ideal of our existence; to believe in happiness together, to put faith in these fragile, vain and ignorant dolls!... What trickery!

To believe in happiness through love! Dream of the school-boy! It is permissible to the neophyte who puts on for the first time the white surplice and the golden chasuble with so much joy and pride. The sweet young girls, the youthful wives, the grave matrons regard you with softened eyes. Then you have faith, you have confidence, you see the future illumined by angels with virgin bodies who murmur mysterious words in your ear, which melt your heart. You dare hardly lift your eyes, and you say to yourself: "Which one shall I love in this legion of seraphims? Oh, I will love them all, all!" Presumptuous youth which doubts of nothing!

But when you have loved one, two, three of them ... afterwards, afterwards?

After having experienced the nothingness of all these trifles, of all these follies of the heart, of all these caprices of the imagination, of all these abortions of the thought, of all these voids of the soul, of all these impurities of the body, of all the uncleanness of the woman with whom you are satiated, and whose couch you are leaving, then go and speak of eternal love.

Oh, how right Diogenes was to call love a short epilepsy.

How right that Imperial sophist of the Decline to call it a convulsion! and the first Bonaparte, an affair of the sopha.

Thus Marcel moralized, like an old prelate, coming out from a closed room when some filthy scene has been enacted.

The fact is, that for some time he had been the hero of a comedy and of a drama; the grotesque comedy which he had unrolled with his servant, the terrible drama in which he saw himself involved with Suzanne Durand. And he was wearied and satiated. The satisfaction of his senses left him by way of retaliation, shame, trouble and fear.

Daniel Defoe has written in his admirable book:

"From how many mysterious sources, opposed one to the other, do not different circumstances cause our passions to proceed? We hate in the evening what we cherished in the morning; we avoid to-day what we sought for yesterday; we desire an object passionately, and a few moments after, we shall not know how to endure the idea of it."

Thus Marcel was cursing love, when Zulma came and knocked at his door.



XC.

LE CYGNE DE LA CROIX.

"As soon as she comes The Hostess looks hard: —My beauty no ceremony, The supper is ready; Come in, come in, my beauty Come in, and no more noise With three gallant captains You shall spend the night."

(Popular Songs of France).

Madame Connard, a widow, and the landlady of the Cygne de la Croix, a godly and right-thinking person, made a significant grimace when she saw a young girl, quietly dressed, entering her house, with no other luggage than an old band-box.

But when she handed her the card of Monsieur Tibulle, judge of the Court at Vic, president of the Society of St. Vincent de Paul, and member of the Committee for the protection of poor Young Girls, her grimace changed into a gracious smile.

She soon gave her a room and asked her what she wanted to eat, informing her, however, that it was a fast-day and that, consequently, she had not much choice.

—Whatever you like, said the dancer; I am convalescent; I have a good appetite, and I accommodate myself to everything: don't give then the best which you have, but the cheapest.

—The little thing is sharp, thought Madame Connard; and she added aloud: A young lady, recommended by Monsieur Tibulle, need not fear that she will want for anything. Consider what you would like, my little dear, and don't disturb yourself about the rest. And since you are ill, the Church allows us to give you meat to eat.

She went out in the meantime, and an hour afterwards she herself served a dinner which would have made the most greedy of curates envious, and washed down with that light wine, acrid but heady, which the slopes of the Meurthe produce.

The dancer, like a true child of Bohemia, dined heartily, and without needing to be asked. She was at her coffee, when she heard a whispering in the corridor, and a little cracked voice, which said:

—I am a little late, dear Madame, but I have been kept by Monseigneur. Has the little one behaved well?

—Like an angel, Monsieur Tibulle, and a demon for beauty.

—Yes, yes. This will be a fine acquisition for the Church. A soul snatched from Satan, dear Madame, snatched from Satan. We shall make something of her.

—Ah, how happy you gentlemen are to snatch in this way pretty little souls from hell. We, poor women, have not that power.

—But you prepare the ways. You open them, dear Madame Connard; everything has its purpose, its purpose, its purpose.

—Well, Monsieur Tibulle, proceed to yours. It is number 10. I leave you.

And she quietly half-opened the door of No. 10, into which Monsieur glided like a shadow, saying in his tremulous voice:

—Eh! Eh! it is I, I, I, my little dear. How happy I am to see you again, to find you here, comfortably installed like a little queen. Eh, eh.

Madame Connard put her head in for an instant, smiled, and cautiously closed the door; "He is still pretty young for his age," she said to herself. "Ah, these men! these men! that goes on to the very end."



XCI.

THE CALVES.

"Non formosus erat sed erat facundus Ulixes."

OVID.

Zulma had run forward to meet him. He took hold of both her hands and made her sit down close beside him on the sofa.

—Well, what is the news? How have they received you here? Are you satisfied? Have you had a good dinner?

—Too good, replied Zulma: I am afraid I have spent a deal of money.

—A deal of money! Eh, eh! the good little girl! But you have nothing to pay here, my little puss. Nothing at all to pay, nothing at all. All the expense is my concern, and the more you spend, the better pleased I shall be. Have they not told you that, told you that, told you that?

—You are too kind, Monsieur; but I, what shall I do then for you?

—She is heavenly, eh, eh! But I want nothing, darling, nothing, nothing ... except to see your pretty eyes. When we see them once, we have only one wish, and that is to see them again, again, again. I am well paid for the little I have done for you, since I have that pleasure. Yes, yes, yes. We are only too happy for what we can do for a charming little face like yours, and when we have obliged it, we say thank you! That is what I do, my little duck; thank-you, thank-you, thank-you.

—I am very grateful to you....

—That is what I was thinking. I want to kiss you for that kind word. Alas, we come across so many ungrateful people in the world.... What a fine and velvety skin; how soft it is under the lips ... again, again.... I could eat it ... again.... Ah, you do not want to again. What are you afraid of? I might be your father.... Come, another little kiss for poor papa.

Zulma let him kiss her again.

[PLATE V: THE CALVES. "I want to see them again, again, again."

—Well, there they are, but do not touch.

—Oh, oh, you are cheating. That is only half, I want to see them all ... up to the knees.]



—Ah, what a pretty girl! Look how strong and well made she is! continued the old President passing his trembling hand over the young girl's waist: have not these breasts grown a little thin? Yes, I believe, a little, a little, but how firm they are! like a rock, like a rock; hard as a rock, heavenly girl.... Eh, eh! you are drawing back, you are afraid of me ... of me who might be your papa.

—And perhaps my grandpapa, said Zulma.

—Grandpapa! Ah, the little girl is not flattering. Grandfather! you think then that I am quite old? I am going to pinch her calves for that naughty word, those big calves which I saw at Vic, and which have turned my head. Have they grown smaller too? Let us see, let us see.

Zulma held back the too presumptuous hand.

—What, said the worthy man astonished, you will not show your calves?

—What is the good, since you have seen them at Vic?

—I want to see them again, again, again.

—Well, there they are, but do not touch.

—Oh, oh, you are cheating. That is only half, I want to see them all ... up to the knees; at the least what I saw in the market-place.

—No, sir.

—Ah, you must not say no to me.... I do not like no. Let me help you, my pretty. Women always have a lot of strings under their petticoats and sometimes there are knots, knots, knots. I know that, so let me do it.

—But I don't want to, I tell you.

—Nevertheless, just to show me your calves, your fine big calves.

—You have seen them enough.

—What, cried Monsieur Tibulle, indignant at length at such obstinacy, you refuse to show to me what you exhibit in public, to everybody, in the market-places, in the streets, to the first who comes along; you refuse me when I am all alone, in this little room where nobody sees us. Ah, it is very wrong, wrong, wrong. I intend to punish you for that naughty act.

—In public, that is my profession, and besides I have a costume.

—She is nice enough to eat! A costume! If you only want that, it is very easy to find. I know of a little costume, very nice and not dear; and if you like, we will both of us put it on.

—What is it?

—That which God gave us. It is the best of all, and besides it is that which will become you the best. Ah, my little dear, nothing is equal to the gifts of God, and all the fripperies of women will never serve them as well as the simple attire of our first mother. We are going then to try the costume of Adam and Eve. Does that suit you, little one? You will no longer be afraid then of showing your calves. Come, come, Sophie, my dear, enough of these affectations.

—My name is not Sophie.

—Your name is Zulma, and also Aspasia, and Phryne, and again it is Eve. For it is long since you ate of the forbidden fruit, is it not, you little rogue?

—Let me alone, I ask you.

—Leave you alone! you would think I was very silly. Come, heavenly Eve, be quick into the costume of your part; I will play Adam and you shall see what a fine apple we will eat.

—Sir, a man of your age!

—Old men are always more amorous than the young ones, you will see, you will see.

—I don't want to see anything, let me go.

—Go! and where do you want to go to? A man does not let a little duck like you go away when he has hold of her, for I have you, you little rogue, yes, yes, I have you. Listen. We will go away to-morrow morning, each our own way, neither seen, nor known. And I assure you that you will be satisfied. My wife does not expect me till to-morrow.

—Your wife? What, you are married?...

—Does that surprise you? My wife is an old she-goat who is good for nothing more. Therefore I make no more use of her. Come, let us be quick; into the costume of Eve, and if you absolutely keep to it, I will fasten a fig-leaf on to you.

But Zulma was not the girl to allow herself to be forced in this way; and the worthy old man, who wanted to add deeds to words, received a vigorous slap on the face.

He stopped, quite confused, and rubbed his cheek.

—She has a strong wrist, he said. Who would suspect that such a little hand could hit so hard? But the ice is broken now, and you are going to pay me for it.



XCII.

THE SCAPULAR

"And the old bearded fellow rubbed away, pushed with his hips, embracing her in front: clasped with his arms embracing her behind; stuffing at the chancellery, throwing her gently and collecting his strength, labouring with his chest, and even tripping her up: he made use of all."

LEON CLADEL (Ompdrailles).

—I shall scream, said Zulma, who was defending herself valiantly; I shall scream if you do not loose me.

—Scream as much as you will, said the holy man as he recovered breath: here the walls are deaf, and you will have to deal with me.

—I just laugh at you. You old Punch!

—Old Punch! Punch!

—You ought to be ashamed.

—You insult me; take care.

—Let me go directly, or I shall know whom to complain to.

—Ah, you assume that tone! You want to make a complaint do you? And to whom, you little wretch?

—To whom it may concern.

—Ah, what a fine expression you have learnt by heart. Who is whom it may concern? I do not know him. Whoever he may be, whom it may concern will laugh in your face. You, a daughter of the streets, a rope-dancer, a clown, a ragged slut, you would lodge a complaint against me! Surely you do not know who I am. I am an honourable man; known everywhere, respected everywhere. Come, you see clearly that you are talking nonsense; be more reasonable again. What! it pleases me to cast my eyes upon you, to want to pass a little while with you agreeably; I honour you by stooping myself to a girl of your kind, and you refuse, and are fastidious. Has one ever seen such a thing? It is enough to make God laugh. Come, come now, not so many affectations: for the lost time, how much do you want? A hundred francs?

—You horrify me. Let me go away.

He cast a fearful look upon her, and said, with a laugh which chilled her blood:

—Oh, you want to go away. Well, how about the money I have spent on you, and on your journey?

—Your money! I did not ask you for it. But I will let you have it back again, be assured; when I have worked and earned it.

—And you believe that I shall be satisfied with this fine promise? You will let me have my money back immediately, or I shall certainly accuse you of being a thief ... an adventuress.

—I will say what happened. It was you who compelled me to take the money for the coach-fare.

—I make you a present of that, but you will have to pay all that you have spent here; if not, you will be put in prison, you understand, little good-for-nothing? Do you think people are going to keep you and let you enjoy yourself for nothing?

—And who has told you that I shall not pay, replied Zulma, struck by the logic of this objection.

—Then you will pay immediately, said the worthy man, for I have been answerable for you, and it is on my recommendation that they have received a trollop like you into this respectable house. Madame Connard, he cried at the door, dear Madame Connard, will you bring up the bill, the little bill?

Madame Connard appeared at once:

—What, Mademoiselle is going away, is she not sleeping here?

—No, Mademoiselle is going to try her fortune elsewhere.

Madame Connard handed the bill to Monsieur Tibulle.

—No, no. It is Mademoiselle who is going to settle it; this young lady.

Zulma glanced at it and grew pale. She had hardly 10 francs, and the bill amounted to 19 francs, 75 centimes.

—And besides, it is so little because it is you. Everything is so dear here, and one does not know what to do for a living.

The poor girl remained silent; she looked at the bill without seeing it, for her eyes were full of tears.

—Well, said Monsieur Tibulle in a wheedling tone. Is there some little hindrance to your settling that?

—Madame, said Zulma, I have not enough money with me; no, I do not believe I have enough money ... but I can find it, I know where to find it ... and in an hour or two....

—Oh, oh, cried Madame Connard, in an hour or two, that is a very fine tale. But I know it, my girl, and people don't tell me that sort of thing.

—Well, dear Madame, I leave you, said Monsieur Tibulle, making her a knowing sign; I am going to see if my horse is put to, for I am setting off directly. Good-bye, little one, good-bye. No malice.

—Well, Mademoiselle, said Madame Connard, what do you decide?

—I have told you, Madame, I can give you five or six francs, and, although it is a downright robbery, I will find you the rest.

-What! a robbery? you little thief, you little hussy, you dare to call me a thief, you little street-walker. You are going to pay me immediately, or I will hand you over to the police.

—Very well, call the police, if you wish; I ask for nothing better; I will relate what has occurred.

She considered no doubt that she was wrong, for she cried:

—Look, that is not all, pay me immediately and take yourself off somewhere else. Has one ever seen anything like? You believed perhaps that I was going to lodge you and keep you for your pretty face? No, my dear. I have been done already in that way, and you don't catch me any more. There was a respectable gentleman, very polite, rich, and wearing a red ribbon, who was answerable for you, if you had been willing to make an arrangement with him; but instead of making an arrangement with him, you have a dispute; so much the worse for you, your family quarrels don't concern me. What I want is the money, that is all that I know; pay me my bill and get out, you little prostitute.

—Come, dear Madame, I will try and arrange this little matter, said Monsieur Tibulle, appearing again; the little one is going to think better of it, I feel sure. Let me reason with her.

Madame Connard withdrew complacently.

—You see, you see in what a position you are placing yourself, said the excellent old gentleman, crossing his arms and looking at the young girl with all the dignity and sorrow of a father who has detected his child in some shameful act.

—Say rather into what an ambush you have driven me, you old scoundrel.

—Oh, oh, oh! no bad word, my girl. Bad words are no use. I am going away to pay the bill.

—A fig for you and your money.

—What! a fig for me and my money! In the first place you should never despise money, my girl; we can do nothing without money in this world. And then you are wrong to despise me, who only wish you well, my dear; yes, yes, wish you well.

—I tell you to leave me alone.

—Look now, don't be naughty, for I am going to settle the matter.

—I don't want you. Don't touch me....

—And how are you going to get yourself out of this scrape, if you will not let me get you out. You rebuff me again, though I only want to make you happy.

—I tell you not to come near me.

—Come, be pacified, you little angry cat; only a kiss and that shall be all.

He wanted to take hold of her waist, but she pushed him back. But he had gone too far to believe that he ought to beat a retreat, and he retained to the charge with renewed vigour. In the struggle she seized him by the neck, his waistcoat came undone, and a little square bit of painted canvas, of a dubious colour, remained in her hand. She threw it back in his face in disgust.

—My scapular! he cried. You throw my scapular about in this way. Stay, you are a little wretch, a street-walker, a hussy, a reprobate. You will perish miserably, and I leave you to your fate. Ah, you throw away my scapular!

When he had said this, the good gentleman piously recovered his scapular, buttoned up his overcoat, and retired full of dignity.



XCIII.

FROM THE DARK TO THE FAIR.

"Moderation should preside over pleasure: let us seek in new pleasures a refuge against the satiety of our souls."

KALVOS DE ZANTE (Odes nouvelles).

Zulma had remembered Marcel and had gone to him boldly.

—You have been crying then, my child? said the priest who noticed her red eyes.

The young girl in a few words informed him of her adventure.

—Who would ever have believed that? she said. Such a kind man! Such an obliging lady! The old gentleman said to me at Vic: "I shall not concern myself about you if you do not go to Confession, if you do not receive the Communion, if you do not say your prayers." Whom can one trust?

And that Madame Connard: "Eat what you like, and don't stand on ceremony. Monsieur Tibulle wishes it so. Old men are made to pay." And with all these fine words, I owe her ten francs.

Marcel could not help laughing at the girl's artlessness.

—Then you have come to ask me for them.

—Yes, said Zulma blushing; have I not done right? She has kept my band-box, the old thief; what it contains is not worth ten francs, but I don't want to leave it with her.

—And what will you give me in exchange?

—Everything you want.

—That is a great deal to promise; but you have nothing.

—It is true, I have nothing, she said piteously. Well, I will kiss you and will love you very much. One may kiss a Cure, may one not?

Marcel thought she was getting to business very quickly.

—Priests do not receive kisses from anybody, he replied.

—From nobody? not even from a sister?

—But you are not my sister.

—Well, I will be your comrade.

—No more do they have a comrade.

—Oh, well, if I were a man I should not like to be in your position; one must get awfully tired of being all alone. What are you able to do all the blessed day? For my part, in the first place I must have a lover.

—Ha, ha! and who is your lover?

—A rider at the Loyal Circus. A handsome boy too. A tall dark fellow like you. He is a little too proud, but I like that in a man.

—And for how long has he been your lover?

—Ever since I have seen him. It is nearly two years ago at the fete at Mirecourt. Our booth was beside the Circus.

—Two years! cried Marcel: but at what age did you begin?

—Begin what? to dance on the tight-rope?

—To have lovers.

—But I have only had one, and that is he.

—Well, how old were you when you had him?

—I have never had him.

—Look, dear child, you have told me that you are sixteen.

—Yes, sir.

—Then you began at fourteen.

—Began what?

—With your lover.

—We never began anything. I have told you that he was too proud. I wanted to speak to him once, and he answered, "Go along."

—But he is not your lover.

—But he is, because I love him.

—And you have not had others.

—No, because I love him.

—Well, you are a good girl, and if what you have said is true, you are worth your weight in gold.

—My weight in gold! cried Zulma laughing; then buy me, for it is true, and I shall be rich.

—But how shall I know if what you say is true?

—Ah, that is embarrassing, she said thoughtfully. What can I do to prove it?

—I believe you without proof. But I am not rich enough to pay you.

—It doesn't matter, to you I give myself for nothing.

Marcel was bewildered and hurriedly gave her the ten francs.

—How kind you are; I should like all the same to do something for you.

—You wish to please me? Well, remain good.

—Only that! And till when?

—Until I give you permission not to be so any longer.

—I will certainly.

She took a few steps towards the door, opened it, then turning back suddenly, she advanced her bust, as though she were making a bow to the crowd, and placing the tips of her fingers on her lips, she wafted a gracious kiss to the priest.

—There is pleasant and easy love-making, said Marcel to himself. Why did I not know it sooner?

He ran to the door.

—Wait, my child. Where are you going to sleep to-night? It is late. Have you a lodging?

—Stay, my word no, I had forgotten it.

—This is what you will do. First, settle your account with this landlady, without making allusion to anything. A scandal must always be avoided. Monsieur Tibulle is a man, highly esteemed, with a considerable position in the world, and anything you might say against him, would only turn against you. Do not tell this story then to anybody; and do not tell anybody that you know me. Now take these two louis, my dear child, and buy yourself a few little articles of dress. You must be dressed properly. Go, and come back here. Monsieur Patin!

The landlord appeared.

—Monsieur Patin, said Marcel, I confide this young person to you, or rather, to Madame Patin here. She has been recommended specially to me by some ladies of high rank. She is going to fetch her small articles of luggage, and will soon be back again. Be careful of her. Give her a room and her meals; I am answerable for her. Mademoiselle, I shall see you again to-morrow.

What were Marcel's intentions?

Had he felt the appetite for the unknown awakening?

He who had just poured forth his bitterness upon woman and upon love, had be come to the conclusion in the presence of this stranger that he could not do without woman or without love!

But the other?

The other was not there, and the absent are in the wrong.

Could this one make him forget the other? Could a new fancy destroy the strong love which bound him and was ruining him? Could a love facile and without risk soothe the hidden mischief and diminish the fury of a dangerous passion? She had all that was required for that, this little fair girl with the tempting lips.

Like Suzanne she was young and charming, like Suzanne she would be loving, and unlike Suzanne, she would be submissive.

Her eyes swimming in their azure, her aquiline nose with its mobile nostrils, her scarlet fleshly lips, her golden hair like ripened corn, her rosy cheeks in which coursed health and life, the slimness of her waist, the delicacy and whiteness of her hand; it all said: Love me.

And she was a fresh woman ... a fresh woman, eternal temptation.

When he returned to the hotel, he found the Comtesse anxiously waiting for him.

With a smile she handed a large packet, sealed with the episcopal arms.

It was his nomination to the Cure of St. Marie. He would have to take possession of it immediately.



XCIV.

THE CHANGE.

"Prayer on that day is said within the gothic church, The old men mourn beneath the ancient oak. Resisted are the games but just begun. The village maidens will no longer dance."

MME. DE GIRARDIN (Elgire).

The worshippers at Althausen were much surprised the next day to see a priest whom they did not know, officiating without ceremony in the place of their Cure. He was stout and plain, with an inflamed face, bloated lips, a cynical look, and a thundering voice: he said Mass in such a hasty and indecorous manner that they went away scandalized. The handsome Marcel certainly was no longer there, with his sweet and unctuous voice, his evangelic piety, and his eyes which stirred their hearts.

The report spread through the village that the handsome Cure had gone away, and all the gossips at bay grouped in the market-place and watched for Veronica to assail her with questions. But the old maid-servant to her mortification knew no more about it than the gossips. She ventured to interrogate her new master, but he slapped her on the back and sent her away to her kitchen-stove.

—He is disgusting, this old fellow, she said. For my part I am not going to remain here. I prefer the Corporal.

Durand had just sat down at table with his daughter, when Marianne with a scared air, looked at Suzanne in a mysterious way, and said to the Captain:

—Do you know? Monsieur le Cure has gone away.

—Pleasant journey, said Durand.

—There is a new Cure already in his place. He said Mass this morning.

—A new Cure, cried Suzanne; then he has gone away not to return again?

—Gone away without hope of coming back, said the Captain, that is discouraging! It surprises you then, little girl, that the handsome priest has disappeared with neither drum nor trumpet, and with no touching farewells to his flock. For my part, I am not surprised at it, and I wager that he has committed some act of blackguardism, and has absconded.

—Oh, father!

—He has not absconded, Marianne said quickly; he went away on Friday very quietly with another Cure.

—Let him go to the devil!

Suzanne had difficulty in hiding her palor and her distress. She pretended to have a head-ache, left the table, ran to her room and burst into tears. Why this decisive departure? Why had she not received a single warning from Marcel? No doubt, he had done it for the best, but that best was incomprehensible to her; her heart was broken, and her self-love received a cruel wound.

Soon the news arrived. The new Cure announced Marcel's change in the sermon, and said farewell for him to his parishioners. Everybody was in consternation. He might have announced the seven plagues of Egypt.

For her part Marianne received a mysterious packet which was intended for Suzanne. The priest, in cautious terms informed her of his change, and said it was necessary to wait. Wait for what? Suzanne waited.

But one morning she awoke full of dismay; she had felt something give a start in her entrails. She wrote a long letter to Marcel, and Marcel answered: Wait.

Wait for what? She waited again.



XCV.

THE CURE OF ST. MARIE.

"The white ground and the gloomy sky Blended their heads sepulchral; The rough north winds of winter Breathed to the heart despair."

CAMILLE DELTHIL (Poemes parisiens).

Weeks and then months passed away. One rainy winter's evening a young woman, in deep mourning, with her face covered with a thick veil, stopped at the Cure of St. Marie's door.

She had hesitated for a long time; several times she had passed in front of the tall gray house, casting a furtive glance on the lofty windows, slackening her walk and seeming to say: "Ought I to go in? Yes, I must go in." But each time she pursued her way again. At length, as the rain kept falling ever colder as night came on, she controlled herself by en effort, slowly retraced her step and rang gently.

The door was opened at once, and an old woman with a face the colour of leather, invited her in mysteriously, "Whom shall I announce?" she asked.—"Do not announce me. I am expected."

The old woman smiled discreetly and showed her into a large parlour, the door of which she closed upon her.

It was a bare wainscoted room, gloomy, lighted by two candle-ends.

A prie-Dieu, a table, some straw chairs, a few rows of old books on shelves painted black, composed all the furniture.

A large crucifix of wood which stretched its thin arms from one window to the other, contributed no little to give a sorrowful and monastic look to the room.

The young girl approached the chimney-piece, where a few brands were burning at the bottom of a huge grate. She shivered, perhaps more from emotion than from cold, for she remained there, thoughtful, forgetting even to warm her feet, soaked by the rain.

A door opened soon at the other end of the room and Marcel entered.

He had greatly changed during these few months.

His eye shot forth a gloomy fire, his cheeks were hollow, and numerous threads of silver showed themselves in his dark locks. It was evident that anxiety, watchings and cares, contended on his wrinkled brow.

At the sight of the young woman he assumed a livid palor.

—You, he murmured in a stifled voice, you here, Mademoiselle?

—I am, replied Suzanne; did you not reckon then on seeing me again?

—Not now, dear child, I confess to you. I had said to you: Wait.

—And I have waited. And weary of waiting, I decided to come and to know finally from your own mouth what I must wait for, and on what I most count. But ... sir.... I am tired: will you allow me to sit down?

—Pardon me, Mademoiselle, I mean to say, dear Suzanne, but your coming has filled me with such confusion....

He handed her a chair, and sat down facing her.

—Ah! dear child, you do not know with what cares I am overwhelmed.

—They must indeed be very serious, sir, since they have made you forgetful of your duties, even to the care of your honour and of mine ... for the moment is approaching when I shall no longer he able to hide the consequences of your....

—Of our fault, dear Suzanne, of both our faults. Do not overwhelm me alone, for it was your pretty face which made me mad. But is it really possible? Can it be true? what, you are....

—I have let you know it, sir, a long time ago, and you have not deigned to give any answer on that subject. I have read and read again your letters many times, seeking for a word which might console me, for a hope, for a light, but there was nothing. You have told me to wait; you have tried, like a coward, to gain time, you have reckoned on something unforeseen occurring, which might settle the question without your aid ... and you would have washed your hands of it in peace in your broad conscience. But the time has gone on, the unexpected has not come, and now here I am, and I come to ask you: What do you intend to do with me?

—In truth, dear Suzanne, I had not believed ... Ah, you are more beautiful than ever ... No, I had not believed that the case was so desperate.

—You have not believed. No doubt, amidst your life of lies, surrounded by hypocrites and criminals, you have included me charitably in the number, and supposed that I lied.

—Suzanne, dear Suzanne, do not be offended ... I believed that you wished to terrify me ... Ah, how lovely you are like this ... Ah, it is a terrible misfortune. We must guard against it. And your father, does he suspect?

—Not yet, sir, but the moment is approaching when I shall no longer be able to hide the truth.

—It is true then. What is to be done? What is to be done?

—Stop; you would make me laugh, if I did not pity you. I am come to ask you, for the last time, if I ought to count upon you.

—Count upon me? But, my dear child, upon whom would you count if not upon me? There is no doubt but that you have only me to count on. I am your friend, your only friend. Always the same, dear Suzanne. I am ready for anything, in order to get you out of this scrape. But judge yourself. I am observed by all here, the slightest report would re-echo terribly and would ruin me. I am surrounded by those who envy me and consequently are my enemies. In a year or two, perhaps, I may be Grand-Vicar. You see how careful I have to be of my position. I will do everything, be well assured of it, it is my interest as well as yours, but I cannot do the impossible. What do you ask?

—You have a short memory, sir, but I remember, I remember with what infernal art you induced me, not to yield to you—for you well know, and God is witness to it, that I yielded only to violence—but to listen to you with a too trustful ear. No, I see you do not remember it: you have forgotten so many things that it would be lost time to try and refresh your memory. You do not answer? For in truth, sir, the parts are strangely altered, and if I am ashamed of it for myself, I blush still more for your sake. But since you are so careful of your future and of your fortune, I am come to tell you this: I am rich, sir, do not then fear anything, do not dread poverty; I have inherited from an aunt, who leaves me enough to provide me with a husband. But what I want is a father for my child....

—Mademoiselle, dear and fondly-loved Suzanne, yes, ever fondly-loved Suzanne, I am full of confusion and remorse; I thank you from the bottom of my heart for your generous offer ... but ... can I accept it? I make you the judge of it yourself. Do I belong to myself? I am the Church's, bound from head to foot, body and soul; not a thought belongs to myself, I am but the infinitesimal portion of an immense wheel which carries me away in spite of myself. How can I loosen myself from the gear? Can I do it? Can I defy such a scandal? My honour, my dignity as a man....

—Ah, you are appealing to your honour now ... but, sir, your duty, is not that your honour? And what is your duty? Stay, you are a wretch....

As she uttered these words, a young girl's head, fair, charming, rosy looked inquisitively through the half-open door. Suzanne saw it and grew pale. Her brows contracted and a bitter smile passed across her lips.

—I understand, she said, I understand your hesitation, your honour and your scruples. Farewell, sir....

And she went out, without turning her head, stifling her sobs.

Marcel followed her with his eyes, and ran to the door:

—Suzanne, Mademoiselle, to-morrow you shall have an answer. Another word...

She made no reply and he heard the street-door close.

A tear rolled to the edge of his eyelid.

He rushed to the window to call her back, but a hand laid hold of his and the fair girl stood before him.

—Well, Monsieur my uncle, well! And who is that handsome dark girl?

—Ah, my poor Zulma, do not be jealous of her.

—I am jealous of everything, and I want to know.



XCVI.

FINIS CORONAT OPUS.

"No mortal can foresee his fate Let none despair. Comrades, good night."

BYRON (Mazeppa).

The following evening, the canal toll-collector on the Malzeville road discerned a black shadow which, despite the icy rain, remained for a long time leaning on the parapet of the turn-bridge, then all at once disappeared. He called for help and, a few minutes afterwards, they drew out of the water the body of a young girl of remarkable beauty.

A portion of a letter was found upon her which at first aroused a thousand comments.

This is what was written:

"I have just celebrated the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass, and during the Elevation, I prayed God to inspire me with a good idea. I likewise asked of the Queen of Angels what I could do for this unfortunate one. The All-pitying God and the Mother chaste and pure hearkened to me. Let my sister in Jesus Christ whose image will never be effaced from the heart of her spiritual friend, go and knock at the gate of the Convent of Our Lady of the Seven Sorrows, in the parish of St. Marie; there, the cares which her interesting condition demand, will be afforded her. It will be easy to explain her temporary absence, and, in case of need, to obtain the permission of a parent who wished to place an obstacle in the way of this pious necessity. Divine Providence will assist in this as it assists all those who have recourse to it. The ladies of the Seven Sorrows are informed, and they await the new sheep with mothers' and sisters' hearts.

"Let it be thus done in the Name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost:

"Jesus, Mary, Joseph."

On applying at the Convent of the Seven Sorrows, the good sisters said that in fact they had received a letter, sealed with the episcopal arms, announcing the arrival of a young lady. They were unable to say more.

Monseigneur, when questioned, summoned the Abbe Marcel who gave the examining magistrate the most satisfactory explanations, acknowledging that he was the author of the letter, and that she was a young girl whose honour he desired to save.

This event did the greatest good to the reputation of the former Cure of Althausen. His discretion, his wisdom and his virtue were lauded more than ever.



Afterword.

OTHER WORKS IN ENGLISH BY HECTOR FRANCE

MANSOUR'S CHASTISEMENT; THE ATTACK ON THE BROTHELS; MUSK, HASHISH AND BLOOD; THE DAUGHTER OF THE CHRIST; UNDER THE BURNOUS.



THE AUTHOR AND HIS WORKS.

Hector France alighted upon this planet some fifty years ago and chose his home in the midst of a family renowned for generations as fighters. From this preliminary statement we may deduce two facts: firstly, that baby Hector was not destined by his stern-visaged, paternal sire for any other than the martial profession, and secondly, that the squealing youngster of those days is now a man in the prime of life.

Strongly-built, upright and vigorous, Hector France looks every inch just what he really is—a Soldier and a Gentleman, as ready to handle the Sword as to smite smooth-faced Lie and Hypocrisy with the Pen.

The qualities of his mind are faithfully delineated in his features. He has the same leonine look that distinguished the famous English iconoclast, Charles Bradlaugh. The massive brow, the firm, determined jaw, the large, luminous eyes, the wavy hair and big shoulders would anywhere mark him out at once, though unknown, as a Philosopher, Fighter, Orator and Leader of men. The career of the two men also offers points in common.

If Charles Bradlaugh was a soldier so was Hector France, with the difference that the latter really did face sabre-flash and cannon-smoke whereas his English prototype early bought himself out of the Service. Both men, too, mixed in the game of Politics, only Bradlaugh's luck landed him at last in Parliament while France led a forlorn hope that ended, after many a narrow escape for life, in twenty years of weary exile from his beloved country. Finally both men hold nearly identical opinions with regard to Religious Questions, only Bradlaugh imagined he had a special mission to assail the world's historic faiths, and Hector France, like Ernest Renan, smiles in a curious Oriental way, when these things are broached, quite content for you to believe anything you please so that you do not bother him overmuch with your reasons.

Hector France must not be confounded, as is often done by ignorant persons, with the gentleman who has elected to call himself "Anatole France", and who writes under that name. The real patronym of M. "Anatole France" is, I am informed, Monsieur Chaussepied, which interpreted into English means "Mr. Shoe-horn". It is unnecessary to state that Hector France is content with his own name, and would not have changed it even had it been less noble than it really is, believing with us that a man's work are sufficient title to nobility, however odd may be the cognomen bequeathed him from bygone sires.

The appearance of this book in English will prove a godsend to Protestants who may see in it only an attack on Catholicism. Let them hug no such flattering unction to their souls. M. Hector France is no savage iconoclast gone mad with sectarian hatred. He recognizes the good in all religions as answering a temporary need in the evolution of Humanity, and for none has he a more profound respect than the Catholic Church. Indeed the pomp and magnificence, the architectural grandeur, the vast learning, wealth and influence of this institution appeal to the imagination of both ignorant and cultured alike. The aim of the distinguished writer of the "Grip of Desire" is far removed from that of vulgar and gratuitous image-breaking. He seeks to show the danger to human character that comes through meddling with one of the most imperious of natural instincts. If in the "Chastisement of Mansour" he bodies forth the consequences of unbridled Libertinism, in the "Grip of Desire" he demonstrates the evils attendant on a life of forced Celibacy. In the first we have the autocratic Reign of the Flesh, in the second the Subjection of legitimate Carnal Desire.

The union of the female to the male is a law of Nature, as solid as the granite bases of the world. No normally constituted man can disregard that law without doing violence to himself and to his kind.

Kant says: "Man and woman constitute, when united, the whole and entire being, one sex completes the other."

Schopenhauer asserts: "The sexual impulse is the most complete expression of the will to live, in other words, it is the concentration of all volition." And in another passage: "The affirmation of the will to live concentrates itself in the act of procreation, which is its most positive expression." Mainlaender gives utterance to the opinion when he says: "The sexual impulse is the centre of gravity for human existence. It alone secures to the individual the life which he above all desires ... man devotes himself more seriously to the business of procreation than to any other; in the achievement of nothing else does he condense and concentrate the intensity of his will in so remarkable a manner as in the act of generation." And before all those, Buddha wrote: "Sexual desire is sharper than the hook with which wild elephants are tamed; hotter than flame; it is like an arrow that is shot into the heart of man."

The present work, if it teach anything at all, teaches that Celibacy is a crime, and the Mother of crime, just as a venomous plant is a producer of poison. The needs of his organization torment the single man until he robs from others that which he lacks. Hence Seduction, Rape, Adultery, the Invasion of trouble into families, and furious Jealousies with all their prolific brood of Wrong-doing and Woe.

This is not the place to praise or to blame the book before us. Each man will judge it according to his individual tastes, temperament and character. The embryonic, thin-lipped man may consider it bold, far too outspoken. The full-blooded reader more conversant with the realities of life, will be inclined to look upon it with larger charity, having regard to what the Author has refrained from saying, rather than to what he has said.

"At the outset," says Camille Lemonnier, himself a well-known writer, "these pages are conspicuously chaste; Temptation takes the form of Mystical Sensuality, at first beaten back and then surging forwards victorious; then, as the fire of passion grows more intense, the lamp of the tabernacle dies gradually out; and Humanity, with the unchaining of instinct, breaks forth, cries and howls like a mad gorilla from his cage." Here again we witness the triumph of Eve; entangled in her long, flaxen tresses she sweeps away the sinner's conscience, and while the Church closes the door against them both, Nature opens out wide her own with a kindly,

"Come in, my Children." CHARLES CARRINGTON. PARIS, 1st JUNE, 1898.

THE END