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Title: The Joy of Life [La joie de vivre]

Author: Émile Zola

Editor: Ernest Alfred Vizetelly

Release date: February 11, 2018 [eBook #56541]
                Most recently updated: August 30, 2021

Language: English

Credits: Clare Graham and Marc D’Hooghe


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE JOY OF LIFE [LA JOIE DE VIVRE] ***




THE JOY OF LIFE

[LA JOIE DE VIVRE]

by

ÉMILE ZOLA

EDITED WITH A PREFACE BY
ERNEST ALFRED VIZETELLY

LONDON

CHATTO & WINDUS

1901





TABLE OF CONTENTS




 PREFACE

 CHAPTER I
 CHAPTER II
 CHAPTER III
 CHAPTER IV
 CHAPTER V
 CHAPTER VI
 CHAPTER VII
 CHAPTER VIII
 CHAPTER IX
 CHAPTER X
 CHAPTER XI

 FOOTNOTES




PREFACE


'La Joie de Vivre,' here translated as 'The Joy of Life,' was written
by M. Zola in 1883, partly at his country house at Médan, and partly
at Bénodet, a little seaside place in Brittany. The scene of the
story is laid, however, on the coast of the neighbouring province of
Normandy, between the mouth of the Orne and the rocks of Grandcamp,
where the author had sojourned, more than once, in previous years. The
title selected by him for this book is to be taken in an ironical or
sarcastic sense. There is no joy at all in the lives of the characters
whom he portrays in it. The story of the 'hero' is one of mental
weakness, poisoned by a constantly recurring fear of death; whilst
that of his father is one of intense physical suffering, blended with
an eager desire to continue living, even at the cost of yet greater
torture. Again, the story of the heroine is one of blighted affections,
the wrecking of all which might have made her life worth living.
And there is a great deal of truth in the various pictures of human
existence which are thus presented to us; however much some people, in
their egregious vanity, may recoil from the idea that life and love and
talent and glory are all very poor and paltry things.

M. Zola is not usually a pessimist. One finds many of his darkest
pictures relieved by a touch of hopefulness; but there is extremely
little in the pages of 'La Joie de Vivre,' which is essentially an
analysis of human suffering and misery. Nevertheless, the heroine,
Pauline Quenu, the daughter of the Quenus who figure largely in 'Le
Ventre de Paris' ('The Fat and the Thin'), is a beautiful, touching,
and almost consolatory creature. She appears to the reader as the
embodiment of human abnegation and devotion. Her guardians rob her,
but she scarcely heeds it; her lover Lazare, their son, discards her
for another woman, but she forgives him. It is she who infuses life
into the lungs of her rival's puny babe; and when Lazare yields to
his horrible fear of death it is she who tries to comfort him, who
endeavours to dispel the gloomy thoughts which poison his hours.
No sacrifice is too great for her--money, love, she relinquishes
everything, in the vain hope of securing a transient happiness for the
man to whom she has given her heart. At times, no doubt, she yearns for
his affection, she experiences momentary weaknesses, but her spirit is
strong, and it invariably triumphs over her rebellious flesh.

Lazare, on the other hand, is one of those wretched beings whose
number seems to be constantly increasing in our midst, the product
of our corrupt civilisation, our grotesque educational systems, our
restlessness and thirst for wealth, our thousand vices and our blatant
hypocrisy. At the same time he is a talented young fellow, as are so
many of the wretched _décadents_ of nowadays; and 'something more
or something less' in his brain might have turned his talent into
genius. In this respect, indeed, he suggests another of M. Zola's
characters, Claude Lantier, the painter of 'L'Œuvre'; but he is far
weaker than was Claude, whose insanity sprang from his passion for his
art, whereas Lazare's mental disorder is the fruit of that lack, both
of will-power and of the spirit of perseverance, which always becomes
manifest in decaying races. Briefly, he is a type of the talented,
versatile, erratic weakling--a variety of what Paris expressively calls
the _arriviste_, who loomed so largely through the final years of the
last century, and who by force of numbers, not of power, threatens to
dominate the century which has just begun.

In one respect Lazare differs greatly from Claude Lantier. Claude's
insanity drove him to suicide, but Lazare shrinks from the idea of
annihilation. His whole life indeed is blighted by the unreasoning fear
of death to which I have previously alluded. In the brightest moments
of Lazare's existence, in the broad sunshine, amid the fairest scenes
of Nature, in the very transports of love, as in moments of anxiety
and bereavement, and as in the gloom, the silence, and the solitude
of night, the terrible, ever-recurring thought flashes on him: 'My
God, my God, so one must die!' In the course of years this dread is
intensified by the death of his mother and his old dog; and neither
of the women who love him--the devoted Pauline, whom he discards, and
the puppet Louise, whom he marries--can dispel it. The pious may argue
that this fear of death is only natural on the part of an unbeliever,
and that the proper course for Lazare to have pursued was to have
sought the consolation of religion. But they have only to visit a few
lunatic asylums to find in them extremely devout patients, who, whilst
believing in a resurrection and a future life, nevertheless dread
death quite as keenly as Lazare Chanteau did. Indeed, this fear of
dissolution constitutes a well-known and perfectly defined disorder of
the brain, rebellious alike to scientific and to spiritual treatment.

By the side of Lazare and Pauline 'La Joie de Vivre' shows us the
former's parents. There is Lazare's mother, who despoils and wrongs
Pauline for his benefit, who lives a life of sour envy, and who dies a
wretched death, fearful of punishment. And there is his father, whose
only thought is his stomach, and who, as I have mentioned, clings
despairingly to a semblance of life amid the direst physical anguish.
Louise, whom Lazare marries, is a skilfully drawn type of the weak,
pretty, scented, coquettish, frivolous woman, who seems to have been
with us ever since the world began, the woman to whom men are drawn
by a perversion of natural instincts, and whom they need, perhaps, in
order that in their saner moments they may the better appreciate the
qualities of those few who resemble Pauline. As for the subordinate
characters of the story, the grumpy Norman servant, though of a type
often met with in M. Zola's stories, is perhaps the best, the various
changes in her disposition towards the heroine being described with
great fidelity to human nature. Then the rough but kind-hearted old
doctor, the sturdy, tolerant priest, the artful and vicious village
children, are all admirably delineated by M. Zola, and grouped around
the central figures in such wise as to add to the truth, interest, and
impressiveness of his narrative. And, painful as the tale at times may
be, it is perhaps as well, in these days of pride and vanity, that one
should be recalled now and again to a sense of the abject grovelling
which unhappily characterises such a vast number of human lives. It may
slightly console one, no doubt, to remember that there are at least
some Paulines among us. But then, how few they are, and how numerous on
the other hand are the men like Lazare and the women like his mother!
When all is considered, judging by what one sees around one every day,
one is forced to the conclusion that this diseased world of ours makes
extremely little progress towards real sanity and health.


E. A. V.

MERTON, SURREY.




THE JOY OF LIFE




I


When the cuckoo-clock in the dining-room struck six, Chanteau lost all
hope. He rose with a painful effort from the arm-chair in which he was
sitting, warming his heavy, gouty legs before a coke fire. Ever since
two o'clock he had been awaiting the arrival of Madame Chanteau, who,
after five weeks' absence, was to-day expected to bring from Paris
their little cousin, Pauline Quenu, an orphan girl, ten years of age,
whose guardianship they had undertaken.

'I can't understand it at all, Véronique,' he said, opening the
kitchen-door. 'Some accident must have happened to them.'

The cook, a tall stout woman of five-and-thirty, with hands like a
man's and a face like a gendarme's, was just removing from the fire a
leg of mutton, which seemed in imminent danger of being over-done. She
did not express her irritation in words, but the pallor of her usually
ruddy cheeks betokened her displeasure.

'Madame has, no doubt, stayed in Paris,' she said curtly, 'looking
after that endless business which is putting us all topsy-turvy.'

'No! no!' answered Chanteau. 'The letter we had yesterday evening said
that the little girl's affairs were completely settled. Madame was to
arrive this morning at Caen, where she intended making a short stay to
see Davoine. At one o'clock she was to take the train again; at two she
would alight at Bayeux; at three, old Malivoire's coach would put her
down at Arromanches. Even if Malivoire wasn't ready to start at once,
Madame ought to have been here by four o'clock, or by half-past at the
latest. There are scarcely six miles from Arromanches to Bonneville.'

The cook kept her eyes fixed on the joint, and only shook her head
while these calculations were thrown at her. After some little
hesitation Chanteau added: 'I think you had better go to the corner of
the road and look if you can see anything of them, Véronique.'

She glared at him, growing still paler with suppressed anger.

'Why? What for? Monsieur Lazare is already out there, getting drenched
in looking for them: and what's the good of my going and getting wet
through also?'

'The truth is,' murmured Chanteau, softly, 'that I am beginning to
feel a little uneasy about my son as well. He ought to have been back
by this time. What can he have been doing out on the road for the last
hour?'

Without vouchsafing any answer Véronique took from a nail an old black
woollen shawl, which she threw over her head and shoulders. Then, as
she saw her master following her into the passage, she said to him,
rather snappishly: 'Go back to your fire, if you don't want to be
bellowing with pain to-morrow.'

She shut the door with a bang, and put on her clogs while standing on
the steps and crying out to the wind:

'The horrid little brat! Putting us to all this trouble!'

Chanteau's composure remained perfect. He was accustomed to Véronique's
ebullitions of temper. She had entered his service in the first year
of his married life, when she was but a girl of fifteen. As soon as
the sound of her clogs had died away, he bolted off like a schoolboy,
and planted himself at the other end of the passage, before a glass
door which overlooked the sea. There he stood for a moment, gazing
at the sky with his blue eyes. He was a short, stout man, with thick
closely-cut white hair. He was scarcely fifty-six years old, but gout,
to which he was a martyr, had prematurely aged him.

Just then he was feeling anxious and troubled, and hoped that little
Pauline would be able to win Véronique's affection. But was it his
fault that she was coming? When the Paris notary had written to
tell him that his cousin Quenu, whose wife had died some six months
previously, had just died also, charging him in his will with the
guardianship of his little daughter, he had not felt able to refuse
the trust. It was true they had not seen much of one another, as
the family had been dispersed. Chanteau's father, after leaving the
South and wandering all over France as a journeyman carpenter, had
established a timber-yard at Caen; while, on the other hand, Quenu,
at his mother's death, had gone to Paris, where one of his uncles had
subsequently given him a flourishing pork-butcher's business, in the
very centre of the market district.[1] They had only met each other
some two or three times, on occasions when Chanteau had been compelled
by his gout to quit his business and repair to Paris for special
medical advice. But the two men had ever had a genuine respect for one
another, and the dying father had probably thought that the sea air
would be beneficial to his daughter. The girl, too, as the heiress of
the pork-butcher's business, would certainly be no charge upon them.
Madame Chanteau, indeed, had fallen so heartily into the scheme that
she had insisted upon saving her husband all the dangerous fatigue of
the journey to Paris. Setting off alone and bustling about she had
settled everything, in her perpetual craving for activity; and Chanteau
was quite contented so long as his wife was pleased.

But what could be detaining the pair of them? Anxiety seized him again,
as he looked out upon the dark sky, over which the west wind was
driving huge masses of black clouds, like sooty rags whose tattered
ends draggled far away into the sea. It was one of those March gales,
when the equinoctial tides beat furiously upon the shores. The flux was
only just setting in, and all that could be seen of it was a thin white
bar of foam, far away towards the horizon. The wide expanse of bare
beach, a league of rocks and gloomy seaweed, its level surface blotched
here and there with dark pools, had a weirdly melancholy aspect as it
lay stretched out beneath the quickly increasing darkness that fell
from the black clouds scudding across the skies.

'Perhaps the wind has overturned them into some ditch,' murmured
Chanteau.

He felt constrained to go out and look. He opened the glass door,
and ventured in his list-slippers on to the gravelled terrace which
commanded a view of the village. A few drops of rain were dashed
against his face by the hurricane, and a terrific gust made his thick
blue woollen dressing-jacket flap and flap again. But he struggled on,
bareheaded and bending down, and at last reached the parapet, over
which he leaned while glancing at the road that ran beneath. This
road descended between two steep cliffs, and looked almost as though
it had been hewn out of the solid rock to afford a resting-place for
the twenty or thirty hovels of which Bonneville consisted. Every
tide threatened to hurl the houses from their narrow shingle-strewn
anchorage and crush them against the rocky cliff. To the left there was
a little landing-place, a mere strip of sand, whither amid rhythmic
calls men hoisted up some half-score boats. The inhabitants did not
number more than a couple of hundred souls. They made a bare living out
of the sea, clinging to their native rocks with all the unreasoning
persistence of limpets. And on the cliffs above their miserable roofs,
which every winter were battered by the storms, there was nothing to be
seen except the church, standing about half-way up on the right, and
the Chanteaus' house across the cleft on the other hand. Bonneville
contained nothing more.

'What dreadful weather it is!' cried a voice.

Chanteau raised his head and recognised the priest, Abbé Horteur,
a thick-set man of peasant-like build, whose red hair was still
unsilvered by his fifty years. He used a plot of graveyard land in
front of the church as a vegetable garden, and was now examining his
early salad plants, tucking his cassock the while between his legs in
order to prevent the wind from blowing it over his head. Chanteau, who
could not make himself heard amidst the roaring of the gale, contented
himself with waving his hand.

'They are doing right in getting their boats up, I think,' shouted the
priest.

But just then a gust of wind caught hold of his cassock and wrapt it
round his head, so he fled for refuge behind the church.

Chanteau turned round to escape the violence of the blast. With his
eyes streaming with moisture he cast a glance at his garden, over which
the spray was sweeping, and the brick-built two-storeyed house with
five windows, whose shutters seemed in imminent danger of being torn
away from their fastenings. When the sudden squall had subsided, he
bent down again to look at the road; and just at that moment Véronique
returned. She shook her hands at him.

'What! you have actually come out!--Be good enough to go into the house
again at once, sir!'

She caught him up in the passage, and scolded him like a child detected
in wrong-doing. Wouldn't she have all the trouble of looking after him
in the morning when he suffered agonies of pain from his indiscretion?

'Have you seen nothing of them?' he asked, submissively.

'No, indeed, I have seen nothing--Madame is no doubt taking shelter
somewhere.'

He dared not tell her that she should have gone further on. However, he
was now beginning to feel especially anxious about his son.

'I saw that all the neighbourhood was being blown into the air,'
continued the cook. 'They are quite afraid of being done for this time.
Last September the Cuches' house was cracked from top to bottom, and
Prouane, who was going up to the church to ring the _Angelus_, has just
told me that he is sure it will topple over before morning.'

Just as she spoke a big lad of nineteen sprang up the three steps
before the door. He had a spreading brow and sparkling eyes, and a fine
chestnut down fringed his long oval face.

'Ah! here's Lazare at last!' said Chanteau, feeling much relieved. 'How
wet you are, my poor boy!'

In the passage the young man hung his hooded cloak, which was quite
saturated with sea-water.

'Well?' interrogated his father.

'I can see nothing of them,' replied Lazare. 'I have been as far as
Verchemont, and waited under the shed at the inn there, and kept my
eyes on the road, which is a river of mud. But I could see no sign of
them. Then, as I began to feel afraid that you might get uneasy about
me, I came back.'

The previous August Lazare had left the College of Caen, after gaining
his Bachelor's degree; and for the last eight months he had been
roaming about the cliffs, unable to make any choice of a profession,
for he only felt enthusiastic about music, a predisposition which
distressed his mother extremely. She had gone away very much displeased
with him, as he had refused to accompany her to Paris, where she had
thought she might be able to place him in some advantageous position.

'Now that I have let you know I am all right,' the young man resumed,
'I should like to go on to Arromanches.'

'No, no! it is getting late,' said Chanteau. 'We shall be having some
news of your mother presently. I am expecting a message every moment.
Listen! Isn't that a carriage?'

Véronique had gone to open the door.

'It is Doctor Cazenove's gig,' she said. 'Shall I bring him in, sir?
Why! good gracious! there's madame in it!'

They all three hurried down the steps. A huge dog, a cross between a
sheep-dog and a Newfoundland, who had been lying asleep in a corner of
the passage, sprang forward and began to bark furiously. Upon hearing
this barking, a small white cat of delicate aspect made its way to the
door, but, at the sight of the wet and dirt outside, it gave a slight
wriggle of disgust with its tail, and sat down very sedately on the top
step to see what was going to happen.

A lady about fifty years of age sprang from the gig with all the
agility of a young girl. She was short and slight, her hair was still
perfectly black, and her face would have been quite pleasant but for
the largeness of her nose. The dog sprang forward and placed his big
paws on her shoulders, as though he wanted to kiss her; but this
displeased her.

'Down! down! Matthew. Get away, will you? Tiresome animal!'

Lazare ran across the yard behind the dog, calling as he went, 'All
right, mother?'

'Yes, yes!' replied Madame Chanteau.

'We have been very anxious about you,' said Chanteau, who had followed
his son, in spite of the wind. 'What has happened to make you so late?'

'Oh! we've had nothing but troubles,' she answered. 'To begin with, the
roads are so bad that it has taken us nearly two hours to come from
Bayeux. Then, at Arromanches, one of Malivoire's horses went lame and
he couldn't let us have another. At one time I really thought we should
have to stay with him all night. But the Doctor was kind enough to
offer us his gig, and Martin here has driven us home.'

The driver, an old man with a wooden leg, who had formerly served in
the navy, and had there had his limb amputated by Cazenove, then a
naval surgeon, had afterwards taken service under the Doctor. He was
tethering the horse when Madame Chanteau suddenly checked her flow of
speech and called to him:

'Martin! help the little girl to get down!'

No one had yet given a thought to the child. The hood of the gig fell
very low, and only her black skirt and little black-gloved hands could
be seen. She did not wait, however, for the coachman's assistance,
but sprang lightly to the ground. Just then there came a fierce puff
of wind, which whirled her clothes about her and sent the curls of
her dark brown hair flying from under her crape-trimmed hat. She did
not seem very strong for her ten years. Her lips were thick; and her
face, if full, showed the pallor of the girls who are brought up in the
back shops of Paris. The others stared at her. Véronique, who had just
bustled up to welcome her mistress, checked herself, her face assuming
an icy and jealous expression. But Matthew showed none of this reserve.
He sprang up between the child's arms and licked her with his tongue.

'Don't be afraid of him!' cried Madame Chanteau. 'He won't hurt you.'

'Oh! I'm not at all afraid of him,' said Pauline quietly; 'I am very
fond of dogs.'

Indeed, Matthew's boisterous welcome did not seem to disturb her in the
slightest degree. Her grave little face broke out into a smile beneath
her black hat, and she affectionately kissed the dog on his snout.

'Aren't you going to kiss your relations too?' exclaimed Madame
Chanteau. 'See, this is your uncle, since you call me your aunt; and
this is your cousin, a great strapping scapegrace, who isn't half as
well behaved as you are.'

The child manifested no awkward shyness. She kissed everyone, and even
found a word or two for each, with all the grace of a young Parisienne
already schooled in politeness.

'I am very much obliged to you, uncle, for taking me to live with
you----You will see that we shall get on very well together, cousin----'

'What a sweet little thing she is!' cried Chanteau, quite delighted.

Lazare looked at her in surprise, for he had pictured her as being much
smaller and far more shy and childish.

'Yes, indeed, she is a sweet child,' said the lady, 'and you have no
idea how brave she is! The wind blew straight in our faces as we drove
along, and the rain quite blinded us. Fully a score of times I thought
that the hood, which was flapping about like a veil, would be carried
away altogether. Well, that child there, instead of being alarmed, was
quite amused by it all and enjoyed it. But what are we stopping out
here for? It is no use getting any wetter than we are; the rain is
beginning to fall again.'

She turned round to see where Véronique was. When she saw her keeping
aloof and looking very surly, she said to her sarcastically:

'Good evening, Véronique. How are you? While you are making up your
mind to come and speak to me, you had better go and get a bottle of
wine for Martin. We have not been able to bring our luggage with us,
but Malivoire will bring it on early to-morrow.'

Then she suddenly checked herself and hastily returned to the gig. 'My
bag! my bag! Ah, there it is! I was afraid it had slipped into the
road.'

It was a large black leather bag, already whitened at the corners by
wear. She would not trust it to her son, but persisted in carrying it
herself. Just as they were at last about to enter the house, another
violent squall made them halt, short of breath, near the door. The cat,
sitting on the steps with an air of curiosity, watched them fighting
their way onwards; and Madame Chanteau then inquired if Minouche had
behaved properly during her absence. The name of Minouche again brought
a smile to Pauline's serious little face. She stooped down and fondled
the cat, which rubbed itself against her skirts, whilst holding its
tail erect in the air. Matthew for his part, in proclamation of the
return, began to bark again as he saw the family mounting the steps and
entering the vestibule.

'Ah, it is pleasant to be home again!' said Madame Chanteau. 'I really
thought that we should never get here. Yes, Matthew, you are a very
good dog, but please be quiet--Lazare, do make him keep still. He is
quite splitting my ears!'

However, the dog proved obstinate, and the entry of the Chanteaus into
their dining-room was accompanied by this lively music. They pushed
Pauline, the new daughter of the house, before them; Matthew came on
behind, still barking loudly; and Minouche followed last, with her
sensitive hair bristling amidst the uproar.

In the kitchen Martin had already drunk a couple of glasses of wine,
one after the other, and was now hastening away, stamping over the
floor with his wooden leg and calling 'good-night' to everybody.
Véronique had just put the leg of mutton to the fire again, as it had
got quite cold. She thrust her head into the room, and asked:

'Will you have dinner now?'

'Yes, indeed we will,' said Chanteau. 'It is seven o'clock. But, my
good girl, we must wait till madame and the little one have changed
their things.'

'But I haven't got Pauline's trunk here,' said Madame Chanteau.
'Fortunately, however, our underclothing is not wet. Take off your
cloak and hat, my dear. There, take them away, Véronique. And take off
her boots. I have some slippers here.'

The cook knelt down before the child, who had seated herself. Madame
Chanteau took out of her bag a pair of small felt slippers and put them
on the girl's feet. Then she took off her own boots, and, once more
dipping her hand into the bag, brought out a pair of shoes for herself.

'Shall I bring dinner in now?' asked Véronique again.

'In a minute. Pauline, come into the kitchen and wash your hands and
face. We will make more of a toilet later on, for, just now, we are
dying of hunger.'

Pauline came back first, having left her aunt with her nose in a bowl
of water. Chanteau had resumed his place in his big yellow velvet
arm-chair before the fire. He was rubbing his legs mechanically,
fearing another attack of pain; while Lazare stood cutting some bread
in front of the table, on which four covers had been laid more than
an hour before. The two men, who were scarcely at their ease, smiled
at the child, without managing to find a word to say to her; while
she calmly inspected the room, which was furnished in walnut-wood.
Her glance wandered from the sideboard and the half-dozen chairs to
the hanging lamp of polished brass, and then rested upon some framed
lithographs which hung against the brown wall-paper. Four of them
represented the seasons, and the fifth was a view of Vesuvius. Probably
the imitation wainscotting of oak-coloured paint, scratched and showing
the plaster underneath, the flooring soiled with old grease-spots, and
the general shabbiness of this room, where the family lived, made her
regret the beautiful marble-fitted shop which she had left the previous
day, for her eyes assumed an expression of sadness, and she seemed to
guess all the cares that lay concealed in this her new dwelling-place.
Then, after curiously examining a very old barometer mounted in a case
of gilded wood, her eyes turned to a strange-looking affair which
monopolised the whole of the mantelpiece. It was enclosed in a glass
box, secured at the edges by strips of blue paper. At first sight it
looked like a toy, a miniature wooden bridge; but a bridge of extremely
intricate design.

'That was made by your great-uncle,' explained Chanteau, who was
delighted to find a subject of conversation. 'My father, you know,
began life as a carpenter, and I have always preserved his masterpiece.'

He was not at all ashamed of his origin, and Madame Chanteau tolerated
the presence of the bridge on the mantelpiece, in spite of the
displeasure which this cumbersome curiosity always caused her by
reminding her of her marriage with a working-man's son. But the little
girl was no longer paying attention to her uncle's words, for through
the window she had just caught sight of the far-reaching horizon, and
she eagerly stepped forward and planted herself close to the panes,
whose muslin curtains were held back by cotton loops. Since her
departure from Paris her one continual thought had been the sea. She
had dreamed of it and never ceased to question her aunt about it during
their journey; inquiring at every hill they came to whether the sea
lay at the other side of it. When at last they reached the beach at
Arromanches, she had been struck silent with wonder, her eyes dilating
and her heart heaving with a heavy sigh. From Arromanches to Bonneville
she had every minute thrust her head out of the gig's hood, in spite of
the violent wind, in order to look at the sea, which seemed to follow
them. And now the sea was still there; it would always be there, as
though it belonged to her. With her eyes she seemed to be slowly taking
possession of it.

The night was falling from the grey sky, across which the wind drove
the clouds at headlong speed. Amid the increasing darkness of that
turbulent evening only the white line of the rising tide could be
distinguished. It was a band of foam, which seemed to be ever widening,
a succession of waves flowing up, pouring over the tracts of weed and
covering the ridges of rock with a soft gliding motion, whose approach
seemed like a caress. But far away the roar of the billows increased,
huge crests arose, while at the foot of the cliff, where Bonneville
had stowed itself away as securely as possible behind its doors, there
hovered a death-like gloom. The boats, drawn up to the top of the
shingle, lay there, alone and deserted, like huge stranded fish. The
rain steeped the village in vaporous mist, and only the church still
stood out plainly against a pale patch of sky.

Pauline stood by the window in silence. Her little heart was heaving
anew. She seemed to be stifling, and as she drew a deep sigh all her
breath appeared to drain from her lips.

'Well! it's a good deal bigger than the Seine, isn't it?' said Lazare,
who had just taken his stand behind her.

The girl continued to be a source of much surprise to him; he felt all
the shy awkwardness of a schoolboy in her presence.

'Yes, indeed,' she replied, in a very low voice, without turning her
head.

'You are not frightened of it?'

At this she turned and looked at him with an expression of
astonishment. 'No, indeed. Why should I be? The water won't come up so
far as this!'

'Ah! one never knows what it will do,' he said, yielding to an impulse
to make fun of her. 'Sometimes the water rises over the church.'

She broke into a hearty laugh, an outburst of noisy, healthy gaiety,
the merriment of a sensible person whom the absurd delights.

'Ah! cousin,' said she, playfully taking the young man's hand, 'I'm not
so foolish as you think. You wouldn't stop here if the sea were likely
to come up over the church.'

Lazare laughed in his turn, and clasped the child's hands. The pair
were henceforth hearty friends. In the midst of their merriment Madame
Chanteau returned into the room. She appeared quite delighted, and
exclaimed as she rubbed her hands: 'Ah! you have got to know each
other, then? I felt quite sure you would get on well together.'

'Shall I bring in dinner, Madame?' asked Véronique, standing by the
kitchen door.

'Yes, certainly, my girl. But you had better light the lamp first; it
is getting too dark to see.'

The night, indeed, was falling so quickly that the dining-room would
have been in darkness but for the red glow of the coke fire. Lighting
the lamp caused a further delay, but at last the operation was
satisfactorily performed, and the table lay illuminated beneath the
lowered shade. They were all in their places, Pauline between her uncle
and cousin, and opposite her aunt, when the latter rose from her chair
again, with that restlessness of one who can never remain still.

'Where is my bag? Wait a moment, my dear; I am going to give you your
mug. Take the glass away, Véronique. The little girl is used to having
her own mug.'

She took a silver mug, already a little battered, out of her bag, and,
having first wiped it with her napkin, placed it before Pauline. Then
she put the bag away behind her, on a chair. The cook brought in some
vermicelli soup, warning them, in her crabbed fashion, that it was
much overcooked. No one dared complain, however. They were all very
hungry, and the soup hissed in their spoons. Next came some soup-beef.
Chanteau, fond of dainties, scarcely took any of it, reserving himself
for the leg of mutton. But when this was placed upon the table there
was a general outcry. It was like fried leather; surely they could not
eat it!

'I knew very well how it would be,' said Véronique, placidly. 'You
oughtn't to have kept it waiting.'

Pauline, with a laugh, cut her meat up into little bits, and managed
to swallow it, in spite of its toughness. As for Lazare, he was quite
unconscious of what he had upon his plate, and would have eaten slices
of dry bread without knowing that they were not cut from a fowl's
breast. Chanteau, however, gazed at the leg of mutton with a mournful
expression.

'And what else have you got, Véronique?'

'Fried potatoes, sir.'

He made a gesture of despair and threw himself back in his chair.

'Shall I bring the beef back again, sir?' asked the cook.

But he answered her with a melancholy shake of his head. 'As well have
bread as boiled beef. Oh, my gracious! what a dinner! and just in this
bad weather, too, when we can't get any fish.'

Madame Chanteau, who was a very small eater, looked at him
compassionately.

'My poor dear,' she said, suddenly, 'you quite distress me. I have
brought a little present with me; I meant it for to-morrow, but as
there seems to be a famine this evening----'

She had opened her bag as she spoke and drew out of it a pan of _foie
gras_. Chanteau's eyes flashed brightly. _Foie gras!_ Ah, it was
forbidden fruit! A luxury which he adored, but which his doctor had
absolutely forbidden him to touch.

'You know,' continued his wife, 'you must have only a very little.
Don't be foolish, now, or you shall never have any more.'

Chanteau had caught hold of the pan, and he began to open it with
trembling hands. There were frequently tremendous struggles between
his greediness and his fear of gout; and almost invariably it was his
greediness that got the upper hand. Never mind! it was too good to
resist, and he would put up with the pain that would follow.

Véronique, who had watched him helping himself to a thick slice, took
herself off to the kitchen, grumbling as she went:

'Well, well! how he will bellow to-morrow!'

The word 'bellow' was habitually on her tongue, and her master and
mistress had grown quite used and reconciled to it, so naturally and
simply did it come from her lips. When the master had an attack of gout
he bellowed, according to Véronique, and she was never scolded for her
want of respect in saying so. The dinner ended very merrily. Lazare
jokingly dispossessed his father of the _foie gras_. When the cheese
and biscuits were put upon the table, Matthew's sudden appearance
caused a boisterous commotion. Until then he had been lying asleep
under the table. But the arrival of the biscuits had awakened him. He
seemed to have scented them in his sleep. Every evening, just at this
stage of the meal, it was his custom to get up and shake himself and
make the round of the table, questioning the faces of the diners to see
if they were charitably disposed. Usually it was Lazare who first took
pity upon him, but that evening Matthew, on his second circuit of the
table, halted by Pauline's side and gazed up at her earnestly with his
honest human-like eyes; and then, divining in her a friend both of man
and beast, he laid his huge head on her little knee, without dropping
his glance of mild supplication.

'Oh, what a shameful beggar you are!' said Madame Chanteau. 'Aren't you
ashamed of yourself, Matthew, to be so greedy?'

The dog swallowed at a single gulp the piece of biscuit which Pauline
offered him, and then again laid his head on her little knee, asking
for another piece, with his eyes constantly fixed on those of his new
friend. She laughed at him and kissed him and found him very amusing,
with his flattened ears and the black spot under his left eye, the only
spot of colour that marked his rough white hairy coat. Then there came
a diversion of another character. Minouche, growing jealous, leapt
lightly upon the edge of the table, and began to purr and rub her head
against the little girl's chin, swaying her supple body the while with
all the grace of a young kid. To poke one with her cold nose and kiss
one lightly with her sharp teeth, while she pounded about with her feet
like a baker kneading dough, was her feline way of caressing. Pauline
was now quite delighted between the two animals. The cat on her left,
the dog on her right, took possession of her and worried her shamefully
in order to secure all her biscuits.

'Send them away,' said her aunt. 'They will leave you nothing for
yourself.'

'Oh! that doesn't matter,' she placidly replied, feeling quite happy in
being despoiled.

They finished, and Véronique removed the dishes. The two animals,
seeing the table quite bare, gave their lips a last lick and then took
themselves off, without even saying 'thank you.'

Pauline rose from her chair, and went to stand by the window, straining
her eyes to penetrate the darkness. Ever since the soup had been put
upon the table she had been watching the window grow darker and darker,
till it had gradually become as black as ink. Now it was like an
impenetrable wall; the dense darkness had hidden everything--sky, sea,
village, and even church itself. Nevertheless, without feeling in the
least disturbed by her cousin's jests, she tried to distinguish the
water, worrying to find out how far the tide was going to rise; but she
could only hear its ever-increasing roar, its angry threatening voice,
which seemed to grow louder every minute amidst the howling of the wind
and the splashing of the rain. Not a glimmer, not even the whiteness of
the foam, could be seen in that chaos; and nothing was heard but the
rush of the waves, lashed on by the gale in the black depths.

'Dear me,' said Chanteau, 'it is coming up stiffly, and yet it won't be
high-water for another couple of hours.'

'If the wind were to blow from the north,' put in Lazare, 'Bonneville
would certainly be swept away. Fortunately for us here, it is coming
slantwise.'

The little maid had turned and was listening to them, her big eyes full
of an expression of anxious pity.

'Bah!' said Madame Chanteau, 'we are safe under shelter, and we must
let other folks get out of their trouble as best they may----Tell me,
my dear, would you like a cup of hot tea? And then, afterwards, we will
go to bed.'

Véronique had laid an old red cloth, with a faded pattern of big
bunches of flowers, over the dinner-table, around which the family
generally spent the evening. They took their accustomed places. Lazare,
who had left the room for a moment, came back carrying an inkstand,
a pen, and a whole handful of papers, and, seating himself beneath
the lamp-light, he began to copy some music. Madame Chanteau, whose
eyes since her return had never ceased following her son with an
affectionate glance, suddenly became very stiff and surly.

'That music of yours again! You can't devote an evening to us, then,
even on the night of my return home?'

'But, mother, I am not going out of the room. I mean to stay with you.
You know very well that this doesn't interfere with my talking. Fire
away and talk to me, and I will answer you.'

He went on with his work, covering half the table with his papers.
Chanteau had stretched himself out comfortably in his arm-chair, with
his hands hanging listlessly at his sides. In front of the fire Matthew
lay asleep, while Minouche, who had sprung upon the table again, was
performing an elaborate toilet, carefully licking her stomach, with
one leg cocked up in the air. The falling light from the hanging lamp
seemed to make everything cosy and homelike, and Pauline, who with
half-closed eyelids had been smiling upon her newly-found relatives,
could no longer keep herself from sleep, worn out as she was with
fatigue and rendered drowsy by the heat of the room. Her head slipped
down upon her arm, which was resting on the table, and lay there,
motionless, beneath the placid glow of the lamp. Her delicate eyelids
looked like a silk veil cast over her eyes, and soft regular breath
came gently from her pure lips.

'She must be tired out,' said Madame Chanteau, lowering her voice. 'We
will just wake her up to give her some tea, and then I will take her to
bed.'

Then silence reigned in the room. No sound broke upon the howling of
the storm except the scratching of Lazare's pen. It was perfect quiet,
the habitual sleepiness of life spent every evening in the same spot.
For a long time the father and mother looked at each other without
saying a word. At last Chanteau asked, in a hesitating voice:

'And is Davoine doing well at Caen?'

'Bah! Doing well, indeed! I told you that you were being taken in!'

Now that the child was fast asleep they could talk. They spoke in low
tones, however, and at first seemed inclined to tell each other what
there was to be told as briefly as possible. But presently passion
got the better of them and carried them on, and, by degrees, all the
worries of the household became manifest.

At the death of his father the former journeyman carpenter, who had
carried on his timber-trade with ambitious audacity, Chanteau had found
the business considerably compromised. A very inactive man himself,
unaspiring and careful, he had contented himself with simply putting
matters on a safe basis, by dint of good management, and living upon
a moderate but sure profit. The one romance of his life was his
marriage. He had married a governess whom he had met in a friend's
family. Eugénie de la Vignière, the orphan daughter of one of the
ruined squireens of the Cotentin, reckoned upon fanning his indolent
nature into ambition. But he with his imperfect education, for he had
been sent late to school, recoiled from vast schemes, and opposed his
own natural inertness to the ambitious plans of his wife. When their
son was born, she transferred to that child her hopes for the family's
rise in life, sent him to college, and superintended his studies every
evening herself. But a last disaster upset all her plans. Chanteau,
who had suffered from gout from the time he was forty years of age,
at last experienced such severe and painful attacks that he began to
talk about selling his business. To Madame Chanteau this portended
straitened means and mediocrity, the spending of their remaining days
in retirement on their petty savings, and the casting of her son into
the struggle for life, without the support of an income of twenty
thousand francs, such as she had dreamed of for him.

Thereupon she had insisted upon having, at any rate, a hand in the
sale. The profits were about ten thousand francs a year, on which
the family made a considerable show, for Madame Chanteau was fond of
giving parties. Having discovered a certain Davoine, she had worked
out the following scheme. Davoine was to buy the timber business for
a hundred thousand francs, but he was only to pay fifty thousand in
money; in consideration of the other fifty thousand remaining unpaid,
the Chanteaus were to become his partners in the business and share
the profits. This man Davoine appeared to be a very bold fellow, and,
even if he did not extend the business of the firm, they would still
be sure of five thousand francs a year, which, added to the interest
of the fifty thousand invested in stock, would give them altogether
an income of eight thousand francs.[2] And on this they would get on
as well as they could, pending the time when their son should achieve
some brilliant success and be able to extricate them from a life of
mediocrity.

It was upon these principles that the business was sold. Two years
previously Chanteau had bought a seaside house at Bonneville, which
he had been able to get as a bargain through the bankruptcy of an
insolvent debtor. Instead of selling it again at a profit, as for a
time she had thought of doing, Madame Chanteau determined that the
family should go and live there, at any rate until Lazare had achieved
his first successes. To give up her parties and bury herself in such
an out-of-the-way place was for her, indeed, almost suicide; but as
she had agreed to surrender their entire house to Davoine, she would
have had to rent another, and so she summoned up all her resolution
to go in for a life of economy, with the firm hope of one day making
a triumphal return to Caen, when her son should have gained a high
position. Chanteau gave his consent to everything. His gout would have
to accommodate itself to the sea air, and, besides, of three doctors
whom he had consulted, two had been good enough to declare that the
fresh breezes from the open would act as a splendid tonic on his system
generally. So, one morning in May, the Chanteaus departed to settle at
Bonneville, leaving Lazare, then fourteen years old, at the college at
Caen.

Since this heroic exile, five years had passed, and the affairs of the
family had gone from bad to worse. As Davoine was constantly launching
out into fresh speculations, he was ever telling them that it was
necessary he should have further advances; and the consequence was that
all the profits were risked again and again, and the balance-sheet
generally showed a loss. The Chanteaus were reduced to living at
Bonneville on the three thousand francs a year derived from the money
they had invested in stock, and they were so hardly pressed that they
had been obliged to sell their horse, and get Véronique to undertake
the management of the kitchen garden.

'At any rate, Eugénie,' said Chanteau, a little timorously, 'if I have
been let in, it is partly your fault.'

But she repudiated the responsibility altogether. She always
conveniently forgot that the partnership with Davoine was her own work.

'My fault indeed!' she replied drily. 'How can that be? Am I laid up?
If you were not such an invalid, we might perhaps be millionaires.'

Whenever his wife attacked him in this bitter fashion, he always
lowered his head with pain and shame at the thought that it was his
illness that was ruining the family.

'We must wait and be patient,' he murmured. 'Davoine appears to be very
confident of the success of his new scheme. If the price of deal goes
up, we shall make a fortune.'

'And what good will that be?' interrupted Lazare, who was still copying
out his music. 'We have enough to eat as it is. It is very foolish of
you worrying yourselves in this way. I don't care a bit about money.'

Madame Chanteau shrugged her shoulders again.

'It would be a great deal better if you cared about it a little more,
and didn't waste your time in foolish nonsense.'

It was she herself who had taught him to play the piano, though the
mere sight of a score now sufficed to make her angry. Her last hope had
fled. This son of hers, whom she had dreamed of seeing a prefect or a
judge, talked of writing operas; and she foresaw that in the future he
would be reduced to running about the streets giving lessons, as she
herself had once done.

'Here is the balance-sheet for the last three months, which Davoine
gave me,' she said. 'If things continue in this way, it will be we who
shall owe him money by next July.'

She had put her bag upon the table, and she took out of it a paper,
which she handed to Chanteau. He just turned it round, and then laid
it down in front of him without opening it. At that moment Véronique
brought in the tea. No one spoke for some time, and the cups remained
empty. Minouche was dozing placidly beside the sugar-basin, and Matthew
was snoring like a man before the fire. The roar of the sea continued
outside like a mighty bass accompaniment to the peaceful echoes of the
drowsy room.

'Won't you awaken her, mother?' said Lazare, at last. 'It can't be good
for her to go on sleeping there.'

'Yes! yes!' murmured Madame Chanteau, who seemed buried in deep
thought, with her eyes fixed upon Pauline.

They all three looked at the sleeping girl. Her breathing was very
calm, and there was a flowery softness about her pale cheeks and rosy
lips beneath the glow of the lamp-light. Her chestnut curls, which the
wind had disarranged, cast a slight shadow over her delicate brow. Then
Madame Chanteau's thoughts reverted to her visit to Paris, and all the
bother she had met with there, and she felt quite astonished at the
enthusiasm with which she had undertaken the child's guardianship,
inspired with instinctive regard for a wealthy ward, though her
intentions of course were scrupulously honourable, and quite without
thought of benefiting by the fortune of which she would be trustee.

'When I alighted at the shop,' she began slowly, 'she was wearing a
little black frock, and she came to kiss me, sobbing and crying. It
is a very fine shop indeed; beautifully fitted up with marble and
plate-glass, and just in front of the markets. There was such a servant
there, about as big as a jackboot, with a fresh red face. It was she
who had given information to the notary, and had brought him to put
everything under seal. When I got there she was going on quietly
selling sausages and black puddings. It was Adèle who told me about our
poor cousin Quenu's death. Ever since he had lost his wife, six months
previously, his blood seemed to be suffocating him. He was constantly
fidgeting about his neck with his hand to loosen his neckerchief; and
at last they found him one evening lying with his face all purple in a
bowl of dripping. His uncle Gradelle died in just the same way.'

She said no more, and silence fell again. Over Pauline's face, as she
lay asleep, there played a passing smile, suggesting some pleasant
dream.

'And the law business, was that all transacted satisfactorily?' asked
Chanteau.

'Oh! quite so. But your lawyer was very right in leaving a blank for
the name in the power-of-attorney; for it appears that I could not
have acted in your stead, as women are not eligible in such matters.
But, as I wrote and told you, on my arrival I went to consult the
parish lawyer who sent us the extract from the will in which you were
appointed guardian. He at once inserted his chief clerk's name in the
power-of-attorney, which is quite a common course, he tells me. Then
we were able to get along. I went before a justice of the peace and
nominated as members of the family council three relations on Lisa's
side: two young cousins, Octave Mouret and Claude Lantier, and a cousin
by marriage, Monsieur Rambaud, who lives at Marseilles; then, on our
side, that is Quenu's side, I chose his nephews, Naudet, Liardin, and
Delorme. It is a very proper council, you see, and one which we can
easily manage as we think best for the child's benefit. At their first
meeting they nominated as surrogate-guardian Monsieur Saccard,[3] whom
I had chosen, out of necessity, from among Lisa's relations.'

'Hush! hush! She is waking up,' interrupted Lazare.

Pauline had just opened her eyes widely. Without moving, she gazed
with some astonishment at the people talking around her, and then,
with a smile full of sleepiness, closed her eyes once more, being worn
out with fatigue. Again did her motionless little face show a milky
camellia-like transparency.

'Isn't that Saccard the speculator?' asked Chanteau.

'Yes,' answered his wife. 'I saw him, and we had a talk together. He
is a charming man. He has so many things to look after, he told me,
that I must not reckon much on his assistance. But, you know, we really
don't want anybody's help. From the moment we take the child--well, we
do take her; and we don't want anybody coming and interfering with us.
All the other business was got through quickly. Your power-of-attorney
conferred all the necessary authority. The seals were removed, an
inventory of the property was made, and the business was sold by
auction. The sale went off splendidly, for there were two parties
bidding hotly one against the other, and so we got ninety thousand
francs, cash down. The notary had previously discovered scrip for sixty
thousand francs in a desk. I begged him to buy more scrip, and so now
we have a hundred and fifty thousand francs securely invested. I have
brought the scrip along with me, having first given the chief clerk the
full discharge and receipt, which I asked you to send me by return of
post. See! here it is!'

She had thrust her hand into her bag and brought out a bulky packet. It
was the scrip, tied up between two pieces of thick cardboard which had
formed the binding of one of the shop account-books. The green marbled
surface was speckled with grease-spots. Both father and son looked
attentively at the fortune which lay upon the shabby tablecloth.

'The tea is getting cold, mother,' said Lazare, putting his pen down at
last. 'Hadn't I better pour it out?'

He got up from his seat and filled the cups. His mother had returned no
answer to his question. Her eyes were still fixed on the scrip.

'Of course,' she continued slowly, 'at a subsequent meeting of the
family council which I summoned, I asked to have my travelling expenses
reimbursed, and the sum that we are to receive for the child's
maintenance was fixed at eight hundred francs a year. We are not so
rich as she is, and we cannot afford to take her for nothing. None of
us would desire to make a farthing profit out of the girl, but it would
have pressed us too much to have kept her out of our own income. The
interest of her fortune will be banked and invested, and her capital
will be almost doubled by the time she comes of age. Well, it is only
our duty that we are doing. We are bound to obey the wishes of the
dead. And if it costs us something to do it, perhaps the sacrifice
may bring us better fortune, of which, I am sure, we stand in great
need----The poor little dear was so cut up, and sobbed so bitterly at
leaving her nurse! I trust she will be happy with us here.'

The two men were quite affected.

'Most certainly I shall never be unkind to her,' said Chanteau.

'She is a charming little thing,' added Lazare. 'I love her already.'

Just then Matthew appeared to have smelt the tea in his dreams, for
he gave himself a shake, and again came and thrust his big head upon
the edge of the table. Minouche, too, got up and stretched herself and
yawned, and, when she was quite awake, she craned out her neck to sniff
at the packet of papers in the greasy covers. As the Chanteaus glanced
at Pauline, they saw that her eyes were also open and fixed upon the
scrip and the old ledger binding.

'Ah! she knows very well what is inside there,' said Madame Chanteau.
'Don't you, my dear? I showed them all to you in Paris. That is what
your poor father and mother have left you.'

Tears trickled down the child's face. Her grief often recurred in
April-like showers. But she soon smiled again through her tears,
feeling amused at Minouche, who had for a long time smelt at the papers
and was doubtless attracted by their odour, for she began to purr and
rub her head against the corners of the ledger.

'Come away, Minouche!' cried Madame Chanteau. 'Money isn't to be made a
plaything of!'

Chanteau laughed, and so did Lazare. With his head resting on the edge
of the table, Matthew was becoming quite excited. Looking eagerly with
his flaming eyes at the packet of papers which he must have taken for
some great delicacy, he began to bark at the cat. Then all the family
grew lively. Pauline caught up Minouche and fondled her in her arms as
though she were a doll.

For fear the girl should drop off to sleep again, Madame Chanteau made
her drink her tea at once. Then she called Véronique.

'Bring us our candles. Here we are sitting and talking and never going
to bed. Why! it is actually ten o'clock, and I am so tired that I half
fell asleep at dinner!'

But a man's voice sounded from the kitchen, and when the cook returned
with four lighted candles her mistress asked her:

'Whom were you talking to?'

'It is Prouane, Madame. He came up to tell the master that things are
in a very bad way down yonder. The sea is breaking everything to pieces
apparently.'

Chanteau had been prevailed upon to accept office as mayor of
Bonneville, and Prouane, the tipsy scamp, who acted as Abbé Horteur's
beadle, likewise discharged the duties of mayor's clerk. He had been a
non-commissioned officer in the navy, and wrote a copybook hand. When
they called to him to come into the room, he made his appearance with
his woollen cap in his hand and his jacket and boots streaming with
water.

'Well! what's the matter, Prouane?'

'Sure, sir, the Cuches' house is completely flooded. And if it goes on
like this much longer it will be the same with the Gonins'. We have all
been down there, Tourmal, Houtelard, myself, and the others. But it is
no use; we can't do anything against that thievish sea. It's written
that it will carry off a slice of the land every year.'

Then they all became silent. The four candles burned with tall flames,
and the rush of the devouring sea against the cliffs broke through the
night air. It was now high tide, and the house shook as every wave
dashed against the rocky barrier. It was like the roaring of giant
artillery; thunderous consecutive reports arose amidst the rolling of
shingle, which, as it swept over the rocks, sounded like the continuous
crackling of a fusillade. And amidst all this uproar the wind raised
its howling plaint, and the rain, every now and then increasing in
violence, seemed to pelt the walls of the house with a hail of bullets.

'It is like the end of the world,' Madame Chanteau murmured. 'What will
the Cuches do? Where are they going to take refuge?'

'They will have to be sheltered,' said Prouane. 'Meantime they are at
the Gonins'. What a sight it was! There was a little lad, who is only
three years old, perfectly drenched, and his mother with nothing on but
a petticoat--begging your pardon for mentioning it--and the father,
too, with his hand split open by a falling beam, while madly trying to
save their few rags.'

Pauline had risen from the table and returned to the window. She
listened to what was being said with all the serious demeanour of a
grown-up person. Her expression indicated distressful sympathy and
pity, and her full lips trembled with emotion.

'Oh, aunt!' she said, 'how very sad for the poor things!' Then her
gaze wandered through the window into that inky darkness where nothing
was visible. They could hear that the sea had reached the road, and
was sweeping wildly and fiercely over it, but they could see nothing.
The little village and the rocks and the whole neighbourhood seemed
submerged beneath a flood of ink. For the young girl it was a painful
experience and surprise. That sea which she had thought so beautiful
hurled itself upon poor folks and ruined them!

'I will go down with you, Prouane,' cried Lazare. 'Perhaps something
can be done.'

'Oh yes! do go, cousin!' said Pauline, with flashing eyes. But the man
shook his head.

'It is no use troubling yourself, Monsieur Lazare; you couldn't do
anything more than the others. We can only stand about and watch the
sea work its will, and destroy what it likes, and when it gets tired of
that we shall have to be grateful that it has done no worse. I merely
came up to inform Monsieur Chanteau.'

Then Chanteau began to grow angry, bothered by this business, which
would give him an uneasy night and demand all his attention in the
morning.

'I don't believe there ever was a village built in such an idiotic
position!' he cried. 'You have buried yourselves right under the waves,
and it's no wonder if the sea swallows up your houses one by one. And
why ever in the world do you stop in such a place? You should leave it
and go elsewhere.'

'Where can we go?' asked Prouane, who listened with an expression of
stupefaction. 'We are here, sir, and we have got to stop here. We must
be somewhere.'

'Yes, that's true,' said Madame Chanteau, bringing the discussion to
an end. 'And wherever you are, here or elsewhere, there will always be
trouble----We are just going to bed. Good-night. To-morrow it will be
light.'

The man went off bowing, and they heard Véronique bolt the door behind
him. They took their candles and gave a parting caress to Matthew and
Minouche, who both slept in the kitchen. Lazare collected his music
together, and Madame Chanteau put the scrip in its greasy covers
beneath her arm, and also took from the table Davoine's balance-sheet,
which her husband had forgotten. It was a heart-breaking paper, and the
sooner it was put out of sight the better.

'We are going to bed, Véronique,' she cried. 'You need not wander up
and down at this time of night.' But, hearing nothing save a grunt in
the kitchen, she added in lower tones:

'What is the matter with her? I haven't brought a baby home for her to
wean!'

'Leave her alone,' said Chanteau. 'She has her whims, you know. Well!
we are all four here: so good-night!'

He himself slept on the ground floor, in a room on the other side of
the passage. This arrangement had been made so that, when he was
suffering from an attack of gout, he might be readily wheeled in his
arm-chair either to table or to the terrace. He opened the door, and
then stood still for a moment. His legs were very heavy, as at the
approach of a fresh attack, of which, indeed, the stiffness of his
joints had been giving him warning since the previous day. Plainly
enough, he had acted very foolishly in eating that _foie gras_. The
consciousness of his error made him feel anything but happy.

'Good-night,' he repeated in a mournful voice. 'You others can always
sleep. Good-night, my little dear. Have a good long rest; you want it
at your age.'

'Good-night, uncle,' said Pauline in reply, as she kissed him. Then the
door closed. Madame Chanteau went upstairs first with the little girl.
Lazare followed behind.

'Well, for my part, I shan't want anyone to rock me to sleep to-night,'
said the old lady, 'that's quite certain. And I don't at all object to
that uproar. I find it lulling. When I was in Paris I quite missed the
shaking of my bed.'

They all went up to the first floor. Pauline, who carefully held her
candlestick straight, was somewhat amused by this procession in Indian
file, each carrying a lighted candle, which set all their shadows
dancing. When she reached the landing she paused, hesitating where to
go, till her aunt gently pushed her forward.

'Straight on,' she said. 'That room there is kept for visitors, and
this one opposite is mine. Come in for a minute; I want to show you
something.'

The bedroom, hung with yellow cretonne with a pattern of green leaves,
was very plainly furnished in mahogany. There was a bed, a wardrobe,
and a secrétaire. In the middle stood a small table on a square of red
carpet. When she had examined every corner carefully with her candle,
Madame Chanteau went up to the secrétaire and opened it.

'Come and look!' she said.

She drew out one of the little drawers and placed Davoine's disastrous
balance-sheet in it, with a sigh. Then she emptied the drawer above it,
pulled it right out and shook it, to clear it of a few old scraps, and,
with Pauline looking at her as she prepared to stow the scrip away in
it, she said:

'I am going to put it in here, you see. There is nothing else in the
drawer, and it will be all by itself. Would you like to put it there
yourself?'

Pauline felt a slight sense of shame, which she could not have
accounted for. She blushed as she answered, 'Oh! aunt dear, what
difference does it make?'

But she had already taken the old ledger-binding in her hand, and she
put it in the drawer, while Lazare threw the light of the candle he was
holding upon the secrétaire.

'There!' said Madame Chanteau, 'you are quite sure about it now, and
you may feel quite easy about it. The drawer is the top one on the
left, remember. It will stop there till the day when you are old enough
to come and take it out and do what you like with it. Minouche won't be
able to come and eat it here, will she?'

The idea of Minouche opening the secrétaire and eating the papers
quite tickled the child's fancy, and she broke into a merry laugh. Her
momentary embarrassment altogether disappeared, and she began to joke
with Lazare, who amused her by purring like a cat and pretending to
make an attack upon the secrétaire. He, too, laughed gaily. His mother,
however, very solemnly locked the flap, turning the key round twice.

'It is quite safe now,' she said. 'Come, Lazare, don't make yourself
ridiculous. Now, Pauline, I will go up with you to your room to see if
you have got everything you want.'

They all three filed out into the staircase. When they reached the
second floor, Pauline with some hesitation opened the door of the room
on her left, but her aunt immediately called out:

'No! no! not that one! That's your cousin's room. Yours is the one
opposite.'

Pauline, however, stood where she was, lost in amazement at the size of
the room and the state of confusion it was in. It contained a piano, a
couch, and a huge table, besides a lot of books and pictures. And when
at last she opened the opposite door, she was quite delighted to find
that her own room was a very small one in comparison with the other.
The wall-paper was of a creamy yellow, flowered with blue roses. The
furniture consisted of an iron bedstead hung with muslin curtains, a
dressing-table, a chest of drawers, and three chairs.

'Yes; you have everything here, I think,' said Madame Chanteau--'water,
sugar, towels, and soap. I hope you will sleep well. Véronique has a
little room beside you. If you feel at all frightened, knock on the
wall.'

'And I am close to you as well,' added Lazare. 'If a ghost comes, I
will fly at him with my sword.'

The doors of both rooms, which faced each other, were open; Pauline's
eyes strayed from one to the other.

'There are no ghosts,' she said merrily. 'You must keep your sword for
robbers. Good-night, aunt. Good-night, cousin.'

'Good-night, my dear. You know how to undress yourself?'

'Oh! yes. I am getting a big girl, you know, now. I always did
everything for myself in Paris.'

They kissed her, and Madame Chanteau told her, as she went off, that
she might lock her door. But the child had already sprung to the
window, impatient to find out whether it overlooked the sea. The rain
was streaming so violently down the panes that she dared not open it.
All was pitchy dark outside, but she felt quite happy when she heard
the waves beating beneath her. Then, in spite of her fatigue, which
almost prevented her from keeping her eyes open, she walked round the
room and examined the furniture. The thought that she was to have
a room of her own, separate from anyone else, where she might shut
herself up entirely alone, quite flattered and pleased her, and made
her feel as though she were grown up already. Just as she was about to
turn the key in the lock, however, she hesitated, and felt a little
uneasy. How should she escape, if she should see anybody in the night?
She trembled for a moment, and then, though she was in her petticoats,
having taken off her dress, she opened the door. Opposite to her she
saw Lazare, standing in the middle of his room and looking at her.

'Well?' he said. 'What's the matter? Do you want anything?'

She turned very red, and felt disposed to tell him a fib, but her
natural frankness got the better of that inclination.

'No, nothing,' she replied. 'But I feel afraid, do you know, when the
door is locked; so I am not going to fasten it; and if you hear me
knock, it will be for you to come. You, mind, and not the cook!'

He had walked out of his room to her door, attracted by the charm of
her child-like frankness and innocence.

'Good-night!' he repeated, stretching out his arms to her. She
thereupon threw her puny little arms round his neck and pressed him to
her, quite regardless of the scantiness of her attire.

'Good-night, cousin!'

Five minutes later she bravely blew her candle out, and buried herself
in her muslin-curtained bed. For a long time her slumber was light and
broken, from her very weariness. She heard Véronique come upstairs,
without the least care to hush her footsteps, and then push her
furniture about with noise enough to waken everybody. After a while,
however, there was nothing to be heard save the tumult of the storm
outside. The rain beat down upon the slates; the wind shook the windows
and whistled under the doors, and the girl long listened to that
cannonading, and trembled and quivered as each wave broke against the
cliff. It seemed to her that the house, now silent and lifeless, was
being carried out to sea like a ship. Then, as she grew warm and snug
beneath her blankets, her wandering thoughts strayed, with sympathetic
pity, to the poor people down in the village, whom the sea was driving
from their beds. But at last everything faded from her mind, and she
slept soundly, scarce breathing.




II


From the first week Pauline's presence in the house proved a source of
joy and pleasure to the family. Her cheerful healthiness and her calm,
tranquil smile spread a softening influence over the asperities of the
Chanteau household. In her the father found a nurse, while the mother
was made happy by the fact that her son now spent more of his time at
home. It was only Véronique who went on grumbling and growling. The
knowledge that there were a hundred and fifty thousand francs locked up
in the secrétaire, although they were to remain scrupulously untouched,
seemed also to give the family a semblance of wealth. There was a new
influence in their midst, and fresh hopes arose, though what they were
it would have been difficult to say.

On the third night after Pauline's arrival, the attack of gout, which
Chanteau had foreseen, broke out in all its violence. For a week past
he had been experiencing prickings in his joints, tremblings and
quiverings in his legs, and an utter distaste for all exercise. He had
gone to bed feeling somewhat easier, but about three o'clock in the
morning had been seized with a frightful pain in the big toe of his
left foot. Thence it had quickly spread to his heel, and then risen
to his ankle. He endured the agony as well as he could till morning,
sweating beneath his blankets, anxious as he was to disturb nobody.
His attacks were the dread of the whole house, and he always put off
calling for assistance till the last possible minute, feeling ashamed
of his helplessness, and dreading the angry reception which awaited
the announcement of each fresh attack. But when he heard Véronique go
past his door, about eight o'clock in the morning, he could no longer
restrain a groan, as a sharper spasm of pain than previously shot
through his foot.

'There we are again!' growled the cook. 'Just listen to him bellowing!'

She came into the room and watched him as he lay moaning and tossing
his head about. And her only attempt at consolation was to say: 'You
don't suppose this will please Madame when she hears of it, do you?'

As soon as Madame Chanteau heard of her husband's fresh attack she
bounced into the room, and, letting her hands drop by her sides in
angry desperation, cried out: 'What, again! No sooner do I get back
than this begins afresh!'

For the last fifteen years she had harboured intense hatred against
gout. She cursed it as an enemy, a thief that had blighted her
existence, ruined her son, blasted all her hopes. If it had not been
for that gout, would they have all been living a life of exile in that
forsaken hole? Thus, in spite of all her natural kindness, she always
manifested a petulant, hostile disposition towards her husband in his
attacks, declaring, too, that she was quite incapable of nursing him.

'Oh! what agony I suffer!' groaned the unhappy man. 'I know it is going
to be much worse this time than it was the last. Don't stop there, as
it puts you out so, but send for Doctor Cazenove at once.'

The house was immediately in a state of commotion. Lazare set off
to Arromanches, though the family retained but little confidence in
medical help. During the last fifteen years Chanteau had tried all
sorts of medicines, and with each fresh kind he had only grown worse.
His attacks, which at first had been slight and infrequent, had
quickly multiplied and become much more violent. He was racked with
pain in both feet, and one of his knees was threatened also. Three
times already had he seen his system of treatment changed, and his
wretched body had become a mere basis for experimenting with competing
nostrums. After being copiously bled, he had been scoured with
purgatives, and now they crammed him with colchicum and lithium. The
draining-away of his blood and the weakening of his frame had turned
what had been intermittent into chronic gout. Local treatment had been
no more successful. Leeches had left his joints in a state of painful
stiffness; opium only prolonged his attacks, and blisters brought on
ulceration. Wiesbaden and Carlsbad had done him no good, and a season
at Vichy had all but killed him.

'Oh dear! oh dear! what agony I am suffering!' repeated poor Chanteau.
'It is just as though a lot of dogs were gnawing at my feet.'

He was perpetually altering the position of his leg, hoping to gain
some relief by the change, but he was still racked with agony, and each
fresh movement drew another groan from him. Presently, as the paroxysms
of his pain grew sharper, a continuous howl came from his lips. He
shivered and grew quite feverish, and his throat was parched with a
burning thirst.

Pauline had just glided into his room. She stood by his bed and gazed
at him gravely, but did not give way to tears; though Madame Chanteau
lost her head, distracted by her husband's cries and groans. Véronique
wished to arrange the bed-clothes differently, as the sufferer found
their weight intolerable, but as she was about to lay hold of them with
her big awkward hands he screamed yet more loudly and forbade her to
touch him. He was quite frightened of her, and said that she shook him
as roughly as though he were a bundle of linen.

'Don't call for me again then, sir,' she said as she bounced angrily
out of the room. 'If you won't let anybody help you, you must attend to
yourself!'

Thereupon Pauline gently glided up to the bedside, and with delicate
skilfulness lightened the pressure of the bed-clothes with her childish
fingers. The sufferer felt a short respite from his agony, and accepted
the girl's help with a smile.

'Thank you, my dear. Stay! stay! Ah! that fold there weighs five
hundred pounds! Oh! not so quickly, my dear, you quite frightened me.'

Then his agony returned in full force again; and as his wife, trying
to find some occupation in the room, first drew up the blinds and then
bustled to his bedside and placed a cup on the little table, he grew
still more querulous.

'Oh! do keep still; don't rush about so! You make everything shake and
tremble. Every step you take is just like a blow on my head with a
hammer.'

She made no attempt at apologising or soothing him. Matters always
ended in this fashion, and he was left to suffer in solitude.

'Come along, Pauline,' she said, quite unconcernedly. 'You see that
your uncle can't endure to have any of us near him.'

But Pauline stayed behind in the sick-room. She glided about with such
a light step that her feet scarcely seemed to touch the floor. From
that moment she installed herself there as the sick man's nurse, and
she was the only person whose presence in the room he could endure. She
seemed able to read his thoughts, and she anticipated all his wants,
softening the light as occasion seemed to require, and giving him his
gruel, which Véronique brought as far as the door. But what the poor
man found especially soothing and comforting was to see her constantly
before him, sitting thoughtfully and quietly on her chair, with her big
sympathetic eyes ever fixed upon him. He tried to find some distraction
from his weariness in telling her of his sufferings.

'Just now I feel as if someone were sawing away at the joints of my
toes with a jagged knife, and at the same time I could almost swear
that I was being drenched with warm water.'

Then the character of his agony changed. It seemed as though a steel
wire were twisted tightly round his ankle, and he could feel his
muscles being strained till they were on the point of breaking. Pauline
listened with affectionate complaisance and seemed to fully understand
all he told her, remaining ever placid amongst all his groanings, with
no other thought than to do what she could to alleviate his pain. She
even forced herself to appear gay, and actually succeeded in making him
laugh between his paroxysms.

When Doctor Cazenove at last arrived, he was filled with admiration of
the little nurse, and gave her a hearty kiss upon her head. The Doctor
was a man of fifty-four, vigorous and lean, who, after thirty years'
service in the navy, had just settled down at Arromanches, where an
uncle had left him a house. He had been a friend of the Chanteaus ever
since he had cured Madame Chanteau of an awkward sprain.

'Well! well! here I am again!' he said. 'I have just come in to shake
hands; but, you know, I can do nothing more for you than the little
girl is already doing. When one has inherited gout, and has got past
one's fiftieth year, one must reconcile oneself to it. And then, you
know, you ruined your constitution with the shopful of drugs you
swallowed. The only remedies are patience and flannel!'

The Doctor affected utter scepticism of the power of medicine in such
a case. In thirty years he had seen so many poor sufferers racked
with pain and disease, in all sorts of climates and in all kinds of
surroundings, that he had grown very modest about his power to afford
any actual relief. He generally preferred to let Nature work out its
own cure. However, he carefully examined Chanteau's swollen toe, whose
gleaming skin had turned a deep red, went on to look at the knee which
was threatened with inflammation, and finally took note of the presence
of a little pearl-like deposit, white and hard, at the edge of the
patient's right ear.

'But, Doctor,' groaned the sufferer, 'you are not going to leave me
suffering like this?'

Cazenove's demeanour had become quite serious. That chalky bead
interested him, and his faith in medical science returned at the sight
of this new symptom. 'Dear me' he murmured half to himself, 'I had
better try what salts and alkalies will do. It is evidently becoming
chronic.'

Then in a louder and angry tone he said: 'It is your own fault, you
know. You won't follow the directions I have given you. You are always
glued to your arm-chair, and you never think of taking any exercise.
And then I dare say you have been drinking wine and eating too much
meat. Eh! haven't you, now? Confess that you have been taking something
heating!'

'Nothing but a tiny bit of _foie gras_,' murmured Chanteau, very humbly.

The Doctor raised both his arms, as though to call the elements to
witness his patient's folly. Then he took some little phials from the
pockets of his overcoat, and began to prepare a draught. By way of
local treatment he simply wrapped the foot and knee in cotton-wool,
which he kept in its place by twisting some waxed thread round it.
When he went away, it was to Pauline that he gave his directions. The
invalid was to have a tablespoonful of the draught every two hours, and
as much gruel as he liked, but he must observe the greatest strictness
in the matter of diet.

'If you suppose that anybody can keep him from eating anything he
chooses, you are very much mistaken,' said Madame Chanteau, as she went
with the Doctor to the door.

'No! no! aunt dear; he will be very good, you will see,' Pauline
ventured to assert. 'I will make him do what is right.'

Cazenove looked at her, and was amused by her serious manner. He kissed
her again, on both her cheeks this time.

'There's a good little girl,' he said, 'who came into the world on
purpose to help others.'

For a whole week Chanteau lay groaning. Just when the attack seemed
over, his right foot was seized by the foe, and all his agony returned
with increased violence. The whole house rang with his cries. Véronique
kept in the depths of her kitchen so as to escape the sound of them,
and Madame Chanteau and Lazare sometimes actually ran out of the house,
quite overcome by nervous excitement. It was only Pauline who remained
with the sick man, and she indeed never left his room. She was ever
struggling with his foolish whims and fancies; as, for instance, when
he furiously insisted upon having a cutlet cooked, saying that he was
very hungry, and roundly declaring that Doctor Cazenove was an ass and
didn't know what was good for him. The night was the worst time, for
then the attacks seemed to come on with increased violence. Pauline
could only snatch some two or three hours' sleep. But, in spite of it
all, she retained her spirits, and her health did not seem in any way
to suffer. Madame Chanteau readily accepted her services, until, when
Chanteau was again convalescent, the girl at last regained her liberty;
and then a close companionship sprang up between her and Lazare.

It took its rise in that by-room which the young man occupied upstairs.
He had had a partition knocked down, and so this room of his covered
half of the second storey. A little iron bedstead was hidden away
behind a tattered old screen. Against the wall and on the bare
floor-boards were piled a thousand volumes of books, classical works,
largely imperfect sets, which had been discovered in a lumber-room at
Caen and had been transported to Bonneville. Near the window there was
a huge antique Norman wardrobe crammed with all kinds of out-of-the-way
objects, specimens of minerals, old and useless tools, and broken toys.
There was a piano, also, over which were hung a pair of foils and a
fencing-mask; and there was an enormous table in the centre, an old
high drawing-table, so completely littered with papers, engravings,
tobacco-jars and pipes that it was difficult to find a hand's-breadth
of space available for writing.

Pauline was delighted when she was given the freedom of this wild
chaos. She spent a month in exploring it thoroughly, and every day
she made some new discovery, such as an illustrated 'Robinson Crusoe'
which she came upon in rummaging amongst the books, or a doll which she
fished out of the miscellaneous collection in the cupboard. As soon
as she was dressed of a morning, she sprang out of her own room into
her cousin's and settled herself there; and in the afternoon she often
returned thither again.

From the day of her first visit Lazare had received her as though she
had been a boy, a younger brother, some nine years his junior, but so
merry and amusing and with such big intelligent eyes as to be in no
wise in his way; and as usual he went on smoking his pipe, lolling in
his chair with his legs cocked up in the air, or reading, or writing
long letters into which he slipped flowers. Sometimes they made a
pretty riot between them, for Pauline had a habit of suddenly springing
upon the table or bounding through the split folds of the old screen.
One morning as Lazare wondered why he did not hear her, and turned to
ascertain what she might be about, he saw her, foil in hand, with her
face screened with the fencing-mask as she flourished away at space.
Whenever he told her to be still or threatened to turn her out of the
room, the result was a tremendous skirmish and a wild pursuit through
the disorderly place. Then she would fly at him and throw her arms on
his neck, and he twirled her round like a top, with her petticoats
circling about her. As the room echoed with their merry child-like
laughter, he felt quite a boy again himself.

Next the piano afforded them occupation. It was an old instrument of
Érard's make, dating from the year 1810, and upon it, in former times,
Mademoiselle Eugénie de la Vignière had given lessons for fifteen
years. The strings in its mahogany case, from which most of the
polish had departed, sighed out far-away tones of a muffled softness.
Lazare, who had never been able to persuade his mother to get him a
new piano, strummed away on the old instrument with all his might,
without succeeding in eliciting from it the sonorous rhapsodies buzzing
in his head; and he had got into the habit of adding the notes of his
own voice to the instrument's in order to obtain the required volume
of sound. His passion for music soon led him to abuse Pauline's easy
complaisance. He had found a listener, and for whole afternoons he kept
her there while he went through his _répertoire_, which comprised all
that was most complicated in music, and notably the then unacknowledged
scores of Berlioz and Wagner. He poured forth his vocal accompaniment,
and, as his enthusiasm increased, rendered the piece quite as much with
his throat as with his fingers. On these occasions the poor child used
to feel dreadfully bored, but she went on listening with an air of rapt
attention, so that she might not hurt her cousin's feelings.

Sometimes darkness would surprise them still at the piano, and then
Lazare would leave off playing and tell Pauline of his dreams for the
future. He would be a great musician in spite of his mother, in spite
of everybody. At the college at Caen a professor of the violin, struck
by his genius for music, had prophesied a glorious career for him.
He had secretly taken private lessons in composition, and now he was
working hard by himself. He already had in his head a vague outline
of a symphony on the subject of the Earthly Paradise; and, indeed, he
had actually written the score of one passage descriptive of Adam and
Eve being driven away by the angels, a march of a solemn and mournful
character, which he consented to play one evening to Pauline. The
child quite approved of it and declared it delightful. Then, however,
she began to talk to him; of course it must be very nice, she said,
to compose pretty music, but wouldn't it be more prudent if he were
to obey the wishes of his parents, who wanted to make him a prefect
or a judge? The whole house was made unhappy by the quarrel between
the mother and the son; he declaring that he would go to Paris to the
Conservatoire, and she replying that she would just give him till next
October to make up his mind to embrace some respectable profession.
Pauline backed up her aunt's designs, and told her, with an air of
tranquil conviction, that she would take upon herself to bring her
cousin round to proper views. She indeed argued the matter with Lazare,
who grew angry with her and violently closed the piano, telling her
that she was 'a horrid _bourgeoise_.'

For three days they sulked with each other, and then made friends
again. To win her over to his musical scheme, Lazare wished to teach
her to play on the piano. He showed her how to place her fingers on the
keys, and kept her for hours running up and down the scales. But she
discouraged him very much by her lack of enthusiasm. She was always on
the look-out for something to laugh at and make a joke of, and took
great delight in making Minouche promenade along the key-board and
execute barbaric symphonies with her paws, asserting that the cat was
playing the famous banishment from the Earthly Paradise, whereat the
composer himself smiled. Then they broke out into boisterous fun again,
she threw her arms round his neck, and he spun her round like a top,
while Minouche, joining in the merriment, sprang from the table to the
top of the cupboard. As for Matthew, he was not admitted into the room,
as he was apt to become over-riotous when he felt merry.

'You drive me crazy, you wretched little shopkeeper!' Lazare one day
broke out, quite impatiently. 'You had better get my mother to teach
you, if you can persuade her to do so.'

'All this music of yours will never do you any good, you know,' Pauline
answered quite roundly. 'If I were you I would be a doctor.'

He stared at her fiercely. A doctor, indeed! What had put that idea
into her head? He worked himself into a state of excitement that made
him lose all self-control.

'Listen to me!' he cried. 'If they won't let me be a musician, I'll
kill myself!'

The summer completed Chanteau's restoration to health, and Pauline was
now able to follow Lazare in his rambles out of doors. The big room
was deserted, and they set off on wild adventures together. For some
days they confined themselves to the terrace, where vegetated tufts
of tamarisks, which the salt winds had nipped and blighted. Then they
invaded the yard, broke the chain belonging to the well, terrified the
dozen skinny fowls that lived upon grasshoppers, and hid themselves in
the empty stable and coach-house and knocked the plaster off the walls.
Thence they slipped into the kitchen-garden, a bit of poor dry ground,
which Véronique dug and hoed like a peasant. There were four beds sown
with tough vegetables and planted with miserable stumps of pear-trees,
which were all bent by the north-west gales. And while here, on pushing
open a little door, they found themselves on the cliffs, under the
broad sky, with the open sea in front of them. Pauline's absorbing
interest in that mighty expanse of water, now so soft and pure under
the bright July sun, had never diminished. It was always for the sea
that she looked from every window in the house. But she had never
yet been near it, and a new era in her life commenced when she found
herself alone with Lazare in the solitude of the shore.

What happy times they had together! Madame Chanteau grumbled and
wanted to keep them in the house, in spite of all her confidence in
Pauline's discretion; and so they never went out through the yard,
where Véronique would have seen them, but glided stealthily through the
kitchen-garden, and so escaped, to appear no more till evening. They
soon found their rambles round the church and the graveyard, with its
shadowing yews and the priest's salad-beds, a trifle monotonous, and
in a week they had quite exhausted the attractions of Bonneville, with
its thirty cottages clinging to the side of the cliff and its strip
of shingle where the fishermen drew up their boats. When the tide was
low it was far more amusing to wander along at the foot of the cliffs.
They walked over fine sand, frightening the little crabs that scudded
away before them, or jumped from rock to rock among the thick seaweed
and the sparkling pools where shrimps were skimming about; to say
nothing of the fish they caught, of the mussels they ate, raw and even
without bread, or the strange-looking creatures they carried away in
their handkerchiefs, or the odd discoveries they sometimes made, such
as that of a stranded dab or a little lobster lurking at the bottom of
a hole. They would sometimes let themselves be overtaken by the rising
tide and rush merrily for refuge to some big rock, to wait there till
the ebb allowed them to go their way again. They were perfectly happy
as they came back home in the evening wet through and with their hair
all tossed about by the wind. And they grew so accustomed to this
life in the fresh salt breezes that they found the atmosphere of the
lamp-lighted room at night quite suffocating.

But their greatest pleasure of all was bathing. The beach was too rocky
to attract the inhabitants of Caen and Bayeux, and, whereas every year
new villas rose on the cliffs at Arromanches, never a single bather
made his appearance at Bonneville. Lazare and Pauline had discovered,
about half a mile from the village, over towards Port-en-Bessin, a
delightful spot, a little bay shut in by two rocky cliffs and carpeted
with soft glittering sand. They called it the Golden Bay, for its
secluded waves seemed to wash up pieces of glittering gold. They were
quite alone and undisturbed there, and undressed and slipped on their
bathing things without any feeling of shame. Lazare in a week taught
Pauline to swim. She was much more enthusiastic about this than she had
been about the piano, and in her plucky attempts she often swallowed
big mouthfuls of salt water. If a larger wave than usual sent them
tottering one against the other, they laughed gleefully; and when they
came out of the water, they went romping over the sand till the wind
had dried them. This was much more amusing than fishing.

The days slipped away, however, and August came round, and as yet
Lazare had come to no decision. In October Pauline was to go to a
boarding-school at Bayeux. When bathing had tired them, they would
sit on the sand and talk over the state of their affairs gravely and
sensibly. Pauline had succeeded in interesting Lazare in medical
matters by telling him that if she were a man she should think nothing
nobler or more delightful than to be able to cure ailing people.
Besides, for the last week or so, the Earthly Paradise had not been
getting on satisfactorily, and Lazare was beginning to have doubts
about his genius for music. At any rate, there had been great glory won
in the practice of medicine, and he bethought him of many illustrious
names, Hippocrates, Ambrose Paré, and others.

One afternoon, however, he burst out into a loud cry of delight. He
had the score of his masterpiece in his hand at the time. It was all
rubbish, he said, that Paradise of his, and could not be worked out.
He would destroy it all, and write quite a new symphony on Grief,
which should describe in sublime harmonies the hopeless despair of
Humanity groaning beneath the skies. He retained the march of Adam
and Eve, and boldly transferred it to his new work as the 'March of
Death.' For a week his enthusiasm increased every hour, and the whole
universe entered into the scheme of his symphony. But, when another
week had passed away, Pauline was very much astonished to hear him
say one evening that he was quite willing to go and study medicine in
Paris. He was really thinking that by doing so he would be near the
Conservatoire, and would then be able to see what could be done. Madame
Chanteau, however, was delighted. She would certainly have preferred
seeing her son hold some judicial or administrative office, but, at any
rate, doctors were very respectable persons and sometimes made a good
deal of money. 'You must be a little witch!' she said, kissing Pauline;
'you have more than repaid us, my dear, for taking you.'

Everything was settled. Lazare was to leave on the 1st of October.
During the month of September that remained to them they gave
themselves up with greater fervour than ever to their romps and
rambles, resolved to finish their term of freedom in a worthy manner.
They sported about in the Golden Bay at times till darkness surprised
them there.

One evening they were sitting on the beach, watching the stars appear
like fiery beads in the paling sky. Pauline gazed at them with the
placid admiration of a healthy child, whereas Lazare, who had become
feverish ever since he had been preparing for his departure, blinked
nervously, while in his mind revolved all kinds of schemes and
ambitions for the future.

'How lovely the stars are!' said Pauline quietly, after a long interval
of silence.

He made no reply. All his cheerfulness had left him; his gaze seemed
disturbed by some inward anxiety. Up in the sky the stars were growing
thicker every minute, as if sparks were being cast by the handful
across the heavens.

'You have never learned anything about them, have you?' he said at
last. 'Each star up yonder is a sun, round which there are planets
wheeling like the earth. There are thousands and thousands of them; and
far away beyond those you can see are legions of others. There is no
end to them.' Then he became silent for a moment. By-and-by he resumed
in a voice that quivered with emotion: 'I don't like to look at them;
they make me feel afraid.'

The rising tide was raising a distant wail, like the mournful cry of a
multitude lamenting its wretchedness. Over the horizon, black now with
fallen night, glittered the gold-dust of wheeling worlds. And amid that
sad wail that echoed round them from the world, pressed low beneath
the countless stars, Pauline thought she detected a sound of bitter
sobbing beside her.

'What is the matter with you? Are you ill?'

Lazare made no answer. He was indeed sobbing, with his face hidden in
his convulsively twitching hands, as though he wanted to blot out the
sight of everything. And as soon as he was able to speak, he gasped:
'Oh, to die! to die!'

The scene filled Pauline with long-lasting astonishment. Lazare rose
to his feet with difficulty, and they went back to Bonneville through
the darkness, the rising tide pressing closely upon them. Neither spoke
a word to the other. As Pauline watched the young man go on in front
of her, he seemed to grow shorter, to bend beneath the breeze from the
west.

That evening they found a new-comer waiting for them in the
dining-room, talking to Chanteau. For a week past they had been
expecting the arrival of a young girl called Louise, who was eleven
years and a half old, and came to spend a fortnight every year at
Bonneville. They had twice gone to meet her at Arromanches, without
finding her, and now, that evening, when no one was looking for her,
she had turned up quite unexpectedly. Louise's mother had died in
Madame Chanteau's arms, recommending her daughter to the other's care.
Her father, Monsieur Thibaudier, a banker at Caen, had married again
six months afterwards, and had already three children by his present
wife. Absorbed by his new family and business matters, he had sent
Louise to a boarding-school, and was only too glad when he could get
her off his hands during the holidays by sending her upon a round of
visits to her friends. He gave himself as little trouble about her as
possible, and she had come to the Chanteaus' a week behind her time, in
the charge of a servant. 'The master had so much to worry him,' said
the latter, who returned home immediately she had deposited her charge
at Bonneville, with an intimation that Mademoiselle's father would do
his best to come and fetch her himself when her time was up.

'Come along, Lazare!' cried Chanteau. 'Here she is at last!'

Louise smiled and kissed the young man on both his cheeks, though the
acquaintance between them was slight, for she had been constantly shut
up in school, and it was barely a year since he had left college. Their
knowledge of each other really dated from their last holidays, and
Lazare had hitherto treated the girl somewhat ceremoniously, fancying
that she already considered herself grown-up, and despised any youthful
display of boisterousness.

'Well, Pauline, aren't you going to kiss her?' said Chanteau, entering
the room. 'She is older than you by a year and a half, you know. You
must be very fond of each other; it will please me very much to see you
so.'

Pauline looked keenly at Louise, who was slight and delicate, with
somewhat irregular though very pleasing features. Her hair was thick
and fair, and was curled and arranged like that of a young woman.
Pauline turned a little pale on seeing Louise kiss Lazare; and when she
herself was kissed by her with a smile, it was with quivering lips that
she returned the salute.

'What is the matter with you?' asked her aunt. 'Are you cold?'

'Yes, I think I am a little. The wind was rather chilly,' she answered,
blushing at the falsehood she was telling.

When they sat down to dinner she ate nothing. Her eyes never strayed
from the faces of those who were present, and became very black
whenever her uncle or her cousin or even Véronique paid any attention
to Louise. But she seemed to be especially pained when Matthew, making
his customary round of the table, went and laid his huge head upon the
new-comer's knee. It was quite in vain that she called him to her. He
would not leave Louise, who gorged him with sugar.

When they rose from the table, Pauline immediately left the room.
Véronique was clearing the things away, and as she came back from the
kitchen for a fresh trayful she said, with a triumphant expression:
'Ah, Madame! I know you think your Pauline quite perfect, but just go
and look at her now in the yard.'

They all went out to see. Hiding away behind the coach-house, Pauline
was holding Matthew against the wall, and, apparently mad with passion,
was hitting his head with all the strength of her clenched fists. The
poor dog seemed quite stupefied, and, instead of offering resistance to
her blows, simply hung down his head. They rushed out at her, but even
at their approach she did not desist from her cruel treatment, and they
were obliged to carry her off. She was found to be in such a feverish,
excited state that she was at once put to bed, and for the greater
part of the night her aunt dared not leave her.

'Oh! yes, she's a dear little thing, a very dear little thing!' sneered
Véronique, who was quite delighted at having discovered a flaw in the
diamond.

'I remember, now,' said Madame Chanteau, 'that people spoke to me about
her outbursts of temper when I was in Paris. She is quite jealous--what
a nasty thing! I have noticed during the six months that she has been
with us several trifling matters that haven't pleased me; but, really,
to try to murder the poor dog beats everything!'

When Pauline saw Matthew the next day, she threw her trembling arms
round him and, kissing him on the nose, burst into such a flood of
tears that they feared she was going to have another hysterical attack.
In spite of her repentance, she could not restrain these outbursts of
mad passion. It was as though some sudden storm within her sent all her
blood boiling and hissing into her head. She had doubtless inherited
this jealous violence from some ancestor on her mother's side; yet she
had a deal of common-sense for a child of ten years old, and used to
say that she did all she could to struggle against those outbreaks, but
without avail. They made her very miserable, as though they had been
the symptoms of some shameful disease.

At times, when Madame Chanteau reproached her, she replied, hiding her
head against her aunt's shoulder: 'I love you so much, why do you love
others?'

Thus, in spite of all her efforts and struggles, Pauline suffered a
great deal from Louise's presence in the house. Ever since the other
had been expected, she had been looking forward to her coming with
uneasy curiosity, and now she was impatiently counting the days of
her stay, all eagerness for her departure. Yet she could not help
remarking the charm of Louise's manner, the pretty seductiveness of
her half-childish, half-womanish demeanour; but, perhaps, it was this
very charm and seductiveness that troubled her and made her so angry
when Lazare was present. For his part, the young man showed the greater
preference for Pauline, and even made jokes about Louise, saying that
she wearied him with her grand airs, and that Pauline and he had better
leave her alone to play the fine lady by herself, while they went off
somewhere to amuse themselves as they liked. All boisterous romping
had ceased since Louise's arrival; indoors they remained looking
at pictures, and when they went to the shore they walked about with
irreproachable decorum. It was a fortnight utterly wasted.

One morning Lazare announced his intention of anticipating his
departure by five days. He was anxious, he said, to get settled down in
Paris, where he expected to find one of his old chums at the College
of Caen. Pauline, whom the thought of the approaching separation had
distressed for a month past, now strongly approved of her cousin's
determination, and gleefully assisted her aunt to pack his trunk. But
as soon as he had driven off in old Malivoire's ancient _berline_ she
rushed away to her room, locked herself in it, and gave herself up
to weeping. Then, in the evening, she bore herself very kindly and
affectionately towards Louise, and the remaining week which the latter
spent at Bonneville passed away delightfully. When the maid came to
fetch her home again, explaining that the banker had not been able to
leave his business, the two girls rushed into each other's arms and
swore eternal friendship.

A year slowly passed away. Madame Chanteau had changed her mind, and,
instead of sending Pauline to a boarding-school, had kept her at home
with herself, being chiefly moved to this course by the complaints of
Chanteau, who had grown so used to the girl that he declared he could
not possibly get on without her. But the good lady did not confess that
any such reason of self-interest had anything to do with the alteration
of her plans; she talked about undertaking the child's education
herself, feeling quite youthful again at the thought of reverting to
her old profession of tuition. Besides, in boarding-schools, said
she, little girls became acquainted with all kinds of things, and she
wished her young ward to be reared in perfect innocence and purity.
They hunted out from among Lazare's miscellaneous books a Grammar, an
Arithmetic, a Treatise on History, and even an Abridgment of the Greek
Mythology; and Madame Chanteau resumed her functions of preceptress.
Lazare's big room was turned into a schoolroom; Pauline had to resume
her music lessons there, and was put through a severe course of
deportment to rid her of all the unladylike, boyish ways into which
she had fallen. She showed herself very docile and intelligent, and
manifested a great willingness to learn, even when the subject-matter
of her lessons was distasteful to her. There was only one thing which
seemed to weary her, and that was the catechism. She had not as yet
supposed that her aunt would take the trouble to conduct her to mass on
Sundays. Why should she, indeed? When she lived in Paris, no one had
ever taken her to Saint-Eustache, which was quite near their house.
It was only with difficulty that abstract ideas found their way into
her understanding, and her aunt had to explain to her that a well
brought-up young lady's duty in the country was to set a proper example
by showing herself to be on good terms with the priest. Religion, with
her, had never been anything more than a matter of appearance and
respectability, and she looked upon it as part of a polite education,
standing upon very much the same footing as the art of deportment.

Twice every day the tide swept up to the cliffs of Bonneville, and
Pauline's life passed on with the great expanse of surging water before
her eyes. She had given over playing and romping, for she no longer
had a companion. When she had run along the terrace with Matthew, or
strolled to the end of the kitchen-garden with Minouche, her only
pleasure was to go and gaze at the sea, which was full of changing
life, dark and gloomy in the stormy days of winter, and gleaming
with bright blues and greens beneath the summer sun. The beneficent
influence which seemed to flow from the girl's presence in the house
manifested itself in another form that year, for Chanteau received from
Davoine a quite unlooked-for remittance of five thousand francs, which
threats of a dissolution of partnership had extorted from him. Madame
Chanteau never missed going to Caen each quarter to receive her niece's
dividends, and when she had deducted her expenses and the sum which
she was allowed for Pauline's board, she invested the balance in the
purchase of further stock. On returning home she always took the girl
into her room, and, opening the well-known drawer in the secrétaire,
said to her: 'There, you see, I am putting this with the other. Isn't
it getting a big heap? Don't be at all uneasy about it. You will find
it all there when you want it. There won't be a centime missing.'

One fine morning in August Lazare suddenly made his appearance,
bringing with him the news of his complete success in his preliminary
examinations. He had not been expected for another week, but he had
wanted to take his mother by surprise. His arrival greatly delighted
them all. In the letters which he had written home every fortnight he
had shown an increasing interest in medicine, and, now that he was
amongst them again, he appeared to be completely changed. He never
spoke a word about music, but was perpetually chattering about his
professors and his scientific studies, dragging them in _à propos_
of everything, even of the dishes that were served at dinner and
the direction in which the wind was blowing. He was, now, a prey to
another wildly enthusiastic ambition, for he dreamed, day and night, of
becoming a physician, whose wonderful skill would be trumpeted through
the whole world. Pauline, when she had thrown her arms round his neck
and kissed him with child-like frankness, was more surprised than the
others at this change in him. It almost grieved her, indeed, that he
should have dropped all his interest in music, even as a recreation.
Could it be possible, she asked herself, that, when one had really
loved anything, one could end by caring nothing at all about it? One
day when she asked him about his symphony, he began to make fun of it,
and told her that he had quite done with all such nonsense. She felt
quite sad at those words. But he also seemed to be soon bored with her
society, and laughed with an unpleasant laugh; while his eyes and his
gestures spoke of a ten months' life which could not have been related
in detail to little girls.

He had unpacked his trunk himself, so as to keep from view the books
he had brought home with him, novels and medical works, some of them
copiously illustrated. He no longer twirled his cousin like a top, as
he had been wont to do, making her petticoats fly in a circle round
her, and he even seemed quite confused at times when she persisted in
coming into his room and staying there. However, she had scarcely grown
at all during his absence, and she still looked him frankly in the face
with her pure innocent eyes, in such wise that by the end of a week
his appearance of uneasiness had vanished, and they reverted to their
old intimacy and comradeship. The fresh sea-breezes had now swept the
unhealthy influences of the students' quarter of Paris out of Lazare's
brain, and he felt once more a child himself as he romped about with
his little cousin, both of them full of vigorous health and gaiety. All
the old life began anew; the racing round the table, the scampers with
Matthew and Minouche through the garden, the rambles to the Golden Bay
and the bathing in the open air. And that year, too, Louise, who had
paid a visit to Bonneville in May, went to take her holidays with some
other friends at Rouen; and so the others spent two very delightful
months, without a single disagreement or misunderstanding to mar their
enjoyment. When October came, Pauline watched Lazare pack his trunk for
his return to Paris. He gathered together the books he had brought with
him, which had remained stowed away in his cupboard without once being
opened.

'Are you going to take them all back with you?' the girl asked in a
melancholy voice.

'Yes, indeed,' he replied. 'I shall want them all for my studies. You
have no notion how hard I am going to work. I shall want every one of
them.'

The little house at Bonneville once more subsided into lifeless,
monotonous quietude. Each day passed in precisely the same way as its
predecessors, bringing the same round of incidents beside the ceaseless
rhythm of the ocean. That year, however, was marked distinctly for
Pauline. In the month of June she took her first communion, being
then twelve and a half years old. By slow degrees a religious feeling
had taken possession of her, but it was a religious feeling loftier
than the one indicated in her catechism, whose answers she constantly
repeated without understanding them. With her reflective young mind
she had ended by picturing the Deity to herself as a very powerful and
very wise ruler, who directed everything upon earth in accordance with
principles of strict justice; and this simplified conception of hers
sufficed to put her on a footing of understanding with Abbé Horteur.
The Abbé was a peasant's son, and into his hard head nothing but the
letter of the law had ever made its way. He had grown to be contented
with the observance of outward ceremonies and the maintenance of
religious practices. True, he bestowed the greatest care and thought
upon his own salvation; and if his parishioners should finally be
damned, well, it would be their own fault. For fifteen years he had
been trying to terrify them without success, and now all that he asked
of them was to come to church on the great feast days. And, in spite
of the sinful state in which it rotted, Bonneville did come to church
pretty regularly, drawn thither by the influence of old habit. But the
priest's tolerance had degenerated into indifference as to the real
spiritual condition of his flock. Every Saturday it was his custom to
go and play draughts with Chanteau, although the mayor, making his
gout an excuse, never set foot inside the church. But then Madame
Chanteau did all that was necessary by attending the services regularly
and taking Pauline with her. It was the priest's great simplicity and
frankness which by degrees won Pauline over. While living in Paris, she
had heard priests scoffed and sneered at as hypocrites, whose black
robes concealed all manner of sins and wickedness. But the priest of
that little sea-side hamlet seemed to her a thoroughly genuine, honest
fellow, with his heavy boots and sun-browned neck and farmer-like
speech and manner. One little fact especially impressed her. Abbé
Horteur was strongly addicted to puffing away at a big meerschaum
pipe, but he seemed to be disturbed by some slight scruples as to the
propriety of such a habit, for whenever he wanted to smoke he always
retired into his garden, and hid himself away in the solitude of his
lettuce-beds. And it was the anxious air with which he hastily tried
to put his pipe out of sight when he was taken unawares in his garden
that touched the girl, though she could scarcely have told why. She
took her first communion in a very serious and reverent frame of mind,
in company with two other girls from the village and one boy. When the
priest came to dine with the Chanteaus in the evening, he declared that
never since he had been at Bonneville had he seen a communicant who had
conducted herself with such reverence at the Holy Table.

Financially, the year was not so prosperous for the Chanteaus. The rise
in the price of deal, for which Davoine had been hoping for a long time
past, did not take place, and so only bad news came from Caen, for,
being driven into selling at a loss, the business was in a bad way
indeed. Thus the family lived in the most meagre fashion, and were only
able to make their income of three thousand francs cover the necessary
expenses by practising the most rigid economy. Lazare, whose letters
to herself she kept strictly private, was Madame Chanteau's chief
source of anxiety. He was apparently leading a life of extravagance
and dissipation, for he constantly applied to her for money. When she
went to Caen in July to receive Pauline's dividend, she made a fierce
attack upon Davoine. Two thousand francs which he had previously given
to her had been sent to Lazare, and now she succeeded in wringing
another thousand francs out of him, and these she at once despatched to
Paris. For Lazare had written to tell her that he would not be able to
come home unless he was provided with the means of paying his debts.
Every day during a whole week they expected his arrival amongst them,
but each morning a letter came announcing that his departure had been
put off till the morrow. When at last he did actually start for home,
his mother and Pauline went as far as Verchemont to meet him. They met
there, kissed each other on the high-road, and walked home together,
followed by the unoccupied coach, which carried Lazare's luggage.

Lazare's return home that year was by no means so gay as his previous
triumphal surprise. He had failed to pass an examination in July,
and was embittered against all his professors, of whom he fell foul
throughout the evening. The next morning, in Pauline's presence, he
threw his books upon one of the shelves in the wardrobe, exclaiming
that they might lie there and rot. This sudden disgust for his studies
alarmed her. She heard him scoff bitterly at medicine, and deny its
power to cure even a cold. One day when she was attempting to defend
it from his attacks, in an impulse of youthful belief, he sneered
so bitterly at her ignorance of what she was talking about that his
remarks brought a hot blush to her cheeks. But, all the same, he said,
he had resigned himself to being a doctor; as well that kind of humbug
as any other: everything was equally stupid at bottom. Pauline grew
quite indignant and angry at the new ideas which he had brought home
with him. Where had he got them from? From those wicked books he read,
she was quite sure; but she dared not discuss the matter fully, held
back as she was by her own ignorance, and feeling ill at ease amidst
her cousin's sneers and innuendoes and pretences that he could not tell
her everything. The holidays glided away in perpetual misunderstandings
and bickerings. In their walks together the young man seemed to be
bored, and declared that the sea was wearisome and monotonous. As a
means of killing time, however, he had taken to writing verses, and
composed sonnets on the sea with great elaboration and fastidiousness
of rhymes. He declined to bathe, saying that he had found that cold
baths disagreed with his constitution, for, in spite of his denial of
all value to medical science, he now indulged in the most sweeping and
authoritative opinions, condemning or curing people with a word. About
the middle of September, when they were expecting Louise's arrival, he
suddenly expressed his intention of returning to Paris, saying that
he wished to prepare for his examination again. He really thought that
his life would be unbearable between two little girls, and wished to
get back to the Latin Quarter. Pauline's manner to him, however, became
gentler and more submissive the more he did to vex her. When he was
rude and sought to distress her, she merely looked at him with those
tender, smiling eyes of hers, whose soft influence was able to soothe
even Chanteau when he groaned and moaned amidst one of his attacks of
gout. She thought that her cousin was in some way out of health, for he
looked upon life like a weary old man.

The day before his departure Lazare manifested such delight at the
prospect of leaving Bonneville that Pauline burst into tears.

'You don't love me any more now!'

'Don't be a goose! Haven't I got to make my way in life? A big girl
like you to be crying! The idea of it!'

Then she summoned up her courage again and smiled as she said to him:
'Work hard this year, so that when you come back again we may all be
quite happy and satisfied.'

'Oh! there's no good in working hard! Their examinations are nothing
but foolery. I didn't pass because I didn't care to. I am going to
hurry through with it all now, since my lack of fortune prevents me
from living a life of ease and leisure, which is the only satisfactory
life a man can lead.'

In the early part of October, after Louise had returned to Caen,
Pauline again resumed her lessons with her aunt. The curriculum of her
third year's studies embraced bowdlerised French History, and Greek
Mythology as 'adapted to the use of young persons.' But the girl, who
had shown such diligence in the previous year, now seemed to have
become quite sluggish and dull. Sometimes she even went to sleep over
her tasks, and her face flushed with a hot surging of blood. A mad
outburst of anger against Véronique, who didn't like her, she declared,
made her so ill that she had to stop in bed for a couple of days. Then
came changes in herself which disquieted and distressed her. About
Christmas-time Pauline's health was such as to alarm Madame Chanteau.
But that worthy woman, from ridiculous notions of her own, was largely
to blame, as she refused to take Doctor Cazenove's advice and talk
to the girl as she should have done. And in the result Pauline, at an
important period in her youth, narrowly escaped being stricken with an
attack of brain-fever.

When she was well again and resumed her studies, she began to affect
an enthusiastic interest in the Greek Mythology. She shut herself up
in Lazare's big room--which was still used as a schoolroom--and had to
be sent for at meal-times. When she came down, she seemed buried in
thought and quite indifferent to all that went on. Upstairs, however,
the Mythology lay quite neglected on the table, for it was in poring
over all the medical books which Lazare had left in the old wardrobe
that she now spent her time. There were a good many of those works,
and, though at first she failed to understand all the technical terms
she met with, she plodded on through anatomy and physiology, and even
pathology and clinical medicine. Thus she not only learnt--in all
simplicity and purity of mind, saved from all vicious thought by a
healthy craving for knowledge--many things of which girls of her age
are usually ignorant; but her researches extended to the symptoms and
treatment of all sorts of disease and ailment. Superfluous subjects she
passed by unheeded. She seemed to know intuitively what knowledge was
necessary to enable her to be of assistance to those who suffered. Her
heart melted with pity as she read on, and she gave herself up again to
her old dream of learning everything so that she might be able to cure
all that went amiss.

Knowledge rendered Pauline grave and thoughtful. She felt surprised and
annoyed at her aunt's silence towards her, which had resulted in such
terror and serious illness. And when one day Madame Chanteau did see
fit to refer to the matter, the girl quietly intimated that she needed
no information. At this the other was alarmed, and Pauline then told
her all about Lazare's books. There was a scene, but the girl, with her
outspoken frankness, quite routed her aunt. 'How can there be harm in
knowledge of the normal conditions of life?' she asked. Her enthusiasm
was perfectly mental, and never did a single wrong thought disturb the
pure depths of her clear, child-like eyes. On the same shelf with the
medical books she had found novels which had repelled her and bored
her, so that she had thrown them aside after glancing at the first few
pages. Her aunt, growing more and more disconcerted, though she had
recovered a little from her first shock, contented herself with locking
the wardrobe and taking away the key. But a week later it was there
again, and Pauline indulged herself in reading at intervals, by way of
recreation, either a chapter on neurosis, with her mind fixed the while
upon her cousin, or one relating to the treatment of gout, with the
idea of undertaking her uncle's cure.

Each day increasing love of life and its various manifestations
displayed itself in Pauline and made of her, to use her aunt's phrase,
a general mother. Everything that lived, everything that suffered,
aroused in her a feeling of active tenderness and won from her
abundant kindliness and thoughtful care. She had now forgotten all
about Paris, and began to feel as though she had been born in that
wild spot under the pure breezes from the sea. She had developed, too,
into a well-formed young woman, and with her healthy mind and love of
knowledge it was with delight that she found herself reaching full
growth and sunny ripeness. On her part there was a full acceptance of
life, life beloved in all its functions, welcomed with the triumphant
greeting of vigorous health and soundness of nature.

That year Lazare remained for six months without writing home, with
the exception, that is, of a very brief note now and then to tell
them he was all right. Then all at once he began to deluge his mother
with letters. He had again been plucked at the November examination,
and had become more disgusted than ever with the study of medicine,
which dealt with too gloomy matters for his taste, so that he had
now enthusiastically turned to chemistry. He had chanced to make the
acquaintance of the illustrious Herbelin, whose discoveries were then
revolutionising the science, and had entered his laboratory as an
assistant, without owning, however, that he was relinquishing medicine.
But his letters were soon full of a new scheme, which he at first
mentioned somewhat timidly, but gradually grew wildly enthusiastic
about. It was a plan for turning sea-weed to wonderful profit, by the
adoption of some new methods and reagents discovered by the illustrious
Herbelin. Lazare dwelt upon the great probability of the scheme's
success; the great chemist's assistance; the ease with which raw
material could be obtained, and the very small expense that would be
incurred for plant. In the end he frankly expressed his disinclination
to be a doctor, and jokingly declared that he should prefer to sell
remedies to the sick rather than to kill them off himself. He finished
all his letters by recapitulating the prospects of speedily acquiring
a large fortune, and mentioned as an additional lure to his parents
that, if they would consent to his new plans, he should remain with
them, as he proposed setting up his works quite close to Bonneville.

The months slipped away, and Lazare did not come home for the vacation.
All through the winter he continued to unfold the details of his new
scheme in long closely-written letters, which Madame Chanteau used
to read aloud in the evening after dinner. One night in May they
resolved themselves into a solemn family council to discuss the matter
seriously, for Lazare had written to ask for a categorical reply.
Véronique was bustling about the room, taking off the dinner-cloth and
putting the red one on the table in its place.

'He is his grandfather over again, always running after some fresh
scheme and doing no good at anything,' declared Madame Chanteau,
glancing up at the former journeyman-carpenter's masterpiece, whose
presence on the mantelshelf was a perpetual source of annoyance to her.

'Well, he certainly doesn't get his flighty disposition from me, for I
detest all change,' sighed Chanteau between a couple of groans, as he
lay back in his arm-chair, where he was just recovering from another
attack of gout. 'But you yourself, my dear, you know you are a little
given to restlessness.'

His wife shrugged her shoulders as though to imply that all her actions
were dictated and carried out by reason and common-sense. Then she
added slowly: 'Well, what are we to say? I suppose we shall have to
write to him and tell him that he may have his own way. I wanted to see
him in the magistracy, and I wasn't over well pleased at his being a
doctor; but now he has got down to being an apothecary! Still, if he
comes back home again and makes a lot of money, that will be better
than nothing.'

It was really this hope of money-making which decided her. She began to
indulge in new dreams for the son she was so fond of. She foresaw him
very wealthy, the owner of a fine house at Caen, a councillor-general,
perhaps even a deputy. Chanteau, who had no opinion either one way or
the other, and was absorbed in his own sufferings, left his wife to
see after all the interests of the family. Pauline, in spite of her
surprise and silent disapprobation of her cousin's continual changes,
thought that he had better be allowed to try his luck at the grand new
scheme which he had got into his head.

'At any rate, we shall be all together,' she said.

'And it's precious little good that Monsieur Lazare seems to be doing
in Paris,' Véronique ventured to add. 'It will be better for him to
come and live quietly here with us.'

Madame Chanteau nodded assent. She again took up the letter which she
had received that morning.

'He here goes into the financial side of his scheme,' she said. Then
she read the letter, commenting on it as she proceeded. Sixty thousand
francs would be required for erecting the works. In Paris Lazare had
met one of his old Caen friends, Boutigny, who was now selling wine on
commission there. Boutigny was very enthusiastic about the new scheme,
and had offered to invest thirty thousand francs in the business. He
would make an admirable partner, one whose practical business habits
would ensure the success of the undertaking. There would, however,
still remain thirty thousand francs to be borrowed somewhere, as Lazare
was anxious to have half the business in his own hands.

'As you hear,' continued Madame Chanteau, 'he wants me to apply in his
name to Thibaudier. It is a good idea, and I am sure Thibaudier will
let him have the money. Louise is not very well just now, and I have
thought of going to Caen to ask her to stay with us for a week. As I
shall see her father, I will mention the matter to him.'

A cloud passed before Pauline's eyes, and her lips quivered as she drew
them tightly together. Véronique was standing at the other side of the
table, wiping a tea-cup and watching her closely.

'I had, indeed, thought of another way,' said Madame Chanteau in a low
voice; 'but as there is always some risk in a business enterprise, I
have come to the conclusion to say nothing about it.'

Then, turning to the young girl, she added: 'Yes, my dear, you might
have lent the thirty thousand francs to your cousin yourself. You
couldn't find a better investment, and you would very likely get
twenty-five per cent. interest, for your cousin would share his profits
with you, and it quite grieves me to think of a lot of money going into
an outsider's pocket. But I shouldn't like you to run any risk with
your fortune. It is a sacred deposit. It is quite safe upstairs, and I
will restore it to you unimpaired.'

Pauline grew pale as she listened to her aunt's words; and a
struggle went on within her. She had inherited a somewhat avaricious
disposition: Quenu's and Lisa's love of money. In the pork-butcher's
shop she had been taught to reverence its power, and to guard against
the want of it. Then, too, her aunt had so frequently called her
attention to the drawer in the secrétaire where her little fortune was
locked up, that the thought of seeing it gradually squandered by her
erratic cousin irritated her. So she kept silent, though she was also
troubled by a vision of Louise handing a great bag of money to Lazare.

'Even if you, my dear, should wish it, I shouldn't,' Madame Chanteau
continued; and, addressing her husband, she added: 'It is quite a
matter of conscience, isn't it?'

'Her money belongs to her,' said Chanteau with a deep groan as he tried
to move his leg. 'If things were to turn out badly, we should be called
upon to make good the loss. No! no! we mustn't do that. Thibaudier will
be glad to lend it, I have no doubt.'

Then Pauline, in an impulse of affection, cried:

'No! no! please don't grieve me like this. I certainly ought to lend
the money to Lazare myself. Isn't he my brother? It would be very
unkind of me if I refused to let him have it. How could you suppose
that I could have any objection? Give him the money at once, aunt; give
him all of it!'

Her eyes filled with tears at the effort she had just made; then her
face broke out into a smile, while she remained in a state of confusion
between her regret at having hesitated for a moment and a miserable
fear that the money would be lost. She had to struggle a little while
against the protest of her relations, who were certainly honest enough
to show her the risks she would run.

'Come and kiss me then, my dear,' her aunt finished by saying, yielding
to the girl's tears. 'You are a very good girl, and you shall lend
Lazare your money, since it would vex you so much if he did not take
it.'

'Come and kiss me, too, dear, won't you?' added her uncle. They cried
and kissed all round the table. Then, as Pauline went out of the room
to call Matthew, and Véronique brought in the tea, Madame Chanteau
exclaimed, wiping the tears from her eyes: 'It's a great consolation to
find her generous-minded.'

'Of course!' growled the servant; 'why, she would strip her chemise
off her back rather than let that other one have a chance of giving
anything!'

It was a week later, on a Saturday, that Lazare returned to Bonneville.
Doctor Cazenove, who had been invited to dine with the Chanteaus,
brought the young man along with him in his gig. They found Abbé
Horteur, who was also dining there that evening, playing draughts
with Chanteau, who was lying back in his invalid's chair. He had been
suffering for three months past from the attack from which he was now
recovering. It had been more painful and violent than any previous
one, and now, in spite of the terrible twinges he constantly felt in
his feet, he considered himself in a state of Paradise. His skin was
scaling, and the swellings had almost disappeared. Véronique was busy
roasting some pigeons in the kitchen, and every time the door opened
he sniffed the appetizing odour, overcome, again, by his irrepressible
greediness, on which subject the priest began to remonstrate with him.

'You are not attending to the game, Monsieur Chanteau. Now, be advised
by me, and be very careful about what you eat this evening. Rich food
is bad for you in your present condition.'

Louise had arrived the previous day. When she and Pauline heard the
Doctor's gig approaching, they both rushed wildly into the yard. But it
was only his cousin whom Lazare appeared to notice, and he looked at
her with an expression of amazement.

'What! can this really be Pauline?'

'Yes, indeed, it is I.'

'But, good gracious, what a lot you must have eaten to have grown like
that! Why, you are quite big enough to get married now!'

She blushed, and laughed gaily, her eyes glistening with pleasure at
seeing him take such notice of her. He had left her a mere chit, a raw
schoolgirl in a pinafore, and now he saw her again as a well-grown
young woman, whose figure showed to advantage in her white rose-sprayed
summer gown. However, she became quite serious as she examined him in
turn. She thought he was looking much older, he stooped, his laugh no
longer sounded young, and his face twitched nervously at times.

'By the way,' said Lazare, 'I must really treat you a little more
ceremoniously now. How do you do, partner?'

Pauline's blush assumed a deeper tint; the word 'partner' made her feel
intensely happy. When her cousin had kissed her, he might well kiss
Louise afterwards. She experienced no feeling of jealousy now.

It was a delightful dinner. Chanteau, alarmed by the Doctor's threats,
ate with moderation. Madame Chanteau and the priest discussed
magnificent schemes for the aggrandizement of Bonneville when the
sea-weed business should have enriched the neighbourhood. It was eleven
o'clock before they separated. As Lazare and Pauline were about to quit
each other, at the doors of their rooms, the young man said to her
laughingly:

'So young ladies, when they have grown up, no longer wish one
good-night?'

'Why, yes, they do,' she cried; and, throwing her arms round his neck,
she kissed him full on the lips with all her old girlish impulsiveness.




III


Two days later a very low tide laid the rocks quite bare. Lazare,
brimming over with the wild enthusiasm which always filled him at
the outset of any of his new schemes, was impatient to be off to
the sea-weed. So away he hurried, with bare legs and just a canvas
jacket over his bathing-costume. Pauline went with him to share in his
investigations. She, too, wore a bathing-costume and the heavy shoes
which she used when bound on shrimping expeditions. When they had got
about half a mile from the cliffs, and had reached the centre of the
spreading tract of sea-weed, still streaming with the water of the
ebbing tide, the young man's enthusiasm burst forth as if he were only
now discovering that immense crop of marine plants over which he and
Pauline had rambled a hundred times before.

'Look! look!' he cried; 'what money we shall make out of it all; and
nobody has ever thought of making any use of it before!'

Then he began to point out to her the different species with gleeful
pedantry; the zosterias, of a delicate green and similar to long
hair, stretching far away in spreading lawns; the ulvæ, with large
lettuce-like leaves of glaucous transparency; the serrated fuci and
the bladder-bearing fuci, which grew in such thick profusion that they
enveloped the rocks like thick moss. As they followed the tide, too,
they came upon species of greater size and stranger forms, such as
various kinds of laminaria, especially that known as Neptune's Belt, a
girdle-like strip of greenish leather, with wrinkled edges, that looked
as though it were made to circle some giant's waist.

'What wealth there is going to waste here!' exclaimed Lazare. 'How
stupid people are! In Scotland folks are sensible enough to make some
use of the ulvæ at any rate, for they turn it into food and eat it. We
here just use the fuci to pack fish with, and the zosteria to stuff
mattresses; and as for the rest, it is simply turned into manure; and
all that science does is to burn a few cartloads to extract soda from
the residue.'

Pauline, in the water to her knees, felt perfectly happy amidst all the
sharp saltness; and her cousin's explanations interested her extremely.

'So do you intend to distil all this?' she asked.

Lazare was very much amused with the word 'distil.'

'Yes; distil it, if you like to call it so. But the process is a
very complicated one, as you'll see. However, mark my words. We have
subjugated terrestrial vegetation to our use; we eat vegetables and
fruit, and avail ourselves in other ways of trees and plants, don't we?
Well, perhaps we shall find that we can turn marine vegetation to still
greater profit when we seriously try to do so.'

Meantime they both enthusiastically gathered specimens, loading
themselves and going so far out that they became drenched on their way
back. Lazare went on pouring forth explanations, repeating all that
his master, Herbelin, had told him. The ocean was a vast reservoir of
chemical compounds, and the sea-weed was ever condensing in its tissues
the salts contained in the water. The problem they had to solve was
how to extract from the sea-weed all its useful components at small
cost. He talked of taking the ashes which resulted from combustion--the
impure soda of commerce--of sifting them, and finally extracting in
a state of perfect purity the various iodides and bromides of sodium
and potassium, the sulphate of soda, and the various salts of iron and
manganese, so as to turn every particle of the material to profitable
use. He waxed particularly enthusiastic over the fact that by the
system which the illustrious Herbelin had devised nothing that could be
of the slightest use would be lost. So there was an immense fortune
before them.

'Good gracious! what a mess you're in!' cried Madame Chanteau, when
they got home again.

'Never mind about that,' said Lazare gaily, as he flung his load of
sea-weed on to the middle of the terrace. 'We are bringing you back
five-franc pieces.'

The next day one of the Verchemont peasants was sent with a cart to
bring back a whole load of weed, and the experiments were commenced in
the big room on the second floor. Pauline was appointed assistant. For
a month they went quite mad over the subject. The room was soon crammed
with dried weeds, with jars containing floating sprays, and instruments
of all sorts of odd shapes. There was a microscope on the table, and
the piano was hidden beneath retorts and flasks; whilst the wardrobe
groaned with the weight of technical works and collections that were
perpetually being referred to. The experiments, made with small
quantities of material with the most scrupulous care, gave encouraging
results. Herbelin's cold system was based upon the discovery that
certain bodies crystallise at very low temperatures, and the only thing
required was to obtain the necessary lowness of temperature, whereupon
each particular substance deposited itself in crystals successively,
and thus separate from others. Lazare burned the weeds in a pit, mixed
the ashes with water, and subjected them to the necessary temperature,
which he obtained by a refrigerative method based upon the rapid
evaporation of ammonia. He would afterwards have to carry out these
operations on a large scale and transfer them from the laboratory to
proper works, observing careful economy in the method of manufacture
and the installation of the requisite plant.

On the day when he succeeded in extracting five distinct substances
from his crude liquor, the room rang with cries of triumph. They had
obtained quite a surprising proportion of bromide of potassium, and
would be able to supply that popular remedy as plentifully as bread.
Pauline danced wildly round the table; and then flew downstairs and
burst into the dining-room, where her uncle was reading his newspaper
and her aunt was marking table-napkins.

'There!' she cried, 'you can be as ill as you like now, and we can give
you as much bromide of potassium as ever you'll want!'

Madame Chanteau, who had been suffering lately from nervous attacks,
had been put upon a bromide _régime_ by Doctor Cazenove. She smiled as
she answered:

'Have you got enough to cure everyone?--for everyone seems to be out of
sorts just now.'

The vigorous young girl, whose face beamed with robust health, spread
out her arms as though she were casting the remedy to the four corners
of the earth.

'Yes, yes!' said she, 'we shall make enough for the whole world.
Neurosis is done for!'

After inspecting the coast Lazare decided that he would build his works
near the Golden Bay. It answered all the necessary requirements. It
had a wide spreading beach, flagged as it were with flat rocks, which
facilitated the gathering of the weed; there was good communication
from it by the Verchemont Road; land was cheap; the necessary materials
were at hand; and it was sufficiently isolated without being remote.
Pauline joked about the name which they had given to the bay on account
of its gleaming sand. They did not think then, said she, that they
would ever find real gold there, as they were going to do now. They
made a capital beginning, bought about five acres of barren land at
a low price, and obtained the Prefect's authorisation after only two
months' delay. Then the building was commenced. Boutigny had already
arrived on the scene. He was a little, ruddy-faced man of thirty,
extremely common in appearance, and the Chanteaus did not take to him
at all. He declined to live at Bonneville, saying that he had found a
very convenient house at Verchemont; and the family's coldness towards
him increased when they heard that he had brought there a woman whom he
had probably picked up in some low haunt in Paris. Lazare shrugged his
shoulders at what he called their provincial narrow-mindedness. She was
a very pleasant sort of person, he thought, and had shown a good deal
of devotion in consenting to bury herself in such a wilderness; but he
made no further protest, on Pauline's account. What was expected from
Boutigny was active surveillance and intelligent organisation of the
work, and in this respect he showed himself to be all that could be
desired. He was never idle, and had a perfect genius for management;
under his direction the building soon sprang up.

For the next four months, while the work for the installation of the
machinery was going on, the Golden Bay Factory, as they called it,
became the goal of the young people's daily walk. Madame Chanteau
sometimes went with them, but Matthew was more often their only
companion. He soon grew tired, dragged his big feet along wearily
till they reached the works, when he would lie down, with his tongue
hanging out, panting like a blacksmith's bellows. The dog was the only
one of the party who bathed now, and would rush into the sea whenever
a stick was thrown for him to fetch, showing sufficient intelligence
to turn his back to the waves when he seized the stick, so as to avoid
swallowing the salt water. At each visit to the works Lazare used to
hurry on the contractors, while Pauline made practical remarks which
occasionally showed a good deal of common-sense.

The apparatus, constructed after designs made by Lazare himself, had
been ordered at Caen, and workmen came thence to set it up. Boutigny
was beginning to show a good deal of uneasiness at the rapid rate
at which the estimates increased. Why couldn't they have commenced
with as small a building as possible, and with merely the absolutely
indispensable appliances, he asked. Why launch out into all those
intricate workshops and rooms and all that elaborate machinery for a
business which it would have been more prudent to have started on a
small scale? They might gradually have extended it as they gained some
experience of the conditions under which it ought to be carried on
and the demand there might be for the output. But Lazare was carried
away by his enthusiastic dreams, and, if he had been allowed to have
his own way entirely, he would have added to the works a magnificent
façade looking towards the sea and proclaiming the grandeur of his
plans to the limitless horizon. Each visit only seemed to increase his
feverish hopes. So, what was the use of being stingy, especially as
they were going to make such a fortune out of the place? Thus the walk
back was delightfully gay. Poor Matthew used to lag far behind them;
and at times Pauline and Lazare would hide behind a wall, as delighted
as little children when the dog, suddenly finding himself alone and
fearing that he was lost, began hunting about for them in a state of
comical alarm.

Every evening on their return they were greeted with the same question:
'Well, how's it all getting on? Are you well pleased?'

The answer, too, was always the same.

'Oh, yes; but it is not finished yet.'

This was a period of close intimacy between the two young people.
Lazare showed a warm affection for Pauline, which a feeling of
gratitude for the money she had advanced served to strengthen.
Again, too, he gradually lost sight of her sex and regarded her as a
boyish companion, a younger brother, whose good points became more
manifest every day. She was so sensible and courageous, so cheerful
and pleasant, that he could not refrain from looking on her with an
unconfessed feeling of respect and esteem, which he tried to conceal
even from himself by chaffing and teasing her. In the most unconcerned
and casual way she had told him of her private studies and her aunt's
horror, and he had experienced a moment's wonder and embarrassment as
the girl, who knew so much already, turned her big candid eyes upon
him. After that, however, a perfect understanding seemed to exist
between them, and he talked freely and openly, as they worked together
at their common studies. She was continually asking him questions, in
which she appeared to have no other object than the simple acquisition
of information, so that she might make herself useful to him. And she
often amused him by the many gaps which she showed in her knowledge,
by the extraordinary mixture of information with which she was
crammed. When she showed herself to be labouring under some ludicrous
misconception, Lazare broke out into such peals of laughter that she
grew quite angry with him and told him that it would be much better if,
instead of laughing at her, he would show her where she was wrong; and
the matter generally terminated in a lesson.

Pauline, however, was changing; she often felt a vague uneasiness. At
times, when Lazare pulled her about in his brotherly fashion, her heart
would beat excitedly. The woman whom they had forgotten all about was
awaking within her amid the pulsing of her blood. She often believed
that she was on the point of falling into some serious illness, for she
grew very feverish, and could not sleep. In the daytime, too, she felt
weary and listless, but she made no complaints to her aunt.

One evening, after dinner, however, she began to talk about the
absurdity and annoyance of dreams. How tiresome it was that one was
compelled to lie on one's back, quite defenceless and helpless, a prey
to all sorts of idiotic ideas and fancies! But what vexed her most,
she said, was the absolute loss and annihilation both of the will and
body power. Then her cousin, with his pessimistic views, also fell
foul of dreams, as disturbing the happiness and serenity of utter
unconsciousness. Her uncle, however, proceeded to distinguish between
different sorts of dreams, saying that he liked to have pleasant ones,
while he detested nightmares. Pauline spoke so strongly on the subject
that Madame Chanteau, in surprise, began to question her. Then she
stammered and hesitated, saying that her dreams were about all sorts of
ridiculous things, trifles too vague to remember. And she was speaking
the truth in this respect, for the incidents of her dreams remained
obscure. She saw no one in them; and all she felt was like the kiss of
the sea-breezes as they flew at her window in the summer-time.

Every day Pauline's affection for Lazare seemed to increase. And this
was not merely the instinctive awakening of womanhood after seven
years' brotherly companionship; she also felt a need of devoting
herself to somebody, and illusion showed him to her as the worthiest
in intelligence and strength of all she knew. By slow degrees her old
sisterly feeling was being transformed into love, with sweet touches
of budding passion, secret thrills, furtive longings, all the fond
delights that attend the heart's start upon its journey of affection,
beneath the promptings of Nature. Lazare, protected by his former
free-and-easy life in the students' quarter of Paris, had no curiosity
to satisfy, and still looked upon her as a sister, never as an object
of desire; while she, on the other hand, all virginal purity in this
lonely spot where she knew no other young man, grew to worship him more
and more, and to bestow herself upon him entirely. From morning till
evening, when they were together, she seemed to derive life from his
presence, and her eyes ever sought his, as she eagerly busied herself
to serve him.

About this time Madame Chanteau became quite astonished at Pauline's
piety. She saw her go twice to confession. Then all at once she seemed
to take a dislike to Abbé Horteur, and for three Sundays even refused
to go to mass, only resuming her attendance at the church subsequently
in order that she might not displease her aunt. She gave no explanation
of her conduct; but she had probably been offended and displeased by
something the Abbé had said to her, for he was not a man of refined
speech. It was at this period that Madame Chanteau, with her keen
maternal instinct, discovered Pauline's growing love for Lazare; but
she said nothing about it to anyone, not even to her husband. The
knowledge of it came upon her as a surprise, for until now affection
and possible marriage between the young people had not entered into her
plans or thoughts. Like Lazare, she had gone on regarding her ward as a
mere schoolgirl. Now, she told herself, it was her duty to look sharply
after them; but she did not do so, really feeling very little interest
or anxiety about a love which her son did not appear to return.

When the hot days of August came round, Lazare suggested one evening
that they should have a bathe next day, on their way to the works.
Madame Chanteau accompanied them on this occasion, in spite of the
terrible heat. She sat down on the burning shingle, with Matthew by
her side, sheltering herself beneath her sunshade, under which the dog
tried to stretch his head.

'Hallo! where's she off to?' all at once cried Lazare, as he saw
Pauline disappear behind a rock.

'She is going to get ready, of course!' said Madame Chanteau. 'Turn
your head away. It isn't decorous; and she won't like it.'

He seemed quite astonished, then looked at his mother, and turned his
back to the rock. Finally, he also began to undress, without saying a
word.

'Are you ready?' he shouted, at last. 'What a time you are!'

Pauline ran lightly towards him, with a laugh which sounded a little
forced. They had never bathed together since Lazare's return home. She
wore a swimming-costume, made in a single piece and fastened about her
waist by a belt. With her lissom figure she looked like a Florentine
statue. Her arms and legs were bare, and her small feet, white as a
child's, were shod with sandals.

'Well,' said Lazare, 'shall we go as far as the Picochets?'

'Yes, to the Picochets,' she answered.

'Don't go far!' cried Madame Chanteau. 'I shall feel so frightened if
you do.'

But they were already in the water. The Picochets were a group of rocks
which the high tide did not quite cover, and lay about half a mile off.
The young people swam along leisurely, side by side, like a pair of
friends out for a walk on some smooth straight road. Matthew followed
them for a little way, but, when he saw them still going forward
without sign of returning, he swam back to the shore and shook the
water out of his coat, splashing the drops all over Madame Chanteau.
Unnecessary exertion of this kind did not commend itself to his lazy
nature.

'You are a sensible animal,' said the old lady. 'It is quite wicked of
them to go risking their lives in this way.'

She could only just discern the heads of Pauline and Lazare bobbing
up in the water like tufts of sea-weed moving with the waves. There
was a pleasant swell, and they skimmed along with a gentle undulatory
motion, talking quietly and examining the sea-weed that floated past
them in the transparent water. Then Pauline, beginning to feel a little
tired, turned herself upon her back and floated, gazing the while at
the sky, like one lost amidst the blue immensity. She still retained
all her old love for the sea that was now so softly cradling her. She
loved its sharp fresh breath and its pure cold waves; and she yielded
to it entirely, happy in its ceaseless rippling against her flesh, and
revelling in the exertion of swimming, which kept down the throbbing of
her heart. Suddenly, however, she gave a slight cry. Her cousin glanced
towards her uneasily, and asked what was the matter.

'I'm afraid,' she said, 'that the bodice of my costume has split. I
swung my left arm out too quickly.'

Then they both laughed. Pauline had begun to swim leisurely again,
and was smiling a little uneasily as she contemplated the accident to
her costume. A shoulder-strap had given way. Her cousin merrily told
her to feel in her pocket, to see if she had not some pins about her.
Soon afterwards, however, they reached the Picochets, whereupon Lazare
mounted on a ledge of rock, as it was the custom to rest and draw
breath before returning to the shore. But Pauline remained in the water
and continued swimming round the rocks.

'Aren't you coming up?'

'No. I'd rather stay where I am.'

Lazare thought it was a mere whim of hers, and felt vexed with her.
It was very foolish, he remarked. If she didn't come out of the water
and rest a little, she would break down on the journey back. But she
persisted in staying where she was, and did not even answer her cousin,
as with the water up to her chin, she still swam on gently, seeking to
hide the snowy whiteness of her naked shoulder, which shone, vague and
milky, like the pearliness of a shell. Towards the open sea the rocks
were hollowed out into a kind of grotto, where they had often played
at being Robinson Crusoes. Far away on the other side Madame Chanteau,
sitting on the beach, looked like a black insect.

'Take your own course, then, you foolish, obstinate girl!' cried
Lazare, springing into the water again. 'I sha'n't help you, remember
that.'

Then they slowly started on their return to the shore. They sulked with
each other and would not speak. When Lazare heard Pauline beginning
to pant, he told her that she had better turn upon her back again and
float, but she did not appear to hear him. The rent in her costume
was widening. At the slightest attempt to turn, her breast would have
burst clear out of the water. Lazare, at last, apparently began to
understand things, and, seeing how tired she was, and fearing that she
would never be able to reach the shore without assistance swam close
to her, resolutely determined upon bearing her up. She tried to escape
him, however, and to continue swimming by herself. But at last she was
obliged to yield to him; and when they reached the shore again, Lazare
was holding her in a close embrace.

Madame Chanteau had rushed down to the edge of the water in a terrible
state of alarm, while Matthew stood in the sea up to his stomach,
barking loudly.

'How wicked and foolish of you! I told you that you were going too far!'

Pauline had fainted. Lazare carried her on to the sand as though she
were a child. And all at once she heaved a deep sigh and opened her
eyes. As soon as she recognised her cousin, she burst out sobbing and
nearly choked him with her hysterical embrace, as she kissed him full
on the lips. She hardly knew what she was doing; she was acting under
the influence of a sudden impulse of love, which the consciousness of
her escape from death had sent thrilling through her.

'Oh! how good you are, Lazare! Oh! how I love you!'

He shook, almost unbalanced by the impetuosity of his cousin's kiss.
While Madame Chanteau was dressing her, he went off of his own accord.
The walk back to Bonneville was slow and painful, as both the young
people were thoroughly worn out with fatigue. Madame Chanteau walked
between them, thinking that the time had come for decisive action.

There were other causes for uneasiness in the family. The works at
Golden Bay were now finished, and for the last week they had been
testing the apparatus, with the most deplorable results. Lazare was
obliged to confess that he had made some serious mistakes in several
portions of it. He thereupon set off to Paris to consult his master,
Herbelin, and came back in a very discouraged frame of mind. Everything
would have to be made over again. The celebrated chemist had introduced
great improvements into his method, which necessitated many alterations
in the appliances. But then the sixty thousand francs were entirely
spent, and Boutigny absolutely refused to advance another sou. From
morning till night he talked sarcastically and bitterly of the foolish
squandering of money over fads, with the pertinacity of a practical man
whose warning has turned out correct. Lazare felt inclined to murder
him. But what troubled him more than anything else was the thought of
Pauline's thirty thousand francs lying lost in that abyss of disaster.
His honour and pride revolted against the idea. It was impossible to
think of it. More money must be got somewhere. They could not abandon
an undertaking which would surely bring them millions eventually.

'Don't make yourself unhappy about it,' said his mother, as she saw
him becoming quite ill with the worry of obtaining more capital. 'We
haven't got so low yet as not to be able to raise a few thousand-franc
notes.'

Madame Chanteau was working out a plan of her own. The idea of a
marriage between Pauline and Lazare struck her as being very feasible
and desirable. There was only some nine years' difference between their
ages, and that was a thing one saw every day. A marriage, too, would
be such a convenient way of settling matters. Lazare would be working
for his wife, and need not trouble himself any further about the debt;
moreover, he would be able to take from Pauline's fortune whatever
further sums he wanted. At the bottom of her heart, it is true, Madame
Chanteau felt some trifling scruples about the course she meditated,
having a lurking fear of the possibility of an utter catastrophe, and
the complete ruin of her ward. But she pooh-poohed the idea of such an
ending to the great scheme. Wasn't it beyond doubt that Lazare was a
very clever fellow who knew perfectly well what he was doing? He would
make Pauline very wealthy one of these days, and it was really she who
would benefit by the marriage. It mattered nothing that Lazare was
without fortune at present. He was a fortune in himself.

The marriage was quickly agreed upon. One morning Madame Chanteau went
into Pauline's room and sounded the young girl, who, with smiling
tranquillity, confessed her love for her cousin. Then her aunt told her
she must pretend to be tired, and in the afternoon went alone with her
son to the works. As they came back she unfolded to him her scheme,
telling him of his cousin's affection for him, the convenience and
suitability of the proposed marriage, and the advantages to be derived
from it. At first he was quite amazed. He had never entertained such a
notion. The girl was quite a child, wasn't she? Then he became moved,
and finally told his mother that he certainly liked Pauline very much,
and would do all she wished.

As they came back into the house they found Pauline laying the table,
for want of something else to do. Her uncle, with his newspaper laying
on his knee, was watching Minouche, who was fastidiously licking her
fur.

'Well, so there's a probability of a wedding, I hear,' said Lazare,
concealing his emotion beneath an affectation of gaiety.

Pauline stood quite still, holding a plate in her hands, and blushed
deeply, unable to say a word.

'Who is going to be married?' asked her uncle, suddenly, as though he
had just awoke.

His wife had told him all about it in the morning, but the dainty
way in which the cat was licking herself had absorbed his attention.
However, he quickly remembered.

'Ah! yes, of course!' said he.

Then he looked at the young people mischievously, while a sudden
painful twinge in his right foot made his lips twitch. Pauline had
gently put the plate down, and, turning to Lazare, she said:

'If you are willing, I'm quite willing too.'

'There! that's settled, then. Give each other a kiss,' exclaimed Madame
Chanteau, hanging up her straw hat.

The girl went up to Lazare, holding out her hands to him. He, laughing,
took them within his own, and began to joke.

'You have deserted your doll, then? And this is why you hide yourself
away so that one may not even see you washing your finger-tips! And it
is poor Lazare that you have selected for your victim!'

'Oh! aunt, do make him give over, or I shall go away!' murmured
Pauline, looking painfully confused and trying to make her escape.

Little by little he drew her closer to him, playing with her as in
the old days of their boy-like chumship. Then she suddenly planted a
smacking kiss on his cheek, which he returned chancewise on her ear.
But some secret thought seemed to cast a gloom over him, and he said
sadly:

'It's a sorry bargain you are making, my poor child. You don't know
what a very old man I am. Still, if you really wish it----'

The dinner was wildly gay. They all talked at once, and made all kinds
of plans for the future, as though they were now meeting for the first
time. Véronique, who had just come into the room as the engagement was
being announced, went back into the kitchen and banged the door after
her without saying a single word. When the dessert was laid upon the
table, their noisy gaiety toned down a little and they began to talk
about matters more seriously. Madame Chanteau said that the marriage
could not take place for another two years, for she should prefer
them to wait till Pauline was fully of age, so that there might be no
risk of any suspicion that any advantage had been taken of her youth.
Pauline looked aghast at this announcement of two years' delay, but
her aunt's sense of honour touched her deeply, and she got up from her
chair to go and kiss her. A date for the wedding was fixed; the two
young people would have to learn to be patient, and meanwhile they
would also be earning the first portion of their future millions. No
doubt at all was felt as to their ultimate great wealth.

'Pull out the drawer, aunt dear,' said Pauline, 'and give him as much
money as ever he wants. It is as much his as mine now.'

But Madame Chanteau would not hear of this.

'No, indeed. Not a single sou of it shall be spent unnecessarily. You
know you can fully trust me for that, and I would rather have my right
hand cut off than that you should be a loser. You want ten thousand
francs for the works? Well, those ten thousand francs I will give you,
and the rest I will keep tightly locked up. Not a sou of it shall be
touched.'

'With ten thousand francs,' said Lazare, 'I am quite certain of
success. All the heavy expenses are already paid, and it would really
be wicked not to go on with it now. You will see presently. And you, my
dear, I will have you dressed in a robe of cloth-of-gold like a queen
on our wedding-day.'

Their happiness and gaiety were increased by the unexpected arrival
of Doctor Cazenove. He had just been attending to the injuries of a
fisherman, who had crushed his fingers underneath a boat, and the
family insisted upon his remaining with them and having some tea.
The great news did not appear to surprise him; but, as he heard the
Chanteaus launching out enthusiastically in praise of the sea-weed
scheme, he glanced uneasily at Pauline, and said:

'Yes, no doubt the idea is ingenious and worth a trial. But a safe
investment in stock is better. If I were you, I should prefer being
happy at once in a quiet sort of way--'

He stopped short on seeing a shadow pass over the young girl's face,
and the warm affection which he felt for her induced him to speak
against his own convictions.

'But money is very pleasant to have; so, perhaps, you had better make a
lot of it. And I will certainly come and dance at the wedding. I will
dance the Zambuco of the Caribbeans, a dance I don't suppose you ever
heard of. You stretch out your arms like the sails of a windmill, and
then keep striking your thighs as you dance round a captive, while he
is being cut up and cooked by the women.'

The months flew past. Pauline regained all her old placid cheerfulness.
Doubt and uncertainty were the only things that could seriously trouble
her candid and frank nature. The confession of her love and the fixing
of a date for her marriage with Lazare seemed to have put an end to the
disturbing feelings that had assailed her. Her engagement caused little
difference in her relations with Lazare; they both led their old life
of familiar companionship; he ever busily engaged in the advancement of
his great scheme, and quite protected from sudden passion by his former
adventures in Paris, and she so simple and pure-minded in her virginity
and knowledge that she was shielded as by a double wall of protection.

Sometimes, indeed, they would take each other by the hand, in that big
disorderly room, and lovingly smile at one another; and while they read
together some treatise on Marine Botany their heads would perhaps rest
tenderly against each other; or, as they examined some flask brown with
bromine or some purple specimen of iodine, Pauline would lean gently
against Lazare, or bend down over the instruments that littered the
table and piano and bring her face near to his, or ask him to lift her
up so that she might reach the topmost shelf of the cupboard. But at
those moments there was nothing beyond decorous permissible tenderness,
such as might have been manifested openly before the members of their
family. Madame Chanteau herself said that they behaved in an extremely
proper and sensible manner; and when Louise arrived, with all her
pretty airs and graces, Pauline did not exhibit the slightest jealousy.

A whole year passed away in this fashion. The works were now in
operation, and the worries which arose kept Pauline and Lazare from
thinking about anything else. The new appliances had been set up after
considerable difficulty, and the first results seemed excellent.
Certainly the yield was slight, but when the system should be brought
to greater perfection, and all care and energy should be shown,
there was no doubt that they would quickly reach an enormous output.
Boutigny had already found great openings for their products; more
than they could supply, indeed. Success and fortune seemed ensured,
and this apparent certainty carried them off their heads. From their
former despondency they now rushed to the other extreme, casting money
by handfuls into extensions and alterations of the works, and never
feeling the least doubt that they would find it all again, melted into
a huge golden ingot. Every fresh outlay seemed only to urge them on to
another.

On the first few occasions Madame Chanteau refused to take any money
from the drawer without notifying Pauline.

'There are some payments to be made on Saturday, my dear,' she would
say. 'Will you come with me upstairs, and settle what scrip we shall
sell?'

'Oh! there's no occasion for that, aunt,' Pauline would reply. 'You can
settle that yourself.'

'No, my dear, you know that I never do anything without consulting you.
It is your money.'

In time, however, Madame Chanteau grew less rigid in this respect. One
evening Lazare told her of a debt which he had concealed from Pauline,
five thousand francs spent on copper pipes which had not even been
used. She had only just returned from a visit to the drawer with her
niece, so she went upstairs again by herself, on seeing the despair her
son was in, and took out the extra five thousand francs, on a solemn
promise that he would repay them out of the first profits.

But from that day her old strictness departed, and she began to take
scrip out of the drawer without consulting Pauline. She found it a
little unpleasant and humiliating, too, at her age, to be continually
consulting a mere child, and she rebelled against doing so. The money
would all be paid back to Pauline; and, even if it did belong to her,
that was no reason why one should never be able to make the slightest
move without obtaining her permission. So from this time she ceased to
insist on Pauline accompanying her on her visits to the secrétaire.
Pauline was really happier in consequence, for, in spite of her kind
and generous heart, those constant withdrawals of money perturbed her.
Her common-sense began to warn her of the probability of a catastrophe,
and the feelings of prudence and economy which she had inherited
from her mother were now roused in opposition to all the reckless
expenditure. At first she was surprised at Madame Chanteau's silence,
for she felt sure that the money was going the same way as before, with
the one difference that she was not being consulted about it. After
a little time, however, she felt that she preferred it to be so. It,
at any rate, saved her the grief of seeing the bundle of papers grow
smaller at each visit to the drawer. Between herself and her aunt there
was but a quick exchange of glances at certain times; a steady anxious
gaze on the girl's part, when she guessed some further abstraction, and
a vacillating look from Madame Chanteau, who felt irritated that she
should be obliged to turn away her head. Thus bitterness and dislike
began to arise between them.

That year, unfortunately, Davoine became a bankrupt. Though the
disaster had been foreseen, it was none the less a terrible blow for
the Chanteaus. They still had their three thousand francs a year
arising from their investments in stock; and all that they were able
to save from the wreck of the timber business, some twelve thousand
francs, was at once invested, so as to bring their total income up to
three hundred francs a month. In the second fortnight Madame Chanteau
was driven to take fifty francs of Pauline's money. The butcher from
Verchemont was waiting with his bill, and she could not send him away
without paying him. Then there were fifty francs wanted to pay for a
washing-machine, and ten more for potatoes, and even fifty sous for
fish. She came to the point of supplying the needs of Lazare and the
works in wretched little sums, which she doled out day by day. Towards
the end of each month she was often to be seen stealthily disappearing
and then coming back again with her hand in her pocket, from which she
reluctantly drew forth sou after sou, to make up the amount of a bill.
The habit quickly grew upon her, and she soon depended entirely upon
the contents of the drawer, helping herself to the money, whenever
occasion required, without any hesitation. When she opened the lid
of the secrétaire, however, that old piece of furniture would give a
slight creak which used to affect her unpleasantly. The stupid old
thing, she would say to herself. To think that during all those years
she had never been able to buy a decent desk! The poor old secrétaire,
which, when it had contained a fortune, had seemed to impart an air of
wealth and gaiety to the house, now only irritated her, and she looked
upon it as the abode of every evil, diffusing misfortune from every
chink.

One evening Pauline ran into the house from the yard, crying, 'The
baker's here! He says we owe him three days' bread, two francs and
eighty-five centimes.'

Madame Chanteau began to fumble in her pockets.

'I shall have to go upstairs,' she murmured.

'Stay here,' said the young girl carelessly. 'I will go for you.
Where's your money?'

'No, no, I'll go myself. You would never find it. It is put away.'

Madame Chanteau stammered out these words, and she and Pauline
exchanged a silent glance, at which they both grew pale. There was a
moment of painful hesitation, and then the aunt went upstairs, quite
shivering with suppressed anger, and feeling sure that her ward knew
perfectly well where she was going to get those two francs eighty-five
centimes. Why, she asked herself, had she always insisted upon her
presence when taking the money from the drawer? The memory of her old
scrupulous probity quite angered her now, convinced as she was that her
niece was following her in imagination, and watching her as she opened
the drawer, took out the money, and then closed the secrétaire again.
After she had come downstairs and paid the baker, her anger vented
itself in an attack upon the girl.

'Good gracious! what a state your dress is in! What have you been
doing with yourself? You have been drawing water for the kitchen,
surely. Eh? Be good enough to let Véronique do her own work, if you
please. Upon my word, I believe you have gone out of your way on
purpose to make a mess of yourself. You seem to have no idea that your
clothes cost money. I don't get so much for your keep that it is easy
to make both ends meet!'

And so she went on. Pauline had at first made some slight attempt to
defend herself, but she soon refrained, and listened to her aunt in
silence, with an aching heart. She was quite conscious that the other's
affection for her had been on the wane for some time, and when she was
alone with Véronique she often gave way to tears. At those times the
servant would rattle the saucepans and affect to be very busy, in order
to excuse herself from taking notice or siding with one party or the
other. Although she was continually growling at Pauline, she was now
beginning to feel some qualms of conscience and to doubt whether the
girl was receiving fair treatment.

When the winter came round again, Lazare grew quite despondent. Once
again his whim had changed; he began to hate the works. There had
been fresh pecuniary embarrassments in November, and he had fallen
into a perfect state of panic. He had got over previous worries, but
this one seemed to reduce him to despair, to render him hopeless of
everything; and he began to revile science. The idea of making anything
out of sea-weed was ridiculous! They might improve their system as
much as they liked, but they would never be able to drag out of Nature
anything that Nature didn't want them to have. He even fell foul of
his master, the great Herbelin himself, who, having been good enough
to visit the works at Golden Bay, had seemed quite distressed by all
the elaborate appliances, which, he said, were perhaps on too large
a scale to yield the results which had been obtained with careful
small experiments in his own laboratory. The truth of the matter was,
that, except in laboratory experiments on a small scale, no means was
yet known of maintaining the low temperature which was necessary for
the crystallisation of the various substances. Lazare had, indeed,
succeeded in extracting a certain quantity of bromide of potassium
from sea-weed, but, as he could not sufficiently isolate the four or
five other bodies mingled with it, the result was failure. He felt
quite sick of the whole business, and confessed himself beaten. One
evening, when Madame Chanteau and Pauline besought him to be calm and
to make one last effort, there came a very painful scene, when unkind
recriminations were indulged in, bitter tears shed, and doors banged
with such noisy violence that poor old Chanteau jumped up in his
arm-chair in sheer fright.

'You will end by killing me!' the young man screamed, as he rushed away
and locked himself up in his room, completely overcome by childish
despair.

At breakfast-time the next morning he brought down with him a paper
covered over with figures. Out of Pauline's hundred and eighty thousand
francs, nearly a hundred thousand were already gone. Was there any
sense in wasting more money? It would all be lost. He was still under
the influence of the previous evening's alarm. His mother, too, now
seemed inclined to back him up. She had never been able to go against
him and vex him, even in his faults. It was only Pauline who still
tried to discuss the matter. The announcement of the expenditure of
those hundred thousand francs quite dazed her. What! they had taken
more than half her fortune, and those hundred thousand francs would be
utterly lost if they did not try to struggle on! But her arguments and
persuasions were all in vain, and she went on talking to no purpose
till Véronique had cleared the table. Then, to avoid breaking out into
reproaches against them, she rushed off to her own room, quite sick at
heart.

There was a short interval of silence while the embarrassed family
lingered before the table.

'The girl is evidently avaricious,' said Madame Chanteau at last. 'It
is a pitiful failing, but I won't have Lazare worried to death with all
these bothers and vexations.'

Then Chanteau broke in timidly:

'I was never told that any such sum had been spent. It is dreadful to
think of. A hundred thousand francs!'

'Well, what of it!' interrupted his wife sharply. 'It will be all
repaid to her. If our son marries her, he is certainly capable of
making a hundred thousand francs.'

Then they began to discuss the best way out of this difficulty. What
had alarmed Lazare more than anything else was a statement given to him
by Boutigny, which showed a most desperate condition of affairs. The
debts amounted to about twenty thousand francs; and, when Boutigny saw
that his partner was determined to retire, he expressed his intention
of going to Algeria, where, said he, there was a splendid position
awaiting him. But, afterwards, he came to the conclusion that his best
course would be to get the works into his own possession. So he feigned
such unwillingness, and so complicated the accounts, that in the end
he managed to secure the site and buildings and apparatus against
payment of the twenty thousand francs debts; and when, ultimately,
Lazare succeeded in wringing out of him some bills for five thousand
francs, to be paid at intervals of three months, he regarded it as
quite a wonderful victory. On the very next day Boutigny sold off the
apparatus and began to adapt the buildings for the manufacture of
common commercial soda, to be made in the ordinary routine way, without
any ultra-scientific process.

Pauline, who felt a little ashamed at her impulsive movement in favour
of prudence and economy, became quite cheerful again and submissive, as
though she recognised that she had done something for which she ought
to seek pardon. When Lazare produced the bills for the five thousand
francs, Madame Chanteau was quite triumphant, and insisted upon her
niece going upstairs with her to see them put away in the drawer.

'There, my dear, that's five thousand francs we've got back. There they
are: they are all for you. My son has refused to keep a single one of
them to repay him for all the trouble he has had.'

Chanteau had been worried in mind for some time now. Although he dared
not refuse his signature when it was asked of him, the way in which his
wife was dealing with their ward's fortune filled him with alarm. That
total of a hundred thousand francs was for ever ringing in his ears.
How could they possibly make up such a deficiency by the time when the
accounts would have to be examined? And the worst of it all was that
Saccard, the surrogate-guardian, with the fame of whose speculations
all Paris re-echoed, had just recalled Pauline's existence, after
apparently forgetting all about her for nearly eight years. He had
written to ask after her, and had even spoken of calling at Bonneville
one day on his way to transact some business at Cherbourg. What
explanation could they possibly give him, if he were to ask for an
account of how matters stood, as he undoubtedly had the right to do?
This sudden awaking after such a long period of utter indifference was
very alarming.

When Chanteau at last spoke to his wife on the matter, he found that
she was much more affected by curiosity than by alarm. For a moment,
she felt sure that the truth of the matter was that Saccard, with
his gigantic speculations, had suddenly found himself ruined, and
had bethought himself of getting hold of Pauline's money to try and
regain what he had lost. Then, directly afterwards, she began to
wonder whether it was not the girl herself who had written to her
surrogate-guardian out of some feeling of revenge. But, when she found
that her husband expressed the deepest disgust at any such hypothesis,
she began to indulge in complicated suppositions of the most unlikely
kind. Perhaps, said she, that creature of Boutigny's, the hussy whom
they had refused to receive at their house, and who was running them
down in all the shops of Verchemont and Arromanches, had written
anonymous letters to Saccard.

'But they may do what they like, for all that,' she said. 'The girl
is not eighteen yet, but we have only to marry her straight off to
Lazare, and the marriage will at once make her complete mistress of her
fortune.'

'Are you quite sure of that?' asked Chanteau.

'Of course I am. I was only reading it in the Code this morning.'

Madame Chanteau had taken to studying the Code lately. Her
conscientious scruples were not quite extinct, and she sought about
her for reasons to allay them. Legal subtleties had a special interest
for her just now in the growing decline of her honesty, which the
temptation afforded by the large sum of money in her keeping was
gradually and completely destroying.

However, she seemed to hesitate about actually bringing the marriage
scheme to an immediate issue. After the financial disaster at the
sea-weed works, Pauline herself had wished to hasten affairs. What was
the good of waiting another six months till she should be eighteen?
They had better get married at once, without waiting for Lazare to look
out for other employment. She ventured to say as much to her aunt, who,
put out by the girl's frankness, had recourse to a lie. She closed
the door, and whispered that Lazare was really rendered very unhappy
by secret trouble. He was extremely sensitive, and it would pain him
very much to marry her before he was able to bring her a fortune, now
that he had compromised her own. The girl listened to all this with
great astonishment, quite unable to understand any such romantic
delicacy. What did it matter? Even if he had been very rich, she
would have married him all the same, because she loved him. Besides,
how long would they have to wait? For ever, very likely. Then Madame
Chanteau protested, saying she would do what she could to persuade him
to overcome this exaggerated sense of honour, if Pauline would only
keep quiet and not try to hurry matters; and, in conclusion, she made
her niece swear to say nothing on the subject, as she feared that the
young man might do something foolish, perhaps suddenly leave home, if
he found that his secret had been discovered and discussed. Pauline,
whom her aunt's remarks filled with uneasiness, then promised to remain
silent and patient. Chanteau, however, continued to grow more and more
afraid of Saccard, and one day he said to his wife: 'If it can be
managed, Pauline and Lazare had much better be married at once.'

'There is no hurry,' she said. 'The danger is not at the door yet.'

'But as they are to be married some day----You haven't changed your
mind about it, eh? It will kill them if they are separated.'

'Kill them, indeed! As long as a thing is not done, it need not be done
at all, if it should turn out inadvisable. But they are quite free to
do as they like, and we shall see if they continue in the same mind.'

Pauline and Lazare had resumed all their old comradeship, while the
terribly severe winter kept them both confined to the house. During the
first week Lazare seemed so melancholy, and so ashamed of himself and
embittered by his ill-fortune, that Pauline lavished all her tenderness
upon him and treated him as gently as though he were an invalid. She
felt great pity for that big young man, whose whimsical, enthusiastic
temperament, and mere nervous courage accounted for all his failures,
and she gradually began to assume a sort of scolding mother-like
authority over him. At first he entirely lost his head and vowed that
he would go and work as a mere peasant; then he gave himself up to all
kinds of wild projects for making an immediate fortune, and declared
that he would not remain a burden on his family for another day. But
time slipped on, and he continually deferred putting his plans into
execution. Every morning he came down with some new scheme which would
at once lead to the greatest wealth and honour. Pauline, frightened by
her aunt's lying confidences, scolded him and asked him if he supposed
that anyone wanted him to go bothering himself in that way. It would
be soon enough for him to look out for something to do when the spring
came, and, no doubt, he would speedily be successful; but, till then,
it was necessary for him to rest. At the end of a month she seemed
to have gained the better of him, and he fell into a state of dreamy
idleness and cynical resignation beneath what he called the burdens of
life.

Every day now Pauline found some new trouble in Lazare which upset her.
His previous outbursts of temper and his will-o'-the-wisp enthusiasm
were preferable to this moody cynicism and bitter profession of
scepticism. Pessimism acquired in Paris among fellow-students was
reviving in him. The girl could understand that angry disgust at his
failure--the catastrophe of the sea-weed scheme--lay at the bottom of
his railings against life. But she was not able to divine the other
influences at work in him, and had to confine herself to indignant
protests when he reverted to his old philosophy--the denial of all
progress and the futility of science. Wasn't that beast of a Boutigny
on the high road to fortune with his wretched commercial soda? said
Lazare. What was the good, then, of ruining one's self to make
something better, to discover new laws and systems, when empiricism won
the day? This was his constant strain, and he would finish by saying,
with a bitter smile on his lips, that the only good thing science
could do would be to discover a way to blow the whole universe into
atoms by means of some colossal cartridge. Then he frigidly jested on
the will-power that directs the world and the blind folly of wishing
to live. All life, he said, was pain and trouble, and he adopted the
doctrine of the Hindoo fakirs, that annihilation was the supreme
blessing. When Pauline heard him affecting a horror and disgust of
all active motion, and predicting the ultimate self-extinction of
the nations, who one day--when their intelligence was highly enough
developed to enable them to realise the imbecile, miserable part
which an unknown power made them play--would refuse to beget fresh
generations, she became indignant and tried to find arguments to
confute him; but all to no avail, for she was quite ignorant of these
matters, and, as her cousin told her, did not possess a metaphysical
head. Still, she would not allow she was beaten, and roundly sent
Schopenhauer to the devil when Lazare wanted to read some extracts
from his works to her. Schopenhauer, indeed! A man who had written
such horrid lies about women! If he had not shown a little affection
for animals she would have strangled him! Vigorous with robust health
herself, and full of cheerfulness and hope for the morrow, she at
last reduced her cousin to silence by her merry laughter and youthful
freshness.

'Stop! stop!' she would cry. 'You are talking nonsense. We will think
about dying when we have grown old.'

The idea of death, which she spoke of so lightly, always affected him
very painfully, and he quickly turned the conversation, after murmuring:

'People die at all ages.'

Pauline at last understood that the thought of death was terrible to
Lazare. She called to mind his fear-stricken cry that night as they lay
on the beach gazing at the stars. At the mention of certain things she
saw him turn sickly pale, shut himself up in moody silence, as though
he were concealing some disease whose existence he dared not confess.
She was greatly surprised at the fear of personal extinction felt by
this pessimist, who talked about snuffing out the stars like so many
candles amid the wreck of the whole universe. This mental disease of
Lazare's was of old standing, and the girl did not guess the dangerous
hold that it had obtained upon her cousin. As he grew older, Lazare had
seen death rise before him. Till he was twenty years of age but a faint
chill had touched him when he went to bed. But now he could not lay his
head on his pillow without the thought of Nevermore freezing his very
blood. He tossed about, a prey to sleeplessness, and could not resign
himself to the fatal necessity which presented itself so lugubriously
to his imagination.

And when, from sheer exhaustion, he had at last fallen asleep, he would
awake with a start, and spring up in bed, his eyes staring wildly
with terror and his hands clutching one another, as he gasped in the
darkness: 'O my God! my God!' He would pant for breath and believe that
he was dying; and it was not till he had struck a light and thoroughly
awakened himself that he regained anything like calmness. After these
outbreaks of panic he always retained a feeling of shame that he had
allowed himself to cry out to a God whose existence he denied, that he
had yielded to the hereditary weakness of the human race in calling
amidst its powerlessness for help. But every night he suffered in
this way, and even during the daytime a chance word or a momentary
thought, arising from something he saw or read, sufficed to throw him
into a state of terror. One evening, as Pauline was reading a newspaper
to her uncle, Lazare hastily rushed from the room, completely upset
by the fancies of some story-teller who pictured the skies of the
twentieth century filled with troops of balloons conveying travellers
from continent to continent. He had thought that he would no longer
be living then, that his eyes would never gaze upon those balloons,
which vanished into far-away centuries, the idea of whose revolution,
after his own complete extinction, filled him with anguish. It was to
no purpose that philosophers reminded him that not a spark of life is
ever utterly lost; the _Ego_ within him ragefully refused to accept
its fate. These inward struggles had already deprived him of his
former cheerfulness; and when Pauline, who could not always follow the
twists and turns of his morbid mind, looked at him at those times when
tormenting shame prompted him to conceal his anguish, her heart melted
with compassion; she burned to show her love and do all she could to
make him happier.

Their days were spent in the big room on the second floor, amidst a
litter of sea-weed, bottles, jars, and instruments, which Lazare had
never had the energy to clear away. The sea-weed was falling to pieces
and the bottles were growing discoloured, while the instruments were
getting damaged by neglect. But in all this disorder Pauline and Lazare
were alone and warm. Frequently did the December rains beat upon the
slates of the roof from morning till night, while the west wind roared
organ-like through the crevices of the woodwork. Whole weeks passed
without sight of the sun, and there was nothing for the eye to rest
upon save the grey sea--a grey immensity, in which the earth seemed to
be melting away. Pauline found amusement for her unoccupied hours in
classifying a collection of _floridæ_ which she had gathered during
the previous spring. At first Lazare, with his utter _ennui_, had just
watched her as she mounted the delicate forms, whose soft blues and
reds showed like water-colours; but afterwards, growing weary of his
idleness, and forgetting his theory of inaction, he unearthed the piano
from the litter of damaged appliances and dirty bottles beneath which
it was buried. A week later his passion for music had resumed all its
old sway over him. It was a revival of the artistic sense which lay
beneath his failure as a scientist and a manufacturer. One morning,
as he was playing his March of Death, the idea of the great symphony
on Grief, which he had once thought of composing, excited him again.
All that had been already written, except the March, was worthless, he
thought; and the March was the only portion he would retain. But what
a magnificent subject it was--what a task to perform! And how he might
embody all his philosophy in it! He would commence with the creation of
life by the selfish caprice of some superior power. Then would come the
delusiveness of happiness and the mockery of life in striking passages,
an embrace of lovers, a massacre of soldiers, and the death of a God
upon the cross. Throughout everything a cry of woe should ascend; the
groans of humankind should mount upwards to the skies, until came
the final hymn of deliverance, a hymn whose melting sweetness should
express all the happiness that came of universal annihilation.

The next morning he set enthusiastically to work, jingling, strumming
on the piano, and covering sheets of paper with black bars. As the
instrument was in a more feeble condition than ever, he sang the notes
himself in a droning manner. Never had any of his previous fads taken
such strong hold of him. He was so completely absorbed that he forgot
his meals, and all but deafened poor Pauline, who, in her desire to
please him, pretended that she liked it all very much, and neatly
recopied portions of the score. This time he was quite sure that he had
a masterpiece in hand.

But by-and-by his enthusiasm flagged. He had the whole score written
except the introduction, and inspiration for that failed him. He would
have to let it wait for a time, he said, and he smoked cigarettes,
while his manuscript lay upon the table in front of him. Pauline played
little bits from it on the piano, with all a beginner's clumsiness. It
was now that the intimacy between the two young people began to assume
a dangerous character. Lazare's brain was no longer occupied; and,
shut up with Pauline in a state of idleness, he began to feel for her
a warmer passion than before. She was so light-hearted and merry; so
affectionate and devoted. At first he thought that all he felt was a
mere impulse of gratitude, an amplification of that fraternal affection
with which she had inspired him ever since childhood. But by degrees
passion, hitherto dormant, awoke into life. In that younger brother he
was at last beginning to recognise a woman; and he flushed as she did
when he brushed against her. If their hands happened to meet, they
both looked confused and their breath came quickly, while their cheeks
crimsoned. And thus all the time they now spent alone together they
felt troubled and ill at ease.

Sometimes, to relieve them from embarrassment, Pauline would begin to
joke with all the frank boldness of her innocent, though well-read mind.

'By the way,' said she, one day, 'did I tell you that I dreamed that
your favourite Schopenhauer had received tidings in the other world of
our marriage, and that his ghost came to pay us a visit?'

Lazare laughed uneasily. He understood very well that she was poking
fun at his inconsistencies, but his whole being was now thrilled with
tenderness, which carried all his distaste for existence away.

'Don't be naughty, dear,' he said. 'You know that I love you.'

She assumed a chiding look.

'I am afraid you are inclined to put off the universal deliverance. You
are grovelling in egotism and delusions again.'

'Hold your tongue, you wicked tease!'

He sprang up and chased her round the room, as she continued to hurl
at him fragments of pessimistic philosophy with all the solemnity of a
doctor of the Sorbonne. But when he caught hold of her, he no longer
dared to keep her within his grasp, and pinch her for punishment as in
olden time.

One day when he was chasing her round the room, and had succeeded in
getting close, he clutched her by the waist. She broke into a ringing
laugh, while he, holding her against the wardrobe, quivered with
excitement as he felt her struggling.

'Ah! I have got you this time!' he cried.

Their faces were touching, and she still laughed, though in an uneasy
manner.

'Please let me go,' she entreated. 'I won't be naughty any more.'

He roughly planted a kiss on her lips. Then the whole room appeared
to swim round them and a hot feverish gust seemed to sweep them into
space. She staggered, and then, with a sudden effort, released herself
from her cousin's grasp. For a moment they both stood silent and
confused, their cheeks crimson as they avoided each other's glance. At
last Pauline dropped upon a chair to get her breath.

'You have hurt me, Lazare,' she said, speaking as though she were
seriously displeased with him.

From that day he guarded himself from contact with her. His sense of
honour rebelled against the thought of any disgraceful lapse; he was
quite conscious that in heart and soul she was entirely his own; but he
felt that respect and protection were her due, and that in dangerous
dallying his would be the guilt alone. However, this very struggle
on his part only served to increase his love. Everything lately had
tended to fan its flame: the idleness of the first few weeks, his
assumed indifference as to what became of him, his disgust with life,
through which sprang a fresh passionate desire of life and love and
even suffering, as occupation for his empty hours. And then music
finally transported his mind, carrying him away to a land of dreams on
spreading wings of melody. He began to believe that a mighty passion
possessed him, and vowed to cultivate it for his genius' sake. He could
no longer doubt it. He would be a great musician, for he need only
hearken to the promptings of his heart. Everything then appeared to him
purified; he felt content to worship Pauline on his knees, and did not
even think of hurrying on their marriage.

'Come and read this letter I have just received,' said Chanteau in
alarm one day to his wife, who had just come up from the village.

It was another letter from Saccard, and quite a threatening one. Ever
since November he had been asking for a statement of the accounts of
Pauline's fortune, and, as the Chanteaus had only replied by evasions
and subterfuges, he now announced that he meant to lay the matter
before the family council. Madame Chanteau, though she would not
confess it, was quite as alarmed as her husband.

'The wretch!' she growled, when she had read the letter.

They looked at each other, quite pale and without finding a word to
say. They already seemed to hear in that lifeless little dining-room
the echoes of a disgraceful law-suit.

'There must be no more dilly-dallying,' resumed Chanteau. 'We must
marry the girl at once, since marriage releases her from all control.'

But to his wife this expedient seemed to grow more distasteful every
day. She expressed various fears. Who could tell if the two young
folks would get on well together? It is quite possible for people to
agree as friends, and yet to make each other perfectly miserable as man
and wife. Lately, she said, various unpleasant things had struck her.

'No,' she added; 'it would be wrong to sacrifice them for the sake of
our own peace. Let us wait a little longer. And, besides, should we
gain any advantage by marrying her now? She was eighteen last month,
and we can apply for legal emancipation.'

She was beginning to feel quite confident again. She went upstairs
to get the Code, and they both pored over it together. Article 478
tranquillised them, but they felt uneasy again as they read Article
480, for there it was enacted that the accounts of a ward's estate must
be submitted to a curator appointed by the family council. It was true
that she could easily manage all the members of the council, and make
them do what she wanted, but whom could she choose as curator? The
difficulty was to find some easy-going man, instead of Saccard, the
surrogate-guardian.

Suddenly she had an inspiration.

'I've got it,' she cried, 'Doctor Cazenove! He is somewhat in our
confidence, and he won't refuse.'

Chanteau nodded approval. He continued, however, to look at his wife,
as though revolving some thought in his mind.

'And so,' he said at last, 'you will hand over the money? What is left
of it, I mean?'

Madame Chanteau remained silent for a moment. Her eyes sought the Code,
whose pages she turned with nervous excitement. Then with an effort she
replied:

'Of course; and it will be a great relief to me to do so, after the
accusations that have already been made against us. Upon my word, it is
enough to make one suspect oneself! I would give something to see the
tiresome papers removed from my secrétaire to-night. And, anyway, we
should always have to give them up to her.'

The next day, when Doctor Cazenove made his usual Saturday round in
Bonneville, she mentioned the great service they awaited from his
friendship. She made an open breast of the situation, and told him how
the money had been swallowed up in the sea-weed works, without the
family council having been consulted in the matter. Then she dwelt
upon the intended marriage and the sad possibility of the bonds of
affection which united them all together being torn asunder by the
scandal of a law-suit.

Before promising his assistance the doctor desired to have an interview
with Pauline. He had long suspected that she was being taken advantage
of, and that her fortune was being gradually frittered away; and,
though he had hitherto said nothing for fear of causing her pain, he
felt that now, as he was being invited to become an accomplice, it
was his duty to warn her. The interview took place in the girl's own
room. At the commencement of the conversation her aunt was present. She
had accompanied the Doctor to declare that the marriage now depended
entirely on Pauline's emancipation from the family council's control,
as Lazare would never consent to marry as long as it was possible for
others to accuse him of doing so for the mere purpose of avoiding
an examination of the accounts. Then she left the room, saying that
she did not wish to do anything to affect the decision of the dear
girl whom she already regarded as her darling daughter. Pauline,
quite overcome with emotion, immediately begged the Doctor to render
them the delicate service the necessity of which had just been made
clear to him. It was to no purpose that Cazenove tried to explain the
exact position of affairs to her, to show her that she was despoiling
herself, reducing herself to a condition of absolute dependence, or
that he revealed his own fears for the future--perfect ruin, possible
ingratitude and suffering. At every gloomy suggestion she uttered
indignant protests, refused to listen further, and showed a feverish
haste to complete the sacrifice.

'No! no! don't try to make me regret things. I am really very
avaricious at heart, though I don't let it appear. It has given me a
world of trouble to conquer myself. Let them have everything. If they
will only give me their love, they may have all that belongs to me!'

'And so,' asked the Doctor, 'it is affection for your cousin that leads
you to strip yourself of your fortune?'

She blushed and did not reply.

'But suppose that after a time your cousin should cease to love you?'

She stared at him with a frightened look. Her eyes filled with big
tears, and a cry of protesting love burst from her heart. 'No! no! Why
do you torture me like this?'

Then Doctor Cazenove consented to do as she wished. He could not
summon up the courage to amputate that generous heart of the illusions
of love. Trouble would come to her soon enough.

Madame Chanteau conducted the campaign with astonishing brilliancy of
intrigue. That struggle made her feel quite young again. She set off
to Paris once more, taking along with her all the necessary powers
and authorisations. She quickly won the members of the family council
over to her own way of thinking. Those good people, indeed, had never
troubled about their duties; they showed the indifference usual in
such matters. The members of the council who came from Quenu's side
of the family, cousins Naudet, Liardin, and Delorme, agreed with her
at once; and as for the three on Lisa's side, it was only upon Octave
Mouret that she had to expend any argument; the others, Claude Lantier
and Rambaud, who were both then living at Marseilles, contented
themselves with forwarding her their written consent. To all of them
she poured out a moving, if somewhat confused, story, and spoke of
the old Arromanches surgeon's affection for Pauline, and his manifest
intention to leave her all his money should he be permitted to take her
under his care. As for Saccard, he, too, acquiesced, as the others had
done, after Madame Chanteau had paid him three visits and suggested a
brilliant new idea to him, the formation of a ring in Normandy butter.
Pauline's emancipation was formally pronounced by the family council,
and the ex-naval surgeon Cazenove, of whom the Justice of the Peace had
received the most satisfactory account, was nominated trustee.

A fortnight after Madame Chanteau's return to Bonneville the auditing
of the guardianship accounts took place in the simplest manner. The
Doctor had lunched with them, and they sat lingering round the table,
discussing the latest news from Caen, whence Lazare had just returned
after a two days' visit, taken thither by the threat of an action on
the part of 'that scamp Boutigny.'

'By the way,' added the young man, 'Louise will give you all a surprise
when you see her next week. When I saw her, I positively didn't
recognise her. She is living with her father now, and has grown into
quite a fashionable young lady. We had a very merry laugh over it.'

Pauline looked at him, feeling some surprise at the warmth of his tone.

'Talking of Louise,' interrupted Madame Chanteau, 'reminds me that I
travelled with a lady from Caen who knew the Thibaudiers. I was quite
thunderstruck when she told me that Thibaudier would give his daughter
a dowry of a hundred thousand francs. With the other hundred thousand
which she had from her mother the girl will have two hundred thousand.
Two hundred thousand francs! She will be quite wealthy!'

'She could do very well without all that,' said Lazare, 'for she's
quite charming. And so kittenish in her ways!'

A gloomy expression thereupon came into Pauline's eyes, and her lips
twitched nervously. However, the Doctor, who had never ceased watching
her, lifted up his little glass of rum, saying:

'Ah, we haven't clinked glasses yet! Here's to your health, my young
friends! Get married quickly and have plenty of children.'

Without a smile Madame Chanteau slowly raised her glass; while her
husband, to whom liqueurs were forbidden, contented himself with
nodding his head approvingly. Lazare, however, had just caught hold of
Pauline's hand with such an expression of affection that all the blood
in her heart had come pulsing to her cheeks. Was she not, indeed, his
good angel, whose love for him he would adorn with the brilliance of
genius? She returned the pressure of his grasp. Then they all clinked
glasses.

'To your hundredth birthday!' continued the Doctor, who considered that
a hundred years was a good and proper age for a man to reach.

Lazare turned pale. The mention of those hundred years sent a painful
thrill through him, reminding him of the time when he would have ceased
to exist, the dread of which everlastingly lurked within his mind.
In a hundred years where would he be, indeed? And what would he be?
What stranger would be seated drinking wine at that table where he now
sat? He raised his little glass with a trembling hand; while Pauline,
who had grasped hold of the other, pressed it with a kind of maternal
encouragement, as though she had seen the icy quiver of 'Nevermore!'
passing over his pallid face. After a short interval of silence Madame
Chanteau said very seriously, 'And now suppose we get our business
over?'

She had settled that the formalities should be gone through in her own
room. It would lend additional solemnity to them, she thought. Chanteau
had been able to walk better since he had begun to take salicylic acid.
With the help of the banisters he climbed the stairs behind his wife.
Lazare talked about going on to the terrace to smoke a cigar there; but
his mother called him back, and insisted upon his presence, which would
only be seemly and proper, she said.

The Doctor and Pauline had already gone on before. Matthew, who looked
at the procession with wondering eyes, followed in the rear.

'That dog is quite a nuisance!' cried Madame Chanteau, as she tried to
shut the door. 'One can't go anywhere without being followed by him.
Well! well! come in, then; I can't have you scratching outside. There!
no one will come and disturb us now. Everything, you see, is quite
ready.'

Some pens and an inkstand were all ready laid upon the table. In the
room one found all the closeness and mournful silence that clings to
places that are rarely occupied. Only Minouche spent her idle hours
there, when she could manage to glide inside of a morning; and just now
she happened to be lying asleep on the middle of the eider-down quilt.
She raised her head in surprise at the invasion, and stared at the
new-comers with her green eyes.

'Sit down! Sit down!' said Chanteau.

Then things were quickly settled. Madame Chanteau refrained from all
share in the proceedings, leaving her husband to play the part in which
she had been carefully coaching him since the day before. In conformity
with the requirements of the law, the latter, ten days previously, had
delivered to Pauline and the Doctor the accounts of his guardianship
in a bulky volume, where the expenses were noted on one page and the
receipts on the other. Everything was charged for, not only Pauline's
board and lodging, but also the cost of the journeys to Paris and Caen.
All that had to be done was to accept the accounts by a private deed.
But Cazenove, taking his office of curator somewhat seriously, wanted
an explanation about some of the expenses that had been incurred in
connection with the sea-weed works, and compelled Chanteau to enter
into details. Pauline cast a supplicating glance at the Doctor. What
was the use of all this? She herself had assisted in the preparation
of the accounts, which her aunt had copied out in her most elegant
English--that is, angular--handwriting.

Meantime Minouche had sat up on the eider-down quilt, the better to
view these strange proceedings. Matthew, after lying with his huge
head stretched out on the carpet with an air of great wisdom, had just
thrown himself on his back and was rolling and twisting about with
noisy manifestations of joy.

'Oh, do make him be still, Lazare!' cried Madame Chanteau, quite
impatient of the disturbance. 'One can't hear one's self speak!'

The young man was looking out of the window, following a far-off
white sail with his eyes in order to conceal his embarrassment. He
experienced a feeling of deep shame as he listened to his father, who
was giving a detailed account of the money lost in the works.

'Make a little less noise, Matthew!' he cried, reaching out his foot.

The dog thought he was going to have his belly rubbed, a proceeding
which he dearly loved, and he grew more demonstrative than ever.
Happily, there was now nothing more to be done than to affix the
signatures. Pauline, with a stroke of her pen, hastened to signify her
approval of everything. Then the Doctor, as if regretfully, scrawled a
huge flourish over the stamped paper. Painful silence fell.

'The assets,' said Madame Chanteau, breaking the silence, 'amount,
then, to seventh-five thousand two hundred and ten francs thirty
centimes. I will now hand that sum to Pauline.'

She stepped towards the secrétaire and lowered the lid, which gave out
the creak that had so often distressed her. But just now she was very
grave, and, when she opened the drawer, they saw the old ledger-binding
inside. It was the same as before, with its green-marble pattern
stained with grease spots, but it was not nearly so bulky; as the scrip
was removed it had grown thinner and thinner.

'No! no! aunt,' exclaimed Pauline, 'keep it!'

Madame Chanteau protested:

'We are giving in our accounts,' she said, 'and we must give up the
money as well. It is your property. You remember what I said to you
when I put it there eight years ago? We don't want to take a copper of
it for ourselves.'

She drew out the papers and insisted on her niece counting them. There
was scrip for seventy-five thousand francs, and a small packet of
gold, wrapped up in a piece of newspaper, completed the balance.

'But where am I to put it all?' asked Pauline, whose cheeks flushed at
the handling of so much money.

'Lock it up in one of your drawers,' her aunt replied. 'You are now
big enough to take care of your own money. I don't want to see it
again myself. Stay! if you really find it so troublesome, give it to
Minouche, who is looking very attentively at you.'

Now that the Chanteaus had settled their accounts, their cheerfulness
returned. Lazare, quite at his ease, began playing with the dog, making
him try to catch hold of his tail, in such wise that he bent and
twisted his spine and spun round and round like a top. Doctor Cazenove,
for his part, had already entered upon his duties as trustee, and was
promising Pauline to receive her dividends for her and advise her on
the question of investments.

And precisely at that moment Véronique was bustling about amongst her
pans down below. She had crept upstairs, and, with her ear at the
keyhole, had overheard the statement of accounts. For several weeks
past a slowly growing feeling of pity and affection for Pauline had
been driving away her remaining prejudices against the girl.

''Pon my word, they have swindled her out of half her money!' she
angrily growled. 'It's not right! Although she had no business to come
and settle herself down here, still that was no reason why they should
strip her as bare as a worm. No! no! I know what is right, and I shall
end by quite loving the poor child!'




IV


On the following Saturday, when Louise, who had come on a two months'
visit to the Chanteaus, stepped on to the terrace, she found the family
there. The hot August day was drawing to a close, and a cool breeze
rose up from the sea. Abbé Horteur had already made his appearance,
and was playing draughts with Chanteau. Madame Chanteau sat near them,
embroidering a handkerchief; and, a few yards further away, Pauline
stood in front of a stone seat on which she had placed four children
from the village, two little lads and two little girls.

'What! you have got here already!' cried Madame Chanteau. 'I was just
folding up my work to go and meet you at the cross-roads.'

Louise gaily explained that old Malivoire had flown along like the
wind. She was all right, she said, and did not even want to change her
dress; and, while her godmother went off to see about her room, she
hung her hat on the hasp of a shutter. She kissed them all round, and
then, all smiling and caressing, threw her arms round Pauline's waist.

'Now, look at me,' she said. 'Good gracious! how we have grown! I'm
turned nineteen now, you know, and am getting quite an old maid.'

And after a moment's silence she added rapidly:

'By the way, I must congratulate you. Oh! don't look so shy! I hear it
is settled for next month.'

Pauline had returned her caresses with the grave affection of an elder
sister, although in reality she was the younger by some eighteen
months. A slight blush rose to her cheeks at the reference to her
marriage with Lazare.

'Oh, no! you have been misinformed, really,' she replied. 'Nothing is
definitely fixed, but it will perhaps be some time in the autumn.'

Madame Chanteau, when pressed on the subject, had indeed spoken of
the autumn, in spite of her unwillingness to commit herself to the
match, an unwillingness which the two young people were beginning to
notice. She was again beginning to harp upon her old excuse for delay,
saying that she should much prefer them waiting till Lazare should have
acquired some definite position.

'Ah! I see,' said Louise, 'you want to make a secret of it. Well, never
mind; but you'll ask me to come, won't you? Where's Lazare? Isn't he
here?'

Chanteau, who had just suffered a defeat at the hands of the priest,
here joined in the conversation, saying:

'Haven't you seen anything of him, Louise? We were expecting you to
get here together. He has gone to Bayeux to make an application to the
Sub-Prefect, but he will be back again this evening--almost directly, I
should think.'

Then he turned to the draught-board to commence a fresh game.

'I move first this time, Abbé. We shall manage to get those famous
dykes made, I fancy; for the department surely can't refuse to make us
a grant to help on the undertaking.'

He was referring to a new scheme which Lazare had taken up with his
usual enthusiasm. During the spring-tides of the previous March the sea
had again carried away a couple of houses at Bonneville. Devoured bit
by bit on its narrow bed of shingle, the village, it was clear, would
be driven to the very cliff unless some substantial protecting works
were quickly built. But the little place, with its thirty cottages, was
of such slight importance in the world that Chanteau, as Mayor, had for
the last ten years been vainly calling the Sub-Prefect's attention to
the perilous position of the villagers. At last Lazare, spurred on by
Pauline, whose great wish was to see her cousin actively employed, had
conceived a grand idea of a system of piles and breakwaters which would
keep back the ravages of the sea. However, money was wanted, and at
least twelve thousand francs would be necessary.

'Ah! I must huff you, my friend,' said the priest, taking one of
Chanteau's pieces.

Then he launched out into details of old Bonneville.

'The old folks say that there was once a farm below the church, quite
half a mile and more from the present shore. For five hundred years the
sea has been gradually eating away the land. It is surely a punishment
for the sins of their ancestors.'

Pauline, however, had now returned to the stone seat, where the four
young ones were waiting, dirty, ragged, and open-mouthed.

'Who is it you've got there?' Louise asked her, not daring to venture
too near them.

'Oh! they are some little friends of mine,' Pauline replied.

The girl's active charity now spread all over the neighbourhood. She
had an instinctive affection for the wretched, and she was never
repelled by their forlorn condition. She even carried this feeling so
far as to patch up the broken legs of fowls with splinters of wood,
and to set bowls of pap outside at night for homeless cats. Distress
of every kind was a source of continual occupation to her, and to
alleviate it was her great pleasure. So the poor flocked round her with
outstretched hands, just as pilfering sparrows swarm round the open
windows of a corn-loft. All Bonneville, with its handful of fishermen
thrown into distress by the sweeping spring-tides, came up to see the
'young lady,' as they called her. But it was the children who were her
especial favourites, the little things with ragged clothes, through
which their pink flesh peeped, poor, frail-looking, half-fed creatures,
whose eyes glistened wolfishly at the slices of bread and butter
that she brought out for them. The cunning parents took advantage of
Pauline's love for the children, making it a custom to send her the
most sickly and ragged that they had, in order that they might increase
her commiseration.

'You see,' she said, with a smile, 'I have my day at home, Saturday,
just like a fashionable lady, and my friends come to see me. Now, now!
little Gonin, just give over pinching that silly Houtelard. I shall be
cross with you if you don't behave better. Now, we will begin in order.'

Then the distribution commenced. She lectured them, and hustled them
about in quite a maternal manner. The first she called up to her was
young Houtelard, a lad of some ten years, with a sallow complexion and
a gloomy timid expression. He began to show her his leg. A big strip of
skin had been torn from the knee, and his father had sent him to let
the young lady see it, so that she might give him something for it.
It was Pauline who supplied arnica and liniments to all the country
round. The pleasure she took in healing had resulted in the gradual
acquisition of a complete collection of drugs, of which she was very
proud. When she had attended to the lad's knee, she lowered her voice
and proceeded to give Louise some particulars about his relations.

'They are quite well-to-do people, those Houtelards, you know; the
only well-to-do fisher-folks in Bonneville. That big smack, you know,
belongs to them. But they are frightfully avaricious, and live real
dogs' lives in the midst of the most horrible filth. The worst of it
all is that the father, after beating his wife to death, has married
his servant, a dreadful woman, who is even harsher than himself, and
between them they are gradually murdering the poor child.'

Then, without taking notice of her friend's repugnance, she raised her
voice again, and called another of the children.

'Now, little one, you come here; have you drunk your bottle of
quinine-wine?'

This child was the little daughter of Prouane, the verger. She looked
like an infant Saint Theresa, marked all over with scrofula, flushed
and frightfully thin, with big eyes, in which hysteria was already
gleaming. She was eleven years old, but seemed to be scarcely seven.

'Yes, Mademoiselle,' she stammered; 'I have drunk it all.'

'You little story-teller!' cried the priest, without taking his eyes
from the draught-board. 'Your father smelt strongly of wine last night.'

Pauline looked extremely annoyed. The Prouanes had no boat, but made
their living by catching crabs and shrimps and gathering mussels. With
the additional profits of the vergership they might have lived in
decent comfort if it had not been for their drinking habits. The father
and mother were often to be seen lying in their doorway stupefied by
'calvados,' the strong, raw, cyder-brandy of Normandy, while the little
girl stepped over their legs to drain their glasses. When no 'calvados'
was to be had, Prouane drank his daughter's quinine-wine.

'And to think I took so much trouble to make it for you!' said Pauline.
'Well, for the future, I shall keep the bottle here, and you will have
to come up every afternoon at five o'clock. And I will give you a
little minced raw meat. The doctor has ordered it for you.'

It was next the turn of a big twelve-year-old boy, Cuche's son, a lean
and scraggy stripling. Pauline gave him a loaf, some stewed meat, and
also a five-franc piece. His was another wretched story. After the
destruction of their house Cuche had deserted his wife, and gone to
live with a female cousin, and the wife was now taking refuge in an
old dilapidated Coastguard watch-house, where she led an immoral life.
The lad, who kept with her and shared the little she had, was almost
starving, but whenever any suggestion was made of rescuing him from
that wretched den he bolted off like a wild goat. Louise turned her
head away with an air of disgust when Pauline, without the slightest
embarrassment, told her the boy's story. She, Pauline, had grown up
in a free unrestrained way, and looked with charity's unflinching eye
upon the vices of humanity. Louise, on the other hand, initiated into
knowledge of life by ten years spent at boarding-schools, blushed at
the ideas which Pauline's words suggested. In her estimation these were
matters which people thought of, but should not mention.

'The other little girl there,' Pauline went on, 'that fair-haired
little child, who is so rosy and bonny, is the daughter of the Gonins,
with whom that rascal Cuche has taken up his quarters. She is nine
years old. The Gonins were once very comfortably off, and had a smack
of their own, but the father was attacked with paralysis in the legs,
a very common complaint in our villages about here, and Cuche, who
was only a common seaman to begin with, soon made himself the master.
Now the whole house belongs to him, and he bullies the poor old man,
who passes his days and nights inside an old coal-chest, while Cuche
and the wife lord it over him. I look after the child myself, but I
am sorry to say she comes in for a good many cuffings at home, and is
unfortunately much too shrewd and noticing.'

Here Pauline stopped and turned to the child to question her.

'How are they all getting on at home?' she asked.

The child had watched Pauline while the latter was explaining matters
in an undertone. Her pretty but vicious face smiled slyly at what she
guessed was being said.

'Oh, they've beaten him again,' she said, still continuing to smile.
'Last night mother got up and caught hold of a log of wood. Ah!
Mademoiselle, it would be very good of you to give father a little
wine, for they have put an empty jug by the chest, telling him that he
may drink till he bursts.'

Louise made a gesture of disgust. What horrible people! How could
Pauline take any interest in such dreadful things? Was it really
possible that near a big town like Caen there existed such hideous
places, where people lived in that utterly barbarous fashion?[4] For,
surely, they could be nothing less than savages, to thus trample under
foot all law, both divine and human.

'There! there! I have had quite enough of your young friends,' she
said, in a low tone, as she went to sit down near Chanteau. 'I should
not mourn for them very much if the sea were to sweep them all away.'

The Abbé had just crowned a king.

'Sodom and Gomorrah!' he cried. 'I have been warning them for the last
twenty years. Well, it will be so much the worse for them.'

'I have asked to have a school built here,' said Chanteau, feeling a
little distressed, as he saw the game going against him; 'but there
aren't people enough. The children ought to go to Verchemont, but they
don't like school, and only play about on the roads when they are sent
there.'

Pauline looked up in surprise. If the poor things were clean, she was
thinking, there would be no necessity to attempt to make them so.
Wickedness and wretchedness went together, and she felt in no way
repelled by suffering, even when it seemed to be the consequence of
vice. But she confined herself to asserting her charitable tolerance
with a gesture of protest. Then she went on to promise little Gonin
that she would go to see her father; and while she was doing so
Véronique appeared upon the scene, pushing another little girl in front
of her.

'Here's another, Mademoiselle.'

The new-comer, who was very young, certainly not more than five years
old, was completely in rags, with black face and matted hair. With all
the readiness of one already accustomed to begging on the high-roads
she at once began to whine and groan:

'Please take pity upon me. My poor father has broken his leg----'

'It's Tourmal's girl, isn't it?' asked Pauline of Véronique.

But before the servant could reply the priest broke out angrily:

'The little hussy! Don't take any notice of her. Her father has been
pretending to break his leg for the last five-and-twenty years. They
are a family of swindlers, who only live by thieving. The father helps
the smugglers. The mother pilfers in all the fields about Verchemont,
and the grandfather prowls about at night, stealing oysters from the
Government beds at Roqueboise. You can see for yourselves what they are
making of their daughter--a little thief and a beggar, whom they send
to people's houses to lay her hands upon anything that may happen to be
lying about. Just look how she is glancing at my snuff-box!'

The child's eyes, indeed, after inquisitively examining every corner of
the terrace, had flashed brightly on catching sight of the priest's old
snuff-box. She was not in the slightest degree abashed by the Abbé's
account of her family history, but repeated her petition as calmly as
though he had not spoken a word.

'He has broken his leg. Please, kind young lady, help us with a
trifle.'

This time Louise broke out into a laugh. That little five-year-old
impostor, who was already as scampish as her parents, quite amused her.
Pauline, however, remained perfectly grave and serious, and took a new
five-franc piece from her purse.

'Now, listen to me,' she said; 'I will give you as much every Saturday
if I hear a good account of you during the week.'

'Look after the spoons, then,' Abbé Horteur cried, 'or she will walk
off with some of them.'

Pauline made no reply to this remark, but dismissed the children, who
slouched off with exclamations of 'Thank you kindly' and 'May God
reward you!'

While this scene had been taking place Madame Chanteau, who had just
come back from the house, whither she had gone to give a glance at
Louise's room, was muttering with vexation at Véronique. It was quite
intolerable that the servant should take upon herself to introduce
those wretched beggars. Mademoiselle herself brought quite sufficient
of them to the house. A lot of scum, who robbed her of her money and
then laughed at her! Of course the money was her own, and she could
play ducks and drakes with it if she were so disposed, but it was
really becoming quite immoral to encourage vice in this way. She had
heard Pauline promise a hundred sous a week to the little Tourmal girl.
Another twenty francs a month! The fortune of an emperor would not
suffice for such perpetual extravagance!

'You know very well,' she said to Pauline, 'that I hate to see that
little thief here. Though you are now the mistress of your fortune,
I cannot allow you to ruin yourself so foolishly. I am morally
responsible. Yes, my dear, I repeat that you are ruining yourself, and
more quickly than you have any notion of.'

Véronique, who had gone back to her kitchen, fuming with anger at
Madame Chanteau's reprimand, now reappeared.

'The butcher's here!' she cried roughly. 'He wants his bill settled;
forty-six francs ten centimes.'

A pang of vexation curtailed Madame Chanteau's remarks. She fumbled in
her pocket, and then, assuming an expression of surprise, she whispered
to Pauline:

'Have you got as much about you, my dear? I have no change here, and I
shall have to go upstairs. I will give it you back very shortly.'

Pauline went off with the servant to pay the butcher. Since she had
begun to keep her money in her chest of drawers the same old comedy
had been enacted each time a bill was presented for payment. It was a
systematic levy of small amounts which had grown to be quite a matter
of course. Her aunt no longer troubled to go and withdraw the money
herself, but asked Pauline for it, and thus made the girl rob herself
with her own hands. At first there had been a pretence of settling
accounts, and sums of ten and fifteen francs had been repaid to her,
but afterwards matters got so complicated that a settlement was
deferred till later on, when the marriage should take place. Yet, in
spite of all this, they took care that she should pay for her board
with the greatest punctuality on the first day of every month, the sum
due in this respect being now raised to ninety francs.

'There's some more of your money making itself scarce!' growled
Véronique in the passage. 'If I had been you, I would have told her to
go and find her change. It is abominable that you should be plundered
in this way!'

When Pauline came back with the receipted account, which she handed to
her aunt, the priest was radiant with triumph. Chanteau was vanquished;
he had not a piece which he could move. The sun was setting, and the
sea was crimsoned by its oblique rays, while the tide lazily rose.
Louise, with a far-off look in her eyes, smiled at the bright and
wide-stretching horizon.

'There's our little Louise up in the clouds,' said Madame Chanteau.
'I have had your trunk taken upstairs, Louisette. We are next-door
neighbours again.'

Lazare did not return home till the following day. After his visit to
the Sub-Prefect at Bayeux he had taken it into his head to go on to
Caen and see the Prefect. And, though he was not bringing an actual
subvention back in his pocket, he was convinced, he said, that the
General Council[5] would vote at the least a sum of twelve thousand
francs. The Prefect had accompanied him to the door and had bound
himself by formal promises, saying that it was impossible Bonneville
should be left to its fate, and that the authorities were quite
prepared to back up the efforts of the inhabitants. Lazare, however,
could not help feeling despondent, for he foresaw all sorts of delays,
and the least delay in the carrying-out of one of his schemes proved
agony to him.

'Upon my word of honour,' he cried, 'if I had the twelve thousand
francs myself, I should be delighted to advance them! For the first
experimental proceedings, indeed, so much would not be necessary. When
we do get the money voted, you will see what a heap of worries and
delays we shall have to go through. We shall have all the engineers in
the department down here on our backs. But if we could make a start
without them, they would be obliged to acquiesce in what had actually
been done. The Prefect, to whom I briefly explained our plans, was
quite struck with their advantage and simplicity.'

The hope of overpowering the sea now thrilled him feverishly. He
had felt bitter rancour against it ever since he had considered it
responsible for his failure with the sea-weed scheme; and, though he
did not venture to openly revile it, he harboured the thought of coming
vengeance. And what revenge could be better than to stay it in its
course of blind destruction, and call out to it, like its master, 'Thus
far and no farther'?

There was, also, in this enterprise an element of philanthropy
which, joined to the grandeur of the contemplated struggle, brought
his excitement to a climax. When his mother saw him spending his
days cutting out pieces of wood and burying his nose in treatises
on mechanics, she thought, with trembling, of his grandfather, the
enterprising but blundering carpenter, whose useless masterpiece lay
slumbering in its glass case on the mantelshelf. Was the old man going
to live over again in his grandson to consummate the ruin of the
family? Then she gradually allowed herself to be convinced and won over
by the son whom she worshipped. If he were successful, and, of course,
he would be successful, this would be the first step to fame, glorious
and disinterested work which would make him celebrated. With this as a
starting-point he might easily soar as high as ambition might prompt
him. Henceforth the whole family dreamt of nothing but conquering the
sea and of chaining it to the foot of the terrace, submissive like a
whipped dog.

Lazare's scheme was, as he had said, one of great simplicity. He
proposed to drive big piles into the sand, and to cover them with
planks. Behind these the shingle, swept up by the tide, would form
a sort of impregnable wall against which the waves would break
powerlessly, and, by this means, the sea itself would build the barrier
which was to keep it back. A number of groynes, built of long beams
carried upon strong rafters forming a breakwater in front of the wall
of shingle, would complete the works. Afterwards, if they had the
necessary funds, they might construct two or three big stockades, whose
solid mass would restrain the very highest tides. Lazare had found
the first idea of his scheme in a 'Carpenter's Complete Handbook,' a
little volume with quaint engravings, which had probably been bought
long ago by his grandfather. He elaborated and perfected the idea,
and went into the matter pretty deeply, studying the theory of forces
and the resistance of which the different materials were capable, and
manifesting considerable pride in a certain disposition and inclination
of the beams, which, said he, could not fail to insure absolute success.

Pauline once more showed great interest in her cousin's studies. Like
the young man's, her curiosity was always aroused by experiments in
strange things. But, with her more calculating nature, she did not
deceive herself as to the possibility of failure. When she saw the tide
mount up, her eyes wandered with an expression of doubt to the models
which Lazare had made, the miniature piles and groynes and stockades.
The big room was now quite full of them.

One night the girl lingered till very late at her window. For the last
two days her cousin had been talking of burning all his models; and one
evening, as they all sat round the table, he had exclaimed in a sudden
outburst that he was going off to Australia, as there was no room for
him in France. Pauline was meditating over all this by her window,
while the flood-tide dashed against Bonneville in the darkness. Each
shock of the waves made her quiver, and she seemed to hear, at regular
intervals, the cries of poor creatures whom the sea was swallowing up.
Then the struggle which was still waging within her between love of
money and natural kindliness became unendurable, and she closed the
window, that she might no longer hear. But the distant blows still
seemed to shake her as she lay in bed. Why not try to attempt even what
seemed impossible? What would it matter, throwing all this money into
the sea, if there were yet a single chance of saving the village? And
she fell asleep at daybreak dreaming of the joy her cousin would feel
when he should find himself released from all his brooding melancholy,
set at last perhaps on the right path, happy through her, indebted to
her for everything.

In the morning, before going downstairs, she called him. She was
laughing.

'Do you know that last night I dreamt that I had lent you those twelve
thousand francs?'

But Lazare became angry and refused in violent words: 'Do you want to
make me set off and never come back again? No! we lost quite enough
over the sea-weed works. I am really dying of shame about it, though I
told you nothing.'

Two hours later, however, he accepted Pauline's offer, and pressed her
hands in a passionate outburst of gratitude. It was to be an advance
and nothing more. Her money would be running no risk, for there was
not the least doubt that the subvention would be voted by the Council,
the more especially if operations were actually commenced. That very
evening the Arromanches carpenter was called in. There were endless
consultations and walks along the coast, with a perpetual discussion of
estimates. The whole family went wild over the scheme.

Madame Chanteau, however, had first flown into a tantrum on hearing of
the loan of the twelve thousand francs. Lazare was astonished, unable
to understand. His mother overwhelmed him with strange arguments. No
doubt, said she, Pauline advanced small sums to them from time to
time, but, if this kind of thing were to go on, she would begin to
think herself indispensable. It would have been better to have asked
Louise's father for an advance. Louise herself, who would have a dowry
of two hundred thousand francs, did not make nearly so much fuss about
her money. Those two hundred thousand francs of Louise's were ever on
Madame Chanteau's lips, and seemed to fill her with angry contempt
for the remnants of that other fortune which had dwindled away in the
secrétaire and was still dwindling in the chest of drawers.

Chanteau, too, instigated by his wife, pretended to be greatly vexed.
Pauline felt very much hurt. She recognised that they loved her less
now, even though she was giving them her money. There seemed to be a
bitter feeling against her, which increased day by day, though she
could not even guess the cause of it. As for Doctor Cazenove, he found
fault with her, too, when she mentioned the subject to him as a matter
of form, but he had been obliged to acquiesce in all the loans, the
large as well as the small ones. His office of trustee was a mere
fiction; he found himself quite disarmed in that house, where he was
always received as an old friend. On the day when the twelve thousand
francs were lent to Lazare he renounced all further responsibility.

'My dear,' he said, as he took Pauline aside, 'I cannot go on being
your accomplice. Don't consult me any more; ruin yourself just as you
like. You know very well that I can never resist your entreaties; but
I am really very much troubled about them afterwards. I would rather
remain ignorant of what I cannot approve.'

Pauline looked at him, deeply moved. After a moment's silence she
replied:

'Thank you, my dear friend. But am I not really taking the right
course? If it makes me happy, what does anything else matter?'

He took her hands within his own and pressed them in a fatherly manner,
with an expression of affection that was tinged with sadness.

'Well! if it does make you happy! After all, one has to pay quite as
much sometimes to make one's self miserable.'

As might have been expected, in the enthusiasm of his approaching
struggle with the sea Lazare had entirely abandoned his music. There
was a coating of dust upon the piano, and the score of his great
symphony was put away at the bottom of a drawer; a service which he
owed to Pauline, who collected the different sheets together, finding
some of them hidden even behind the furniture. With certain portions of
the work he had grown much dissatisfied, and had begun to think that
the celestial joy of final annihilation, which he had expressed in a
somewhat commonplace fashion in waltz time, would be better rendered by
a very slow march. One evening, indeed, he had declared that he would
re-write the whole work when he had the leisure.

His flash of desire and feeling of uneasiness in the society of his
young cousin seemed to disappear when his musical enthusiasm drooped.
His masterpiece must be deferred to a more suitable time, and his
passion, which he also seemed able to advance or retard, must be
similarly postponed. He again began to treat Pauline as an old friend
or long since wedded wife, who would fall into his arms as soon as ever
he chose to open them. Since April they had not shut themselves up in
the house so much, and the fresh air brought life and colour to their
cheeks. The big room was deserted, while they rambled about the rocky
shore of Bonneville, studying the best situations for the piles and
stockades. And, after dabbling about in the water, they came home as
tired and as easy in mind as in the far-away days of childhood. When
Pauline sometimes played the famous March of Death to tease him, Lazare
would cry out:

'Do be quiet! What a lot of rubbish!'

On the evening of the carpenter's visit, however, Chanteau was seized
with another attack of gout. He now had a fresh attack almost every
month. The salicylic treatment, which at first had given him some
relief, seemed in the end to add to the violence of his seizures. For
a fortnight Pauline remained a close prisoner at her uncle's bedside.
Lazare, who was continuing his investigations on the beach, then
invited Louise to go with him, by way of freeing her from the cries of
the sick man, which quite frightened her. As she occupied the guests'
bedroom, the one just above Chanteau's, she had to stuff her fingers
into her ears and bury her head in the pillows at night-time in order
to get some sleep. But when she was out of doors she became radiant
again, enjoying the walk immensely and forgetting all about the poor
man groaning in the house.

They had a delightful fortnight. The young man had at first gazed on
his companion with surprise. She was a great change from Pauline;
she cried out whenever a crab scuttled past her shoe, and was so
frightened of the sea that she thought she was going to be drowned
whenever she had to jump over a pool. The shingle hurt her little feet,
she never relinquished her sunshade, and was for ever gloved up to
her elbows, being in a constant state of fear lest her delicate skin
should be exposed to the sun's rays. After his first astonishment,
however, Lazare allowed himself to be attracted by her pretty airs
of timidity, and her weakness, that ever seemed to be appealing to
him for assistance. She did not smell simply of the breezy air, like
Pauline; she intoxicated him with a warm odour of heliotrope, and he
no longer had a boy-like companion at his side, but a young woman,
whose presence now and then sent his blood pulsing hotly through his
veins. True, she was not as pretty as Pauline; she was older, and
seemed already a little faded, but there was a bewitching charm about
her; her small limbs moved with easy supple motion, and her whole
coquettish figure seemed instinct with promises of bliss. She appeared
to Lazare to be quite a discovery on his part; he could recognise in
her no trace of the scraggy little girl he had formerly known. Was it
really possible that long years at boarding-school had turned that very
ordinary-looking child into such a disquieting young woman, who, maiden
though she was, seemed by no means shy? Little by little Lazare found
himself possessed by growing admiration, disturbing passion, in which
the mere friendship of childhood disappeared.

When Pauline was able to leave her uncle's bedroom and resume
companionship with Lazare, she immediately noticed a change between him
and Louise, unaccustomed glances and laughs, in which she had no share.
For the first few days she maintained a sort of maternal attitude,
treating the pair as foolish young things whom a mere nothing was
sufficient to amuse. But she soon grew low-spirited, and the walks they
all took abroad seemed to weary her. She never made any complaint, she
simply spoke of persistent headaches; but, later on, when her cousin
advised her to stay at home, she became vexed, and would not quit him
even in the house. On one occasion, about two o'clock in the morning,
Lazare, who had sat up in his room working at a plan, thought he heard
some steps outside, and opened his door to look. Thereupon he was
astonished to see Pauline in her petticoats leaning over the banisters
in the dark, and listening. She declared that she thought she had heard
a cry downstairs. But she blushed as she told this fib, and Lazare did
the same, for a suspicion flashed through his mind. From that night
forward, without anything being said, friendly relations suffered.
Lazare considered that Pauline made herself very ridiculous by pouting
and sulking about mere nothings, while she, continually growing more
gloomy, never once left her cousin alone with Louise, but kept a strict
watch over them, and tortured herself with fancies at night if she had
caught them speaking softly to each other as they walked home from the
shore.

However, the work had begun. A body of carpenters, after nailing a
number of heavy planks across a framework of piles, succeeded in
completing a first buttress against the sea's attack. This was simply
meant as a trial, which they hurried along with, in expectation of a
flood tide. If the timbers should be able to resist the sea's approach,
then the system of defence would be completed. It unfortunately
happened that the weather was execrable. Rain fell continually, and all
Bonneville got soaked to the skin in going out to see the piles rammed
into the sand. Then, on the morning when the high tide was expected, an
inky pall hung over the sea, and, from eight o'clock the rain fell with
redoubled violence, hiding the horizon with a dense cold mist. There
was immense disappointment, for the Chanteaus had been planning to go
in a family party to watch the victory which their beams and piles
would win over the attacking flood.

Madame Chanteau determined to remain at home with her husband, who was
still far from well. Great efforts, too, were made to induce Pauline to
stay indoors, as she had been suffering from a sore throat for a week
past, and always grew a little feverish towards the evening. But she
rejected all the prudent advice that was offered her, resolving to go
down to the beach, since Lazare and Louise were going. Louise, fragile
as she appeared to be, ever, so it seemed, on the verge of fainting,
really proved a girl of great physical endurance, particularly when any
kind of pleasure made her excited.

They all three set off after breakfast. A sudden breeze had swept away
the clouds, and glad smiles hailed the unexpected change. The patches
of blue sky overhead were so large, though they still mingled with
black masses, that the girls refused to take any other protection than
their sun-shades. Lazare alone carried an umbrella. He would see that
they came to no harm, he said, and would place them under shelter
somewhere should the rain begin to fall again.

Pauline and Louise walked on in front. However, on the steep slope
leading down towards Bonneville, the latter stumbled on the wet
and slippery soil, and Lazare rushed up to support her. Pauline
then followed behind them. Her high spirits quickly fell, as with a
jealous glance she noticed her cousin's arm pressed closely against
Louise's waist. The contact of the two soon absorbed her; all else
disappeared--the beach, where the fishermen of the neighbourhood stood
waiting in a somewhat scoffing mood, and the rising tide, and the
stockade already white with foam. Away on the right arose a mass of
dark clouds, lashed on by the gale.

'What a nuisance!' said the young man; 'we are going to have more rain.
But we shall have time to see things before it comes on, I think, and
then we can take refuge close at hand with the Houtelards.'

The tide, which had the wind against it, was rising with irritating
slowness. The wind would certainly keep it from mounting as high as
had been expected. Still no one left the shore. The new groyne, which
was now half covered, seemed to work very satisfactorily, parting
the waves, whose diverted waters foamed up to the very feet of the
spectators. But the greatest triumph was the successful resistance of
the piles. As each wave dashed against them, sweeping the shingle with
it, they heard the stones falling and collecting on the other side
of the beams with a noise like the sudden discharge of a cartload of
pebbles; and this wall which was thus gradually building itself up
seemed to guarantee success.

'Didn't I tell you so?' cried Lazare. 'You won't make any more jokes
about it now, I think!'

Prouane, who was standing near him, and had not been sober for the last
three days, shook his head, however, as he stammered: 'We shall see
about that when the wind blows against it.'

The other fishermen kept silent. But the expression on the faces of
Cuche and Houtelard plainly showed that they felt little confidence in
all such contrivances; indeed, they would scarcely have felt pleased
to see their enemy the sea, which crushed them so victoriously, beaten
back by that stripling of a landsman. How they would laugh when the
waves some day carried off those beams like so many straws! The very
village might be dashed to pieces at the same time; it would be rare
fun all the same!

Suddenly the rain began to fall; great drops poured from the lurid
clouds, which had covered three-quarters of the sky.

'Oh! this is nothing!' cried Lazare in a state of wild enthusiasm.
'Let's stay a little longer. Just look! not a single pile moves!'
While speaking he set his umbrella over Louise's head. She pressed to
his side with the air of a frightened turtle-dove. Pauline, whom they
seemed to have forgotten, never ceased to watch them. She felt enraged;
the warmth of their clasp seemed to set her cheeks on fire. But the
rain was now coming down in a perfect torrent, and Lazare suddenly
turned round and called to her: 'What are you thinking of? Are you mad?
At all events, open your sunshade!'

She was standing stiffly erect beneath the downpour, which she did not
seem to notice. And she simply answered in a hoarse voice: 'Leave me
alone. I am all right.'

'Oh! Lazare!' cried Louise, quite distressed, 'make her come here!
There is room under the umbrella for all three of us.'

But Pauline, in her angry obstinacy, did not condescend to notice the
invitation. She was all right; why couldn't they let her alone? And
when Lazare, at the conclusion of his fruitless entreaties, finished by
saying: 'It's folly! Let's run to the Houtelards!' she answered rudely,
'Run wherever you like. I came here to see, and I mean to stop.'

The fishermen had fled. Pauline remained alone beneath the pouring
rain, with her eyes turned towards the piles, which were now covered by
the waves. The spectacle seemed to absorb all her attention, in spite
of the grey mist which was rising from the rain-beaten sea, obscuring
everything. Big black marks appeared on her streaming dress, about her
shoulders and arms, but she would not leave her place till the west
wind had swept the storm-cloud away.

They all three returned home in silence. Not a word of what had
happened was mentioned to Madame Chanteau. Pauline hurried off to
change her clothes, while Lazare recounted the complete success of
the experiment. In the evening, as they sat at table, Pauline became
feverish, but she pretended there was nothing the matter with her, in
spite of the evident difficulty she had in swallowing her food; and she
even ended by speaking very roughly to Louise, who evinced solicitude
in her caressing way, and perpetually asked her how she felt.

'The girl is really growing quite unbearable with her bad disposition,'
murmured Madame Chanteau behind Pauline's back. 'We had better give
over speaking to her.'

About one o'clock in the morning Lazare was roused by a hoarse cough,
which sounded so distressingly that he sat up in bed to listen. At
first he thought it came from his mother; then, as he went on straining
his ear, he heard a noise as of something falling, and his floor shook.
Forthwith he jumped out of bed and hastily put on his clothes. It could
only be Pauline, who must have fallen on the other side of the wall.
He broke several matches with his trembling hands, but, at last, when
he had succeeded in lighting his candle and came out of his room, he
found the door opposite wide open, and the young girl lying on her side
and barring the entrance.

'What is the matter?' Lazare cried in amazement. 'Have you fallen?'

It had just flashed through his mind that she was prowling about again,
playing the spy. But she made no reply, and never even stirred; in
fact, with her closed eyes, she seemed to him to be dead. There could
be no doubt that just as she was leaving her room to seek assistance a
fainting-fit had thrown her on the ground.

'Pauline, speak to me, I beg you! What is the matter with you?'

He had bent down and was holding the light to her face. She was
extremely flushed, and seemed a prey to violent fever. Then all
hesitation on his part vanished, and he took her up in his arms and
carried her to her bed full of fraternal anxiety. When he had placed
her in bed again, he began to question her once more, 'For goodness'
sake, do speak to me! Have you hurt yourself?'

She had just opened her eyes, but she could not yet speak, and merely
looked at him with a fixed gaze. Then, as he still continued to press
her with questions, she carried her hand to her throat.

'It is your throat that hurts you, is it?'

At last, in a strange voice, that seemed to come with immense
difficulty, she gasped:

'Don't make me speak, please. It hurts me so.'

As she said this she was seized with another attack of coughing, the
same hoarse guttural cough that he had heard from his bedroom. Her face
turned bluish, and her distress became so great that her eyes filled
with tears. She lifted her hands to her poor trembling brow, which was
quivering with the hammer-like throbs of a frightful headache.

'You caught that to-day!' he stammered, quite distracted. 'It was very
foolish of you to act as you did, when you were already far from well!'
But he checked himself, as he saw her looking up at him with a gaze of
entreaty.

'Just open your mouth and let me look at your throat.'

It was all she could do to open her jaws. Lazare brought the candle
close to her, and was with difficulty able to espy the back of her
throat, which was dry, and gleamed with a bright crimson. It was
evidently a case of angina, and her burning fever and terrible headache
filled him with alarm as to its precise nature. The poor girl's face
wore such an agonised expression of choking that he was seized with a
horrible fear of seeing her suffocated before his very eyes. She was
not able to swallow; every attempt to do so made her whole body quiver.
At last a fresh attack of coughing threw her into another fainting-fit;
and thereupon in a state of complete panic he flew off to thump at
Véronique's door.

'Véronique! Véronique! Get up! Pauline is dying.'

When Véronique, half-dressed and scared, entered the girl's room, she
found Lazare excitedly talking to himself in the middle of it.

'What a forsaken hole to be in! One might die here like a dog! There is
no help to be had nearer than a couple of miles!'

He strode up to Véronique.

'Try and get someone to go for the Doctor immediately,' he said.

The servant stepped up to the bed and looked at the sick girl. She was
quite alarmed at seeing her so flushed, and in her increasing affection
for Pauline, whom she had at first so cordially detested, she felt a
painful shock.

'I'll go myself,' she said quietly. 'That will be the quickest way.
Madame will be quite able to light a fire downstairs, if you want one.'

Then, scarcely yet fully awake, she put on her heavy boots and wrapped
a shawl round her; and, after telling Madame Chanteau what the matter
was as she went downstairs, she set off, striding along the muddy road.
Two o'clock rang out from the church, and the night was so dark that
she stumbled every now and then against heaps of stones.

'What is it, then?' asked Madame Chanteau, as she came upstairs.

Lazare scarcely answered her. He had just been ferreting about in the
cupboard for his old medical treatises, and was now bending down before
the chest of drawers, turning over the pages of one of his books with
trembling fingers, while trying to remember something of what he had
formerly learnt. But he grew more and more confused, and perpetually
turned to the index without being able to find what he wanted.

'It's only a bad sick headache,' said Madame Chanteau, who had sat
down. 'The best thing we can do is to leave her to sleep.'

At this Lazare burst out angrily:

'A sick headache! A sick headache indeed! You will drive me quite mad,
mother, by standing there so unconcernedly. Go down stairs and get some
water to boil.'

'There is no necessity to disturb Louise, is there?' she asked.

'No, indeed, not the least. I don't require anybody's assistance. If I
want anything I will call you.'

When he was alone again, he went and took hold of Pauline's wrist to
try her pulse. He counted one hundred and fifteen pulsations; and he
felt the girl's burning hand cling closely and lingeringly to his
own. Her heavy eyelids remained closed, but she was thanking him and
forgiving him with that pressure of her hand. Though she was unable to
smile, she still wanted to let him understand that she had heard and
was pleased to know that he was there alone with her, without a thought
for anybody else. Generally, he had a horror of all suffering, and took
himself off at the slightest appearance of indisposition in any of his
relatives, for he was a shockingly bad nurse, and was so unable to
control his nerves that he ever feared lest he should burst out crying.
And so it was a pleasant surprise to Pauline to see him now so anxious
and devoted. He himself could not have explained the warmth of feeling
that was upbuoying him, or the necessity he felt of relying on himself
alone to give her relief. The pressure of her little hand upset him,
and he tried to cheer her.

'It's nothing at all, my dear. I am expecting Cazenove directly; but we
needn't feel the least alarm.'

She still kept her eyes closed as she murmured, apparently still in
pain: 'Oh! I'm not at all frightened. What troubles me most is to see
you so much disturbed.'

Then, in a still lower voice, barely a whisper, she added: 'Have you
forgiven me yet? I behaved very wickedly this morning.'

He bent down and kissed her brow as though she were his wife. Then he
stepped aside, for his tears were blinding him. The idea occurred to
him that he might as well prepare a sleeping-draught while waiting for
the doctor's arrival. Pauline's little medicine-chest was in a small
cupboard in the room. He felt a little afraid lest he should make
some mistake, and he looked closely at the different phials; finally
he poured a few drops of morphia into a glass of sugared water. When
she swallowed a spoonful of it, the pain in her throat became so great
that he hesitated about giving her a second. There was nothing else
he could do. That spell of inactive waiting was becoming terribly
painful to him. When he could no longer endure to stand beside her bed
and see her suffering, he turned to his books again, hoping to find
therein an account of her malady and its remedy. Could it be a case of
diphtheritic angina? He had certainly not seen any malignant growth on
the roof of her mouth, but he plunged into the perusal of a description
of that complaint and its treatment, losing himself in a maze of long
sentences whose meaning he could not gather, and striving to grope
through superfluous details, like a child battling with some lesson he
cannot understand. By-and-by a sigh brought him hurrying back to the
bedside, with his head buzzing with scientific terms, whose uncouth
syllables only served to increase his anxiety.

'Well, how is she getting on?' inquired Madame Chanteau, who had come
softly upstairs again.

'Oh! she keeps just the same,' Lazare replied.

Then, in a burst of impatience, he added:

'It is terrible, this delay on the Doctor's part! The girl might die
twenty times over!'

The doors had been left open, and Matthew, who slept under the table
in the kitchen, had also just come up the stairs, for it was his habit
to follow people into every room of the house. His big paws pattered
over the floor like old woollen slippers. He seemed quite gay at all
this commotion in the middle of the night, and wanted to jump up to
Pauline, and even tried to wheel round after his tail, like an animal
unconscious of his master's trouble. But Lazare, irritated by his
inopportune gaiety, gave him a kick.

'Be off with you, or I'll choke you! Can't you understand, you idiot?'

The dog, afraid of a beating, and, it may be, suddenly grasping the
situation, went to lie down under the bed. But Lazare's rough behaviour
had aroused Madame Chanteau's indignation. Without waiting any longer
she went down to the kitchen again, saying drily: 'The water will be
ready whenever you want it.'

As she descended the stairs Lazare heard her muttering that it was
abominable to kick an animal like that, and that he would probably
have kicked her also if she had remained in the room. Every moment he
went to the bedside to glance at Pauline. She now seemed to be quite
overcome with fever, utterly prostrate; the only sign of life that came
from her was the wheezing of her breath amidst the mournful silence of
the room, a wheezing that began to sound like a death-rattle. Then wild
unreasoning fear again seized upon Lazare. He felt quite certain that
the girl would soon choke if help did not arrive. He fidgeted about the
room on tip-toes, glancing perpetually at the timepiece. It was not
three o'clock, and Véronique could hardly have got to the Doctor's yet.
He followed her in imagination through the black night all along the
road to Arromanches. By this time she would be passing the oak-wood;
then she would cross the little bridge, and then she would save five
minutes by running down the hill. At last a longing for tidings of some
sort led him to throw open the window, though it was quite impossible
for him to distinguish anything amidst the profound darkness. Down in
the depths of Bonneville only a single light was gleaming, the lantern,
probably, of some fisherman preparing to put out to sea. Everything
was wrapped in mournful sadness, far-reaching abandonment, in which
all life appeared to die away. He closed the window and then opened it
again, only to close it quickly once more. He began to lose all idea
of the flight of time, and was startled when he heard three o'clock
strike. By this time the Doctor must have got his horse harnessed, and
his gig would be spinning along the road, transpiercing the darkness
with the yellow glare of its lamp. Lazare grew so distracted with
impatience as he watched the sick girl's increasing suffocation that
he started up as from a dream, when, at about four o'clock, he finally
heard some rapid footsteps on the stairs.

'Ah! here you are at last!' he cried.

Doctor Cazenove at once ordered a second candle to be lighted, in order
that he might examine Pauline properly. Lazare held one of the candles,
while Véronique, whose hair the wind had thrown into wild disorder, and
who was splashed with mud to the waist, stood at the head of the bed
with the other. Madame Chanteau looked on. The sick girl was in a state
of semi-somnolence, and could not open her mouth without a groan of
pain. When the Doctor had laid her back in bed again, he, who upon his
first entrance had shown signs of great uneasiness, stepped into the
middle of the room with an expression of relief.

'That Véronique of yours put me into a pretty fright,' said he. 'She
told me such a lot of terrible things that I thought the girl must have
got poisoned, and you see that I have come with my pockets crammed full
of drugs.'

'It is angina, is it not?' Lazare asked.

'Yes, simple angina. There is no occasion for alarm at present.'

Madame Chanteau indulged in a little gesture of triumph, as much as to
say that she had known that from the first.

'"No occasion for alarm at present"!' repeated Lazare, his fears rising
again. 'Are you afraid of complications?'

'No,' answered the Doctor, after some slight hesitation; 'but with
these tiresome throat complaints one can never feel quite sure of
anything.'

He added that nothing more could be done just then, and that he would
prefer waiting till the morrow to bleed the patient. But as the young
man pressed him to attempt at any rate some alleviating measures, he
expressed his readiness to apply some sinapisms. Véronique brought
up a bowl of warm water, and the Doctor himself placed the damped
mustard-leaves in position, slipping them along the girl's legs from
her ankles to her knees. But they only increased her discomfort,
for the fever continued unabated and her head was still throbbing
frightfully. Emollient gargles were also suggested, and Madame Chanteau
prepared a decoction of nettle-leaves, which had to be laid aside,
however, after a first attempt to administer it, for pain rendered
Pauline unable to swallow. It was nearly six o'clock, and dawn was
breaking when the Doctor went away.

'I will come back about noon,' he said to Lazare on the landing. 'Be
quite easy. She is all right, except for the pain.'

'And is the pain nothing?' cried the young man. 'One never ought to
suffer like that!'

Cazenove glanced at him, and then raised his hands to heaven at such an
extraordinary pretension.

When Lazare returned to Pauline's room, he sent his mother and
Véronique to get a little sleep. He himself could not have slept if
he had tried. He watched the day breaking in that disorderly room:
the mournful dawn it was that follows a night of agony. With his
brow pressed to the window-pane, he was looking out hopelessly at
the gloomy sky, when a sudden noise made him turn. He thought it was
Pauline getting up in bed, but it was Matthew, who had been forgotten
by everybody, and who had at last crept from under the bed to go to
the girl, whose hand hung down over the counterpane. And the dog began
licking that hand with such affectionate gentleness that Lazare, quite
touched at the sight, put his arm round his neck, and said:

'Ah! my poor fellow, your mistress is ill, you see; but she'll soon be
all right, and then we'll all three go on our rambles once more.'

Pauline had opened her eyes, and, though it pained her, she smiled.

A period of suffering and sadness followed. Lazare, acting upon an
impulse of wild affection, almost refused to let the others enter the
sick-room. He would barely allow his mother and Louise there in the
morning to inquire after Pauline; Véronique, in whom he now recognised
a genuine affection for his cousin, was the only one whose presence he
tolerated. At the outset of Pauline's illness Madame Chanteau tried
to make him understand the impropriety of a young man thus nursing
a girl; but he retorted by asking if he were not her husband, and
by saying that doctors attended women equally with men. Between the
young people themselves there was never the slightest embarrassment.
Suffering and, it might be, the approach of death obliterated all other
considerations. The world ceased to have any existence for them. The
chief matters of interest were that the draughts should be taken at the
proper times, and such little details, whilst they waited hour by hour
for the illness to take a more favourable turn. Thus minor matters of
mere physical life suddenly assumed enormous importance, as on them
depended joy or sorrow. The nights followed the days, and Lazare's
existence seemed to hang in the balance over a deep abyss into whose
black darkness he ever feared to fall.

Doctor Cazenove came to see Pauline each morning, and sometimes called
again in the evening after dinner. Upon his second visit he had
determined to bleed her freely. The fever, however, though checked
for a time, reappeared. Two days passed, and the Doctor was evidently
disturbed in his mind, unable to understand the tenacity with which the
fever clung to his patient. As the girl felt ever-increasing pain in
opening her mouth, he could not make any proper examination of the back
of her throat, which seemed to him to be much swollen and of a livid
hue. At last, as Pauline complained of increasing tightness, which
made her throat feel as though it would burst, the Doctor one morning
remarked to Lazare:

'I am beginning to suspect the presence of a phlegmon.'

The young man then drew him into his own room. The previous evening,
while turning over the pages of an old Manual of Pathology, he had
read the chapter on retro-pharyngeal abscesses which project into the
œsophagus, and are apt to cause death by suffocation from compressing
the windpipe.

He turned very pale as he asked:

'Then she is going to die?'

'I trust not,' the Doctor answered. 'We must wait and see what happens.'

But Cazenove himself could not conceal his uneasiness. He confessed
that he was almost powerless in the present circumstances of the case.
How could they search for an abscess at the back of a contracted mouth?
And, besides, to open the abscess too soon would be attended with
grave danger. The best thing they could do was to leave the matter
in the hands of Nature, though the illness would probably prove very
protracted and painful.

'Well, I am not the Divinity,' he exclaimed, when Lazare reproached him
with the uselessness of his science.

The affection which Doctor Cazenove felt for Pauline showed itself in
an increased assumption of brusque carelessness. That tall old man, who
seemed as dry as a branch of brier, was really much affected. For more
than thirty years he had knocked about the world, changing from vessel
to vessel, and working in hospitals all over the colonies. He had
treated epidemics on board ship, frightful diseases in tropical climes,
elephantiasis at Cayenne, serpent bites in India; and he had killed
men of every colour; had studied the effects of poison on Chinese, and
risked the lives of Negroes in delicate experiments in vivisection.
But now this girl, with a soreness in her throat, so wrought upon his
feelings that he could not sleep. His iron hands trembled, and his
callousness to death failed him, fearful as he was of a fatal issue.
And so, wishing to conceal an emotion which he considered unworthy of
him, he made a pretence of contempt for suffering. 'People were born
to suffer,' said he, 'so why make a fuss about it?'

Every morning Lazare said to him:

'Do try something else, Doctor, I beg you. It is terrible. She cannot
get a moment's rest. She has been crying out all the night.'

'Well, but, dash it all, it isn't my fault!' the Doctor replied,
working himself up to a high pitch of indignation. 'I can't cut off her
neck to cure her.'

Thereupon the young man grew vexed in his turn, and exclaimed:

'So medicine is worth nothing?'

'Nothing at all when the human machine is out of order. Quinine arrests
fever, and purgatives act on the bowels, and bleeding is useful in
apoplexy, but it's a happy-go-lucky business with almost everything
else. We must leave the case to Nature.'

These remarks were wrung from him by his anger at being unable to
discover what course of treatment to adopt. It was not his ordinary
custom to deny the power of medicine so roundly, for he had practised
it too much to be sceptical or modest as to its merits. For whole hours
he would sit by the girl's bedside, watching her and studying her, and
then he would go off without even leaving a single instruction behind
him, for indeed he knew not what to do, and was compelled to leave the
abscess developing, though he recognised that a hair's breadth more or
less in its size might make all the difference between life and death.

For a whole week Lazare gave himself up to the most terrible alarm.
He, too, was in perpetual fear of seeing Nature's work suddenly cease.
At every painful, difficult gasp that the girl gave he thought that
all was over. He formed in his mind a vivid picture of the phlegmon,
he fancied he could see it blocking Pauline's windpipe; if it were
only to swell a little more her breath would no longer be able to
pass. His two years of imperfect medical study served to increase his
alarm. His fears made him lose his head, and he broke out into nervous
mutiny, excited protest against life. Why was such frightful suffering
permitted? Was not all such bodily torture, all such writhing and
burning pain cruelly purposeless when disease fell on a poor weak girl?
He was for ever at her bedside, questioning her, even at the risk of
fatiguing her. Was she still in pain? How was she feeling now?

Sometimes he would take her hand and lay it upon his neck. It felt like
an intolerable weight there, like a ball of molten lead, which throbbed
till he almost choked. Her headache never left her. She did not know
where or how to rest her head, and she was tortured by sleeplessness.
During the ten days that the fever racked her she scarcely slept
for a couple of hours. One evening, to make things still worse, she
experienced a frightful pain in her ears, and fainted from sheer
suffering. But she did not confess to Lazare all the agony she endured.
She showed great courage and fortitude, recognising that he was almost
as ill as she herself was, his own blood hot with fever, and his throat
choked as by an abscess. She frequently even told fibs, and forced
a smile to her lips when racked by the keenest suffering. She felt
easier, she would say, and she would beg him to go and take a little
rest. One of the most painful features of her illness was that she
could not even swallow her saliva without giving a cry, at which Lazare
would start up in alarm, and begin to question her afresh. What was the
matter, and where did she feel pain? Then, with her eyes closed, and
her face distorted by agony, she would try to deceive him and whisper
that it was a mere nothing, that something had tickled her, and that
was all.

'Go to sleep and don't be uneasy. I am going to sleep myself now.'

Every evening she went through this pretence of going to sleep, in
order to induce him to lie down, but he persisted in watching over her
from his arm-chair. The nights were so full of anguish that they never
saw the evening fall without a sort of superstitious terror. Would they
ever see the sun again?

One night Lazare was leaning against the bed, holding Pauline's hand
in his own, as he often did, to let her know that he was there and
was not deserting her. Doctor Cazenove had gone off at ten o'clock,
angrily exclaiming that he could answer for nothing more. The young man
derived some consolation from the thought that Pauline herself was not
aware that she was in any imminent danger. In her hearing, only a mere
inflammation of the throat was spoken of, which, though very painful,
would pass away as easily as a cold in the head. The girl seemed quite
tranquil as to the outcome, and bravely retained a cheerful countenance
in spite of her sufferings. She smiled as she heard them forming plans
for the time when she would be well again. That very night she had once
more listened to Lazare arranging a stroll along the shore for the
first day that she might be able to go out. Then they grew silent, and
she seemed to sleep, but after an interval of a quarter of an hour or
so she said distinctly:

'You will have to marry some other girl, I think, my dear.'

He stared at her in amazement, feeling chilled to his bones.

'Why do you say that?' he asked.

She had opened her eyes, and was looking at him with an expression of
brave resignation.

'Ah! I know what is the matter with me, and I am glad that I do, for I
shall be able to kiss you all before I go.'

Then Lazare grew quite angry. It was insane to think such things.
Before a week was over she would be walking about. But he dropped her
hand and made an excuse for hurrying to his own room, for sobs were
choking him; and he threw himself down in the darkness upon his bed,
on which he had not slept for a long time now. A frightful conviction
suddenly wrung his heart. Pauline was going to die, perhaps that
very night. And the thought that she knew it, and that her silence
on the subject hitherto had been due to courageous consideration
for the feelings of others, even in the imminent presence of death,
completed his despair. She knew the truth; she would see her death
agony approach, and he would be there powerless! Already he saw them
saying their last good-bye. The whole mournful scene unfolded itself
before his eyes with heart-rending detail in the darkness of his room.
It was the end of everything, and he grasped his pillow in his arms
convulsively, and buried his head in it to drown the sound of his sobs.

The night, however, passed away without any misfortune. Then two days
went by without any noticeable change in the patient's condition.
Between her and Lazare a new bond had sprung up; the thought of death
was with them. Pauline made no further allusion to her critical
condition; she even forced herself to look cheerful; and Lazare, too,
succeeded in feigning perfect tranquillity, complete confidence in
seeing her leave her bed in a few days' time; yet both knew that they
were ever bidding each other good-bye in the long, loving glances which
their eyes exchanged. At night-time especially, as Lazare sat watching
by the girl's bedside, they recognised that each other's thoughts were
of that threatened eternal separation which kept them so reflective and
silent. Never before had they experienced such melting sadness or felt
such a complete blending of their beings.

One morning, as the sun was rising, Lazare felt quite astonished at the
calmness with which he was able to contemplate the idea of death. He
ransacked his memory, and he could only recall one occasion since the
commencement of Pauline's illness when he had felt a cold shudder at
the thought of ceasing to be. He had trembled, indeed, at the idea of
losing his companion; but that was another kind of fear, into which no
thought of the destruction of his own personality entered. His heart
bled within him, indeed, but it seemed as though this combat which he
was waging with death put him upon an equality with the foe, and gave
him courage to look it calmly in the face. Perhaps, too, his fatigue
and anxiety filled him with a drowsiness and weariness which numbed his
personal fears. He closed his eyes so that he might not see the rising
sun, and tried to recall all his old thrills of horror, by telling
himself that he, too, would have to die some day. But no reply came;
all that seemed to have become quite indifferent to him and to have
ceased to have any power to affect him. Even his pessimism seemed to
disappear in the presence of that sick-bed; and, far from plunging him
into hatred and contempt of the world, his mutinous outburst against
suffering was but a passionate longing for robust health, a wild love
of life. He no longer talked of blowing the earth into bits, as a
worn-out and uninhabitable planet. The one image which ever haunted
his mind was Pauline, hearty once more and walking with him arm in
arm beneath the bright sunshine; the only craving he felt was to lead
her, gay and firm of step, along the paths through which they had once
rambled together.

Yet it was that same day that Lazare felt sure of death's approach. At
eight o'clock in the morning Pauline was seized with attacks of nausea,
and each brought on dangerous symptoms of suffocation. Soon trembling
fits supervened, and the poor girl shook so terribly that her teeth
could be heard chattering. Lazare, in a state of frightful alarm,
shouted from the window that a lad should be sent to Arromanches at
once, although the doctor was expected, as usual, at eleven o'clock.
The house had fallen into mournful silence, and there had been a sad
void since Pauline's gay activity had no longer animated it. Chanteau
spent his days downstairs in moody silence, with his eyes fixed on his
legs, fearing lest he should be seized with another attack of gout
while there was no one to nurse him. Madame Chanteau usually forced
Louise to go out, and the pair of them, spending most of their time
in the open air, had by this time become very intimate and familiar.
Only Véronique's heavy step came and went everlastingly up and down the
stairs, breaking the silence of the landings and empty rooms. Lazare
had gone three times to lean over the banisters in his impatience
to learn whether the servant had been able to get anybody to take a
message to the doctor. He had just returned to Pauline's room and was
looking at the girl, who appeared to be a little easier, when the door,
which he had left ajar, creaked slightly.

'Well, Véronique?' he said.

But it was not Véronique; it was his mother. She had that day intended
to take Louise to see some of her friends in the neighbourhood of
Verchemont.

'Little Cuche has just gone,' she said. 'He can run fast.'

Then, after a short interval of silence, she asked: 'Is she no better?'

Lazare made no answer, but with a hopeless gesture pointed to Pauline,
who was lying motionless, as though she were quite dead, with her pale
face bathed in cold perspiration.

'Ah! we won't go to Verchemont, then,' his mother continued. 'It
seems very tenacious, this mysterious illness which no one seems to
understand. The poor girl has been sorely tried.'

She sat down and went on chattering in the same subdued monotonous
voice.

'We had meant to start at seven o'clock, but it happened that Louise
overslept herself. Everything seems to be falling on one this morning;
it almost looks as though it were done on purpose. The grocer from
Arromanches has just called with his bill, and I have been obliged to
pay him, and now the baker is downstairs. We spent forty francs on
bread again last month. I can't imagine where it all goes to!'

Lazare was not paying the least attention to what she said; he was too
much absorbed in his fears of a return of the shivering-fits. But that
monotonous flood of talk irritated him, and he tried to get his mother
to leave the room.

'Will you give Véronique a couple of towels and tell her to bring them
up to me?' he said.

'Of course I shall have to pay the baker,' his mother resumed, as
though she had not heard him. 'He has spoken to me, and so Véronique
can't tell him that I have gone out. Upon my word, I've had quite
enough of this house. It is becoming quite a burden. If Pauline were
not unfortunately so ill, she would advance me the ninety francs for
her board. It is the 20th to-day, so that there are only ten days to
wait before it will be due. The poor child seems so very weak----'

Lazare suddenly turned towards her.

'Well, what is it you want?' he asked.

'You don't happen to know where she keeps her money, do you?'

'No!'

'I dare say it's in her chest of drawers. You might just look.'

He refused with an angry gesture, and his hands quivered.

'I beseech you, mother, for pity's sake, do go away.'

These last remarks had been hurriedly exchanged at the far end of the
room. There was a moment's painful silence, which was broken by a clear
voice speaking from the bed:

'Lazare, just come and take the key from under my pillow, and give my
aunt what she wants.'

They were both quite startled. Lazare began to protest, for he was
very unwilling to open the drawer; but he was obliged to give way in
order that he might not distress Pauline. When he had given his mother
a hundred-franc note, and had slipped the key under Pauline's pillow
again, he saw that the girl was taken with another trembling-fit, which
shook her like a young aspen, and seemed likely to rend her in twain.
Two big tears trickled from her closed eyes and rolled down her cheeks.

Doctor Cazenove did not arrive before his usual time. He had seen
nothing of little Cuche, who was probably larking about amongst the
hedges. As soon as he heard what Lazare had to say and cast a hasty
glance at Pauline, he cried out: 'She is saved!'

That sickness and those alarming fits of trembling were simply
indications that the abscess had at last broken. There was no more
occasion to fear suffocation; the complaint would now gradually go off
of itself. Their joy was great; Lazare accompanied the Doctor out of
the room; and as Martin, the old sailor who had taken service with the
Doctor, drank a bumper of wine in the kitchen, everyone wanted to clink
glasses with him. Madame Chanteau and Louise drank some walnut liqueur.

'I never felt really alarmed,' said the former. 'I was sure there could
be nothing serious the matter with her.'

'That didn't prevent the poor dear from having an awful time of it!'
exclaimed Véronique. 'I'm more pleased than if some one had given me a
hundred sous.'

Just at that moment Abbé Horteur came in. He had called to make
inquiries, and he drank a glass of wine by way of doing like the rest.
Every day he had come in this way like a kindly neighbour; for, on his
first visit, Lazare had told him that he could not see the patient for
fear of alarming her, whereupon the priest had quietly replied that
he understood it, and had contented himself with mentioning the poor
girl's name when saying his masses. Chanteau, as he clinked glasses
with him, complimented him upon his spirit of tolerance.

'Well, you see, she is coming round nicely, without the help of an
_Oremus_!'

'Everyone is saved after his own fashion,' the priest declared
sententiously, as he drained his glass.

When the Doctor had left, Louise wanted to go upstairs to kiss Pauline.
The poor girl was still suffering much pain, but this was not now
regarded as of much account. Lazare gaily bade her take courage, and,
quite dropping all pretence, began even to exaggerate the danger
through which she had passed, telling her that three times already he
had believed that she was lying dead in his arms. Pauline, however,
manifested no exuberant delight at being saved; but she was conscious
of the joy of life, after having found the courage to look calmly upon
death's approach. An expression of loving emotion passed over her worn,
sad face as she pressed her cousin's hand and murmured to him, smiling:

'Ah! my dear, you can't escape after all, you see. I shall be your wife
yet.'

Her convalescence was heralded in by long slumbers. She slept for
whole days, quite calmly, breathing easily and regularly, steeped in
a strength-restoring torpor. Minouche, who had been banished from the
room during her period of prostration, took advantage of this quietness
to slip in again. She jumped lightly upon the bed, and immediately
lay down there, nestling beside her mistress. Indeed, she spent whole
days on it, revelling in the warmth of the blankets, or making an
interminable toilet, wearing away her fur by constant licking, but
performing each operation with such supple lightness that Pauline could
not even tell she was moving. At the same time Matthew, who, equally
with Minouche, was now granted free access to the room, snored like a
human being on the carpet by the side of the bed.

One of Pauline's first fancies was to have her young friends from the
village brought up to her room on the following Saturday. They had
just begun to allow her to eat boiled eggs after the very spare diet
to which she had been subjected for three weeks. Though she was still
very weak, she was able to sit up to receive the children. Lazare had
to go to the drawer again to find her some five-franc pieces. After she
had questioned her pensioners and had insisted on paying off what she
called her arrears, she became so thoroughly exhausted that she lay
back in a fainting condition. But she manifested great interest in the
piles, groynes, and stockades, and every day inquired if they still
remained firmly in position. Some of the timbers had already weakened,
and her cousin told a falsehood when he asserted that only the nailing
of a plank or two had ceased to hold. One morning, when she was alone,
she slipped out of bed, wishing to see the high tide dash against the
stockades in the distance; and this time again her budding strength
failed her, and she would have fallen to the ground if Véronique had
not come into the room in time to catch her in her arms.

'Ah! you naughty girl! I shall have to fasten you down in bed if you
don't behave more sensibly!' said Lazare with a smile.

He still persisted in watching over her, but he was completely worn
out with fatigue, and would drop asleep in his arm-chair. At first he
had felt a lively joy in seeing her drink her broth. The young girl's
restored health became a source of exquisite pleasure to him; it was
a renewal of life of which he himself partook. But afterwards, when he
had grown accustomed to it, and all the girl's suffering had passed
away, he ceased to rejoice as over some unhoped-for blessing. All that
was left to him was a sort of hebetation, a slackening of the nerves
now that the struggle was over, a confused notion that the hollowness
and mockery of everything was becoming manifest again.

One night when he had been sleeping soundly Pauline heard him awake
with a sigh of agony. By the feeble glimmer of the night-light she
caught a glimpse of his terror-stricken face, his eyes staring wildly
with horror, and his hands clasped together in an attitude of entreaty.
He stammered out some incoherent words: 'O God! O God!'

She leant towards him with hasty anxiety, and called: 'What is the
matter with you, Lazare? Are you in pain?'

The sound of her voice made him start. He had been seen, then. He sat
silent and vexed, and could only contrive to tell a clumsy fib.

'There's nothing the matter with me. It was you yourself who were
crying out just now.'

But in reality the horror of death had just come back to him in his
sleep--a horror without cause, born of blank nothingness--a horror
whose icy breath had awakened him with a great shudder. O God! he
thought, so he would have to die some day. And that thought took
possession of him, and choked him; while Pauline, who had laid her
head back again on her pillow, watched him with an air of motherly
compassion.




V


Every evening, in the dining-room, when Véronique had cleared the
table, Madame Chanteau and Louise chatted together; while Chanteau,
buried in his newspaper, gave brief replies to his wife's few
questions. During the fortnight when he had thought Pauline in danger,
Lazare had never joined the family at dinner; but he now dined
downstairs again, though, directly the meal was over, he returned to
his post at the invalid's bedside. He scarcely closed the door behind
him before Madame Chanteau began with her old complaints.

At first she affected loving anxiety.

'Poor boy!' she said, 'he is quite wearing himself out. It is really
foolish of him to go on endangering his health in this way. He has
scarcely had any sleep for the last three weeks. He is paler than ever
to-day.'

Then she would have a word or two of pity for Pauline. The poor dear
seemed to suffer so much that it was impossible to stay in her room
without a heartache. But she soon began to harp upon the manner in
which that illness upset the house. Everything remained in a state of
confusion; their meals were always cold, and there was no relying upon
anything. Then she broke off suddenly, and, turning to her husband,
asked him:

'Has Véronique found time to give you your marshmallow water?'

'Yes, yes,' he replied from behind his newspaper. Then she lowered her
voice and addressed herself to Louise.

'It is very peculiar, but that poor Pauline seems to have brought us
nothing but misfortune. And yet some people persist in looking upon her
as our good angel! I know the stories that are floating about. At Caen,
they say--don't they, Louise?--that we have grown quite rich through
her. Rich, indeed! I should just think so! You may speak to me quite
frankly, for I am above taking any notice of their slanderous gossip.'

'Well, indeed, they do talk about you, just as they talk about
everybody else,' the girl murmured. 'Only last month I was obliged
to snub a notary's wife, who dared to speak on the subject, without
knowing anything at all about it. You can't prevent people talking, you
know.'

After that, Madame Chanteau made no attempt to veil her real feelings.
There was no doubt, she said, that they were suffering from their own
generosity. Had they wanted anyone's assistance before Pauline came?
And where would she have been now, in what Paris slum, if they had not
consented to take her into their house? It was all very fine for people
to talk about her money, but that money had never been anything but a
source of trouble to them; indeed, it seemed to have brought ruin with
it. The facts spoke clearly enough for themselves. Her son would never
have launched out into those idiotic speculations in seaweed, nor have
wasted his time in trying to prevent the sea from sweeping Bonneville
away, if that unlucky Pauline had not turned his head. If she had
lost her money, well, it was her own fault. The poor young fellow had
wrecked both his health and his future. Madame Chanteau could hardly
find words strong enough with which to inveigh against those hundred
and fifty thousand francs of which her secrétaire still reeked. It was,
indeed, all the large sums which had been swallowed up, and the small
amounts which were still being daily abstracted and thus increasing
the deficit, that embittered her, as though therein lay the ferment
in which her honesty had rotted away. By this time putrefaction was
complete, and she hated Pauline for all the money she owed her.

'What is the good of talking to such an obstinate creature?' she
resumed bitterly. 'She is horribly miserly at heart, and, at the same
time, she is recklessness itself. She will toss twelve thousand francs
to the bottom of the sea for the Bonneville fishermen, who only laugh
at us, and feed all the filthy brats in the neighbourhood; while I
perfectly tremble, upon my word of honour I do, if I have to ask her
for only forty sous. What do you think of that? With all her pretence
of charity to others, she has got a heart of stone.'

During all the talk of this kind Véronique was often in and out of the
room, clearing away the dinner things or bringing in the tea, and she
loitered to listen to what was being said, and sometimes even ventured
on a remark.

'Mademoiselle Pauline got a heart of stone! Oh, Madame! how can you say
so?'

Madame Chanteau reduced her to silence by a stern look. Then, resting
her elbows on the table, she entered into a series of complicated
calculations, talking as to herself.

'I've nothing more to do with her money now, thank goodness, but I
should like to know how much of it there's left. Not more than seventy
thousand francs, I'll be bound. Just let us reckon it up a little.
Three thousand have gone already in that experimental stockade; then
there are, at least, two hundred francs going every month in charity,
and ninety francs for her board here. All that mounts up quickly. Will
you take a bet, Louise, that she'll ruin herself? You will see her
reduced to a pallet one of these days. And when she has quite ruined
herself, who will take her in?--how will she manage to live?'

At this Véronique could not restrain herself, but broke out: 'I'm sure
Madame could never think of turning her out of doors?'

'What do you mean? What are you speaking about?' her mistress demanded
angrily. 'There's no question of anyone being turned out of doors. I
never turned anybody out of doors. What I said was that nothing can be
more foolish, when one has had a fortune of one's own, to go frittering
it all away and becoming dependent upon other people. Go off to your
kitchen.'

The servant went off, grinding out muttered protests from between her
teeth. Then there came an interval of silence, while Louise poured out
the tea. The only sound in the room was the slight rustling of the
newspaper, which Chanteau read from end to end, not missing even the
advertisements. Now and then he spoke a word or two to the young girl.

'You might give me another piece of sugar, please. Have you had a
letter from your father yet?'

'No, indeed,' she answered with a smile. 'But if I am in the way I
can leave at any time, you know. You have quite sufficient trouble
with Pauline's illness. I would rather have gone away before, but you
insisted upon my staying.'

'You mustn't talk like that,' he interrupted. 'It is only too kind of
you to give us the pleasure of your society till poor Pauline can get
downstairs again.'

'I can go to Arromanches till my father comes, if I am in the way,' she
continued, as though she had not heard him, merely by way of teasing.
'My aunt Léonie has taken a chalet there, and there are plenty of
people there, and a good beach where one can bathe at any rate. But she
is very wearisome is my aunt Léonie.'

Chanteau laughed at the girl's playful, fondling ways. Though he dare
not confess it to his wife, he was entirely on the side of Pauline,
who nursed him so kindly and carefully. He buried himself in his
newspaper again; while Madame Chanteau, who had been immersed in deep
reflections, suddenly started up, as though awaking from a dream.

'There's one thing which I can't forgive her. She has completely taken
possession of my son. He scarcely stops at the table for a quarter of
an hour, and I can hardly get a single word with him.'

'That will soon be over,' said Louise. 'She must have someone with her.'

Madame Chanteau shook her head and tightened her lips, but the words
which she seemed trying to keep back broke out, apparently in spite of
herself.

'It's all very well to say that, but it's a little peculiar for a young
man to be always shut up with a sick girl. There! I've said what I mean
and haven't kept it back, and if it doesn't please others I can't help
it.'

Then, noticing Louise's embarrassed look, she added: 'It isn't healthy
to breathe the atmosphere of a sick-room. She may easily infect him
with her sore throat. Those girls who seem so vigorous have sometimes
all sorts of impurities in their blood. Well, I don't know why I
shouldn't say it, but I don't think she is quite sound and healthy.'

Louise then feebly defended her friend. She had always found her so
nice and kind; that was the only argument which she contrived to bring
forward--in reply to the accusation of a stony heart and ill-health. An
instinctive desire for tranquil peace and quietness induced her to try
to mitigate Madame Chanteau's rough ill-feeling, although every day she
listened to her trying to excel her bitterness of the day before. While
making some kind of protest against the harshness of Madame Chanteau's
language, Louise indeed flushed with secret pleasure at finding herself
preferred to Pauline, promoted to the position of favourite. She was
like Minouche in this respect, content to be caressing so long as her
own enjoyment was not interfered with.

Every evening the conversation, after flowing along the same channels,
ended invariably in the same way, Madame Chanteau slowly saying:

'No, Louisette, the girl that my son ought to marry----'

And from that starting-point she would launch out into a disquisition
upon the qualities of an ideal daughter-in-law, while her eyes all
the time remained fixed upon Louise, trying to make her understand
more than she was willing to actually say. It was the girl's own self
that was gradually being described. A young person who had been well
brought up and educated, who had acquired a knowledge of society, and
who was fit to play the part of a hostess, who was graceful rather than
beautiful, and, what was especially desirable, who was truly feminine
and lady-like; for a boy-like girl, a hoyden who made frankness a
pretence for being rough and rude, was, said she, her detestation. Then
there was the question of money--which was really the only one that
influenced her--and this she made a pretence of dismissing with a word,
saying that, though she made no account of a dowry, her son had great
schemes and aims for the future, and could not, of course, afford to
contract a marriage that would be likely to lead to ruin.

'I may tell you, my dear, that if Pauline had come here penniless, with
nothing but the chemise she wore, the marriage would probably have
taken place years ago. But you can't be surprised at my hesitation and
distrust, when I see money slipping through her hands like water. The
sixty thousand francs she still has left won't trouble her much longer,
I fancy. No! Lazare deserves a better fate than that, and I will never
consent to his marrying a mad creature who would stint the house in
food so that she might ruin herself with idiotic follies.'

'Ah, no! money's nothing,' said Louise, lowering her eyes; 'still one
needs some.'

Although Louise's dowry was not directly referred to, her two hundred
thousand francs seemed to be lying there upon the table, glistening
beneath the glow of the hanging lamp. It was because Madame Chanteau
felt and saw them there that she became thus excited, and swept aside
Pauline's paltry sixty thousand in her dream of winning for her son
that other girl whose big fortune was still intact. She had noticed
how Lazare had been drawn towards Louise before all this tiresome
business, which now kept him in seclusion upstairs. If the girl was
equally attracted towards him, why shouldn't they make a match of it?
Her husband would give his consent, and that the more readily when he
saw it was a case of mutual affection. Thus she did all she could to
fan Louise's love into life, spending the rest of the evening in making
such remarks as she thought likely to excite the girl's passion.

'My Lazare is so good! No one knows half how good he is. You yourself,
Louisette, have no notion how affectionate is his nature. Nobody will
pity the girl who gets him for a husband. She will be quite certain of
being passionately loved. And he is such a handsome vigorous fellow,
too! His skin is as white as a chicken's. My grandfather, the Chevalier
de la Vignière, had such a white skin that he used to wear his clothes
cut quite low like a woman's when he went to masked balls.'

Louise blushed and smiled, and was much amused with Madame Chanteau's
details. The mother's advocacy of her son, and the confidences which
she poured out to Louise with the object of inclining her to a union
with Lazare, might have kept her there all night if Chanteau had not
begun to feel very drowsy over his newspaper.

'Isn't it about time for us all to go to bed?' he asked with a yawn.

Then, as though he had been quite unconscious for some time of what
had been going on, and was taking up the thread of Madame Chanteau's
earlier conversation, he added:

'You are quite mistaken. She is a good girl, and I shall be very glad
when she is able to come downstairs again and eat her soup beside me.'

'We shall all be glad,' cried his wife, with considerable bitterness.
'We may speak and say what we think, without ceasing to be fond of
those of whom we talk.'

'The poor little dear!' exclaimed Louise, in her turn; 'I should be
very glad to bear half the pain for her, if such a thing were possible.
She is so amiable!'

Véronique, who was just bringing them their candles, once more put in
her word.

'You are quite right to be her friend, Mademoiselle Louise, for no
one, unless she had a paving-stone for a heart, could ever wish her
unkindly.'

'That will do,' said Madame Chanteau. 'We didn't ask for your opinion.
It would be very much better if you cleaned the candlesticks. This one
here is quite filthy.'

They all rose from their seats. Chanteau lost no time in escaping from
his wife's snappishness, and shut himself up in his room on the ground
floor. But when the two women reached the landing upstairs, where their
rooms adjoined each other, they did not at once go to bed. Madame
Chanteau almost always took Louise into her own room for a little
time and there resumed her remarks about Lazare, showing the girl one
and another portrait of him, and even exhibiting little memorials and
souvenirs, such as a tooth which had been extracted when he was quite
young, or a look of the pale hair of his infancy, or even some of his
old clothes; for instance, the bow he had worn at his first communion,
or his first pair of trousers.

'See!' she said, one night, 'these are some locks of his hair. I have a
number, cut at all stages of his life.'

Thus, when Louise got to bed she could not sleep for thinking of the
young man whom his mother was trying to force on her.

Up above, Pauline's convalescence was progressing gradually. Although
the patient was now out of danger, she still remained very feeble, worn
out and exhausted by feverish attacks which astonished the doctor.
As Lazare said, doctors were always being astonished. He himself was
growing more irritable every hour. The sudden lassitude which had
fallen upon him when the crisis was over seemed to be turning into
a kind of uneasy restlessness. Now that he was no longer wrestling
against death, he began to feel distressed by the close atmosphere of
the apartment and the spoonfuls of physic which had to be administered
at regular hours, and all the other little duties of a sick-room, which
he had so enthusiastically taken upon himself at first. Pauline was
able to do without him now, and he sank back into the boredom of an
aimless empty existence--a boredom which kept him fidgeting from chair
to chair, with his hands hanging listlessly by his side, or wandering
about the room, staring hopelessly at the walls, or deep in gloomy
abstraction in front of the window, looking out, but seeing nothing.

'Lazare,' Pauline said to him one day, 'you must go out. Véronique will
be quite able to do everything.'

But he hotly refused. 'Couldn't she bear his presence any longer,' he
asked, 'that she wanted to send him away? It would be very nice of him,
wouldn't it, if he were to desert her like that before she was quite
strong again?'

But he grew calm as she gently explained to him:

'You wouldn't be deserting me by just going out to get a little fresh
air. Go out in the afternoon. We should be in a pretty way if you were
to fall ill too.'

Then, however, she unfortunately added:

'I have seen you yawning all the morning.'

'You've seen me yawning!' he cried. 'Say at once that I have no heart!
This is a nice way to thank me!'

The next morning Pauline was more diplomatic. She pretended that
she was very anxious that the construction of the stockades should
be proceeded with; the high winter tides were coming on, and the
experimental works would be swept away if the system of defence was not
completed. But Lazare no longer glowed with his early enthusiasm; he
was dissatisfied with the resistance of the timbers as he had arranged
them, and fresh study would be necessary. Then, too, the estimate would
be exceeded, and the authorities had not yet voted a single sou. For
two days Pauline tried to fan his inventive _amour-propre_ into fresh
life. She asked him if he was going to let himself be beaten by the
sea, with all the neighbourhood looking on and smiling; as for the
money, it would certainly be paid back, if she advanced it, as they had
settled she should. By degrees Lazare then seemed to work himself up to
his old pitch of enthusiasm. He made fresh designs and again called in
the carpenter from Arromanches, and had long consultations with him in
his own room, the door of which he left open so that he might be ready
to go to Pauline at the first summons.

'Now,' said he one morning as he kissed the girl, 'the sea won't be
able to break anything. I am quite sure we shall be successful. As soon
as you are able to walk, you must go and see how the works are getting
on.'

Louise had just come up into the room to inquire after Pauline's
health, and as she, too, kissed her, the patient whispered to her:

'Take him away with you.'

Lazare at first refused to go. He was expecting the doctor, he said.
But Louise laughed and told him that she was sure he was much too
gallant to let her go alone to the Gonins, where she was going to
choose some lobsters to send to Caen. Besides, he could give a look at
the works on the way.

'Yes, do go,' said Pauline. 'It will please me if you do. Take his arm,
Louise. There, now, don't let him get away again.'

She grew quite merry as the two others jokingly pushed each other
about; but when they had left the room she became very thoughtful,
and leaned over the edge of her bed to listen to their laughter and
footsteps dying away down the stairs.

A quarter of an hour later Véronique came in with the doctor. By-and-by
she installed herself at Pauline's bedside, but without abandoning
her saucepans, for she kept perpetually running to and fro between
the kitchen and the bedroom, spending an hour or so there, as she was
able, in the intervals of her work. She did not, however, take over all
the duties of nurse at once. Lazare came back in the evening after
going out with Louise, but he set off again the next morning; and each
succeeding day, carried away as he was, absorbed more and more in
outdoor life, his visits to Pauline grew shorter and shorter, till he
soon stayed only long enough to inquire after her. Pauline, too, always
told him to run off, if he merely spoke of sitting down; and when he
and Louise returned together she made them tell her all about their
walk, and grew quite bright amidst their animation and the touch of the
fresh breezes which still seemed to cling to their hair. They seemed
such good friends, and nothing else, that all her old suspicions of
them had vanished. And when she saw Véronique coming towards her, with
her draught in her hand, she cried out to her gaily:

'Oh! be off! You worry me!'

Sometimes she called Lazare to her to tell him to look after Louise, as
though she had been a child.

'See that she doesn't get bored. She wants amusing. Take her for a good
long walk; I shall get on very well without you for the rest of the
day.'

When she was left alone, her eyes seemed to be following them from a
distance. She spent her time in reading, waiting till she should be
strong again, for she was still so weak that it quite exhausted her to
sit up for two or three hours in an easy-chair. She would often let
her book slip on to her lap, while her thoughts dreamily wandered off
after her cousin and her friend. She wondered whether they were walking
along the beach, and had got to the caves, where it was so pleasant
on the sands amidst the fresh breezes and rising tide. In those long
reveries she fancied that the feeling of sorrow which depressed her
came merely from the fact that she was unable to be with them. She
soon grew weary of reading. The novels which lay about the house,
love-stories abounding in romantic falsity and treason, had always
offended her sense of honour, for she felt how impossible it would be,
after once giving her heart, to withdraw it again. Was it true, then,
that people's hearts could lie so, and that, after having once loved,
they could ever cease to love? She threw the books from her in disgust;
and with her wandering gaze saw, in imagination, her cousin bringing
her friend home, he supporting her weary steps, as they came along side
by side, whispering and laughing.

'Here is your draught, Mademoiselle,' suddenly said Véronique, whose
deep voice, coming from behind, aroused Pauline from her reverie with a
start.

By the end of the first week Lazare never came to her room without
first knocking. One morning as he opened the door he caught sight of
her, combing her hair as she sat up in bed, with her arms bare.

'Oh! I beg your pardon!' he cried, stepping back.

'What's the matter?' said she. 'Are you frightened of me?' Then he took
courage, but he was afraid lest he should embarrass her, and turned his
head aside until she had finished fastening up her hair.

A fortnight before, when he had thought that she was dying, he had
lifted her in his arms as though she had been a child, without
even noticing her nakedness. But now the very disorder of the room
disquieted him. And the girl herself, catching his feeling of
uneasiness, soon refrained from asking of him any of the little
services that he had lately been accustomed to render her.

'Shut the door, Véronique!' she cried one morning, as she heard the
young man's step on the landing. 'Put all those things out of sight and
give me that fichu.'

She was gradually growing stronger, and her great pleasure, when she
was able to stand up and lean against the window, was to watch the
progress that was being made with the defensive works. She could
distinctly hear the blows of the hammers, and see the gang of seven or
eight men, who bustled about like big ants over the yellowish shingle
on the beach. Between the tides they worked away energetically, but
they were obliged to retire before the rising water. It was with
special interest, too, that Pauline's eyes followed Lazare's white
jacket and Louise's pink gown, both of which glittered conspicuously
in the sun. She followed them constantly with her gaze, and could have
told their every action, almost their every gesture, throughout the
day. Now that the operations were being pushed so vigorously forward
they could no longer wander off together, or ramble to the caves inside
the cliffs; and thus Pauline constantly had them within half a mile of
her, always plainly visible beneath the wide expanse of sky, though
their stature was reduced by distance to that of dolls. Quite unknown
to herself, this jealous pleasure of accompanying them in fancy did
much to cheer her convalescence and recruit her strength.

'It amuses you, eh, to watch the workmen?' Véronique used to repeat
every day as she dusted the room. 'Well, it's much better for you than
reading. Whenever I try to read I get a headache. And, besides, when
one wants to get back strength, one must go and open one's mouth in the
sunshine like the turkeys do, and drink in great mouthfuls of it.'

Véronique was not naturally of a talkative nature; she was even
considered a little morose and taciturn; but with Pauline she chatted
freely from a friendly impulse, believing that she did the girl good.

'It's a funny piece of business all the same! But it seems to please
Monsieur Lazare. Though, indeed, he does not appear to be quite so full
of it just now as he was. But he is so proud and obstinate that he will
go on persisting in a thing, even if he is really sick to death of it.
And if he just leaves those drunken fellows for a minute, they drive
the nails in all crooked.'

After she had swept the floor under the bed she added:

'And as for the duchess--'

Pauline, who was scarcely listening to the woman, caught this word with
surprise.

'The duchess? Whom are you talking of?'

'Mademoiselle Louise, of course! Wouldn't anyone say that she had
sprung straight from Jupiter's thigh? If you were to go and look in her
room and see all her little pots and pomades and scents----Why, as soon
as ever you open the door, it all catches you at the throat, the place
smells so! But she can't match you in good looks, for all that!'

'Oh, nonsense! I'm a mere country girl,' Pauline said with a smile;
'Louise is very graceful and refined.'

'Well, she may be all that; but she hasn't got a pretty face, all the
same. I have had a good look at her when she has been washing herself;
and I know that, if I were a man, I shouldn't be long in making up my
mind between you.'

Carried off by her feeling of enthusiastic conviction, she came and
leaned against the window, close to Pauline.

'Just glance at her there on the beach! Doesn't she look a mere shrimp?
She is certainly a long way off, and one can't expect her to appear
as big as a church, but she ought to show a figure of some sort! Ah!
there's Monsieur Lazare lifting her up, so that she mayn't wet her
pretty little shoes. She can't weigh very much in his arms, that's
certain! But there are some men who seem to prefer bones!'

Véronique checked herself suddenly, as she felt Pauline quivering by
her side. She was ever harping on this subject, as if she itched to
talk of it. All that she heard and all that she saw--the conversations
in the evening when Pauline was calumniated, the furtive smiles of
Lazare and Louise, and the utter ingratitude of the whole family,
which was rapidly growing into treason--stuck in her throat and made
her choke. If she had gone up to the sick girl's room at the times
when her honest heart glowed with a sense of some fresh injustice, she
could not have restrained herself from revealing everything to Pauline,
but her fear of making her ill kept her stamping about her kitchen,
knocking her pots and pans about, and swearing that she could not go
on much longer in that way, but would soon be driven into telling them
all very roundly what she thought about them. However, when she got
upstairs into Pauline's room, and a word that might vex or disturb the
girl escaped her lips, she tried to recall it or explain it away with a
touching awkwardness.

'But, thank goodness, Monsieur Lazare isn't the kind to fall in love
with a bag of bones. He has been in Paris, and knows what's what. He
has too much good taste. Look! he has set her on the ground again just
as if he were throwing a match away!'

Then Véronique, in fear of letting her tongue slip again, began to
flourish her feather brush once more; while Pauline, buried in deep
thought, watched till evening Louise's pink gown and Lazare's white
jacket both gleaming in the distance amidst the dark forms of the
workmen. When she was beginning to feel fairly well again, Chanteau was
seized with another violent attack of the gout; and this induced the
young girl to come downstairs at once. The first time that she left her
room it was to go and sit by the sick man's bedside. As Madame Chanteau
said, very bitterly, the house was becoming quite a hospital. For some
time her husband had not left his chair. After repeated seizures his
whole body was now attacked by his foe; the disease mounted from his
feet to his knees, and then to his elbows and hands. The little white
pearl on his ear had fallen away, but others, of larger size, had
appeared. All his joints became swollen, and spots of chalky tophus
showed whitely, like lobster's eyes, through his skin in all parts. It
was from chronic gout that he now suffered, chronic and incurable; the
kind of gout which stiffens and deforms the body.

'Good heavens! what agony I'm in!' Chanteau kept repeating. 'My left
knee is as stiff as a log; I can't move either my foot or my knee; and
my elbow burns as though it were on fire. Just look at it!'

Pauline looked, and observed an inflamed swelling on his left elbow.
He complained bitterly of the agony he was suffering there; indeed, it
very soon became unendurable. He kept his arm stiffly stretched, as he
sighed and groaned, with his eyes constantly fixed upon his hand, which
was a pitiable sight, with all the finger-joints knotted and swollen,
and the thumb warped as though it had been beaten with a hammer.

'I cannot keep like this. You must come and help me to move. I thought
just now that I had got myself fairly comfortable, but I am as bad
again as ever I was. It is just as though my bones were being scraped
with a saw. Try to raise me a little.'

Twenty times in an hour did he have to be helped to change his
position. He was in a continual state of anxious restlessness, always
hoping to find relief in some new change. But Pauline still felt too
weak to venture to move him without assistance.

'Véronique,' she would say softly, 'take hold of him very gently and
help me to move him.'

'No, no! not Véronique!' Chanteau would cry out, 'she shakes me so!'

Then Pauline was obliged to make the effort herself, and her shoulders
gave way under the strain. And, however gently she turned him round,
he groaned and screamed so terribly that Véronique rushed hastily out
of the room. She said that one needed to be a saint, like Mademoiselle
Pauline, to be able to do such work, for the good God Himself would run
away if He were to hear her master bellowing.

The paroxysms, however, became less acute, though they did not cease,
but recurred frequently both day and night, keeping the sick man in a
state of perpetual exasperation. It was no longer merely in his feet
that he felt as though sharp teeth were gnawing at him, his whole body
seemed bruised, as though it were being crushed beneath a millstone.
It was impossible to afford him any relief; all that Pauline could do
was to remain by his side and yield submissively to his caprices, ever
changing his position for him, though without succeeding in giving
him any lasting ease. The worst of the matter was that pain made him
unjust and violent, and he spoke to her harshly, as though she were a
very clumsy servant.

'Oh, stop! stop! you are as awkward as Véronique! Can't you manage it
without digging your fingers into my body like that? Your hands are as
clumsy as a gendarme's. Go away and leave me alone. I don't want you to
touch me any more.'

But Pauline, without a word of self-defence, showing a submissive
resignation nothing could ruffle, resumed her efforts with increased
gentleness. When she imagined he was getting irritated with her she
would conceal herself for a moment behind the curtains, hoping that
his anger would cool when he no longer saw her. And often she would
give way to silent tears in her hiding-place, not for the poor man's
harshness towards her, but for the frightful martyrdom which made him
so hasty and violent. She listened to him as he talked to himself
amidst his sighing and groaning.

'She has gone away, the heartless girl! Ah! if I were to die, there
would only be Minouche left to close my eyes. It is abominable to
desert a human being in this way! I'll be bound she's gone off to the
kitchen to have some broth!'

Then, after a little wrestling and struggling, he groaned more loudly,
and ended by calling: 'Pauline, are you there? Come and raise me a
little. I can't get easy as I am. Shall we try how the left side will
do--shall we?'

Every now and then he would be suddenly seized with deep regret, and
would beg the girl's pardon for having treated her unkindly. Sometimes
he would tell her to fetch Matthew, for the sake of having another
companion, fancying that the dog's presence would somehow or other
alleviate his pain. But it was in Minouche rather than in Matthew that
he found a faithful associate, for the cat revelled in the close, warm
atmosphere of sick rooms, and spent her days lying on a couch near the
bed. However, when the patient gave a more than usually loud cry she
seemed surprised, and turned upon him, sitting on her tail, and staring
at him with her big round eyes, in which glistened the indignant
astonishment of a sober philosophic nature whose tranquillity had been
deeply disturbed. What could possess him to make all that disagreeable
and useless noise?

Every time that Pauline went out of the room with Doctor Cazenove she
preferred the same request.

'Can't you inject a little morphia? It makes my heart bleed to hear
him.'

But the doctor refused. It would do no good; the paroxysms would return
again with increased violence. Since the salicylic treatment appeared
only to have aggravated the disease, he preferred not to try any other
drug. He spoke, however, of seeing what a milk diet might do as soon as
the violence of the attack was over. Until then the patient was to keep
to the most sparing diet and diuretic drinks, and nothing else.

'The truth is,' said Cazenove, 'that your uncle is a gourmand who is
now paying dearly for all his fine dishes. He has been eating game; I
know he has, for I saw the feathers in the yard. It will be much the
worse for him in the end. I have warned him over and over again that
the reason of his suffering is that, instead of denying himself such
things, he prefers to yield to his appetite and take the consequences.
But you yourself will act still more foolishly, my dear, if you
over-exert yourself and make yourself ill again. Do be careful! You
will, won't you? Your health still requires looking after.'

But she looked after it very little; she devoted herself to her uncle
entirely, and all notion of time and even of life itself seemed to
depart from her during the long days and nights that she passed by his
bedside, with her ears buzzing with the groans and cries which ever
filled the room. Her devotion and self-sacrifice were so complete that
she actually forgot all about Louise and Lazare. She just exchanged
a few words with them now and then, when she ran across them as she
passed through the dining-room. By this time the work on the shore was
finished, and heavy rains had kept the young people in the house for
a week past; and, when the idea that they were together once suddenly
occurred to Pauline, she felt quite happy to know that they were near
her.

Never before had Madame Chanteau appeared so busy. She was taking
advantage, she said, of the confusion into which her husband's illness
threw the household to go through her papers, make up her accounts,
and clear off arrears of correspondence. So in the afternoons she shut
herself up in her bedroom, leaving Louise to her own resources; and the
girl immediately went upstairs to Lazare, for she detested being alone.
They thus got into the way of being together, remaining undisturbed
till dinner-time in the big room on the second floor, that room which
had so long served Pauline both for study and amusement. The young
man's little iron bedstead was still there, hidden away behind the
screen. The piano was covered with dust, and the table buried beneath
an accumulation of papers, books, and pamphlets. In the middle of it,
between two piles of dry seaweed, was a little model of a stockade, cut
out of deal with a knife, and recalling the grandfather's masterpiece,
the bridge which, in its glass case, adorned the mantelpiece in the
dining-room.

For some time Lazare had been falling into a nervous condition. His
workmen had irritated him, and he had just rid himself of the works
on the shore as of a burden beyond his strength, without tasting the
pleasure of seeing his work accomplished. Other plans now filled his
head--vague projects for the future, appointments at Caen, operations
which would bring him great fame. Yet he never took any definite
active steps, but relapsed into a state of idleness which seemed to
render him weaker, less courageous, every hour. The great shock which
he had received from Pauline's illness added to mental disquietude a
perpetual craving for the open air, a peculiar physical longing, as
though he felt some imperious necessity of recouping himself after
his struggle against pain and sorrow. The presence of Louise still
further excited his feverishness. She did not seem able to speak to him
without leaning upon his shoulder; she smiled close to his face, and
her cat-like graces, the warmth that came from her person, and all the
disturbing freedom of her manner quite turned his head. He was seized
with a feeling against which his conscience struggled. With a friend
of his childhood, in his mother's house, any idea of the sort, he told
himself, was not to be thought of for a moment; and his sense of honour
made his arms tingle with pain whenever he caught hold of Louise as
they played together, and a thrill sent his blood surging through his
veins. It was no thought of Pauline that kept him back. She would never
have known anything about the matter. Amidst all his strange fancies
he began to indulge in ferocious, pessimistic sallies respecting women
and love. Every evil originated in women, who were, said he, foolish
and fickle, and perpetuated grief by desire; while love was nothing but
delusion, the onslaught of future generations which wished to come into
existence. He thus retailed all Schopenhauer's views, over which the
blushing girl grew very merry.

By degrees Lazare became more deeply enamoured of her, genuine passion
arose from amidst his disdainful prejudices, and he threw himself
into that fresh love with all his early enthusiasm, which was still
straining after a happiness that ever seemed to evade him.

On Louise's side there had long been nothing but every-day coquetry.
She delighted in receiving attentions and compliments, and flirting
with pleasant men; and when one of them ceased to appear interested
in her she seemed quite melancholy and out of her element. If Lazare
neglected her for a moment or two, to write a letter, or to plunge into
one of his sudden apparently groundless fits of melancholy, she felt so
unhappy that she began to tease and provoke him, preferring danger to
neglect. Later on, however, she experienced some alarm as she felt the
young man's burning breath fanning her neck like a flame. But though
aware of the danger, she seemed unable to change her ways.

On the day when Chanteau's attack reached its worst point the whole
house shook with his bellowing: prolonged heart-rending plaints, like
the death-cries of a beast in the hands of the slaughterer. After
breakfast, of which she had hastily partaken in a state of nervous
irritation, Madame Chanteau rushed from the room, saying:

'I can't endure it any longer; I shall begin to scream myself if I stop
here. If anyone wants me, I shall be in my own room writing. And you,
Lazare, take Louise upstairs with you and try to amuse her, for the
poor girl is not having a very gay time here.'

They heard her bang her door on the first floor, while her son and the
girl climbed to the one above.

Pauline had gone back to her uncle. She, in her pity for so much
suffering, was the only one who retained her calmness. If she could
do nothing but just sit with him, she wished, at any rate, to afford
the poor man whatever comfort could be derived from not being left to
suffer in solitude. She fancied that he bore up more bravely against
his pain when she looked at him, even if she did not speak a single
word. For hours she would sit in this way by his bedside, and the gaze
of her big compassionate eyes indeed soothed him somewhat. But that
day, with his head hanging over the bolster, his arm stretched out,
and his elbow racked with agony, he did not even recognise her, and
screamed yet more loudly whenever she approached him.

About four o'clock Pauline, in a state of desperation, went into the
kitchen to speak to Véronique, leaving the door open behind her, as she
intended returning immediately.

'Something must really be done,' she said. 'I should like to try some
cold compresses. The doctor says they are dangerous, though they are
successful sometimes. Can you give me some linen?'

Véronique was in a frightfully bad temper.

'Linen? I've just been upstairs to get some dusters, and a nice
reception I got! I had no business to come disturbing them up there!
Oh, it's a nice state of things!'

'But you might ask Lazare for some,' Pauline continued, without yet
understanding Véronique's remarks.

Then the servant, carried away by her anger, set her arms a-kimbo, and,
without taking time to think of what she was saying, burst out: 'Yes, I
should think so, indeed! They are much too busy gallivanting up there!'

'What do you mean?' the girl stammered, growing very pale.

Véronique, alarmed at what she had said, attempted to recall those
words which she had so long been keeping to herself. She tried to
think of some explanation, some fib to tell Pauline, but she could hit
upon nothing that seemed of any service. By way of precaution she had
grasped the girl's wrists, but Pauline freed herself with a sudden
jerk, and bounded wildly up the staircase, so choked, so convulsed
by anger that Véronique dared not follow her, trembling as she did
with fear at the sight of that pallid face, which she could scarcely
recognise. The house seemed to be asleep; the upper floors were wrapped
in silence, and nothing but Chanteau's yell came from below to disturb
the perfect quietude. The girl sprang with a bound to the landing of
the first floor, where she jostled against her aunt, who stood there,
like a sentinel, barring any further advance. She had probably been
keeping guard in this way for some little time.

'Where are you going?' she asked.

Pauline, still choking with emotion, and exasperated at this hindrance
to her progress, could not at first answer.

'Let me pass!' she at last managed to stammer, making on angry gesture,
before which Madame Chanteau quailed. Then, with another bound she
rushed up to the second floor, while her aunt, rooted to the spot,
threw up her arms, but spoke no word. Pauline was possessed by one of
those stormy fits of rebellion which broke out amidst all the gentle
gaiety of her nature, and which, even when she was a mere child, had
afterwards left her in a prostrate fainting condition. For some years
past she believed that she had cured herself of them. But an impulse
of jealousy had just thrilled her so violently that she could not have
restrained herself without shattering herself entirely.

When she reached Lazare's door on the top floor, she threw herself
against it. The key was bent by her impetuous onset, and the door
clattered back against the wall. And the sight she then beheld
brought her indignation to a climax. Lazare was clasping Louise in
his arms against the wardrobe and raining kisses on her chin and
neck, she passive, half-fainting, unable to resist his embrace. They
had begun, no doubt, in mere sport, but the sport seemed likely to
have a disastrous ending. At Pauline's appearance there was a moment
of stupefaction. They all three looked at each other. Then, at last,
Pauline burst out:

'Oh! you hussy! you hussy!'

It was the girl's treason that angered her more than anything. With a
scornful gesture she pushed Lazare aside, as though he were a child
of whose pitiful weakness she was well aware. But this girl, her own
familiar friend, had stolen her husband from her while she was busy
nursing a sick man down below! She caught her by the shoulders, shook
her, and was scarcely able to keep from striking her.

'What do you mean by this? Tell me! You have been behaving infamously,
shamelessly! Do you hear me?'

Then Louise, still in a state of stupor, and with her eyes wandering
vacantly, stammered:

'He held me; I could not get away.'

'He! Why, he would have burst into tears if you had simply pushed him
with your little finger!'

The sight of the room itself increased her anger--that room where she
and Lazare had loved each other, where she, too, had felt her blood
pulse more quickly through her veins at the warm touch of the young
man's breath. What should she do to this girl to satisfy her vengeance?

Lazare, dazed, overcome with embarrassment, had just resolved to
attempt some interference, when Pauline dashed Louise from her so
violently that the girl's shoulders struck the wardrobe.

'Ah! I'm afraid of myself. Be off!'

And that was all she could now find to say. She chased the other
through the room, drove her out upon the landing and down the
staircase, crying after her perpetually:

'Be off! be off! Get your things together and be off!'

Madame Chanteau was still standing on the landing of the first floor.
The rapidity of the scene had given her no opportunity to interfere.
But she now recovered her power of speech and signed to Lazare to shut
himself in his own room, while she tried to soothe Pauline, pretending
at first to be very much surprised at what had happened. Meantime
Pauline, having driven Louise into her bedroom, still kept on repeating:

'Be off! be off!'

'What do you mean?' her aunt asked her. 'Why is she to be off? Are you
losing your head?'

Then the young girl stammered out the whole story. She was overcome
with disgust. To her frank, honourable nature such conduct appeared
utterly shameless and incapable of either excuse or pardon. The more
she thought about it the more indignant she felt, rebelling against it
all in her horror of deceit and her faithfulness of heart. When one had
once bestowed one's self, one could not withdraw the gift.

'Be off! Pack up your things at once and be off!' she repeated.

Louise, completely overcome, unable to find a word to say in her own
defence, had already opened her drawers to get her clothes together.
But Madame Chanteau was growing angry.

'Stay where you are, Louisette. Am I the mistress of my own house? Who
is it that presumes to give orders here and allows herself to send my
guests away? Such behaviour is infamous! We are not living in a slum
here!'

'Didn't you hear me, then?' cried Pauline. 'I caught her up there with
Lazare. He had her in his arms, and was kissing her!'

Madame Chanteau shrugged her shoulders. All her stored-up bitterness
broke out in words of base suspicion.

'They were only playing; where was the harm of it? When he was nursing
you in your room, did we ever interfere?'

The young girl's excitement suddenly subsided. She stood quite
motionless, pale, astounded at the accusation which was thus launched
against her. It was she who was now being arraigned as guilty; her aunt
appeared to suspect her of disgraceful conduct.

'What do you mean?' she cried. 'If you had really thought anything
wrong you would not have allowed it for a moment!'

'Well, you are not children! But I don't want my son to lead a whole
life of misconduct. And you had better leave off harassing those who
still remain honest women.'

For a moment Pauline continued silent, with her big pure eyes fixed
upon Madame Chanteau, who turned her own away. Then she went up the
stairs to her room, saying curtly:

'Very well, it is I who will leave.'

Then silence fell again, a heavy silence, in which the whole house
seemed to collapse. Athwart that sudden quietude Chanteau's groans
suddenly rose once more like those of an agonized deserted animal. They
seemed to grow louder and louder; they made themselves distinctly heard
till they drowned all other sound.

And now Madame Chanteau began to regret the words which had escaped
her. She recognised the irreparable nature of the insult, and felt much
disturbed in mind lest Pauline should actually carry out her threat
of immediate departure. With such a girl everything was possible,
and what would people say of herself and her husband if their ward
should set off scouring the country and telling the story of their
rupture? Perhaps she would take refuge with Doctor Cazenove, which
would certainly give rise to a dreadful scandal in the district. At the
bottom of Madame Chanteau's embarrassment there lurked a fear of the
past; of all the money which had been lost--a loss which might suddenly
be brought up against them.

'Don't cry, Louisette,' she said, feeling angry with Pauline again.
'Here we are, in a bother again all through her folly. She's always
going on in this mad, violent way. It's impossible to live quietly with
her. But I will try to make matters comfortable.'

'Oh no, let me go away, I beg you,' Louise cried. 'It would be too
painful for me to stop here. She is right; I had better go.'

'Not to-night, at any rate. I must see you safely to your father's
house. Just wait a moment, and I will go upstairs and see if she is
really packing her things.'

Madame Chanteau gently went upstairs and listened at Pauline's door.
She heard her walking hurriedly about the room, opening and shutting
her drawers. For a moment she thought of entering, provoking an
explanation, and bringing the affair to an end with a flood of tears.
But she was afraid; she felt that she would stammer and blush before
the girl, and this feeling served to increase her hatred of her. So,
instead of knocking at the door, she went downstairs to the kitchen,
treading as silently as she could. An idea had just occurred to her.

'Have you heard the row to which Mademoiselle Pauline has just been
treating us?' she asked Véronique, who had begun furiously polishing
her brass-ware.

The servant, with her head bent over the polish, made no answer.

'She is getting quite unbearable! I can do nothing with her. Would you
believe that she is actually talking about leaving us at once? She is
packing her things at this moment. I wish you would go upstairs and try
to reason with her.'

Then, as she still got no answer, she added:

'Are you deaf?'

'If I don't answer, it's because I don't choose,' Véronique cried
snappishly, bursting with angry excitement, and rubbing a candlestick
violently enough to hurt her fingers. 'She is quite right in going
away. If I had been in her place, I would have taken myself off long
ago.'

Madame Chanteau listened with gaping lips, quite stupefied by this
mutinous outburst of loquacity.

'I'm not talkative,' Véronique continued, 'but you mustn't press me
too far or I shall let out all I think. I should have liked to fling
Mademoiselle Pauline into the sea on the day you first brought her
here as a little girl, but I can't bear to see anyone ill-treated, and
you have all of you treated her so abominably that one of these days
I shall give anyone who hurts her a swinging box on the ears. You can
give me warning, if you like; I don't care a button; but I will let
her into some nice secrets. Yes, she shall know all about how you have
treated her, with all your fine pretences to honour and honesty.'

'Hold your tongue! You are quite mad!' cried Madame Chanteau, much
disquieted by this fresh explosion.

'No, I will not hold my tongue! It is all too shameful! Shameful, I
say! Do you hear me? I have been choking with it all for years and
years! Wasn't it bad enough of you to rob her of her money? Couldn't
you have been content with that, without tearing her poor little
heart to shreds? Oh yes! I know all about it; I have seen through all
your underhand plottings. Monsieur Lazare is perhaps not quite so
calculating as you are; but in other respects he's not much better than
you, for he wouldn't much mind giving her her death-blow out of mere
selfishness, just to save himself from feeling bored! Ah, me! there
are some people who come into this world only to be preyed upon and
devoured by others.'

She flourished the candlestick about, and then caught hold of a pan,
which rumbled like a drum under the violent rubbing she gave it. Madame
Chanteau had been sorely tempted to turn her out of the house at once,
but she succeeded in restraining herself and said to her icily:

'So you won't go up and speak to the girl? It would be for her own
good, to prevent her from committing a piece of folly.'

Véronique became silent again, but at last she growled out:

'I'll go up to her. Reason is reason, after all, and an inconsiderate
act never does any good.'

She stayed for a minute or two to wash her hands, and then took off her
dirty apron. When she opened the door in the passage to make her way to
the stairs a loud wail rushed in. It was the ceaseless heart-rending
wail of Chanteau. Madame Chanteau, who was following Véronique,
thereupon seemed struck with an idea, and exclaimed in an undertone,
emphasising her words:

'Tell her that she can't think of leaving her uncle in the dreadful
state in which he is. Do you hear?'

'Well, he certainly is bellowing hard; there's no doubt of that,'
Véronique replied.

She went up the stairs, while her mistress, who had stretched out her
hand towards her husband's room, purposely refrained from closing the
door. The sick man's groans ascended the staircase, increasing in
volume at every fresh storey. When Véronique reached Pauline's room
she found her just on the point of leaving, having fastened up in a
bundle what little linen she would absolutely require, and intending
to send old Malivoire to fetch the rest in the morning. She had calmed
down again, and, though very pale and low-spirited, was simply obeying
the dictates of her reason without any feeling of anger.

'Either she or I,' was the only answer she returned to all that
Véronique said, and she sedulously avoided mentioning Louise's name.

When Véronique conveyed this reply to Madame Chanteau, she found the
latter in Louise's room, where the girl, having dressed herself--for on
her side she was determined to go away--stood trembling, alarmed at the
slightest creaking of the door. Madame Chanteau was obliged to yield,
and sent to Verchemont for the baker's trap, saying that she would take
Louise to her Aunt Léonie at Arromanches. They would invent some story
to tell this lady; they would make the violence of Chanteau's attack a
pretext, alleging that his screams had become quite unendurable.

After the departure of the two ladies, whom Lazare safely seated in the
baker's trap, Véronique shouted in the passage at the top of her voice:

'You can come downstairs now, Mademoiselle Pauline; there is nobody
here.'

The house seemed empty; the heavy gloomy silence was broken only by
Chanteau's perpetual groans, which became louder and louder. As Pauline
came down the last step Lazare, returning to the house from the yard,
met her face to face. His whole body shook with a nervous trembling; he
paused for a moment, as though anxious to confess his fault and implore
forgiveness, but a rush of tears choked his voice, and he hurried up to
his own room, without having been able to say a word.

Chanteau was still lying with his head across the bolster and his arm
rigidly outstretched. He no longer dared make the slightest movement;
doubtless he had not even been aware of Pauline's absence, as he lay
there with his eyes closed and his mouth open to yell and groan. None
of the sounds of the house reached him; and all he thought of was to
complain as long and as loudly as his breath would let him. His cries
grew more and more desperate, till they at last seriously disturbed
Minouche, who had had a family of four kittens thrown away that
morning, and who, already quite forgetful of them, had been purring
lazily on an arm-chair.

When Pauline took her place again, her uncle howled so loudly that
the cat got up, unable to endure the din. She fixed her eyes steadily
on the sick man, with the indignation of a well-behaved person whose
serenity is disturbed. If she could not be allowed to purr in peace, it
would be impossible for her to stop there. And she took herself off,
with her tail in the air.




VI


When Madame Chanteau returned home again in the evening, a few minutes
before dinner, no further mention was made of Louise. She merely called
to Véronique to come and take her boots off. Her left foot was paining
her.

'Little wonder of that!' the servant murmured. 'It's quite swollen.'

The seams of the leather had indeed left crimson marks on the soft
white skin. Lazare, who had just come downstairs, looked at his
mother's foot and said:

'You have been walking too much.'

But she had really only walked through Arromanches. Besides the pain in
her foot, she that day experienced a difficulty in breathing, such as
had been increasingly affecting her at intervals for some months past.
Presently she began to blame her boots for the pain she was enduring.

'Those tiresome bootmakers don't ever seem to make the instep high
enough! As soon as ever I get my boots on I'm in a state of torture.'

However, as she felt no further pain after she had put on her slippers,
nothing more was thought of the matter. Next morning the swelling
had extended to her ankle, but by the following night it disappeared
altogether.

A week passed. From the very first dinner at which Pauline had again
found herself in the presence of Madame Chanteau and Lazare they had
all forced themselves to resume their ordinary demeanour towards each
other. No allusion was made to what had occurred; everything seemed
to be just the same as usual. The family life went on in the old
mechanical way, with the same customary expressions of affection, the
same good-mornings and good-nights, and the same lifeless kisses given
at fixed hours. A feeling of great relief came, however, that they
were at last able to wheel Chanteau to his place at table. This time
his knees had remained stiff with ankylosis, and he could not stand
upright. But none the less he enjoyed his freedom from actual pain,
and was so entirely wrapped up in egotistical satisfaction at his own
well-being that he never gave a thought to the joys or cares of the
other members of the family. When Madame Chanteau ventured to mention
Louise's sudden departure, he begged her not to speak to him of such
melancholy matters. Pauline, now freed from her attendance in her
uncle's room, tried to find some other means of occupying herself, but
she could not conceal the grief oppressing her. She found the evenings
especially painful, and her distress was plainly visible despite all
her affectation of calmness. Ostensibly everything was just the same as
usual, and the old every-day routine was gone through; but every now
and then a nervous gesture or even a momentary pause would make them
all conscious of the hidden breach, the rift of which they never spoke,
but which was, all the same, always widening.

At first Lazare had felt contempt for himself. The moral superiority
of Pauline, who was so upright and just, had filled him with shame
and vexation. Why had he lacked the courage to go to her, confess his
fault, and ask her pardon? He might have told her the whole truth,
how he had suddenly been excited and carried away by the presence of
Louise, whose glamour had intoxicated him; and his cousin was too
generous and large-hearted not to understand and make allowances. But
insurmountable embarrassment had kept him back; he felt afraid of
cutting a still more contemptible figure in the girl's eyes by entering
upon an explanation in which he would very likely stammer and hesitate
like a child. Beneath his hesitation, too, there lurked the fear of
telling another falsehood, for his thoughts were still full of Louise,
her image was perpetually haunting him. In spite of himself, his long
walks always seemed to lead him into the neighbourhood of Arromanches.
One evening he went right on to Aunt Léonie's little house and prowled
round it, hurriedly taking flight as he heard a shutter move, all
confusion at the baseness he had contemplated. It was the sense of
his own unworthiness that doubled his feeling of shame in Pauline's
presence; and he freely condemned himself, though he could not quench
his passion. The struggle was perpetually going on within his mind, and
never before had his natural irresolution proved such a source of pain
to him. He only had sufficient honesty and strength of purpose left
him to avoid Pauline and thus escape the last dishonour of perjuring
himself. It was possible that he still loved his cousin, but the
alluring image of her friend was ever before him, blotting out the past
and barring the future.

Pauline, on her side, waited for his defence and apology. In her first
outburst of indignation she had sworn that she would never forgive him.
Then she had begun to suffer secretly at finding that her forgiveness
had not been asked. Why did he keep silence, and seem so feverish and
restless, spending all his time out of doors, as though he were afraid
to find himself alone with her? She was quite ready to listen to him
and to forget everything, if only he would show a little repentance.
As the hoped-for explanation failed to come, she racked her mind to
find reasons for her cousin's silence. Her own pride kept her from
making the first advance; and, as the days painfully and slowly passed,
she succeeded in conquering herself so far as to resume all her old
cheerful activity. But beneath that brave show of calmness there lurked
everlasting unhappiness, and in her own room at night she burst into
fits of tears, and had to stifle the sound of her sobs by burying her
head in her pillow. Nobody spoke about the wedding, though it was
evident that they all thought of it. The autumn was coming on; what was
to be done? Nobody seemed to care to say anything on the matter; they
all avoided coming to a decision till they should feel able to discuss
it again.

It was about this time that Madame Chanteau completely lost her head.
She had always been excitable and restless, but the dim causes which
had undermined all her good principles had now reached a period of
great destructiveness. Never before had she found herself so completely
off her balance, so nervously feverish as now. The necessity for
restraint exasperated her torment. She suffered from her rageful
longing for money, which grew stronger day by day and ended by carrying
off her reason and her heart. She was continually attacking Pauline,
whom she now began to blame for Louise's departure, accusing her of
it as of an act of robbery that had despoiled her son. She felt an
ever-open wound which would not close; the smallest trifles assumed
monstrous proportions; she remembered the slightest incidents of the
horrid scene; she could still hear Pauline crying, 'Be off! Be off!'
And she began to imagine that she herself was being driven away,
that all the joy and the fortune of the family was being flung into
the streets. At night-time, as she rolled about in bed in a restless
semi-somnolent state, she even regretted that death had not freed them
from that accursed Pauline. Intricate schemes and calculations sprang
up in wild confusion in her brain, but she was never able to hit upon
any practicable means of getting rid of the girl.

At the same time a kind of reaction seemed to increase her affection
for her own son, and she worshipped him now almost more than she had
done when she had held him in her arms as an infant and had possessed
his undivided love. From morning till night she followed him with her
anxious eyes; and when they were alone together she would throw her
arms around him and kiss him, and beg him not to distress himself.
She swore to him that everything should be put right, that she would
strangle those who opposed her rather than have him unhappy. After a
fortnight of this continual struggling, her face had become as pale as
wax, though she grew no thinner. The swelling in her feet had twice
appeared again, and had then subsided.

One morning she rang for Véronique, to whom she showed her legs, which
had swollen to the thighs during the night.

'Just look at the state I'm in! Isn't it provoking? I wanted to go out
so much to-day, and now I shall be obliged to stay in bed! Don't say
anything about it for fear of alarming Lazare.'

She did not seem to be at all alarmed herself. She merely remarked that
she felt a little tired, and the members of the family simply supposed
that she was suffering from a slight attack of lumbago. As Lazare had
gone off on one of his rambles along the shore, and Pauline refrained
from entering her aunt's room, knowing that her presence there would be
unwelcome, the sick woman occupied herself by dinning furious charges
against her niece into the servant's ears. She seemed to have lost all
control of herself. The immobility to which she was condemned and the
palpitations of the heart which stifled her at the slightest movement
goaded her into ever-increasing exasperation.

'What's she doing downstairs? Up to some fresh wickedness, I'm sure!
She'll never think of bringing me even a glass of water, you'll see!'

'But, Madame,' urged Véronique, 'it is you who drive her from you.'

'Ah! you don't know her! There never was such a hypocrite as she
is. Before other people she pretends to be kind and generous, but
there's nothing she wouldn't do or say when your back's turned. Yes,
my good girl, you were the only one who saw things clearly on the day
I first brought her here. If she had never come, we shouldn't now be
in the state we are. She will prove the ruin of us all. Your master
has suffered all the agonies of the damned since she has been in
this house, and she has worried and distressed me till she has quite
undermined my health; while as for my son, she made him lose his head
entirely.'

'Oh, Madame! how can you say that when she is so kind and good to you
all?'

Right up to the evening Madame Chanteau thus unburdened herself of her
anger. She raved about everything, particularly about the abominable
way in which Louise had been turned out of the house, though it was the
money question that aroused her greatest anger. When Véronique, after
dinner, was able to go down to the kitchen again she found Pauline
there, occupying herself by putting the crockery away; and so the
servant, in her turn, took the opportunity of unburdening herself of
the angry indignation which was choking her.

'Ah! Mademoiselle, it is very good of you to bother about their plates.
If I were you, I should smash the whole lot to bits!'

'What for?' the girl asked in astonishment.

'Because, whatever you were to do, you couldn't come up to half of what
they accuse you of!'

Then she broke out angrily, raking up everything from the day of
Pauline's arrival there.

'It would put God Almighty Himself into a rage to see such things! She
has drained your money away sou by sou, and she has done it in the most
shameless manner imaginable. Upon my word, to hear her talk one would
suppose that it was she who had been keeping you. When she had your
money in her secrétaire she made ever so much fuss about keeping it
safe and untouched, but all that didn't prevent her greedy hands from
digging pretty big holes in it. It's a nice piece of play-acting that
she's been keeping up all this time, contriving to make you pay for
those salt workshops and then keeping the pot boiling with what was
left! Ah! I daresay you don't know, but if it hadn't been for you they
would all have starved! She got into a pretty flurry when the people
in Paris began to worry her about the accounts! Yes, indeed, you could
have had her sent right off to the assize court if you had liked. But
that didn't teach her any lesson; she's still robbing you, and she'll
end by stripping you of your very last copper. I daresay you think I'm
not speaking the truth, but I swear that I am! I have seen it all with
my eyes and heard it with my ears; and I have too much respect for
you, Mademoiselle, to tell you the worst things, such as how she went
on when you were ill and she couldn't go rummaging in your chest of
drawers.'

Pauline listened without finding a single word with which to interrupt
the narrative. The thought that the family were actually living upon
her and rapaciously plundering her had, indeed, frequently cast a
gloom over her happiest days. But she had always refused to allow her
mind to dwell on the subject; she had preferred to go on living in
ignorance and accusing herself secretly of avarice. To-day, however,
she had to hear the whole truth of the matter, and Véronique's
outspokenness seemed to make facts worse than she had believed. At
each fresh sentence the young girl's memory awoke within her; she
recalled old incidents, the exact meaning of which she had not at the
time understood, and she now saw clearly through all Madame Chanteau's
machinations to get hold of her money. Whilst listening she had slowly
dropped upon a chair, as though suddenly overcome with great fatigue,
and an expression of grief and pain appeared upon her lips.

'You are exaggerating!' she murmured.

'Exaggerating! I!' Véronique continued violently. 'It isn't so much
the money part of the business that makes me so angry. But what I
can't forgive her is for having taken Monsieur Lazare from you after
once having given him to you. Oh yes! it was very nice of her to rob
you of your money and then to turn against you because you were no
longer rich enough, and Monsieur Lazare must needs marry an heiress!
Yes, indeed; what do you think of it? They first pillage you, and
then toss you aside because you are no longer rich enough for them!
No, Mademoiselle, I will not give over! There is no need to tear
people's hearts to shreds after emptying their pockets. As you loved
your cousin, and it was his duty to pay you back with affection and
kindness, why, it was abominable of your aunt to steal him from you!
She did everything. I saw through it all! Yes, every evening she
excited the girl; she made her fall in love with the young man by all
her talk about him. As certainly as that lamp is shining, it was she
who threw them into each other's arms. Bah! she would have been only
too glad to have seen them compelled to marry; and it isn't her fault
if that didn't take place. Try and defend her if you can, she who
trampled you under foot and caused you so much grief, for you sob in
the night like a Magdalene! I can hear you from my room! I feel beside
myself with all that cruelty and injustice!'

'Don't say any more, I beseech you!' stammered Pauline, whose courage
failed her. 'You are giving me too great pain.'

Big tears rolled down her cheeks. She felt quite conscious that
Véronique was only telling her the truth, and her heart bled within
her. All the past sprang up before her eyes in lively reality, and she
again saw Lazare pressing Louise to his breast, while Madame Chanteau
kept guard on the landing. Ah, God! what had she done that everyone
should join in deceiving her, when she herself had kept faith with all?

'I beg you, say no more! I am choking with it all!'

Then Véronique, seeing that she was painfully overcome, contented
herself with adding:

'Well, it's for your sake and not for hers that I don't go on. She's
been spitting out a string of abominations about you ever since the
morning. She quite exhausts my patience and makes my blood boil when
I hear her turning all the kindnesses you've done her into evil. Yes,
indeed! She pretends that you have been the ruin of the family, and
that now you are killing her son! Go and listen at the door, if you
don't believe me!'

Then, as Pauline burst into a fit of sobbing, Véronique, quite
unnerved, flung her arms round her neck and kissed her hair, saying:

'There, there, Mademoiselle, I'll say no more. But it's only right that
you should know. It's too shameful for you to be treated in such a
way. But there, I won't say another word, so don't take on so!'

They were silent for a time, while the servant raked out the embers
still burning in the grate, but she could not refrain from growling:

'I know very well why she's swelling out! All her wickedness has
gathered in her knees!'

Pauline, who was looking intently at the tiled floor, her mind upset
and heavy with grief, raised her eyes and asked Véronique what she
meant. Had the swelling, then, come back again? The servant showed some
embarrassment, as she had to break the promise of silence which she
had given to Madame Chanteau. Though she allowed herself full liberty
to judge her mistress, she still obeyed her orders. Now, however, she
was obliged to admit that her legs had again swollen badly during the
night, though Monsieur Lazare was not to know it. While the servant
gave details of Madame Chanteau's condition the expression of Pauline's
face changed--depression gave place to anxiety. In spite of all that
she had just learned of the old lady's conduct, she was painfully
alarmed by the appearance of symptoms which she knew betokened grave
danger.

'But she mustn't be left alone like this!' she exclaimed, springing up.
'She is in danger!'

'In danger, indeed?' cried Véronique, unfeelingly. 'She doesn't at all
look like it, and she certainly doesn't think so herself, for she's
far too busy befouling other folks and giving herself airs in her
bed like a Pasha. Besides, she's asleep just now, and we must wait
till to-morrow, which is just the day when the Doctor always comes to
Bonneville.'

The next day it was no longer possible to conceal from Lazare his
mother's condition. All night long had Pauline listened, constantly
awakened from brief dozes, and ever believing that she heard groans
ascending through the floor. Then in the morning she fell into so deep
a sleep that it was only at nine o'clock she was roused by the slamming
of a door. When, after hastily dressing herself, she went downstairs
to make inquiries, she encountered Lazare on the landing of the first
floor. He had just left his mother's room. The swelling was reaching
her stomach, and Véronique had come to the conclusion that the young
man must be warned.

'Well?' asked Pauline.

At first Lazare, who looked utterly upset, made no reply. Yielding to a
habit that had grown upon him, he grasped his chin with his trembling
fingers, and when at last he tried to speak he could scarcely stammer:

'It is all over with her!'

He went upstairs to his own room with a dazed air. Pauline followed
him. When they reached that big room on the second floor, which she
had never entered since the day she had surprised Louise there in her
cousin's arms, Pauline closed the door and tried to reassure the young
man.

'You don't even know what is the matter with her. Wait till the Doctor
comes, at any rate, before you begin to alarm yourself. She is very
strong, and we may always hope for the best.'

But he was possessed by a sudden presentiment, and repeated obstinately:

'It is all over with her; all over.'

It was a perfectly unexpected blow, and quite overcame him. When he
had risen that morning, he had looked at the sea, as he always did,
yawning with boredom and complaining of the idiotic emptiness of life.
Then, his mother having shown him her knees, the sight of her poor
swollen limbs, puffed out by œdema, huge and pallid, looking already
like lifeless trunks, had thrilled him with panic-stricken tenderness.
It was always like this. At every moment fresh trouble came. Even now,
as he sat upon the edge of his big table, trembling from head to foot,
he did not dare to give the name of the disease whose symptoms he
had recognised. He had ever been haunted by a dread of heart disease
seizing upon himself and his relations, for his two years of medical
study had not sufficed to show him that all diseases were liable to
lead to death. To be stricken at the heart, at the very source of life,
that to him seemed the all-terrible, pitiless cause of death. And it
was this death that his mother was going to die, and which he himself
would infallibly die also in his own turn!

'Why should you distress yourself in this way?' Pauline asked him.
'Plenty of dropsical people live for a very long time. Don't you
remember Madame Simonnot? She died in the end of inflammation of the
lungs.'

But Lazare only shook his head. He was not a child, to be deceived
in that manner. His feet went on swinging to and fro, and he still
continued trembling, while he kept his eyes fixed persistently on the
window. Then, for the first time since their rupture, Pauline kissed
him on the brow in her old manner. They were together again, side by
side, in that big room, where they had grown up, and all their feeling
against one another had died away before the great grief which was
threatening them. The girl wiped the tears from her eyes, but Lazare
could not cry, and simply went on repeating, mechanically, as it were:
'It is all over with her; all over.'

When Doctor Cazenove called, about eleven o'clock, as he generally did
every week after his round through Bonneville, he appeared very much
astonished at finding Madame Chanteau in bed. 'What was the matter
with the dear lady?' he asked. He even grew jocular, and declared that
they were quite turning the house into an ambulance. But when he had
examined and sounded the patient, he became more serious, and, indeed,
needed all his great experience to conceal the fact that he was much
alarmed.

Madame Chanteau herself had no idea of the gravity of her condition.

'I hope you are going to get me out of this, Doctor,' she said gaily.
'There's only one thing I'm frightened about, and that is that this
swelling may stifle me if it goes on mounting higher and higher.'

'Oh! keep yourself easy about that,' he replied, smiling in turn. 'It
won't go any higher, and if it does we shall know how to stop it.'

Lazare, who had come into the room after the Doctor's examination,
listened to him trembling, burning to take him aside and question him,
so that he might know the worst.

'Now, my dear Madame,' Doctor Cazenove resumed, 'don't worry yourself.
I will come and have a little chat with you again to-morrow.
Good-morning; I will write my prescription downstairs.'

When they got down, Pauline prevented the Doctor and Lazare from
entering the dining-room, for in Chanteau's presence nothing more
serious than ordinary lumbago had ever been mentioned. The girl had
already put ink and paper on the table in the kitchen. And, noticing
their impatient anxiety, Doctor Cazenove confessed that the case was
a grave one; but he spoke in long and involved sentences, and avoided
telling them anything definite.

'You mean that it is all over with her, eh?' Lazare cried at last, in a
kind of irritation. 'It's the heart, isn't it?'

Pauline gave the Doctor a glance full of entreaty, which he understood.

'The heart? Well, I'm not quite so sure about that,' he replied. 'But,
at any rate, even if we can't quite cure her, she may go on for a long
time yet, with care.'

The young man shrugged his shoulders in the angry fashion of a child
who is not to be taken in by fine stories. Then he exclaimed:

'And you never gave me any warning, Doctor, though you attended her
quite recently! These dreadful diseases never come on all at once. Had
you no idea of it?'

'Well, yes,' Cazenove murmured, 'I had indeed noticed some faint
indications.'

Then, as Lazare broke out into a sneering laugh, he added:

'Listen to me, my fine fellow. I don't think that I'm a greater fool
than others, and yet this is not the first time when it has happened
to me to have had no inkling of what was coming, and to find myself
taken by surprise. It is absurd of you to expect us to be able to
know everything; it is already a great deal to be able to spell out
the first few lines of what is going on in that intricate piece of
mechanism--the human body.'

He seemed vexed, and dashed his pen about angrily as he wrote his
prescription, tearing the thin paper provided for him. The naval
surgeon cropped up once more in the brusque movements of his big frame.
However, when he stood up again, with his old face tanned brown with
the sea air, he softened as he saw both Pauline and Lazare hanging
their heads hopelessly in front of him.

'My poor children,' he said, 'we will try our best to bring her round.
You know that I never put on grand airs before you. So I tell you
frankly that I can say nothing. But it seems to me that there is, at
any rate, no immediate danger.'

Then he left the house, having ascertained that Lazare had a supply
of tincture of digitalis. The prescription simply ordered some
applications of this tincture to the patient's legs, and a few drops
of it to be taken in a glass of sugar and water. This treatment, said
the Doctor, would suffice for the moment; he would bring some pills
with him in the morning. It was possible, too, that he might make up
his mind to bleed her. Pauline went out with him to his gig in order
to ask him to tell her the real truth, but the real truth was that he
did not dare to say one thing or the other. When she returned into the
kitchen the girl found Lazare re-perusing the prescription. The mere
word digitalis had made him turn pale once more.

'Don't distress yourself so much,' said Véronique, who had begun to
pare some potatoes, as an excuse for remaining where they were and
hearing what was said. 'The doctors are all croakers. And surely there
can't be much the matter when they can't tell you what it is.'

They began to discuss the question round the bowl into which the cook
was cutting the potatoes, and Pauline appeared to grow a little easier
in her mind. She had gone that morning to kiss her aunt, and had found
her looking well. A person with cheeks like hers could not surely be
dying. But Lazare went on twisting the prescription with his feverish
fingers. The word digitalis blazed before his eyes. His mother was
doomed.

'I am going up again,' he said at last.

As he reached the door he seemed to hesitate, and turned to his cousin
and asked:

'Won't you come, just for a minute?'

Pauline then seemed to hesitate in her turn, and finally murmured:

'I'm afraid she mightn't be pleased if I did.'

And so, after a moment of silent embarrassment, Lazare went upstairs by
himself, without saying another word.

When Lazare, for fear lest his father should be disquieted by his
absence, appeared again at luncheon, he was very pale. From time to
time during the day a ring of the bell summoned Véronique, who ran up
with platefuls of soup, which the patient could scarcely be induced to
taste; and when she came downstairs again she told Pauline that the
poor young man was growing perfectly distracted. It was heart-breaking,
she said, to see him shivering with fever by his mother's bedside,
wringing his hands and with his face racked by grief, as though he
every moment feared that he should see her torn from him. About three
o'clock, as the servant came downstairs once more, she leant over
the balustrade and called to Pauline; and as the girl reached the
first-floor landing she said to her:

'You ought to go in, Mademoiselle, and help him a little. So much
the worse if it displeases her. She wants Monsieur Lazare to turn her
round, and he can only groan, without daring to touch her. And she
won't let me go near her!'

Pauline entered the room. Madame Chanteau lay back, propped up by three
pillows, and, as far as mere appearances went, if it had not been for
the quick, distressful breathing which set her shoulders heaving, she
might have been keeping her bed from sheer idleness. Lazare stood
before her, stammering:

'It's on your right side, then, that you want me to turn you?'

'Yes; just turn me a little. Ah! my poor boy, how difficult it seems to
make you understand!'

But Pauline had already taken hold gently of her aunt and turned her,
saying:

'Let me do it! I am used to doing it for my uncle. There! Are you
comfortable now?'

But Madame Chanteau irritably exclaimed that they were shaking her to
pieces. She seemed unable to make the slightest movement without being
almost suffocated, and for a moment, indeed, she lay panting, with her
face quite livid. Lazare had stepped behind the bed-curtains to conceal
his expression of despair; still, he remained present while Pauline
rubbed her aunt's legs with the tincture of digitalis. At first he
turned his head aside, but some fascination ever made his eyes return
to those swollen limbs, those inert masses of pale flesh, the sight of
which made him almost choke with agony. When his cousin saw how utterly
upset he was she thought it safer to send him out of the room. She went
up to him, and, as Madame Chanteau dozed off, tired out by the mere
changing of her position, she whispered to him softly:

'You would do better to go away.'

For a moment or two he resisted; his tears blinded him, Then he yielded
and went down, ashamed, and sobbing:

'Oh, God! God! I cannot endure it! I cannot endure it!'

When the sick woman again awoke, she did not at first notice her son's
absence. She seemed to be in a state of stupor, and as if egotistically
seeking to make sure that she was really alive. Pauline's presence
alone appeared to disquiet her, although the girl sat far away and
neither spoke nor moved. As her aunt bent forward, however, she felt
that she must just say a word to let her know why Lazare was absent.

'It is I. Don't worry. Lazare has gone to Verchemont, where he has to
see the carpenter.'

'All right,' Madame Chanteau murmured.

'You are not so ill that he should neglect his business, are you?'

'Oh! certainly not.'

From that moment she spoke but seldom of her son, notwithstanding
the adoration she had manifested for him only the previous night. He
became obliterated from the rest of her life, after being so long
the sole reason and object of her existence. The softening of her
brain, which was now beginning, merely left her a physical anxiety
about her own health. She accepted her niece's care and attendance,
without apparently being conscious of the change, merely following her
constantly with her eyes, as though she were troubled by increasing
suspicions as she saw the girl pass to and fro before the bed.

Lazare had gone down into the kitchen, where he remained nerveless,
beside himself. The whole house frightened him. He could not stay in
his own room, the emptiness of which oppressed him, and he dared not
cross the dining-room, where the sight of his father, quietly reading
a newspaper, threw him into sobs. So it was to the kitchen that he
constantly betook himself, as being the one warm, cheerful spot in the
house--one where he was comforted by the sight of Véronique, bustling
about amongst her pans, as in the old tranquil times. As she saw him
seat himself near the fireplace on a rush-bottomed chair, which he made
his own, she frankly told him what she thought of his lack of courage.

'It's not much use you are, Monsieur Lazare. It's poor Mademoiselle
Pauline who will have everything to do again. Anyone would suppose, to
see you, that there had never been a sick woman in the house before,
and yet, when your cousin nearly died of her sore throat, you nursed
her so attentively. Yes, you know you did, and you stayed with her for
a whole fortnight helping her to change her position whenever it was
necessary.'

Lazare listened to Véronique with a feeling of surprise. This
inconsistency of his had not struck him before, and he could not
understand his own illogical and varying feelings and thoughts.

'Yes; that is quite true,' he said, 'quite true.'

'You would not let anybody enter the room,' the servant continued,
'and Mademoiselle was even a more distressing sight than Madame is,
her suffering was so great. Whenever I came away from her room I felt
completely upset, and couldn't have eaten a mouthful of anything. But
now the mere sight of your mother in bed makes your heart faint. You
can't even take her a cup of gruel. Whatever your mother may be, you
ought to remember that she's still your mother.'

Lazare no longer heard her; he was gazing before him into space. At
last he said:

'I can't help it; I really can't. It's perhaps because it is my mother,
but I can't do anything. When I see her and those poor legs of hers,
and think that she is dying, something seems to be snapping inside me,
and I should burst out crying if I did not rush from the room.'

He began to tremble all over again. He had picked up a knife which
had fallen from the table, and gazed at it with his tear-dimmed eyes
without seeing it. For some time neither spoke. Véronique busied
herself over her soup, which was cooking, to conceal the emotion which
choked her. At last she resumed:

'You had better go down to the beach for a little while, Monsieur
Lazare. You bother me by always being here in my way. And take Matthew
with you. He is very tiresome, and no more knows what to do with
himself than you do. I have no end of trouble to keep him from going
upstairs to Madame's room.'

The next morning Doctor Cazenove was still doubtful. A sudden
catastrophe was possible, he said, or the patient might recover for
a longer or shorter time, if the swelling could be reduced. He gave
up the idea of bleeding her, and confined himself to ordering her
to take some pills which he brought, and to continue the use of the
tincture of digitalis. His air of vexation showed that he felt little
confidence in those remedies in a case of organic disorder, when the
successive derangement of every organ renders a physician's skill of
no avail. However, he was able to assure them that the sick woman
suffered no pain; and, indeed, Madame Chanteau made no complaint of
actual suffering. Her legs felt as heavy as lead, and she breathed with
constantly increasing difficulty whenever she moved; but, whilst she
lay there quietly on her back, her voice remained so firm and strong,
and her eyes so bright and clear, that even she herself was deceived
as to the gravity of her condition. Her son was the only one of those
around her who did not venture to be hopeful at seeing her looking so
calm. When the Doctor went away in his gig, he told them not to grieve
too much, for that it was a great mercy both for herself and for them
that she was quite unaware of her danger.

The first night had been a very hard one for Pauline. Reclining in
an easy chair, she had not been able to get any sleep, for the heavy
breathing of the sick woman constantly filled her ears. Whenever she
was on the point of dropping off, her aunt's breath seemed to shake
the house; and then, when she opened her eyes again, she felt sad and
oppressed; all the troubles which had been marring her life for the
last few months sprang up in her mind with fresh force. Even by the
side of that death-bed she could not feel at peace, she could not
constrain herself to forgive. Amidst her nightmare-like vigil during
the mournful night hours Véronique's assertions caused her great
torture. Old outbursts of anger and bitter jealousy surged up in her
again, as she mentally recapitulated the painful details. To be loved
no more! To find herself deceived, betrayed by those she had loved! And
to find herself all alone, full of contempt and revolt! Her heart's
wound opened and bled afresh, and never before had she experienced such
bitter pain from Lazare's insulting faithlessness. Since they had, so
to say, murdered her, it mattered little to her now who died! And,
amidst her aunt's heavy breathing, she went on brooding ceaselessly
over the robbery of her money and her affections.

The next morning she still felt contrary influences at work within her;
she experienced no return of affection; it was a sense of duty alone
which kept her in her aunt's room. The consciousness of this made her
unhappy, and she wondered if she too were growing as wicked as the
others. In this troubled state the day passed away, and, discontented
with herself, repelled by her aunt's suspicions, she forced herself
into attentive activity. Madame Chanteau received her ministrations
snappishly, and followed her movements with suspicious eyes, carefully
watching her every action. If she asked her niece for a handkerchief,
she always sniffed it before using it, and when she saw the girl bring
her a hot-water bottle she wanted to examine the jug.

'What's the matter with her?' Pauline whispered very softly to
Véronique. 'Does she think me capable of trying to do her harm?'

When Véronique gave her a dose of her draught after the Doctor had gone
away, Madame Chanteau, not noticing her niece, who was looking for some
linen in the wardrobe, inquired of the servant: 'Did the Doctor prepare
this?'

'No, Madame, it was Mademoiselle Pauline.'

Then the sick woman just sipped it with her lips, and made a grimace.

'Ah! it tastes of copper. I don't know what she has been making me
take, but I've never had the taste of copper out of my mouth since
yesterday.'

And suddenly she tossed the spoon away behind the bed. Véronique looked
on in amazement.

'Whatever's the matter? What an idea to get into your head!'

'I don't want to go away before my time,' replied Madame Chanteau, as
she laid her head back again upon her pillow. 'Listen! my lungs are
quite sound; and it's not impossible that she may go before I do, for
she isn't very healthy.'

Pauline had heard her. She turned with a heart-pang and looked at
Véronique; and instead of coming any nearer she stepped further away,
feeling quite ashamed of her aunt for her abominable suspicions. A
sudden change came over her feelings. The idea of that unhappy woman,
consumed by fear and hatred, moved her to the deepest pity; far from
feeling any increase of bitterness, it was sorrowful emotion that she
experienced as her eyes caught sight of all the medicine which her aunt
had thrown away under the bed, from a fear of being poisoned. Until
the evening she evinced persevering gentleness, and did not appear
to notice the distrustful glances with which her aunt followed every
motion of her hands. Her one ardent desire was to overcome the dying
woman's fears by affectionate attentions, in order that she might not
carry such frightful suspicions to the grave. And she forbade Véronique
to distress Lazare further by telling him the truth.

Only once since morning had Madame Chanteau asked for her son, and she
had appeared quite content with the first excuse made for his absence,
evincing no surprise at not seeing him again. She said nothing about
her husband, expressed no uneasiness whatever about his being left
alone in the dining-room. All the world was gradually disappearing for
her, and, minute by minute, the icy coldness of her limbs seemed to
mount higher till it chilled her very heart. Whenever meal-time came
round, Pauline had to go downstairs and tell some fib to her uncle.
In the evening she told one to Lazare as well, assuring him that the
swelling was subsiding.

In the night, however, the disease made alarming progress, and the
next morning, soon after daybreak, when Pauline and the servant beheld
the sick woman they were terrified by the wandering look in her eyes.
Her face was not changed, and there was no feverishness, but her mind
appeared to be failing her, a fixed idea seemed to be destroying her
reason. She had reached the last phase; her brain, gradually wrought
upon by a single absorbing passion, had now become a prey to insanity.

That morning, before Doctor Cazenove's arrival, they had a terrible
time. Madame Chanteau would not even let her niece come near her.

'Do let me nurse you, I beg you!' Pauline said. 'Just let me raise you
a little, as you are lying so uncomfortably.'

But her aunt began to struggle as though they were trying to suffocate
her.

'No, no! You have got a pair of scissors there! Ah! you are sticking
them into me! I can feel them! I can feel them! I'm bleeding all over!'

The heart-broken girl was obliged to keep at a distance from her aunt.
She was quite overcome with fatigue and distress, breaking down with
her useless kindly endeavours. She was obliged to put up with insults
and accusations which made her burst into tears before she could
induce her aunt to accept the slightest service from her. Sometimes
all her efforts were in vain, and she fell weeping upon a chair,
despairing of ever winning back again that affection of former days,
which was now replaced by insane animosity. Still she would become
all resignation once more, and strive to find some way of making her
assistance acceptable by manifesting even greater care and tenderness.
That morning, however, her persistent entreaties ended by provoking a
paroxysm which long left her trembling.

'Aunt,' she said, as she was preparing a dose of medicine, 'it's time
for you to take your draught. The Doctor, you know, particularly said
that you were to take it regularly.'

Madame Chanteau insisted upon seeing the bottle, and then smelt its
contents.

'Is it the same as I had yesterday?'

'Yes, aunt.'

'Then I won't have any of it!'

However, by much affectionate wheedling and entreaties, her niece
prevailed on her to take just one spoonful. The sick woman's face wore
an expression of deep suspicion, and no sooner was the spoonful of
physic in her mouth than she spat it out again upon the floor, torn by
a violent fit of coughing, and screaming out between her hiccoughs:

'It's vitriol! It is burning me!'

Amidst this supreme paroxysm her hatred and terror of Pauline,
which had gradually increased ever since the day when she had first
abstracted a twenty-franc piece of the other's money, now found vent
in a flood of wild words, to which the poor girl listened, quite
thunderstruck, unable to say a single syllable in her defence.

'Ah! you fancied I shouldn't detect it! You put verdigris and vitriol
into everything! It's that which is killing me! There was nothing the
matter with me, and I should have been able to get up this morning if
you hadn't mixed some verdigris with my broth yesterday evening. Yes,
you are tired of me, and want to get me buried and done with. But I'm
very tough, and it is I who will bury you yet.'

Her speech became thicker, she choked, and her lips turned so black
that an immediate catastrophe seemed probable.

'Oh! aunt, aunt!' cried Pauline, overcome with terror, 'you are making
yourself so much worse by going on like this!'

'Well, that's what you want, I'm sure! Oh! I know you. You have been
planning it for a long time; ever since you have been here your only
thought has been how to kill us off and get hold of our money. You
want to have the house for your own, and I am in your way. Ah! hussy,
I ought to have choked you the first day you came here! I hate you! I
hate you!'

Pauline stood there motionless, weeping in silence. Only one word
rose to her lips, as though in involuntary protest against her aunt's
accusations. 'Oh God! God!'

But Madame Chanteau was completely exhausted by the violence of her
fury, and her mad outburst gave place to a childish terror. She fell
back on her pillow, crying:

'Don't come near me! Don't touch me! If you do I shall scream out for
help! No, no! I won't drink it; it's poison!'

She pulled the bed-clothes over her with her twitching hands, buried
her head amongst the pillows, and kept her mouth tightly closed. When
her niece, who was terribly alarmed, came to her bedside to try to calm
her, she broke out into frightful screams.

'Aunt dear, be reasonable. I won't make you take any against your will.'

'Yes, you will! You've got the bottle! Oh! I'm terrified! I'm
terrified!'

She was almost at the last gasp; her head had got too low, and purple
blotches appeared upon her face. Pauline, imagining that her aunt was
dying, rang the bell for Véronique; and it was as much as the two of
them could do to raise her up and lay her properly on her pillows.

Then Pauline's own personal sufferings and heartaches disappeared
amidst her intense grief. She thought no more about the last wound
which her heart had received; all her passion and jealousy vanished
in presence of that great wretchedness. Every other feeling became
lost in one of deep pity, and she would have gladly endured injustice
and insult and have sacrificed herself still more if by so doing she
could only have given comfort and consolation to the others. She set
herself bravely to bear the principal share of life's woes; and from
that moment she never once gave way, but manifested beside her aunt's
death-bed all the quiet resignation which she had shown when threatened
by death herself. She was always ready; she never recoiled from
anything. Even her old gentle affection came back to her; she forgave
her aunt for all her mad violence during her paroxysms, and wept with
pity at finding that she had gradually become insane; forcing herself
to think of her as she had been in earlier years, loving her as she
had done on that stormy evening when she had first come with her to
Bonneville.

That day Doctor Cazenove did not call till after luncheon. An accident
had detained him at Verchemont; a farmer there had broken his arm,
and the Doctor had stayed to set it. After seeing Madame Chanteau he
came down into the kitchen, and made no attempt to conceal his alarm.
Lazare was sitting there by the fire, in that feverish idleness which
preyed upon him.

'There is no more hope, is there?' he asked. 'I was reading Bouillaud's
Treatise on the Diseases of the Heart again last night.'

Pauline, who had come downstairs with the Doctor, once more gave him an
entreating look, which prompted him to interrupt the young man in his
usual brusque fashion. Whenever an illness turned out badly, he always
showed a little anger.

'Ah! the heart, my good fellow, the heart seems to be the only idea
you have got! One can't be certain of anything. For my own part, I
believe it's rather the liver that is affected. But, of course, when
the machine gets out of order, everything in turn is more or less
affected--the lungs, the stomach, and the heart itself. Instead of
reading Bouillaud last night, which has only upset you, you would have
done much better to go to sleep.'

This dictum of the Doctor's was like an order given to the house. In
Lazare's presence it was always said that his mother was dying from a
diseased liver; but he refused to believe it, and spent his sleepless
hours in turning over the pages of his old books. He grew quite
confused over the different symptoms, and the remark made by the Doctor
that the various organs of the human body became successively deranged
only served to increase his alarm.

'Well,' he said with difficulty, 'how long, then, do you think she will
last?'

Cazenove made a gesture of doubt.

'A fortnight; perhaps a month. You had better not question me, for I
might make a mistake, and then you would be right in saying that we
know nothing and can do nothing. But the progress that the disease has
made since yesterday is terrible.'

Véronique, who was washing some glasses, looked at him in alarm. Could
it really be true, then, that Madame was so very ill and was going to
die? Until then she had been unable to believe there was any actual
danger, and had gone about her work muttering to herself of people
who tried to frighten folks out of pure malice. But she now seemed
stupefied, and when Pauline told her to go upstairs to Madame Chanteau,
that there might be some one with her, she wiped her hands on her
apron and left the kitchen, ejaculating:

'Oh, well, in that case--in that case----'

'We must not forget my uncle, Doctor,' said Pauline, who seemed to be
the only one who retained self-possession. 'Don't you think we ought to
warn him? Will you see him before you go?'

Just at that moment Abbé Horteur came in. He had only heard that
morning of what he called 'Madame Chanteau's indisposition.' When he
learned how seriously ill she really was, an expression of genuine
sorrow passed over his tanned face, so cheerful a moment before as he
came in from the fresh air. The poor lady! Could it be possible? She
who had seemed so well and strong only three days ago!

Then after a moment's silence he asked if he could see her; at the same
time glancing anxiously at Lazare, whom he knew to be little given to
religion. On that account he seemed to anticipate a refusal. But the
young man, who was quite broken down, did not appear to have noticed
the priest's question, and it was Pauline who answered it.

'No, not to-day, your reverence. She does not know the danger she is
in, and your presence might have an alarming effect upon her. We will
see to-morrow.'

'Very well,' the priest at once replied; 'there is no great urgency,
I hope. But we must all do our duty, you know. And as the Doctor here
refuses to believe in God----'

For the last moment or two the Doctor had been gazing earnestly at the
table, absorbed in thought, lost in a maze of doubt, as was always the
case when he could not overcome illness. He had just caught the Abbé's
last words, however, and he interrupted him, saying:

'Who told you that I didn't believe in God? God is not an
impossibility; one sees very strange things! And, after all, who can be
sure?'

Then he shook his head and roused himself from his reverie.

'Stay!' he went on, 'you shall come with me and shake hands with our
good friend Monsieur Chanteau. He will soon stand in need of all the
courage he can muster.'

'If you think it will cheer him at all,' the priest obligingly replied,
'I shall be glad to stay and play a few games of draughts with him.'

Then they both went off to the dining-room, while Pauline hastened back
to her aunt. Lazare, when he was left alone, rose and hesitated for a
moment as to whether he also should not go upstairs; then he went to
the dining-room door to listen to his father's voice, without mustering
enough courage to enter; and finally he came back to the kitchen again,
and sank down upon the same chair as before, surrendering himself to
his despair.

The priest and the Doctor had found Chanteau rolling a paper ball
across the table--a ball formed of a prospectus discovered inside a
newspaper. Minouche, who was lying near, looked on with her green eyes.
She appeared to disdain such an elementary plaything, for she had her
paws stowed away beneath her, never deigning to strike out at it with
her claws, though it had rolled close to her nose.

'Hallo! is it you?' cried Chanteau. 'It is very good of you to come and
see me. I'm very dull--all by myself. Well, Doctor, she's getting on
all right, I hope? Oh! I don't feel at all uneasy about her; she's by
far the strongest of all of us; she will see us all buried.'

It occurred to the Doctor that this would be a good opportunity for
informing Chanteau of the real state of affairs.

'Well, certainly, there's nothing very alarming in her condition, but
she seems to me to be very weak.'

'Ah! Doctor,' Chanteau exclaimed, 'you don't know her. She has an
incredible fund of strength; you will see her on her feet again in a
day or two!'

In his complete belief in his wife's vigorous constitution, he quite
failed to understand the Doctor's hints; and the latter, not wishing to
tell him the dreadful truth in plain words, could say no more. Besides,
he thought that it would be as well to wait a little longer; for just
then Chanteau was free from pain, his gout only troubling him in his
legs, though these were sufficiently incapacitated to make it necessary
to wheel him to bed in his chair.

'If it were not for these wretched legs of mine,' he said, 'I would go
upstairs and see her myself.'

'Resign yourself, my friend,' said Abbé Horteur, who in his turn now
tried to carry out his office of consoler. 'We each have our own cross
to bear, and we are all in the hands of God----'

But he did not fail to notice that these words, so far from consoling
Chanteau, only appeared to bore and even disquiet him, so he cut his
exhortation short and substituted for it something more efficacious.

'Would you like to have a game at draughts? It will do you good.'

He went in person to take the draught-board from the cupboard. Chanteau
was delighted, and shook hands with the Doctor, who then took his
departure. The two others were soon deep in their game, quite forgetful
of all else in the world, when all at once Minouche, who had probably
got tired of seeing the paper ball under her nose, sprang forward, sent
it spinning away, and bounded in wild antics after it all round the
room.

'What a capricious creature!' cried Chanteau, put out in his play. 'She
wouldn't have a game with me on any account a little while ago, and now
she prevents one from thinking by playing all by herself.'

'Never mind her, said the priest mildly: 'cats have their own way of
amusing themselves.'

Meantime, passing through the kitchen, Doctor Cazenove had experienced
sudden emotion on seeing Lazare still sorrowfully brooding on the
same chair; and he caught the young man in his big arms and kissed
him paternally without saying a word. Just at that moment Véronique
came downstairs, driving Matthew before her. The dog was perpetually
prowling about the staircase, making a sort of hissing sound, which
somewhat resembled the plaint of a bird; and, whenever he found the
door of the sick woman's room open, he went in and there vented those
sharp notes of his, which were ear-piercing in their persistency.

'Get away with you, do! Be off!' the servant cried. 'That noise of
yours isn't likely to do her any good.'

And as she caught sight of Lazare she added: 'Take him for a walk
somewhere. He will be out of our way, and it will do you good too.'

It was really an order of Pauline's that Véronique was conveying. The
girl had told her to get Lazare to go out and take some long walks.
But he refused to go; it even seemed to require an effort on his part
to get upon his feet. However, the dog came and stood before him, and
began wailing again.

'That poor Matthew isn't as young as he was once,' said the Doctor, who
was watching him.

'No indeed!' said Véronique. 'He is fourteen years old now, but that
doesn't prevent him from being as wild as ever after mice. Look how
he has rubbed the skin off his nose, and how red his eyes are! He
scented a mouse under the grate last night, and never closed his eyes
afterwards; he turned my kitchen upside down, poking about everywhere.
And such a great big dog, too, to worry about such tiny creatures, it's
quite ridiculous! But it isn't only mice that he runs after. Anything
that's little or crawls, newly hatched chickens or Minouche's kittens,
anything of that sort, excites him to such a point that he even forgets
to eat and drink. Just now I'm sure he scents something out of the
common in the house----'

She checked herself as she caught sight of Lazare's eyes filling with
tears.

'Go out for a walk, my lad,' the Doctor said to him. 'You can't be of
any use here, and it will do you good to go out a little.'

The young man at last rose painfully to his feet. 'Well, we'll go,' he
said. 'Come along, my poor old Matthew.'

When he had accompanied the Doctor to his gig, he set off along the
cliffs with the dog. From time to time he had to stop and wait for
Matthew, for the dog was really ageing quickly. His hind-quarters were
becoming paralysed, and his heavy paws sounded like slippers as he
dragged them along. He was now unable to go scooping out holes in the
kitchen-garden, and quickly rolled over with dizziness when he set
himself spinning after his tail. He had fits of coughing, too, whenever
he plunged into the water, and after a quarter of an hour's walk he
wanted to lie down and snore. He trudged along the beach just in front
of his master's legs.

Lazare stood for a moment watching a fishing-smack coming from
Port-en-Bessin, with its sail skimming over the sea like the wing of
a gull. Then he went his way. The thought that his mother was dying
kept on thrilling him painfully; if ever it left him for a moment, it
was only to come back and rack him more violently than before. And it
brought him perpetual surprise; it was an idea to which he could not
grow reconciled, and which prevented him from thinking of anything
else. If at times it lost distinctness he felt the vague oppression of
a nightmare, in which he remained conscious of some great impending
misfortune. Everything around him then seemed to disappear, and when he
again beheld the sands and seaweed, the distant sea and far-reaching
horizon, he started as if they were all new and strange to him. Could
they be the objects that were so familiar to his eyes? Everything
seemed to have changed; never before had he thus been struck by varying
forms and hues. His mother was dying! And he walked on and on, trying
to escape from that buzzing refrain which was ever sounding in his ears.

Suddenly he heard a deep sigh behind him. He turned and saw the dog
completely exhausted, with his tongue hanging from his mouth.

'Ah! my poor old Matthew,' he said to him, 'you can't get on any
farther. Well, we'll go back again. However far I may go, I shan't rid
myself of my thoughts.'

That evening they hurried over dinner. Lazare, who could only swallow
a few mouthfuls of bread, hastened away upstairs to his own room,
excusing himself to his father by alleging some pressing work. When
he reached the first floor, he went into his mother's room, where he
forced himself to sit for some five minutes before kissing her and
wishing her good-night. She seemed to be forgetting all about him, and
never expressed the least anxiety as to what he might be doing during
the day. When he bent over her, she offered him her cheek and seemed to
consider his hasty good-night quite natural, absorbed as she was in the
instinctive egotism which attends the approach of death. And Pauline
took care to cut his visit as short as possible by inventing an excuse
for sending him out of the room.

But in his own big room on the second floor his mental torment
increased. It was in the night, the long weary night, that his anguish
weighed heaviest upon him. He took up a supply of candles, so that he
might never be without a light, and he kept them burning, one after
another, till morning, terror-stricken by the thought of darkness. When
he got into bed he tried in vain to read. His old medical treatises
were the only books that had now any interest for him; but they filled
him with fear, and he ended by throwing them away. Then he remained
lying upon his back, with his eyes wide open, solely conscious of the
fact that close to him, on the other side of the wall, there was an
awful presence which weighed upon him and suffocated him. His dying
mother's panting breath was for ever in his ears, that panting breath
which had become so loud that for the last two days he had heard it
whenever he climbed the staircase, which he never ascended now without
hastening his steps.

The whole house seemed full of that plaint, which thrilled him as he
lay in bed; the occasional intervals of quiet inspiring him with such
alarm that he would run barefooted to the landing and lean over the
banisters to listen. Pauline and Véronique, who kept watch together
below, left the door of the room open for the sake of ventilation,
and Lazare could see the pale patch of sleepy light which the night
lamp threw upon the tiled floor, and could again hear his mother's
heavy panting, which became louder and more prolonged in the darkness.
When he went back to bed he, too, left his door open, and so intently
did he listen to his mother's breathing that even in the snatches of
sleep into which he fell towards morning he was still pursued by it.
His personal horror of death had vanished again as at the time of his
cousin's illness. His mother was going to die; everything was going to
die! He abandoned himself to the contemplation of that collapse of life
without any other feeling than one of exasperation at his powerlessness
to prevent it.

The next morning saw the commencement of Madame Chanteau's death agony,
a loquacious agony which lasted for twenty-four hours. She was calm,
the dread of poison no longer terrified her, but she rambled on rapidly
in a clear voice, without raising her head from her pillow. What she
said was in no way conversation; she did not address herself to anyone;
it was as though, in the general derangement of her faculties, her
brain hastened to finish its work like a clock running down. That flood
of rapid words seemed to be indeed the last tick-tack of the unwound
chain of her mind. The events of her past life defiled before her; but
she never said a word about the present, about her husband, or her son,
or her niece, or her home at Bonneville, where, with her ambitious
nature, she had suffered for ten long years. She was still Mademoiselle
de la Vignière, giving music-lessons in the most distinguished families
in Caen, and she familiarly spoke of people whom neither Pauline nor
Véronique had ever heard of. She broke out into long rambling stories,
whose details were incomprehensible even to the servant who had
grown old in her service. She seemed to be emptying her brain of the
recollections of her youth before she died; just as one may turn the
faded letters of former days out of a desk in which they have long been
lying.

In spite of her courage, Pauline could not help shuddering slightly as
all those little involuntary confessions were poured out in the very
throes of death. It was no longer difficult, panting breathing that
filled the room, but a weird, rambling babble, of which Lazare caught
fragments as he passed the door. But, however much he might turn them
over in his mind, he was unable to understand them, and grew full of
alarm, as though his mother were already speaking from the other side
of the grave amidst invisible beings to whom she was relating those
strange stories.

When Doctor Cazenove arrived he found Chanteau and Abbé Horteur playing
draughts in the dining-room. From all appearances, they might still
have been engaged on the game which they had commenced the day before,
and have never stirred from the room since the Doctor's previous visit.
Minouche sat near them, intently studying the draught-board. The priest
had arrived at an early hour to resume his duties as consoler. Pauline
no longer felt that his proposed visit to her aunt would be attended
with inconvenience; and so, when the Doctor went upstairs to see her,
the priest accompanied him to the sick woman's bedside, presenting
himself simply as a friend anxious to know how she was getting on.

Madame Chanteau recognised them both, and, having been raised up on
her pillows, she smilingly welcomed them with all the airs of a Caen
lady holding a reception. The dear Doctor was surely quite satisfied
with her, she said; she would soon be able to leave her bed. Then she
questioned the Abbé about his own health. The latter, who had come
upstairs with the intention of fulfilling his priestly duties, was
so overcome by the dying woman's rambling chatter that he could not
open his mouth; and, besides, Pauline, who was in the room, would
have stopped him if he had mentioned certain subjects. The girl had
sufficient control over herself to feign confident cheerfulness. When
the two men went away, she accompanied them to the landing, where the
Doctor, in low tones, gave her instructions as to what she should do
at the last moment. Such words as 'rapid decomposition' and 'carbolic
acid' were frequently mentioned, while the ceaseless chatter from the
dying woman still buzzed through the open doorway.

'You think, then, that she will see the day out?' the girl inquired.

'Yes, I feel sure that she will live till to-morrow,' Cazenove
answered. 'But don't lift her up any more, or she might die in your
arms. I shall come again this evening.'

It was settled that Abbé Horteur should remain with Chanteau and
gradually prepare him for the fatal issue. Véronique stood listening
near the door while this was being agreed upon, and her face assumed
a scared expression. Ever since the probability of her mistress's
death had become clear to her she had scarcely opened her lips, but
sought to render all possible service with the silent devotion of a
faithful animal. But the conversation was hushed, for Lazare, wandering
over the house, now came up the staircase; he had lacked the courage
to be present at the Doctor's visit and to inquire the truth as to
his mother's danger. However, the mournful silence with which he was
greeted forced the knowledge upon him in spite of himself, and he
turned very pale.

'My dear boy,' said the Doctor, 'you had better come along with me. I
will give you some lunch and bring you back with me in the evening.'

The young man turned yet more pallid and replied: 'No, thank you; I
would rather not go away.'

From that moment Lazare waited, feeling a terrible pressure upon his
breast, as if an iron band were drawn tightly round him. The day
seemed as though it would never end, and yet it passed away without
any consciousness on his part of how the hours went by. He had no
recollection of how he had spent them, wandering restlessly up and
down the stairs, and gazing out upon the distant sea, the sight of
whose ceaseless rocking dazed him yet more. At certain moments the
irresistible flight of the minutes seemed to be materialised, and to
become the onslaught of a mass of granite driving everything into the
abyss of nothingness. Then he grew exasperated and longed for the end,
in order that he might be released from the strain of that terrible
waiting. About four o'clock, as he was once more creeping up to his own
room, he turned suddenly aside and entered his mother's chamber. He
felt a desire to see her and kiss her once again. But, as he bent over
her, she went on pouring out her incoherent talk, and did not even turn
her cheek towards him in that weary manner with which she had received
him ever since the beginning of her illness. Perhaps she did not see
him, he thought; indeed, it was no longer his mother who lay there with
that livid face and lips already blackened.

'Go away,' Pauline said to him gently. 'Go out for a little while. I
assure you that the hour has not yet come.'

And then, instead of going up to his room, Lazare rushed downstairs and
out of the house, ever with the sight of that woeful face, which he
could no longer recognise, before him. He told himself that his cousin
had lied, that the hour was really at hand; but then he was stifling,
and needed space and air, and so he rushed on like a madman. The
thought that he would never, never again see his mother tortured him
terribly. But he fancied he heard some one running after him, and when
he turned and saw Matthew, who was trying to overtake him at a heavy
run, he flew without cause into a violent passion, and picked up stones
and hurled them at the dog, storming at him the while, to drive him
back to the house. Matthew, amazed at this reception, trotted back some
distance, and then turned and gazed at his master with his gentle eyes,
in which tears seemed to glisten. He persisted in following Lazare from
a distance, as though to keep watch over his despair, and the young
man found it impossible to drive him away. But the immensity of the
sea had an irritating effect upon Lazare, and he fled into the fields
and wandered about them, looking for out-of-the-way corners where he
could feel alone and concealed. He prowled up and down till night fell,
tramping over ploughed land, breaking his way through hedges. At last,
worn out, he was returning homewards, when he beheld a sight which
thrilled him with superstitious terror. At the edge of a lonely road
there stood a lofty poplar, black and solitary, over which the rising
moon showed like a yellow flame; and the tree suggested a gigantic
taper burning in the dusk at the bedside of some giantess lying out
there across the open country.

'Come, Matthew! Come!' he cried in a choking voice. 'Let us get on!'

He reached the house running, as he had left it. The dog had ventured
to draw near, and licked his hands.

Although the night had now fallen, there was no light in the kitchen.
It was empty and dark, with only the glow of the charcoal embers
reddening the ceiling. The gloom weighed upon Lazare, and he lacked
the courage to go further. Overcome with fear and emotion, he remained
standing amidst the litter of pots and dusters, and strained his ears
to catch the sounds with which the house was quivering. On one side he
heard a slight cough; it came from his father, to whom Abbé Horteur was
talking in low continuous tones. But what most frightened the young
man was the sound of hushed voices and hasty steps on the stairs,
and a muffled noise on the upper floor, which he could not account
for, though it suggested something being hurriedly accomplished with
as little noise as possible. He did not dare to go and see what it
meant. Could it be all was over? He was still standing there perfectly
motionless, without courage enough to go and inquire the truth, when he
saw Véronique come down. She rushed into the kitchen, lighted a candle,
and carried it away with her so hurriedly that she neither spoke to
the young man nor looked at him. The kitchen, after being lighted for
a moment, relapsed into darkness. Up above the stir was ceasing. Once
more did the servant come down, this time to get a bowl, and again she
displayed silent, desperate haste. Lazare no longer felt any doubt.
All must be over. Then, overcome, he sank down upon the edge of the
table, and waited amidst that darkness, without knowing for what he was
waiting, his ears buzzing the while in the deep silence that had just
fallen.

Upstairs, for two hours past, Madame Chanteau's last agony--an agony
so awful that it thrilled Pauline and Véronique with horror--had been
following its course. Her dread of poison having reappeared, she raised
herself up in bed, still wildly rambling on, gradually mastered by
furious delirium. She wished to jump out of bed and escape from the
house, where someone wanted to kill her; and it was all that the young
girl and the servant could do to restrain her.

'Let me go! I shall be murdered! I must escape at once, at once!'

Véronique tried to calm her.

'Oh! Madame, don't you see us? You can't suppose that we should let any
harm come to you.'

The dying woman, exhausted by her violent struggles, lay for a moment
panting. Her dim eyes wandered anxiously round the room, as though she
were looking for something. Then she resumed:

'Shut up the secrétaire! It is in the drawer. Ah! there she is coming
upstairs! Oh! I am afraid! I tell you that I can hear her! Don't give
her the key. Let me go, at once, at once!'

Then again she began to struggle, while Pauline held her in her arms.

'Aunt, there is no one here. There are only ourselves.'

'No! no! Listen! There she is! Oh, God! God! I shall die! The hussy
has made me drink it all--I am going to die! I am going to die!'

Her teeth chattered, and she sought protection in the arms of her
niece, whom she did not recognise. Pauline mournfully strained her to
her heart, no longer fighting against that horrible suspicion, but
resigning herself to the knowledge that her aunt would carry it to her
grave.

Fortunately Véronique was watching, and threw her arms forward crying:

'Take care, Mademoiselle! Take care!'

It was the supreme convulsive struggle. By a violent effort Madame
Chanteau had succeeded in throwing her swollen legs out of bed, and,
but for the servant's presence, she would have fallen on the floor. Her
whole body was shaken by delirium; she broke into incoherent spasmodic
cries, while her fists clenched as though she were engaging in a close
struggle, defending herself against some phantom that clutched her by
the throat. At that supreme moment she must have understood that she
was dying; there was an expression of intelligence in her eyes which
horror dilated. For a moment a frightful spasm of pain made her press
her hands to her breast. Then she fell back on her pillow and turned
black. She was dead.

Deep silence fell. Pauline closed her aunt's eyes, but she was
exhausted, and incapable of doing anything further. When she left the
room, leaving there both Véronique and Prouane's wife, whom she had
sent for after the Doctor's visit, her strength gave way; she was
obliged to sit down for a moment on the stairs, and no longer felt the
courage to go and tell Lazare and Chanteau the truth. The walls seemed
to be turning round her. A few minutes went by; then she again laid
her hand upon the banister, but on hearing Abbé Horteur's voice in the
dining-room she preferred to enter the kitchen. And there she found
Lazare, whose gloomy face showed against the red glow of the embers
in the grate. Without speaking a word she stepped towards him and
opened her arms. He understood, and threw himself upon the young girl's
shoulder, while she pressed him to her in a long embrace. They kissed
each other on the face, while she wept silently; but he was unable
to shed a single tear; emotion was stifling him, he could scarcely
breathe. At last the girl unclasped her arms, saying the first words
that came to her lips:

'Why are you here without a light?'

He made a gesture, as though to signify that he had no need of any
light in his great sorrow.

'We must light a candle,' she said.

Lazare had fallen upon a chair again, incapable, as he was, of keeping
on his feet. Matthew restlessly wandered about the yard, sniffing the
damp night air. At last he came back into the kitchen and looked keenly
at them in turn, and then went and rested his head on his master's
knee, remaining there and silently questioning him, with his eyes fixed
upon the young man's. Lazare began to tremble at the dog's persistent
gaze, and suddenly the tears gushed from his eyes and he burst into
sobs, throwing his arms the while round the neck of the old dog which
his mother had loved for fourteen years. And he began to stammer in
broken words:

'Ah! my poor old fellow! my poor old fellow! We shall never see her
again!'

Notwithstanding her emotion, Pauline had succeeded in finding and
lighting a candle. She made no attempt to console Lazare; she was glad
to find him able to shed tears. There was still a painful task before
her, that of informing her uncle of his wife's death. Just as she was
making up her mind to go into the dining-room, whither Véronique had
taken a lamp at the beginning of the evening, Abbé Horteur had managed
to explain to Chanteau, in long ecclesiastical phrases, that there
was no chance of his wife's recovery, and that her death was only a
question of hours. And so when the old man saw his niece enter the
room, overcome with emotion and her eyes red from weeping, he knew what
had happened, and his first words were:

'_Mon Dieu_! there was only one thing that I would have asked for: I
should have liked to see her once more while she lived!--But, ah, these
wretched legs of mine! These wretched legs!'

He said scarcely anything else. He shed a few bitter tears which
quickly dried, and vented a few sighs, but he speedily returned to
the subject of his legs, falling foul of them and ending by pitying
himself. For a few moments they discussed the possibility of carrying
him to the first floor in order that he might give the dead woman
a last kiss; but, apart from the difficulties of the task, they
considered that the emotion of such a farewell might have a dangerous
effect on him; and, besides, he did not seem very anxious about
the matter himself. So he remained in the dining-room near the
draught-board, without knowing how to occupy his poor weak hands, and
not even having his head clear enough, he said, to be able to read and
understand the newspaper. When they carried him to bed, old memories
seemed to awaken in him, for he shed many tears.

Then came two long nights and a day that seemed endless: those terrible
hours during which death dwells in the house. Cazenove had only
returned to certify the death, once more surprised by the rapidity with
which the end had come. Lazare did not go to bed the first night, but
spent his time till morning in writing to his relations at a distance.
The body was to be taken to the cemetery at Caen and buried in the
family vault there. The Doctor had kindly promised to see to all the
formalities, and the only painful matter in connection with them was
the necessity for Chanteau, as Mayor of Bonneville, to receive the
declaration of his wife's death. As Pauline had no suitable black
dress, she hastened to make one out of an old skirt and a merino shawl,
which she cut into a bodice. In the midst of these occupations the
first night and the following day passed; but the second night seemed
endless, rendered the more interminable by the mournful prospect of the
morrow. No one was able to get any sleep; the doors remained open, and
lighted candles were left upon the stairs and tables, while even the
most distant rooms reeked of carbolic acid. They were all in the grasp
of grief, and went about with blurred eyes and clammy lips, feeling but
one dim need, that of clutching hold of life once more.

At last, about ten o'clock the next morning, the bell of the little
church on the other side of the road began to toll. Out of respect
to Abbé Horteur, who had behaved so well and kindly under the sad
circumstances, the family had determined that the religious ceremony
should be performed at Bonneville, before the body was removed to the
cemetery at Caen. As soon as Chanteau heard the bell toll, he began to
wriggle about in his chair.

'I must see her go away, at any rate,' he repeated, 'Oh! these
wretched legs of mine! What a misery it is to have such wretched legs
as mine are!'

It was to no purpose that they tried to keep him from beholding the
mournful spectacle. As the bell began to toll more quickly, he grew
angry and exclaimed:

'Wheel me out into the passage. I can hear them bringing her down. Be
quick! be quick! I must see her go away!'

Pauline and Lazare, who were in full mourning and had already put on
their gloves, were obliged to do as he bade them. Standing, the one
on his right and the other on his left, they wheeled the arm-chair
to the foot of the staircase. Four men were just bringing the corpse
downstairs, bending beneath its great weight. As Chanteau caught sight
of the coffin, with its new wood and glittering handles and large brass
name-plate, he made an instinctive effort to rise, but his leaden
legs kept him down, and he was obliged to remain seated in his chair,
shaken by such a convulsive trembling that his very jaws chattered. The
narrowness of the staircase made the descent difficult, and he gazed at
the big yellow box as it slowly came towards him, and, as it passed his
feet, he bent over to read the inscription on the plate. There was more
room in the passage, whence the bearers moved quickly towards the bier,
which was standing before the door. Chanteau's eyes were still fixed on
the coffin, and with it he saw forty years of his life depart, happy
years and unhappy years, which he sadly regretted, as one ever does
regret one's youth. Pauline and Lazare were weeping behind his chair.

'No, no! Leave me here!' he said to them, as he saw them prepare to
wheel him back again to his place in the dining-room. 'You go along; I
will stay here and watch.'

The bearers had laid the coffin on the bier, which was lifted by some
other attendants. The little procession was formed in the yard, which
was full of people of the neighbourhood. Matthew, who had been shut up
since early morning, was whining from under the door of the coach-house
amidst the profound silence; while Minouche, seated on the kitchen
window-sill, examined with an air of surprise both the concourse of
people and the box that was being carried away. As they still continued
to linger, the cat grew tired of watching and began to lick her stomach.

'You are not going, then?' Chanteau said to Véronique, whom he had just
perceived near him.

'No, sir,' she replied in a choking voice. 'Mademoiselle told me to
stay with you.'

The church-bell was still tolling, and at last the coffin left
the yard, followed by Pauline and Lazare, whose blackness seemed
intensified by the sunlight. And, sitting in his invalid's chair in the
open doorway of the hall, Chanteau watched his wife's body being borne
away.




VII


The funeral matters and certain business affairs that had to be
attended to detained Lazare and Pauline in Caen for a couple of days.
When they set out on their journey home, after paying a farewell visit
to the cemetery, the weather had broken up and there was a strong
gale blowing. They left Arromanches in a storm of rain, and the wind
blew so strongly that it threatened to carry the hood of their trap
away. Pauline thought of her first journey when Madame Chanteau had
brought her from Paris. It was just such a stormy day as this, and
her poor aunt had kept warning her not to lean out of the conveyance,
while perpetually refastening a muffler that she wore round her neck.
Lazare, too, in his corner of the trap, sat thinking of the past, and
in his mind's eye saw his mother waiting to welcome him after each of
his journeys along that road as she had ever done. One December, he
remembered, she had walked a couple of leagues to meet him, and he had
found her seated on yonder milestone. Thus reflecting, amidst the rain
which poured unceasingly, the girl and her cousin did not exchange a
single word between Arromanches and Bonneville.

Just as they were reaching home, however, the downpour stopped, but the
wind's violence increased, and the driver was obliged to alight from
his seat and take hold of the horse's bridle. At the moment of reaching
the house Houtelard, the fisherman, ran past them.

'Ah! Monsieur Lazare!' he cried; 'it's all done for this time! The
sea's breaking all your timbers to bits down yonder!'

The sea was not visible from that bend of the road. The young man, who
had raised his head, had just caught sight of Véronique standing on the
terrace and gazing towards the shore. On the other side, sheltering
himself behind his garden wall, for fear lest the wind should rend his
cassock, Abbé Horteur stood straining his eyes in the same direction.
He bent forward and cried:

'It's washing your piles away!'

Thereupon Lazare walked down the hill, followed by Pauline, in spite of
the storminess of the weather. When they came to the foot of the cliff
they were amazed by the sight which they beheld. It was one of the
September flood-tides, and the sea was rushing up in wild commotion.
No warning had been issued of any probable danger, but the gale, which
had been blowing from the north since the previous day, had thrown the
sea into such tumult that mountains of water towered up in the distance
and, rolling onward, broke with a mighty roar over the rocks. In the
far distance the sea looked black beneath the shadow of the clouds
which raced over the livid sky.

'Get into the trap again,' said the young man to his cousin. 'I will
just see how things look, and come back directly.'

Pauline made no reply, but followed Lazare as far as the shore. There
the piles and a great stockade which had been recently constructed were
being subjected to a frightful assault. The waves, which ever seemed
to be growing larger, rushed against them in quick succession, like
so many battering-rams. They came on like an innumerable army; fresh
masses sprang forward without a moment's cessation. Their huge green
backs, crested with foam, curved on every side, and sped forward with
giant strength; and, as these monsters dashed against the stockades,
they burst into a mighty rain of drops, then fell in a mass of white
boiling foam, which the sea seemed to suck in and carry away. The
timbers cracked beneath the violence of each of those furious onsets.
The supports of one groyne were already broken, and a great central
beam, still secured at one end, swayed hopelessly like the dead trunk
of a tree whose branches had been stripped off by grape-shot. Two
others offered more resistance, but they were shaking in their fixings,
as though gradually overpowered in that surging grasp, which seemed
bent on wearing out their strength in order to dash them to pieces.

'I told you how it would be!' repeated Prouane, who was very drunk, and
stood leaning against the broken shell of an old boat. 'I told you how
it would be when the wind blew like this. A lot the sea cares about
that young man and his bits of sticks!'

Jeers greeted these words. All Bonneville was there, men, women, and
children; and they were all very much amused at seeing the thundering
slaps which fell upon the stockades. The sea might smash their hovels
to fragments; they still loved it with an admiring awe, and they would
have felt it a personal insult if the first young man who tried had
been able to conquer it with a few beams and a couple of dozen bolts.
And they grew excited as with a feeling of individual triumph as they
saw the sea at last awake, unmuzzle itself, and throw its great jaws
forward.

'Look! look!' cried Houtelard. 'That's a smasher! It has swept a couple
of beams away!'

They called to each other, and Cuche tried to reckon up the waves.

'It will take three more, and then you'll see! There's one! That's
loosened it! There's two! Ah! that's swept it away! Two have sufficed
to do it, you see! Ah, the old hussy she is!'

He referred to the sea, uttering the word 'hussy' as if it were a
term of endearment. Affectionate oaths arose, children began to dance
whenever a heavier wave than usual crashed and snapped another of the
timbers. Yet another broke, and yet another; there would soon be not
one left, they would all be crushed like fleas. But though the tide
still rose, the great stockade still remained firm. It was the sea's
struggle against this which was most anxiously awaited, for it would
be the decisive contest. At last the mounting waves dashed between the
timbers, and the spectators prepared themselves to laugh.

'It's a pity the young man isn't here,' said that rascal Tourmal in a
jeering voice, 'or he might lean against it and try to keep it up.'

A 'Hush!' made him silent, for some of the fishermen had just caught
sight of Lazare and Pauline. The latter, who were very pale, had heard
Tourmal's sneer, and they continued to gaze at the disaster in silence.
It was a mere trifle, the smashing of those beams, but the tide would
go on rising for another two hours, and the village would certainly
suffer if the stockade did not hold out. Lazare had passed his arm
round his cousin's waist, and was holding her close to him to protect
her from the squalls which, as cutting as scythe-blades, blew against
them. A mournful gloom fell from the black sky and the waves howled,
and the two young people, in their deep mourning, remained motionless
amidst the flying foam and the clamour that was ever growing louder.
Around them the fishermen were now waiting, still with a jeering
expression on their lips, but feeling increasing anxiety.

'It won't last much longer now!' Houtelard murmured. The stockade still
resisted, however. At each wave that struck it its black, pitch-coated
timbers still showed forth amidst the white waters. But as soon as
one of the beams was broken, the adjoining ones began to fall away,
piece by piece. For fifty years past the oldest men there had not
known such a heavy sea. Soon they had to retire, the beams which had
been torn away were dashed violently against the others, and gradually
wrought the complete destruction of the stockade, whose fragments were
furiously hurled ashore. There was but one left upright, standing
there like a post marking a sandbank. The Bonneville folks had given
over laughing now; the women were carrying off their crying children.
The 'hussy' had fallen upon them again, and the stupor that came of
despairing resignation to the ruin which was certainly at hand now
fell on that little spot, nestling so closely to the sea which both
supported and destroyed it. There was a hasty retreat, a gallop of
heavy boots. Everyone took refuge behind the walls of shingle, by
which alone the houses were now protected. Some of the piles here were
already yielding, planks had been knocked out, and enormous waves
swept right over the walls which were too low to stay their course.
Soon there was nothing left to offer resistance, and a mass of water,
dashing against Houtelard's house, smashed the windows and deluged the
kitchen. Then there came perfect rout, and only the victorious sea
remained dashing unimpeded up the beach.

'Don't go inside!' the men shouted to Houtelard. 'The roof will fall
in.'

Lazare and Pauline had slowly retired before the flood. It was
impossible to render any assistance, and, climbing the hill homewards,
they were about half-way up it when the girl turned, and gave a last
look at the threatened village.

'Poor people!' she murmured.

But Lazare could not pardon them for their idiotic laughter. He was
wounded to the heart by that disaster, which for him was a personal
defeat; and, making an angry gesture, he at last opened his mouth and
growled:

'Let the sea lie in their beds, since they're so fond of it! I
certainly won't try to prevent it!'

Véronique came to meet them with an umbrella, for the rain had begun
falling heavily again. Abbé Horteur, who was still sheltering himself
behind his wall, called a few words to them which they could not catch.
The frightful weather, the destruction of the stockade, and the woe
and danger in which they were leaving the village, cast additional
sadness upon their return home. The house seemed cold and bare as they
entered it; nothing but the wind, with its ceaseless moaning, disturbed
the silence of the mournful rooms. Chanteau, who was dozing before a
coke-fire, began to cry as soon as they appeared. They refrained from
going upstairs to change their clothes, in order that they might escape
the terrible associations of the staircase. The table was already laid
and the lamp lighted, so they sat down to dinner immediately.

It was a sinister night; the deafening shocks of the waves, which made
the walls tremble, broke in upon the few words that were spoken. When
Véronique brought the tea into the room she announced that Houtelard's
house and five others were already swept away, and that half the
village would certainly share the same fate this time. Chanteau, in
despair at not yet having recovered his mental equilibrium after the
sufferings he had gone through, silenced her by saying that he had
enough troubles of his own, and didn't want to hear about those of
other people. When they had put him to bed, the others went off to rest
also, worn out as they were with fatigue. Lazare kept a light burning
till morning; and half a score times at least during the night Pauline
anxiously slipped out of bed and gently opened her door to listen; but
only death-like silence now ascended from the first floor.

The next day there commenced for the young man a succession of those
lingering, poignant hours which come in the train of great sorrows. He
awoke with the sensation of recovering from unconsciousness after some
painful fall, from which his body was still stiff and bruised. Now that
the troubled dreams which had oppressed him had passed away, his mind
vividly recalled the past. Each little detail presented itself clearly
before him, and he lived all his griefs again. The reality of death,
which had never been within his personal experience, was brought home
to him by the loss of his poor mother, who had been so suddenly carried
off after a few days' illness. His horror of ceasing to be seemed to
assume a more tangible form. There had been four of them, but now there
was a yawning gap in their midst, and three of them were left behind
to shiver painfully in their wretchedness, and cling desperately to
each other in their attempts to regain some fragment of lost vital
warmth. This, then, was death: this was the 'Nevermore'--a circling of
trembling arms around a shadow, of which naught remained save a wild
regret.

Every hour, as the image of his mother arose before him, Lazare seemed
to be losing her over again. At first he had not suffered so much,
not even when his cousin had come downstairs and thrown herself into
his arms, nor during the prolonged misery of the funeral. It was only
since his return to the empty house that he had felt the full weight
of his loss; and he grew wild with remorse that he had not wept more
and manifested greater grief while there yet remained in the house
something of her who was now for ever gone.

Sometimes he would almost choke with sobs as he reproached himself
with not having loved his mother sufficiently. He was perpetually
recalling her; and her form was ever before his eyes. When he went up
the stairs he half expected to see her come out of her room with the
quick, short steps with which she had been wont to hurry along the
landing. He often turned, fancying he heard her behind him, and he was
so absorbed in thinking of her that sometimes he even felt sure that he
heard the rustling of her dress behind the door. At night he did not
dare to extinguish his candle, and in the dim light he fancied that he
heard furtive sounds approaching his bed, and a faint breath hovering
over his brow. His grief, instead of being assuaged, grew keener; at
the least recollection came a nervous shock, a vivid but fugitive
apparition, which, as it faded away, left him in all the anguish which
the thought of death inspired.

Everything in the house reminded him of his mother. Her room remained
untouched; nothing had been changed, a thimble was still lying upon
the table beside a piece of embroidery. The clock on the mantelpiece
had been stopped at twenty-three minutes to eight, the time of her
death. He usually shunned the room, though sometimes, as he was
hastily rushing upstairs, a sudden impulse constrained him to enter
it; and then, as his heart throbbed wildly within him, it seemed to
him that the old familiar furniture--the secrétaire, the table, and
especially the bed--had acquired an awe-inspiring aspect, which made
them different from what they had formerly been. Through the shutters,
which were kept closed, there filtered a pale light, whose vague
glimmer added to his distress as he went to kiss the pillow on which
his mother's head had lain in the icy cold of death. One morning when
he went into the room he paused astounded. The shutters had been thrown
wide open and the full light of day poured into the chamber. A bright
sheet of sunshine streamed over the bed to the very pillow, and the
room was decked with flowers, placed in all the vases that the house
possessed. Then he recollected that it was an anniversary, the birthday
of her who had departed; a day which had been observed every year, and
which his cousin had remembered. There were only the flowers of autumn
there--some asters, marguerites, and the last lingering roses, already
touched by frost--but they were sweetly redolent of life, and they set
joyous colours round the lifeless dial, which seemed to mark the arrest
of time's progress. That pious womanly observance filled Lazare with
emotion, and for a long time he remained there weeping.

The dining-room, the kitchen, and the terrace, too, equally reminded
him of his mother. All the little objects he saw lying about suggested
her to him. He was quite beset by his mother's image, though he never
spoke of it, and indeed, with a feeling of uneasy shame, tried to
conceal the constant torture which he experienced. He even avoided
mentioning his mother's name, so that it might have been supposed that
he had already forgotten her, whereas all the time never a moment
passed without memory bringing a bitter pang to his heart. It was only
his cousin who penetrated his secret, and when she spoke to him about
it he took refuge in falsehoods, protesting that he had put out his
light at midnight, and had been very busy over some work or other.
And he almost worked himself into an angry passion if he were further
pressed. He took refuge in his room, and there abandoned himself to his
reflections, feeling calmer in that retreat where he had grown up, free
from the fear of revealing to others the secret of his distress.

At first he had tried to force himself to go out and resume his
long walks, thinking that by doing so he would at any rate escape
Véronique's grumpy taciturnity and the painful sight of his father, who
lay listlessly in his chair, not knowing how to occupy himself. But
he now felt an invincible distaste for walking; out of doors he grew
weary with a weariness that almost amounted to discomfort. The sea with
its perpetual surging, its stubborn waves that broke against the cliffs
twice a day, irritated him as being a mere senseless force that recked
nothing of his grief, and had gone on wearing the same rocks away for
centuries, without ever shedding a single tear for the death of a human
being. It was too vast, too cold; and he hurried back home again and
shut himself up in his room, that he might feel less conscious of his
own littleness, less crushed between the boundlessness of sea and sky.
There was only one spot that had any attraction for him, and that was
the graveyard which surrounded the church. His mother was not there,
but he could think of her there with a melting tenderness; and, despite
his horror of death, the place had a singularly calming effect upon
him. The tombs lay asleep, as it were, amongst the grass; there were
yew-trees which had sprung up in the protecting shade of the church,
and not a sound was to be heard save the call of the curlews, hovering
in the wind from the open. There he forgot himself for hours amongst
the old tombstones, whence the very names of those who had long since
passed away had been obliterated by the heavy rains from the west.

If Lazare had felt any belief in another world, if he had been able to
think that he would one day again meet those he loved at the other side
of the grave's black wall, he would have been far happier; but this
consolation was denied him, he felt no doubt as to death being the end
and extinction of individual life. And yet his own individuality, which
ill-brooked the thought of being snuffed out, rose up in mutiny against
his convictions. What joy there would have been in entering upon a
fresh life elsewhere, far away amongst the stars, a new existence in
which he would have been once again surrounded by all he loved! Ah!
if he could only believe in that, how the agony he now suffered would
be turned to sweetness, in looking forward to rejoin lost loved ones!
How thrilling would be their kisses at meeting, and what blessedness
it would be to live all together again in some realm where there would
be no more death! He was racked with agony at the thought of the
charitable falsehoods of creeds compassionately designed to hide the
terrible truth from those too weak to bear it. No! Death was the end
of everything; nothing that we had loved could ever bud into fresh
life, the good-bye was said for ever. Oh! those awful words--'for
ever'! It was they that carried his brain into the dizzy vertigo of
empty nothingness.

One morning, as Lazare was brooding beneath the shadow of the yews, he
caught sight of Abbé Horteur at the bottom of his vegetable garden,
which was only separated from the graveyard by a low wall. Wearing an
old grey blouse and a pair of wooden shoes, the priest was digging a
cabbage-bed; and, with his face browned by the keen sea air and the
back of his neck scorched by the sun, he looked like an old peasant
bending over his work. With a miserable stipend, and without any casual
remuneration in the shape of fees in that little out-of-the-way parish,
he would have died of sheer starvation if he had not been able to eke
out his livelihood by growing a few vegetables. What little money he
had went in charity, and he lived quite alone, assisted only by a
young girl from the village, and often obliged to cook his own meals.
To make matters worse, the soil of that rocky spot was scarcely good
for anything, and the wind withered the young plants, so that it was
scarcely worth while to cultivate the stony ground for the sake of the
meagre return he got. When he put his blouse on, he always tried to
keep himself from notice, for fear lest it should give anyone cause to
scoff at religion; and Lazare, knowing this, was about to withdraw when
he saw him take his pipe out of his pocket, fill it with tobacco, and
then light it with a loud smacking of his lips. Just as he was enjoying
his first puffs, however, the Abbé caught sight of the young man. He
then made a hasty movement, as though he wished to hide his pipe, but
finally broke into a laugh, and called:

'Ah! you are enjoying the fresh air. Come in and have a look at my
garden.'

And, as Lazare came up to him, he added gaily:

'Well, you see, you find me in the midst of a debauch. It is the only
pleasure I get, my friend, and I'm sure that it will not offend God.'

Thereupon he put his pipe in his mouth again, and puffed away freely,
only taking it out at times to make a short remark. For instance,
the priest of Verchemont worried him. That priest was a happy man,
possessing a really fine garden with a good and fruitful soil; but he
never so much as touched a garden tool. And next the Abbé complained
to Lazare about his potatoes, which had been falling off for the last
two years, though the soil, he said, was exactly suited to them.

'Don't let me disturb you,' Lazare replied. 'Please go on with what you
were doing.'

The Abbé then resumed his digging.

'Yes, indeed, I must get on,' he said. 'The youngsters will be here
for the catechism class presently, and I want to get this bed finished
before they come.'

Lazare had seated himself on a slab of granite, some ancient tombstone,
placed against the low wall of the churchyard. He watched Abbé Horteur
struggling with the stones and listened to him while he talked on in a
shrill voice that suggested a child's; and, as the young fellow watched
and listened, he wished that he could be as poor and as simple-minded
as the priest, with a brain as empty and a body as tranquil. The mere
fact that the Bishop had allowed Abbé Horteur to grow old in that
wretched cure showed how innocent and guileless the good man had the
reputation of being. Besides, he was one of those who never complain,
and whose ambition is satisfied so long as they have bread to eat and
water to drink.

'It isn't very cheerful living amongst all these tombs,' the young man
remarked, thinking aloud.

The priest stopped digging in surprise.

'What! not cheerful?'

'Well, you have got death perpetually before your eyes. I should think
you must dream about it at nights.'

The priest took his pipe out of his mouth and spat upon the ground.

'No, indeed, I never dream about it at all. We are all in the hands of
God.'

Then, he began to dig again, driving his spade into the ground with
a blow of his heel. His faith kept him free from fear, and his
imagination never strayed beyond what was revealed in the catechism.
Good folks died and went to heaven. Nothing could be simpler and
more encouraging. He smiled in a convinced sort of way; that stolid,
unwavering theory of salvation sufficed for his narrow brain.

From that time forward Lazare visited the priest almost every morning
in his garden, He would sit down on the old tombstone and forget his
thoughts as he watched the Abbé cultivating his vegetables; he even
gained a temporary tranquillity by the contemplation of the other's
blind faith which enabled him to live in the midst of death without
disquiet. Why couldn't he himself, he thought, become a simple child
again, like that old man? In the depths of his heart he harboured some
lurking hope that his dead faith might be fanned into life again by
his converse with the guileless, simple-minded priest, whose tranquil
ignorance had such a charm for him. He began to bring a pipe with
him, and the pair of them smoked together while they chatted about
the slugs that devoured the salad plants, or the manure that was too
expensive, for it was seldom that the priest spoke of God. With his
spirit of tolerance and long experience he reserved the Divinity for
his own personal salvation. Other people looked after their affairs in
their way and he looked after his in his fashion. After thirty years
of unavailing preaching and warning he now strictly confined himself
to the observance of his ministerial duties. It was very kind of that
young man, he thought, to come and see him every day, and as, with his
tolerant and charitable disposition, he did not want to cavil with him
nor to inveigh against the theories which he must have brought back
from Paris, he preferred to keep on talking with him about the garden;
and thus Lazare, with his head buzzing with all the priest's simple
gossip, sometimes thought that he was really on the point of relapsing
into that happy age of ignorance when fear is unknown.

But though the mornings thus glided away, Lazare every night, up in
his room, still brooded over the memory of his mother, without being
able to summon up enough courage to put out his candle. His faith was
dead. One day, as he sat smoking with Abbé Horteur, the latter hastily
put his pipe out of sight on hearing the sound of footsteps behind the
pear-trees. It was Pauline, who had come to look for her cousin.

'The Doctor is in the house,' said she, 'and I have asked him to stay
to lunch. You'll come in soon, won't you?'

She was smiling, for she had caught sight of the Abbé's pipe beneath
his blouse. The priest quickly pulled it out again, with that cheerful
laugh to which he was addicted whenever he was discovered smoking.

'It's very silly of me,' he said. 'People would think I had been
committing a crime. See! I am going to light it again before you!'

'I tell you what, your reverence!' Pauline exclaimed gaily; 'come and
lunch with us and the Doctor, and you can smoke your pipe afterwards.'

The priest was delighted, and immediately replied:

'Well yes, I accept. I will follow you directly. I must just put my
cassock on. And I will bring my pipe with me; I promise I will.'

It was the first luncheon, since Madame Chanteau's death, at which the
dining-room had re-echoed with the sound of laughter. Abbé Horteur
smoked his pipe after dessert, and this made them all merry, but he
evinced such genial humour over this indulgence that it at once seemed
quite natural. Chanteau, who had eaten heartily, grew quite lively
under the cheering influence of this fresh stir of life in the house.
Doctor Cazenove told stories about savages, while Pauline beamed with
pleasure at hearing all the noise, hoping that it might perhaps draw
Lazare from his moody despondency.

After that luncheon, Pauline determined to revert to the Saturday
dinners, which had been broken off by her aunt's death. The Abbé and
the Doctor came regularly to these repasts, and the family life was
resumed on its old lines once more. They jested together, and the
widower would clap his hands on his legs and protest that, if it wasn't
for that confounded gout, he would get up and dance, so jovial did he
feel. It was only Lazare who still remained in an unsettled state; his
gaiety was forced, and he often shook with a sudden shudder while he
was noisily chattering.

One Saturday evening, in the middle of dinner, Abbé Horteur was
summoned to the bedside of a dying man. He did not even wait to empty
his glass, but set off at once, without paying any heed to the Doctor,
who had visited the man before coming to dine and had told the Abbé he
would find him already dead. The priest had shown himself so weak in
intellect that evening that as soon as his back was turned Chanteau
remarked:

'There are times when there seems to be very little in him.'

'I would willingly change places with him,' Lazare roughly rejoined.
'He is much happier than we are.'

The Doctor laughed.

'That may be so. Matthew and Minouche are also happier than we are. Ah!
I recognise in that remark of yours the young man of to-day, who has
nibbled at the sciences and filled himself with discontent because they
have not enabled him to satisfy his old ideas of the absolute, ideas
which he sucked in with his mother's milk. At the very first attempt
you want to discover every truth in the sciences, whereas we can barely
decipher them, when, maybe, the inquiry will go on for ever. Then you
begin to say that there is nothing in them, and you try to fall back
upon your old faith, which will have nothing more to do with you, and
so you drop into pessimism. Yes! pessimism is the disease of the end of
the century. You are a set of Werthers turned upside down!'

This was the Doctor's favourite subject, and he grew quite animated
over it. Lazare, on his side, exaggerated his denial of all certainty,
and his belief in final and universal evil.

'How can we live,' he asked, 'when at every moment things give way
beneath our feet?'

The old man yielded to an impulse of youthful passion as he retorted:

'Why, just go on living! Isn't life itself sufficient? Happiness
consists in action.'

Then he abruptly addressed himself to Pauline, who was listening with a
smile on her face.

'Come now!' he said, 'tell us what you do to be always cheerful!'

'Oh!' she replied, in a joking tone, 'I try to forget all about myself,
for fear lest I should grow melancholy, and I think about others; that
occupies my mind, and makes me bear my troubles patiently.'

This reply seemed to irritate Lazare, who, prompted by a spirit of
malicious contradiction, asserted that women ought to be religious;
and he pretended that he could not understand why Pauline had ceased
to fulfil her duties for so long a time. Thereupon the girl gave her
reasons in her tranquil manner.

'It is very easily explained,' she said. 'Confession proved very
distasteful to me and hurt my feelings, and it affects many women, I
think, in the same way. Then, again, I can't bring myself to believe
things that seem contrary to reason. And, that being so, why should I
tell a lie by pretending that I do believe them? And, besides, the
unknown in no way disquiets me; it can only be a logical outcome of
life, and it seems to me best to await it as tranquilly as possible.'

'Hush! Here's the Abbé!' interrupted Chanteau, whom this conversation
was beginning to bore.

The man was dead, and the Abbé placidly finished his dinner, after
which they each drank a little glass of chartreuse.

Pauline had now assumed the management of the household. All the
purchases and every detail of the establishment came under her
inspection, and a big bunch of keys dangled from her waist. She took
over the control as a matter of course, and Véronique showed no sign
of displeasure at it. The servant had been very morose, however,
since Madame Chanteau's death, and almost appeared to be in a state
of stupor. Her affection for the dead woman seemed to revive, and she
once more began to treat Pauline with suspicious surliness. It was
to no purpose that the latter spoke softly and soothingly to her;
she took offence at a word, and could often be heard muttering and
grumbling to herself in the kitchen. And whenever, after intervals of
obstinate silence, she indulged in those muttered soliloquies, she
always appeared to be overwhelmed by stupefaction at Madame Chanteau's
death. Had she known that her mistress was going to die, she moaned to
herself? If she had had any notion of such a thing, she would never
have thought of saying what she had said. Justice before everything!
It wasn't right to kill people, even if they had their faults. But
she washed her hands of it all, she growled; it would be so much the
worse for the person who was the real cause of the misfortune. Still,
this assurance did not seem to calm her, for she went on growling and
struggling against imaginary transgressions.

'What's the matter that you are perpetually worrying yourself like
this?' Pauline asked her one day. 'We both did all we could; but we can
do nothing against death.'

Véronique shook her head.

'Ah! people don't usually die like that. Madame Chanteau was what she
was, but she took me in when I was quite a little girl, and I could
cut my tongue out if I thought that anything I ever said had aught to
do with her death. Don't let us talk about it any more; it would end
badly.'

No further reference had been made by Pauline and Lazare to their
marriage. Chanteau, who was desirous of bringing the matter to a
conclusion, now that the main obstacle to it had disappeared, had
ventured to allude to it one day when Pauline came and sat near him
with her sewing to keep him company. He felt a keen desire to retain
her beside him and a great horror of again falling into the hands of
Véronique should his niece ever leave him. Pauline, however, gave him
to understand that nothing could be settled until the completion of
the period of mourning. It was not a feeling of propriety alone that
prompted her to make that vague reply, but she was also looking to time
to answer a question which she dared not attempt to answer herself. The
suddenness of her aunt's death, that terrible blow from which neither
she nor her cousin had yet recovered, had brought about a kind of
truce between their wounded affections, from which they were gradually
awaking, only to suffer the more on finding themselves, amidst their
irreparable loss, face to face with their own distressful story: Louise
driven out of the house; their love shattered, and, perhaps, the whole
course of their existences modified. What was to be done now? Did
they still love each other? Was their marriage possible or advisable?
Questions like these floated through their minds, amidst the stupor in
which they were left by the sudden blow that had fallen upon them, and
neither the one nor the other seemed anxious to force on a solution.

With Pauline, however, the recollection of the insult offered to her
had lost much of its bitterness. She had long ago forgiven Lazare,
and was quite ready to place her hand in his whenever he should show
repentance. She had not the least jealous desire to see him humiliate
himself before her; her only thought was for him, so that she might
give him back his promise if he no longer loved her. Her whole anguish
lay in that doubt: did he still love Louise?--or had he forgotten her
and returned to the old affections of his early youth? However, as she
thus thought of giving Lazare up rather than make him unhappy her heart
sank, for, though she trusted she would have the courage to do so, if
necessary, she hoped she would die soon afterwards.

Ever since her aunt's death an impulse of generosity had moved her to
bring about a reconciliation between herself and Louise. Chanteau might
write to Louise, and she herself would just add a line to say that she
had forgotten what had happened. They all felt so lonely and dull that
the other's presence would distract them from their gloomy thoughts.
Since the terrible shock of her aunt's death, all that had happened
previously seemed very far away, and Pauline had often regretted that
she had behaved so violently. Yet, whenever she thought of speaking
to her uncle on the subject, a feeling of repugnance held her back.
Wouldn't it mean imperilling the future, tempting Lazare, and perhaps
losing him altogether? However, perhaps she might still have found
courage and pride enough to subject him to this risk, if her sense of
justice had not risen in revolt against it. It was the treason alone
that seemed to her so unpardonable. And then, again, was she not
capable of restoring happiness and life to the house? Why call in a
stranger, when she was conscious that she herself was brimming over
with willing devotion and affection? Without being aware of it, there
was a touch of pride in her abnegation, and she was a little jealous in
her devotion. She yearned to be her relatives' one and only solace.

From this time all Pauline's endeavours were turned in that direction.
She laid herself out in every way, to make those about her cheerful
and happy. Never before had she shown herself so persistently cheerful
and kindly. Every morning she came down with a bright smile and fixed
determination to conceal her own griefs in order that she might do
nothing to add to those of others. Her gentle amiability seemed to
set all troubles at defiance, and she possessed a sweet evenness
of disposition which disarmed all feeling against her. She was now
in perfect health again, strong and sound as a young tree, and the
happiness that she spread around her was the emanation of her own
healthy brightness. The arrival of each fresh day delighted her,
and she found a pleasure in doing what she had done the day before,
perfectly contented and quiet in mind, and looking forward to the
morrow without any touch of feverish expectation. Though Véronique went
on muttering in her kitchen, and indulged in strange and inexplicable
caprices, a fresh burst of life was driving all mournfulness from the
house; the merry laughter of former days rang through the rooms and
echoed up the staircase. Chanteau himself seemed particularly delighted
by the change, for the gloominess of the house had always weighed on
him. Existence, in his case, had really become abominable, yet he
clung to it with the desperate clutch of a sick man who holds dearly
to life, though it be but pain to him. Every day that he managed to
live seemed to be a victory achieved, and his niece appeared to him to
brighten and warm the house like a beam of sunlight, beneath whose rays
death could not lay its chilly touch upon him.

Pauline, however, had one source of trouble. Lazare seemed proof
against all her attempts to console him, and she grew distressed as
she saw him falling again into a sombre mood. Lurking behind his grief
for his mother, there was a revival of his terror of death. Now that
the lapse of time was beginning to mitigate his original sorrow, this
terror of death asserted all its old sway over him, heightened by the
fear of hereditary disease. He felt sure that he too would succumb to
some derangement of his heart, and he brooded over the certainty of
a speedy and tragic end. He was constantly listening to the sounds
of life within him, observing, in a state of nervous excitement, the
working of his stomach, kidneys, and liver; but it was particularly his
heart-beats which absorbed him. If he laid his elbow upon the table,
he heard his heart beating in his elbow; if he rested his neck against
the back of a chair, he heard it throbbing there; if he sat down, if he
went to bed, he heard it beating in his thighs, his sides, his stomach;
and ever and ever its throbbing seemed to him to be telling out his
life like a clock that is running down. Dazed by this constant study
of his organism, he perpetually alarmed himself with the fear that he
was on the point of breaking down. All his organs were worn out, he
fancied, and his heart, which disease had distended to a monstrous
size, was about to rend his frame in pieces by its hammer-like beating.

In this way Lazare's mental sufferings went on increasing. For many
years, every night as he lay down in bed the thought of death had
frozen him to the marrow, and now he dared not go to sleep, racked
as he was with the fear of never awaking. Sleep was hateful to him,
and he experienced all the horror of dying as he felt himself growing
drowsy, falling into the unconsciousness of slumber. His sudden waking
gave him still a greater shock, dragging him out of black darkness,
as though some giant hand had clutched him by the hair and hurled
him back into life again, shivering and stammering with horror of
the mysterious unknown through which he had passed. He clasped his
hands convulsively, more desperate and panic-stricken than ever at the
thought that he must die. He suffered such torture every night that
he preferred not to go to bed. He found that he could lie down on the
sofa and sleep in the daytime in perfect peace, and it was probably
that heavy slumber during the day which made his nights so terrible.
By degrees he gave over going to bed at night at all, preferring his
long siestas of the afternoon, and afterwards only dozing off towards
daybreak, when the fear of darkness was driven away.

He had, however, intervals of calmness, and at times he would remain
free from his haunting fears of death for two or three nights in
succession. One day Pauline found an almanack in his room, dotted over
with red ink. She asked him the meaning of the marks.

'What have you marked it for like this? Why are all those days dotted?'

'I haven't marked anything,' he stammered. 'I know nothing about it.'

Then his cousin said gaily: 'I thought it was only girls who trusted to
their diaries things that they wouldn't tell anyone else. If you have
been thinking about us on all the days you have marked, it is very nice
of you indeed. Ah! I see you have secrets now!'

However, as she saw him become more and more disturbed, she was
good-natured enough to press him no further. On the young man's pale
brow she saw the shadow which she knew so well, the shadow left by that
secret trouble which she seemed powerless to alleviate.

For some time past he had also been astonishing her by fresh
eccentricities. Possessed by a firm conviction that his end was close
at hand, he never left a room, or closed a book, or used anything
without thinking that it was the last time he would do so, and that he
would never again see the thing he had used, the book he had closed,
or the room he had left; and he had thus contracted a habit of bidding
continual farewells, yielding to a morbid craving to take up and handle
different objects that he might see them once more. With all this were
mingled certain ideas of symmetry. He would take three steps to the
right and then as many to the left, and touch the different articles
of furniture on either side of a window or door the same number of
times. And beneath this there lurked the superstitious fancy that
a certain number of touchings, some five or seven, for instance,
distributed in a particular fashion, would prevent the farewell from
being a final one. In spite of his keen intelligence and his denial of
the supernatural, he carried out these foolish superstitious practices
with animal-like docility, though trying to hide them as though they
were some shameful failing. This was the revenge taken by the deranged
nervous system of this pessimist and positivist, who declared that
he believed only in what was actually known. He was becoming quite a
nuisance, though.

'Why are you pacing up and down like that?' Pauline cried at times.
'That's three times you've gone up to that cupboard and touched the
key. It won't run off!'

In the evening it seemed as though he would never be able to get away
from the dining-room. He arranged all the chairs in a certain order,
tapped the door a particular number of times, and then entered the
room again to lay his hands, first the right and then the left, on his
grandfather's masterpiece. Pauline, who waited for him at the foot of
the stairs, at last broke out into a peal of laughter.

'What idiotic behaviour for a man of twenty-four! Where is the sense, I
should like to know, in touching things in that way?'

But after a time she ceased to make a jest of him, for she felt
much distressed by his disquietude. One morning she surprised him
kissing--seven times in succession--the framework of the bed on which
his mother had died. The sight filled her with alarm, and she began
to guess the torments which embittered his existence. When she saw
him turn pale as he came upon a reference to the twentieth century in
a newspaper, she gave him a compassionate glance which made him turn
his head aside. He recognised that she understood him, and he rushed
off and hid himself in his own room, all shame and confusion. Over
and over again did he upbraid himself as a coward, and swear that
he would resist the influence of this weakness. He would argue with
himself and bring himself to look death in the face, and then in a
spirit of bravado, instead of passing the night awake on his couch,
he would quickly undress and jump into bed. Death, he would then say
to himself, might come and would be welcome; he would await it there
as deliverance. But immediately the throbbing of his heart drove all
his oaths away, an icy breath seemed to freeze his bones, and he
frantically stretched out his hands as he broke into a despairing cry
of 'O God! God!' It was these terrible backslidings which filled him
with shame and despair. His cousin's tender pity, too, only served to
overwhelm him. The days grew so heavy that as he saw them begin he
scarcely dared to hope that they would ever end. In this gradual decay
of his vitality, his cheerfulness had been the first to depart, and now
physical strength seemed to be failing him in its turn.

Pauline, however, in the pride of her self-devotion, was determined to
gain the victory. She recognised the source of her cousin's disease,
and tried to impart to him some of her own courage by giving him a
love of life. But her compassionate kindliness seemed to receive a
continual check. At first she made open attacks upon him with her old
jests and jokes about 'that silly, stupid pessimism.' 'What!' she
said, 'was it she now who had to chant the praises of the great Saint
Schopenhauer, while he, like all the humbugging pessimists, was quite
willing to see the world blown to pieces, but refused to be blown up
himself?' These jests wrung a constrained smile from the young man,
but he seemed to suffer from them so much that she did not persist
in them. She next tried the effect of such caressing consolations as
might be lavished upon a child, and encompassed him with cheerful
amiability and placid laughter. She always let him see her beaming with
happiness and revelling in, the pleasantness of life. The house seemed
full of sunshine. There was nothing more required of him than to take
advantage of it and let his life flow quietly on, but this he could
not do; the happiness that was offered to him only made his feeling of
horror at what was to come hereafter all the keener. Then Pauline tried
stratagem, and racked her brain to promote enthusiasm in something or
other which might have the effect of making him forget himself. But
his idleness had become a sort of disease; he had no inclination for
anything whatever, and found even reading too great an exertion, so
that he spent his whole time in gnawing at himself.

For a moment Pauline had a glimpse of hope. They had gone one day for
a short walk on the sands, when Lazare, as they reached the ruins of
the stockades, a few of the beams of which were still standing upright,
began to explain a new system of protective works which, he assured
her, could not fail to prove successful. The collapse of the former
ones had been caused by the weakness of the supporting timbers. It
would only be necessary to double their thickness and to give a greater
inclination to the central beams. His voice vibrated and his eyes
lighted up with all his old enthusiasm as he spoke, and his cousin
besought him to take up the task again and make another effort. The
village was gradually being destroyed; every high tide swept away a
further portion of it; and there could be no doubt that, if he went to
see the Prefect, he would succeed in obtaining the subvention, while
she herself would be only too glad to make further advances in order to
assist such a noble work. She was so anxious to spur him into action
that she would willingly have sacrificed the remains of her fortune to
bring about that end. But he only shrugged his shoulders. What would
be the good of it, he asked? He turned pale as the thought struck him
that, if he were to commence the work, he would be dead before he could
finish it; and, to hide the perturbation which this reflection caused
him, he began to inveigh against the Bonneville fishermen.

'A pack of grinning idiots, who jeered at me when that wolfish sea
swept everything away! No! no! they may do things for themselves now! I
won't give them another chance of laughing at my "bits of sticks," as
they called them.'

Pauline tried to soothe him. The poor folk were in a terrible state
of wretchedness. Since the sea had carried off the Houtelards' house,
the most solidly built of all the village, together with three
others, cottages of the poorer fishermen, their misery had increased.
Houtelard, who had once been the rich man of the district, had now
taken up his quarters in an old barn, some twenty yards behind his
former dwelling; but the others, who had no such refuge, were housing
themselves in clumsy huts made out of the shells of old boats. They
were living in a miserable state of nudity and promiscuousness; the
women and children were wallowing in vice and vermin. All that was
bestowed upon them in charity went in drink. The wretched creatures
sold all the food that was given them, with their clothes, pots, and
pans, and what little furniture they had left, in order to buy drams
of the terrible 'calvados,' which stretched them on the ground across
their doorways like so many corpses. Pauline was the only one who
still continued to say a word for them. Abbé Horteur had given them
up, and Chanteau talked of sending in his resignation, being unwilling
to remain any longer the Mayor of such a drove of swine. Lazare, too,
when his cousin tried to excite his pity on behalf of that little
colony of drunkards, beaten down by the fierceness of the elements,
only repeated his father's eternal refrain:

'No one compels them to remain here. All that they have to do is to go
elsewhere. Only a pack of idiots would come and stick themselves right
under the waves.'

This was the general feeling of the neighbourhood, and everyone looked
upon the Bonneville folk as obstinate fools. The villagers, on the
other hand, were mistrustfully unwilling to go elsewhere. They had been
born there, they said, and why should they have to leave the place?
The same sort of thing had been going on for hundreds and hundreds of
years, and there was nothing for them to do anywhere else. Prouane,
when he was exceptionally tipsy, always concluded by saying that
wherever they might go they would always be devoured by something or
other.

Pauline used to smile at this and nod her head in approval, for
happiness, in her opinion, depended neither upon people nor
circumstances, but on the more or less reasonable way in which people
conformed themselves to their circumstances. She redoubled her care and
attention, and distributed still larger doles and alms than before. At
last she was able to induce Lazare to associate himself with her in her
charities; she hoped that she might thereby rouse him from his gloomy
broodings, and lead him to forget his own troubles by awaking in him
pity for those of others. Every Saturday afternoon he remained at home
with her, and from four o'clock till six they received the young folk
from the village, the ragged draggle-tail urchins whom their parents
sent up to get what they could out of Mademoiselle Pauline. It was an
invasion of snivelling little lads and dirty little girls.

One Saturday it was raining, and Pauline could not distribute her alms
on the terrace, as was her custom. Lazare had to fetch a bench and
place it in the kitchen.

'Good gracious, sir!' Véronique exclaimed. 'Surely Mademoiselle Pauline
isn't going to bring all that dirty lot in here? It's a nice idea,
indeed; if they do come, I won't answer for the state of the soup.'

At that moment the girl entered the kitchen with her bag of silver
and her medicine-chest. She merrily replied to Véronique's indignant
outburst:

'Oh! a turn of your broom will make things all right again; and,
besides, it's raining so heavily that they will have had a good washing
before they come in, poor little things!'

And, indeed, the cheeks of the first to enter were quite bright
and rosy from the downpour. They were so soaked that pools of
water trickled from their ragged clothes on to the tiles of the
kitchen-floor, thereby increasing the servant's wrath, which was by no
means diminished when Pauline told her to light a faggot of wood to
dry them a little. The bench was carried near the fire, and was soon
occupied by a shivering row of impudent, leering brats, who cast greedy
eyes at what was lying about--some half-emptied wine-bottles, the
remains of a joint, and a bunch of carrots lying on a block.

'Children indeed!' Véronique went on growling. 'Children that are grown
up and ought to be earning their own living. They'll go on pretending
to be children till they're five-and-twenty, if only you'll let them!'

But Pauline bade her be silent.

'There! have you done now? Talking like that won't fill their mouths or
help them to grow up.'

The girl sat down at the table, with her money and the other articles
she intended to distribute in front of her; and she was just about
to call the children to her in turn, when Lazare, who had remained
standing, caught sight of Houtelard's boy amongst the other youngsters,
and shouted out:

'Didn't I forbid you to come here again, you young vulture? Your
parents ought to be ashamed of themselves for sending you here, for
they are quite able to feed you, whereas there are so many others who
are dying of hunger.'

Houtelard's son, an overgrown lad of fifteen, with a timid and sad
expression, began to cry.

'They beat me if I don't come,' he said. 'The missis got hold of the
rope and father drove me out.'

He turned up his sleeve to show a big violet bruise on his arm which
had been caused by a blow from a piece of knotted rope. The 'missis'
was the old servant whom the lad's father had married, and who was
gradually killing the boy by her ill-treatment. Since the loss of their
house, their harshness and miserly filthiness had increased, and now
their home was a perfect pigsty, where they tortured the lad, as if to
revenge themselves for their misfortunes on him.

'Put an arnica compress on his arm,' said Pauline softly to Lazare.

Then she herself gave the lad a five-franc piece. 'Here! give them
this so that they shan't beat you any more, and tell them that if
they strike you again, and if there are any bruises on your body next
Saturday, they will never get another sou out of me.'

All along the bench the other children, cheered by the warming blaze,
were now tittering and digging each other in the ribs with their
elbows. One tiny little thing had stolen a carrot and was munching it
furtively.

'Come here, Cuche!' said Pauline. 'Have you told your mother that I
hope to get her admitted very soon into the Hospital for Incurables at
Bayeux?'

Cuche's wife, a miserable abandoned woman, had broken her leg in July,
and had remained infirm ever since.

'Yes, I told her,' the lad replied in a hoarse voice; 'but she says she
won't go.'

He had grown into a strong young fellow, and was now nearly seventeen
years old. With his hands hanging at his sides, he swayed about in an
awkward manner.

'What! She won't go!' cried Lazare. 'And you won't come, either; for I
told you to come up this week and help a little in the garden, and I'm
still waiting for you.'

The lad still swayed himself about. 'I haven't had any time,' he
replied.

At this Pauline, seeing her cousin about to lose his temper, interposed
and said to the lad:

'Sit down again now, and we will speak about it presently. Just reflect
a little or you will make me angry too.'

It was next the turn of the Gonins' little girl. She was thirteen years
old, and still had a pretty rosy face beneath a mop of fair hair.
Without waiting to be questioned, she poured out a flood of prattle,
telling them how her father's paralysis was ascending to his arms and
even his tongue, and that he could now only grunt like an animal.
Cousin Cuche, the sailor who had deserted his wife and installed
himself in Gonin's house, had made a violent attack upon the old man
that very morning, in the hope of finishing him off.

'Mother sets on him too. She gets up at night and empties bowls of
cold water over father, because he snores so loud and disturbs her. If
you could only see what a state they have left him in, Mademoiselle
Pauline! He is quite naked, and he wants some sheets very badly, for
all his skin is getting grazed and peeling off!'

'There! That will do; hold your tongue!' said Lazare, interrupting her
chatter; while Pauline, moved to pity, sent Véronique off to look out a
pair of sheets.

Lazare considered the girl much too wide-awake for her age, and he
believed that, although she did perhaps sometimes ward off a blow
meant for her father, she treated him in the long run no better than
the others did. Moreover, he felt quite sure that whatever was given
to her, whether it was money, or meat, or bed-linen, instead of
being of any service to the infirm old man, would only serve for the
gratification of his wife and cousin Cuche.

He began to question her sternly, for he had seen her gadding about
with several lads of the neighbourhood. However, Pauline laid her hand
upon his arm, for the other children, even the youngest amongst them,
were sniggering and smiling with all the impudence of precocious vice.
How was it possible to arrest that spreading rottenness when the men
and women set so bad an example? When Pauline had given the girl a pair
of sheets and a bottle of wine, she whispered to her for a moment or
two, trying to frighten her as to the consequences which might result
from misbehaviour. Warnings of this kind were the only ones that might
hold her in check.

Meantime Lazare, wishing to hasten the distribution, the length of
which was beginning to disgust and irritate him, called up Prouane's
daughter.

'Your father and mother were tipsy again last night,' he said, 'and I
hear that you were worse than either of them.'

'Oh! no, sir! I had a very bad headache.'

He placed before her a plate in which were a few pieces of raw meat.

'Eat that!'

She was devoured with scrofula again, and her nervous disorders had
reappeared. Drunkenness increased her precocious infirmities, for she
had acquired the habit of drinking with her parents. When she had
swallowed three lumps of the meat, she stopped and made a grimace of
disgust.

'I've had enough; I can't eat any more.'

But Pauline had taken up a bottle.

'Very well,' she said! 'if you don't eat the meat, you shan't have your
glass of quinine wine.'

On hearing this, the girl fixed her glistening eyes on the glass,
which Pauline filled, and overcame her repugnance against the meat.
Then she seized the glass and tossed its contents down her throat with
all a drunkard's knowing readiness. But she did not then retire; she
begged Pauline to let her take the bottle away with her, saying that
it interfered too much with what she had to do to come up to the house
every day; and she promised to take the bottle to bed with her, and to
keep it so securely hidden that her father and mother would never be
able to find it and drink the wine. Pauline, however, refused to let
her have it.

'You'd swallow every drop of it before you got to the bottom of the
hill,' said Lazare. 'It's yourself that we suspect now, you little
wine-cask!'

One by one the children left the bench to receive money, or bread, or
meat. Some of them, after receiving their share of the distribution,
seemed inclined to linger before the blazing fire, but Véronique, who
had just noticed that half her carrots had been devoured, drove them
off pitilessly into the rain. 'Had anyone ever seen anything like
it before?' she cried. 'Carrots, too, that still had all the earth
sticking to them!'

Soon there was no one left but young Cuche, who looked very depressed
in the expectation of receiving a severe lecture from Pauline. She
called him to her, spoke to him for a long time in low tones, and
finished by giving him his loaf and the hundred sous which he received
from her every Saturday. Then he went off, with his clumsy swaying,
having duly promised to work, but having no intention whatever of doing
anything of the kind.

The servant was just giving a sigh of relief when she suddenly
exclaimed:

'Hallo! they haven't all gone yet, then! There's one of them over there
in the corner still!'

It was the Tourmals' little girl, the little abortion of the high
roads, who, notwithstanding her ten years, was still quite a dwarf. It
was only in shamelessness and effrontery that she seemed to grow, and
she groaned more miserably and seemed more wretched than ever, trained
for the profession of begging from her cradle, just as some infants
have their bones manipulated in order that they may become acrobats.
She crouched between the dresser and the fireplace, as though she had
stowed herself in that corner for fear of being surprised in some
wrong-doing.

'What are you up to there?' Pauline asked her.

'I am warming myself.'

Véronique cast an anxious glance round her kitchen. On previous
Saturdays, even when the children had assembled on the terrace, various
little articles had disappeared. That day, however, everything seemed
in its place, and the little girl, who had hurriedly risen to her feet,
began to deafen them with her shrill voice:

'Father is in the hospital, and grandfather has hurt himself at his
work, and mother hasn't a gown to go out in. Please have pity upon us,
kind young lady---'

'Do you want to split our ears, you little liar?' Lazare cried angrily.
'Your father is in gaol for smuggling, and when your grandfather
sprained his wrist he was robbing the oyster-beds at Roqueboise, and,
if your mother hasn't got a dress, she must manage to go out stealing
in her chemise, for she is charged with having strangled five fowls
belonging to the innkeeper at Verchemont. Do you think you can befool
us with your lies about matters that we know more of than you do
yourself?'

The child did not even appear to have heard him. She went on
immediately with all her impudent coolness:

'Have pity upon us, kind young lady! My father and grandfather are both
ill, and my mother dare not leave them. God Almighty will bless you for
it.'

'There! that will do! Now go away and don't tell any more lies!'
Pauline said to her, giving her a piece of money to get rid of her.

She did not want telling twice, but hurried from the kitchen and
through the yard as quickly as her little legs would carry her. Just at
that moment the servant uttered a cry:

'Ah! the cup that was on the dresser! She's gone off with your cup,
Mademoiselle Pauline!'

Then she bolted off in pursuit of the young thief, and a couple of
minutes afterwards dragged her back into the kitchen with all the stern
ferocity of a gendarme. It was as much as they could do to search the
child, for she struggled and bit and scratched and screamed as though
they were trying to murder her. The cup was not in her pocket, but they
discovered it next to her skin, hidden away in the rag which served
her as a chemise. Thereupon ceasing to weep, she impudently asserted
that she did not know it was there, that it must have dropped into her
clothes while she was sitting on the floor.

'His reverence was quite right when he said she would rob you!'
Véronique exclaimed. 'If I were you I would send for the police.'

Lazare, too, began to speak about sending her to prison, provoked as he
was by the demeanour of the girl, who perked herself up like a young
viper whose tail had been trodden upon. He felt inclined to smack her.

'Hand back the money that was given to you!' he cried. 'Where is it?'

The child had already raised the coin to her lips in order to swallow
it, when Pauline set her free, saying:

'Well, you may keep it this time, but you can tell them at home that it
is the last they will get. In future I shall come myself to see what
you are in need of. Now, be off with you!'

They could hear the girl's naked feet splashing through the puddles,
and then all became silent. Véronique pushed the bench aside and
stooped down to sponge away the pools of water that had trickled from
the children's rags. Her kitchen was in a fine state, she grumbled;
it reeked of all that filth to such a degree that she would have to
keep all the windows and doors open. Pauline, who seemed very grave,
gathered up her money and drugs without saying a word, while Lazare,
with an air of disgust and _ennui_, went out to wash his hands at the
yard tap.

It was great grief to Pauline to see that her cousin took but little
interest in her young friends from the village. Though he was willing
to help her on the Saturday afternoons, it was only out of mere
complaisance; his heart was not in the work. Whereas neither poverty
nor vice repelled her, their hideousness depressed and annoyed Lazare.
She could remain cheerful and tranquil in her love for others, whereas
he could not cease to think of himself without finding fresh reasons
for gloomy broodings. Little by little, those disorderly, ill-behaved
children, in whom all the sins of grown-up men and women were already
fermenting, began to cause him real suffering. The sight of them proved
like an additional blight to his existence, and when he left them he
felt hopeless, weary, full of hatred and disgust of the human species.
The hours that were spent in good works only hardened him, made him
deny the utility of almsgiving and jeer at charity. He protested that
it would be far more sensible to crush that nest of pernicious vermin
under foot than to help the young ones to grow up. Pauline listened to
this, surprised by his violence, and pained to find how different were
their views.

That Saturday, when they were alone again, the young man revealed all
his suffering by a single remark.

'I feel as though I had just come out of a sewer,' said he. Then he
added: 'How can you care for such horrible monsters?'

'I care for them for their own good and not for mine,' the girl
replied. 'You yourself would pick up a mangy dog in the road.'

Lazare made a gesture of protest. 'A dog isn't a man,' he said.

'To help for the sake of helping, is not that something?' Pauline
resumed. 'It is vexing that they don't improve in conduct, for, if they
did, perhaps they would suffer less. But I am content when they have
got food and warmth; that is one trouble less for them, at any rate.
Why should you want them to recompense us for what we do for them?'

Then she concluded sadly:

'My poor boy, I see that all this only bores you, and it will be better
for you not to come and help me in future. I don't want to harden your
heart and make you more uncharitable than you already are.'

Thus Lazare eluded all her attempts, and she felt heart-broken at
finding how utterly powerless she was to free him from his fear and
_ennui_. When she saw him so nervous and despondent, she could scarcely
believe that it was the result merely of his secret trouble; she
imagined there must be other causes for his sadness, and the idea of
Louise recurred to her. She felt sure that he must still be thinking
about the girl, and suffered from not seeing her. A cold chill came
upon her at this thought, and she tried to recover her old feeling of
proud self-sacrifice, telling herself that she was quite capable of
spreading sufficient brightness and joy about her to make them all
happy.

One evening Lazare made a remark that hurt her cruelly.

'How lonely it is here!' he said, with a yawn.

She looked at him. Had he got Louise in his mind? But she had not the
courage to question him. Her kindliness struggled within her, and life
became a torture again.

There was another shock awaiting Lazare. His old dog, Matthew, was
far from well. The poor animal, who had completed his fourteenth year
in the previous March, was getting more and more paralysed in his
hind-quarters. His attacks left him so stiff that he could scarcely
crawl along; and he would lie out in the yard, stretching himself in
the sun, and watching the members of the family with his melancholy
eyes. It was the old dog's eyes, now dimmed by a bluish cloudiness,
blank like those of a blind man, that especially wrought upon Lazare's
feelings. The poor animal, however, could still see, and used to
drag himself along, lay his big head on his master's knee, and look
up at him fixedly with a sad expression that seemed to say that he
understood all. His beauty had departed. His curly white coat had
turned yellowish, and his nose, once so black, was becoming white. His
dirtiness, and a kind of expression of shame that hung about him--for
they dared not wash him any more on account of his great age--rendered
him yet more pitiable. All his playfulness had vanished; he never now
rolled on his back, or circled round after his tail, or showed any
impulses of pity for Minouche's kittens when Véronique carried them
off to drown in the sea. He now spent his days in drowsing like an old
man, and he had so much difficulty in getting up on his legs again, and
dragged his poor soft feet so heavily, that often one of the household,
moved to pity at the sight, stooped to support him for a moment or two
in order that he might be able to walk a little.

He grew weaker every day from loss of blood. They had sent for a
veterinary surgeon, who burst out laughing on seeing him. What! were
they making a fuss about a dog like that? The best thing they could do
was to put him out of the way at once. It was all very well to try and
keep a human being alive as long as possible, but what was the good
of allowing a dying animal to linger on in pain? At this they quickly
bustled the vet out of the house, after paying him his fee of six
francs.

One Saturday Matthew lost so much blood that it was found necessary
to shut him up in the coach-house. A stream of big red drops trickled
after him. Doctor Cazenove, who bad arrived rather early, offered to
go and see the dog, who was treated quite as a member of the family.
They found him lying down, in a state of great weakness, but with his
head raised very high, and the light of life still shining in his
eyes. The Doctor made a long examination of him, with all the care and
thoughtfulness which he displayed at the bedside of his human patients.
At last he said:

'That abundant loss of blood denotes a cancerous degeneration of the
kidneys. There is no hope for him, but he may linger for a few days
yet, unless some sudden hæmorrhage carries him off.'

Matthew's hopeless condition threw a gloom over the dinner-table. They
recalled how fond Madame Chanteau had been of him, all the wild romps
of his youth, the dogs he had worried, the cutlets he had stolen off
the gridiron, and the eggs that he gobbled up warm from the nest. But
at dessert, when Abbé Horteur brought out his pipe, they grew lively
again and listened with attention to the priest as he told them about
his pear-trees, which promised to do splendidly that year. Chanteau,
notwithstanding certain prickings which foreboded another attack of
gout, finished off by singing one of the merry songs of his youth. Thus
the evening passed away delightfully, and even Lazare himself grew
cheerful.

About nine o'clock, just as tea was being served, Pauline suddenly
cried out:

'Oh look! There's poor Matthew!'

And, in truth, the poor dog, all bleeding and shrunken, was dragging
himself on his tottering legs into the dining-room. Then immediately
afterwards they heard Véronique, who was rushing after him with a
cloth. She burst into the room, crying:

'I had to go into the coach-house, and he made his escape. He still
insists upon being where the rest of us are, and one can't take a step
without finding him between one's legs. Come! come! you can't stop
here.'

The dog lowered his old trembling head with an expression of
affectionate entreaty.

'Oh! let him stop, do!' Pauline cried.

But the servant seemed displeased.

'No! indeed, not in such a state as that. I have had quite enough to
do, as it is, with wiping up after him. It's really quite disgusting.
You'll have the dining-room in a nice state if he goes dragging himself
all over the place in this way. Come along! Come along! Be a little
quicker, do!'

'Let him stay here, and you go away!' said Lazare.

Then, as Véronique furiously banged the door behind her, Matthew,
who seemed to understand the situation perfectly well, came and laid
his head on his master's knee. Everyone wanted to lavish dainties on
him; they broke up lumps of sugar, and tried to brighten him up into
liveliness. In times past they had been accustomed every evening to
amuse themselves by placing a lump of sugar upon the table on the
opposite side to that at which the dog was stationed, and then as
Matthew ran round they caught up the sugar and deposited it on the
other side, in such wise that the dog went rushing round the table in
pursuit of the dainty which was ever being removed from him, till at
last he grew quite dizzy with the perpetual flitting, and broke out
into wild and noisy barking. Lazare tried to set this little game going
again, in the hope of cheering the poor animal. Matthew wagged his
tail for a moment, went once round the table, and then staggered and
fell against Pauline's chair. He could not see the sugar, and his poor
shrunken body rolled over on its side. Chanteau had stopped humming,
and everyone felt keen sorrow at the sight of that poor dying dog, who
had vainly tried to summon up the romping energies of the past.

'Don't do anything to tire him,' the Doctor said gently, 'or you will
kill him.'

Then the priest, who was smoking in silence, let fall a remark which
was probably intended to account for his emotion.

'One might almost imagine,' he said, 'that these big dogs were human
beings.'

About ten o'clock, when the priest and the Doctor had left, Lazare,
before going to his own room, went to lock Matthew in the coach-house
again. He laid him carefully down upon some fresh straw, and saw that
his bowl was full of water; then he kissed him and was about to leave
him, but the dog raised himself on his feet with a painful effort,
and tried to follow the young man. Lazare, had to put him back three
times, and then at last the dog yielded, but he raised his head with
so sad an expression to watch his master depart that Lazare, who felt
heart-broken, came back and kissed him again.

When he reached his room at the top of the house the young man tried
to read till midnight. Then he went to bed. But he could not sleep;
his mind dwelt continually upon Matthew; the image of the poor animal,
lying on his bed of straw, with his failing eyes turned towards the
door, never ceased to haunt him. On the morrow, he thought, Matthew
would be dead. Every minute he caught himself involuntarily sitting
up in bed and listening, fancying he heard a bark in the yard. His
straining ears caught all sorts of imaginary sounds. About two o'clock
in the morning he heard a groaning which made him jump out of bed.
Who could be groaning like that? He rushed out on to the landing,
but the house was wrapped in darkness and silence, not a breath came
from Pauline's room. Then he could no longer resist his impulse to go
downstairs. The hope of once more seeing his old dog alive made him
hasten his steps; he scarcely gave himself time to thrust his legs into
a pair of trousers, before he started off, taking his candle with him.

When he reached the coach-house Matthew was no longer lying on the
straw; he had dragged himself some distance away from it, and was
stretched upon the hard ground. When he saw his master enter, he no
longer had enough strength to raise his head. Lazare placed his candle
on some old boards, and was filled with astonishment when he bent down
and saw the ground all black. Then a spasm of pain came to him as he
knelt and found that the poor animal was weltering in his death-throes
in a perfect pool of blood. Life was quickly ebbing from him; he wagged
his tail very feebly, while a faint light glistened in the depths of
his eyes.

'Oh! my poor old dog!' sobbed Lazare; 'oh! my poor old dog!'

Then, aloud, he said:

'Wait a moment! I will move you. Ah! I'm afraid it hurts you, but you
are drenched lying here; and I haven't even got a sponge. Would you
like something to drink?'

Matthew still gazed at him earnestly. Gradually the death-rattle
shook his sides, and the pool of blood grew bigger and bigger, quite
silently, and as though it were fed by some hidden spring.

Various ladders and broken barrels in the coach-house cast great
shadows around, and the candle burnt very dimly. But suddenly there
came a rustling among the straw. It was the cat, Minouche, who was
reposing on the bed made for Matthew, and had been disturbed by the
light.

'Would you like something to drink, my poor old fellow?' Lazare
repeated.

He had found a cloth, which he dipped in the pan of water and pressed
against the dying animal's mouth. It seemed to relieve him; and his
nose, which was excoriated through fever, became a little cooler. Half
an hour passed, during which Lazare constantly dipped the cloth in the
water, while his eyes filled with tears at the painful sight before
him, and his heart ached with all the bitterness of grief. Wild hopes
came to him at times, as they do to the watchers at a bedside; perhaps,
he thought, he might recall ebbing life by that simple application of
cold water.

'Ah! what is the matter? What do you want to do?' he cried suddenly.
'You want to get on your feet, eh?'

Matthew, shaken by a fit of shivering, made desperate efforts to
raise himself. He stiffened his limbs, while his neck was distended
by his hiccoughs. But the end was close at hand, and he fell across
his master's knees, with eyes still straining from beneath their heavy
lids to catch sight of him. Quite overcome by that glance, so full
of intelligence, Lazare held Matthew there on his knees, while the
animal's big body, heavy like that of a man, was racked by a human-like
death-agony in his sorrowing embrace. It lasted for some minutes, and
then Lazare saw real tears--heavy tears--roll down from the dog's
mournful eyes, while his tongue showed forth from his convulsed mouth,
as though for a last caress.

'Oh! my poor old dog!' cried Lazare, bursting into sobs.

Matthew was dead. A little bloody foam frothed round his jaws. As
Lazare laid him down on the floor he looked as though he were asleep.

Then once more the young man felt that all was over. His dog was dead
now, and this filled him with unreasonable grief and seemed to cast a
gloom over his whole life. That death awoke in him the memory of other
deaths, and he had not felt more heart-broken even when walking through
the yard behind his mother's coffin. Some last portion of her seemed
to be torn away from him; she had gone from him now entirely. The
recollection of his months of secret anguish, of his nights disturbed
by nightmare visions, of his walks to the little graveyard, and of all
his terror at the thought of annihilation, surged up in his mind.

However, he heard a sound, and when he turned he saw Minouche quietly
making her toilet on the straw. But the door creaked, and Pauline then
entered the coach-house, impelled thither by an impulse similar to that
of her cousin. When he saw her his tears fell faster, and he who had
carefully concealed all his grief at his mother's death, as though it
had been some shameful folly, now cried:

'Oh, God! God! She loved him so dearly! You remember, don't you? She
first had him when he was quite a tiny little thing, and it was she who
always fed him, and he used to follow her all over the house!'

Then he added;

'There is no one left now, and we are utterly alone!'

Tears sprang up in Pauline's eyes. She had stooped to look at poor
Matthew's body lying there beneath the dim glimmer of the candle. And
she did not seek to console Lazare. She made but a gesture of despair,
for she felt that she was utterly powerless.




VIII


It was _ennui_ that lay below all Lazare's gloomy sadness, a heavy
continuous _ennui_ which rose from everything, like murky waters from
some poisoned spring. He was bored both with work and with idleness,
and with himself even more than with others. However, he took himself
to task for his idleness and felt ashamed of it. It was disgraceful
for a man of his age to waste the best years of his life in such a
hole as Bonneville. Until now he had had some excuse for doing so, but
at present there was no longer anything to keep him at home, and he
despised himself for staying there, leading a useless existence, living
upon his family, who were scarcely able to keep themselves. He told
himself that he ought to be making a fortune for them, and that he was
failing shamefully in not doing so, as he had formerly sworn he would.
Great schemes for the future, grand enterprises, the idea of a vast
fortune acquired by some brilliant stroke of genius, still occurred to
him; but when he rose up from his reveries he lacked the energy to turn
his thoughts into action.

'I can't go on like this,' he often said to Pauline. 'I must really do
something. I should like to start a newspaper at Caen.'

And his cousin always made the same reply:

'Wait till the time of mourning is over. There is no hurry. You
had better think matters well over before you launch out into an
undertaking like that.'

The truth was that, notwithstanding her desire to see him occupy
himself with some kind of work, she was alarmed by this scheme of
founding a newspaper. Another failure, she feared, might kill him,
and she thought of all his many previous ones--music, medicine, the
sea-weed works; everything, in fact, that he had ever taken in hand.
And, besides, a couple of hours after he had mentioned this last plan
to her he had refused even to write a letter, on the ground that he was
too tired.

The weeks passed away, and another flood-tide carried off three more
houses at Bonneville. When the fishermen now met Lazare they asked him
if he had had enough of it. Though it was really quite useless trying
to do anything, they said it grieved them to see so much good timber
lost. There was a touch of banter in their expressions of condolence
and in the manner in which they besought him not to leave the place to
the waves, as though with their sailor-natures they felt a savage pride
in the sea's destructive blows. By degrees Lazare grew so annoyed with
their remarks that he avoided passing through the village. The sight of
the ruined piles and stockades in the distance became intolerable to
him.

One day, as he was on his way to see the priest, Prouane stopped him.

'Monsieur Lazare,' he said obsequiously, while a mischievous smile
played round his eyes, 'you know those pieces of timber which are
rotting away down yonder on the shore?'

'Well, what about them?'

'If you're not going to use them again, you might give them to us. They
would serve, at any rate, as firewood.'

The young man was carried away by his anger, and, without even thinking
of what he was saying, he answered sharply:

'That's quite impossible. I am going to set men to work again next
week.'

At this all the neighbourhood shouted. They were going to have all
the fun over again, since young Chanteau was showing himself so
pig-headed. A fortnight went by, and the fishermen never met Lazare
without asking him if he was unable to find workmen; and thus he was
goaded into a renewal of his operations, being induced thereto, also,
by the entreaties of his cousin, who was anxious that he should have
some occupation which would keep him near her. But he entered into
the matter without the least spark of enthusiasm, and it was only his
revengeful enmity against the sea which kept him saying that he was
quite certain to triumph over it this time, and would make it lick the
pebbles on the shore as submissively as a dog.

Once again Lazare set to work preparing plans. He planned fresh angles
of resistance and doubled the strength of his supports. No excessive
expense was going to be incurred, as most of the old timbers could be
used again. The carpenter sent in an estimate of four thousand francs;
and, as the sum was so small, Lazare made no objection to Louise
advancing it, being quite certain, he said, of getting a subvention
from the General Council; indeed, he remarked that this was the only
means they had of getting their previous expenditure reimbursed, for
the Council would certainly refuse to advance a copper so long as the
works remained in their present ruinous condition. This consideration
seemed to infuse a little warmth into his proceedings, and the
operations were pressed on. In other ways, too, he became very busy,
and went over to Caen every week to see the Prefect and the influential
members of the Council.

While the piles were being laid, an intimation was received that an
engineer would be sent to inspect the operations and make a report, on
the receipt of which the Council would vote a subvention. The engineer
spent a whole day at Bonneville. He was a very pleasant man, and gladly
accepted an invitation from the Chanteaus to lunch with them after
his visit to the shore. They refrained from making any reference to
the subvention, as they were unwilling to appear in any way desirous
of influencing his judgment, but he showed himself so polite and
attentive to Pauline at table that she began to feel no doubt as to
their success in obtaining the grant. And so, a fortnight later, when
Lazare returned from one of his visits to Caen, the whole house was
thrown into amazement and consternation by the news which he brought
back with him. He was bursting with anger. Would they believe it! That
silly fop of an engineer had sent in a simply disgraceful report. Yes!
he had been polite and civil, but he had made fun of every single piece
of timber with a ridiculous lavishness of technical terms. But it was
only what they might have expected, for those official gentlemen didn't
believe that any one could put even a rabbit-hutch together without
their advice and assistance! However, the worst of the matter was that
the Council, after reading the report, had refused to vote any grant at
all.

This blow was a source of fresh despondency to the young man. The
works were finished, and he swore that they would resist the heaviest
tides, and that the whole Engineering Department would go wild with
angry jealousy when they saw them. All this, however, would not repay
Pauline the money that she had advanced, and Lazare bitterly reproached
himself for having led her into that loss. She herself, however, rising
victorious over the instincts of her economical nature, claimed the
entire responsibility for the course she had taken, impressing upon him
that it was she who had insisted upon making the advances. The money
had gone in a charitable purpose, she said, and she did not regret a
sou of it, but would have gladly given more for the sake of saving
the unhappy village. However, when the carpenter sent in his bill,
she could not suppress a gesture of grievous astonishment. The four
thousand francs of the estimate had grown to nearly eight thousand.
Altogether, those piles and stockades, which the first storm might
completely sweep away, had cost her more than twenty thousand francs.

By this time Pauline's fortune was reduced to forty thousand francs,
which produced a yearly income of two thousand francs, a sum on
which she would be barely able to live, should she ever find herself
homeless and friendless. Her money had trickled away in small sums in
the household expenses, which she still continued to defray. But she
now began to exercise a strict supervision over all the outlay of the
house. The Chanteaus themselves no longer had even their three hundred
francs a month, for, after Madame Chanteau's death, it was found that
a certain amount of stock had been sold without there being any clue
as to how the amount realised by its sale had been applied. When her
own income was added to that of the family, Pauline had little more
than four hundred francs a month with which to keep the house going.
The expenses of the establishment were heavy, and she had to perform
miracles of economy in order to save the money that she needed for her
charities. Doctor Cazenove's trusteeship had terminated during the
winter, and Pauline, being now of age, her money and herself were
entirely at her own disposal; though indeed the Doctor during the term
of his authority had never refused to let her have her own way. That
authority had legally ceased for some weeks before either of them
remembered the fact. But, although Pauline had been practically her own
mistress for some time, she felt more thoroughly independent, more like
a fully-grown woman, now that she was the uncontrolled mistress of the
house, with no accounts to render to anybody, for her uncle was ever
entreating her to settle everything, and Lazare, like his father, also
hated having anything to do with money matters.

Thus Pauline held the common purse and stepped entirely into her aunt's
place, performing her duties as mistress of the house with a practical
common-sense that sometimes quite amazed the two men. It was only
Véronique who made any complaints, thinking that Mademoiselle Pauline
was very stingy, and grumbling at being restricted to a single pound of
butter a week.

The days succeeded each other with monotonous regularity. The perpetual
sameness, the unvarying habits of the household, which constituted
Pauline's happiness, only tended to increase Lazare's feeling of
_ennui_. Never had the house affected him with such uneasy disquietude
as now, when every room seemed basking in cheerful peace. The
completion of the operations on the shore had proved a great relief,
for enforced attention to anything had become intolerable to him, and
he had no sooner fallen back into idleness than he once more became the
prey of shame and anxiety. Every morning he made a fresh set of plans
for the future. He had abandoned the idea of starting a newspaper as
unworthy of him, and he inveighed against the poverty which prevented
him from quietly devoting himself to some great literary work. He
had lately become enamoured of the notion of preparing himself for
a professorship, and so earning a livelihood and enabling himself
to carry out his literary ambition. There no longer seemed to exist
between himself and Pauline anything beyond their old feeling of
comradeship, a quiet affection which made them, as it were, brother
and sister. The young man never made any reference to their marriage,
either because he never thought of it, or, perhaps, because he took it
for granted and considered any discussion of the matter unnecessary;
while the girl herself was equally reticent on the subject, feeling
quite certain that her cousin would willingly acquiesce in the
first suggestion of their union. And yet Lazare's passion for her
was gradually diminishing; a fact of which she was quite conscious,
though she did not understand that it was this alone which rendered her
powerless to free him from his _ennui_.

One evening, when she had gone upstairs in the dusk to tell him that
dinner was ready, she surprised him in the act of hastily hiding
something which she could not distinguish.

'What's that?' she asked, with a laugh. 'Some verses for my birthday?'

'No!' he replied, with much emotion and in wavering tones. 'It's
nothing at all.'

It was an old glove which Louise had left behind her, and which he had
just discovered behind a pile of books. The glove had retained a strong
odour of the original skin of which it was made, and this was softened
to a musky fragrance by Louise's favourite perfume, heliotrope. Lazare,
who was very susceptible to the influence of odours, was violently
agitated by that scent, and in a state of emotion had lingered with
the glove pressed to his lips, draining from it a draught of sweet
recollections.

From that day onward he began to yearn for Louise over the yawning
chasm which his mother's death had left within him. He had never
indeed forgotten the girl; her image had been dimmed somewhat by his
grief, but it only wanted that little thing that had once belonged
to her to bring her back to his mind. He took up the glove again, as
soon as he was alone, kissed it, inhaled its scent, and fancied that
he was still holding the girl in his embrace with his lips seeking
hers. His nervous excitement, the mental feverishness which resulted
from his long-continued inactivity, tended to intensify this species
of intoxication. He felt vexed with himself on account of it, but he
succumbed to it again and again, carried away by a passion which quite
overpowered him. All this, too, increased his gloomy moodiness, and he
even began to get snappish and surly with his cousin, as though she
were in some way to blame for his passionate trances. Often, in the
midst of some tranquil conversation, he would suddenly rush off and
shut himself up in his room and wallow in his passionate recollections
of the other girl. Then he would come downstairs again, weary and
disgusted with life.

At the end of a month he had so completely changed that Pauline grew
quite hopeless and spent nights of torment. In the daytime she forced
herself to assume a brave face, and kept herself perpetually busy in
the house of which she was now the mistress. But at night, when she had
closed the door of her room behind her, she dwelt upon her troubles,
gave way completely, and wept like a child. She had no hope left;
all her kindliness only met with an increasingly chilling reception.
Could it really be, she wondered, that kindness and affection were
insufficient, and that it was possible to love a person and yet cause
him unhappiness? For she saw that her cousin was really unhappy, and
she began to fear that it might somehow be her own fault. And then,
beneath her doubts of herself, there lurked increasing fears of a rival
influence. She had for a long time explained Lazare's gloomy moodiness
to herself as springing from grief at his mother's death; but now she
was again haunted by the idea of Louise, an idea which had occurred
to her on the very day after Madame Chanteau's death, but which she
had then scornfully dismissed amidst her pride in the power of her own
affection, though every night now it forced itself upon her as she
found the efforts of her love so unavailing.

The girl was haunted by it all. As soon as she had put down her candle
after entering her room she threw herself upon her bed, without having
the energy to undress. All the gaiety of spirit which she had shown
during the day, all her calmness and restraint, weighed upon her like
a too heavy gown. The day, like those which had preceded it, and like
those which would follow, had passed away amidst that feeling of
hopelessness with which Lazare's moody _ennui_ contaminated the whole
house. What was the use of striving to appear bright and cheerful, when
she was unable to cast a gleam of sunshine on him she so dearly loved?
Lazare's former cruel remark still rankled in her heart. They were too
lonely, and it was her jealousy that was to blame for it; it was she
who had sent their friends away. She would not name Louise to herself,
and she tried not to think about her; but she could not succeed in
banishing the memory of that girl, with the winning ways and coquettish
airs which had amused Lazare, who grew bright at the mere rustling of
her gown. The minutes glided on, and still Pauline could not drive
Louise from her thoughts. She felt sure it was for her that Lazare was
anxiously longing, that all that was wanted to set him right again was
to send for the girl. And every evening when Pauline went upstairs and
threw herself wearily on her bed she relapsed into those same thoughts
and visions, and was tortured by the idea that the happiness of her
dear ones depended perhaps upon another than herself.

Now and then her spirit would rise within her in rebellion, and she
would spring from her bed, rush to the window and open it, feeling
suffocated. And there, gazing out into the far-spreading darkness,
above the ocean, whose moaning rose to her ear, she would remain for
hours, leaning on her elbows, unable to sleep, while the sea-air played
upon her burning breast. No; never could she be vile enough, she
told herself, to tolerate that girl's return! Had she not surprised
them together? Was it not an act of treason--treason of the basest
kind--that they had committed? Yes; it was an unpardonable offence, and
she would only be making herself their accomplice if she did anything
to bring them together again. She grew feverish and excited with angry
jealousy at the ideas which she called up, and shook with sobs as she
hid her face with her bare arms. The night sped on, and the breezes
fanned her neck and played with her hair without calming the angry
pulsing of her blood. But even in those moments when indignation most
mastered her, her natural kindliness still made its voice heard and
struggled against her passion. It whispered to her in gentle tones of
the blessedness of charity, of the sweetness of sacrificing one's self
for others. She tried to hush that inner voice, telling herself that
to carry self-sacrifice to the point of baseness was idiotic; but she
still heard its pleading, which refused to be silenced. By degrees she
grew to recognise it as the voice of her own better nature, and she
began to ask herself what, after all, would suffering matter, if she
could only secure the happiness of those who were dear to her? Then she
sobbed less loudly as she listened to the moans of the sea ascending
through the darkness, weary and ill the while, and not yet conquered.

One night, after long weeping at her window, she at last got into
bed. As soon as she had blown out her candle and lay staring into the
darkness she came to a sudden resolution. The very first thing in the
morning she would get her uncle to write to Louise and invite her to
stay at Bonneville for a month. It all seemed quite natural and easy
to her just then, and she quickly fell into sound sleep, a deeper and
calmer sleep than she had known for weeks. But when she came down to
breakfast the next morning and saw herself sitting between her uncle
and cousin at the family table, there came a sudden choking sensation
in her throat, and she felt all her courage and resolution forsaking
her.

'You are eating nothing,' said Chanteau. 'What's the matter with you?'

'Nothing at all,' she replied. 'On the contrary, I have had a
remarkably good sleep.'

The mere sight of Lazare brought her back to her mental struggle. He
was eating in silence, weary already of the new day that had begun, and
the girl could not bring herself to yield him to another. The thought
of another taking him from her, and kissing, him to console and comfort
him, was intolerable to her. Yet when he left the room she made an
effort to carry out her resolution.

'Are your hands any worse to-day?' she asked her uncle.

He gazed at his hands, where tophus was again appearing, and he
painfully bent the joints.

'No,' he answered. 'My right hand is even more supple than usual. If
the priest comes, we'll have a game at draughts.'

Then, after a moment's silence, he added:

'What makes you ask?'

She had been hoping that he would not be able to write, and now she
blushed deeply, and, like a coward, determined to defer the letter till
the morrow.

'Oh! I only wanted to know!' she stammered.

From that day forward all rest deserted her. Up in her own room at
nights, after her fits of tears, she used to gain the mastery over
herself, and vow that she would dictate to her uncle a letter in the
morning; but when the morning came, and she again joined in the family
life amongst those she loved, all her resolution failed her. The most
trivial little details sent a pang through her heart; the bread that
she cut for her cousin, his shoes which she gave to Véronique to be
cleaned, and all the petty incidents of the daily routine. They might
surely still be very happy by themselves in their old way, she thought.
What was the use of calling in a stranger? Why disturb the affectionate
life which they had been living for so many years past? The thought
that it would no longer be she herself who would cut the bread and
mend the linen made her choke with grief, as if she saw all happiness
crumble away. This torture, which lurked in every little homely detail
of her work, made all her duties as mistress a torment.

'What can be wrong?' she would sometimes ask herself aloud. 'We love
each other, and yet we are not happy. Our affection for each other only
seems to make us wretched.'

It was a problem she was constantly trying to solve. Perhaps all the
trouble arose from the fact that her own character and that of her
cousin did not harmonize. But, though she would willingly have adapted
herself, have abdicated all personal will, she found it impossible to
do so, for her sense of reason prevented her. Her patience often gave
way, and there were days of sulking. She would have liked to be merry
and drown all petty wretchedness in gaiety, but she could no longer do
so; she, in her turn, was growing moody and despondent.

'It's very nice and pleasant this!' Véronique began to repeat from
morning till night. 'There are only three of you now, and you'll end
by eating each other up! Madame used to have her bad days, but, at any
rate, while she was alive, you managed to keep off banging things at
each other's heads.'

Chanteau himself also began to suffer from the influence of this slow
and, to him, inexplicable disintegration of the family affections.
Whenever he now had an attack of the gout, he bellowed, as the servant
said, more loudly than before, and his caprices and violence tormented
everyone in the place. The whole house was becoming a hell once more.

At last Pauline, in the last throes of her jealousy, began to ask
herself if she was to impose her own ideas of happiness on Lazare.
Certainly before everything else it was his happiness that she desired,
even at the cost of grief to herself. Why, then, should she go on
keeping him in this seclusion, in a solitude which seemed to make him
suffer? He must, and doubtless he did, still love her, and he would
come back to her when he was better able to appreciate her after
comparison with that other girl. But, any way, she ought to let him
make his own choice. It was only just, and the idea of justice remained
paramount within her.

Every three months Pauline repaired to Caen to receive the dividends.
She started in the morning and returned in the evening, after attending
to a list of purchases and errands which she compiled during the
previous quarter. On her visit to Caen in June that year, however, the
family vainly awaited her return, putting off dinner till nine o'clock.
Chanteau, who had become very uneasy, sent Lazare off along the road,
fearing that some accident had occurred; whereas Véronique, with an air
of perfect tranquillity, said that it was foolish of them to distress
themselves, for Mademoiselle Pauline, finding herself behindhand, and
being anxious to complete her purchases, had doubtless determined to
stay at Caen all night. Nevertheless, they spent a very uneasy time
at Bonneville, and next morning, as soon as breakfast was over, their
anxiety returned. About noon, when Chanteau could scarcely keep himself
any longer in his chair, and Lazare had just determined to set off to
Arromanches, Véronique, who had been standing on the road, suddenly
rushed into the room exclaiming:

'Here she is! Mademoiselle is coming!'

Chanteau insisted upon having his chair wheeled on to the terrace, and
the father and son waited there together, while Véronique gave them
particulars of what she had seen.

'It was Malivoire's coach. I could tell it was Mademoiselle Pauline by
her crape ribbons. But what I couldn't understand was that there seemed
to be somebody with her. What can that broken-winded old hack be doing,
I wonder?'

At last the coach drove up to the door. Lazare had stepped towards it,
and had already opened his mouth to question Pauline, who had sprung
down lightly, when he remained as if thunderstruck. Behind his cousin
there appeared another young woman, dressed in striped lilac silk. Both
girls were laughing together in the most friendly fashion. The young
man's surprise was so great that he returned to his father, crying:

'She has brought Louise with her!'

'Louise! Ah, that's a capital idea!' Chanteau exclaimed.

And when the girls stood side by side before him, the one still in her
deep mourning and the other in her gay summer toilette, he continued,
delighted with this new distraction:

'Ah, so you have made peace! Well, I never quite understood what was
the matter--some nonsense, I suppose. How naughty it was of you, my
poor Louisette, to keep estranged from us during all the trouble we've
been through! Well! it's all at an end now, eh?'

A feeling of embarrassment kept the girls silent. They blushed and
avoided looking at each other. Then Louise stepped forward and kissed
Chanteau to hide her confusion. But he wanted some explanations.

'You met each other, I suppose.'

Thereupon Louise turned towards her friend, while her eyes filled with
tears.

'It was Pauline who came to see us. I was just going back into the
house myself when she arrived. You mustn't scold her for staying the
night with us, for it was my fault. I made her stay. And, as the
telegraph goes no further than Arromanches, we thought we should get
here ourselves as soon as any message. Do you forgive me?'

She kissed Chanteau again with all her old caressing manner. He
inquired no further. When what happened contributed to his pleasure, he
had no fault to find with it.

'But there's Lazare,' he added; 'aren't you going to speak to him?'

The young man had kept in the background, with an embarrassed smile
on his face. His father's remark completed his confusion, the more
especially as Louise only blushed again and made no step towards him.
Why was she there, he asked himself? Why had his cousin brought back
this rival, whom she had so violently driven away? He had not yet
recovered from his confusion at the sight of her.

'Kiss her, Lazare!' said Pauline softly, 'since she is too timid to
kiss you.'

Her face was quite white, as she stood there in her deep mourning,
but her expression was perfectly peaceful, and her eyes clear and
untroubled. She looked at them both with the maternal, serious
expression which she assumed in her graver moments of household
responsibility, and only smiled when the young man took courage to let
his lips just touch the cheek which Louise offered him.

When Véronique saw this, she rushed away and shut herself up in
her kitchen, perfectly thunderstruck. It was altogether beyond her
comprehension. After all that had passed, Mademoiselle Pauline could
have very little heart. She was becoming quite ridiculous in her desire
to please others. It wasn't sufficient to bring all the dirty little
drabs of the neighbourhood into the house and put them in the way of
walking off with the silver, but now she must bring sweethearts for
Monsieur Lazare! The house was getting into a nice state indeed!

When she had vented a little of her indignation in this explosion over
her fire, she went out on to the terrace again, exclaiming, 'Don't you
know that lunch has been ready for more than an hour? The potatoes are
fried to cinders!'

They all ate with good appetites, but Chanteau was the only one whose
mirth flowed freely, and fortunately he was too gay to notice the
persistent constraint of the others. Though they showed themselves
very affectionate, still, beneath it all, there lurked a touch of
that uneasy sadness which manifests itself in one who forgives an
irreparable insult, but cannot altogether forget it. The afternoon was
spent in installing the new-comer in her room. She again occupied her
old quarters on the first floor. If Madame Chanteau could only have
come downstairs to dinner, with her quick, short step, nothing would
have appeared changed in the house.

For nearly a week longer this uneasy constraint lasted amongst
the young people. Lazare, who did not dare to question Pauline,
was altogether unable to understand what he considered her most
extraordinary caprice; for any idea of a sacrifice, of a determination
deliberately and magnanimously taken, never occurred to him. He
himself, amidst the desires fanned by his listless idleness, had never
thought of marrying Louise; and so now, on being all three placed
together again, they found themselves in a false position, which
caused them much distress. There were pauses of silent embarrassment,
and sentences that remained half unspoken from fear of conveying any
allusion to the past. Pauline, surprised at this unexpected state of
affairs, was obliged to exaggerate and force her gaiety, in the hope
of bringing back a semblance of the careless merriment of former days.
At first she felt a wave of joy rising in her heart, for she thought
that Lazare was coming back to her. The presence of Louise had calmed
him; he almost avoided her, and shunned being alone with her, horrified
at the thought that he might even yet be weak enough to betray his
cousin's confidence. Tortured by a feverish affection for Pauline, he
attached himself to her, and in tones of emotion proclaimed her to be
the best of girls, a true saint, of whom he was utterly unworthy. And
so she felt very happy, and rejoiced greatly in what she thought was
her victory, when she saw her cousin pay such little attention to
Louise. At the end of the week she even began to reproach him for his
want of amiability towards her rival.

'Why do you always run off and leave us? It really quite vexes me. She
isn't here for us to be rude to her.'

Lazare avoided replying, making only a vague gesture. Then his cousin
ventured to make an allusion to what had previously happened:

'I brought her here so that you might know that I have long ago
forgiven you. I wanted to wipe out every remembrance of it, as though
it were all some horrid dream. It is done with now. I am no longer
afraid, you see. I have perfect confidence in you both.'

At this he caught her in his arms. Then he promised to be courteous and
amiable with Louise.

From that moment they spent their days in delightful intimacy. Lazare
no longer seemed to suffer from _ennui_. Instead of shutting himself
up in his room at the top of the house, like a recluse, and making
himself ill with very loneliness, he invented amusements and arranged
long walks, from which they came back home glowing, invigorated by the
fresh air. And it was now that Louise by slow degrees began to recover
all her old sway over him. The young man grew quite at his ease with
her again, and once more offered his arm, and allowed himself to be
thrilled afresh by that disturbing perfume which every fold of the
girl's lace seemed to exhale. At first he struggled against her growing
influence over him, and tried to escape from her as soon as he found
himself becoming intoxicated with her witchery. But Pauline herself
bade him go to the girl's assistance when they had to leap over a pool
as they skirted the shore. She herself jumped over it boldly, like a
boy, disdaining all help; whereas Louise, with a soft cry like that of
a wounded lark, surrendered herself to the young man's arms. Then, as
they returned home again, and he supported her, all the low laughter
and whispered confidences of former days began anew. But Pauline
was, as yet, in no way distressed by this; she maintained her brave
expression, without guessing that she was risking her happiness by
never feeling weary or requiring the assistance of her cousin's arm.
It was with a kind of smiling bravado that she made the others walk in
front of her, arm-in-arm, as though she wanted to show them how great
was her confidence.

Neither Lazare nor Louise, indeed, had the slightest idea of taking
advantage of the trust she reposed in them. Though the young man
was again bewitched by Louise, he perpetually struggled against her
influence and made a point of showing himself more affectionate than
before to his cousin. In Louise's society, whilst ever finding some
charm by which he allowed himself to be deliciously beguiled, he was
always protesting to himself that this time the game should not go
beyond the limits of permissible flirtation. Why, he asked himself,
should he deny himself some pleasant little amusement, since he was
quite determined to go no further? Louise, too, felt more scruples than
formerly; not that she accused herself of previous coquetry, for she
was naturally of a caressing disposition, but now she would neither
have done nor said anything that she thought might be in the least
degree distasteful to Pauline. Her friend's forgiveness of what had
passed had moved her to tears. She wanted to show that she was worthy
of it, and seemed to regard her with that exuberant feminine adoration
which finds expression in vows and kisses and all kinds of passionate
caresses. She kept a constant watch upon her, so that she might run
up to her at the first appearance of displeasure. At times she would
abruptly leave Lazare's arm for Pauline's, and try to enliven her,
and even pretend to sulk with the young man. Never before had Louise
appeared so charming as she did now in this constant state of emotion,
which arose from the necessity she felt of pleasing both Pauline and
Lazare; and the whole house seemed alive with the rustle of her skirts
and her pretty wheedling ways.

Little by little, however, Pauline became quite wretched again. Her
temporary hope and momentary feeling of triumph only served to increase
her pain. She no longer experienced the violent paroxysms and wild
outbursts of jealousy which had once quite distracted her. Hers was
rather a sensation of having life slowly crushed out of her, as though
some heavy mass had fallen on her with a weight which bore her down
more and more each passing minute. She felt that everything was over,
that hope was no longer possible for her. And yet she had no reasonable
ground of complaint against the two others. They showed the greatest
thoughtfulness and affection for her, and struggled earnestly against
the influences which attracted them towards each other. But it was
this very show of affection which especially tortured her, for she
began to see that they were prompted by a desire to prevent her from
feeling pained by their love for one another. The pity of those young
lovers was unendurable to her. When she left them together, were there
not soft confessions and rapid whisperings, and then, when she joined
them again, a sudden relapse into silence, after which Louise lavished
kisses upon her and Lazare evinced affectionate humility? She would
have preferred to know that they were really in the wrong, for all
those honourable scruples and compensatory caresses, which plainly told
her the real truth, left her quite disarmed, with neither the will nor
the energy to try to win back her own happiness. On the day when she
had brought her rival to Bonneville she had intended to hold her own
against her, if she found any struggle necessary; but what could she
do against a couple of children whose love for each other was such a
source of distress to them? It was her own doing, too; she might have
married Lazare, had she chosen, without troubling herself about his
possible preference for someone else. But, in spite of her jealous
torments, her heart rebelled against the idea of exacting from him the
fulfilment of his promise--a promise which he no doubt now regretted.
Though it should kill her to do so, she would give him up rather than
marry him if he loved another.

Meanwhile she still went on playing the part of mother to her little
family; nursing Chanteau, who was not going on very satisfactorily,
soothing Véronique, whose sense of propriety was seriously offended,
to say nothing of pretending to treat Lazare and Louise as a pair of
disorderly children in order that she might be able to smile at their
escapades. She succeeded in forcing herself to laugh even more loudly
than they did, with that clear, ringing laugh of hers, whose limpid
notes testified to her healthy courage. The whole house seemed gay and
animated. She herself affected a bustling activity from morning till
night, refusing to accompany the young couple in their walks, on the
pretence that she had to undertake a general cleaning of the house,
or see after the washing, or superintend the making of preserves. It
was, however, more particularly Lazare who had now become noisy and
energetic. He went whistling up and down the stairs, drummed on the
doors, and found the days too short and uneventful. Although he did
not actually do anything, his new passion seemed to find him more
occupation than he had either time or strength for. Once more he
intended to conquer the world, and every day at dinner he expounded
fresh extraordinary schemes for the future. He had already grown
disgusted with the idea of literature, and had abandoned all notion of
reading for the examinations which he had intended to pass in order to
enable him to take up a professorship. For a long time he had made this
intention of studying an excuse for shutting himself up in solitude
in his room; but he had there felt so discouraged that he had never
opened a book, and now he began to scoff at his own foolishness in
ever contemplating such a thing. Could anything be more idiotic than
to chain himself down to a life like that in order to be able at some
future time to write a lot of plays and novels? No! Politics alone were
worthy of his ambition; and he had now quite made up his mind. He had
a slight acquaintance with the Deputy for Caen, and he would go with
him to Paris as his secretary, and, doubtless, in a few months' time he
would make his way. The Empire was in great want of intelligent young
men.

When Pauline, whom this wild whirl of ideas made uneasy, tried to calm
his ambitious fever by advising him to look out for some smaller but
safer berth, he scoffed at her prudence and jokingly called her 'an old
grandmother.'

One day, when Lazare and Louise had gone by themselves to Verchemont,
Pauline had need of a recipe for freshening some old velvet; and she
went upstairs to search for it in her cousin's big wardrobe, where she
thought she recollected having seen it on a scrap of paper between
the pages of a book. While she was looking for it she discovered
amongst some pamphlets Louise's old glove, that forgotten glove, the
contemplation of which had so often filled Lazare with intoxication. It
proved a ray of light to Pauline. She recognised in it the object which
her cousin had hidden from her with such emotion that evening when she
had suddenly entered his room to tell him that dinner was ready. She
fell upon a chair, quite overcome by the revelation. Ah! he had been
longing for that girl before ever she had returned to the house; he had
lived on his recollections of her, and he had worn that glove away with
his lips because it retained some scent of her person! Pauline's whole
body was shaken by sobs, while her streaming eyes remained fixed upon
the glove, which she held in her trembling hands.

'Well, Mademoiselle, have you found it yet?' called Véronique, who had
just come upstairs from the landing. 'The best thing you can do is to
rub the stuff with a piece of bacon-rind.'

She came into the room, and seemed quite amazed at finding Pauline in
tears, with her fingers clutching the old glove. But as she glanced
round the room she at last guessed the cause of the girl's despair.

'Well! well!' she said, in the rough way that was becoming more and
more habitual to her, 'you might have expected it! I warned you how it
would be, long ago. You brought them together again, and now they amuse
themselves. And perhaps my mistress was right, after all; that kitten
of a girl brightens him up more than you do.'

Then she shook her head, and added in a grave voice, as though she was
speaking to herself:

'Ah! my mistress had a very clear eyesight, in spite of her faults. For
my part, I can't bring myself to think that she is really dead.'

That evening, when Pauline had locked herself in her room and placed
her candlestick on the chest of drawers, she threw herself upon her
bed, repeating that she must get Louise and Lazare married. All day
long a buzzing sensation had made her head throb and prevented her
from thinking clearly; and it was only now, in the quiet night-time,
when she was able to suffer without witnesses of her trouble, that the
inevitable consequence of what had happened presented itself clearly
to her mind. It was absolutely necessary that Lazare and Louise should
marry. The thought rang through her like an order, like the voice of
reason and justice, to which she could no longer turn a deaf ear. For
a moment she, who was so courageous, gave way to terror, fancying she
heard her dead aunt calling out to her to obey. Then, all dressed as
she was, she turned over and covered herself with the bed-clothes to
drown the sound of her sobs. Oh! to have to surrender him to another!
To know that another's arms would be clasped round him and would keep
him from her for ever! To lose all hope of ever winning him back!
No! she could never have enough courage for it; she would prefer to
continue leading her present life of wretchedness. No one at all should
have him, neither herself nor that other girl; and Lazare should grow
old and withered with waiting! For a long time she lay struggling with
herself, racked by jealous fury. Her impetuous temperament, which
neither years nor reflection had been able to subdue, always asserted
itself at the first moment of a difficulty. Then, however, she became
prostrate, physically exhausted.

Too tired and weary to undress, Pauline lay for a long time on her
back, debating the question. She succeeded in proving to herself
that Louise could do more to secure Lazare's happiness than she ever
could. Had not that girl, so weak and puny, already roused him from
his _ennui_ with her caresses? Doubtless it was necessary for him to
have her continually clinging to his neck, that she might drive away
with kisses all his gloomy thoughts, his terror of death. Then Pauline
fell to depreciating herself, repeating that she was too cold and had
none of the amorous graces of a woman, but only kindliness, which was
not sufficient allurement. One other consideration, too, brought her
complete conviction. She was ruined, and her cousin's plans for the
future, those plans which had caused her so much anxiety, would require
a large amount of money for accomplishment. Would it be right for her
to impose on him the narrow, sordid life which they were now obliged
to lead, condemn him to mediocrity, which she could see was painful
to him? Their life together would be unhappy, poisoned by continual
regret, the querulous bitterness of disappointed ambition. She could
only give him a rancorous life of poverty; whereas Louise, who was
wealthy, could open out to him the great career of which he dreamed. It
was said that the girl's father was keeping some good berth vacant for
his future son-in-law, probably some lucrative position in the bank;
and, though Lazare affected to despise financiers, matters would no
doubt be satisfactorily arranged. She felt that she could hesitate no
longer, now that it seemed clear to her that she would be committing
an unworthy action if she did not marry them together. And as she lay
awake on her bed, that union of Lazare and Louise seemed to her to be
a necessity, which she must hasten if she wanted to preserve her own
self-respect.

The whole night passed while she was thus wrestling with herself. When
the day broke, she at last undressed. She was perfectly calm now, and
enjoyed profound repose, though still unable to sleep. She had never
before felt so easy, so satisfied with herself, so free from all
anxiety. All was ending; she had just severed the bonds of egotism,
she had no hopes now centred in any person or thing, and within her
lurked all the subtle pleasure that comes of self-sacrifice. She did
not even experience any longer her old craving to prove all-sufficient
for the happiness of her people. The pride of abnegation had vanished,
and she was willing that those she loved should be happy through other
instrumentality than her own. It was the loftiest height which love for
others can reach, to suppress one's self, to give up everything and
still think one has not given enough, to love so deeply as to rejoice
in a happiness which one has neither bestowed nor shares. The sun was
rising when she at last dropped off into a deep sleep.

Pauline came downstairs very late that morning. When she awoke, it
made her happy to find that all the resolutions she had taken during
the night remained fixed and unwavering within her. But she began to
reflect that she had forgotten what would become of herself, and that
she must make some plans for her future altered circumstances. Though
she might have the courage to bring about the marriage of Lazare and
Louise, she would certainly never be brave enough to remain with them
and watch their happiness. Self-devotion has its limits, and she was
afraid of some return of her violent outbursts, some terrible scene
which would kill her. Besides, was she not really doing all that
could possibly be demanded of her, and could anyone have the cruelty
to impose useless torture upon her? She came to an immediate and
irrevocable decision. She would go away, leave the house, which was so
full of disquieting associations. This would mean a complete change in
her life, but she did not shrink from it.

At breakfast she showed a calm cheerfulness, which she henceforth
maintained. She bravely endured the sight of Lazare and Louise, sitting
side by side, whispering and smiling, without any other feeling of
weakness than a chilly coldness at her heart. As it was Saturday, she
made up her mind to send them out for a long walk together in order
that she might be alone when Doctor Cazenove came. They went off, and
Pauline then took the precaution of going out into the road to meet the
Doctor. As soon as he caught sight of her he wanted her to get up into
his gig and drive to the house with him. But she begged him to alight,
and they walked along slowly together, while Martin, a hundred yards in
the rear, brought on the empty vehicle.

In a few simple words Pauline unbosomed herself to the Doctor. She
told him everything--her plan of giving Lazare to Louise and her
determination to leave the house. This confession had seemed necessary
to her; she was unwilling to act upon mere inspiration, and the old
doctor was the only person who could understand her.

Cazenove suddenly halted in the middle of the road and clasped the girl
in his long bony arms. He was trembling with emotion, and he kissed her
on the hair, as he said affectionately:

'You are quite right, my dear; you are quite right. And it pleases me
very much to hear it, for matters might have had a much worse ending.
For months past I have been feeling grieved, and I was longing to
come and talk to you, for I knew you were very unhappy. Ah! they have
plundered you and stripped you nicely, those good folks! First your
money, and now your heart!'

The young girl tried to stop him.

'My dear friend, I beg you----You are judging them unfairly.'

'Perhaps so, but that does not prevent me from being glad on your
account. Yes, yes! Give up your Lazare! It is not a very valuable
present that you are making to the other one! I daresay that he is a
very charming fellow, and that he has the best intentions in the world;
but I prefer that the other should be unhappy with him, and not you.
Those fine fellows who grow bored with everything are far too heavy
even for broad shoulders like yours to support. I would rather see you
marry some sturdy butcher-lad--yes, I mean it--some butcher-lad who
would shake his sides day and night with honest, merry laughter.'

Then, as he saw her eyes fill with tears, he added:

'Ah, well! you love him, I suppose, and so I won't say anything more.
Give me a kiss again, since you are brave enough to act so sensibly.
Ah! what a fool he is not to see what he is doing!'

He took her arm and drew her close to his side. Then they began to talk
seriously together as they resumed their walk. The Doctor told her that
she would certainly, do best to leave Bonneville, and he undertook to
find her a situation. He happened, he said, to have a rich old relative
living at Saint-Lô, who was looking for a young lady companion. Pauline
would be perfectly happy with her, and very likely the old lady,
who had no children of her own, would grow much attached to her and
subsequently adopt her. They arranged everything between themselves,
and the Doctor promised Pauline a definite reply from his relative in a
few days' time. Meanwhile it was settled she should say nothing about
her determination to leave the Chanteaus. She was afraid that if she
did it might seem to be in some way a threat, and she was anxious to
bring the marriage to an issue and then immediately leave the house
like one who could no longer be of use there.

On the third day Pauline received a letter from the Doctor. She was
expected at Saint-Lô as soon as she could get away. It was on this
same day, during Lazare's absence, that she led Louise to an old seat
beneath a clump of tamarisks at the bottom of the kitchen garden.
In front of them, above the low wall, they could see nothing but the
sea and sky--a measureless expanse of blue, intersected by the
far-stretching line of the horizon.

'My dear girl,' said Pauline to Louise with her maternal air, 'let us
talk as though we were two sisters. You love me a little, don't you?'

Louise threw one arm round her friend's waist as she exclaimed:

'Indeed I do! You know I do!'

'Well, then, since you love me, it was very wrong of you not to tell me
everything. Why do you keep secrets from me?'

'Indeed, I have no secrets.'

'Ah! yes; think again now. Come, open your heart to me.'

Each looked into the other's face so closely for a moment that they
felt the warmth of one another's breath. And the eyes of one gradually
grew troubled beneath the clear, unruffled gaze of the other. The
silence was growing painful.

'Tell me everything. When things are discussed openly it is possible
to arrange them satisfactorily, but dissimulation is apt to have an
unhappy ending. Isn't that so, eh? It would be very painful for us to
disagree again and to have a repetition of what caused us so much grief
and trouble.'

At this Louise burst into a violent fit of sobbing. She clasped Pauline
round the waist convulsively, and hid her face against her friend's
shoulder while stammering amidst her tears:

'Oh! it is very unkind of you to speak of that again! You ought never
to have mentioned it again, never! Send me away at once, rather than
pain me like this!'

It was in vain that Pauline tried to soothe her.

'No, no!' the weeping girl went on; 'I understand it all. You still
suspect me. Why do you speak to me of secrets? I have no secret at all.
I do everything quite openly, so that you may have no cause to find
fault with me or reproach me. I am not to blame because things happen
which disturb you--I who am even careful how I laugh, though you don't
know it----But, if you don't believe me, I had better go away at once.
Let me go! Let me go!'

They were quite alone in that far-reaching space. The kitchen-garden,
scorched by the west wind, lay at their feet like a piece of waste
land, while, further away, the calm sea spread out in its immensity.

'But listen to what I have to say,' Pauline cried. 'I am not
reproaching you at all; on the contrary, I want to encourage you.'

Then, taking Louise by the shoulders and forcing her to raise her eyes,
she said to her gently, like a mother questioning her daughter:

'You love Lazare? And he, too, loves you, I am sure.'

The blood surged to Louise's cheeks. She trembled yet more violently,
and tried to liberate herself and escape.

'Good gracious! How clumsily I must express myself if you can't
understand me!' Pauline resumed. 'Do you think I should talk to you on
such a subject only to torture you? You love each other, don't you?
Well, I want to get you married to one another! It's very simple!'

Louise, distracted, ceased to struggle. Stupor checked the flow of her
tears, rendered her motionless, with her hands hanging inertly beside
her.

'What! And yourself?' she gasped.

'I, my dear? Well, I have been questioning myself very seriously for
some weeks past, at night-time especially, during those waking hours
when one's mind sees things in a clearer light. And I have recognised
that I only feel sincere friendship for Lazare. Haven't you been able
to see as much for yourself? We are comrades, chums; like a couple of
boys, in fact. We do not feel those loving transports----'

She hesitated, trying to find some suitable phrase which would give an
appearance of probability to her falsehoods. But her rival still gazed
at her with fixed eyes, as though she had discovered the meaning which
was hidden beneath her words.

'Why do you tell me untruths?' she murmured at last. 'Is it possible
for you to cease to love where you have once loved?'

Pauline grew confused.

'Well! well!' she said; 'what does that matter? You love each other,
and it is quite natural that he should marry you. I--I was brought up
with him, and I shall continue to be a sister to him. One's ideas alter
when one has been waiting so long----And, then, there are several other
reasons----'

She was conscious that she was growing more confused, and, carried away
by her frankness, she went on:

'Oh! my dear, let me have my way. If I still love him sufficiently to
want to see him your husband, it is because I now believe that you are
necessary to his happiness. That doesn't vex you, does it? You would
do the same if you were in my place, would you not? Come, let us talk
it over quietly. Will you join in the little plot? Shall we come to an
understanding together to force him into being happy? Even if he seems
vexed about it and persists in believing that he is yet bound to me,
you must help me to persuade him, for it is you whom he loves, and it
is you who are necessary to him. Be my accomplice, I beg you, and let
us get everything arranged at once, now, while we are alone.'

But Louise, seeing how she trembled, how heart-broken she was in making
those entreaties, persisted in rebelling.

'No, no! I couldn't think of such a thing! It would be abominable. You
still love him; I am sure of it, and you are only planning your own
torment. Instead of helping you, I will tell him everything. Yes, as
soon as he comes back----'

Then Pauline threw her kindly arms round her again to prevent her from
continuing, and drew her face close to her breast.

'Hold your tongue, you wicked child! It must be so. It is he whom we
have to think about.'

Silence fell again, while they lingered in that embrace. Her powers
of resistance already exhausted, Louise gave way, yielded with
affectionate languor, while tears mounted to her eyes--happy tears that
trickled slowly down her cheeks. She spoke no word, but pressed her
friend to her, as though she could find no discreeter or more sincere
way of expressing her gratitude. She recognised that Pauline was so
much above her, so lofty, so self-sacrificing, that she dared not raise
her eyes to meet her gaze. However, after a few minutes, she ventured
to lift her head in smiling confusion, and then, protruding her lips,
gave her friend a silent kiss. In the distance the sea stretched out
beneath the cloudless sky without a single wave breaking on its blue
immensity.

When Lazare returned to the house, Pauline went up to him in his room,
that big and well-loved chamber where they had grown up together. She
was anxious to finish her task that very day. With her cousin she
sought no preliminary remarks, but went straight to the point. The room
teemed with associations of their old life. Pieces of dry seaweed still
lay about there, the models of the stockades littered the piano, and
the table was strewn with scientific treatises and scores of music.

'Lazare,' she began, 'I want to talk to you. I have something serious
to say to you.'

He seemed surprised, and then took his stand before her.

'What is the matter? Is my father threatened with another attack?'

'No, listen. It is necessary that the subject should now be mentioned;
keeping silence about it cannot do any good. You know that my aunt
intended we should be married. We have frequently spoken about it, and
for months past it: has been considered a settled matter. Well, I think
that it would now be better if all thought of it were abandoned.'

The young man had turned pale, but he did not allow his cousin to
finish; he exclaimed excitedly:

'What? What nonsense are you talking? Are you not already my wife?
We will go to-morrow, if you like, and ask the priest to put the
finishing-stroke to the matter. And this is what you call something
serious!'

The girl replied in her tranquil voice:

'It is very serious; and, though it displeases you, I repeat that it is
certainly necessary we should speak about it. We are two old friends
and comrades, but I am afraid we should never be two lovers. So what
is the good of obstinately persisting in an idea which would probably
never result in happiness for either of us?'

Then Lazare burst out into a torrent of ejaculations. Was she trying
to quarrel with him? She couldn't expect him to spend his whole time
clinging round her neck! And, though the marriage had been put off from
month to month, she knew quite well that it wasn't his fault. It was
unjust of her, moreover, to say that he no longer loved her. He had
loved her so warmly, and in that very room too! At this reference to
the past a blush mounted to Pauline's cheeks. Her cousin was right. She
recollected his passing gusts of passion, and his hot breath fanning
her neck. But, ah! how far off were those delicious thrilling moments;
and what an unimpassioned, brotherly friendship he manifested for her
now! So it was with an expression of sadness that she replied to him:

'My poor fellow, if you really loved me, instead of arguing with me as
you are doing, you would be clasping me in your arms and sobbing, and
finding some very different way of persuading me.'

He turned still paler, and threw up his hands with a vague gesture of
protest as he let himself fall upon a chair.

'No!' the girl went on; 'it is quite clear that you love me no longer.
But it can't be helped. We are, no doubt, not suited to each other.
When we were shut up here together, you were driven into thinking about
me. But all your fancy vanished later on; it did not last, because
there was nothing in me that could keep you to me.'

A final paroxysm of exasperation carried him off, and he swayed about
in his chair as he stammered:

'Well! what do you want? What is the meaning of all this? I quietly
return home, and come up here to put on my slippers, and then you
suddenly fall on me, and without the least warning launch out into an
extravagant harangue--"I don't love you any longer"--"We are not made
for one another"--"The wedding must be broken off." Once more I ask
you, what is the meaning of it all?'

Pauline, who had drawn near him, slowly answered:

'It means that you love someone else, and that I advise you to marry
her.'

For a moment Lazare remained silent. Then he began to sneer. Good! They
were going to have the old scenes over again. Everything was going to
be turned topsy-turvy once more by her idiotic jealousy! She couldn't
bear to see him cheerful even for a single day without wanting to
banish everyone away from him.

Pauline listened with an expression of profound grief; then she
suddenly laid her trembling hands upon his shoulders, and an
involuntary cry burst from her heart:

'Oh! my dear, can you believe that I want to distress you? Can't you
see that my only desire is to make you happy? I would endure anything
to win you a single hour's happiness. You love Louise; is that not
so? Well, I tell you to marry her. Understand me. I am in the way no
longer. Marry her; I give her to you!'

Her cousin looked at her in amazement. With his nervous, ill-balanced
nature his feelings rushed to extremes at the slightest impulse. His
eyelids quivered, and he burst into sobs.

'Oh, don't talk like that!' he cried. 'I am utterly worthless! Yes,
indeed, I despise myself bitterly for all that has happened in this
house for years past. I am deeply in your debt. Don't say I am not! We
took your money, I squandered it like a fool, and now I have sunk so
low that you make me alms of my word and promise, and give them back to
me out of sheer pity, as to a man destitute of courage and honour!'

'Lazare! Lazare!' she murmured, quite frightened.

But he sprang furiously to his feet and began striding about the room,
drumming on his breast with his fists.

'Leave me! I should kill myself straight off if I treated myself
as I deserve. Do I not owe you my love? Isn't it a disgrace and an
abomination for me to wish for that other girl, who was not meant
for me and isn't nearly so good or so pretty as you are? When a man
descends to conduct like this, there must be mud in his soul! You see
that I am hiding nothing from you, that I am not attempting to defend
myself. Listen to me! Rather than accept your sacrifice, I would myself
turn Louise out of the house, and then go off to America and never see
either of you again!'

For a long time Pauline tried to calm him and reason with him.
Couldn't he try for once, she asked, to take life as it was, without
any exaggeration? Couldn't he see that the advice she offered him was
good advice, resolved upon after long deliberation? The marriage she
advocated would be good for everyone. She was able to speak of it in
such calm tones because, far from the thought of it paining her, she
now sincerely wished it. Then, carried away by her desire to convince
him, she unfortunately made an allusion to Louise's fortune, and hinted
that Thibaudier, when the marriage had taken place, would certainly
find some post for his son-in-law.

'Ah! that's it!' he broke out violently. 'You want to sell me now!
Say plainly that I can no longer care for you, because I have ruined
you, and that it only remains for me to be base enough to marry a rich
girl. No, no, indeed; that is too mean and degrading! Never will I do
it--never! Do you hear me? Never!'

Pauline, whose strength was exhausted, ceased her entreaties. Silence
reigned. Lazare had thrown himself on the chair again, while the girl
paced slowly up and down the big room, lingering before each piece of
furniture. Those old familiar things, the table which she had worn
away with the pressure of her elbows, the wardrobe where her childish
playthings were still stowed away, all the old souvenirs littered about
the room, made a feeling of hope, which she strove to dismiss, spring
up in her heart--a hope whose sweetness, in spite of herself, gradually
thrilled her. Suppose he did really love her sufficiently to refuse to
take another! But she knew too well the weak morrows that followed his
passionate outbursts of sentiment. Besides, it was very weak of her to
harbour hope, and she must guard against allowing herself to yield to
his nerveless vacillating nature.

'You must think it all over,' she said in conclusion, as she stopped
short before him. 'I won't bother you any more at present. I am sure
you will be more reasonable in the morning.'

The next day, however, was passed in painful constraint. The house
once more seemed to be under the depressing influence of a vague
bitter sorrow. Louise's eyes were red, and Lazare avoided her and
spent whole hours by himself in his room. But again the days went on;
the constraint began to disappear, and laughter and whispering once
more came back. Pauline still waited, indulging in foolish hopes even
against her own convictions. Backed by uncertainty, she thought that
she had never before really known what suffering was. But, at last,
as she was going down to the kitchen one evening in the dusk to get a
candle, she found Lazare and Louise kissing each other in the passage.
Louise made her escape laughing; while Lazare, emboldened by the
darkness, caught hold of Pauline and imprinted two brotherly kisses on
her cheeks.

'I have thought it over,' he murmured. 'You are better and wiser than
she is; and I still love you, but I love you as I loved my mother.'

She had just strength to say:

'It is settled, then. I am very glad.'

She felt that she had turned so pale, and her face was so cold, that
she dared not go into the kitchen for fear she should faint. Without
waiting to get a candle, she went upstairs again, saying that she had
forgotten something. When she had shut herself up in the darkness, she
thought she was going to die, for she felt suffocated, and could not
shed a single tear. What had she done, she cried to herself, that he
should have been cruel enough to make her torture still greater? Why
couldn't he have accepted her sacrifice on the day when she proposed
it to him, when she had possessed all her strength, unweakened by any
false hope? Now the sacrifice had become a double one. She had lost him
a second time, and all the more painfully since she had allowed herself
to hope that she was winning him back. Ah, Heaven! She would be brave
and bear it, but it was wicked to make her task such torture.

Everything was speedily arranged. Véronique, quite aghast, could make
nothing out of it. She thought that things had got turned upside down
since her mistress's death. It was, however, Chanteau who was most
surprised by the news. He, who usually took no interest in anything and
just nodded his head in approval of any scheme that was mentioned to
him, as though he were completely absorbed in the selfish enjoyment of
the calm moments which he stole from his tormenting pain, burst into
tears when Pauline herself announced the new arrangement to him. He
gazed at her, and stammered incoherent protests and confessions. It
wasn't his fault: he had wanted to do very differently long ago, both
about the money and about the marriage, but, as she knew, he was too
ill. However, the girl kissed him, protesting that it was she herself
who was making Lazare marry Louise for very good reasons. At first he
could scarcely believe her, and, blinking his eyes sadly, he asked her:

'Is that really the truth? Really?'

Then, when he saw her smile, he quickly consoled himself and grew quite
gay. It was a great relief to have things settled, for the matter had
long been distressing him, though he had never dared to open his mouth
about it. He kissed Louise on the cheeks, and in the evening, over the
dessert, he sang a merry song. Just as he was going to bed, however, he
was troubled by a last disquieting thought.

'You will stay with us, eh?' he asked Pauline.

The girl hesitated for a moment, and then, blushing at her falsehood,
she answered, 'Oh! no doubt.'

A whole month was required for the completion of the necessary
formalities. Thibaudier, Louise's father, had, however, at once
consented to the proposal of Lazare, who was his godson. There was only
one dispute between them, a couple of days before the wedding, when
the young man roundly refused to go to Paris and manage an Insurance
Company, in which the banker was the principal shareholder. He intended
remaining for a year or two longer at Bonneville and writing a novel,
which was to be a masterpiece, before he started off to bring Paris
to his feet. At this Thibaudier just shrugged his shoulders, and in a
friendly way called him a big simpleton.

It was arranged that the marriage should take place at Caen. During
the previous fortnight there were continual comings and goings, a
perfect fever of journeyings. Pauline went about with Louise, seeking
to divert her thoughts with all the bustle, and returning home quite
exhausted. As Chanteau was not able to leave Bonneville, she had
to promise to attend the ceremony, at which she would be the only
representative of her cousin's family. The near approach of the day
filled her with terror. She had arranged that she would not spend the
night at Caen, for she thought she would suffer less if she returned
to sleep at Bonneville. She pretended that her uncle's health made her
very uneasy, and that she was unwilling to remain long away from him.
Chanteau himself vainly pressed her to spend a few days at Caen. He
wasn't ill at all, he urged. On the contrary, he was very much excited
by the idea of the approaching wedding and the thought of the banquet
at which he would not be present; and he was craftily planning to make
Véronique supply him with some forbidden dish, such as a young truffled
partridge, which he could never eat without the absolute certainty of a
fresh attack of gout. However, in spite of all that could be urged, the
girl declared that she would return home in the evening. She thought
that this course would allow her greater facilities for packing her
trunk the next morning and disappearing.

A drizzling rain was falling, and midnight had just struck as
Malivoire's old coach brought Pauline back to Bonneville on the evening
of the wedding. Wearing a blue silk gown, and ill protected by a little
shawl, she was pale and shivering though her hands were hot. In the
kitchen she found Véronique sitting up for her and dozing beside the
table. The tall flame of the candle made the girl's eyes blink, full as
they still were of the darkness of the journey, during which they had
remained wide open all the way from Arromanches. She could only drag a
few incoherent words from the drowsy servant: the master had been very
foolish, but he was asleep now, and nobody had called. Then Pauline
took a candle and went upstairs, chilled by the emptiness of the house,
heart-sick amidst all the gloom and silence which seemed to weigh upon
her shoulders.

When she reached the second floor she wished to take immediate refuge
in her own room, but an irresistible impulse, at which she felt
surprised, led her to open Lazare's door. She raised her candle to
enable her to see, as though she fancied the room was full of smoke.
Nothing was changed. Every piece of furniture was in its accustomed
place, but she felt conscious of calamity, annihilation; it was a vague
terror, as though she were in some chamber of death. She slowly walked
up to the table and looked at the inkstand, the pen, and an unfinished
page of manuscript still lying there. Then she went away. All was over,
and the door closed on the echoing emptiness of the room.

When she reached her own chamber, the same vague sensation of
strangeness that she had felt in Lazare's again affected her. Could
this indeed be her room, with its wall-paper of blue roses and its
little muslin-curtained iron bed? Was it really here that she had
lived so many years? Still keeping her candle in her hand, she, who
was usually so courageous, made a minute inspection of the apartment,
pushed the curtains aside, looked under the bed and behind the
furniture. She felt overcome by a strange kind of stupor, which kept
her standing in front of the different things. She could not have
believed that such keen anguish could ever have possessed her beneath
that ceiling, whose every stain was familiar to her; and she now began
to regret that she had not stayed at Caen. For she felt frightened in
that old house, which was so empty and yet so full of memories of the
past, and so cold, too, and so dark that stormy night. The thought of
going to bed was intolerable to her. She sat down without even taking
off her hat, and for several minutes remained motionless, her eyes
fixed upon the candle-flame, which dazzled them. Suddenly, however,
she started up in astonishment. What was she doing there, with her
head throbbing wildly, with a violence that quite prevented her from
thinking? It was one o'clock. She ought to be in bed. And she began to
undress with slow, feverish hands.

Her orderly habits showed themselves even in this crisis of her life.
She carefully put away her hat, and glanced anxiously at her boots to
see if they had sustained any damage. She had folded her dress and
laid it over the back of a chair, when her glance fell upon her bosom.
Gradually a flush crimsoned her cheeks. In her troubled brain arose the
thought of those two others over yonder. Alas! the harvest of love was
not for her! To another were given the embraces of that husband for
whose coming she herself had looked forward for so many years! Never
would she be a wife or mother; the years would come and go, and she
would age in utter loneliness. Then wild jealousy came upon her. She
yearned to live, to live to the full, to drain the joys of life, she
who loved life so dearly! She was more beautiful than that scraggy,
fair-haired girl; she was stronger and healthier, and yet her cousin
had not chosen her. Never now would he be hers; never, as in the past,
might she again wait for him, expect him. She was tossed aside like an
old rag. It was, no doubt, her own doing; and yet how awful was the
thought of the others being together while she was all alone, shivering
with fever in that cold, gloomy house!

Suddenly she threw herself on her bed. She seized the pillow with
desperate hands, and bit it with her teeth to stifle her sobs. Long
convulsive shivers shook her from head to heels. It was in vain that
she closed her eyelids, seeking to shut out all sight; she saw just the
same, and ever endured torture. Oh! what was she to do? Even if she
were to tear her eyes out she would still see--see perhaps for ever.

The minutes glided on, and she was only conscious of everlasting
torment. A paroxysm of fear made her spring to her feet. Some one must
be in the room, for surely she had heard the sound of laughter. But
she found that it was only her candle, which, having nearly burnt out,
had broken the glass socket. Yet if anyone really had seen her! That
imaginary laugh still coursed through her wildly. Then at last she
slipped on a night-dress and hastily buried herself in bed, pulling
up the clothes to her chin, and drawing her shivering body as closely
together as possible. When the candle died out, she lay perfectly
still, exhausted and overcome with shame for her wild conduct.

In the morning Pauline packed her trunk, but she could not summon up
courage to tell Chanteau of her departure. In the evening, however, she
was obliged to inform him of it, for Doctor Cazenove was to come the
next day and take her to his relative's house. When her uncle grasped
the situation he was quite overcome, and stretched out his poor, weak
hands with a wild gesture as though to detain her, while in broken,
stammering sentences he besought her to stay with him. She could surely
never really think of such a thing, he cried; she could not possibly
desert him; it would be a murder, for it would certainly kill him.
Then, seeing her gently resolute and divining her reasons, he confessed
his wrong-doing of the previous day in eating a partridge. He already
experienced sharp burning pains in his joints. It was always the same
old story. He had yielded once more in the struggle. He knew what the
consequences would be if he ate, but he ate all the same, in a state
of mingled pleasure and terror, quite certain that agony would ensue.
Surely, however, Pauline would never desert him in the midst of one of
his attacks.

And indeed it happened that about six o'clock in the morning Véronique
came upstairs to inform Mademoiselle that she could hear her master
bellowing in his bedroom. The woman was in a very bad temper, and went
growling about the house that if Mademoiselle were going she would
certainly be off as well, as she had grown quite tired of looking after
such an unreasonable old man.

Thus Pauline was once more obliged to take up her position by her
uncle's bedside; and when the Doctor arrived to take her away with him,
she showed him the sick man, who triumphed, bellowing his loudest, and
crying to her to leave him, if she could find it in her heart to do so.
Everything had to be postponed.

Every day the young girl trembled at the thought of seeing Lazare
and Louise come back. Their new room, the former guest-chamber, had
been specially fitted up, and had been waiting ready for them ever
since their marriage. They were lingering on at Caen, however, and
Lazare wrote to say that he was making notes on the financial world
before returning to Bonneville and shutting himself up there to start
on a great novel, in which he should reveal the truth about company
promoters and speculators. At last he arrived one morning without his
wife, and unconcernedly announced that he was going to settle with her
in Paris. His father-in-law, he said, had prevailed upon him to accept
that post in the Insurance Company, on the ground that he would thus
have a good opportunity for making his notes from actual observation.
Later on, he added, he might perhaps, come back and devote himself to
literature.

When Lazare had filled a couple of trunks with the various articles he
required, and Malivoire's coach had come to fetch him and his luggage,
Pauline went back into the house, feeling quite dazed and destitute of
her former energy. Chanteau, still in great pain, turned to her and
exclaimed:

'You will stop now, I hope! Stay and see me buried!'

She was unwilling to make an immediate reply. Her trunk was still
packed in her bedroom. She sat gazing at it for hours. Since the others
were going to Paris, it would be wrong of her, she thought, to desert
her uncle. She had but little confidence in her cousin's resolutions,
but, at any rate, if he and his wife should come back, she would then
be free to take her departure. And when Cazenove angrily told her that
she was throwing away a splendid position for the sake of ruining her
life amongst people who had lived upon her ever since her childhood,
she virtually made up her mind.

'Be off with you!' Chanteau now repeated. 'If you are to gain so much
money and become so happy that way, I won't keep you here bothering
about an old cripple like me. Be off with you!'

One morning, however, she replied to him:

'No, uncle, I am going to stay with you.'

The Doctor, who was present, went off, raising his arms to heaven.

'Ah! there is no doing anything with that child! And what a hornets'
nest she has got into! She will never get free of it--never!'




IX


Once more did the days glide by in the house at Bonneville. After a
very cold winter there had come a rainy spring, and the sea, beaten by
the downpour, looked like a huge lake of mud. Then the tardy summer had
lasted into the middle of autumn, with heavy, oppressive suns, beneath
whose overwhelming heat the blue immensity slumbered. And then the
winter came round again, and another spring, and yet another summer,
slipping away minute by minute, ever at the same speed, as the hours
pursued their rhythmical march.

Pauline, as if her heart were regulated by that clock-like motion, had
recovered all her old calmness. The placid sameness of her days, which
were passed in the same unvarying occupations, lulled the keenness
of her sorrow. She came downstairs in the morning and kissed her
uncle, said much the same things to the servant as she had said the
day before, sat down twice at table, spent the afternoon in sewing,
and then, early in the evening, went to bed. The next day the same
programme was gone through, without ever any unexpected incident
breaking the monotony of her life. Chanteau, who was becoming more
and more disfigured by gout, which had puffed out his legs and warped
and deformed his hands, sat silent, when he was not bellowing, quite
absorbed in the delight of being free from pain. Véronique, who seemed
almost to have lost her tongue, had fallen into a state of gloomy
surliness. Only the Saturday dinners brought any relief. Cazenove and
Abbé Horteur dined there with great regularity, and chatter was heard
till ten o'clock or so, when the priest's wooden shoes clattered away
over the stones of the yard, and the Doctor's gig started off at the
slow trot of the old horse. Pauline's gaiety--that gaiety which she had
so bravely maintained during all her troubles--had assumed a subdued
character. Her ringing laughter no longer echoed through the rooms and
the staircase, though she still remained all kindliness and activity,
and every morning displayed fresh courage and zest for life. By the end
of a year her heart had fallen asleep, and she had come to believe that
the days would now flow on in that peaceful monotony, without anything
ever happening to awake her slumbering sorrow.

For some time after Lazare's departure every letter from him had
troubled the girl, though it was only for his letters that she lived,
looking out for them with impatience, reading them over and over again,
and even adding to them something from her own imagination beyond
what they actually contained. For three months Lazare had written
very regularly, sending, every fortnight, a very long letter, full
of detail and breathing the liveliest hopes. Once more he was wildly
enthusiastic. He had launched out into business and was dreaming of a
colossal fortune in the immediate future. According to his account,
the Insurance Company could not fail to return enormous profits. He
was not, however, confining himself to that venture, but was engaging
in all kinds of speculations. He appeared to have become quite charmed
with the financial and mercantile world, which he now reproached
himself for having judged so absurdly. All his literary schemes seemed
quite abandoned. Then, too, he was never tired of writing about his
domestic joys, and related all sorts of things about his wife--the
kisses he had given her, and the life they led together--setting forth
at length all his happiness by way of expressing his gratitude to her,
whom he called his 'dear sister.' It was those details, those familiar
passages, which made Pauline's fingers tremble feverishly.--The
odour of love which the paper diffused, the perfume of heliotrope,
Louise's favourite scent, which clung to it, seemed to stupefy her.
But the letters gradually became fewer and shorter. Lazare ceased
to write about business, and in other respects confined himself to
sending his wife's love to Pauline. He offered no explanations, but
simply ceased to tell her everything. Was he discontented with his
position and already sick of finance? Was his domestic happiness
compromised by misunderstandings? Pauline was afraid it must be so,
and she was saddened by the evidence of her cousin's weariness, which
she thought she could detect in certain passages that seemed to have
been reluctantly written. About the end of April, after a six weeks'
silence, she received a short note of four lines, in which her cousin
told her that Louise was _enceinte_. Then silence fell again, and she
had no further news.

May and June passed away. A heavy tide swept away one of the stockades,
an incident which for a long time afforded subject for talk. All the
Bonneville folk jeered and grinned, and the fishermen stole the broken
timbers. Then came another scandalous affair. The Gonin girl, young
as she was, had a baby. And afterwards all the old monotony returned,
and the village vegetated at the foot of the cliffs as lifelessly
as a tract of seaweed. In July it became necessary to repair the
terrace-wall and one of the gable ends of the house. As soon as the
workmen began to remove the first stones, the rest threatened to fall,
and they were kept at work for an entire month, an expense of nearly
ten thousand francs being incurred.

It was still Pauline who had to find the money. Thus another big hole
was made in her little hoard in the chest of drawers, her little
fortune being reduced to about forty thousand francs. She made the
family's few hundred francs a month go as far as possible by economical
housekeeping, but she was obliged to sell some of her own stock, in
order to avoid encroaching upon her uncle's capital. The latter told
his niece, as his wife had done before, that it would all be paid back
to her some day. The girl would not have hesitated to part with all
she had, for the gradual crumbling away of her fortune had destroyed
all tendency to cupidity in her, and her only effort now was to keep a
sufficient sum in hand for her charities. The thought that she might
possibly be compelled to discontinue her Saturday distributions greatly
distressed her, for they constituted her chief pleasure of the week.
Since the previous winter she had begun to knit stockings, and all the
young urchins in the neighbourhood now went about with warm feet.

One morning towards the end of July, as Véronique was sweeping up the
rubbish left by the workmen, Pauline received a letter which quite
upset her. It was written from Caen, and contained only a few words.
In it Lazare informed her that he should arrive at Bonneville on the
evening of the next day, but gave no explanation of his coming. She
ran off to tell the news to her uncle. They both looked at each other.
Chanteau's eyes expressed the fear that his niece would leave him
should Lazare and his wife contemplate a long stay in the house. He
dare not question her on the subject, for he could read in her face her
firm resolution to go. In the afternoon she even went upstairs to look
over her clothes; still, she did not wish to have the air of taking
flight.

It was about five o'clock, and lovely weather, when Lazare stepped out
of a trap at the door of the yard. Pauline hastened to meet him, but,
before even kissing him, she stopped short in astonishment.

'What! Have you come alone?'

'Yes,' he replied quietly.

And then he kissed her on both cheeks.

'But where is Louise?'

'At Clermont, with her sister-in-law. The doctor has recommended her
to go to a mountainous neighbourhood. Her state of health has made her
weak and languid.'

As he spoke he walked on to the house, casting long glances about the
yard. He scrutinised his cousin, too, and his lips quivered with an
emotion which he struggled to restrain. He showed great surprise as a
dog rushed out of the kitchen and barked round his legs.

'What dog is that?' he asked.

'Oh! that's Loulou,' Pauline replied. 'He doesn't know you yet, you
see. Down! Loulou! You mustn't bite your master.'

The dog went on growling.

'He is dreadfully ugly, my dear. Where did you pick up such a fright?'

The dog was indeed a wretched mongrel, undersized and mangy. And he
had, too, an abominable temper, and was perpetually snarling, and
melancholy like an outcast.

'Oh! when he was given me I was told that he would grow up into a huge,
magnificent animal, but he has always kept like that. It is the fifth
one that we have tried to rear, All the others have died, and this is
the only one that has managed to go on living.'

Loulou by this time had sulkily made up his mind to lie down in the
sun, and turned his back upon Pauline and her cousin. Then Lazare
thought of the old days and of the dog that was dead and of the new and
ugly one that now occupied his place. He glanced round the yard once
more.

'My poor old Matthew!' he murmured very softly.

On the steps of the house Véronique received him with a nod of her
head, without ceasing to pare carrots. Then he walked straight on to
the dining-room, where his father, excited by the sound of voices, was
anxiously waiting. Pauline called from the threshold:

'You know he has come by himself? Louise is at Clermont.'

Chanteau, whose anxious eyes brightened, began to question his son even
before he had kissed him.

'Are you expecting her to follow you? When will she join you here?'

'Oh no! She's not coming here at all,' Lazare replied. 'I'm going to
join her at her sister-in-law's before I return to Paris. I shall stay
a fortnight with you, and then I shall be off.'

Chanteau's eyes expressed his extreme satisfaction at what he heard,
and when at last Lazare embraced him he returned the salute with two
hearty kisses. However, he considered that it behoved him to express
some regret.

'It is a great pity that your wife could not come. We should have been
delighted to have her here. However, I hope we shall see her some other
time. You must certainly bring her.'

Pauline kept silent, and concealed her feeling of uneasiness beneath
an affectionate smile of welcome. For the second time were her plans
being altered; she would not have to go away. She scarcely knew whether
she was glad or sorry, so entirely had she now become the property of
others. Whatever pleasure she felt in seeing Lazare was tinged with
sadness as she noticed his aged appearance. His eyes were dull, and a
bitter expression rested on his lips. The lines across his brow and
cheeks had been there before, but they were deeper wrinkles now, and
she guessed that his _ennui_ and terror had increased. The young man
scrutinized his cousin with equal care. She appeared to him to have
developed, to have gained additional beauty and vigour, and with a
smile he muttered:

'Well, you certainly don't seem to have been any the worse for my
absence. You are, all of you, looking quite plump. Father is growing
young again, and Pauline is superb. And, really, it is very funny, but
the house certainly seems bigger than it used to be.'

He glanced round the dining-room, as he had previously done round the
yard, with an appearance of surprise and emotion. His eyes at last
rested upon Minouche, who lay upon the table, with her feet tucked
under her, in such a state of restful beatitude that she had not moved.

'Even Minouche doesn't seem to have grown any older,' the young man
resumed. 'Well, you ungrateful animal, you might rouse yourself to
welcome me!'

He stroked her as he spoke, and she began to purr, but still without
moving.

'Oh! Minouche is only interested in herself,' Pauline said merrily.
'The day before yesterday five more of her kittens were drowned, and,
you see, she doesn't seem to mind it at all.'

The dinner was hastened, as Lazare had made an early breakfast. In
spite of all the girl's attempts, the evening proved a gloomy one.
The efforts they made to avoid certain subjects interfered with the
conversation, and there were awkward intervals of silence. Pauline
and Chanteau refrained from questioning Lazare, as they saw that it
embarrassed him to reply; they made no attempt to ascertain either
how his business at Paris was getting on, or how it came about that
his letter to them had been written from Caen. With a vague gesture
he put aside all direct questions, as though he meant to reply to
them later on. When the tea was brought into the room, a great sigh of
satisfaction escaped him. How happy and peaceful they must all be here,
said he, and what an amount of work one could get through when all was
so quiet! He dropped a word or two about a drama in verse upon which he
had been engaged for the last six months. His cousin felt amazed when
he added that he intended finishing it at Bonneville. Twelve days would
be sufficient, said he.

At ten o'clock Véronique entered to say that Monsieur Lazare's room
was ready. But when they had reached the first floor, and she wanted
to instal him in the former guest-chamber, which had been subsequently
fitted up for the occupation of himself and his wife, he flew into a
tantrum.

'You're quite mistaken,' said he, 'if you suppose that I am going
to sleep there! I'm going up to the top of the house to my old iron
bedstead.'

Véronique began to grumble and growl. Why couldn't he sleep there? The
bed had been got ready for him, and, surely, he wasn't going to give
her the trouble of preparing another.

'Very well,' he said, 'I will sleep in an easy-chair.'

While Véronique angrily tore off the sheets and carried them up to the
top floor, Pauline experienced a sudden delight which impelled her
to throw her arms round her cousin's neck, in an outburst of the old
chummish feeling of their youth, as she wished him good-night. He was
occupying his big room once more, and he was so close to her that for a
long time she could hear him pacing about, as though brooding over the
recollections which were keeping her awake also.

It was only the next morning that Lazare began to take Pauline into his
confidence. Even then he made no clear statement; she had to guess what
she could from a few short sentences which he let slip in the course
of conversation. By-and-by she took courage and questioned him with an
expression of affectionate concern. Were he and Louise still getting
on as happily as ever? He replied in the affirmative, but complained
about certain little domestic disagreements and other trifling matters
which had led to quarrels. Without having come to a definite rupture,
they were suffering from the perpetual jarring of two highly-strung
temperaments, which were incapable of equilibrium either in joy or
sorrow. There existed between them a sort of unconfessed bitterness,
as though they were surprised and angry at having mistaken each other,
at having discovered each other's real feelings so soon, after all the
passionate love of the first days. For a moment Pauline thought she
could discover that it was pecuniary troubles that had embittered them;
but in this she was mistaken, for their income of ten thousand francs
a year had remained almost undiminished. Lazare had simply become
disgusted with business, just as he had previously grown disgusted
with music and medicine and industrial enterprise; and on this subject
he launched out in strong language. Never, he said, never had he come
across such a stupid, rotten sphere as that of the financial world. He
would prefer anything, the dulness of country life and the mediocrity
of small means, to perpetual worries about money, the brain-softening
tangle of figures. He had just retired from the Insurance Company, he
said, and he was going to try what he could do as a play-writer when he
returned to Paris in the following winter. His drama would avenge him;
he would portray money in it as a festering sore eating away modern
society.

Pauline did not distress herself much about this new failure, which
she had already inferred from Lazare's embarrassed expressions in
his last letters. What grieved her most was the gradually increasing
misunderstanding between her cousin and his wife. She strove to find
out the real cause of it, how it happened that those young people of
ample means and with nothing to do but to be happy had so quickly
reached discomfort. She returned to the subject again, and only ceased
to question her cousin about it when she saw the embarrassment she was
causing him. He stammered and grew pale, and turned his face away from
her as she interrogated him. She well knew that expression of shame and
fear, that terror of the idea of death, which he had formerly struggled
to conceal as though it were some disgraceful disease; but could it be
possible, she asked herself, that the cold shadow of nothingness had
already fallen between the young couple so soon after their nuptials?
For several days she lingered in a state of doubt, and then, without
any further confession from him on the subject, she one evening read
the truth in his eyes as he rushed downstairs from his room in the
dark, as though he were pursued by ghosts.

In Paris, amidst his love-fever, Lazare had at first forgotten all
about death. He had found a refuge in Louise's embraces. But satiety
came at last, and then in that wife of his, for whom life centred in
caressing endearments, he found no sustaining, no courage-prompting
influence whatever. Passion was fugitive and deceitful--powerless, he
found, to give a semblance of happiness to life. One night he awoke
with a start, chilled by an icy breath that made his hair stand on end.
He shivered and wailed out his cry of bitter anguish: 'O God! God! oh!
to have to die!' Louise was sleeping by his side. It was death that he
had found again at the end of their kisses.

Other nights followed, and all his old torture came on him again. It
seized him suddenly as he lay sleepless in bed, without ability on
his part to foresee or prevent it. All at once, while he was lying
there perfectly calm, a fearful shudder would convulse him; whereas,
on the other hand, when he was irritable and weary, he perhaps escaped
altogether. It was more than the mere shock of earlier times that
he experienced now; his nervous excitement increased, and his whole
being was shaken by each fresh attack. He could not sleep without a
night-light, for the darkness increased his anxiety, in spite of his
constant fear that his wife might discover his secret suffering. This
very fear, indeed, increased his distress and aggravated the effects of
his attacks; for in the old days, when he lay alone, he had been able
to vent his dread, but now the presence of another at his side was a
source of additional disquietude. When he started in terror from his
pillow, his eyes heavy with sleep, he instinctively glanced at her,
fearing he might find her eyes wide open and fixed upon his own. But
she never moved, and by the glimmer of the night-light he could watch
her quiet slumber, her placid face, thick lips, and little, blue-veined
eyelids. And as she never awoke, he at last grew less disturbed on her
account, until one night what he had so long feared really happened,
and he saw her staring at him. But she said not a word when she saw him
all pale and trembling. She, like himself, must have been thrilled by
the horror of death, for she seemed to understand what was passing in
his mind, and threw herself against him like a frightened woman seeking
protection. Then, still desiring to deceive each other, they pretended
that they had heard the sound of footsteps, and got out of bed to look
under the furniture and behind the curtains.

Thenceforward they were both haunted with nervous fear. Never a word
of confession escaped the lips of either. They felt that it was a
shameful secret of which they must not speak; but as they lay in bed,
with their eyes staring widely into space, they knew quite well what
each was thinking of. Louise had become as nervous as Lazare; they
must have infected each other with this dread, even as two lovers
are sometimes carried off by the same fever. If he awoke, while she
continued to sleep, he grew alarmed at her very slumber. Was she still
breathing? He could not hear the sound of any respiration. Perhaps she
had suddenly died! He would then peer into her face for a moment and
touch her hands; but, even when he had satisfied himself that she was
alive and well, he could not get to sleep again. The thought that she
would certainly die some day plunged him into a mournful reverie. Which
of them would go first, he or she? Then his mind dwelt at length on the
alternative suppositions; and scenes of death, with the last torturing
throes, the hideous shrouding and laying-out, the final heart-breaking
separation, presented themselves to his mind. That thought of never
seeing each other again, when they had lived together thus as man and
wife, drove him to distraction, filled him with revolt; he could not
endure the thought of such horror. His very fear made him wish that
he himself might be the first to go. Then his heart ached with bitter
grief for Louise, as he pictured her as a widow, still carrying on the
old routine of life, doing this and that, when he should no longer be
there. Sometimes, to free himself from those haunting thoughts, he
would gently pass his arms about her without awaking her; but this he
could not long endure, for he became still more terrified as he felt
the pulsations of her life within his embrace. If he rested his head
upon her breast and listened to her heart, he could not hear it beating
without alarm, without feeling that all action might suddenly cease.
And even love was powerless to drive away that great dread which still
hovered around their curtains after every transport.

About this time Lazare began to grow weary of business. He fell back
into his old state, and spent whole days in idleness, excusing himself
on the ground of the contempt and dislike he felt for money-grubbing.
The real truth was that constant brooding over the thought of death was
daily depriving him of the desire, the strength to live. He came back
to his old question, 'What was the good of it all?' Since it would
all end in complete extinction sooner or later, perhaps to-morrow, or
even to-day, or a single hour hence, what was the use of troubling and
exciting one's self and bothering about one thing more than another?
It was all quite purposeless. His existence itself had become a slow,
lingering death, continuing day after day, and he strained his ears
to listen to the sounds of its progress, even as he had done before
in earlier times, and thought that he could detect the mechanism of
his life quickly running down. His heart, he fancied, no longer beat
so strongly as before, the action of every other organ was becoming
feebler, and all would doubtless soon come to a dead-stop. He noted
with a shudder that gradual diminution of vitality which growing age
was bringing in its train. His very frame was perishing; its component
parts were constantly disappearing. His hair was falling off, he had
lost several teeth, and he could feel his muscles and sinews shrinking
away, as though they were already returning to dust. The approach of
his fortieth year filled him with gloomy melancholy; old age would soon
be upon him now and make a speedy end of him. He had already begun
to believe that his system was quite deranged, and that some vital
part would very soon give way. Thus his days were spent in a morbid
expectation of some catastrophe. He took anxious note of those who died
around him, and every time he heard of the death of an acquaintance
he received a fresh shock. Could it be possible that such an one was
really dead? Why, he was three years younger than himself and had
seemed likely to last a hundred years! And then that other man he knew
so well, had he, too, really gone? A man who was so careful of himself,
and who even weighed the very food he ate! For a couple of days after
occurrences like these he could think of nothing else, but remained
stupefied by what had happened; feeling his pulse, carefully observing
all his own symptoms, and then falling foul of the poor fellows who had
gone. He felt a craving to reassure himself, and accused the departed
of having died from their own fault. One had been guilty of inexcusable
imprudence, while another had succumbed to so rare a disease that the
doctors did not even know its name.

But it was in vain that he tried to banish the importunate spectre; he
never ceased to hear within himself the grating of the wheels which
he fancied had so nearly run down; he felt that he was helplessly
descending the slope of years, and the thought of the deep, black pit
that lay at the bottom of it threw him into an icy perspiration and
made his hair stand on end with horror.

When Lazare ceased going to his office, quarrels broke out at home. He
manifested excessive irritability, which flared up at the slightest
opposition. His increasing mental disorder, which he tried so carefully
to conceal, revealed itself in angry snappishness, fits of moody
sulking, and wild, mad actions. At one time he was so possessed by the
fear of fire that he removed from a third-floor flat to one on the
ground floor, in order that he might more easily escape whenever the
house should burn. A perpetual anticipation of coming evil completely
poisoned the present, and prevented him from deriving any enjoyment
from it. Every time a door was opened rather noisily he started up in
fear; and his heart throbbed violently whenever a letter was put into
his hand. He suspected everybody. His money was hidden in small sums
in all sorts of places, and he kept his simplest plans and intentions
secret. He felt embittered, too, against the world, thinking that
he was misunderstood and underrated, and that all his successive
failures were the result of a general conspiracy against him. But
ever-growing boredom dominated everything else--the _ennui_ of a man
whose mind was unhinged and to whom the incessant idea of death made
all action distasteful, so that he dragged himself idly through life
on the plea of its nothingness and worthlessness. What was the use
of troubling? The powers of science were miserably limited; it could
neither prevent nor foresee. He was possessed by the sceptical _ennui_
of his generation, not the romantic _ennui_ of Werther or René, who
regretfully wept over the old beliefs, but the _ennui_ of the new
doubters, the young scientists who worry themselves and declare that
the world is unendurable because they have not immediately found the
secret of life in their retorts.

In Lazare the unavowed terror of ceasing to be was, by a logical
contradiction, blended with a ceaseless braggart insistence upon the
nothingness of things. It was his very terror, the want of equilibrium
in his morbid temperament, that drove him into pessimistic ideas and
a mad hatred of life. As it could not last for ever, he looked upon
it as a mere fraud and delusion. Was not the first half of one's days
spent in dreaming of happiness and the latter half in regrets and
fears? He fell back again upon the theories of 'the old one,' as he
called Schopenhauer, whose most violent passages he used to recite from
memory. He expatiated on the desirability of destroying the wish to
live, and so bringing to an end the barbarous and imbecile exhibition
of existence, with the spectacle of which the master force of the
world, prompted by some incomprehensible egotistical reason, amused
itself. He wanted to do away with life in order to do away with fear.
He always harped upon the great deliverance; one must wish nothing
for fear of evil, avoid all action since it meant pain, and thus
sink entirely into death. He occupied himself in trying to discover
some practical method of general suicide, some sudden and complete
disappearance to which all living creatures would consent. This was
perpetually recurring to his mind, even in the midst of ordinary
conversation, when he freely and roughly gave vent to it. The slightest
worry was sufficient to make him cry that he was sorry he was not yet
annihilated; a mere headache set him raging furiously at his body.
If he talked with a friend, his conversation immediately turned upon
the woes of life, and the luck of those who were already fattening
the dandelions in the cemeteries. He had a perfect mania for mournful
subjects, and he was much interested in an article by a fanciful
astronomer who announced the arrival of a comet with a tail which would
sweep the earth away like a grain of sand. Would not this indeed prove
the expected cosmical catastrophe, the colossal cartridge destined to
blow the world to bits like a rotten old boat? And this desire of his
for death, this constant theorizing about universal annihilation, was
but the expression of his desperate struggle with his terror, a mere
vain hubbub of words, by which he tried to veil the awful fear which
the expectation of his end caused him.

The knowledge that his wife was _enceinte_ gave him a fresh shock. It
caused him an indefinable sensation, compounded of joy and an increase
of disquietude. Notwithstanding the contrary views of 'the old one,'
the thought of becoming a father thrilled him with pride--indeed, a
vain wonder, as though he were the first person whom such a thing had
befallen. But his joy quickly became poisoned; he tormented himself
with forebodings of a disastrous issue; already making up his mind
that his wife would die, and that the child would never be born. And,
indeed, it happened that Louise's health became very bad, for she
was far from strong; and then the confusion of the household and
the upsetting of their usual habits, together with their frequent
bickerings, soon made them both thoroughly miserable. The expectation
of a child, which ought to have brought the husband and wife more
closely together, only served, indeed, to increase the misunderstanding
between them. Thus, when Louise's doctor suggested a visit to the
mountains, Lazare was delighted to take her to her sister-in-law's
and secure a fortnight's freedom for himself on the plea of going to
see his father at Bonneville. At the bottom of his heart he really
felt ashamed of this flight; but, after arguing the matter with his
conscience, he persuaded himself that a short separation would have a
tranquillising effect upon both of them, and that it would be quite
sufficient if he joined his wife before the expected event.

On the evening when Pauline at last learned the whole history of the
past eighteen months she remained for a moment unable to speak--quite
overcome, indeed, by the pitiable story. They were sitting in the
dining-room; she had put Chanteau to bed, and Lazare had just finished
making his confession in front of the cold tea-pot, beneath the lamp
which was now burning dimly.

After an interval of silence Pauline at last exclaimed:

'Why, you don't love each other any longer!'

Her cousin rose to go upstairs, and replied, with an uneasy smile:

'We love each other as much as is possible, my dear girl. You don't
understand things, shut up here in this hole. Why should love fare
better than anything else?'

As soon as she had closed the door of her own room Pauline fell into
one of those fits of despondency which had so often tortured her and
kept her awake, on the very same chair, while all the rest of them were
sleeping. Was there going to be a renewal of trouble? She had hoped it
was all done with, both for others and herself, when she had torn her
heart asunder and given Lazare to Louise; and now she found how useless
her sacrifice had been. They had already ceased to love each other;
it was all to no purpose that she had wept bitter tears and martyred
herself. To this wretched result had she come, to fresh trouble and
strife, the thought of which added to her grief. There seemed to be no
end to suffering!

Then as, with her arms hanging listlessly in front of her, she sat
watching her candle burn away, the oppressive thought arose from her
conscience that she alone was guilty. She tried, but in vain, to
struggle against the facts. It was she alone who had brought about that
marriage, without understanding that Louise would never prove the wife
that her cousin needed. She saw it now clearly enough. She recognised
that the other was much too nervously inclined herself to be able to
steady him, for she lost her head at the merest trifle, and her only
charm lay in her caressing nature--a charm of which Lazare had already
tired. Why did all this only occur to her now? Were not these, indeed,
the very reasons which had determined her to let Louise take her place?
She had thought that Louise possessed a more loving nature than her
own; she had believed that Louise, with her kisses and caresses, would
be able to free Lazare from his gloomy despondency. Ah! the pity of
it all! To have brought about evil when she had striven to accomplish
good, and to have shown such ignorance of life as to have brought
ruin upon those she yearned to save! Yet she had felt so sure that
she was right and was perfecting her good work on the day when their
happiness had cost her such bitter tears! Now she felt contempt for her
kindliness, since kindliness did not always create happiness.

The house was wrapped in sleep. In the quiet of her room she could hear
nothing but the throbbing of her temples. Within her was gradually
surging a rebellious regret. Why had she not married Lazare herself?
He had been hers; she had had no right to give him to another. Perhaps
he might have been wretched and despondent at first, but by-and-by
she would have restored his courage and protected him from his insane
fancies. She had always felt foolishly doubtful of herself, and from
that alone all the unhappiness had arisen. The consciousness of her own
robust health and strength and all her power of affection forced itself
upon her again. Was she not superior in every way to that other girl?
How foolish she had been in weakly effacing herself! She loved her
cousin sufficiently well to disappear if the other girl could make him
happy; but since she knew not how to keep his love, was it not her duty
to act and break that wicked union? And her anger grew apace; she felt
that she was both braver and more beautiful than the other. Conviction
flashed upon her mind; it was she who ought to have married Lazare.

Then she was overwhelmed with regret. The hours of the night passed,
one by one, yet she did not think of seeking her bed. She sat there,
staring at the tall flame of the candle without seeing it, in a vivid
waking dream. She was no longer in her old bedroom. She thought she
had married Lazare, and their life unrolled itself before her eyes in
a series of pictures of love and delight. They were at Bonneville, by
the edge of the blue sea, or in Paris, in some busy street. They were
in a peaceful little room, with books lying about it and sweet roses
on the table; the lamp gave out a soft, clear light, while the ceiling
was steeped in shadow. Every moment their hands sought each other.
Lazare had recovered all the careless gaiety of his early youth, and
she loved him so much that he had again come to believe in the eternity
of existence. Just now they were sitting at table; now they were going
out together; to-morrow she would go over the week's accounts with him.
She loved those little domestic details; she made them the foundation
of their happiness, which knew no break from the laughing toilet in the
morning until the last kiss at night. In the summer they travelled.
Then one day she discovered that she was likely to become a mother.
But just then a shivering shudder dissipated her dream, and she was
no longer far away, but in her own room at Bonneville, staring at her
expiring candle. A mother! Ah! the misery of it! It was that other
who would be one; never would any of those things happen to herself,
never would those joys be hers! The shock was so painful that tears
gushed from her eyes, and she wept distractedly, sobbing like one
heart-broken. At last the candle burnt out, and she had to seek her bed
in darkness.

That feverish night left Pauline with a feeling of deep emotion and
charitable pity for the disunited husband and wife, and for herself.
Her grief melted into a kind of affectionate hope. She could not have
told on what she was reckoning; she dared not analyse the confused
sentiments which agitated her heart. But, after all, why should she
trouble herself in this way? Hadn't she at least ten days before her?
It would be time enough to think of matters by-and-by. What was of
immediate importance was to tranquillise Lazare, so that he might
derive some benefit from his stay at Bonneville. And she assumed her
old gaiety of demeanour, and soon they plunged afresh into their life
of former days.

At first it seemed a renewal of the old comradeship of early youth.
'Don't bother about that tiresome play of yours. It will only get
hissed. Come and help me to look whether Minouche has carried my ball
of thread on to the top of the cupboard,' said Pauline.

He held a chair for her, while she mounted upon it, and, standing on
tip-toes, looked for the missing thread. The rain had been falling for
the last two days and they could not leave the big room. Their laughter
rang out as they kept on unearthing some relic of old days.

'Oh, see! here is the doll which you made out of two of my old collars.
Ah! and this--don't you remember?--is the portrait of you that I drew
the day when you made yourself so frightfully ugly by getting into a
rage and crying, because I wouldn't lend you my razor.'

Then Pauline wagered that she could still jump at a single bound on
to the table; Lazare, too, jumped, quite glad at being drawn out of
himself. His play was already lying neglected in a drawer. One morning
when they came across the great symphony on Grief she played portions
of it to him, accentuating the rhythm in a comical fashion. He made fun
of his composition and sang the notes to support the piano, whose weak
tones could scarcely be heard. But one little bit, the famous March
of Death, made them both serious; it was really not bad, and must be
preserved. Everything pleased them and struck a chord of tenderness
in their hearts: a collection of _floridæ_ which Pauline had once
mounted, and which they now discovered behind some books; a forgotten
jar containing a sample of the bromide of potassium which they had
extracted from the seaweed; a small broken model of a stockade, which
looked as though it had been wrecked by a storm in a tea-cup. Then they
romped over the house, chasing each other like schoolboys at play. They
were perpetually rushing up and down the stairs and scampering through
the rooms, banging the doors noisily. It seemed as if the old days had
come back again. She was ten years old once more, and he was nineteen;
and she again felt for him all the enthusiastic friendship of a little
girl. Nothing was changed. In the dining-room there still remained
the sideboard of bright walnut, the polished brass hanging-lamp, the
view of Vesuvius, and the four lithographs of the Seasons, while the
grandfather's masterpiece still slumbered in its old place. There was
only one room which they entered with silent emotion--that which
Madame Chanteau had occupied, and which had been unused since her
death. The secrétaire was never opened now, but the hangings of yellow
cretonne, with their pattern of flower-work, were fading from the
bright sunlight which was occasionally allowed to enter the room. It
so happened that the anniversary of Madame Chanteau's birth came round
about this time, and they decked the room with big bunches of flowers.

Soon, however, as the wind rose and dispersed the rain-clouds,
they betook themselves out of doors on to the terrace, into the
kitchen-garden and along the cliffs, and their youth began anew.

'Shall we go shrimping?' Pauline cried to her cousin one morning,
through the partition, as she sprang out of bed. 'The tide is going
down.'

They set off in bathing costumes, and once more found the old familiar
rocks on which the sea had wrought no perceptible change during the
past weeks and months. They could have fancied that they had been
exploring that part of the coast only the day before.

'Take care!' cried Lazare; 'there is a hole there, you know, and the
bottom of it is full of big stones.'

'Oh, yes, I know; don't be frightened----Oh! do come and look at this
huge crab I have just caught!'

The cool waves splashed round their legs and the fresh salt breezes
from the sea intoxicated them. All their old rambles were resumed--the
long walks, the pleasant rests on the sands, the hasty refuge sought in
some hollow of the cliffs at the approach of sudden showers, and the
return home at nightfall along the dusky paths. Nothing seemed changed;
the sea, with its ceaselessly varying aspect, still stretched out into
the boundless distance. Little forgotten incidents returned to their
memory with all the vividness of present facts. Lazare seemed to be
still six-and-twenty and Pauline sixteen. When he casually happened to
pull her about with his old playful familiarity, she seemed greatly
embarrassed, however, and was thrilled with delicious confusion.
But she in no way tried to avoid him, for she had no thought of the
possibility of evil. Fresh life began to animate them; there were
whispered words, causeless laughter, long intervals of silence which
left them quivering. The most trivial incidents--a request for some
bread, a remark about the weather, the good-nights they wished each
other as they went to bed--seemed full of a new and strange meaning.
All their past life was reviving within them and thrilling them with
the tenderness that comes of the remembrance of former happiness. Why
should they have felt anxious? They did not resist the spell; the sea,
with its ceaseless monotonous voice, seemed to lull and fill them with
pleasant languor.

And so the days quietly passed by. The third week of Lazare's visit
was already commencing. He still stayed on, though he had received
several letters from Louise, who felt very lonely, but whom her
sister-in-law wished to keep with her some time longer. In his replies
he had strongly advised her to stay where she was, even telling her
that Doctor Cazenove, whom he had consulted on the matter, recommended
her to do so. Gradually he fell again into the quiet routine of the
house, accustoming himself once more to the old times for meals, for
getting up and going to bed, which he had changed in Paris, as well as
to Véronique's grumpy humour and the incessant suffering of his father,
who remained immutable, ever racked by pain, while everything around
him altered. Lazare was confronted, too, by the Saturday dinners, and
the familiar faces of the Doctor and the Abbé, with their eternal talk
of the last gale or the visitors at Arromanches. Minouche still jumped
upon the table at dessert as lightly as a feather, or rubbed her head
caressingly against his chin, and the gentle scratching of her teeth
seemed to carry him back long years. There was nothing new amongst
all those old familiar things save Loulou, who lay rolled up under
the table, looking mournful and hideous, and growling at everyone who
came near him. It was in vain that Lazare gave him sugar; when he had
swallowed it, the wretched beast only showed his teeth more surlily
than before. They were obliged to leave him entirely to himself; he led
quite a lonely life in the house, like an unsociable being who only
asks of men and gods to be allowed to spend his time in quiet boredom.

However, Pauline and Lazare sometimes had adventures when they were
out walking. One day, when they had quitted the path along the cliffs
to avoid passing the works at Golden Bay, they came across Boutigny
at a bend of the road. He was now a person of some importance, for he
had grown rich by the manufacture of soda. He had married the woman
who had shown herself so devoted as to follow him into that deserted
region, and she had recently given birth to her third child. The
whole family, attended by a manservant and a nurse, were driving in
a handsome break, drawn by a pair of big white horses, and the two
pedestrians had to squeeze themselves against the bank to escape being
caught by the wheels. Boutigny, who was driving, checked the horses
into a walking pace. There was a moment's embarrassment. They had not
spoken for years, and the presence of the woman and the children made
the embarrassment still more painful. At last, as their eyes met, they
just bowed to each other, without a word.

When the carriage had passed on, Lazare, who had turned pale, said with
an effort:

'So he's living like a prince now!'

Pauline, whom the sight of the children had affected, answered gently:

'Yes; it seems he has made some enormous profits lately. He has begun
to try your old experiments again.'

That, indeed, was the sore point with Lazare. The Bonneville fishermen,
who with their pertinacious banter seemed bent on making themselves
disagreeable to him, had informed him of what had taken place.
Boutigny, assisted by a young chemist in his employment, was again
applying the freezing treatment to seaweed ashes, and, by practical and
prudent perseverance, had obtained marvellous results.

'Of course!' Lazare growled, in a low voice; 'every time that science
takes a step forward, it is some fool that helps her on through sheer
accident.'

Their walk was spoilt by that meeting, and they went on in silence,
gazing into the distance and watching the grey vapour rise from the sea
and spread palely over the sky. When they returned home at nightfall,
they were shivering; however, the cheerful light of the hanging-lamp
streaming down upon the white cloth warmed them again.

Another day, as they were following a path through a field of beet in
the neighbourhood of Verchemont, they stopped in surprise at seeing
some smoke rising from a thatched roof. The place was on fire, but
the brilliance of the sun's rays streaming from overhead prevented
the blaze from being seen. The house, which had its doors and windows
closed, was apparently deserted, its peasant owners doubtless being at
work in the neighbourhood. Pauline and Lazare at once left the path,
and ran up shouting, but with no other effect than that of disturbing
some magpies who were chattering in the apple-trees. At last a woman
with a handkerchief round her head appeared from a distant field of
carrots, glanced about her for a moment, and then rushed on over the
ploughed land as fast as her legs could carry her. She gesticulated
and shouted something which the others could not catch, for flight
interfered with her utterance. After tripping and falling she got up,
then fell again, and started off once more, with her hands torn and
bleeding. Her kerchief had slipped off her head, and her hair streamed
in the sunlight.

'What was it she said?' asked Pauline, feeling frightened.

The woman was rushing up to them, and at last they heard her hoarse
scream, like the wail of an animal:

'The child! the child! the child!'

Her husband and son had been at work since the morning some couple of
miles away in an oat-field which they had inherited. She herself had
only lately gone out to get a basketful of carrots, leaving the child
asleep, and, contrary to her habit, fastening up the house. The fire
had probably been smouldering some time, for the woman was stupefied,
and swore she had extinguished every ember before going out. At all
events the thatched roof was now aglow, and flames shot up athwart the
golden sunlight.

'Is the door locked, then?' cried Lazare.

The woman did not hear him. She was quite distraught, and rushed
without any apparent reason round the house, as though she were trying
to discover some opening, some means of entrance which she must have
known did not exist. Then she fell again. Her legs no longer had the
strength to support her, and her ashy face showed all the agony of
despair and terror, while she continued screaming:

'The child! the child!'

Big tears rose to Pauline's eyes; but Lazare was even more painfully
affected by the woman's cry, which completely unnerved him. It was
becoming more than he could bear, and he suddenly exclaimed:

'I'll go and fetch your child!'

His cousin looked at him in wild alarm. She grasped his hands and tried
to hold him back.

'You! you mustn't go! The roof will fall in!'

'We'll see about that,' he replied quietly.

Then he shouted in the woman's face:

'Your key! You've got your key with you, haven't you?'

The woman still remained agape, but Lazare hustled her and at last
wrung from her the key. Then, while the woman remained screaming on the
ground, he stepped quietly towards the house. Pauline followed him with
her eyes, rooted to the ground with fear and astonishment, but making
no further attempt to detain him, for it seemed by his demeanour as
though he were about to attend to some very ordinary business. A shower
of sparks rained on him, and he had to squeeze himself closely against
the door, for handfuls of burning straw fell from the roof, like water
streaming down during a storm. Moreover, he found himself hindered by
an annoying obstacle. The rusty key would not turn in the lock. But he
manifested no irritation; coolly taking his time, he at last succeeded
in opening the door. Then he lingered for a moment longer on the
threshold, in order to let out the first rush of smoke, which blew in
his face. Never before had he known such calmness; he moved as though
he were in a dream, with all the assurance, skilfulness, and prudence
which the danger he was encountering inspired. At last he lowered his
head and disappeared within the cottage.

'O God! O God!' stammered Pauline, who was choking with anguish.

She clasped her hands involuntarily, almost crushing them together as
she moved them up and down, like one racked by great agony. The roof
was cracking, and was already collapsing in places. Never would Lazare
have time to make his escape. It seemed an eternity to her since he had
entered. The woman on the ground had ceased crying; the sight of the
gentleman rushing into the fire seemed to have stupefied her.

But a piercing cry broke through the air. It had come involuntarily
from Pauline, from the very depths of her being, as she saw the thatch
fall in between the smoking walls:

'Lazare!'

He was at the door, his hair scarcely singed and his hands but slightly
scorched; and when he had tossed the child, who was struggling and
crying, into the woman's arms, he almost became angry with his cousin:

'What's the matter with you? What are you going on like this for?'

She threw her arms round his neck and burst out sobbing in such a state
of nervous excitement that, fearing she might faint, he made her sit
down on an old moss-covered stone by the side of the house well. He
himself was now beginning to feel faint. There was a trough full of
water there, and he steeped his hands in it with a sensation of acute
relief. The coldness restored him to himself, and he then began to
experience great surprise at what he had done. Was it possible that
he had gone into the midst of those flames? It was as if he had had a
double; he could distinctly see himself showing incredible agility and
presence of mind amidst the smoke, as though he were looking at some
wonderful feat performed by a stranger. A remnant of mental exaltation
filled him with a subtle joy which he had never known before.

Pauline had recovered a little, and examined his hands, saying:

'No! there's no great harm done. The burns are only slight ones. But
we must go home at once, and I will attend to them. Oh! how you did
frighten me!'

She dipped her handkerchief in the water and bound it round his right
hand, which was the more severely burnt of the two. Then they rose and
tried to console the woman, who, after showering wild kisses on the
child, had laid it down near her, and was now not even looking at it.
She had begun to grieve about the house, wailing pitiably as she asked
what would her men say and do when they came back and found their home
in ruins. The walls were still standing, and black smoke was pouring
out of the brazier within them, amidst a loud crackling of sparks which
could not be seen.

'Come! my poor woman,' Pauline said to her; 'don't be so down-hearted.
Come and see us to-morrow.'

Some neighbours, attracted by the smoke, now ran up, and Pauline
led Lazare away. Their return home was a very pleasant one. Though
Lazare suffered but little pain, his cousin insisted upon giving him
her arm to support him. They still felt too much emotion to speak,
and they looked at each other smiling. Pauline felt a kind of happy
pride. He must really be brave, then, in spite of his pallor at the
thought of death! As they made their way along she became absorbed
in astonishment at the inconsistencies of the only man whom she knew
well. She had seen him spend whole nights at his work, and then give
himself up to idleness for months. She had known him exhibit the most
uncompromising truthfulness after lying unblushingly. She had received
a brotherly kiss from him on her brow, and she had felt his hands, hot
and feverish with passion, burn her wrists with their grasp; and now
to-day he had proved himself a hero. She had done right, then, in not
despairing of life, in not judging that everyone must be altogether
good or altogether bad. When they arrived at Bonneville their emotion
and silence found relief in a torrent of rapid talk. They went over
every little detail again, recounting the story a score of times, and
remembering at each repetition some little incident that had been
previously forgotten. The affair was indeed talked about for a long
time afterwards, and help was sent to the burnt-out peasants.

Lazare had been nearly a month at Bonneville when a letter arrived from
Louise, complaining that she was utterly overwhelmed with _ennui_. In
his reply to it he told her that he would fetch her at the beginning
of the following week. There had been some tremendous falls of rain,
those violent deluges which so frequently swept down upon the district,
and shrouded earth, sea, and sky beneath a pall of grey vapour. Lazare
had spoken seriously of finishing his play, and Pauline, whom he wished
to have near him that she might encourage him, took her knitting--the
little stockings which she distributed among the village children--into
her cousin's room. But it was very little work he did when she had
taken her place by the table. They were constantly talking to each
other in low tones, repeating the same things over and over again,
without ever seeming to weary of them, while their eyes never strayed
from one another. Nothing seemed to them more delightful than that
languid quiet, that feeling of drowsiness which glided over them, while
the rain pattered down upon the slates of the roof. An interval of
silence would at times make them flush, and they unconsciously put a
caress in every word they addressed to each other, impelled thereto by
that influence which had brought a renewal of those old days which they
had thought had passed away for ever.

One evening Pauline had sat up knitting in Lazare's room till nearly
midnight, while her cousin, whose pen had dropped idly from his
fingers, slowly told her about what he intended to write in the
future--dramas peopled with colossal characters. The whole house was
asleep. Véronique had gone to bed long ago, and the deep stillness of
the night, through which only broke the familiar wail of the high tide,
gradually permeated them with tenderness. Lazare, unbosoming himself,
confessed that his life hitherto had been a failure; if literature also
failed him, he had made up his mind to retire to some secluded spot and
live the life of a recluse.

'Do you know,' he added with a smile, 'I often think that we ought to
have emigrated after my mother's death?'

'Emigrated! Why?'

'Yes; have taken ourselves very far away--to Oceania, for instance, to
one of those islands where life is so sweet and pleasant.'

'But your father? Should we have taken him with us?'

'Oh! it's only a fancy, a dream, that I'm talking of. One may indulge
in pleasant dreams, you know, when the actual truth is not very
cheerful.'

He had risen from the table and had sat down upon one of the arms of
Pauline's chair. She let her knitting drop, that she might laugh at
ease over the ceaseless flow of the young man's imagination.

'Are you mad, my poor fellow?' she asked. 'What should we have done
out there?'

'We should have lived! Do you remember that book of travels that we
read together a dozen years ago? There is a perfect paradise out there.
There is no winter, the sky is always blue, and life is passed beneath
the sun and the stars. We should have had a cabin and have lived upon
delicious fruits, with nothing to do and never a trouble to vex us.'

'Ah! then we should soon have become a pair of savages, with rings
through our noses and feathers on our heads!'

'Well, why not? We should have loved each other from one end of the
year to the other, taking no count of the days. Ah! it would have been
delightful!'

She looked at him. Her eyelids were quivering and her face turned
pale. That thought of love had filled her with delicious languor. He
had playfully taken hold of her hand and was smiling in an embarrassed
manner. At first Pauline felt no disquietude. It was nothing more than
a revival of their old intimacy. But she slowly grew disturbed; her
strength seemed to ebb from her, and her very voice faltered as she
said:

'Nothing but fruit would make rather a spare diet. We should have had
to hunt and fish, and cultivate a piece of land. If it is true, as they
say, that the women do the work out there, would you have set me to dig
the ground?'

'You! With those tiny hands of yours! Oh! we could have made capital
servants out of the monkeys, you know!'

She smiled languidly at this pleasantry, while he added:

'Besides, they would have been no longer in existence, those little
hands of yours! I should have eaten them up--like this!'

He kissed her hands and pretended to bite at them, while the blood
surged to his face in a sudden thrill of passion. They neither of
them spoke. They were affected by a common madness--a vertigo which
threw them both into dizzy faintness. Pauline seemed on the point of
swooning; her eyes closed; but at last, as Lazare's lips suddenly met
hers, the thrill she felt made her raise her eyelids, and she awoke
like one who has just passed through a terrible dream. Then she sprang
to her feet, and, faint though she still felt, she found courage to
resist both Lazare and her own passion. The struggle was short, but
violent. She repulsed him again and again, and at last, profiting by
a brief respite, she fled across the landing into her own room. He
followed, and she could hear him speaking to her, but in spite of the
passionate promptings of her own heart she kept silent. He sobbed and
her own tears fell, yet she gave him no response. When at last she
heard him close his door behind him she gave full rein to her grief.
It was all over and she had conquered, but her victory filled her
with distress. It was impossible for her to sleep; she lay awake till
morning. What had happened took complete possession of her thoughts.
That evening had been a sin at which she now shuddered with horror.
She felt that she could no longer find excuse for herself, that she
must acknowledge the duplicity of her affections. Her motherly love for
Lazare and her condemnation of Louise were but a hypocritical revival
of her old passion for her cousin. She had let herself glide into
falsehood; for, as she analysed more closely the secret sentiments of
her heart, she became conscious that the rupture between Lazare and his
wife had pleased her rather than otherwise, and that she had hoped in
some way to profit by it. Was it not she, too, who had brought about
between her cousin and herself a renewal of the intimacy of former
days? Ought she not to have known that the result must be disastrous?
Now matters had reached a terrible pass, and they were threatened
with ruin. She had given him to another, while she herself loved him
passionately, and he, too, longed for her. This thought careered
through her brain and beat upon her temples like a peal of bells. At
first she made up her mind to run away from the house in the morning.
Then she thought that such flight would be cowardly. Since Lazare was
leaving very shortly, why should she not remain? Her pride, too, awoke
within her; she resolved to conquer herself, for she felt that she
could never again carry her head erect should the occurrence of that
night inspire her with remorse.

The next morning she came downstairs at her accustomed hour. There
was nothing about her to reveal the night of torture she had spent
except the heaviness of her eyes. She was pale and quite calm. When
Lazare appeared in his turn, he explained his air of weary lassitude by
telling his father that he had sat up late, working. The day passed in
the usual way. Neither Pauline nor Lazare made any reference to what
had occurred between them, even when they found themselves alone and
free from all observation. They made no attempt to avoid each other;
they appeared quite confident of themselves. But in the evening, when
they wished each other good-night on the landing near their rooms,
they fell into each other's arms, and their lips met in a kiss. Then
Pauline, full of alarm, hastily escaped and locked herself in her room,
while Lazare, too, rushed away, bursting into tears.

It was thus that they continued to bear themselves towards each other.
The days slowly glided away, and the cousins lived on together in
constant anxiety of possible backsliding. Though they never spoke of
such a thing, and never referred to that terrible night, they thought
of it continually and were filled with fear. Their sense of what was
right and honourable remained undimmed, and every sudden little lapse,
any embrace or stolen kiss, left them full of anger with themselves.
But neither had the courage to take the only safe step, that of
immediate separation. Pauline, believing that it would be cowardly for
her to flee, persisted in remaining in the presence of danger; while
Lazare, absorbed in his transports, did not even reply to the pressing
letters he received from his wife. He had now been six weeks at
Bonneville, and he and Pauline had begun to believe that this existence
of alternate pain and sweetness would go on for ever.

One Sunday, at dinner, Chanteau became quite gay, after venturing
to drink a glass of Burgundy, a luxury for which he had to pay very
dearly each time that he indulged in it. Pauline and Lazare had spent
some delightful hours together by the sea under the bright blue sky,
exchanging looks full of tenderness, though marked with that haunting
fear of themselves which infused such passion into their intimacy.

They were all three smiling, when Véronique, who was just about to
bring in the dessert, called from the door of the kitchen:

'Here comes Madame!'

'Madame who?' cried Pauline, with a feeling of stupefaction.

'Madame Louise!'

They all broke out into exclamations. Chanteau, quite scared, gazed
at Pauline and Lazare, who had turned very pale. But the latter rose
excitedly from his seat and stammered angrily:

'What! Louise? She never told me she was coming, and I had forbidden
her to do so. She must be mad!'

The twilight was falling, soft and clear. Lazare threw down his napkin
and rushed out of the room. Pauline followed him, struggling to regain
her cheerful serenity. It was indeed Louise who was alighting with
difficulty from old Malivoire's coach.

'Are you mad?' her husband cried to her across the yard. 'Why have you
done such a foolish thing without writing to me?'

Then Louise burst into tears. She had been so poorly at Clermont, she
said, and had felt so depressed and weary. And as her two last letters
had remained unanswered, she had felt an irresistible impulse to set
off, a yearning desire to see Bonneville again. If she had not sent him
word of her intention, it was because she feared that he might have
prevented her from satisfying her whim.

'And to think I was pleased with the idea of taking you all by
surprise!' she concluded.

'It is idiotic! You will go back again to-morrow!' her husband cried.

Louise, quite overcome, crushed by this reception, fell into Pauline's
arms. The latter had again turned pale. And now, when she felt this
woman, so soon to be a mother, pressing against her, both horror and
pity came upon her. However, she succeeded in conquering her jealousy
and in silencing Lazare.

'Why do you speak to her so unkindly? Kiss her! You did quite right to
come, my dear, if you thought you would be better at Bonneville. You
know very well that we all love you, don't you?'

Loulou was barking furiously at all the hubbub which disturbed the
usual quiet of the yard. Minouche, having poked her head out of the
door, had retired again, shaking her feet as though she had just
escaped mixing herself up in some compromising incident. The whole
party went into the house, and Véronique laid another cover at the
table and began to serve the dinner over again.

'Hallo! is it really you, Louisette?' Chanteau exclaimed, with an
uneasy smile. 'You wanted to take us by surprise? You have almost made
my wine go the wrong way!'

However, the evening passed off pleasantly. They had all regained their
self-possession, and avoided making any reference to the immediate
future. There was a momentary revival of embarrassment at bedtime, when
Véronique inquired if Monsieur Lazare was going to sleep in his wife's
room.

'Oh no! Louise will sleep better alone,' Lazare replied, looking up
instinctively and catching Pauline's glance.

'Yes, that will be better,' said the young wife; 'sleep at the top of
the house, for I'm dreadfully tired, and like that I shall have the
whole bed to myself.'

Three days passed. Then Pauline at last came to a determination. She
would leave the house on the following Monday. Lazare and Louise
had already begun to talk of remaining till after the birth of the
expected baby, and Pauline thought she could see that her cousin had
had enough of Paris, and would settle down altogether at Bonneville,
weary and sick of his perpetual failures. The best thing she could do,
therefore, was to give the place up to them at once, for she had not
been able to conquer herself, and she more than ever lacked the courage
to live beside them and witness all the intimacy of man and wife.
Besides, this course seemed the best means of escaping from all the
perils threatened by the reviving passion from which she and Lazare
had just suffered so cruelly. Louise alone expressed some astonishment
on learning Pauline's decision, but she was supplied with undeniable
reasons for it. Doctor Cazenove told her that his relation at Saint-Lô
had made Pauline unusually favourable offers, that the girl could not
really refuse them any longer, and that her friends must insist upon
her accepting a position which would make her future safe. Chanteau,
too, with tears in his eyes, expressed his consent.

On the Saturday came a farewell dinner, with the priest and the Doctor.
Louise, who suffered greatly, could scarcely drag herself to the table,
and this threw additional gloom over the meal, in spite of the efforts
of Pauline, who had cheerful smiles for everyone, though in reality she
grieved bitterly at the thought of leaving that house, which she had
animated and brightened for so many years with her ringing laughter.
Her heart was aching with pain, and Véronique served the dinner with
a tragic air. Chanteau refused to touch a single drop of Burgundy,
having become all at once almost superfluously prudent, for he trembled
at the thought of being so soon deprived of a nurse whose mere voice
seemed able to lull his pains. Lazare, for his part, was feverish, and
wrangled with the Doctor about a new scientific discovery.

By eleven o'clock the house had once more subsided into silence.
Louise and Chanteau were already asleep, while Véronique was tidying
up her kitchen. Then, at the top of the house, by the door of his old
room, which he still occupied, Lazare detained Pauline for a moment,
according to his wont.

'Good-bye!' he murmured.

'No! not good-bye,' she said, forcing herself to smile. '_Au revoir_,
since I am not going away till Monday.'

They gazed at each other, and as their eyes grew dim they fell into
each other's arms, while their lips met passionately in a last kiss.




X


The next morning, as they sat down to their coffee at the early
breakfast, they were surprised that Louise did not make her appearance.
The servant went upstairs to knock at her door, and when the young
woman at last came down it was evident that she was in a state of great
suffering. She took but a few sips of coffee; and all the morning she
dragged herself about the house, rising from one chair to go and sit
down upon another. They did not venture to speak to her, for she grew
irritable and seemed to suffer the more when any notice was taken of
her. She experienced no relief until a little before noon, when she was
able to sit down at the table again and take some soup. Between two
and three o'clock, however, she was again unable to remain still, and
dragged herself about between the dining-room and the kitchen, finally
going, with great difficulty, upstairs, but only to come down again
immediately.

At the top of the house Pauline was now packing her trunk. She was
to leave Bonneville the next morning, and she had only the needful
time to empty her drawers and get everything ready for departure;
nevertheless, she every minute went out on to the landing and looked
over the banisters, distressed by the other's evident suffering. About
four o'clock, as she heard Louise becoming still more agitated, she
resolved to speak to Lazare, who had locked himself up in his room,
full of nervous exasperation at the troubles with which he accused Fate
of overwhelming him.

'We cannot leave Louise like this,' insisted Pauline. 'We must go and
talk to her. Come with me.'

They found her half-way on the first flight of stairs, lacking the
strength to go either up or down.

'My dear girl,' said Pauline tenderly, 'we are quite distressed about
you. We are going to send for Madame Bouland.'

At this Louise grew angry. 'Why do you torment me like this,' she
cried, 'when all that I want is to be left alone? I shan't need Madame
Bouland for a long time yet. Leave me alone and don't torture me!'

Louise showed herself so obstinate and displayed so much temper that
Lazare, in his turn, grew angry; however, Pauline was compelled to
promise that she would not send for Madame Bouland. This person was an
_accoucheuse_ of Verchemont, who possessed an extraordinary reputation
throughout the district for skill and energy. She was considered to
have no equal at Bayeux or even at Caen. It was on account of this
great reputation of hers that Louise, who was very timid and had a
presentiment of disaster, had resolved to place herself in her hands.
None the less she experienced a great fear of Madame Bouland--the same
irrational fear, indeed, with which patients contemplate a dentist whom
it is necessary they should visit, though they defer doing so as long
as possible.

At six o'clock Louise felt much better again, and showed herself very
triumphant in consequence. But she was worn out, and, when she had
eaten a cutlet, she went back to her room. She would be all right, she
said, if she could only get to sleep. Thus she obstinately refused to
let anyone sit upstairs with her, and insisted upon being left alone.
The others then sat down to a stew and a piece of roast veal. The
dinner began in silence, for Louise's illness increased the gloom which
was caused by Pauline's approaching departure. They made as little
noise as possible with their spoons and forks, for fear it might reach
the ears of the invalid and still further distress her. Chanteau,
however, grew very loquacious by degrees, and had begun relating some
wonderful stories, when Véronique, as she was handing round the veal,
suddenly exclaimed:

'I'm not quite sure, but I fancy I can hear Madame Lazare groaning
upstairs.'

Lazare sprang from his seat and opened the door. They all gave over
eating, and strained their ears to listen. At first they could hear
nothing, but soon the sound of prolonged groaning reached them.

Pauline thereupon threw down her napkin and ran upstairs, followed
by Lazare. And now Louise, whom they found seated on her bed in a
dressing-gown, rather peevishly consented to let them send for Madame
Bouland. When Lazare, however, suggested that they had better send for
Doctor Cazenove as well, on the chance of complications arising, his
wife burst into tears. Hadn't they the least pity for her, she cried?
Why did they go on torturing her? They knew very well that the idea
of being attended by a doctor was intolerable to her. She would have
nobody but Madame Bouland.

'If you send for the Doctor,' said she, 'I'll get into bed and turn my
face to the wall and refuse to say another word to anybody.'

'At any rate, go for Madame Bouland,' said Pauline to Lazare by way of
conclusion. 'She may be able to give her some relief.'

They both went downstairs again, and found Abbé Horteur, who had come
to pay a short visit, standing in silence before the alarmed Chanteau.
An attempt was made to persuade Lazare to eat a little veal before
starting, but he declared that a single mouthful would choke him, and
forthwith he set off at a run to Verchemont.

'I think I hear her calling me!' Pauline exclaimed a moment later,
hastening towards the staircase. 'If I want Véronique I will knock on
the floor. You can finish your dinner without me, can't you, uncle?'

The priest, much embarrassed at finding himself in the midst of this
confusion, could not summon up his customary consolatory phrases, and
he also soon retired, promising, however, to return after he had been
to the Gonins', where the crippled old man was very ill. Thus Chanteau
was left alone before the disordered table. The glasses were half full,
the veal was growing cold on the plates, and the greasy forks and
half-eaten pieces of bread still lay where they had been dropped in the
sudden alarm which had come upon the diners. As Véronique put a kettle
of water on the fire, by way of precaution, in case it might be wanted,
she began to grumble at not knowing whether she ought to clear the
table or leave things in their present state of confusion.

Two anxious hours went by; nine o'clock came, and still Madame Bouland
did not arrive. Louise was now anxiously longing for her to come, and
bitterly complained that they must want her to die, since they left
her so long without assistance. It only took twenty-five minutes to
get to Verchemont, and an hour ought to have been sufficient to fetch
the woman. Lazare must be amusing himself somewhere, or, perhaps,
an accident had happened, and no one would ever come at all. Then,
however, the young wife ceased complaining, for an attack of sickness
came upon her, and the whole house was once more in a state of alarm.

Eleven o'clock struck, and the delay became intolerable. So Véronique
in her turn set off for Verchemont. She took a lantern with her, and
was instructed to search all the ditches. Meantime Pauline remained
with Louise, unable to assist her in spite of her desire to do so.

It was nearly midnight when the sound of wheels at last impelled the
girl to rush downstairs.

'Why, where is Véronique?' she cried out from the steps, as she
recognised Lazare and Madame Bouland. 'Haven't you met her?'

Lazare replied that they had come by the Port-en-Bessin road, after
encountering all sorts of hindrances. On reaching Verchemont he had
found that Madame Bouland was eight miles away attending to another
woman. He could procure no horse or vehicle to go after her, and had
been obliged to make the whole journey on foot, running all the way.
And, besides, there had been endless other troubles. Fortunately,
however, Madame Bouland had a trap with her.

'But the woman!' exclaimed Pauline. 'She has been attended to all
right, I suppose, since Madame Bouland has been able to come with you?'

Lazare's voice trembled as he replied hoarsely:

'The woman is dead.'

They went into the hall, which was dimly lighted by a candle placed on
the stairs. There was an interval of silence while Madame Bouland hung
up her cloak. She was a short, dark woman, very thin, and as yellow
as a lemon, with a large prominent nose. She spoke loudly, and had an
extremely authoritative manner, which caused her to be much respected
by the peasantry.

'Will you be good enough to follow me?' Pauline said to her. 'I
have been quite at a loss to know what to do; she has never ceased
complaining since the beginning of the evening.'

Louise still stood before a chest of drawers in her room, pawing the
floor with her feet. She burst into tears as soon as she saw Madame
Bouland, who forthwith began to question her. But the young wife turned
a glance of entreaty towards Pauline, which the latter well understood.
She therefore led Lazare from the room, and they both remained on the
landing, unable to take themselves further away. The candle, which was
still burning below, threw a dim light, broken by weird shadows, up
the stairs, and the two cousins stood, Lazare leaning against the wall
and Pauline against the banisters, gazing at each other in motionless
silence. They strained their ears to catch the sounds that came from
Louise's room; and when Madame Bouland at last opened the door they
would have entered, but she pushed them back, came out, and closed the
door behind her.

'Well?' Pauline murmured.

She signed to them to go downstairs, and it was not till they had
reached the ground floor that she opened her mouth. It was a premature
and very difficult case.

'It seems likely to be extremely serious,' she said. 'It is my duty to
warn the family.'

Lazare turned pale. An icy breath passed over his brow. Then in
stammering accents he asked for particulars.

Madame Bouland gave them, adding: 'I cannot undertake the
responsibility. The presence of a doctor is absolutely necessary.'

Silence fell once more. Lazare was overcome with despair. Where were
they to find a doctor at that time of night? His wife might die twenty
times before they could get the surgeon from Arromanches.

'I don't think there is any immediate danger,' said Madame Bouland;
'still, you had better lose no time. I myself can do nothing further.'

And as Pauline besought her, in the name of humanity, to try something,
at any rate, to alleviate the sufferings of Louise, whose groans echoed
through the house, she replied in her clear sharp voice: 'No, indeed; I
can do nothing of that kind. That other poor woman over yonder is dead,
and I would rather not be responsible for this one.'

Again did Lazare shudder. At this moment, however, a tearful call was
heard from Chanteau in the dining-room.

'Are you there? Come in! No one has been to tell me anything. I have
been waiting to hear something ever so long.'

They entered the room. They had forgotten all about poor Chanteau since
the interrupted dinner. He had remained at the table, twisting his
thumbs and patiently waiting with all the drowsy resignation which he
had acquired during his long periods of lonely quiescence. This new
catastrophe, which was revolutionising the house, had greatly saddened
him; he had not even had heart enough to go on eating, his food still
remained untouched on his plate.

'Is she no better?' he inquired.

Lazare ragefully shrugged his shoulders. But Madame Bouland, who
retained all her accustomed calmness, pressed the young man to lose no
further time.

'Take my trap!' she said. 'The horse is tired out; still, you will be
able to get back in two hours or two hours and a half. I will stay here
and look after her.'

Then with sudden determination Lazare rushed out of the room, feeling
convinced that he would find his wife dead upon his return. They could
hear him shouting and lashing the horse with his whip as the conveyance
clattered noisily away.

Madame Bouland went upstairs again, and Pauline followed her, after
briefly replying to her uncle's questions. When she had offered to
put him to bed he had refused to go, insisting on staying up in order
that he might know how things went on. If he felt drowsy, he said, he
could sleep very well in his easy-chair, for he often slept in it the
whole afternoon. He had only just been left alone again when Véronique
returned with her lantern extinguished. She was boiling over with rage.
For two years she had never poured forth so many words at one time.

'Of course they took the other road!' she cried. 'And there have I
been looking into all the ditches and nearly killing myself to get to
Verchemont! And I waited, too, for a whole half-hour down there in the
middle of the road!'

Chanteau looked at her with his big eyes.

'Well, my girl, it was scarcely likely that you would meet each other.'

'And then, as I was coming back,' she continued, 'I met Monsieur Lazare
galloping on like a madman in a crazy gig. I shouted out to him that
they were anxiously waiting for him, but he only whipped his horse the
more violently and nearly ran over me. I've had quite enough of these
errands, of which I can make neither head nor tale. To make matters
worse, too, my lantern went out.'

She hustled her master about, and tried to make him finish eating his
food, so that she might, at any rate, get the table cleared. He was
not at all hungry, but he ate a little of the cold veal for the sake
of doing something. He was worried now by the Abbé's failure to return
that evening. What was the use of the priest promising to come and
keep him company if he had made up his mind to stay at home? However,
priests certainly cut a comical figure on such occasions as the
present; and, this idea, amusing Chanteau, he set himself cheerfully to
take his supper in solitude.

'Come, sir, make haste!' cried Véronique. 'It is nearly one o'clock,
and it won't do to have the plates and dishes and things lying about
like this till to-morrow. There's always something going wrong in this
awful house!'

She was just beginning to clear the table when Pauline called to
her from the staircase. Then Chanteau was once more left alone and
forgotten in front of the table, and nobody came again to give him any
news.

Louise was in quite a desperate condition, and her strength seemed to
be rapidly ebbing away, when, about half-past three o'clock, Véronique
privately warned Pauline of Lazare's arrival with Doctor Cazenove.
Madame Bouland insisted on remaining alone with the Doctor beside the
patient, while the others betook themselves to the dining-room, where
Chanteau was now fast asleep. And then there again came a long, weary,
and very anxious wait. When the Doctor joined them his voice betrayed
his emotion.

'I have done nothing yet,' said he; 'I wouldn't do anything without
consulting you.'

And thereupon he passed his hand over his forehead, as if to drive away
some irksome thought.

'But it is not for us to decide, Doctor,' said Pauline, for Lazare was
incapable of speech; 'we leave her in your hands.'

He shook his head. 'I must tell you,' said he, 'that both mother and
child seem to me lost. Perhaps I might save one or the other.'

Lazare and Pauline rose up shuddering. Chanteau, aroused by the
conversation, opened his heavy eyes and listened with an expression of
amazement.

'Which of the two must I try to save?' repeated the Doctor, who
trembled as much as those of whom he asked the question--'the child or
the mother?'

'Which, O God?' cried Lazare. 'Do I know? Can I say?'

Tears choked him once again, whilst his cousin, ghastly pale, remained
silent in presence of that awful alternative.

But Cazenove went on giving explanations. 'It is a case of conscience,'
he concluded. 'I beg of you, decide yourselves.'

Sobs now prevented Lazare from answering. He had taken his handkerchief
and was twisting it convulsively whilst striving to recover a little of
his reason. Chanteau still looked on in stupefaction. And only Pauline
was able to say, 'Why did you come down? It is cruel to torture us like
this, when you alone know the best course, and alone are able to act.'

Just then Madame Bouland herself descended the stairs to say that
matters were becoming much worse. 'Have you decided?' she inquired.
'The lady is sinking.'

Thereupon, with one of those sudden impulses which disconcerted people,
Cazenove threw his arms about Lazare, kissed him, and exclaimed:
'Listen, I will try to save them both.... And if they succumb--well, I
shall be yet more grieved than yourself, for I shall take it to be my
own fault.'

Excepting Chanteau, who in his turn embraced his son, they all went
upstairs together. Cazenove desired it. Louise was fully conscious, but
very low. She offered no objection to a doctor now; her sufferings were
too great. When he began to speak to her she simply answered: 'Kill me;
kill me at once.'

There came a cruel and affecting scene. It was one of those dread hours
when life and death wrestle together, when human science and skill
battle to overcome and correct the errors of Nature. More than once
did the Doctor pause, fearing a fatal issue. The patient's agony was
terrible, but at last science triumphed, and a child was born. It was a
boy.

Lazare, who had turned his face to the wall, was sobbing, and burst out
into tears. He had been a prey to the keenest mental torture during the
progress of the operations, and he thought despairingly that it would
be preferable for them all to die rather than to continue living if
such intense agony was to be mingled with life.

But Pauline bent over Louise and kissed her on the forehead.

'Come and kiss her!' she said to her cousin.

He came and stooped down over his wife; but he shuddered when his
lips touched her brow, which was moist with icy perspiration. Louise
lay there with her eyes closed, and seemed to be no longer breathing.
Lazare leaned against the wall at the foot of the bed, trying to stifle
his sobs.

'I am afraid the child is dead,' said the Doctor.

The baby, indeed, had given utterance to none of the usual shrill
calls. It was a very small infant of a deathly hue.

'We might try the effect of friction and inflation,' the Doctor
continued; 'but I'm afraid it would only be time wasted. And the mother
stands in need of all my attention.'

Pauline heard him.

'Give me the child!' she exclaimed. 'I will try what I can do. If I
don't manage to make it breathe, it will be that I have no more breath
left myself.' Thereupon she carried the infant into the next room, the
room which had once been Madame Chanteau's, taking with her a bottle of
brandy and some flannel. She laid the poor wee creature in an arm-chair
before a blazing fire; and then, having steeped a piece of flannel in a
saucer of brandy, she knelt down and rubbed it without a pause, quite
regardless of the cramp that gradually stiffened her arm. It was so
small a child, and looked so wretched and fragile, that she feared lest
she might kill it by rubbing it too hard. And so she passed the flannel
backwards and forwards with a gentle, almost caressing motion, like the
constant brushing of a bird's wing. Then she turned the child over, and
tried to recall each of its tiny limbs to life. But it still lay there
motionless. Though the friction seemed to impart a little warmth, the
infant's chest remained shrunken, uninflated, and it even seemed to
grow darker in colour.

Then, without evincing any repugnance, Pauline pressed her mouth to
its tiny, rigid lips, and drawing long, slow breaths she strove to
adapt the force of her lungs to the capacity of those little compressed
organs into which the air had been unable to make its way. She was
obliged to stop every now and then, when her breath grew exhausted;
but, after inhaling a fresh supply, she turned to her task again.
Her blood mounted to her head, and her ears began to buzz; she even
became a little giddy. Nevertheless she still persevered, striving to
inflate the baby's lungs for more than half an hour, without being
encouraged by the least result. She vainly tried to make the ribs play
by pressing them very gently with her fingers. But nothing seemed to do
the least good, and anyone else would have abandoned in despair this
apparently impossible resurrection. Pauline, however, brought maternal
perseverance to her task, the obstinate insistence of a mother who is
determined that her child shall live, and at last she felt that the
poor wee body was stirring, that its tiny lips moved slightly beneath
her own.

For nearly an hour she had remained alone in that room, absorbed in the
anguish of that struggle with death, and forgetful of all else. That
faint sign of life, that transitory tremor of the little lips, filled
her with fresh courage. She had recourse to friction again, and every
other minute she resumed her attempt at inflation, employing the two
processes alternately without any regard for her own exhaustion. She
felt a growing craving to conquer and produce life. For a moment she
feared she had been mistaken, for it again seemed that her lips were
only pressing lifeless ones. But she became conscious of another rapid
contraction. Little by little the air was forcing its way into the
child's lungs; she could feel it being sucked from her and returned,
and she even fancied she could detect the little heart beginning to
beat. Her mouth never left the tiny lips; she shared her life with
that little creature; they had only one breath between them in that
wonderful resurrection, a slow, continuous exchange of breath going
from one to the other as if they had a common soul. Pauline's lips were
soiled, for the child had scarcely been cleansed, but her joy at having
saved it prevented any feeling of disgust. She began to inhale a warm
pungency of life, which intoxicated her; and when, at last, the baby
broke out into a feeble, plaintive wail, she fell back from the chair
on to the floor, stirred to the depths of her being.

The big fire was blazing brightly, filling the room with cheerful
light. Pauline remained on the floor in front of the baby, whom she had
not yet examined. What a poor, frail mite it was! All her own robust
vigour rose up in rebellious protest as she thought what a wretched
puny son Louise had given to Lazare. She felt keen regret for her own
wasted life. She herself would never be a mother! She was young and
strong, and healthy and beautiful, but of what avail was all that? The
fulness of life was not for her. And she wept for the child that she
would never have.

Meantime the poor, frail little creature that she had revived to
existence was still wailing and writhing on the chair, and Pauline
began to fear that it might fall upon the floor. Her pity was aroused
at the sight of such uncomeliness and weakness. She would at least do
what she could for it; she would help it to continue living, as she
had had the happiness of helping it into life. So she took it upon her
knees and did what she could for it, while still shedding tears, in
which were mingled sorrow for her own lonesome fate and pity for the
misery of all living creatures.

Madame Bouland, whom she called, came to help her to wash the baby.
They wrapped it in warm flannels and then laid it in the bed, till the
cradle should be prepared for it. Madame Bouland was astonished to find
it alive, and examined it carefully. It seemed well formed, she said,
but its frailty would make it difficult to rear. Then she hurried off
again to Louise, who still remained in a very critical condition.

As Pauline was again taking up her position at the baby's side Lazare,
who had been informed of the miracle his cousin had accomplished,
entered the room.

'Come and look at him!' said Pauline, with much emotion. But as he drew
near he began to tremble, and exclaimed:

'What! you have laid him in that bed!'

He had shuddered as he entered. That room, so long unused, so full of
mournful associations and so rarely entered, was now warm and bright,
enlivened by the crackling of the fire. Each article of furniture
was still in its accustomed position, and the clock still marked
twenty-three minutes to eight. No one had occupied that chamber, now
prepared for Madame Bouland, since his mother had died there. And it
was in that very bed where she had passed away--in that sacred, awful
bed--that he saw his own son restored to life, looking so tiny as he
lay among the spreading coverings.

'Does it displease you?' Pauline asked in surprise.

He shook his head. He could not speak for emotion. At last he stammered:

'I was thinking of mamma. She has gone, and now here is another who
will go away as she went. Why, then, did he come?'

His words were cut short by a burst of sobbing. His terror and his
disgust of life broke out in spite of all the efforts he had made to
restrain himself since Louise's terrible delivery. When he had touched
his baby's brow with his lips, he hastily stepped back, for he had
fancied that he could feel the infant's skull giving way beneath his
touch. He was filled with remorseful despondency at the sight of the
poor, frail little thing.

'Don't distress yourself!' said Pauline, by way of cheering him. 'We'll
make a fine young fellow of him. It doesn't at all matter that he is
small now.'

He looked at her, and, utterly upset as he was, a full confession
escaped from his heart:

'It is again to you that we owe his life! Am I destined, then, to be
always under obligations to you?'

'To me!' she exclaimed. 'I have done nothing more than Madame Bouland
would have done if I hadn't happened to be here.'

He silenced her with a wave of his hand.

'Do you think,' he said, 'that I am so base that I cannot understand
that I owe everything to you? Ever since you first came into this house
you have never ceased to sacrifice yourself. I will say nothing now
about your money, but you still loved me yourself when you gave me
to Louise. I know it now quite well. Ah! if you only knew the shame
I feel when I look at you and recollect! You would have given your
very life-blood, you were always kind and cheerful, even at the very
time when I was crushing down your heart. Ah, yes! you were right;
cheerfulness and kindliness are everything; all else is mere delusion!'

She tried to interrupt him, but he continued in a louder voice:

'What a fool I made of myself with all my disbelief and boasting, and
all the pessimism which I paraded out of vanity and fear! It was I who
spoilt our lives--yours and my own, and those of the whole family. Yes!
you were the only sensible one amongst us! Life becomes so easy when
everyone in a family is cheerful and affectionate, and each lives for
the others. If the world is to die of misery, at any rate let it die
cheerfully, and in sympathy with itself!'

Pauline smiled at the violence of his language, and caught hold of his
hands.

'Come! come!' she said, 'don't excite yourself! Now that you see I was
right, you are cured, and all will go well.'

'Ah! I don't know that! I am talking like this just now, because there
are times when the truth will force itself out, even in spite of one's
self. But to-morrow I shall slip back into all my old torment. One
can't change one's nature! No, no! Things will go no better. On the
contrary, they will gradually get worse and worse. You know that as
well as I do. It is my own stupidity that enrages me.'

She drew him gently towards her, and said to him in her grave way:

'You are neither foolish nor base; you are unfortunate. Kiss me,
Lazare.'

They exchanged a kiss before that poor little babe, who seemed to
be asleep. It was the kiss of brother and sister untainted by the
slightest breath of the passion which had glowed within them only the
day before.

The dawn was breaking, a soft grey dawn. Cazenove came to look at the
baby, and was astonished to find it doing so well. He determined to
take it back into the other room, for he felt that he could now answer
for Louise. When the little creature was brought to its mother, she
looked at it with a feeble smile, then closed her eyes and fell into
deep and restorative slumber. The window had been slightly opened, and
a delicious freshness, like a very breath of life, streamed in from the
sea. They all stood for a moment motionless, worn out, but very happy,
beside the bed in which the young mother was sleeping. Then, with
silent tread, they left the room, leaving Madame Bouland to watch over
her.

The Doctor, however, did not go away till nearly eight o'clock. He
was very hungry, and Lazare and Pauline themselves were famished, so
Véronique prepared some coffee and an omelet. Downstairs they found
Chanteau, whom they had all forgotten, sleeping soundly in his chair.
Nothing had been touched since the previous evening, and the room
reeked with the acrid smoke of the lamp, which was still burning.
Pauline jokingly remarked that the table, on which the plates and
dishes had remained, was already laid for them. She swept up the crumbs
and made the things a little tidier. Then, as the coffee took some
little time to prepare, they attacked the cold veal, joking the while
about the dinner that had been so unpleasantly interrupted. Now that
all danger was over, they were as merry as children.

'You will hardly believe it,' Chanteau exclaimed, beaming, 'but I slept
without being asleep. I was very angry that nobody came down to give me
any news, but I felt no uneasiness, for I dreamt that all was going on
well.'

His delight increased when he saw Abbé Horteur enter the room. The
priest had come across after saying Mass. Chanteau joked him merrily.

'Ah! here you are at last! You deserted me in a nice way last night!
Are you frightened of babies, then?'

The priest defended himself from this charge by telling them how he
had one night delivered a poor woman on the high-road and baptized her
child. Then he accepted a small glass of curaçoa.

Bright sunshine was gilding the yard when Dr. Cazenove at last took
his departure. As Lazare and Pauline walked with him to the gate, he
whispered to the latter:

'You are not going away to-day?'

She remained for a moment silent, then raised her big dreamy eyes, and
seemed to be looking far away into the future.

'No!' she answered; 'I must wait.'




XI


After an abominable month of May, June set in with very warm weather.
Westerly gales had been blowing for the last three weeks, storms had
devastated the coast, swept away masses of the cliffs, swallowed up
boats, and killed many people; but now the broad blue sky, the satiny
sea, and the bright hot days were infinitely pleasant and enjoyable.

One glorious afternoon Pauline had wheeled Chanteau's chair on to the
terrace, and near him, on a red woollen rug, she had deposited little
Paul, who was now eighteen months old. She was his godmother, and she
spoilt the child as much as she did the grandfather.

'Are you sure the sun won't inconvenience you, uncle?' she asked.

'Oh dear no! I should think not, indeed! It is so long since I saw it.
Are you going to leave little Paul asleep there?'

'Yes. The fresh air will do him good.'

She knelt down on the edge of the rug and gazed at him. He was dressed
in a white frock, with bare legs and arms peeping beyond it. His eyes
were fast closed, and his quiet little rosy face was turned up towards
the sky.

'He has dropped off to sleep at once,' she said softly. 'He tired
himself out with rolling about. Don't let the animals bother him.'

She shook her finger at Minouche, who sat at the dining-room window
making an elaborate toilet. Some distance off Loulou lay stretched out
on the gravel, opening his eyes every now and then with a glance of
suspicion, and ever ready to snarl and bite.

As Pauline rose to her feet again, a low groan came from Chanteau.

'Ah! has your pain returned?'

'Returned! Ah! it never leaves me now. I groaned, eh? Well, it's funny,
but I do so without even being aware of it.'

He had become a most pitiable object. By degrees his chronic gout had
led to the accumulation of cretaceous matter at all his joints, and
great chalk-stones had formed and pushed out through his skin. His
feet, which were hidden out of sight in his slippers, were contracted
inwards like the claws of a sickly bird. But his hands openly displayed
all their horrible deformity, swollen as they were at every joint
with gleaming red knots, the fingers warped by swellings which forced
them apart, and the left hand being rendered especially hideous by
a secretion as big as a small egg. On the left elbow, too, a more
voluminous deposit had brought on an ulcer. Ankylosis was now complete;
Chanteau could no longer make use of his hands or feet, and the few
joints which could still slightly bend cracked with as much noise as
though a bag of marbles were being shaken. His whole body seemed to
have become petrified in the position which he had adopted as the least
painful--that is, a somewhat forward one, with an inclination to the
right; and he had so completely shaped himself to his easy-chair that
even when he was put to bed he remained twisted and bent. His pain
never left him now, and the least change in the weather, or a drop of
wine, or a mouthful of meat in excess of his usual diet, brought on
inflammation.

'Would you like a glass of milk?' Pauline asked him. 'It would refresh
you perhaps.'

'Ah! milk indeed!' he replied, between two groans. 'That's another
pretty invention of theirs, that milk-cure! I believe they finished me
off with that! No, no! I won't take anything; that's the treatment that
does me the most good.'

He asked her, however, to change the position of his left leg, for he
could not move it himself.

'The villain is all on fire to-day. Put it further away; push it.
There, that will do, thank you. What a lovely day! Oh dear! oh dear!'

With his eyes turned towards the far-spreading panorama, he continued
to groan quite unconsciously. His moan of pain had now become quite
as natural to him as breathing itself. He was wrapped in a heavy blue
woollen rug, and his poor deformed hands, that looked so pitiable in
the bright sunshine, lay helpless on his knees. It pleased him to sit
and look at the sea with its infinite azure, over which white sails
flitted as over a boundless highway, open there before him who could no
longer put one foot before another.

Pauline, feeling anxious at the sight of Paul's little naked legs,
knelt down again and covered them up with part of the rug. For three
months past she had always been intending to take her departure on the
following Monday. But the child's feeble hands held her back with a
force she could not resist. For the first month of the boy's life they
had each morning feared that he would not live to see the evening. It
was Pauline who had kept him alive from day to day, for his mother was
long confined to her bed, and the nurse, whom they had been obliged
to procure, simply gave him the breast, evincing the gentle stupidity
of a cow. The most devoted, constant care and attention were needed,
and Pauline had to keep perpetual watch over the child. By the end of
the first month, however, the boy had happily acquired the strength
of a child born in due season, and gradually developed. Still, he was
but a little creature, and Pauline never left him for a minute, more
especially since the weaning, which had been attended by much trouble.

'There!' she said, 'he can't take cold now. See, uncle, how pretty he
looks in this crimson rug! It makes him quite rosy.'

Chanteau painfully turned his head, which was now the only part of his
body which he was able to move.

'If you kiss him,' he murmured, 'you will wake him. Don't disturb the
little cherub. Do you see that steamer over there? It is coming from
Havre. How fast it is cutting along!'

Pauline watched the steamer in order to please him. It looked like a
black speck on the boundless waters; a slight streak of smoke just
blurred a point of the horizon. For a short time the girl stood there,
perfectly still, gazing at that sea which slumbered so peacefully
beneath the clear sky, and enjoying the beauty of the day.

'But, while I'm stopping here, the stew is getting burned!' she
exclaimed at last, hurrying off towards the kitchen.

Just as she was about to enter the house a voice called from the first
floor:

'Pauline!'

It was Louise, who was leaning out of the window of what had once been
Madame Chanteau's room, but which was now occupied by herself and
Lazare. She wore a loose jacket, and her hair was hanging down. In
querulous tones she went on: 'If Lazare's down there, tell him to come
upstairs.'

'No, he isn't here. He hasn't come back yet,' Pauline replied.

At this Louise broke out angrily:

'I knew quite well that we shouldn't see him again till this evening,
even if he condescends to come back then. He stayed away all night in
spite of his express promise. Ah! he's a nice fellow. When he once gets
to Caen, there's no getting him away from it!'

'He has so few amusements,' Pauline gently urged. 'And then this
business about the manure would keep him some time. No doubt he will
take advantage of the Doctor's gig, and come back in it.'

Since Lazare and Louise had settled down at Bonneville they had lived
a life of perpetual misunderstanding and bickering. There were no open
quarrels between them, but constant signs of ill-temper, the lives
of both being rendered unhappy by want of harmony. Louise, after a
long and painful convalescence, was now leading an empty, aimless
existence, manifesting the greatest distaste for domestic matters, and
spending her time in novel-reading and protracted toilets. Lazare had
again fallen a prey to overwhelming _ennui_; he never opened a book,
but spent his time in gazing abstractedly at the sea, just escaping
to Caen at long intervals, though only to return home more weary than
ever. Pauline, who had been obliged to retain the management of the
house, had become quite indispensable to them, for she patched up their
quarrels several times a day.

'Be quick and finish dressing!' added the girl. 'The Abbé will be here
directly, and you must come and sit with him and my uncle. I have too
much to do myself.'

But Louise could not rid herself of her rancour.

'How _can_ he do it? Keeping away from home all this time! My father
wrote to me yesterday and told me that the remainder of our money would
go the same way as the rest.'

Lazare had, indeed, allowed himself to be swindled in a couple of
unfortunate speculations, and Pauline had become so anxious on the
child's account that, as his godmother, she had made him a present
of two-thirds of what she still possessed, taking out in his name a
policy which would assure him a hundred thousand francs on the day he
reached his majority. She now had only an income of five hundred francs
herself, but her sole regret in the matter was the necessity she was
under of curtailing her customary charities.

'A fine speculation that manure business is!' Louise continued. 'I am
sure my father will have made him give it up, and he's only stopping
away to amuse himself. Oh, well! I don't care! He may be as dissolute
as he likes!'

'Then what are you getting so angry for?' Pauline retorted. 'But you
know that's all nonsense; the poor fellow never thinks of anything
wrong. Do hurry down, won't you? What can have happened to Véronique, I
wonder, that she should disappear in this way on a Saturday, and leave
me all her work to do?'

In fact, a most extraordinary thing had happened--one which had been
puzzling the whole house since two o'clock. Véronique had prepared
the vegetables for the stew, and plucked and trussed a duck; and
then she had disappeared as suddenly and completely as if the earth
had swallowed her up. Pauline, quite astounded by this sudden
disappearance, had at last resolved to undertake the cooking of the
stew herself.

'She hasn't come back, then?' asked Louise, recovering from her anger.

'No, indeed!' Pauline replied. 'Do you know what I am beginning to
think? She bought the duck for forty sous of a woman who happened to
be passing, and I remember telling her that I had seen much finer ones
for thirty sous at Verchemont. She tossed her head directly, and gave
me one of her surly looks. Well, I'll be bound that she has gone to
Verchemont to see if I wasn't telling a lie.'

She smiled, but there was a touch of sadness in her smile, for the
surliness which Véronique was again manifesting pained her. The
servant's gradually increasing ill-will against Pauline since Madame
Chanteau's death had now brought her back to the virulence of the very
early days.

'We've none of us been able to get a word out of her for a week or
more,' said Louise. 'Any sort of folly may be expected from a person
with such a disposition.'

'Well,' said Pauline charitably, 'we must excuse her whims. She is
sure to come back again, and we shan't die of hunger this time.'

But the baby now began to move about on the rug, and she ran up and
bent over it.

'Well! what is it, my dear?'

The mother, who was still at the window, glanced out for a moment and
then disappeared within the room. Chanteau, quite absorbed in his own
reflections, just turned his head as Loulou began to bark, and then
called out to his niece:

'Here are your visitors, Pauline!'

Two ragged young urchins, the advanced guard of the troop which she
received every Saturday, now came up. Little Paul had quickly dropped
off to sleep once more, and she rose and said:

'It's a nice time for them to come! I haven't a minute to spare. Well,
never mind; stay, since you're here. Sit down on the bench. And, uncle,
if any more of them come, please make them sit down by the side of
these. I must just go and glance at my stew.'

When she returned, at the end of a quarter of an hour, two boys and two
girls were already seated on the bench; they were some of her little
beggars of former days, but had now grown much bigger, though they
still retained their mendicant habits.

Never before had there been so much distress in Bonneville. During
the storms in May the three remaining houses had been crushed against
the cliffs. The destruction was now complete; the flood-tides had
made a clean sweep of the village after centuries of attack, during
which the sea had each year devoured one or another part of the place.
On the shingle one now only saw the conquering waves, which effaced
even all trace of the ruins. The fishermen, expelled from the nook
where for generation after generation they had obstinately persisted
in struggling against the ceaseless onslaught, had been compelled to
migrate further up the ravine, where they were camping in companies.
The richer ones had built cabins for themselves, while the poorer
ones were taking refuge under rocks, all combining to found a new
Bonneville, from which their descendants would in turn be ejected
after fresh centuries of contest. Before it could complete its work
of destruction, the sea had found it necessary to sweep the piles and
stockades away. On the day of their overthrow the wind had blown from
the north, and such huge mountains of water had dashed up that the
church itself had been shaken by the violence with which they broke
against the shore. Lazare, though he was told of what was happening,
would not go down. He had remained on the terrace, watching the
waves sweep up, while the fishermen rushed off to view the desperate
onslaught. They were thrilled with mingled pride and awe. Ah! how the
hussy was howling! Now she was going to make a clean sweep of it all!
And in less than twenty minutes, indeed, everything had disappeared,
the stockades were broken down, and the timbers were smashed into
matchwood. And the fishermen roared with the waves, and gesticulated
and danced like so many savages, intoxicated by the wind and the sea,
and glutting themselves with the sight of all that destruction. Then,
while Lazare angrily shook his fist at them, they had fled for their
lives, closely pursued by the wild rush of the waves, which nothing
more held in check. Now they were perishing of starvation, and groaning
as of old in their new Bonneville, accusing the hussy of their ruin and
commending themselves to the charity of the 'kind young lady.'

'What are you doing there?' cried Pauline, as she saw Houtelard's son.
'I forbade you ever to come here again!'

He was a great strapping fellow, now nearly twenty years old. His
former sad and timid expression, that told of bad treatment at home,
had turned into a sly, crafty look. He lowered his eyes as he replied:

'Please take pity upon us, Mademoiselle Pauline. We are so miserable
and wretched now that father is dead!'

Houtelard had gone off to sea one stormy evening and had never
returned. His body had never been found, nor had that of his mate, nor
even a single plank of their boat. Pauline, however, obliged as she was
to exercise strict supervision over her charities, had sworn that she
would never give a single sou to either son or widow, for they lived
together in open shame.

'You know quite well why I won't have you coming here,' Pauline
replied. 'When you behave differently, I will see what I can do for
you.'

Thereupon the young fellow began to plead his cause in a whining voice:
'It is all her fault; she brought it about. She would have gone on
beating me otherwise. Please give us a trifle, kind young lady. We have
lost everything. I could get on well enough myself, but it is for her
that I'm asking you, and she is very ill--indeed she is; I swear it.'

Pauline ended by taking pity on him and sending him away with a loaf of
bread and some stew; and she even promised to call on the sick woman
and take her some medicine.

'Medicine, indeed!' muttered Chanteau. 'Just you try to get her to
swallow it!'

But Pauline had already turned her attention to the Prouane girl, one
of whose cheeks was gashed.

'How have you managed to do that?'

'I fell against a tree, Mademoiselle Pauline.'

'Against a tree? It looks more like a cut from the corner of a table.'

She was a big girl now, with prominent cheek-bones, but she still
had the great haggard eyes of a weak-witted child, and she made vain
efforts to remain standing in a respectful attitude. Her legs shook
under her, and she could scarcely articulate her words.

'Why! you have been drinking, you wicked girl!' cried Pauline,
scrutinizing her keenly.

'Oh, Mademoiselle! how can you say so?'

'You were drunk and you fell down! Isn't it so? I know very well what
you are all given to. Sit down, and I will go and get some arnica and a
bandage.'

She attended to the girl's cheek, and tried to make her feel ashamed
of herself. It was disgraceful, she told her, for a girl of her age to
intoxicate herself with her father and mother, a couple of drunkards
who would be found dead some morning, poisoned by calvados. The girl
listened drowsily, and when her cheek was bandaged she stammered out:

'Father is always complaining of pains, and I could rub him well if you
would give me a little camphorated brandy.'

Neither Pauline nor Chanteau could keep from laughing.

'No, no! I know very well what would become of the brandy. I will give
you a loaf, though I'm afraid you will go and sell it and spend the
money in drink. Stay where you are, and Cuche shall take you home.'

Young Cuche got up from the bench in his turn. His feet were bare;
indeed, the only clothes he wore were some old breeches and a ragged
shirt, through which showed parts of his skin, browned by the sun
and torn by brambles. He was to be met running about the high-roads,
leaping over hedges with the agility of a wolf, living like a savage,
to whom hunger makes every sort of prey acceptable. He had reached the
lowest depths of misery and destitution, such an abyss of wretchedness
that Pauline looked at him with remorse, as though she felt guilty for
allowing a human being to go on living in such a state. But whenever
she had attempted to rescue him, he had always fled, hating all thought
of work or service.

'Since you have come here again,' she said to him gently, 'I suppose
you have thought over what I said to you last Saturday. I hope that
your return here is a sign that you are not lost to all sense of what
is right. You cannot go on leading your present vagabond life; I am no
longer as rich as I was, and I cannot support you in idleness. Have you
made up your mind to accept my offer?'

Since the loss of her fortune Pauline had tried to make up for her lack
of money by interesting other charitable people in her pensioners.
Doctor Cazenove had at last succeeded in obtaining the admission of
Cuche's mother into the hospital for incurables at Bayeux, and Pauline
herself held in reserve a sum of one hundred francs to provide an
outfit for the son, for whom she had found a berth among the workmen
employed on the railway line to Cherbourg. He bent his head as she
spoke, and listened to her with an expression of distrust.

'It's quite settled, isn't it?' she continued. 'You will accompany your
mother, and then you will go to your post.'

But as she stepped towards him he sprang back. His eyes, though
downcast, never left her, and he seemed to think that she was going to
seize him by his wrists.

'What is the matter?' she asked in surprise.

Then, with a wild animal's uneasy glance, the lad murmured: 'You are
going to take me and shut me up. I don't want to go.'

All further attempts at persuasion were useless. He let her continue
talking, and appeared to admit the force of her reasoning; but as soon
as ever she moved he sprang towards the gate, and with an obstinate
shake of the head refused her offers for his mother and for himself,
preferring freedom and starvation.

'Take yourself off, you lazy impostor!' Chanteau cried at last in
indignation. 'It is kindness thrown away, troubling one's self about
such a vagabond.'

Pauline's hands trembled as she thought of her wasted charity, her
failure to effect anything for this lad, who insisted on remaining in
misery.

'No, no! uncle,' she said, with an expression of despairing tolerance,
'they are starving, and they must have some food in spite of
everything.'

She called Cuche back to her to give him, as on other Saturdays, a loaf
of bread and forty sous. But he backed away from her, saying:

'Put it down on the ground and go away, and I will come and pick it up.'

She did as he told her. Then he cautiously stepped forward, casting
suspicious glances around him. As soon as he had picked up the forty
sous and the loaf he ran off as fast as his bare feet could carry him.

'The wild beast!' cried Chanteau. 'He will come and murder us all one
of these nights. It's just like that little gaol-bird's daughter there.
I would swear it was she who stole my silk handkerchief the other day.'

He was speaking of the Tourmal girl, whose grandfather had lately
joined her father in gaol. She was now the only one who was left on the
bench with the little Prouane, who was stupefied with drink. She got
up, without any sign that she had heard the charge of theft brought
against her, and she began to whine: 'Have pity upon us, kind young
lady! There is nobody but mother and me at home now. The gendarmes come
and beat us every night. My body is all one big bruise, and mother
is dying. Oh! kind young lady, do give us some money and some good
meat-soup and some wine----'

Chanteau, quite exasperated by the girl's string of lies, moved
restlessly in his chair, but Pauline would have given the chemise off
her back.

'There! there! That will do,' she muttered. 'You would get more if you
talked less. Stay where you are, and I will make up a basket for you.'

When she came back, bringing with her an old fish-hamper, in which
she had put a loaf, two litre-bottles of wine, and some meat, she
found another of her pensioners on the terrace, the Gonin girl, who
had brought her child with her, a girl now some twenty months old.
The mother, who was sixteen years of age, was so fragile and slight
of figure that she seemed more like the child's elder sister. She was
scarcely able to carry the infant, but she nevertheless brought it
to the house, as she knew that Mademoiselle Pauline was very fond of
children and could refuse them nothing.

'Good gracious! How heavy she is!' cried Pauline, as she took the child
in her arms. 'And to think that she is not six months older than our
Paul!'

Despite herself, her eyes turned sadly towards the little boy, who was
still lying asleep upon the rug. However, the young mother began to
complain:

'If you only knew how much she eats, Mademoiselle Pauline! And I've no
bed-linen, and nothing to dress her with. And then, since father is
dead, mother and the other one are always ill-using me. They treat me
like the lowest of the low, and say that if I have a baby I ought to
provide what it costs to keep it.'

'Poor little thing!' Pauline murmured. 'I am knitting her some socks.
You must bring her to see me oftener; there is always milk here, and
she might have a few spoonfuls of gruel. I will go and see your mother,
and I'll try to frighten her, as she still behaves unkindly to you.'

The girl took up her daughter again, while Pauline began to prepare a
parcel.

However, Abbé Horteur now appeared upon the terrace.

'Here come Monsieur Lazare and the Doctor,' he announced.

At the same moment they heard the wheels of the gig, and while Martin,
the ex-sailor with the wooden leg, was leading the horse to the stable,
Cazenove came round from the yard, crying:

'I am bringing you back the rake who stopped away from home all night.
You won't be very hard on him, I hope!'

Lazare now appeared, smiling feebly. He was quickly ageing; his
shoulders were bent and his face was cadaverous, devastated by the
mental anguish which was destroying him. He was no doubt on the point
of explaining the reason of his delay when the window of the first
floor, which had remained open, was violently closed.

'Louise hasn't quite finished dressing yet,' Pauline explained. 'She
will be down in a minute or two.'

They all looked at one another, and there was a feeling of
embarrassment. That angry banging of the window portended a quarrel.
After taking a step or two towards the stairs, Lazare checked himself
and determined to wait where he was. He kissed his father and little
Paul; and then, to conceal his disquietude, he tackled his cousin,
saying to her in a querulous voice:

'Rid us of all this vermin! You know I can't bear to see them anywhere
near me.'

He was referring to the three girls who were still on the bench.
Pauline hastened to tie up the parcel which she had made for the Gonin
girl.

'There! you can go now,' she said. 'You two just take your companion
home, and mind she doesn't fall any more. And, you, look well after
your baby, and try not to forget it or leave it anywhere on the road.'

As they were at last setting off Lazare insisted upon examining the
Tourmal girl's hamper. She had already contrived to stow away in it an
old coffee-pot, which had been thrown aside in a corner and which she
had managed to steal. Then all three of the little hussies were driven
away, the young drunkard tottering along between the two others.

'What a dreadful lot they are!' exclaimed the priest, sitting down by
Chanteau's side. 'God has certainly abandoned them. Some have children
directly after their first Communion, and others take to drinking and
thieving like their parents. Ah, well! I've warned them of what will
happen to them some day!'

'I say, my dear fellow,' then began the Doctor, addressing Lazare in an
ironical tone, 'are you thinking of building those famous stockades of
yours over again?'

Lazare made an angry gesture. Any allusion to his defeat in his
struggle with the sea exasperated him.

'No indeed!' he cried. 'I would let the sea sweep into our own house,
without even putting a broom-handle across the road to stay its course.
No, no! indeed. I've been very foolish as it is, but one doesn't commit
that kind of folly again. I actually saw those scoundrels dancing with
delight on the day of the catastrophe! Do you know what I begin to
think? I feel sure they had sawn through the beams on the day before
the flood-tide, for they would never have given way as they did if they
had not been tampered with.'

He tried in this way to salve his wounded pride as an engineer. Then,
stretching his hand towards Bonneville, he added:

'Let them all go to smash! I will take my turn at dancing then!'

'Don't say such wicked things!' Pauline observed in her quiet manner.
'Only the poor may be excused for being wicked. You ought to build up
the stockade again in spite of everything.'

Lazare had already calmed down, as though his last burst of passion had
exhausted him.

'No, no!' he muttered, 'it would bore me too much. But you are right;
there is nothing for one to make oneself angry about. Whether they're
drowned or not, what does it matter to me?'

Silence fell again. Chanteau had fallen back into a posture of dolorous
immobility after raising his head to receive his son's kiss. The priest
was twirling his thumbs, and the Doctor paced about, with his hands
behind his back. They all began to look at little Paul, whom Pauline
defended even from his father's caresses, to prevent him from being
wakened. Since the others had come she had begged them to lower their
voices and not to tread so heavily about the rug, and she now shook a
whip at Loulou, who still continued to growl at the noise he had heard
when the horse was led to the stable.

'You don't suppose that that will quiet him, do you?' said Lazare.
'He'll make that row for an hour. He's the most disagreeable brute
I ever came across. He begins to snarl directly one moves, and one
might as well be without a dog at all, he is so completely absorbed in
himself. The only good the sulky beast does is to make us regret our
poor old Matthew.'

'How old is Minouche now?' Cazenove inquired. 'I have seen her about
here as long as I can remember.'

'She is turned sixteen,' Pauline answered, 'and she keeps very well
yet.'

Minouche, who was still at her toilet on the dining-room window-sill,
raised her head as the Doctor pronounced her name. For a moment she
held her foot suspended in the air, then again began to lick her fur
delicately.

'She isn't deaf yet, you see,' Pauline said; 'but I fancy her sight is
not so good as it was. It is scarcely a week ago since seven kittens of
hers were drowned. It is really quite terrible to think of the number
she has had during the last sixteen years. If they had all been allowed
to live they would have eaten up the whole neighbourhood.'

'Well, well, she at any rate keeps neat and clean,' said the priest,
glancing at Minouche as she continued washing herself with her tongue.

Chanteau, who, like the others, was looking towards the cat, now began
to moan more loudly with that incessant involuntary expression of pain
which had become so habitual to him that he had grown unconscious of it.

'Are you feeling worse?' the Doctor asked him.

'Eh? What? Why do you ask?' he said, suddenly seeming to awake. 'Ah,
it's because I'm breathing heavily. Yes, I am in great pain this
evening. I thought that the sun would do me good, but I feel as though
I were being suffocated, and I haven't a joint that isn't burning.'

Cazenove examined his hands. They all shuddered at the sight of those
poor deformed stumps. The priest made another of his sensible remarks.

'Such fingers as those are not adapted for playing draughts. That's an
amusement which you can't have now.'

'Be very careful about what you eat and drink,' the Doctor urged. 'Your
elbow is highly inflamed, and the ulceration is increasing.'

'How can I be more careful than I am?' Chanteau wailed hopelessly. 'My
wine is all measured out and my meat is weighed! Must I give up taking
anything at all? Indeed, it isn't living to go on like this, and one
might as well die at once. I can't eat even without assistance--how is
it likely with such things as these at the end of my arms?--and you may
be quite sure that Pauline, who feeds me, takes care that I don't get
anything that I oughtn't to have.'

The girl smiled.

'Ah! yes, indeed,' she said, 'you ate too much yesterday. It was
my fault, but I couldn't refuse when I saw how your appetite was
distressing you.'

At this they all pretended to grow merry, and began to tease him about
the junketings in which they declared he still indulged. But their
voices trembled with pity as they glanced at that remnant of a man,
that inert mass of flesh, which now only lived enough to suffer. He
had fallen back into his usual position, with his body leaning to the
right and his hands lying on his knees.

'This evening now, for instance,' Pauline continued, 'we are going to
have a roast duck----'

But she suddenly checked herself to ask:

'By the way, did you see anything of Véronique as you came through
Verchemont?'

Then she told Lazare and the Doctor the story of Véronique's
disappearance. Neither of them had seen anything of her. They expressed
some astonishment at the woman's strange whims, and ended by growing
merry over the subject. It would be a fine sight, they said, to see her
face when she came back and found them already round the table with the
dinner cooked and served.

'I must leave you now,' said Pauline gaily, 'for I have to attend to
the kitchen. If I let the stew get burnt, or serve the duck underdone,
my uncle will give me notice!'

Abbé Horteur broke out into a loud laugh, and even Doctor Cazenove
himself seemed tickled at the idea, when the window on the first floor
was suddenly thrown open with a tremendous clatter. Louise did not show
herself, but merely called in a sharp voice:

'Come upstairs, Lazare!'

At first Lazare seemed inclined to rebel and to refuse obedience to
a command given in such a voice. But Pauline, anxious to avoid a
scene before visitors, gave him an entreating look, and he went off
to the house, while his cousin remained for a moment or two longer
on the terrace to do what she could to dissipate the awkwardness
of the situation. No one spoke, and they all looked at the sea in
embarrassment. The westering sun was now casting a sheet of gold over
it, crowning the little blue waves with quivering fires. Far away in
the distance the horizon was changing to a soft lilac hue. The lovely
day was drawing towards its close in perfect serenity, and not a cloud
or a sail flecked the infinite stretch of sky and sea.

'Well, as he never came home last night,' Pauline at last ventured to
say with a smile, 'I suppose it is necessary to lecture him a little.'

The Doctor looked at her, and on his face also appeared a smile, in
which Pauline could read his prediction of former days, when he had
told her that she wasn't making them a very desirable present in
bestowing them on one another. And at this she walked away towards the
kitchen.

'Well, I must really leave you now,' she said. 'Try to amuse
yourselves. Call for me, uncle, if Paul wakes up again.'

In the kitchen, when she had stirred the stew and got the spit ready,
she knocked the pots and pans about impatiently. The voices of Louise
and Lazare reached her more and more distinctly through the ceiling,
and she grew distressed as she thought that they would certainly be
heard on the terrace. It was very absurd of them, she said to herself,
to go on shouting as though they were both deaf, and letting everybody
know of their disagreements. But she did not care to go up to them,
partly because she had to get the dinner ready, and partly because she
felt ill at ease at the thought of interfering with them in their own
room. It was generally downstairs, amid the common life of the family,
that she played her part of reconciler.

She went into the dining-room for a few moments and busied herself with
laying the table. But the shouting still continued, and she could no
longer bear the thought that they were making themselves unhappy. So,
impelled by that spirit of active charity which made the happiness of
others the chief thought of her life, she at last went upstairs.

'My dear children,' she exclaimed, as she abruptly entered the room, 'I
daresay you will tell me it is no business of mine, but you are really
making too much noise. It is very foolish of you to excite yourselves
in this way and disturb the whole house.'

She had hastily stepped across the room, and at once closed the window,
which Louise had left open. Fortunately neither the priest nor the
Doctor had remained on the terrace. With one quick glance she had seen
that there was nobody there except the drowsing Chanteau and little
Paul, who was still asleep.

'We could hear you out there as plainly as if you had been in the
dining-room,' she resumed. 'Come, now, what is the matter this time?'

But, their tempers aroused, they continued quarrelling without taking
any notice of Pauline. She now stood there, still and silent, feeling
ill at ease again in that room. The yellow cretonne with its green
pattern, the old mahogany furniture and the red carpet, had been
replaced by heavy woollen hangings and furniture more in harmony with
Louise's delicacy of taste. There was nothing left to remind one of
the dead mother. A scent of heliotrope arose from the toilet-table, on
which lay some damp towels, and the perfume somewhat oppressed Pauline.
She involuntarily glanced round the room, in which every object spoke
of the familiar life of husband and wife. Though, as her rebellious
thoughts calmed down, she had at last prevailed upon herself to
continue living with them, she had never previously entered their room,
where all things suggested conjugal privacy. And thus she quivered
almost with the jealousy of former times.

'How can you make each other so unhappy?' she murmured, after a short
interval of silence. 'Won't you ever be sensible?'

'Well, no, I've had quite enough of it!' cried Louise. 'Do you think he
will ever allow that he is in the wrong? I merely told him how uneasy
he had made us all by not coming home last night, and then he flew at
me like a wild beast and accused me of having ruined his life, and
threatened that he would go off to America!'

Lazare interrupted her in furious tones:

'You are lying! If you had chided me for my absence in that gentle
fashion, I should have kissed you, and there would have been an end of
the matter. But it was you who accused me of making you spend your life
in tears. Yes, you threatened to go and throw yourself into the sea, if
I continued to make your life unbearable.'

Then they flew at each other again, and gave vent to all the bitterness
which the continual jarring of their temperaments aroused in them. The
slightest little differences set them bickering, and brought them to a
state of exasperated antipathy which made the rest of the day wretched.
Whenever her husband interfered with her enjoyment Louise, despite her
gentle face, proved as malicious as a fawning cat, that loves to be
caressed, but strikes out with its claws at the slightest irritation;
and Lazare, finding in these quarrels a relief from his besetting
_ennui_, frequently persisted in them for the sake of the excitement
they brought.

However, Pauline continued listening to the quarrel. She was suffering
greater unhappiness than they themselves were. That fashion of loving
one another was beyond her comprehension. Why couldn't they make
mutual allowances and accommodate themselves to each other, since they
had to live together? She was deeply pained, for she still regarded
the marriage as her own work, and she longed to see it a happy and
harmonious one, so that she might feel compensated for the sacrifice
she had made by knowing that she had, at any rate, acted rightly.

'I never reproach you for squandering my fortune,' Louise continued.

'There was only that accusation wanting!' Lazare cried. 'It wasn't my
fault that I was robbed of it.'

'Oh! it's only stupid folks who allow their pockets to be emptied, who
are robbed. But, any way, we are now reduced to a wretched income of
four or five thousand francs, barely sufficient to enable us to live
in this hole of a place. If it were not for Pauline, our child would
have to go naked one of these days, for I quite expect that you will
squander all that we have left, what with all your extraordinary fads
and speculations that come to grief one after the other.'

'There! there! Prate away! Your father has already paid me similar
pretty compliments. I guessed you had been writing to him. I've given
up that speculation in manure in consequence; though I know it was a
perfectly safe thing, with cent. per cent. to be gained. But now I'm
like you, and I've had enough of it, and the deuce take me if I bestir
myself any more. We will go on living here.'

'A pretty life, isn't it, for a woman of my age? It's nothing but a
gaol, with never an opportunity of going out or seeing anybody; and
there's that stupid sea for ever in front of one, which only seems to
increase one's _ennui_----Oh! if I had only known! If I had only known!'

'And do you suppose that I enjoy myself here? If I were not married, I
should be able to go away to some distant place and try my fortune. I
have longed to do so a score of times. But that's all at an end now;
I'm nailed down to this lonely wilderness, where there's nothing to do
but to go to sleep. You have done for me; I feel that very clearly.'

'I have done for you! I!--I didn't force you to marry me, did I? It was
you who ought to have seen that we were not suited to each other. It is
your fault if our lives are wrecked.'

'Ah! yes, indeed, our lives are certainly wrecked, and you do all you
can to make them more intolerable every day.'

Pauline, though she had resolved not to interfere between them, could
no longer restrain herself.

'Oh! do give over, you unhappy creatures! You seem to take a pleasure
in marring a life which might be such a happy one. Why will you goad
each other into saying things which you cannot recall and which make
you so wretched? Hold your tongues, both of you! I won't let this go on
any longer.'

Louise had fallen into a chair in a fit of tears, while Lazare, in a
state of wild excitement, strode up and down the room.

'Crying won't do any good, my dear,' Pauline continued. 'You are really
not tolerant; you have too many grievances. And you, my poor fellow,
how can you treat her in this unkind fashion? It is abominable of you.
I thought that, at any rate, you had a kind heart. You are, both of
you, a couple of overgrown children, and are equally in fault, making
yourselves wretched without knowing why. But I won't have it any
longer, do you hear? I won't have unhappy people about me. Go and kiss
each other at once!'

She tried to laugh; she no longer felt that tremor which had at first
so disquieted her. She was only thrilled by a glow of kindliness, a
desire to see them in each other's arms, so that she might be sure
their quarrel was at an end.

'Kiss him, indeed! I should just think so!' exclaimed Louise. 'He has
insulted me too much!'

'Never!' exclaimed Lazare.

Then Pauline broke into a merry laugh.

'Come, come!' she said; 'don't sulk with each other. You know, I am
very determined about having my own way. The dinner is getting burnt,
and our guests are waiting. If you don't do as I tell you, Lazare, I
shall come and make you. Go down on your knees before her, and clasp
her affectionately to your heart. No, no! you must do it better than
that!'

She made them twine their arms closely and lovingly about each other,
and watched them kiss, with an air of joyful triumph, without the
least sign of trouble in her clear, calm eyes. Within her glowed warm,
thrilling joy, like some subtle fire, which raised her high above them.
Lazare pressed his wife to his heart in remorse; and Louise, who was
still in her dressing-wrap, with her neck and arms bare, returned his
caresses, her tears streaming forth more freely than before.

'There! that's much nicer, isn't it, than quarrelling?' said Pauline.
'I will be off, now that you no longer need me to make peace between
you.'

She sprang to the door as she spoke, and quickly closed it upon that
chamber of love, with its perfume of heliotrope, which now thrilled her
with soft emotion, as though it were an accomplice perfume which would
complete her task of reconciliation.

When she got downstairs to the kitchen, Pauline began to sing as she
stirred her stew. Then she threw a bundle of wood on the fire, arranged
the turnspit, and began to watch the duck roast with a critical eye.
It amused her to have to play the servant's part. She had tied a big
white apron round her, and felt quite pleased at the thought of waiting
upon them all and undertaking the most humble duties, so that she might
be able to tell them that they were that day indebted to her for their
gaiety and health. Now that, thanks to her, they were smiling and
happy, she wanted to serve them a festive repast of very good things,
of which they would partake plentifully while growing bright and
mirthful round the table.

She thought, however, of her uncle and the child again, and hastily ran
out on to the terrace, where she was greatly astonished to find her
cousin seated by the side of his little son.

'What!' she exclaimed, 'have you come down already?'

He merely nodded his head in answer. He seemed to have fallen back into
his former weary indifference; his shoulders were bent, and his hands
were lying listlessly in front of him. Then Pauline said to him with an
expression of uneasy anxiety:

'I hope you didn't begin again as soon as my back was turned?'

'No, no!' he at last made up his mind to reply. 'She will be down as
soon as she has put on her dress. We have quite forgiven each other
and made it up. But how long will it last? To-morrow there will be
something else; every day, every hour! You can't change people, and you
can't prevent things happening.'

Pauline became very grave, and her saddened eyes sought the ground.
Lazare was right. She could clearly foresee a long series of days
like this in store for them, the same incessant quarrels, which she
would have to smooth away. And she was no longer quite sure that she
was altogether cured herself, and might not again give way to her old
outbursts of jealousy. Ah! were these daily troubles never to have an
end? But she had already raised her eyes again; she remembered how many
times she had won the victory over herself; and as for those other two,
she would see whether they would not grow tired of quarrelling before
she did of reconciling them. This thought brightened her, and she
laughingly repeated it to Lazare. What would be left for her to do, if
the house became perfectly happy? She would fall a victim to _ennui_
herself, if she hadn't some little worries to smooth away.

'Where are the priest and the Doctor?' she asked, surprised to see them
no longer there.

'They must have gone into the kitchen garden,' said Chanteau. 'The Abbé
wanted to show our pears to the Doctor.'

Pauline was going to look from the corner of the terrace, when she
stopped short before little Paul.

'Ah! He has woke up again!' she cried. 'Just look at him! He's already
trying to be off on the loose!'

Paul had just pulled himself up on to his little knees in the midst of
the rug, and was beginning to creep off slyly upon all fours. Before
he reached the gravel, however, he tripped over a fold in the rug, and
rolled upon his back, with his frock thrown back and his little legs
and arms in the air. He lay kicking about and wriggling amidst the
poppy-like brilliance of the rug.

'Well! he's kicking in a fine way!' cried Pauline merrily. 'Look, and
you shall see how he has improved in his walking since yesterday.'

She knelt down beside the child and tried to set him on his feet. He
had developed so slowly that he was very backward for his age, and they
had for a time feared that he would always be weak on his legs. So it
was a great joy to the family to see him make his first attempts at
walking, clutching at the air with his hands, and tumbling down over
the smallest bit of gravel.

'Come now! give over playing,' Pauline called to him. 'Come and show
them that you are a man. There now, keep steady, and go and kiss papa,
and then you shall go and kiss grandfather.'

Chanteau, whose face was twitching with sharp shooting pains, turned
his head to watch the scene. Lazare, notwithstanding his despondency,
was willing to lend himself to the fun.

'Come along!' he cried to the child.

'Oh! you must hold out your arms to him,' Pauline explained. 'He won't
venture if you don't. He likes to see something that he can fall
against. Come, my treasure, pluck up a little courage!'

There were three steps for him to take. There were loving exclamations
and unbounded enthusiasm when Paul made up his mind to go that little
distance, with all the swaying of a tight-rope walker who feels
uncertain of his legs. He fell into the arms of his father, who kissed
him on his still scanty hair, while he smiled with an infant's vague
delighted smile, widely opening his moist and rosy little mouth. Then
his godmother wanted to make him talk, but his tongue was still more
backward than his legs, and he only uttered guttural sounds in which
his relatives alone could distinguish the words 'papa' and 'mamma.'

'Oh! but there's something else yet,' Pauline resumed. 'He promised to
go and kiss his grandfather. Go along with you! Ah! it's a fine walk
you've got before you this time!'

There were at least eight steps between Lazare's chair and Chanteau's.
Paul had never ventured so far out into the world before, and so
there was considerable excitement about the matter. Pauline took up a
position half-way in order to prevent accidents, and two long minutes
were spent in persuading the child to make a start. At last he set off,
swaying about, with his hands clutching the air. For an instant Pauline
thought that she would have to catch him in her arms, but he pushed
bravely forward and fell upon Chanteau's knees. Bursts of applause
greeted him.

Then they made him repeat the journey half a score of times. He no
longer showed any signs of fear; he started off at the first call,
went from his grandfather to his father, and then back again to his
grandfather, laughing loudly all the time, and quite enjoying the fun,
though he always seemed on the point of tumbling over, as if the ground
were shaking beneath him.

'Just once again to father!' Pauline cried.

Lazare was beginning to get a little tired. Children, even his own,
quickly bored him. As he looked at his boy, so merry and now out of
danger, the thought flashed through his mind that this little creature
would outlive him and would doubtless close his eyes for the last time,
an idea which made him shudder with agony. Since he had come to the
determination to continue vegetating at Bonneville, he was constantly
occupied with the thought that he would die in the room where his
mother had died; and he never went up the stairs without telling
himself that one day his coffin would pass that way. The entrance to
the passage was very narrow, and there was an awkward turning, which
was a perpetual source of disquietude to him, and he worried himself
with wondering how the bearers would be able to carry him out without
jolting him. As increasing age day by day shortened his span of
life, that constant dwelling upon the thought of death hastened his
breaking-up, annihilated his last shreds of manliness. He was 'quite
done for,' as he often told himself; he was of no further use at all,
and he would ask himself what was the good of bestirring himself, as he
fell deeper and deeper into the slough of boredom.

'Just once more to grandfather!' cried Pauline.

Chanteau was not able to stretch out his arms to receive and support
his grandson, and, though he set his knees apart, the clutching of the
child's puny fingers at his trousers drew sighs of pain from him. The
little one was already used to the old man's ceaseless moaning, and
probably imagined, in his scarcely awakened mind, that all grandfathers
suffered in the same way. That day, however, in the bright sunshine,
as he came and fell against him, he raised his little face, checked
his laugh, and gazed at the old man with his vacillating eyes. The
grandfather's deformed hands looked like hideous blocks of mingled
flesh and chalk; his face, dented with red wrinkles, disfigured by
suffering, seemed to have been violently twisted towards his right
shoulder; while his whole body was covered with bumps and crevices,
as if it were that of some old stone saint, damaged and badly pieced
together. Paul appeared quite surprised to see him looking so ill and
so old in the sunshine.

'Just once more! Just once more!' cried Pauline again.

She, full of health and cheerfulness, kept sending the little lad to
and fro between the two men, from the grandfather, who obstinately
lived on in hopeless suffering, to the father, who was already
undermined by terror of the hereafter.

'Perhaps his generation will be a less foolish one than this,' she
suddenly exclaimed. 'He won't accuse chemistry of spoiling his life; he
will believe that it is still possible to live, even with the certainty
of having some day to die.'

Lazare smiled in an embarrassed way.

'Bah!' he muttered, 'he will have the gout like my father, and his
nerves will be worse strung than mine. Just see how weak he is! It is
the law of degeneration.'

'Be quiet!' cried Pauline. 'I will bring him up, and you'll see if I
don't make a man of him!'

There was a moment's silence, while she clasped the child to her in a
motherly embrace.

'Why don't you get married, as you're so fond of children?' Lazare
asked.

She looked at him in amazement.

'But I have a child! Haven't you given me one? I get married! Never!
What an idea!'

She dandled little Paul in her arms, and laughed yet more loudly as she
declared that Lazare had quite converted her to the doctrines of the
great Saint Schopenhauer, and that she would remain unmarried in order
to be able to work for the universal deliverance. And she was, indeed,
the incarnation of renunciation, of love for others and kindly charity
for erring humanity.

The sun was sinking to rest in the boundless waters, perfect serenity
fell from the paling sky, the immensity of air and sea alike lay
wrapped in all the mellow softness of the close of a lovely day. Far
away over the water one single little white sail gleamed like a spark,
but it vanished as the sun sank beneath the long line of the horizon;
then there was nothing to be seen save the gradual deepening of the
twilight over the motionless sea. And Pauline was still dandling
the child, and laughing with brave gaiety as she stood between her
despairing cousin and her moaning uncle, in the middle of the terrace,
which was now growing bluish in the shadowy dusk. She had stripped
herself of everything, but happiness rang out in her clear laugh.

'Aren't we going to dine this evening?' asked Louise, making her
appearance in a coquettish dress of grey silk.

'I'm quite ready,' Pauline replied. 'I can't think what they can be
doing in the garden.'

At that moment Abbé Horteur came back, looking very much distressed. In
reply to their anxious questions, after seeking for some phrase which
would soften the shock, he ended by bluntly saying:

'We have just discovered poor Véronique hanging from one of your
pear-trees.'

They all raised a cry of surprise and horror, and their faces paled
beneath the passing quiver of death.

'But what could make her do such a thing?' cried Pauline. 'She could
have had no reason, and she had even to prepare the dinner. It can
scarcely be because I told her that they had made her pay ten sous too
much for her duck!'

In his turn Doctor Cazenove now came up. For the last quarter of an
hour he had been vainly trying to restore animation to the poor woman's
body in the coach-house, whither Martin had helped him to carry it. One
could never tell, he said, what such whimsical old servants would do.
She had never really got over her mistress's death.

'It didn't take her long,' he added. 'She just strung herself up by the
strings of one of her kitchen aprons.'

Lazare and Louise, frozen with terror, said not a word. Chanteau, after
listening in silence, felt a pang of disgust as he thought of the
compromised dinner. And that wretched creature without hands or feet,
who had to be put to bed and fed like a child, that pitiable remnant of
a man, whose almost vanished life was nothing more than one scream of
pain, cried out in furious indignation:

'What a fool one must be to go and kill oneself!'


THE END




FOOTNOTES

[1] See 'The Fat and the Thin,' in which story already figures little
Pauline, who becomes the heroine of 'The Joy of Life.'--Ed.

[2] £320.

[3] The chief character in 'Money.'--Ed.

[4] The English tourist goes cycling and snap-shotting through the
picturesque Norman villages, never dreaming, as a rule, that he is
amongst the most sottish and vicious of all the French peasantry.--Ed.

[5] The equivalent of the English County Council.--Ed.






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