Lost Illusions

Petit-Claud and Cointet had both remarked that their presence in the Angouleme Olympus was endured rather than courted.  Cointet was Francoise’s trustee and quasi-guardian; and if Petit-Claud was to sign the contract, Petit-Claud’s presence was as necessary as the attendance of the man to be hanged at an execution; but though, once married, Mme. Petit-Claud might keep her right of entry to her godmother’s house, Petit-Claud foresaw some difficulty on his own account, and resolved to be beforehand with these haughty personages.

He felt ashamed of his parents.  He had sent his mother to stay at Mansle; now he begged her to say that she was out of health and to give her consent in writing.  So humiliating was it to be without relations, protectors, or witnesses to his signature, that Petit-Claud thought himself in luck that he could bring a presentable friend at the Countess’ request.  He called to take up Lucien, and they drove to the Hotel de Bargeton.

On that memorable evening the poet dressed to outshine every man present.  Mme. de Senonches had spoken of him as the hero of the hour, and a first interview between two estranged lovers is the kind of scene that provincials particularly love.  Lucien had come to be the lion of the evening; he was said to be so handsome, so much changed, so wonderful, that every well-born woman in Angouleme was curious to see him again.  Following the fashion of the transition period between the eighteenth century small clothes and the vulgar costume of the present day, he wore tight-fitting black trousers.  Men still showed their figures in those days, to the utter despair of lean, clumsily-made mortals; and Lucien was an Apollo.  The open-work gray silk stockings, the neat shoes, and the black satin waistcoat were scrupulously drawn over his person, and seemed to cling to him.  His forehead looked the whiter by contrast with the thick, bright curls that rose above it with studied grace.  The proud eyes were radiant.  The hands, small as a woman’s, never showed to better advantage than when gloved.  He had modeled himself upon de Marsay, the famous Parisian dandy, holding his hat and cane in one hand, and keeping the other free for the very occasional gestures which illustrated his talk.

Lucien had quite intended to emulate the famous false modesty of those who bend their heads to pass beneath the Porte Saint-Denis, and to slip unobserved into the room; but Petit-Claud, having but one friend, made him useful.  He brought Lucien almost pompously through a crowded room to Mme. de Senonches.  The poet heard a murmur as he passed; not so very long ago that hum of voices would have turned his head, to-day he was quite different; he did not doubt that he himself was greater than the whole Olympus put together.

“Madame,” he said, addressing Mme. de Senonches, “I have already congratulated my friend Petit-Claud (a man with the stuff in him of which Keepers of the Seals are made) on the honor of his approaching connection with you, slight as are the ties between godmother and goddaughter——­” (this with the air of a man uttering an epigram, by no means lost upon any woman in the room, for every woman was listening without appearing to do so.) “And as for myself,” he continued, “I am delighted to have the opportunity of paying my homage to you.”

He spoke easily and fluently, as some great lord might speak under the roof of his inferiors; and as he listened to Zephirine’s involved reply, he cast a glance over the room to consider the effect that he wished to make.  The pause gave him time to discover Francis du Hautoy and the prefect; to bow gracefully to each with the proper shade of difference in his smile, and, finally, to approach Mme. du Chatelet as if he had just caught sight of her.  That meeting was the real event of the evening.  No one so much as thought of the marriage contract lying in the adjoining bedroom, whither Francoise and the notary led guest after guest to sign the document.  Lucien made a step towards Louise de Negrepelisse, and then spoke with that grace of manner now associated, for her, with memories of Paris.

“Do I owe to you, madame, the pleasure of an invitation to dine at the Prefecture the day after to-morrow?” he said.

“You owe it solely to your fame, monsieur,” Louise answered drily, somewhat taken aback by the turn of a phrase by which Lucien deliberately tried to wound her pride.

“Ah!  Madame la Comtesse, I cannot bring you the guest if the man is in disgrace,” said Lucien, and, without waiting for an answer, he turned and greeted the Bishop with stately grace.

“Your lordship’s prophecy has been partially fulfilled,” he said, and there was a winning charm in his tones; “I will endeavor to fulfil it to the letter.  I consider myself very fortunate since this evening brings me an opportunity of paying my respects to you.”

Lucien drew the Bishop into a conversation that lasted for ten minutes.  The women looked on Lucien as a phenomenon.  His unexpected insolence had struck Mme. du Chatelet dumb; she could not find an answer.  Looking round the room, she saw that every woman admired Lucien; she watched group after group repeating the phrases by which Lucien crushed her with seeming disdain, and her heart contracted with a spasm of mortification.

“Suppose that he should not come to the Prefecture after this, what talk there would be!” she thought.  “Where did he learn this pride?  Can Mlle. des Touches have taken a fancy for him? . . .  He is so handsome.  They say that she hurried to see him in Paris the day after that actress died. . . .  Perhaps he has come to the rescue of his brother-in-law, and happened to be behind our caleche at Mansle by accident.  Lucien looked at us very strangely that morning.”

A crowd of thoughts crossed Louise’s brain, and unluckily for her, she continued to ponder visibly as she watched Lucien.  He was talking with the Bishop as if he were the king of the room; making no effort to find any one out, waiting till others came to him, looking round about him with varying expression, and as much at his ease as his model de Marsay.  M. de Senonches appeared at no great distance, but Lucien still stood beside the prelate.

At the end of ten minutes Louise could contain herself no longer.  She rose and went over to the Bishop and said: 

“What is being said, my lord, that you smile so often?”

Lucien drew back discreetly, and left Mme. du Chatelet with his lordship.

“Ah!  Mme. la Comtesse, what a clever young fellow he is!  He was explaining to me that he owed all he is to you——­”

“I am not ungrateful, madame,” said Lucien, with a reproachful glance that charmed the Countess.

“Let us have an understanding,” she said, beckoning him with her fan.  “Come into the boudoir.  My Lord Bishop, you shall judge between us.”

“She has found a funny task for his lordship,” said one of the Chandour camp, sufficiently audibly.

“Judge between us!” repeated Lucien, looking from the prelate to the lady; “then, is one of us in fault?”

Louise de Negrepelisse sat down on the sofa in the familiar boudoir.  She made the Bishop sit on one side and Lucien on the other, then she began to speak.  But Lucien, to the joy and surprise of his old love, honored her with inattention; her words fell unheeded on his ears; he sat like Pasta in Tancredi, with the words O patria! upon her lips, the music of the great cavatina Dell Rizzo might have passed into his face.  Indeed, Coralie’s pupil had contrived to bring the tears to his eyes.

“Oh!  Louise, how I loved you!” he murmured, careless of the Bishop’s presence, heedless of the conversation, as soon as he knew that the Countess had seen the tears.

“Dry your eyes, or you will ruin me here a second time,” she said in an aside that horrified the prelate.

“And once is enough,” was Lucien’s quick retort.  “That speech from Mme. d’Espard’s cousin would dry the eyes of a weeping Magdalene.  Oh me! for a little moment old memories, and lost illusions, and my twentieth year came back to me, and you have——­”

His lordship hastily retreated to the drawing-room at this; it seemed to him that his dignity was like to be compromised by this sentimental pair.  Every one ostentatiously refrained from interrupting them, and a quarter of an hour went by; till at last Sixte du Chatelet, vexed by the laughter and talk, and excursions to the boudoir door, went in with a countenance distinctly overclouded, and found Louise and Lucien talking excitedly.

“Madame,” said Sixte in his wife’s ear, “you know Angouleme better than I do, and surely you should think of your position as Mme. la Prefete and of the Government?”

“My dear,” said Louise, scanning her responsible editor with a haughtiness that made him quake, “I am talking with M. de Rubempre of matters which interest you.  It is a question of rescuing an inventor about to fall a victim to the basest machinations; you will help us.  As to those ladies yonder, and their opinion of me, you shall see how I will freeze the venom of their tongues.”

She came out of the boudoir on Lucien’s arm, and drew him across to sign the contract with a great lady’s audacity.

“Write your name after mine,” she said, handing him the pen.  And Lucien submissively signed in the place indicated beneath her name.

“M. de Senonches, would you have recognized M. de Rubempre?” she continued, and the insolent sportsman was compelled to greet Lucien.

She returned to the drawing-room on Lucien’s arm, and seated him on the awe-inspiring central sofa between herself and Zephirine.  There, enthroned like a queen, she began, at first in a low voice, a conversation in which epigram evidently was not wanting.  Some of her old friends, and several women who paid court to her, came to join the group, and Lucien soon became the hero of the circle.  The Countess drew him out on the subject of life in Paris; his satirical talk flowed with spontaneous and incredible spirit; he told anecdotes of celebrities, those conversational luxuries which the provincial devours with such avidity.  His wit was as much admired as his good looks.  And Mme. la Comtesse Sixte du Chatelet, preparing Lucien’s triumph so patiently, sat like a player enraptured with the sound of his instrument; she gave him opportunities for a reply; she looked round the circle for applause so openly, that not a few of the women began to think that their return together was something more than a coincidence, and that Lucien and Louise, loving with all their hearts, had been separated by a double treason.  Pique, very likely, had brought about this ill-starred match with Chatelet.  And a reaction set in against the prefect.

Before the Countess rose to go at one o’clock in the morning, she turned to Lucien and said in a low voice, “Do me the pleasure of coming punctually to-morrow evening.”  Then, with the friendliest little nod, she went, saying a few words to Chatelet, who was looking for his hat.

“If Mme. du Chatelet has given me a correct idea of the state of affairs, count on me, my dear Lucien,” said the prefect, preparing to hurry after his wife.  She was going away without him, after the Paris fashion.  “Your brother-in-law may consider that his troubles are at an end,” he added as he went.

“M. le Comte surely owes me so much,” smiled Lucien.

Cointet and Petit-Claud heard these farewell speeches.

“Well, well, we are done for now,” Cointet muttered in his confederate’s ear.  Petit-Claud, thunderstruck by Lucien’s success, amazed by his brilliant wit and varying charm, was gazing at Francoise de la Haye; the girl’s whole face was full of admiration for Lucien.  “Be like your friend,” she seemed to say to her betrothed.  A gleam of joy flitted over Petit-Claud’s countenance.

“We still have a whole day before the prefect’s dinner; I will answer for everything.”

An hour later, as Petit-Claud and Lucien walked home together, Lucien talked of his success.  “Well, my dear fellow, I came, I saw, I conquered!  Sechard will be very happy in a few hours’ time.”

“Just what I wanted to know,” thought Petit-Claud.  Aloud he said—­“I thought you were simply a poet, Lucien, but you are a Lauzun too, that is to say—­twice a poet,” and they shook hands—­for the last time, as it proved.

“Good news, dear Eve,” said Lucien, waking his sister, “David will have no debts in less than a month!”

“How is that?”

“Well, my Louise is still hidden by Mme. du Chatelet’s petticoat.  She loves me more than ever; she will send a favorable report of our discovery to the Minister of the Interior through her husband.  So we have only to endure our troubles for one month, while I avenge myself on the prefect and complete the happiness of his married life.”

Eve listened, and thought that she must be dreaming.

“I saw the little gray drawing-room where I trembled like a child two years ago; it seemed as if scales fell from my eyes when I saw the furniture and the pictures and the faces again.  How Paris changes one’s ideas!”

“Is that a good thing?” asked Eve, at last beginning to understand.

“Come, come; you are still asleep.  We will talk about it to-morrow after breakfast.”

Cerizet’s plot was exceedingly simple, a commonplace stratagem familiar to the provincial bailiff.  Its success entirely depends upon circumstances, and in this case it was certain, so intimate was Cerizet’s knowledge of the characters and hopes of those concerned.  Cerizet had been a kind of Don Juan among the young work-girls, ruling his victims by playing one off against another.  Since he had been the Cointet’s extra foreman, he had singled out one of Basine Clerget’s assistants, a girl almost as handsome as Mme. Sechard.  Henriette Signol’s parents owned a small vineyard two leagues out of Angouleme, on the road to Saintes.  The Signols, like everybody else in the country, could not afford to keep their only child at home; so they meant her to go out to service, in country phrase.  The art of clear-starching is a part of every country housemaid’s training; and so great was Mme. Prieur’s reputation, that the Signols sent Henriette to her as apprentice, and paid for their daughter’s board and lodging.

Mme. Prieur was one of the old-fashioned mistresses, who consider that they fill a parent’s place towards their apprentices.  They were part of the family; she took them with her to church, and looked scrupulously after them.  Henriette Signol was a tall, fine-looking girl, with bold eyes, and long, thick, dark hair, and the pale, very fair complexion of girls in the South—­white as a magnolia flower.  For which reasons Henriette was one of the first on whom Cerizet cast his eyes; but Henriette came of “honest farmer folk,” and only yielded at last to jealousy, to bad example, and the treacherous promise of subsequent marriage.  By this time Cerizet was the Cointet’s foreman.  When he learned that the Signols owned a vineyard worth some ten or twelve thousand francs, and a tolerably comfortable cottage, he hastened to make it impossible for Henriette to marry any one else.  Affairs had reached this point when Petit-Claud held out the prospect of a printing office and twenty thousand francs of borrowed capital, which was to prove a yoke upon the borrower’s neck.  Cerizet was dazzled, the offer turned his head; Henriette Signol was now only an obstacle in the way of his ambitions, and he neglected the poor girl.  Henriette, in her despair, clung more closely to her seducer as he tried to shake her off.  When Cerizet began to suspect that David was hiding in Basine’s house, his views with regard to Henriette underwent another change, though he treated her as before.  A kind of frenzy works in a girl’s brain when she must marry her seducer to conceal her dishonor, and Cerizet was on the watch to turn this madness to his own account.

During the morning of the day when Lucien had set himself to reconquer his Louise, Cerizet told Basine’s secret to Henriette, giving her to understand at the same time that their marriage and future prospects depended upon the discovery of David’s hiding-place.  Thus instructed, Henriette easily made certain of the fact that David was in Basine Clerget’s inner room.  It never occurred to the girl that she was doing wrong to act the spy, and Cerizet involved her in the guilt of betrayal by this first step.

Lucien was still sleeping while Cerizet, closeted with Petit-Claud, heard the history of the important trifles with which all Angouleme presently would ring.

The Cointets’ foreman gave a satisfied nod as Petit-Claud came to an end.  “Lucien surely has written you a line since he came back, has he not?” he asked.

“This is all that I have,” answered the lawyer, and he held out a note on Mme. Sechard’s writing-paper.

“Very well,” said Cerizet, “let Doublon be in wait at the Palet Gate about ten minutes before sunset; tell him to post his gendarmes, and you shall have our man.”

“Are you sure of your part of the business?” asked Petit-Claud, scanning Cerizet.

“I rely on chance,” said the ex-street boy, “and she is a saucy huzzy; she does not like honest folk.

“You must succeed,” said Cerizet.  “You have pushed me into this dirty business; you may as well let me have a few banknotes to wipe off the stains.”—­Then detecting a look that he did not like in the attorney’s face, he continued, with a deadly glance, “If you have cheated me, sir, if you don’t buy the printing-office for me within a week—­you will leave a young widow;” he lowered his voice.

“If we have David on the jail register at six o’clock, come round to M. Gannerac’s at nine, and we will settle your business,” said Petit-Claud peremptorily.

“Agreed.  Your will shall be done, governor,” said Cerizet.

Cerizet understood the art of washing paper, a dangerous art for the Treasury.  He washed out Lucien’s four lines and replaced them, imitating the handwriting with a dexterity which augured ill for his own future:—­

“MY DEAR DAVID,—­Your business is settled; you need not fear to go
to the prefect.  You can go out at sunset.  I will come to meet you
and tell you what to do at the prefecture.—­Your brother,

                                                                                                                  “LUCIEN.”

At noon Lucien wrote to David, telling him of his evening’s success.  The prefect would be sure to lend his influence, he said; he was full of enthusiasm over the invention, and was drawing up a report that very day to send to the Government.  Marion carried the letter to Basine, taking some of Lucien’s linen to the laundry as a pretext for the errand.

Petit-Claud had told Cerizet that a letter would in all probability be sent.  Cerizet called for Mlle. Signol, and the two walked by the Charente.  Henriette’s integrity must have held out for a long while, for the walk lasted for two hours.  A whole future of happiness and ease and the interests of a child were at stake, and Cerizet asked a mere trifle of her.  He was very careful besides to say nothing of the consequences of that trifle.  She was only to carry a letter and a message, that was all; but it was the greatness of the reward for the trifling service that frightened Henriette.  Nevertheless, Cerizet gained her consent at last; she would help him in his stratagem.

At five o’clock Henriette must go out and come in again, telling Basine Clerget that Mme. Sechard wanted to speak to her at once.  Fifteen minutes after Basine’s departure she must go upstairs, knock at the door of the inner room, and give David the forged note.  That was all.  Cerizet looked to chance to manage the rest.

For the first time in twelve months, Eve felt the iron grasp of necessity relax a little.  She began at last to hope.  She, too, would enjoy her brother’s visit; she would show herself abroad on the arm of a man feted in his native town, adored by the women, beloved by the proud Comtesse du Chatelet.  She dressed herself prettily, and proposed to walk out after dinner with her brother to Beaulieu.  In September all Angouleme comes out at that hour to breathe the fresh air.

“Oh! that is the beautiful Mme. Sechard,” voices said here and there.

“I should never have believed it of her,” said a woman.

“The husband is in hiding, and the wife walks abroad,” said Mme. Postel for young Mme. Sechard’s benefit.

“Oh, let us go home,” said poor Eve; “I have made a mistake.”

A few minutes before sunset, the sound of a crowd rose from the steps that lead down to L’Houmeau.  Apparently some crime had been committed, for persons coming from L’Houmeau were talking among themselves.  Curiosity drew Lucien and Eve towards the steps.

“A thief has just been arrested no doubt, the man looks as pale as death,” one of these passers-by said to the brother and sister.  The crowd grew larger.

Lucien and Eve watched a group of some thirty children, old women and men, returning from work, clustering about the gendarmes, whose gold-laced caps gleamed above the heads of the rest.  About a hundred persons followed the procession, the crowd gathering like a storm cloud.

“Oh! it is my husband!” Eve cried out.

“David!” exclaimed Lucien.

“It is his wife,” said voices, and the crowd made way.

“What made you come out?” asked Lucien.

“Your letter,” said David, haggard and white.

“I knew it!” said Eve, and she fainted away.  Lucien raised his sister, and with the help of two strangers he carried her home; Marion laid her in bed, and Kolb rushed off for a doctor.  Eve was still insensible when the doctor arrived; and Lucien was obliged to confess to his mother that he was the cause of David’s arrest; for he, of course, knew nothing of the forged letter and Cerizet’s stratagem.  Then he went up to his room and locked himself in, struck dumb by the malediction in his mother’s eyes.

In the dead of night he wrote one more letter amid constant interruptions; the reader can divine the agony of the writer’s mind from those phrases, jerked out, as it were, one by one:—­

“MY BELOVED SISTER,—­We have seen each other for the last time.  My resolution is final, and for this reason.  In many families there is one unlucky member, a kind of disease in their midst.  I am that unlucky one in our family.  The observation is not mine; it was made at a friendly supper one evening at the Rocher de Cancale by a diplomate who has seen a great deal of the world.  While we laughed and joked, he explained the reason why some young lady or some other remained unmarried, to the astonishment of the world —­it was ‘a touch of her father,’ he said, and with that he unfolded his theory of inherited weaknesses.  He told us how such and such a family would have flourished but for the mother; how it was that a son had ruined his father, or a father had stripped his children of prospects and respectability.  It was said laughingly, but we thought of so many cases in point in ten minutes that I was struck with the theory.  The amount of truth in it furnished all sorts of wild paradoxes, which journalists maintain cleverly enough for their own amusement when there is nobody else at hand to mystify.  I bring bad luck to our family.  My heart is full of love for you, yet I behave like an enemy.  The blow dealt unintentionally is the cruelest blow of all.  While I was leading a bohemian life in Paris, a life made up of pleasure and misery; taking good fellowship for friendship, forsaking my true friends for those who wished to exploit me, and succeeded; forgetful of you, or remembering you only to cause you trouble,—­all that while you were walking in the humble path of hard work, making your way slowly but surely to the fortune which I tried so madly to snatch.  While you grew better, I grew worse; a fatal element entered into my life through my own choice.  Yes, unbounded ambition makes an obscure existence simply impossible for me.  I have tastes and remembrances of past pleasures that poison the enjoyments within my reach; once I should have been satisfied with them, now it is too late.  Oh, dear Eve, no one can think more hardly of me than I do myself; my condemnation is absolute and pitiless.  The struggle in Paris demands steady effort; my will power is spasmodic, my brain works intermittently.  The future is so appalling that I do not care to face it, and the present is intolerable.

“I wanted to see you again.  I should have done better to stay in exile all my days.  But exile without means of subsistence would be madness; I will not add another folly to the rest.  Death is better than a maimed life; I cannot think of myself in any position in which my overweening vanity would not lead me into folly.

“Some human beings are like the figure 0, another must be put before it, and they acquire ten times their value.  I am nothing unless a strong inexorable will is wedded to mine.  Mme. de Bargeton was in truth my wife; when I refused to leave Coralie for her I spoiled my life.  You and David might have been excellent pilots for me, but you are not strong enough to tame my weakness, which in some sort eludes control.  I like an easy life, a life without cares; to clear an obstacle out of my way I can descend to baseness that sticks at nothing.  I was born a prince.  I have more than the requisite intellectual dexterity for success, but only by moments; and the prizes of a career so crowded by ambitious competitors are to those who expend no more than the necessary strength, and retain a sufficient reserve when they reach the goal.

  “I shall do harm again with the best intentions in the world.  Some
  men are like oaks, I am a delicate shrub it may be, and I
  forsooth, must needs aspire to be a forest cedar.

“There you have my bankrupt’s schedule.  The disproportion between my powers and my desires, my want of balance, in short, will bring all my efforts to nothing.  There are many such characters among men of letters, many men whose intellectual powers and character are always at variance, who will one thing and wish another.  What would become of me?  I can see it all beforehand, as I think of this and that great light that once shone on Paris, now utterly forgotten.  On the threshold of old age I shall be a man older than my age, needy and without a name.  My whole soul rises up against the thought of such a close; I will not be a social rag.  Ah, dear sister, loved and worshiped at least as much for your severity at the last as for your tenderness at the first—­if we have paid so dear for my joy at seeing you all once more, you and David may perhaps some day think that you could grudge no price however high for a little last happiness for an unhappy creature who loved you.  Do not try to find me, Eve; do not seek to know what becomes of me.  My intellect for once shall be backed by my will.  Renunciation, my angel, is daily death of self; my renunciation will only last for one day; I will take advantage now of that day. . . .

“Two o’clock.

“Yes, I have quite made up my mind.  Farewell for ever, dear Eve.  There is something sweet in the thought that I shall live only in your hearts henceforth, and I wish no other burying place.  Once more, farewell. . . .  That is the last word from your brother

“LUCIEN.”

Lucien read the letter over, crept noiselessly down stairs, and left it in the child’s cradle; amid falling tears he set a last kiss on the forehead of his sleeping sister; then he went out.  He put out his candle in the gray dusk, took a last look at the old house, stole softly along the passage, and opened the street door; but in spite of his caution, he awakened Kolb, who slept on a mattress on the workshop floor.

“Who goes there?” cried Kolb.

“It is I, Lucien; I am going away, Kolb.”

“You vould haf done better gif you at nefer kom,” Kolb muttered audibly.

“I should have done better still if I had never come into the world,” Lucien answered.  “Good-bye, Kolb; I don’t bear you any grudge for thinking as I think myself.  Tell David that I was sorry I could not bid him good-bye, and say that this was my last thought.”

By the time the Alsacien was up and dressed, Lucien had shut the house door, and was on his way towards the Charente by the Promenade de Beaulieu.  He might have been going to a festival, for he had put on his new clothes from Paris and his dandy’s trinkets for a drowning shroud.  Something in Lucien’s tone had struck Kolb.  At first the man thought of going to ask his mistress whether she knew that her brother had left the house; but as the deepest silence prevailed, he concluded that the departure had been arranged beforehand, and lay down again and slept.

Little, considering the gravity of the question, has been written on the subject of suicide; it has not been studied.  Perhaps it is a disease that cannot be observed.  Suicide is one effect of a sentiment which we will call self-esteem, if you will, to prevent confusion by using the word “honor.”  When a man despises himself, and sees that others despise him, when real life fails to fulfil his hopes, then comes the moment when he takes his life, and thereby does homage to society—­shorn of his virtues or his splendor, he does not care to face his fellows.  Among atheists—­Christians being without the question of suicide—­among atheists, whatever may be said to the contrary, none but a base coward can take up a dishonored life.

There are three kinds of suicide—­the first is only the last and acute stage of a long illness, and this kind belongs distinctly to pathology; the second is the suicide of despair; and the third the suicide based on logical argument.  Despair and deductive reasoning had brought Lucien to this pass, but both varieties are curable; it is only the pathological suicide that is inevitable.  Not infrequently you find all three causes combined, as in the case of Jean-Jacques Rousseau.

Lucien having made up his mind fell to considering methods.  The poet would fain die as became a poet.  At first he thought of throwing himself into the Charente and making an end then and there; but as he came down the steps from Beaulieu for the last time, he heard the whole town talking of his suicide; he saw the horrid sight of a drowned dead body, and thought of the recognition and the inquest; and, like some other suicides, felt that vanity reached beyond death.

He remembered the day spent at Courtois’ mill, and his thoughts returned to the round pool among the willows that he saw as he came along by the little river, such a pool as you often find on small streams, with a still, smooth surface that conceals great depths beneath.  The water is neither green nor blue nor white nor tawny; it is like a polished steel mirror.  No sword-grass grows about the margin; there are no blue water forget-me-nots, nor broad lily leaves; the grass at the brim is short and thick, and the weeping willows that droop over the edge grow picturesquely enough.  It is easy to imagine a sheer precipice beneath filled with water to the brim.  Any man who should have the courage to fill his pockets with pebbles would not fail to find death, and never be seen thereafter.

At the time while he admired the lovely miniature of a landscape, the poet had thought to himself, “’Tis a spot to make your mouth water for a noyade.”

He thought of it now as he went down into L’Houmeau; and when he took his way towards Marsac, with the last sombre thoughts gnawing at his heart, it was with the firm resolve to hide his death.  There should be no inquest held over him, he would not be laid in earth; no one should see him in the hideous condition of the corpse that floats on the surface of the water.  Before long he reached one of the slopes, common enough on all French highroads, and commonest of all between Angouleme and Poitiers.  He saw the coach from Bordeaux to Paris coming up at full speed behind him, and knew that the passengers would probably alight to walk up the hill.  He did not care to be seen just then.  Turning off sharply into a beaten track, he began to pick the flowers in a vineyard hard by.

When Lucien came back to the road with a great bunch of the yellow stone-crop which grows everywhere upon the stony soil of the vineyards, he came out upon a traveler dressed in black from head to foot.  The stranger wore powder, there were silver buckles on his shoes of Orleans leather, and his brown face was scarred and seamed as if he had fallen into the fire in infancy.  The traveler, so obviously clerical in his dress, was walking slowly and smoking a cigar.  He turned as Lucien jumped down from the vineyard into the road.  The deep melancholy on the handsome young face, the poet’s symbolical flowers, and his elegant dress seemed to strike the stranger.  He looked at Lucien with something of the expression of a hunter that has found his quarry at last after long and fruitless search.  He allowed Lucien to come alongside in nautical phrase; then he slackened his pace, and appeared to look along the road up the hill; Lucien, following the direction of his eyes, saw a light traveling carriage with two horses, and a post-boy standing beside it.

“You have allowed the coach to pass you, monsieur; you will lose your place unless you care to take a seat in my caleche and overtake the mail, for it is rather quicker traveling post than by the public conveyance.”  The traveler spoke with extreme politeness and a very marked Spanish accent.

Without waiting for an answer, he drew a cigar-case from his pocket, opened it, and held it out to Lucien.

“I am not on a journey,” said Lucien, “and I am too near the end of my stage to indulge in the pleasure of smoking——­”

“You are very severe with yourself,” returned the Spaniard.  “Though I am a canon of the cathedral of Toledo, I occasionally smoke a cigarette.  God gave us tobacco to allay our passions and our pains.  You seem to be downcast, or at any rate, you carry the symbolical flower of sorrow in your hand, like the rueful god Hymen.  Come! all your troubles will vanish away with the smoke,” and again the ecclesiastic held out his little straw case; there was something fascinating in his manner, and kindliness towards Lucien lighted up his eyes.

“Forgive me, father” Lucien answered stiffly; “there is no cigar that can scatter my troubles.”  Tears came to his eyes at the words.

“It must surely be Divine Providence that prompted me to take a little exercise to shake off a traveler’s morning drowsiness,” said the churchman.  “A divine prompting to fulfil my mission here on earth by consoling you.—­What great trouble can you have at your age?”

“Your consolations, father, can do nothing for me.  You are a Spaniard, I am a Frenchman; you believe in the commandments of the Church, I am an atheist.”

“Santa Virgen del Pilar! you are an atheist!” cried the other, laying a hand on Lucien’s arm with maternal solicitude.  “Ah! here is one of the curious things I promised myself to see in Paris.  We, in Spain, do not believe in atheists.  There is no country but France where one can have such opinions at nineteen years.”

“Oh!  I am an atheist in the fullest sense of the word.  I have no belief in God, in society, in happiness.  Take a good look at me, father; for in a few hours’ time life will be over for me.  My last sun has risen,” said Lucien; with a sort of rhetorical effect he waved his hand towards the sky.

“How so; what have you done that you must die?  Who has condemned you to die?”

“A tribunal from which there is no appeal—­I myself.”

“You, child!” cried the priest.  “Have you killed a man?  Is the scaffold waiting for you?  Let us reason together a little.  If you are resolved, as you say, to return to nothingness, everything on earth is indifferent to you, is it not?”

Lucien bowed assent.

“Very well, then; can you not tell me about your troubles?  Some little affair of the heart has taken a bad turn, no doubt?”

Lucien shrugged his shoulders very significantly.

“Are you resolved to kill yourself to escape dishonor, or do you despair of life?  Very good.  You can kill yourself at Poitiers quite as easily as at Angouleme, and at Tours it will be no harder than at Poitiers.  The quicksands of the Loire never give up their prey——­”

“No, father,” said Lucien; “I have settled it all.  Not three weeks ago I chanced upon the most charming raft that can ferry a man sick and tired of this life into the other world——­”

“The other world?  You are not an atheist.”

“Oh! by another world I mean my next transformation, animal or plant.”

“Have you some incurable disease?”

“Yes, father.”

“Ah! now we come to the point.  What is it?”

“Poverty.”

The priest looked at Lucien.  “The diamond does not know its own value,” he said, and there was an inexpressible charm, and a touch of something like irony in his smile.

“None but a priest could flatter a poor man about to die,” exclaimed Lucien.

“You are not going to die,” the Spaniard returned authoritatively.

“I have heard many times of men that were robbed on the highroad, but I have never yet heard of one that found a fortune there,” said Lucien.

“You will hear of one now,” said the priest, glancing towards the carriage to measure the time still left for their walk together.  “Listen to me,” he continued, with his cigar between his teeth; “if you are poor, that is no reason why you should die.  I need a secretary, for mine has just died at Barcelona.  I am in the same position as the famous Baron Goertz, minister of Charles XII.  He was traveling toward Sweden (just as I am going to Paris), and in some little town or other he chanced upon the son of a goldsmith, a young man of remarkable good looks, though they could scarcely equal yours. . . .  Baron Goertz discerned intelligence in the young man (just as I see poetry on your brow); he took him into his traveling carriage, as I shall take you very shortly; and of a boy condemned to spend his days in burnishing spoons and forks and making trinkets in some little town like Angouleme, he made a favorite, as you shall be mine.

“Arrived at Stockholm, he installed his secretary and overwhelmed him with work.  The young man spent his nights in writing, and, like all great workers, he contracted a bad habit, a trick—­he took to chewing paper.  The late M. de Malesherbes use to rap people over the knuckles; and he did this once, by the by, to somebody or other whose suit depended upon him.  The handsome young secretary began by chewing blank paper, found it insipid for a while, and acquired a taste for manuscript as having more flavor.  People did not smoke as yet in those days.  At last, from flavor to flavor, he began to chew parchment and swallow it.  Now, at that time a treaty was being negotiated between Russia and Sweden.  The States-General insisted that Charles XII. should make peace (much as they tried in France to make Napoleon treat for peace in 1814) and the basis of these negotiations was the treaty between the two powers with regard to Finland.  Goertz gave the original into his secretary’s keeping; but when the time came for laying the draft before the States-General, a trifling difficulty arose; the treaty was not to be found.  The States-General believed that the Minister, pandering to the King’s wishes, had taken it into his head to get rid of the document.  Baron Goertz was, in fact, accused of this, and the secretary owned that he had eaten the treaty.  He was tried and convicted and condemned to death.—­But you have not come to that yet, so take a cigar and smoke till we reach the caleche.”