The Magic Skin

II

A WOMAN WITHOUT A HEART

After a moment’s silence, Raphael said with a careless gesture: 

“Perhaps it is an effect of the fumes of punch—­I really cannot tell —­this clearness of mind that enables me to comprise my whole life in a single picture, where figures and hues, lights, shades, and half-tones are faithfully rendered.  I should not have been so surprised at this poetical play of imagination if it were not accompanied with a sort of scorn for my past joys and sorrows.  Seen from afar, my life appears to contract by some mental process.  That long, slow agony of ten years’ duration can be brought to memory to-day in some few phrases, in which pain is resolved into a mere idea, and pleasure becomes a philosophical reflection.  Instead of feeling things, I weigh and consider them——­”

“You are as tiresome as the explanation of an amendment,” cried Emile.

“Very likely,” said Raphael submissively.  “I spare you the first seventeen years of my life for fear of abusing a listener’s patience.  Till that time, like you and thousands of others, I had lived my life at school or the lycee, with its imaginary troubles and genuine happinesses, which are so pleasant to look back upon.  Our jaded palates still crave for that Lenten fare, so long as we have not tried it afresh.  It was a pleasant life, with the tasks that we thought so contemptible, but which taught us application for all that. . . .”

“Let the drama begin,” said Emile, half-plaintively, half-comically.

“When I left school,” Raphael went on, with a gesture that claimed the right of speaking, “my father submitted me to a strict discipline; he installed me in a room near his own study, and I had to rise at five in the morning and be in bed by nine at night.  He meant me to take my law studies seriously.  I attended the Schools, and read with an advocate as well, but my lectures and work were so narrowly circumscribed by the laws of time and space, and my father required such a strict account of my doings, at dinner, that . . .”

“What is this to me?” asked Emile.

“The devil take you!” said Raphael.  “How are you to enter into my feelings if I do not relate the facts that insensibly shaped my character, made me timid, and prolonged the period of youthful simplicity?  In this manner I cowered under as strict a despotism as a monarch’s till I came of age.  To depict the tedium of my life, it will be perhaps enough to portray my father to you.  He was tall, thin, and slight, with a hatchet face, and pale complexion; a man of few words, fidgety as an old maid, exacting as a senior clerk.  His paternal solicitude hovered over my merriment and gleeful thoughts, and seemed to cover them with a leaden pall.  Any effusive demonstration on my part was received by him as a childish absurdity.  I was far more afraid of him than I had been of any of our masters at school.

“I seem to see him before me at this moment.  In his chestnut-brown frock-coat he looked like a red herring wrapped up in the cover of a pamphlet, and he held himself as erect as an Easter candle.  But I was fond of my father, and at heart he was right enough.  Perhaps we never hate severity when it has its source in greatness of character and pure morals, and is skilfully tempered with kindness.  My father, it is true, never left me a moment to myself, and only when I was twenty years old gave me so much as ten francs of my own, ten knavish prodigals of francs, such a hoard as I had long vainly desired, which set me a-dreaming of unutterable felicity; yet, for all that he sought to procure relaxations for me.  When he had promised me a treat beforehand, he would take me to Les Boufoons, or to a concert or ball, where I hoped to find a mistress. . . .  A mistress! that meant independence.  But bashful and timid as I was, knowing nobody, and ignorant of the dialect of drawing-rooms, I always came back as awkward as ever, and swelling with unsatisfied desires, to be put in harness like a troop horse next day by my father, and to return with morning to my advocate, the Palais de Justice, and the law.  To have swerved from the straight course which my father had mapped out for me, would have drawn down his wrath upon me; at my first delinquency, he threatened to ship me off as a cabin-boy to the Antilles.  A dreadful shiver ran through me if I had ventured to spend a couple of hours in some pleasure party.

“Imagine the most wandering imagination and passionate temperament, the tenderest soul and most artistic nature, dwelling continually in the presence of the most flint-hearted, atrabilious, and frigid man on earth; think of me as a young girl married to a skeleton, and you will understand the life whose curious scenes can only be a hearsay tale to you; the plans for running away that perished at the sight of my father, the despair soothed by slumber, the dark broodings charmed away by music.  I breathed my sorrows forth in melodies.  Beethoven or Mozart would keep my confidences sacred.  Nowadays, I smile at recollections of the scruples which burdened my conscience at that epoch of innocence and virtue.

“If I set foot in a restaurant, I gave myself up for lost; my fancy led me to look on a cafe as a disreputable haunt, where men lost their characters and embarrassed their fortunes; as for engaging in play, I had not the money to risk.  Oh, if I needed to send you to sleep, I would tell you about one of the most frightful pleasures of my life, one of those pleasures with fangs that bury themselves in the heart as the branding-iron enters the convict’s shoulder.  I was at a ball at the house of the Duc de Navarreins, my father’s cousin.  But to make my position the more perfectly clear, you must know that I wore a threadbare coat, ill-fitting shoes, a tie fit for a stableman, and a soiled pair of gloves.  I shrank into a corner to eat ices and watch the pretty faces at my leisure.  My father noticed me.  Actuated by some motive that I did not fathom, so dumfounded was I by this act of confidence, he handed me his keys and purse to keep.  Ten paces away some men were gambling.  I heard the rattling of gold; I was twenty years old; I longed to be steeped for one whole day in the follies of my time of life.  It was a license of the imagination that would find a parallel neither in the freaks of courtesans, nor in the dreams of young girls.  For a year past I had beheld myself well dressed, in a carriage, with a pretty woman by my side, playing the great lord, dining at Very’s, deciding not to go back home till the morrow; but was prepared for my father with a plot more intricate than the Marriage of Figaro, which he could not possibly have unraveled.  All this bliss would cost, I estimated, fifty crowns.  Was it not the artless idea of playing truant that still had charms for me?

“I went into a small adjoining room, and when alone counted my father’s money with smarting eyes and trembling fingers—­a hundred crowns!  The joys of my escapade rose before me at the thought of the amount; joys that flitted about me like Macbeth’s witches round their caldron; joys how alluring! how thrilling! how delicious!  I became a deliberate rascal.  I heeded neither my tingling ears nor the violent beating of my heart, but took out two twenty-franc pieces that I seem to see yet.  The dates had been erased, and Bonaparte’s head simpered upon them.  After I had put back the purse in my pocket, I returned to the gaming-table with the two pieces of gold in the palms of my damp hands, prowling about the players like a sparrow-hawk round a coop of chickens.  Tormented by inexpressible terror, I flung a sudden clairvoyant glance round me, and feeling quite sure that I was seen by none of my acquaintance, betted on a stout, jovial little man, heaping upon his head more prayers and vows than are put up during two or three storms at sea.  Then, with an intuitive scoundrelism, or Machiavelism, surprising in one of my age, I went and stood in the door, and looked about me in the rooms, though I saw nothing; for both mind and eyes hovered about that fateful green cloth.

“That evening fixes the date of a first observation of a physiological kind; to it I owe a kind of insight into certain mysteries of our double nature that I have since been enabled to penetrate.  I had my back turned on the table where my future felicity lay at stake, a felicity but so much the more intense that it was criminal.  Between me and the players stood a wall of onlookers some five feet deep, who were chatting; the murmur of voices drowned the clinking of gold, which mingled in the sounds sent up by this orchestra; yet, despite all obstacles, I distinctly heard the words of the two players by a gift accorded to the passions, which enables them to annihilate time and space.  I saw the points they made; I knew which of the two turned up the king as well as if I had actually seen the cards; at a distance of ten paces, in short, the fortunes of play blanched my face.

“My father suddenly went by, and then I knew what the Scripture meant by ‘The Spirit of God passed before his face.’  I had won.  I slipped through the crowd of men who had gathered about the players with the quickness of an eel escaping through a broken mesh in a net.  My nerves thrilled with joy instead of anguish.  I felt like some criminal on the way to torture released by a chance meeting with the king.  It happened that a man with a decoration found himself short by forty francs.  Uneasy eyes suspected me; I turned pale, and drops of perspiration stood on my forehead, I was well punished, I thought, for having robbed my father.  Then the kind little stout man said, in a voice like an angel’s surely, ‘All these gentlemen have paid their stakes,’ and put down the forty francs himself.  I raised my head in triumph upon the players.  After I had returned the money I had taken from it to my father’s purse, I left my winnings with that honest and worthy gentleman, who continued to win.  As soon as I found myself possessed of a hundred and sixty francs, I wrapped them up in my handkerchief, so that they could neither move or rattle on the way back; and I played no more.

“‘What were you doing at the card-table?’ said my father as we stepped into the carriage.

“‘I was looking on,’ I answered, trembling.

“’But it would have been nothing out of the common if you had been prompted by self-love to put some money down on the table.  In the eyes of men of the world you are quite old enough to assume the right to commit such follies.  So I should have pardoned you, Raphael, if you had made use of my purse. . . . .’

“I did not answer.  When we reached home, I returned the keys and money to my father.  As he entered his study, he emptied out his purse on the mantelpiece, counted the money, and turned to me with a kindly look, saying with more or less long and significant pauses between each phrase: 

“’My boy, you are very nearly twenty now.  I am satisfied with you.  You ought to have an allowance, if only to teach you how to lay it out, and to gain some acquaintance with everyday business.  Henceforward I shall let you have a hundred francs each month.  Here is your first quarter’s income for this year,’ he added, fingering a pile of gold, as if to make sure that the amount was correct.  ’Do what you please with it.’

“I confess that I was ready to fling myself at his feet, to tell him that I was a thief, a scoundrel, and, worse than all, a liar!  But a feeling of shame held me back.  I went up to him for an embrace, but he gently pushed me away.

“‘You are a man now, my child,’ he said.  ’What I have just done was a very proper and simple thing, for which there is no need to thank me.  If I have any claim to your gratitude, Raphael,’ he went on, in a kind but dignified way, ’it is because I have preserved your youth from the evils that destroy young men in Paris.  We will be two friends henceforth.  In a year’s time you will be a doctor of law.  Not without some hardship and privations you have acquired the sound knowledge and the love of, and application to, work that is indispensable to public men.  You must learn to know me, Raphael.  I do not want to make either an advocate or a notary of you, but a statesman, who shall be the pride of our poor house. . . .  Good-night,’ he added.

“From that day my father took me fully into confidence.  I was an only son; and ten years before, I had lost my mother.  In time past my father, the head of a historic family remembered even now in Auvergne, had come to Paris to fight against his evil star, dissatisfied at the prospect of tilling the soil, with his useless sword by his side.  He was endowed with the shrewdness that gives the men of the south of France a certain ascendency when energy goes with it.  Almost unaided, he made a position for himself near the fountain of power.  The revolution brought a reverse of fortune, but he had managed to marry an heiress of good family, and, in the time of the Empire, appeared to be on the point of restoring to our house its ancient splendor.

“The Restoration, while it brought back considerable property to my mother, was my father’s ruin.  He had formerly purchased several estates abroad, conferred by the Emperor on his generals; and now for ten years he struggled with liquidators, diplomatists, and Prussian and Bavarian courts of law, over the disputed possession of these unfortunate endowments.  My father plunged me into the intricate labyrinths of law proceedings on which our future depended.  We might be compelled to return the rents, as well as the proceeds arising from sales of timber made during the years 1814 to 1817; in that case my mother’s property would have barely saved our credit.  So it fell out that the day on which my father in a fashion emancipated me, brought me under a most galling yoke.  I entered on a conflict like a battlefield; I must work day and night; seek interviews with statesmen, surprise their convictions, try to interest them in our affairs, and gain them over, with their wives and servants, and their very dogs; and all this abominable business had to take the form of pretty speeches and polite attentions.  Then I knew the mortifications that had left their blighting traces on my father’s face.  For about a year I led outwardly the life of a man of the world, but enormous labors lay beneath the surface of gadding about, and eager efforts to attach myself to influential kinsmen, or to people likely to be useful to us.  My relaxations were lawsuits, and memorials still furnished the staple of my conversation.  Hitherto my life had been blameless, from the sheer impossibility of indulging the desires of youth; but now I became my own master, and in dread of involving us both in ruin by some piece of negligence, I did not dare to allow myself any pleasure or expenditure.

“While we are young, and before the world has rubbed off the delicate bloom from our sentiments, the freshness of our impressions, the noble purity of conscience which will never allow us to palter with evil, the sense of duty is very strong within us, the voice of honor clamors within us, and we are open and straightforward.  At that time I was all these things.  I wished to justify my father’s confidence in me.  But lately I would have stolen a paltry sum from him, with secret delight; but now that I shared the burden of his affairs, of his name and of his house, I would secretly have given up my fortune and my hopes for him, as I was sacrificing my pleasures, and even have been glad of the sacrifice!  So when M. de Villele exhumed, for our special benefit, an imperial decree concerning forfeitures, and had ruined us, I authorized the sale of my property, only retaining an island in the middle of the Loire where my mother was buried.  Perhaps arguments and evasions, philosophical, philanthropic, and political considerations would not fail me now, to hinder the perpetration of what my solicitor termed a ‘folly’; but at one-and-twenty, I repeat, we are all aglow with generosity and affection.  The tears that stood in my father’s eyes were to me the most splendid of fortunes, and the thought of those tears has often soothed my sorrow.  Ten months after he had paid his creditors, my father died of grief; I was his idol, and he had ruined me!  The thought killed him.  Towards the end of the autumn of 1826, at the age of twenty-two, I was the sole mourner at his graveside—­the grave of my father and my earliest friend.  Not many young men have found themselves alone with their thoughts as they followed a hearse, or have seen themselves lost in crowded Paris, and without money or prospects.  Orphans rescued by public charity have at any rate the future of the battlefield before them, and find a shelter in some institution and a father in the government or in the procureur du roi.  I had nothing.

“Three months later, an agent made over to me eleven hundred and twelve francs, the net proceeds of the winding up of my father’s affairs.  Our creditors had driven us to sell our furniture.  From my childhood I had been used to set a high value on the articles of luxury about us, and I could not help showing my astonishment at the sight of this meagre balance.

“‘Oh, rococo, all of it!’ said the auctioneer.  A terrible word that fell like a blight on the sacred memories of my childhood, and dispelled my earliest illusions, the dearest of all.  My entire fortune was comprised in this ‘account rendered,’ my future lay in a linen bag with eleven hundred and twelve francs in it, human society stood before me in the person of an auctioneer’s clerk, who kept his hat on while he spoke.  Jonathan, an old servant who was much attached to me, and whom my mother had formerly pensioned with an annuity of four hundred francs, spoke to me as I was leaving the house that I had so often gaily left for a drive in my childhood.

“‘Be very economical, Monsieur Raphael!’

“The good fellow was crying.

“Such were the events, dear Emile, that ruled my destinies, moulded my character, and set me, while still young, in an utterly false social position,” said Raphael after a pause.  “Family ties, weak ones, it is true, bound me to a few wealthy houses, but my own pride would have kept me aloof from them if contempt and indifference had not shut their doors on me in the first place.  I was related to people who were very influential, and who lavished their patronage on strangers; but I found neither relations nor patrons in them.  Continually circumscribed in my affections, they recoiled upon me.  Unreserved and simple by nature, I must have appeared frigid and sophisticated.  My father’s discipline had destroyed all confidence in myself.  I was shy and awkward; I could not believe that my opinion carried any weight whatever; I took no pleasure in myself; I thought myself ugly, and was ashamed to meet my own eyes.  In spite of the inward voice that must be the stay of a man with anything in him, in all his struggles, the voice that cries, ‘Courage!  Go forward!’ in spite of sudden revelations of my own strength in my solitude; in spite of the hopes that thrilled me as I compared new works, that the public admired so much, with the schemes that hovered in my brain,—­in spite of all this, I had a childish mistrust of myself.

“An overweening ambition preyed upon me; I believed that I was meant for great things, and yet I felt myself to be nothing.  I had need of other men, and I was friendless.  I found I must make my way in the world, where I was quite alone, and bashful, rather than afraid.

“All through the year in which, by my father’s wish, I threw myself into the whirlpool of fashionable society, I came away with an inexperienced heart, and fresh in mind.  Like every grown child, I sighed in secret for a love affair.  I met, among young men of my own age, a set of swaggerers who held their heads high, and talked about trifles as they seated themselves without a tremor beside women who inspired awe in me.  They chattered nonsense, sucked the heads of their canes, gave themselves affected airs, appropriated the fairest women, and laid, or pretended that they had laid their heads on every pillow.  Pleasure, seemingly, was at their beck and call; they looked on the most virtuous and prudish as an easy prey, ready to surrender at a word, at the slightest impudent gesture or insolent look.  I declare, on my soul and conscience, that the attainment of power, or of a great name in literature, seemed to me an easier victory than a success with some young, witty, and gracious lady of high degree.

“So I found the tumult of my heart, my feelings, and my creeds all at variance with the axioms of society.  I had plenty of audacity in my character, but none in my manner.  Later, I found out that women did not like to be implored.  I have from afar adored many a one to whom I devoted a soul proof against all tests, a heart to break, energy that shrank from no sacrifice and from no torture; they accepted fools whom I would not have engaged as hall porters.  How often, mute and motionless, have I not admired the lady of my dreams, swaying in the dance; given up my life in thought to one eternal caress, expressed all my hopes in a look, and laid before her, in my rapture, a young man’s love, which should outstrip all fables.  At some moments I was ready to barter my whole life for one single night.  Well, as I could never find a listener for my impassioned proposals, eyes to rest my own upon, a heart made for my heart, I lived on in all the sufferings of impotent force that consumes itself; lacking either opportunity or courage or experience.  I despaired, maybe, of making myself understood, or I feared to be understood but too well; and yet the storm within me was ready to burst at every chance courteous look.  In spite of my readiness to take the semblance of interest in look or word for a tenderer solicitude, I dared neither to speak nor to be silent seasonably.  My words grew insignificant, and my silence stupid, by sheer stress of emotion.  I was too ingenuous, no doubt, for that artificial life, led by candle-light, where every thought is expressed in conventional phrases, or by words that fashion dictates; and not only so, I had not learned how to employ speech that says nothing, and silence that says a great deal.  In short, I concealed the fires that consumed me, and with such a soul as women wish to find, with all the elevation of soul that they long for, and a mettle that fools plume themselves upon, all women have been cruelly treacherous to me.

“So in my simplicity I admired the heroes of this set when they bragged about their conquests, and never suspected them of lying.  No doubt it was a mistake to wish for a love that springs for a word’s sake; to expect to find in the heart of a vain, frivolous woman, greedy for luxury and intoxicated with vanity, the great sea of passion that surged tempestuously in my own breast.  Oh! to feel that you were born to love, to make some woman’s happiness, and yet to find not one, not even a noble and courageous Marceline, not so much as an old Marquise!  Oh! to carry a treasure in your wallet, and not find even some child, or inquisitive young girl, to admire it!  In my despair I often wished to kill myself.”

“Finely tragical to-night!” cried Emile.

“Let me pass sentence on my life,” Raphael answered.  “If your friendship is not strong enough to bear with my elegy, if you cannot put up with half an hour’s tedium for my sake, go to sleep!  But, then, never ask again for the reason of suicide that hangs over me, that comes nearer and calls to me, that I bow myself before.  If you are to judge a man, you must know his secret thoughts, sorrows, and feelings; to know merely the outward events of a man’s life would only serve to make a chronological table—­a fool’s notion of history.”

Emile was so much struck with the bitter tones in which these words were spoken, that he began to pay close attention to Raphael, whom he watched with a bewildered expression.

“Now,” continued the speaker, “all these things that befell me appear in a new light.  The sequence of events that I once thought so unfortunate created the splendid powers of which, later, I became so proud.  If I may believe you, I possess the power of readily expressing my thoughts, and I could take a forward place in the great field of knowledge; and is not this the result of scientific curiosity, of excessive application, and a love of reading which possessed me from the age of seven till my entry on life?  The very neglect in which I was left, and the consequent habits of self-repression and self-concentration; did not these things teach me how to consider and reflect?  Nothing in me was squandered in obedience to the exactions of the world, which humble the proudest soul and reduce it to a mere husk; and was it not this very fact that refined the emotional part of my nature till it became the perfected instrument of a loftier purpose than passionate desires?  I remember watching the women who mistook me with all the insight of contemned love.

“I can see now that my natural sincerity must have been displeasing to them; women, perhaps, even require a little hypocrisy.  And I, who in the same hour’s space am alternately a man and a child, frivolous and thoughtful, free from bias and brimful of superstition, and oftentimes myself as much a woman as any of them; how should they do otherwise than take my simplicity for cynicism, my innocent candor for impudence?  They found my knowledge tiresome; my feminine languor, weakness.  I was held to be listless and incapable of love or of steady purpose; a too active imagination, that curse of poets, was no doubt the cause.  My silence was idiotic; and as I daresay I alarmed them by my efforts to please, women one and all have condemned me.  With tears and mortification, I bowed before the decision of the world; but my distress was not barren.  I determined to revenge myself on society; I would dominate the feminine intellect, and so have the feminine soul at my mercy; all eyes should be fixed upon me, when the servant at the door announced my name.  I had determined from my childhood that I would be a great man; I said with Andre Chenier, as I struck my forehead, ‘There is something underneath that!’ I felt, I believed, the thought within me that I must express, the system I must establish, the knowledge I must interpret.

“Let me pour out my follies, dear Emile; to-day I am barely twenty-six years old, certain of dying unrecognized, and I have never been the lover of the woman I dreamed of possessing.  Have we not all of us, more or less, believed in the reality of a thing because we wished it?  I would never have a young man for my friend who did not place himself in dreams upon a pedestal, weave crowns for his head, and have complaisant mistresses.  I myself would often be a general, nay, emperor; I have been a Byron, and then a nobody.  After this sport on these pinnacles of human achievement, I became aware that all the difficulties and steeps of life were yet to face.  My exuberant self-esteem came to my aid; I had that intense belief in my destiny, which perhaps amounts to genius in those who will not permit themselves to be distracted by contact with the world, as sheep that leave their wool on the briars of every thicket they pass by.  I meant to cover myself with glory, and to work in silence for the mistress I hoped to have one day.  Women for me were resumed into a single type, and this woman I looked to meet in the first that met my eyes; but in each and all I saw a queen, and as queens must make the first advances to their lovers, they must draw near to me—­to me, so sickly, shy, and poor.  For her, who should take pity on me, my heart held in store such gratitude over and beyond love, that I had worshiped her her whole life long.  Later, my observations have taught me bitter truths.

“In this way, dear Emile, I ran the risk of remaining companionless for good.  The incomprehensible bent of women’s minds appears to lead them to see nothing but the weak points in a clever man, and the strong points of a fool.  They feel the liveliest sympathy with the fool’s good qualities, which perpetually flatter their own defects; while they find the man of talent hardly agreeable enough to compensate for his shortcomings.  All capacity is a sort of intermittent fever, and no woman is anxious to share in its discomforts only; they look to find in their lovers the wherewithal to gratify their own vanity.  It is themselves that they love in us!  But the artist, poor and proud, along with his endowment of creative power, is furnished with an aggressive egotism!  Everything about him is involved in I know not what whirlpool of his ideas, and even his mistress must gyrate along with them.  How is a woman, spoilt with praise, to believe in the love of a man like that?  Will she go to seek him out?  That sort of lover has not the leisure to sit beside a sofa and give himself up to the sentimental simperings that women are so fond of, and on which the false and unfeeling pride themselves.  He cannot spare the time from his work, and how can he afford to humble himself and go a-masquerading!  I was ready to give my life once and for all, but I could not degrade it in detail.  Besides, there is something indescribably paltry in a stockbroker’s tactics, who runs on errands for some insipid affected woman; all this disgusts an artist.  Love in the abstract is not enough for a great man in poverty; he has need of its utmost devotion.  The frivolous creatures who spend their lives in trying on cashmeres, or make themselves into clothes-pegs to hang the fashions from, exact the devotion which is not theirs to give; for them, love means the pleasure of ruling and not of obeying.  She who is really a wife, one in heart, flesh, and bone, must follow wherever he leads, in whom her life, her strength, her pride, and happiness are centered.  Ambitious men need those Oriental women whose whole thought is given to the study of their requirements; for unhappiness means for them the incompatibility of their means with their desires.  But I, who took myself for a man of genius, must needs feel attracted by these very she-coxcombs.  So, as I cherished ideas so different from those generally received; as I wished to scale the heavens without a ladder, was possessed of wealth that could not circulate, and of knowledge so wide and so imperfectly arranged and digested that it overtaxed my memory; as I had neither relations nor friends in the midst of this lonely and ghastly desert, a desert of paving stones, full of animation, life, and thought, wherein every one is worse than inimical, indifferent to wit; I made a very natural if foolish resolve, which required such unknown impossibilities, that my spirits rose.  It was as if I had laid a wager with myself, for I was at once the player and the cards.

“This was my plan.  The eleven hundred francs must keep life in me for three years—­the time I allowed myself in which to bring to light a work which should draw attention to me, and make me either a name or a fortune.  I exulted at the thought of living on bread and milk, like a hermit in the Thebaid, while I plunged into the world of books and ideas, and so reached a lofty sphere beyond the tumult of Paris, a sphere of silent labor where I would entomb myself like a chrysalis to await a brilliant and splendid new birth.  I imperiled my life in order to live.  By reducing my requirements to real needs and the barest necessaries, I found that three hundred and sixty-five francs sufficed for a year of penury; and, in fact, I managed to exist on that slender sum, so long as I submitted to my own claustral discipline.”

“Impossible!” cried Emile.

“I lived for nearly three years in that way,” Raphael answered, with a kind of pride.  “Let us reckon it out.  Three sous for bread, two for milk, and three for cold meat, kept me from dying of hunger, and my mind in a state of peculiar lucidity.  I have observed, as you know, the wonderful effects produced by diet upon the imagination.  My lodgings cost me three sous daily; I burnt three sous more in oil at night; I did my own housework, and wore flannel shirts so as to reduce the laundress’ bill to two sous per day.  The money I spent yearly in coal, if divided up, never cost more than two sous for each day.  I had three years’ supply of clothing, and I only dressed when going out to some library or public lecture.  These expenses, all told, only amounted to eighteen sous, so two were left over for emergencies.  I cannot recollect, during that long period of toil, either crossing the Pont des Arts, or paying for water; I went out to fetch it every morning from the fountain in the Place Saint Michel, at the corner of the Rue de Gres.  Oh, I wore my poverty proudly.  A man urged on towards a fair future walks through life like an innocent person to his death; he feels no shame about it.

“I would not think of illness.  Like Aquilina, I faced the hospital without terror.  I had not a moment’s doubt of my health, and besides, the poor can only take to their beds to die.  I cut my own hair till the day when an angel of love and kindness . . .  But I do not want to anticipate the state of things that I shall reach later.  You must simply know that I lived with one grand thought for a mistress, a dream, an illusion which deceives us all more or less at first.  To-day I laugh at myself, at that self, holy perhaps and heroic, which is now no more.  I have since had a closer view of society and the world, of our manners and customs, and seen the dangers of my innocent credulity and the superfluous nature of my fervent toil.  Stores of that sort are quite useless to aspirants for fame.  Light should be the baggage of seekers after fortune!

“Ambitious men spend their youth in rendering themselves worthy of patronage; it is their great mistake.  While the foolish creatures are laying in stores of knowledge and energy, so that they shall not sink under the weight of responsible posts that recede from them, schemers come and go who are wealthy in words and destitute in ideas, astonish the ignorant, and creep into the confidence of those who have a little knowledge.  While the first kind study, the second march ahead; the one sort is modest, and the other impudent; the man of genius is silent about his own merits, but these schemers make a flourish of theirs, and they are bound to get on.  It is so strongly to the interest of men in office to believe in ready-made capacity, and in brazen-faced merit, that it is downright childish of the learned to expect material rewards.  I do not seek to paraphrase the commonplace moral, the song of songs that obscure genius is for ever singing; I want to come, in a logical manner, by the reason of the frequent successes of mediocrity.  Alas! study shows us such a mother’s kindness that it would be a sin perhaps to ask any other reward of her than the pure and delightful pleasures with which she sustains her children.

“Often I remember soaking my bread in milk, as I sat by the window to take the fresh air; while my eyes wandered over a view of roofs —­brown, gray, or red, slated or tiled, and covered with yellow or green mosses.  At first the prospect may have seemed monotonous, but I very soon found peculiar beauties in it.  Sometimes at night, streams of light through half-closed shutters would light up and color the dark abysses of this strange landscape.  Sometimes the feeble lights of the street lamps sent up yellow gleams through the fog, and in each street dimly outlined the undulations of a crowd of roofs, like billows in a motionless sea.  Very occasionally, too, a face appeared in this gloomy waste; above the flowers in some skyey garden I caught a glimpse of an old woman’s crooked angular profile as she watered her nasturtiums; or, in a crazy attic window, a young girl, fancying herself quite alone as she dressed herself—­a view of nothing more than a fair forehead and long tresses held above her by a pretty white arm.

“I liked to see the short-lived plant-life in the gutters—­poor weeds that a storm soon washed away.  I studied the mosses, with their colors revived by showers, or transformed by the sun into a brown velvet that fitfully caught the light.  Such things as these formed my recreations —­the passing poetic moods of daylight, the melancholy mists, sudden gleams of sunlight, the silence and the magic of night, the mysteries of dawn, the smoke wreaths from each chimney; every chance event, in fact, in my curious world became familiar to me.  I came to love this prison of my own choosing.  This level Parisian prairie of roofs, beneath which lay populous abysses, suited my humor, and harmonized with my thoughts.

“Sudden descents into the world from the divine height of scientific meditation are very exhausting; and, besides, I had apprehended perfectly the bare life of the cloister.  When I made up my mind to carry out this new plan of life, I looked for quarters in the most out-of-the-way parts of Paris.  One evening, as I returned home to the Rue des Cordiers from the Place de l’Estrapade, I saw a girl of fourteen playing with a battledore at the corner of the Rue de Cluny, her winsome ways and laughter amused the neighbors.  September was not yet over; it was warm and fine, so that women sat chatting before their doors as if it were a fete-day in some country town.  At first I watched the charming expression of the girl’s face and her graceful attitudes, her pose fit for a painter.  It was a pretty sight.  I looked about me, seeking to understand this blithe simplicity in the midst of Paris, and saw that the street was a blind alley and but little frequented.  I remembered that Jean Jacques had once lived here, and looked up the Hotel Saint-Quentin.  Its dilapidated condition awakened hopes of a cheap lodging, and I determined to enter.

“I found myself in a room with a low ceiling; the candles, in classic-looking copper candle-sticks, were set in a row under each key.  The predominating cleanliness of the room made a striking contrast to the usual state of such places.  This one was as neat as a bit of genre; there was a charming trimness about the blue coverlet, the cooking pots and furniture.  The mistress of the house rose and came to me.  She seemed to be about forty years of age; sorrows had left their traces on her features, and weeping had dimmed her eyes.  I deferentially mentioned the amount I could pay; it seemed to cause her no surprise; she sought out a key from the row, went up to the attics with me, and showed me a room that looked out on the neighboring roofs and courts; long poles with linen drying on them hung out of the window.

“Nothing could be uglier than this garret, awaiting its scholar, with its dingy yellow walls and odor of poverty.  The roofing fell in a steep slope, and the sky was visible through chinks in the tiles.  There was room for a bed, a table, and a few chairs, and beneath the highest point of the roof my piano could stand.  Not being rich enough to furnish this cage (that might have been one of the Piombi of Venice), the poor woman had never been able to let it; and as I had saved from the recent sale the furniture that was in a fashion peculiarly mine, I very soon came to terms with my landlady, and moved in on the following day.

“For three years I lived in this airy sepulchre, and worked unflaggingly day and night; and so great was the pleasure that study seemed to me the fairest theme and the happiest solution of life.  The tranquillity and peace that a scholar needs is something as sweet and exhilarating as love.  Unspeakable joys are showered on us by the exertion of our mental faculties; the quest of ideas, and the tranquil contemplation of knowledge; delights indescribable, because purely intellectual and impalpable to our senses.  So we are obliged to use material terms to express the mysteries of the soul.  The pleasure of striking out in some lonely lake of clear water, with forests, rocks, and flowers around, and the soft stirring of the warm breeze,—­all this would give, to those who knew them not, a very faint idea of the exultation with which my soul bathed itself in the beams of an unknown light, hearkened to the awful and uncertain voice of inspiration, as vision upon vision poured from some unknown source through my throbbing brain.

“No earthly pleasure can compare with the divine delight of watching the dawn of an idea in the space of abstractions as it rises like the morning sun; an idea that, better still, attains gradually like a child to puberty and man’s estate.  Study lends a kind of enchantment to all our surroundings.  The wretched desk covered with brown leather at which I wrote, my piano, bed, and armchair, the odd wall-paper and furniture seemed to have for me a kind of life in them, and to be humble friends of mine and mute partakers of my destiny.  How often have I confided my soul to them in a glance!  A warped bit of beading often met my eyes, and suggested new developments,—­a striking proof of my system, or a felicitous word by which to render my all but inexpressible thought.  By sheer contemplation of the things about me I discerned an expression and a character in each.  If the setting sun happened to steal in through my narrow window, they would take new colors, fade or shine, grow dull or gay, and always amaze me with some new effect.  These trifling incidents of a solitary life, which escape those preoccupied with outward affairs, make the solace of prisoners.  And what was I but the captive of an idea, imprisoned in my system, but sustained also by the prospect of a brilliant future?  At each obstacle that I overcame, I seemed to kiss the soft hands of a woman with a fair face, a wealthy, well-dressed woman, who should some day say softly, while she caressed my hair: 

“‘Poor Angel, how thou hast suffered!’

“I had undertaken two great works—­one a comedy that in a very short time must bring me wealth and fame, and an entry into those circles whither I wished to return, to exercise the royal privileges of a man of genius.  You all saw nothing in that masterpiece but the blunder of a young man fresh from college, a babyish fiasco.  Your jokes clipped the wings of a throng of illusions, which have never stirred since within me.  You, dear Emile, alone brought soothing to the deep wounds that others had made in my heart.  You alone will admire my ’Theory of the Will.’  I devoted most of my time to that long work, for which I studied Oriental languages, physiology and anatomy.  If I do not deceive myself, my labors will complete the task begun by Mesmer, Lavater, Gall, and Bichat, and open up new paths in science.

“There ends that fair life of mine, the daily sacrifice, the unrecognized silkworm’s toil, that is, perhaps, its own sole recompense.  Since attaining years of discretion, until the day when I finished my ‘Theory,’ I observed, learned, wrote, and read unintermittingly; my life was one long imposition, as schoolboys say.  Though by nature effeminately attached to Oriental indolence, sensual in tastes, and a wooer of dreams, I worked incessantly, and refused to taste any of the enjoyments of Parisian life.  Though a glutton, I became abstemious; and loving exercise and sea voyages as I did, and haunted by the wish to visit many countries, still child enough to play at ducks and drakes with pebbles over a pond, I led a sedentary life with a pen in my fingers.  I liked talking, but I went to sit and mutely listen to professors who gave public lectures at the Bibliotheque or the Museum.  I slept upon my solitary pallet like a Benedictine brother, though woman was my one chimera, a chimera that fled from me as I wooed it!  In short, my life has been a cruel contradiction, a perpetual cheat.  After that, judge a man!

“Sometimes my natural propensities broke out like a fire long smothered.  I was debarred from the women whose society I desired, stripped of everything and lodged in an artist’s garret, and by a sort of mirage or calenture I was surrounded by captivating mistresses.  I drove through the streets of Paris, lolling on the soft cushions of a fine equipage.  I plunged into dissipation, into corroding vice, I desired and possessed everything, for fasting had made me light-headed like the tempted Saint Anthony.  Slumber, happily, would put an end at last to these devastating trances; and on the morrow science would beckon me, smiling, and I was faithful to her.  I imagine that women reputed virtuous, must often fall a prey to these insane tempests of desire and passion, which rise in us in spite of ourselves.  Such dreams have a charm of their own; they are something akin to evening gossip round the winter fire, when one sets out for some voyage in China.  But what becomes of virtue during these delicious excursions, when fancy overleaps all difficulties?

“During the first ten months of seclusion I led the life of poverty and solitude that I have described to you; I used to steal out unobserved every morning to buy my own provisions for the day; I tidied my room; I was at once master and servant, and played the Diogenes with incredible spirit.  But afterwards, while my hostess and her daughter watched my ways and behavior, scrutinized my appearance and divined my poverty, there could not but be some bonds between us; perhaps because they were themselves so very poor.  Pauline, the charming child, whose latent and unconscious grace had, in a manner, brought me there, did me many services that I could not well refuse.  All women fallen on evil days are sisters; they speak a common language; they have the same generosity—­the generosity that possesses nothing, and so is lavish of its affection, of its time, and of its very self.

“Imperceptibly Pauline took me under her protection, and would do things for me.  No kind of objection was made by her mother, whom I even surprised mending my linen; she blushed for the charitable occupation.  In spite of myself, they took charge of me, and I accepted their services.

“In order to understand the peculiar condition of my mind, my preoccupation with work must be remembered, the tyranny of ideas, and the instinctive repugnance that a man who leads an intellectual life must ever feel for the material details of existence.  Could I well repulse the delicate attentions of Pauline, who would noiselessly bring me my frugal repast, when she noticed that I had taken nothing for seven or eight hours?  She had the tact of a woman and the inventiveness of a child; she would smile as she made sign to me that I must not see her.  Ariel glided under my roof in the form of a sylph who foresaw every want of mine.

“One evening Pauline told me her story with touching simplicity.  Her father had been a major in the horse grenadiers of the Imperial Guard.  He had been taken prisoner by the Cossacks, at the passage of Beresina; and when Napoleon later on proposed an exchange, the Russian authorities made search for him in Siberia in vain; he had escaped with a view of reaching India, and since then Mme. Gaudin, my landlady, could hear no news of her husband.  Then came the disasters of 1814 and 1815; and, left alone and without resource, she had decided to let furnished lodgings in order to keep herself and her daughter.

“She always hoped to see her husband again.  Her greatest trouble was about her daughter’s education; the Princess Borghese was her Pauline’s godmother; and Pauline must not be unworthy of the fair future promised by her imperial protectress.  When Mme. Gaudin confided to me this heavy trouble that preyed upon her, she said, with sharp pain in her voice, ’I would give up the property and the scrap of paper that makes Gaudin a baron of the empire, and all our rights to the endowment of Wistchnau, if only Pauline could be brought up at Saint-Denis?’ Her words struck me; now I could show my gratitude for the kindnesses expended on me by the two women; all at once the idea of offering to finish Pauline’s education occurred to me; and the offer was made and accepted in the most perfect simplicity.  In this way I came to have some hours of recreation.  Pauline had natural aptitude; she learned so quickly, that she soon surpassed me at the piano.  As she became accustomed to think aloud in my presence, she unfolded all the sweet refinements of a heart that was opening itself out to life, as some flower-cup opens slowly to the sun.  She listened to me, pleased and thoughtful, letting her dark velvet eyes rest upon me with a half smile in them; she repeated her lessons in soft and gentle tones, and showed childish glee when I was satisfied with her.  Her mother grew more and more anxious every day to shield the young girl from every danger (for all the beauty promised in early life was developing in the crescent moon), and was glad to see her spend whole days indoors in study.  My piano was the only one she could use, and while I was out she practised on it.  When I came home, Pauline would be in my room, in her shabby dress, but her slightest movement revealed her slender figure in its attractive grace, in spite of the coarse materials that she wore.  As with the heroine of the fable of ‘Peau-d’Ane,’ a dainty foot peeped out of the clumsy shoes.  But all her wealth of girlish beauty was as lost upon me.  I had laid commands upon myself to see a sister only in Pauline.  I dreaded lest I should betray her mother’s faith in me.  I admired the lovely girl as if she had been a picture, or as the portrait of a dead mistress; she was at once my child and my statue.  For me, another Pygmalion, the maiden with the hues of life and the living voice was to become a form of inanimate marble.  I was very strict with her, but the more I made her feel my pedagogue’s severity, the more gentle and submissive she grew.

“If a generous feeling strengthened me in my reserve and self-restraint, prudent considerations were not lacking beside.  Integrity of purpose cannot, I think, fail to accompany integrity in money matters.  To my mind, to become insolvent or to betray a woman is the same sort of thing.  If you love a young girl, or allow yourself to be beloved by her, a contract is implied, and its conditions should be thoroughly understood.  We are free to break with the woman who sells herself, but not with the young girl who has given herself to us and does not know the extent of her sacrifice.  I must have married Pauline, and that would have been madness.  Would it not have given over that sweet girlish heart to terrible misfortunes?  My poverty made its selfish voice heard, and set an iron barrier between that gentle nature and mine.  Besides, I am ashamed to say, that I cannot imagine love in the midst of poverty.  Perhaps this is a vitiation due to that malady of mankind called civilization; but a woman in squalid poverty would exert no fascination over me, were she attractive as Homer’s Galatea, the fair Helen.

“Ah, vive l’amour!  But let it be in silk and cashmere, surrounded with the luxury which so marvelously embellishes it; for is it not perhaps itself a luxury?  I enjoy making havoc with an elaborate erection of scented hair; I like to crush flowers, to disarrange and crease a smart toilette at will.  A bizarre attraction lies for me in burning eyes that blaze through a lace veil, like flame through cannon smoke.  My way of love would be to mount by a silken ladder, in the silence of a winter night.  And what bliss to reach, all powdered with snow, a perfumed room, with hangings of painted silk, to find a woman there, who likewise shakes away the snow from her; for what other name can be found for the white muslin wrappings that vaguely define her, like some angel form issuing from a cloud!  And then I wish for furtive joys, for the security of audacity.  I want to see once more that woman of mystery, but let it be in the throng, dazzling, unapproachable, adored on all sides, dressed in laces and ablaze with diamonds, laying her commands upon every one; so exalted above us, that she inspires awe, and none dares to pay his homage to her.

“She gives me a stolen glance, amid her court, a look that exposes the unreality of all this; that resigns for me the world and all men in it!  Truly I have scorned myself for a passion for a few yards of lace, velvet, and fine lawn, and the hairdresser’s feats of skill; a love of wax-lights, a carriage and a title, a heraldic coronet painted on window panes, or engraved by a jeweler; in short, a liking for all that is adventitious and least woman in woman.  I have scorned and reasoned with myself, but all in vain.

“A woman of rank with her subtle smile, her high-born air, and self-esteem captivates me.  The barriers she erects between herself and the world awaken my vanity, a good half of love.  There would be more relish for me in bliss that all others envied.  If my mistress does nothing that other women do, and neither lives nor conducts herself like them, wears a cloak that they cannot attain, breathes a perfume of her own, then she seems to rise far above me.  The further she rises from earth, even in the earthlier aspects of love, the fairer she becomes for me.

“Luckily for me we have had no queen in France these twenty years, for I should have fallen in love with her.  A woman must be wealthy to acquire the manners of a princess.  What place had Pauline among these far-fetched imaginings?  Could she bring me the love that is death, that brings every faculty into play, the nights that are paid for by life?  We hardly die, I think, for an insignificant girl who gives herself to us; and I could never extinguish these feelings and poet’s dreams within me.  I was born for an inaccessible love, and fortune has overtopped my desire.

“How often have I set satin shoes on Pauline’s tiny feet, confined her form, slender as a young poplar, in a robe of gauze, and thrown a loose scarf about her as I saw her tread the carpets in her mansion and led her out to her splendid carriage!  In such guise I should have adored her.  I endowed her with all the pride she lacked, stripped her of her virtues, her natural simple charm, and frank smile, in order to plunge her heart in our Styx of depravity that makes invulnerable, load her with our crimes, make of her the fantastical doll of our drawing-rooms, the frail being who lies about in the morning and comes to life again at night with the dawn of tapers.  Pauline was fresh-hearted and affectionate—­I would have had her cold and formal.

“In the last days of my frantic folly, memory brought Pauline before me, as it brings the scenes of our childhood, and made me pause to muse over past delicious moments that softened my heart.  I sometimes saw her, the adorable girl who sat quietly sewing at my table, wrapped in her meditations; the faint light from my window fell upon her and was reflected back in silvery rays from her thick black hair; sometimes I heard her young laughter, or the rich tones of her voice singing some canzonet that she composed without effort.  And often my Pauline seemed to grow greater, as music flowed from her, and her face bore a striking resemblance to the noble one that Carlo Dolci chose for the type of Italy.  My cruel memory brought her back athwart the dissipations of my existence, like a remorse, or a symbol of purity.  But let us leave the poor child to her own fate.  Whatever her troubles may have been, at any rate I protected her from a menacing tempest—­I did not drag her down into my hell.

“Until last winter I led the uneventful studious life of which I have given you some faint picture.  In the earliest days of December 1829, I came across Rastignac, who, in spite of the shabby condition of my wardrobe, linked his arm in mine, and inquired into my affairs with a quite brotherly interest.  Caught by his engaging manner, I gave him a brief account of my life and hopes; he began to laugh, and treated me as a mixture of a man of genius and a fool.  His Gascon accent and knowledge of the world, the easy life his clever management procured for him, all produced an irresistible effect upon me.  I should die an unrecognized failure in a hospital, Rastignac said, and be buried in a pauper’s grave.  He talked of charlatanism.  Every man of genius was a charlatan, he plainly showed me in that pleasant way of his that makes him so fascinating.  He insisted that I must be out of my senses, and would be my own death, if I lived on alone in the Rue des Cordiers.  According to him, I ought to go into society, to accustom people to the sound of my name, and to rid myself of the simple title of ‘monsieur’ which sits but ill on a great man in his lifetime.

“‘Those who know no better,’ he cried, ’call this sort of business scheming, and moral people condemn it for a “dissipated life.”  We need not stop to look at what people think, but see the results.  You work, you say?  Very good, but nothing will ever come of that.  Now, I am ready for anything and fit for nothing.  As lazy as a lobster?  Very likely, but I succeed everywhere.  I go out into society, I push myself forward, the others make way before me; I brag and am believed; I incur debts which somebody else pays!  Dissipation, dear boy, is a methodical policy.  The life of a man who deliberately runs through his fortune often becomes a business speculation; his friends, his pleasures, patrons, and acquaintances are his capital.  Suppose a merchant runs a risk of a million, for twenty years he can neither sleep, eat, nor amuse himself, he is brooding over his million, it makes him run about all over Europe; he worries himself, goes to the devil in every way that man has invented.  Then comes a liquidation, such as I have seen myself, which very often leaves him penniless and without a reputation or a friend.  The spendthrift, on the other hand, takes life as a serious game and sees his horses run.  He loses his capital, perhaps, but he stands a chance of being nominated Receiver-General, of making a wealthy marriage, or of an appointment of attache to a minister or ambassador; and he has his friends left and his name, and he never wants money.  He knows the standing of everybody, and uses every one for his own benefit.  Is this logical, or am I a madman after all?  Haven’t you there all the moral of the comedy that goes on every day in this world? . . .  Your work is completed’ he went on after a pause; ’you are immensely clever!  Well, you have only arrived at my starting-point.  Now, you had better look after its success yourself; it is the surest way.  You will make allies in every clique, and secure applause beforehand.  I mean to go halves in your glory myself; I shall be the jeweler who set the diamonds in your crown.  Come here to-morrow evening, by way of a beginning.  I will introduce you to a house where all Paris goes, all OUR Paris, that is —­the Paris of exquisites, millionaires, celebrities, all the folk who talk gold like Chrysostom.  When they have taken up a book, that book becomes the fashion; and if it is something really good for once, they will have declared it to be a work of genius without knowing it.  If you have any sense, my dear fellow, you will ensure the success of your “Theory,” by a better understanding of the theory of success.  To-morrow evening you shall go to see that queen of the moment—­the beautiful Countess Foedora. . . .’

“‘I have never heard of her. . . .’

“‘You Hottentot!’ laughed Rastignac; ’you do not know Foedora?  A great match with an income of nearly eighty thousand livres, who has taken a fancy to nobody, or else no one has taken a fancy to her.  A sort of feminine enigma, a half Russian Parisienne, or a half Parisian Russian.  All the romantic productions that never get published are brought out at her house; she is the handsomest woman in Paris, and the most gracious!  You are not even a Hottentot; you are something between the Hottentot and the beast. . . .  Good-bye till to-morrow.’

“He swung round on his heel and made off without waiting for my answer.  It never occurred to him that a reasoning being could refuse an introduction to Foedora.  How can the fascination of a name be explained?  FOEDORA haunted me like some evil thought, with which you seek to come to terms.  A voice said in me, ’You are going to see Foedora!’ In vain I reasoned with that voice, saying that it lied to me; all my arguments were defeated by the name ‘Foedora.’  Was not the name, and even the woman herself, the symbol of all my desires, and the object of my life?

“The name called up recollections of the conventional glitter of the world, the upper world of Paris with its brilliant fetes and the tinsel of its vanities.  The woman brought before me all the problems of passion on which my mind continually ran.  Perhaps it was neither the woman nor the name, but my own propensities, that sprang up within me and tempted me afresh.  Here was the Countess Foedora, rich and loveless, proof against the temptations of Paris; was not this woman the very incarnation of my hopes and visions?  I fashioned her for myself, drew her in fancy, and dreamed of her.  I could not sleep that night; I became her lover; I overbrimmed a few hours with a whole lifetime—­a lover’s lifetime; the experience of its prolific delights burned me.

“The next day I could not bear the tortures of delay; I borrowed a novel, and spent the whole day over it, so that I could not possibly think nor keep account of the time till night.  Foedora’s name echoed through me even as I read, but only as a distant sound; though it could be heard, it was not troublesome.  Fortunately, I owned a fairly creditable black coat and a white waistcoat; of all my fortune there now remained abut thirty francs, which I had distributed about among my clothes and in my drawers, so as to erect between my whims and the spending of a five-franc piece a thorny barrier of search, and an adventurous peregrination round my room.  While I as dressing, I dived about for my money in an ocean of papers.  This scarcity of specie will give you some idea of the value of that squandered upon gloves and cab-hire; a month’s bread disappeared at one fell swoop.  Alas! money is always forthcoming for our caprices; we only grudge the cost of things that are useful or necessary.  We recklessly fling gold to an opera-dancer, and haggle with a tradesman whose hungry family must wait for the settlement of our bill.  How many men are there that wear a coat that cost a hundred francs, and carry a diamond in the head of their cane, and dine for twenty-five SOUS for all that!  It seems as though we could never pay enough for the pleasures of vanity.

“Rastignac, punctual to his appointment, smiled at the transformation, and joked about it.  On the way he gave me benevolent advice as to my conduct with the countess; he described her as mean, vain, and suspicious; but though mean, she was ostentatious, her vanity was transparent, and her mistrust good-humored.

“‘You know I am pledged,’ he said, ’and what I should lose, too, if I tried a change in love.  So my observation of Foedora has been quite cool and disinterested, and my remarks must have some truth in them.  I was looking to your future when I thought of introducing you to her; so mind very carefully what I am about to say.  She has a terrible memory.  She is clever enough to drive a diplomatist wild; she would know it at once if he spoke the truth.  Between ourselves, I fancy that her marriage was not recognized by the Emperor, for the Russian ambassador began to smile when I spoke of her; he does not receive her either, and only bows very coolly if he meets her in the Bois.  For all that, she is in Madame de Serizy’s set, and visits Mesdames de Nucingen and de Restaud.  There is no cloud over her here in France; the Duchesse de Carigliano, the most-strait-laced marechale in the whole Bonapartist coterie, often goes to spend the summer with her at her country house.  Plenty of young fops, sons of peers of France, have offered her a title in exchange for her fortune, and she has politely declined them all.  Her susceptibilities, maybe, are not to be touched by anything less than a count.  Aren’t you a marquis?  Go ahead if you fancy her.  This is what you may call receiving your instructions.’

“His raillery made me think that Rastignac wished to joke and excite my curiosity, so that I was in a paroxysm of my extemporized passion by the time that we stopped before a peristyle full of flowers.  My heart beat and my color rose as we went up the great carpeted staircase, and I noticed about me all the studied refinements of English comfort; I was infatuatedly bourgeois; I forgot my origin and all my personal and family pride.  Alas!  I had but just left a garret, after three years of poverty, and I could not just then set the treasures there acquired above such trifles as these.  Nor could I rightly estimate the worth of the vast intellectual capital which turns to riches at the moment when opportunity comes within our reach, opportunity that does not overwhelm, because study has prepared us for the struggles of public life.

“I found a woman of about twenty-two years of age; she was of average height, was dressed in white, and held a feather fire-screen in her hand; a group of men stood around her.  She rose at the sight of Rastignac, and came towards us with a gracious smile and a musically-uttered compliment, prepared no doubt beforehand, for me.  Our friend had spoken of me as a rising man, and his clever way of making the most of me had procured me this flattering reception.  I was confused by the attention that every one paid to me; but Rastignac had luckily mentioned my modesty.  I was brought in contact with scholars, men of letters, ex-ministers, and peers of France.  The conversation, interrupted a while by my coming, was resumed.  I took courage, feeling that I had a reputation to maintain, and without abusing my privilege, I spoke when it fell to me to speak, trying to state the questions at issue in words more or less profound, witty or trenchant, and I made a certain sensation.  Rastignac was a prophet for the thousandth time in his life.  As soon as the gathering was large enough to restore freedom to individuals, he took my arm, and we went round the rooms.

“‘Don’t look as if you were too much struck by the princess,’ he said, ‘or she will guess your object in coming to visit her.’

“The rooms were furnished in excellent taste.  Each apartment had a character of its own, as in wealthy English houses; and the silken hangings, the style of the furniture, and the ornaments, even the most trifling, were all subordinated to the original idea.  In a gothic boudoir the doors were concealed by tapestried curtains, and the paneling by hangings; the clock and the pattern of the carpet were made to harmonize with the gothic surroundings.  The ceiling, with its carved cross-beams of brown wood, was full of charm and originality; the panels were beautifully wrought; nothing disturbed the general harmony of the scheme of decoration, not even the windows with their rich colored glass.  I was surprised by the extensive knowledge of decoration that some artist had brought to bear on a little modern room, it was so pleasant and fresh, and not heavy, but subdued with its dead gold hues.  It had all the vague sentiment of a German ballad; it was a retreat fit for some romance of 1827, perfumed by the exotic flowers set in their stands.  Another apartment in the suite was a gilded reproduction of the Louis Quatorze period, with modern paintings on the walls in odd but pleasant contrast.

“‘You would not be so badly lodged,’ was Rastignac’s slightly sarcastic comment.  ‘It is captivating, isn’t it?’ he added, smiling as he sat down.  Then suddenly he rose, and led me by the hand into a bedroom, where the softened light fell upon the bed under its canopy of muslin and white watered silk—­a couch for a young fairy betrothed to one of the genii.

“‘Isn’t it wantonly bad taste, insolent and unbounded coquetry,’ he said, lowering his voice, ’that allows us to see this throne of love?  She gives herself to no one, and anybody may leave his card here.  If I were not committed, I should like to see her at my feet all tears and submission.’

“‘Are you so certain of her virtue?’

“’The boldest and even the cleverest adventurers among us, acknowledge themselves defeated, and continue to be her lovers and devoted friends.  Isn’t that woman a puzzle?’

“His words seemed to intoxicate me; I had jealous fears already of the past.  I leapt for joy, and hurried back to the countess, whom I had seen in the gothic boudoir.  She stopped me by a smile, made me sit beside her, and talked about my work, seeming to take the greatest interest in it, and all the more when I set forth my theories amusingly, instead of adopting the formal language of a professor for their explanation.  It seemed to divert her to be told that the human will was a material force like steam; that in the moral world nothing could resist its power if a man taught himself to concentrate it, to economize it, and to project continually its fluid mass in given directions upon other souls.  Such a man, I said, could modify all things relatively to man, even the peremptory laws of nature.  The questions Foedora raised showed a certain keenness of intellect.  I took a pleasure in deciding some of them in her favor, in order to flatter her; then I confuted her feminine reasoning with a word, and roused her curiosity by drawing her attention to an everyday matter —­to sleep, a thing so apparently commonplace, that in reality is an insoluble problem for science.  The countess sat in silence for a moment when I told her that our ideas were complete organic beings, existing in an invisible world, and influencing our destinies; and for witnesses I cited the opinions of Descartes, Diderot, and Napoleon, who had directed, and still directed, all the currents of the age.

“So I had the honor of amusing this woman; who asked me to come to see her when she left me; giving me les grande entrees, in the language of the court.  Whether it was by dint of substituting polite formulas for genuine expressions of feeling, a commendable habit of mine, or because Foedora hailed in me a coming celebrity, an addition to her learned menagerie; for some reason I thought that I had pleased her.  I called all my previous physiological studies and knowledge of woman to my aid, and minutely scrutinized this singular person and her ways all evening.  I concealed myself in the embrasure of a window, and sought to discover her thoughts from her bearing.  I studied the tactics of the mistress of the house, as she came and went, sat and chatted, beckoned to this one or that, asked questions, listened to the answers, as she leaned against the frame of the door; I detected a languid charm in her movements, a grace in the flutterings of her dress, remarked the nature of the feelings she so powerfully excited, and became very incredulous as to her virtue.  If Foedora would none of love to-day, she had had strong passions at some time; past experience of pleasure showed itself in the attitudes she chose in conversation, in her coquettish way of leaning against the panel behind her; she seemed scarcely able to stand alone, and yet ready for flight from too bold a glance.  There was a kind of eloquence about her lightly folded arms, which, even for benevolent eyes, breathed sentiment.  Her fresh red lips sharply contrasted with her brilliantly pale complexion.  Her brown hair brought out all the golden color in her eyes, in which blue streaks mingled as in Florentine marble; their expression seemed to increase the significance of her words.  A studied grace lay in the charms of her bodice.  Perhaps a rival might have found the lines of the thick eyebrows, which almost met, a little hard; or found a fault in the almost invisible down that covered her features.  I saw the signs of passion everywhere, written on those Italian eyelids, on the splendid shoulders worthy of the Venus of Milo, on her features, in the darker shade of down above a somewhat thick under-lip.  She was not merely a woman, but a romance.  The whole blended harmony of lines, the feminine luxuriance of her frame, and its passionate promise, were subdued by a constant inexplicable reserve and modesty at variance with everything else about her.  It needed an observation as keen as my own to detect such signs as these in her character.  To explain myself more clearly; there were two women in Foedora, divided perhaps by the line between head and body:  the one, the head alone, seemed to be susceptible, and the other phlegmatic.  She prepared her glance before she looked at you, something unspeakably mysterious, some inward convulsion seemed revealed by her glittering eyes.

“So, to be brief, either my imperfect moral science had left me a good deal to learn in the moral world, or a lofty soul dwelt in the countess, lent to her face those charms that fascinated and subdued us, and gave her an ascendency only the more complete because it comprehended a sympathy of desire.

“I went away completely enraptured with this woman, dazzled by the luxury around her, gratified in every faculty of my soul—­noble and base, good and evil.  When I felt myself so excited, eager, and elated, I thought I understood the attraction that drew thither those artists, diplomatists, men in office, those stock-jobbers encased in triple brass.  They came, no doubt, to find in her society the delirious emotion that now thrilled through every fibre in me, throbbing through my brain, setting the blood a-tingle in every vein, fretting even the tiniest nerve.  And she had given herself to none, so as to keep them all.  A woman is a coquette so long as she knows not love.

“‘Well,’ I said to Rastignac, ’they married her, or sold her perhaps, to some old man, and recollections of her first marriage have caused her aversion for love.’

“I walked home from the Faubourg St. Honore, where Foedora lived.  Almost all the breadth of Paris lies between her mansion and the Rue des Cordiers, but the distance seemed short, in spite of the cold.  And I was to lay siege to Foedora’s heart, in winter, and a bitter winter, with only thirty francs in my possession, and such a distance as that lay between us!  Only a poor man knows what such a passion costs in cab-hire, gloves, linen, tailor’s bills, and the like.  If the Platonic stage lasts a little too long, the affair grows ruinous.  As a matter of fact, there is many a Lauzun among students of law, who finds it impossible to approach a ladylove living on a first floor.  And I, sickly, thin, poorly dressed, wan and pale as any artist convalescent after a work, how could I compete with other young men, curled, handsome, smart, outcravatting Croatia; wealthy men, equipped with tilburys, and armed with assurance?

“‘Bah, death or Foedora!’ I cried, as I went round by a bridge; ’my fortune lies in Foedora.’

“That gothic boudoir and Louis Quatorze salon came before my eyes.  I saw the countess again in her white dress with its large graceful sleeves, and all the fascinations of her form and movements.  These pictures of Foedora and her luxurious surroundings haunted me even in my bare, cold garret, when at last I reached it, as disheveled as any naturalist’s wig.  The contrast suggested evil counsel; in such a way crimes are conceived.  I cursed my honest, self-respecting poverty, my garret where such teeming fancies had stirred within me.  I trembled with fury, I reproached God, the devil, social conditions, my own father, the whole universe, indeed, with my fate and my misfortunes.  I went hungry to bed, muttering ludicrous imprecations, but fully determined to win Foedora.  Her heart was my last ticket in the lottery, my fortune depended upon it.

“I spare you the history of my earlier visits, to reach the drama the sooner.  In my efforts to appeal to her, I essayed to engage her intellect and her vanity on my side; in order to secure her love, I gave her any quantity of reasons for increasing her self-esteem; I never left her in a state of indifference; women like emotions at any cost, I gave them to her in plenty; I would rather have had her angry with me than indifferent.

“At first, urged by a strong will and a desire for her love, I assumed a little authority, but my own feelings grew stronger and mastered me; I relapsed into truth, I lost my head, and fell desperately in love.

“I am not very sure what we mean by the word love in our poetry and our talk; but I know that I have never found in all the ready rhetorical phrases of Jean-Jacques Rousseau, in whose room perhaps I was lodging; nor among the feeble inventions of two centuries of our literature, nor in any picture that Italy has produced, a representation of the feelings that expanded all at once in my double nature.  The view of the lake of Bienne, some music of Rossini’s, the Madonna of Murillo’s now in the possession of General Soult, Lescombat’s letters, a few sayings scattered through collections of anecdotes; but most of all the prayers of religious ecstatics, and passages in our fabliaux,—­these things alone have power to carry me back to the divine heights of my first love.

“Nothing expressed in human language, no thought reproducible in color, marble, sound, or articulate speech, could ever render the force, the truth, the completeness, the suddenness with which love awoke in me.  To speak of art, is to speak of illusion.  Love passes through endless transformations before it passes for ever into our existence and makes it glow with its own color of flame.  The process is imperceptible, and baffles the artist’s analysis.  Its moans and complaints are tedious to an uninterested spectator.  One would need to be very much in love to share the furious transports of Lovelace, as one reads Clarissa Harlowe.  Love is like some fresh spring, that leaves its cresses, its gravel bed and flowers to become first a stream and then a river, changing its aspect and its nature as it flows to plunge itself in some boundless ocean, where restricted natures only find monotony, but where great souls are engulfed in endless contemplation.

“How can I dare to describe the hues of fleeting emotions, the nothings beyond all price, the spoken accents that beggar language, the looks that hold more than all the wealth of poetry?  Not one of the mysterious scenes that draw us insensibly nearer and nearer to a woman, but has depths in it which can swallow up all the poetry that ever was written.  How can the inner life and mystery that stirs in our souls penetrate through our glozes, when we have not even words to describe the visible and outward mysteries of beauty?  What enchantment steeped me for how many hours in unspeakable rapture, filled with the sight of Her!  What made me happy?  I know not.  That face of hers overflowed with light at such times; it seemed in some way to glow with it; the outlines of her face, with the scarcely perceptible down on its delicate surface, shone with a beauty belonging to the far distant horizon that melts into the sunlight.  The light of day seemed to caress her as she mingled in it; rather it seemed that the light of her eyes was brighter than the daylight itself; or some shadow passing over that fair face made a kind of change there, altering its hues and its expression.  Some thought would often seem to glow on her white brows; her eyes appeared to dilate, and her eyelids trembled; a smile rippled over her features; the living coral of her lips grew full of meaning as they closed and unclosed; an indistinguishable something in her hair made brown shadows on her fair temples; in each new phase Foedora spoke.  Every slight variation in her beauty made a new pleasure for my eyes, disclosed charms my heart had never known before; I tried to read a separate emotion or a hope in every change that passed over her face.  This mute converse passed between soul and soul, like sound and answering echo; and the short-lived delights then showered upon me have left indelible impressions behind.  Her voice would cause a frenzy in me that I could hardly understand.  I could have copied the example of some prince of Lorraine, and held a live coal in the hollow of my hand, if her fingers passed caressingly through my hair the while.  I felt no longer mere admiration and desire:  I was under the spell; I had met my destiny.  When back again under my own roof, I still vaguely saw Foedora in her own home, and had some indefinable share in her life; if she felt ill, I suffered too.  The next day I used to say to her: 

“‘You were not well yesterday.’

“How often has she not stood before me, called by the power of ecstasy, in the silence of the night!  Sometimes she would break in upon me like a ray of light, make me drop my pen, and put science and study to flight in grief and alarm, as she compelled my admiration by the alluring pose I had seen but a short time before.  Sometimes I went to seek her in the spirit world, and would bow down to her as to a hope, entreating her to let me hear the silver sounds of her voice, and I would wake at length in tears.

“Once, when she had promised to go to the theatre with me, she took it suddenly into her head to refuse to go out, and begged me to leave her alone.  I was in such despair over the perversity which cost me a day’s work, and (if I must confess it) my last shilling as well, that I went alone where she was to have been, desiring to see the play she had wished to see.  I had scarcely seated myself when an electric shock went through me.  A voice told me, ‘She is here!’ I looked round, and saw the countess hidden in the shadow at the back of her box in the first tier.  My look did not waver; my eyes saw her at once with incredible clearness; my soul hovered about her life like an insect above its flower.  How had my senses received this warning?  There is something in these inward tremors that shallow people find astonishing, but the phenomena of our inner consciousness are produced as simple as those of external vision; so I was not surprised, but much vexed.  My studies of our mental faculties, so little understood, helped me at any rate to find in my own excitement some living proofs of my theories.  There was something exceedingly odd in this combination of lover and man of science, of downright idolatry of a woman with the love of knowledge.  The causes of the lover’s despair were highly interesting to the man of science; and the exultant lover, on the other hand, put science far away from him in his joy.  Foedora saw me, and grew grave:  I annoyed her.  I went to her box during the first interval, and finding her alone, I stayed there.  Although we had not spoken of love, I foresaw an explanation.  I had not told her my secret, still there was a kind of understanding between us.  She used to tell me her plans for amusement, and on the previous evening had asked with friendly eagerness if I meant to call the next day.  After any witticism of hers, she would give me an inquiring glance, as if she had sought to please me alone by it.  She would soothe me if I was vexed; and if she pouted, I had in some sort a right to ask an explanation.  Before she would pardon any blunder, she would keep me a suppliant for long.  All these things that we so relished, were so many lovers’ quarrels.  What arch grace she threw into it all! and what happiness it was to me!

“But now we stood before each other as strangers, with the close relation between us both suspended.  The countess was glacial:  a presentiment of trouble filled me.

“‘Will you come home with me?’ she said, when the play was over.

“There had been a sudden change in the weather, and sleet was falling in showers as we went out.  Foedora’s carriage was unable to reach the doorway of the theatre.  At the sight of a well-dressed woman about to cross the street, a commissionaire held an umbrella above us, and stood waiting at the carriage-door for his tip.  I would have given ten years of life just then for a couple of halfpence, but I had not a penny.  All the man in me and all my vainest susceptibilities were wrung with an infernal pain.  The words, ’I haven’t a penny about me, my good fellow!’ came from me in the hard voice of thwarted passion; and yet I was that man’s brother in misfortune, as I knew too well; and once I had so lightly paid away seven hundred thousand francs!  The footman pushed the man aside, and the horses sprang forward.  As we returned, Foedora, in real or feigned abstraction, answered all my questions curtly and by monosyllables.  I said no more; it was a hateful moment.  When we reached her house, we seated ourselves by the hearth, and when the servant had stirred the fire and left us alone, the countess turned to me with an inexplicable expression, and spoke.  Her manner was almost solemn.

“’Since my return to France, more than one young man, tempted by my money, has made proposals to me which would have satisfied my pride.  I have come across men, too, whose attachment was so deep and sincere that they might have married me even if they had found me the penniless girl I used to be.  Besides these, Monsieur de Valentin, you must know that new titles and newly-acquired wealth have been also offered to me, and that I have never received again any of those who were so ill-advised as to mention love to me.  If my regard for you was but slight, I would not give you this warning, which is dictated by friendship rather than by pride.  A woman lays herself open to a rebuff of some kind, if she imagines herself to be loved, and declines, before it is uttered, to listen to language which in its nature implies a compliment.  I am well acquainted with the parts played by Arsinoe and Araminta, and with the sort of answer I might look for under such circumstances; but I hope to-day that I shall not find myself misconstrued by a man of no ordinary character, because I have frankly spoken my mind.’

“She spoke with the cool self-possession of some attorney or solicitor explaining the nature of a contract or the conduct of a lawsuit to a client.  There was not the least sign of feeling in the clear soft tones of her voice.  Her steady face and dignified bearing seemed to me now full of diplomatic reserve and coldness.  She had planned this scene, no doubt, and carefully chosen her words beforehand.  Oh, my friend, there are women who take pleasure in piercing hearts, and deliberately plunge the dagger back again into the wound; such women as these cannot but be worshiped, for such women either love or would fain be loved.  A day comes when they make amends for all the pain they gave us; they repay us for the pangs, the keenness of which they recognize, in joys a hundred-fold, even as God, they tell us, recompenses our good works.  Does not their perversity spring from the strength of their feelings?  But to be so tortured by a woman, who slaughters you with indifference! was not the suffering hideous?

“Foedora did not know it, but in that minute she trampled all my hopes beneath her feet; she maimed my life and she blighted my future with the cool indifference and unconscious barbarity of an inquisitive child who plucks its wings from a butterfly.

“‘Later on,’ resumed Foedora, ’you will learn, I hope, the stability of the affection that I keep for my friends.  You will always find that I have devotion and kindness for them.  I would give my life to serve my friends; but you could only despise me, if I allowed them to make love to me without return.  That is enough.  You are the only man to whom I have spoken such words as these last.’

“At first I could not speak, or master the tempest that arose within me; but I soon repressed my emotions in the depths of my soul, and began to smile.

“‘If I own that I love you,’ I said, ’you will banish me at once; if I plead guilty to indifference, you will make me suffer for it.  Women, magistrates, and priests never quite lay the gown aside.  Silence is non-committal; be pleased then, madame, to approve my silence.  You must have feared, in some degree, to lose me, or I should not have received this friendly admonition; and with that thought my pride ought to be satisfied.  Let us banish all personal considerations.  You are perhaps the only woman with whom I could discuss rationally a resolution so contrary to the laws of nature.  Considered with regard to your species, you are a prodigy.  Now let us investigate, in good faith, the causes of this psychological anomaly.  Does there exist in you, as in many women, a certain pride in self, a love of your own loveliness, a refinement of egoism which makes you shudder at the idea of belonging to another; is it the thought of resigning your own will and submitting to a superiority, though only of convention, which displeases you?  You would seem to me a thousand times fairer for it.  Can love formerly have brought you suffering?  You probably set some value on your dainty figure and graceful appearance, and may perhaps wish to avoid the disfigurements of maternity.  Is not this one of your strongest reasons for refusing a too importunate love?  Some natural defect perhaps makes you insusceptible in spite of yourself?  Do not be angry; my study, my inquiry is absolutely dispassionate.  Some are born blind, and nature may easily have formed women who in like manner are blind, deaf, and dumb to love.  You are really an interesting subject for medical investigation.  You do not know your value.  You feel perhaps a very legitimate distaste for mankind; in that I quite concur —­to me they all seem ugly and detestable.  And you are right,’ I added, feeling my heart swell within me; ’how can you do otherwise than despise us?  There is not a man living who is worthy of you.’

“I will not repeat all the biting words with which I ridiculed her.  In vain; my bitterest sarcasms and keenest irony never made her wince nor elicited a sign of vexation.  She heard me, with the customary smile upon her lips and in her eyes, the smile that she wore as a part of her clothing, and that never varied for friends, for mere acquaintances, or for strangers.

“‘Isn’t it very nice of me to allow you to dissect me like this?’ she said at last, as I came to a temporary standstill, and looked at her in silence.  ‘You see,’ she went on, laughing, ’that I have no foolish over-sensitiveness about my friendship.  Many a woman would shut her door on you by way of punishing you for your impertinence.’

“’You could banish me without needing to give me the reasons for your harshness.’  As I spoke I felt that I could kill her if she dismissed me.

“‘You are mad,’ she said, smiling still.

“‘Did you never think,’ I went on, ’of the effects of passionate love?  A desperate man has often murdered his mistress.’

“‘It is better to die than to live in misery,’ she said coolly.  ’Such a man as that would run through his wife’s money, desert her, and leave her at last in utter wretchedness.’

“This calm calculation dumfounded me.  The gulf between us was made plain; we could never understand each other.

“‘Good-bye,’ I said proudly.

“‘Good-bye, till to-morrow,’ she answered, with a little friendly bow.

“For a moment’s space I hurled at her in a glance all the love I must forego; she stood there with than banal smile of hers, the detestable chill smile of a marble statue, with none of the warmth in it that it seemed to express.  Can you form any idea, my friend, of the pain that overcame me on the way home through rain and snow, across a league of icy-sheeted quays, without a hope left?  Oh, to think that she not only had not guessed my poverty, but believed me to be as wealthy as she was, and likewise borne as softly over the rough ways of life!  What failure and deceit!  It was no mere question of money now, but of the fate of all that lay within me.

“I went at haphazard, going over the words of our strange conversation with myself.  I got so thoroughly lost in my reflections that I ended by doubts as to the actual value of words and ideas.  But I loved her all the same; I loved this woman with the untouched heart that might surrender at any moment—­a woman who daily disappointed the expectations of the previous evening, by appearing as a new mistress on the morrow.

“As I passed under the gateway of the Institute, a fevered thrill ran through me.  I remembered that I was fasting, and that I had not a penny.  To complete the measure of my misfortune, my hat was spoiled by the rain.  How was I to appear in the drawing-room of a woman of fashion with an unpresentable hat?  I had always cursed the inane and stupid custom that compels us to exhibit the lining of our hats, and to keep them always in our hands, but with anxious care I had so far kept mine in a precarious state of efficiency.  It had been neither strikingly new, nor utterly shabby, neither napless nor over-glossy, and might have passed for the hat of a frugally given owner, but its artificially prolonged existence had now reached the final stage, it was crumpled, forlorn, and completely ruined, a downright rag, a fitting emblem of its master.  My painfully preserved elegance must collapse for want of thirty sous.

“What unrecognized sacrifices I had made in the past three months for Foedora!  How often I had given the price of a week’s sustenance to see her for a moment!  To leave my work and go without food was the least of it!  I must traverse the streets of Paris without getting splashed, run to escape showers, and reach her rooms at last, as neat and spruce as any of the coxcombs about her.  For a poet and a distracted wooer the difficulties of this task were endless.  My happiness, the course of my love, might be affected by a speck of mud upon my only white waistcoat!  Oh, to miss the sight of her because I was wet through and bedraggled, and had not so much as five sous to give to a shoeblack for removing the least little spot of mud from my boot!  The petty pangs of these nameless torments, which an irritable man finds so great, only strengthened my passion.

“The unfortunate must make sacrifices which they may not mention to women who lead refined and luxurious lives.  Such women see things through a prism that gilds all men and their surroundings.  Egoism leads them to take cheerful views, and fashion makes them cruel; they do not wish to reflect, lest they lose their happiness, and the absorbing nature of their pleasures absolves their indifference to the misfortunes of others.  A penny never means millions to them; millions, on the contrary, seem a mere trifle.  Perhaps love must plead his cause by great sacrifices, but a veil must be lightly drawn across them, they must go down into silence.  So when wealthy men pour out their devotion, their fortunes, and their lives, they gain somewhat by these commonly entertained opinions, an additional lustre hangs about their lovers’ follies; their silence is eloquent; there is a grace about the drawn veil; but my terrible distress bound me over to suffer fearfully or ever I might speak of my love or of dying for her sake.

“Was it a sacrifice after all?  Was I not richly rewarded by the joy I took in sacrificing everything to her?  There was no commonest event of my daily life to which the countess had not given importance, had not overfilled with happiness.  I had been hitherto careless of my clothes, now I respected my coat as if it had been a second self.  I should not have hesitated between bodily harm and a tear in that garment.  You must enter wholly into my circumstances to understand the stormy thoughts, the gathering frenzy, that shook me as I went, and which, perhaps, were increased by my walk.  I gloated in an infernal fashion which I cannot describe over the absolute completeness of my wretchedness.  I would have drawn from it an augury of my future, but there is no limit to the possibilities of misfortune.  The door of my lodging-house stood ajar.  A light streamed from the heart-shaped opening cut in the shutters.  Pauline and her mother were sitting up for me and talking.  I heard my name spoken, and listened.

“‘Raphael is much nicer-looking than the student in number seven,’ said Pauline; ’his fair hair is such a pretty color.  Don’t you think there is something in his voice, too, I don’t know what it is, that gives you a sort of a thrill?  And, then, though he may be a little proud, he is very kind, and he has such fine manners; I am sure that all the ladies must be quite wild about him.’

“‘You might be fond of him yourself, to hear you talk,’ was Madame Gaudin’s comment.

“‘He is just as dear to me as a brother,’ she laughed.  ’I should be finely ungrateful if I felt no friendship for him.  Didn’t he teach me music and drawing and grammar, and everything I know in fact?  You don’t much notice how I get on, dear mother; but I shall know enough, in a while, to give lessons myself, and then we can keep a servant.’

“I stole away softly, made some noise outside, and went into their room to take the lamp, that Pauline tried to light for me.  The dear child had just poured soothing balm into my wounds.  Her outspoken admiration had given me fresh courage.  I so needed to believe in myself and to come by a just estimate of my advantages.  This revival of hope in me perhaps colored my surroundings.  Perhaps also I had never before really looked at the picture that so often met my eyes, of the two women in their room; it was a scene such as Flemish painters have reproduced so faithfully for us, that I admired in its delightful reality.  The mother, with the kind smile upon her lips, sat knitting stockings by the dying fire; Pauline was painting hand-screens, her brushes and paints, strewn over the tiny table, made bright spots of color for the eye to dwell on.  When she had left her seat and stood lighting my lamp, one must have been under the yoke of a terrible passion indeed, not to admire her faintly flushed transparent hands, the girlish charm of her attitude, the ideal grace of her head, as the lamplight fell full on her pale face.  Night and silence added to the charms of this industrious vigil and peaceful interior.  The light-heartedness that sustained such continuous toil could only spring from devout submission and the lofty feelings that it brings.

“There was an indescribable harmony between them and their possessions.  The splendor of Foedora’s home did not satisfy; it called out all my worst instincts; something in this lowly poverty and unfeigned goodness revived me.  It may have been that luxury abased me in my own eyes, while here my self-respect was restored to me, as I sought to extend the protection that a man is so eager to make felt, over these two women, who in the bare simplicity of the existence in their brown room seemed to live wholly in the feelings of their hearts.  As I came up to Pauline, she looked at me in an almost motherly way; her hands shook a little as she held the lamp, so that the light fell on me and cried: 

“’Dieu! how pale you are! and you are wet through!  My mother will try to wipe you dry.  Monsieur Raphael,’ she went on, after a little pause, ’you are so very fond of milk, and to-night we happen to have some cream.  Here, will you not take some?’

“She pounced like a kitten, on a china bowl full of milk.  She did it so quickly, and put it before me so prettily, that I hesitated.

“‘You are going to refuse me?’ she said, and her tones changed.

“The pride in each felt for the other’s pride.  It was Pauline’s poverty that seemed to humiliate her, and to reproach me with my want of consideration, and I melted at once and accepted the cream that might have been meant for her morning’s breakfast.  The poor child tried not to show her joy, but her eyes sparkled.

“‘I needed it badly,’ I said as I sat down. (An anxious look passed over her face.) ’Do you remember that passage, Pauline, where Bossuet tells how God gave more abundant reward for a cup of cold water than for a victory?’

“‘Yes,’ she said, her heart beating like some wild bird’s in a child’s hands.

“‘Well, as we shall part very soon, now,’ I went on in an unsteady voice, ’you must let me show my gratitude to you and to your mother for all the care you have taken of me.’

“‘Oh, don’t let us cast accounts,’ she said laughing.  But her laughter covered an agitation that gave me pain.  I went on without appearing to hear her words: 

“’My piano is one of Erard’s best instruments; and you must take it.  Pray accept it without hesitation; I really could not take it with me on the journey I am about to make.’

“Perhaps the melancholy tones in which I spoke enlightened the two women, for they seemed to understand, and eyed me with curiosity and alarm.  Here was the affection that I had looked for in the glacial regions of the great world, true affection, unostentatious but tender, and possibly lasting.

“‘Don’t take it to heart so,’ the mother said; ’stay on here.  My husband is on his way towards us even now,’ she went on.  ’I looked into the Gospel of St. John this evening while Pauline hung our door-key in a Bible from her fingers.  The key turned; that means that Gaudin is in health and doing well.  Pauline began again for you and for the young man in number seven—­it turned for you, but not for him.  We are all going to be rich.  Gaudin will come back a millionaire.  I dreamed once that I saw him in a ship full of serpents; luckily the water was rough, and that means gold or precious stones from over-sea.’

“The silly, friendly words were like the crooning lullaby with which a mother soothes her sick child; they in a manner calmed me.  There was a pleasant heartiness in the worthy woman’s looks and tones, which, if it could not remove trouble, at any rate soothed and quieted it, and deadened the pain.  Pauline, keener-sighted than her mother, studied me uneasily; her quick eyes seemed to read my life and my future.  I thanked the mother and daughter by an inclination of the head, and hurried away; I was afraid I should break down.

“I found myself alone under my roof, and laid myself down in my misery.  My unhappy imagination suggested numberless baseless projects, and prescribed impossible resolutions.  When a man is struggling in the wreck of his fortunes, he is not quite without resources, but I was engulfed.  Ah, my dear fellow, we are too ready to blame the wretched.  Let us be less harsh on the results of the most powerful of all social solvents.  Where poverty is absolute there exist no such things as shame or crime, or virtue or intelligence.  I knew not what to do; I was as defenceless as a maiden on her knees before a beast of prey.  A penniless man who has no ties to bind him is master of himself at any rate, but a luckless wretch who is in love no longer belongs to himself, and may not take his own life.  Love makes us almost sacred in our own eyes; it is the life of another that we revere within us; then and so it begins for us the cruelest trouble of all—­the misery with a hope in it, a hope for which we must even bear our torments.  I thought I would go to Rastignac on the morrow to confide Foedora’s strange resolution to him, and with that I slept.

“‘Ah, ha!’ cried Rastignac, as he saw me enter his lodging at nine o’clock in the morning.  ’I know what brings you here.  Foedora has dismissed you.  Some kind souls, who were jealous of your ascendency over the countess, gave out that you were going to be married.  Heaven only knows what follies your rivals have equipped you with, and what slanders have been directed at you.’

“‘That explains everything!’ I exclaimed.  I remembered all my presumptuous speeches, and gave the countess credit for no little magnanimity.  It pleased me to think that I was a miscreant who had not been punished nearly enough, and I saw nothing in her indulgence but the long-suffering charity of love.

“‘Not quite so fast,’ urged the prudent Gascon; ’Foedora has all the sagacity natural to a profoundly selfish woman; perhaps she may have taken your measure while you still coveted only her money and her splendor; in spite of all your care, she could have read you through and through.  She can dissemble far too well to let any dissimulation pass undetected.  I fear,’ he went on, ’that I have brought you into a bad way.  In spite of her cleverness and her tact, she seems to me a domineering sort of person, like every woman who can only feel pleasure through her brain.  Happiness for her lies entirely in a comfortable life and in social pleasures; her sentiment is only assumed; she will make you miserable; you will be her head footman.’

“He spoke to the deaf.  I broke in upon him, disclosing, with an affectation of light-heartedness, the state of my finances.

“‘Yesterday evening,’ he rejoined, ’luck ran against me, and that carried off all my available cash.  But for that trivial mishap, I would gladly have shared my purse with you.  But let us go and breakfast at the restaurant; perhaps there is good counsel in oysters.’

“He dressed, and had his tilbury brought round.  We went to the Cafe de Paris like a couple of millionaires, armed with all the audacious impertinence of the speculator whose capital is imaginary.  That devil of a Gascon quite disconcerted me by the coolness of his manners and his absolute self-possession.  While we were taking coffee after an excellent and well-ordered repast, a young dandy entered, who did not escape Rastignac.  He had been nodding here and there among the crowd to this or that young man, distinguished both by personal attractions and elegant attire, and now he said to me: 

“‘Here’s your man,’ as he beckoned to this gentleman with a wonderful cravat, who seemed to be looking for a table that suited his ideas.

“’That rogue has been decorated for bringing out books that he doesn’t understand a word of,’ whispered Rastignac; ’he is a chemist, a historian, a novelist, and a political writer; he has gone halves, thirds, or quarters in the authorship of I don’t know how many plays, and he is as ignorant as Dom Miguel’s mule.  He is not a man so much as a name, a label that the public is familiar with.  So he would do well to avoid shops inscribed with the motto, “Ici l’on peut ecrire soi-meme.”  He is acute enough to deceive an entire congress of diplomatists.  In a couple of words, he is a moral half-caste, not quite a fraud, nor entirely genuine.  But, hush! he has succeeded already; nobody asks anything further, and every one calls him an illustrious man.’

“’Well, my esteemed and excellent friend, and how may Your Intelligence be?’ So Rastignac addressed the stranger as he sat down at a neighboring table.

“’Neither well nor ill; I am overwhelmed with work.  I have all the necessary materials for some very curious historical memoirs in my hands, and I cannot find any one to whom I can ascribe them.  It worries me, for I shall have to be quick about it.  Memoirs are falling out of fashion.’

“’What are the memoirs—­contemporaneous, ancient, or memoirs of the court, or what?’

“‘They relate to the Necklace affair.’

“‘Now, isn’t that a coincidence?’ said Rastignac, turning to me and laughing.  He looked again to the literary speculation, and said, indicating me: 

“’This is M. de Valentin, one of my friends, whom I must introduce to you as one of our future literary celebrities.  He had formerly an aunt, a marquise, much in favor once at court, and for about two years he has been writing a Royalist history of the Revolution.’

“Then, bending over this singular man of business, he went on: 

“’He is a man of talent, and a simpleton that will do your memoirs for you, in his aunt’s name, for a hundred crowns a volume.’

“‘It’s a bargain,’ said the other, adjusting his cravat.  ’Waiter, my oysters.’

“’Yes, but you must give me twenty-five louis as commission, and you will pay him in advance for each volume,’ said Rastignac.

“’No, no.  He shall only have fifty crowns on account, and then I shall be sure of having my manuscript punctually.’

“Rastignac repeated this business conversation to me in low tones; and then, without giving me any voice in the matter, he replied: 

“’We agree to your proposal.  When can we call upon you to arrange the affair?’

“‘Oh, well!  Come and dine here to-morrow at seven o’clock.’

“We rose.  Rastignac flung some money to the waiter, put the bill in his pocket, and we went out.  I was quite stupified by the flippancy and ease with which he had sold my venerable aunt, la Marquise de Montbauron.

“’I would sooner take ship for the Brazils, and give the Indians lessons in algebra, though I don’t know a word of it, than tarnish my family name.’

“Rastignac burst out laughing.

“’How dense you are!  Take the fifty crowns in the first instance, and write the memoirs.  When you have finished them, you will decline to publish them in your aunt’s name, imbecile!  Madame de Montbauron, with her hooped petticoat, her rank and beauty, rouge and slippers, and her death upon the scaffold, is worth a great deal more than six hundred francs.  And then, if the trade will not give your aunt her due, some old adventurer, or some shady countess or other, will be found to put her name to the memoirs.’

“‘Oh,’ I groaned; ’why did I quit the blameless life in my garret?  This world has aspects that are very vilely dishonorable.’

“‘Yes,’ said Rastignac, ’that is all very poetical, but this is a matter of business.  What a child you are!  Now, listen to me.  As to your work, the public will decide upon it; and as for my literary middle-man, hasn’t he devoted eight years of his life to obtaining a footing in the book-trade, and paid heavily for his experience?  You divide the money and the labor of the book with him very unequally, but isn’t yours the better part?  Twenty-five louis means as much to you as a thousand francs does to him.  Come, you can write historical memoirs, a work of art such as never was, since Diderot once wrote six sermons for a hundred crowns!’

“‘After all,’ I said, in agitation, ’I cannot choose but do it.  So, my dear friend, my thanks are due to you.  I shall be quite rich with twenty-five louis.’

“‘Richer than you think,’ he laughed.  ’If I have my commission from Finot in this matter, it goes to you, can’t you see?  Now let us go to the Bois de Boulogne,’ he said; ’we shall see your countess there, and I will show you the pretty little widow that I am to marry—­a charming woman, an Alsacienne, rather plump.  She reads Kant, Schiller, Jean Paul, and a host of lachrymose books.  She has a mania for continually asking my opinion, and I have to look as if I entered into all this German sensibility, and to know a pack of ballads—­drugs, all of them, that my doctor absolutely prohibits.  As yet I have not been able to wean her from her literary enthusiasms; she sheds torrents of tears as she reads Goethe, and I have to weep a little myself to please her, for she has an income of fifty thousand livres, my dear boy, and the prettiest little hand and foot in the world.  Oh, if she would only say mon ange and brouiller instead of mon anche and prouiller, she would be perfection!’

“We saw the countess, radiant amid the splendors of her equipage.  The coquette bowed very graciously to us both, and the smile she gave me seemed to me to be divine and full of love.  I was very happy; I fancied myself beloved; I had money, a wealth of love in my heart, and my troubles were over.  I was light-hearted, blithe, and content.  I found my friend’s lady-love charming.  Earth and air and heaven—­all nature—­seemed to reflect Foedora’s smile for me.

“As we returned through the Champs-Elysees, we paid a visit to Rastignac’s hatter and tailor.  Thanks to the ‘Necklace,’ my insignificant peace-footing was to end, and I made formidable preparations for a campaign.  Henceforward I need not shrink from a contest with the spruce and fashionable young men who made Foedora’s circle.  I went home, locked myself in, and stood by my dormer window, outwardly calm enough, but in reality I bade a last good-bye to the roofs without.  I began to live in the future, rehearsed my life drama, and discounted love and its happiness.  Ah, how stormy life can grow to be within the four walls of a garret!  The soul within us is like a fairy; she turns straw into diamonds for us; and for us, at a touch of her wand, enchanted palaces arise, as flowers in the meadows spring up towards the sun.

“Towards noon, next day, Pauline knocked gently at my door, and brought me—­who could guess it?—­a note from Foedora.  The countess asked me to take her to the Luxembourg, and to go thence to see with her the Museum and Jardin des Plantes.

“‘The man is waiting for an answer,’ said Pauline, after quietly waiting for a moment.

“I hastily scrawled my acknowledgements, and Pauline took the note.  I changed my dress.  When my toilette was ended, and I looked at myself with some complaisance, an icy shiver ran through me as I thought: 

“’Will Foedora walk or drive?  Will it rain or shine?—­No matter, though,’ I said to myself; ’whichever it is, can one ever reckon with feminine caprice?  She will have no money about her, and will want to give a dozen francs to some little Savoyard because his rags are picturesque.’

“I had not a brass farthing, and should have no money till the evening came.  How dearly a poet pays for the intellectual prowess that method and toil have brought him, at such crises of our youth!  Innumerable painfully vivid thoughts pierced me like barbs.  I looked out of my window; the weather was very unsettled.  If things fell out badly, I might easily hire a cab for the day; but would not the fear lie on me every moment that I might not meet Finot in the evening?  I felt too weak to endure such fears in the midst of my felicity.  Though I felt sure that I should find nothing, I began a grand search