Mademoiselle Irnois

I

M. Pierre-André Irnois was one of those money dealers who succeeded best in making their fortunes under the Republic.^[1] Without attaining the quasi-fabulous splendors of an Ouvrard,^[2] M. Irnois became quite opulent, and, what especially distinguished him from his peers is that he had a knack for preserving his wealth; in brief, he did not imitate Hannibal: first he knew how to vanquish, then to preserve his victory; his breed, had it endured, could have compared him to Augustus. In his sphere, his rise had been even more astonishing than that of Caesar's adoptive son. M. Irnois had started from nothing, though that is not what I find astounding; but rather that he had not the slightest trace of talent; nor did he have the slightest trace of shrewdness. He was at best a mediocre rascal; as for insinuating himself into the company of the mighty or the lowly in order to secure useful favors, he had never given it a thought, being much too brutal, which in his case replaced dignity. Awkwardly put together, tall, thin, dry, sallow, provided with a huge, ill-furnished mouth whose massive jaw would have been a formidable weapon in a hand like that of the Hebrew Hercules, he offered nothing in his person of a nature sufficiently appealing to make one forget the flaws of his character and those of his intelligence. Thus, materially and morally,

M. Pierre-André Irnois did not possess the means to make one understand how he had been able to achieve enormous wealth and to join the ranks of the powerful and fortunate. And yet, he had come to own six town houses in Paris, improved farmlands in Anjou, Poitou, Languedoc, Flanders, Dauphiné and Burgundy, two factories in Alsace, and coupons for all public bonds, the whole crowned by unlimited credit. The origin of so much wealth could only be explained by the strange caprices of destiny.

M. Irnois, I already said, was of very humble birth; everyone, at any rate, believed it, and he along with the rest; but, in fact, nothing was known about it. He had never been aware of a father or a mother, and he had begun his career in the livery of a scullion in the kitchen of a respectable Parisian bourgeois. From there, fired for having let a roast burn that had been put in his care for a gala occasion, he had wandered for some time, a victim of the melancholy ups and downs of vagrancy. The poor devil had subsequently got hold of a job as a footman in the house of a barrister and, soon dismissed for being too impertinent and a bit of a thief, he very nearly died of starvation one fatal night when the watch picked him up, expiring from want of nourishment, under one of the pillars of the Central Market where he had dragged himself after having vainly looked for unmentionable scraps in the neighboring rubbish heaps.^[3]

They wanted to send him to the Islands.^[4] He escaped, hid himself in the garden of a lady philosopher and philanthropist, and, when discovered, told his story. By chance, that lady had gathered around her that very day several dinner guests, among them M. Diderot, M. Rousseau from Geneva, and M. Grimm.^[5]

The ragged vagabond's tale served as a timely text for various considerations, alas only too accurate, concerning the social order. M. Rousseau from Geneva publicly embraced Irnois calling him his brother; M. Diderot also called him

his brother, but did not embrace him; and M. Grimm, who was a baron, contented himself with a benevolent wave of his hand, declaring that he saw in him that masterpiece of nature, man . The expression of this great truth, acknowledged by the entire company, did little for the poor devil. By the most astonishing stroke of chance, as they dismissed him, they remembered to order a meal and a bed for him. The next morning, the lady of the house had already forgotten him and would undoubtedly have given the order to throw him out if someone had mentioned to her that masterpiece of creation, the man whom she had so philosophically greeted the day before; but an old housekeeper found his shoulders sufficiently square to put there a load of wood, and his arms long enough to saw logs. He made a living that way until the day when he became a footman again. It was a piece of luck, for it was from there that the eagle was finally to take wing.

Within a short time, Irnois left the service of the lady philosopher for that of a pious count, then of a scheming marquise, then of a turcaret.^[6] This turcaret, finding him sufficiently inept, deemed him worthy to collect the toll at the gate of a small town. Lo and behold, Irnois is a clerk; it was a handsome position for the wretch. He did not know how to hang onto it; he kept his accounts badly and he was fired. At that point he wanted to return to Paris, and during the trip an adventure, which will seem little likely but which is nonetheless true, happened to him. One should remember in reading about it that Irnois was destined to become one of fortune's favorites.

As he had earned a little money during his management, he had bought a wreck of a gray horse which he counted on getting rid of upon his arrival. One morning when he had left his night's lodging very early, he arrived at a clearing in the center of a large wood at the moment when dawn began to break. It was in the month of October, the weather was foggy, the day very dull, and, wrapped in his cape, his hat pulled

down to his eyes, Irnois was not at all warm. Consequently, his spirit, not very manly to begin with, was by no means firm. You can imagine how this former clerk felt when, upon reaching the clearing, he saw directly across from him in the entrance to a path he absolutely had to take a group of men on horses!

In his mind, Irnois did not hesitate; he knew them for robbers, and what is more, highway robbers. He considered fleeing; but if he were to turn on his heels, these rogues would undoubtedly shoulder their dreadful muskets and riddle him with bullets. He shivered with horror and remained planted in his saddle, his horse held firmly.

The horsemen on the other side of the clearing, seeing him poised in this fashion, waited awhile, observing him, but since he did not budge (he would not have stirred for an empire!), they chose a course after an animated discussion, and one of them advanced toward Irnois. The latter thought his last hour had come and was about to take out his purse and hand it over, when the horseman, taking off his hat, said with utmost politeness: "Sir, this wood is not what you think; you probably have been misinformed, kindly believe it; but in our desire to be agreeable to you, we shall offer you five thousand pounds; in good conscience it is all we can do."

Irnois, hearing this curious speech, thought that the bandits wished to add raillery to ferocity and meant to cut his throat with a laugh. His fear redoubled, and if he had not clung with both hands to the pommel of his saddle, he would certainly have fallen from his horse. The horseman, seeing him silent, committed no violence; to the contrary, saluted him and returned to his companions.

Irnois, whose teeth were chattering, soon noticed that now two men detached themselves from the group and came toward him. They approached him no less politely than had the first, and one of them began to speak:

"Come, sir, he said, you are decidedly biased; let us forget about five thousand pounds; let us say ten and it's a deal."

"Oh! The scoundrels!" Irnois was saying to himself at the peak of his terror. "The scoundrels!"

Yet, this time too, no harm came to him. The horsemen, after waiting vainly for his answer, went away, and the discussion started again between them and their companions. Finally, the whole band rode toward Irnois who, this time, was convinced that he had reached his last hour. But imagine his stupefaction when the horseman who had first addressed him said:

"Monsieur, you are about to make a bad bargain!

— Ah! Sir, Irnois answered in a lamentable voice, how grateful I would be to you if you were willing to call it quits!"

The horseman began to laugh.

"I see, sir, that you are a wit, and know the value of things. My partners and I wish to lose no time over this business. Here, he added, taking out his pocket book, twenty thousand pounds; do not ask us for more. This timberland is a good speculation, no doubt; but it would become a very bad one if your withdrawal were to cost us more."

Irnois, in spite of the crudeness of his judgment, understood then that these horrible criminals were wood merchants who saw in him a rival bidder. In fact, they had been warned about one. He hurriedly took the twenty thousand pounds, plus his share of an excellent breakfast, and most willingly he renounced whatever they wanted.

These twenty thousand pounds behaved splendidly in his hands. The abyss of speculation did not swallow the least of his écus ; regardless of the imperturbably fearless stupidity with which he forged ahead, everything succeeded for him, so much so that he caused a number of veterans of the King's Revenues^[7] to wonder whether he was not a first-rate financial genius.

It was fortunate for him that he still was only a small fry when, in the midst of this good luck, the Revolution broke out. His humble head did not attract the thunderbolt, whose roar he might otherwise have deserved; he went into hiding and with him his pistoles, and he came out of his hole to pilfer the Republic only when the worst of the storm was over. He did fairly well in tampering with the market in promissory notes; however, his triumphs in that line were nothing compared to his exploits as purveyor of shoes;^[8] out of cowardice, he had the wit to take cover behind several adventurous spirits to whom he was content to lend money and who, for their part, in their own, individual names used their influence with the government. He watched mountains of gold fill his coffers, and, at the peak of his intoxication, by that time Bonaparte was already consul for life, Irnois still thought of himself as the greatest man of the century.

One fine day he took a wife. The companion he chose to perpetuate his breed was the daughter of a speculator like himself, Mlle Maigrelut; and not the least debt he owed to his good star was that it had given her, simple, silly, enemy of luxury and pleasure, to him, who was the same. With her he, so to speak, married the Mlles Catherine and Julie Maigrelut, her sisters, whom their father's ruin and death soon added to the household. He did not complain about it. He had, as he liked to say, enough in the larder for everyone, and having little taste for gatherings, visits, social pleasures, and feeling that the capacity of mind of Mlles Maigrelut and of Mme Irnois exactly matched his own, he found pleasure in their company, which spared him from leaving the house.

Such was M. Irnois, such were the companions of his solitude. As for the life he led, the time has come to say a word about it. With all of his town houses, his great wealth, his immense income, M. Irnois had never become accustomed to luxury and found himself ill at ease in state rooms. He was accused of avarice, which was unjust; if he

did not spend his money, it was because he did not enjoy doing so. He lived on the third floor of a house situated in the vicinity of Lombard Street.^[9] What human dwellings are like in that corner of Paris is well known. All the rooms were uniformly tiled in red, except for a parqueted sitting room; all the rooms were uniformly dark, except for the bedrooms, which were even darker because they overlooked the courtyard. The furniture was of mahogany in the reception rooms, of walnut in the smaller one; yellow Utrecht velvet everywhere reigned supreme, and a few gilded clocks, representing Flora and Zephyr or Love catching a butterfly, under glass, were the utmost concessions to Irnois magnificence. As for art objects, there were none, except an oil portrait of the master of the house, dreadful creation of some sign dauber. The servants consisted of a cook, a fat housekeeper, and a ragged and unkempt youngster who combined jobs of widely varying importance, sometimes wood splitter, sometimes errand boy, sometimes private secretary, sometimes footman. So much for the organization of this household in which M. Irnois could find nothing to change, in which he ruled as despot, talking noisily, scolding loudly or grumbling from dawn to dusk.

But just as in these narrow, sterile, dreadful valleys, which night covers with heavy shadows and where the traveler advances with a staggering and frightened step, a distant light always appears at the end which restores one's joy, thus in M. Irnois's den there was a light, a weak and doubtful one, it is true, but delightful nevertheless, for the eyes it brightened did not need full daylight. In that dark and gloomy apartment, inhabited by disagreeable people, there was, as in all human affairs, a happiness to which the little poetry of these crude brains turned for warmth; a happiness in which all the affections merged. What common bond would have held the hearts of the Mlles Maigrelut, of Mme and of M. Irnois except for this luminous point in their lives? Scor-

ing one hundred in piquet, is surely something; reversis as well; but with the best will in the world, it is not enough; and whatever warmth, life and sweetness one hundred points at piquet or reversis were not able to give to this bourgeois circle, it was Emmelina who gave it.

Emmelina! When one had said Emmelina in the house, one had said everything: all day long masters and servants could think only of providing Emmelina with the greatest possible contentment. Without Emmelina they had nothing, with her they had everything. Father, mother, aunts, servants and private secretary laughed, paled and wept in turn according to the tone with which this name, Emmelina, was pronounced in the morning by fat Jeanne, the housekeeper, as she came out of the sacred room.

The passion of all these good people for the cherished being was not identical, of the same value and the same weight. M. Irnois made little ado about his affection, never mentioned it that I know of, but felt it more keenly and more deeply than anyone. The only way he would manifest his love for his daughter was by not bullying her as he did the others. He loved Emmelina without really knowing it. How would he have known it, he who in all his life had never reflected on things or people or himself? His daughter couldn't prevent his being gloomy, but she had the power to make him twenty times more disagreeable than he ordinarily was, and this, solely because in the morning he might not have been awakened by a satisfactory report on the state of Emmelina's health. In short, he loved her passionately.

Mme Irnois, of a placid, what am I saying! glacial temperament, who had never in her life experienced the slightest lively feeling (otherwise she would never have heard of marrying his lordship her husband), Mme Irnois spent a large part of the day holding her daughter on her lap, kissing her, fondling her, telling her any trifle that came to her imagination. These trifles were not pretty, they were not varied,

above all they were not witty in any way. Mme Irnois was as total a nonentity as any old, ugly and illiterate bourgeoise can be; but she tried her best to entertain the darling child; she felt her heart melt when she looked at her, and could not look at her without kissing her.

In this regard, her tenderness greatly resembled that of the Mlles Maigrelut, Emmelina's maternal aunts, who were only a little chattier than their married sister. The Maigrelut ladies were the most perfect types of spinsters that one could desire. Had they been let loose, both of them, in the middle of a provincial town, they would have developed with extraordinary energy the viciousness of a tiger and a viper; but the constant solitude and almost absolute claustration of their lives had tamed these dangerous temperaments, and all their ardor had turned into servile and faithful devotion to Emmelina.

Thus loved, thus adored and served, Mlle Irnois reached her seventeenth birthday; that is the time when the story I have to tell starts. . . .So she was at that beautiful period of youth that is like a golden gate to life. It is time to tell what she was like and to show her surrounded by her retinue, that is to say, her thin and sallow father, her fat and common mother, her dried-out, gaunt, and loquacious aunts, and her maids, who are not worth the honor of a description.

One probably expects to hear a marvelous tale of unheard-of perfections, to contemplate a young woman endowed by the fairies with all the charms of beauty and with. . . .We shall see!^[10]

II

Emmelina, this angel, this goddess, this subject of so many hopes, was, at seventeen years, a miserable creature the size of a ten-year-old girl, and was deprived by her bad blood simultaneously of growth, of a normal physique, of strength and health. Without being precisely a hunchback, she was lopsided, and, to boot, her right leg was not as long as her left leg. Her chest seemed almost to cave in, and her head, pushed to one side by the flaw in her posture, was also bent forward. Did she at least have a pretty face to compensate however little for such basic faults? Alas! no: her mouth was not well designed; her thick lips gave her a sulky expression; her sickly pallor was not becoming; only her large blue eyes were rather beautiful and moving, and her hair, blond as a fairy's, was matchless. As a consequence, her magnificent hair was often talked about in the house; Emmelina's hair served as the favorite point of comparison for whatever they wanted to praise most.

The poor girl, thus ill-treated by nature, had great difficulty in walking and in moving about; she was a bit like a reed, always folded and collapsed upon herself; and old Jeanne, her maid, who had carried her as a babe, was still carrying her, grown-up young lady though she was. She did not like to walk, she found it too difficult and tiring; and she never had grown used to it; so much so that, when it came time to go from one room to another, one could hear Emmelina's small, sweet voice:

"Jeanne! carry me!"

And Jeanne carried her.

One might think that seeing herself adored, adulated and obeyed in that way Emmelina would be spoiled, very willful, capricious and forever indulging in whims and demands. But not so. She spent almost the whole day in silence and idleness. Her mother would have like to see her busy; but they had never succeeded in getting her to be so. Embroidery, stitchery did not appeal to her; the luster of wool and silk meant nothing to her; she had no taste for finery, never thought of ornament and never wondered if her face was beautiful or ugly. Her temperament was apathetic; she never wished or yearned for anything. She didn't seem to be bored, but she was never gay either. Once, they had taken her to the Opera; it had been a momentous event in the household. M. Irnois, his wife, his two sisters-in-law and Jeanne had been very impressed by the magnificence of the spectacle; Emmelina alone had no reaction and did not say a word about it afterward. In truth, she participated little in life, and at her most active, she would work on a hem, always the same one.

As for the education of her intellect, she had received none; moreover, no one around her had even thought it necessary. However, her Aunt Julie Maigrelut, who, from time to time, enjoyed leafing through a novel by M. Ducray-Duminil, or by Mme de Bournon-Malarme,^[11] had taught her to read, and she used this knowledge to take up The Donkey now and then, or Puss'n Boots ,^[12] in Perrault's book; she had started there with her teacher, and she had never risked going going further on her own. At seventeen she still took up The Donkey or Puss'n Boots , and spent the whole day in their company. She did not find them particularly enjoyable, but not very fatiguing either, and she did not ask for any more than that.

Every morning at eight o'clock, Jeanne, who slept in her room next to her bed, would approach it and inquire how she

had slept, a daily question to which Emmelina's daily answer was:

"Well, Jeanne."

But her more or less pale complexion, her more or less hollow eyes were the actual clues that Jeanne queried. The examination over, Jeanne would go running to M. and Mme Irnois's rooms where she would convey her impressions, where she would declare how many times Emmelina had drunk during the night. If the report was bad, M. Irnois would become more bearish than usual, his furious voice conveying terror to the very depths of the kitchen. Mlles Maigrelut knew then what lay ahead of them for the whole day, and would add their yelping to the general consternation. If, on the contrary, Jeanne's declarations were favorable, if Emmelina had asked to drink only twice, M. Irnois was more economical of his curses and invective, and everyone would benefit from his benign mood.

Then Jeanne would go back to dress the girl; we are not talking about charming attire like that of the Graces; they would put any old dress on her, merino in winter or linen in summer, with a bonnet that kept her beautiful hair hidden; and that was it until bedtime.

Once dressed, Emmelina received from the depths of her armchair the good mornings and the cajoleries of the whole family and the rough hugging of her father. After breakfast, it was rather her habit to tell her mother:

"Mummy, I am going to sit in your lap.

— Come, dear angel," Mme Irnois would answer. The poor sickly child would lie against her mother's bosom and would often fall asleep, or stay awake in silence allowing herself to be covered with kisses that she did not return.

It would come to no one's mind, at this point, to ask if Emmelina had an intellect. No, indeed, she did not, the unfortunate! nor anything resembling intelligent activity. What is the intellect if it is not knowing how to guess and to artic-

ulate the real or factitious relationships that exist between things? A mind cannot develop in the midst of solitude, or in the company of imbeciles, and there was no one in M. Irnois's house whose contact would have nurtured Emmelina's mind. Moreover, since she had been taught nothing, she had no subject on which to exercise her intelligence; her conversation, therefore, assuming that by chance someone had sought it, would have been nothing but the most banal.

There you have my heroine: deformed, not at all pretty, without wit, and most of the time silent; sickly, and finding her greatest comfort in lying against the maternal bosom like a four year old child. There is nothing in such a picture which is at all seductive. But the portrait is not entirely finished, since nothing has been said about her daydreaming disposition, which was the despair of the Irnois household, and which was not Emmelina's main but her sole character trait.

The poor girl, without being either aware of or embarrassed by her physical imperfections, was, like all ill-formed beings, doomed to a profound and incurable melancholy, in appearance without cause, but only too completely accounted for by the influence of the physical upon the moral. No complaint ever arose from this unreflecting sadness, perceptible only in its having cast a dark shadow over Mlle Irnois's existence; but when her seventeenth year had arrived, and with that age the mysterious unfoldings of the self, the whole swarm of vernal feelings which, at that time of life, rush and gather about the soul, had come to make their quite melancholy drone heard. Emmelina the young woman had come to be even more silent than Emmelina the child. Although she was not aware of the inner ferment of her being, although she was very far from being able to analyze it, it made her ill at ease and unhappy. She yearned for those unknown favors bestowed by the ever-smiling gods of youth, blond Vertumnus and fresh Pomona; but she yearned

for them painfully, and would willingly have felt like dying, if she had been able to question herself.

Nonetheless, her melancholy became deeper every day. An exterior cause had brought to this wretched soul more suffering along with a more intense life. We shall speak about it in greater detail presently.

Emmelina had given up seeking refuge in the maternal lap; she now preferred to spend her day by a window of her bedroom which looked out on the courtyard, and hardly ever wanted to go into the sitting room. In a peculiar way that surprised everybody, she seemed for a while stronger and healthier than she had ever appeared. For a few days her cheeks had even shown a rosy hue which, in the delighted eyes of the whole household, had seemed to embody the ideal of Dawn's fingers. And yet she never wanted to leave her room, and, in her room, liked only a corner by the chosen window. The so sweet Emmelina soon went even further; something unheard of, she had a will; she demanded to stay alone: she mercilessly dismissed mother, maid, and aunts, and one day when Mme Irnois, worried by such strange new behavior, ventured a few timid remarks, Emmelina, frightening prodigy! Emmelina stamped her feet and burst into tears. The whole family was dismayed for two days; but M. Irnois forbade most sternly that anyone dare take the liberty of upsetting his daughter. The sentence having been pronounced in truly dreadful terms, and the judge being formidable, no one challenged the justice of the decision. They proceeded to obey it with an eagerness rarely observed in those who obey. Thus Emmelina remained free to spend long days alone in her room, sitting in an armchair, in her window corner, doing . . . no one knew what.

Nevertheless, she was seventeen. M. Irnois had married, if my memory is correct, around July or August 1794. Those were not propitious times for thinking about marriage or any other joy; but good capitalist that he was, his heart

was not very sensitive to his fatherland's perils, and he had wedded Mlle Maigrelut without remorse. At the time that I take up my story, it was then 1811, the former supplier's existence, however secluded, was nevertheless not obscure. The radiance of gold is as evident as that of the sun, and a bulging safe cannot possibly remain unknown, unadmired, and uncoveted by the citizens of a great State. It was in vain that M. Irnois inhabited the Lombard district, in vain that his door, carefully shut to serious men as well as to whippersnappers, opened for hardly anyone; one knew to the last detail how many écus there were in the house at number such and such, one was completely enlightened about the habits of the household, and one was perfectly aware of the existence of Mlle Irnois, who, as the sole heir of the considerable paternal wealth, had the keys of the coffers tied to the end of her virginal sash. Now what fortunate mortal would turn out to be victorious over the dragon (father Irnois) and to possess the golden apples (the great wealth)? It was a question people liked to ask in a few of the most elevated circles of that time.

Our times have a bad reputation; they are accused of loving money to excess; but, to be fair to them, one must admit that a passion for hoarding had devoured many men before our generation appeared on the world's stage, and that even under the Empire one could easily find characters who, set apart from the belligerent passions of the time by their covetousness, indulged in a taste for capital with no less verve than those who the most relentlessly play the stock market. In those days, certain important gentlemen, speculating on national glory, were not above tampering with foreign funds. There were others who tied their hopes of wealth to contracting rich marriages, neither more nor less than the notorious roués of the Regency; and, owing to a circumstance particular to that age, these people often knew how to divert the effect of imperial power to their own profit by recurring to

the will of the master in matches that could not have been concluded without this quasi-divine help.^[13] To be sure, I am not trying to say that Napoleon lightheartedly made himself into the supporter of such base ambitions; but, in principle, he wanted great fortunes to come to those who served in great offices; and, as often happens on this earth, Where the most beautiful things Are destined to the worst,^[14] the most beautiful principle sometimes finds questionable applications. More than one basely greedy individual took advantage of the Emperor's plans, and thanks to them wormed their way into families in which they were not welcome.

There was, in 1811, in the Council of State,^[15] a Count Cabarot whose services were much appreciated, and who was indeed a man of merit. An obscure lawyer before the Revolution in who knows which of the King's courts, he had sucked with his mother's milk, in the family of scriveners whence he came, a truly profound legal learning. From earliest childhood, Cabarot had heard talk of chicanery; common law, Roman law, all imaginable laws, Lombard, Burgundian, Frankish, even Salic laws, had been the constant occupations given his mind by the author of his days. Little wonder then if at thirty years he was found to be one of the best educated men at the bar. Though but little eloquent as an orator and a perfect coward, he was sent to the Convention where he had contented himself with quietly handling business. Under the Directory, Citizen Cabarot had made a name for himself in ministerial offices. He had been successfully employed at all sorts of tasks: in those days scriveners must have been somewhat like Michel Morin.^[16] Cabarot had been a plenipotentiary, then a commissioner of Heaven knows what, then department head in the Ministry of Justice, and then many other things. In sum, Bonaparte, aware of his expertise, took him up and put him in the Council of State, where his vast erudition in legal matters clinched the master's favor for him. He had been made a count.

Once more, Cabarot was . . . excuse me, Count Cabarot^[17] was an erudite and distinguished man in terms of practical knowledge. But he was as depraved as he was learned and clever. I cannot, nor do I have the least desire to, enter into the details of his inner life. It is enough for me to say that the circle he moved in, a gathering of generals, legal colleagues, diplomats, none of whom were prudes, readily laughed at his habits and that Prince Cambacérès^[18] included him in his confidence.

However, even with so much merit and with Caesar's favor, Count Cabarot was not wealthy: at the most he had an income of thirty thousand francs, which might have seemed a mountain of gold to his father, poor man, but which was not sufficient for him. Add to this figure about twenty thousand francs of annual debts, and you will agree that it was not enough.

One day when he was working with his Imperial and Royal Majesty, Count Cabarot dared respectfully to touch upon his profound distress.

The sovereign of the world,^[19] if I may use an Oriental expression, answered this touching complaint with no more than perhaps deserved reproaches about the horrible thieveries of the Count. The Count apologized as best he could and renewed the attack so well that he was asked what he wanted.

"Mlle Irnois's hand would crown my wishes," answered the Councillor of State with a bow.

Thereupon an explanation of what Mlle Irnois was: how, physically, she was probably not very pretty (he was far from knowing to what extent), but also how morally she had an income of four or five hundred thousand pounds, and how such a union would make the most humble and devoted subject of his Imperial and Royal Majesty the happiest of men, and so on and so on.

Fortunately, Count Cabarot, clever and well-informed man that he was, was quick to act; he vaguely knew that the

girl was seventeen and that with the virtues that he himself took pleasure in discerning in her, it was impossible that within a month the attention of many other suitors of his sort would not be aroused also. In fact, they were already thinking about it, but did not hurry enough; Count Cabarot was more alert.

On his side, the august power he implored proved benevolent. Cabarot did not leave the cabinet without bringing along an order addressed to the aide-de-camp on duty, or any other person who at that moment conveyed the imperial will, to require that M. Pierre-André Irnois appear in three days before his sovereign.

Count Cabarot saw himself in seventh heaven; he had not been so happy since the judgment against Tallien,^[20] who had once scowled at him.

III

Count Cabarot was too fine a diplomat to confide prematurely to his best friends the charming hope that he had conceived. To the contrary, he acted with the utmost reserve on the evening of this happy day on which the Emperor had deigned to promise to intercede in his favor. But despite this discretion, he beamed so broadly, distending his ugly visage, broadening his flat face, that his princely highness the archchancellor,^[21] as well as M. d'Aigrefeuille^[22] and their like, could not but comment on it.

"Please tell me what has so enchanted Cabarot tonight?" some were saying.

The answer was simple: that tender creature, Cabarot, was thinking of his forthcoming match with Mlle Irnois.

At this point a reader might imagine that the Count, having never seen his fair one or heard of her infirmities, was setting himself up for a painful retreat. One might believe that he would not have wanted a young woman in poor Emmelina's state. Do not believe it. At this point one must come to understand the whole Count Cabarot. For six hundred thousand pounds of income, and even for a good deal less, he would without hesitation have given his hand to Carabosse,^[23] with all that notorious fairy's crookedness of stature and monstrosity of mood. Count Cabarot was a practical man.

As I was saying, that very evening, in Prince Cambacérès's drawing room, he was charmingly witty and gay. After the throng had left, when there were only a small number of intimates around the fireplace, he started to tell a host

of stories that were more or less indelicate, with a taste, an attack, a bite that brought him unanimous applause. He was ecstatic!

In the house on Lombard Street, the effect was totally different. When the imperial missive was handed to M. Irnois, M. Irnois had felt a profound terror. The idea of appearing before his sovereign did not arouse in him that feeling of pride that today puffs up the breast of any civil guards officer taken away for the first time from that obscure barrel where his grape juice ferments in order to shine as a new star in the luminous regions of a court ball.^[24] M. Irnois was like all the moneyed men in those times: he did not relish contact with power; the word government made him shudder; in men invested with authority he saw nothing more than born enemies of his coffers, harpies forever in search of spoils. He almost fell to the floor when the gendarme handed him the hatti-sherif^[25] that summoned him to the palace.

His face pale and discomposed, he entered the sitting room where his wife and his sisters-in-law were chatting, and although it was rather rare on his part to talk about his affairs or to seek advice, he planted himself in the middle of the female areopagus, and, holding out his letter with a desperate expression, he exclaimed:

"Confound the devil! Look what a paving stone has fallen on my head!"

Six eyes lit up with curiosity; six arms extended; six hands attached to a total of thirty crooked fingers tried to grab the letter that had so upset the brain of the master of the house.

Mlle Julie Maigrelut was the most agile; she seized the letter and rapidly read it aloud, then she sank back in her armchair exclaiming:

"Oh, my God!"

Mlle Catherine Maigrelut caught the precious paper in flight as it fell from her sister's fingers and likewise exclaimed

after having read it aloud:

"Oh, my God!"

Unable to believe what she had heard twice already, Mme Irnois recited the contents of the letter as her two sisters had done, and as they had, gave all the signs of a profound consternation.^[26]

The three women briefly entertained the thought that what was going on was nothing less than an attempt to destroy M. Irnois.

The former supplier was, however, braver than his companions and assured them that, in all probability, things would not reach that point. Moreover, it would really be too unjust. He had never spoken ill of any government, and of the Emperor's even less than of any other; he had paid his taxes regularly. There was no doubt that in the past one could have somewhat criticized the way he had shod the army, but all these peccadilloes took place long ago, and furthermore his name had never appeared on the supplies. Clearly the Emperor could not wish him the least ill; what, therefore, did he want?

Mlle Julie Maigrelut was the first one to express an important opinion on this new matter; I say new because the spectrum had changed from black to rose. She suggested that if the Emperor summoned her brother, her brother who was innocent as a lamb, it had absolutely to be in order to reward him; but reward him for what?

"For his great wealth, immediately answered Mlle Catherine Maigrelut.

— She's right, said Mlle Julie.

— She's a hundred times right, whispered Mme Irnois.

— To reward me? exclaimed the Croesus, in what way? Zounds! it would be better to leave me alone.

— I wouldn't be surprised, Brother, continued Mlle Julie, if his Imperial Majesty wanted to make you a Duke or Marshal of the Empire! Really! a man as rich as you, there

would be nothing astonishing in it!

— You are three silly women! thundered M. Irnois. In order to become a marshal, one must have been a soldier; more probably he will make me a baron! Well, who cares! The plague take me if I enjoy preening about in the Tuileries! How shall I dress?"

Here was one more delicate problem. They considered and turned down a number of opinions; finally, they adopted the only reasonable one, which was to call the tailor and consult him. They only had three days left; they could not hurry enough.

M. Irnois's despair knew no limit when he heard that very evening that he absolutely had to put on the ritual embroidered dress coat, kerseymere breeches, white silk hose, buckled shoes, crush-hat, and have his hair curled, and skewer himself with a sword, and wear gloves! Nevertheless, he gave in; and, swearing and struggling like an automaton, he abandoned himself to the care of the unfortunate, the too unfortunate artisan in charge of enhancing his person.

The household was topsy-turvy, and yet Emmelina did not take the least part in the terrible events unleashed around her. When her father had shown the letter from the palace to her mother and her aunts, she was alone in her room, as was her habit; in the evening she heard the talk swirling around her about what was going to happen; she was even told by Mlle Catherine:

"Don't you know, Emmelina? Your father is going to court the day after tomorrow. . . .Isn't that nice, my child!"

Emmelina smiled sweetly, gazing at whoever was talking to her; but she did not answer, and even seemed to have only barely understood what had been said. Her mother looked at her anxiously, then raised her eyes to the heavens with a deep sigh. In that moment, Mme Irnois ceased to be the fat and silly bourgeoise that we know and became a sort of Niobe,^[27] such was the true and profound pain in her eyes,

which were turned toward those regions where one so often seeks relief in vain.

From day to day Emmelina was becoming more absorbed. She was not sadder; but she spoke still less often, and was no longer interested in anything at all; neither her aunt's chitchat, nor Jeanne's caresses, nor The Donkey , nor working on her hem could do anything more for her; even her mother's fondling did not appear to mean anything to her: formerly at least, she sought it; now she rather seemed to avoid it, for she received it with indifference or even with visible impatience.

And yet, was she unhappy? It was hard to believe, for she sometimes had on her mouth and in her eyes something like a slight smile, like a subtle flame that revealed an infinite well-being. When they looked at her covertly, they saw her plunged into a sort of ecstasy that seemed to intoxicate her with the most ardent delights: she resembled then one of those passionate medieval saints, and if the people around her had known what intelligence is, they would have seen its most sublime expression on this inspired face. The intensity of this exaltation must have been vivid, for Jeanne sometimes fell into a mute contemplation in front of her mistress, and remained divided between admiration and secret terror. When she tore herself away from this condition, so unusual for her, she would tiptoe noiselessly out of the room and would go to the kitchen exclaiming:

"Jesus! Jesus! how much Mademoiselle Emmelina looks like the Holy Virgin!"

The great crisis surrounding the young ecstatic therefore made no impression on this imagination lost in another world, and M. Irnois, in his lofty preoccupations, had to do without filial solicitude. In any case, he did not miss it; he could not be demanding, and moreover was so absorbed, hanging between fear and hope, listening in turn to the conjectures of his privy council and to the important communications from

his tailor, that he did not have the time to give thought both to his presentation to the Emperor and to the too absolute tranquillity of his daughter; in any case, he would have been incapable of pondering two different things at the same time.

Finally that great day arrived when under the dazzled gaze of the whole building, whose forewarned occupants had flocked out onto the various landings, M. Pierre-André Irnois crossed the threshold of his door in full ceremonial dress followed by his private secretary who, appointed footman for the occasion, was descending the staircase by sliding down the bannister in order to reach the hired carriage faster and open its door.

M. Irnois, the rich capitalist, seemed even uglier and less favored by nature in this memorable circumstance as his apparel was the more sumptuous and displayed even more his pretention of showing off his physical advantages. In passing, I cannot help but cast a disparaging glance on those pitiful hose reduced to enveloping . . . what they enveloped! on those pitiful kerseymere breeches whose awkward folds floated around those undoubtedly shriveled thighs, on this skinny body adorned with a jabot and a silver embroidered brown cutaway, on that pitiful and deplorable sword.

The coach drove away as well as could be expected, considering that it was quite ancient and dilapidated, and arrived at the periphery of the Carrousel. In those days luxury was very much in favor, and the sovereign, who was eager to stimulate commerce, ordered its display. M. Irnois was not permitted to have his equipage advance onto the noble dust of the imperial court. He stepped down and with his credentials in hand perilously made his way through the coaches and horses to the main stairway.

It was a state occasion. Next to the aide-de-camp on duty, who called out the name of each person introduced, was standing a man of approximately forty years, rather ugly but with a sharp, shrewd, and witty face. It was Count Cabarot,

very apprehensive over the arrival of his future father-in-law. Having glanced at the letter of invitation and at the individual who had handed it to him, the aide-de-camp looked meaningfully at the Councillor of State. The latter stared fixedly at his future father-in-law.

But rather than attending in this fashion an imperial reception, which would be much too great an honor for this little tale, let us return to the more humble sphere of Mme Irnois's sitting room.

In there, no more splendors; enough of magnificence, no more of this somewhat theatrical pomp, as the Empire conceived it. A lamp is burning rather sadly on a pedestal table in the middle of the apartment. Aunt Julie is knitting, Aunt Catherine is knitting, and Madame Irnois is also knitting. Emmelina is by the fire in her armchair and, her eyes fixed on the embers, probably envisioning there the notion slowly forming in her head, contemplates the burning world whose forms the flames keep changing.

Anxiety is at its peak; everybody is speaking at the same time. For a long time Jeanne has been the messenger between the fears of the sitting room and those of the kitchen, but emotions are too lively, the kitchen goes up to the sitting room, and to hear them talk about king, emperor, marshal, baron, duke, prison, and death, you would believe yourself in a political meeting.

Finally they hear the bell ring violently. A very prolonged Oh! escapes everyone's lips; the cook runs to the door. M. Irnois rushes into the sitting room, pale, no, what am I saying, livid! His eyes blazing and cursing all Olympian divinities except for the Styx,^[28] which he cannot name since he does not know of it. Assuredly since the time when the bourgeoise, the count, the barrister, the philanthropic lady, his former masters had dismissed him, he had not put on a greater display of anger and disappointment; but the transports of his language were mixed with a deep feeling of

fright that did not escape any of the witnesses of this dramatic scene.

Finally after having cursed a good deal, M. Irnois threw his crush-hat into the face of the private secretary, sat down abruptly in front of the fire, and, having dismissed all the kitchen escapees with a last bellow, he began to satisfy the overexcited curiosity of his family.

"In the name of all the saints, the three women screamed, tell us what happened to you!

— I am a wrecked man, destroyed by horrible scoundrels, M. Irnois exclaimed. That is what happened to me, hell and . . . ! Oh! My God, how terrible my predicament! Don't you know what's happening? Well, then, I enter the Tuileries: you can't imagine the crowd, the noise, the heat! I was in a hurry to see the Emperor to know what he wanted of me and to leave. I arrive in a last reception room; the letter had been removed from my hand by I don't know whom, I don't know how; I was bewildered! A tall man, embroidered all over, with epaulets and a large red sash across his chest, pushes me by the shoulders, for, bedeviled by all this fuss, I was standing like a statue. I couldn't distinguish anything! and I find myself nose to nose with the Emperor!

— With the Emperor? his audience repeated, except for Emmelina, who was not listening.

— Hush up, then, you confounded babblers! M. Irnois shouted, giving the logs a hard kick, whose violence made his daughter start, then sigh. Hush up then! Yes, the Emperor! And he tells me, this Emperor, pointing at a man standing behind him: 'Prepare yourself to marry your daughter off to Count Cabarot; I am making him an ambassador!' Indeed, at first, without really knowing what I was saying, I exclaimed: 'Give Emmelina to this . . .' I went no further, for the Emperor stared at me, oh! what a stare! I felt as if the earth was giving way under me, as if I were about to be imprisoned, shot, strangled, massacred! I very nearly fainted; it seems

even that I collapsed, because I was supported by the arms of a scoundrel! . . . It was, would you believe it, that scoundrel to whom the Emperor wants me to give Emmelina, who dared to prevent me from falling! I gave him a hard look! . . . the same way the Emperor had glared at me; but it didn't have the same effect. To the contrary, he made a face that was supposed to pass for a smile, and said: 'My dear Monsieur Irnois, our introduction takes place somewhat abruptly; but nevertheless do not doubt my respectful feelings; we have friends in common!' 'I don't believe so, I answered in that way of mine, I have no friends!' He was not taken aback; and said with a bow: 'I will go and present my respectful compliments to Madame Irnois tomorrow, without fail.' 'I will be out!' I exclaimed. 'The Emperor orders you to stay home, whenever I notify you,' he replied staring at me. I was terrified and I came back here. Can you imagine such a situation!

— It's monstrous! the women exclaimed.

— Is he coming tomorrow, the monster? Mlle Julie asked.

— Tomorrow! said M. Irnois.

— Then! the spinster went on, I propose that we give him a bit of our minds: "You will not have Emmelina! you will not have her! that's all!"

— You silly woman! M. Irnois howled; he will go fetch the police, and I will be dragged to prison!

— Would you rather have Emmelina die? the mother asked.

— No, answered M. Irnois; but my being locked up will not stop the marriage.

— Then what shall we do? Mlle Catherine asked.

— Emmelina, the mother said in a tearful voice, kneeling in front of her daughter, Emmelina, they want to marry you off? Emmelina, they want to take you away from here, dearest love! answer me, what would you have me do?"

IV

Everyone was dismayed when, in answer to her mother's question, Emmelina was seen to cock her head slowly and, with an indescribably sweet smile and her eyes shining, to say:

"Yes, Mummy, I am willing to go.

— What, M. Irnois said, you are willing to leave? What does this mean? . . . You are willing to leave us and follow this Cabarot whom you do not know?

— I do, indeed, the poor girl answered, nodding her head joyfully; yes, I do know him! . . . I want to leave with him."

They looked at one another; but the more they tried to understand, the less they succeeded. It did not seem possible that Emmelina, always secluded in the house, as she was, and never going out, could know the husband forced on her parents by the imperial will.

"But, Mme Irnois asked, where did you see him?

— Ah! Ah!" Emmelina answered gazing . . . and then she stopped, thought a moment and continued: "I don't want to tell.

— Do not cross her, Aunt Julie said. She must have dreamed something, and tomorrow will find her more reasonable; for she is full of good sense, this little Emmelina. Isn't that so, my darling, that you will be more reasonable tomorrow?

— I'm willing to leave with him, Emmelina continued. . . .When am I going?

— Oh! Mercy! Mme Irnois said. Don't tell me that one raises children so they can be that ungrateful! This girl, who

is adored here, and who thinks nothing of following the first boor! . . . Emmelina, you hurt us terribly!"

Emmelina remained quite untouched by this reproach; she was smiling, laughing, clapping her hands; she was overcome by a nervous agitation, the like of which they had never before seen in her. Everybody around her was dumbfounded.

M. Irnois did not know what to think, and was on the verge of spewing out a volcano of curses. Without having much thought about it, he did not doubt his daughter's eternal attachment; on his child's poor health he had built an edifice of expectations that the present moment brought down. To keep her constantly by him had been the happiness on which he had most firmly counted. The present circumstance was most cruel. He paced up and down the apartment; but he said nothing; he was too grieved to talk. The two aunts and the mother were sobbing copiously.

The girl was not paying the slightest attention. It was thus the evening ended in a profound consternation for one side; for the other, a joy that did not try to contain itself. Emmelina had never been heard to sing. When Jeanne came to take her in her arms to carry her to bed, she could be heard warbling indistinct notes as gay as those a bird might address to the trees in the woods.

Emmelina had only barely left when the bomb exploded: M. Irnois was seized by an access of anger and despair that he no longer tried to contain; and the women, even though they were singing in chorus with him, were not unscathed by some of his reproaches. He accused them of having received Cabarot in his absence, of having tolerated Cabarot's stealing his daughter's affection, of having turned the head of an innocent child out of pure feminine stupidity; in brief, he accused them to his heart's content, and they defended themselves as best they could. Down deep they believed themselves to be the victims of a spell, as was also their daughter and niece; because never in their lives had they had even the slightest

glimpse of a man named Cabarot, and two hours earlier they still would have sworn that Emmelina did not know him any more than they did. But now, they no longer knew what to believe. There was, therefore, a general desolation mixed with curiosity; for, after all, there had to be an answer to the enigma, and time would certainly make it known.

The next day at noon, the private secretary, fulfilling the function of a master of ceremonies, announced in the sitting room that a gentleman was asking to see Mme Irnois.

"What's his name, this gentleman of yours?

— He says that his name is Count Cabarot.

— Ah! Heavenly gods! exclaimed the whole assembly; Monsieur Irnois, have the gentleman come in!"

Reluctantly, but goaded by a holy terror of imperial power, M. Irnois proceeded to meet his future son-in-law; he found him in the entry taking off his box coat.

Count Cabarot had rigged himself out as a suitor; he had thought that the most fastidious attire would appear an evidence of his consideration to the family he was about to enter; as he knew them to be very middle class, he had also displayed his medals and decorations on his chest so as to dazzle them a bit.

"The fashion in which I have found my way to their daughter, he said to himself, is a bit brisk; now that we are in by means of a bold stroke, it would be politic to soften the resulting effect by a becoming propriety."

He put this system of conduct into play at once, the moment that M. Irnois's long face presented itself to him. His body leaning forward, his head thrown back, his eyes, his cheeks, his mouth, all smiles, his two hands affectionately extended.

"Hah! Good day to you sir! he exclaimed; allow me the indiscretion of bothering you so soon! Yesterday at the palace I had little chance to see you, and, I confess, I had the keenest desire to shake your hand! Would you kindly lead

me to your charming family? I am dying to be introduced to them.

— Sir, said the former purveyor, you may follow me if you wish. Madame Irnois, and you, Mesdemoiselles Maigrelut, this is Count Cabarot, about whom the Emperor spoke to me."

The Councillor of State bowed even lower than he had for the master of the house, his right hand fluttering in an utterly gallant and respectful manner. When he raised his eyes, he tried to guess which of these three people was the prey he coveted; but he soon understood that Aunt Julie, the youngest of the three sisters, did not have a sixteen-year-old profile. He resolved to be patient; then he launched the conversation.

"Bless me, ladies, he said in a saccharine voice, you have in front of you a straightforward, uncomplicated man, asking you permission to feel at ease in the midst of a family which he esteems. His Majesty the Emperor, whose wisdom and utmost kindness are equal to his power, deigned to think that I might, in view of my position, my character, my principles, assure the happiness of Mademoiselle Irnois, your daughter, whose wit and grace make worthy of the utmost respect. Do you not think that this august approval, which fills me with gratitude, by the same token gives you an absolute guarantee as to who I am? No, the Emperor, our glorious master, would not wish to sacrifice the happiness of a person as interesting as Mlle Irnois. Please consider me, Madame, as a respectful and devoted son, and, even though our acquaintance is rather new, deal with me as you would with an old servant."

"There, he said to himself after having delivered this speech, that cannot fail to please these rustics. I am harnessing them; we are about to become cronies and companions."

A few overlords of the Imperial Court had a strong tendency to pose as veritable magnates^[29] in relation to the other classes of society.

Mme Irnois bowed slightly to the Count and answered:

"You are too kind; I did not wish to marry my daughter.

— Ah! Heavens! why, dear lady? She is sixteen, she must be sixteen; isn't that the age when the heart begins to. . . .

— Perhaps you are not aware of our Emmelina's state of health?

— Indeed I have heard that you had some reasons to worry about her chest, Cabarot continued in the saccharine manner that, he thought, worked so well in his favor. Undoubtedly growing up too fast, developing her intelligence too soon. You should not worry too much, dear good lady; have no doubt how carefully I will tend this beautiful flower!"

The whole family was looking at the Count in dismay. Obviously, he did not know Emmelina; he had neither seen her nor talked with her, and that was a fact: Cabarot had vaguely heard that somewhere in the world there existed a rich fellow named Irnois, and that this rich fellow had a daughter, but he had stopped with this much information and he had in no way inquired about the character, health, and beauty that might be the lot of the wife whose dowry he coveted.

But then, how could Emmelina have fallen madly in love with a man who spoke so blindly of her too rapid growth and of the precocious development of her intelligence? This is what M. Irnois and the three women were inquiring of one another with their eyes.

"Monsieur, Mme Irnois went on, you are not, I believe, well informed as to the circumstances of our poor child. I have to tell you that she is deformed.

— Oh! Madame, what blasphemy is this? exclaimed Cabarot who saw a hunchback outlined in his imagination. I am quite sure that you exaggerate some quite insignificant slight fault. Moreover, even were it true that Mademoiselle Irnois might totally lack beauty, what are the fragile advan-

tages of physical charms in the life of a couple? Her grace, her wit. . . .

— Quite, M. Irnois said, but she does not open her mouth!

— The virtues with which she is endowed! Count Cabarot exclaimed with renewed enthusiasm, yes, her virtues, that is what attracts me to her! Believe me, my sole ambition always was to have a virtuous and docile wife! But may I not see the beautiful and touching Emmelina? Shall I not be allowed to lay at her very feet the homage of my heart? You understand my impatience and. . . ."

A sudden fear tightened Mme Irnois's heart:

"I will warn you of something, she said.

— And what is that? exclaimed the Count, anxious to agree to anything, to let no difficulty stop him, to accept any conditions, at least for the time being.

— I beg you to keep in mind that my daughter is a child and that one must not infer anything wrong from the way she might conduct herself with you. She might be a little more affectionate than is customary."

"A plague! Cabarot thought, she appears to be lewd! I'll have to watch out for that."

He added aloud:

"A frank and unceremonious character: it is a promise of happiness to add to so many others.

— I warn you, Mme Irnois went on, that she is prejudiced in your favor, and that I do not know how, since she never goes out, and to the best of my knowledge, she has never seen you.

— The result of sympathy, Cabarot exclaimed laughing; but again, may I see her? We shall talk about all this at leisure. I am dying to be introduced to her.

— Catherine, Mme Irnois said, please go and tell Jeanne to carry her here."

That word: carry , made Count Cabarot shiver. Remembering that they had just mentioned deformity, he imagined the worst. Despite whatever philosophy he was capable of, he had a moment of hesitation. Even he was on the verge of questioning this marriage and of conceiving causes for a rupture; fortunately, the crisis did not last. He immediately recalled that he had involved an august power in this business, and that to back out was, in a way, to scorn the master's liberality; that, moreover, he was marrying the daughter only a little and the dowry a great deal; that with wealth such as he would enjoy, he would have full liberty to house his wife as far from him as he wished, and even to relegate her to the country, if staying in the same house ever came to displease him.

Count Cabarot was more or less at the end of the reflection that we have just seen when the door opened, and Aunt Catherine reappeared.

"Here is Emmelina," she said, returning to her chair and her knitting.

Indeed, Jeanne entered in her wake, carrying the girl in her arms. It was a peculiar scene.

At the moment when one saw the old servant and her living burden, the poor invalid seemed as red as a cherry, her eyes filled with an angelic rapture, beautiful, very beautiful, such were the emotion and love diffused over all her features. Mme Irnois had been right in warning the Count, for Emmelina's first word was to cry:

"Where is he? Where is he?"

She was stretching out both her arms, and leaning forward with an inexpressible passion.

"Good God! Count Cabarot said to himself, this unfortunate cripple is horrible, and furiously alive!"

And as he had carefully thought it over, as we have seen, and steeled himself against the probably disgusting aspects

of this adventure, he bravely rushed toward his betrothed and meant to take her hands and kiss them with as much fire as he was capable.

But Emmelina did not even glance at him, and withdrawing her hands as one does from a bothersome person, exclaimed:

"Well, where is he?

— But in front of you, said her mother, here is M. Cabarot with whom you want to go away."

Emmelina threw herself back into the arms of Jeanne, uttering a scream of horror and fright.

"I don't know him, she said crying. That's not him, Jeanne, that's not him!"

She started to sob. Her father took her in his arms, she pushed him away. "Leave me alone," she said.

They put her in an armchair, and she went on crying, refusing to raise her head or to look at her future husband, who was careful to keep a courteous and docile smile on his lips.

Deep down in his heart, Count Cabarot was exceedingly exasperated.

"What! he thought, it is not enough to have a wife put together like this one. On top of all her deformities, do I have to find out that she is infatuated with some silly ass. I have my work cut out for me with this little woman if I want to set her understanding to rights. But patience! I will succeed."

Meanwhile, Mme Irnois's sitting room was a veritable Tower of Babel; they did not know what to do next. After a few sobs, after wringing her hands, Emmelina, her face drowned in a flood of tears, had become pale, deadly pale, her eyes had suddenly dimmed, she had fallen back into the chair and had fainted.

"There, my daughter is dying! cried Mme Irnois.

— Hell and damnation!" the purveyor shouted.

The two aunts imitated the parents, rushing to surround the patient.

Cabarot was not less quick. This painful scene was part of what he had anticipated. He had not expected to get off with less, for he had too much sense to assume that the business of his marriage, so suddenly arranged by a higher will, could be brought off without some protest from outraged independence.

He graciously offered his smelling salts to resurrect his adorable Emmelina, as it pleased him to call her; but the salts did no good: Emmelina remained unconscious.

"Dear God! said Mme Irnois with a shrug, looking Cabarot in the face, all these people around her do her more harm than good."

Cabarot felt that he should not turn a deaf ear; he thought that he had done enough for the first day.

"Ah! Madame, he exclaimed in a subdued tone, how unhappy I am that I may not claim my right to lavish my solicitude on her! But the least I can do is to understand your motherly concern and to withdraw. Good-bye, Madame; good-bye, ladies, till tomorrow. Please accept my deep respect."

He seized Mme Irnois's hand and kissed it effusively; he bestowed the same favor on the dry and leathery hands of the two spinsters; slipped a napoleon in Jeanne's fingers; then, turning around, he took M. Irnois's arm and pulled him along toward the door. And it was just as well that he did, for, if it had been up to the future father-in-law, he would not have followed his future son-in-law.

"What do you want of me? said M. Irnois, arriving at the entry in Cabarot's tow. Don't you see that I must take care of my daughter?"

Cabarot adopted a tone halfway between good humor and imperious sternness:

"My dear sir, I have seen Mademoiselle Irnois and she

suits me in every way. It will be very easy for me to obey the Emperor. What date shall we choose to sign the contract?

— The Devil! You don't lose a minute!

— It is my habit. And in any case, the Emperor wants it.

— But the Emperor does not know that my daughter is ill!

— We will take care of her. We must bring the matter to a close. The Emperor doesn't like things to drag.

— But what if Emmelina doesn't want you?

— Those are girlish caprices that must not stop wise men such as you and I. As a father, it should be enough for you to trust completely my integrity.

— But I don't know you!

— And as a subject, Cabarot continued in a loud and solemn voice, you owe obedience to the Emperor."

Irnois felt a shiver of fright go through his limbs. He sensed that he was so utterly at Cabarot's mercy that he almost fell at his feet and asked his pardon.

"Well! the date of the contract? continued the imperturbable suitor.

— When you wish.

— Then I am going to drop in immediately upon my solicitor and order him to work things out with yours. We will have no difficulty agreeing. You do not have any other heir than the future Countess Cabarot? Very good! Goodbye then until tomorrow!

— May all the devils wring your neck during the night, Irnois exclaimed, after the Councillor of State could no longer hear him."

V

Immediately after the Count's departure poor Emmelina asked to go back to her room, and her whole family was truly too affected and astonished to have the strength to oppose, even with a mere remark, the wishes of one who touched those around her with her martyred appearance.

The fainting had passed as everything passes, but it left the young girl in a physical torpor and a sort of desolation easily perceptible to anyone looking at her. She was much paler than ordinary, and her eyes had lost that special brilliance which had so surprised everyone around her for some time. Clearly, prostration had followed exaltation; a despair whose cause one could not imagine had followed the ecstasy of a mysterious hope. They did not know what to think; and in short, it was almost with satisfaction that Mme Irnois and her sisters saw the object of their affection taken away; for in her presence, they could only accumulate questions which remained unanswered; and, in her absence, at least, they were entirely free to exhaust various commentaries and suppositions never lacking in feminine imaginations. These latter undoubtedly did little to arrive at the discovery of truth; but they did a great deal to alleviate an anguish the ladies thought without remedy, since they did not know its source and could not even hope to discover it.

"With any other than Emmelina, the despairing mother was saying, there would be some way to obtain her confidence; but that little girl is so taciturn that we will never succeed in making her talk. And yet, how can we accept not

knowing why she has been so cheerful for some time, why the idea of marrying the Count seemed at first to give her such great pleasure, and finally why, when she saw that same betrothed she was awaiting with such impatience, she was utterly distraught and wouldn't even look at him? Has anyone ever seen parents more unfortunate than we? As for me, I don't think there exist any; and if I had been able to foresee that my very own daughter would lack confidence in me to such an extent, I would already have cursed a thousand times the day she was born.

— Don't be silly! M. Irnois exclaimed, returning to the room at the end of this tirade. This child seems to me sufficiently afflicted without our having to heap insults upon her. I would give anything in the world not to have made a fortune and that the Emperor had never heard of me. I would not be forced to give my money to this M. Cabarot."

While father, mother, and aunts grieve to their heart's content and bicker amongst themselves, let us follow Emmelina to her bedroom. She has hardly entered it, hardly sat herself down in her armchair in the usual window corner, that she dismisses Jeanne, and when she finds herself alone, quite alone, she opens both sides of the window casement a crack, which was almost always kept shut; her eyes look avidly into that space, and as she stares at a point on which all the strength of her soul seems fixed, the flush comes back to her cheeks, the fire and animation to her pupils, the smile to her lips, existence and life to her whole being. The poor girl seems no longer to live her ordinary life. It seems, looking at her, that she is, as it were, transfigured; it is surely the same person, if you wish, but it is not the same being; it is indeed Emmelina, but no longer the lame, hunchbacked, deformed Emmelina, disfavored by nature, the feebleminded, apathetic Emmelina; it is no longer even a body, if I may be allowed to pursue as far as possible the impression that she produces on me, the author, on me who sees her: she looks like those

cherubs of whom mystical Church writers speak, who are all love, all passion and who, for this reason, are always represented only as a head surrounded by flaming wings.

Thus Emmelina appears to our eyes; it's a cherub's face burning with tenderness. Yes, tenderness! Since we are alone with her in her room, now is the time to learn everything that has been going on within her for a few weeks.

As we said at the beginning of this story, M. Irnois's house, situated in one of the side streets of the Lombard district, had its bedrooms looking on a rather dark courtyard. This courtyard was, as one can imagine, square and surrounded on its three other sides by quite high buildings that had window openings, as did also the wall behind which the residence of the modest millionaire was hiding.

On the fifth-floor, facing the two windows of Emmelina's bedroom, and therefore three floors above her, was a mansard window of paltry appearance, located just above roof level, which was unlikely to hold one's attention for long. But behind that pitiful window a young wood turner was working all day long. . . .You are beginning, I suppose, to have an idea of what is in store for us.

And, in truth, this young worker was remarkably comely; he could not have been more than eighteen; blond, naturally curly hair, a young girl's face, and the more so as he was very good at looking quite timid and reserved when anyone came by chance to his garret to talk to him, to order something, for example. Moreover, the little worker was as happy as a lark, sang heartily all day long, and even spent a quarter of an hour from time to time sitting on the ledge of his window, eating his lunch or his dinner, while looking into his neighbors' apartments. He was more a sparrow than a boy, nested high up as he was, gay, singing, quick, and bustling.

Here was the cause of Emmelina's emotions.

It had, of course, taken quite some time for M. Irnois's daughter to lift her listless eyes to the fifth-floor mansard,

and when she had done it the first time, she certainly had no inkling of what was about to overcome her heart. This poor stagnant nature did not have enough strength in itself to dream or to desire; an intense passion could not suddenly start for her; such passions are met only in spirited beings, who are always rushed into action by their instinct. Emmelina was not one of those, far from it.

But there are several things: gaiety, youth and beauty that never fail to exercise power upon souls which are only weak but not spoiled. When in her long hours of idleness Emmelina had contemplated her young neighbor a few times, she found, in the sight of a being so different from herself, a sort of satisfaction that in her unfinished nature manifested itself as an unexamined well-being. From the moment that she experienced some pleasure in observing her neighbor, it became her goal, a constant preoccupation, an exquisite novelty; for never before had she ever enjoyed this boon of attaching herself to something; her mother, father, aunts, maid, her sewing and her Puss'n Boots did not constitute accidents initiated by herself, and made no more impression on her than the air she breathed. But in the case of her new acquaintance, everything was different. She had in some way created it, imagined it herself. No one had intervened in the pleasure she was forging for herself, and she soon found an infinitely delicate enjoyment, the greatest she had ever tasted, in looking at the young man.

Emmelina never acted out of conscious decision; all her actions were, as happens in beings guided less by reason than by instinct, the outcome of a dim impression that she never could have explained, either to others or to herself. Thus it was neither out of slyness nor out of fear that from the very first moments she strove for secrecy from those around her. When Jeanne, or some other person was near her, she did not open the curtains, usually drawn over her window; and in this respect she carried her precautions very far, for they

never would have imagined, even if they had seen her looking all day long in the direction of the mansard, that she found the person of the young worker in the least interesting.

Well! It is, however, what had finally happened. Emmelina's physical development had been more precocious than usual in our climate; this is not rare in people whom nature has otherwise maltreated. It would have been improbable had a more tender je ne sais quoi not soon mixed with the curiosity that attracted Mlle Irnois's eyes to the cheerful mansard. To stare at this blessed window became for her an imperious need, and that is when she began to want to stay alone in her room. In the first days of her mysterious contemplation, she had not wished to confide her pleasure, however small, to anyone; in the fullness of her joy, her elation, her happiness, silence was even more imperatively required by the secret wish in her soul. It became so necessary for her, its opposite seemed so odious, so deadly to the feeling that animated her, that her character took on a new aspect. That was when she had those fits of willfulness that surprised everyone and when she trained her parents and servants not to enter her room before warning her by a knock on the door; then, alerted, she threw herself back in her armchair, shut the window and received the visitor more or less agreeably according to her disposition at the moment, more often less than more for they bothered her; in brief, she was alive for the first time.

This great mystery with which she surrounded her passion is clear evidence that the senses had something to do with it. The soul has its modesty, undoubtedly; but with people in love, that modesty is but a reflection of the fire burning elsewhere in their being.

One day Emmelina experienced a quite unexpected and most singularly obscure impression from an incident that will seem quite ordinary. It was getting late; it was toward eight o'clock of a summer evening, and you know that at that time

of day, even though the light is still fairly clear, the crystal of the sky begins to be tinted by some duller tones. The day had been hot, and all day long Emmelina had seen her wood turner, his face glowing from work, his hair mussed and his shirt half open, without a cravat, offering his white chest to whatever breaths of air might wander amongst the roofs of Paris.

At that moment, the young man was sitting on the window ledge, astride it, busy brushing his Sunday cap with delicate care. Suddenly, from a nod and the accompanying smile that he addressed to the back of his room, Emmelina understood that someone was entering, someone friendly, surely, for the worker did not otherwise stir; to the contrary, he set to brushing his cap with more energy than before, and, when the cap had reached the peak of its luster, he even pulled to him a coat that probably had been thrown over a chair inside the room, and subjected this future ornament of his body to the same operation he had just performed for the ornament of his head.

These minute details mean nothing to the reader, and not more to the author of this tale, believe me; but they were Emmelina's whole life.

The worker was perhaps giving the tenth stroke of his brush to the coat sleeve, and from the movement of his lips, one could see that he was talking and laughing with the person who had entered the room, when that person appeared in turn before the eyes of Emmelina.

She was a rather pretty girl, a grisette. She was nicely dressed, as for a party. Her bonnet displayed a luxuriant magnificence of pink ribbons whose rather lively color competed successfully with the high color of her cheeks. This pleasant girl was laughing heartily, which would lead us also to believe that the conversation with the worker was quite agreeable as well as jocular.^[30] The grisette held a pot of stocks in her hand and put it ceremoniously on the window

ledge. Then she went back inside the room and returned with a vase full of water with which she generously sprinkled the brown and yellow petals of the sweet smelling flowers, splashing some down the wall. And when the flowers had been taken care of, the worker took his pretty friend's head and kissed her on both cheeks without encountering much resistance.

Emmelina saw everything. She was not jealous; no, it was not a jealous feeling that she experienced. Her pride, her anger were not fired up against the grisette or against the young man; she felt no hatred; she did not experience the cruel bitterness of a love that believes itself unrequited or betrayed; but a profound sadness mixed with a mysteriously redoubled curiosity invaded her whole being. This kiss so joyously given and received contained for her a whole world of secrets to which her innocence and her, alas! wingless imagination could not possibly discover the key. The veil that hid what she would have liked to know was stirred but not torn, and she cried for a long time, through the rest of the evening, without knowing why she cried. Furthermore, she had developed so little resentment and was even so little inclined to ill-will toward the grisette that when she opened her window the next morning, she vaguely wished to see her again.

There is a tale in La Fontaine whose jolly title I am almost embarrassed to introduce into this modest and somewhat melancholy story; but it renders so well, so accurately, what I want to explain, although undoubtedly in a different sense, that I do not have the courage to deprive myself of its help: How Wit Comes to Girls .^[31]

Many girls let their imaginations run even before love rushes to untie its legs. Emmelina, the poor child, was not of that number, as you know, and even love could not claim to make her knowing. It taught her neither ruse nor reflection; but it revealed to her, as we have seen, the secret of having a will, of desiring something, of finding in herself a keen plea-

sure. No, it was not with that Love gave her. Was the gift of the god better or worse? I leave philosophers and women to decide this point. It gave her a soul.

Before that she had none, or, if you insist on disagreeing with me, the soul with which nature had endowed her at birth was so heavy, so torpid, so utterly bound by the wretched knots of a flawed constitution, that it was as though it did not exist. Now that Emmelina loved, that soul had received the fire of life, and had, let us not say, stood up, for it seemed that in this twisted body the vault was too low to allow the soul to develop at ease, but by folding back upon itself, it had acquired energy and a truly ecstatic fervor whose power would have frightened all those likely to observe it, I mean, to understand it.

Once more, Emmelina (I dwell on this point because it is essential to the correct understanding of Mlle Irnois's story), Emmelina in no wise sought to understand the how or the why of what was happening in her. She did not even know the name of the feeling that had invaded her entire being in such a strange way. Shall we tell the whole truth? Previous to the day when she had, for the first time and in a bloom of happiness, contemplated the young man at the window, she had had no moral life, had been a near simpleton; but from that moment on, she had become a sort of ecstatic.

As indifferent as before to the other events in her life, she existed in an enclave of passion that had opened to her; she did not yearn for anything, did not scheme for anything; her love was like that of a dog for its master, without past, without future, without demand, even without gaiety to tell the truth, for the mighty feeling that dominated her being could not possibly be labeled as one of the ordinary motions or states of the soul. She was not happy; if I said that, I was wrong: she was better than happy, she was alive! Alive, yes! but only in her love; for, in any other respect, more dead than ever.

This is the situation in which we find Emmelina that evening when she accepted the idea of leaving her family and following Count Cabarot with such keen happiness, the singularity of which excited so much surprise.

VI

Thus possessed by a passion of a fervent and quasimystical character, Emmelina ignored more than ever what was taking place around her; and to the remark I made in the previous chapter, that her intelligence did not at all increase in direct ratio to the increasing exaltation of her soul, I might add that in all matters pertaining to ordinary existence, she became even more of a nonentity than in the past. Thus, formerly, in her armchair, on her mother's bosom, in Jeanne's arms, she sometimes participated in communal life. Once in a while an incident managed to make an impression on her; it happened (rarely, undoubtedly, but nevertheless it sometimes happened) that a word caught her attention, and then she smiled or gave some sign or other of pleasure.

From the moment that she was in love, this meager share in their common existence was also taken away from her. She became like those people mentioned in the Gospel who have ears and eyes but who neither see nor hear.^[32] M. Irnois and the rest of the Areopagus saw in it an increasing indifference; those worthy bourgeois were mistaken: it came from powerlessness. Love had done everything it was capable of for this befogged nature; it had seized it, had absorbed it, had brought it into its universe, and had completely detached it from everything else.

For Emmelina, the whole universe was the space stretching between her armchair and the artisan's window, vast distance that in a passionate leap her desire crossed twenty times a day, but which her conscious will did not conceive

of, could not conceive of abolishing by material means whose existence her feeble mind could not imagine.

When they proposed to her to leave her father's house and to go live somewhere else with someone different from all the people around her, it did not occur to her that this being could also be different from the one who obsessed her. How could she have thought of that? I have told you what her universe was like. Is it not evident that for her, creation contained only one person? At her mother's words a beatific and infinitely joyful hymn burst in her soul; she did not even conceive that it might be materially possible to change her life and take on another whose sole purpose would not be the artisan. To persuade her of the opposite, if one had tried, would have been impossible at that moment, yes impossible! And how to explain to this crazed girl, who was armed only with a mystical torch, that she was a millionaire's daughter, that a Councillor of State sought her hand, that the head of a great empire was using her to reward political services, and that she must prepare herself to become a great lady? One could have attempted this explanation, but it would not have had any effect beyond striking Emmelina's inattentive ear with a deluge of words, each less intelligible than the others. In order to force reality into this barricaded head, nothing less than contact with fact itself was necessary. Count Cabarot had to appear in person. That is what had happened.

We have seen what resulted. Emmelina's illusion, brutally jolted, rendered, like a brazen vessel, a strident and mournful sound that resonated in a frightening way. But long though it went on, this sound finally ended; moans, tears ceased, forgetfulness accompanied the disappearance of the object which had brought pain, and, obstinately, Emmelina fell back into her illusion.

When she was back at her window, had drawn the curtain and opened the casement, and when at twenty paces from her the beloved being, bent over his bench, appeared

to her, she stopped thinking about Cabarot and, moreover, as completely as if she had never known him. Her whole happiness returned to her with its usual ardor; and, with the same abandon, the same trust, the same transport as the previous day, she gave herself up to that contemplation which made her poor chest swell with life and whose intensity exhausted the little existence allotted by fate to this disfavored constitution.

You may be curious to know if such a vehement and beautiful passion had produced its effect on the one who was its object. Ordinarily, it seems to me, the reader of a story is interested in the one who has the initiative in matters of love and does not like him to be oppressed or unhappy. Such a benevolent attitude will not receive much satisfaction here. The only impression Emmelina made on her neighbor was that of a very idle and inquisitive little person who, thanks to the immense wealth of her father, could live a sluggard's life (I am practically using the worker's words) and spent her time watching what was going on with her neighbors. He sometimes talked about it in those words with his girlfriend Francine, the young laundry girl with the pot of stocks.

"How's that for good luck, he exclaimed, to be able to spend the whole day arms folded in a good armchair doing nothing but staring into space! By God, it's a job that would suit me!"

Being a woman, Francine thought faster and got closer to the truth.

"You want my opinion? she declared one day to her lover, I wager that Mlle Irnois fancies your good looks!

— Come on! the worker answered. A hunchback like her, and moreover supposed to be an idiot! The devil take me if I would have her even with all her money!"

Frankly, he did not believe in the love that he inspired. M. Irnois was very well known in that part of town and the worker harbored for him that profound respect that in gen-

eral money does not deserve, but most often obtains, and without asking. So the little wood turner would have been very careful not to offend a man that respectable and powerful; but it required no less than such an authority to prevent him from teasing Emmelina. A few times, in fact, when Emmelina looked at him for too long, the boisterous young man loosed the brake on his fear enough to sing a mischievously naughty song, to see if she would leave the window. But much to his surprise, the trick never succeeded. It was for a very simple reason: the girl did not understand a word of this banter, and only responded to the joyous air of the song.

"Upon my word, the wood turner said, she's really rather shameless, Mlle Irnois: I sing her ribaldries that would make your hair stand on end, and she doesn't even raise an eyebrow!

— You child, exclaimed Francine, aren't you ashamed to debauch youth? I'm telling you that the poor hunchback has lost her head over you."

Francine did not like Emmelina.

Thus the love of our heroine is not among those that one could call fortunate; far from it.

A few days before Count Cabarot's wedding, momentous events, however, took place for this love; it was a small matter, but the importance of things is quite relative. Let us tell them as they happened and without rhetoric.

The cook had the misfortune to break a chair in her den. In the deepest recesses of his heart, M. Irnois did not detest such domestic incidents, which gave his eloquence a chance to exercise itself fully. Each morning, in his dressing gown, he used to take the master's tour of the entire house; and when he noticed a faulty detail, such as a misplaced napkin, an uncorked bottle, a log awry, he began a speech ab irato which brought terror to the souls of the guilty ones.

To avoid being thunderstruck by one of these oratorical

masterpieces, the cook, after breaking the chair, took the advice of the private secretary and of his faithful companion Jeanne, then she hastily climbed three floors and went to tell the wood turner of the mishap.

The latter hastened to put his talent, his tools, and his wood at the disposal of the desperate beauty, and thus entered M. Irnois's lodgings, where he had never set foot before. At that moment Emmelina was crossing the apartment, not in Jeanne's arms but leaning on her. She was trying one of her walks through her domain, which she no longer consented to do except when the wood turner was not at his window and she had waited a long time for him. Chance brought her face to face with the young man.

The shock was electric. Seeing him a few steps in front of her, Emmelina experienced a sensation like that of people blinded by a bright light. She let out a cry and threw her head back. In that brusque movement, her loosely tied bonnet fell off, her comb slipped, the innumerable curls of her beautiful blond hair uncoiled onto her shoulders. They saw her large eyes suddenly come alive, and I do not hesitate to say that even with all the imperfections of her person, she became at that moment exquisitely beautiful.

Yes, exquisitely, that is the proper word. One of those triumphs of real grace that might have made her acceptable to the Trojan shepherd for the contest with the three goddesses on Mount Ida was out of the question for the poor child.^[33] But if, granted the sublime expression she had at that moment, she had been met at the edge of a spring by some German traveler, he might have taken her for one of those enchanting water sprites^[34] whose supernatural charms passed with reason as irresistible.

The young man was almost frightened by this singular apparition. He respectfully took off his cap, hesitated for a minute, looked at Emmelina expecting her to say something; but she said nothing. She was content to stare at

him with the most poignant expression that one can imagine. She remained with her head thrown back, her eyes fixed on him, holding onto Jeanne's arm, which she clasped hard, and not finding a single word to articulate. What she was experiencing was not, in truth, easy to say. Even those more apt than the young girl at identifying their feelings, at sorting out their impressions, would not have been up to the task if they had been crushed by the vehement passion that at that moment dominated Emmelina. She was plunged into a situation comparable to that of those ecstatics who, through the sheer force of prayer, seem to levitate above the ground.

Seeing that Mlle Irnois did not speak to him, the wood turner said to himself: "There's a crazy girl for you."

He reached the door, opened it, went through it, shut it, and went down the stairs toward the other wing of the building where his room was.

Emmelina started to cry.

"What's the matter, little one? old Jeanne asked. Why are you crying, child? Why did you look at this boy as you did? Did he frighten you?

— Oh no! Emmelina said, hiding her face in her faithful servant's arms.

— If he didn't frighten you, the latter went on, why did you turn away? Perhaps you would like me to call him back?"

Emmelina fixed her beautiful eyes on the old woman and said with a voice that was intense and trembling with emotion:

"Yes, call him back!"

Assuredly, Jeanne did not understand the feeling that prompted the young invalid to speak.

She ran to the staircase and called the worker. He hastened to return.

"Mademoiselle wishes to see you, the old woman said.

Here, my Emmelina, this nice young man has come back! Do you wish to speak to him? What do you have to tell him? Do you want me to speak to him for you?

— Yes, Emmelina said.

— What should I tell him?"

It was an infantile scene. In the mind of the old servant and of the wood turner, all they were doing was indulging a sick child; but this appearance was misleading and blatantly false! While Jeanne multiplied silly propositions and remarks, Emmelina gave her whole self over to the passionate contemplation of the object of her love. How long can such a love last in ordinary beings? Not long, certainly, assuming it ever occurs; but that is not what occupies us here. For Emmelina, it was total bliss, total ecstasy.

She had neither listened to nor heard the series of questions that Jeanne had addressed in her name: therefore, she did not answer them. Upon which, the servant herself began to chat with the wood turner.

Jeanne queried the young worker about his age, his status, his situation.

Emmelina paid close attention to the answers. She smiled in a very tender fashion when the young neighbor complained about the hard times and the difficulty he had in earning a living, and when he added:

"Upon my faith, there are moments when being given a little more money than I earn would make me very happy!"

Emmelina spoke up and said to Jeanne:

"Let's go to my room.

— Yes, little one. . . .Well! Good-bye, young man, till next time!

— No! Emmelina said.

— You want him to come to your room with us?

— Yes, said Emmelina.

— Then do come along young man! . . . Mademoiselle has strange ideas today."

When the threesome arrived in the sanctuary:

"That is where I live! Mlle Irnois said, looking at the worker with ineffable tenderness.

— Is that so, Mademoiselle!" the other answered.

Actually, he was quite indifferent about what they were saying, and he did not understand why the millionaire's daughter had brought him thither. The only thing that he could imagine was that this little and quite idle person whose inquisitive turn of mind he was already aware of was trying to alleviate her idleness by detaining him.

Instead of looking at the room, as Emmelina's remark seemed to encourage him to do, he was entertaining such thoughts, which were hardly flattering for their object. Meanwhile Emmelina had gone to her secretary, had removed a little box and taken about twenty napoléons^[35] from it.

"Give him that, she said to Jeanne.

— Confound me, there's a miracle! exclaimed the latter. . . .Take it, my friend; you are the first person to whom Mademoiselle has ever given anything, for the ordinarily doesn't concern herself with a living soul! . . . Go on! Don't be embarrassed. She could throw a hundred times more into your pocket without any harm to herself. She does not know her own wealth, nor does her father, the poor man!"

The worker fumbled through expressions of his gratitude. Emmelina sat down in her chair, and, resting her head on her hand, she seemed to lose herself in a most delicious revery.

She was not looking at the young man; she was living entirely within herself.

"Mademoiselle is going to sleep, whispered Jeanne; go away!"

The other was very happy to oblige, and he escaped with joy in his heart and twenty louis^{[ 36]} in his hand.

When Emmelina lifted her head and no longer found him there, she started to cry; but without bitterness: her heart felt tired by the excess of happiness. She was undoubtedly crying over this sudden separation; but as she had just tasted the greatest joy she had known in her life, she was not yet open to a true sorrow. The tears streamed down her cheeks, as it sometimes happens after a delicious dream whose illusion one regrets while still savoring some secret pleasure in recalling the vanished joy.

"Most peculiar, most peculiar, old Jeanne mumbled, sitting at her feet; I've never seen her like this."

At the end of half an hour, Emmelina's head tipped forward and she really fell asleep. She was breathing softly, as a six-year old child might have, and her smooth, unlined and lightly colored brow displayed the most exquisite serenity.

Then a noise awakened her.

A rich array of wedding presents, rapidly improvised and sent by Count Cabarot, was brought in.

Mme Irnois herself carried it to her daughter; but Emmelina did not look at it, turned her head to the other side of the chair with a smile, and tried to go back to sleep. Was she pursuing a dream, or was she resting from her happiness? I don't know.

VII

As you see, the dear Count had lost no time. After the required visit to his solicitor, having nothing to do with his time until dinner, he had called on some shopkeepers. He had made it a point of honor to put together an array of presents both tasteful and magnificent with a rapidity that only the magic of gold can bring about. M. Cabarot enjoyed shopping; he claimed to excel in choosing feminine accoutrements and strove for a reputation as an oracle of elegance and good taste.

M. Cabarot worked wonders in the shops; shawls, laces, beautiful fabrics, precious cloth, jewels and diamonds, he looked at everything; he chose wisely but also promptly, and, as you have seen, in a few hours he was able to send the sumptuous result of his gallant efforts to Mlle Irnois.

You have seen how little his gift was appreciated.

The letter that accompanied it had no greater effect. Yet it was conceived in terms best chosen to move a cruel heart and to show off the Count's reputation as a wit; but in that household, they were too prejudiced against him to be very sensitive to this demonstration of his passion; and his letter, after passing from hand to hand and under the eyes of the three old ladies, was thrown onto a table without them deeming fit to torment Emmelina with it.

"Since she has to marry, the poor girl, said Mme Irnois, let's at least respect the last few moments of her freedom. I do not have a particularly good opinion of this M. Cabarot, or rather my opinion is that he's not much of a gentleman. Unfortunate child! What's the use of M. Irnois having amassed

all this money? If I had known that this money was going to bring down on me so much unhappiness, I would never have been so proud of it!"

M. Irnois had returned before the arrival of the gifts. He had sorrowfully recounted the negative result of his meeting with Cabarot, and like all people whose minds are not very active and whose physical natures are gross, he was more or less resigned to the misfortune that was happening to him. He undoubtedly loved his daughter very much, but this love, however, could not change him. Indeed, one of the most admirable qualities in him, one of the causes of his fortune, had been the ease with which he had bowed his head under all his defeats. When he was overwhelmed by some irreparable misfortune, he never got up in arms, never flared up, never revolted. He bowed his head waiting for the worst to pass. Seeing that the Emperor wanted Count Cabarot to marry his daughter, he had reckoned with the Emperor's great power and had given in; later, the idea came to him that for a consideration, the future husband might let go of his daughter's hand; he had made an approach from that angle, the approach had not succeeded; he resigned himself to it; his mumblings, his curses did not mean anything compared with this fact; as loud as he had shouted, he was henceforth incapable of resisting and poor Emmelina was lost.

As for Cabarot, he was not lacking in mind, that kind of sarcastic, mistrustful, evil, dishonest mind, that is often the lot of people who have spent a life in business; he probably delighted old diplomats, old statesmen, but he was hideously ugly, and could not possibly impress a young girl favorably, the more so Emmelina whose heart as we have seen was preoccupied.

On the day after Emmelina saw the worker in her room, which was a Sunday, the banns were published at the town hall. They were also announced at the church.

From then on the whole of Paris knew officially that Count Cabarot was going to marry Mlle Irnois. The amount of money brought by the bride's dowry, above all the future expectations, turned out to be more formidable than one would have believed. M. Irnois was immensely rich. "How is it possible, peeved rivals were saying to one another, that this rascal of a millionaire succeeded in hiding in his lair so well, and that Cabarot was the first to dig him out?"

To the good fortune of marrying Mlle Irnois, the Count added that of seeing his reputation as a shrewd diplomat double: this negotiation he had undertaken in his own particular interest had brought him much credit, especially in regard to the discretion with which it had been handled, the august means he had known how to use, and finally the brilliant success he had met with. It was talked about in this light in the right places, and the embassy that had been promised to him was more than ever his.

Every day he went to pay his court to his betrothed. As I have already said, he detested violent means and anything that resembled them. With his intimates, he no longer concealed the impression made on him by everything he saw at his dear mother-in-law's; but once he was in his future bride's house, he acted entirely as if he could not have been happier.

One evening especially, he talked about it openly. It was in a small group, at Baron R . . .'s. It was two o'clock in the morning; they had played for very high stakes, and after supper, the finest flowers among the wits of that society were relaxing with a bit of conversation.

"Upon my honor, one of the guests exclaimed, I do not understand your conduct, my dear Cabarot. For to go and marry Irnois's daughter, in view of what she is, is already madness enough! I have informed myself on the sly, and the poor girl, I was told, would be more fit to lead to the hospital than to the altar! But, besides marrying her, you go there

every day! You show a patience of which I would never have believed you capable."

Cabarot shoved his hands into his pockets up to his elbows, and with one of those expressions that one calls neither fish nor fowl, he risked some casual remarks that might have passed for confidences.

"Well! he said. I deserve praise! I certainly don't lack forebearance, and there are many times when I feel like sending my future family to the devil.

— They are not likable, then? the host said laughingly.

— Quite so, my dear fellow, Cabarot replied; I have just put in a two hour session there, and I almost swore to myself that the first thing I would do upon leaving the church would be to break off relations with my father-in-law.

— And the second? someone asked.

— To do the same with my mother-in-law.

— The third probably to send your wife back to them, another interlocutor quipped.

— Let us not anticipate, Cabarot proceeded; impatience was carrying me away; but imagine me sitting in an armchair for two hours, more or less as I am now, with the daughter in front of me crying; on my right, two aunts whimpering; on my left, the mother bursting into tears; behind my back, the father pacing and grumbling. And for two hours, there I am, a smile on my lips, sweetly reproaching their exaggerated sensitivities, billing and cooing in all directions, and pretending to cry in concert whenever I do not have a benign smile on my lips.

— I am surprised by your meekness, Baron R . . . said, since you are definitely marrying, what need do you have to torture yourself endlessly by visiting these people every day.

— Well! said Cabarot, my meekness has already served its purpose.

— Which one, good God!

— Obtaining the girl's trust.

— They say she never speaks.

— Indeed, she's not talkative, and I shall have no complaint against her in that respect. But she sometimes articulates short sentences, and the proof is that she honored me with a conversation. Would you like to know what she said?

— I would, the baron said.

— This morning, as I was listening to all these lamentations, lo and behold that little girl suddenly dries her tears and begins staring at me. I have, I confess, never been vain. At twenty I was ugly and I knew it; imagine if at forty-five I would pretend to compare myself with Adonis! However, I have sometimes had the opportunity in my life to acknowledge that beauty does not amount to seduction or at least that seduction can easily do without it. Without, therefore, being too frightened by this examination, I quickly gave my face that inviting expression which immediately inspires confidence.

— Yes, one of the listeners said laughingly, the very same one you had the day when Tallien seemed disposed to issue a warrant against you.

— Let's not dwell on the past. Well, the girl did not act like that tribune, and with a most virginal innocence, she held out her hand to me.

— My word! the baron said; she held out her hand to you?

— Yes, and exclaimed. . . .

— Let's hear what she exclaimed.

— She exclaimed: 'Give me money for him! — For him?' I said, a bit surprised. They explained to me then that there was in the building a sort of little worker who had exposed Mlle Irnois to those trivial complaints that such people always make about their situations, and since that moment she has been going around everywhere, asking father, mother, and as you see, future husband, for the

means to indulge in this rather ill-directed charity. I hastened to use this unexpected occurrence to pay my court. I assured Mlle Irnois that not only would I give her all the money she might want for her protégé, but that I would go and inform myself of the young man's situation. As I saw that she was listening attentively, I deemed it useful to venture a dithyramb: 'What is more interesting for a sensitive soul, I exclaimed, than the sight of youth bravely struggling against adversity? Is there anything more admirable than a poor, cheerful boy, contented in the midst of misfortune! Ah! if there is a God who protects innocence, that God, undoubtedly, has no greater delight than. . . .' I confess that I was getting a bit entangled in my sentences; but I did not regret it. Such was the attention my beloved seemed to devote to my words. I was almost extravagant, and to crown this masterpiece, I offered to go inform myself at once of the unfortunate's situation. My proposition was met with a marked eagerness, and I rushed to the mansard.

I did not at all find, as I had expected, some starving rogue, but a sprightly little fellow who looked to me like a true tavern hero.

— Ah! my poor Cabarot! the baron exclaimed bursting into laughter. Had they? . . .

— That was precisely the thought that struck me, the Count replied. Like you, I said to myself: 'Had they? . . .' And I encouraged the worker to talk. He reassured me, as to the past, and he did not leave me without concern regarding the inclinations of my betrothed. When I say without concern, it is a way of speaking; for I assure you, and you will believe me, that Countess Cabarot's faithful love would be a vastly useless good for me. But it appears that the young lady is of a passionate disposition, and that I will have therefore a thousand reasons to detain her privately, or to send her away, as will suit me best.

"You see then that it is not wrong for me to play the zealous suitor, since I have this course of action to thank for valuable information about my betrothed's character."

They laughed a good deal about the conjugal future that seemed reserved for Cabarot: this poor Cabarot! Specific observations on the present case were followed by general observations about women, who, these gentlemen said, all, whether witty or silly, sick or healthy, had a native core of perversity against which education struggled in vain. The occupants of that sitting room had little esteem for the better half of mankind.

The time of the wedding rapidly drew nearer. Emmelina showed no concern at all. She had even acquired a kind of liking for Cabarot since the Councillor of State's visit to the young wood turner. M. Irnois had inferred from it that his daughter did not dislike getting married; and Mlles Maigrelut fully agreed with him, declaring that after all it was not disagreeable to become a countess and a great lady. Mme Irnois alone, half enlightened by an instinct for which the sarigue is worthy and famous, entertained doubts and even serious worries. Emmelina, once more, was not concerned, and spent her day at the window, busy watching the artisan.

Our story is soon to come to a close; I would like to remove from it any appearance of melodrama. Melodrama is not true; the truth alone is sad.

On the morning of the day set for the wedding, Cabarot arrived very early with his witnesses. M. Irnois had convened his own: two men of his own species. They gathered in the sitting room. Thanks to the Count, a sort of gaiety prevailed; moreover, Mlles Maigrelut had finally found him likable, because of the pastilles he had sometimes brought them.

They dressed the bride in white, with a crown and a bouquet of orange flowers, as is the custom. She became quite

impatient because all these unusual disturbances prevented her from sitting at the window. When they had to go out, she felt a great displeasure, and when M. Cabarot walked up to her, in formal attire, and took her hand, when she saw unknown faces and a sort of pervasive solemnity, she seemed to ponder and to understand that something was happening that deserved her attention.

At the town hall she guessed, it seems, what she was being told and the consequences of these words, for she became as white as her dress. When the magistrate asked her to give the ritual yes, she kept her head down and did not answer; but they did not think anything of it, and the ceremony proceeded to its end.

At the church she had to be propped up by others in order to walk; the Count was most cheerful and polite. He was henceforth fully assured that his efforts had not been wasted, and the promises that he made to Mme Irnois to take in consideration, as was necessary, the painful condition of her daughter, made him a gentleman in their eyes.

The moment of separation was rather difficult. As I have said, Emmelina understood what was taking place, and was deeply shaken by it; but she said nothing. They found she had a high fever, and M. Cabarot promptly called for a doctor. The man of science showed his surprise that one had married a girl that unfit, and above all that one had chosen a moment when she was so visibly prey to real suffering.

They put the bride to bed, and a sick-nurse settled by her. The following day, upon half awaking from the torpor in which she had been as though buried, Emmelina called for Jeanne. It was an unknown face that showed up. Thus everything turned into grief for a soul which did not need to be violently shaken in order to be annihilated.

Emmelina wanted to get up. They protested. She insisted and sobbed. Finally they gave in, and half dressed,

she dragged herself to the window and lifted the curtain. You guess what she was looking for.

Instead of seeing the mansard and the worker, she saw the garden of her house.

She fell back into the arms of the woman who was holding her up and completely lost consciousness. They cried out, they called, they carried the Countess to her bed. The physician was rushed in and shook his head.

What had taken place since the day before did not create a mortal illness, but rapidly fostered all the causes of dissolution which a flawed constitution had accumulated in that unfortunate being.

In the middle of the day, Count Cabarot came to inquire about his wife. He dismissed the servants, settled by the bed, then after half an hour he called the servants back and left.

The physician had been right to shake his head. The Countess lingered a week longer. Every morning she asked to have the window opened to see if she saw the mansard; then, cheated, she sighed.

She did not utter a complaint or pronounce a single word that might have revealed what was happening in her.

The eighth day she died.

Count Cabarot provided a magnificent funeral. He was inheriting everything she had brought as a dowry. Owing to his prudence and to his civility, he got from M. Irnois the confirmation of the last provisions that Emmelina had signed in his favor before dying.

The mother, the aunts, the father were grief stricken beyond words; but everyone around them thought they were more to be congratulated than pitied.

"She was not really a woman," the neighbors said, shrugging their shoulders.

The neighbors were right. Mlle Irnois was a soul. Her life had not been like the ordinary existence of the children of men. If, by an extraordinary chance, I admit, she had been

able to find what her nature required, namely an angelic love like hers, she might perhaps have known an intensity of happiness understandable only by those who know what perfection the crippled can attain in the faculties left to them.

The blind hear better than anyone, the deaf see farther.^[37]

All Emmelina had was the capacity to love, and she loved well!