No More Learning



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3601
ANDRÉ CHÉNIER
(1762-1794)
BY KATHARINE HILLARD
HERE are some reputations which seem to depend upon their
environment. Certain names are surrounded by a halo of
romance, through which all outlines are enlarged and
heightened in effect until it becomes difficult to discern their true
proportions through the golden mist. When we think of André
Chénier we see a youthful figure among a crowd of fellow-prisoners,
the light of genius in his eyes, the dark shadow of impending death
already enveloping him and climbing slowly upwards, as the mist of
the Highland second-sight rises higher as
death draws near. The pathetic character
of his fate touches the heart, and disposes
us to judge the poems he wrote with that
bias of personal interest which is so apt to
warp the verdict of the critical mind. Had
André Chénier died comfortably in his bed
at a good old age, would Sainte-Beuve
have been so apt to call him "our greatest
classic poet since Racine and Boileau"?
unless indeed he had vainly racked his
memory to think of any other.
André-Marie de Chénier-

ANDRÉ CHÉNIER
as he was
called until 1790 swept away all ornamental
particles- was born amid picturesque sur-
roundings at Constantinople, October 30th, 1762, where his father
then held the office of Consul-General. He had married a young
Greek girl, a Mademoiselle Santi-l'Homaka, whose family came
originally from the island of Cyprus. A Languedocian father, a
Cyprian mother, an Oriental birthplace,- it was no wonder that the
passionate fire of his blood flamed somewhat too hotly through his
verse. André was the third of four sons, and four daughters were
also born to M. de Chénier. In 1765, when he was but three years
old, his father returned to France; but two years afterwards left his
native country again to fill a diplomatic position in Morocco, while
his wife remained in Paris with their children.
André seems to have always looked back with pleasure to his
Eastern birthplace, and long cherished the hope of revisiting it, but
VI-226


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3602
ANDRÉ CHÉNIER
he never got farther on the way than Italy. Madame de Chénier,
who was a refined and cultivated woman with much taste for art
and literature, gave him his first lessons; but he was soon sent
with his brothers to the College of Navarre. There he made many
friendships that lasted to the end of his short life, and his school-
fellows, some of whom belonged to noble and wealthy families, often
took him to spend his holidays at their country-houses.
verse.
At the age of sixteen he carried off a first prize in rhetoric; and
from that time began his apprenticeship to the trade of the Muses,
as Ronsard would say, by writing translations of Greek and Latin
He does not seem to have been particularly precocious as a
poet, and his imitations of Sappho were even then considered rather
feeble. His mother's salon was thronged with artists, poets, writers,
and men of the world, among whom André might have found many
indulgent listeners, were it not that his reserve and fastidious taste
made him rather chary of exhibiting his youthful efforts. His mind
was already full of ambitious projects for future epics, and his
leisure was spent very much as his classic models had spent theirs,
in light and facile pleasures and loves.
M. de Chénier, who watched over his family from afar, was ambi-
tious for the future of his sons; Constantine, the eldest, was already
in the diplomatic service; the other three were destined for the
army. André joined his regiment when he was twenty, and went to
Strasbourg to learn his new duties; but the life of a soldier was not
congenial to him, and although he made one or two dear friends in
the garrison, the six months that he spent there seemed intermina-
ble, and he returned to Paris to resume his life of elegant dissipation
among his rich and titled acquaintances. But his health began to
give way, and the hope of relief from a change of climate induced
him to join his old friends, the brothers Louis and Charles Trudaine,
in a journey they projected through Switzerland and Italy to Con-
stantinople. The three friends started together in the summer of
1784, passed through Switzerland, and spent the autumn and winter
in Italy; but although they remained away a year, they never got
any further.
This journey and its experiences did much to educate and enrich
the mind of André, and he continued to devote much time to study
and poetic composition to the elaboration of vast schemes for dramas
and epics, and to the imitation of the Greek and Latin poets he
loved and copied so well. He wished to enlarge the province of the
idyl, and to give to it more variety than even Theocritus had suc-
ceeded in doing; to make it more dramatic, less ruistc, and in short,
if we may judge from the assertions of his countrymen, a more per-
fect picture of that elegant and aristocratic world in which he moved.


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ANDRÉ CHÉNIER
3603
The idyls of André Chénier are to poetry very much what the pic-
tures of Watteau and Boucher are to painting. The variety he
wished so much to impart to them is after all confined to the group-
ing of the figures, and their greatest beauty is the classic elegance
of their style; as one of his French biographers says, "The style of
these poems inakes up for what the sentiment lacks of ideality, and
lends a sort of purity to details which from any other pen would
have run great risk of coarseness. " Sainte-Beuve speaks of "his
boxwood flute, his ivory lute"; but all this beauty of diction, this
smoothness and grace of verse, can hardly blind the unprejudiced
critic to the fact that "a sort of purity" will hardly make up for his
too frequent choice of subjects that appeal only to the grossest tastes.
His highest ideals, like those of most poets, were never reached.
He had lofty visions of writing a poem called 'Hermes,' which
should be an exposition of natural and social laws, principles, and
progress; a system of philosophy in heroic couplets, beginning with
the birth of humanity and its first questioning of natural phenomena,
its first efforts to solve the problems of the universe, and coming
down to the latest discoveries of physical and political science. He
never succeeded in completing the preliminary studies necessary to
the carrying out of this vast conception, and the 'Hermes' remains
a mass of incoherent fragments.
André de Chénier had not the robust common-sense that underlay
all the poetic eccentricities of the poet whom in many ways he so
much resembled,- Alfred de Musset. The latter knew and recog-
nized his limitations. "My glass is not large, but I drink from my
own glass," he said, and what he did attempt was well within his
possibilities and was exquisitely done. Not so with Chénier. With
a genius like that of De Musset, pre-eminently lyrical, but with infi-
nitely less variety and richness, he laboriously accumulated vast piles
of materials for dramas and for epics that if ever completed must
have but added another page to the list of literary soporifics. He
made a colossal sketch of another poem, to be called 'America,'— a
sort of geographical and historical encyclopedia, M. Joubert calls it,
whose enormous mass of detail could scarcely be floated by any one
current of interest, but whose principal motive seemed meant to be
the conquest of Peru.
In the midst of these enterprises he suddenly conceived what one
of his biographers calls "the amiable intention" of writing a poem on
the story of 'Susannah and the Elders,' but only completed a prose
sketch with two or three short passages in verse. He also began one
or two tragedies which were to be after Eschylus, a comedy called
'The Charlatans,' poems on the literary life, and many other sub-
jects; and at the same time he was keeping up his relations with


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3604
ANDRÉ CHÉNIER
many of his distinguished contemporaries; -the Polish poet Niemce-
wicz; Mrs. Cosway, the charming young wife of the well-known
English painter, and an artist herself; the Italian poet Alfieri; and
the Countess of Albany.
In 1787 his father, who had returned to Paris, was anxious that
André should begin his diplomatic career; and he was appointed
attaché to M. de la Luzerne, just sent as ambassador to England.
The poet went to London in December,—a most unpropitious season,—
and naturally nothing pleased him there; he found the climate
detestable, the manners of the English rude and cold, their literature
of a barbaric richness, and in fact he approved of nothing in England
but its Constitution, which he thought not only good but worthy of
imitation.
He had been in London about sixteen months when the first
rumors of the French Revolution reached him and turned all his
thoughts towards the great political questions of the moment. The
project of a rule of liberty and justice for France appealed to the
noblest side of his nature; and while passionately opposed to all
excess and violence, he was eager to assist any movement that
promised to help the people.
With his friends the brothers Trudaine, he joined the Society of
'89, when it was a centre for varying shades of opinion, reconciled
by a common love of liberty and hatred of anarchy. He returned
to Paris definitely in the summer of 1790, and wrote independent
and impassioned articles in the Journal of the Society of 1789, warn-
ing the people against their real enemies, the fomenters of anarchy,
while he expressed much the same ideas in one of the most cele-
brated of his poems, the ode to David's picture called 'Le Jeu de
Paume, representing the deputies taking their famous oath in the
Hall of the Jeu de Paume at Versailles. Lacretelle, in his reminis-
cences published half a century later, spoke of André Chénier as a fel-
low-member of the club called Friends of the Constitution, as a man
of great talent and great force of character:-"The most decided
and the most eloquently expressed opinions always came from him.
His strongly marked features, his athletic though not lofty stature,
his dark complexion, his glowing eyes, enforced and illuminated his
words. Demosthenes as well as Pindar had been the object of his
study. "
But moderate opinions and a horror of the excesses of the Revolu-
tion were very unsafe things to hold. Although André took refuge
in 1793 in a quiet little house at Versailles, he could not stay there
altogether, but made frequent visits to Paris; and an unfortunate
chance caused his arrest at the house of M. Pastoret at Passy, where
he was accused of having gone to warn his friend of his own danger.


## p. 3605 (#587) ###########################################

ANDRÉ CHÉNIER
3605
Chénier was first taken to the prison of the Luxembourg, which was
too full to receive him, and then to St. Lazare, where he was regis-
tered on the 8th of March, 1794.
Apart from the suspicion which caused his arrest, he could hardly
have escaped much longer; his fellow editor of the Journal de Paris
had already been in St. Lazare for several months, and his friends
the Trudaines joined him there before long. M. de Chénier exerted
all his influence to procure his son's liberation, but was put off with
promises and polite evasions; and not long after, his second son,
Sauveur, was imprisoned in the Conciergerie.
By this time there were nearly eight thousand persons in the
prisons of Paris; about eight hundred in St. Lazare, where Chénier
found many of his friends, and among the ladies there the beautiful
and charming young Duchess of Fleury. It was she who inspired the
poet with the idea of his poem called The Young Captive,' perhaps
the most beautiful, as it is the most touching, of all his poems.
Shortly before Chénier was arrested he had formed a close
friendship with Madame Pourrat of Luciennes and her two daughters,
the Countess Hocquart and Madame Laurent Lecoulteux. To the
latter, under the name of Fanny, he addressed many charming
verses; one ode in particular, that seems to have been intended to
accompany the gift of a necklace, is almost worthy of Ronsard,
although like many of Chénier's poems it was never finished.
His last poems were written in a very fine hand on some narrow
strips of paper that had escaped the vigilance of his jailers, and were
smuggled out of prison with the linen that went to the wash.
On the flimsy pretext of a conspiracy among the prisoners, André
Chénier, then only thirty-one, was condemned with twenty-five others
as "an enemy of the people, and for having shared in all the crimes
perpetrated by the tyrant, his wife, and his family; of writing against
liberty and in favor of tyranny; of corresponding with enemies of
the republic abroad and at home; and finally of conspiring, in the
prison of St. Lazare, to murder the members of the committees of
general safety, etc. , and to re-establish royalty in France. "
The twenty-five victims went through the mockery of their trial
in the morning of the 25th of July, 1794, and at six the same even-
ing were executed at the Barrière de Vincennes. Three days after-
ward, Robespierre and many of his accomplices perished upon the
scaffold, and the Reign of Terror was at an end.
Very little of André Chénier's poetry was left in a state fit for
publication; he began so many vast enterprises of which he left but
the merest fragments, and he wrote so much that his literary execu-
tors feared would shock the public taste. His brother published
'The Young Captive' and one or two other poems some seven years


## p. 3606 (#588) ###########################################

3606
ANDRÉ CHÉNIER
after his death, which were quoted by Châteaubriand in 1802 and
warmly admired by him. The first complete edition of his poems
did not appear till 1819, a year before Lamartine's 'Meditations'
came out, and three years before Victor Hugo's first collection was
printed.
He was not considered a great poet by his first readers, and
he would be almost a forgotten one now, were it not for the romance
of his short life and his early death. He was the precursor of Byron
and De Musset, having the ardent love of liberty of the former and
the sensuous grace of the latter; but he lacked the strength for a
sustained flight, and he did not know the measure of his powers. He
had saturated himself too completely with the honey of Greek verse,
and was prisoned in its cloying sweetness. When he would soar into
the empyrean, his wings were clogged, and he soon fell back again
among the flowers. But he will always be a notable figure in French
literature, although we may not consider him, with his French ad-
mirers, as one of the masters among the poets of our own time.
Katharine Hillard
THE YOUNG CAPTIVE
HE corn in peace fills out its golden ear;
Through the long summer days, the flowers without a
fear
"THE
Drink in the strength of noon.
And I, a flower like them, as young, as fair, as pure,
Though at the present hour some trouble I endure,
I would not die so soon!
"No, let the stoic heart call upon Death as kind!
For me, I weep and hope; before the bitter wind
I bend like some lithe palm.
If there be long, sad days, others are bright and fleet;
Alas! what honeyed draught holds nothing but the sweet?
What sea is ever calm?
"And still within my breast nestles illusion bright;
In vain these prison walls shut out the noonday light;
Fair Hope has lent me wings.
So from the fowler's net, again set free to fly,
More swift, more joyous, through the summer sky,
Philomel soars and sings.


## p. 3607 (#589) ###########################################

ANDRÉ CHÉNIER
3607
"Is it my lot to die? In peace I lay me down,
In peace awake again, a peace nor care doth drown,
Nor fell remorse destroy.
My welcome shines from every morning face,
And to these downcast souls my presence in this place
Almost restores their joy.
"The voyage of life is but begun for me,
And of the landmarks I must pass, I see
So few behind me stand.
At life's long banquet, now before me set,
My lips have hardly touched the cup as yet
Still brimming in my hand.
"I only know the spring; I would see autumn brown;
Like the bright sun, that all the seasons crown,
I would round out my year.
A tender flower, the sunny garden's boast,
I have but seen the fires of morning's host;
Would eve might find me here!
"O Death, canst thou not wait? Depart from me, and go
To comfort those sad hearts whom pale despair, and woe,
And shame, perchance have wrung.
For me the woods still offer verdant ways,
The Loves their kisses, and the Muses praise:
I would not die so young! "
Thus, captive too, and sad, my lyre none the less
Woke at the plaint of one who breathed its own distress,
Youth in a prison cell;
And throwing off the yoke that weighed upon me too,
I strove in all the sweet and tender words I knew
Her gentle grief to tell.
Melodious witness of my captive days,
These rhymes shall make some lover of my lays
Seek the maid I have sung.
Grace sits upon her brow, and all shall share,
Who see her charms, her grief and her despair:
They too "must die so young"!


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3608
ANDRÉ CHÉNIER
M
ODE
AY fewer roses calls her own,
And fewer vines wreathe Autumn's throne,
Fewer the wheat-ears of the field,-
Than all the songs that Fanny's smiles
And Fanny's eyes and witching wiles
Inspire my lips and lyre to yield.
The secret longings of my heart
In words of fire to being start,
Moved by the magic of her name:
As when from ocean's depths the shell
Yields up the pearl it wrought so well,
Worthy the Sultan's diadem.
And thus from out the mulberry leaves
The Cathay silkworm twines and weaves
Her sparkling web of palest gold.
Come, dear, my Muse has silk more pure
And bright than hers, that shall endure,
And all your loveliness enfold.
And pearls of poetry divine
With rosy fingers she shall twine.
To make a necklace rich and rare;
Come, Fanny, and that snowy neck
Let me with radiant jewels deck,
Although no pearl is half so fair.


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3609
VICTOR CHERBULIEZ
(1829-)
N 1863 the Revue des Deux Mondes offered its readers a novel
by a young author very slightly known to Parisian littéra-
teurs. But everybody read him with interest, whether cor-
dially approving or not. The story was not evolutionary, had no
definite moral purpose. Perhaps the public were glad to temporarily
lay aside their instruments for scientific dissection of literary art; for
'Le Comte Kostia,' a lively tale of romantic adventure, was the
most popular story that had been published by the Revue des Deux
Mondes. Naturally the gratified editors
accepted the author as a regular contrib-
utor, which he has been ever since. He
had been introduced to them by George
Sand, who, pleased with an earlier work of
his, wrote him appreciatively and did him
this kind turn. This earlier work, 'Un
Cheval de Phidias (A Horse by Phidias),
cordially praised by Sainte-Beuve, was a
capable dissertation upon archæology and
art, strung on a thread of narrative.

The young author, Victor Cherbuliez,-
Genevese, of French descent,- was about
thirty-four when 'Le Comte Kostia' ap-
peared. A critic in discussing him speaks
almost enviously of the liberalizing influences experienced in cosmo-
politan little Switzerland. Cherbuliez's advantages have been great.
His father was a professor in the university, and of his parents it
has been pleasantly said that from his father he learned all he ought
to know, from his mother all he ought to be. He was graduated
from the University of Geneva, and later studied history and phi-
losophy at Paris, Bonn, and Berlin. For a time he taught at Geneva;
then he married, and with his wife traveled extensively in the East,
where he collected abundant material for his trained powers of obser-
vation and his love of social and artistic questions. He has been a
member of the Academy since 1881, and now lives in Paris,-
a per-
ennial novel-writer, distinguished also for the clever sketches on
modern French politics which appear regularly in the Revue des
Deux Mondes signed "George Valbert. "
VICTOR CHERBULIEZ
—


## p. 3610 (#592) ###########################################

3610
VICTOR CHERBULIEZ
But his best and most abundant work has been in fiction, where
his talent lies in the union of romantic imagination with a practical
view of life. There is sometimes falsetto in the imagination, but it
gratifies a liking for falsetto in many readers. Translated, his novels
have been read almost as much in English as in French; and among
the best liked are 'L'Idée de Jean Tétérol' (Jean Tétérol's Idea); ‘La
Revanche de Joseph Noircel' (Joseph Noircel's Revenge); 'Le Doc-
teur Rameau. '
If they refuse Cherbuliez a place among great writers, at least
the critics always respect his cleverness, and recognize the range of
rmation regarding the art, literature, politics, and history of
different lands. The prime quality of his work is interest.
His re-
markable inventiveness shows in one unusual situation after another,
without repetition and with always fresh stimulus. His kinship with
George Sand's romantic spirit was felt at once, and his style has
always remained essentially unchanged. But that his earlier emo-
tional spontaneity has grown with maturity to a more conventional
spirit, may be seen by comparing the two ends of his work. In
'Le Comte Kostia' we have the persecution of a beautiful young
daughter by a Russian nobleman. He forces her to hide her sex and
personate the son he has lost, and subjects her to many terrors until
she is rescued by his chivalrous young secretary, who in time dis-
covers her secret and marries her, but first, numberless adventures
and scenes of passion. In Le Roi Epèpi' (King Epèpi: 1895) there
is no profound emotion. It is the cleverly cynical account of the res-
cue by a worldly old uncle of a romantic and short-sighted nephew.
The young man, infatuated by an adventuress, insists upon marrying
her. The uncle ingeniously, without compromising himself, leads the
lady to believe that he himself is in love with her. Naturally she
prefers proprietor to heir, and throws over the latter only to find
herself deceived.
-
Perhaps the best way to indicate Cherbuliez's place in French lit-
erature is by comparison with the English Trollope. Both create
interest. Both have a swift firm style, with sometimes almost too
facile a rush. But while Trollope draws ordinary men and women
who talk in ordinary fashion, Cherbuliez invents brilliant-minded
people who shower us with epigram. They shoulder too much of
their creator's erudition, and are too clever to be quite natural.


## p. 3611 (#593) ###########################################

VICTOR CHERBULIEZ
3611
THE SILENT DUEL
From Samuel Brohl and Company>
M
ADAME DE LORCY ushered Samuel into the salon, where he
had scarcely set foot when he descried an old woman
lounging on a causeuse, fanning herself as she chatted
with Abbé Miollens. He remained motionless, his eyes fixed,
scarcely breathing, cold as marble; it seemed to him that the
four walls of the salon swayed from right to left and left to
right, and that the floor was sliding from under his feet like the
deck of a pitching vessel.
The previous day, Antoinette once departed, Madame de
Lorcy had resumed her attack on Princess Gulof, and the prin-
cess had ended by consenting to delay her departure, to dine
with the adventurer of the green eyes, and to subject him to a
close scrutiny. There she was; yes, it was indeed she! The
first impulse of Samuel Brohl was to regain the door as speedily
as possible; but he did nothing of the kind. He looked at
Madame de Lorcy: she herself was regarding him with astonish-
ment; she wondered what could suddenly have overcome him;
she could find no explanation for the bewilderment apparent in
his countenance.
"It is a mere chance," he thought at last; "she has not
intentionally drawn me into a snare. " This thought was produc-
tive of a sort of half-relief.
"Eh bien! what is it? " she asked.
the misfortune to be hurtful to you? ”
"Has my poor salon still
He pointed to a jardinière, saying: "You are fond of hya-
cinths and tuberoses; their perfume overpowered me for a
moment. I fear you think me very effeminate. "
She replied in a caressing voice: "I take you for a most
worthy man who has terrible nerves; but you know by experi-
ence that if you have weaknesses I have salts. Will you have
my smelling-bottle? "
"You are a thousand times too good," he rejoined, and
bravely marched forward to face the danger. It is a well-known
fact that dangers in a silken robe are the most formidable of all.
Madame de Lorcy presented him to the princess, who raised
her chin to examine him with her little glittering eyes. It
seemed to him that those gray orbs directed at him were two


## p. 3612 (#594) ###########################################

3612
VICTOR CHERBULIEZ
balls, which struck him in the heart; he quivered from head to
foot and asked himself confusedly whether he were dead or liv-
ing. He soon perceived that he was still living; the princess
had remained impassible-not a muscle of her face had moved.
She ended by bestowing upon Samuel a smile which was almost
gracious, and addressing to him some insignificant words which
he only half understood, but which seemed to him exquisite-
delicious. He fancied that she was saying to him: "You have a
chance you were born lucky; my sight has been impaired for
some years, and I do not recognize you. Bless your star, you
are saved! " He experienced such a transport of joy that he
could have flung his arms about the neck of Abbé Miollens, who
came up to him with extended hand, saying: -
―――
"What have you been thinking about, my dear count? Since
we last met a very great event has been accomplished. What
woman wishes, God wishes; but after all, my own humble efforts
were not without avail, and I am proud of it. "
Madame de Lorcy requested Count Larinski to offer his arm
to Princess Gulof and lead her out to dinner. He mechanically
complied; but he had not the strength to utter a syllable as he
conducted the princess to table. She herself said nothing; she
seemed wholly busied in arranging with her unoccupied hand a
lock of her gray hair, which had strayed too far over her fore-
head. He looked fixedly at this short plump hand, which one
day in a fit of jealous fury had administered to him two smart
blows; his cheeks recognized it.
During dinner the princess was very gay: she paid more
attention to Abbé Miollens than to Count Larinski; she took
pleasure in teasing the good priest-in endeavoring to shock
him a little. It was not easy to shock him; to his natural easy
good-nature he united an innate respect for grandeurs and for
princesses. She did not neglect so good an opportunity to air
her monkey-development theories. He merrily flung back the
ball; he declared that he should prefer to be a fallen angel
rather than a perfected monkey; that in his estimation a parvenu
made a much sorrier figure in the world than the descendant of
an old family of ruined nobility. She replied that she was more
democratic than he. "It is pleasant to me," said she, «< to think
that I am a progressive ape, who has a wide future before him,
and who by taking proper pains may hope to attain
advancement. "
―――――――――


## p. 3613 (#595) ###########################################

VICTOR CHERBULIEZ
3613
While they were thus chatting, Samuel Brohl was striving
with all his might to recover from the terrible blow he had
received. He noted with keen satisfaction that the eyesight of
the princess was considerably impaired; that the microscopic
studies for which she had always had a taste had resulted in ren-
dering her somewhat near-sighted; that she was obliged to look
out carefully to find her way among her wine-glasses. "She has
not seen me for six years," thought he, "and I have become a
different man; I have undergone a complete metamorphosis; I
have difficulty sometimes in recognizing myself. Formerly my
face was close-shaven; now I have let my entire beard grow.
My voice, my accent, the poise of my head, my manners, the
expression of my countenance, all are changed; Poland has en-
tered into my blood-I am Samuel no longer, I am Larinski. ”
He blessed the microscope, which enfeebled the sight of old
women; he blessed Count Abel Larinski, who had made of him
his twin brother. Before the end of the repast he had recovered
all his assurance, all his aplomb. He began to take part in the
conversation: he recounted in a sorrowful tone a sorrowful little
story; he retailed sundry playful anecdotes with a melancholy
grace and sprightliness; he expressed the most chivalrous senti-
ments; shaking his lion's mane, he spoke of the prisoner at the
Vatican with tears in his voice.
It were impossible to be a more
thorough Larinski.
The princess manifested, in listening to him, an astonished
curiosity; she concluded by saying to him, "Count, I admire
you; but I believe only in physiology, and you are a little too
much of a Pole for me. "
After they had left the table and repaired to the salon, sev-
eral callers dropped in. It was like a deliverance to Samuel. If
the society was not numerous enough for him to lose himself in
it, at least it served him as a shield. He held it for a certainty
that the princess had not recognized him; yet he did not cease
feeling in her presence unutterably ill at ease. This Calmuck
visage of hers recalled to him all the miseries, the shame, the
hard grinding slavery of his youth; he could not look at her
without feeling his brow burn as though it were being seared
with a hot iron.
He entered into conversation with a supercilious, haughty,
and pedantic counselor-at-law, whose interminable monologues dis-
tilled ennui. This fine speaker seemed charming to Samuel, who


## p. 3614 (#596) ###########################################

3614
VICTOR CHERBULIEZ
found in him wit, knowledge, scholarship, and taste; he possessed
the (in his eyes) meritorious quality of not knowing Samuel
Brohl. For Samuel had come to divide the human race into two
categories: the first comprehended those well-to-do, thriving peo-
ple who did not know a certain Brohl; he placed in the second,
old women who did know him. He interrogated the counselor
with deference, he hung upon his words, he smiled with an air
of approbation at all the absurdities which escaped him; he
would have been willing to have his discourse last three hours
by the watch; if this charming bore had shown symptoms of
escaping him, he would have held him back by the button.
Suddenly he heard a harsh voice saying to Madame de
Lorcy, "Where is Count Larinski? Bring him to me; I want to
have a discussion with him. "
He could not do otherwise than comply; he quitted his coun-
selor with regret, went over and took a seat in the arm-chair
that Madame de Lorcy drew up for him at the side of the prin-
cess, and which had for him the effect of a stool of repentance.
Madame de Lorcy moved away, and he was left tête-à-tête with
Princess Gulof, who said to him, "I have been told that congrat-
ulations are due you, and I must make them at once- although
we are enemies. "
"By what right are we enemies, princess? " he asked, with a
slightly troubled feeling, which quickly passed away as she
answered, "I am a Russian and you are a Pole; but we shall
have no time for fighting: I leave for London to-morrow morn-
ing at seven o'clock. "
He was on the point of casting himself at her feet and
tenderly kissing her two hands in testimony of his gratitude.
"To-morrow at seven o'clock," he mentally ejaculated. "I have
slandered her: she has some good in her. ”
"When I say that I am a Russian," resumed the princess,
"it is merely a formal speech. Love of country is a prejudice,
an idea which has had its day, which had sense in the times of
Epaminondas or of Theseus, but which has it no longer. We
live in the age of the telegraph, the locomotive; and I know of
nothing more absurd now than a frontier, or more ridiculous
than a patriot. Rumor says that you fought like a hero in the
insurrection of 1863; that you gave proof of incomparable
prowess, and that you killed with your own hand ten Cossacks.
What harm had they done you, those poor Cossacks? Do they


## p. 3615 (#597) ###########################################

VICTOR CHERBULIEZ
3615
not sometimes haunt your dreams? Can you think of your
victims without disquietude and without remorse? »
He replied in a dry, haughty tone: "I really do not know,
princess, how many Cossacks I have killed; but I do know that
there are some subjects on which I do not love to expatiate. "
"You are right-I should not comprehend you. Don Qui-
xote did not do Sancho the honor to explain himself to him
every day. "
"Ah, I beg of you, let us talk a little of the man-monkey,"
he observed, in a rather more pliant tone than he had at first
assumed. "That is a question which has the advantage of being
neither Russian nor Polish. "
"You will not succeed that way in throwing me off the track.
I mean to tell you all the evil I think of you, no matter how it
may incense you. You uttered, at table, theories which dis-
pleased me. You are not only a Polish patriot,-you are an
idealist, a true disciple of Plato, and you do not know how I
have always detested this man. In all these sixty years that
I have been in this world, I have seen nothing but selfishness
and grasping after self-gratification. Twice during dinner you
spoke of an ideal world. What is an ideal world? Where is it
situated? You speak of it as of a house whose inhabitants you
are well acquainted with, whose key is in your pocket. Can
you show me the key? I promise not to steal it from you. 0
Poet! - for you are quite as much of a poet as of a Pole, which
is not saying much-»
"Nothing remains but to hang me,” he interposed, smilingly.
"No, I shall not hang you. Opinions are free, and there is
room enough in the world for all, even idealists. Besides, if you
were to be hanged, it would bring to the verge of despair a
charming girl who adores you, who was created expressly for
you, and whom you will shortly marry. When will the cere-
mony take place? "
"If I dared hope that you would do me the honor of being
present, princess, I should postpone it until your return from
England. "
"You are too amiable; but I could not on any consideration
retard the happiness of Mademoiselle Moriaz. There, my dear
count, I congratulate you sincerely. I had the pleasure to meet
here the future Countess Larinski. She is adorable! It is an
exquisite nature, hers-a true poet's wife. She must have


## p. 3616 (#598) ###########################################

3616
VICTOR CHERBULIEZ
brains, discernment; she has chosen you- that says everything.
As to her fortune, I dare not ask you if she has any; you would
turn away from me in disgust. Do idealists trouble their heads
with such vile questions? "
She leaned toward him, and fanning herself excitedly, added,
"These poor idealists! they have one misfortune. "
"And what is that, princess? "
"They dream with open eyes, and the awakening is some-
times disagreeable. Ah, my dear Count Larinski, this, that, and
the other, et cætera. Thus endeth the adventure. "
Then stretching out her neck until her face was close to his,
she darted at him a venomous viper-like look, and in a voice
that seemed to cut into his tympanum like a sharp-toothed saw,
she hissed, "Samuel Brohl, the man with the green eyes, sooner
or later the mountains must meet! "
It seemed to him that the candelabra on the mantel-piece
darted out jets of flame, whose green, blue, and rose-colored
tongues ascended to the ceiling; and it appeared to him as
though his heart was beating as noisily as a clock pendulum, and
that every one would turn to inquire whence came the noise.
But every one was occupied; no one turned round; no one sus-
pected that there was a man present on whom a thunderbolt had
just fallen.
The man passed his hand over his brow, which was covered
with a cold sweat; then dispelling by an effort of will the cloud
that veiled his eyes, he in turn leaned toward the princess and
with quivering lip and evil sardonic glance, said to her in a low
voice:
"Princess, I have a slight acquaintance with this Samuel
Brohl of whom you speak. He is not a man who will allow
himself to be strangled without a great deal of outcry. You are
not much in the habit of writing; nevertheless he received from
you two letters, which he copied, placing the originals in safety.
If ever he sees the necessity of appearing in a court of justice,
these two letters can be made to create quite a sensation, and
unquestionably they will be the delight of all the petty journals
of Paris. "
Thereupon he made a profound bow, respectfully took leave
of Madame de Lorcy, and retired, followed by Abbé Miollens,
who inflicted a real torture by insisting on accompanying him to
the station.


## p. 3617 (#599) ###########################################

VICTOR CHERBULIEZ
3617
SAMUEL BROHL GIVES UP THE PLAY
From Samuel Brohl and Company'
THE
HE gate opened and admitted Samuel Brohl, who had a smile
on his lips. His first words were "And your umbrella!
You have forgotten it? "
――――――――――
Mademoiselle de Moriaz replied, "Do you not see that there
is no sunshine ? » And she remained leaning against the apple-
tree.
He uplifted his hand to show her the blue sky; he let it fall
again. He looked at Antoinette, and he was afraid. He guessed
immediately that she knew all. At once he grew audacious.
"I spent a dull day yesterday," said he. "Madame de Lorcy
invited me to dine with a crazy woman; but the night made up
for it. I saw Engadine in my dreams-the firs, the Alpine
pines, the emerald lakes, and a red hood. "
"I too dreamed last night. I dreamed that the bracelet you
gave me belonged to the crazy woman of whom you speak, and
that she had her name engraved on it. "
She threw him the bracelet; he picked it up, examined it,
turned and re-turned it in his trembling fingers. She grew impa-
tient. "Look at the place that has been forced open.
Don't you
know how to read? "
He read, and became stupefied. Who would have believed
that this trinket that he had found among his father's old traps
had come to him from Princess Gulof; that it was the price she
had paid for Samuel Brohl's ignominy and shame? Samuel was
a fatalist; he felt that his star had set, that Fate had conspired
to ruin his hopes, that he was found guilty and condemned. His
heart grew heavy within him.
"Can you tell me what I ought to think of a certain Samuel
Brohl? " she asked.
That name, pronounced by her, fell on him like a mass of
lead; he never would have believed that there could be so much
weight in a human word. He trembled under the blow; then he
struck his brow with his clinched hand and replied:
"Samuel Brohl is a man as worthy of your pity as he is of
mine. If you knew all that he has suffered, all that he has
dared, you could not help deeply pitying and admiring him.
Listen to me: Samuel Brohl is an unfortunate man—»
-
VI-227


## p. 3618 (#600) ###########################################

3618
VICTOR CHERBULIEZ
"Or a wretch! " she interrupted in a terrible voice.
She was
seized by a fit of nervous laughter; she cried out, "Madame
Brohl! I will not be called Madame Brohl. Ah! that poor
Countess Larinski! "
He had a spasm of rage that would have terrified her had
she conjectured what agitated him. He raised his head, crossed
his arms on his breast, and said with a bitter smile, "It was not
the man that you loved, it was the count. "
She replied, "The man whom I loved never lied. "
"Yes, I lied," he cried, gasping for breath. "I drank that
cup of shame without remorse or disgust. I lied because I loved
you madly. I lied because you were dearer to me than my
honor. I lied because I despaired of touching your heart, and
any road seemed good that led to you. Why did I meet you?
why could I not see you without recognizing in you the dream
of my whole life? Happiness had passed me by, it was about
to take flight; I caught it in a trap-I lied. Who would not
lie, to be loved by you? "
Samuel Brohl had never looked so handsome. Despair and
passion kindled a sombre flame in his eyes; he had the sinister
charm of a fiery Satan. He fixed on Antoinette a fascinating
glance which said, "What matter my name, my lies, and the
rest? My face is not a mask, and I am the man who pleased
you. " He had not the least suspicion of the astonishing facility
with which Antoinette had taken back the heart that she had
given away so easily; he did not suspect what miracles can be
wrought by contempt. In the Middle Ages people believed in
golems, figures in clay of an entrancing beauty, which had all
the appearance of life. Under a lock of hair was written, in
Hebrew characters, on their brow, the word "Truth. " If they
chanced to lie, the word was obliterated; they lost all their
charm; the clay was no longer anything but clay.
Mademoiselle Moriaz divined Samuel Brohl's thought; she
exclaimed, "The man I loved was he whose history you related
to me. "
He would have liked to kill her, so that she should never
belong to another. Behind Antoinette, not twenty steps distant,
he descried the curb of a well, and grew dizzy at the sight. He
discovered with despair that he was not made of the stuff for
crime. He dropped down on his knees in the grass and cried,
"If you will not pardon me, nothing remains for me but to


## p. 3619 (#601) ###########################################

VICTOR CHERBULIEZ
3619
die! " She stood motionless and impassive. She repeated be-
tween her teeth Camille Langis's phrase: "I am waiting until
this great comedian has finished playing his piece. "
He rose and started to run toward the well. She was in
front of him and barred the passage, but at the same moment
she felt two hands clasp her waist, and the breath of two lips.
which sought her lips and which murmured, "You love me still,
since you do not want me to die. "
She struggled with violence and horror; she succeeded by a
frantic effort in disengaging herself from his grasp. She fled
toward the house. Samuel Brohl rushed after her in mad pur-
suit; he was just reaching her, when he suddenly stopped. He
had caught sight of M. Langis, hurrying from out a thicket,
where he had been hidden. Growing uneasy, he had approached
the orchard through a path concealed by the heavy foliage. An-
toinette, out of breath, ran to him, gasping, "Camille, save me
from this man! " and she threw herself into his arms, which
closed about her with delight. He felt her sink; she would have
fallen had he not supported her.
At the same instant a menacing voice saluted him with the
words, "Monsieur, we will meet again! "
To-day, if you will," he replied.
Antoinette's wild excitement had given place to insensibility;
she neither saw nor heard; her limbs no longer sustained her.
Camille had great difficulty in bringing her to the house; she
could not ascend the steps of the terrace; he was obliged to
carry her. Mademoiselle Moiseney saw him, and filled the air
with her cries. She ran forward, she lavished her best care on
her queen.
All the time she was busy in bringing her to her
senses she was asking Camille for explanations, to which she
did not pay the least attention; she interrupted him at every
word to exclaim:- "This has been designed, and you are at the
bottom of the plot. I have suspected you-you owe Antoinette
a grudge. Your wounded vanity has never recovered from her
refusal, and you are determined to be revenged. Perhaps you
flatter yourself that she will end by loving you. She does not
love you, and she never will love you. Who are you, to dare
compare yourself with Count Larinski?
Be silent!
Do I believe in Samuel Brohl? I do not know Samuel
Brohl. I venture my head that there is no such person as
Samuel Brohl. "


## p. 3620 (#602) ###########################################

3620
VICTOR CHERBULIEZ
"Not much of a venture, mademoiselle," replied M. Moriaz,
who had arrived in the mean time.
Antoinette remained during an hour in a state of mute lan-
guor; then a violent fever took possession of her. When the
physician who had been sent for arrived, M. Langis accompa-
nied him into the chamber of the sick girl. She was delirious:
seated upright, she kept continually passing her hand over her
brow; she sought to efface the taint of a kiss she had received
one moonlight night, and the impression in her hair of the flap-
ping of a bat's wings that had caught in her hood. These two
things were confounded in her memory. From time to time
she said, "Where is my portrait? Give me my portrait. "
It was about ten o'clock when M. Langis called on Samuel
Brohl, who was not astonished to see him appear; he had hoped
he would come. Samuel had regained self-possession. He was
calm and dignified. However, the tempest through which he
had gone had left on his features some vestige of its passage.
His lips quivered, and his beautiful chestnut locks curled like
serpents about his temples and gave his head a Medusa-like
appearance.
He said to Camille, "Where and when? Our seconds will
undertake the arrangement of the rest. "
"You mistake, monsieur, the motive of my visit,” replied M.
Langis. "I am grieved to destroy your illusions, but I did not
come to arrange a meeting with you. "
« Do you
refuse to give me satisfaction? "
"What satisfaction do I owe you? "
"You insulted me. "
"When? "
"And you said, "The day, the place, the weapons. I leave
all to your choice. »»
M. Langis could not refrain from smiling. "Ah! you at last
acknowledge that your fainting fit was comedy? " he rejoined.
"Acknowledge on your part," replied Samuel, "that you
insult persons when you believe that they are not in a state to
hear you.
Your courage likes to take the safe side. "
"Be reasonable," replied Camille.