No More Learning

“She loves me still! ” he cried, comprehending all that was
revealed in the cry of the nun. “I will find means to carry her
away!
He left the island immediately, and returned to France.
Translation copyrighted by Roberts Brothers.
(AN EPISODE UNDER THE TERROR)
1
1
1
THE 22d of January, 1793, towards eight o'clock in the
evening, an old gentlewoman came down the sharp decliv-
ity of the Faubourg Saint-Martin, which ends near the
church of Saint-Laurent in Paris. Snow had fallen throughout
the day, so that footfalls could be scarcely heard. The streets
were deserted. The natural fear inspired by such stillness was
deepened by the terror to which all France was then a prey.
The old lady had met no one. Her failing sight hindered
her from perceiving in the distance a few pedestrians, sparsely
scattered like shadows, along the broad road of the faubourg.
She was walking bravely through the solitude as if her age were
a talisman to guard her from danger; but after passing the Rue
des Morts she fancied that she heard the firm, heavy tread of a
man coming behind her. The thought seized her mind that she
had been listening to it unconsciously for some time. Terrified
at the idea of being followed, she tried to walk faster to reach a
lighted shop-window, and settle the doubt which thus assailed
her. When well beyond the horizontal rays of light thrown
across the pavement, she turned abruptly and saw a human form
looming through the fog. The indistinct glimpse was enough.
She staggered for an instant under the weight of terror, for she
no longer doubted that this unknown man had tracked her, step
by step, from her home. The hope of escaping such a spy lent
strength to her feeble limbs. Incapable of reasoning, she quick-
ened her steps to a run, as if it were possible to escape a man
necessarily more agile than she. After running for a few min-
utes, she reached the shop of a pastry-cook, entered it, and fell,
rather than sat, down on a chair which stood before the counter.


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As she lifted the creaking latch of the door, a young woman,
who was at work on a piece of embroidery, looked up and recog-
nized through the glass panes the antiquated mantle of purple
silk which wrapped the old lady, and hastened to pull open a
drawer, as if to take from thence something that she had to give
her. The action and the expression of the young woman not
only implied a wish to get rid of the stranger, as of some one
most unwelcome, but she let fall an exclamation of impatience
at finding the drawer empty. Then, without looking at the
lady, she came rapidly from behind the counter, and went to-
wards the back-shop to call her husband, who appeared at once.
« Where have you put
? ” she asked him, mysteri-
ously, calling his attention to the old lady by a glance, and not
concluding her sentence.
Although the pastry-cook could see nothing but the enormous
black-silk hood circled with purple ribbons which the stranger
wore, he disappeared, with a glance at his wife which seemed to
say,
« Do
you suppose
I should leave that on your counter ? ”
Surprised at the silence and immobility of her customer, the
wife came forward, and was seized with a sudden movement
of compassion as well as of curiosity when she looked at her.
Though the complexion of the old gentlewoman was naturally
livid, like that of a person vowed to secret austerities, it was
easy to see that some recent alarm had spread an unusual pale-
ness over her features. Her head-covering was so arranged as
to hide the hair, whitened no doubt by age, for the cleanly collar
of her dress proved that she wore no powder. The concealment
of this natural adornment gave to her countenance a sort of
conventual severity; but its features were grave and noble. In
former days the habits and manners of people of quality were
so different from those of all other classes that it was easy to dis-
tinguish persons of noble birth. The young shop-woman felt
certain, therefore, that the stranger was a ci-devant, and one who
had probably belonged to the court.
“Madame ? ” she said, with involuntary respect, forgetting that
the title was proscribed.
The old lady made no answer. Her eyes were fixed on the
glass of the shop-window, as if some alarming object were
painted upon it.
“What is the matter, citoyenne ? ” asked the master of the
establishment, re-entering, and drawing the attention of his


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1386
HONORÉ DE BALZAC
customer to a little cardboard box covered with blue paper,
which he held out to her.
"It is nothing, nothing, my friends," she answered in a gentle
voice, as she raised her eyes to give the man a thankful look.
Seeing a phrygian cap upon his head, a cry escaped her:-“Ah!
it is you who have betrayed me! ”
The young woman and her husband replied by a deprecat-
ing gesture of horror which caused the unknown lady to blush,
either for her harsh suspicion or from the relief of feeling it
unjust.
"Excuse me,” she said, with childlike sweetness. Then tak-
ing a gold louis from her pocket, she offered it to the pastry-
cook. Here is the sum we agreed upon,” she added.
There is a poverty which poor people quickly divine. The
shopkeeper and his wife looked at each other with a glance at
the old lady that conveyed a mutual thought. The louis was
doubtless her last. The hands of the poor woman trembled as
she offered it, and her eyes rested upon it sadly, yet not with
avarice. She seemed to feel the full extent of her sacrifice.
Hunger and want were traced upon her features in lines as legi-
ble as those of timidity and ascetic habits. Her clothing showed
vestiges of luxury. It was of silk, well-worn; the mantle was
clean, though faded; the laces carefully darned; in short, here
were the rags of opulence. The two shopkeepers, divided be-
tween pity and self-interest, began to soothe their conscience with
words:
"Citoyenne, you seem very feeble –»
“Would Madame like to take something? » asked the wife,
cutting short her husband's speech.
“We have some very good broth,” he added.
"It is so cold, perhaps Madame is chilled by her walk; but
you can rest here and warm yourself. ”
«The devil is not so black as he is painted,” cried the hus-
band.
Won by the kind tone of these words, the old lady admitted
that she had been followed by a man and was afraid of going
home alone.
“Is that all ? ) said the man with the phrygian cap. «Wait
for me, citoyenne. ”
He gave the louis to his wife. Then moved by a species of
gratitude which slips into the shopkeeping soul when its owner


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HONORÉ DE BALZAC
1387
Don't go.
receives an exorbitant price for an article of little value, he went
to put on his uniform as a National guard; took his hat, slung
on his sabre, and reappeared under arms.
But the wife mean-
time had reflected. Reflection, as often happens in many hearts,
had closed the open hand of her benevolence. Uneasy, and
alarmed lest her husband should be mixed up in some dangerous
affair, she pulled him by the flap of his coat, intending to stop
him; but the worthy man, obeying the impulse of charity,
promptly offered to escort the poor lady to her home.
“It seems that the man who has given her this fright is
prowling outside,” said his wife nervously.
"I am afraid he is,” said the old lady, with much simplicity.
“Suppose he should be a spy. Perhaps it is a conspiracy.
Take back the box. These words, whispered in the
pastry-cook's ear by the wife of his bosom, chilled the sudden
compassion that had warmed him.
Well, well, I will just say two words to the man and get rid
of him,” he said, opening the door and hurrying out.
The old gentlewoman, passive as a child and half paralyzed
with fear, sat down again. The shopkeeper almost instantly re-
appeared; but his face, red by nature and still further scorched
by the fires of his bakery, had suddenly turned pale, and he was
in the grasp of such terror that his legs shook and his eyes were
like those of a drunken man.
"Miserable aristocrat! ” he cried, furiously, do you want to
cut off our heads ? Go out from here; let me see your heels,
and don't dare to come back; don't expect me to supply you
with the means of conspiracy! ”
So saying, the pastry-cook endeavored to get back the little
box which the old lady had already slipped into one of her
pockets. Hardly had the bold hands of the shopkeeper touched
her clothing, than, preferring to encounter danger with no pro-
tection but that of God rather than lose the thing she had come
to buy, she recovered the agility of youth, and sprang to the
door, through which she disappeared abruptly, leaving the hus-
band and wife amazed and trembling.
As soon as the poor lady found herself alone in the street she
began to walk rapidly; but her strength soon gave way, for she
once more heard the snow creaking under the footsteps of the
spy as he trod heavily upon it. She was obliged to stop short:
the man stopped also. She dared not speak to him, nor even


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1388
HONORÉ DE BALZAC
look at him; either because of her terror, or from some lack of
natural intelligence. Presently she continued her walk slowly;
the man measured his step by hers, and kept at the same dis-
tance behind her; he seemed to move like her shadow. Nine
o'clock struck as the silent couple repassed the church of Saint-
Laurent. It is the nature of all souls, even the weakest, to fall
back into quietude after moments of violent agitation; for mani-
fold as
our feelings may be, our bodily powers are limited.
Thus the old lady, receiving no injury from her apparent perse-
cutor, began to think that he might be a secret friend watching
to protect her. She gathered up in her mind the circumstances
attending other apparitions of the mysterious stranger as if to
find plausible grounds for this consoling opinion, and took pleas-
ure in crediting him with good rather than sinister intentions.
Forgetting the terror he had inspired in the pastry-cook, she
walked on with a firmer step towards the upper part of the Fau-
bourg Saint-Martin.
At the end of half an hour she reached a house standing close
to the junction of the chief street of the faubourg with the street
leading out to the Barrière de Pantin. The place is to this day
one of the loneliest in Paris. The north wind blowing from Belle-
ville and the Buttes Chaumont whistled among the houses, or
rather cottages, scattered through the sparsely inhabited little
valley, where the inclosures are fenced with walls built of mud
and refuse bones. This dismal region seems the natural home of
poverty and despair. The man who was intent on following the
poor creature who had had the courage to thread these dark and
silent streets seemed struck with the spectacle they offered. He
stopped as if reflecting, and stood in a hesitating attitude, dimly
visible by a street lantern whose flickering light scarcely pierced
the fog Fear gave eyes to the old gentlewoman, who now
fancied that she saw something sinister in the features of this
unknown man. A11 her terrors revived, and profiting by the
curious hesitation that had seized him, she glided like a shadow
to the doorway of the solitary dwelling, touched a spring, and
disappeared with phantasmagoric rapidity.
The man, standing motionless, gazed at the house, which was,
as it were, a type of the wretched buildings of the neighborhood.
The tottering hovel, built of porous stone in rough blocks, was
coated with yellow plaster much cracked, and looked ready to
fall before a gust of wind. The roof, of brown tiles covered


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HONORÉ DE BALZAC
1389
with moss, had sunk in several places, and gave the impression
that the weight of snow might break it down at any moment.
Each story had three windows whose frames, rotted by dampness
and shrunken by the heat of the sun, told that the outer cold
penetrated to the chambers. The lonely house seemed like an
ancient tower that time had forgotten to destroy. A faint light
gleamed from the garret windows, which were irregularly cut in
the roof; but the rest of the house was in complete obscurity.
The old woman went up the rough and clumsy stairs with diffi-
culty, holding fast to a rope which took the place of baluster.
She knocked furtively at the door of a lodging under the roof,
and sat hastily down on a chair which an old man offered her.
“Hide! hide yourself! ” she cried. “Though we go out so
seldom, our errands are known, our steps are watched
“What has happened ? ” asked another old woman sitting near
the fire.
“The man who has hung about the house since yesterday fol-
lowed me to-night. ”
At these words the occupants of the hovel looked at each
other with terror in their faces. The old man
was the least
moved of the three, possibly because he was the one in greatest
danger. Under the pressure of misfortune or the yoke of perse-
cution a man of courage begins, as it were, by preparing for the
sacrifice of himself: he looks upon his days as so many victories
won from fate.
The eyes of the two women, fixed upon
the
old man, showed plainly that he alone was the object of their
extreme anxiety.
“Why distrust God, my sisters? ” he said, in a hollow but
impressive voice. “We chanted praises to his name amid the
cries of victims and assassins at the convent. If it pleased him
to save me from that butchery, it was doubtless for some destiny
which I shall accept without a murmur. God protects his own,
and disposes of them according to his will. It is of you, not of
me, that we should think. ”
“No,” said one of the women: «what is our life in compari-
son with that of a priest ? ”
“Ever since the day when I found myself outside of the
Abbaye des Chelles,” said the nun beside the fire, “I have given
myself up for dead. ”
“Here,” said the one who had just come in, holding out the
little box to the priest, “here the sacramental wafers -
are


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1390
HONORÉ DE BALZAC
one
Listen! ” she cried, interrupting herself. “I hear some one on
the stairs. ”
At these words all three listened intently. The noise ceased.
“Do not be frightened,” said the priest, “even if some
asks to enter. A person on whose fidelity we can safely rely has
taken measures to cross the frontier, and he will soon call here
for letters which I have written to the Duc de Langeais and the
Marquis de Beauséant, advising them as to the measures they
must take to get you out of this dreadful country, and save you
from the misery or the death you would otherwise undergo here. ”
"Shall you not follow us ? " said the two nuns softly, but in a
tone of despair.
"My place is near the victims,” said the priest, simply.
The nuns were silent, looking at him with devout admiration.
“Sister Martha,” he said, addressing the nun who had fetched
the wafers, “this messenger must answer Fiat voluntas' to the
word Hosanna. ) »
« There is some one on the stairway,” exclaimed the other
nun, hastily opening a hiding-place burrowed at the edge of the
roof.
This time it was easy to hear the steps of a man sounding
through the deep silence on the rough stairs, which were caked
with patches of hardened mud. The priest slid with difficulty
into a narrow hiding-place, and the nuns hastily threw articles of
apparel over him.
"You can shut me in, Sister Agatha,” he said, in a smothered
voice.
He was scarcely hidden when three knocks upon the door
made the sisters tremble and consult each other with their eyes,
for they dared not speak. Forty years' separation from the world
had made them like plants of a hot-house which wilt when
brought into the outer air. Accustomed to the life of a convent,
they could not conceive of any other; and when one morning
their bars and gratings were flung down, they had shuddered at
finding themselves free. It is easy to imagine the species of
imbecility which the events of the Revolution, enacted before
their eyes, had produced in these innocent souls. Quite incapable
of harmonizing their conventual ideas with the exigencies of
ordinary life, not even comprehending their own situation, they
were like children who had always been cared for, and who now,
torn from their maternal providence, had taken to prayers as


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HONORÉ DE BALZAC
1391
man.
other children take to tears. So it happened that in presence of
immediate danger they were dumb and passive, and could think
of no other defence than Christian resignation.
The man who sought to enter interpreted their silence as he
pleased; he suddenly opened the door and showed himself. The
two nuns trembled when they recognized the individual who for
some days had watched the house and seemed to make inquiries
about its inmates. They stood quite still and looked at him with
uneasy curiosity, like the children of savages examining a being
of another sphere. The stranger was very tall and stout, but
nothing in his manner or appearance denoted that he was a bad
He copied the immobility of the sisters and stood motion-
less, letting his eye rove slowly round the room.
Two bundles of straw placed on two planks served as beds
for the nuns. A table was in the middle of the room; upon it a
copper candlestick, a few plates, three knives, and a round loaf
of bread. The fire on the hearth was very low, and a few sticks
of wood piled in a corner of the room testified to the poverty of
the occupants. The walls, once covered with a coat of paint
now much defaced, showed the wretched condition of the roof
through which the rain had trickled, making a network of brown
stains. A sacred relic, saved no doubt from the pillage of the
Abbaye des Chelles, adorned the mantel-shelf of the chimney.
Three chairs, two coffers, and a broken chest of drawers com-
pleted the furniture of the room. A doorway cut near the fire-
place showed there was probably an inner chamber.
The inventory of this poor cell was soon made by the indi-
vidual who had presented himself under such alarming auspices.
An expression of pity crossed his features, and as he threw a
kind glance upon the frightened women he seemed as much em-
barrassed as they. The strange silence in which they all three
stood and faced each other lasted but a moment; for the stranger
seemed to guess the moral weakness and inexperience of the poor
helpless creatures, and he said, in a voice which he strove to
render gentle, “I have not come as an enemy, citoyennes. ”
Then he paused, but resumed:- “My sisters, if harm should
ever happen to you, be sure that I shall not have contributed to
it. I have come to ask a favor of you. "
They still kept silence.
“If I ask too much — if I annoy you — I will go away; but
believe me, I am heartily devoted to you, and if there is any


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1392
HONORÉ DE BALZAC
service that I could render you, you may employme without
fear. I, and I alone, perhaps, am above law — since there is no
longer a king. ”
The ring of truth in these words induced Sister Agatha, a
nun belonging to the ducal house of Langeais, and whose man-
ners indicated that she had once lived amid the festivities of life
and breathed the air of courts, to point to a chair as if she asked
their guest to be seated. The unknown gave vent to an expres-
sion of joy, mingled with melancholy, as he understood this
gesture. He waited respectfully till the sisters were seated, and
then obeyed it.
“You have given shelter,” he said, "to a venerable priest not
sworn in by the Republic, who escaped miraculously from the
massacre at the Convent of the Carmelites. ”
« Hosanna,” said Sister Agatha, suddenly interrupting the
stranger, and looking at him with anxious curiosity.
“That is not his name, I think,” he answered.
But, Monsieur, we have no priest here,” cried Sister Martha,
hastily, “and — »
“ Then you should take better precautions," said the unknown
gently, stretching his arm to the table and picking up a breviary.
“I do not think you understand Latin, and »
He stopped short, for the extreme distress painted on the
faces of the poor nuns made him fear he had gone too far; they
trembled violently, and their eyes filled with tears.
« Do not fear,” he said; “I know the name of your guest,
and yours also. During the last three days I have learned your
poverty, and your great devotion to the venerable Abbé of - »
«Hush ! » exclaimed Sister Agatha, ingenuously putting a fin-
ger on her lip.
“You see, my sisters, that if I had the horrible design of
betraying you, I might have accomplished it again and again. "
As he uttered these words the priest emerged from his prison
and appeared in the middle of the room.
“I cannot believe, Monsieur,” he said courteously, that you
are one of our persecutors.
What is it you desire
of me?
The saintly confidence of the old man, and the nobility of
mind imprinted on his countenance, might have disarmed even
an assassin. He who thus mysteriously agitated this home of
penury and resignation stood contemplating the group before
I trust you.


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HONORÉ DE BALZAC
1393
him; then he addressed the priest in a trustful tone, with these
words:
“My father, I came to ask you to celebrate a mass for the
repose of the soul — of- of a sacred being whose body can never
lie in holy ground. ”
The priest involuntarily shuddered. The nuns, not as yet
understanding who it was of whom the unknown man had spo-
ken, stood with their necks stretched and their faces turned
towards the speakers, in an attitude of eager curiosity. The
ecclesiastic looked intently at the stranger; unequivocal anxiety
was marked on every feature, and his eyes offered an earnest
and even ardent prayer.
“Yes,” said the priest at length. « Return here at midnight,
and I shall be ready to celebrate the only funeral service that
we are able to offer in expiation of the crime of which you
speak. ”
The unknown shivered; a joy both sweet and solemn seemed
to rise in his soul above some secret grief. Respectfully salut-
ing the priest and the two saintly women, he disappeared with a
mute gratitude which these generous souls knew well how to
interpret.
Two hours later the stranger returned, knocked cautiously at
the door of the garret, and was admitted by Mademoiselle de
Langeais, who led him to the inner chamber of the humble
refuge, where all was in readiness for the ceremony. Between
two flues of the chimney the nuns had placed the old chest of
drawers, whose broken edges were concealed by a magnificent
altar-cloth of green moiré. A large ebony and ivory crucifix
hanging on the discolored wall stood out in strong relief from the
surrounding bareness, and necessarily caught the eye. Four slen-
der little tapers, which the sisters had contrived to fasten to the
altar with sealing-wax, threw a pale glimmer dimly reflected by
the yellow wall. These feeble rays scarcely lit up the rest of the
chamber, but as their light fell upon the sacred objects it seemed
a halo falling from heaven upon the bare and undecorated altar.
The floor was damp. The attic roof, which sloped sharply on
both sides of the room, was full of chinks through which the
wind penetrated. Nothing could be less stately, yet nothing
was ever more solemn than this lugubrious ceremony. Silence
so deep that some far-distant cry could have pierced it, lent a
sombre majesty to the nocturnal scene. The grandeur of the
111-88


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HONORÉ DE BALZAC
1394
on
a
occasion contrasted vividly with the poverty of its circumstances,
and roused a feeling of religious terror. On either side of the
altar the old nuns, kneeling on the tiled floor and taking no
thought of its mortal dampness, were praying in concert with
the priest, who, robed in his pontifical vestments, placed upon
the altar a golden chalice incrusted with precious stones, -a
sacred vessel rescued, no doubt, from the pillage of the Abbaye
des Chelles. Close to this vase, which was a gift of royal munifi-
cence, the bread and wine of the consecrated sacrifice were con-
tained in two glass tumblers scarcely worthy of the meanest
tavern. In default of a missal the priest had placed his breviary
corner of the altar. A common earthenware platter was
provided for the washing of those innocent hands, pure and
unspotted with blood. All was majestic and yet paltry; poor but
noble; profane and holy in one.
The unknown man knelt piously between the sisters. Sud-
denly, as he caught sight of the crape upon the chalice and the
crucifix, -- for in default of other means of proclaiming the object
of this funeral rite the priest had put God himself into mourn-
ing, — the mysterious visitant was seized by some all-powerful
recollection, and drops of sweat gathered on his brow. The four
silent actors in this scene looked at each other with mysterious
sympathy; their souls, acting one upon another, communicated
to each the feelings of all, blending them into the one emotion of
religious pity. It seemed as though their thought had evoked
from the dead the sacred martyr whose body was devoured by
quicklime, but whose shade rose up before them in royal maj-
esty. They were celebrating a funeral Mass without the remains
of the deceased. Beneath these rafters and disjointed laths four
Christian souls were interceding with God for a king of France,
and making his burial without a coffin. It was the purest of all
devotions; an act of wonderful loyalty accomplished without one
thought of self. Doubtless in the eyes of God it was the cup of
cold water that weighed in the balance against many virtues.
The whole of monarchy was there in the prayers of the priest
and the two poor women; but also it may have been that the
Revolution was present likewise, in the person of the strange
being whose face betrayed the remorse that led him to make this
solemn offering of a vast repentance.
Instead of pronouncing the Latin words, "Introibo ad altare
Dei,” etc. , the priest, with divine intuition, glanced at his three
assistants, who represented all Christian France, and said, in


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HONORÉ DE BALZAC
1395
words which effaced the penury and meanness of the hovel, “We
enter now into the sanctuary of God. ”
At these words, uttered with penetrating unction, a solemn
awe seized the participants. Beneath the dome of St. Peter's in
Rome, God had never seemed more majestic to man than he did
now in this refuge of poverty and to the eyes of these Chris-
tians, so true is it that between man and God all mediation is
unneeded, for his glory descends from himself alone. The fer-
vent piety of the nameless man was unfeigned, and the feeling
that held these four servants of God and the king was unani-
mous. The sacred words echoed like celestial music amid the
silence. There was a moment when the unknown broke down
and wept: it was at the Pater Noster, to which the priest added
a Latin clause which the stranger doubtless comprehended and
applied, — "Et remitte scelus regicidis sicut Ludovicus eis remisit
semetipse” (And forgive the regicides even as Louis XVI. him-
self forgave them). The two nuns saw the tears coursing down
the manly cheeks of their visitant, and dropping fast on the tiled
floor.
The Office of the Dead was recited. The « Domine salvum
fac regem," sung in low tones, touched the hearts of these faith-
ful royalists as they thought of the infant king, now captive in
the hands of his enemies, for whom this prayer was offered. The
unknown shuddered; perhaps he feared an impending crime in
which he would be called to take an unwilling part.
When the service was over, the priest made a sign to the
nuns, who withdrew to the outer room. As soon as he was alone
with the unknown, the old man went up to him with gentle sad-
ness of manner, and said in the tone of a father,
“My son, if you have steeped your hands in the blood of the
martyr king, confess yourself to me. There is no crime which,
in the eyes of God, is not washed out by a repentance as deep
and sincere as yours appears to be. ”
At the first words of the ecclesiastic an involuntary motion of
terror escaped the stranger; but he quickly recovered himself,
and looked at the astonished priest with calm assurance.
"My father,” he said, in a voice that nevertheless trembled,
no one is more innocent than I of the blood shed »
“I believe it! ” said the priest.
He paused a moment, during which he examined afresh his
penitent; then, persisting in the belief that he was one of those


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1396
HONORÉ DE BALZAC
timid members of the Assembly who sacrificed the inviolate and
sacred head to save their own, he resumed in a grave voice:
"Reflect, my son, that something more than taking no part
in that great crime is needed to absolve from guilt. Those who
kept their sword in the scabbard when they might have defended
their king have a heavy account to render to the King of kings.
Oh, yes,” added the venerable man, moving his head from right
to left with an expressive motion; "yes, heavy, indeed! for, stand-
ing idle, they made themselves the accomplices of a horrible
transgression. ”
"Do you believe,” asked the stranger, in a surprised tone,
" that even an indirect participation will be punished? The sol-
dier ordered to form the line — do you think he was guilty? ”
The priest hesitated. Glad of the dilemma that placed this
puritan of royalty between the dogma of passive obedience, which
according to the partisans of monarchy should dominate the mil-
itary system, and the other dogma, equally imperative, which
consecrates the person of the king, the stranger hastened to
accept the hesitation of the priest as a solution of the doubts
that seemed to trouble him. Then, so as not to allow the old
Jansenist time for further reflection, he said quickly:-
“I should blush to offer you any fee whatever in acknowledg-
ment of the funeral service you have just celebrated for the
repose of the king's soul and for the discharge of my conscience.
We can only pay for inestimable things by offerings which are
likewise beyond all price. Deign to accept, Monsieur, the gift
which I now make to you of a holy relic; the day may come
when you will know its value. ”
As he said these words he gave the ecclesiastic a little box
of light weight. The priest took it as it were involuntarily; for
the solemn tone in which the words were uttered, and the awe
with which the stranger held the box, struck him with fresh
amazement. They re-entered the outer room, where the two
nuns were waiting for them.
«You are living,” said the unknown, “in a house whose
owner, Mucius Scævola, the plasterer who lives on the first floor,
is noted in the Section for his patriotism. He is, however,
secretly attached to the Bourbons. He was formerly huntsman
to Monseigneur the Prince de Conti, to whom he owes every-
thing As long as you stay in this house you are in greater
safety than you can be in any other part of France. Remain


## p. 1397 (#191) ###########################################

HONORÉ DE BALZAC
1397
here.
Pious souls will watch over you and supply your wants;
and you can await without danger the coming of better days. A
year hence, on the 21st of January” (as he uttered these last
words he could not repress an involuntary shudder), "I shall
return to celebrate once more the Mass of expiation -
He could not end the sentence. Bowing to the silent occu-
pants of the garret, he cast a last look upon the signs of their
poverty and disappeared.
To the two simple-minded women this event had all the inter-
est of a romance. As soon as the venerable abbé told them of
the mysterious gift so solemnly offered by the stranger, they
placed the box upon the table, and the three anxious faces, faintly
lighted by a tallow-candle, betrayed an indescribable curiosity.
Mademoiselle de Langeais opened the box and took from it a
handkerchief of extreme fineness, stained with sweat. As she
unfolded it they saw dark stains.
«That is blood! ” exclaimed the priest.
"It is marked with the royal crown! ” cried the other nun.
The sisters let fall the precious relic with gestures of horror.
To these ingenuous souls the mystery that wrapped their unknown
visitor became inexplicable, and the priest from that day forth
forbade himself to search for its solution.
The three prisoners soon perceived that, in spite of the
Terror, a powerful arm was stretched over them. First, they
received firewood and provisions; next, the sisters guessed that a
woman was associated with their protector, for linen and cloth-
ing came to them mysteriously, and enabled them to go out
without danger of observation from the aristocratic fashion of
the only garments they had been able to secure; finally, Mucius
Scævola brought them certificates of citizenship. Advice as to
the necessary means of insuring the safety of the venerable
priest often came to them from unexpected quarters, and proved
so singularly opportune that it was quite evident it could only
have been given by some one in possession of state secrets. In
spite of the famine which then afflicted Paris, they found daily
at the door of their hovel rations of white bread, laid there
by invisible hands. They thought they recognized in Mucius
Scævola the agent of these mysterious benefactions, which were
always timely and intelligent; but the 'noble occupants of the
poor garret had no doubt whatever that the unknown individual


## p. 1398 (#192) ###########################################

1398
HONORÉ DE BALZAC
a
who had celebrated the midnight Mass on the 22d of January,
1793, was their secret protector. They added to their daily
prayers a special prayer for him; night and day these pious
hearts made supplication for his happiness, his prosperity, his
redemption. They prayed that God would keep his feet from
snares and save him from his enemies, and grant him a long
and peaceful life.
Their gratitude, renewed as it were daily, was necessarily
mingled with curiosity that grew keener day by day. The cir-
cumstances attending the appearance of the stranger were
ceaseless topic of conversation and of endless conjecture, and
soon became a benefit of a special kind, from the occupation
and distraction of mind which was thus produced. They resolved
that the stranger should not be allowed to escape the expression
of their gratitude when he came to commemorate the next sad
anniversary of the death of Louis XVI.
That night, so impatiently awaited, came at length. At mid-
night the heavy steps resounded up the wooden stairway. The
room was prepared for the service; the altar was dressed. This
time the sisters opened the door and hastened to light the
entrance. Mademoiselle de Langeais even went down a few stairs
that she might catch the first glimpse of their benefactor.
“Come! ” she said, in a trembling and affectionate voice.
«Come, you are expected! ”
The man raised his head, gave the nun a gloomy look, and
made no answer. She felt as though an icy garment had fallen
upon her, and she kept silence. At his aspect gratitude and
curiosity died within their hearts. He may have been less cold,
less taciturn, less terrible than he seemed to these poor souls,
whose own emotions led them to expect a flow of friendship
from his. They saw that this mysterious being was resolved to
remain a stranger to them, and they acquiesced with resignation.
But the priest fancied he saw a smile, quickly repressed, upon
the stranger's lip as he saw the preparations made to receive
him. He heard the Mass and prayed, but immediately disap-
peared, refusing in a few courteous words the invitation given
by Mademoiselle de Langeais to remain and partake of the
humble collation they had prepared for him.
After the 9th Thermidor the nuns and the Abbé de Marolles
were able to go about Paris without incurring any danger. The
first visit of the old priest was to a perfumery at the sign of the


## p. 1399 (#193) ###########################################

HONORÉ DE BALZAC
1399
a
«Queen of Flowers,” kept by the citizen and citoyenne Ragon,
formerly perfumers to the Court, well known for their faithful-
ness to the royal family, and employed by the Vendéens as
channel of communication with the princes and royal committees
in Paris, The abbé, dressed as the times required, was leaving
the doorstep of the shop, situated between the church of Saint-
Roch and the Rue des Fondeurs, when a great crowd coming
down the Rue Saint-Honoré hindered him from advancing.
“What is it ? ” he asked of Madame Ragon.
"Oh, nothing! ” she answered. It is the cart and the exe-
cutioner going to the Place Louis XV. Ah, we saw enough of
that last year! but now, four days after the anniversary of the
21st of January, we can look at the horrid procession without
distress. ”
“Why so ? ” asked the abbé. “What you say is not Chris-
tian. ”
"But this is the execution of the accomplices of Robespierre.
They have fought it off as long as they could; but now they
are going in their turn where they have sent so many innocent
people. ”
The crowd which filled the Rue Saint-Honoré passed on like
a wave. Above the sea of heads the Abbé de Marolles, yielding
to an impulse, saw, standing erect in the cart, the stranger who
three days before had assisted for the second time in the Mass
of commemoration.
«Who is that? ” he asked; "the one standing — ”
« That is the executioner,” answered Monsieur Ragon, calling
the man by his monarchical name.
"Help! help! ” cried Madame Ragon. « Monsieur l'Abbé is
fainting! ”
She caught up a flask of vinegar and brought him quickly
back to consciousness.
“He must have given me,” said the old priest, “the handker-
chief with which the king wiped his brow as he went to his
martyrdom. Poor man! that steel knife had a heart when all
France had none ! »
The perfumers thought the words of the priest were an effect
of delirium.
Translation copyrighted by Roberts Brothers.
>>


## p. 1400 (#194) ###########################################

1400
HONORÉ DE BALZAC
A PASSION IN THE DESERT
"T"agerie of Monsieur Martin.
He sight was fearful! ” she exclaimed, as we left the men-
agerie of Monsieur Martin.
She had been watching that daring speculator as he went
through his wonderful performance in the den of the hyena.
“How is it possible,” she continued, "to tame those animals
so as to be certain that he can trust them ? »
“ You think it a problem," I answered, interrupting her,
"and yet it is a natural fact. ”
“Oh! ” she cried, an incredulous smile flickering on her lip.
“Do you think that beasts are devoid of passions ? ” I asked.
“Let me assure you that we teach them all the vices and vir-
tues of our own state of civilization. ”
She looked at me in amazement.
« The first time I saw Monsieur Martin," I added, "I ex-
claimed, as you do, with surprise. I happened to be sitting
beside an old soldier whose right leg was amputated, and whose
appearance had attracted my notice as I entered the building.
His face, stamped with the scars of battle, wore the undaunted
look of a veteran of the wars of Napoleon. Moreover, the old
hero had a frank and joyous manner which attracts me wherever
I meet it. He was doubtless one of those old campaigners
whom nothing can surprise, who find something to laugh at in
the last contortions of a comrade, and will bury a friend or rifle
his body gayly; challenging bullets with indifference; making
short shrift for themselves or others; and fraternizing, as a
usual thing, with the devil. After looking very attentively at
the proprietor of the menagerie as he entered the den, my com-
panion curled his lip with that expression of satirical contempt
which well-informed men sometimes put on to mark the differ-
ence between themselves and dupes. As I uttered my exclama-
tion of surprise at the coolness and courage of Monsieur Martin,
the old soldier smiled, shook his head, and said with a knowing
glance, An old story!
« How do you mean an old story? " I asked. If you could
explain the secret of this mysterious power, I should be greatly
obliged to you. '
“After a while, during which we became better acquainted,
we went to dine at the first café we could find after leaving the


## p. 1401 (#195) ###########################################

HONORÉ DE BALZAC
1401
menagerie. A bottle of champagne with our dessert brightened
the old man's recollections and made them singularly vivid.
He related to me a circumstance in his early history which
proved that he had ample cause to pronounce Monsieur Martin's
performance an old story. ) »
When we reached her house, she was so persuasive and cap-
tivating, and made me so many pretty promises, that I consented
to write down for her benefit the story told me by the old hero.
On the following day I sent her this episode of a historical epic,
which might be entitled, “The French in Egypt. '
At the time of General Desaix's expedition to Upper Egypt a
Provençal soldier, who had fallen into the hands of the Mau-
grabins, was marched by those tireless Arabs across the desert
which lies beyond the cataracts of the Nile. To put sufficient
distance between themselves and the French army, the Maugra-
bins made a forced march and did not halt until after nightfall
.
They then camped about a well shaded with palm-trees, near
which they had previously buried a stock of provisions. Not
dreaming that the thought of escape could enter their captive's
mind, they merely bound his wrists, and lay down to sleep
themselves, after eating a few dates and giving their horses a
feed of barley. When the bold Provençal saw his enemies too
soundly asleep to watch him, he used his teeth to pick up a
scimitar, with which, steadying the blade by means of his knees,
he contrived to cut through the cord which bound his hands,
and thus recovered his liberty. He at once seized a carbine and
a poniard, took the precaution to lay in a supply of dates, a
small bag of barley, some powder and ball, buckled on the
scimitar, mounted one of the horses, and spurred him in the
direction where he supposed the French army to be. Impatient
to meet the outposts, he pressed the horse, which was already
wearied, so severely that the poor animal fell dead with his
flanks torn, leaving the Frenchman alone in the midst of the
desert.
After marching for a long time through the sand with the
dogged courage of an escaping galley-slave, the soldier was
forced to halt, as darkness drew on: for his utter weariness
compelled him to rest, though the exquisite sky of an eastern
night might well have tempted him to continue the journey.


## p. 1402 (#196) ###########################################

1402
HONORÉ DE BALZAC
Happily he had reached a slight elevation, at the top of which
a few palm-trees shot upward, whose leafage, seen from a long
distance against the sky, had helped to sustain his hopes. His
fatigue was so great that he threw himself down on a block of
granite, cut by Nature into the shape of a camp-bed, and slept
heavily, without taking the least precaution to protect himself
while asleep. He accepted the loss of his life as inevitable, and
his last waking thought was one of regret for having left the
Maugrabins, whose nomad life began to charm him now that he
was far away from them and from every other hope of succor.
He was awakened by the sun, whose pitiless beams falling
vertically upon the granite rock produced an intolerable heat.
The Provençal had ignorantly flung himself down in a contrary
direction to the shadows thrown by the verdant and majestic
fronds of the palm-trees. He gazed at these solitary monarchs
and shuddered. They recalled to his mind the graceful shafts,
crowned with long weaving leaves, which distinguish the Sara-
cenic columns of the cathedral of Arles. The thought overcame
him, and when, after counting the trees, he threw his eyes upon
the scene around him, an agony of despair convulsed his soul.
He saw
a limitless ocean. The sombre sands of the desert
stretched out till lost to sight in all directions; they glittered
with dark lustre like a steel blade shining in the sun. He could
not tell if it were an ocean or a chain of lakes that lay mirrored
before him. A hot vapor swept in waves above the surface of
this heaving continent. The sky had the Oriental glow of trans-
lucent purity, which disappoints because it leaves nothing for
the imagination to desire. The heavens and the earth were both
on fire.
Silence added its awful and desolate majesty. Infini-
tude, immensity pressed down upon the soul on every side; not
a cloud in the sky, not a breath in the air, not a rift on the
breast of the sand, which was ruffled only with little ridges
scarcely rising above its surface. Far as the eye could reach the
horizon fell away into space, marked by a slender line, slim as
the edge of a sabre, - like as in summer seas a thread of light
parts this earth from the heaven it nieets.
The Provençal clasped the trunk of a palm-tree as if it were
the body of a friend. Sheltered from the sun by its straight
and slender shadow, he wept; and presently sitting down he
remained motionless, contemplating with awful dread the implac-
able Nature stretched out before him. He cried aloud, as if to


## p. 1403 (#197) ###########################################

HONORÉ DE BALZAC
1403
tempt the solitude to answer him. His voice, lost in the hollows
of the hillock, sounded afar with a thin resonance that returned
no echo; the echo came from the soldier's heart. He was twenty-
two years old, and he loaded his carbine.
« Time enough! ” he muttered, as he put the liberating weapon
on the sand beneath him.
Gazing by turns at the burnished blackness of the sand and
the blue expanse of the sky, the soldier dreamed of France.
He smelt in fancy the gutters of Paris; he remembered the towns
through which he had passed, the faces of his comrades, and the
most trifling incidents of his life. His southern imagination saw
the pebbles of his own Provence in the undulating play of the
heated air, as it seemed to roughen the far-reaching surface of
the desert. Dreading the dangers of this cruel mirage, he went
down the little hill on the side opposite to that by which he
had gone up the night before. His joy was great when he
discovered a natural grotto, formed by the immense blocks of
granite which made a foundation for the rising ground.