 CHAPTER III The retreat from Moscow submerged all private feelings in a sea of disaster and misery. Colonels without regiments, Doubert and Farod, carried the musket in the ranks of the Sacred Battalion, a battalion recruited from officers of all arms who had no longer any troops to lead. In that battalion promoted colonels to duty as sergeants, the generals captained the companies, a Marshal of France, Prince of the Empire, commanded the whole. All had provided themselves with muskets picked up on the road, and cartridges taken from the dead. In the general destruction of the bonds of discipline and duty, holding together the companies, the battalions, the regiments, the brigades, and divisions of an armed host, this body of men put their pride in preserving some semblance of order and formation. The only stragglers were those who fell out to give up to the frost their exhausted souls. They plodded on doggedly, stumbling over the corpses of men, the carcasses of horses, the fragments of gun carriages, covered by the white winding sheet of the great disaster. Their passage did not disturb the mortal silence of the planes, shining with a livid light under a sky the colour of ashes. Whirlwinds of snow ran along the fields, broke against the dark column, rose in a turmoil of flying icicles, and subsided, disclosing it creeping on without the swing and rhythm of the military pace. They struggled onward, exchanging neither words nor looks. Whole ranks marched, touching elbows, day after day, and never raising their eyes as if lost in despairing reflections. On calm days, in the dumb black forests of pines, the crackling of overloaded branches was the only sound. Often from daybreak to dusk no one spoke in the whole column. It was like a macabre march of struggling corpses towards a distant grave. Only an alarm of cossacks could restore to their lackluster eyes a semblance of martial resolution. The battalion deployed, facing about, or formed square under the endless fluttering of snowflakes. A cloud of horsemen with fur caps on their heads leveled long lances and yelled, Hurrah! Hurrah! around their menacing immobility. Wents, with muffled detonations, hundreds of dark red flames started through the air, thick with falling snow. In a very few moments the horsemen would disappear, as if carried off yelling in the gale. And the battalion, standing still, alone in the blizzard, heard only the wind searching their very hearts. Then with a cry or two of, Vive l'Empere! It would resume its march, leaving behind a few lifeless bodies lying huddled up, tiny dark specks on the white ground. Though often marching in the ranks, or skirmishing in the woods side by side, the two officers ignored each other. This not so much from inimical intention as from a very real indifference. All their store of moral energy was expended in resisting the terrific enmity of nature and the crushing sense of irretrievable disaster. Neither of them allowed himself to be crushed. To the last they counted among the most active the least demoralized of the battalion. Their vigorous vitality invested them both with the appearance of an heroic pair in the eyes of their comrades. And they never exchanged more than a casual word or two. Except one day when, skirmishing in front of the battalion against a worrying attack of cavalry, they found themselves cut off by a small party of Cossacks. A score of wild-looking hairy horsemen rode to and fro, brandishing their lances in ominous silence. The two officers had no mind to lay down their arms, and Colonel Faroad suddenly spoke up in a hoarse, growling voice, bringing his firelock to the shoulder. You take the nearest brute, Colonel Dubeyre, I'll settle the next one. I am a better shot than you are. Colonel Dubeyre only nodded over his leveled musket. Their shoulders were pressed against the trunk of a large tree. In front, deep snowdrifts protected them from a direct charge. Two carefully aimed shots rang out in the frosty air. Two Cossacks reeled in their saddles. The rest, not thinking the game good enough, closed round their wounded comrades and galloped away out of range. The two officers managed to rejoin their battalion, halted for the night. During that afternoon they had leaned upon each other more than once, and towards the last Colonel Dubeyre, whose long legs gave him an advantage in walking through soft snow, preemptorily took the musket from Colonel Faroad and carried it on his shoulder, using his own as a staff. On the outskirts of a village, half buried in the snow, an old wooden barn burned with a clear and immense flame. The sacred battalion of skeletons muffled in rags crowded greedily the windward side, stretching hundreds of numbed bony hands to the blaze. Nobody had noted their approach. Before entering the circle of light playing on the multitude of sunken, glassy-eyed, starved faces, Colonel Dubeyre spoke in his turn. Here's your firelock, Colonel Faroad. I can walk better than you. Colonel Faroad nodded and pushed on towards the warmth of the fierce flames. Colonel Dubeyre was more deliberate, but not the less bent on getting a place in the front rank. Those they pushed aside tried to greet with a faint cheer the reappearance of the two indomitable companions in activity and endurance. Those manly qualities had never, perhaps, received a higher tribute than this feeble acclamation. This is the faithful record of speeches exchanged during the retreat from Moscow by Colonel's Faroad and Dubeyre. Colonel Faroad's test-eternity was the outcome of concentrated rage. Short, hairy, black-faced with layers of grime, and a thick sprouting of a wiry beard, a frost-bitten hand wrapped in filthy rags carried in a sling. He accused fate bitterly of unparalleled perfidy towards this sublime man of destiny. Colonel Dubeyre, his long mustache pendant in icicles on each side of his cracked blue lips, his eyelids inflamed with a glare of snows, the principal part of his costume, consisting of a sheepskin coat looted with difficulty from the frozen corpse of a camp follower found in an abandoned cart, took a more thoughtful view of events. His regularly handsome features now reduced to mere bony finds and fleshless hollows, looked out of a woman's black velvet hood over which was rammed forcibly a cock-tat picked up under the wheels of an empty army foregone, which must have contained at one time some general officer's luggage. The sheepskin coat being short for a man of his inches, ended very high up his elegant person, and the skin of his legs blue with the cold showed through the tatters of his nether garments. This under the circumstances provoked neither jeers nor pity. No one cared how the next man felt or looked. Going to bear himself, hardened to exposure, suffered mainly in his self-respect from the lamentable indecency of his costume. A thoughtless person may think that with a whole host of inanimate bodies bestruing the path of retreat there could not have been much difficulty in supplying that efficiency. But the great majority of these bodies lay buried under the falls of snow, others have been already despoiled, and besides, to loot a pair of breeches from a frozen corpse is not so easy as it may appear to a mere theorist. It requires time. You must remain behind while your companions march on, and Colonel Doubert had his scruples as to falling out. They arose from a point of honor, and also a little from dread. Once he stepped aside he could not be sure of ever rejoining his battalion, and the Enterprise demanded a physical effort from which his starved body shrank. The ghastly intimacy of a rustling match with a frozen dead opposing the unyielding rigidity of iron to your violence was repugnant to the inborn delicacy of his feelings. Luckily, one day, grubbing an amount of snow between the huts of a village and the hope of finding there a frozen potato or some vegetable garbage he could put between his long and shaky teeth, Colonel Doubert uncovered a couple of mats of the sort Russian peasants used to line the sides of their carts. These shaken free of frozen snow, bent about his person and fastened solidly round his waist, made a bell-shaped nether garment, a sort of stiff petticoat, rendering Colonel Doubert a perfectly decent but a much more noticeable figure than before. As secluded he continued to retreat, never doubting of his personal escape but full of other misgivings. The early buoyancy of his belief in the future was destroyed. If the road of glory led through such unforeseen passages, he asked himself, for he was reflective, whether the guide was altogether trustworthy. And a patriotic sadness not unmingled with some personal concern, altogether unlike the unreasoning indignation against men and things nursed by Colonel Farod, oppressed the equalable spirits of Colonel Doubert. Recruiting his strength in a little German town for three weeks, he was surprised to discover within himself a love of repose. His returning vigor was strangely pacific in its aspirations. He meditated silently upon that bizarre change of mood. No doubt many of his brother officers of field rank had the same personal experience. But these were not the times to talk of it. In one of his letters home, Colonel Doubert wrote, All your plans, my dear Lyoni, of marrying me to the charming girl you have discovered in your neighborhood, seem farther off than ever. Peace is not yet. Europe wants another lesson. It will be a hard task for us, but it will be done well, because the emperor is invincible. Thus wrote Colonel Doubert from Pomerania to his married sister Lyoni, settled in the south of France. And so far the sentiments expressed would not have been disowned by Colonel Farod, who wrote no letters to anybody, whose father had been in life and the illiterate blacksmith, who had no sister or brother, and whom no one desired ardently to pair off for a life of peace with a charming young girl. The Colonel Doubert's letter contained also some philosophical generalities upon the uncertainty of all personal hopes, if bound up entirely with the prestigious fortune of one incomparably great, it is true, yet still remaining but a man in his greatness. This sentiment would have appeared rank heresy to Colonel Farod. Some melancholy forebodings of a military kind expressed cautiously would have been pronounced as nothing short of high treason by Colonel Farod. But Lyoni, the sister of Colonel Doubert, read them with positive satisfaction, and folding the letter thoughtfully remarked to herself that Armand was likely to prove eventually a sensible fellow. Since her marriage into a southern family she had become a convinced believer in the return of the legitimate king. Full and anxious she offered prayers night and morning, and burned candles and churches for the safety and prosperity of her brother. She had every reason to suppose that her prayers were heard. Colonel Doubert passed through Lutsen, Baltzen, and Leipzig, losing no limbs and acquiring additional reputation. Adapting his conduct to the needs of that desperate time he had never voiced his misgivings. He concealed them under a cheerful courtesy of such pleasant character that people were inclined to ask themselves with wonder whether Colonel Doubert was aware of any disasters. Not only his manners, but even his glances remained untroubled. The steady amenity of his blue eyes disconcerted all grumblers, silenced doful remarks, and made even despair pause. This bearing was remarked at last by the emperor himself, for Colonel Doubert, attached now to the major general's staff, came on several occasions under the imperial eye. But it exasperated the higher-strung nature of Colonel Farod. Passing through Magdeburg on service this last allowed himself, while seated gloomily at dinner with the commandante de Place, the say of his lifelong adversary, this man does not love the emperor. And as his words were received in profound silence, Colonel Farod, troubled in his conscience at the atrocity of the aspersion, felt the need to back it up by a good argument. I ought to know him, he said, adding some oaths. One studies one's adversary. I have met him on the ground half a dozen times, as all the army knows. What more do you want? If that isn't opportunity enough for any fool to size up his man, may the devil take me if I can tell what is? And he looked around the table with sombre obstinacy. Later on in Paris, while feverishly busy reorganizing his regiment, Colonel Farod learned that Colonel Doubert had been made a general. He glared at his informant incredulously, then folded his arms and turned away muttering. Nothing surprises me on the part of that man. And aloud he added, speaking over his shoulder, you would greatly oblige me by telling General Doubert at the first opportunity that his advancement saves him for a time from a pretty hot encounter. I was only waiting for him to turn up here. The other officer remonstrated. Could you think of it, Colonel Farod, at this time when every life should be consecrated to the glory and safety of France? But the strain of unhappiness caused by military reverses had spoiled Colonel Farod's character. Like many other men he was rendered wicked by misfortune. I cannot consider General Doubert's person of any account, either for the glory or safety of France. He snapped viciously. You don't pretend perhaps to know him better than I do, who have been with him half a dozen times on the ground, do you? His interlocutor, a young man, was silenced. Colonel Farod walked up and down the room. This is not a time to mince matters, he said. I can't believe that that man ever loved the Emperor. He picked up his general stars under the boots of Marshal Berthier. Very well. I'll get mine in another fashion, and then we shall settle this business which has been dragging on too long. General Doubert, informed indirectly of Colonel Farod's attitude, made a gesture as if to put aside an important person. His thoughts were solicited by graver cares. He had had no time to go and see his family, his sister, whose royalist hopes were rising higher every day, though proud of her brother, regretted his recent advancement in a measure, because it put on him a prominent mark of the usurper's favour which later on could have an adverse influence upon his career. He wrote to her that no one but an inveterate enemy could say he had got his promotion by favour. As to his career, he assured her that he looked no farther forward into the future than the next battlefield. Beginning the campaign of France and that state of mind, General Doubert was wounded on the second day of the battle under Laos. While being carried off the field he heard that Colonel Farod, promoted that moment to General, had been sent to replace him in the command of his brigade. He cursed his luck impulsively, not being able at the first glance to discern all the advantages of a nasty wound, and yet it was by this heroic method that Providence was shaping his future. Travelling slowly south to his sister's country-house, under the care of a trusty old servant, General Doubert was spared the humiliating contacts and their perplexities of conduct which assailed the men of the Napoleonic Empire at the moment of its downfall. Lying in his bed with the windows of his room open wide to the sunshine of Provance, he perceived at last the undisguised aspect of the blessing conveyed by that jagged fragment of a Prussian shell which, killing his horse and ripping open his thigh, saved him from an active conflict with his conscience. After fourteen years spent sword in hand in the saddle and strong in the sense of his duty done to the end, General Doubert found resignation and easy virtue. His sister was delighted with his reasonableness. I leave myself altogether in your hands, my dear Leonie," he had said. He was still laid up when, the credit of his brother-in-law's family being exerted on his behalf, he received from the royal government not only the confirmation of his rank, but the assurance of being retained on the active list. To this was added an unlimited convalescent leave. The unfavourable opinion entertained of him in the more irreconcilable Bonapartis circles, though it rested on nothing more solid than the unsupported pronouncement of General Farod, was directly responsible for General Doubert's retention on the active list. As to General Farod, his rank was confirmed too. It was more than he dared to expect, but Marshal Soult, then minister of war to the restored king, was partial to officers who had served in Spain. Only not even the Marshal's protection could secure for him active employment. He remained irreconcilable, idle and sinister, seeking in obscure restaurants the company of other half-pay officers, who cherished dingy but glorious old tricolor cockades in their breast pockets, and buttoned with the forbidden eagle-buttons their shabby uniform, declaring themselves too poor to afford the expense of the prescribed change. The triumphant return of the emperor, a historical fact as marvelous and incredible as the exploits of some mythological demigod, found General Doubert still quite unable to sit a horse. Neither could he walk very well. His disabilities, which his sister thought most lucky, helped her immensely to keep her brother out of all possible mischief. His frame of mind at that time, she noted with dismay, became very far from reasonable. That general officer, still menaced by the loss of a limb, was discovered one night in the stables of the chateau by a groom, who, seeing a light, raised an alarm of thieves. His crutch was lying half-buried in the straw of the litter, and he himself was hopping on one leg in a loose box around his snorting horse he was trying to saddle. Such were the effects of imperial magic upon an unenthusiastic temperament and a pondered mind. Bisset in the light of stable lanterns, by the tears and treaties indignation, remonstrances and reproaches of his family, he got out of the difficult situation by feigning away there and then in the arms of his nearest relatives, and was carried off to bed. Before he got out of it again, the second reign of Napoleon, the hundred days of feverish agitation and supreme effort, passed away like a terrifying dream. The tragic year 1815, begun in the trouble and unrest of consciences, was ending in vengeful prescriptions. How General Ferot escaped the clutches of the Special Commission and the last offices of a firing squad, he never knew himself. It was partly due to the subordinate position he was assigned during the hundred days. He was not given active command but was kept busy at the cavalry depot in Paris, mounting and dispatching hastily drilled troopers into the field. Considering this task as unworthy of his abilities, he discharged it with no offensively noticeable zeal. But for the greater part he was saved from the excesses of royalist reaction by the interference of General Dubeyre. This last, still on convalescent leave but able now to travel, had been dispatched by his sister to Paris to present himself to his legitimate sovereign. As no one in the capital could possibly know anything of the episode in the stable, he was received there with distinction. Contrary to the very bottom of his soul, the prospect of rising in his profession consoled him from finding himself the butt of Bonapartis malevolence which pursued him with the persistence he could not account for. All the ranker of that embittered and persecuted party pointed to him as the man who had never loved the emperor, a sort of monster essentially worse than a mere betrayer. Colonel Dubeyre shrugged his shoulders without anger at this ferocious prejudice. Conjected by his old friends and mistrusting profoundly the advances of royalist society, the young and handsome general, he was barely forty, adopted a manner of punctilious and cold courtesy which at the merest shadow of an intended slight passed easily into harsh haughtiness. Thus prepared General Dubeyre went about his affairs in Paris feeling inwardly very happy with peculiar, uplifting happiness of a man very much in love. The charming girl looked out by his sister had come upon the scene and had conquered him in the thorough manner in which a young girl, by merely existing in his sight, can make a man of forty her own. They were going to be married as soon as General Dubeyre had obtained his official nomination to a promised command. One afternoon, sitting on the terrace of the Café Tortoni, General Dubeyre learned from the conversation of two strangers occupying a table near his own that General Feroad, included in the batch of superior officers arrested after the second return of the king, was in danger of passing before the special commission. Living all his spare moments, as is frequently the case with expectant lovers a day in advance of reality, as it were, and in a state of bestowed hallucination, it required nothing less than the name of his perpetual antagonist, pronounced in a loud voice, to call the youngest of Napoleon's generals away from the mental contemplation of his betrothed. He looked round. The strangers wore civilian clothes, lean and weather-beaten, lolling back in their chairs. They looked at people with moody and defiant abstraction from under their hats pulled low over their eyes. It was not difficult to recognize them for two of the compulsorily retired officers of the Old Guard. As from bravado or carelessness they chose to speak in loud tones, General Dubeyre, who saw no reason why he should change his seat, heard every word. They did not seem to be the personal friends of General Feroad. His name came up with some others, and hearing it repeated, General Dubeyre's tender anticipations of a domestic future, adorned by a woman's grace, were traversed by the harsh regret of that warlike past, of that one long intoxicating clash of arms, unique in the magnitude of its glory and disaster, the marvellous work and the special possession of his own generation. He felt an irrational tenderness towards his old adversary, and appreciated emotionally the murderous absurdity their encounter had introduced into his life. It was like an additional pinch of spice in a hot dish. He remembered the flavor with sudden melancholy. It would never taste it again. It was all over. I fancy it was being left lying in the garden that had exasperated him so against me, he thought indulgently. The two strangers at the next table had fallen silent upon the third mention of General Feroad's name. Presently, the oldest of the two, speaking in a bitter tone, affirmed that General Feroad's account was settled. And why? Simply because he was not like some big wigs who loved only themselves, the royalists knew that they could never make anything of him. He loved the other too well. The other was the man of St. Helena. The two officers nodded and touched glasses before they drank to an impossible return. And the same who had spoken before remarked with a sardonic little laugh. His adversary showed more cleverness. What adversary? Asked the younger as if puzzled. Don't you know? They were two hasars. At each promotion they fought a duel. Haven't you heard of the duel that is going on since 1801? His friend had heard of the duel, of course. Now he understood the allusion. And Baron Dubebert would be able now to enjoy his fat king's favor in peace. Much good may it do to him, mumbled the elder. They were both brave men. I never saw this Dubebert, a sort of intriguing dandy, I understand. But I can well believe what I've heard from Feroad say once of him, that he never loved the emperor. They rose and went away. Dubebert experienced the horror of a somnambulist who wakes up from a complacent dream of activity to find himself walking on a quagmire. A profound disgust to the ground on which he was making his way overcame him. Even the image of the charming girl was swept from his view in the flood of moral distress. Everything he had ever been, or hoped to be, would be lost in ignominy unless he could manage to save General Feroad from the fate which threatened so many braves. After the impulse of this almost morbid need to attend to the safety of his adversary, General Dubebert worked so well with hands and feet, as the French saying is, that in less than twenty-four hours he found means of obtaining an extraordinary private audience from the minister of police. General Baron Dubebert was shown in suddenly without preliminaries. In the dusk of the minister's cabinet, behind the shadowy forms of writing-desk, chairs, and tables, between two bunches of wax candles blazing in sconces, he beheld a figure in a splendid coat posturing before a tall mirror. The old conventionale, fouche, ex-senator of the empire, traitor to every man, every principal, and motive of human conduct, Duke of Otranto, and the wily artisan of the Second Restoration, was trying the fit of a court suit in which his young and accomplished fiancée had declared her wish to have his portrait painted on porcelain. It was a caprice, a charming fancy which the minister of police of the Second Restoration was anxious to gratify. For that man, often compared in wiliness of intellect to a fox, but whose ethical side could be worthily symbolized by nothing less emphatic than a skunk, was as much possessed by his love as General Doubert himself. Startled to be discovered thus by the blunder of a servant, he met this little vexation with a characteristic effrontery which had served his turn so well in the endless intrigues of his self-seeking career. Without altering his attitude to hair's breath, one leg in a silk stocking advanced, his head twisted over his left shoulder, he called out calmly, "'This way, General, pray approach. Well, I am all attention.' While General Doubert, as ill at ease as if one of his own little weaknesses had been exposed, presented his request as shortly as possible. The minister went on feeling the fit of his collar, settling the lapels before the glass, or buckling his back in his efforts to behold the set of the gold embroidered coat-skirts behind. His still face, his attentive eyes, could not have expressed a more complete interest in those matters if he had been alone. Exclude from the operations of the special commission a certain furrowed, Gabriel Florian, General of Brigade of the promotion of 1814, he repeated in a slightly wandering tone, and then turned away from the glass. Why exclude him precisely? I am surprised that your Excellency, so competent in the valuation of men of his time, should have thought it worthwhile to have that name put down on the list. A rabid Bonapartist. So is every grenadier and every trooper of the army, as your Excellency well knows, and the individuality of General Ferrode can have no more weight than that of any casual grenadier. He is a man of no mental grasp, of no capacity whatever. It is inconceivable that he should ever have any influence. He has a well-hung tongue, though, interjected Fouché. Noisy, I admit, but not dangerous. I will not dispute with you. I know next to nothing of him. Hardly his name, in fact. And yet your Excellency had the presidency of the commission charged by the king to point out those who were to be tried, said General Doubert with an emphasis which did not miss the minister's ear. Yes, General, he said, walking away into the dark part of the vast room, and throwing himself into a high-backed arm-chair whose overshadowed depth swallowed him up, all but the gleam of gold embroideries on the coat and the pallid patch of the face. Yes, General, take that chair there. Yes, General, continued the archmaster in the arts of intrigue and betrayal, whose duplicity as if at times intolerable to his self-knowledge worked itself off in bursts of cynical openness. I did hurry on the formulation of the prescribing commission and took its presidency. And do you know why? Simply from fear that if I did not take it quickly into my hands, my own name would head the list of the proscribed. Such are the times in which we live. But I am minister of the king as yet, and I ask you plainly why I should take the name of this obscure ferrude off the list. You wonder how his name got there. Is it possible that you know men so little? My dear General, at the very first setting of the commission names poured on us like rain off the tiles of the Tuileries. Of course, we had our choice of thousands. How do you know that the name of this ferrude, whose life or death don't matter to France, does not keep out some other name? The voice out of the armchair stopped. General Duber sat still, shadowy, and silent. Only his sabre clinked slightly. The voice in the armchair began again. And we must try to satisfy the exigencies of the Allied sovereigns, that Prince de Tallerand told me only yesterday that Nestle-Road had informed him officially that his majesty, the Emperor Alexander, was very disappointed at the small number of examples the government of the king intends to make, especially amongst military men. I tell you this confidentially. Upon my word broke out General Duber speaking through his teeth. If your excellency deigns to favour me with any more confidential information, I don't know what I will do. It's enough to make one break one's sword over one's knee and fling the pieces. What government do you imagine yourself to be serving? Interrupted the minister sharply. After a short pause the crestfallen voice of General Duber answered. The Government of France. That's paying your conscience off with mere words, General. The truth is that you are serving a government of returned exiles, of men who have been without country for twenty years, of men also who have just got over a very bad and humiliating fright. Have no illusions on that score. The Duke of Otranto ceased. He had relieved himself and had attained his object of stripping some self-respect off that man who had inconveniently discovered him posturing in a gold embroidered court costume before a mirror. But they were a hot-headed lot in the army, and it occurred to him that it would be inconvenient if a well-disposed general officer, received by him on the recommendation of one of the princes, were to go and do something rashly scandalous directly after a private interview with the minister. In a changed voice he put a question to the point. Your relation, this furrowed? No. No relation at all. Your friend? Intimate, yes. There is between us an intimate connection of a nature which makes it a point of honour with me to try the minister rang a bell without waiting for the end of the phrase. When the servant had gone, after bringing in a pair of heavy silver candelabra for the writing-desk, the Duke of Otranto stood up, his breast listening all over with gold in the strong light, and taking a piece of paper out of a drawer held it in his hand ostentatiously while he said with persuasive gentleness, You must not talk of breaking your sword across your knee, General. Perhaps you would never get another. The Emperor shall not return this time. Diabla d'homme. There was just a moment here in Paris, soon after Waterloo, when he frightened me. It looked as though he were going to begin again. Today one never does begin again, really. You must not think of breaking your sword, General. General Dupère, his eyes fixed on the ground, made with his hand a hopeless gesture of renunciation. The minister of police turned his eyes away from him and began to scan deliberately the paper he had been holding up all the time. There are only twenty general officers to be brought before the special commission—twenty, a round number. And let's see, furrowed. Ah! He's there. Gabriel Florian, Parfait Moll, that's your man. Well, there will be only nineteen examples made now. General Dupère stood up feeling as though he had gone through an infectious illness. I must beg your excellency to keep my interference a profound secret. I attached the greatest importance to his never knowing. Who is going to inform him I should like to know? said Fouché, raising his eyes curiously to General Dupère's white face. Take one of these pens and run it through the name yourself. This is the only list in existence. If you are careful to take up enough ink, no one will be able to tell even what was the name thus struck out. But, par exemple, I am not responsible for what Clark will do with him. If he persists in being rabid, he will be ordered by the minister of war to reside in some provincial town under the supervision of the police. A few days later, General Dupère was saying to his sister after the first greetings had been got over, ah, my dear Leonie, it seemed to me I couldn't get away from Paris quick enough. Effective love! She suggested with a malicious smile. In horror, added General Dupère with profound seriousness, I have nearly died thereof of nausea. His face was contracted with disgust, and as his sister looked at him attentively he continued, I have had to see Fouché. I have had an audience. I have been in his cabinet. There remains with one after the misfortune of having to breathe the air of the same room with that man, a sense of diminished dignity, the uneasy feeling of being not so clean after all as one hoped one was. But you can't understand. She nodded quickly several times. She understood very well on the contrary. She knew her brother thoroughly and liked him as he was. Moreover the scorn and loathing of mankind were the lot of the Jacobin Fouché, who, exploiting for his own advantage every weakness, every virtue, every generous illusion of mankind, made dupes of his whole generation and died obscurely as Duke of Otranto. My dear Armand, she said compassionately, what could you want from that man? Nothing less than a life, answered General Dupère, and I've got it. It had to be done, but I feel yet as if I could never forgive the necessity to the man I had to save. General Farod, tonally unable as is the case with most men to comprehend what was happening to him, received the minister of war's order to proceed at once to a small town of central France, with feelings whose natural expression consisted in a fierce rolling of the eye and savage grinding of the teeth. But he went. The bewilderment and awe at the passing away of the state of war, the only condition of society he had ever known. The prospect of a world at peace frightened him. He went away to his little town, firmly persuaded that this could not last. There he was informed of his retirement from the army, and that his pension, calculated on the scale of a colonel's half-pay, was made dependent on the circumspection of his conduct and on the good reports of the police. No longer in the army. He felt suddenly a stranger to the earth, like a disembodied spirit. It was impossible to exist. But at first he reacted from sheer incredulity. This could not be. It could not last. The heavens would fall presently. He called upon thunder, earthquakes, natural cataclysms. But nothing happened. The leaden weight of an irremediable idleness descended upon General Farod, who, having no resources within himself, sank into a state of awe-inspiring habitude. He haunted the streets of the little town gazing before him with lackluster eyes, disregarding the hats raised on his passage, and the people, nudging each other as he went by, said, That's poor General Farod. His heart is broken. Behold how he loved the emperor. The other living wreckage of Napoleonic tempest to be found in that quiet nook of France clustered round him infinitely respectful of that sorrow. He himself imagined his soul to be crushed by grief. He experienced quickly succeeding impulses to weep, to howl, to bite his fists till blood came, to lie for days on his bed with his head thrust under the pillow. But they arose from sheer ennui, from the anguish of an immense, indescribable, inconceivable boredom. Only his mental inability to grasp the hopeless nature of his case as a whole saved him from suicide. He never even thought of it once. He thought of nothing. But his appetite abandoned him, and the difficulty of expressing the overwhelming horror of his feelings, the most furious swearing cadu no justice to it, induced gradually a habit of silence, a sort of death to a southern temperament. Great therefore was the emotion amongst the ancients militaires, frequenting a certain little café full of flies when one stuffy afternoon that poor general furrowed, let out suddenly a volley of formidable curses. He had been sitting quietly in his own privileged corner looking through the Paris Gazettes, with about as much interest as a condemned man on the eve of execution could be expected to show in the news of the day. A cluster of marshal, bronze faces, including one lacking an eye and another lacking the tip of a nose frost-bitten in Russia, surrounded him anxiously. What's the matter, General? General Furrowed sat erect, holding the newspaper at arm's length in order to make out the small print better. He was reading very low to himself over again fragments of the intelligence which had caused what may be called his resurrection. We are informed, till now on sick leave, is to be called to the command of the fifth cavalry brigade in. He dropped the paper stonely, mumbled once more, called to the command, and suddenly gave his forehead a mighty slap. I had almost forgotten him. He cried in a conscious, stricken tone. A deep-chested veteran shouted across the café, some new villainy of the government general? The villainies of these scoundrels, thundered General Furrowed, are innumerable, one more, one less. He lowered his tone. But I will set good order to one of them, at least. He looked all around the faces. There's a pomaded, curled staff officer, the darling of some of the marshals who sold their father for a handful of English gold. He will find out presently that I am alive yet. He declared in a dogmatic tone. However, this is a private affair, an old affair of honor. Bah! Our honor does not matter. Here we are driven off with a split ear like a lot of cast troop horses, good only for a knackers-yard. Who cares for our honor now? But it would be like striking a blow for the emperor. Monsieur, I require the assistance of two of you. Every man moved forward. General Furrowed, deeply touched by this demonstration, called with visible emotion upon the one-eyed veteran queer Asir and the officer of the Chasseur à Cheval, who had left the tip of his nose in Russia. He excused his choice to the others. A cavalry affair, this, you know. He was answered with a varied course of Parfaitement, mon général, c'est juste, par bleu, c'est connu. Everybody was satisfied. The three left the café together, followed by cries of Bonchance. Outside they linked arms, the general in the middle. The three rusty cocked hats worn en bataille, with a sinister forward slant, barred the narrow street nearly right across. The overheated little town of gray stones and red tiles was drowsing away in its provincial afternoon under a blue sky. Far off the loud blows of some coopers, hooping a cask, reverberating regularly between the houses, the general dragged his left foot a little in the shade of the walls. That damned winter of 1813 got into my bones for good. Never mind. We must take pistols, that's all. A little umbego. We must have pistols. He's sure game for my bag. My eyes are as keen as ever. Always were. You should have seen me picking off the dodging casks with a beastly old infantry musket. I have a natural gift for firearms. In this strange general furrowed ran on, holding up his head with owlish eyes and rapacious beak. A mere fighter all his life, a cavalryman, a sabreur. He conceived war with the utmost simplicity, as in the main a masked lot of personal contests, a sort of gregarious dueling. And here he had on hand a war of his own. He revived. The shadow of peace had passed away from him like the shadow of death. It was a marvellous resurrection of the named furrowed Gabrielle Florian Angogé Voluntaire of 1793, general of 1814, buried without ceremony by means of a service order signed by the war-menister of the Second Restoration. End of chapter. Chapter 4 of The Point of Honor This is a Lieberbox recording. All Lieberbox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Lieberbox.org. This recording is by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. The Point of Honor By Joseph Conrad. Chapter 4 No man succeeds in everything he undertakes. In that sense we are all failures. The great point is not to fail in ordering and sustaining the effort of our life. In this matter vanity is what leads us astray. Pride is our vanity which hurries us into situations from which we must come out damaged. Whereas pride is our safeguard by the reserve it imposes on the choice of our endeavour, as much as by the virtue of its sustaining power. General Doubert was proud and reserved. He had not been damaged by casual love affairs successful or otherwise. In his worst-guard body his heart at forty remained unscratched. Being with reserve into his sister's matrimonial plans he felt himself falling irremediably in love as one falls off a roof. He was too proud to be frightened. Indeed, the sensation was too delightful to be alarming. The inexperience of a man of forty is a much more serious thing than the inexperience of a youth of twenty, for it is not helped out by the rashness of hot blood. The girl was mysterious. As all young girls are, by the mere effect of their guarded ingenuity, and him the mysteriousness of that young girl appeared exceptional and fascinating. But there was nothing mysterious about the arrangements of the match which Madame Leone had arranged. There was nothing peculiar, either. It was a very appropriate match, commending itself extremely to the young lady's mother, her father was dead, and tolerable to the young lady's uncle. An old emigre, lately returned from Germany, and pervading cane in hand like a lean ghost of the Ancien Régime in a long-skirted brown coat and powdered hair, the garden walks of the young lady's ancestral home. General Duber was not the man to be satisfied merely with the girl and the fortune, when it came to the point. His pride, and pride aims always at true success, would be satisfied with nothing short of love. But as pride excludes vanity, he could not imagine any reason why this mysterious creature, with deep and candid eyes of a violet color, should have any feeling for him warmer than indifference. The young lady, her name was Adèle, baffled every attempt at a clear understanding on that point. It is true that the attempts were clumsy and timidly made, since by then General Duber had become acutely aware of the number of his years, of his wounds, of his many moral imperfections, of his secret unworthiness, and had incidentally learned by experience the meaning of the word funk. As far as he could make it out, she seemed to imply that with a perfect confidence in her mother's affection and sagacity, she had no pronounced antipathy for the person of General Duber, and that this was quite sufficient for a well-brought-up, dutiful young lady to begin married life upon. This view hurt and tormented the pride of General Duber, and yet he asked himself for this sort of sweet despair. What more could he expect? She had a quiet and luminous forehead, her violet eyes laughed while the lines of her lips and chin remained composed in an admirable gravity. All this was set off by such a glorious mass of fair hair, by a complexion so marvellous, by such a grace of expression, that General Duber really never found the opportunity to examine, with sufficient detachment, the lofty exigencies of his pride. In fact he became shy of that line of inquiry, since it had led once or twice to a crisis of solitary passion in which was born upon him that he loved her enough to kill her rather than lose her. From such passages, not unknown to men of forty, he would come out broken, exhausted, remorseful, a little dismayed. He derived, however, considerable comfort from the quietest practice of setting up now and then half the night by an open window, and meditating upon the wonder of her existence, like a believer lost in the mystic contemplation of his faith. It must not be supposed that all these variations of his inward state were made manifest to the world. General Duber found no difficulty in appearing wreathed in smiles, because in fact he was very happy. He followed the established rules of his condition, sending over flowers, from his sister's garden and hot-houses, early every morning, and a little later following himself to have lunch with his intended, her mother, and her emigre uncle. The middle of the day was spent in strolling or sitting in the shade. A watchful, deferential gallantry, trembling on the verge of tenderness, was the note of their intercourse on his side, with a playful turn of the phrase concealing the profound trouble of his whole being caused by her inaccessible nearness. Right in the afternoon General Duber walked home between the fields of vines, sometimes intensely miserable, sometimes supremely happy, sometimes pensively sad, but always feeling a special intensity of existence, that elation common to artists, poets, and lovers, to men haunted by a great passion, by a noble thought, or a new vision of plastic beauty. The outward world at that time did not exist with any special distinctness for General Duber. One evening, however, crossing a ridge from which he could see both houses, General Duber became aware of two figures far down the road. The day had been divine. The festal decoration of the inflamed sky cast a gentle glow on the sober tints of the southern land. The gray rocks, the brown fields, the purple undulating distances harmonized in luminous accord, exhaled already the sense of the evening. The two figures down the road presented themselves like two rigid and wooden silhouettes, all black on the ribbon of white dust. General Duber made out the long, straight-cut military kapots, but in closely right up to the black stalks, the cocked hats, the lean, carbon-brown countenances, old soldiers, the A. Moustache. The taller of the two had a black patch over one eye. The other's hard, dry countenance presented some bizarre, disquieting peculiarity which, on nearer approach, proved to be the absence of the tip of the nose. Lifting their hands with one movement to salute the slightly lame civilian walking with a thick stick, they inquired for the house where the General Baron Duber lived, and what was the best way to get speech with him quietly. "'If you think this quiet enough,' said General Duber, looking round at the ripening vine-fields, framed in purple lines, and dominated by the nest of gray and drab walls of a village clustering around the tops of a steep conical hill, so that the blunt church tower seemed but the shape of a crowning rock, "'If you think this quiet enough, you can speak to him at once, and I beg you comrades to speak openly with perfect confidence.' They stepped back at this, and raised again their hands to their hats with marked ceremoniousness. Then the one with a chipped nose, speaking for both, remarked that the matter was confidential enough and to be arranged discreetly. The General Quarters were in that village over there, where the infernal clod-hoppers, damned their false royalist hearts, looked remarkably cross-eyed at three unassuming military men. For the present he should only ask for the name of General Duber's friends. "'What friends?' said the astonished General Duber, completely off the track. I am staying with my brother-in-law over there. "'Well, he will do for one,' suggested the chipped veteran. "'Where are the friends of General Farod?' interjected the other, who had kept silent till then, only glowering with his one eye at the man who had never loved the Emperor. That was something to look at, for even the gold-laced judices who had sold him to the English, the marshals and princes, had loved him at some time or other. But this man had never loved the Emperor. General Farod had said so distinctly. General Duber felt a sort of inward blow in his chest. An infinitesimal fraction of a second it was if the spinning of the earth had become perceptible with an awful, slight rustle in the eternal stillness of space. But that was the noise of the blood in his ears, and passed off at once. Involuntarily he murmured, "'Farod, I had forgotten his existence.' "'He's existing at present. Very uncomfortably it is true. And the infamous inn of that nest of savages up there.' Said the one-eyed cuirassier, dryly, "'We arrived in your parts an hour ago on post-horses. He's awaiting our return with impatience. There is hurry, you know. The General has broken the ministerial order of sojourn to obtain from you the satisfaction he's entitled to by the laws of honour, and naturally he's anxious to have it all over before the gendarmerie gets the scent.' The other elucidated the idea a little further. "'Get back on the quiet, you understand. No in the wiser. We have broken out, too. Your friend the king would be glad to cut off our scurvy pittances at the first chance. It's a risk. But honour before everything.' General Dubeir had recovered his power of speech. "'So you come like this along the road to invite me to a throat-cutting-match with that that—' A laughing sort of rage took possession of him. His fists on his hips. He roared without restraint, while they stood before him lank and straight, as unexpected as though they had been shot up with a snap through a trap-door in the ground. Only four and twenty months ago, the masters of Europe, they had already the air of antique ghosts. They seemed less substantial in their faded coats than their own narrow shadows falling so black across the white road, the military and grotesque shadows of twenty years of war and conquests. They had the outlandish appearance of two imperturbable bronzes of the religion of the sword, and General Dubeir, also one of the ex-masters of Europe, laughed at these serious phantoms standing in his way. And one, indicating the laughing-general with a jerk of his head— a merry companion that—' There are some of us that haven't smiled from the day the other went away,' said his comrade. A violent impulse to set upon and beat these unsubstantial wraiths to the ground frightened General Dubeir. He ceased laughing suddenly. His urgent desire now was to get rid of them, to get them away from his sight quickly before he lost control of himself. He wondered at this fury he felt rising in his breast, but he had no time to look into that peculiarity just then. I understand your wish to be done with me as quickly as possible. Then why waste time in empty ceremonies? Do you see that wood there at the foot of that slope? Yes, the wood of pines. Let us meet there to-morrow at sunrise. I will bring with me my sword or my pistols, or both, if you like. The seconds of General Farod looked at each other. Pistols, General, said the queer assiette. So be it. Au foir, to-morrow morning. Till then, let me advise you to keep close if you don't want the gendarmory making inquiries about you before dark. Strangers are rare in this part of the country. They saluted in silence. Old dubert, turning his back on their retreating figures, stood still in the middle of the road for a long time, biting his lower lip and looking on the ground. Then he began to walk straight before him, thus retracing his steps till he found himself before the parked gate of his intended home. Motionless he stared through the bars at the front of the house, gleaming clear beyond the thickets and trees. Footsteps were heard on the gravel, and presently a tall, looping shape emerged from the lateral alley following the inner side of the park wall. Le Chevalier de Valmasigue, uncle of the adorable Adèle, ex-brigadier in the Army of the Princes, bookbinder in Altona, afterwards shoemaker, with a great reputation for elegance in the fit of ladies' shoes, in another small German town, wore silk stockings on his lean shanks, low shoes with silver buckles, a brocaded waistcoat, a long-skirted coat à la Francaise, covered loosely his bowed back, a small three-quartered hat rested on a lot of powdered hair tied behind in a queue. Monsieur Le Chevalier, called General Dubeir softly, What? You hear a gun, mon ami. Have you forgotten something? By heavens, that's just it. I have forgotten something. I am come to tell you of it. No, outside. Behind this wall, it's too ghastly a thing to be led in at all where she lives. The Chevalier came out at once with that benevolent resignation some old people display towards the fugue of youth. Older by a quarter of a century than General Dubeir, he looked upon him in the secret of his heart as a rather troublesome youngster in love. He had heard his enigmatic words very well, but attached no undo importance to what a mere man of forty so hard hit was likely to do or say. The turn of mind of the generation of Frenchmen grown up during the years of his exile was almost unintelligible to him. Their sentiments appeared to him unduly violent, lacking fineness and measure, their language needlessly exaggerated. He joined the General on the road and they made a few steps in silence, the General trying to master his agitation and get proper control of his voice. Chevalier, it is perfectly true. I forgot something. I forgot till half an hour ago that I had an urgent affair of honor on my hands. It's incredible, but so it is. All was still for a moment. Then in the profound evening silence of the countryside, the thin, aged voice of the Chevalier was heard trembling slightly. Monsieur, that's an indignity. It was his first thought. The girl born during his exile, the posthumous daughter of his poor brother, murdered by a band of Jacobins, had grown since his return very dear to his old heart, which had been starving on mere memories of affection for so many years. It is an inconceivable thing, I say. A man settles such affairs before he thinks of asking for a young girl's hand. Why, if you had forgotten for ten days longer you would have been married before your memory returned to you. In my time men did not forget such things, nor yet what's due to the feelings of an innocent young woman. If I did not respect them myself I would qualify your conduct in a way which you would not like. General Dubeyre relieved himself, frankly, by a groan. Don't let that consideration prevent you. You run no risk of offending her mortally. But the old man paid no attention to this lover's nonsense. It's doubtful whether he even heard. What is it? He asked. What's the nature of, call it a youthful folly, Monsieur Le Chevalier, an inconceivable, incredible result of... He stopped short. He will never believe this story, he thought. He will only think I am taking him for a fool and get offended. General Dubeyre spoke up again. Yes, originating in youthful folly it has become... The Chevalier interrupted. Well, then it must be arranged. Arranged. Yes. No matter what it may cost you are more proper. You should have remembered you were engaged. You forgot that, too, I suppose. And then you go and forget your quarrel. It's the most revolting exhibition of levity I ever heard of. Good heavens, Chevalier! You don't imagine I have been picking up that quarrel last time I was in Paris or anything of the sort. Do you? Eh? What matters the precise date of your insane conduct? exclaimed the Chevalier testily. The principal thing is to arrange it. Noticing General Dubeyre getting rustive and trying to place a word, the old emigre raised his arm and added with dignity, I have been a soldier, too. I would never dare to suggest a doubtful step to the man whose name my niece is Dubeyre. I tell you that entre galant hommes, an affair can be always arranged. But supper lot, Monsieur Chevalier, it's fifteen or sixteen years ago. I was lieutenant of Hussars, then. The old Chevalier seemed confounded by the vehemently despairing tone of this information. You were a lieutenant of Hussars sixteen years ago. He mumbled in a dazed manner. Why, yes, you did not suppose I was made a general in my cradle like a royal prince. In the deepening purple twilight of the fields, spread with fine leaves, backed by a low band of sombre crimson in the west, the voice of the old ex-officer in the army of the princes sounded collected, punctiliously civil. Do I dream? Is this a pleasantry? Or do you mean me to understand that you have been hatching an affair of honour for sixteen years? It is clung to me for that length of time. That is my precise meaning. The quarrel itself is not to be explained easily. We have been on the ground several times during that time of course. What manners! What horrible perversion of manliness! Nothing can account for such inhumanity but the sanguinary madness of the revolution which has tainted a whole generation! Used the returned emigre in a low tone. Who is your adversary? He asked a little louder. My adversary? His name is Farod. Shadowy in his tricorn and old-fashioned clothes like a bowed thing-ghost of the Ancien Régime, the Chevalier voice to ghostly memory. I can remember the feud about little Sophie de Valle, between Monsieur de Bresa, captain in the bodyguards, and Don Girant. Not the pockmarked one, the other, the beau Don Girant, as they called him. They met three times in eighteen months in a most gallant manner. It was the fault of that little Sophie, too, who would keep on playing. This is nothing of the kind, interrupted General Dubeyre. He laughed a little sardonically. Not at all so simple, he added, nor yet half so reasonable. He finished inaudibly between his teeth and ground them with rage. After this sound nothing troubled the silence for a long time till the Chevalier asked without animation, what is he, this Farod? Lieutenant of Hussars, too. I mean, he's a general, a Gaskin, son of a blacksmith, I believe. There, I thought so, that Bonaparte had a special predilection for the canaille. I don't mean this for you, Dubeyre. For one of us, though you have served this usurper who, let's leave him out of this, broken, General Dubeyre. The Chevalier shrugged his peaked shoulders. A farod of sorts, offspring of a blacksmith and some village troll. See what comes of mixing yourself up with that sort of people. You must have made shoes yourself, Chevalier. Yes, but I am not the son of a shoemaker. Where are you, Monsieur Dubeyre? You and I have something that your Bonaparte's princes, dukes, and marshals have not, because there's no power on earth that could give it to them," retorted the émigré, with the rising animation of a man who has got hold of a hopeful argument. Those people don't exist. All these farods. Farod. What is Farod? A va nu pie, disguised into a general by a Corsican adventurer masquerading as an emperor. There is no earthly reason for a Dubeyre to sunk Canaille by a duel with a person of that sort. You can make your excuses to him perfectly well, and if the manant takes it into his head to decline them, you may simply refuse to meet him. You say I may do that? Yes. Well, the clearest conscience. Monsieur le Chevalier, to what do you think you have returned from your emigration? This was said in such a startling tone that the old exile raised sharply his bowed head, glimmering silvery white under the points of the little tricorn. For a long time he made no sound. God knows! He said at last, pointing with a slow and grave gesture at a tall roadside cross mounted on a block of stone and stretching its arms of forged stone all black against the darkening red bend in the sky. God knows! If it were not for this emblem, which I remember seeing in this spot as a child, I would wonder to what we, who have remained faithful to our God and our King, have returned. The very voices of the people have changed. Yes, it is a changed France, said General Dubeyre. He had regained his calm. His tone was slightly ironic. Therefore I cannot take your advice. Besides, how is one to refuse to be bitten by a dog that means to bite? It's impracticable. Take my word for it. He isn't a man to be stopped by apologies or refusals. But there are other ways. I could, for instance, send a mounted messenger with a word to the brigadier of the gendarmerie in Sennlach. These fellows are liable to arrest on my simple order. This would make some talk on the army, both the organized and the disbanded, especially the disbanded, all can I. All my comrades wants, the companions and arms of Armand Dubeyre. But what need a Dubeyre care for what people who don't exist may think? Or better still, I might get my brother-in-law to send for the mayor of the village and give him a hint. No more would be needed to get the three brigands set upon with flails and pitchforks and hunted into some nice deep wet ditch, and nobody the wiser. It has been done only ten miles from here to three poor devils of the disbanded red lancers of the guard going to their homes. What says your conscience, Chevalier? Can a Dubeyre do that thing to three men who do not exist? A few stars had come out on the blue obscurity, clear as crystal of the sky. The dry, thin voice of the Chevalier spoke harshly. Why are you telling me all this? The general seized a withered, frail old hand with a strong grip. Because I owe you my fullest confidence. Who could tell Adele but you? You understand why I dare not trust my brother-in-law, nor yet my own sister. Chevalier, I have been so near doing these things that I tremble yet. You don't know how terrible this duel appears to me, and there's no escape from it. He murmured after a pause. It's a fatality. Dropped the Chevalier's passive hand, and said in his ordinary conversational voice, I shall have to go without seconds. If it is my lot to remain on the ground, you at least will know all that can be made known of this affair. The shadowy ghost of the Ancien Régime seemed to have become more bowed during the conversation. How am I to keep an indifferent face this evening before these two women, he groaned. General, I find it very difficult to forgive you. General Dubeir made no answer. Is your cause good, at least? I am innocent. This time he seized the Chevalier's ghostly arm above the elbow, gave it a mighty squeeze. I must kill him. He hissed, and opening his hand strode away down the road. The delicate attentions of his adoring sister had secured for the general perfect liberty of movement in the house where he was a guest. He had even his own entrance through a small door in one corner of the Oranjuri. Thus he was not exposed that evening to the necessity of dissembling his agitation before the calm ignorance of the other inmates. He was glad of it. It seemed to him that if he had to open his lips he would break out into horrible imprecation, start breaking furniture, smashing China and glasses. From the moment he opened the private door and while ascending the twenty-eight steps of winding staircase, giving access to the corridor on which his room opened, he went through a horrible and humiliating scene in which an infuriated madman, with bloodshot eyes and a foaming mouth, played inconceivable havoc with everything inanimate that may be found in a well-appointed dining-room. When he opened the door of his apartment the fit was over, and his bodily fatigue was so great that he had to catch at the backs of the chairs as he crossed the room to reach a low and broad divan on which he let himself fall heavily. His moral prostration was still greater. That brutality of feeling which he had known only when charging Saber in hand amazed this man of forty, who did not recognize in it the instinctive fury of his menaced passion. It was the revolt of Jeopardy's desire. In his mental and bodily exhaustion it got cleared, turned down, purified into a sentiment of melancholy despair at having, perhaps, to die before he had taught this beautiful girl to love him. On that night, General Dubeyre, either stretched on his back with his hands over his eyes or lying on his breast, with his face buried in a cushion, made the full pilgrimage of emotions, nauseating disgust at the absurdity of the situation, dread of the fate that could place such a vile trick on a man, awe at the remote consequences of an apparently insignificant and ridiculous event in his past, doubt of his own fitness to conduct his existence and mistrust of his best sentiments, for what the devil did he want to go to Fouché for? He knew them all in turn. I am an idiot, neither more nor less, he thought. A sensitive idiot, because I overheard two men talk in a café. I am an idiot afraid of lies, whereas in life it is only truth that matters. Several times he got up and walking about in his socks, so as not to be heard by anybody downstairs, drank all the water he could find in the dark, and he tasted the torments of jealousy, too. She would marry somebody else. His very soul writhed. The tenacity of that furrowed. The awful persistence of that imbecile brute came to him with a tremendous force of a relentless fatality. General Dubair trembled as he put down the empty water you were. He will have me, he thought. General Dubair was tasting every emotion that life has to give. He had in his dry mouth the faint, sickly flavor of fear, not the honorable fear of a young girl's candid and amused glance, but the fear of death and the honorable man's fear of cowardice. But if true courage consists in going out to meet an odious danger from which our body, soul, and heart recoiled together, General Dubair had the opportunity to practice it for the first time in his life. He had charged exultingly at batteries and infantry squares and ridden with messages through a hail of bullets without thinking anything about it. His business now was to sneak out unheard at break of day to an obscure and revolting death. General Dubair never hesitated. He carried two pistols in a leather bag which he slung over his shoulder. Before he had crossed the garden his mouth was dry again. He picked two oranges. It was only after shutting the gate after him that he felt a slight faintness. He stepped out disregarding it and after going a few yards regained the command of his legs. He sucked an orange as he walked. It was a colorless and pollucid dawn. The wood of pines detached its columns of brown trunks and its dark green canopy very clearly against the rocks of the gray hillside behind. He kept his eyes fixed on it steadily. That temperamental, good-humored coolness in the face of danger which made him an officer liked by his men and appreciated by his superiors was gradually asserting itself. It was like going into battle. Arriving at the edge of the wood he sat down on a boulder holding the other orange in his hand and thought that he had come ridiculously early on the ground. Before very long, however, he heard the swishing of bushes, footsteps on the hard ground, and the sounds of a disjointed loud conversation. A voice somewhere behind him said boastfully, He's game for my bag. He thought to himself, Here they are. What's this about game? Are they talking of me? And becoming aware of the orange in his hand he thought further, These are very good oranges. Leonet's own tree. I may just as well eat this orange instead of flinging it away. Emerging from a tangle of rocks and bushes, General Farod and his seconds discovered General Dubeir engaged in peeling the orange. They stood still waiting till he looked up. Then the seconds raised their hats, and General Farod, putting his hands behind his back, walked aside a little way. I am compelled to ask one of you, messieurs, to act for me. I have brought no friends, will you? The one I'd creacier said judicially, That cannot be refused. The other veteran remarked, It's awkward all the same. Owing to the state of the people's minds in this part of the country, There was no one I could trust with the object of your presence here. Explain General Dubeir urbanely. They saluted, looked round, and remarked both together. Poor ground. It's unfit. Why bother about ground, measurements, and so on? Let us simplify matters. Road the two pairs of pistols. I will take those of General Farod and let him take mine. Or better still, let us take a mixed pair, one of each pair. Then we will go into the wood while you remain outside. We did not come here for ceremonies, but for war. War to the death. Any ground is good enough for that. If I fall you must leave me where I lie and clear out. It wouldn't be healthy for you to be found hanging about here after that. It appeared after a short parlay that General Farod was willing to accept these conditions. While the seconds were loading the pistols he could be heard whistling, and was seen to rub his hands with an air of perfect contentment. He flung off his coat briskly, and General Dubeir took off his own and folded it carefully on a stone. Suppose you take your principal to the other side of the wood and let him enter exactly in ten minutes from now, suggested General Dubeir calmly, but feeling as if he were giving directions for his own execution. This however was his last moment of weakness. Wait! Let us compare watches first. He pulled out his own. The officer with the chipped nose went over to borrow the watch of General Farod. They bent their heads over them for a time. That's it! Add four minutes to five by yours, seven to by mine. It was the creasier who remained by the side of General Dubeir, keeping his one eye fixed immovably on the white face of the watch he held in the palm of his hand. He opened his mouth wide, waiting for the beat of the last second, long before he snapped out the word. Avance! General Dubeir moved on, passing from the glaring sunshine of the proven sol morning into the cool and aromatic shade of the pines. The ground was clear between the reddish trunks, whose multitude, leaning at slightly different angles, confused his eye at first. It was like going into battle. The commanding quality of confidence in himself woke up in his breast. He was all to his affair. The problem was how to kill his adversary. Being short of that would free him from this imbecile nightmare. It's no use wounding that brute, he thought. He was known as a resourceful officer. His comrades years ago used to call him the Strategist. And it was a fact that he could think in the presence of the enemy, whereas Farod had been always a mere fighter. But a dead shot, unluckily. I must draw his fire at the greatest possible range," said General Dubeir, to himself. At that moment he saw something white moving far off between the trees. The shirt of his adversary. He stepped out at once between the trunks, exposing himself freely. Then quickest lightning leaped back. It had been a risky move, but it succeeded in its object. Almost simultaneously with a pop of a shot, a small piece of bark chipped off by the bullet stung his ear painfully. And now General Farod, with one shot expended, was getting cautious. Peeping round his sheltering tree, General Dubeir could not see him at all. This ignorance of his adversary's whereabouts carried with it a sense of insecurity. General Dubeir felt himself exposed on his flanks and rear. Again something white fluttered in his sight. Ha! The enemy was still on his front then. He had feared a turning movement. But apparently General Farod was not thinking of it. General Dubeir saw him pass without special haste, from one tree to another in the straight line of approach. With great firmness of mind General Dubeir stayed his hand. Too far yet. He knew he was no marksman. His must be a waiting-game. To kill. He sank down to the ground, wishing to take advantage of the greater thickness of the trunk. Extended at full length, head on to his enemy, he kept his person completely protected. Exposing himself would not do now, because the other was too near by this time. A conviction that Farod would presently do something rash was like balm to General Dubeir's soul. But to keep his chin raised off the ground was irksome, and not much use either. He peeped round, exposing a fraction of his head, with dread but really with little risk. His enemy, as a matter of fact, did not expect to see anything of him so low down as that. General Dubeir caught a fleeting view of General Farod shifting trees again with deliberate caution. He despises my shooting. He thought, with that insight into the mind of his antagonist, which is of such great help in winning battles. It confirmed him in his tactics of immobility. Ah! If I only could watch my rear as well as my front! He thought, longing for the impossible. It required some fortitude to lay his pistols down. But on a sudden impulse General Dubeir did this very gently. One on each side. He had been always looked upon as a bit of a dandy, because he used to shave and put on a clean shirt on the days of battle. As a matter of fact he had always been very careful of his personal appearance. In a man of nearly forty, in love with a young and charming girl, this praiseworthy self-respect may run to such little weaknesses as, for instance, being provided with the elegant leather folding case containing a small ivory comb, and fitted with a piece of looking glass on the outside. General Dubeir, his hands being free, felt in his breech's pockets for that implement of innocent vanity, excusable in the possessor of long silky mustaches. He drew it out, and then, with the utmost coolness and promptitude, turned himself over on his back. In this new attitude, his head raised a little, holding the looking glass in one hand just clear of his tree, he squinted into it with one eye while the other kept a direct watch on the rear of his position. This was proved, Napoleon saying, that for a French soldier the word impossible does not exist. He had the right tree nearly filling the field of his little mirror. If he moves from there, he said to himself exultingly, I am bound to see his legs, and in any case he can't come upon me unawares. And sure enough he saw the boots of General Farod flash in and out, eclipsing for an instant everything else reflected in the little mirror. He shifted its position accordingly. But having to form his judgment of the change from that indirect view, he did not realize that his own feet and a portion of his legs were now in plain and startling view of General Farod. General Farod had been getting gradually impressed by the amazing closeness with which his enemy had been keeping cover. He had spotted the right tree with bloodthirsty precision. He was absolutely certain of it. And yet he had not been able to sight as much as the tip of an ear. As he had been looking for it at the level of about five feet ten inches, it was no great wonder. But it seemed very wonderful to General Farod. The first view of these feet and legs determined a rush of blood to his head. He literally staggered behind his tree and had to steady himself with his hand. The other was lying on the ground, on the ground! Finally still too, exposed! What did it mean? The notion that he had knocked his adversary over at the first shot, then entered General Farod's head. Once there it grew with every second of a tent of gazing, overshadowing every other supposition, irresistible, triumphant, ferocious! What an ass I was to think I could have missed him! He said to himself. He was exposed on plen, the fool, for quite a couple of seconds. And the general gazed at the motionless limbs, the last vestiges of surprise fading before an unbounded admiration of his skill. Turned up his toes, by the God of War, that was a shot! He continued mentally, got it through the head just where I aimed, staggered behind that tree, rolled over on his back and died. And he stared. He stared, forgetting to move, almost awed, almost sorry. But for nothing in the world would he have had it undone. Such a shot! Such a shot! Rolled over on his back and died! For it was this helpless position, lying on the back, that shouted at sinister evidence at General Farod. He could not possibly imagine that it might have been deliberately assumed by a living man. It was inconceivable. It was beyond the range of sane supposition. There was no possibility to guess the reason for it, and it must be said that General Dubeir's turned-up feet looked thoroughly dead. General Farod expanded his lungs for a stentorian shout to his seconds, but from what he felt to be an excessive scruplessness refrained for a while. I will just go and see first whether he breathes yet. He mumbled to himself, stepping out from behind his tree. This was immediately perceived by the resourceful General Dubeir. He concluded it to be another shift. When he lost the boots out of the field of the mirror he became uneasy. General Farod had only stepped a little out of the line, but his adversary could not possibly have supposed him walking up with perfect unconcern. General Dubeir, beginning to wonder where the other had dodged to, was come upon so suddenly that the first warning he had of his danger consisted in the long, early morning shadow of his enemy falling a slant on his outstretched legs. He had not even heard a footfall on the soft ground between the trees. It was too much, even for his coolness. He jumped up instinctively, leaving the pistols on the ground. The irresistible instinct of most people, unless totally paralyzed by discomforture, would have been to stoop, exposing themselves to the risk of being shot down in that position. Instinct, of course, is irreflective. It is its very definition. But it may be an inquiry worth pursuing, whether in reflective mankind the mechanical promptings of instinct are not affected by the customary mode of thought. Years ago, in his young days, Armand Dubeir, the reflective, advancing officer, had emitted the opinion that in warfare one should never cast back on the lines of a mistake. This idea afterward restated, defended, developed in many discussions, had settled into one of the stock notions of his brain, became a part of his mental individuality, and whether it had gone so inconceivably deep as to affect the dictates of his instinct, or simply because, as he himself declared, he was too scared to remember the confounded pistols. The fact is that General Dubeir never attempted to stoop for them. Instead of going back on his mistake, he seized the rough trunk with both hands and swung himself behind it with such impetuosity that going right round in the very flash and report of a pistol shot, he reappeared on the other side of the tree face to face with General Farod, who, completely unstrung by such a show of agility on the part of a dead man, was trembling yet. A very faint mist of smoke hung before his face, which had an extraordinary aspect as if the lower jaw had come unhinged. Not mist! he croaked hoarsely from the depths of a dry throat. This sinister sound loosened the spell which had fallen on General Dubeir's senses. Yes, mist! Abou-portant! He heard himself saying exultingly almost before he had recovered the full command of his faculties. The revulsion of feeling was accompanied by a gust of homicidal fury resuming in its violence the accumulated resentment of a lifetime. For years General Dubeir had been exasperated and humiliated by an atrocious absurdity imposed upon him by that man's savage caprice. Besides, General Dubeir had been, in this last instance, too unwilling to confront death for the reaction of his anguish not to take the shape of a desire to kill. And I have my two shots to fire yet, he added pitilessly. General Farod snapped his teeth, and his face assumed an irate, undaunted expression. Go on, he growled. These would have been his last words on earth, if General Dubeir had been holding the pistols in his hand. But the pistols were lying on the ground at the foot of a tall pine. General Dubeir had the second's leisure necessary to remember that he had dreaded death not as a man, but as a lover, not as a danger, but as a rival, not as a foe to life, but as an obstacle to marriage, to the hold, there was the rival defeated, miserably defeated, crushed, done for. He picked up the weapons mechanically, and instead of firing them into General Farod's breast, gave expression to the thought uppermost in his mind. You will fight no more duels now. His tone of leisurely, ineffable satisfaction was too much for General Farod's stoicism. Don't dawdle, then. Damn you for a cold-blooded staff coxcomb! He roared out suddenly, out of an impassive face held erect on a rigid body. General Dubeir uncocked the pistols carefully. This proceeding was observed with a sort of gloomy astonishment by the other general. You missed me twice. He began coolly, shifting both pistols to one hand. The last time within a foot or so. By every rule of single combat your life belongs to me. That does not mean that I want to take it now. I have no use for your forbearance, mother General Farod savagely. Allow me to point out that this is no concern of mine, said General Dubeir, whose every word was dictated by a consummate delicacy of feeling. In anger he could have killed that man. But in cold blood he recoiled from humiliating this unreasonable being, a fellow soldier of the Grande Armée, his companion in the wonders and terrors of the military epic. You don't set up the pretension of dictating to me what I am to do with what is my own. General Farod looked startled, and the other continued. You forced me on a point of honour to keep my life at your disposal, as it were, for fifteen years. Very well. Now that the matter is decided to my advantage, I am going to do what I like with your life on the same principle. You shall keep it at my disposal as long as I choose. Neither more nor less. You are on your honour. I am. But sacre bleur! This is an absurd position for a general of the empire to be placed in!" cried General Farod, in the accents of profound and dismayed conviction. It means for me to be sitting all the rest of my life with a loaded pistol in a drawer waiting for your word. It's—it's idiotic! I shall be an object of—of derision! Absurd? Idiotic? Do you think so?" queried argumentatively General Dubeir with sly gravity. Perhaps. But I don't see how that can be helped. However, I am not likely to talk at large of this adventure. Nobody need ever know anything about it. Just as no one to this day, I believe, knows the origin of our quarrel. Not a word more, he added hastily. I can't really discuss this question with a man who, as far as I am concerned, does not exist. When the duelist came out into the open, General Farod walking a little behind and rather with the air of walking in a trance, the two seconds hurried towards them each from his station at the edge of the wood. General Dubeir addressed them, speaking loud and distinctly. Miss Hur, I make it a point of declaring to you solemnly in the presence of General Farod that our difference is at last settled for good. You may inform all the world of that fact. A reconciliation, after all, they exclaimed together. Reconciliation? Not that exactly. It is something much more binding. Is it not so, General? General Farod only lowered his head in sign of assent. The two veterans looked at each other. Later in the day when they found themselves alone, out of their moody friend's earshot, the cuirassier remarked suddenly, Generally speaking, I can see with my one eye as far, or even a little farther than most people, but this beats me. He won't say anything. In this affair of honor I understand there has been from first to last always something that no one in the army could quite make out. Declared the chasseur with the imperfect nose. In mystery it began. In mystery it went on. And in mystery it is to end, apparently. General Dubeir walked home with long hasty strides, by no means uplifted by a sense of triumph. He had conquered, but it did not seem to him he had gained very much by his conquest. The night before he had grudged the risk of his life which appeared to him magnificent, worthy of preservation as an opportunity to win a girl's love. He had even moments when, by a marvelous illusion, this love seemed to him already his, and his threatened life a still more magnificent opportunity of devotion. Now that his life was safe it had suddenly lost its special magnificence. It wore instead a specially alarming aspect as a snare for the exposure of unworthiness. As to the marvelous illusion of conquered love that had visited him for a moment in the agitated watches of the night which might have been his last on earth, he comprehended now its true nature. It had been merely a paroxysm of delirious conceit. Thus to this man sobered by the victorious issue of a duel, life appear robbed of much of its charm simply because it was no longer menaced. Approaching the house from the back through the orchard and the kitchen gardens he could not notice the agitation which reigned in front. He never met a single soul. Only upstairs, while walking softly along the corridor, he became aware that the house was awake and much more noisy than usual. Names of servants were being called out down below in a confused noise of coming and going. He noticed with some concern that the door of his own room stood a jar, though the shutters had not been open yet. He had hoped that his early excursion would have passed unperceived. He expected to find some servant just gone in, but the sunlight filtering through the usual cracks enabled him to see lying on the low divan something bulky which had the appearance of two women clasped in each other's arms. People and consolatory murmurs issued mysteriously from that appearance. General Dubeir pulled open the nearest pair of shutters violently. One of the women then jumped up. It was his sister. She stood for a moment with her hair hanging down, and her arms raised straight up above her head, and then flung herself with a stifled cry into his arms. He returned her embrace, trying at the same time to disengage himself from it. The other woman had not risen. She seemed on the contrary to cling closer to the divan, hiding her face in the cushions. Her hair was also loose. It was admirably fair. General Dubeir recognized it with staggering emotion. Madam Ozil de Vamasig, Adele, in distress! He became greatly alarmed and got rid of his sister's hug definitely. Madame Leone then extended her shapely bear arm out of her pegnoir, pointing dramatically at the divan. This poor terrified child has rushed here two miles from home on foot, running all the way. What on earth has happened? asked General Dubeir in a low agitated voice. But Madame Leone was speaking loudly. She rang the great bell at the gate and roused all the household. We were all asleep yet. You may imagine what a terrible shock! Adele, my dear child, sit up! General Dubeir's expression was not that of a man who imagines with facility. He did, however, fish out of chaos the notion that his prospective mother-in-law had died suddenly, but only to dismiss it at once. He could not conceive the nature of the event, of the catastrophe which could induce Madame Ozil de Vamasig, living in a house full of servants, to bring the news over the fields herself, two miles, running all the way. But why are you in this room? He whispered, full of awe. Of course I ran up to sea, and this child I did not notice it. She followed me. It's that absurd chevalier, Madame Leone, looking towards the divan. Her hairs come down. You may imagine she did not stop to call her maid to dress it before she started. Adele, my dear, sit up! He blurted it all out to her at half-past four in the morning. She woke up early and opened her shutters to breathe the fresh air, and saw him sitting collapsed on a garden branch at the end of the Great Alley. At that hour, you may imagine, and the evening before he had declared himself indisposed. She just hurried on some clothes and flew down to him. One would be anxious for less. He loves her, but not very intelligently. He had been up all night, fully dressed, the poor old man, perfectly exhausted. He wasn't in a state to invent a plausible story. What a confident you chose there. My husband was furious. He said, we can't interfere now. So we sat down to wait. It was awful. And this poor child running over here publicly with her hair loose. She has been seen by people in the fields. She has roused the whole household, too. It's awkward for her. Luckily you are to be married next week. Adele, sit up. He has come home on his own legs. Thank God! We expected you to come back on a stretcher, perhaps. What do I know? Go and see if the carriage is ready. I must take this child to her mother at once. It isn't proper for her to stay here a minute longer. General Dubeir did not move. It was as though he had heard nothing. Some Leonie changed her mind. I will go and see to it myself, she said. I want also to get my cloak. Adele, she began, but did not say, sit up. She went out saying in a loud, cheerful tone, I leave the door open. General Dubeir made a movement towards the divan, but then Adele sat up and that checked him dead. He thought, I haven't washed this morning. I must look like an old tramp. There's earth on the back of my coat and pine needles in my hair. It occurred to him that the situation required a good deal of circumspection on his part. I am greatly concerned, mademoiselle. He began timidly and abandoned that line. She was sitting up on the divan with her cheeks unusually pink and her hair brilliantly fair, falling all over her shoulders, which was a very novel sight to the general. He walked away up the room and, looking out of the window for safety, said, I fear you must think I behave like a madman, in accents of sincere despair. Then he spun round and noticed that she had followed him with her eyes. They were not cast down on meeting his glance, and the expression of her face was novel to him also. It was, one might have said, reversed. Her eyes looked at him with grave thoughtfulness, while the exquisite lines of her mouth seemed to suggest a restrained smile. This change made her transcendental beauty much less mysterious, much more accessible to a man's comprehension. An amazing ease of mind came to the general, and even some ease of manner. He walked down the room with as much pleasurable excitement as he would have found in walking up to a battery, vomiting death, fire, and smoke. Then stood looking down with smiling eyes at the girl whose marriage with him, next week, had been so carefully arranged by the wise, the good, the admirable Leonie. Ah! Madame Waselle! He said in a tone of courtly deference, if I could be certain that you did not come here this morning only from a sense of duty to your mother. He waited for an answer, imperturbable but inwardly elated. It came in a demure murmur, eyelashes lowered with fascinating effect. You mustn't be meschalt as well as mad. And then, General Duber made an aggressive movement towards the divan which nothing could check. This piece of furniture was not exactly in the line of the open door. But Madame Leonie, coming back wrapped up in a light cloak and carrying a lace shawl on her arm for Adele to hide her incriminating hair under, had a vague impression of her brother getting up from his knees. Come along, my dear child! She cried from the doorway. The General, now himself again in the fullest sense, showed the readiness of a resourceful cavalry officer and the peremptoriness of a leader of men. You don't expect her to walk to the carriage? He protested. She isn't fit. I will carry her downstairs. This he did slowly, followed by his odd and respectful sister. But he rushed back like a whirlwind to wash away all the signs of the night of anguish and the morning of war and to put on the festive garments of a conqueror before hurrying over to the other house. Had it not been for that, General Duber felt capable of mounting a horse and pursuing his late adversary in order simply to embrace him from excess of happiness. I owe this piece of luck to that stupid brute, he thought. This duel has made plain in one morning what might have taken me years to find out, for I am a timid fool, no self-confidence whatever, perfect coward, and the Chevalier, dear old man. General Duber longed to embrace him, too. The Chevalier was in bed. For several days he was much indisposed. The men of the Empire and the post-revolution young ladies were too much for him. He got up the day before the wedding and, being curious by nature, took his niece aside for a quiet talk. He advised her to find out from her husband the true story of the affair of honour, whose claims so imperative and so persistent had led her to within an ace of tragedy. It is very proper that his wife should know, and next month or so will be your time to learn from him anything you ought to know, my dear child. Later on when the married couple came on a visit to the mother of the bride, Madame la Générale Duber made no difficulty in communicating to her beloved old uncle what she had learned without any difficulty from her husband. The Chevalier listened with profound attention to the end, then took a pinch of snuff, shook the grains of tobacco off the frilled front of his shirt, and said calmly, and that's all what it was. Yes, uncle, said Madame la Générale, opening her pretty eyes very wide. Isn't it funny? Said Alcence to think what men are capable of. Hmm! commented the old émigré. It depends what sort of men. That Bonaparte soldiers were savages. As a wife, my dear, it is proper for you to believe implicitly what your husband says. But to Leone's husband the Chevalier confided his true opinion. If that's the tale the fellow made up for his wife, and during the honeymoon, too, you may depend on it no one will ever know the secret of this affair. Considerably later still, General Duber judged the time come, and the opportunity propitious to write a conciliatory letter to General Farod. I have never, protested the General Beren Duber, wished for your death during all the time of our deplorable quarrel. Allow me to give you back in all form your forfeited life. We, too, who have been partners in so much military glory, should be friendly to each other publicly. The same letter contained also an item of domestic information. It was alluding to this last that General Farod answered from a little village on the banks of the Garonne. If one of your boys' name had been Napoleon, or Joseph, or even Joachim, I could congratulate you with a better heart. As you have thought proper to name him Charles-en-Riemond, I am confirmed in my conviction that you never loved the emperor. The thought of that sublime hero chained to a rock in the middle of a savage ocean makes life of so little value that I would receive with positive joy your instructions to blow my brains out. From suicide I consider myself an honour debarred. But I keep a loaded pistol in my drawer. Madame le General Duber lifted up her hands in horror after perusing that letter. You see, he won't be reconciled, said her husband. We must take care that he never, by any chance, learns where the money he lives on comes from. It would be simply appalling. You are a brave home, Armand, said Madame le General, appreciatively. My dear, I had the right to blow his brains out, strictly speaking. But as I did not, we can't let him starve. He has been deprived of his pension for breach of military discipline when he broke bounds to fight his last duel with me. He's crippled with rheumatism. We are bound to take care of him to the end of his days. And after all, I am indebted to him for the radiant discovery that you love me a little, you sly person. Ha! Two miles, running all the way! It is extraordinary how, all through this affair, that man has managed to engage my deeper feelings.