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search of a bit of bread. All that he asked for was a line on a visiting

card, a kindly word from the Countess, which he would at once carry to

Baroness Duvillard to prevail on her to set the regulations aside. And

his words fell one by one, tremulous with stifled tears, in that mournful

_salon_, like sounds from afar, dying away in a dead world where there

was no echo left.

Madame de Quinsac turned towards M. de Morigny, but he seemed to take no

interest in it all. He was gazing fixedly at the fire, with the haughty

air of a stranger who was indifferent to the things and beings in whose

midst an error of time compelled him to live. But feeling that the glance

of the woman he worshipped was fixed upon him he raised his head; and

then their eyes met for a moment with an expression of infinite

gentleness, the mournful gentleness of their heroic love.

"_Mon Dieu_!" said she, "I know your merits, Monsieur l'Abbe, and I won't

refuse my help to one of your good works."

Then she went off for a moment, and returned with a card on which she had

written that she supported with all her heart Monsieur l'Abbe Froment in

the steps he was taking. And he thanked her and went off delighted, as if

he carried yet a fresh hope of salvation from that drawing-room where, as

he retired, gloom and silence once more seemed to fall on that old lady

and her last faithful friends gathered around the fire, last relics of a

world that was soon to disappear.

Once outside, Pierre joyfully climbed into his cab again, after giving

the Princess de Harn's address in the Avenue Kleber. If he could also

obtain her approval he would no longer doubt of success. However, there

was such a crush on the Concorde bridge, that the driver had to walk his

horse. And, on the foot-pavement, Pierre again saw Duthil, who, with a

cigar between his lips, was smiling at the crowd, with his amiable

bird-like heedlessness, happy as he felt at finding the pavement dry and

the sky blue on leaving that worrying sitting of the Chamber. Seeing how

gay and triumphant he looked, a sudden inspiration came to the priest,

who said to himself that he ought to win over this young man, whose

report had had such a disastrous effect. As it happened, the cab having

been compelled to stop altogether, the deputy had just recognized him and

was smiling at him.

"Where are you going, Monsieur Duthil?" Pierre asked.

"Close by, in the Champs Elysees."

"I'm going that way, and, as I should much like to speak to you for a

moment, it would be very kind of you to take a seat beside me. I will set

you down wherever you like."

"Willingly, Monsieur l'Abbe. It won't inconvenience you if I finish my

cigar?"

"Oh! not at all."

The cab found its way out of the crush, crossed the Place de la Concorde

and began to ascend the Champs Elysees. And Pierre, reflecting that he

had very few minutes before him, at once attacked Duthil, quite ready for

any effort to convince him. He remembered what a sortie the young deputy

had made against Laveuve at the Baron's; and thus he was astonished to

hear him interrupt and say quite pleasantly, enlivened as he seemed by

the bright sun which was again beginning to shine: "Ah, yes! your old

drunkard! So you didn't settle his business with Fonsegue? And what is it

you want? To have him admitted to-day? Well, you know I don't oppose it?"

"But there's your report."

"My report, oh, my report! But questions change according to the way one

looks at them. And if you are so anxious about your Laveuve I won't

refuse to help you."

Pierre looked at him in astonishment, at bottom extremely well pleased.

And there was no further necessity even for him to speak.

"You didn't take the matter in hand properly," continued Duthil, leaning

forward with a confidential air. "It's the Baron who's the master at

home, for reasons which you may divine, which you may very likely know.

The Baroness does all that he asks without even discussing the point; and

this morning,--instead of starting on a lot of useless visits, you only

had to gain his support, particularly as he seemed to be very well

disposed. And she would then have given way immediately." Duthil began to

laugh. "And so," he continued, "do you know what I'll do? Well, I'll gain

the Baron over to your cause. Yes, I am this moment going to a house

where he is, where one is certain to find him every day at this time."

Then he laughed more loudly. "And perhaps you are not ignorant of it,

Monsieur l'Abbe. When he is there you may be certain he never gives a

refusal. I promise you I'll make him swear that he will compel his wife

to grant your man admission this very evening. Only it will, perhaps, be

rather late."

Then all at once, as if struck by a fresh idea, Duthil went on: "But why

shouldn't you come with me? You secure a line from the Baron, and

thereupon, without losing a minute, you go in search of the Baroness. Ah!

yes, the house embarrasses you a little, I understand it. Would you like

to see only the Baron there? You can wait for him in a little _salon_

downstairs; I will bring him to you."

This proposal made Duthil altogether merry, but Pierre, quite scared,

hesitated at the idea of thus going to Silviane d'Aulnay's. It was hardly

a place for him. However, to achieve his purpose, he would have descended

into the very dwelling of the fiend, and had already done so sometimes

with Abbe Rose, when there was hope of assuaging wretchedness. So he

turned to Duthil and consented to accompany him.

Silviane d'Aulnay's little mansion, a very luxurious one, displaying,

too, so to say, the luxury of a temple, refined but suggestive of

gallantry, stood in the Avenue d'Antin, near the Champs Elysees. The

inmate of this sanctuary, where the orfrays of old dalmaticas glittered

in the mauve reflections from the windows of stained-glass, had just

completed her twenty-fifth year. Short and slim she was, of an adorable,

dark beauty, and all Paris was acquainted with her delicious, virginal

countenance of a gentle oval, her delicate nose, her little mouth, her

candid cheeks and artless chin, above all which she wore her black hair

in thick, heavy bands, which hid her low brow. Her notoriety was due

precisely to her pretty air of astonishment, the infinite purity of her

blue eyes, the whole expression of chaste innocence which she assumed

when it so pleased her, an expression which contrasted powerfully with

her true nature, shameless creature that she really was, of the most

monstrous, confessed, and openly-displayed perversity; such as, in fact,

often spring up from the rotting soil of great cities. Extraordinary

things were related about Silviane's tastes and fancies. Some said that

she was a door-keeper's, others a doctor's, daughter. In any case she had

managed to acquire instruction and manners, for when occasion required

she lacked neither wit, nor style, nor deportment. She had been rolling

through the theatres for ten years or so, applauded for her beauty's

sake, and she had even ended by obtaining some pretty little successes in

such parts as those of very pure young girls or loving and persecuted

young women. Since there had been a question, though, of her entering the

Comedie Francaise to play the _role_ of Pauline in "Polyeucte," some

people had waxed indignant and others had roared with laughter, so

ridiculous did the idea appear, so outrageous for the majesty of classic

tragedy. She, however, quiet and stubborn, wished this thing to be, was

resolved that it should be, certain as she was that she would secure it,

insolent like a creature to whom men had never yet been able to refuse

anything.

That day, at three o'clock, Gerard de Quinsac, not knowing how to kill

the time pending the appointment he had given Eve in the Rue Matignon,

had thought of calling at Silviane's, which was in the neighbourhood. She

was an old caprice of his, and even nowadays he would sometimes linger at

the little mansion if its pretty mistress felt bored. But he had this

time found her in a fury; and, reclining in one of the deep armchairs of

the _salon_ where "old gold" formed the predominant colour, he was

listening to her complaints. She, standing in a white gown, white indeed

from head to foot like Eve herself at the _dejeuner_, was speaking

passionately, and fast convincing the young man, who, won over by so much

youth and beauty, unconsciously compared her to his other flame, weary

already of his coming assignation, and so mastered by supineness, both

moral and physical, that he would have preferred to remain all day in the

depths of that armchair.

"You hear me, Gerard!" she at last exclaimed, "I'll have nothing whatever

to do with him, unless he brings me my nomination."

Just then Baron Duvillard came in, and forthwith she changed to ice and

received him like some sorely offended young queen who awaits an

explanation; whilst he, who foresaw the storm and brought moreover

disastrous tidings, forced a smile, though very ill at ease. She was the

stain, the blemish attaching to that man who was yet so sturdy and so

powerful amidst the general decline of his race. And she was also the

beginning of justice and punishment, taking all his piled-up gold from

him by the handful, and by her cruelty avenging those who shivered and

who starved. And it was pitiful to see that feared and flattered man,

beneath whom states and governments trembled, here turn pale with

anxiety, bend low in all humility, and relapse into the senile, lisping

infancy of acute passion.

"Ah! my dear friend," said he, "if you only knew how I have been rushing

about. I had a lot of worrying business, some contractors to see, a big

advertisement affair to settle, and I feared that I should never be able

to come and kiss your hand."

He kissed it, but she let her arm fall, coldly, indifferently, contenting

herself with looking at him, waiting for what he might have to say to

her, and embarrassing him to such a point that he began to perspire and

stammer, unable to express himself. "Of course," he began, "I also

thought of you, and went to the Fine Arts Office, where I had received a

positive promise. Oh! they are still very much in your favour at the Fine

Arts Office! Only, just fancy, it's that idiot of a minister, that

Taboureau,* an old professor from the provinces who knows nothing about

our Paris, that has expressly opposed your nomination, saying that as

long as he is in office you shall not appear at the Comedie."

* Taboureau is previously described as Minister of Public

Instruction. It should be pointed out, however, that

although under the present Republic the Ministries of

Public Instruction and Fine Arts have occasionally been

distinct departments, at other times they have been

united, one minister, as in Taboureau's case, having

charge of both.--Trans.

Erect and rigid, she spoke but two words: "And then?"

"And then--well, my dear, what would you have me do? One can't after all

overthrow a ministry to enable you to play the part of Pauline."

"Why not?"

He pretended to laugh, but his blood rushed to his face, and the whole of

his sturdy figure quivered with anguish. "Come, my little Silviane," said

he, "don't be obstinate. You can be so nice when you choose. Give up the

idea of that _debut_. You, yourself, would risk a great deal in it, for

what would be your worries if you were to fail? You would weep all the

tears in your body. And besides, you can ask me for so many other things

which I should be so happy to give you. Come now, at once, make a wish

and I will gratify it immediately."

In a frolicsome way he sought to take her hand again. But she drew back

with an air of much dignity. "No, you hear me, my dear fellow, I will

have nothing whatever to do with you--nothing, so long as I don't play

Pauline."

He understood her fully, and he knew her well enough to realise how

rigorously she would treat him. Only a kind of grunt came from his

contracted throat, though he still tried to treat the matter in a jesting

way. "Isn't she bad-tempered to-day!" he resumed at last, turning towards

Gerard. "What have you done to her that I find her in such a state?"

But the young man, who kept very quiet for fear lest he himself might be

bespattered in the course of the dispute, continued to stretch himself

out in a languid way and gave no answer.

But Silviane's anger burst forth. "What has he done to me? He has pitied

me for being at the mercy of such a man as you--so egotistical, so

insensible to the insults heaped upon me. Ought you not to be the first

to bound with indignation? Ought you not to have exacted my admittance to

the Comedie as a reparation for the insult? For, after all, it is a

defeat for you; if I'm considered unworthy, you are struck at the same

time as I am. And so I'm a drab, eh? Say at once that I'm a creature to

be driven away from all respectable houses."

She went on in this style, coming at last to vile words, the abominable

words which, in moments of anger, always ended by returning to her

innocent-looking lips. The Baron, who well knew that a syllable from him

would only increase the foulness of the overflow, vainly turned an

imploring glance on the Count to solicit his intervention. Gerard, with

his keen desire for peace and quietness, often brought about a

reconciliation, but this time he did not stir, feeling too lazy and

sleepy to interfere. And Silviane all at once came to a finish, repeating

her trenchant, severing words: "Well, manage as you can, secure my

_debut_, or I'll have nothing more to do with you, nothing!"

"All right! all right!" Duvillard at last murmured, sneering, but in