Chapter M: De Remonin's Philosophy of Marriage (1)

From 'L'Etrangere'

_Madame de Rumieres_--See here, now, Remonin, you who claim to explain everything as a learned man--can you solve this proposition? Why is it that with all the quantity of love in this world, there are so many unhappy marriages?

_M. Remonin_--I could give you a perfect explanation, my dear lady, if you were not a woman.

_Madame de Rumieres_--You mean that the explanation is not decent?

_M. Remonin_--No, I mean that it is a matter based on the abstract.... It is this. The reason why marriages are rarely happy, in spite of the "quantity of love" in question, is because love and marriage, scientifically considered, have no relationship. They belong to two sorts of things, completely differing. Love is of the physical. Marriage is a matter of chemistry.

_Madame de Rumieres_--Explain yourself.

_Remonin_--Certainly. Love is an element of the natural evolution of our being; it comes to us of itself in course of our life, at one time or another, independent of all our will, and even without a definite object. The human creature can wish to be in love before really loving any one!... But marriage is a social combination, an adjustment, that refers itself to chemistry, as I have said; since chemistry concerns itself with the action of one element on another and the phenomena resulting: ... to the end of bringing about family life, morality, and labor, and in consequence the welfare of man, as involved in all three. Now, so often as you really can conform to the theory of such a blending of things, so long as you happen to have effected in marriage such a combination of the physical _and_ chemical, all goes well; the experiment is happy, it results well. But if you are ignorant or maladroit enough to seek and to make a combination of two refractory chemical forces in the matrimonial experiment, then in the place of a fusion you will find you have only inert forces; and the two elements remain there, together but unfused, eternally opposed to each other, never able to be united!... Or else there is not merely inertia--there are shocks, explosions, catastrophes, accidents, dramas....

_Madame de Rumieres_--Have you ever been in love?

_M. Remonin_--I? My dear marquise, I am a scientist--I have never had time! And you?

_Madame de Rumieres_--I have loved my children. M. de Rumieres was a charming man all his life; but he didn't expect me really to love him. My son tells me his affairs of the heart; ... my daughter has already made me a grandmother ... I have little to reproach myself as to my past life, and now I look on at the lives of others, sometimes much interested. I am like the subscribers to the Opera, who know the whole repertory by heart, but who can always hear some passages with pleasure and who encourage the debutants.

Condensed and translated for 'A Library of the World's Best
Literature,' by E. Irenaeus Stevenson.

REFORMING A FATHER

From 'A Prodigal Father'

[The ensuing dialogue occurs in the first act of the play.
The Count de Ravonnieres and his son Andre reside together in
their comfortable bachelor's establishment in Paris, and are
devotedly attached to one another. The count, unfortunately,
has only grown more careless of money, more a gay man of the
world, as he has grown older; and blessed with a youthfulness
of physique and temperament that nothing impairs, he is as
thriftless as he is fascinating. His son, accordingly, has
had to be the economist of their resources, which are at a
dangerous ebb. As the scene opens, the count is preparing to
take luncheon, with Joseph, the confidential servant of the
house, in attendance.]

_Joseph_--Monsieur is served.

_Count de Ravonnieres_--Very well. You will please go to my florist Lemoine, the Opera florist,--you know who I mean,--and tell him to send, to-day, with my card,--he has a lot of cards of mine in advance,--to Mademoiselle Albertine de la Borde, 26 or 28 Rue de la Paix--I don't exactly remember the number that the lady gave me--

_Joseph_--No. 26.

_Count_--Ah! You know her address, do you?

_Joseph_--Yes, sir.

_Count_--To send her a bouquet of white lilacs and roses. And I don't need you any more: go at once. [_Joseph bows, and hands the Count a large envelope._] What's all this?

_Joseph_--Some law papers that have come in your absence, sir, which I did not think ought to be forwarded to Dieppe.

_Count_ [_without taking the papers_]--Quite right. Has my son seen them?

_Joseph_--No, sir.

_Count_--Very well; don't let him see them. Put them away with the others.

_Joseph_--May I beg monsieur to say a good word for me to his son?

_Count_--As to what, Joseph?

_Joseph_--Your son, sir, has just told me to look out for another situation; and I am so attached to the family--

_Count_--Oh, I will straighten all that out; if my son sends you away I will take you into our service again. Come now, get off to my florist; be quick about it.

_As_ Joseph _goes out,_ Andre _enters. He does not at first
perceive his father, but on turning toward the table
discovers him._

_Andre_--Ah! you are here, are you?

_Count_--Yes, I have been here during an hour; and moreover, a very agreeable person has been doing the honors of your establishment on my behalf.

_Andre_--It is a fine time to talk about agreeable persons! You are a very agreeable person--

_Count_--What in the world is the matter with you?

_Andre_--I am perfectly furious.

_Count_--Against whom?

_Andre_--Against you.

_Count_--Why? What have I been doing?

_Andre_--You have drawn on me at sight this draft here.

_Count_--Oh yes, I know very well what that means. It comes from London; it is to pay for the boat, you know.

_Andre_--Oh yes, it comes from London, and it is to pay for the boat! That is no excuse for it. And what about the boat, if you please?

_Count_--But my dear fellow, they had no business to present it until the 15th.

_Andre_--Well?

_Count_--Why, to-day _is_ the 15th!

_Andre_--You ought to know it.

_Count_--I thought that to-day was only the 14th! Have you paid it?

_Andre_--Of course.

_Count_--Ah! then I owe you six thousand francs. That's all there is to the matter.

_Andre_--Yes, that's all! But you never said a word to me about it; I had no money in the house: I had to send to our man of business. May I beg of you in the future to be so good as to--

_Count_--Poor boy! poor boy! Really, between ourselves, you would have done a great deal better (as it is a month since you have seen me, and since you are really very fond of me) to embrace me in meeting me again, rather than to say all these things to me that you have been saying!

_Andre_ [_embracing his father heartily_]--Oh, of course they make no difference, when it comes to _that_!

_Count_--Your second impulse is a very good one; but you ought to have begun with it. All the same, I do not in the less ask pardon for the inconvenience that I have caused you, my boy. [_Takes some bank-notes from his pocket._] Here are your six thousand francs, and [_holding out the remainder of the notes to Andre_] since you need money, help yourself.

_Andre_--Where in the world does that money come from?

_Count_--Oh, it is some money that I have received.

_Andre_--There was none coming to you from anywhere!

_Count_--There is always something to come to one, if he looks around carefully. And now let us speak of serious things.

_Andre_--Yes, by all means. Father, are you not disposed to settle down?

_Count_--What do you mean by "settle down"?

_Andre_--To save money, for one thing.

_Count_--Save money! I should be charmed to do so; but I really do not see how we can do it. We certainly live as modestly as possible. This house belongs to us; we have only four saddle horses, four carriage horses, a couple of extra horses for evening service (we could not get along with less), two coachmen, two valets, two grooms, one cook. Why, we haven't even a housekeeper.

_Andre_--No, we only want that!

_Count_--We never receive any except masculine society; we certainly are not extravagant as to the table. Look at me here: I am breakfasting this minute on two eggs and a glass of water. It seems to me that with our fortune--

_Andre_--Our fortune? Would you like to know in what condition our fortune is?

_Count_--You ought to know better than I, since it is you who have had the running of affairs since your majority.

_Andre_--Well then, I _do_ know the expenses; and let me tell you that you have counted up only those that are part of our life in Paris, and you have not said a syllable of those that belong to our country one.

_Count_--Those that belong to our country one! Those are all just so much economy.

_Andre_--So then the place at Vilsac is just so much economy?

_Count_--Of course. We get everything from it, from eggs up to oxen.

_Andre_--Yes, and even to wild boars, when it suits you to shoot one. Now be so good as to consider the place at Vilsac, which you call a matter of economy. First of all, it brings us in absolutely nothing.

_Count_--It never has brought us in anything.

_Andre_--It is mortgaged for two hundred thousand francs.

_Count_--That happened when I was young.

_Andre_--Are you under the impression that there comes a time when mortgages wear themselves out? I wish they did. But I am afraid that you deceive yourself; and in the mean time, you are paying every year a mortgagor's interest. Furthermore, at Vilsac--

_Count_--Where, remember, we spend September, October, November, all of which is positively an economy--

_Andre_--Furthermore, as to Vilsac, this summer place where we pass September, October, and November,--all of which is positively an economy,--the proof of its being an economy is that here we are in the middle of September, and we are just setting out for Dieppe.

_Count_--For one time only, by chance! And moreover, we will have to go down to Vilsac by the end of the month, for I have asked those fellows to come down there for the shooting.

_Andre_--Yes, in this economical country place, where you have asked all those gentlemen to come down for the shooting, at the end of the month--

_Count_--Really, one would be bored to death without that!

_Andre_--In this same economical establishment, I say, you have twelve keepers.

_Count_--Quite true; but it is one of the best preserves in France, and really, there are so many poachers--

_Andre_--You have two masters of hounds, you have ten horses,--in short, a whole hunting equipage; and I don't speak of the indemnities that you pay year by year, if only for the rabbits that you kill.

_Count_--The fact is, there _are_ thousands of rabbits; but shooting rabbits is such fun!

_Andre_--Add to that the entertainments that it occurs to you to give every now and then, with fireworks and so on, during the evening.

_Count_--Oh, yes, but that pleases all the peasants of the neighborhood, who adore me; between ourselves it _is_ rather--Oh, my dear boy! if I had only been rich, what fine things I would have done! In France, people do not know how to spend money. In Russia it is quite another matter! Now, there you have people who understand how to give an entertainment. But then what can anybody do with two hundred thousand livres for an income?

_Andre_--Father, one can do exactly what you have done,--one can ruin himself.

_Count_--What! ruin himself?

_Andre_--Yes. When my mother died your personal fortune brought you, as you say, an income of two hundred thousand livres; and the money which my mother left to me, of which you have had the use until I came of age, amounted to a hundred and twenty thousand livres.

_Count_--I certainly have made an accounting to you in the matter.

_Andre_--A perfectly exact one, only--

_Count_--Only--?

_Andre_--Only in doing so you have seriously impaired your own capital.

_Count_--Why did you not say that to me at the time?

_Andre_--Because I too--I was thinking of nothing but spending money.

_Count_--You ought to have warned me about this before now.

_Andre_--But I--I was doing then just what I see you doing; I was taking life exactly as you had taught me to take it.

_Count_--Andre, I hope that is not a reproach.

_Andre_--God bless me, no. I am only saying to you why I have not looked after your interests better than you have ever done so yourself.

_Count_--Very good, Then I am going to explain to you why I brought you up--

_Andre_--Not worth while, my dear father. There is no good in going back to that, and I know quite well--

_Count_--On the contrary, you know nothing at all about the matter, and you will please allow me to speak. It will be a consolation. You are perfectly right as to things that have no common-sense in them; and if I have brought you up after a certain manner, it is just because I myself suffer from a different kind of education. _I_ was brought up very severely; at twenty-two years I knew nothing of life. I was born, I was kept hanging on at Vilsac, with my father and my mother, who were saints on earth, with my great-uncle, who had the gout, and with my tutor, who was an abbe. I was born with a constitution like iron. I went hunting day by day for whole months, on foot or on horseback. I ate my meals like an ogre. I rode every sort of a horse, and I was a swordsman like St. George himself. As for other things, my dear fellow, there was no use dreaming about them: I had not a crown in my pocket. The other sex--well, I had heard it said that there was a world of women somewhere, but I certainly did not know where it was. One day my father asked me if I was willing to marry, and I cried out, "Oh yes, yes!" with such an explosion that my father himself could not help laughing--he who never laughed. I was presented to a young girl, virtuous and beautiful; and I fell in love with her with a passion which at first fairly frightened the delicate and timid creature. Such was your mother, my dear Andre, and to her I owe the two happiest years of my life; it is true that I owe to her also my greatest grief, for at the end of those two years she died. But it must be said, either to the blame or to the praise of nature, that organizations such as mine are proof against the severest shocks. At twenty-four years I found myself rich, a widower, free to do what I pleased, and thrown--with a child a year old--into the midst of this world called Paris, of which I knew nothing whatever. Ought I to have condemned you to this sort of life that I had led at Vilsac, and which had been for me so often an intolerable bore? No, I obeyed my real nature. I gave you my qualities and my shortcomings, without reckoning closely in the matter; I have sought in your case your affection rather than your obedience or your respect. I have never taught you economy, it is true, but then I did not know anything about that myself; and besides, I had not a business and a business name to leave you. To have everything in common between us, one heart and one purse, to be able to give each other everything and say everything to each other,--that has been our motto. The puritans will think that they have a right to blame this intimacy as too close: let them say so if they choose. We have lost, it seems, some hundreds of thousands of francs; but we have gained this,--that we can always count upon each other, you upon me and I upon you. Either of us will be ready at any moment to kill himself for the other, and that is the most important matter between a father and a son; all the rest is not worth the trouble that one takes to reason about it. Don't you think I am right?

_Andre_--All that is true, my dear father! and I am just as much attached to you as you are to me. Far be it from me to reproach you; but now in my turn I want to make a confession to you. You are an exception in our society; your fettered youth, your precocious widowerhood, are your excuses, if you need any. You were born at a time when all France was in a fever, and when the individual, as well as the great mass of people, seemed to be striving to spend by every possible means a superabundance of vitality. Urged toward active life by nature, by curiosity, by temperament, you have cared for things that were worth caring for,--for them only; for entertaining yourself, for hunting, for fine horses, for the artist world, for people of rank and distinction. In such an environment as this you have paid your tribute to your country, you have paid the debt of your rank in life and of your name. But I, on the other hand, like almost all my generation, brought in contact with a fashionable world from the time that I began life,--I, born in an epoch of lassitude and transition,--I led for a while this life by mere imitation in laziness.... It is a kind of existence that no longer amuses me; and moreover, I can tell you that it never did amuse me. To sit up all night turning over cards; to get up at two o'clock in the afternoon, to have horses put to the carriage and go for the drive around the Lake, or to ride horseback; to live by day with idlers and to pass my evenings with such parasites as your friend M. De Tournas--all that seems to me the height of foolishness. And at the bottom of your own thoughts you think just as I do. So now, now that you really have got to a serious explanation of affairs, let us reach a real irrevocable determination of them. Are you willing to let me arrange your life for you in the future exactly as I would wish to arrange my own life? Are you willing to have confidence in me, and after having brought me up in your way, are you willing that in turn, while there is still time for it, I should--bring you up in mine?

_Count_--Yes, go on.

_Andre_--Very well,--to severe diseases strong remedies. You think a great deal of our Vilsac estate?

_Count_--I was born there. I should not be sorry to end my days there.

_Andre_--Very well. We will keep Vilsac for you, and find money in some other way to pay off the mortgage.

_Count_--How?

_Andre_--That's my business; only you must send away the two piqueurs, and six of the keepers.

_Count_--Poor fellows!

_Andre_--And only four horses are to be kept. No more entertainments are to be given, no more fireworks. You will entertain only two or three intimate friends now and then,--if we find as many friends as that among all those that are about us nowadays here.--and you will stay at Vilsac seven or eight months of the year.

_Count_--Alone!

_Andre_--Wait a little. I have not finished yet. This house where we are must be sold. We must put out of doors these servants, who are just so many thieves; and we will keep at Paris only a very modest stopping-place.

_Count_--Will you kindly allow me to get my breath?

_Andre_--Don't stir, or my surgical operation will not be successful. Now that your debts are paid there will be left to you--

_Count_--There will be left to me--

_Andre_--Forty thousand livres income, and as much for me,--no more; and with all that, during three or four years you will not have the capital at your disposition.

_Count_--Heavens, what a smash!

_Andre_--Are you willing to accept my scheme?

_Count_--I must.

_Andre_--Very well, then: sign these papers!

_Count_--What are they?

_Andre_--They are papers which I have just got from the notary, and which I have been expecting to make you sign while at Dieppe and send to me; but since you are here--

_Count_ [_signs_]--Since I am here, I may as well sign at once: you are quite right,--there you are.

_Andre_--Very well; now as, according to my notions, just as much as you are left to yourself you will slip back into the same errors as in the past--

_Count_--What are you going to do further?

_Andre_--Guess.

_Count_--You are going to forbid--

_Andre_--Are you out of your senses? I am going to marry you off.

_Count_--Marry me off!

_Andre_--Without permission.

_Count_--And how about yourself?

_Andre_--I am going to marry myself off--afterwards. You must begin as an example.

_Count_--Andre, do you know something?

_Andre_--What?

_Count_--Some one has told you the very thing I have had in mind.

_Andre_--Nobody has told me anything.

_Count_--Your word on it?

_Andre_--My word on it.

_Count_--Explain yourself. You, all by yourself, have had this idea of marriage?

_Andre_--I myself.

_Count_--Deny now the sympathy between us!

_Andre_--Well?

_Count_--It exists [_putting his arms around his son_]. There, embrace me!

_Andre_--And you accept?

_Count_--As if I would do anything else!

Translated for 'A Library of the World's Best Literature,' by
E. Irenaeus Stevenson

MR. AND MRS. CLARKSON

From 'L'Etrangere'

[These scenes, the final ones of the drama, occur in the
private drawing-room of Catherine, the young Duchess of
Septmonts. Mr. Clarkson, a wealthy American man of business,
a Californian, has just received a note from the Duke of
Septmonts, a blase young roue of high family, requesting him
to call at once. He has come, in some bewilderment, to find
the duke. Mr. Clarkson has only a formal acquaintance with
the duke, but Mrs. Clarkson, who resides much of the time in
Paris, acting as Mr. Clarkson's business representative,
knows the duke confidentially. The Duchess of Septmonts
receives Clarkson.]

_Mr. Clarkson_--I beg your pardon, madam, for having insisted on making my way in here; but a few moments ago I found on returning to my house, a letter from your husband. It asked me for a rendezvous as soon as possible, without giving me a reason for it. I find M. de Septmonts not at home. May I ask you if you know how I can be of service to him?

_Catherine_--I was under the impression that in his letter, M. de Septmonts explained to you the matter in which he wishes your assistance.

_Clarkson_--No.

_Catherine_--Did not his letter contain another letter, sealed, which he purposed leaving in your hands?

_Clarkson_--No.

_Catherine_--Are you really telling me the truth?

_Clarkson_--I never lie, madam: I have too much business on my hands; it would mix me up quite too much in my affairs.

_Catherine_--Then perhaps it is to Mrs. Clarkson that my husband has intrusted that letter.

_Clarkson_--No. She would have mentioned it; for I told her that I had received a line from the Duke, and was on my way to this house.

_Catherine_--Perhaps your wife did not tell you--all.

_Clarkson_--She has no earthly reason to conceal anything from me!

_Catherine_--True! I know very well that she is your wife only in name; she told me as much when I was at her house yesterday.

_Clarkson_--Really! She must be very much pleased with you, for she does not talk readily about her personal affairs.

_Catherine_--Unfortunately, it is quite otherwise as far as I am concerned; she has not hidden from me the fact that she detests me, and that she will do me all the injury she possibly can.

_Clarkson_--You? Injury? For what reason? Pray, what have you done to her?

_Catherine_--Nothing! I have known her only two days. Nevertheless--

_Clarkson_--Nevertheless--

_Catherine_--What I was going to say is not my secret, sir, it is hers, and she alone has the right to tell it to you. But as to this letter that my husband has told my father he has sent to you--it is I who wrote that letter. You may as well know, too, that it was abstracted from my possession; and moreover, that with that letter any one can indeed do me all the mischief with which your wife, Mrs. Clarkson, has threatened me.

_Clarkson_ [_very gravely_]--Then we must know at once if my wife has that letter. I will write her to come here immediately and join us--that I have something very important to communicate to her--here. Are you willing to have her come? [_He writes while he speaks._]

_Catherine_--Certainly.

_Clarkson_--Then we can have a general explanation. You may be sure, madam, that I shall never lend my hand to anything that means harm to you, or to any woman: I come from the country where we respect women.

_Catherine_ [_rings the bell, and says to a servant who answers it_]--See that this letter is sent immediately. Be careful that it does not go astray. It is not my letter. This gentleman has written it. [_Exit servant._]

_Clarkson_--And now, madam, do you know why M. de Septmonts wishes to have an interview with me?

_Catherine_--Yes, I can guess. It concerns me, perhaps; but I have no right to discuss the matter. It is something which belongs to the Duke, and he alone has the right to impart it to you. All I can do is to beg of you to have all details thoroughly explained to you, and to look into them very carefully.

_A_ Servant _enters_

_Servant_--M. le Duc has come in; he will be glad to have Mr. Clarkson come to him.

_Clarkson_--Very good. [_Going_.] I bid you good evening, madam.

_Catherine_ [_to the servant_]--Wait a moment. [_Going to Clarkson and speaking in a low voice._] Suppose I were to ask you a very great service.

_Clarkson_--Ask it, madam.

_Catherine_--Suppose I were to ask you to say to my husband that you are waiting for him here in this drawing-room--that you will be glad to speak with him _here_.

_Clarkson_--Nothing but that? With great pleasure. [_To the servant._] Say to M. de Septmonts that I shall be obliged if he will join me--here. [_Servant goes out._]

_Catherine_--I shall leave you; for if I know what is going to be discussed in this interview, I neither could nor should take part in it; but whatever may come of it, I shall never forget that you have done everything that you could do as a courtesy to me,--and that you are a gentleman. [_Exit Catherine._]

_Clarkson_ [_alone_]--Charming! She is charming, that little woman; but may I be hanged if I understand one word of what is going on here.

The Duke of Septmonts _comes in hastily, and advances to_
Clarkson.

_Septmonts_--I have just come from your house, Mr. Clarkson. Mrs. Clarkson told me you were here. I returned at once. Pardon me for troubling you. If when I came in I asked you to come to my own drawing-room, and have thus troubled you once more, it is because I was told you were expecting me here, with the duchess. This is her private parlor; and as what we have to say is a matter for men--

_Clarkson_--Therefore the duchess went to her own room when your return here was announced.

_Septmonts_--Mr. Clarkson, did _she_ tell the servant that you would prefer to hold our conversation here?

_Clarkson_--No, I told him.

[_Septmonts goes to the door of the room by which Catherine
went out, and closes the portiere._]

_Clarkson_ [_in a scornful aside_]--What an amount of mystery and precaution!

_Septmonts_--The matter is this, Mr. Clarkson. I must fight a duel to-morrow morning. This duel can terminate only in the death of one or other of the contestants. I am the insulted one, therefore I have the choice of weapons. I choose the sword.

_Clarkson_--Do you fence well?

_Septmonts_--I believe I am one of the best fencers in Paris. But another friend on whom I could count is one of those men of the world who discuss all the details of an affair, and with whom the preliminaries of such a meeting might last several days. I want to get through with the matter at once.

_Clarkson_--Ah! The fact is, you _do_ give an importance and a solemnity to such things in France that we don't understand, we Americans, who settle the question in five minutes on the first corner of the street, in the sight of everybody.

_Septmonts_--That is just the reason that I allowed myself to apply to you, Mr. Clarkson. Now, are you disposed to be present as my second?

_Clarkson_--Bless me, with all my heart! Besides, when I mentioned your letter to Mrs. Clarkson she told me to do all I could to serve you. Have you and my wife known each other long?

_Septmonts_--About four years; and I owe your wife a great deal, morally speaking. I have no desire to conceal the fact. I was not yet married when I met Mrs. Clarkson. One day I had lost a large sum at play,--a hundred and fifty thousand francs,--which I did not have, and tried in vain to procure; for at that time I was completely ruined. Mrs. Clarkson very generously lent me the sum, and I repaid it, with interest equivalent to the capital.

_Clarkson_--But as you were ruined, duke, how could you pay this large capital and this large interest? Did your father or mother die? In France the death of parents is a great resource, I know.

_Septmonts_--No. I was an orphan, and I had no expectations. I married.

_Clarkson_--Ah, true! You French people make much of marriages for money! It's a great advantage over us Americans, who only marry for love. Now with us, in such a case as yours, a man goes into some business or other; he goes to mining; he works. But every country has its own customs. I beg your pardon for interrupting you. After all, it doesn't concern me. Come back to our duel.

_Septmonts_--I have a letter here in my hands--

_Clarkson_--Ah! You have a letter in your hands--

_Septmonts_--A letter which compromises my wife--

_Clarkson_--Ah! I am completely at your service. I belong to the sort of men who do not admit any compromises in matters of that kind.

_Septmonts_--I may be killed--one has to look ahead. If I lose my life, I lose it by having been so injured by my wife that I intend to be revenged on her.

_Clarkson_--And how?

_Septmonts_--I wish that the contents of this letter, which I have in my possession, shall become public property if I am killed.

_Clarkson_ [_coldly_]--Ah! And how can I serve you as to that?

_Septmonts_--I will intrust this sealed letter to you. [_He takes the letter from his pocket._] Here it is.

_Clarkson_ [_still more coldly_]--Very well.

_Septmonts_--Now, if I survive, you will restore it to me as it is. If not, then in the trial which will follow, you will read it in a court. I wish the letters to become public. Then it will be known that I avenged my honor under a feigned pretext; and M. Gerard and the duchess will be so situated that they will never be able to see each other again.

_Clarkson_--Nonsense! Once dead, what does it matter to you?

_Septmonts_--I am firm there. Will you kindly accept the commission?

_Clarkson_ [_in a formal tone_]--Surely.

_Septmonts_--Here is the letter.

_Clarkson_ [_takes it and holds it as he speaks_]--But, duke, now that I think about it, when this trial occurs it is probable, even certain, that I shall not be in France. I was expecting to leave Paris on business to-morrow morning at the latest. I can wait until to-morrow evening to please you, and to help you with this duel of yours; but that is really all the time I can spare.

_Septmonts_--Very well; then you will have the goodness to give this letter to Mrs. Clarkson with the instructions I have just given you, and it will be in equally good hands.

_Clarkson_ [_looking at the letter_]--All right. A blank envelope. What is there to indicate that this letter was addressed to M. Gerard?

_Septmonts_--The envelope with his name on it is inside.

_Clarkson_--You found this letter?

_Septmonts_--I found it--before it was mailed.

_Clarkson_--And as you had your suspicions you--opened it?

_Septmonts_--Yes.

_Clarkson_--I beg your pardon for questioning you so, but you yourself did me the honor to say that you wished me to be _fully_ informed. Do you know whether the sentiments between M. Gerard and the duchess were of long standing?

_Septmonts_--They date from before my marriage.

_Clarkson_ [_looking toward the apartment of the duchess_]--Oh, I see. That is serious!

_Septmonts_--They loved each other, they wanted to marry each other, but my wife's father would not consent.

_Clarkson_ [_reflectively_]--M. Gerard wanted to marry her, did he?

_Septmonts_--Yes; but when he learned that Mademoiselle Mauriceau was a millionaire, as he had nothing and had no title other than his plain name Gerard, he withdrew his pretensions.

_Clarkson_--That was a very proper thing for the young man to do. It doesn't surprise me!

_Septmonts_--Yes; but now, Mr. Clarkson, this young gentleman has come back--

_Clarkson_--And is too intimate a friend to your wife?

_Septmonts_--Ah, I do not say that!

_Clarkson_--What do you say, then?

_Septmonts_--That as the letter in question gives that impression, the situation amounts to the same thing as far as a legal process is concerned.

_Clarkson_ [_thoughtfully and coldly_]--Oh-h-h!

_Septmonts_--Don't you agree with me, Mr. Clarkson?

_Clarkson_--No, not at all. I can understand revenge on those who have injured us, but not on those who haven't done so. And I don't like vengeance on a woman anyway, even when she is guilty; and certainly not when she is innocent; and you owe your wife a great deal--between ourselves, you owe your wife a great deal, duke. I understand now why, for once, your father-in-law M. Mauriceau sides with his daughter and M. Gerard against you. He is sure they both are innocent. By-the-by, does M. Mauriceau also know of this letter?

_Septmonts_--Yes. He even tried to take it from me by force.

_Clarkson_--Why did he not take it?

_Septmonts_--Ah, because you see, I had the presence of mind to tell him that I did not have it any longer--that I had sent it to you!

_Clarkson_ [_ironically_]--That _was_ very clever!

_Septmonts_--And then when M. Gerard had challenged me, M. Mauriceau thought he would make an impression by saying to him before me, "I will be your second."

_Clarkson_--Well, is that the whole story?

_Septmonts_--Yes.

_Clarkson_--Very well, my dear sir: to speak frankly, all those people whom you characterize so slightingly seem to me the right kind of people--excellent people. Your little wife seems to be the victim of prejudices, of morals, and of combinations about which we mere American savages don't know anything at all. In our American society, which of course I can't compare with yours, as we only date from yesterday,--if Mademoiselle Mauriceau had loved a fine young fellow like M. Gerard, her father would have given her to the man she loved; or if he had refused that, why she would have gone quite simply and been married before the justice of the peace! Perhaps her father wouldn't have portioned her; but then the husband would have worked, gone into business, and the two young people would have been happy all the same. As to your M. Gerard here, he is an honest man and a clever one. We like people who work, we Americans, and to whatever country they belong, we hold them as compatriots--because we are such savages, I suppose. So you understand that I don't at all share your opinion of this question.

_Septmonts_--And so speaking, you mean--?

_Clarkson_--That if I give you this explanation, it is because I think I understand that in paying me the honor of choosing me as a second, you thought that the men of my country were less clear-sighted, less scrupulous than the men of yours. In short, duke, you thought I would lend my hand to all these social pettinesses, these little vilenesses which you have just recounted with a candor that honors you.

_Septmonts_--Do you happen to remember, Mr. Clarkson, that you are talking to _me_--in this way?

_Clarkson_--To you. Because there are only two of us here! But if you like, we will call in other people to listen.

_Septmonts_--Then, sir, you tell me to my face--

_Clarkson_--I tell you to your face that to squander your inheritance--to have gambled away money you did not have--to borrow it from a woman without knowing when or how you could return it--to marry in order to pay your debts and continue your dissipations--to revenge yourself now on an innocent woman--to steal letters--to misapply your skill in arms by killing a brave man--why, I tell you to your face that all that is the work of a rascal, and that therefore a rascal you are. Oh, what astonishes me is that fifty people haven't told you so already, and that I have had to travel three thousand leagues to inform you on the subject! For you don't seem to have ever suspected it, and you don't look thoroughly convinced even now.

_Septmonts_ [_controlling himself with the greatest difficulty_]--Mr. Clarkson, you know that I cannot call you to account until I have settled with your friend M. Gerard. You take a strange advantage of the fact, sir. But we shall meet again. Please return me the paper you have had from me.

_Clarkson_--Your wife's letter? Never in the world! As it was addressed to M. Gerard, it belongs to M. Gerard. I intend to give it to M. Gerard. If _he_ wants to return it to you, I won't stand in the way; but I doubt whether he will return it.

_Septmonts_--You will fight me, then, you mean?

_Clarkson_--Oh! as for that; yes, fight as much as you like.

_Septmonts_--Very well; when I have finished with the other, you and I will have our business together.

_Clarkson_--Say the day after to-morrow, then?

_Septmonts_--The day after to-morrow.

_Clarkson_--Stop; I must start off by to-morrow night, at the latest.

_Septmonts_--You can wait. And while waiting, leave me!

_Clarkson_--Duke, do I look like a man to whom to say "leave" in that tone, and who goes? Now look at me; it isn't hard to see what I have decided. I don't mean you to fight with Gerard before you have fought with me. If Gerard kills you, I shan't have the pleasure of crossing swords with "one of the first fencers in Paris," which it will amuse me to do. If you kill him, you cause irreparable misfortunes. If you think I'm going to let you kill a man who has saved me twenty-five per cent. in the cost of washing gold, you are mistaken! Come, prove you are brave, even when you aren't sure of being the stronger! Go and get a good pair of swords from your room (since the sword is your favorite weapon--mine, too, for the matter of that), and follow me to those great bare grounds back of your house. On my way here I was wondering why in goodness's name they were not utilized. In the heart of the city they must be worth a good deal! We will prove it. As for seconds, umpires of the point of honor, we'll have the people who pass by in the street--if any do pass.

[_Septmonts rushes in a fury toward the door, but when there
stretches his hand toward the bell. Clarkson throws himself
between him and the bell._]

_Clarkson_--Ah! no ringing, please! Don't play the Louis XV. gentleman, and order your servants to cudgel a poor beggar! or as sure as my name is Clarkson, I'll slap your face, sir, before all your lackeys!

_Septmonts_--Very well, so be it! I _will_ begin with you. [_Angrily hastens from the room for the weapons._]

_Clarkson_--Quite right! [_Looking coolly at his watch._] Let me see; why, perhaps I _can_ get away from Paris this evening after all. [_He goes calmly out at the back toward the darkened garden._]

[_The Duchess of Septmonts has pulled aside the portiere and
looks toward the door by which her husband and Mr. Clarkson
have gone out. She is very much agitated, and can hardly
walk. She rings the bell, and then makes an effort to appear
calm. The servant comes in._]

_Catherine_ [_tremulously, to the servant_]--Ask my father to come here, immediately. [_The servant goes out. Catherine looks toward the window and makes a movement to go to it._] No, I will not look out! I will not know anything! I do not know anything; I have _heard_ nothing; the minutes that that hand marks upon the clock, no one knows what they say to me. One of them will decide my life! Even if I had heard nothing, things would take the turn that they have, and I should merely be amazed in knowing of them. Instead of knowing nothing, I have merely to remember nothing. But no, no,--I am trying in vain to smother the voice of my own conscience! What I am doing is wicked. From the moment that I have known anything about this, I am an accomplice; and if one of these two men is killed he has been killed with my consent. No, I cannot and I will not. [_She runs toward the door. As she does so Mrs. Clarkson enters hastily._] You, you, madam!

_Mrs. Clarkson_--Were you not really expecting me to-day, madam? My husband sends me a note to say that you--and he--wish to speak to me immediately.

_Catherine_--Madam, since Mr. Clarkson has written you, there has occurred a thing which neither your husband, nor I, nor you yourself could foresee.

_Mrs. Clarkson_--What do you mean?

_Catherine_--While my husband the duke has been explaining to Mr. Clarkson the reasons of the duel,--which you, you, madam, have provoked,--your husband, who did not find these reasons either sufficient or honorable, has undertaken to defend us--Gerard, yes, Gerard, and me,--and so very forcibly, that at this instant--

_Mrs. Clarkson_--They are fighting?

_Catherine_--Yes, yes, only a few steps away from here!

_Mrs. Clarkson_--Ah! That sounds like Clarkson! [_She takes a step toward the door._]

_Catherine_--Madam, that duel must not go on.

_Mrs. Clarkson_--Why not?

_Catherine_--I will not permit these two men to lose their lives on my account.

_Mrs. Clarkson_--You? What difference does it make to you? They are not doing anything but what they chose to do. "Hands off," as the officials at the gaming-tables say when the ball has stopped rolling. You have wished to be free, haven't you? and you are perfectly right; you never said so to anybody, but you begged it all the same of One who can do anything. He has heard your prayer, and he has made use of me to save you; of me, who have been anxious to destroy you! That is justice; and do you think that I object--I who am to be the loser? In the game that I play with Destiny, every time I make up my mind that God is against me, I bow my head and throw up the game. I don't fear any one except God. He is on your side. Let us talk no more about it.

[_Just as she is speaking the last words, Clarkson comes in.
He is very grave._]

_Mrs. Clarkson_--See there. You are a widow.

_Clarkson_ [_to Mrs. Clarkson_]--My dear Noemi, will you be so kind as to hand that paper to our friend the duchess. She will perhaps feel some embarrassment in taking it directly from my hand--and it is a thing that must be returned to her. Such was the last wish of her husband; he really did not have time to tell me as much, but I fancy that I guess it right.

[_Mrs. Clarkson calmly takes the letter and goes to
Catherine._]

_Mrs. Clarkson_--I once said to your friend M. Remonin that if I lost my game I would lose like one who plays fair. Madam, it was through me that your marriage came to pass; and now it is through me that your marriage--is dissolved. [_Turning to Clarkson._] And now, Clarkson, my dear, let us get out of this. You are a good and a brave fellow. I will go anywhere with you. I have had enough of Europe--things here are too small. Do you know, I really believe I am going to find myself in love with you! Come, let us go! I am positively smothering.

_Clarkson_--Yes, let us go.

[_At the moment that Mr. and Mrs. Clarkson are going out,
servants and police officials, accompanied by a commissioner
of the police service, appear in the door. Clarkson is
pointed out._]

_Commissioner_--I beg your pardon, monsieur,--there seems to have been--a murder here.

_Clarkson_--Oh no, monsieur, not at all a murder--only a duel.

_Commissioner_--And am I to understand, monsieur, that it is you who--

_Clarkson_--Oh yes, monsieur, it is I. You have come to take me into custody?

_Commissioner_--Yes, monsieur.

_Clarkson_--What a ridiculous country! I am ready to follow you, monsieur. But I am an American citizen. I shall give you bail--but of course, the law before anything....

_Mrs. Clarkson_--Reckon on me, Clarkson. _I_ shall take charge of this matter.

_Clarkson_--How are you going to do that?

_Mrs. Clarkson_--Oh, that's my affair.

[_Mrs. Clarkson crosses the stage and whispers a word to the
commissioner. The commissioner bows very respectfully. Mrs.
Clarkson goes out._]

_Commissioner_ [_to Dr. Remonin_]--You are a doctor, monsieur?

_Remonin_--Yes, monsieur.

_Commissioner_--Will you have the goodness to give a certificate of death?

_Remonin_ [_significantly_]--With great pleasure!

Translated for 'A Library of the World's Best Literature,' by
E. Irenaeus Stevenson

GEORGE DU MAURIER

(1834-1896)

George Louis Palmella Busson du Maurier was born in Paris on March 6th, 1834, and his early life was passed there. His father was a Frenchman, who had married an Englishwoman in Paris. The Du Mauriers came of an old family in Brittany, Du Maurier's grandfather having been a small _rentier_, who derived his living from glass-works. During Du Maurier's childhood his parents removed to Belgium and thence to London. At seventeen years of age he tried for a degree at the Sorbonne in Paris, but was not successful; and he was put, much against his will, to study chemistry under Dr. Williamson at University College, London. Du Maurier's father, whose characteristics are described in 'Peter Ibbetson,' was an amateur of science. It has been hinted by the son that certain unlucky experiments, which were the result of the elder Du Maurier's fancy for the natural sciences, considerably impaired the family fortunes. The father had bent his heart on the son's being a man of science, but the son's tastes were all for art. He did therefore little good in his chemical studies.

Du Maurier's father died in 1856, and he then devoted himself definitely to art. He worked at the British Museum, and made considerable progress there. He next went to Paris, and lived the life which he has described in 'Trilby.' In 1857 he attended the Academy at Antwerp, and studied under De Kaiser and Van Lerius. His severe studies at Antwerp had the result that his sight was seriously impaired, and he lost the use of his left eye. After two years of enforced idleness he went to London to seek his fortune. An old acquaintance of his student life in Paris introduced him to Charles Reade, who in turn introduced him to Mark Lemon, the editor of Punch. Through these acquaintances he obtained employment in drawing for Once a Week, Punch, and the Cornhill Magazine. On the death of Leech in 1864 he was regularly attached to the staff of Punch, and till the time of his death continued to work for that periodical with ever-increasing success. It is not too much to say that for many years Punch was chiefly and mainly Du Maurier. He early marked out for himself an entirely new path, which was not in the direction of caricature or broad comedy; grace, sentiment, and wit, rather than fun, were the characteristics of his work. He confined himself almost entirely to society, so that his field was a narrower one than that of some of his coadjutors. He had not, for instance, the masculine breadth of Leech, who represented with great strength and humor the chief characters of English life,--the parson, the soldier, the merchant, the farmer, etc.

Du Maurier was almost entirely a carpet knight. He drew London society, and a certain phase of London society. The particular society which he represented is of very recent existence. Thirty years ago there was but one society in London. This was simply the ancient aristocratic society of England, which gathered in London in the season. It is true that there was an artistic society in London at that time, but it was quite apart and of little general recognition or influence. But since then there has come up in London a society made up chiefly of artists, professional people, and successful merchants (having moreover its points of contact with the old society), which is very strong and influential. It is this which Du Maurier knew, and which he represented. Even here, however, the types he has selected for description were very special. But they were presented with so much grace and charm that the public never tired of them. To his type of woman he was especially faithful: the tall woman with long throat and well-defined chin, much resembling the figures of Burne-Jones and Rossetti, only somewhat more mundane. We have the same woman in the heroine of 'Trilby.'

Though Du Maurier, before beginning 'Peter Ibbetson,' had never written a book, he had had considerable literary experience, for he is said to have spent as much time upon the construction of the dialogues which accompanied his pictures as upon the pictures themselves. The story of 'Peter Ibbetson' he had often related to his friends, who had urged him to write it down. This he finally did,--at the special instance, it is said, of Henry James. It appeared in Harper's Magazine in 1891. 'Trilby' was published in 1894 in Harper's Magazine, and at once attained a great popular success. The publishers estimate that about 250,000 copies of the book have been sold. Du Maurier had sold the book outright for L2,000, but when it became apparent that the work was to be a success, the publishers admitted the author to a royalty, paying at one time $40,000. They also shared with him the large sums paid for the dramatization of the work. For 'The Martian,' his last novel, he received L10,000 outright. This also was published in Harper's Magazine.

It is perhaps too early to pass judgment upon the merits of these works. They have, no doubt, grave faults. The story of 'Peter Ibbetson' has been completed when it is but two-thirds told. The remaining portion of the book is a dream. This is of course a dangerous reversal of the usual method of the story-teller, which is to make dreams seem like facts. The hypnotic part of 'Trilby' is said by the professional authorities on the subject to be bad science. The hypnotism in 'Trilby' was perhaps a journalist's idea, that subject being much talked of at the time the book was written. Du Maurier, it need hardly be said, was by training a journalist, although the training had been of the pencil rather than of the pen. The literary style of the novels is curious. It makes no pretensions to finish; the grammar even is sometimes at fault. But on the other hand, it has decided merits. It is particularly easy, flowing, and simple. These are not the qualities we should have expected from the nature of Du Maurier's literary training. The brief dialogues which he has for so many years appended to his sketches in 'Punch' would have educated, we should have thought, the qualities of brevity and point rather than those of ease and fullness. Certain peculiarities of the style cannot be defended, but the author produces his effects in spite of such solecisms. This is true of the matter of his stories as well as of the style. They are at many points inartistically constructed; but the stuff is good, and the works therefore hold their own in spite of these drawbacks. They certainly have one virtue, which is most necessary to the success of any work of the imagination: they have reality. We believe as we read, and continue to believe after we have ceased reading, that the Major and Mimsey and Taffy and Trilby are real persons. They are real to us because they have in the first case been real to their creator. It is possible, however, that the pictures which accompany the text may increase the strength of the illusion.