{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_73638/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_73638","id":"gutenberg_73638","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/73638","summary":null,"tags":["Category: French Literature","Category: Novels","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","French fiction -- Translations into English"],"text":"THE DISCIPLE\n\n\n\n\n                             THE DISCIPLE\n\n\n\n\n                                  BY\n\n                             PAUL BOURGET\n\n\n\n\n                               NEW YORK\n                        CHARLES SCRIBNER\u2019S SONS\n                                 1901\n\n\n\n\n                          COPYRIGHT, 1901, BY\n                        CHARLES SCRIBNER\u2019S SONS\n\n\n                            Norwood Press:\n                Berwick & Smith, Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n                                                  PAGE\n\nI.   A MODERN PHILOSOPHER                               13\n\nII.  THE GRESLON AFFAIR                                 43\n\nIII. SIMPLE GRIEF                                       65\n\nIV.  CONFESSION OF A YOUNG MAN OF THE PERIOD            90\n\n        I.  My Heredities                               94\n\n       II.  The Medium Of Ideas                        120\n\n      III.  Transplantation                            144\n\n       IV.  The First Crisis                           179\n\n        V.  The Second Crisis                          230\n\n       VI.  The Third Crisis                           255\n\n      VII.  Conclusion                                 289\n\nV.   TORMENT OF IDEAS                                  294\n\nVI.  COUNT ANDR\u00c9                                       317\n\n\n\n\n                           _TO A YOUNG MAN_\n\n\nI DEDICATE this book to you, my young countryman, with whom I am so\nwell acquainted, although I may not know your place of birth, your\nname, your parents, your fortune or your ambitions--nothing but that\nyou are over eighteen and under twenty-five years of age, and that you\nwill search in our books for the answers to the questions which are\ntroubling you. And the answers which you will find depend a little upon\nyour moral life, a little upon your own soul, for your moral life is\nthe moral life of France itself--your soul is her soul. In twenty years\nfrom now you and your brothers will hold in your hands the destiny\nof this ancient country, which is our common mother--you will be the\nnation itself. What will you have learned from our teachings? No man\nof letters, however insignificant he may be, but should tremble at the\nresponsibility.\n\nYou will find in \u201cThe Disciple\u201d the study of one of these\nresponsibilities. May you find here a proof that the friend who writes\nthese lines has the merit, if he possesses no other, of believing\nprofoundly in the seriousness of his art. May you also find that he\nthinks of you with great concern. Yes, he has thought of you ever\nsince the days when you were learning to read, when we who are now\napproaching our fortieth year were scribbling our first verses to the\nnoise of the cannon which roared over Paris. We, in our study chambers,\nwere not gay at that period. The oldest of us had just gone to the war,\nand those of us who were obliged to remain at college already felt\nthe duty of our country\u2019s rehabilitation press heavily upon us. We\noften thought of you in that fatal year, 1871. O! young Frenchmen of\nto-day--all of us who were intending to devote ourselves to literature,\nmy friends and I, repeated the beautiful verses of Theodore de Banville:\n\n    Ye in whom I hail the light.\n      All ye who will love me,\n    O young men of the coming fight,\n      O holy battalions!\n\nWe wished this dawn of light to be as bright as ours had been gloomy\nand misty with a vapor of blood. We wished to be worthy of your love,\nin leaving to you that which we valued more than we valued ourselves.\nWe said that our work was to make of you and for you, by our public\nand private acts, by our words, by our fervor, and by our example,\na new France, a France redeemed from defeat, a France reconstructed\nin its external and in its internal life. Young as we were then we\nknew, because we had learned it from our masters, and this was their\nbest teaching--that triumphs and defeats from without interpreted the\nqualities and insufficiencies within; we knew that the resurrection of\nGermany at the beginning of the century had been above all a work of\nsoul, and we recognized that the soul of France had been terribly hurt\nin 1870, and that it must be helped, healed and cured. We were not the\nonly ones to comprehend in the generous ingenuousness of our youth that\nthe moral crisis was then as it always is, the great crisis of this\ncountry; for in 1873 the most valiant of our leaders, Alexandre Dumas,\nsaid in the preface to \u201cLa Femme de Claude,\u201d addressing the Frenchmen\nof his age as I am addressing you, my younger brother: \u201cTake care, you\nare passing through troublous times. You have just paid death and are\nnot through paying for your earlier faults. It is no time to be a wit,\na trifler, a libertine, a scoffer, a skeptic, or a wanton; we have\nhad enough of these for a time at least. God, nature, work, marriage,\nlove, children, all these are serious, very serious things, and rise up\nbefore you. _All these must live or you will die_\u201d.\n\nI cannot say of the generation to which I belong, and which kindled\nthe noble hope of reconstructing France, that it has succeeded, or\nthat it has even been sufficiently devoted to its work. But I do know\nthat it has labored, and labored hard. We have plodded away without\nmuch method, alas! but with a continuous application which touches\nme when I think how little the men in power have done for us, how\nmuch we have been left to our own resources, of the indifference felt\ntoward us by those who directed affairs, and who never once thought\nto encourage, support or direct us. Ah! the brave middle class, the\nsolid and valiant _bourgeoisie_ which France still possesses! What\nlaborious officers, what skillful and tenacious diplomatic agents, what\nexcellent professors, what honest artisans has this _bourgeoisie_\nfurnished for the past twenty years! I sometimes hear: \u201cWhat vitality\nthere is in this country! It has survived where another would have\nperished.\u201d Yes, it lives because this young _bourgeoisie_ has\nmade every sacrifice in order to serve the country. It has seen the\nmasters of a day proscribe its most cherished beliefs in the name of\nliberty, chance politicians play universal suffrage as an instrument\nby which to rule and install their lying mediocrity in the highest\nplaces. This universal suffrage has undergone the most monstrous and\nthe most iniquitous of tyrannies; for the force of numbers is the most\nbrutal of forces, possessing neither talent nor audacity. The young\n_bourgeoisie_ has resigned itself to everything, has accepted\neverything in order to have the right to do the necessary work. If\nour soldiers come and go, if foreign powers hold us in respect,\nif our higher education is being developed, if our arts and our\nliterature continue to assert the national genius, we owe it to the\n_bourgeoisie_. It is true that this generation of young men of the\nwar has no victory for its activity. It could not establish a definite\nform of government, or solve the formidable problems of foreign\npolitics and of socialism. However, young man of to-day, do not despise\nit. Learn to render justice to your elders. It is through them that\nFrance has lived!\n\nHow will she live through you is the question which at the present time\ntroubles all those who have retained their faith in the restoration of\nFrance. You have not to see the Prussian cavalry galloping victoriously\namong the poplars of your native land to sustain you. And of the\nhorrible civil war, you have only the picturesque ruins of the Cour\ndes Comptes, or the trees putting forth luxuriant vegetation among\nthe scorched stones which lend poetic attraction to the old palaces.\nWe have never been able to conclude that the peace of \u201971 has settled\neverything for all time. How I should like to know if you think as we\ndo! How I should like to be sure that you are not ready to renounce\nthe secret dream, the consolatory hope which each one of us had, even\nof those of us who never spoke of it! But I am sure that you feel sad\nwhenever you pass the Arc de Triomphe where others have passed, even on\nthose beautiful summer evenings in company with the one you love. You\nwould leave her cheerfully to-morrow to go to the front if it should\nbe necessary, I am sure of it. But it is not enough to know how to\ndie. Have you resolved to know how to live? When you look at this Arc\nde Triomphe and recall the epoch of the Grande Arm\u00e9e, do you regret\nthat you did not feel the heroic breath of the conscripts of that\ntime? When you recall 1830, and the glorious struggles of Romanticism,\ndo you experience nostalgia at not having, like those of Hernani, a\ngreat literary standard to defend? Do you feel, when you meet one of\nthe masters of to-day--a Dumas, a Taine, a Leconte de Lisle--that you\nare in the presence of one of the depositaries of the genius of your\nrace? When you read such books as must be written when it is necessary\nto depict the criminal passions and their martyrdom, do you wish to\nlove more wisely than the authors of these books have loved? Have you,\nmy brother, more of the Ideal than we have--have you more faith than\nwe have--more hope than we? If you have, give me your hand and let me\nthank you.\n\nBut suppose you have not? There are two types of young men that I see\nbefore me, and before you also, like two forms of temptation, equally\nformidable and fatal. One is cynical and usually jovial. He is about\ntwenty years of age, he appraises life at a discount, and his religion\nconsists in enjoying himself--which may be translated by success.\nLet him be occupied with politics or business, with literature or\nart, engaged in sport or in industry, let him be officer, diplomat or\nadvocate--his only God is himself; he is his only principle, his only\nobject. He has borrowed from the natural philosophy of the times the\ngreat law of vital concurrence, and he applies it to the advancement\nof his fortune with an ardor of positivism which makes him a civilized\nbarbarian; the most dangerous kind. Alphonse Daudet, who understands so\nwell how to describe him, has christened him the \u201cstruggle-for-lifer.\u201d\nHe respects nothing but success, and in success nothing but money. He\nis convinced when he reads this--for he reads what I write as he reads\neverything else, if only to be in the current--that I am laughing at\nthe public in tracing this portrait, but that I myself am like him. For\nhe is so profoundly nihilistic in his manner that the Ideal appears to\nhim like a comedy, for example, when he judges it proper to lie to the\npeople to secure their votes. Is not this young man a monster? For one\nis a monster who is only twenty-five years old and has for a soul a\ncalculating machine in the service of a machine of pleasure.\n\nI fear him less, however, on your account than I do the other one\nwho possesses all the aristocracies of nerves and mind, and who is\nan intellectual and refined epicurean as the former is a brutal and\nscientific one. How dreadful to encounter this dainty nihilist, and\nyet how he abounds! At twenty-five he has run the gamut of all ideas.\nHis critical mind, precociously awake, has comprehended the final\nresults of the most subtle philosophies of the age. Do not speak to\nhim of impiety or of materialism. He knows that the word \u201cmatter\u201d has\nno precise meaning, and beside he is too intelligent not to admit that\nall religions have been legitimate in their time. Only, he has never\nbelieved, and he never will believe in them, any more than he will ever\nbelieve in anything whatever, except in the amusing play of his mind\nwhich he has transformed into a tool of elegant perversity. The good\nand the bad, beauty and deformity, vices and virtues are to him simply\nobjects of curiosity. The human soul so far as he is concerned is a\nskillful piece of mechanism in the dissection of which he is interested\nas a matter of experience. To him nothing is true, nothing is false,\nnothing is moral, nothing is immoral. He is a subtle and refined\negotist whose whole ambition, as that remarkable analyst, Maurice\nBarr\u00e8s, has said in his beautiful romance of \u201cL\u2019Homme Libre\u201d--that\n_chef-d\u2019\u0153uvre_ of irony which lacks only conclusion--consists \u201cin\nadoring himself,\u201d and to acquire new sensations. The religious life of\nhumanity is to him only a pretext for these sensations, as are also the\nintellectual and the sentimental life. His corruption is otherwise\nas profound as that of the voluptuous barbarian; it is differently\ncomplicated, and the fine name of dilettantism with which he adorns it,\nconceals its cold ferocity, its frightful barrenness. Ah! we know this\nyoung man too well; we have all wished to be in his place, for we have\nbeen so charmed by the paradoxes of too eloquent teachers; we all have\nbeen like him at some time. And so I have written this book to show\nyou, who are not yet like him, you child of twenty years, whose soul is\nin process of formation, what villainy this egoism may conceal.\n\nBe neither of these young men, my young friend! Be neither the brutal\npositivist who abuses the world of sense, nor the disdainful and\nprecocious sophist who abuses the world of thought and feeling. Let\nneither the pride of life nor that of intellect make of you a cynic\nand a juggler of ideas! In such times of troubled conscience and\nconflicting doctrines cling as you would to a safe support to Christ\u2019s\nwords: \u201cThe tree is known by its fruit.\u201d There is one reality which\nyou cannot doubt, for you possess it, you feel it, you see it every\nmoment, it is your own soul. Among the thoughts which assail you, are\nthose which render your soul less capable of loving, less capable of\ndesire. Be sure that these ideas are false to a degree, however subtle\nthey seem, adorned as they are with the finest names and sustained by\nthe magic of the most splendid talents. Exalt and cultivate these\ntwo great virtues, these two energies, without which only blight and\nfinal agony ensue--Love and Will. The sincere and modest Science of\nto-day recognizes that the realm of the Unknowable extends beyond the\nlimit of its analysis. The venerable Littr\u00e9, who was a saint, has\nmagnificently spoken of this ocean of mystery which beats against our\nshore, which we see stretching before us, and for which we have neither\nbark nor sail. Have the courage to respond to those who will tell you\nthat beyond this ocean is emptiness, an abyss of darkness and death;\n\u201cYou do not know that.\u201d And since you know, since you feel that there\nis a soul within you, labor to keep it alive lest it die before you.\nI assure you, my boy, France has need that you should think thus, and\nmay this book help you so to think. Do not look here for allusions to\nrecent events, for you will not find them. The plan was marked out and\na part of the book written before two tragedies, the one French, the\nother European, occurred, to attest that the same trouble of ideas and\nof sentiments agitates both high and humble destinies at the present\ntime. Do me the honor to believe that I have not speculated on the\ndramas in which too many persons have suffered, and still suffer. The\nmoralist, whose business it is to seek for causes, sometimes encounters\nanalogies of situation which attest that they have seen correctly. They\nwould rather have been deceived. I, myself, for example, would wish\nthat there never had been in real life a person like the unfortunate\nDisciple who gives name to this romance! But if there had not been, if\nnone existed, I should not have said what I am going to say to you, my\nyoung countryman, you to whom I wish to be a benefactor, you by whom I\nso earnestly wish to be loved--and to be worthy of your love.\n\n                                                          PAUL BOURGET.\n\nParis, June 5, 1889.\n\n\n\n\n                             THE DISCIPLE\n\n\n                                  I.\n\n                         A MODERN PHILOSOPHER.\n\n\nTHERE is a story that has never been denied to the effect that the\nbourgeois of the city of K\u00f6nigsberg supposed that some prodigious event\nwas disturbing the civilized world simply because the philosopher\nEmanuel Kant changed the direction of his daily walk. The celebrated\nauthor of the \u201cCritique of Pure Reason\u201d had that day learned of the\nbreaking out of the French Revolution. Although Paris, may not be very\nfavorable to such na\u00efve wonders, a number of the inhabitants of the\nRue Guy de la Brosse experienced an astonishment almost as great one\nafternoon in January, 1887, when they saw go out, toward one o\u2019clock,\na philosopher, who if less illustrious than the venerable Kant, was\nas regular and as peculiar in his habits, not to mention that he was\neven more destructive in his analysis. It was M. Adrien Sixte, whom the\nEnglish call the French Spencer.\n\nThis Rue Guy de la Brosse, which leads from the Rue de Jussieu to the\nRue Linn\u00e9, forms part of a veritable little province bounded by the\nJardin des Plantes, the Hopital de la Piti\u00e9, the wine warehouse and\nthe first rise of Sainte-Genevi\u00e8ve. That is to say, that it permits\nthose familiar inquisitions of glance impossible in the larger\ndistricts where the come-and-go of existence ceaselessly renews the\ntide of carriages and of people. Only persons of small incomes live\nhere, modest professors, employees of the museum, students who wish\nto study, all young literary people who dread the temptations of the\nLatin Quarter. The shops are patronized by this clientele, which is as\nregular as that of a suburb. The butcher, the baker, the grocer, the\nwasherwoman, the apothecary, are all spoken of in the singular by the\ndomestics who make the purchases.\n\nThere is little room for competition in this square, which is\nornamented by a fountain capriciously encumbered with figures of\nanimals in honor of the Jardin des Plantes. Visitors to the garden\nseldom enter by the gate, which is opposite the hospital; so that even\non fine spring days when crowds of people gather under the trees of the\npark, which is a favorite resort of the military and of nursemaids,\nthe Rue Linn\u00e9 is as quiet as usual, and so also are the adjacent\nstreets. If occasionally there is an unusual flow of people into this\ncorner of Paris, it is when the doors of the hospital are opened to\nvisitors, and then a line of sad and humble figures stretches along\nthe sidewalks. These pilgrims of poverty come furnished with dainties\nfor their friends who are suffering behind the gray old walls of the\nhospital, and the inhabitants of ground-floors, lodges, and shops are\nnot interested in them. They hardly notice these sporadic promenaders,\nand their entire attention is reserved for the persons who go by every\nday at the same hour. There are for shopkeepers and _concierges_,\nas for sportsmen in the country, unfailing indications of the time\nand of the weather, that there will be in this quarter, where resound\nthe savage calls of some beast in the neighboring menagerie; of an\nara that cries, and elephant that trumpets, an eagle that screams,\nor a tiger that mews. When they see the free professor jogging along\nwith his old green leather case under his arm, nibbling at a penny\nbun which he has bought on his way, these spies know that it is about\nto strike eight. When the restaurant boy passes with his covered\ndishes they know that it is eleven o\u2019clock, that the retired captain\nof battalion is soon to have his breakfast, and thus in succession\nfor every hour of the day. A change in the toilette of the women who\nhere display their finery, is noted and critically interpreted by\ntwenty babbling and not overindulgent tongues. In fine, to use a very\npicturesque expression common in central France, the most trifling\nmovements of the frequenters of these four or five streets are at the\nend of the tongues, and those of M. Adrien Sixte even more than those\nof many others. This will be readily understood by a simple sketch\nof the person. And beside, the details of the life led by this man\nwill furnish to students of human nature an authentic document upon a\nrare species--that of philosopher by profession. Some examples have\nbeen given to us by the ancients, and more recently by Colerus, in\nreference to Spinoza, and by Darwin and John Stuart Mill in reference\nto themselves. But Spinoza was a Hollander of the eighteenth century,\nDarwin and Mill grew up among the wealthy and active English middle\nclass, whereas M. Sixte lived in the heart of Paris at the end of the\nnineteenth century. In my youth, when studies of this kind interested\nme, I knew several individuals just as entirely given up to abstract\nspeculations. I have, however, never met one who has made me comprehend\nso well the existence of a Descartes--in his little room in the depth\nof the Netherlands, or that of the thinker of the Ethics, who, as we\nknow, had no other distraction from his reveries than smoking a pipe\nand fighting spiders.\n\nIt was fourteen years after the war when M. Sixte came to live in the\nRue Guy de la Brosse, where every denizen knows him to-day. He was at\nthat time a man thirty-four years of age, in whom all physiognomy of\nyouth had been destroyed by the absorption of his mind in ideas, so\nthat his smoothly-shaven face indicated neither age nor profession.\nSome physicians, some priests, and some actors offer to our regard, for\ndifferent reasons, faces at once cold, smooth, intent and inexpressive.\nA forehead high and tapering, a mouth prominent and obstinate, with\nthin lips, a bilious complexion, eyes affected by too much reading and\nhidden behind dark spectacles, a slim, big boned body, always clothed\nin a shaggy cloth overcoat in winter, and in some thin material in\nsummer. His shoes tied with strings, his hair long and prematurely\ngray and very fine, under one of those hats called _gibus_,\nwhich fold up mechanically--such was the appearance presented by this\nsavant, whose every action was as scrupulously regulated as those of\nan ecclesiastic. He occupied an apartment at a rent of seven hundred\nfrancs on the fourth floor, which consisted of a bedroom, a study, a\ndining-room about as large as the cabin of a wherry, a kitchen and\na servant\u2019s room, the whole commanding a very extensive view. The\nphilosopher could see from his windows the Jardin des Plantes with the\nhills of P\u00e8re-la-Chaise in the distance; beyond, to the left, a kind\nof hollow which marked the course of the Seine. The Orl\u00e9ans station\nand the dome of La Salp\u00eatri\u00e8re rose directly in front; and, to the\nright, the mass of cedars looked black against the green or bare trees\nof the labyrinth. The smoke of factories wreathed upward on a clear\nor gray sky from every corner of the wide landscape, from which arose\na sound like the roar of a distant ocean, broken by the whistlings of\nsteam engines. In choosing this Thebais, M. Sixte had no doubt yielded\nto a general though inexplicable law of meditative nature. Are not\nnearly all cloisters built in places which permit an extended view?\nPerhaps these unlimited and confused prospects favor concentration\nof the mind, which might otherwise be distracted by details too near\nand circumstantial? Perhaps recluses find the pleasure of contrast\nbetween their dreamy inaction and the breadth of the field in which the\nactivity of other men is developed? Whatever may be the solution of\nthis little problem so closely related to another which is too little\nstudied, namely, the animal sensibility of intellectual men--it is\ncertain that the melancholy landscape had, for fifteen years, been the\ncompanion with whom the quiet worker had most frequently conversed.\nHis house was kept by one of those servants who are the ideals of\nall old bachelors, who never suspect that the perfection of certain\nservices implies a corresponding regularity of existence on the part\nof the master. On his arrival, the philosopher had simply asked the\n_concierge_ to find some one to keep his rooms in order, and\nto recommend a restaurant from which he could order his meals. By\nthis request he risked obtaining a service decidedly bad and a very\nuncertain sort of nourishment. It resulted, however, in unexpectedly\nintroducing into the home of Adrien Sixte precisely the person who\nrealized his most chimerical wishes, if an extractor of quintessences,\nas Rabelais calls this sort of dreamer, still preserves the leisure to\nform wishes.\n\nThis _concierge_--according to the use and custom of all such\nfunctionaries in small apartment houses--increased the revenue of his\nlodgings by working at a trade. He was a shoemaker, \u201cin new and old,\u201d\nas a placard read which was pasted on a window toward the street.\nAmong his customers, old man Carbonnet--this was his name--counted a\npriest who lived in the Rue Cuvier. This aged priest had a servant,\nMlle. Mariette Trapenard, a woman nearly forty years old, who had been\naccustomed for some years to rule in her master\u2019s house while still\nremaining a true peasant woman, with no ambition to play the lady,\nfaithful in her work, but unwilling to enter at any price a house where\nshe would be subject to feminine authority. The old priest died quite\nsuddenly the week preceding the installation of the philosopher in the\nRue Guy de la Brosse. Old Carbonnet, in whose register the newcomer had\nsimply signed himself _rentier_, had no trouble in recognizing the\nclass to which this M. Sixte belonged, first from the number of books\nwhich composed his library, and also through the account of a servant\nbelonging to a professor of the College of France, who lived on the\nfirst floor.\n\nIn these phalansteries of the Parisian bourgeois everything becomes\nan event. The maid told her mistress the name of her future neighbor;\nthe mistress told her husband; she spoke of M. Sixte at table in such\na way that the maid comprehended enough to surmise that the new lodger\nwas \u201cin books like monsieur.\u201d Carbonnet would not have been worthy\nof drawing the cord in a Parisian lodging-house, if his wife and he\nhad not immediately felt the necessity of bringing M. Adrien Sixte\nand Mlle. Trapenard together. They felt this the more because Mme.\nCarbonnet, who was old and almost disabled, had already too much to do\nto take care of three households, to undertake this one. The taste for\nintrigue which flourishes in lodging-houses like fuchsias, geraniums,\nand basils induced this couple to assure the savant that the cooking at\nthe eating-houses was wretched, that there was not a single housekeeper\nwhom they could recommend in the whole neighborhood, and that the\nservant of the late M. l\u2019Abb\u00e9 Vayssier was a \u201cpearl\u201d of discretion,\norder, economy, and culinary skill. Finally, the philosopher consented\nto see this model housekeeper. The visible honesty of the woman pleased\nhim and also the reflection that this arrangement would simplify his\nexistence, by relieving him from the odious task of giving a certain\nnumber of positive orders. Mlle. Trapenard entered the service of this\nmaster for fifty francs a month, which was soon increased to sixty.\nThe savant gave her fifty francs in New-Year gifts beside. He never\nexamined his accounts, but settled them every Sunday morning without\nquestion. It was Mlle. Trapenard who did the business with all the\ntradesmen without any interference on the part of M. Sixte.\n\nIn a word she reigned absolute mistress, a situation, as may be\nimagined, which excited the universal envy of the little world\nincessantly going up and down the common staircase so zealously\nscrubbed every Monday.\n\n\u201cI say, Mam\u2019zelle Mariette, you have drawn the lucky number,\u201d said\nCarbonnet as the housekeeper stopped a minute to chat with her\nbenefactor, who was now much older.\n\nHe wore spectacles on his square nose, and it was with some difficulty\nthat he adjusted the blows of his hammer to the heads of the nails\nwhich he drove into the boot-heels closely pressed between his legs.\nFor some years he had taken care of a cock named Ferdinand--why, no\none knew. This creature wandered about among the bits of leather,\nexciting the admiration of all visitors by his eagerness to peck at\nthe buttons of the boots. In his moments of fright this pet cock\nwould take refuge with his master, plunge one of his feet into the\npocket of the cobbler\u2019s vest and hide his head under the arm of the\nold _concierge_: \u201cCome, Ferdinand, say good-day to Mam\u2019zelle\nMariette,\u201d resumed Carbonnet. And the cock gently pecked the woman\u2019s\nhand, while his master continued:\n\n\u201cI always say, \u2018Never despair at one bad year, two good ones are bound\nto come immediately after.\u2019\u201d\n\n\u201cThere we agree,\u201d responded Mariette, \u201cfor monsieur is a good man,\nthough as to religion he is a regular pagan; he has not been to mass\nthese fifteen years.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere are plenty who do go,\u201d replied Carbonnet, \u201cwho are sad dogs, and\nlead anything but a quiet life between four and midnight--without your\nknowing anything about it.\u201d\n\nThis fragment of conversation perhaps shows the type of opinion which\nMariette held in regard to her master; but this opinion would be\nunintelligible if we did not recall here the works of the philosopher,\nand the trend of his thought.\n\nBorn in 1839 at Nancy, where his father kept a little watchmaker\u2019s\nshop, and remarkable for the precocity of his intellect, Adrien Sixte\nleft among his comrades the remembrance of a child thin and taciturn,\nendowed with a strength of moral resistance which always discouraged\nfamiliarity. At first he was very brilliant in his studies, then\nmediocre, until in the class in philosophy which then bore the name\nof Logic, he distinguished himself by his exceptional aptitude. His\nprofessor, struck by his metaphysical talent, wished him to prepare\nfor the normal school examination. Adrien refused and declared beside\nto his father that, taking one trade with another, he preferred manual\nlabor. \u201cI will be a watchmaker like you,\u201d was his sole answer to the\nobjurgations of his father, who, like the innumerable artisans, or\nFrench merchants whose children attend college, cherished the dream\nthat his son might be a civil officer.\n\nM. and Mme. Sixte could not reproach this son, who did not smoke,\nnever went to the _caf\u00e9_, was never seen with a girl, in fine,\nwho was their pride, and to whose wishes they resigned themselves with\na broken heart. They renounced a career for him, but they would not\nconsent to putting him to an apprenticeship, hence, the young man lived\nat home with no other occupation than to study as suited his fancy.\nHe employed ten years in perfecting himself in the study of English\nand German philosophy, in the natural sciences and especially in the\nphysiology of the brain and in the mathematical sciences; finally,\nhe gave himself, as one of the great thinkers of our epoch has said\nof himself, that \u201cviolent inflammation of the brain,\u201d that kind of\napoplexy of positive knowledge which was the process of education of\nCarlyle and of Mill, of Taine and Renan, and of nearly all the masters\nof modern philosophy. In 1868, the son of the watchmaker of Nancy, then\ntwenty-five years of age, published a large volume of five hundred\npages entitled: \u201cPsychology of God,\u201d which he did not send to more\nthan fifteen persons, but which had the unexpected fortune of causing\na scandalous echo. This book, written in the solitude of the most\nhonest thought, presented the double character of a critical analysis,\nkeen to severity, and an ardor in negation exalted to fanaticism. Less\npoetic than M. Taine, incapable of writing the magnificent preface to\nthe \u201cIntelligence,\u201d and the essay upon universal phenomena; less dry\nthan M. Ribot, who already preluded by his \u201cEnglish Psychologists\u201d the\nbeautiful series of his studies, the \u201cPsychology of God,\u201d combined the\neloquence of one with the penetration of the other, and it had the\nchance, unsought, of directly attacking the most exciting problem of\nmetaphysics. A pamphlet by a well-known bishop, an unworthy allusion\nof a cardinal in a discourse to the senate, a crushing article by the\nmost brilliant critical spiritualist in a celebrated review, sufficed\nto point out the work to the curiosity of the youth over whom passed\na revolutionary wind, the herald of future overthrow. The thesis of\nthe author consisted in demonstrating the necessary production of\n\u201cthe hypothesis--God,\u201d by the action of some psychologic laws, which\nare themselves connected with some cerebral modifications of an\nentirely physical order, and this thesis was established, supported,\nand developed with an acrimony of atheism which recalled the fury of\nLucretius against the beliefs of his time. It happened then to the\nhermit of Nancy, that his work, which was conceived and written as if\nin the solitude of a cell, was at once in the midst of the noise of the\nbattle of contemporaneous ideas. For years there had not been seen such\npower of general ideas wedded to such amplitude of erudition, nor so\nrich an abundance of points of view united to so audacious a nihilism.\nBut while the name of the author was becoming celebrated in Paris, his\nparents were bowed to the earth by his success. Some articles in the\nCatholic journals filled Mme. Sixte with despair. The old watchmaker\ntrembled lest he should lose his customers among the aristocracy of\nNancy.\n\nAll the miseries of the province crushed the philosopher, who was about\nto leave his home, when the German invasion and the fearful national\nshipwreck turned the attention of his countrymen away from him. His\nparents died in the spring of 1871. In the summer of the same year, he\nlost an aunt, and so in the autumn of 1872 having settled his affairs,\nhe came to establish himself in Paris. His resources, thanks to the\ninheritance of his parents and of his aunt, consisted in eight thousand\nfrancs income invested in a life-interest. He had resolved never to\nmarry, never to go into society, never to be ambitious of honor, of\nplace nor of reputation. The whole formula of his life was contained in\nthe words: _To think_!\n\n\nIn order to better define this man of a quality so rare that this\nsketch after nature will risk appearing untruthful to the reader who\nis unfamiliar with the biographies of the great manipulators of ideas,\nit is necessary to give a rapid glance at some of the days of this\npowerful thinker.\n\nSummer and winter, M. Sixte sat down to his work at six o\u2019clock in the\nmorning, refreshed by a single cup of black coffee. At ten o\u2019clock he\ntook his breakfast, a summary operation which permitted him to be at\nthe gate of the Jardin des Plantes at half-past ten. He walked in the\ngarden until noon, sometimes extending his stroll toward the quays and\nby the way of Notre Dame.\n\nOne of his favorite pleasures consisted in long s\u00e9ances in front of\nthe cages of the monkeys and the lodges of the elephants. The children\nand servants who saw him laugh, long and silently, at the ferocities\nand cynicisms of the baboons and ouistitis, never suspected the\nmisanthropic thoughts which this spectacle brought to the mind of the\nsavant who compared in himself the human to the simian comedy, as he\ncompared our habitual folly with the wisdom of the noble animal that,\nbefore us, was king of the earth.\n\nToward noon M. Sixte returned to his home and worked again until four\no\u2019clock. From four to six he received three times a week, visitors who\nwere nearly always students, masters occupied with the same studies\nas himself, or foreigners attracted by a reputation which to-day is\nEuropean. Three other days he went out to make some indispensable\nvisits. At six o\u2019clock he dined and then went out again, this time\ngoing the length of the closed garden to the Orl\u00e9ans station. At eight\no\u2019clock he returned, regulated his correspondence or read. At ten\no\u2019clock the lights were extinguished in his house.\n\nThis monastic existence had its weekly rest on Monday, the philosopher\nhaving observed that Sunday emptied an obstructing tide of pleasure\nseekers into the country. On these days, he went out very early in the\nmorning, boarded a suburban train, and did not return until evening.\n\nNot once in fifteen years had he departed from this absolute\nregularity. Not once had he accepted an invitation to dine nor taken a\nstall in a theater. He never read a newspaper, relying on his publisher\nfor marked copies pertaining to his own works.\n\nHis indifference to politics was so complete that he had never drawn\nhis elector\u2019s card. It is proper to add, in order to fix the principal\nfeatures of this singular being, that he had broken off all connection\nwith his family, and that this rupture was founded, like the smallest\nact of his life, upon a theory. He had written in the preface to his\nsecond book, \u201cAnatomy of the Will,\u201d this significant sentence: \u201cThe\nsocial attachments should be reduced to their minimum for the man who\nwishes to know and speak the truth in the domain of the psychologic\nsciences.\u201d\n\nFrom a similar motive this man, who was so gentle that he had not\ngiven three commands to his servant in fifteen years, systematically\nforbade himself all charity. On this point he agreed with Spinoza who\nhas written in the fourth book of the Ethics: \u201cPity, for a wise man who\nlives according to reason, is bad and useless.\u201d This Saint Lais, as he\nmight have been called as justly as the venerable Emile Littr\u00e9, hated\nin Christianity the excessive fondness for humanity. He gave these two\nreasons for it: first that the hypothesis of a Heavenly Father and of\neternal happiness had developed to excess the distaste for the real\nand had diminished the power to accept the laws of nature; second, in\nestablishing the social order upon love, that is, upon sensibility,\nthis religion had opened the way to all the caprices of the most\npersonal doctrines.\n\nHe did not suspect that his faithful servant had sewed consecrated\nmedals into all his vests, and his indifference with regard to the\nexternal world was so complete that he went without meat on Fridays and\non other days prescribed by the Church, without perceiving this effort\non the part of the old maid to assure the salvation of a master of whom\nshe sometimes said, repeating unconsciously a celebrated saying:\n\n\u201cThe good God would not be the good God, if he had the heart to damn\nhim.\u201d\n\nThese years of continuous labor in this hermitage of the Rue Guy de\nla Brosse had produced, beside the \u201cAnatomy of the Will,\u201d a \u201cTheory\nof the Passions,\u201d in three volumes, whose publication would have been\nstill more scandalous than that of the \u201cPsychology of God,\u201d if the\nextreme liberty of the press for ten years had not accustomed readers\nto audacities of description which the mild, technical ferocity of a\nsavant could not equal.\n\nIn these two books is found, precisely stated, the doctrine of M. Sixte\nwhich it is necessary to take up again here, in some of its general\nfeatures, for the intelligent understanding of the drama to which this\nshort biography serves as prologue. With the critical school sprung\nfrom Kant, the author of these three treatises admits that the mind\nis powerless to know causes and substances, and that it ought only to\nco-ordinate phenomena.\n\nWith the English psychologists, he admits that one group among these\nphenomena, those which are classed under the name of soul, may be the\nobject of scientific knowledge, on condition of their being studied\nafter a scientific method.\n\nUp to this point, as we all see, there is nothing in these theories\nwhich distinguishes them from those which Messrs. Taine, Ribot and\ntheir disciples have developed in their principal works.\n\nThe two original characteristics of M. Sixte\u2019s inquiries are found\nelsewhere. The first resides in a negative analysis of what Herbert\nSpencer calls the Unknowable. We know that the great English thinker\nadmits that all reality rests upon a First Cause which it is impossible\nto penetrate; consequently it is necessary to use the formula of\nFichte, to comprehend this First Cause (_arri\u00e8re-fonds_) as\nincomprehensible; but as the beginning of the \u201cFirst Principles\u201d\nstrongly attests this Unknowable is real to Mr. Spencer. It exists\nsince we derive our existence from it. From this there is only a step\nto apprehend that this First Cause of all reality involves a mind and a\nsoul since one finds their source in it. Many excellent minds foresee\na probable reconciliation between science and religion on this ground\nof the Unknowable. For M. Sixte this is a last form of metaphysical\nillusion which he is rabid to destroy with an energy of argument that\nhas not been seen to this degree since Kant.\n\nHis second title of honor as psychologist consists in an expos\u00e9, quite\nnovel and very ingenious, of the animal origin of human sensibility.\n\nThanks to an exhaustive reading and a minute knowledge of the natural\nsciences, he has been able to attempt for the genesis of human thought\nthe work which Darwin attempted for the genesis of the forms of life.\nApplying the law of evolution to all the facts which constitute the\nhuman heart, he has claimed to show that, our most refined sensations,\nour most subtile moral delicacies as well as our most shameful\nfailures, are the latest development, the supreme metamorphosis of very\nsimple instincts, which are themselves transformations of the primitive\ncellule; so that the moral universe exactly reproduces the physical,\nand the former is the consciousness, either painful or pleasurable, of\nthe latter.\n\nThis conclusion presented under the title of hypothesis because of\nits metaphysical character, is the result of a marvelous series of\nanalyses, among which it is proper to cite two hundred pages on love,\nwhich are so audacious as to be almost ludicrous from the pen of so\nchaste a man. But has not Spinoza himself given us a theory of jealousy\nwhich has not been equalled in brutality by any modern novelist? And\ndoes not Schopenhauer rival Chamfort in the spirit of his tirades\nagainst women?\n\nIt is almost unnecessary to add that the most complete positivism\npervades these books from one end to the other. We owe to M. Sixte\nsome sentences which express with extreme energy this conviction that\neverything in the mind is there of necessity, even the illusion, that\nwe are free. \u201cEvery act is only an addition. To say he is free, is to\nsay that there is in the total more than there is in the sum of all\nthe parts. That is as absurd in psychology as it is in arithmetic.\u201d\nAnd again: \u201cIf we could know correctly the relative position of all\nthe phenomena which constitute the actual universe, we could, from the\npresent, calculate with a certainty equal to that of the astronomers\nthe day, the hour, the minute when England, for example, will evacuate\nIndia, or Europe will have burned her last piece of coal, or such a\ncriminal, still unborn, will assassinate his father, or such a poem,\nnot yet conceived will be written. The future is contained in the\npresent as all the properties of the triangle are contained in its\ndefinition.\u201d Mohammedan fatalism itself is not expressed with more\nabsolute precision.\n\n\u201cWith speculations of this order, only the most frightful aridity of\nimagination would seem to comport. Thus that which M. Sixte so often\nsaid of himself: I take life on its poetic side,\u201d appeared to those\nwho heard it the most absurd of paradoxes. And yet nothing is truer\nwith regard to the special nature of the minds of philosophers. What\nessentially distinguishes the born philosopher from other men is that\nideas instead of being formulas of the mind more or less exact, are to\nhim real and living things. Sensibility, with him, models itself upon\nthe thought instead of establishing a divorce more or less complete,\nbetween the heart and the brain, as with the rest of us.\n\nA Christian preacher has admirably shown the nature of this divorce\nwhen he uttered this strange and profound sentence: \u201cWe _know_\nwell that we shall die, but we do not _believe_ it.\u201d\n\nThe philosopher, when he is one by passion and by constitution, does\nnot conceive this duality, this life divided between contradictory\nsensations and reflections.\n\nThis universal necessity, this indefinite and constant metamorphosis of\nphenomena, this colossal work of nature ceaselessly making and unmaking\nitself, with no point of departure, no point of arrival, by the play\nof the primitive cells alone, this parallel work of the human mind\nreproducing under the form of thoughts and volitions the movement of\nphysiological life, was not for M. Sixte a simple object of speculation.\n\nHe plunged into the contemplation of these ideas with a kind of\nvertigo, he felt them with all his being, so that this simple man\nseated at his table, waited upon by his old housekeeper, in a study\nwhose shelves were laden with books, this man of poor appearance, with\nhis feet in a carriage boot (_chanceli\u00e8re_) to keep them warm, and\nhis body wrapped in a shabby great-coat, participated in imagination in\nthe labor of the universe.\n\nHe lived the life of every creature. He slept with the mineral,\nvegetated with the plant, moved with the rudimentary beasts, confounded\nhimself with the superior organisms, and at last expanded into the\nfullness of a mind capable of reflecting the vast universe.\n\nThese are the delights of general ideas, analogous to those of opium,\nwhich render these dreamers indifferent to the small accidents of the\nexternal world, and also, why shall we not say it? almost absolute\nstrangers to the ordinary affections of life.\n\nWe become attached to that which we feel to be very real; now to these\nsingular minds, it is abstraction which is reality, and the daily\nreality is only a shadow, only a gross and degraded impression of the\ninvisible laws. Perhaps M. Sixte had loved his mother, but surely this\nwas the limit of his sentimental existence.\n\nIf he was gentle and indulgent to all, it was from the same instinct\nwhich made him take hold of a chair gently, when he wished to move it\nout of his way; but he had never felt the need of a warm and loving\ntenderness, of family, of devotion, of love, nor even of friendship. He\nsometimes conversed with some savants with whom he was associated, but\nalways professionally on chemistry with one, on the higher mathematics\nwith another, and on the diseases of the nervous system with a third.\nWhether these men were married, occupied in rearing families, anxious\nto make a career for themselves or not, was of no interest to him in\nhis relations with them; but however strange such a conclusion must\nappear after such a sketch, he was happy.\n\nGiven such a man, such a home and such a life, let us imagine the\neffect produced in this study in the Rue Guy de la Brosse by two events\nwhich occurred one after the other in the same afternoon: first, a\nsummons addressed to M. Adrien Sixte, to appear at the office of M.\nValette, Judge of Instruction, for the purpose of being questioned,\n\u201cupon certain facts and circumstances of which he would be informed;\u201d\nsecond, a card bearing the name of Mme. Greslon and asking M. Sixte to\nreceive her the next day toward four o\u2019clock, \u201cto talk with him about\nthe crime of which her son was falsely accused.\u201d\n\nI have said that the philosopher never read a newspaper. If by chance\nhe had opened one a fortnight before he would have found allusions to\nthis history of the young Greslon which more recent trials have caused\nto be forgotten. For want of this information the summons and the note\nof the mother had no definite meaning for him. However, by the relation\nbetween them he concluded that they were probably connected, and he\nthought they concerned a certain Robert Greslon, whom he had known the\npreceding year, in quite simple circumstances. But these circumstances\ncontrasted too strongly with the idea of a criminal process, to guide\nthe conjectures of the savant, and he remained a long time looking at\nthe summons turn by turn with the card, a prey to that almost painful\nanxiety which the least event of an unexpected nature does inflict on\nmen of fixed habits.\n\nRobert Greslon? M. Sixte had read this name for the first time two\nyears before, at the bottom of a note accompanying a manuscript.\nThis manuscript bore the title: \u201cContribution to the Study of the\nMultiplication of Self,\u201d and the note modestly expressed the wish\nthat the celebrated writer would glance at the first essay of a very\nyoung man. The author had added to his signature: \u201cVeteran pupil of\nphilosophy at the Clermont-Ferrand Lyceum.\u201d\n\nThis work of almost sixty pages revealed an intellect so prematurely\nsubtle, an acquaintance so exact with the most recent theories of\ncontemporaneous psychology, and finally such ingenuity of analysis,\nthat M. Sixte had believed it a duty to respond by a long letter.\n\nA note of thanks had come back immediately, in which the young man\nannounced that, being obliged to go to Paris for the oral examination\nof the normal school he would have the honor to present himself, to the\nmaster.\n\nThe latter had then seen enter his study one afternoon, a young man of\nabout twenty years with fine black eyes, lively and changeable, which\nlighted up a countenance which was almost too pale. This was the only\ndetail of physiognomy which remained in the memory of the philosopher.\nLike all other speculative persons, he received only a floating\nimpression of the visible world and he retained but a remembrance as\nvague as this impression. His memory of ideas was, however, surprising,\nand he recalled to the smallest detail his conversation with Robert\nGreslon.\n\nAmong the young men whom his renown attracted to him, none had\nastonished him more by the truly extraordinary precocity of his\nerudition and his reasoning. No doubt there floated in the mind of this\nyouth much of the effervescence of mind which assimilates too quickly\nvast quantities of diverse knowledge; but what marvelous facility\nof deduction! What natural eloquence, and what visible sincerity of\nenthusiasm.\n\nThe savant could see him gesticulating a little and saying: \u201cNo,\nmonsieur, you do not know what you are to us, nor what we feel in\nreading your books. You are the one who accepts the whole truth, the\none in whom we can believe. Why, the analysis of love in your \u201cTheory\nof the Passions\u201d is our breviary. The book is forbidden at the Lyceum.\nI had it at home and two of my comrades copied certain chapters during\nthe holidays.\u201d\n\nAs there is the author\u2019s vanity hidden in the soul of every man who\nhas had his prose printed, be he even so absolutely sincere as M.\nAdrien Sixte certainly was, this worship of a group of scholars, so\ningenuously expressed by one of them, had particularly flattered the\nphilosopher.\n\nRobert Greslon had solicited the honor of a second visit, and then\nwhile confessing a failure at the normal school, he disclosed a little\nof his projects.\n\nM. Sixte, contrary to all his habits, had questioned him upon the most\nminute details. He had thus learned that the young man was the only son\nof an engineer who had died without leaving a fortune, and that his\nmother had made many sacrifices in order to educate him. \u201cBut I will\naccept no more,\u201d said Robert, \u201cit is my intention to take my degree\nnext year, then I shall ask for a chair of philosophy in some college,\nand I will write an extended work on the variation of personality, of\nwhich the essay that I submitted to you is the embryo.\u201d And the eyes\nof the young psychologist grew more brilliant as he formulated this\nprogramme of life.\n\nThese two visits dated from August, 1885, the second was in February,\n1887, and since then, M. Sixte had received five or six letters from\nhis young disciple. The last announced the entrance of Robert Greslon\nas preceptor, into a noble family that was passing the summer months in\na ch\u00e2teau near one of the pretty lakes of the Auvergne Mountains--Lake\nAydat.\n\nA simple detail will give the measure of the preoccupation into which\nM. Sixte was thrown by the coincidence between the letter from the\noffice of the judge and the note of Mme. Greslon. Although there were\nupon his table, the proofs of a long article for the _Philosophical\nReview_ to correct, he began searching for the correspondence with\nthe young man. He found it readily in the box in which he carefully\narranged his smallest papers. It was classed with others of the same\nkind, under the head: \u201cDoctrines contemporaneous on the formation of\nmind.\u201d\n\nIt made nearly thirty pages, which the savant read again with special\ncare, without finding anything but reflections of an entirely\nintellectual order, various questions upon some readings, and the\nstatements of certain projects for memories.\n\nWhat thread could connect such preoccupations with the criminal process\nof which the mother spoke? Was this process the cause of the summons\notherwise inexplicable? This boy whom he had seen only twice must have\nmade a strong impression on the philosopher, for the thought that the\nmystery hidden behind this call from the Palais de Justice was the same\nas that which caused the sudden visit of this despairing mother kept\nhim awake a part of the night.\n\nFor the first time in all these years he was sharp with Mlle. Trapenard\nbecause of some slight negligence, and when he passed in front of\nthe lodge at one o\u2019clock in the afternoon his face, usually so calm,\nexpressed anxiety so plainly that Father Carbonnet, already prepared\nby the letter of citation which had arrived unsealed, according to a\nbarbarous custom, and which he had read, and as was right confided to\nhis wife--it was now the talk of the whole quarter--said:\n\n\u201cI am not inquisitive about other people\u2019s business, but I would give\nyears of my life as landlord to know what justice can want of poor M.\nSixte that he should come down at this time of day.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, M. Sixte has changed his hour for walking,\u201d said the baker\u2019s\ndaughter to her mother, as she sat behind the counter in the shop, \u201cit\nseems that he is going to have a lawsuit over an inheritance.\u201d\n\n\u201cStrike me if that isn\u2019t old Sixte going by, the old zebra! It appears\nthat justice is after him,\u201d said one of the two pupils in pharmacy to\nhis comrade; \u201cthese old fellows look very innocent, but at bottom they\nare all rogues.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe is more of a bear than usual, he will not even speak to us.\u201d This\nwas said by the wife of the professor of the College of France who\nlived in the same house with the philosopher and who had just met him.\n\u201cSo much the better, and they say he is going to be prosecuted for\nwriting such books. I am not sorry for that.\u201d\n\nThus we see how the most modest men, and those who believe themselves\nto be the least noticed, can not stir a step without incurring the\ncomments of innumerable tongues, even though they live in what\nParisians are pleased to call a quiet quarter. Let us add that M. Sixte\nwould have cared as little for this curiosity, even if he had suspected\nit, as he cared for a volume of official philosophy. This was for him\nan expression of extreme contempt.\n\n\n\n\n                                  II.\n\n                          THE GRESLON AFFAIR.\n\n\nTHE celebrated philosopher was in everything methodically punctual.\nAmong the maxims which he had adopted at the beginning, in imitation of\nDescartes, was this: \u201cOrder enfranchises the mind.\u201d\n\nHe arrived, therefore, at the Palais de Justice five minutes before\nthe time appointed. He had to wait a half-hour in the corridor before\nthe judge called him. In this long passage, with its long, bare, white\nwalls, and furnished with a few chairs and tables for the use of the\nmessengers, all voices were lowered, as is usual in all official\nantechambers.\n\nThere were six or seven other persons. The savants companions were an\nhonest bourgeois and his wife, some shopkeepers of the neighborhood\nwho were very much out of their element. The sight of this person,\nwith his smoothly-shaven face, his eyes hidden behind the dark, round\nglasses of his spectacles, with his long redingote and his inexplicable\nphysiognomy made these people so uneasy that they left the place where\nthey were whispering together:\n\n\u201cHe is a detective,\u201d whispered the husband to his wife.\n\n\u201cDo you think so?\u201d asked the woman regarding the enigmatic and\nimmovable figure in terror. \u201c_Dieu_! but he has a false look!\u201d\n\nWhile this profoundly comic scene was being acted, without the\nprofessional observer of the human heart suspecting for a moment the\neffect he was producing, nor even noticing that there was any one\nbeside him awaiting audience, the Judge of Instruction was talking with\na friend in a small room adjoining his office.\n\nAdorned with the autographs and portraits of some famous criminals,\nthis apartment served M. Valette for toilet-room, smoking-room, and\nalso a place of retreat when he wished to chat out of the inevitable\npresence of his clerk.\n\nThe judge was a man less than forty years of age, with a handsome\nprofile, clothes cut in the latest fashion and with rings on his\nfingers, in fact, a magistrate of the new school. He held in his hand\nthe paper on which the savant had written his name in a clear, running\nhand and passed it to his friend, a simple man of leisure, with one\nof those physiognomies at once nervous and expressionless which are\nonly seen in Paris. Would you try to read their tastes, habits, or\ncharacter? It is impossible, so manifold and contradictory are the\nsensations which have passed over the countenance. This _viveur_\nwas one of those men who are always present at first representations,\nwho visit painters\u2019 studios, who attend sensational trials, and who\npride themselves on being _au courant_ with the affairs of the\nday, \u201cin the swim,\u201d as they say to-day.\n\nAfter reading the name of Adrien Sixte, he exclaimed:\n\n\u201cWell, old fellow, have you the chance of talking with that man! You\nremember his chapter on love in some old book or other. Ah! he\u2019s a\nlascar who knows all about the women. But what the devil are you going\nto question him about?\u201d\n\n\u201cAbout this Greslon case,\u201d replied the judge; \u201cthe young man has often\nbeen to his house, and the defense has summoned him as witness for the\nprisoner. A commission of examination has been issued, nothing more.\u201d\n\n\u201cI wish I could see him,\u201d said the other.\n\n\u201cWould it give you pleasure? Nothing easier. I am going to have him\ncalled. You will go out as he comes in. Well, it is settled that we\nwill meet at Durand\u2019s at eight o\u2019clock, is it? Will Gladys be there?\u201d\n\n\u201cOf course. Do you know Gladys\u2019 latest?\u201d We were reproaching Christine\nin her presence for deceiving Jacques, when she said:\n\n\u201cBut she must have two lovers, for she spends in one year twice what\neach one gives her!\u201d\n\n\u201cFaith,\u201d said Valette, \u201cI believe that she surpasses, in the philosophy\nof love, all the Sixtes in the world and in the demi-world too.\u201d\n\nThe two friends laughed gayly, then the judge gave the order to call\nthe philosopher. The curious one, while shaking hands with Vilette and\nsaying: \u201cGood-by till evening, precisely at eight o\u2019clock,\u201d winked\nhis eye behind his single eyeglass in order the better to unmask the\nillustrious writer whom he knew from having read the piquant extracts\nfrom the \u201cTheory of the Passions,\u201d in the newspapers.\n\nThe appearance of the good man, at once timid and eccentric, who\nentered the judge\u2019s office with the most visible embarrassment,\ncontradicted so plainly the idea of the biting misanthrope, cruel\nand disillusioned, who was outlined in their imagination, that the\nman-about-town and the magistrate exchanged a look of astonishment.\nA smile came irresistibly to their lips, but only for a moment. The\nfriend was already gone. The other motioned to the witness to take a\nseat in one of the green velvet arm chairs with which the room was\nfurnished, a luxury completed, in the administrative manner, by a green\nmoquette carpet and a mahogany writing desk. The face of the judge had\nresumed its gravity.\n\nThese changes from one attitude to another are much more sincere than\nthose imagine who observe these contrasts of bearing between the\nprivate man and the functionary. The perfect social comedian, who holds\nhis profession in perfect contempt, is happily a very rare monster. We\nhave not this strength of scepticism in the service of our hypocrisies.\nThe witty M. Valette, so popular in the demi-monde, the friend of\nsporting men, emulated by journalists in witticisms, and who had just\nnow commented gayly upon the remark of a bold woman with whom he should\ndine in the evening, found no trouble to give place to the severe and\ncoolly skillful magistrate whose business it was to find out the truth\nin the name of the law. If his eye became suddenly acute it was that he\nmight penetrate to the bottom of the consciousness of the newcomer.\n\nIn these first moments of conversation with one whom it is their\npurpose to make talk, even against his own will, born magistrates\nexperience a kind of awakening of their militant nature, like fencers\nwho try the play of an unknown adversary.\n\nThe philosopher found that his presentiments had not deceived him,\nfor he saw, written in large letters on the bundle of papers which M.\nValette took up these words: \u201cGreslon Case.\u201d\n\nSilence reigned in the room broken only by the rustling of paper\nand the scratching of the clerk\u2019s pen. This person was preparing to\ntake down the interrogatory with that impersonal indifference which\ndistinguishes men accustomed to play the part of machine in the drama\nof judicial life. One case to them is as much like another as one death\nis like another to an employee of an undertaker, or one invalid like\nanother to a hospital attendant.\n\n\u201cI will spare you, monsieur,\u201d said the judge at last, \u201cthe usual\nquestions. There are some names and some men of which we are not\npermitted to be ignorant.\u201d\n\nThe philosopher did not even incline his head at this compliment. \u201cNot\nused to the world,\u201d thought the judge, \u201cthis is one of those literary\nmen who think it their duty to despise us,\u201d and then aloud: \u201cI come to\nthe fact which was the motive of the summons addressed to you. You know\nthe crime of which young Greslon is accused?\u201d\n\n\u201cPardon, monsieur,\u201d interrupted the philosopher, changing the position\nwhich he had instinctively taken to listen to the judge, his elbow on\nthe chair, his chin in his hand, and his index finger on his cheek, as\nin his grand, solitary meditations, \u201cI have not the least idea.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt was reported in all the papers with an exactness to which the\ngentlemen of the press have not accustomed us,\u201d responded the judge,\nwho thought it his duty to reply to the scorn of literature for the\nrobe diagnostic by a little persiflage; and he said to himself: \u201cHe is\ndissimulating--Why? To play sharp? How stupid!\u201d\n\n\u201cPardon, monsieur,\u201d said the philosopher again, \u201cI never read the\npapers.\u201d\n\nThe judge looked at him keenly and ejaculated an \u201cAh!\u201d in which there\nwas more irony than astonishment. \u201cVery good,\u201d thought he, \u201cyou want\nto compel me to state the case, wait a little.\u201d There was a certain\nirritation in his voice as he said:\n\n\u201cVery well, monsieur, I will sum up the accusation in a few words,\nregretting that you are not better informed of an affair which may very\nseriously affect your moral if not your legal responsibility.\u201d Here the\nphilosopher raised his head with an anxiety which delighted the judge\u2019s\nheart. \u201cCaught, my good man,\u201d said he to himself; and aloud: \u201cIn any\ncase, you know, monsieur, who Robert Greslon is, and the position which\nhe held in the family of the Marquis Jussat Randon. I have here among\nthese papers copies of several letters which you addressed to him at\nthe ch\u00e2teau, and which testify that you were--how shall I express\nit?--the intellectual guide of the accused.\u201d The philosopher again made\na motion of the head. \u201cI shall ask you presently to tell me if this\nyoung man ever spoke to joy of the domestic life of the family and in\nwhat terms. I give you no information probably when I tell you that\nthe family was composed of a father, mother, a son who is a captain of\ndragoons now in garrison at Lun\u00e9ville, a second son who was Greslon\u2019s\npupil, and a young girl of nineteen, Mlle. Charlotte.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe daughter was betrothed to the Baron de Plane, an officer in the\nsame company as her brother. The marriage had been delayed some months\nfor family reasons which have nothing to do with the affair. It had\nbeen definitely fixed for the fifteenth of last December.\u201d\n\n\u201cNow, one morning of the week which preceded the arrival of the\n_fianc\u00e9_ and of Count Andr\u00e9, the brother of Mlle. de Jussat, the\nmaid entering the room of her young mistress at the usual hour found\nher dead in her bed.\u201d\n\nThe magistrate made a pause, and while continuing to turn over the\npapers in his packet, looked with half-closed eyes at the witness. The\nstupor which was depicted on the face of the philosopher, showed such\nsincerity that the judge himself was astonished.\n\n\u201cHe knew nothing about it,\u201d said he to himself, \u201cthat is very strange.\u201d\n\nHe studied anew, without changing his preoccupied and indifferent air,\nthe countenance of the celebrated man; but he lacked the gifts which\nwould have rendered this abstracted person intelligible, this union\nof a brain all-powerful in the realm of ideas with an ingenuousness,\na timidity almost comical in the domain of facts. He could understand\nnothing of it, and he resumed his recital.\n\n\u201cThough the physician who was hastily summoned was only a modest,\ncountry practitioner, he did not hesitate a minute in recognizing that\nthe appearance of the body contradicted all idea of a natural death.\nThe face was livid, the teeth set, the pupils extraordinarily dilated,\nand the body, bent in an arch, rested on the nape of the neck and on\nthe heels. In brief, these were the signs of poisoning by strychnine.\n\n\u201cA glass upon the night-table contained the last drops of a potion\nwhich Mlle. de Jussat must have taken during the night, as was her\ncustom, for insomnia. She had been suffering for nearly a year from\na nervous malady. The doctor analyzed these drops and found traces\nof nux vomica. This, as you know, is one of the forms in which the\nterrible poison is sold as medicine. A small bottle without any label,\ncontaining some drops of a dark color, was picked up by a gardener\nunder the window of the room. This had been thrown from the window that\nit might be broken, but it had fallen on the soft earth of a freshly\ndug flower-bed. These brownish drops were also drops of nux vomica.\n\n\u201cThere was no doubt that Mlle. de Jussat had been poisoned. This was\ndemonstrated at the autopsy. \u201cWas it a suicide or a murder? If a\nsuicide, what motive had this young girl, who was soon to be married\nto a charming man whom she loved, for killing herself? and in such a\nway, without a word of explanation, without a letter of farewell to her\nparents! Beside, how had she procured the poison?\n\n\u201cThe investigation of this matter put justice on the track of the\nprisoner. Being questioned, the apothecary of the village deposed that\nsix weeks before the tutor at the ch\u00e2teau had bought some nux vomica to\ntake for a disorder of the stomach.\n\n\u201cNow the tutor went to Clermont under pretext of visiting his sick\nmother, on the very day of the discovery of the dead body, having been\nsummoned, as he said, by a telegraphic despatch. It was shown that\nthis telegram had never been received, that on the night of the crime\na servant had seen him coming out of Mlle. de Jussat\u2019s room; finally,\nthat the bottle of poison which had been bought at the druggist\u2019s, and\nwas found again in the room of the young man, had been partly emptied\nand then refilled with water.\n\n\u201cOther witnesses reported that Robert Greslon had been very assiduous\nin his attentions to the young girl, without the knowledge of her\nparents. A letter was even discovered which he had written to her\nand dated eleven months before, but which might be interpreted as a\nskillful attempt at a beginning of courtship. The servants and even the\nyoung lad who was his pupil testified that, for the past eight days,\nthe relations between Mlle. de Jussat and the tutor had been strained.\nShe would scarcely respond to his salutations. From these facts the\nfollowing hypothesis was deduced:\n\n\u201cRobert Greslon, being in love with this young girl, had courted her\nin vain and then poisoned her to prevent her marriage with another.\nThis hypothesis was strengthened by the lies of which the young man\nhad been guilty when he was questioned. He denied that he had ever\nwritten to Mlle. de Jussat; the letter was shown him, and even half of\nan envelope, with his handwriting upon it, was found among the remains\nof burned papers in the fireplace of the victim\u2019s room. He denied\ngoing out of Mlle. Charlotte\u2019s room on the night in question, and he\nwas brought face to face with the footman who had seen him, and who\nsupported his assertion with the greater energy that he confessed that\nhe had gone to keep an appointment with one of the maids with whom he\nwas in love, at the same hour.\n\n\u201cBeside, Greslon could not explain why he had bought the nux vomica.\n\n\u201cIt was proved that he had never before complained of any stomach\ntrouble. He could neither explain the invention of the dispatch, his\nsudden departure, nor his frightful agitation at the news of the\ndiscovery of the poisoning. Beside, no other motive than a lover\u2019s\nvengeance was admissible, from the simple fact that the victim\u2019s\njewelry and money were not taken and her body bore no mark of violence.\n\n\u201cThis is the way it was presumably done: Greslon entered Mlle. de\nJussat\u2019s room, knowing that she usually slept until two o\u2019clock, when\nshe awoke to take her potion. He put into this potion enough nux vomica\nto so overpower the girl that she had only time to replace the glass\nupon the table, but was unable to call for help. Then, fearing that his\nemotion would betray him, he went away before the body was discovered.\n\n\u201cThe empty bottle which was found on the ground he had thrown from the\nstudy window which opened directly above that of Mlle. Charlotte. The\nother bottle he had refilled with water by one of those unskillful\nruses which betray the novice in crime.\n\n\u201cIn brief, Greslon is now confined in the jail at Riom and will appear\nat the assizes of that city, in February, or early in March, accused of\npoisoning Mlle. de Jussat Randon.\n\n\u201cThe charge against him is made more overwhelming by his attitude\nsince his arrest. He has shut himself up in absolute silence, since his\nfalsehoods were confounded, and refuses to answer any question put to\nhim, simply saying he is innocent and has no need to defend himself. He\nhas refused counsel and is in a state of so profound melancholy that we\nmust believe that he is haunted by a terrible remorse.\n\n\u201cHe reads and writes a great deal, but what seems very strange, and\nshows the strength of the comedy with this young man of twenty, he\nreads and writes only on subjects of pure philosophy, no doubt to\ncounteract the bad impression made by his gloominess, and also to prove\nhis entire freedom of mind. The nature of the prisoner\u2019s occupations\nleads me, monsieur, after this prolonged statement, to the reason for\nwhich your evidence is desired in this case, by the mother of the\nyoung man, who naturally rebels against the evidence, and who is dying\nof grief, but is unable to overcome her son\u2019s silence. Your books,\nwith those of some English psychologists, are the only ones which the\nprisoner has asked for. I will add that your books were found on the\nshelves of his library, in a condition which show that they have been\nmost assiduously read, and between the printed leaves there are other\nleaves filled with comments, sometimes more developed than the text\nitself. You shall judge for yourself.\u201d\n\nWhile speaking M. Valette handed the philosopher a copy of the\n\u201cPsychology of God,\u201d which the latter opened mechanically. He could see\nat each printed page a corresponding leaf covered with writing similar\nto his own, but more confused and nervous.\n\nIn the tendency of the lines to fall, a graphologue would have\ndiscovered a tendency to easy discouragement. This similarity of\nwriting impressed the philosopher for the first time, and gave him a\nsingularly painful sensation. He closed the book and returning it to\nthe judge said:\n\n\u201cI am painfully surprised, monsieur, at the revelations you have just\nmade to me; but I confess I do not understand what sort of relation\nexists between this crime and my books or my person, nor what can be\nthe nature of the testimony I can be called upon to give.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is very simple, however,\u201d replied the judge. \u201cHowever grave\nthe charges against Robert Greslon may be they rest upon certain\nhypotheses. There are terrible presumptions against him, but there is\nno absolute certainty. So you see, monsieur, to use the language of the\nscience in which you excel, that a question of psychology will rule the\ncontest. What were the thoughts, what was the character of this young\nman? It is evident that, if he were much interested in abstract studies\nthe chances of his guilt diminish.\u201d\n\nWhile making this assertion, in which the savant did not suspect a\nsnare, Valette seemed more and more indifferent. He did not add that\none of the arguments of the prosecution, brought forward by the old\nMarquis de Jussat was that Robert Greslon had been corrupted by his\nreading. He wished to bring M. Sixte to characterize the principles\nwith which the young man had been impregnated.\n\n\u201cQuestion me, monsieur,\u201d responded the savant.\n\n\u201cShall we begin at the beginning?\u201d said the judge. \u201cIn what\ncircumstances and at what date did you make the acquaintance of Robert\nGreslon?\u201d\n\n\u201cTwo years ago,\u201d said the savant, \u201cin relation to a work of a purely\nspeculative kind upon human personality, which he came to submit to me.\u201d\n\n\u201cDid you see him often?\u201d\n\n\u201cTwice only.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat impression did he make on you?\u201d\n\n\u201cThat of a young man admirably endowed for psychological work,\u201d replied\nthe philosopher, weighing his words, so that the judge felt convinced\nthat he wished to see and speak the truth; \u201cso well endowed even that I\nwas almost frightened at his precocity.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe did not converse with you about his private life?\u201d\n\n\u201cVery little,\u201d said the philosopher; \u201che only told me that he lived\nwith his mother, and that he intended to make teaching his profession\nand at the same time work at some books.\u201d\n\n\u201cIndeed,\u201d replied the judge, \u201cthat was one of the articles laid down\nin a sort of programme of life which was found among the prisoner\u2019s\npapers, among those that are left. For it is one of the charges\nagainst him that, between his examination and his written attestation,\nhe destroyed the most of them. Could you,\u201d he added, \u201cgive any\nexplanation of one sentence of this programme which is very obscure\nto the profane who are not conversant with modern philosophy? Here is\nthe sentence,\u201d taking a sheet from among the others: \u201cMultiply to the\nutmost psychological experiences.\u201d \u201cWhat do you think Robert Greslon\nunderstands by that?\u201d\n\n\u201cI am very much puzzled to answer you, monsieur,\u201d said M. Sixte after a\nsilence; but the judge began to see that it was useless to use artifice\nwith a man so simple, and he understood that his silence simply showed\nthat he was seeking an exact expression for his thoughts. \u201cI only\nknow the meaning which I myself should attach to this formula, and\nprobably this young man was too well instructed in works of psychology\nnot to think the same. It is evident that in the other sciences of\nobservation, such as physics or chemistry, the counter-verification of\nany law whatever exacts a positive and concrete application of that\nlaw. When I have decomposed water, for example, into its elements,\nI ought to be able, all conditions being equal, to reconstruct\nwater out of these same elements. That is an experience of the most\nordinary kind, but which suffices to summarize the method of the\nmodern sciences. To know by an experimental knowledge is to be able\nto reproduce at will such or such a phenomenon, by reproducing its\nconditions.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs such a procedure admissible with moral phenomena? I, for\nmy part, believe that it is, and definitely this that we call\neducation is nothing more than a psychological experience more or\nless well established, since it sums up thus: having given such a\nphenomenon--which sometimes is called a virtue, such as patience,\nprudence, sincerity; sometimes an intellectual aptitude, such as a\ndead or a living language, orthography, calculation--to find the\nconditions in which this phenomenon produces itself the most easily.\nBut this field is very limited, for if I wished, for instance, the\nexact conditions of the birth of such passion being once known, to\nproduce at will this passion in a subject, I should immediately come\nup against insoluble difficulties of law and morals. There will come a\ntime perhaps, when such experiments will be possible.\n\n\u201cMy opinion is that, for the present, we psychologists must keep to\nthe experiences established by law and by accident. With memoirs, with\nworks of literature or art, with statistics, with law reports, with\nnotes on forensic medicine, we have a world of facts at our service.\n\n\u201cRobert Greslon had, in fact, discussed this _desideratum_ of our\nscience with me. I recollect, he regretted that those condemned to\ndeath could not be placed in special conditions, which would permit\nof experimenting upon them certain moral phenomena. This was simply\na hypothetical opinion, of a very young mind, who did not consider\nthat, to work usefully in this order of ideas, it is necessary to\nstudy one case for a very long time. It would be best to experiment on\nchildren, but how could we make any one believe that it would be useful\nto science to produce in them certain defects or certain vices for\nexample?\u201d\n\n\u201cVices!\u201d exclaimed the judge astounded by the tranquillity with which\nthe philosopher pronounced this phrase.\n\n\u201cI speak as a psychologist,\u201d responded the savant who smiled in his\nturn at the exclamation of the judge; \u201cthat is just why, monsieur, our\nscience is not susceptible of certain progress. Your exclamation proves\nthat if I had needed any proof. Society cannot get beyond the theory\nof the good and the bad which for us has no other meaning than to mark\na collection of conventions sometimes useful, sometimes puerile.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou admit, however, that there are good actions and bad actions,\u201d said\nM. Valette; then the magistrate asserting himself and turning this\ngeneral discussion to the profit of his inquiry: \u201cThis poisoning of\nMlle. de Jussat,\u201d he insinuated, \u201cfor example, you will admit that this\nis a crime?\u201d\n\n\u201cFrom the social point of view, without doubt,\u201d responded M. Sixte.\n\u201cBut for philosophy there is neither crime nor virtue. Our volitions\nare facts of a certain order governed by certain laws, that is all.\nBut, monsieur,\u201d and here the na\u00efve vanity of the writer showed itself,\n\u201cyou will find a demonstration of these theories, which I venture to\nthink conclusive, in my \u2018Anatomy of the Will.\u2019\u201d\n\n\u201cDid you sometimes approach these subjects with Robert Greslon?\u201d asked\nthe judge, \u201cand do you believe that he shared your views?\u201d\n\n\u201cVery probably,\u201d said the philosopher.\n\n\u201cDo you know, monsieur,\u201d asked the magistrate, unmasking his batteries,\n\u201cthat you come very near justifying the accusations of monsieur the\nMarquis de Jussat, who claims that the doctrines of contemporary\nmaterialists have destroyed all moral sense in this young man, and\nhave made him capable of this murder?\u201d\n\n\u201cI do not know what matter is,\u201d said M. Sixte, \u201cso I am not a\nmaterialist. As to throwing upon a doctrine the responsibility of the\nabsurd interpretation which a badly balanced brain gives to it, that is\nalmost as bad as to reproach the chemist who discovered dynamite for\nthe crimes in which this substance is employed. That is an argument\nwhich has no force.\u201d\n\nThe tone in which the philosopher pronounced these words revealed the\ninvincible strength of spiritual resistance which profound faith gives,\nas a timidity almost infantile, in the midst of the stir of material\nlife, was revealed in the accent with which he suddenly asked:\n\n\u201cDo you believe that I shall be obliged to go to Riom to testify?\u201d\n\n\u201cI think not, monsieur,\u201d said the judge who could not help noticing\nwith new astonishment the contrast between the firmness of thought in\nthe first part of his discourse and the anxiety with which this last\nsentence had been uttered, \u201cfor I see that your interviews with the\nprisoner have been more superficial than his mother believed, if indeed\nthey were limited to those two visits and to a correspondence which\nappears to have been exclusively philosophical. But have you never\nreceived any confidences relating to his life with the Jussats?\u201d\n\n\u201cNever; beside he ceased to write to me almost immediately after he\nentered that family, said M. Sixte.\u201d\n\n\u201cIn his last letters was there no trace of new aspirations, of\ninquietude of a curiosity of unknown sensations?\u201d\n\n\u201cI have not noticed any,\u201d said the philosopher.\n\n\u201cWell, monsieur,\u201d replied M. Valette after a brief silence, during\nwhich he studied anew this singular witness, \u201cI will not detain\nyou any longer. Your time is too precious. Permit me to go over\nthe few responses you have made, to my clerk. He is not accustomed\nto examinations that bear upon matters so elevated. You will sign\nafterward.\u201d\n\nWhile the magistrate was dictating to his clerk what he thought would\nbe of interest to justice in the deposition of the savant, the latter,\nwho was evidently confused by the horrible revelation of the crime of\nRobert Greslon and by his conversation with the judge, listened without\nmaking any remarks, almost without comprehending what was being said.\nHe signed his name without looking, after M. Valette had read aloud to\nhim the pages on which his answers were recorded, and once more before\ntaking leave he said:\n\n\u201cThen I can be very sure that I shall not have to go down there?\u201d\n\n\u201cI hope not,\u201d said the judge, conducting him to the door; and he\nadded: \u201cin any case it would only be for a day or two,\u201d feeling a\nsecret pleasure at the childish anguish depicted on the good man\u2019s\nface. Then when M. Sixte had left his office. \u201cThere are some fools\nthat it would be well to shut up,\u201d said he to his clerk, who assented\nby a nod. \u201cIt is through ideas like those of this fellow upon crime\nthat young people are ruined. He seems to be sincere. He would be less\ndangerous if he were a scoundrel. Do you know that he might easily cut\noff his disciple\u2019s head with his paradoxes? But that appears to be all\nright. He is only anxious to know if he will have to go to Riom. What\na maniac!\u201d And the judge and his clerk shrugged their shoulders and\nlaughed. Then the former after a reverie of some minutes, in which he\nwent over the various impressions he had received in regard to this\nbeing absolutely enigmatical to him, added:\n\n\u201cFaith, little did I ever suspect the famous Adrien Sixte was anything\nlike that. It is inconceivable.\u201d\n\n\n\n\n                                 III.\n\n                             SIMPLE GRIEF.\n\n\nTHE epithet by which the Judge of Instruction condemned the\nimpassibility of the savant would have been more energetic still, if he\ncould have followed M. Sixte and read the philosopher\u2019s thoughts during\nthe short time which separated this examination from the rendezvous\nfixed by the unhappy mother of Robert Greslon.\n\nHaving arrived in the great court of the Palais de Justice, he whom M.\nVilette at that very moment was calling a maniac looked first at the\nclock, as became a worker so minutely regular.\n\n\u201cQuarter-past two,\u201d he thought, \u201cI shall not be home before three.\nMadame Greslon ought to be there at four. I shall not be able to do any\nwork. That is very disagreeable.\u201d And he resolved on the spot to take\nhis daily walk, the more readily that he could reach the Jardin des\nPlantes along the river and through the city, whose old physiognomy and\nquiet peacefulness he loved.\n\nThe sky was blue with the clear blue of frosty days, vaguely tinted\nwith violet at the horizon. The Seine flowed under the bridges green\nand gayly laborious, with its loaded boats on which smoked the chimneys\nof small wooden houses whose windows were adorned with familiar plants.\nThe horses trotted swiftly over the dry pavement.\n\nIf the philosopher saw all these details in the time that he took to\nreach the sidewalk of the quay, with the precaution of a provincial\nafraid of the carriages, it was for him a sensation even more\nunconscious than usual. He continued to think of the surprising\nrevelation which the judge had just made to him; but a philosopher\u2019s\nhead is a machine so peculiar that events do not produce the direct\nand simple impression which seems natural to other persons. This one\nwas composed of three individuals fitted into one; there was the\nsimple-minded, Sixte, an old bachelor, a slave to the scrupulous care\nof his servant and anxious first of all for his material tranquillity.\nThen there was the philosophical polemic, the author, animated, unknown\nto himself, by a ferocious self-love common to all writers. And last,\nthe great psychologist, passionately attached to the problems of the\ninner life; and in order that an idea should accomplish its full action\nupon this mind, it was necessary for it to pass through these three\ncompartments.\n\nFrom the Palais de Justice to the first step on the border of the\nSeine, it was the bourgeois who reasoned: \u201cYes,\u201d said he to himself,\nrepeating the words which the sight of the clock had called forth,\n\u201cthat is very disagreeable. A whole day lost, and why? I wonder what I\nhave to do with all that story, of assassination, and what information\nmy testimony has brought to the examination!\u201d\n\nHe did not suspect that, in the hands of a skillful advocate, his\ntheory of crime and responsibility might become the most formidable of\nweapons against Greslon.\n\n\u201cIt was not worth the trouble to disturb me,\u201d continued he. \u201cBut these\npeople have no idea of the life of a man who writes. What a stupid that\njudge was with his imbecile questions! I hope I shall not have to go to\nRiom to appear before some others of the same sort!\u201d\n\nHe saw the picture of his departure painted afresh in his imagination\nin characters of odious confusion which a derangement of this kind\nrepresents to a man of study whom action unsettles and for whom\nphysical ennui becomes a positive unhappiness. Great abstract\nintellects suffer from these puerilities. The philosopher saw in a\nflash of anguish his trunk open, his linen packed, the papers necessary\nto his work placed near his shirts, his getting into a cab, the tumult\nof the station, the railway carriage, and the coarse familiarity of\nproximity, the arrival in an unknown town, the miseries of the hotel\nchamber without the care of Mlle. Trapenard, who had become necessary\nto him, although he was as ignorant of it as a child.\n\nThis thinker, so heroically independent that he would have marched\nto martyrdom for his convictions, with the firmness of a Bruno or a\nVanini, was seized by a sort of vertigo at the picture of an event so\nordinary.\n\nHe saw himself in the Hall of Assizes, constrained to answer questions,\nin the presence of an attentive crowd, and that without an idea to\nsupport him against his native timidity.\n\n\u201cI will never receive a young man again,\u201d he concluded, \u201cyes, I will\nshut my door henceforth. But I will not anticipate. Perhaps I shall not\nhave to go through this unpleasant task and all is ended. Ended?\u201d And\nalready the home-keeping citizen gave place in this inward monologue\nto the second person hidden within the philosopher, namely, the writer\nof books which were discussed with passion by the public. \u201cEnded?\u201d\nYes, for him who comes and goes, who lives in the Rue Guy de la Brosse\nand who would be very much annoyed if he had to go to Auvergne in the\nwinter, it may be. But what about my books and my ideas? What a strange\nthing is this instinctive hate of the ignorant for the systems which\nthey cannot even comprehend.\n\n\u201cA jealous young man murders a young girl to prevent her marrying\nanother. This young man has been in correspondence with a philosopher\nwhose works he studies. It is the philosopher who is guilty. And I am a\nmaterialist forsooth, I who have proved the nonexistence of matter!\u201d\n\nHe shrugged his shoulders, then a new image crossed his memory,\nthe image of Marius Dumoulin, the young substitute at the College\nof France, the man whom he most detested in the world. He saw, as\nif they were there before his eyes, some of the formul\u00e6 so dear to\nthis defender of spiritualism: \u201cFatal doctrines. Intellectual poison\ndistilled from pens which one would like to believe are unconscious.\nScandalous exposure of a psychology of corruption.\u201d \u201cYes,\u201d said Adrien\nSixte to himself with bitterness, \u201cif some one does not catch up this\nchance which makes an assassin of one of my pupils, it will not be he!\nPsychology will have done it all.\u201d\n\nIt is proper to state that, Dumoulin had, on the appearance of the\n\u201cAnatomy of the Will,\u201d pointed out a grave error. Adrien Sixte had\nbased one of his most ingenious chapters upon a so-called discovery of\na German physician which was proved to be incorrect. Perhaps Dumoulin\ndwelt on this inadvertence of the great analyst with a severity of\nirony far too disrespectful.\n\nM. Sixte, who rarely noticed criticisms, had replied to this one. While\nconfessing the error, he proved without any trouble, that this point\nof detail did not affect the thesis as a whole. But he cherished an\nunpardonable rancor against the spiritualist.\n\n\u201cIt is as if I heard him!\u201d thought Sixte. \u201cWhat he may say of my books\nis nothing but psychology? Psychology! This is the science on which\ndepends the future of our beloved France.\u201d\n\nAs we see, the philosopher, like all other systematics, had reached\nthe point where he made his doctrines the pivot of the universe. He\nreasoned about like this: Given a historic fact, what is the chief\ncause of it? The general condition of mind. This condition is derived\nfrom the current ideas. The French Revolution, for example, proceeded\nentirely from a false conception of man which springs from the\nCartesian philosophy and from the \u201cDiscourse on Method.\u201d\n\nHe concluded that to modify the march of events, it was necessary to\nmodify the received notions upon the human mind, and to install in\ntheir place some precise notions whence would result a new education\nand politics. So in his indignation against Dumoulin he sincerely\nbelieved that he was indignant at an obstacle to the public good.\n\nHe had some unpleasant moments while thus figuring to himself this\ndetested adversary, taking as a text the death of Mlle. de Jussat for a\nvigorous sortie against the modern science of the mind.\n\n\u201cShall I have to answer him again?\u201d asked Sixte, who already was sure\nof the attack of his rival, such power have the passions to consider\nreal that which they only imagine. \u201cYes,\u201d he insisted, and then aloud,\n\u201cI will reply in my best manner!\u201d\n\nHe was by this time behind the apsis of Notre Dame and he stopped\nto survey the architecture of the cathedral. This ancient edifice\nsymbolized to him the complex character of the German intellect\nwhich he contrasted in thought with the simplicity of the Hellenic\nmind, reproduced for him in a photograph of the Parthenon, which he\nhad often contemplated in the Library of Nancy. The remembrance of\nGermany changed the current of his thoughts for a moment. He recalled,\nalmost unconsciously, Hegel, then the doctrine of the identity of\ncontrarieties, then the theory of evolution which grew out of it. This\nlast idea, joined itself to those which had already agitated him, and\nresuming his walk, he began to argue against the anticipated objections\nof Dumoulin in the case of young Greslon.\n\nFor the first time the drama of the Ch\u00e2teau Jussat-Randon appeared\nreal to his mind, for he was thinking of it with the most real part\nof his nature, his psychologic faculty. He forgot Dumoulin as well as\nthe inconveniences of the possible journey to Riom, and his mind was\ncompletely absorbed by the moral problem which the crime presented.\n\nThe first question would naturally have been: \u201cDid Robert Greslon\nreally assassinate Mlle. de Jussat?\u201d But the philosopher did not think\nof that, yielding to this defect of generalizing minds, that never more\nthan half verify the ideas upon which they speculate. Facts are, to\nthem, only matter for theoretic using, and they distort them wilfully\nthe better to build up their systems. The philosopher again took up\nthe formula by which he summed up this drama: \u201cA young man who becomes\njealous and commits a murder, this is one more proof in support of my\ntheory that the instinct of destruction and that of love awake at the\nsame time in the male.\u201d He had used this principle to write a chapter\nof extraordinary boldness on the aberrations of the generative faculty\nin his \u2018Theory of the Passions.\u2019\n\nThe reappearance of fierce animality among the civilized would alone\nsuffice to explain this act. It would be necessary also to study the\npersonal heredity of the assassin. He forced himself to see Robert\nGreslon without any other traits than those which confirmed the\nhypothesis already outlined in his mind.\n\n\u201cThose very brilliant black eyes, those too vivacious gestures, that\nbrusque manner of entering into relations with me, that enthusiasm\nin speaking to me, there was nervous derangement in this fellow. The\nfather died young? If it could be proved that there was alcoholism\nin the family, then there would be a beautiful case of what Legrand\nDu Saulle calls _\u00e9pilepsie larv\u00e9e_. In this way his silence may\nbe explained, and his denials may be sincere. This is the essential\ndifference between an epileptic and the deranged. The last remembers\nhis act, the epileptic forgets them. Would this then be a _larval\nepileptic_?\u201d\n\nAt this point of his reverie the philosopher experienced a moment of\nreal joy. He had just constructed a building of ideas which he called\nan explanation, following the habit so dear to his race. He considered\nthis hypothesis from different points, recalling several examples cited\nby his author in his beautiful treatise on forensic medicine, until he\narrived at the Jardin des Plantes, which he entered by the large gate\nof the Quay Saint Bernard.\n\nHe turned to the right into an avenue planted with old trees whose\ndistorted trunks were inclosed in iron and coated with whitewash.\nThere floated in the air a musty smell emanating from the tawny beasts\nwhich moved around in their barred cages nearby. The philosopher was\ndistracted from his meditations by this odor, and he turned to look at\na large, old wild-boar with an enormous head, which, standing on his\nslender feet, held his mobile and eager snout between the bars.\n\n\u201cAnd,\u201d thought the savant, \u201cwe know ourselves but little better than\nthis animal knows himself. What we call our person is a consciousness\nso vague, so disturbed by operations which are going on within us,\u201d\nand returning to Robert Greslon: \u201cWho knows? This young man who was so\npreoccupied by the multiplicity of the self? Did he not have an obscure\nfeeling that there were in himself two distinct conditions, a primary\nand secondary condition as it were--two beings in fact, one, lucid,\nintelligent, honest, loving works of the intellect, the one whom I\nknew; and another, gloomy, cruel, impulsive, the one who has committed\nmurder. Evidently this is a case. I am very happy to have come across\nit.\u201d He forgot that on leaving the Palais de Justice he had deplored\nhis relations with the accused. \u201cIt will be a fortunate thing to study\nthe mother now. She will furnish me with facts about the ancestors.\nThat is what is lacking to our psychology; good monographs made _de\nvisu_ upon the mental structure of great men and of criminals. I\nwill try to write out this one.\u201d\n\nAll sincere passion is egoistic, the intellectual as well as the\nothers. Thus the philosopher, who would not have harmed a fly\nwalked with a more rapid step in going toward the gate at the Rue\nCuvier whence he would reach the Rue Jussieu, then the Rue Guy de la\nBrosse--he was about to have an interview with a despairing mother who\nwas coming, without doubt, to entreat him to aid her in saving the\nhead of a son who was perhaps innocent! But the possible innocence of\nthe prisoner, the grief of the mother, the part which he himself would\nbe called to play in this novel scene, all were effaced by the fixed\nidea of the notes to be taken, of the little insignificant facts to be\ncollected.\n\nFour o\u2019clock struck when this singular dreamer, who no more\nsuspected his own ferocity than does a physician who is charmed by a\nbeautiful autopsy, arrived in front of his house. On the threshold\nof the _porte coch\u00e8re_ were two men: Father Carbonnet and the\n_commissionaire_ usually stationed at the corner of the street.\nWith their back turned to the side from which Adrien Sixte came, they\nwere laughing at the stumblings of a drunken man on the opposite walk,\nand saying such things as a spectacle of that character suggests to the\ncommon people. The cock Ferdinand, brown and lustrous, hopped about\ntheir feet and picked between the stones of the pavement.\n\n\u201cThat fellow has taken a drop too much for sure,\u201d said the\n_commissionaire_.\n\n\u201cWhat if I should tell you,\u201d responded Carbonnet, \u201cthat he has not\ndrunk enough? For if he had drunk more, he would have fallen down at\nthe wineseller\u2019s. Good! see him stumble up against the lady in black.\u201d\n\nThe two speakers, who had not seen the philosopher, continued to bar\nthe way. The last; with the customary amenity of his manners, hesitated\nto disturb them.\n\nMechanically he turned his eyes in the direction of the drunken man. He\nwas an unfortunate fellow in rags; his head was covered with a high hat\nweakened by innumerable falls; his feet danced in his wornout boots. He\nhad just knocked against a person in deep mourning who was standing at\nthe angle of the Rue Guy de la Brosse and the Rue Linn\u00e9. Without doubt\nshe was looking at some one on the side of this latter street, some one\nin whom she was interested, for she did not turn at once.\n\nThe man in rags, with the persistency of drunken people, was excusing\nhimself to this woman, who then first became aware of his presence.\nShe drew back with a gesture of disgust. The drunken man became\nangry, and supporting himself against the wall, hurled at her some\noffensive language; a crowd of children soon collected around him.\nThe _commissionaire_ began to laugh, and so did Carbonnet. Then\nturning around to look for the cock, muttering: \u201cWhere has he gone\nto crow, the runaway?\u201d he saw Adrien Sixte, behind whom Ferdinand had\ntaken refuge, and who was also regarding the scene between the drunken\nman and the unknown lady.\n\n\u201cAh! Monsieur Sixte,\u201d said the _concierge_, \u201cthat lady in black\nhas been twice to ask for you in the last quarter of an hour. She said\nthat you were expecting her.\u201d\n\n\u201cBring her here,\u201d responded the savant. \u201cIt is the mother,\u201d thought\nhe. His first impulse was to go in at once, then a kind of timidity\ncame over him, and he remained at the door while the _concierge_,\nfollowed by the cock, went over to the group collected on the corner of\nthe street.\n\nThe woman no sooner heard Carbonnet\u2019s words than she turned toward the\nphilosopher\u2019s house, leaving Ferdinand\u2019s master to scold the drunkard.\n\nThe philosopher, instinctively continuing his reasoning, instantly\nnoticed a singular resemblance between the mysterious person and the\nyoung man about whom he had been questioned. There were the same bright\neyes, in a very pale face, and the same cast of features. There was\nnot the least doubt, and immediately the implacable psychologist,\ncurious only about a case to be studied, gave place to the awkward,\nsimple-minded man, unskillful in practical life, embarrassed by his\nlong body and not knowing how to say the first word. Mme. Greslon, for\nit was she, relieved him by saying: \u201cI am, monsieur, the person who\nwrote to you yesterday.\u201d\n\n\u201cVery much honored, madame,\u201d stammered the philosopher, \u201cI regret that\nI was not at home earlier. But your letter said four o\u2019clock. And then\nI have just come from the Judge of Instruction, where I was summoned to\ntestify in the case of this unhappy child.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh! monsieur,\u201d said the mother, touching M. Sixte upon the arm to call\nhis attention to the _commissionaire_ who stood in the angle of\nthe door to listen.\n\n\u201cI beg your pardon,\u201d said the savant, who comprehended the cruelty of\nhis abstraction. \u201cPermit me to pass before you to show you the way.\u201d\n\nHe proceeded to mount the stairs which began to be dark at this time\nof a winter\u2019s day. He went up slowly to suit the lassitude of his\ncompanion, who held by the rail, as if she had scarcely energy enough\nto ascend the four flights. Her short breath which could be heard in\nthe provincial silence of this empty house, betrayed the feebleness of\nthe unhappy woman.\n\nAs little sensitive as was the philosopher to the outer world, he was\nfilled with pity when, entering his study with its closed shutters\nwhich the fire and the lamp already lighted by his servant softly\nillumined, he saw his visitor face to face. The wrinkle plowed from the\ncorners of the mouth to the _ala_ of the nose, the lips scorched\nby fever, the eyebrows contracted, the darkness about the eyelids, the\nnervousness of the hands in their black gloves, in which she held a\nroll of paper, without doubt some justifying memoir--all these details\nrevealed the torture of a fixed idea; and scarcely had she fallen into\na chair when she said in a broken voice:\n\n\u201cMy God! my God! I am then too late. I wished to speak to you,\nmonsieur, before your conversation with the judge. But you defended\nhim, did you not? You said that it was not possible; that he had not\ndone what they accuse him of? You do not believe him guilty, monsieur,\nyou whom he called his master, you whom he loved so much?\u201d\n\n\u201cI did not have to defend him, madame,\u201d said the philosopher; \u201cI was\nasked what had been my relations with him, and as I had seen him only\ntwice, and he spoke only of his studies----\u201d\n\n\u201cAh!\u201d interrupted the mother with an accent of profound anguish; and\nshe repeated: \u201cI have come too late. But no,\u201d she continued, clasping\nher trembling hands. \u201cYou will go before the Court of Assizes to\ntestify that he cannot be guilty, that you know he cannot be? One does\nnot become an assassin, a poisoner, in a day. The youth of criminals\nprepares the way for their crimes. They are bad persons, gamblers,\nfrequenters of the saloons. But he has always been with his books, like\nhis poor father. I used to say to him: \u2018Come, Robert run out, you must\ntake the air, you must amuse yourself.\u2019 If you could have seen what a\nquiet little life we lead, he and I, before he went into this accursed\nfamily. And it was for my sake that he should not cost me anything more\nthat he went into it, and that he might go on with his studies.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe would have been admitted in three or four years and then perhaps\nhave taken a position in a lyceum at Clermont. I should have had him\nmarry. I have seen a good _parti_ for him. I should have remained\nwith him, in some corner, to take care of his children. Ah! monsieur!\u201d\nand she sought in the philosopher\u2019s eyes, a response in harmony with\nher passionate desire; \u201ctell me, if it is possible for a son who had\nsuch ideas to do what they say he has done? It is infamous; is it not\ninfamous, monsieur?\u201d\n\n\u201cBe calm, madame, be calm.\u201d These were the only words which Adrien\nSixte could find to say to this mother who wept over the ruin of her\nmost cherished hopes. Beside, being still under the impression of his\nconversation with the judge, she seemed to him to be so wildly beyond\nthe truth, a prey to illusions so blind that he was stupefied, and\nalso, why not confess it? the renewed prospect of the journey to Riom\nfrightened him as much as the grief of the mother affected him.\n\nThese different impressions showed themselves in his manner by an\nuncertainty, an absence of warmth which did not deceive the mother.\nExtreme suffering has infallible intuitions of instinct. This woman\nunderstood that the philosopher did not believe in the innocence of her\nson, and with a gesture of extreme depression, recoiling from him with\nhorror, she moaned:\n\n\u201cMonsieur, you too, you are with his enemies. You--you?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, madame, no,\u201d gently responded Adrien Sixte, \u201cI am not an enemy.\nI ask nothing better than to believe what you believe. But you will\npermit me to speak frankly? Facts are facts, and they are terribly\nagainst him. The poison bought clandestinely, the bottle thrown out of\nthe window, the other bottle half emptied then refilled with water,\nthe going out of the girl\u2019s room on the night of her death; the false\ndispatch, his sudden departure, those burned letters, and then his\ndenial of it all.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut, monsieur, there is no proof in all that,\u201d interrupted the mother,\n\u201cno proof at all. What of his sudden departure? He had been wishing for\nmore than a month to get away from the place, I have a letter in which\nhe speaks of his plan, and beside his engagement was almost at an end.\nHe fancied that they wished to retain him and he was tired of the life\nof a tutor, and then, as he is so timid, he gave a false pretext and\ninvented this unfortunate dispatch that is all. And as to the poison\nhe did not buy it secretly. He has suffered for years from a stomach\ntrouble. He has studied too hard immediately after his meals. Who saw\nhim go out of that room? A servant! What if the real murderer paid\nthis servant to accuse my son? Do we know anything about this girl\u2019s\nintrigues and who were interested in killing her?\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you not see that all these and the letters and the bottle are parts\nof the plan for making suspicion fall on him? How? Why? That will be\nfound out some day. But what I do know is that my son is not guilty. I\nswear it by the memory of his father. Ah! do you believe I would defend\nhim like this if I felt him to be a criminal? I would ask for pity,\nI would weep, I would pray, but now I cry for justice, justice! No,\nthese people have no right to accuse him, to throw him into prison, to\ndishonor our name, for nothing, for nothing. You see, monsieur, I have\nshown you that they have not a single proof.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf he is innocent, why this obstinacy in keeping silent?\u201d asked the\nphilosopher, who thought that the poor woman had shown nothing except\nher desperation in struggling against the evidence.\n\n\u201cAh! if he were guilty he would talk,\u201d cried Mme. Greslon, \u201che would\ndefend himself, he would lie! No,\u201d added she in a hollow voice, \u201cthere\nis some mystery. He knows something, that I am sure of, something which\nhe does not wish to tell. He has some reason for not speaking. Perhaps\nhe does not wish to dishonor this young girl, for they claim that he\nloved her. Oh! monsieur, I have wanted to see you at any risk, for you\nare the only one who can make him speak, who can make him tell what he\nhas resolved not to tell. You must promise me to write to him, to go to\nhim. You owe this to me,\u201d she insisted in a hard tone. \u201cYou have made\nme suffer so much.\u201d\n\n\u201cI?\u201d exclaimed the philosopher.\n\n\u201cYes, you,\u201d replied she bitterly, and as she spoke her face betrayed\nthe strength of old grudges; \u201cwhose fault is it that he has lost\nfaith? Yours, monsieur, through your books. My God! How I did hate you\nthen! I can still see his face when he told me he would not commune\non All-Soul\u2019s day, because he had doubts. \u2018And thy father?\u2019 said I to\nhim, \u2018All-Soul\u2019s day!\u2019 said he: \u2018Leave me alone, I do not believe in\nthat any longer, that is done with.\u2019 He was sitting at his table and he\nhad a volume before him which he closed while he was talking to me.\nI remember. I read the name of the author mechanically. It was yours,\nmonsieur.\n\n\u201cI did not argue with him that day; he was a great savant already, and\nI a poor, ignorant woman. But the next day, while he was at college I\ntook M. the Abb\u00e9 Martel, who had educated him, into his room to show\nhim the library. I had a presentiment that it was the reading which had\ncorrupted my son. Your book, monsieur, was still on the table. The abb\u00e9\ntook it up and said to me: \u2018This is the worst of them all.\u2019\n\n\u201cMonsieur, pardon me, if I wound you, but do you see, if my son were\nstill a Christian, I would go and pray his confessor to command him\nto speak. You have taken away his faith, monsieur, I do not reproach\nyou any more; but what I would have asked of the priest, I have come\nto ask of you. If you had heard him when he came back from Paris! He\nsaid to me, speaking of you: \u2018If you knew him _maman_, you would\nvenerate him, for he is a saint.\u2019 Ah! promise me to make him speak.\nLet him speak for me, for his father, for those who love him, for you,\nmonsieur, who cannot have had an assassin for a pupil. For he is your\npupil, you are his master; he owes it to you to defend himself, as much\nas to me his mother.\u201d\n\n\u201cMadame,\u201d said the savant with deep seriousness, \u201cI promise you\nto do all that I can.\u201d This was the second time to-day that this\nresponsibility of master and pupil had been thrust upon him. Once\nby the judge, repelled by the resistance of the thinker who repels\nwith disdain a senseless reproach. The words of this good woman,\nquivering with this human grief to which he was so little accustomed,\ntouched other fibres than those of pride. He was still more strangely\naffected when Mme. Greslon, seizing his hand with a gentleness which\ncontradicted the bitterness of her last words, said:\n\n\u201cHe spoke the truth when he said you were good. I came too,\u201d she\ncontinued drying her tears, \u201cto requite myself of a commission with\nwhich the poor child charged me. And see if there is not in it a proof\nthat he is innocent. In his prison during these two months, he has\nwritten a long work on philosophy. He considers it by far his best work\nand I am charged to hand it to you.\u201d She gave the savant the roll of\npaper which she had held on her lap. \u201cIt is just as he gave it to me.\nThey let him write as much as he likes, everybody loves him. They do\nnot allow me to speak to him except in the frightful parlor where there\nis always the guard between us. Will you look?\u201d she insisted, and in an\naltered tone: \u201cHe has never lied to me, and I believe whatever he has\ntold me. If, however, he had only thought to write to you what he will\nnot confide to any one else?\u201d\n\n\u201cI will see immediately,\u201d said Adrien Sixte, who unfolded the roll.\nHe threw his eyes over the first page of the manuscript and he saw\nthe words: \u201cModern Psychology,\u201d then on the second sheet another\ntitle, \u201cMemoir upon Myself,\u201d and underneath were the following lines:\n\u201cI write to my dear master. Monsieur Adrien Sixte, and engage his\nword to keep to himself the pages which follow. If he do not agree\nto make this engagement with his unhappy pupil, I ask him to destroy\nthis manuscript, confiding in his honor not to deliver it to any one\nwhomsoever, even to save my life.\u201d And the young man had simply signed\nhis initials.\n\n\u201cWell?\u201d asked the mother as the philosopher continued to turn over the\nleaves, a prey to profound anxiety.\n\n\u201cWell!\u201d responded he, closing the manuscript and holding the first\npage before the curious eyes of Mme. Greslon, \u201cthis is only a work on\nphilosophy, as he told you. See.\u201d\n\nThe mother had a question on her lips, and suspicion in her eyes while\nshe was reading the technical formula which was unintelligible to her\npoor mind. She had observed Adrien Sixte\u2019s hesitation. But she did not\ndare to ask, and she rose saying:\n\n\u201cYou will excuse me for having kept you so long, monsieur. I have\nplaced my last hope upon you, and you will not deceive a mother\u2019s\nheart. I carry your promise with me.\u201d\n\n\u201cAll that it will be possible for me to do that the truth may be\nknown,\u201d said the philosopher gravely, \u201cI will do, madame, I promise you\nagain.\u201d\n\nWhen he had conducted the unhappy woman to the door, and was again\nalone in his study Adrien Sixte remained for a long time plunged in\nreflection. Taking up the manuscript, he read and reread the sentence\nwritten by the young man, and pushing away the tempting manuscript, he\npaced the floor. Twice he seized the sheets and approached the fire,\nbut he did not throw them into the flames. A combat was going on in his\nmind between a devouring curiosity, and apprehensions of very different\nkinds. To contract the engagement which this reading would impose on\nhim, and to learn what could be learned from these pages would throw\nhim, perhaps, into a horrible situation. If he were going to hold in\nhis hands the proof of the young man\u2019s innocence without the right\nto use it, or what he suspected still more, the proof of his guilt,\nwhat then? Without being conscious of it he trembled in his inmost\nnature, lest he find in this memoir if there were crime, the trace of\nhis own influence, and the cruel accusations already twice formulated,\nthat his books were mixed up with this sinister history. On the other\nhand, the unconscious egoism of studious men who have a horror of all\nconfusion, forbade him to enter any further into a drama with which he\nhad definitely nothing to do.\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d he concluded, \u201cI will not read this memoir; I will write to this\nboy as I have promised the mother to do, then it will be ended.\u201d\n\nHowever, his dinner had come in the midst of his reflections. He ate\nalone, as always, seated in the corner by a porcelain stove, the\nweather being very chilly, the heat was his only comfort, and before a\nlittle round table, covered with a piece of oilcloth. The lamp which\nserved for his work lighted his frugal repast, consisting, as usual, of\nsoup and one dish of vegetables with some raisins for dessert, and for\ndrink water alone.\n\nOrdinarily he took one of the books which had been exiled from the\ntoo-crowded study, or he listened while Mlle. Trapenard exposed the\ndetails of the housekeeping. On this evening he did not look for a\nbook, and his housekeeper tried in vain to discover if the lady\u2019s\nvisit and the summons had any connection. The wind rose, a winter\u2019s\nwind whose plaint from across the empty space died gently against\nthe shutters. Seated in his armchair after his dinner, with Robert\nGreslon\u2019s manuscript before him, the savant listened for a long time\nto this monotonous but sad music. His hesitation returned. Then\npsychology drove away all scruples, and when later Mariette came to\nannounce that his bed was ready, he told her to retire. Two o\u2019clock\nstruck and he was still reading the strange piece of self-analysis\nwhich Robert Greslon called a memoir upon himself, but whose correct\ntitle should have been:\n\n\u201cConfession of a Young Man of the Period.\u201d\n\n\n\n\n                                  IV.\n\n               CONFESSION OF A YOUNG MAN OF THE PERIOD.\n\n\n                                      \u201cTHE JAIL AT RIOM, January, 1887.\n\n\u201cI WRITE to you, monsieur, this memoir of myself which I have refused\nto the counsel in spite of my mother\u2019s entreaties. I write it to you,\nwho in reality know so little of me, and at what a moment of my life!\nfor the same reason that led me to bring my first work to you. There is\nmy illustrious master, between you and myself, your pupil accused of\na most infamous crime, a bond which men could not understand, and of\nwhich you yourself are ignorant, but which I feel to be as close as it\nis indissoluble. I have lived with your thought, and by your thought so\npassionately, so entirely at the most decisive period of my life! Now\nin the distress of my mental agony, I turn to the only being of whom I\ncan expect hope, implore aid.\n\n\u201cAh! do not misunderstand me, venerated master, and believe that the\nterrible trouble with which I am struggling is caused by the vain\nforms of justice which surround me. I should not be worthy the name\nof philosopher if I had not, long ago, learned to consider my thought\nas the only reality, and the external world an indifferent and fatal\nsuccession of appearances. From my seventeenth year, I have adopted\nas a rule to be repeated in the hours of small or great annoyances,\nthe formula of our dear Spinoza: \u2018The force by which man perseveres in\nexistence is limited, and that of external causes infinitely surpass\nit.\u2019\n\n\u201cI shall be condemned to death in six weeks, for a crime of which I am\ninnocent, and from which I can not clear myself, you will understand\nwhy, after having read these pages--and I shall go to the scaffold\nwithout trembling. I shall support this event with the same effort\nat composure as if a physician, after having auscultated me, should\ndiagnose an advanced disease of the heart. Condemned, I shall have\nto conquer first the revolt of the animal nature and then to support\nmyself against the despair of my mother.\n\n\u201cI have learned from your works the remedy for such feelings, and in\nopposing to the image of approaching death the sentiment of inevitable\nnecessity, and in diminishing the vision of my mother\u2019s grief by the\nrecollection of the psychological laws which govern consolations, I\nshall arrive at a relatively calm state of mind. Certain sentences of\nyours will suffice for this, that, for example, in the fifth chapter of\nthe second volume of your \u201cAnatomy of the Will,\u201d which I know by heart:\n\n\u201c\u2018The universal interweaving of phenomena causes each to bear the\nweight of all the others, in the same way that each portion of the\nuniverse, and at each moment, may be considered as a _r\u00e9sum\u00e9_ of\nall that has been, of all that is, and of all that will be. It is in\nthis sense that it is permissible to say that the world is eternal in\nits detail as well as in its whole.\u2019\n\n\u201cWhat a sentence, and how it envelops, as well as affirms and\ndemonstrates the idea that everything is necessary in and around us\nsince we too are a parcel and a moment of this eternal world! Alas! why\nis it that this idea which is so lucid when I reason, as one ought to\nreason, with my mind, and in which I acquiesce with all the strength\nof my being, cannot overcome in me a species of suffering so peculiar,\nwhich invades my heart when I recall certain actions which I have\nwilled, and others of which I am the author, although indirectly, in\nthe drama through which I have passed?\n\n\u201cTo tell you all in a few words, my dear master, though once more I\nsay that I did not kill Mlle. de Jussat, I have been connected in the\nclosest manner with the drama of her poisoning, and I feel remorse,\nalthough the doctrines in which I believe, the truths which I know,\nand the convictions which form the essence of my intellect, make me\nconsider remorse the most silly of human illusions.\n\n\u201cThese convictions are powerless to procure me the peace of certainty,\nwhich once was mine. I doubt with my heart that which my mind\nrecognizes as truth. I do not think that for a man whose youth was\nconsumed by intellectual passions, there can be a worse punishment than\nthis. But why try to interpret by literary phrases a mental condition\nwhich I wish to expose to you in detail--to you the great connoisseur\nin maladies of the mind--in order that you may give me the only aid\nwhich can do me any good; some word which shall explain me to myself,\nwhich shall attest to me that I am not a monster, which shall sustain\nme in the disorder of my beliefs, which shall prove to me that I have\nnot been deceived all these years, in adhering to the new faith with\nall the energy of a sincere being.\n\n\u201cIndeed, my dear master, I am very miserable, and I must speak out\nall my misery. To whom shall I address myself, if not to you, since I\nshould have no hope of being intelligible to any one not familiar with\nthe psychology in which I have been educated.\n\n\u201cSince coming to this prison, two months ago, the moment I resolved\nto write to you has been the only one in which I have been what I was\nbefore these terrible events occurred. I had tried to become absorbed\nin some work of an entirely abstract order, but found myself unable to\nmaster it.\n\n\u201cI have considered only this for four days, and, thanks to you, the\npower of thought has returned. I have found something of the pleasure\nwhich was mine when I wrote my first essays, in resuming, for this\nwork, the cold severity of my method--your method. I wrote out\nyesterday a plan of this monograph of my actual self, in practising the\ndivision by paragraphs which you have adopted in your works. I have\nproved the persistent vigor of my reflection in reconstructing my life\nfrom its origin, as I would resolve a problem of geometry by synthesis.\n\n\u201cI see distinctly at the present time that the crisis from which I\nsuffer has for its factors, first my heredities, then the medium of\nideas in which I was educated, finally the medium of facts into which\nI was transplanted by my introduction among the Jussat-Randons. The\ncrisis itself and the questions which it raises in my mind shall be\nthe last fragments of a study which I shall strip of insignificant\nrecollections, to reduce it to what a master of our time calls\ngeneratrices. At least I shall have furnished you an exact document\nupon the modes of feeling which I formerly believed to be very precious\nand very rare, and I shall have proved to you in two ways, first by my\nconfidence in your absolute discretion, and second by my appeal for\nyour philosophical support, what you have been to him who writes these\nlines, and who asks your pardon for this long preamble and begins at\nonce his dissection.\u201d\n\n\n                          \u00a7 I. MY HEREDITIES.\n\n\nAs far back as I can remember, I find that my dominant faculty, the\none that has been present in every crisis of my life, great or small,\nand which is present to-day, has been the faculty, I mean the power\nand the need of duplication. There have always been in me, as it were,\ntwo distinct persons; one who went, came, acted, felt, and another\nwho looked at the first go, come, act, and feel with an impassable\ncuriosity.\n\nAt this very hour and knowing that I am in prison, accused of a capital\ncrime, blasted in honor, and overwhelmed in sadness, knowing that it\nis this very I, Robert Greslon, born at Clermont the 5th of September,\n1865, and not another, I think of this situation as a spectacle at\nwhich I am a stranger. Is it even exact to say I? Evidently not. For\nmy true self is, properly speaking, neither the one who suffers not\nthe one who looks on. It is made up of both, and I have had a very\nclear perception of this duality, although I was not then capable of\ncomprehending this psychological disposition exaggerated to an anomaly,\nfrom my childhood, the childhood which I wish to recall with the\nimpartiality of a disinterested historian.\n\nMy first recollections are of the city of Clermont-Ferrand, and of a\nhouse which stood on a promenade now very much changed by the recent\nconstruction of the artillery school. The house, like all the houses in\nthis city, was built of Volvic stone, a gray stone which darkens with\nage, and which gives to the tortuous streets the appearance of a city\nof the middle ages.\n\nMy father, who died when I was very young, was of Lorraine extraction.\nHe held at Clermont the position of engineer of roads and bridges.\nHe was a slender man of feeble health, with a face almost beardless,\nand marked with a melancholy serenity which touched me, when I think\nof him, after all these years. I see him again in his study, through\nwhose windows may be viewed the immense plain of the Limagne, with the\ngraceful eminence of the Puy de Crou\u00ebl quite near, and in the distance\nthe dark line of the mountains of Forez.\n\nThe railway station was near our house, and the whistling of the\ntrains was constantly heard in this quiet study. I used to sit on the\ncarpet in the corner by the fire, playing without making any noise, and\nthis strident call produced on my mind a strange impression of mystery,\nof distance, of the flight of time, and of life which endures to the\npresent.\n\nMy father traced with his chalk upon a blackboard enigmatic signs,\ngeometric figures or algebraic formulas, with that clearness of the\ncurves, or the letters which revealed the habitual method of his\nbeing. At other times he wrote, standing at an architect\u2019s table which\nhe preferred to his desk, a table consisting simply of a white wood\nboard placed on trestles. The large books on mathematics arranged with\nthe most minute care in the bookcase, and the cold faces of savants,\nengraved in copperplate and framed under glass, were the only objects\nof art with which the walls were decorated.\n\nThe clock which represented the globe of the world, two astronomical\nmaps which hung above the desk, and upon this desk the calculating\nruler with its figures and its copper slide, the square, the compass,\nthe T rule. I recall them all, at will, the smallest details of this\nroom whose whole atmosphere was thought, and these images aid me\nto comprehend how from my infancy the dream of a purely ideal and\ncontemplative existence became elaborated in me, favored by heredity.\n\nMy later reflections have shown me, in several traits of my character,\nthe result transmitted under form of instinct of the life of abstract\nstudy that my father led. I have, for example, always felt a singular\nhorror of action, so much so that, making a simple visit caused my\nheart to pant and the slightest physical exercise was intolerable to\nme, such as wrestling with another person; even to discuss my most\ncherished ideas appeared to me, and still appears, almost impossible.\n\nThis dread of action is explained by the excess of brainwork which,\npushed too far, isolates man in the midst of the realities which he\nhardly endures, because he is not habitually in contact with them. I\nfeel that this difficulty of adapting myself to facts comes to me from\nthis poor father; from him also comes this faculty of generalization,\nwhich is the power, but at the same time the mania of my mind; and it\nis also his work that a morbid predominance of the nervous system has\nrendered my will so wild at certain times.\n\nMy father, who was still young when he died, had never been robust. He\nwas obliged at the growing age to undergo the trial of preparation for\nthe Polytechnic School which is ruinous to the soundest health. With\nnarrow shoulders and with limbs weakened by long sittings at sedentary\nmeditations, this savant with transparent hands seemed to have in his\nveins, instead of red globules of generous blood, a little of the dust\nof the chalk which he handled so much.\n\nHe did not transmit to me muscles capable of counterbalancing the\nexcitability of my nerves, so that with this faculty of abstraction, I\nowe to him a kind of ungovernable intemperance of desire. Every time\nthat I have ardently wished for anything it has been impossible to\nrepress this covetousness. This is a hypothesis which has often come to\nme when I have been analyzing myself, that abstract natures are more\nincapable than others of resisting passion, when passion is aroused,\nperhaps because the daily relation between action and thought is broken\nin them.\n\nFanatics would be the most signal proofs of this. I have seen my\nfather, usually so patient and gentle, so overcome by the violence of\nanger as almost to faint. In this I am also his son, and through him\nthe descendant of a grandfather as ill-balanced, a sort of primitive\ngenius, who, half-peasant, had risen by force of mechanical inventions\nto be a civil engineer, and was then ruined by lawsuits.\n\nOn this side of my race there has always been a dangerous element,\nsomething wild, at times, by the side of constant intellectuality.\nI formerly considered this double nature a superior condition; the\npossible ardor of passion joined with this continuous energy of\nabstract thought. It was my dream to be at the same time frenzied and\nlucid, the subject and the object, as the Germans say, of my analysis;\nthe subject who studies himself and finds in this study a means of\nexaltation and of scientific development. Alas! Whither has thy chimera\nled me? But it is not the time to speak of effects, we are still with\nthe causes.\n\nAmong the circumstances which affected me during my childhood, I\nbelieve the following to be one of the most important: Every Sunday\nmorning, and as soon as I could read, my mother took me with her to\nmass. This mass was celebrated at eight o\u2019clock in the Church of the\nCapuchins recently built on a boulevard shaded by Plantanes which led\nfrom Sablon Court to Laureau Square, along the Jardin des Plantes.\n\nAt the door of the church, there used to sit, in front of a portable\nshop, a cake seller called Mother Girard, with whom I was well\nacquainted, for I had bought of her little bunches of cherries in the\nspring. This was the first fruit of the season that I might eat. This\ndainty, acid and fresh, was one of the sensualities of these days of\nchildhood, and any one who had observed me, might have seen this frenzy\nof desire of which I have spoken. I was almost in a fever when on my\nway to this shop.\n\nThis was not the only reason why I preferred the Church of the\nCapuchins with its extremely plain architecture, to the subterranean\ncrypts of Notre-Dame-du-Port and to the vaults of the cathedral upheld\nby it elegant clustered columns. At the Capuchins the choir was closed.\nDuring the offices, invisible mouths behind the grating chanted the\ncanticles, which strangely effected my childish imagination; they\nseemed to me to come from so far off, an abyss or a tomb. I looked at\nmy mother praying beside me with the fervor which was shown in her\nsmallest actions, and I thought that my father was not there, that he\nnever came to church. My child\u2019s brain was so puzzled by this absence,\nthat, one day, I asked:\n\n\u201cWhy does not papa come to mass with us?\u201d\n\nMy inquiring child\u2019s eyes had no trouble to see the embarrassment into\nwhich this question threw my mother. She withdrew from it, however, by\nan answer analogous to hundreds of others which a woman so essentially\nenamored of fixed principles and of obedience has since given me.\n\n\u201cHe goes to another mass, at an hour which suits him better, and then\nI have already told you that children ought never to ask why their\nparents do this or that.\u201d\n\nAll the difference of mind which separated my mother and myself is\nfound in this sentence, uttered one cold morning in winter, while\nwalking under the trees of Sablon Court. I can see her now in her\npelerine, her hands in her muff lined with brown silk from which her\nbook came halfway out, and the sincerity of her face even in her pious\nfalsehood. I can see her eyes, which so many times since have regarded\nme with a look which did not comprehend me, and at this period she\ndid not suspect that for my meditative childish nature to think, was\nalready to ask, always and in relation to everything; why? Yes, why had\nmy mother deceived me? For I knew that my father went to no kind of\noffice. And why did he not go?\n\nWhile the grave and sad voices of the concealed monks were intoning the\nresponses of the mass, I was absorbed in this question. I knew without\nbeing able to appreciate the reasons of the superiority that my father\nwas accounted among the first of the city. How many times in walking\nwere we stopped by some friend, who tapping me on the cheek would say:\n\u201cWell, will we get to be a great savant like the father some day?\u201d\n\nWhen my mother took his advice, she listened with the greatest respect.\nShe thought it natural that he did not perform certain duties which,\nfor us, were obligatory. We had not the same duties. This idea was not\nformulated then in my childish brain with this positive distinctness,\nbut it developed there the germ of that which later became one of the\nconvictions of my youth--to know that the same rules do not govern\nintellectual minds that control other men.\n\nIt was there in that little church, quietly bending over my prayer\nbook, that the great principle of my life had birth, not to consider\nas a law for thinking men that which is and ought to be a law for\nothers--just as I received from the conversations with my father,\nduring our excursions, the first germs of my scientific view of the\nworld.\n\nThe country around Clermont is marvelous, and although I am the reverse\nof poetical, a man for whom the external world means very little, I\nhave always retained in my memory the pictures of the landscapes which\nsurrounded these walks. While the city on one side looks toward the\nplain of the Limagne, on the other it stands on the foothills of the\nD\u00f4me Mountains. The slope of the extinct craters, the undulations\ncaused by old eruptions and the streams of hardened lava give to the\noutlines of these volcanic mountains a resemblance to the landscapes in\nthe moon as discovered by the telescope in that dead planet.\n\nOn one side is the savage and sublime memorial of the most terrible\nconvulsions of the globe, and on the other the prettiest rusticity\nof stony roads among the vineyards, of murmuring brooks under the\nwillows and chestnuts. The great pleasures of my childhood were the\ninterminable wanderings with my father in all the paths which lead from\nthe Puy de Crou\u00ebl to Gergovie, from Royat to Durtol, from Beaumont to\nGravenoire.\n\nSimply in writing these names, my memory rejuvenates my heart. I see\nmyself again the little boy, whom a portrait represents with long\nhair, with his legs in cloth leggings, who walks along holding his\nfather\u2019s hand. Whence came this love for the fields to him, the learned\nmathematician, the man of study and of reflection? I have often thought\nof it since, and I believe I have discovered a law of the development\nof mind;--our youthful tastes persist even when we are developed in a\nsense contrary to them, and we continue to exercise these tastes while\njustifying them by intellectual reasons which would exclude such things.\n\nI will explain. My father naturally loved the country because he was\nbrought up in a village, and when he was small had passed whole days on\nthe banks of the brooks among the insects and the flowers. Instead of\nyielding to these tastes in a simple manner, he mingled them with his\npresent occupations. He would not have pardoned himself for going to\nthe mountains without studying there the formation of the land; for\nlooking at a flower without determining its character and discovering\nits name; for taking up an insect without recalling its family and its\nhabits.\n\nThanks to the rigor of his method in all work he arrived at a very\ncomplete knowledge of the country; and, when we walked together, this\nknowledge was the sole subject of our conversation. The landscape of\nthe mountains became a pretext for explaining to me the revolutions\nof the earth; he passed from that with a clearness of speech which\nmade such ideas intelligible to me, to the hypothesis of Laplace\nupon nebula, and I saw distinctly in my imagination the planetary\nprotuberances flying off from the burning nucleus, from this torrid sun\nin rotation.\n\nThe heavens at night in the beautiful summer months became a kind of\nmap which he deciphered for me, and on which I distinguished the Pole\nStar, the seven stars of the Chariot, Vega of the Lyre, Sirius, all\nthose inaccessible and formidable worlds of which science knows the\nvolume, the position and almost the very metals of which they are\ncomposed.\n\nIt was the same with the flowers which he taught me to arrange in an\nherbarium, with the stones which I broke with a little iron hammer,\nwith the insects which I fed or pinned up, as the case might be. Long\nbefore object lessons were practiced in the college my father applied\nto my education first this great maxim: \u201cGive a scientific account of\nanything we may encounter.\u201d\n\nThus reconciling the pleasantry of his first impressions with the\nprecision acquired in his mathematical studies. I attribute to this\nteaching the precocious spirit of analysis which was developed in me\nduring my early youth, and which, without doubt, would have turned\ntoward the positive studies if my father had lived. But he could not\ncomplete this education, undertaken after a prepared plan of which I\nhave since found trace among his papers.\n\nIn the course of one of our walks, and on one of the warmest days of\nsummer, in my tenth year, we were overtaken by a storm which wet us to\nthe bones. During the time that it required to reach home in our soaked\nclothes my father took cold. In the evening he complained of a chill.\nTwo days after an inflammation of the lungs declared itself, and the\nweek following he died.\n\nAs I wish, in this summary indication of diverse causes which formed my\nmind, to avoid at any cost that which I hate most of anything in the\nworld, the display of subjective sentimentality, I will not recount\nto you, my dear master, any further details of this death. They were\nheartrending, but I felt their sadness only in a far-off way, and that\nlater.\n\nI recollect, though I was a large and remarkably developed boy, to\nhave felt more wonder than sorrow. It is now that I truly regret my\nfather--that I comprehend what I lost in losing him. I believe you\nhave seen exactly what I owe to him; the taste and the facility for\nabstraction, the love of the intellectual life, faith in science and\nthe precocious management of method--these for the mind; for the\ncharacter, the first divination of the pride of intellect, and also\nan element slightly morbid, this difficulty of action which has as\nits consequence the difficulty in resisting the passions when one is\ntempted.\n\nI wish also to mark distinctly what I owe to my mother. And from the\nfirst I perceive this fact that this second influence acts upon me by\nreaction, while the first had acted directly. To speak truly, this\nreaction only began when she became a widow and wished to direct my\neducation. Until then she had entirely given me up to my father.\n\nIt may seem strange that, alone in the world, she and I, she so\nenergetic, so devoted, and I so young, we did not live, at least during\nthose years, in perfect communion of heart. There exists in fact, a\nrudimentary psychology for which these words--mother and son--are\nsynonyms of absolute tenderness, of perfect agreement of soul. Perhaps\nit is so in the families of ancient tradition, although in human nature\nI believe very little in the existence of entire sympathy between\npersons of different ages and sexes.\n\nIn any case, modern families present under conventional etiquette the\nmost cruel phenomena of secret divorce, of complete misunderstanding,\nsometimes of hate, which are too well understood when we think of their\norigin. They come from the mixture for a hundred years of province with\nprovince, race with race, which has charged the blood of nearly all\nof us with hereditary opposites. So people find themselves nominally\nof the same family who have not a common trait either in their moral\nor mental structures; consequently the daily intimacy between persons\nbecomes a cause of daily conflicts or of constant dissimulation. My\nmother and I are an example of it which I would qualify as excellent,\nif the pleasure of finding very clear proof of a psychologic law was\nnot accompanied by keen regret at having been its victims.\n\nMy father, I have told you, was an old pupil of the Polytechnic School\nand the son of a civil engineer. I have also said he was of Lorraine\nrace. There is a proverb which says: \u201cLorraine traitor to its king and\neven to God.\u201d This epigram expresses in a unique form the idea that\nthere is something complex in the mind of this frontier population.\n\nThe people of Lorraine have always lived on the border of two races and\nof two existences, the German and the French. What is this disposition\nto treachery if not the depravity of another taste, admirable from\nthe intellectual point of view, that of sentimental complication?\nFor my part, I attribute to this atavism the power of doubling of\nwhich I spoke at the beginning of this analysis. I ought to add that,\nwhen I was a child, I often felt a strange pleasure in disinterested\nsimulation which proceeded from the same principle. I recounted to my\ncomrades all sorts of inexact details concerning myself, about my place\nof birth, my father\u2019s birthplace, about a walk which I was intending to\ntake, and this not to boast, but simply to be some one else.\n\nI found singular pleasure later in advancing opinions the most opposed\nto those which I considered the true ones from the same _bizarre_\nmotive. To play a r\u00f4le different from my true nature appeared to me an\nenrichment of my person, so strong was the instinct to resolve myself\ninto a character, a belief, a passion.\n\nMy mother is a woman of the South, absolutely rebellious against\nall complexity, to whom ideas of things alone are intelligible. In\nher imagination the forms of life are reproduced concrete, precise\nand simple. When she thinks of religion, she sees her church, her\nconfessional, the communion cloth, the few priests whom she has known,\nthe catechism in which she studied. When she thinks of a career, she\nsees positive activity and benefits. The professorate, for example,\nwhich she desired me to enter, was for her M. Limasset, the professor\nof mathematics, the friend of my father, and she saw me, like him,\ngoing across the city twice a day in an alpaca coat and Panama hat\nin summer, and my feet protected in winter by clogs, and my body in\na furred overcoat, with a fixed salary, the perquisites of private\ntuition and the sweet assurance of a pension.\n\nI have been able by studying her to learn how completely this order of\nimagination renders those whom it governs incapable of comprehending\nother souls. It is often said of such people that they are despotic and\npersonal, or that they have bad characters. In reality, they are before\nthose with whom they associate like a child before a watch. He sees the\nhands move, he knows nothing of the wheels which make them move. So\nwhen these hands do not go to suit his fancy there is the stupidity of\nimpatience to force them and to warp the springs.\n\nMy poor mother was like this with me, and that from the week which\nfollowed our trouble. I felt almost immediately an indefinable\ndiscomfort in her presence. The first circumstance which enlightened me\nin regard to this separation which had begun between us, so far as my\nchildish mind could be enlightened, dates from an afternoon of autumn,\nnearly four months after my father\u2019s death.\n\nThe impression received was so strong that I recall it as if it had\nhappened yesterday. We had changed apartments, and had rented the third\nfloor of a house in the Rue Billard, a narrow lane which distorts the\nshadows of Des Petits-Abres, in front of the palace of the Prefecture.\nMy mother had chosen it because there was a balcony in which I was\nplaying on this beautiful afternoon. My play--you will here recognize\nthe scientific turn given by my father to my imagination--consisted in\ntaking a pebble, which represented a great explorer, from one end of\nthe balcony to the other, and among other stones which I had taken from\nthe flower pots.\n\nSome of these stones represented cities, others curious animals of\nwhich I had read descriptions. One of the parlor windows opened on\nthe balcony. It was partly open, and my play having led me thither I\nheard my mother talking to a visitor. I could not help listening with\nthat beating of the heart which the hearing my personality discussed\nhas always produced. I learned afterward that between our real nature\nand the impression produced on our relations, and even on our friends,\nthere is no more similarity than there is between the exact color of\nthe face and its reflection in a blue, green, or yellow glass.\n\n\u201cPerhaps,\u201d said the visitor, \u201cyou are mistaken in regard to poor\nRobert, at ten years the character is not at all formed.\u201d\n\n\u201cGod grant that it may be so,\u201d replied my mother, \u201cbut I am afraid\nhe has no heart. You cannot imagine how hard he has been since his\nfather\u2019s death. The next day even he seemed to have forgotten all about\nit. And he has never said a word since--such a word as makes you feel\nthat one is thinking of another you now. When I speak to him of his\nfather, he hardly answers me. You would think he had never known the\nman who was so good to him.\u201d\n\nI have read somewhere that when Merim\u00e9e was quite a child he was\none day scolded by his mother and then sent out of the room. He was\nscarcely gone when his mother burst out laughing. The child heard the\nlaugh which showed him that the irritation had been feigned, and he\nfelt a feeling of distrust rise in his heart which always remained.\nThis anecdote impressed me very strongly.\n\nThe impression of the celebrated writer offered a startling analogy\nwith the effect which this fragment of conversation produced upon me.\nIt was very true that I never spoke of my father, but how false that\nI had forgotten him! On the contrary, I thought of him constantly. I\nnever walked along the street, I could not look at any piece of our\nfurniture without the remembrance of his death taking such possession\nof me that I was almost ill. But with this was mingled a fearful\nastonishment that he had gone forever, and it was all confounded in a\nkind of anxious apprehension, which closed my mouth when any one talked\nwith me about him.\n\nI know now that my mother could have known nothing of the workings of\nmy mind. But, at that time, as I heard her thus condemn my heart, I\nexperienced a profound humiliation. It seemed to me that she was not\nacting toward me as it should be her duty to act. I felt that she was\nunjust, and because I was timid, being still a young boy and shy, I\nbecame irritated at her injustice, instead of trying to tell her how I\nfelt.\n\nFrom that moment it became impossible for me to show myself to her as I\nwas. And whenever her eyes sought mine to learn my emotions I felt an\nirresistible desire to conceal from her my inmost being.\n\nThat was the first scene--if anything so insignificant can be dignified\nby so big a name--followed by a second which I will notice in spite of\nits apparent unimportance. Children would not be children if the events\nimportant to their sensibility were not puerile.\n\nI was, at this period, already passionately fond of reading, and\nchance had put into my hands a very different kind of books from those\nwhich are given as prizes at school. It was this way: although my\nfather as a mathematician knew little of general literature, he loved\na few authors whom he understood in his way; and when afterward I\nfound some of his notes on these authors, I learned to appreciate the\ndegree to which the feeling for literature is a personal, irreducible,\nincommensurable thing to borrow a word from his favorite science there\nis no common measure between the reasons for which two minds like or\ndislike the same writer.\n\nAmong other works my father owned a translation of Shakespeare in two\nvolumes, which they put on my chair to raise my seat at table. They\nleft me without thinking how these volumes illustrated by engravings\nwould very soon incite my curiosity to read the text. There was a Lady\nMacbeth rubbing her hands in presence of a frightened physician and a\nservant, and Othello entering Desdemona\u2019s chamber with a poniard in\nhis hand, and bending his black face toward the white, sleeping form,\na King Lear tearing his clothing under the zigzags of the lightning, a\nRichard III. asleep in his tent and surrounded by specters.\n\nFrom the accompanying text I read, before my tenth year, fragments\nwhich made me familiar with all these dramas which exalted my\nimagination, in so far as I could seize the meaning of them, without\ndoubt because they were written for popular audiences, and admit an\nelement of primitive poetry, and an infantine exaggeration.\n\nI loved these kings, who, joyous or despairing, defiled past at the\nhead of their armies, who lost or gained battles in a few minutes, I\nenjoyed this slaughter accompanied by a flourish of trumpets behind\nthe scenes, the rapid passages from one country to another, and the\nchimerical geography. In brief, whatever there is in these dramas\nand especially in the chronicles that is very much abridged, almost\nrudimentary, so charmed me, that when I was alone I played with the\nchairs, imagining them to be Lancaster, Warwick, or Gloucester.\n\nMy father, who had an extreme repugnance to the troublesome realities\nof life, relished in Shakespeare that which is simple and touching, the\nprofiles of women so delicately drawn; Imogene and Desdemona, Cordelia\nand Rosalind pleased him, though the comparison may seem strange, for\nthe same reason that he enjoyed the romances of Dickens, Topffer and\neven the child\u2019s play of Florian and Berquin.\n\nHere we may see the contrasts which prove the incoherence of artistic\njudgments which are founded upon sentimental impression. I also read\nall these books, and those of Walter Scott, as well as the rural tales\nof George Sand, in an illustrated edition. It would certainly have\nbeen better for me not to have nourished my imagination on elements\nso incongruous and sometimes dangerous. But at my age I could not\nunderstand more than a quarter of the sentences, and while my father\nwas toiling at his blackboard, combining his formulas, I believe that\nthe lightning might have struck the house without his knowing it,\ncarried away as he was by the all-powerful demon of abstraction.\n\nMy mother, to whom this demon is as much a stranger as the beast of the\nApocalypse, did not wait long, after the first hours of our trouble had\npassed, before she rummaged the room in which I studied; and, under an\nexercise, she discovered a large, open book--Scott\u2019s \u201cIvanhoe.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat book is this?\u201d she asked, \u201cwho permitted you to take it?\u201d\n\n\u201cBut I have read it once already,\u201d I replied.\n\n\u201cAnd these?\u201d she continued, in looking over the little library where by\nthe side of schoolbooks, were, beside the Shakespeare, the \u201cNouvelles\nG\u00e9nevoises\u201d and \u201cNicholas Nickleby,\u201d \u201cRob Boy\u201d and \u201cLa Mare au Diable.\u201d\n\u201cThese are not suitable for a person of your age,\u201d she insisted, \u201cand\nyou may help me carry all these books into the parlor, and put them in\nyour father\u2019s library.\u201d\n\nSo I carried them, three at a time, some almost too heavy for my small\narms, into the cool room furnished in haircloth. With her white hands\nin their black mitts, she took the books and arranged them alongside\nof the big treatises on mathematics. She closed the glass door of the\nbookcase, locked it, and put the key on the ring with others, which she\nalways carried with her. Then she added severely:\n\n\u201cWhen you wish a book you may ask me for it.\u201d\n\nI ask her for one of those books, but which one? I knew so well that\nshe would refuse me all those which I had any desire to read! I have\nalready shown too plainly that we did not think alike on any point.\nI complain of her having put a stop to my liveliest pleasure, less\nperhaps because of the prohibition than for the reason she gave. For\nshe believed it to be her duty to repeat the phrases on the danger of\nromances, no doubt borrowed from some manual of piety, which appeared\nto me to express exactly the contrary to that which I had experienced.\n\nShe made the danger I had run in this indiscriminate reading the\npretext for occupying herself more closely with my studies and\ndirecting my education. This was her duty, but the contrast was too\ngreat between the ideas into which my father had precociously initiated\nme and the poverty of her mind, which was furnished with impressions\npositive, mean, and almost vulgar.\n\nI went to walk with her now, and she talked with me. Her conversation\nwas confined to my bearing, my manners, my little comrades, and their\nparents. My intellect, which had been too early trained in the pleasure\nof thought, felt stifled and oppressed.\n\nThe motionless landscape of extinct volcanoes recalled to me the grand\nconvulsions of the terrestrial drama which my father formerly traced.\nThe flowers which I plucked my mother would hold for a few minutes,\nand then let fall almost without looking at them. She was ignorant of\ntheir names, as she was of those of the insects which she compelled me\nto throw down as soon as I had picked them up, saying they were unclean\nand venomous.\n\nThe roads among the vines no longer led to the discovery of the vast\nworld to which the genial word of the dead had invited me. They were\nsimply a continuation of the streets of the city and the misery of\ndaily cares. I seek in vain for suitable words to express the vague\nand singular ennui of a mutilated mind, of a rarefied atmosphere which\nthese walks inflicted on me.\n\nLanguage was created by men to express the ideas of men. The terms are\nlacking which correspond to the incomplete perceptions of children, to\ntheir penumbra of soul. How can I tell the suffering, which I did not\nmyself comprehend, of a mind in which were fermenting high and broad\nconceptions, of a brain upon the border of the great intellectual\nhorizon, and which had to submit to the unconscious tyranny of another\nbrain, narrow and weak, a stranger to all general ideas, to every view\neither ample or profound?\n\nNow that I have passed through this period of repressed and thwarted\nyouth, I interpret the smallest episodes by the laws of the\nconstitution of mind, and I take into account that fate, in confiding\nthe education of such a child as I was to the woman who was my mother,\nhad associated two forms of thought as irreducible the one to the other\nas two different species.\n\nThese details, in which I find the proof of this constitutive\nantithesis between our two natures, come to me by thousands. I have\nsaid enough on this point so that I may content myself by noting with\nprecision the result of this silent collision of our minds, and to\nborrow formulas in the philosophic style, I believe, that by this wrong\neducation, two germs were prepared in me: the germ of a sentiment and\nthe germ of a faculty; the sentiment was that of the solitude of the\nindividual, the faculty that of internal analysis.\n\nI have said that in the order of sensibility as in that of thought,\nI had almost immediately felt that I could not show myself to my\nmother as I was. I thus learned, though I was scarcely born into the\nintellectual life that there is in us an obscure incommunicable\nelement. This was in my case a timidity at first--then it grew into a\npride. But have not all forms of pride a common origin?\n\nNot to dare to show ourselves is to become isolated; and to become\nisolated is very soon to prefer one\u2019s self. I have since found, in\nsome recent philosophers, M. Renan, for example, this sentiment of\nthe solitude of the soul, but it was transformed into a triumphant\nand transcendental disdain; I have found it changed into disease and\nbarrenness in the Adolphe of Benjamin Constant, aggressive and ironical\nin Beyle.\n\nIn the poor little collegian of a provincial lyceum, who trotted\nthrough the slippery streets of his mountain town in winter, with his\ncartable under his arm and his feet in galoshes, it was only an obscure\nand painful instinct; but this instinct, after being applied to my\nmother, grew more and more applying itself to my comrades and to my\nmasters. I felt that I was different from them with this difference:\nI believed that I understood them perfectly and that they did not\nunderstand me. Reflection has taught me that I did not understand them\nany better than they understood me; but I also see now that there was\nreally this difference between us, that they accepted their person and\nmine simply, purely, bravely, while I had already begun to complicate\nmyself by thinking too much of myself. If I had very early felt that,\ncontrary to the word of Christ, I had no neighbor, it was because I had\nbegun very early to exasperate the consciousness of my own soul, and\nconsequently to mate of myself an _exemplaire_, without analogy,\nof excessive individual sensibility.\n\nMy father had endowed me with a premature curiosity of mind. As he was\nnot there to direct me toward the world of positive knowledge, this\ncuriosity fell back upon myself. The mind is a living creature, and\nas with all other creatures, every power is accompanied by a want. It\nwould be necessary to reverse the old proverb and say: To be able is to\nwish. A faculty in us always leads to the wish to exercise it.\n\nMental hereditary and my early education made an intellectual being of\nme before my time. I continued to be such a being, but all my intellect\nwas applied to my own emotions. I became an absolute egoist with an\nextraordinary energy of disdain with regard to everyone else. These\ntraits of my character appeared later under the influence of the crises\nof ideas though which I have passed and of which I owe you the history.\n\n\n                      \u00a7 II. THE MEDIUM OF IDEAS.\n\n\nThe diverse influences which I have just rather abstractly summarized,\nbut in terms which you will understand, my dear master, had first\nthis unexpected result, to make of me a very pious child, between my\neleventh and my fifteenth year. If I had been placed in the college\nas a boarder, I should have grown like my comrades whom I have since\nstudied and for whom there has never been a religious crisis.\n\nAt the period of which I am writing, and which marked the definite\nadvent of the democratic party in France, a great wave of free thought\nrolled from Paris into all the provinces; but I was the son of a very\ndevout woman, and I was subjected to all the observances of religion.\nI find a proof of what I have told you of my precocious taste for\nanalysis in the fact that unlike all my young companions, I was\ndelighted with the confessional. I can say that, during the four years\nof the mystic crisis of youth, from 1876 to 1880, the great events of\nmy life were these long s\u00e9ances in the narrow wooden box in the church\nDes Minimes, which was our parish church, where I went every fortnight\nto kneel down and speak in a low voice, with a beating heart, of what\nwas passing within me.\n\nThe approach of my first communion marked the birth of this feeling\nfor the confessional, mixed with contradictory elements. I believed,\nconsequently, my little sins appeared to me to be veritable crimes, and\nto confess them made me ashamed. I repented, and I had the certainty\nthat I rose pardoned, with the delight of a conscience washed from\nevery stain. I was an imaginative and nervous child, and there was for\nme in the scenery of the sacrament, in the cold silence of the church,\nin the odor of vault and incense which filled it, in the stammering of\nmy own voice saying, \u201cMy father,\u201d and in the whispering of the priest\nresponding, \u201cmy son,\u201d from behind the grating, a poetry of mystery\nwhich I felt without understanding.\n\nUnited with this, there was a singular impression of fear, which was\nderived from the teaching of Abb\u00e9 Martel, the priest who prepared us\nfor our first communion. He was a small, short man, with an apoplectic\nface, and a grave, hard blue eye, a man who had been educated in a\nprovincial seminary still penetrated with Jansenism. His eyes, when\nfrom the pulpit of Des Minimes he was talking to us of hell, saw\nvisions of terror, and this sensation he communicated to us.\n\nI rejoice that he is dead, for if he were living I might see him enter\nmy prison, and who knows what might happen then? Perhaps I should\nsuffer a recurrence of those emotions of terror which his presence used\nto inflict. The constant themes of his discourse were the small number\nof the elect and the divine vengeance.\n\n\u201cWho could hinder God,\u201d said the priest, \u201csince he is all-powerful,\nfrom forcing the soul of the man who has committed murder to remain\nnear the body from which it is separated? The soul would be there,\nin the mortuary chamber, hearing the sobs, seeing the tears of the\nfriends, and yet forbidden to console them. It would be imprisoned in\nthe winding-sheet, and there during days and days and nights and nights\nit would be present at the corruption of the flesh, which was once its\nown, there among the worms and the rot.\u201d\n\nSuch images and such ferocity of invention abounded in his bitter\nmouth; they followed me into my sleep; the fear of hell was excited in\nme almost to madness. The Abb\u00e9 Martel employed the same eloquence in\npresenting the decisive importance to our salvation which the approach\nto the communion table would have, and so my fear of eternal punishment\nled to a scrupulous examination of my conscience.\n\nSoon these close meditations, this looking as through a magnifying\nglass at my slightest deviations, this continuous scrutiny of my inmost\nself, interested me to such a degree that no sport had any attraction\nfor me in comparison. I had found, for the first time since the death\nof my father, an employment for this power of analysis which was\nalready definitive and almost constitutive in me.\n\nThe development thus given to my acute sense of the inner life ought\nto have produced an amelioration of my moral being. On the contrary,\nit resulted in a subtility which, in itself alone, was a corruption,\nat least from the point of view of strict Catholic discipline. I\nbecame, in the course of these examinations of conscience, into which\nentered more of pleasure than of repentance, extremely ingenious, and\ndiscovering peculiar motives behind my most simple actions. The Abb\u00e9\nMartel was not a psychologist sufficiently acute to discern this shadow\nand to comprehend that to cut the soul to pieces in this way would\nlead me to prefer the fleeting complexities of sin to the simplicity\nof virtue. He recognized only the zeal of a very fervent child. For\nexample, on the morning of my first communion I went in tears to\nconfess to him once more.\n\nIn turning over and over again the soil and the subsoil of my memory,\nI had discovered a singular sin, the fear of man. Six weeks before, I\nhad heard two boys, my comrades, at the door of the Lyceum, mocking an\nold lady who was entering the church Des Carmes, just opposite. I had\nlaughed at their words instead of reproving them.\n\nThe old lady was going to mass; to ridicule her was to ridicule a pious\naction. I had laughed, why? from false shame. Then I had participated\nin it. Was it not my duty to find the two mockers and to show them\ntheir impiety, and make them promise repent? I had not done so. Why?\nFrom false shame; from respect for man, according to the definition\nof the catechism. I passed the whole night preceding the great day of\nthe first communion in wondering if I could see the Abb\u00e9 Martel early\nenough the next day to confess this sin. I recall the smile with which\nhe tapped my cheek after having given me absolution in order to quiet\nme. I hear the tone of his voice which had grown very sweet as he said\nto me:\n\n\u201cMay you always be what you are now.\u201d\n\nHe did not suspect that this puerile scruple was the sign of an\nexaggeratedly unhealthy reflection, nor that this reflection would\npoison the delights of the Eucharist for which I had so ardently\nwished. I had not been satisfied, in the course of the preceding weeks,\nto analyze the conscience to its most delicate fibres, I had abandoned\nmyself to the imagination of sentiment which is the forced consequence\nof this spirit of analysis. I had anticipated with extreme precision\nthe sentiments which I should experience in receiving the host upon my\nlips. In my imagination I advanced toward the rail of the altar which\nwas draped in a white cloth, with a tension of my whole being which\nI have never since experienced, and I felt, in communing, a kind of\nchilling deception, an ecstatic exhaustion of which I cannot describe\nthe discomfort. I have since spoken of this impression to a friend who\nwas still a Christian and he said: \u201cYou were not simple enough.\u201d His\npiety had given to him the insight of a professional observer. It was\ntoo true. But what could I do?\n\nThe great event of my youth, which was the loss of my faith, did not,\nhowever, date from this deception. The causes which determined this\nloss were very numerous, and I have never clearly comprehended them\nuntil now. They were slow and progressive at first, and acted upon my\nmind as the worm upon the fruit, devouring the interior without any\nother sign of this ravage than a small speck, almost invisible, on the\nbeautiful purple rind. The first was, it seems to me, the application\nto my confessor of this terrible critical spirit, a faculty destructive\nof all confidence, which, from my infancy, had so separated me from my\nmother.\n\nI pushed my examinations of conscience to the most subtle delicacy and\nstill the Abb\u00e9 Martel did not perceive this work of secret torture\nwhich completely anatomatized my soul. My scruples appeared to him, as\nthey were, childish; but they were the childishness of a very complex\nboy, and one who could not be directed unless he might feel that he was\nunderstood.\n\nIn my conversations with this rude and primitive priest I soon\nexperienced the contrary feeling. This was enough to deprive this\ndirector of my youth of all authority over my mind. At the same time,\nand this is the second of the causes which detached me from the church,\nI found among men whom I then considered superior the same indifference\nto religious observances that I had observed in my father. I knew\nthat the young professors, those who had come from Paris with the\nprestige of having gone through the Normal School, were all atheists\nand skeptics. I heard the abb\u00e9 pronounce these words with concentrated\nindignation, in the visits which he made to my mother. When I\naccompanied her to the offices of Des Minimes as I had formerly to\nthose of the Capuchins, I reflected on the poverty of intellect of the\ndevotees who crowd to mass on Sunday mornings and mutter their prayers\nin the silence of the ceremony, broken only by the noise of displaced\nchairs. The flame of a clear and living thought had never been lighted\nin the heads that bowed with so submissive a fervor at the elevation of\nthe host.\n\nI did not at that time formulate this contrast with this distinctness,\nbut I recalled the picture of those young masters as they emerged\nfrom the Lyceum, talking with each other in conversations which I\nimagined were like those of my father, where the smallest sentence was\ncharged with science; and a spirit of doubt arose in my mind as to the\nintellectual value of Catholic beliefs.\n\nThis distrust was fed by a kind of na\u00efve ambition which made me desire\nwith an incredible ardor to be as intelligent as the most intelligent\nand not to vegetate among those of second rank. I confess that a good\ndeal of pride was mingled with this desire, but I do not blush at this\navowal. It was a purely intellectual pride, completely foreign to any\ndesire for outward success. And, if I hold myself erect at this moment,\nand in this fearful drama, I owe it first of all to this pride--it is\nthis which permits me to describe my past with this cold lucidity,\ninstead of running away like an ordinary suspect, from the noisy events\nof this drama. I can see so clearly that the first scenes of this\ntragedy began with the college youth in whom was acting the young man\nof to-day.\n\nThe third of the causes which concurred in this slow disintegration of\nmy Christian faith was the discovery of contemporaneous literature,\nwhich dates from my fourteenth year. I have told you that my mother,\nshortly after my father\u2019s death, suppressed certain books. This\nseverity had not relaxed with time, and the key of the paternal\nbookcase continued to click on the steel ring between that of the\npantry and of the cellar. The most evident result of this prohibition\nwas, to heighten the charm of the remembrance which these books\nhad left of the half-comprehended pieces from Shakespeare, and the\nhalf-forgotten romances of George Sand.\n\nChance willed that, at the commencement of my thirteenth year, I should\ncome across some examples of modern poetry in the book of French\nauthors which served for the year\u2019s recitations. There were fragments\nof Lamartine, a dozen of Hugo\u2019s pieces, the \u201cStances \u00e0 la Malibran\u201d of\nAlfred de Musset, some bits of Sainte-Beuve, and of Leconte de Lisle.\n\nThese pages were sufficient to make me appreciate the absolute\ndifference of inspiration between the modern and the ancient masters,\nas one can appreciate the difference of aroma between a bouquet of\nroses and a bouquet of lilacs, with his eyes shut. This difference,\nwhich I divine by an unreasoning instinct, resides in the fact that,\nuntil the Revolution, writers had never taken sensibility as the\nsubject and the only rule of their works. It has been the contrary\nsince eighty-nine. From this there results among the new writers a\ncertain painful, ungovernable something, a search after moral and\nphysical emotion which has become almost morbid, and which attracted me\nimmediately.\n\nThe mystical sensuality of the \u201cStances du Lac\u201d and of the \u201cCrucifix,\u201d\nthe changing splendors of several \u201cOrientales,\u201d fascinated me; but\nabove all I was charmed at something culpable which breathes in\nthe eloquence of \u201cL\u2019Espoir en Dieu\u201d and in some fragments of the\n\u201cConsolations.\u201d I began to feel for the rest of the works of these\nmasters that strong and almost insane curiosity which marks the middle\nperiod of adolescence. One is then on the border of life, and he\nhears without seeing, as it were, the murmur of a waterfall through a\ncluster of trees, and how this sound intoxicates him with expectation!\nA friendship with a comrade who lived on the first floor of our house\nexasperated this curiosity still more.\n\nThis friend, who died young, and who was named Emile, was also an\ninveterate reader, but more fortunate than I, he suffered from no\nsurveillance. His father and mother, who were already old, lived on a\nsmall income and passed the long hours of the day in playing, in front\nof the window which opened on the Rue de Billard, interminable games\nof bezique, with cards bought in a _caf\u00e9_ and still smelling of\ntobacco. Emile alone in his room, could abandon himself to all his\nfancies in reading.\n\nAs we were in the same class, and as we went to and from the Lyceum\ntogether, my mother willingly permitted me to pass whole hours with\nthis charming lad, who soon shared my taste for the verses which I so\nmuch admired, and my desire to know more of their authors.\n\nOn our way to the college, we took the narrow streets of the old town\nand passed the stall of an old bookseller of whom we had bought some\nsecond-hand classics. We discovered here a copy of the poetry of\nMusset in rather a bad condition, which would cost forty sous. At first\nwe contented ourselves with occasional readings at the stall, but soon\nwe felt that it was impossible to do without it. By putting together\nour spending money for two weeks, we were able to buy it, and then, in\nEmile\u2019s little room, he on his bed and I on a chair, we read Don Paez,\nthe Marrons du feu, Portia, Mardoche and Rolla. I trembled as if I were\ncommitting a great fault, and we imbibed this poetry as if it had been\nwine, slowly, sweetly, passionately.\n\nI read afterward in this same room, and also in my own, thanks to the\nruses of a lover in danger, many clandestine volumes which I very much\nenjoyed, from the \u201cPeau de chagrin,\u201d of Balzac, to the \u201cFleurs du mal,\u201d\nof Baudelaire, not to mention the poems of Heinrich Heine and the\nromances of Stendhal.\n\nI have never felt an emotion comparable to that of my first encounter\nwith the genius of the author of \u201cRolla.\u201d I was neither an artist nor a\nhistorian. Was I therefore indifferent to their value more or less real\nor their meaning more or less actual? Not at all. This was an elder\nbrother who had come to reveal to me the dangerous world of sentimental\nexperience.\n\nThe intellectual inferiority of piety to impiety which I had obscurely\nfelt appeared now in a strangely new light. All the virtues that had\nbeen preached to me in my childhood seemed poor and mean and humble,\nand meaner beside the opulence and the frenzy of certain vices. The\ndevotees who were my mother\u2019s friends, sadly old and shriveled,\nrepresented faith. Impiety was a handsome young man who awakes and\nlooks at the crimson aurora, and in a glance discovers the whole\nhorizon of history and legends, and then again lays his head on the\nbosom of a girl as beautiful as his most beautiful dream. Chastity\nand marriage were the _bourgeois_ whom I knew who went to hear\nthe music in the Jardin des Plantes, every Thursday and Sunday, and\nwho said the same things in the same way. My imagination painted, in\nthe chimerical colors of the most burning poetry, the faces of the\nlibertines of the Contes d\u2019Espagne and of the fragments which follow.\nThere was Dalti murdering the husband of Portia, then wandering with\nhis mistress over the dark waters of the lagoon among the stairways\nof the antique palaces. There were Don Paez assassinating Juana after\nfolding her to himself in a fond embrace; Frank and his Belcolore,\nHassan and his Namouna, l\u2019Abb\u00e9 Cassio and his Luzon.\n\nI was not competent to criticize the romantic falsity of all this fine\nsetting, nor to separate the sincere from the literary portion of these\npoems. The complete profligacy of soul appeared to me through these\nlines, and it tempted me; it excited in my mind, already eager for new\nsensations, the faculty of analysis already too much aroused.\n\nThe other works which I have cited were the pretext for a temptation\nwhich was similar but not so strong.\n\nIn the contemplation of the sores of the human heart which they exposed\nwith so much complaisance, I was like those saints of the middle ages\nwho were hypnotized by contemplation of the wounds of the Saviour.\nThe strength of their piety caused the miraculous stigmata to appear\non their hands and the ardor of my imagination, at the age of holy\nignorances and immaculate purities, opened in my soul the stigmata of\nmoral ulcers which are draining the life blood of all the great modern\ninvalids.\n\nYes, in the years when I was only the collegian, the friend of little\nEmile, I assimilated in thought the emotions which the timid teachings\nof my masters indicated as the most criminal. My mind was tainted with\nthe most dangerous poisons, while, thanks to my power of duplication, I\ncontinued to play the part of a very good child, very assiduous at my\ntasks, very submissive to my mother, and very pious. But no. However\nstrange this must appear to you, I did not play that r\u00f4le. I was\npious, with a spontaneous contradiction which, perhaps, has directed\nmy thought to the psychological work to which I consecrated my first\nefforts.\n\nWhen I read in your work on the will those suggestive indications on\nthe theory of the multiplicity of self, I seized upon them immediately,\nafter having passed through such epochs as I am describing to you\nto-day and in which I have really been several distinct beings.\n\nThis crisis of imaginative sensibility had continued the attack upon\nmy religious faith by offering the temptation of subtile sin and also\nthat of painful scepticism. The sensuality crisis which resulted from\nit failed to revive this faith in my heart. I ceased to be pure when\nI was seventeen years old, and this happened as usual, in very dull\nand prosaic circumstances. From that time, beside the two persons\nwho already existed in me, between the youth who was still fervent,\nregular, pious, and the youth romantically imaginative, a third\nindividual was born and grew, a sensual being, tormented by the basest\ndesires. However, the taste for the intellectual life was so strong, so\ndefinite, that although suffering from this singular condition, I felt\na sensation of superiority in recognizing and studying it.\n\nWhat was more strange, I did not yield to this last disposition more\nthan I did to the others, with a clear and lucid consciousness. I\nremained a youth through all these troubles, that is to say a being\nstill uncertain and incomplete, a being in whom could be discerned the\nlineaments of the soul to come.\n\nI did not assert my mysticism, for at bottom I was ashamed to\nbelieve, as if to believe were something inferior; nor my sentimental\nimaginations, for I considered them as simple sports of literature; nor\nmy sensuality for I was disgusted with it. And beside, I had neither\nthe theory nor the audacity of my curiosity in regard to my faults.\n\nEmile, who died the following winter, of disease of the lungs, was\nvery ill at this time and did not go out of the house. He listened to\nmy confidences with a frightened interest which flattered my self-love\nby making me think that I was different from others. This did not\nprevent my being afraid, as on the evening before my first communion,\nat the look which l\u2019Abb\u00e9 Martel gave me when he met me. He had without\ndoubt spoken to my mother-so far as the secrecy of the confessional\npermitted, for she watched my goings out but without the power to\nhinder them entirely, and above all without suspecting any other than\nthe possible causes of temptation, so well did I envelop myself in\nhypocrisy.\n\nThe illness of my best friend, the surveillance of my mother, the\napprehension of the priest\u2019s eyes enervated me, and perhaps the more\nthat it seemed in this volcanic country as if the summer\u2019s heat drew\nfrom the sun a more ardent and intoxicating vapor. I knew at that\ntime, days literally maddening, so made up were they of contradictory\nhours, days in which I arose a more fervent Christian than ever. I\nread a little in the \u201cImitation,\u201d I prayed, I went to my class with\nthe firm determination to be perfectly regular and good. As soon as I\nreturned I prepared my lessons, then I went down to Emile\u2019s room. We\ngave ourselves up to the reading of some exciting book. His father and\nmother, who knew that he could not live, humored him in everything and\nallowed him to take from the library any work that he pleased.\n\nWe now had in hand the most modern writers, whose books having recently\ncome from Paris, exhaled an odor of new paper and fresh ink. In this\nway we brought upon ourselves a chill of the brain which accompanied\nme all the afternoon after I returned to my classroom. There, in the\nstifling heat of the day, I could see through the open door, the short\nshadows of the trees in the yard, and hear the far-off voices of some\nprofessor dictating the lessons; I could see the figure of Marianne,\nand then began a temptation which at first was vague and remote, but\nwhich grew and continued to grow. I resisted it, while knowing that I\nshould succumb, as if the struggle against my obscure desire made me\nthe more feel its strength and acuteness.\n\nI went home. I hurried through my duties with a kind of diabolical\nverve, finding some power in the disorder of my too susceptible nerves.\nAfter dinner I went downstairs under pretext of seeing Emile and\nhastened toward Marianne\u2019s. On my return I passed some hours at my\nwindow, looking at the stars of the vast sky of summer, recalling my\ndead father, and what he had said to me of these far-off worlds. Then\nan extraordinary impression of the mystery of nature would seize me, of\nthe mystery of my own soul, living in the midst of nature, and I do not\nknow which I admired more, the depths of the taciturn heavens, or the\nabysses which a day thus employed revealed in my heart.\n\nSuch were the habits of my inner life, my dear master, when I entered\nthe class which would decide my development--the class of philosophy.\nMy enchantment began in the first week of the course. What a course,\nhowever, and how crammed with the rubbish of the classic psychology!\nNo matter, inexact and incomplete official and conventional as it\nwas, this psychology enamored me. The method employed, the personal\nreflection and the minute analysis: the object to be studied, the human\n\u201cI,\u201d considered in his faculties and passions; the result sought, a\nsystem of general ideas capable of summing up in brief formulas a\nvast pile of phenomena; all in this new science, harmonized too well\nwith the species of mind which my heredity, my education, and my own\ntendencies had fashioned in me.\n\nI forgot even my favorite reading and plunged into these works of an\norder until now unknown with the more frenzy that the death of my\nonly friend which occurred at this time imposed on my mind, which was\nnaturally so meditative, this problem of destiny which I already felt\nmyself powerless to solve by my early faith.\n\nMy ardor was so lively that soon I was no longer satisfied to follow\nthe course. I sought other books which would complete the teaching of\nthe masters, and in this way, I one day came upon the \u201cPsychology de\nDieu.\u201d It impressed me so profoundly that I immediately obtained the\n\u201cTheory of the Passions\u201d and the \u201cAnatomy of the Will.\u201d These were in\nthe realm of pure thought, the same thunderbolt as were the works of\nDe Musset in the realm of delirious sensations. The veil fell. The\ndarkness of the external and of the internal world became light. I had\nfound my way. I was your pupil.\n\nIn order to explain to you in a very clear manner how your thought\npenetrated mine, permit me to pass immediately to the result of this\nreading, and the meditations which followed. You will see how I was\nable to draw from your works a complete system of ethics, and which\nproperly arranged in a marvelous manner the scattered elements which\nwere floating about within me.\n\nI found in the first of these three works, the \u201cPsychology of God,\u201d a\ndefinite alleviation of the religious anguish in which I had continued\nto live, in spite of temptation and of doubts. Certainly, objections\nto the dogmas had not been lacking, as I had read so many books which\nmanifested the most audacious irreligion, and I had been drawn toward\nskepticism, as I have told you, because I found in it the double\ncharacter of intellectual superiority and of sentimental novelty.\n\nI had felt, among other influences, that of the author of the \u201cLife\nof Jesus.\u201d The exquisite magic of his style, the sovereign grace of\nhis dilettanteism, the languorous poetry of his pious impiety had\naffected me deeply, but it was not for nothing that I was the son of\na geometrician, and I had not been satisfied with what there was of\nuncertainty, of shadow in this incomparable artist.\n\nIt was the mathematical rigor of your book which at once took\npossession of my mind. You demonstrated with irresistible dialectics,\nthat any hypothesis upon the first cause is nonsense, even the idea\nof this first cause is an absurdity, nevertheless this nonsense and\nthis absurdity are as necessary to our mind as is the illusion to our\neyes of a sun turning around the earth, although we know that the sun\nis immovable and that the earth itself is in motion. The all-powerful\ningenuity of this reasoning charmed my intellect, which docilely\nyielded to your vision of the lucid and rational world. I perceived the\nuniverse as it is, pouring out without beginning, and without end, the\ntide of inexhaustible phenomena. The care which you have taken to found\nall your arguments upon facts taken from science corresponded too well\nwith the teaching of my father not to have subdued me.\n\nI read your pages over and over again, summarized them, commented upon\nthem, applied them with the ardor of a neophyte, in order to assimilate\nall the substance. The intellectual pride which I had felt from my\nchildhood became exalted in the young man who learned from you the\nrenunciations of the sweetest, of the most comforting topics.\n\nAh! how shall I tell you of the fervor of an initiation which was like\na first love in the delights of its enthusiasm? I felt it a physical\njoy to overthrow, with your books in my hand, the entire edifice of\nbeliefs in which I had grown up. Yes, this was the masculine felicity\nwhich Lucretius has celebrated, that of the liberating negation, and\nnot the cowardly melancholy of a Jouffroy.\n\nThis hymn to science, of which each of your pages is a strophe, I\nlistened to with a delight as much more intense as the faculty of\nanalysis, the principal reason of my piety, had found, thanks to you,\nanother way to exercise itself than at the confessional, and that your\ntwo great treatises had enlightened me as to my inner being, at the\nsame time that your \u201cPsychology of God\u201d enlightened me in regard to\nthe external universe, with a light which, even to-day, is my last, my\ninextinguishable beacon in the midst of the tempest.\n\nHow you explained to me all the incoherences of my youth! This moral\nsolitude in which I had suffered so much with my mother, with the Abb\u00e9\nMartel, with my comrades, with everyone, even Emile--I now understood.\nHave you not demonstrated, in your \u201cTheory of the Passions,\u201d that we\nare powerless to get away from Self, and that all relation between two\nbeings reposes, like everything else, upon illusion?\n\nTour \u201cAnatomy of the Will\u201d revealed to me the necessary motives, the\ninevitable logic of the yielding to the temptations of the senses for\nwhich I had suffered remorse so severe. The complications with which I\nreproached myself as a lack of frankness, you showed to be the very law\nof existence imposed by heredity. I found also, that, in searching the\nromancers and poets of the century for culpable and morbid conditions\nof soul, I had, without suspecting it, followed the inborn vocation of\npsychologist. Have you not written:\n\n\u201cAll souls must be considered by the psychologist as experiences\ninstituted by nature. Among these experiences, some are useful to\nsociety and are called virtues; others are injurious and are called\nvices or crimes. These last are however, the more significant, and\nthere would lack an essential element to the science of the mind, if\nNero, for example, or some Italian tyrant of the fifteenth century had\nnot existed?\u201d\n\nOn those warm summer days, I walked out, with one of these books in my\npocket, and, when alone in the country, I read some of these sentences\nand became absorbed in meditation on their meaning. I applied to the\ncountry which surrounded me the philosophical interpretation of what\nwe agree to call evil. Without doubt the eruptions which had raised\nthe chain of the Domes, at whose feet I wandered, had devastated with\nburning lava the neighboring plain and destroyed living beings, but\nthey had produced this magnificence of scenery which charmed me, when\nmy eyes contemplated the graceful group of the Pariou, the Puy de D\u00f4me\nand all the line of these noble mountains.\n\nThe road was verdant with euphorbias in bloom, whose stems I broke\nto see the milk-white poison exuding from them. But these poisonous\nplants nourished the beautiful tithymal caterpillar, green with dark\nspots, from which a butterfly would be born, a sphinx with colored\nwings of the finest tint.\n\nSometimes a viper glided among the stones of these dusty roads, which\nI watched as it moved away, gray against the puzzuolana red, with his\nflat head and the suppleness of his spotted body. The dangerous reptile\nappeared to me a proof of the indifference of nature whose only care is\nto multiply life, beneficent or murderous, with the same inexhaustible\nprodigality.\n\nI learned then, with inexpressible force, the same lesson which I\nlearned from your works, to know that we have nothing for our own\nbut ourselves, that the \u201cI\u201d alone is real, that nature ignores us,\nas do men, that from her as from them we have nothing to ask if not\nsome pretexts for feeling or for thinking. My old beliefs, in a\nGod, the father and judge, seemed like the dreams of a sick child,\nand I expanded to the extreme limits of the vast landscape, to the\ndepths of the immense void heaven, in thinking that as a youth I had\nalready reflected enough to understand of this world what none of the\ncountrymen whom I saw pass could ever comprehend.\n\nThey came from the mountains, leading their oxen harnessed to their\nlarge carts, and saluted the cross devoutly. With what delight I\nscorned their gross superstition, theirs and the Abb\u00e9 Martel\u2019s and my\nmother\u2019s, though I had not decided to declare my atheism, foreseeing\ntoo plainly what scenes this declaration would provoke! But these\nscenes are of no more importance, and I come now to the _expos\u00e9_\nof a drama which would have had no meaning if I had not first admitted\nyou into the intimacy of my mind and its formation.\n\n\n                        \u00a7 III. TRANSPLANTATION.\n\n\n\nBy too close attention to study during this year, I brought on quite a\nserious illness, which forced me to interrupt my preparation for the\nNormal School. When I had recovered I doubled my lessons in philosophy,\nat the same time following a part of the rhetorical course.\n\nI presented myself at the school about the time in which I had the\nhonor of being received by you. You are acquainted with the events\nwhich followed. I failed at the examination. My compositions lacked\nthat literary brilliancy which is acquired only at the Lyceums of Paris.\n\nIn November, 1885, I accepted the position of preceptor in the\nJussat-Randon family. I wrote to you then that I renounced my\nindependence in order that I might not be any further expense to my\nmother. Joined with this reason there was the secret hope that the\nsavings realized in this preceptorate would permit me, my licentiate\nonce passed, to prepare for my fellowship examination in Paris. A\nresidence in that city attracted me, my dear master, by the prospect of\nliving near the Rue Guy de la Brosse.\n\nMy visit to your hermitage had made a profound impression. You appeared\nto me as a kind of modern Spinoza, so completely identical with your\nbooks by the nobility of a life entirely consecrated to thought. I\ncreated beforehand a romance of felicity at the idea that I should\nknow the hours of your walks, that I should form the habit of meeting\nyou in the old Jardin des Plantes, which undulates under your windows,\nthat you would consent to direct me, that aided and sustained by you, I\ncould also make my place in science; in fine you were for me the living\ncertainty, the master, what Faust is for Wagner in the psychologic\nsymphony of Goethe. Beside, the conditions which this preceptorate\noffered were particularly easy. I was above all to be the companion of\na child twelve years of age, the second son of the Marquis de Jussat.\n\nI learned afterward why this family had retired for the whole winter\nto this ch\u00e2teau, near Lake Aydat, where they usually passed the autumn\nmonths only. M. de Jussat, who is originally from Auvergne, and who\nhas held the office of minister plenipotentiary under the emperor, had\njust lost a large sum on the Bourse. His property being hypothecated,\nand his income greatly diminished, he had let his house on the\nChamps-Elys\u00e9es furnished at a very high rent.\n\nHe had arrived at his Jussat estate a little earlier, expecting to go\ndirectly to his villa at Cannes. An advantageous chance to let this\nvilla also offered. The desire to free his property had tempted him,\nthe more as an increasing hypochondria made it easier to face the\nprospect of an entire year passed in solitude. He had been surprised\nby the sudden departure of his son Lucien\u2019s preceptor, who without\ndoubt did not care to bury himself in the country for so many months,\nand so he had come to Clermont. He had studied his mathematics there\nthirty-five years before, under M. Limasset, the old professor who was\nmy father\u2019s friend. The idea had come to him to ask his old master\nto recommend an intelligent young man, capable of taking charge of\nLucien\u2019s studies for the whole year. M. Limasset naturally thought\nof me, and I consented, for the reasons which I have given, to be\npresented to the marquis as a candidate for the place.\n\nIn the parlor of one of the hotels on the Place de Jande, I found a man\nquite tall, very bald, with clear gray eyes in a very red face, who did\nnot even take the trouble to examine me. He begun at once to talk, and\nhe talked all the time, intermingling the details of his health--he\nwas one of the imaginary invalids--with the most lively criticisms\non modern education. I can hear him now using pellmell phrases which\nrevealed in a way the different phases of his character.\n\n\u201cWell, my poor Limasset, when are you coming down to see us? The air\nis excellent down there. That is what I need. I cannot breathe in\nParis. We never breathe enough. I hope, monsieur,\u201d and he turned to\nme, \u201cthat you are not an advocate of these new methods of teaching.\nScience, nothing but science; and my God, gentlemen scholars, what do\nyou make of it?\u201d Then returning to M. Limasset: \u201cIn my day, in our\nday, I may say, everybody had a respect for authority and for duty.\nEducation was not absolutely neglected for instruction. You remember\nour chaplain, the Abb\u00e9 Habert, and how he could talk? What health he\nhad! How he could walk in all sorts of weather without an overcoat! But\nyou, Limasset, how old are you? Sixty-five, hey? Sixty-five, and not an\nache! not one? Do you not think I am better since I have lived among\nthe mountains? I am never very ill, but there is always some little\nthing the matter with me. Indeed, I would rather be really ill. At\nleast I should get well then.\u201d\n\nIf I repeat these incoherent words, as they come back to my memory, my\ndear master, it is first, that you may know the value of the intellect\nof this man who, as my mother has told me, has brought your venerated\nname into my case; it is also that you understand with what feelings I\narrived, four days after, at the ch\u00e2teau when I ran into so terrible\ndangers.\n\nThe marquis had accepted me at the first visit, and insisted upon\ntaking me with him in his landau. During the journey from Clermont to\nAydat, he had leisure to tell me about his family. He explained with\nhis invincible garrulity, constantly interrupted by some remarks about\nhis person, that his wife and daughter did not care much for society,\nand that they were excellent housekeepers; that his oldest son Count\nAndr\u00e9, was home for a fortnight and that I must not be annoyed at his\nbrusqueness, for it covered the best of hearts, that his other son,\nLucien, had been ailing and that his restoration to health was the most\nimportant thing of all. Then at the word health he started, and, after\nan hour of confidences regarding his headaches, his digestion, his\nsleep, his ailments past, present, and future, being fatigued no doubt\nby the keen air and the flux of words, he fell asleep in a corner of\nthe carriage.\n\nI recall the plans which I formed when, freed from this tormentor,\nwho was already the object of my contempt, I looked at the beautiful\ncountry through which we were passing between mountain ravines and\nwoods, now turning yellow in the autumn, with the Puy de la Vache at\nthe horizon, with the hollow of its crater all plowed up, and quite red\nwith volcanic dust.\n\nWhat I had already seen of the marquis, and what he had told me of his\nfamily, had convinced me that I was about to be exiled among people\nwhom I called barbarians. I had given this name to those persons whom I\njudge to be irreparable strangers to the intellectual life.\n\nThe prospect of this exile did not alarm me. The doctrine by which I\nshould regulate my existence was so clear to my mind! I was so resolved\nto live only in myself, to defend myself against all intrusion from\nwithout. The ch\u00e2teau to which I was going, and the people who inhabited\nit would be only subjects for the most profitable study.\n\nMy programme was made out: during the twelve or fourteen months that\nI should live there I would employ my leisure in studying German, and\nin mastering the contents of \u201cBeaunais\u2019 Physiology,\u201d which was in my\nsmall trunk, bound behind the carriage, together with your works, my\ndear master, my \u201cEthics,\u201d several volumes of M. Ribot, of M. Taine, of\nHerbert Spencer, some analytical romances and the books necessary to\nthe preparation for my licentiate. I intended to pass this examination\nin July.\n\nA new notebook awaited the notes which I proposed to make upon the\ncharacter of my hosts. I had promised myself to take them to pieces,\nwheel by wheel, and I had bought for this purpose a book, closed by a\nlock and key, upon the fly-leaf of which I had written this sentence\nfrom the \u201cAnatomy of the Will.\u201d\n\n\u201cSpinoza boasts of having studied human sentiments as the mathematician\nstudies his geometric figures; modern psychology must study them as\nchemical combinations elaborated in a retort, while regretting that\nthis retort may not be as transparent and as manageable as those of the\nlaboratory.\u201d\n\nI tell you this childishness to prove the degree of my sincerity, and\nto show how little I resemble the poor and ambitious young man that so\nmany romances have described.\n\nWith my taste for duplication, I remember to have remarked this\ndifference with pleasure. I recalled Julien Sorel of \u201cRouge et Noir,\u201d\narriving at the house of M. de R\u00eanal, the temptations of Rubempr\u00e9, in\nBalzac, in front of the house of the Bargetons, some pages also of the\n\u201cVingtras de Vall\u00e9s.\u201d I analyzed the sensations which were concealed\nbehind the lusts and the revolts of these different heroes.\n\nThere is always a surprise in passing from one society to another, but\nthere was not a trace of envy or maliciousness in me. I looked at the\nmarquis as he slept, wrapped, on this cool November afternoon, in a\nfurred coat whose turned-up collar half-concealed his face. A robe of\ndark soft wool covered his legs. Dark embroidered skin gloves protected\nhis hands. His hat of felt as fine as silk was pulled down over his\neyes. I only felt that these details represented a kind of existence\nvery different from ours with the poor and petty economy of our home\nwhich only my mother\u2019s scrupulous neatness saved from meanness.\n\nI rejoiced that I did not feel any envy, not the least atom, at\nthe sight of these signs of prosperous fortune, neither envy nor\nembarrassment. I had myself completely under control, and was steeled\nagainst all vulgar prejudice by my doctrine, your doctrine, and by\nthe sovereign superiority of my ideas. I will have traced a perfect\nportrait of my mind at this time if I add that I had resolved to erase\nlove from the programme of my life. I had had, since my adventure with\nMarianne, another little experience, with the wife of a professor at\nthe Lyceum, so absolutely silly and withal so ridiculously pretentious\nthat I came out of it strengthened in my contempt for the \u201cDame,\u201d\nspeaking after Schopenhauer, and also in my disgust for sensuality.\n\nI attribute to the profound influences of Catholic discipline this\nrepulsion from the flesh which has survived the dogmas of spirituality.\nI know very well, from an experience too often repeated, that this\nrepulsion was insufficient to hinder profound relapses, but I depended\nupon the silence of the ch\u00e2teau to free me from all temptation and to\npractice in its full rigor the great maxim of the ancient sage: \u201cForce\nall your sex to mount to the brain.\u201d Ah! this idolatry of the brain,\nof my thinking Self, it has been so strong in me that I have thought\nseriously of studying the monastic rules that I might apply them to\nthe culture of my mind. Yes, I have contemplated making my meditations\nevery day, like the monks, upon the articles of my philosophic\n_credo_, of celebrating every day, like the monks, the _f\u00eate_\nof one of my saints, of Spinoza, of Hobbes, of Stendhal, of Stuart\nMill, of you, my dear master, in evoking the image and the doctrines of\nthe initiative thus chosen, and impregnating myself with his example.\n\nI know that all this was very youthful and very na\u00efve, but, you see, I\nwas not such a man as this family stigmatizes to-day, the intriguing\nplebeian who was dreaming of a fine marriage, and the idea connecting\nmy life with that of Mlle, de Jussat was implanted, inspired, so to\nspeak, by circumstances.\n\nI do not write to you to paint myself in a romantic light, and I do\nnot know why I should conceal from you that, among the circumstances\nwhich urged me toward this enterprise so far from my thought on my\narrival, the first was the impression produced on me by Count Andr\u00e9\nthe brother of the poor dead girl, whose remembrance, now that I am\napproaching the drama, becomes almost a torture; but let us go back to\nthis arrival.\n\nIt is almost five o\u2019clock. The landau moves rapidly along. The marquis\nis awake. He points out the frozen bosom of the little lake, all\nrosy under a setting sun, which empurples the dried foliage of the\nbeeches and oaks; and, beyond the ch\u00e2teau, a large building of modern\nconstruction, white, with its slender towers and its pepper-box roof,\ngrows nearer at every turn of the gray road.\n\nThe steeple of a village, rather of a hamlet, raises its slates above\nsome houses with thatched roofs. It is passed. We are now in the avenue\nof trees which leads to the ch\u00e2teau, then before the _perron_ and\nimmediately in the vestibule.\n\nWe entered the salon. How peaceful it was, lighted by lamps with large\nshades, with the fire burning gayly in the chimney. The Marquise de\nJussat with her daughter, was working at some knitting for the poor; my\nfuture pupil was looking over a book of engravings, as he stood against\nthe open piano; Mlle. Charlotte\u2019s governess and a _religieuse_\nwere seated, farther off, sewing. Count Andr\u00e9 was reading a paper,\nwhich he put down at the moment of our arrival.\n\nYes, this was a peaceful place, and who could have told that my\nentrance would be the end of all peace for these persons who in an\ninstant were impressed on my memory with the distinctness of portraits?\n\nI noticed first the face of the marquise, a tall and strong woman with\nfeatures slightly gross, so different from what my imagination had\nconceived of a great lady. She was truly the model housekeeper whom the\nmarquis had described, but a housekeeper with a finished education, and\nwho put me at once at my ease simply by speaking of the beautiful day\nthat we had had for our journey.\n\nI perceived the inexpressive face of Mlle. Eliza Largeyx, the\ngoverness, with its ever-approving smile; she was the innocent type of\nhappy servility, of a life all complaisance and of material happiness.\n\nThere was sister Anaclet with her peasant\u2019s eyes and her thin mouth.\nShe lived permanently at the ch\u00e2teau that she might serve as nurse for\nthe marquis who was always apprehensive of a possible attack.\n\nThere was little Lucien with the fat cheeks of the idle child. There,\ntoo, was the young girl, who is no more, with her beautiful form in\nits light dress, her gentle gray eyes, her chestnut hair, and the\ndelicate outline of her oval face. I can still see the gesture with\nwhich she offered her hand to her father and a cup of tea to me. I hear\nher voice saying to the marquis:\n\n\u201cFather, did you see how rosy the little lake was this evening?\u201d\n\nAnd the voice of M. de Jussat responding between two swallows of his\ngrog:\n\n\u201cI saw that there was some fog in the meadows and some rheumatism in\nthe air.\u201d\n\nAnd the voice of Count Andr\u00e9:\n\n\u201cYes, but what fine shooting to-morrow!\u201d then turning to me: \u201cDo you\nshoot, Monsieur Greslon?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, monsieur,\u201d I answered.\n\n\u201cDo you ride?\u201d he asked again.\n\n\u201cI do not.\u201d\n\n\u201cI pity you,\u201d said he, laughing; \u201cafter war, these are the two greatest\npleasures that I know of.\u201d\n\nThis is nothing, this bit of dialogue, and, thus transcribed, it will\nnot explain why these simple phrases were the cause of my regarding\nAndr\u00e9 de Jussat as a being apart from any I had known until then; why,\nwhen I had gone to my room, where a servant commenced to unpack my\ntrunk, I thought more of him than of his fragile and graceful sister:\nnor why, at dinner and all the evening, I had eyes only for him.\n\nMy na\u00efve astonishment in the presence of this proud and manly fellow\nwas derived, however, from a very simple fact; I had grown up in a\npurely intellectual medium in which the only estimable forms of life\nwere the intellectual. I had had for comrades the first of my class,\nall as delicate and frail as I was myself, without condescending ever\nto notice those who excelled in the exercises of the body, and who\nbeside only found in these exercises an excuse for brutality.\n\nAll my masters whom I liked best, and the few old friends of my father,\nwere also able men. When I had pictured the heroes of romance, they\nwere always mental machines more or less complicated; but I had never\nimagined their physical condition.\n\nIf I had ever thought of the superiority which the beautiful and\nfirm animal energy of man represents, it was in an abstract manner,\nbut I had never felt it. Count Andr\u00e9, who was thirty years old,\npresented an admirable example of this superiority. Figure to\nyourself a man of medium size, but lusty as an athlete, with broad\nshoulders and a slender waist, gestures which betrayed strength\nand suppleness--gestures in which one felt that the movement was\ndistributed with that perfection which gives adroit and precise\nagility--hands and feet nervous, showing race, with a martial\ncountenance, one of those _bistre_ complexions behind which the\nblood flows, rich in iron and in globules; a square forehead under\nbushy black hair, a mustache of the same color over a firm and tightly\nclosed mouth, brown eyes, very near to a nose which was slightly\narched, which gives to the profile a vague suggestion of a bird of\nprey. Last a bold chin, squarely cut, completed the physiognomy of a\ncharacter of invincible will. And the will is the whole person; action\nmade man.\n\nIt seemed as if there were in this officer, broken to all bodily\nexercises, ready for all exploits, no rupture of equilibrium between\nthought and action, and that his whole being passed entire into his\nsmallest gestures.\n\nI have seen him mount a horse so as to realize the ancient fable of the\nCentaur, put ten balls in succession at thirty paces into a playing\ncard, leap ditches with the lightness of a professional gymnast, and\nsometimes, to amuse his young brother, leap over a table, only touching\nit with his hands.\n\nI knew that, during the war and though only sixteen years old, he had\nenlisted and made the campaign of the Loire, bearing all fatigues and\ninspiring even the veterans with courage. As I saw him at dinner this\nfirst evening, eating steadily, with that fine humor of appetite which\nreveals the fall life; speaking little, but with a commanding voice, I\nfelt in a surprising degree the impression that I was in the presence\nof a creature different from myself, but finished and complete of his\nkind.\n\nIt seems to me as though this scene dates from yesterday, and that I am\nthere, while the marquis plays bezique with his daughter, talking with\nthe marquise, and stealthily watching Count Andr\u00e9 play at billiards\nalone. I saw him through the open door, supple and robust in his\nevening dress of some light material, a cigar in the corner of his\nmouth, pushing the balls about with a precision so perfect that it was\nbeautiful; and I, your pupil, I, so proud of the amplitude of my mind,\nfollowed with open mouth the slightest gestures of this young man who\nwas absorbed in a sport so vulgar, with the kind of envious admiration\nwhich a learned monk of the middle ages, unskillful in all muscular\ngames, must have felt in presence of a knight in armor.\n\nWhen I use the word envy I beg you to understand me, and not to\nattribute to me a baseness which was never mine. Neither this evening\nnor during the days which followed was I ever jealous of the name of\nCount Andr\u00e9, nor of his fortune, nor of any of the social advantages\nwhich he possessed, and of which I was so deprived. Neither have I felt\nthat strange hate of the male for the male, very finely noted by you\nin your pages on love.\n\nMy mother had had the weakness to tell me often in my childhood that\nI was a pretty boy. Without being a coxcomb, I may say that there was\nnothing displeasing in me, neither in my face nor in my figure. I say\nthis to you, not from vanity, but to prove that there was not an atom\nof vanity in the sort of sudden rivalry which made me an adversary,\nalmost an enemy, of Count Andr\u00e9 from this first evening. There was as\nmuch admiration as envy in this antipathy. Upon reflection, I find in\nthe sentiment which I have tried to define the probable trace of an\nunconscious atavism.\n\nI questioned the marquis later, whose aristocratic pride I thus\nflattered, upon the genealogy of the Jussat-Randons, and I believe\nthat they are of a pure and conquering race, while in the veins of the\ndescendant of the Lorraine farmers who writes these lines to you flows\nthe blood of ancestors who had been slaves of the soil for centuries.\nCertainly, between my brain and that of Count Andr\u00e9 there is the same\ndifference as there is between mine and yours, greater, since I can\ncomprehend you and I defy him to follow my reasonings, even that which\nI am pursuing now, upon our relations.\n\nTo speak frankly, I am a civilized being, he is only a barbarian.\nBut I felt immediately the sensation that my refinement was less\naristocratic than his barbarism. I felt there, at once, and in the\ndepths of this instinct of life, into which the mind descends with much\ndifficulty, the revelation of this precedence of race which modern\nscience affirms of all nature and which, by consequence, must be true\nalso of man.\n\nWhy even use this word envy, which serves as the label of irrational\nhostilities like those with which the count immediately inspired\nme? Why should not this hostility be inherited like the rest? Any\nhuman acquisition whatever, that for example of character and of\nactive energy, implies that, during centuries and centuries, files\nof individuals of which one is the supreme addition, have acted and\nwilled. During this long succession of years, an antipathy, sometimes\nclear and sometimes obscure, has rendered the individuals of the first\ngroup odious to individuals of the second, and when two representatives\nof this sovereign labor of ages, also typical each in his kind as were\nthe count and myself, meet, why not stand up the one in face of the\nother, like two beasts of different species?\n\nThe horse that has never been near a lion trembles with fright when\nhis bed is made of the straw upon which one of these creatures has\nslept. Then fear is inherited, and is not fear one form of hate? Why\nis not all hate inherited? And in hundreds of cases envy would be, as\nit surely was in mine, only the echo of hates formerly felt by those\nwhose sons we are, and who continue to pursue, through us, the combats\nof heart begun centuries ago.\n\nThere is a current proverb that antipathies are mutual, and if it\nis admitted my hypothesis upon the secular origin of antipathies\nbecomes very simple. It happens, however, that this antipathy does not\nmanifest itself in the two beings at once. This is the case when one\nof the two does not deign to notice the other, and also when the other\ndissimulates.\n\nI do not believe that Count Andr\u00e9 experienced at first the aversion\nthat he would have felt if he had read to the bottom of my soul. In the\nbeginning he paid very little attention to a young man of Clermont who\nhad come to the ch\u00e2teau to be tutor; then I had decided on a constant\ndissimulation of my real Self, imprisoned among strangers. I felt no\nmore repugnance for this defensive hypocrisy than the gardener would\nhave had in putting straw around the currant bushes to preserve their\nfruit against snows and frosts. The falseness of attitude corresponded\ntoo well with my intellectual pride to prevent me from giving myself up\nto it with delight.\n\nOn the other hand Count Andr\u00e9 had no motive for concealing his\ncharacter from me, and on this same evening, at the hour of retiring,\nhe asked me to come into his study to talk a little. He had hardly\nlooked at me, and I understood plainly that his intention was not to\nput any more familiarity between us, but to give me his opinions on my\nr\u00f4le as preceptor.\n\nHe occupied a suite of three rooms in a wing of the ch\u00e2teau, a bedroom,\na dressing-room and the smoking-room in which we now found ourselves.\nA large upholstered divan, several armchairs and a massive desk,\nconstituted the furniture of this room.\n\nOn the walls glittered arms of all kinds, guns of Tangiers, sabres and\nmuskets of the first empire, and a Prussian helmet, which the count\npointed out to me almost as soon as we had entered. He had lighted a\nshort brierwood pipe, prepared two glasses of brandy mixed with seltzer\nwater, and lamp in hand, he showed me the helmet saying:\n\n\u201cI am very sure that I knocked that fellow over. You do not know\nanything about the sensation of holding an enemy at the point of your\ngun, of taking aim, of seeing him fall, and thinking: Another one\ngone? It happened in a village not far from Orl\u00e9ans. I was on guard at\ndaybreak, in a corner of the cemetery. I saw a head above the wall,\nit looked over, then the shoulders followed. It was this inquisitive\nfellow who wanted to see what we were doing. He did not go back to\ntell.\u201d\n\nHe put down the lamp, and, after laughing a little at this remembrance,\nhe became serious. I had felt obliged, for the sake of politeness, to\nmoisten my lips in the mixture of gaseous water and alcohol, and the\ncount continued:\n\n\u201cI wished to talk with you about Lucien, monsieur, to explain his\ncharacter and in what way he is to be directed. His old tutor was an\nexcellent man, but very weak, very indolent. I have encouraged your\ncoming because you are a young man, and a young man is more suitable\nfor Lucien. Teaching, monsieur, is worse than nothing, sometimes, when\nit falsifies ideas. The great thing in this life, I ought almost say\nthe only thing, is character.\u201d\n\nHe made a pause as if to ask my opinion, I answered with some\n_banal_ phrase which supported his view.\n\n\u201cVery well,\u201d he continued, \u201cwe understand one another. At present, for\na man of our name, there is in France only one profession, that of a\nsoldier. So long as our country is in the hands of the _canaille_\nand so long as we have the Germans to fight, our duty is in the only\nplace that remains to us--the army. Thank God my father and my mother\nshare these opinions. Lucien will be a soldier, and a soldier has no\nneed of knowing all that the people prate about to-day. Having honor,\nsangfroid, muscles and loving France, everything is right. I had\nall the trouble in the world to take my degree. This year must be\nfor Lucien, above everything else, a year of outdoor life; and, for\nstudies, these must be conversations only. It is to your talks with him\nthat I wish to call your attention. You must insist on the practical,\non the positive, and on principles. He has some faults which must be\ncorrected. You will find him very good, but very soft; he must learn to\nendure.\u201d\n\n\u201cInsist, for example, upon his going out in all sorts of weather,\nthat he walk two or three hours every day. He is very inexact, and\nI insist that he shall become as punctual as a chronometer. He also\nis untruthful. I think this the most horrible of vices. I can pardon\neverything, yes, many, many follies. I never forgive a falsehood. We\nhave had, from my father\u2019s old master, such good recommendation of you,\nof your life with your mother, of your dignity, of your strictness,\nthat we depend very much on your influence. Your age permits you to\nbe as much a companion as a preceptor for Lucien. Example, you see,\nis the best kind of teaching. Tell a conscript that it is a noble and\nfine thing to march up to the fire, and he will listen to you without\nunderstanding you. March in front of him, swaggering, and he becomes\nmore of a blusterer than you are.\n\n\u201cAs for me, I rejoin my regiment in a few days, but absent or present,\nyou can depend on my support; if it should ever be a question what to\ndo, that this child become what he ought to become, a man who can serve\nhis country bravely, and, if God permit, his king.\u201d\n\nThis discourse, which I believe I have faithfully reproduced, did not\nat all astonish me. It was quite natural in a house in which the father\nwas an old monomaniac, the mother a simple housekeeper, the sister\nyoung and timid, that the oldest brother should hold a directing place,\nand talk with the new preceptor. It was also quite natural that a\nsoldier and a gentleman educated in the ideas of his class and of his\nprofession should speak as a soldier and a gentleman.\n\nYou, my dear master, with your universal comprehension of natures, with\nyour facility in disentangling the line which unites the temperament\nand the medium of ideas, you would have seen in Count Andr\u00e9 a very\ndefinite and significant case. And for what had I prepared my locked\nnotebook if not to collect documents of this kind upon human nature?\nAnd was there not here everything new in the person of this officer,\nso single and so simple, who manifested a mode of thought evidently\nidentical with his mode of being, breathing, moving, smoking and eating?\n\nAh! I see too well that my philosophy was not as blood in my veins,\nas marrow in my bones, for this discourse and the convictions it\nexpressed, instead of pleasing me by this rare encounter of logic, only\nenlarged the wound of antipathy which had been already opened, I knew\nnot where, in my self-love perhaps, for I was weak and frail in the\npresence of the strong--surely in my inmost sensibility.\n\nNone of the count\u2019s ideas had the least value in my eyes. They were for\nme pure foolishness, and instead of despising this foolishness, as I\nshould have despised it in any other case, I began to hate it in his\nmouth.\n\nA soldier\u2019s profession? I considered it so wretched, because of its\nbrutal associations and the time lost, that I was glad that I was the\nson of a widow that I might escape the barbarity of the barracks and\nthe miseries of its discipline.\n\nThe hatred of Germany? I had tried to destroy it in myself, as the\nworst of prejudices, from disgust of the imbecile comrades whom I saw\nexalt it into an ignorant patriotism, and also from admiration for\nthe people to whom psychology owes Kant and Schopenhauer, Lotze and\nFechner, Helmholz and Wundt.\n\nPolitical faith? I professed an equal disdain for the gross hypotheses\nwhich, under the name of legitism, republicanism, C\u00e6sarism, pretended\nto govern a country _a priori_. I dreamed with the author of the\n\u201cDialogues Philosophiques,\u201d of an oligarchy of savants, a despotism of\npsychologists and economists, of physiologists and historians.\n\nPractical life? This was a diminished life for me, who saw in the\nexternal world only a field of experiences in which an enfranchised\nsoul ventures with prudence, just far enough to collect emotions.\nFinally this contempt for falsehood which the count professed struck\nme as an affront, at the same time that his absolute confidence in my\nmorality, based upon a false impression of me, embarrassed me, chilled\nme, hurt me.\n\nCertainly the contradiction was piquant; I considered the portrait\nwhich my father\u2019s old friend had drawn; it pleased me in a certain way\nthat they should believe it like me, and I felt irritated that he,\nCount Andr\u00e9, did not distrust me. But what does that prove, if not\nthat we never thoroughly know ourselves? You have magnificently said,\nmy dear master: \u201cOur states of consciousness are like islands upon an\nocean of darkness whose foundations are forever being removed. It is\nthe work of the psychologist to divine by soundings the ground which\nmakes of these isles the visible summits of a mountain chain, invisible\nand immovable under the moving mass of waters.\u201d\n\nI have not described this first evening at the ch\u00e2teau because it had\nany immediate consequences, for I retired after assuring Count Andr\u00e9\nthat I was entirely of his opinion in regard to his young brother, and,\nhaving reached my room, I confined myself to consigning these words to\nmy notebook, with comments more or less disdainful; but these first\nimpressions will help you to understand some analogous impressions\nwhich followed, and the unexpected crisis which resulted from them.\n\nIt is one of those submarine chains of which you speak, and which I\nfind to-day when I throw the sound to the very bottom of my heart.\nUnder the influence of your books, and of your example, I became\nmore and more intellectualized, and I believed that I had definitely\nrenounced the morbid curiosity of the passions which had made me find\nexquisite pleasure in my guilty readings. Thus we retain portions of\nthe soul which were very much alive, and which we believe to be dead,\nbut which are only drowsing.\n\nAnd so little by little, after an acquaintance of only fifteen days\nwith this man, my elder by nine or ten years, and who was, all reality,\nall energy, this purely speculative existence of which I had so\nsincerely dreamed, began to seem--how shall I express it? Inferior?\nOh, no, for I would not have consented, at the price of an empire,\nto become Count Andr\u00e9, even with his name, his fortune, his physical\nsuperiority, and his ideas. Discolored? Not even that. The word\nincomplete appears to me the only one which expresses the singular\ndisfavor which the sudden comparison between the count and myself\ndiffused over my own convictions.\n\nIt is in this feeling of incompleteness that the principal temptation\nof which I was the victim resides. There is nothing very original, I\nbelieve, in the state of mind of a man who, having cultivated to excess\nthe faculty of thought, meets another man having cultivated to the\nsame degree the faculty of action and who feels himself tormented with\nnostalgia in presence of this action, however despised.\n\nGoethe has drawn the whole of his Faust from this nostalgia. I was not\na Faust. I had not, like the old doctor, drained the cup of Science;\nand yet, I must believe that my studies of these last years, by\noverexciting me in one direction, had left in me unemployed powers,\nwhich trembled with emulation at the approach of this representative of\nanother race of men.\n\nWhile admiring him, envying and despising him at the same time, during\nthe days which followed, I could not prevent my mind from thinking.\nAnd I thought: \u201cThat man who would value him for his activity and me\nfor my thought, would truly be the superior man that I have desired to\nbecome.\u201d\n\nBut do not action and thought exclude one another? They were not\nincompatible at the Renaissance and later, Goethe has incarnated in\nhimself the double destiny of Faust, by turns philosopher and courtier,\npoet and minister; Stendhal was romancer and lieutenant of dragoons;\nConstant was the author of \u201cAdolphe\u201d and a fiery orator, as well as\nduelist, actor and libertine.\n\nThis finished culture of the \u201cI,\u201d which I had made the final result,\nthe supreme end of my doctrines, was it without this double play of the\nfaculties, this parallelism of the life lived and the life thought?\n\nProbably my first regret at feeling myself thus dispossessed of a\nwhole world, that of fact, was only pride. But with me, and by the\nessentially philosophic nature of my being, sensations are immediately\ntransformed into ideas.\n\nThe smallest accidents appear in my mind to state general problems.\nEvery event of my destiny leads me to some theory on the destiny of\nall. Here, where another man would have said: \u201cIt is a pity that fate\nshould have permitted a single kind of development,\u201d I took it on\nmyself to ask if I were not deceived in the law of all development.\n\nSince I had, thanks to your admirable books, freed my soul and cast\nto earth my vain religious terrors, I had retained only one of my old,\npious practices, the habit of daily examining my conscience, under\nthe form of a journal, and from time to time I made what I called an\norison. I transported, with a singular enjoyment, the terms of religion\ninto the realm of my personal sensibility. I called that again the\nliturgy of the \u201cI.\u201d\n\nOne evening of the second week of my stay at the ch\u00e2teau, I employed\nseveral hours in writing out a general confession, that is to say, in\ndrawing a picture of my diverse instincts since the first awakening\nof my consciousness. I arrived at this conclusion, that the essential\ntrait of my nature, the characteristic of my inmost being, had always\nbeen the faculty of duplication. That means that I had always felt\na tendency to be at once passionate and reflective, to live and to\nsee myself live. But by imprisoning myself, as I wished, in pure\nreflection, by neglecting to live and to have only one eye open upon\nlife, did I not risk resembling that Amiel whose dolorous journal\nappeared at that time, and sterilizing myself by the abuse of analysis\nto emptiness?\n\nIn vain did your image return to me to reinforce me in my resolution to\nlive an abstract existence. I recall the phrases on love in the \u201cTheory\nof the Passion,\u201d and I saw you, at my age, abandoning yourself to the\nculpable experiences which already obscurely tempted me. I do not know\nif this chemistry of soul, so very complex and very sincere, will seem\nsufficiently lucid. The work by which an emotion is elaborated in us,\nand ends by resolving itself into an idea, remains so obscure that the\nidea is, sometimes, exactly contrary to that which simple reason could\nhave foreseen!\n\nWould it not have been natural, for example, that the kind of admiring\nantipathy roused in me by my encounter with Count Andr\u00e9 should have\nended either in a declared repulsion, or in a definite admiration? In\nthe first case, I should have thrown myself more into science, and\nin the other, have desired a more active morality, a more practical\nvirility in my actions. But the natural for each one, is his own\nnature. Mine willed that the admiring antipathy for the count should\nbecome a principle of criticism, in regard to myself, that this\ncriticism should produce a new theory of life, that this theory should\nreveal my native disposition for passional curiosity, that the whole\nshould dissolve itself into a nostalgia of sentimental experiences and\nthat, just at this moment, a young girl should enter into my life whose\npresence alone would have sufficed to provoke the desire to please in\nany young man of my age.\n\nBut I was too intellectual for this desire to be born in my heart\nwithout passing through my head. At least, if I felt the charm of grace\nand delicacy which emanated from this child of twenty years, I felt it\nwhile believing that I reasoned about it. There are times when I ask\nmyself if it was so, times when all my history appears more simple, and\nI say:\n\n\u201cI was honestly in love with Charlotte, because she was pretty, refined\nand tender, and I was young; then I gave some pretexts of the brain\nbecause I was a man proud of ideas and did not wish to love like other\nmen.\u201d\n\nAh! what a comfort when I persuade myself to speak in this way! I can\npity myself instead of being a horror to myself, as happens when I\nrecall the cold resolution, which I cherished in my mind, consigned to\nmy notebook, and verified alas! by the event, the resolution, to injure\nthis girl without loving her, from motives of purely psychological\ncuriosity, from the pleasure of acting, of governing a living soul, of\ncontemplating at will and directly this mechanism of passion which I\nhad until then only studied in books, from the vanity of enriching my\nmind by a new experience.\n\nBut it is well, I could not have wished otherwise, impelled as I was\nby my heredities and my education, removed into the new medium where I\nwas thrown by chance, and bitten, as I was by this ferocious spirit of\nrivalry against the insolent young man who was my opposite?\n\nBut this pure and tender girl was worthy of meeting a man who was not a\ncold and murderous calculating machine. Only to think of her melts and\nrends my heart.\n\nI did not notice at first sight that perfection of the lines of the\nface, that brilliance of complexion, that royalty of bearing which\ndistinguishes the very beautiful woman. Everything in her physiognomy\nwas a delicate demi-tint, from the shade of her chestnut hair to the\nmisty gray of her eyes and to her complexion which was neither pale\nnor rosy. One thought of modesty when studying her expression, and of\nfragility when remarking her feet, and hands, and the almost too minute\ngrace of her movements.\n\nAlthough she was rather short, she appeared tall because of the noble\nway in which her head was set on her slender neck. If Count Andr\u00e9\nreproduced one of their common ancestors by an evident atavism, she\nresembled her father, but with so charming an ideality of lines that\none could not admit the resemblance unless they were side by side. It\nwas easy, however, to recognize in her the nervous disposition which\nproduced hypochondria in her father.\n\nCharlotte had a sensibility which was almost morbid, which was revealed\nat times by a slight tremulousness of hands and lips, those beautiful\nsinuous lips where dwelt a goodness almost divine. Her firm chin showed\na rare strength of will in so frail an envelope, and I now understand\nthat the depth of her eyes, sometimes motionless as if fixed on some\nobject visible to herself alone, betrayed a fatal tendency to a fixed\nidea.\n\nThe first trait that I specially observed was her extreme kindness, and\nthis was brought to my notice by little Lucien. The child told me that\nhis sister had several times wished him to ask me if there was anything\nlacking in my room.\n\nThis is a very puerile detail, but it touched me because I felt very\nlonely in this great house where no person, since my arrival, had\nseemed to pay the least attention to me. The marquis appeared only\nat dinner, wrapped in a _robe-de-chambre_ and groaning over his\nhealth or politics. The marquise was occupied in making the ch\u00e2teau\ncomfortable, and held long conferences with an upholsterer from\nClermont. Count Andr\u00e9 rode in the morning, hunted in the afternoon,\nand, in the evening, smoked his cigars without ever addressing a word\nto me. The governess and the _religieuse_ looked at one another\nand looked at me with a discretion which froze me.\n\nMy pupil was an idle and dull boy, who had the redeeming quality of\nbeing very simple, very confiding, and of telling me all that I wished\nto know of himself and the rest of his family. I learned in this way\nthat their stay in the country this year was the work of Count Andr\u00e9,\nwhich did not astonish me in the least, for I felt more and more that\nhe was the real head of the family; I learned that the year preceding\nhe had wished to marry his sister to one of his comrades, a M. de\nPlane, whom Charlotte had refused, and who had gone to Tonquin.\n\nIn our two daily classes, one in the morning from eight o\u2019clock to\nhalf-past nine, the other in the afternoon from three o\u2019clock until\nhalf-past four, I had a great deal of trouble to fix the attention of\nthe little idler. Seated on his chair, opposite me on the other side of\nthe table, and rolling his tongue against his cheek, while he covered\nthe paper with his big awkward writing, he would now and then glance up\nat me.\n\nHe noticed on my face the least sign of abstraction. With the animal\nand sure instinct of children, he soon saw that I would make him go on\nwith his lessons less quickly when he talked to me of his brother or\nsister, and so this innocent mouth revealed to me that there was, in\nthis cold, strange house, some one who thought of me and of my comfort.\n\nMy mother had failed so much in this regard, although I might not wish\nto confess it! And it was this act of simple politeness which made me\nregard Mlle. de Jussat with more attention.\n\nThe second trait that I discovered in her was a taste for the romantic,\nnot that she had read many romances, but as I have already told you,\nher sensibility was extreme, and this had given her an apprehension of\nthe real.\n\nWithout herself suspecting it she was very different from her father,\nher mother and her brothers; and she could neither show herself to them\nin the truth of her nature, nor see them in the truth of theirs without\nsuffering. So she did show herself, and she forced herself not to see\nthem. She formed, spontaneously and ingenuously, opinions of those she\nloved which were in harmony with her own heart and so directly contrary\nto the evidence that they would have seemed false or flattering in\nthe eyes of a malevolent observer. She would say to her mother, who\nwas so ordinary and material: \u201cMamma, you are so quick to see;\u201d to\nher father so cruelly egotistical: \u201cYou are so kind, papa,\u201d and to\nher brother who was so positive, so self-sufficient: \u201cYou understand\neverything,\u201d and she believed it. But the delusion in which this gentle\ncreature imprisoned herself, left her a prey to the most complete moral\nsolitude, and deprived her, to a very dangerous degree, of all judgment\nof character.\n\nShe was as ignorant of herself as of others. She languished, unknown\nto herself, for the society of some one who should have sentiments in\nharmony with her own. For example, I observed in the first walks that\nwe took together, that she was the only one who could really feel the\nbeauty of the landscape formed by the lake, the woods that surround\nit, the distant volcanoes and the autumn sky, often more blue than the\nsky of summer because of the contrast of its azure with the gold of\nthe leaves, and which was sometimes so veiled, so sadly vaporous and\ndistant.\n\nShe would fall into silence without any apparent reason, but really\nbecause her whole being became dissolved into the charm of things\nabout her. She possessed in the state of pure instinct and unconscious\nsensation the faculty which makes the great poets and the great lovers,\nnamely, the faculty of forgetting oneself, of dispelling oneself, of\nlosing oneself entirely in whatever touches the heart, whether it be a\nveiled horizon, a silent and yellow-tinted forest, a piece of music or\na touching story.\n\nI did not, at the beginning of our acquaintance, formulate the contrast\nbetween that combative animal her brother and this creature of\nsweetness and grace who ran up the stone staircases of the ch\u00e2teau with\na step so light that it seemed scarcely poised, and whose smile was so\nwelcoming and yet so timid.\n\nI will dare to tell all, since I repeat it, I am not writing in order\nto paint myself in beautiful colors, but to show myself as I am. I will\nnot say that the desire to make myself beloved by this adorable child,\nin whose atmosphere I began to feel so much pleasure, was not caused by\nthis contrast between her and her brother.\n\nPerhaps the soul of this young girl became as a field of battle for\nthe secret, the obscure antipathy which two weeks had transformed into\nhate? Perhaps there was concealed the cruel pleasure of humiliating\nthe soldier, the gentleman, by outraging him in what he held most\nprecious? I know that this is horrible, but I should not be worthy of\nbeing your pupil if I did not disclose the lowest depth of my heart.\nAnd, after all, this odious cloud of sensations may be only a necessary\nphenomenon, like the others, like the romantic grace of Charlotte, like\nthe simple energy of her brother, and like my own complexities--so\nobscure even to myself.\n\n\n                        \u00a7 IV. THE FIRST CRISIS.\n\n\nI remember very distinctly the day on which the project of winning the\nlove of the sister of Count Andr\u00e9 presented itself to me, no longer\nas a romantically visionary idea, but as a precise possibility, near,\nalmost immediate.\n\nAfter I had been at the ch\u00e2teau two months I went to Clermont to pass\nthe New-Year holidays with my mother, and I had been back a week.\nThe snow had been falling for forty-eight hours. The winters in our\nmountains are so severe that nothing but the marquis\u2019 monomania can\nexplain his obstinacy in remaining in this savage lone waste, which is\nindefinitely swept by sudden and violent gusts of wind.\n\nIt is proper to state that the marquise watched over the comfort of the\nhousehold with a marvelous adjustment of daily resources, and although\nAydat is considered isolated by the inhabitants of Saint-Saturnin and\nSaint-Amand-Tallende, the communication with Clermont remains open even\nin the worst rigor of the season. Then the season offers sudden and\nradiant changes, mornings of storm are suddenly succeeded by evenings\nof incomparable azure in which the country beams as if transformed by\nthe enchantment of light.\n\nThis was the case on the day my fatal resolution became fixed and took\nform. I can see the lake now, covered with a thin sheet of ice, under\nwhich the supple shivering of the water could be discerned. I see the\nvast slope of the Cheyre, white with snow, its whiteness broken by dark\nspots of lava; and perfectly white, without a spot, rises the circle\nof mountains, the Puy de D\u00f4me, the Puy de la Vache, that of Vichatel,\nthat of De la Rodde, that of Mont Redon, while the forest of Rouillet\nstands out against the background of snow and azure.\n\nSome minute details rise again before my eyes which were then scarcely\nnoticed and have remained concealed, one knows not in what hiding-place\nof the memory. I see a cluster of birches whose despoiled branches are\ntinted with rose. I see the crystals which sparkle at the end of a\ntuft of broom which, thin and still green, marks the tracks of a fox\non the immaculate carpet, and the flight of a magpie which cries out\nin the middle of the road, and this sharp cry renders the silence of\nthis immense horizon almost perceptible. I see some yellow and brown\nsheep which are driven by a shepherd clothed in a blue blouse, wearing\na large, low, round hat, and accompanied by a red and shaggy dog with\nshining yellow eyes, very near together.\n\nYes, I can see all this landscape, and the four persons who are\nwalking on the road which leads toward Fontfr\u00e8de: Mlle. Largeyx, Mlle.\nde Jussat, my pupil and myself. Charlotte wore an Astrakhan jacket;\na fur boa was wrapped around her neck making her head appear still\nmore petite and graceful under its Astrakhan toque. After the long\nimprisonment in the ch\u00e2teau the keen air seemed to intoxicate her. Her\ncheeks were red, her small feet plunged radiantly into the snow, where\nthey left their slight trace, and her eyes sparkled with delight at\nthe beauty of nature--a privilege of simple hearts which is never felt\nwhen the soul has become desiccated by force of reasoning, abstract\ntheories and certain kinds of reading.\n\nI walked beside her and so rapidly that we were soon far ahead of\nMlle. Largeyx, whose clogs slipped on the road. The child, sometimes\nin front, sometimes behind, stopped or ran on with the vivacity of a\nyoung animal. In the company of these two gay creatures I grew gloomy\nand taciturn. Was this the nervous irritation which makes us at certain\ntimes antipathetic to the joy which we see around us without sharing\nit? Was it the half-unconscious outline of my future plan, and did\nI wish to force the young girl to notice me by a kind of hostility\nagainst her pleasure?\n\nDuring the whole of this walk, I, who had formed the habit of talking\na great deal with her, scarcely responded by monosyllables to the\nadmiring remarks which she addressed to me, as if she wished me to\nshare in the pleasure of her emotions.\n\nBy brusque replies, and by silence, my bad humor became so evident that\nMlle. de Jussat, in spite of her enthusiasm, could not fail to notice\nit. She glanced at me two or three times, with a question on her lips\nwhich she did not dare to formulate, then her face became sad. Her\ngayety fell little by little at contact with my sulkiness, and I could\ntrace upon her transparent face the passage, by which she ceased to be\nsensible to the beauty of things and was conscious only of my sadness.\n\nThe moment came when she could no longer control the impression which\nthis sadness made upon her, and, in a voice which timidity rendered a\nlittle stifled, she asked:\n\n\u201cAre you suffering. Monsieur Greslon?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, mademoiselle,\u201d I replied with a _brusquerie_ which must have\nwounded her, for her voice trembled as she said:\n\n\u201cThen some one has done something to you? You are not as you usually\nare.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo one has done anything to me,\u201d I answered, shaking my head; \u201cbut\nit is true,\u201d I added, \u201cthat I have reasons for being sad, very sad,\nto-day. It is the anniversary of a great grief, which I cannot tell\nyou.\u201d\n\nShe looked at me again, and I could follow in her eyes the movements\nwhich agitated her, as one follows the movements of a watch through a\nglass case. I had seen her so uneasy at my attitude that she lost her\nfeeling for the divine landscape. I saw her now, comforted that I had\nno cause for grief against her, but touched by my melancholy, curious\nto know the cause, and not daring to ask me. She only said:\n\n\u201cPardon me for questioning you.\u201d Then she was silent.\n\nThese few minutes sufficed to show me the place which I already\noccupied in her thoughts. Ah! before the proof of this delicate and\nnoble interest, I should have been ashamed of my falsehood, for so it\nwas, this _soi-disant_ recollection of a great grief--a gratuitous\nand instantaneous falsehood whose sudden invention has often astonished\nmyself.\n\nWhy had I suddenly thought to clothe myself in the poetry of a great\ngrief, I whose life, since the death of my father, had been so quiet,\nso free from any sacrifices? Had I yielded to the innate taste for\nduplicating myself always so strong? This romantic affectation, did it\nshow the hysteria of vanity which urges some children to lie, without\nreason and with so much unexpectedness? Did a vague intuition cause me\nto see in this play of deception and melancholy the surest means of\ninteresting the Count\u2019s sister?\n\nI cannot tell the precise motives which governed me at that moment.\nAssuredly I did not foresee either the effect of my assumed sadness\nor of my falsehood, but I remember that as soon as the effect was\nknown a resolution was formed in my mind to go on to the end and\nsee what impression I could produce on the soul of this young girl,\nby continuing, with consciousness and calculation, the comedy\nhalf-instinctively begun in this luminous afternoon of January in\npresence of a magnificent landscape, which should have served as a\nframe for other dreams.\n\nNow that the irreparable is accomplished, and by a retrospective\npenetration, horribly painful--for it convicts me of ignorance and of\ncruelty--I understand that I had already inspired Charlotte with the\ntruest and the tenderest feelings. All the diplomatic psychology which\nI employed was only the odious and ridiculous work of a scholar in the\nscience of the heart. I understand that I did not know how to inhale\nthe flowers which bloomed naturally for me in this soul. I had only to\nlet myself know and enjoy the emotions which presented themselves, to\nlive a sentimental life as exalted and extended as that of my intellect.\n\nInstead, I paralyzed my heart by ideas. I wished to conquer a soul\nalready conquered, to play a game of chess, where I needed only to be\nsimple, and I have not even the proud consolation of saying to myself\nthat I have, at least, directed the drama of my destiny as I pleased,\nthat I have combined the scenes, provoked the episodes, conducted the\nintrigue.\n\nIt was played entirely in her, and without my comprehending it in the\nleast, this drama in which Death and Love, the two faithful workers\nof implacable nature, acted without my order while mocking at the\ncomplications of my analysis.\n\nCharlotte loved me for reasons quite different from those which my\ningenious psychology had arranged. She died in despair, when by the\nlight of a tragic explanation she saw me in my true nature. Then I was\nso horrible to her that she thus gave me irrefutable proof that my\nsubtle reflections were nothing to her.\n\nI believed I could solve in this amour a problem of mental mechanism.\nAlas! I had simply met, without feeling its charm, a sincere and\nprofound tenderness. Why did I not then divine what I see to-day with\nthe clearness of the most cruel evidence?\n\nMisled by the romantic side of her character, it was natural that\nthis child should be deceived in me. My long studies had given me the\nappearance of not being quite well, which always interests a woman who\nis truly feminine. Having been brought up by my mother, my manners were\ngentle, my voice and gestures refined, and I was scrupulously careful\nof my person.\n\nI had been introduced by the old master who recommended me, as a person\nof irreproachable nobility of ideas and character. This was enough to\ncause a very sensitive young girl to become interested in me in a very\nparticular manner. Ah, well! I had no sooner recognized this interest\nthan I thought how to abuse it instead of being touched by it.\n\nAny one who had seen me in my room on the evening which followed\nthis afternoon, seated at my table and writing, with a big book of\nanalysis near me, would never have believed that this was a young man\nof scarcely twenty-two years, meditating on the sentiments which he\ninspired or wished to inspire in a young girl of twenty.\n\nThe ch\u00e2teau was asleep. I could hear only the steps of the footman as\nhe extinguished the lamps on the staircase and in the corridors. The\nwind enveloped the vast building in its groanings, now plaintive, now\nsoothing. The west wind is terrible on these heights, where, sometimes,\nit carries away in a single breath all the slates of a roof.\n\nThis lamentation of the wind has always increased in me the feeling\nof internal solitude. My fire burned gently, and I scribbled in my\nnotebook, which I burned before my arrest, the occurrences of the day\nand the programme of the experience which I proposed to attempt upon\nthe mind of Mlle. de Jussat. I had copied the passage on pity which\nis found in your \u201cTheory of the Passions;\u201d you remember it, my dear\nmaster, it begins:\n\n\u201cThere is in the phenomenon of pity a physical element, and which,\nespecially in women, is confined to the sexual emotion.\u201d\n\nIt was through pity then, that I proposed to act first upon Charlotte.\nI would profit by the first falsehood by which I had already moved\nher, combining with it a succession of others, and thus make her love\nme by making her pity me. There was, in this use of the most respected\nof human sentiments for the profit of my curious fancy, something\nparticularly contrary to the general prejudice, which flattered my\npride most exquisitely.\n\nWhile I wrote out this plan with philosophical text to support it,\nI imagined what Count Andr\u00e9 would think, if he could, as in the old\nlegends, from the depths of his garrison town decipher the words which\nI had traced with my pen.\n\nAt the same time, the idea alone of directing at will the subtle\nmovements of a woman\u2019s brain, all this sentimental and intellectual\nclockwork so complicated and so tenuous, made me compare myself\nto Claude Bernard, to Pasteur and to their pupils. These savants\nvivisected animals. Was not I going to vivisect at length, a human soul?\n\nIn order to draw from this pity which had been surprised rather than\nprovoked, all the result demanded, it must first be prolonged. To this\nend, I resolved to keep up the comedy of sadness by preparing for the\nday of an explanatory conversation, more or less distant, a long,\ntouching romance of false confidences.\n\nI devoted myself, during the week following our walk, to feigning a\nmelancholy more or less absorbing, and to feigning it, not only in the\npresence of Charlotte, but also during the hours in which I was alone\nwith my pupil, sure that the child would report to his sister the\nimpressions of our _t\u00eate-\u00e0-t\u00eate_.\n\nYou see here, my dear master, the proof of the useless machinery I was\npreparing to employ. Was there any need of involving this boy, who had\nbeen confided to me, in this sad intrigue, and why should I join this\nruse with the others, when Mlle. de Jussat did not for a moment doubt\nmy sincerity?\n\nWe had our lessons, Lucien and I, in a large room dignified by the\nname of library, because of the shelves which furnished one side of\nthe wall. There, behind the gratings lined with green linen, were\ninnumerable volumes bound in sheepskin, notably all the volumes of the\nEncyclopedia. This was a legacy from the founder of the ch\u00e2teau, a\ngreat philosopher, who had built this habitation among the mountains\nfor the purpose of bringing up his children in the midst of nature and\nafter the precepts of Emile.\n\nThe portrait of this gentleman free-thinker, a mediocre painting in the\ntaste of the period, with its powder, and a smile both sceptical and\nsensible, adorned one side of the door; on the other side was that of\nhis wife, quite coquettish under a high coiffure and with patches on\nher cheeks.\n\nIn looking at these two paintings, while Lucien translated a bit from\nOvid or from Titus Livius, I asked myself what my ancestors were doing\nfor me during the century in which these two persons lived who were\nrepresented in these portraits. I imagined, these rustics from whom I\nam descended pushing the plow, pruning the vine, harrowing the ground\nin the foggy plains of Lorraine, like the peasants who passed on the\nroad in front of the ch\u00e2teau, in all weathers, and who with boots to\ntheir knees, dragged a metal-tipped stick fastened to the wrist by a\nstrap.\n\nThis mental picture gave the charm of a kind of lawful vengeance to the\ncare I took to compose my physiognomy. It is a singular thing, that\nalthough I might detest in theory the doctrines of the Revolution and\nthe mediocre spiritualism which they conceal, I became again a plebeian\nin my profound joy in thinking that I, the great-grandson of these\nfarmers, should perhaps by the force of my mind alone bring to disgrace\nthe great-granddaughter of this great lord and this great lady.\n\nI leaned my chin upon my hand, I forced my brow and my eyes to look\nsad, knowing that Lucien was watching the expression of my face, in\nthe hope of interrupting his task by a talk. When he had several times\nobserved that he did not see the welcoming smile, nor the indulgent\nlook, he himself became very anxious. As is natural, the poor boy took\nmy sadness for severity, my silence for displeasure One morning he\nventured to ask:\n\n\u201cAre you angry with me, monsieur?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, my child,\u201d I replied, patting his fresh cheek with my hand; and I\ncontinued to preserve my troubled look, while contemplating the snow\nwhich beat against the panes. It fell now from morning till evening in\nlarge whirling stars, covering and putting to sleep the whole country,\nand in the warm rooms of the ch\u00e2teau there was the silent charm of\nintimacy, a distant death of all the noises of the mountains; while\nthrough the window panes, covered with frost on the outside and a vapor\nwithin, the light sifted languorously.\n\nThis gave a background of mystery to the figure of melancholy which\nI made, and which I imposed on the observation of Charlotte whenever\nwe met. When the breakfast bell reunited us in the dining-room, I\nsurprised in the eyes with which she received me the same timid and\ncompassionate curiosity which I had noticed during our walk, whence\ndated what I called in my journal my entrance into my laboratory.\n\nShe regarded me with the same look when we were all again together,\nin the salon at tea, under the light of the early lamps, then at the\ndinner table and again in the long solitude of the evening, unless,\nunder pretext of having work to finish, I retired to my room.\n\nThe monotony of life and of conversation was so complete that there was\nnothing to help her to shake off the impression of mournful mystery\nwhich I had inflicted upon her.\n\nThe marquis, a prey to the contrasts of his character, cursed his fatal\nresolution to remain in this isolation. He announced for the next clear\nday a departure which he knew would be impossible. It would cost too\nmuch now, and beside, where could he go? He calculated the chances of\nseeing his Clermont friends who had several times breakfasted with him,\nbut it was before the four hours between Aydat and the city had been\ndoubled by the bad weather.\n\nThen he installed himself at the card table, while the marquise,\nthe governess and the _religieuse_ applied themselves to their\nunending work.\n\nIt was my duty to look after Lucien who turned the leaves of a book\nof engravings or played at patience. I placed myself so that when\nshe raised her eyes from the cards which she held in her hands while\nplaying with her father, the young girl was obliged to see me. I had\nbeen interested in hypnotism, and I had in particular studied in all\nits details, in your \u201cAnatomy of the Will,\u201d the chapter devoted to the\nsingular phenomena of certain moral denominations, which you have\nentitled: \u201cSome demi-suggestions.\u201d I depended on taking possession\nof this unoccupied mind, until the propitious moment in which, to\ncomplete this work of daily intercourse, I should decide to relate to\nher my story which, justifying my sadness, should end by engrossing her\nimagination.\n\nThis story I had manufactured upon two principles which you lay down,\nmy dear master, in your beautiful chapter on Love. This chapter, the\ntheories of the Ethics on the passions, and M. Ribot\u2019s book on the\n\u201cMaladies of the Will,\u201d had become my breviaries. Permit me to recall\nthese two principles, at least in their essence.\n\nThe first is that the majority of beings have sentiment only by\nimitation; abandoned to simple nature, love, for example, would be for\nthem as for the animals, only a sensual instinct, dissipated as soon as\nsatiated.\n\nThe second is that jealously may exist before love; consequently it\nmay sometimes create it, and may often survive it. Much struck by the\njustness of this double remark, I argued that the romance which I\nshould relate to Mlle. de Jussat ought to excite her imagination and\nirritate her vanity. I had succeeded in touching the cord of pity, I\nwished to touch that of sentimental emulation and that of self-love.\n\nI had then, founded my story on this idea, that every woman interested\nin a man, is wounded in her vanity if this man shows that he is\nthinking of another woman. But twenty pages would be necessary to show\nyou how I studied over the problem of the invention of this fable.\n\nThe occasion to relate it to her was furnished by the victim herself,\nfifteen days after I had begun to put at work what I proudly called\nmy experience. The marquis had been told that one volume of the\nEncyclopedia was devoted to cards. He wished to find there how to play\nsome old games such as Imperiale, Ombre, and Manilla. This brilliant\nidea had come to him after breakfast, on seeing in a journal a report\nof a new game called Poker, apropos of which the journalist gave a list\nof old-fashioned games.\n\nWhen this maniac had conceived a fancy he could not wait, and his\ndaughter was obliged to go at once to the library, where I was occupied\nin taking notes. I laid aside Helv\u00e9tius upon the \u201cMind,\u201d which I had\ndiscovered among some other books of the eighteenth century. I placed\nmyself at the disposition of Mlle. de Jussat to take down the volume\nwhich she desired, and, when she took it from my hands, she said with\nher habitual grace:\n\n\u201cI hope that we shall find here some game in which you can take a hand\nwith us. We are so afraid that you do not feel at home here, you are\nalways so sad.\u201d\n\nShe said these words as if asking pardon for an indelicacy, which had\nimpressed me before, and escaping the familiarity of her remark by a\n\u201cwe\u201d which I too well knew to be untruthful. Her voice was so gentle,\nwe were so alone that the time seemed to have come to explain my\nfeigned sadness.\n\n\u201cAh! mademoiselle,\u201d I answered, \u201cif you only knew my history.\u201d\n\nIf Charlotte had not been the credulous creature, the romantic child\nthat she was, in spite of her two or three seasons in Paris, she would\nhave seen that I was beginning a tale prepared beforehand, by this\nintroduction, by the turn of the sentences with which I continued. I\nwas too clumsy, too awkwardly affected.\n\nI told her then that I had been betrothed at Clermont to a young girl,\nbut secretly. I thought to make this adventure more poetical in her\neyes by insinuating that this girl was a foreigner, a Russian visiting\none of her relations. I added that this girl had allowed me to tell her\nthat I loved her, and she had also told me that she loved me. We had\nexchanged vows, then she had gone away. A rich marriage offered, and\nshe had betrayed me for money.\n\nI was careful to insist on my poverty, and let her understand that\nmy mother lived almost entirely on what I earned. This was a detail\ninvented on the spot, for hypocrisy doubles itself in expression. In\ntruth this was a scene of a childish and rascally comedy, which I\nplayed with very little skill. But the reasons which determined me to\nlie in this fashion were so special that they exacted an extraordinary\npenetration to be comprehended, a total attention of my mind, almost\nyour genius, my dear master. The visible embarrassment of my position\ncould so easily be attributed to the trouble inseparable from such\nremembrances. As I was perfectly cool while I was telling this fable,\nI could observe Charlotte. She listened without any sign of emotion,\nher eyes lowered on the big book which supported her hand. She took the\nbook when I had finished, and replied in a blank voice, as they say,\none of those voices which betrays no sentiment of the speaker:\n\n\u201cI do not understand how you could have had any confidence in this\nyoung girl, since she listened to you without the knowledge of her\nparents.\u201d\n\nAnd she went away with a simple inclination of her graceful head,\ncarrying the book with her. How pretty she was in her dress of fine,\nlight cloth, with her slender form, her small waist, her face quite\nlong and lighted up by her thoughtful gray eyes! She was like a Madonna\nengraved after Memling, whose profile I had formerly so much admired,\nfervent, lovely and mournful, on the first page of a large copy of the\n\u201cImitation,\u201d belonging to the Abb\u00e9 Martel.\n\nExplain to me this other enigma of the heart, you, the great\npsychologist; never have I felt more the charm of this pure and gentle\nbeing than at the moment when I had just lied to her, and lied so\nuselessly as I imagined from her response.\n\nYes, I took this response literally, which, on the contrary, should\nhave encouraged me to hope. I did not guess that to have only listened\nto a confidence so intimate was for a being so proud and so reserved,\nso far above me, a proof of a very powerful sympathy. I did not\nconsider that this almost severe remark was dictated in part by the\nsecret jealousy which I had desired to arouse in her, in part by a need\nto strengthen herself in her own principles so as to justify to herself\nher excessive familiarity.\n\nAs she had not been able to read the falsehood in my story, so I had\nnot seen the truth behind her reply.\n\nI felt all the hopes which I had been building up for the past\nfortnight crumble before me. No. She was not interested in me with a\ngenuine interest which I could transform into passion. I drew up the\nbalance sheet of our relations. What proof had I of this interest? The\ndelicacy of the material cares with which she had surrounded me? This\nwas a simple effect of her goodness. Her attempt to find out the cause\nof my melancholy? Ah, well! she had been curious, that was all. The\ntimid accent of her voice when she questioned me? I had been a fool\nnot to recognize the habitual modesty of a delicate girl. Conclusion:\nmy comedy of these two weeks, my grimaces _\u00e0 la_ Chatterton, the\nfalsehood of my so-called drama, so many ridiculous maneuvers, had not\nadvanced me a line in the heart I wished to conquer.\n\nI turned again to my book, but I was no longer capable of fixing\nmy attention on the abstract text of Helv\u00e9tius. I recall this\nchildishness, my dear master, that you may the better perceive what a\nstrange mixture of innocence and depravity was elaborated in my mind.\n\nWhat did this unexpected deception prove, if not that I had imagined I\ncould direct the thought of Charlotte, by applying to her the laws of\npsychology borrowed from the philosophers, as absolutely as her brother\ndirected the billiard balls? The white touches the red a little to the\nleft, goes on the cushions, and returns to the other white. That is\noutlined by the hand on the paper, that is explained by a formula, that\nis foreseen and is done ten times, twenty times, a hundred times, ten\nthousand times.\n\nIn spite of my enormous reading, perhaps because of it, I saw the play\nof the passions in this state of ideal simplicity. I did not comprehend\ntill later how much I was deceived. In order to define the phenomena\nof the heart we must go to the vegetable, and not to the mechanical\nworld for analogies, and to direct these phenomena we must employ the\nmethods of the botanist, patient graftings, long waiting, careful\ntraining.\n\nA sentiment is born, grows, expands, withers like a plant, by an\nevolution sometimes retarded, sometimes rapid, but always unconscious.\nThe germ of pity, of jealousy, and of dangerous example planted by my\nruse in the soul of Charlotte must develop its action, but only after\ndays and days, and this action would be the more irresistible as she\nbelieved me to be in love with another and that in consequence she\nwould not think to defend herself against me.\n\nBut to account in advance for this work and to discount the hope of it,\none would have to be a Ribot, a Horwicz, an Adrien Sixte, that is, a\nconnoisseur of souls, instead of one like me, ignorant that the plain\nover which he is walking will be covered with grain and not suspecting\nthe approaching harvest.\n\nThe conviction that I had definitely failed in my first effort\nincreased during the days which followed this false confidence. For\nCharlotte scarcely spoke to me.\n\nI know now, from her own confession, that she concealed under this\ncoldness a growing agitation which disconcerted her by its novelty, its\nforce and its depth. In the meantime she appeared absorbed in the game\nof backgammon which the marquis had discovered in the Encyclopedia.\n\nRecollecting that this had been the favorite pastime of his\ngrandfather, the _emigr\u00e9_, he had given up all other games. A\nmerchant of Clermont had been able to send him the necessary articles\nwith which to satisfy this caprice.\n\nThe backgammon table was installed in the salon and father and daughter\npassed their evenings in throwing the dice, which made a dry noise\nagainst the wooden ledge. The cabalistic terms of little table,\nbig table, outer table, double ace, double threes, two fives, were\nintermingled now with the words of the marquise and her two companions.\n\nSometimes the cur\u00e9 of Aydat, the Abb\u00e9 Barthomeuf, an old priest who\nsaid mass in the chapel of the ch\u00e2teau on Thursdays when the weather\nwas very severe, would relieve Charlotte by playing with the marquis.\nAlthough the marquis treated me with irreproachable politeness, he had\nnever asked me if I wished to learn to play. The difference which he\nestablished between the abb\u00e9 and myself humiliated me, by the oddest\ncontradiction, for I much preferred to remain in my low chair reading\na book, or observing the character of the different persons from their\nphysiognomies.\n\nIs it not always so when one is in a position which is thought to be\ninferior? Any inequality of treatment wounds the self-love. I took my\nrevenge in observing the ridiculousness of the abb\u00e9, who professed,\nfor the ch\u00e2teau in general and the marquis in particular, an almost\nidolatrous admiration. His face which was always red became apoplectic\nwhen he took his seat opposite the marquis, and the prospect of winning\nthe silver coins designed to make the game more interesting made the\ndice-cup tremble in his hand at the decisive throws.\n\nThis observation did not occupy me long, and I turned to follow the\nyoung girl, who seated herself at her work near her mother.\n\nThe failure of my attempt to win her love had made me more cruel, in\nproportion to the admiration I had before felt for the innocent grace\nof this child. To confess all, I began to feel, in her atmosphere,\nemotions of an order more sensual than psychological. I was a young\nman, and I had in my flesh, in spite of my philosophical resolutions,\nthe memory of sex of which you have so authoritatively analyzed the\npersistent fatality and the invincible reviviscence.\n\nHow long this period of inertia at once impassioned and discouraged,\nmight have lasted, I do not know. We were, Mlle. de Jussat and I, in\na very peculiar situation, impelled one toward the other, she by a\nbudding love of which she was ignorant, I by all the confused reasons\nwhich I have analyzed.\n\nAlthough we were together so many hours of the day, neither of us then\nsuspected the sentiments of the other. In such circumstances, one does\nnot consider whether the events which mark a new crisis are effects or\ncauses, whether their importance resides in themselves or whether they\nsimply serve to manifest the latent conditions of the soul. But may we\nnot put this question apropos of each destiny taken in its whole? How\nmany times, above all since I consume my hours in this cell between\nthese four whitewashed walls, seeing only the empty sky through four\nopenings at the edge of the roof, in searching and searching again into\nmy short history, have I asked myself if our fate creates our mind, or\nif it is not our mind which creates our fate, even our external destiny?\n\nIt happened one evening that the marquis, seated with his back to the\nfire in the _robe-de-chambre_, which he sometimes wore all day,\nspoke at length to his wife of an article in the morning paper. I was\nholding this paper at the time, and M. de Jussat said to me quite\nsuddenly:\n\n\u201cWould you read this article, Monsieur Greslon?\u201d\n\nI admired, once more, the art with which this grand seigneur rendered\nthe most trifling demands insolent. His tone alone was sufficient to\nchill me. I obeyed however, and began to read this chronicle, more\nfinely written than such articles usually are, and in which were\nrevived all the picturesqueness and coloring of a fancy ball, with a\ncurious mixture of reporting and poetry.\n\nDuring the reading the marquis regarded me in astonishment. I must tell\nyou, my dear master, that at the time of my friendship with Emile, I\nhad acquired a real talent for diction. During his illness my little\ncomrade had no greater pleasure than to hear me read.\n\n\u201cYou read very well, very well!\u201d cried M. de Jussat when I had finished.\n\nHis astonishment made his eulogy a new wound to my self-esteem. It\nwas too plain that he did not expect to find much talent in a silent\nand timid young man of Clermont, who had come to the ch\u00e2teau on the\nrecommendation of old Limasset, to be a _valet de lettres_. Then,\nfollowing as usual, the impulse of his caprice, he continued:\n\n\u201cThat is an idea. You shall read for us in the evening. That will amuse\nus a little better than this _trictrac_. Little _jan_, big\n_jan_, it is always the same thing, and then the noise of the dice\nsets my teeth on edge. This beastly country! If the snow ever stops\nagain, we will not stay here eight days. And what book are you going to\nbegin with?\u201d\n\nThus I found myself promoted to a new service, without even being\nallowed to consider whether it would interfere with my studies or not,\nfor I often brought into the salon some of my books that I might study\na little without leaving Lucien. But I did not for a moment think of\nevading this task. First the brusqueness of the marquis had brought me\na glance almost supplicating from Charlotte, one of those glances by\nwhich a woman knows how to ask pardon, for the error of some one whom\nshe loves. Then, a new project took form in my mind. Might not this\ntask be utilized to the profit of the enterprise commenced, abandoned,\nand which the look of Mlle. de Jussat made me think was still possible?\n\nTo the question of the marquis upon the choice of the book, I responded\nthat I would consider. And I looked for a work which would permit me to\napproach the prey around which I turned, as I once saw, near the Puy du\nD\u00f4me, a kite wheel around and above a poor little bird.\n\nWas not this an opportunity to try by another method this influence of\nimitation, which I had vainly hoped from my false confidence? It is to\nyou, my dear master, that we owe the strongest pages which have been\nwritten upon that which you so justly call the Literary Mind, upon this\nunconscious modeling of our heart to the resemblance of the passions\npainted by the poets.\n\nI saw in this then, a means of acting upon Charlotte which I reproached\nmyself for not having thought of before. But how was I to find a\nromance which was passionate enough to excite her, and outwardly\ncorrect enough to be read before the assembled family? I literally\nransacked the library. Its incoherent and contrasted composition,\nreflected the residence of its successive masters and the chances of\ntheir taste.\n\nThere were all the principal works of the eighteenth century of which\nI have spoken--then a hiatus. During the emigration the ch\u00e2teau had\nremained unoccupied. Then a lot of romantic books in their first\neditions attested the literary aspirations of the father of the\nmarquis, who had been the friend of Lamartine. Then came the worst\nof contemporaneous romances, those which are bought on the railway,\nhalf-bound, cut sometimes with the finger, or a page lost, and some\ntreatises on political economy, an abandoned hobby of M. de Jussat.\n\nAt last I discovered amid all this rubbish a \u201cEug\u00e9nie Grandet,\u201d which\nappeared to me to fill the conditions desired. There is nothing more\nattractive to a fresh imagination than these idyls at once chaste and\nfervid in which innocence envelops passion in a penumbra of poesy. But\nthe marquis must have known this celebrated romance by heart, and I\napprehended that he would refuse to listen to it.\n\n\u201cBravo!\u201d he replied when I submitted my idea to him, \u201cthat is one of\nthe books that one reads once, talks about always and entirely forgets.\nI saw this Balzac once in Paris, at the Castries. It is more than forty\nyears ago. I was a youngster then. But I remember him well, fat, short\nand stubby, noisy, important, with beautiful bright eyes and a common\nair.\u201d\n\nThe fact is that after the first pages, he fell asleep, while the\nmarquise. Mlle. Largeyx and the _religieuse_ knit, and Lucien, who\nhad recently come into possession of a box of colors conscientiously\nilluminated the illustrations of a large volume.\n\nWhile reading I observed Charlotte, and it was not difficult to see\nthat this time my calculation had been correct, and that she vibrated\nunder the phrases of the romance as a violin under a skillful bow.\nEverything was prepared to receive this impression, from her feelings\nalready stirred to her nerves strained by an influence of a physical\nkind. One cannot live with impunity for weeks in such an atmosphere as\nthat of the ch\u00e2teau, always warm, nearly stifling.\n\nFrom that evening, this child hung on my lips as the ingenuous loves of\nEug\u00e9nie and her cousin Charles disclosed their touching episodes. The\nsame instinct of comedy which had guided me in my false confidence made\nme throw into every phrase the intonation which I thought would please\nher most.\n\nI certainly enjoyed this book, although I preferred ten other of\nBalzac\u2019s works, such, for example, as the \u201cCur\u00e9 de Tours,\u201d which are\nveritable literary compendiums, each phrase of which contains more\nphilosophy than a scholium of Spinoza.\n\nI forced myself to appear touched by the misfortunes of the miser\u2019s\ndaughter, in my most secret fibres; and my voice grew pitiful over the\nsweet recluse of Saumur.\n\nHere, as before, I gave myself useless trouble. There was no need of an\nart so complicated. In the crisis of imaginative sensibility through\nwhich Charlotte was passing, any romance of love was a peril.\n\nIf the father and mother had possessed, even in a feeble degree, that\nspirit of observation which parents ought to exercise without ceasing,\nthey would have divined this peril of their daughter, more and more\ncaptivated during the three evenings that this reading lasted. The\nmarquise simply remarked that characters so black as father Grandet and\nthe cousin did not exist. As for the marquis, he knew too much of the\nworld to proffer any such opinion, he formulated the cause of his ennui\nduring the reading.\n\n\u201cIt is decidedly overdrawn. These unfinished descriptions, these\nanalyses, these numerical calculations! They are all very good, I do\nnot say they are not. But when I read a romance I wish to be amused.\u201d\n\nAnd he concluded that he must send to the Library of Clermont\nimmediately for the comedies of Labiche. I was in despair at this new\nfancy. I would again be powerless to act upon the imagination of the\nyoung girl, just at the moment when I could feel success probable.\nThis showed that I did not know the need which this soul, already\ntouched, felt, unknown to herself, the need of drawing near to me, of\ncomprehending me and making herself comprehended by me, of living in\ncontact with my mind.\n\nThe next day after that on which the marquis had issued the decree of\nproscription against analytical romances, Mlle. de Jussat entered the\nlibrary at the hour I was there with her brother. She came to replace\nthe volume of the Encyclopedia; and with a half-embarrassed smile:\n\n\u201cI would like to ask a favor of you,\u201d she said timidly. \u201cI have a great\ndeal of time here, with which I do not know very well what to do. I\nwould like to have your advice in regard to my reading. The book which\nyou chose the other day gave me a great deal of pleasure.\u201d She added:\n\u201cOrdinarily romances weary me, but that one was very interesting.\u201d\n\nI felt, at hearing her speak in that way, the joy which Count Andr\u00e9\nmust have tasted when he saw the enemy whom he killed during the war\nput his inquisitive head above the wall. It seemed to me as if I, too,\nheld my human game at the end of my gun.\n\nThe response to this request appeared to me so important that I feigned\nto be very much embarrassed. In thanking her for her confidence I said\nto her that she had charged me with a very delicate mission for which\nI felt myself incapable. In brief, I made believe to decline a favor,\nwhich I was charmed to intoxication to have obtained. She insisted, and\nI promised to give her the next day a list of books.\n\nI passed the evening and a part of the night in taking and rejecting\nin my mind hundreds of volumes. At last I repeated aloud my father\u2019s\nfavorite formula: \u201cLet us proceed methodically,\u201d and I asked myself how\nbooks had acted on my imagination, in my adolescence, and what books?\n\nI stated that I had been attracted most of all toward literature by\nthe unknown of sentimental experience. It was the desire to assimilate\nunexperienced emotions which had bewitched me. I concluded that this\nwas the general law of literary intoxication. I must then choose for\nthis girl some books which should awake in her the same ideas while\ntaking into account the difference of our characters.\n\nCharlotte was refined, pure and tender. She must be led into the\ndangerous road of romantic curiosity by descriptions of sentiments\nanalogous to her own heart. I judged that the \u201cDominique\u201d of\nFromentin, the \u201cPrincesse de Cl\u00e8ves,\u201d \u201cVal\u00e9rie,\u201d \u201cJulia de Tr\u00e9c\u0153ur,\u201d\nthe \u201cLys dans la vall\u00e9e,\u201d the \u201cReisebilder\u201d of Heine, certain comedies\nof Musset, in particular \u201cOn ne badine pas avec l\u2019amour,\u201d the first\npoetry of Sully Prudhomme and that of Vigny, would best serve my\npurpose.\n\nI took the trouble to write out this list, accompanying it with a\ntempting commentary, in which I indicated in my best manner the shade\nof delicacy proper to each of these writers. That is the letter which\nthe poor child had kept, and of which the magistrates said it seemed\nlike the beginning of courtship. Ah! the strange courtship, and so\ndifferent from the vulgar ambition of the marriage with which these\ngross minds have stupidly reproached me! If I had not a reason of pride\nfor refusing to defend myself which I will give you at the end of this\nmemoir, I would be silent from disgust of these low intelligences,\nof which not one would be able to comprehend an action dictated by\npure reason. If they had only made you, my dear master, and the other\nprinces of modern thought, my judges! Then I would speak, as I am\nspeaking now to you.\n\nThe works thus designated arrived from Clermont. They were the object\nof no remark on the part of the marquis. It is necessary to have\nanother reach of mind than that of this poor man to comprehend that\nthere are no bad books. There are bad moments in which to read the\nbest of books. You have a comparison so just in your chapter on \u201cL\u2019\u00e2me\nlitt\u00e9raire,\u201d when you liken the sore opened in certain imaginations\nby certain readings to the well-known phenomenon produced on the body\npoisoned by diabetes. The most inoffensive prick becomes envenomed with\ngangrene.\n\nIf there were need of a proof of this theory of \u201cthe preliminary\nstate,\u201d as you say again, I should find it in the fact that Mlle. de\nJussat sought in these books for things so diverse, for information\nabout me, my manner of feeling, of thinking, of understanding life and\ncharacter.\n\nEvery chapter, every page of these dangerous volumes became an occasion\nfor questioning me long, passionately, and ingenuously. I am certain\nthat she was sincere, and that she did not imagine she was doing\nanything wrong when she came to talk with me apropos of such or such\na phrase about Dominique or Julia, F\u00e9lix de Vandenesse or Perdican.\nI remember the horror which she felt for the young man, the most\ncaptivating and the most guilty of Musset\u2019s heroes, and the heat with\nwhich I stigmatized his duplicity of heart between Camille and Rosette.\n\nNow, there was no personage in any book, who pleased me to the same\ndegree as this lover at once traitorous and sincere, disloyal and\nloving, _ing\u00e9nu_ and _rou\u00e9_, who achieved, in his way, his\nexperience of sentimental vivisection upon his pretty and proud cousin.\n\nI have cited this example, among twenty others, to give you an idea of\nthe conversations which we had now in this ch\u00e2teau in which we were so\nstrangely isolated. No one watched us. The dissimulation in which I had\nmasked myself on my arrival continued to cover me.\n\nThe marquis and the marquise had formed from the first an image\nentirely different from my real nature. They took no pains to verify\nwhether this first impression were exact or false.\n\nThe good Mlle. Largeyx, installed in the comfort of her complacent\nparasitism, was much too innocent to suspect the thoughts of depravity\nperfectly intellectual which were revolving in my mind.\n\nThe Abb\u00e9 Bartholomew and Sister Anaclet, whom a secret rivalry\nseparated, concealed under the form of an amiability quite\necclesiastic, had only one care, that of pleasing the master and\nmistress of the ch\u00e2teau, the priest for the benefit of his church, and\nthe _religieuse_ for that of her order.\n\nLucien was too young, and, as for the domestics, I had not yet learned\nwhat perfidy was veiled under the impassibility of their smooth faces\nand the irreproachable appearance of their brown livery with its gold\nbuttons.\n\nWe were then free, Charlotte and I, to talk the whole day. She appeared\nfirst in the morning, in the dining-room where my pupil and I took our\ntea, and there, under the pretext of breakfasting together, we talked\nat one corner of the table, she in all the perfumed freshness of her\nbath, with her hair hanging down in a heavy plait, and the suppleness\nof her lovely form visible under the material of her half-fitting\nmorning dress.\n\nI saw her again in the library where she always had some excuse for\ncoming; and by this time her hair was dressed, and she had assumed the\ntoilette of the day. We met again in the drawing-room before the second\nbreakfast and still again; and she waited upon us with her customary\ngrace, distributing the coffee a little hurriedly that she might linger\nnear me whom she served last, which permitted us to talk in an angle of\nthe window.\n\nWhen the weather would permit we went out, the governess, Charlotte,\nmy pupil, and I, in the afternoon. At five-o\u2019clock tea we were again\ntogether, then at dinner, when I sat near her, and in the evening we\nconversed almost as if we were really alone.\n\nI mentally compared the phenomena which were taking place in this\ngirl, to that which I had observed several times in taming animals. At\none time I had written some chapters on animal psychology. A theorem\nof Spinoza had served me for a starting point. I cannot now recall the\ntext, but this is the sense: to reproduce a movement, you must do it\nyourself. That is true of man, and it is true of the animal. A savant\nof rare merit and whom you know well, M. Espinas, has explained that\nall society is founded on resemblance. I have concluded that for a man\nto tame an animal, to bring it to live in his society, he must, in his\nrelations with this animal, make only those movements which the animal\ncan reproduce, that is to resemble him.\n\nI have verified this law in establishing the species of analogy of\nexpression between a hunter and his dog, for example. I found--and this\nwas the sign that Mlle. de Jussat was becoming a little tamer each\nday--that we began to employ analogous expressions, turns of thought\nalmost the same. I found myself accenting my words as she did hers, and\nI observed in her gestures which resembled mine. In fine, I became a\npart of her life, without her perceiving it, so careful was I not to\nstartle this soul just ready to be taken by a word that would cause her\nto feel her danger.\n\nThis life of watchful diplomacy, to which I was condemned during\nnearly two months that these simply intellectual relations lasted, did\nnot pass without almost daily internal struggles. To interest this\nmind, to invade this imagination little by little, was not all of my\nprogramme. I wished to be loved, and I knew that this moral interest\nwas only the beginning of passion. This beginning ought to lead in\norder not to remain useless to something more than a sentimental\nintimacy.\n\nThere is in your \u201cTheory of the Passions,\u201d my dear master, a note\nwhich I read so much at that time that I know the text by heart: \u201cA\nwell-prepared study of the lives of professional libertines,\u201d say you,\n\u201cwould throw a definite light upon the problem of the birth of love.\nBut the documents are lacking. These men have nearly all been men of\naction, and who, in consequence, did not know how to relate. However,\nsome works of a superior psychological interest, the \u201cMemoires\u201d of\nCasanova, the \u201cPrivate Life of Marshal de Richelieu,\u201d the chapter of\nSaint-Simon on Lauzun, authorize us to say that nineteen times out\nof twenty audacity and physical familiarity are the surest means of\ncreating love. This hypothesis confirms our doctrine on the animal\norigin of this passion.\u201d\n\nSometimes when we were alone together, and she moved, and her feet\napproached mine, and when she breathed and I felt that she was a living\ncreature, the feverish wave of intoxication ran through my veins, and\nI was obliged to turn my eyes away, for their expression would have\nmade her afraid. Often also, when I was away from her, it seemed to me\nthat audacity would be much more easy as it would be more complete.\nI resolved then to clasp her in my arms, to press my lips to hers.\nI saw her feeling badly at my caress, overcome, confounded by this\nrevelation of my ardor. What would happen then? My heart beat at this\nidea. It was not the fear of being driven from the ch\u00e2teau that held\nme back. It was more shameful to my pride not to dare. And I did not\ndare. The inability to act is a trait of my character, but only when I\nam not sustained by an idea. Let the idea be there and it infuses an\ninvincible energy into my being. To go to my death would be easy. You\nwill see that, if I am condemned. No, what paralyzed me near Mlle. de\nJussat as by a magnetic influence was _her purity_! At least I\nhave felt, with singular force, this recoil before innocence.\n\nOften when I felt this invisible barrier between Charlotte and myself,\nI have recalled the legends of guardian angels, and comprehended the\nbirth of this poetic conceit of Catholicism.\n\nReduced to reality by analysis, this phenomenon simply proves that in\nthe relations between two beings, there is a reciprocity of action\nof one upon the other unknown to either. If by calculation I forced\nmyself to resemble this girl in order to tame her, I experienced\nwithout calculation the species of moral suggestion which all true\ncharacter imposes upon us. The extreme simplicity of her mind triumphed\nat times over my ideas, my remembrances, and my desires.\n\nFinally, although judging this weakness to be unworthy of a brain like\nmine, I respected her, as if I had not known the value of this word\nrespect, and that it represents the most stupid of all our ignorances.\nDo we respect the player who ten times in succession strikes the rouge\nor the noir? Well, in this hazardous lottery of the universe, virtue\nand vice are the rouge and noir. An honest woman and a lucky player\nhave equal merit.\n\nThe spring arrived in the midst of these agitating alternations of\naudacious projects, stupid timidity, contradictory reasonings, wise\ncombinations and ingenuous ardors. And such a spring! One must have\nexperienced the severity of winter among these mountains, then the\nsudden sweetness of the renewal of nature, to appreciate the charm of\nlife which floats in this atmosphere when April and May bring back the\nsacred season.\n\nIt comes first across the meadows in an awaking of the water which\nshudders under the thin ice; it bursts through and then runs singing\non, light, transparent and free.\n\nIt comes through the woods in a continuous murmur of snow which\ndetaches itself piece by piece and falls upon the evergreen branches of\nthe pines and the yellow and dried leaves of the oaks. The lake freed\nfrom its ice takes to shivering under the wind which sweeps away the\nclouds, and the azure appears, the azure of a mountain sky, clearer,\ndeeper than that of the plain; and in some days the uniform color of\nthe landscape is tinted with colors tender and young.\n\nThe delicate buds begin to appear on the naked branches. The greenish\naments of hazels alternate with the yellowish catkins of the willows.\nEven the black lava of the Cheyre appears to be animated. The velvety\nfructifications of the mosses mingle with the whitening spots of the\nlichens. The craters of the Puy de la Vache and of the Puy de Lassolas\ndisclose little by little the splendor of their red gravel. The silvery\ntrunks of the birches and the changeable trunks of the beeches shine in\nthe sun with a lively splendor.\n\nIn the thickets, the beautiful flowers which I had formerly picked with\nmy father, and whose corollas looked at me as if they were eyes, and\nwhose aroma followed me like a breath, began to bloom. The periwinkle,\nthe primrose, and the violet appeared first, then in succession the\ncuckoo-flower with its shade of lilac, the daphne which bears its pink\nflowers before it has any leaves, the white anemone, the two-leaved\nharebell, with its odor of hyacinth, Solomon\u2019s seal with its white\nbells and its mysterious root which walks under the ground, the\nlily-of-the-valley in the hollows, and the eglantine along the hedges.\n\nThe breeze which came from the white domes of the mountain passed over\nthese flowers. It brought with it perfumes something of the sun and\nthe snow, so caressing and so fresh, that only to breathe was to be\nintoxicated with youth, was to participate in the renewal of the vast\nworld; and I, fixed as I was in my doctrines and my theories, felt the\npuberty of all nature. The ice of abstract ideas in which my soul was\nimprisoned melted.\n\nWhen I read over the pages of my journal, now destroyed, in which I had\nnoted my sensations, I am astonished to see with what force the sources\nof ingenuousness were reopened in me under this influence, and with\nwhat a rushing flood they inundated my heart. I am vexed with myself\nfor thinking of it in this cowardly spirit. However, I experience a\npleasure in remembering that at this period I sincerely loved her who\nis now no more. I repeat it with a real relief, that at least on the\nday that I dared to tell her of my love--fatal day which marked the\nbeginning of our separation--I was the sincere dupe of my own words.\n\nThe declaration on which I had deliberated so much was, however, simply\nthe effect of chance. It was the 12th of May. Ah! it is less than a\nyear ago! In the morning the weather had been even more than usually\nfine, and in the afternoon Mlle. Largeyx, Lucien, Charlotte and I\nstarted to go to the village of Saint-Saturnin through a wood of oaks,\nof birches and hazels which separated this village from the ruined\nch\u00e2teau of Montredon, and which is called the Pradat wood. We had taken\nthe little English cart which could hold four if necessary.\n\nNever was a day more warm, a sky more blue, never was the odor of\nspring borne by the wind more exhilarating.\n\nWe had not walked a league when Mlle. Largeyx, fatigued by the sun,\ntook her seat in the cart which was driven by the second coachman. The\nrogue has sworn cruelly against me, and has recalled all that he knew\nor guessed of what I myself am going to relate to you. Lucien also soon\ndeclared himself tired, and joined the governess, so that I was left to\nwalk alone with Mlle. de Jussat.\n\nShe had taken it into her head to make a bouquet of\nlilies-of-the-valley, and I helped her in this work. We were busy under\nthe branches, which were covered with a sort of delicate green cloud\nof the scarcely opened foliage. She walked ahead, drawn far from the\nedge of the wood in her search for the flowers. We found ourselves at\nlast in a clearing, and so far away that we could not see the group\nmade by the cart and the three persons. Charlotte first perceived our\nsolitude. She listened, and not hearing the noise of the horse\u2019s feet\non the road, she cried out with the laughter of a child:\n\n\u201cWe are lost. Fortunately the road is not hard to _rembourser_, as\npoor Sister Anaclet says. Will you wait until I arrange my bouquet? It\nwould be a pity to have these beautiful flowers spoil.\u201d\n\nShe sat down on a rock which was bathed in sunlight, and spread the\nflowers on her lap, taking up the sprays of lilies one by one. I\ninhaled the musky perfume of these pale racemes, seated on the other\nextremity of the stone. Never had this creature, toward whom all my\nthoughts had tended for months, appeared so adorably delicate and\nrefined as at this moment with her face daintily colored by the fresh\nair, with the deep red of her lips which were bent in a half-smile,\nwith the clear limpidity of her gray eyes, with the symmetry of her\nentire being.\n\nShe harmonized in a manner almost supernatural with the country about\nus by the charm of youth which emanated from her person. The longer I\nlooked at her the more I was convinced that if I did not seize this\noccasion to tell her what I had wished to declare for so long a time, I\nshould never again find another opportunity so propitious.\n\nThis idea grew in my mind, mingled with the remorse of seeing her, so\nconfident, so unsuspicious of the patient work by which, abusing our\ndaily intimacy, I had brought her to treat me with a gentleness almost\nfraternal.\n\nMy heart beat violently. The magic of her presence excited my entire\nbeing. Unfortunately she turned toward me for a moment, to show me\nthe bouquet which was nearly finished. No doubt she saw in my face\nthe trace of the emotion which my pride of thought raised in me, for\nher face which had been so joyous, so frank, suddenly grew anxious.\nI ought to say that during our conversations of these two months we\nhad avoided, she from delicacy, I from shrewdness, any allusion to\nthe romance of deception by which I had tried to excite her pity. I\nunderstood how thoroughly she had believed in this romance and that\nshe had not ceased to think of it, when she said with an involuntary\nmelancholy in her eyes:\n\n\u201cWhy do you spoil this beautiful day by sad remembrances? I thought you\nhad become more reasonable.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo!\u201d I responded; \u201cyou do not know what makes me sad. Ah! it is not\nremembrances. You refer to my former griefs. You are mistaken. There is\nno more place in my mind for memories than there is on these branches\nfor last year\u2019s leaves.\u201d\n\nI heard my voice as if it had been that of some one else, at the same\ntime I read in her eyes that, in spite of the poetical comparison by\nwhich I had concealed the direct meaning of this phrase, she understood\nme.\n\nHow was it that what had been so impossible now seemed easy? How was\nit that I dared to do what I had believed I should never dare to do? I\ntook her hand which trembled in mine as if the child were seized with\na frightful terror. She rose to go away, but her knees trembled so\nthat I had no difficulty in constraining her to sit down again. I was\nso overcome by my own audacity that I could not control myself, and I\nbegan to tell her my feelings for her in words which I cannot recall\nnow.\n\nAll the emotions through which I had passed, since my arrival at the\nch\u00e2teau, yes all, even from the most detestable, those of my envy of\nCount Andr\u00e9, to the best, my remorse at abusing the confidence of\na young girl, were dissolved in an adoration almost mystical, and\nhalf-mad, for this trembling, agitated, and beautiful creature. I\nsaw her while I was speaking grow as pale as the flowers which were\nscattered in her lap. I remember that words came to me which were\nexcited to madness, wild to imprudence, and that I ended by repeating:\n\n\u201cHow I love you! Ah! How I love you!\u201d\n\nClasping her hand in mine and drawing her nearer and nearer to me. I\npassed my free arm around her waist without even thinking, in my own\nagitation, of kissing her. This gesture, by alarming her, gave her the\nenergy to rise and disengage herself. She moaned rather than said:\n\n\u201cLeave me, leave me.\u201d\n\nAnd stepping backward, her hands held out in front of her as if to\ndefend herself, she went to the trunk of a birch tree. There she\nleaned, panting with emotion, while the big tears rolled down her\ncheeks. There was so much of wounded modesty in these tears, so painful\na revulsion, in the tremulousness of her half-open lips, that I\nremained where I was muttering:\n\n\u201cPardon.\u201d\n\n\u201cBe still,\u201d said she, making a motion with her hand.\n\nWe remained thus opposite one another and silent for a time which must\nhave been very short, but which seemed an eternity to me. All at once\na cry crossed the wood, at first distant, then nearer, that of a voice\nimitating the cry of the cuckoo. They had grown uneasy at our absence,\nand it was Lucien who gave the usual signal for rallying.\n\nAt this simple reminder of reality Charlotte shivered. The blood\ncame back to her cheeks. She looked at me with eyes in which pride\nhad driven away fear. She looked like one who had just awaked from\na horrible sleep. She looked at her hands, which still shook, and,\nwithout another word, she took up her gloves and her flowers, and began\nto run, yes, to run like a pursued animal, in the direction of the\nvoice. Ten minutes after we were again on the road.\n\n\u201cI do not feel very well,\u201d she said to her governess, as if to\nanticipate the question which her disturbed face would provoke; \u201cwill\nyou give me a place in the carriage? We are going home.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is the heat which has made you feel badly,\u201d replied the old\ndemoiselle.\n\n\u201cAnd M. Greslon?\u201d asked Lucien when his sister had taken her seat and\nhe was in behind.\n\n\u201cI will walk,\u201d I answered.\n\nThe cart moved lightly on, in spite of its quadruple burden, while\nLucien waved me an adieu. I could see the hat of Mlle. de Jussat\nimmovable by the side of the shoulder of the coachman, who gave a \u201cpull\nup\u201d to his horse, then the carriage disappeared and I walked along\nalone, under the same blue sky, and between the same trees covered with\nan impalpable verdure. But an extraordinary anguish had replaced the\ncheerfulness and the happy ardor of the beginning of the walk.\n\nThis time the die had been thrown. I had given battle, I had lost; I\nshould be sent away from the ch\u00e2teau ignobly. It was less this prospect\nwhich overcame me than a strange mingling of regret and of shame.\n\nBehold whither my learned psychology had led me! Behold the result\nof this siege _en r\u00e8gle_ undertaken against the heart of this\nyoung girl! Not a word on her part in response to the most impassioned\ndeclaration, and I, at the moment for action, what had I found to do\nbut recite some romantic phrases? And she, by a simple gesture, had\nfixed me to my place!\n\nI saw in imagination the face of Count Andr\u00e9. I saw in a flash the\nexpression of contempt when they should tell him of this scene.\nFinally, I was no longer the subtle psychologist or the excited young\nman, I was a self-love humiliated to the dust by the time I reached the\ngate of the ch\u00e2teau.\n\nIn recognizing the lake, the line of the mountains, the front of the\nhouse, pride gave place to a frightful apprehension of what I was going\nto suffer, and the project crossed my mind to flee, to go back directly\nto Clermont, rather than experience anew the disdain of Mlle. de\nJussat, and the affront which her father would inflict upon me. It was\ntoo late, the marquis himself came to meet me, in the principal avenue,\naccompanied by Lucien who called me. This cry of the child had the\ncustomary intonation of familiarity, and the reception of the father\nproved that I had been wrong to feel myself lost so soon.\n\n\u201cThey abandoned you,\u201d said he, \u201cand did not even think of sending\nthe carriage back for you. You must have walked a good stretch!\u201d He\nconsulted his watch. \u201cI am afraid that Charlotte has taken cold,\u201d he\nadded, \u201cshe went to bed as soon as she came in. These spring suns are\nso treacherous.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo Charlotte had said nothing yet. She is suffering this evening. That\nwill be for to-morrow,\u201d thought I, and I began that evening to pack my\npapers. I held to them with so ingenuous a confidence in my talent as a\nphilosopher!\n\nThe next day arrived. Nothing vet. I was again with Charlotte at\nthe breakfast table; she was pale, as if she had passed through a\ncrisis of violent pain. I saw that the sound of my voice made her\ntremble slightly. Then this was all. Ah! what a strange week I\npassed, expecting each morning that she had spoken, crucified by this\nexpectation and incapable of taking the first step myself or of going\naway from the ch\u00e2teau! This was not alone for want of a pretext to\ngive. A burning curiosity held me there. I had wished to live as much\nas to think. Well! I was living, and in what a fever!\n\nAt last, the eighth day, the marquis asked me to come into his study.\n\n\u201cThis time,\u201d said I to myself, \u201cthe hour has struck. I like this\nbetter.\u201d\n\nI expected to see a terrible countenance, and to hear some almost\ninsulting words. I found, on the contrary, the hypochondriac smiling,\nhis eyes bright, his manner young again.\n\n\u201cMy daughter,\u201d said he, \u201ccontinues to be very unwell. Nothing very\nserious, but some odd nervous symptoms. She wishes positively to\nconsult a Paris physician. You know she has been very ill and was\ncured by a physician in whom she has confidence. I shall not be sorry\nto consult him also for myself. I am going with her the day after\nto-morrow. It is possible that we shall take a little journey to amuse\nher. I desired to give you some particular directions in regard to\nLucien during my absence, though I am very well pleased with you,\nmy dear Monsieur Greslon, very well pleased. I wrote so to Limasset\nyesterday. It is a good thing for me that you are here.\u201d\n\nYou will judge my dear master, by what I have shown you of my\ncharacter, that these compliments must have flattered me as evidence\nof the perfection with which I had filled my r\u00f4le, and by reassuring\nme after my fears of the last days. I saw this very clear and positive\nfact: Charlotte had not wished to tell of my declaration, and I asked\nat once: Why? Instead of interpreting this silence in a sense favorable\nto me, I saw in it this idea: she did not wish through pity to take\naway my means of making a living, but it was not the kind of pity which\nI had wished to provoke.\n\nI had no sooner imagined this explanation than it became evident and\ninsupportable.\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d said I, \u201cthat shall not be, I will not accept the alms of this\noutraging indulgence. When Mlle. de Jussat returns, she will not find\nme here. She shows me what I ought to do, what I will do. I have\ndesired to interest her, I have not even excited her anger. I will\nleave at least some other remembrance than that of a vulgar pedant who\nkeeps his place in spite of the worst affronts.\u201d\n\nI was so baffled in my projects; the hope which had sustained me all\nwinter was so dead that I wrote out, on the night following this\nconversation, a letter in the place of the one in which I had thought\nto make her love me, again asking for pardon.\n\nI comprehend, said I, that any relation is impossible between us, and I\nadded that on her return she would not have to endure the odiousness of\nmy presence. The next morning in the confusion of departure, I found a\nmoment when her mother having called her, I could slip into her room. I\nhastened to put my letter on her bureau. There, among the books ready\nto be put into her trunk, was her blotting case. I opened it and found\nan envelope upon which were the words: May 12, 1886. This was the day\nof the fatal declaration. I opened this envelope. It contained some\nsprigs of dried lilies-of-the-valley, and I remember to have given her,\nin this last walk, some sprigs more beautiful than the others and she\nhad put them in her corsage. She had preserved them then. She had kept\nthem in spite of what I had said to her--because of what I had said to\nher.\n\nI do not believe that I ever experienced an emotion comparable to that\nwhich seized me there, before this simple envelope, to the flood of\npride which suddenly inundated my heart. Yes. Charlotte had repulsed\nme. Yes, she had fled from me. But she loved me! I closed the case,\nI went up to my room in haste, for fear that she would surprise me,\nwithout leaving my letter, which I instantly destroyed. Ah! there was\nno question of my going away now.\n\nI must wait until she should return, and, this time, I would act, I\nwould conquer. She loved me!\n\n\n                        \u00a7 V. THE SECOND CRISIS.\n\n\nShe loved me. The experience instituted by my pride and my curiosity\nhad succeeded. This evidence--for I did not for a moment doubt the\nproof, rendered the departure of the young girl not only supportable,\nbut almost sweet. Her flight was explained by a fear of her own\nemotions which proved to me their depth. And then, by going away for a\nfew weeks, she relieved me from a cruel embarrassment.\n\nHow should I act? By what politic safeguard should I push on to success\nfrom this unhoped-for point? I was about to have leisure to think of\nthis during her absence, which could not last long, since the Jussats\nhad now no house except in Auvergne.\n\nDeferring then until later the formation of a new plan, I gave myself\nup to the intoxication of triumphant self-love which I witnessed in\nthe departure of Charlotte and of her father. I had taken leave of\nthem in the drawing-room in order not to embarrass the final adieus,\nand returned to my room. The warm, cordial hand-shake of the marquis,\nproved once more how strongly I was anchored in the house, and I had\ndivined behind the cool farewell of the girl the palpitation of a heart\nwhich did not wish to yield.\n\nI inhabited in the second story a corner room with a window on the\nfront of the ch\u00e2teau I placed myself behind the curtain so that I could\nsee them as they entered the carriage. It was a victoria encumbered\nwith wraps and drawn by the same light bay horse that had drawn the\nEnglish cart. There was also the same coachman on the seat, whip in\nhand, and with the same immobility of countenance.\n\nThe marquis appeared, then Charlotte. Under the veil and from such\na height, I could not distinguish her features, and when she raised\nthe veil to dry her eyes, I could not have told whether it were the\nlast kisses of her mother and her brother which caused this access of\nnervous emotion or despair at a too painful resolution. But, when the\ncarriage turned away toward the gate, I saw her turn her head; and as\nthe family had already gone in what could she be looking at so long, if\nnot at the window from whose shelter I was regarding her? Then a clump\nof trees hid the carriage, which reappeared at the border of the lake\nto disappear again and plunge into the road which crosses the wood of\nPradat--that road where a souvenir awaited her, which I was certain\nwould make her heart beat more quickly--that troubled, conquered heart.\n\nThis sentiment of pride satisfied me for an entire month, without\na minute\u2019s interruption, and--proof that I was still entirely\nintellectual and psychological in my relations with this young girl, my\nmind was never more clear, more supple, more skillful in the handling\nof ideas than at this period.\n\nI wrote then my best pages, a treatise on the working of the will\nduring sleep. I put into it, with the delight of a savant which you\nwill understand, all the details which I had noted, for some months,\non the goings and comings, the heights and depths of my resolutions.\nI had kept, as I have told you, a most precise journal, analyzing, in\nthe evening before going to sleep, and in the morning, as soon as I was\nawake, the least shades of every state of mind.\n\nYes, these were days of a singular fullness. I was very free. Mlle.\nLargeyx and Sister Anaclet kept the marquise company. My pupil and I\ntook advantage of the beautiful and mild days for walking. Under the\npretext of teaching I had cultivated in him a love of butterflies.\nArmed with a long cane and a net of green gauze, he constantly ran\nafter the Auroras with wings bordered with orange, the blue Arguses,\nthe brown Morio\u2019s, the mottled Vulcans and the gold-colored Citrons. He\nleft me alone with my thoughts.\n\nSometimes we took the Pradat road which was now adorned with all the\nverdure of spring, sometimes we went toward Verneuge, toward the valley\nof Saint-Gen\u00e8s-Champanelle, which is as gracefully pretty as its name.\nI would seat myself upon a block of lava, some small fragment of the\nenormous stream poured out by the Puy de la Vache, and there, without\ntroubling my head about Lucien, I abandoned myself to this strange\ndisposition which has always appeared to me in the midst of this savage\nnature, as a striking symbol of my doctrines, a type of implacable\nfatality, a council of absolute indifference to good or ill.\n\nI looked at the leaves of the trees as they unfolded in the sunlight,\nand I recalled the known laws of vegetable respiration, and how, by a\nsimple modification of light, the life of the plant can be changed. In\nthe same way, one ought to be able at will to direct the life of the\nsoul, if he could exactly know its laws.\n\nI had already succeeded in creating the commencement of a passion in\nthe soul of a young girl, separated from me by an abyss. What new\nprocedures applied with rigor would permit me to increase the intensity\nof this passion?\n\nI forgot the magnificence of the heavens, the freshness of the wood,\nthe majesty of the volcanoes, the vast landscape spread out before\nme, in seeing only the formulas of moral algebra. I hesitated between\ndiverse solutions for the next day on which I should have Mlle. de\nJussat face to face with me in the solitude of the ch\u00e2teau.\n\nOught I on her return to feign indifference, to disconcert her, to\nsubdue her, first by astonishment and then by self-love and grief?\nShould I pique her jealousy by insinuating that the foreigner of my\n_soi-disant_ romance had returned to Clermont and had written to\nme? Should I, on the contrary, continue the burning declarations, the\naudacities which surround, the follies which intoxicate?\n\nI replaced these hypotheses successively by still others. I pleased\nmyself by saying that I was not in love, that the philosopher ruled the\nlover, that myself, this dear self of whom I had constituted myself the\npriest, remained superior and lucid. I branded as unworthy weaknesses\nthe reveries which at other times replaced these subtle calculations.\n\nIt was in the house that these reveries took hold upon me, when I\nlooked at the portraits of Charlotte which were scattered about\neverywhere on the walls of the salon, on the tables and in Lucien\u2019s\nroom. Photographs of all sizes represented her at six years, at ten\nyears, at fifteen, and I could trace the growth of her beauty from\nthe _mignonne_ grace of her first years to the delicate charm of\nto-day.\n\nThe features of these photographs changed, but the expression never.\nIt was the same in the eyes of the child and in those of the young\ngirl, with something of seriousness, of tenderness and of fixedness\nwhich revealed profound sensibility. It was impressed upon me, and the\nremembrance of it agitates me with a confused emotion. Ah! Why did I\nnot give myself up to it entirely.\n\nBut why was Charlotte, in so many of these portraits by the side of her\nbrother Andr\u00e9? What secret fibre of hate had this man, by his existence\nalone, touched in my heart, that simply to see his image near that of\nhis sister dried up my tenderness and left in me only one wish?\n\nI dared to formulate it, now that I believed I had taken this heart\nin my snare. Yes, I wished to be Charlotte\u2019s lover. And after? After?\nI forced myself not to think of that, as I forced myself to destroy\nthe instinctive scruples of violated hospitality. I collected the\nmost masculine energies of my mind and I plunged more deeply into my\ntheories upon the cultivation of self.\n\nI would go out of this experience enriched by emotions and\nremembrances. Such would be the moral issue of the adventure. The\nmaterial issue would be the return to my mother\u2019s house when my\npreceptorate was ended.\n\nWhen scruples became aroused, and a voice said: \u201cAnd Charlotte? Have\nyou the right to treat her as a simple object of experience?\u201d I took my\nSpinoza, and I read there the theorem in which it is written that our\nright is only limited by our power.\n\nI took your \u201cTheory of the Passions\u201d and I studied there your phrases\non the duel between the sexes in love.\n\n\u201cIt is the law of the world,\u201d I reasoned, \u201cthat all existence should\nbe a conquest, executed and maintained by the strongest at the expense\nof the feeblest. That is as true of the moral universe as of the\nphysical. There are some souls of prey as there are wolves, tigers and\nhawks.\u201d\n\nThis formula seemed to me strong, new and just. I applied it to myself,\nand I repeated:\n\n\u201cI am a soul of prey, a soul of prey,\u201d with a furious attack of what\nthe mystics call the pride of life, among the fresh verdure, under the\nblue sky, on the bank of the clear river which flows from the mountains\nto the lake. This exhilaration at my victorious pride was dissipated by\na very simple fact. The marquis wrote that he would return, but alone.\nMlle. de Jussat, who was still unwell, would remain with a sister of\nher mother. When the marquise communicated this news to us we were at\ntable. I felt a spasm of anger so violent that it astonished myself,\nand on the plea of sudden indisposition I left the dinner table.\n\nI should like to have cried out, broken something or manifested in\nsome foolish way the rage which shook my soul. In the fever of vanity\nwhich had exalted me since the departure of Charlotte, I had foreseen\neverything, except that this girl would have character enough not\nto return to Aydat. The way which she had found to escape from her\nsentiment was so simple, but so sovereign, so complete.\n\nThe marvelous tactics of my psychology became as vain as the mechanism\nof the best cannon against an enemy out of reach of its shot.\n\nWhat could I do if she were not there? The vision of my weakness\nrose up so strong, so painful, that it excited my nervous system so\nprofoundly that I neither ate nor slept until the arrival of the\nmarquis. I should then learn if this resolution excluded all hope of\na counter order--if there were any chance that the young girl would\nreturn by the end of July, or in August, or in September. My engagement\nwould last until the middle of October.\n\nMy heart beat, my throat was choked while we walked, Lucien and I, in\nthe railroad station of Clermont, waiting for the train from Paris. In\nthe excess of my impatience I had obtained permission to come to meet\nthe father. The locomotive entered the station. M. de Jussat put his\nhead through a doorway. I said at the risk of revealing my feelings:\n\n\u201cAnd Mlle. Charlotte?\u201d\n\n\u201cThank you, thank you,\u201d he answered, pressing my hand with feeling,\n\u201cthe physician says that she has a very serious nervous trouble. It\nseems that the mountains are not good for her. And I am well only high\nup! Ah! This is painful, very painful. We shall try for a time, the\ncold-water cure at Paris, and then at N\u00e9ris perhaps.\u201d\n\nShe would not return!\n\nIf ever I have regretted, my dear master, the notebook which I burned,\nit is assuredly now, and this daily record of my thoughts from the\nevening on which the marquis thus announced the definite absence of\nhis daughter. This record continued until October, when a circumstance\nbrusquely changed the probable course of things.\n\nYou would have found there, as in an atlas of moral anatomy, an\nillustration of your beautiful analysis of love, desire, regret,\njealousy, and hate. Yes, during those four months I went through all\nthese phases. It was an insane attempt, but quite natural, persuaded as\nI was that Charlotte\u2019s absence only proved her passion.\n\nI wrote to her. In that letter, deliberately composed, I began by\nasking her pardon for my audacity in the Pradat wood, and I renewed\nthis audacity in a worse manner, by drawing a burning picture of my\ndespair away from her.\n\nThis letter was a wilder declaration than the other, and so bold that\nonce the envelope had disappeared in the box at the village post-office\nwhither I had carried it myself, my fears were renewed. Two days, three\ndays, and there was no reply. The letter at least was not returned, as\nI had feared, without even being opened.\n\nAt this time the marquise had finished her preparations to join her\ndaughter. Her sister occupied at Paris in the Rue de Chanaleilles, a\nhouse large enough to give to these ladies all the rooms they needed.\nH\u00f4tel de Sermoises, Rue de Chanaleilles, Paris, what emotions I have\nhad in writing this address, not only once, but five or six times.\n\nI calculated that the aunt would not watch the correspondence of the\nyoung girl very strictly, while the mother would watch her. It was\nnecessary to take advantage of the time the latter still remained at\nAydat, to strengthen the impression certainly produced by my letter. I\nwrote every day, until the departure of the marquise, letters like the\nfirst, and I found no trouble in playing the lover.\n\nMy passionate desire to have Charlotte return was sincere--as sincere\nas unreasonable. I have known since that, at every arrival of these\ndangerous missives, she struggled for hours against the temptation to\nopen the envelope. At last she opened it. She read and reread the pages\nand their poison acted surely. As she was ignorant of the discovery I\nhad made of her secret, she did not think to defend herself against the\nopinion that I could have conceived of her.\n\nThese letters affected her so much that she preserved them. The ashes\nwere found in the chimney of her room where she had burned them the\nnight of her death. I much suspected the troubling effect of these\npages which I scratched off in the night, excited by the thought that\nI was firing my last cartridges, which resembled shots in a fog, since\nno sign gave notice that every time I aimed I struck right into her\nheart.\n\nThis absolute uncertainty I at first interpreted to my advantage; then,\nwhen the mother had left the ch\u00e2teau and I saw the impossibility of\nwriting, I found in Charlotte\u2019s silence the most evident proof, not\nthat she loved me, but that she was using her whole will to conquer\nthis love and that she would succeed.\n\n\u201cAh, well!\u201d I thought, \u201cI shall have to give her up, since I cannot\nreach her, and all is over.\u201d I pronounced these words aloud alone in\nmy room as I heard the carriage which took the marquise roll away. M.\nde Jussat and Lucien accompanied her as far as Martris-de-Veyre, where\nshe went to take the train. \u201cYes,\u201d I repeated, \u201call is ended. What\ndifference does it make since I do not love her?\u201d\n\nAt the moment this thought left me relatively tranquil and with no\nother trouble than a vague feeling of uneasiness in the chest, as\nhappens when we are annoyed. I went out for the purpose of shaking off\neven this uneasiness, and, in one of those fits of bravado, by which I\nwas pleased to prove my strength, I went to the place in which I had\ndared to speak to Charlotte of my love.\n\nIn order the better to attest my liberty of soul, I had taken under my\narm a new book which I had just received, a translation of Darwin\u2019s\nletters.\n\nThe day was misty, but almost scorching. A kind of simoon of wind\nfrom the south parched the branches of the trees with its breath. As\nI went on this wind affected my nerves. I desired to attribute to its\ninfluence the increase of my uneasiness. After some fruitless search in\nthe wood of Pradat, I at last found the clearing where we had been--the\nstone--the birch.\n\nIt trembled constantly in the breath of the wind, with its dentated\nfoliage which was now much thicker. I had intended to read my book\nhere. I sat down and opened the book. I could not get beyond a half\npage. The memories overcame me, took possession of me, showing me this\ngirl upon this same stone, arranging the sprays of her lilies, then\nstanding, leaning against this tree, then frightened and fleeing over\nthe grass of the path.\n\nAn indefinable grief took possession of me, oppressing my heart,\nstifling my respiration, filling my eyes with scalding tears, and I\nfelt, with terror, that through so any complications of analysis and of\nsubtleties, I was desperately in love with the child who was not there,\nwho would never be there again.\n\nThis discovery, so strangely unexpected, and of a sentiment so\ncontrary to the programme I had arranged, was accompanied almost\nimmediately by a revulsion against this sentiment and against the image\nof her who had caused me this pain. There was not a day during the long\nweeks that followed that I did not struggle against the shame of having\nbeen taken in my own snare and without feeling a bitter spite against\nthe absent one.\n\nI recognized the depth of his spite at the infamous joy which filled\nmy heart when the marquis received a letter from Paris, which he read\nwith a frown and sighed as he said: \u201cCharlotte is still unwell.\u201d I felt\na consolation, a miserable one, but a consolation all the same, in\nsaying to myself that I had wounded her with a poisonous wound and one\nwhich would be slow to heal. It seemed to me that this would be my true\nrevenge, if she should continue to suffer, and I should be the first to\ncure her.\n\nI appealed to the philosopher that I was so proud of being to drive out\nthe lover. I resumed my old reasoning. \u201cThere are laws of life and of\nmind and I know them. I cannot apply them to Charlotte, since she has\nfled from me. Shall I be incapable of applying them to myself?\u201d And I\nmeditated on this new question: \u201cAre there remedies against love? Yes,\nthere are, and I have found them.\u201d\n\nMy quasi-mathematical habits of analysis were at my service in my\nproject of healing, and I resolved the problem into its elements, after\nthe manner of geometricians.\n\nI reduced this question to this other: \u201cWhat is love?\u201d to which I\nanswered brutally by your definition: \u201cLove is the obsession of sex.\u201d\nNow, how is this combated? By physical fatigue, which suspends, or at\nleast lessens, the action of the mind.\n\nI compelled myself and I compelled my pupil to take long walks. The\ndays on which he had no lessons, Sundays and Thursdays, I went out\nalone at the break of day, after having arranged the hour and the\nplace in which Lucien should join me with the carriage. I awoke at two\no\u2019clock. I went out from the ch\u00e2teau, in the cold of the half-twilight\nwhich precedes the dawn.\n\nI went straight before me, frantically, choosing the worst paths,\nascending the nearest peaks by the most abrupt and almost inaccessible\nsides. I risked breaking my limbs in descending the yielding sand of\nthe craters, or upon the crests of basalt. No matter.\n\nThe orange line of the aurora gained the border of the sky. The wind\nof the new day beat against my face. The stars like precious stones\nmelted away, drowned in the flood of azure, now pale, now darker. The\nsun lighted up, on the flowers, the trees and the grass a flashing of\nsparkling dew.\n\nPersuaded as I am, of the laws of prehistoric atavism, I aroused in\nmyself, by the sensation of the forced march and of the heights, the\nrudimentary mind of the ancestral brute, of the man of the caves from\nwhom I, as well as the rest of mankind, am descended.\n\nI attained in this way a sort of savage delirium, but it was neither\nthe dreamed-of joy nor peace, and it was interrupted by the smallest\nreminiscence of my relations with Charlotte. The turn of a road which\nwe had followed together, the blue bosom of the lake seen from some\nheight, the outline of the slated roofs of the ch\u00e2teau, less than\nthat, even the trembling foliage of a birch and its silvery trunk, the\nname of a village of which she had spoken, on an advertisement, was\nsufficient, and this factitious frenzy gave place to the keen regret\nthat she was not near me.\n\nI heard her say in her finely-toned voice: \u201cLook then--\u201d as she would\nsay when we wandered together, through this same region, which was then\ncovered with ice and snow--but the flower of her beauty was then in\nbloom, now it was adorned with verdure, but the living flower was gone.\n\nAnd this sensation became more intolerable still when I met Lucien, who\nnever failed to talk of her. He loved her, he admired her so lovingly,\nand in his ingenuousness he gave me so many proofs that she was worthy\nof being loved and admired. Then physical weariness resolved itself\ninto a worse enervation, and nights followed in which I suffered from\nan excited insomnia, in which I would weep aloud, calling her name like\none deranged.\n\n\u201cIt is through the mind that I suffer,\u201d I said after having in vain\nsought the remedy in great fatigue. \u201cI will attack mind through mind.\u201d\n\nI undertook that study the most completely opposed to all feminine\npreoccupation. I despoiled in less than a fortnight, pen in hand, two\nhundred pages of that \u201cPhysiology\u201d of Beaunis which I had brought in\nmy trunk and the hardest for me, those which treat of the chemistry of\nliving bodies.\n\nMy efforts to understand and to sum up these analyses which demand the\nlaboratory, were supremely in vain. I only succeeded in stupefying my\nintellect and in making myself less capable of resisting a fixed idea.\n\nI saw that I had again taken the wrong road. Was not the true method\nrather that which Goethe professed--to apply the mind to that from\nwhich we wish to be delivered? This great mind, who knew how to live,\nthus put in practice the theory set up in the fifth book of Spinoza,\nand which consists in evolving from the accidents of our personal life\nthe law which unites us to the great life of the universe.\n\nM. Taine, in his eloquent pages on Byron, advises the same, \u201cthe\nlight of the mind produces in us serenity of the heart.\u201d And you, my\ndear master, what else say you in the preface to your \u201cTheory of the\nPassions.\u201d \u201cTo consider one\u2019s own destiny as a corollary in this living\ngeometry of nature, and as an inevitable consequence of this eternal\naxiom whose infinite development is prolonged through time and space,\nis the only principle of enfranchisement.\u201d\n\nAnd what else am I doing, at this hour, in writing out this memoir, but\nconforming to these maxims? Can they serve me now any better than they\ndid then? I tried at that time to resume in a kind of new autobiography\nthe history of my feelings for Charlotte. I supposed--see how chance\nsometimes strangely realizes our dreams--a great psychologist to be\nconsulted by a young man; and, toward the last, the psychologist\nwrote out for the use of the moral invalid a passional diagnosis with\nindication of causes.\n\nI wrote this piece during the month of August and under the exhausting\ninfluence of the most torrid heat. I devoted to it about fifteen\ns\u00e9ances, lasting from ten o\u2019clock in the evening to one o\u2019clock in the\nmorning, all the windows open, with the space around my lamp brightened\nby large night-moths, by these large velvet butterflies which bear on\ntheir bodies the imprint of a death\u2019s head.\n\nThe moon rose, inundating with its bluish light the lake over which ran\nthe pearly reflections; the woods whose mystery grew more profound, and\nthe line of the extinct volcanoes. I put down my pen to lose myself, in\npresence of this mute landscape, in one of those cosmogonic reveries\nto which I was accustomed. As at the time in which the words of my\npoor father revealed to me the history of the world, I saw again the\nprimitive nebulousness, then the earth detached from it, and the moon\nthrown off from the earth.\n\nThat moon was dead, and the earth would die also. She was becoming\nchilled second by second; and the imperceptible consequence of\nthese seconds, added together during millions of years, had already\nextinguished the fire of the volcanoes from which formerly flowed the\nburning and devastating lava on which the ch\u00e2teau now stood.\n\nIn cooling this lava had raised a barrier to the course of the water\nwhich spread into a lake, and the water of this lake was being\nevaporated as the atmosphere diminished--these forty poor kilometers of\nrespirable air which surround the planet.\n\nI closed my eyes, and I felt this mortal globe roll through the\ninfinite space, unconscious of the little worlds that come and go upon\nit, as the immensity of space is unconscious of the suns, the moons\nand the earths. The planet will roll on when it will be only a ball\nwithout air and without water, from which man has disappeared, as well\nas animals and plants.\n\nInstead of bringing to me the serenity of contemplation, this\nvision threw me back upon myself and made me feel with terror the\nconsciousness of my own person, the only reality that I could possess,\nand for how long? Scarcely a point and a moment!\n\nThen, in this irreparable flight of things, this point and this moment\nof our consciousness remains our only good, we must exalt it by\nincreasing its intensity. I felt, with a frightful force, that this\nsovereign intensity of emotion Charlotte alone could give me if she\nwere in this room, seated in this chair, uniting her condemned soul to\nmy condemned soul, her fleeting youth to my fleeting youth, and as all\nthe instruments of an orchestra harmonize to produce a single tone, all\nthe separate forces of my being, the intellectual, the sentimental, the\nsensual united in a yearning for Charlotte.\n\nAlas! The vision of the universe heightened the frenzy of the personal\nlife instead of calming it. I said to myself that without doubt I had\nbeen deceived in believing myself a purely abstract and intellectual\nbeing. During the months in which I had been entirely chaste had I not\nlived contrary to my nature?\n\nUnder pretext of some family business to regulate I obtained of the\nmarquis a vacation of eight days. I went to Clermont and sought for\nMarianne. I soon found her. She was no longer the simple working-woman.\nA country proprietor had settled her, dressed her in fine clothes, and\ncoming to the city only one day in eight, left her a sort of liberty.\nThis re-entrance into the world affected me as a renewal of initiation.\nI was desirous of knowing to what degree the memory of Charlotte\ngangrened my soul. Ah! how the image of Mlle. de Jussat presented\nitself at that moment with her Madonna-like profile and the delicacy\nof her whole being. It was impossible for me to return to these base\nidols. I passed the days which remained to me in walking with my\nmother, who seeing me so melancholy became uneasy and increased my\nsadness by her questions.\n\nI saw the time of my return to the ch\u00e2teau approach with pleasure. At\nleast I could live there among my memories. But a terrible blow awaited\nme, which was given me by the marquis on my arrival.\n\n\u201cGood news,\u201d said he as soon as he saw me. \u201cCharlotte is better. And\nthere is more just as good. She is going to be married. Yes, she\naccepts M. de Plane. It is true, you do not know him, a friend of Andr\u00e9\nwhom she refused once, and now she is willing.\u201d And he continued, going\nback to himself as usual: \u201cYes, it is very good news, for, you see, I\nhave not much longer to live. I am broken, very much broken.\u201d\n\nHe might detail to me his imaginary ills, analyze his stomach as much\nas he wished, his gout, his intestines, his heart, his head--I listened\nno more than a condemned man to whom his sentence has been announced\nlistens to the words of his jailer. I saw only the fact so painful to\nme. You who have written some admirable pages upon jealousy, my dear\nmaster, and upon the ravages which the thought alone of the caress of a\nrival produces in the imagination of a lover, can divine what smarting\npoison this news poured into my wound.\n\nMay, June, July, August, September--nearly five months since Charlotte\nhad gone, and this wound instead of healing had become enlarged,\npoisoned until this last stroke which finished me. This time I did not\nhave the cruel consolation that my suffering was shared. This marriage\nproved to me that she was cured of her sentiment for me, while I was\nagonized by mine for her.\n\nMy fury was exasperated at the thought that this love had been snatched\nfrom me just at the moment I was about to be able to develop it in\nits fullness, at the very time of decisive action. I saw Charlotte in\nParis, where M. de Plane was passing his leave of absence, receiving\nher _fianc\u00e9_ in the partial _t\u00eate-\u00e0-t\u00eate_ with a familiarity\npermitted under the indulgent eyes of the marquise. They were for this\nman now, these smiles at once proud and timid, these tender and anxious\nlooks, these passages of paleness and modest red over her delicate\nface, these gestures of a grace always a little wild.\n\nFinally she loved him, since she was willing to marry him. And he\nseemed to me like Count Andr\u00e9 whose detestable influence I found\neven here, and whom I again hated in the _fianc\u00e9_ of his sister\nconfounding these two gentlemen, these two elders, these two officers,\nin the same furious antipathy. Vain and puerile anger which I took with\nme into the wood already reclothed with those vague tints which would\nsoon change to russet.\n\nThe swallows were assembling for their departure. As the hunting season\nhad begun there was firing all around them, and frightened, they rose\nin a flight such as that by which the wild bird had escaped which I had\nthought to bring down some day.\n\nToward Saint-Saturnin, the hills were planted with vines whose grapes\nwould soon be ripe for the vintage. I saw the stocks widowed of fruit,\nthose which the hailstorms of the spring had destroyed in their flower.\nThus had died on the spot, before being ripe, my vintage, vintage of\nintoxicating emotions, of sweet felicities, of burning ecstasies.\n\nI felt a gloomy and indefinable pleasure in seeking everywhere in the\ncountry some symbol of my sentiment, since I was, for a short time,\npurified from all calculation by the alchemy of grief.\n\nIf I was ever a true lover and given up to regrets, memories and\ndespairs, it was in those days which must be the last of my stay at\nAydat. In fact, the marquis announced his intention to hasten his\ndeparture. He had abdicated his hypochondria, and he cheerfully said to\nme:\n\n\u201cI adore my future son-in-law. I wish that you could know him. He is\nloyal, he is brave, he is good, he is proud. True gentlemanly blood in\nhis veins. Do you understand the women? Here is one who is no sillier\nthan the rest, is it not so? Two years ago he offered himself to her.\nShe said no. Then my boy goes away to come back half-dead. And then\nit is yes. Do you know, I have always thought that there was some\nlove-affair in her nervous malady. I knew it. I said to myself: she is\nin love with some one. It was he. And what if he had not wanted her,\nall the same?\u201d\n\nNo, it was not M. de Plane whom Charlotte had loved that winter; but\nshe had loved, that was certain. Our existences had crossed at one\npoint, like the two roads which I saw from my window, the one which\ndescends the mountains and goes toward the fatal wood of Pradat, the\nother which leads toward the Puy de la Rodde.\n\nI happened to see, at the close of the day the carriages following\nthese two roads. After almost grazing each other, they were lost in\nopposite directions. Thus were our destinies separated forever. The\nBaroness de la Plane would live in the world, at Paris, and that\nrepresented to me a whirlpool of unknown and fascinating sensations.\n\nI knew too well my future life. In thought, I awoke again in the little\nroom of the Rue du Billard. In thought I followed the three streets\nwhich it is necessary to take to go from there to the Faculty. I\nentered the palace of the Academy, built in red brick, and I reached\nthe _salle des conf\u00e9rences_ with its bare walls garnished with\nblackboards. I listened to the professor analyzing some author on\nlicense or admission. That lasted an hour and a half, then I returned,\nmy serviette under my arm, through the cold streets of the old town,\nfor it was necessary for me to pass still another year, as I had not\nstudied hard enough to submit to my examination with success.\n\nI should continue to go and come among these dark houses, with this\nhorizon of snowy mountains, to see the father and mother of Emile\nsitting at their window and playing at cards, the old Limasset reading\nhis paper in the corner of the Caf\u00e9 de Paris, the omnibuses of Royat at\nthe corner of Jande.\n\nYes, I come down to that, my dear master, to this misery of minds\nwithout psychology which attach themselves to the external form of life\nwithout penetrating its essence. I disregarded my old faith in the\nsuperiority of science, to which only three square metres of room are\nnecessary in order that a Spinoza or an Adrien Sixte may there possess\nthe immense universe.\n\nAh! I was very mediocre in that period of powerless desires and\nconquered love! I detested, and with what injustice, that life of\nabstract study which I was about to resume! And how I wish to-day\nthat this might be my fate, and that I might awake a poor student\nnear the Faculty of Clermont, tenant of the father of Emile, pupil of\nold Limasset, the morose traveler through those black streets--but an\ninnocent man! an innocent man! And not the man who has gone through\nwhat I have gone through, and which he finds it a necessity to tell.\n\n\n                          \u00a7 VI. THIRD CRISIS.\n\n\nToward the end of this severe month of September, Lucien complained of\nnot being quite well, which the doctor attributed at first to a simple\ncold. Two days after the symptoms became aggravated. Two physicians\nof Clermont, called in haste, diagnosed scarlet fever, but of a mild\ncharacter.\n\nIf my mind had not been entirely absorbed by the fixed idea which\nmade of me at this period a veritable monomaniac, I should have\nfound material enough to fill my notebook. I had only to follow the\nevolutions of the mind of the marquis and the struggle in his heart\nbetween hypochondria and paternal love.\n\nSometimes, in spite of the reassuring words of the doctors, he became\nso uneasy about his son that he passed the night in watching him.\nSometimes he was seized with the fear of contagion; he went to bed,\ncomplained of imaginary pains, and counted the hours until the visit of\nthe physician. Sometimes, so grave did his symptoms seem to himself,\nthat the marquis must have the first visit. Then he would be ashamed of\nhis panic. He arose, he chastised himself for his terrors with bitter\nphrases on the feebleness which age brings, and returned to the bedside\nof his son. His first intention was to conceal from the marquise and\nCharlotte and Andr\u00e9 the illness of the child; but after two weeks,\nthese alternations of zeal and of terror having exhausted his energy,\nhe felt the need of having his wife with him to sustain him, and the\nincoherence of his ideas was so great that he consulted me:\n\n\u201cDo you not think it is my duty?\u201d\n\nThere are some lying souls, my dear master, who excel in excusing by\nfine motives their most villainous actions. If I were of this number\nI could make a merit of having insisted that the marquis should not\nrecall his wife. Surely I knew the full import of my response and of\nthe resolution that M. de Jussat was about to take. I knew that, if he\ninformed the marquise, she would arrive by the first train, and I also\nknew Charlotte well enough to be assured that she would come with her\nmother. I should see her again, I should have a supreme opportunity to\nreawaken in her the love of which I had surprised the proof. I could\nsay that it was loyalty on my part, the advice to leave Mme. de Jussat\nin Paris. I should have the appearance of loyalty. Why? If I were\nnot convinced that there is no effect without a cause and no loyalty\nwithout a secret egoism, I should recognize a horror in using to the\nprofit of a culpable passion the noblest of sentiments, that of a\nsister for a brother.\n\nHere is the naked truth: in trying to dissuade M. de Jussat, I was\nconvinced that all effort to regain the heart of Charlotte would be\nuseless. I foresaw in this return only certain humiliation. Worn out by\nthese long months of internal struggle, I no longer felt the strength\nto maneuver. There was then no virtue in representing to the marquis\nthe inconveniences, the dangers even, of the stay of these two women in\nthe ch\u00e2teau, near an invalid who might communicate to them his disease.\n\n\u201cAnd how about me?\u201d responded he ingenuously, \u201cam I not exposed every\nday? But you are right for Charlotte; I will write that I do not want\nher.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh! Greslon,\u201d said he two days after, on the receipt of a telegram,\n\u201csee what they do--read.\u201d He handed me the dispatch which announced\nthe arrival of Mlle. de Jussat and her mother. \u201cNaturally,\u201d moaned the\nhypochondriac, \u201cshe wanted to come, without thinking that I should be\nspared such emotions.\u201d\n\nThe marquis spoke to me in this way at two o\u2019clock in the afternoon.\nI knew that the train left Paris at nine o\u2019clock in the evening and\narrived at Clermont toward five in the morning. Mme. de Jussat and\nCharlotte would be at the ch\u00e2teau before ten o\u2019clock. I passed a\nfearful evening and night, deprived now of that philosophic tension,\noutside of which I float, a creature without energy, the sport of\nnervous and irresistible impressions.\n\nGood sense, however, indicated a very simple solution. My engagement\nwould end the 15th of October. It was now the 5th. The child was\nconvalescent. He had his mother and his sister with him. I could return\nhome without any scruple and under any pretext. I could do it and I\nmust--for the sake of my dignity as well as for my repose.\n\nIn the morning, I had taken this resolution and I was going to speak\nabout it to the marquis immediately; he did not let me say a word, he\nwas so agitated by the arrival of his daughter: \u201cVery well,\u201d said he,\n\u201cby and by, I have no head for anything now. This willfulness! That is\nwhy I have grown old so fast. Always new shocks!\u201d\n\nWho knows? my destiny may have entirely depended on the humor by which\nthis old fool refused to hear me. If I had spoken to him at that\nmoment, and if we had fixed my departure, I should have been obliged\nto have gone; instead, the sole presence of Charlotte changed the\nproject of going into a project of remaining, as a lamp carried into a\nroom immediately changes this darkness into light. I repeat it, I was\nconvinced that she had absolutely ceased to be interested in me on the\none hand, and, on the other, that I was passing through a crisis, not\nof genuine love, but of wounded vanity, and of morbid brooding.\n\nAh, well! To see her descend from the carriage before the\n_perron_, to see that my presence overcame her, as hers affected\nme, I understood two things: first, that it would be physically\nimpossible for me to leave the ch\u00e2teau while she should be there; then\nthat she had passed through trouble similar to mine, if not worse.\nShe must have fled from me with the most sincere courage, not to have\nreplied to my letters, not to have read them, to have become betrothed\nin order to place an insurmountable barrier between us, to have\nbelieved even that she no longer loved me, and to have returned to the\nch\u00e2teau with this persuasion.\n\nShe loved me!\n\nI had no need of a detailed analysis like those in which I was too\ncomplaisant and in which I was so much deceived, to recognize this\nfact. It was an intuition, sudden, unreasoning, invincible, one to make\nme believe that the theories on the double life, so much discussed by\nScience, are absolutely true.\n\nI read it, this unhoped for love, in the troubled eyes of this child,\nas your read the words by which I am trying to reproduce here the\nlightning and the thunderbolt of this evidence.\n\nShe was before me in her traveling costume, and white, white as this\nsheet of paper. I should have explained this pallor by the fatigue\nof the night passed in the carriage, and by her uneasiness at her\nbrother\u2019s illness. Her eyes, in meeting mine, trembled with emotion.\nThat might be offended modesty? She had fallen away, and when she took\noff her cloak I saw that her dress, a dress which I recognized, was\nwrinkled around the shoulders.\n\nAh! I, who had believed so strongly in the method, the inductions, and\nthe complications of reasoning, how I felt the omnipotence of instinct\nagainst which nothing could provide.\n\nShe had loved me all the time. She loved me more than ever. What matter\nthat she had not given me her hand at our first meeting; that she had\nscarcely spoken to me in the vestibule; that she went up the grand\nstaircase with her mother without turning her head?\n\nShe loved me. This certainty, after so long a period of doubt and\nanxiety, inundated my heart with a flood of joy, so that I was almost\novercome, there, on the carpet of the staircase which I must also climb\nto go to my room. What was I to do? With my elbows on the table and\npressing my hands against my forehead to repress the throbbing of my\ntemples I put this question without finding any other answer than that\nI could not go away; that absence and silence could not end all between\nCharlotte and myself; finally that we were approaching an hour in which\nso many reciprocal efforts, hidden struggles, combated desires on the\npart of both, was precipitating us toward a supreme scene, and this, I\ncould feel was near, tragic, decisive, inevitable.\n\nAt first Charlotte was constrained to submit to my presence. We must\nmeet at the bedside of her brother, and the very morning of her\narrival, when it was my turn to keep the invalid company, toward\neleven o\u2019clock, I found her there talking with him, while the marquise\nquestioned Sister Anaclet, both speaking in low tones and standing\nnear the window.\n\nLucien, from whom the coming of his mother and sister had been\nconcealed, showed in his face and in his gestures the excited and\nalmost feverish joy which is seen in convalescents; he saluted me with\nhis gayest smile, and taking my hand said to his sister:\n\n\u201cIf you only knew how good M. Greslon has been to me all these days!\u201d\n\nShe did not reply, but I saw that her hand, which lay on the pillow\nnear her brother\u2019s cheek, shook as with a chill. She made an effort to\nlook at me without betraying herself. Without doubt my face expressed\nan emotion that touched her. She felt that to leave unnoticed the\ninnocent remark of her brother would make me feel badly, and, in the\nvoice of past days, her sweet and living voice, she said, without\naddressing me directly:\n\n\u201cYes, I know it and I thank him for it. We all thank him very much.\u201d\n\nShe did not add another word. I am sure that if I had taken her hand at\nthat moment she would have fainted before me, she was so moved by this\nsimple conversation.\n\nI stammered a vague response: \u201cIt is quite natural,\u201d or something\nsimilar. I was not very collected myself. Lucien, however, who had\nnoticed neither the altered tone of his sister, nor my embarrassment,\ncontinued:\n\n\u201cAnd isn\u2019t Andr\u00e9 coming to see me?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou know he has gone back to his regiment,\u201d said she.\n\n\u201cAnd Maxime?\u201d insisted the child. I knew that this was the name of the\n_fianc\u00e9_ of Mlle. de Jussat. These two syllables had no sooner\nleft the lips of her brother than the paleness of her face gave way to\na sudden wave of blood. There was an interval of silence during which I\ncould hear the murmuring of Sister Anaclet, the crackling of the fire\nin the chimney, the swinging of the pendulum, and the child himself\nastonished at this silence.\n\n\u201cYes, Maxime, is not he coming either?\u201d\n\n\u201cM. de Plane has also gone back to his regiment,\u201d said Charlotte.\n\n\u201cAre you going away already, M. Greslon?\u201d asked Lucien as I rose\nbrusquely.\n\n\u201cI am coming back,\u201d I replied; \u201cI have forgotten a letter on my table.\u201d\nAnd I went out, leaving Lucien with a smile on his face, and Charlotte\nwith her eyes cast down.\n\nAh! my dear master, you must believe what I am telling you; in spite of\nthe incoherencies of a heart almost unintelligible to itself, you must\nnot doubt my sincerity in that moment. I have so great need not to\ndoubt it myself; need to say to myself that I was not lying then.\n\nThere was not an atom of voluntary comedy in the sudden movement by\nwhich I rose at the simple mention of the name of the man to whom\nCharlotte ought to belong, to whom she did belong. There was no\ncomedy in the tears which burst from my eyes, as soon as I passed the\nthreshold of the door, nor in those which I wept during the night which\nfollowed, in despair at this double and frightful certainty that we\nloved one another, and that never, never, could we be anything one to\nthe other; no comedy in the starts of pain which her presence inflicted\non me during the days which followed. Her pale face, her emaciated\nprofile, her suffering eyes were there to disturb me, and this pallor\nrent my soul, and this spare outline of her body made me love her more,\nand those eyes besought me.\n\n\u201cDo not speak. I know that you are unhappy too. It would be cruel to\nreproach me, to complain, to show your hurt.\u201d\n\nTell me, if I had not been sincere in those days, would I have let\nthem pass without acting, when their hours were counted? But I do not\nrecall a single reflection, a single combination. I do recall confusing\nsensations, something burning, frantic, intolerable, a prostrating\nneuralgia of my inmost being, a lancination continuous, and growing,\ngrowing always, the dream of putting an end to it, a project of suicide.\n\nYou see that I truly loved, since all my subtleties were melted in\nthe flame of this passion, as lead in a furnace; since I did not find\nmaterial for analysis in what was a real alienation, an abdication of\nmy old self in this martyrdom. This thought of death came from the\ninmost depths of my being, this obscure appetite for the grave of which\nI was possessed as of physical thirst and hunger, in which, my dear\nmaster, you will recognize a necessary consequence of this disease of\nlove, so admirably studied by you.\n\nThis instinct of destruction, of which you point out the mysterious\nawaking at the same time as that of sex, was turned against myself.\nThis was shown first by an infinite lassitude, the lassitude of feeling\nmuch but never expressing anything. For the anguish in Charlotte\u2019s\neyes, when they met mine, defended her better than all words could have\ndone.\n\nBeside, we were never alone, except sometimes for a few minutes in\nthe salon, by chance, and these minutes passed in a silence which we\ncould not break. To speak at such times is as impossible as for a\nparalytic to move his feet. A superhuman effort would not suffice. One\nexperiences how emotion, to a certain degree of intensity, becomes\nincommunicable. One feels himself imprisoned, walled up in his self,\nand he would like to get away from this unhappy self, to plunge, to\nlose himself in the coldness of death is where all ended.\n\nThat continued with a kind of delirious desire to make on the heart of\nCharlotte an imprint which could not be effaced, with an insane desire\nto give her some proof of love, against which neither the tenderness\nof her future husband nor the magnificence of her social surroundings,\ncould ever prevail.\n\n\u201cIf I die of despair at being separated from her forever, she must\nremember the simple preceptor, the poor provincial, capable of\nsentiments so powerful!\u201d\n\nIt seems to me that I formulated these reflections. You notice that\nI say: \u201cIt seems to me.\u201d For in truth, I did not comprehend myself\nat that period. I did not recognize myself in the fever of violence\nand of tragedy by which I was consumed. Scarcely do I discern in this\nungovernable come-and-go of my thoughts a kind of auto-suggestion,\nas you say. I was hypnotized, and it was as a somnambulist that I\ndetermined to kill myself at such a day, at such an hour, as I was\ngoing to the druggist to procure the fatal bottle of nux vomica.\n\nDuring all these preparations and under the influence of this\nresolution, I hoped for nothing, I calculated nothing. A force entirely\nforeign to my own consciousness was acting on me. At no time was I the\nspectator of my gestures, my thoughts and my actions, with an exterior\nof the acting \u201cI\u201d in relation to the thinking \u201cI.\u201d But I have written\na note upon this point, which you will find on the fly leaf, in my\n_exemplaire_ of the book of Bri\u00e8re de Boismont on suicide.\n\nI experienced in these preparations an indefinable sensation of a\nwaking dream, of lucid automatism. I attribute these strange phenomena\nto a nervous disorder, almost a madness, caused by the ravages of\na fixed idea. It was only on the morning of the day chosen for the\nexecution of my project that I thought of making a last attempt to win\nCharlotte.\n\nI sat down at my table to write her a letter of farewell. I saw her\nreading this letter, and this question suddenly presented itself to me:\n\u201cWhat would she do?\u201d Was it possible that she might not be moved by\nthis announcement of my intended suicide? Would she hasten to prevent\nit? Yes, she would run to my room and find me dead. At least, should I\nnot wait for the effect of this last proof?\n\nHere I am very sure that I saw myself clearly. I know that hope was\nborn in me exactly in this way and precisely at this point of my\nproject. \u201cAh, well!\u201d said I, \u201cI will try.\u201d\n\nI resolved that if, at midnight, she had not come, I would drink the\npoison. I had studied the effects of it, and hoped I should not suffer\nvery long.\n\nIt is strange that all that day was passed in a singular serenity. I\nwas as if relieved of a weight, as if really detached from myself, and\nmy anxiety commenced only toward ten o\u2019clock, when, having retired\nfirst, I had placed the letter on the table in the room of the young\ngirl.\n\nAt half-past ten I heard through my partly-open door the marquis, the\nmarquise and Charlotte ascending the stairs. They stopped to talk a few\nminutes in the passage, then there were the customary good-nights, and\neach entered a separate chamber.\n\nEleven o\u2019clock--a quarter-past eleven.\n\nStill nothing.\n\nI looked at my watch, placed in front of me, near three letters\nprepared for M. de Jussat, for my mother, and for you, my dear master.\n\nMy heart beat as if it would burst; but I wish you to note that my will\nwas firm and cool. I had told Mlle. de Jussat that she would not see me\nthe next day. I was sure of not failing my word if--I did not dare to\nstrengthen what hope this \u201cif\u201d contained.\n\nI watched the second-hand go round and I made a mechanical calculation,\nan exact multiplication: \u201cat sixty seconds a minute, I shall see the\nhand go round so many times, for at midnight I shall kill myself.\u201d\n\nA noise of furtive and light steps on the stairs, which I perceived\nwith supreme emotion, interrupted my calculation. These steps\napproached. They stopped before my door. Suddenly the door was opened.\nCharlotte was before me. I arose.\n\nWe rested thus face to face, both standing. Her face was distorted by\nthe shock of her own action, very pale, and her eyes shone with an\nextraordinary brilliancy, nearly black, so dilated was the pupil by\nemotion, almost covering the iris.\n\nI noticed this detail because it transformed her physiognomy.\nOrdinarily so reserved, her face betrayed the wildness of a being ruled\nby a passion stronger than her will. She must have lain down, then\narose again, for her hair was braided in a large plait instead of being\nknotted on her head. A white _robe-de-chambre_, fastened by a cord\nand tassel was folded around her form, and in her haste she had slipped\nher bare feet into her slippers without thinking.\n\nEvidently an insupportable anguish had precipitated her from her\nchamber into my room. She did not care what I might think of her nor\nwhat I might be tempted to say. She had read my letter, and she came, a\nprey to an excitement so intense that she did not tremble.\n\n\u201cAh!\u201d said she in a broken voice after the silence of the first\nminute. \u201cGod be praised, I am not too late. Dead! I believed you were\ndead! Ah! that is horrible! But that is all over, is it not? Say that\nyou will obey me, say that you will not kill yourself. Ah! swear, swear\nit to me.\u201d\n\nShe took my hand in hers with a supplicating gesture. Her fingers\nwere like ice. There was something so decisive in this entrance, such\na proof of love in a moment in which I was so excited that I did not\nreflect, and, without replying to her, I took her in my arms, weeping,\nmy lips sought her lips, and through the most scalding tears I gave her\nthe most loving, the most sincere kisses; that was a moment of infinite\necstasy, of supreme felicity, and as she drew away from me, with the\nshame at what she had permitted depicted on her face, always wild.\n\n\u201cWretched creature that I am!\u201d said she, \u201cAh! I must go away! Let me go\naway! Do not come near me.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou see that I must die,\u201d I responded, \u201cfor you do not love me,\nyou are going to be the wife of another, we shall be separated, and\nforever.\u201d\n\nI took the dark vial from the table and showed it to her by the light\nof the lamp.\n\n\u201cOnly a fourth of this flask,\u201d I continued, and it is the remedy\nfor much suffering. \u201cIn five minutes it will be ended,\u201d and gently\nand without making a single gesture that would force her to defend\nherself: \u201cGo away now, and I thank you for having come. Before a\nquarter of an hour I shall have ceased to feel what I am feeling now,\nthis intolerable privation of you for so many months. Come, adieu, do\nnot take away my courage.\u201d\n\nShe had trembled when the flame had lighted up the black liquid. She\nextended her hand and snatched the flask away, saying: \u201cNo! No!\u201d She\nlooked at it, read the inscription on the red label and trembled.\nHer countenance became still more changed. A wrinkle hollowed itself\nbetween her eyebrows. Her lips trembled. Her eyes expressed the agony\nof a last anxiety, then, in a voice almost harsh, jerking her words as\nif they were drawn from her by a torturing and irresistible power.\n\n\u201cI, too,\u201d said she, \u201cI have suffered much, I have struggled hard. No,\u201d\nshe continued, advancing toward me and taking me by the arm, \u201cyou must\nnot go alone, not alone. We will die together. After what I have done,\nit is all that is left.\u201d She put the vial to her lips, but I took it\naway from her, and with a smile almost insane she continued: \u201cTo die,\nyes, to die here, near you, with you,\u201d and she approached again, laying\nher head on my shoulder, so that I felt her soft hair against my cheek.\n\u201cSo! Ah! it is a long time that I have loved you, so long I can tell\nyou the truth now, since I shall pay for it with my life. You will take\nme with you, we will go away together, both of us.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes! yes,\u201d I answered, \u201cwe will die together. I swear it to you. But\nnot immediately. Ah! leave me time to feel that you love me.\u201d Our lips\nwere again united, but this time she returned my kisses. Ah! Those\nwere kisses in which the ecstasy of the senses and of the soul were\ndeliciously confounded, in which the past, the present, the future were\nabolished to give place to love alone, to the painful, the intoxicating\nmadness of love. This frail body, this living statuette of Tanagra was\nmine in its grace and innocence, and it seemed to me that this hour was\nnot real, it so far surpassed my hopes, almost my desire.\n\nIn the softened light of the lamp and of the half-extinguished fire,\nthe delicacy of her features, her consummate pallor, her disordered\nhair, made her seem an apparition, and it was with a phantom\u2019s voice, a\nvoice beyond life, that she spoke to me, relating the long history of\nher sentiments for me.\n\nShe said that she had loved at the first look and without suspecting\nit; then how she had suffered at my sadness and at my confidence; how\nshe had dreamed of being my friend, a friend who would gently console\nme; then the fearful light which my declaration in the forest had\nsuddenly thrown upon her heart, and that she had sworn to put an abyss\nbetween us.\n\nShe recounted her struggles when she received my letters, and her vain\nresolutions not to read them, and the folly of her engagement in order\nthat all might be irremediable, and her return, and the rest. She\nfound, to reveal to me the secret and cruel romance of her tenderness,\nphrases modest and impassioned, which fell from the mysterious brim of\nthe soul as tears fall from the brim of the eyes. She said: \u201cI could\nnot if I wished efface these griefs, so much do I need to feel that I\nhave lived for you.\u201d She said: \u201cYou will let me die first, that I may\nnot see you suffer.\u201d And she wrapped me in her hair, and upon her face\nwhich I had known so controlled was a kind of ecstasy of martyrdom, a\nsupernatural joy mingled with a profound grief, an exaltation mingled\nwith remorse.\n\nWhen she was silent, clasped in my arms, absorbed in me, we could hear\nthe wind which moaned outside the closed windows, and this sleeping\nch\u00e2teau, in its peaceful silence, was already the tomb, the tomb toward\nwhich we were going, drawn out of life by the ardor of love which had\nthus thrown us heart to heart.\n\nIt is here, my dear master, where comes the most singular episode of\nthis adventure, the one which men will call the most shameful; but for\nyou and me these words have no meaning, and I will have the courage to\ntell you all.\n\nI had been sincere, and sincere without the shadow of calculation, in\nthe resolution of suicide which caused me to buy the nux vomica, and\nthen to write to Charlotte. When she had come, when she had fallen\ninto my arms and cried: \u201cLet us die together!\u201d I responded: \u201cLet us\ndie together,\u201d with the most perfect good faith. It had appeared so\nsimple, so natural, so easy for us to go away together. You, who have\nwritten some strong pages upon the vapor of illusion created in us by\nphysical causes, which is like that intoxication produced by wine, you\nwill not judge me a monster for having felt this vapor dissipate, this\nintoxication disappear with possession.\n\nCharlotte had placed her head on my breast and she fell asleep,\nexhausted by the excess of her emotions. I looked at her and I felt,\nwithout knowing how, that I fell back from my state before this\nhappiness, to the reflective, philosophic, and lucid one which had been\nmine, and which a sorcery had metamorphosed into another.\n\nI looked at Charlotte, and thought that in a few hours this adorable\nbody, animated at this moment by all the ardors of life, would be\nimmovable, cold, dead--dead this mouth which trembled still with my\nkiss, dead these beautiful eyes shaded under their trembling lids,\ndead this mind filled with me, intoxicated of me!\n\nI repeated mentally several times this word: \u201cDead, dead, dead,\u201d\nand what it represents of a sudden falling into the night, of an\nirreparable fall into the darkness, the cold, the emptiness, oppressed\nmy heart.\n\nThis entrance into the gulf without bottom of annihilation which had\nseemed, not only easy, but profoundly desirable when the fury of\nunfortunate love dominated me--suddenly, and this fury once appeased,\nappeared to me the most formidable of actions, the most foolish, the\nmost impossible of execution. Charlotte continued to keep her eyes\nclosed. The emaciation of her poor face, rendered more perceptible\nby the way in which the softened light revealed her features, told\ntoo plainly what she had felt for days. And I was going to kill her,\nor at least, to assist her to destroy herself. We were about to kill\nourselves.\n\nA shudder ran through me at the thought, and I was afraid. For her? For\nmyself? For both? I do not know. I was afraid, afraid of feeling to\ngrow numb in my most secret being, the soul of my soul, the indefinable\ncenter of all our energy. And suddenly by a sudden facing about of\nideas like to that of the dying who throw a last look upon their\nexistence, and who perceive, in the mirage of a secret regret, the joys\nknown or coveted, the vision was evoked of that life, all thought of\nwhich I had turn by turn desired and abjured.\n\nI saw you in your little cell, my dear master, in meditation, and\nthe universe of intelligence developed before me the splendor of its\nhorizons. My personal works, this brain of which I had been so proud,\nthis Self cultivated so complaisantly, I was about to sacrifice all\nthese treasures.\n\n\u201cTo your pledged word,\u201d ought I to have responded? \u201cTo a caprice of\nexcitement,\u201d I did respond. Strictly, this suicide had a signification,\nwhen to be forever separated from Charlotte filled me with despair. But\nnow? We love each other, we belong to each other. Who can prevent us,\nyoung and free, from fleeing together, if on the next day we cannot\nendure separation? This hypothesis of an elopement brought before my\nmind the image of Count Andr\u00e9. Why not make a note of this also? An\nexhilarating titillation of self-love ran through my heart at this\nsouvenir.\n\nI looked at Charlotte again, and I felt filled with the most ferocious\npride. The rivalry instituted by my secret envy between her brother\nand myself awoke again in a start of triumph. There is a celebrated\nproverb which says that all animals are sad after pleasure: \u201c_Omne\nanimal_.\u201d It was not sadness that I felt then, but an absolute\ndrying up of my tenderness, a rapid return--rapid as the action of a\nchemical precipitation--to a state of mind anterior.\n\nI do not believe that this displacement of sensibility could have\ntaken more than half an hour. I continued to regard Charlotte, while\nabandoning myself to these passage of ideas, with the delight of a\nreconquered liberty.\n\nThe fullness of the voluntary and reflective life flowed in me now, as\nthe water of a river whose dam has been raised. The passion for this\nabsent child had raised up a barrier against which the flood of my old\nsentiment was dammed up. This barrier thrown down, I became myself\nagain. She was sleeping. I heard her light, equal breath, then suddenly\na great sob, and she awoke:\n\n\u201cAh!\u201d said she, pressing me to her in a convulsive fashion, \u201cyou are\nhere, you are here. I had lost consciousness. I dreamed. Ah! what a\ndream! I saw my brother come toward you. Oh! the horrible dream!\u201d\n\nShe kissed me again, and, as her mouth was pressed to mine, the clock\nstruck. She listened and counted the strokes.\n\n\u201cFour o\u2019clock,\u201d said she, \u201cit is time--farewell, my love, farewell.\u201d\n\nShe embraced me again. Her face had become calm in her exaltation,\nalmost smiling.\n\n\u201cGive me the poison,\u201d said she in a firm voice.\n\nI remained immovable without answering.\n\n\u201cYou are afraid for me,\u201d she resumed; \u201cI shall know how to die. Give\nit to me.\u201d I rose, still without replying. She sat up and clasped her\nhands without looking at me. Was she praying? Was this the last effort\nof this soul to extract the love of life which pushes its roots so\ndeeply in a creature of twenty years?\n\nMy resolution to prevent this double suicide was now absolute. I had\nthe coolness to seize the brown vial from the table and carry it to a\nwardrobe and lock it. These preparations of which she took no notice no\ndoubt seemed long to Charlotte, for she turned toward me:\n\n\u201cI am ready,\u201d said she.\n\nShe saw my empty hands. The ecstatic expression changed to one of\nextreme anguish, and her voice grew harsh as she said:\n\n\u201cThe poison! Give me the poison!\u201d Then as if responding to a thought\nwhich suddenly came to her mind, she added feverishly: \u201cNo, it is not\npossible.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d cried I, falling on my knees before her, and seizing her hands.\n\u201cNo, you are right, it is not possible. I cannot let you die before\nme, for I should be your assassin. I pray you, Charlotte, do not ask\nme to realize this fatal project. When I bought the poison I was mad,\nI thought that you did not love me. I wished to kill myself. Oh! how\nsincerely! But now that you do love me, that I know it, that you have\ngiven yourself to me, no I cannot, I will not. Let us live, my love,\nlet us live, consent to live. We will go away together, if you will.\nAnd if you will not, if you repent of this confession of your regard,\nwell! I will suffer the martyrdom; but, I swear to you, this shall be\nas if it had never been--I will not trouble your life. But to help you\nto die, to kill yourself, you so young, so fair, oh no, no, do not ask\nme to do it.\u201d\n\nHow many times I spoke thus to her, I do not know. I saw on her face\na sweet emotion, a woman\u2019s feebleness, the \u201cyes\u201d of the look which\ngives the lie to the \u201cno\u201d of the mouth. She was silent, then she fixed\nher eyes on me, and now they were bright with a tragic fire. She had\nwithdrawn her hands from mine, crossed her arms upon her breast, and\nwith her hair falling all around her, as if withdrawn from me by an\ninvincible horror, she said, when I had ceased to supplicate her:\n\n\u201cSo you will not keep your word?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d I stammered, \u201cI cannot. I cannot. I did not know what I said.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh!\u201d said she with a cruel disdain on her beautiful lips, \u201cbut tell\nme then that you are afraid! Give me the poison. I will give you back\nyour word. I will die alone. But to have drawn me thus into the snare,\nyou coward! coward! coward!\u201d\n\nWhy did I not spring up under this outrage, why did I not take the\nbottle of poison, why did I not put it to my lips there before her and\nsay: \u201cSee if I am a coward?\u201d I do not understand why I did not when I\nthink of it, when I remember the implacable contempt printed on her\nface. It must be that I was afraid, I who would now go to the scaffold\nwithout trembling, I who have had the courage to be silent for three\nmonths, thus risking my life. But now an idea sustains me, coldly,\nintellectually conceived while during that frightful scene there\nwas a confusion of all the forces of my mind, between my surcharged\nsensations of the last months and those of the present hour, and,\nsitting down on the carpet, as if I had no longer energy enough to hold\nmyself up, I shook my head, and said: \u201cNo, no.\u201d\n\nThis time it was she who did not respond. I saw her mass her beautiful\nhair and twist it into a knot; put her feet into her slippers, and wrap\nher white robe around her. She sought with her eyes for the dark flask\nwith the red label, and, seeing it no longer on the table, she walked\ntoward the door, then, without even turning her head, she disappeared\nafter darting at me the terrible word:\n\n\u201cCoward! coward!\u201d\n\nI remained there a long time. Suddenly a frightful uneasiness seized my\nheart. If Charlotte, exasperated as she was, should attempt her life! A\nprey to the terrors of this new anguish, I dared to cross the corridors\nand go down the stairs to her room, and then, putting my ear against\nthe door, I heard a noise, a moaning, a sign of what drama was being\nacted behind this thin rampart of wood which I could have burst open\nwith my shoulder quickly enough to bring help.\n\nThe first noises of the ch\u00e2teau were rising from the basement. The\nservants were getting up. I must go back to my room. At six o\u2019clock I\nwas in the garden under the young girl\u2019s window.\n\nMy imagination had shown me Charlotte, throwing herself from the\nwindow, and lying dead on the ground with her limbs broken. I saw her\nshutters closed, and below, the plat-band in order with its line of\nrose bushes on which bloomed the last roses of the autumn.\n\nShe had told me, this night, of the charm which she tasted, in her\nhours of distress, when she loved me in silence, in leaning above this\nbed of roses and inhaling the aroma of these sweet flowers, spread on\nthe breeze.\n\nI picked one, and its perfume almost made me faint.\n\nTo deceive an anxiety which each moment made more intense, I\nwalked straight on, into the country bathed in vapor, in this gray\nmorning of November. I went very far, since I passed the village of\nSaulzet-le-Froid, and yet, at eight o\u2019clock, I was back taking my\nbreakfast, or seeming to do so, in the dining-room of the ch\u00e2teau.\n\nThis was the time, I knew, for the maid to go into Mlle. de Jussat\u2019s\nroom. If anything had happened this girl would call out immediately.\nWith what inexpressible comfort I saw her come down and go toward the\nkitchen with the salver prepared for the tea!\n\nCharlotte had not taken her life.\n\nHope returned to me then. Upon reflection, and her first feeling\nof anger passed, perhaps she would interpret as a proof of love my\nrefusal to die and to let her die. I should know that also. It would be\nsufficient to wait for her in her brother\u2019s room. The little invalid\nwas at the end of his convalescence, and, though deprived of walks, he\ndisplayed the gayety of a child about to be born again into life.\n\nHe received me with all sorts of pretty ways, and his gracious humor\nredoubled my hope. He would break the ice between his sister and me.\nThe hands of a young man and of a young girl join so easily when they\ntouch around an innocent and curly head. But when Charlotte appeared,\nso white in a dress which brought out her paleness still more,\npretending a headache to avoid the pranks of Lucien, the eyes burning\nwith fever, I understood that I had believed too readily in a possible\nreconciliation.\n\nI saluted her. She found a way to not even respond to my salutation. I\nhad known three persons in her already; the creature tender, delicate,\ncompassionate, the young girl easily startled, the lover impassioned\nalmost to ecstasy. I saw now upon this noble visage the coldest, the\nmost impenetrable mark of contempt.\n\nAh! the old and banal formula: the patrician pride--I was able to\naccount for it and that certain silences kill as surely as the\nheadman\u2019s ax. This impression was so bitter that I could not resign\nmyself to it. This very day I watched to have a word with her, and,\nat the moment when she was going to her room toward the close of the\nafternoon, to dress herself for dinner, I went to her on the stairs.\nShe put me by with a gesture so haughty, with so cruel a \u201cMonsieur,\nI do not know you any longer!\u201d upon her trembling lips, a look so\nindignant in her eyes that I could not find a word to say to her.\n\nShe had judged me and I was condemned. Yes, condemned. She despised me\nfor my fear of death; and it was true, I had felt that cowardly chill\nbefore the black hole, while she dared face the worst. I certainly had\nthe right to say to myself that this alone would not have arrested me\nbefore the suicide of both, if pity for her had not been joined with\nit and my ambition as a thinker. No matter. She had given herself to\nme under one condition, and to this tragic condition I had responded\n\u201cyes\u201d before, and \u201cno\u201d after. Ah, well. She scorned me, but she had\nbeen mine. I had held her in my arms, these arms, and I was the first\nto kiss those lips.\n\nYes, I suffered cruelly between this night and my definite departure\nfrom the house. However, it was not the arid and conquered despair of\nthe summer, the total abdication in distress.\n\nI retained at the bottom of my heart, I cannot say a happiness, but\na something of satisfaction which sustained me in this crisis. When\nCharlotte passed me without noticing me any more than some object\nforgotten there by a servant, I contemplated her response to my\ndeclaration of love. For another experience of that happiness, perhaps,\nI would have accepted anew the fatal compact, with the cold resolve to\nkeep it. But this happiness had none the less been true.\n\nAnd was this love really, irremediably ended? In doing as she had done\nMlle, de Jussat had proved a very deep passion. Was it possible that\nnothing remained of it in this romantic heart?\n\nTo-day and in the light of the tragedy which ended this lamentable\nadventure, I comprehend that it was precisely this romantic character\nwhich prevented any return of love into this heart. She had loved in\nme a mirage, a being absolutely different from myself, and the sudden\nvision of my true nature having at a blow dispelled her illusions, she\nhated me with all the power of her old love.\n\nAlas! with all my pretensions to the learned psychologist, I did not\nsee the evolution of this mind, then! I did not even suspect that she\nwould seek at any price the means of knowing me better, and that she\nwould go, in the distraction of her actual disgust, so far as to treat\nme as judges treat the accused; in fine that she would read my papers\nand would not recoil before any scruple.\n\nI did not even know enough to guess that she was not the girl to\nsurvive such a shock as the revelation of my cold-blooded resolutions\nwritten in my notebook brought upon her, and I did not think to destroy\nthe bottle of poison which I had refused to give her.\n\nI believed myself to be a great observer because I reflected a great\ndeal. The quibbles of my analysis concealed from me its falsity. It\nwas not necessary to reflect at this period, but to observe. Instead,\ndeceived by this reasoning which I have just gone over to you, and\npersuaded that Charlotte loved me still in spite of her contempt,\nI tried to recall this love by the most simple means, the most\nineffective at that moment.\n\nI wrote to her.\n\nI found my letter on my bureau the same day, unopened. I went to\nher door at night and called to her. This door was locked and no\none replied. I tried to stop her again. She waved me off with more\nauthority than the first time, without looking at me.\n\nFinally, the heartbreak of this continuous insult was stronger than the\nardors of passion which had begun to kindle in me. On the evening of\nthe day in which she had thus repulsed me, I wept much, then I resolved\nupon a definite course. A little of my old energy had returned, for it\nwas needed for this part which I had undertaken.\n\nThe next week M. de Plane and Count Andr\u00e9 were coming. This would have\ndecided me if I had still hesitated. Their presence, in this double and\nsinister disaster of my love and of my pride, no, I would not, I could\nnot endure it.\n\nThis, then, is what I had decided: The marquis had asked me to prolong\nmy stay until the 15th of November. It was now the 3d. I announced, on\nthe morning of this fatal 3d of November, that I had just received from\nmy mother a letter which made me a little uneasy; then in the forenoon,\nI said that a dispatch had still further increased my anxiety. I asked\nthen of M. de Jussat permission to go to Clermont early the next day,\nadding that if I did not return, would he be so good as to box the\narticles I had left and send them to me. I held this conversation in\nthe presence of Charlotte, assured that she would interpret it in its\ntrue significance: \u201cHe is going away not to return.\u201d I expected that\nthe news of this separation would move her, and, wishing to profit by\nthis emotion, I had the audacity to write to her another note, these\ntwo lines only:\n\n\u201cOn the point of leaving you forever, I have the right to ask a last\ninterview. I will come to you at eleven o\u2019clock.\u201d\n\nIt was necessary that she should not return this note without reading\nit. I placed it open upon her table, at the risk of losing all if the\nchambermaid should see it. Ah! how my heart beat, when at five minutes\nto eleven o\u2019clock, I took my way to her room and tried the door.\n\nIt was not bolted. She was waiting for me. I saw at the first glance\nthat the struggle would be hard. Her somber countenance showed too\nplainly that she had not permitted me to come that she might forgive\nme. She wore a dark silk dress, and never had her eyes been more fixed,\nmore implacably fixed and cold.\n\n\u201cMonsieur,\u201d said she as soon as I had shut the door, \u201cI am ignorant\nof what you intend to say to me--I am ignorant of it and I do not wish\nto know. It is not to listen to you that I have allowed you to come. I\nswear to you, and I know how to keep my word--if you take a step toward\nme and if you try to speak to me without my permission, I will call and\nyou shall be thrown from the window like a thief.\u201d\n\nWhile speaking she had put her finger on the button of the electric\nbell. Her brow, her mouth, her gestures, her voice showed such\nresolution that I did not dare to speak. She continued: \u201cYou have,\nmonsieur, caused me to commit very unworthy actions. The first has\nfor excuse that I did not believe you capable of the infamy you have\nemployed. Beside I should have known how to expiate it,\u201d she added, as\nif speaking to herself. \u201cThe second. I do not look for any excuse.\u201d And\nher face became purple with shame. \u201cIt was too insupportable to think\nthat you had acted thus. I wished to be sure of what you are. I wished\nto know. You had told me that you kept a journal. I desired to read it\nand I have done so. I went into your room when you were not there, and\nforced the lock of your notebook. Yes, yes, I did that! I have been\npunished, since I have read your infamous plans. The third. In telling\nyou I acquit the debt which I have contracted with you by the second.\nThe third,\u201d and she hesitated, in my indignation, \u201cI wrote to my\nbrother. He knows everything!\u201d\n\n\u201cAh!\u201d cried I, \u201cthen you are lost.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou know what I have sworn,\u201d she interrupted; and she put her finger\nagain on the bell. \u201cBe quiet. Nothing worse can befall me than has\nalready happened,\u201d she continued, \u201cand no one will do anything more\nfor or against me. My brother will know that also, and what I have\nresolved. The letter will reach him to-morrow morning. I ought to warn\nyou since you hold your life so dear. And now, go away.\u201d\n\n\u201cCharlotte,\u201d I implored.\n\n\u201cIf in one minute you have not gone out,\u201d said she, looking at the\nclock, \u201cI will call.\u201d\n\n\n                          \u00a7 VII. CONCLUSION.\n\n\nAnd I obeyed!\n\nThe next day, at six o\u2019clock I left the ch\u00e2teau, a prey to the most\nsinister presentiments, trying in vain to persuade myself that this\nscene would not be followed by some terrible effect; that Count Andr\u00e9\nwould arrive soon enough to save her from a desperate resolution; that\nshe would hesitate at the last moment; that some unexpected thing would\nhappen.\n\nAs to fleeing from the possible vengeance of the brother, I did not for\na moment think of it. This time, I had resumed my character because I\nhad an idea to sustain me, that of allowing no person to humiliate me\nany further. Yes, although I had faltered before a loving girl and in\nthe weakness of happy love, I would not do so before the threat of a\nman.\n\nI arrived at Clermont, devoured by an anxiety which did not last very\nlong, for I learned of the suicide of Mlle. de Jussat and was arrested\nat the same moment.\n\nFrom the first words of the Judge of Instruction I reconstructed all\nthe details of the suicide: Charlotte had taken from the flask which\nI had bought as much as she thought sufficient to cause her death.\nShe had done that on the very day she had read my journal, whose lock\nI found had been forced. I had not noticed it because my mind was so\nfilled with other things than these sterile notes.\n\nShe had been careful, in order to turn away my suspicions, to replace\nwith water the quantity of nux vomica thus taken. She had thrown\nthe flask out of the window because she did not wish her father and\nmother to learn of her suicide excepting through her brother. And I,\nwho know the whole truth of this horrible drama, who could at least\ngive my journal as a presumption of my innocence, destroyed this\njournal after my first examination; I have refused to speak, to defend\nmyself--because of this brother! I have told you, I have drained to\nthe bottom the cup of humiliation and I will do no more.\n\nThis man whom I so much envied from the first day, this man who\nrepresents death to me now, and who, knowing the whole truth, must\nconsider me the lowest of the low. I do not wish that he should have\nthe right to quite despise me, and he has not the right. He does\nnot because we both are silent. But this for me, is to risk my life\nin order to save the honor of the dead, and for him to sacrifice an\ninnocent person to this honor.\n\nOf us two, of me who will not defend myself by taking shelter behind\nthe dead body of Charlotte, and of him who, having the letter which\nproves her suicide, keeps it, to avenge himself on the lover of his\nsister by allowing him to be condemned as an assassin, which is the\nbrave man? Which is the gentleman? All the shame of my weakness--if\nthere be any shame, I wipe out by not defending myself, and I feel\na proud pleasure, as a revenge for those terrible last days, at not\nhaving killed myself, at not asking of death the oblivion of so many\ntortures.\n\nCount Andr\u00e9 must also reach the bottom of his infamy. If I am\ncondemned, he knowing me to be innocent, he having the proof of it,\nhe keeping silent, ah well! the Jussat-Randons will have nothing with\nwhich to reproach me--we will be quits.\n\nHowever, I have told all to you, my venerated, my dear master; I have\nopened my soul to you, and in confiding this secret to your honor, I\nknow too well whom I am addressing even to insist upon the promise I\nhave taken the liberty to exact on the first page of this memoir.\n\nBut, you see, I am stifled by this silence; I stifle with the weight\nwhich is always, always upon me. To say all in a word, and applied\nto my sensation, it is legitimate, I stifle with remorse. I want to\nbe understood, consoled, loved; I want some one to pity me and say\nwords to me which shall dissipate the phantoms, the evil spirits, the\ntorturing phantoms.\n\nI made out, when I began these pages, a list of questions which I\nwished to ask you at the end. I flattered myself that I could recount\nto you my history as you state your problems in psychology in your\nbooks which I have read so much, and now I find nothing to say to you\nonly the word of despair: \u201c_De profundis_!\u201d\n\nWrite to me, my dear master, direct me. Strengthen me in the doctrine\nwhich was, which is still mine, in the conviction of universal\nnecessity which wills that even our most detestable actions, even this\ncold enterprise in which I embarked in the interest of science, even my\nweakness before the compact of death, are a part of the laws of this\nimmense universe.\n\nTell me that I am not a monster, that there are no monsters, that you\nwill, if I emerge from this supreme crisis, have me for your disciple,\nyour friend. If you were a physician, and a sick man came to you,\nyou would heal him for humanity\u2019s sake. You are a physician, a great\nphysician of souls. Ah! mine is badly hurt and bleeding. I pray you for\na word to comfort me, a word, a single word, and you will be forever\nblessed by your faithful.\n\n\n                                                        ROBERT GRESLON.\n\n\n\n\n                                  V.\n\n                           TORMENT OF IDEAS.\n\n\nA MONTH had passed since the mother of Robert Greslon had brought\ninto the hermitage of the Rue Guy de la Brosse the strange manuscript\nwhich Adrien Sixte had hesitated to read. And the philosopher, after\nthese four weeks, was still the slave of the trouble inflicted by the\nreading, to such an extent that even his humble neighbors noticed it.\n\nThere were continual consultations between Mlle. Trapenard and the\nCarbonnets, in the lodging filled with its odor of leather, where the\nfaithful servant and the judicious _concierges_ discussed the\ncause of the strange change in the manners of the celebrated analyst.\n\nThe admirable, automatic regularity of his goings out and comings in,\nwhich had made him a living chronometer for the whole quarter, had been\nsuddenly transformed into a febrile and inexplicable anxiety.\n\nThe philosopher, since the visit of Mme. Greslon, went and came, like\none who cannot stay in any place, who, as soon as he goes out thinks\nhe will return, and as soon as he has come in, cannot endure his room.\nIn the street, instead of walking along with the methodical step\nwhich reveals a nervous machine perfectly balanced, he hurried on, he\nstopped, he gesticulated, as if disputing with himself. This enervation\nwas betrayed by signs still more strange. Mlle. Trapenard had told to\nthe Carbonnets that her master did not go to bed now, before two or\nthree o\u2019clock in the morning:\n\n\u201cAnd it is not because he is writing,\u201d insisted the good woman, \u201cfor he\nwalks and walks. The first time I thought he was ill. I got up to ask\nhim if he wished some infusion. He, who is always so polite, so gentle,\nthat you would not suspect him to be a man who knows so much, he sent\nme away in a brutal manner.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd I who saw him the other day,\u201d responded Mother Carbonnet, \u201cas I\nwas returning from a course at the _caf\u00e9_! I would not believe my\neyes. He was there, behind the window reading a paper. If I had not\nknown him I should have been afraid. You ought to have seen him--that\nknit brow and that mouth.\u201d\n\n\u201cAt the _caf\u00e9_!\u201d cried Mlle. Trapenard. \u201cFor the fifteen years I\nhave been with him I have never seen him open a paper but once.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat man,\u201d concluded Father Carbonnet, \u201chas some trouble which\noverheats his blood. And trouble you see, Mlle. Mariette, is, so to\nspeak, like the tun of Adelaide, it has no bottom. For a fact, it\ncommenced with the summons of the judge and the visit of the lady in\nblack. And do you know what I think? Perhaps it is about a son of his\nwho is doing badly.\u201d\n\n\u201c_Mon Dieu_!\u201d exclaimed Mariette, \u201che have a son?\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd why not?\u201d continued the _concierge_, winking one eye behind\nhis spectacles; \u201cdon\u2019t you think he gallivanted around like other folks\nwhen he was young?\u201d\n\nThen he communicated to Mlle. Trapenard the frightful reports which\nwere going about in the _rez-de-chauss\u00e9es_ concerning poor M.\nSixte, since his visible change of habits. All the malicious tongues\nagreed in attributing the trouble of the philosopher to the citation\nof the judge. The washerwoman pretended to have it from a countryman\nof M. Sixte, that his fortune proceeded from a trust which his father\nhad abused, and that he would have to return it. The butcher told those\nwho would listen that the savant was married, and that his wife had\nmade a terrible scene and was going to bring a suit against him. The\ncoal merchant had insinuated, that the worthy man was the brother of an\nassassin whose execution under the false name of Campi still tormented\nthe popular mind.\n\n\u201cI will never go to their houses again,\u201d moaned Mlle. Trapenard; \u201cis it\npossible to imagine such horrors!\u201d\n\nAnd the poor girl left the lodge completely heartbroken. This great\ncreature, high in color, strong as an ox in spite of her fifty-five\nyears, with her big shoulders, her blue wool stockings which she had\nherself knit, and her cap fitting closely over her compact chignon,\nfelt a strong affection for her master because all the different\nelements of her frank and simple nature were involved in it.\n\nShe respected the gentleman, the educated man who was often mentioned\nin the papers. She cherished, in the old bachelor who never examined\nhis accounts, and left her mistress of the house, an assured source\nof comfort for her old age. Finally, this solid and robust creature\nprotected the man, feeble in body and so _simplet_, as she said,\nthat a child ten years old might have cheated him.\n\nSuch words mortified her pride at the same time that the sudden\nchange of humor of the philosopher rendered their residence together\nuncomfortable. From genuine affection she became anxious because her\nmaster did not eat or sleep. She saw that he was sad, anxious, and ill,\nbut she could do nothing to make him cheerful, nor even guess the cause\nof his melancholy and agitation.\n\nWhat did she think when, one afternoon in the month of March, M. Sixte\ncame in about five o\u2019clock, after having had his breakfast outside, and\nsaid to her: \u201cIs the valise in good order, Mariette?\u201d\n\n\u201cI do not know, monsieur. Monsieur has not used it since I came into\nthe house.\u201d\n\n\u201cGo and get it,\u201d said the philosopher. Mariette obeyed. She brought\nfrom a loft which served as lumber-room and woodhouse together a small,\ndusty leather trunk, with rusty locks and keys entirely lacking.\n\n\u201cVery well,\u201d said M. Sixte, \u201cyou may go and buy a little one like\nthat, immediately, and you may put into it whatever is necessary for a\njourney.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs monsieur going away?\u201d asked Mariette.\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d said the philosopher, \u201cfor a few days.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut monsieur has nothing that he needs,\u201d insisted the old servant,\n\u201cmonsieur cannot go away like that, without any traveling rugs,\nwithout----\u201d\n\n\u201cProcure what is needed,\u201d interrupted the philosopher, \u201cand hasten--I\ntake the train at nine o\u2019clock.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd is it necessary that I accompany monsieur.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, that is useless,\u201d said M. Sixte, \u201ccome, you have no time to lose.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! if he only does not think of killing himself,\u201d said Carbonnet when\nMariette had told of this new move, almost as extraordinary in this\nlittle corner of the world as if the philosopher had announced his\nmarriage.\n\n\u201cAh!\u201d said the servant, following up his idea, \u201cif he only would take\nme with him! If I have to pay out of my own pocket, I will go.\u201d\n\nThis sublime cry, in the mouth of a creature who had come from P\u00e9augres\nin Ard\u00e8che, to be a servant and who carried economy so far as to\nmake her home dresses from the old redingotes of the savant, will\ndemonstrate better than any analysis what uneasiness the metamorphosis\nof this man who was passing through a moral crisis, which was terrible\nfor him, inspired in these humble people.\n\nNot realizing that he was observed, he showed the intensity of it in\nhis slightest gestures as well as in the features of his face. Since\nthe death of his mother he had not known such unhappy hours, and\nthe suffering inflicted by the irreparable separation was entirely\nsentimental; but the reading of Robert Greslon\u2019s memoir had attacked\nhim in the center of his being, his intellectual life, his sole reason\nfor living.\n\nAt the moment he gave Mariette the order to prepare his valise, he was\nas much overcome by fright as on the night he turned over the pages of\nthe notebook of confidences. This fright began from the first pages of\nthis narrative in which a criminal aberration of mind was studied, as\nif spread out for display, with such a mixture of pride and of shame,\nof cynicism and of candor, of infamy and of superiority.\n\nAt meeting the phrase in which Robert Greslon had declared himself\nunited to him by a cord as close as it was unbreakable, the great\npsychologist had trembled, and he had trembled at every repetition of\nhis name in this singular analysis, at every citation of one of his\nworks, which proved the right of this abominable libertine to call\nhimself his pupil.\n\nA fascination made up of horror and curiosity had constrained him to go\nstraight through to the end of this fragment of biography in which his\nideas, his cherished ideas, his science, his beloved science, appeared\nunited with acts so shameful.\n\nAh! if they had been united! But no, these ideas, this science,\nthe accused claimed them as the excuse, as the cause of the most\nmonstrous, the most complaisant depravity! As he advanced into the\nmanuscript he felt that a little of his inmost person became soiled,\ncorrupted, gangrened; he found so much of himself in this young man,\nbut a \u201chimself\u201d made up of sentiments which he detested the most in\nthe world. For in this illustrious philosopher the holy virginities of\nconscience remained intact, and, behind the bold nihilism of mind, the\nnoble heart of an ingenuous man was hidden.\n\nIt was in this inviolate conscience, in this irreproachable honesty,\nthat the master of this felon preceptor felt himself suddenly\nlacerated. This sinister history of a love affair, so basely carried\non, of a treason so black, of a suicide so melancholy, brought him\nface to face with the most frightful vision; that of his mind acting\nand corrupting, his, who had lived in voluntary renunciation, in daily\npurity.\n\nThe whole adventure of Robert Greslon showed to him the complexities\nof a hideous pride and of an abject sensuality, to him who had labored\nonly to serve psychology, to him a modest worker in a labor which he\nbelieved beneficent, and in the most severe asceticism, in order that\nthe enemies of his doctrines could not argue from his example against\nhis principles.\n\nThis impression was the more violent as it was unexpected. A physician\nof large heart would experience an anguish of an analogous order if,\nhaving established the theory of a remedy, he learned that one of his\nassistants had tried the application of it, and that all in one ward of\nthe hospital were in agony from its effects. To do wrong, knowing it\nand willing it, is very bitter to a man who is better than his deeds.\nBut to have devoted thirty years to a work, to have believed this work\nuseful, to have pursued it sincerely, simply, to have repelled as\ninsulting the accusations of immorality thrown at him by his angry\nadversaries, and, suddenly, by the light of a frightful revelation, to\nhold an indisputable proof, a proof real as life itself, that this work\nhas poisoned a mind, that it carries in it a principle of death, that\nit is spreading this principle to all the corners of the earth--ah!\nwhat a cruel shock, what a savage wound to receive, if the shock should\nlast only an hour, and the wound be closed at once!\n\nAll revolutionary thinkers have known such hours of anguish. But\nmost pass quickly through them, and for this reason it is rare for a\nman to be thrust into the battle of ideas without his becoming soon\nthe comedian of his first sincerities. He sustains his r\u00f4le. He has\npartisans, and more than all he soon comes, by friction with life,\nto that conception of the _\u00e0 peu pr\u00e8s_ almost, which makes him\nadmit, as inevitable, a certain falling away from his ideal. He says to\nhimself that one does evil here, right elsewhere, and sometimes, that\nafter all, the world and the people will always go the same.\n\nWith Adrien Sixte sincerity was too complete for any such reasoning\nto be possible. He had neither r\u00f4le to play nor faithful adherents\nto manage. He was alone. His philosophy, and he made only one, and\nthe compromises by which all great fame is accompanied, had in no way\nimpaired his fierce and proud mind.\n\nWe must add that he had found the means, thanks to his perfect good\nfaith, of passing through society without ever seeing it. The passions\nwhich he had depicted, the crimes which he had studied, he saw as\npersons who designate medical observation, \u201cA thirty-five years, such\nprofession, unmarried.\u201d And the exposition of the case is developed\nwithout a detail which gives to the reader the sensation of the\nindividual.\n\nAlways the rigorous theorizer on the passions, the minute anatomist of\nthe will, he had never fairly seen face to face a creature of flesh\nand blood; so that the memoir of Robert Greslon did not speak only to\nhis consciousness as an honest man. So, during the eight days which\nfollowed the first reading, there was a continual obsession, and\nthis increased the moral pain by uniting it with a sort of physical\nuneasiness.\n\nThe psychologist saw his ill-fated disciple as he had looked upon him\nhere in this same room, with his feet on the same carpet, leaning his\narms on this same table, breathing, moving.\n\nBehind the words on the paper he heard that voice a little dull which\npronounced the terrible phrase: \u201cI have lived with your mind and of\nyour mind, so passionately, so completely;\u201d and the words of the\nconfession, instead of being simple characters written with cold ink\nupon inert paper, became animated into words behind which he felt a\nliving being:\n\n\u201cAh!\u201d thought he when this image became too strong, \u201cwhy did the mother\nbring this notebook to me?\u201d\n\nIt would have been so natural for the unhappy woman, a prey to mad\nanxiety, to prove the innocence of her son by violating this trust. But\nno, Robert had without doubt deceived her with the hypocrisy of which\nhe so boasted, the miserable fellow, as if it were a psychological\nconquest.\n\nThe haunting hallucination of the face of the young man would have\nsufficed to overcome Adrien Sixte. When the mother had cried: \u201cYou have\ncorrupted my son,\u201d his learned serenity had been scarcely disturbed.\nIn like manner, he had opposed only contempt to the accusation of the\nelder Jussat, repeated by the judge, and to the remarks of the latter\non moral responsibility.\n\nHow tranquil he had gone out of the Palais de Justice! And now there\nwas no more contempt in him; that serenity was conquered, and he, the\nnegator of all liberty, he the fatalist who decomposed virtue and vice\nwith the brutality of a chemist studying a gas, he the bold prophet\nof universal mechanism, and who until then had always experienced\nthe perfect harmony of mind and heart, suffered with a suffering in\ncontradiction to all his doctrines--he felt remorse, he felt himself\nresponsible!\n\nIt was only after these eight clays of the first shock, during which\nthe memoir had been read and reread, so that he could repeat all the\nphrases of it, that this conflict of heart and mind became clear to\nAdrien Sixte, and the philosopher tried to recover himself.\n\nHe walked to the Jardin des Plantes, one afternoon toward the end of\nFebruary, an afternoon as mild as spring. He sat down on a bench in his\nfavorite walk, that which runs along the Rue de Buffon, and at the foot\nof a Virginia acacia, propped up with crutches, adorned with plaster\nlike a wall, and with knotty branches like the fingers of a gouty giant.\n\nThe author of the \u201cPsychology of God\u201d loved this old trunk whose sap\nwas all dried up because of the date inscribed on the placard and which\nconstituted the civil status of the poor tree. \u201cPlanted in 1632.\u201d The\nyear of the birth of Spinoza.\n\nThe sun of the early afternoon was very soft and this impression\nrelaxed the nerves of the promenader. He looked around him absently,\nand was pleased to follow the movements of two children who were\nplaying near their mother. They were collecting sand with little wooden\nshovels with which to build an imaginary house. Suddenly one of them\nrose up brusquely and struck his head against the bench which was\nbehind him. He must have hurt himself, for his face contracted into\na grimace of pain, and, before bursting into tears, there were the\nfew seconds of suffocated silence which precede the sobs of children.\nThen, in a fit of furious rage, he turned to the bench and struck it\nfuriously with his fist.\n\n\u201cAre you stupid, my poor Constant,\u201d said his mother to him, shaking him\nand drying his eyes; \u201ccome, let me wipe your nose,\u201d and she wiped it;\n\u201cit will do you much good to be angry at a piece of wood.\u201d\n\nThis scene diverted the philosopher. When he rose to continue his walk\nunder this pleasant sun, he thought of it for a long time.\n\n\u201cI am like that little boy,\u201d said he to himself: \u201cIn his childishness,\nhe gives life to an inanimate object, he makes it responsible. And what\nelse have I been doing for more than a week?\u201d\n\nFor the first time since the reading of the memoir, he dared to\nformulate his thought with the clearness which was the proper\ncharacteristic of his mind and of his works: \u201cI have believed myself\nresponsible for a part in this frightful adventure. Responsible? There\nis no sense in that word.\u201d\n\nWhile passing toward the gate of the garden, then in the direction of\nthe isle Saint Louis and toward Notre Dame, he took up the detail of\nthe reasoning against this notion of responsibility in the \u201cAnatomy of\nthe Will,\u201d above all his critique of the idea of cause. He had always\nparticularly held to this piece. \u201cThat is evident,\u201d he concluded.\n\nThen, after he was once more assured of the certainty of his own\nintellect, he constrained himself to think of the Robert Greslon, now\na prisoner in cell number seven in the jail of Riom, and of the Robert\nGreslon formerly a young student of Clermont leaning over the pages of\nthe \u201cTheory of the Passions\u201d and of the \u201cPsychology of God.\u201d\n\nHe felt anew an insupportable sensation that his books should have been\nthus handled, meditated upon, loved by this child.\n\n\u201cBut we are double!\u201d thought he, \u201cand why this powerlessness to conquer\nillusions which we know to be false?\u201d\n\nAll at once a phrase of the memoir came to his mind: \u201cI have remorse,\nwhen the doctrines which form the very essence of my intelligence make\nme consider remorse as the most foolish of human illusions.\u201d\n\nThe identity between his moral condition and that of his pupil appeared\nso hateful to him that he tried to get rid of it by new reasoning.\n\n\u201cAh, well!\u201d said he to himself, \u201clet us imitate the geometrician,\nlet us admit to be true what we know to be false. Let us proceed\nby absurdity. Yes, man is an agent and a free agent. Then he is\nresponsible. Maybe. But when, where, how have I acted badly? Why do I\nhave remorse because of this scoundrel? What is my fault?\u201d\n\nHe returned, resolved to review his whole life. He saw himself a little\nchild, working at his tasks with a minuteness of conscientiousness\nworthy of his father the clock maker. Then when he had begun to think,\nwhat did he love, what did he wish? The truth. When he had taken the\npen, why did he write, to serve what cause, if not that of truth? To\nthe truth he had sacrificed everything; fortune, place, family, health,\nlove, friendship. And what did even Christianity teach, the doctrine\nthe most penetrated by ideas different from his own? \u201cPeace on earth,\nto men of good will,\u201d that is to those who have sought for the truth.\nNot a day, not an hour in all that past, which he scrutinized with\nthe force of the most subtle genius put to the service of the most\nhonest conscience, had he failed in the ideal programme of his youth\nformulated in this noble and modest device: \u201cTo say what he thought, to\nsay only what he thought.\u201d\n\n\u201cThis is duty, for those who believe in duty,\u201d said he, \u201cand I have\nfulfilled it.\u201d\n\nThe night after this courageous meditation, this great, honest man\nslept at last and with a sleep that the remembrance of Robert Greslon\ndid not trouble.\n\nOn awaking, Adrien Sixte was still calm. He was too well accustomed\nto study himself not to seek for a cause for this facing about of\nhis impressions, and too sincere not to recognize the reason. This\nmomentary lull of remorse must arise from the simple fact of having\nadmitted as true some ideas upon the moral life which his reason\ncondemned.\n\n\u201cThere are then beneficent ideas, and malevolent ideas,\u201d he concluded.\n\u201cBut what? Does the malevolence of an idea prove its falsity? Let us\nsuppose that the death of Charlotte be concealed from the Marquis de\nJussat, he is quieted by the idea that his daughter is living. The\nidea would be salutary to him. Would it be true for that reason? And\ninversely.\u201d\n\nAdrien Sixte had always considered as a sophism, as cowardly, the\nargument directed by certain spiritualistic philosophers against the\nfatal consequences of new doctrines, and generalizing the problem, he\nsaid again: \u201cAs is the mind so is the doctrine. The proof of it is that\nRobert Greslon has transformed religious practices into an instrument\nof his own perversity.\u201d\n\nHe again took up the memoir to find the pages consecrated by the\naccused to his sentiments for the church, then he became again\nfascinated and reread this long piece of analysis, but giving\nparticular attention this time to each passage in which his own name,\nhis theories, his works were mentioned.\n\nHe applied all the strength of his mind to prove to himself that every\nphrase cited by Greslon had been justified by acts absolutely contrary\nto those which the morbid young man had justified by them.\n\nThis reperusal, attentive and minute, had the effect of throwing him\ninto a new attack of his trouble.\n\nWith his magnificent sincerity, the philosopher recognized that the\ncharacter of Robert Greslon, dangerous by nature, had met in his\ndoctrines, as it were, a land where were developed his worst instincts,\nand that Adrien Sixte found himself radically powerless to respond to\nthe supreme appeal made to him by his disciple from the depths of his\ndungeon.\n\nOf all the memoir, the last lines touched the deepest chord. Although\nthe word debt had not been pronounced, he felt that this unfortunate\nhad a claim on him. Greslon said truly: a master is united to the mind\nthat he has directed, even if he has not willed this direction, even if\nthis mind has not rightly interpreted the teaching, by a sort of mystic\ncord, and one which does not permit of casting it to certain moral\nagony with the indifferent gesture of Pontius Pilate. Here was a second\ncrisis, more cruel perhaps than the first. When he had been fully\nimpressed by the ravages produced by his works, the savant became\npanic-stricken. Now that he was calm, he measured, with frightful\nprecision the powerlessness of his psychology, however learned it might\nbe, to handle the strange mechanism of the human soul.\n\nHow many times he began letters to Robert Greslon which he was\nunable to finish! What could he say to this miserable child? Must\nhe accept the inevitable in the internal as well as in the external\nworld--accept his mind as one accepts his body? Yes, was the result of\nall his philosophy. But in this inevitable there was the most hideous\ncorruption in the past and in the present.\n\nTo advise this man to accept himself, with all the profligacy of such\na nature, was to make himself an accomplice in this profligacy. But to\nblame him? In the name of what principle had he done it, after having\nprofessed that virtue and vice are additions, good and evil, social\nlabels without value; finally that everything is of necessity in each\ndetail of our being as well as in the whole of the universe.\n\nWhat counsel could he give him for the future? By what counsel prevent\nthis brain of twenty-two years from being ravaged by pride and\nsensuality, by unhealthy curiosity and depraving paradoxes? Would one\nprove to a viper, if it could comprehend reasoning, that it ought not\nto secrete venom? \u201cWhy am I a viper?\u201d it would respond.\n\nSeeking to state his thought with precision, Adrien Sixte compared the\nmental mechanism taken to pieces by Robert Greslon, with the watches\nwhich he had seen in his father\u2019s establishment. A spring goes, a\nmovement follows, then another, and another. The hands move. If a\nsingle part were touched the whole would stop.\n\nTo change anything in the mind would be to stop life. Ah! If the\nmechanism could only modify its own wheels and their movement! But if\nthe watchmaker take the watch to pieces and make it over again!\n\nThere are persons who turn from the evil to the good, who fall and rise\nagain, who are cast down and are again built up in their morality. Yes,\nbut there is the fallacy of repentance which presupposes the delusion\nof liberty and of a judge, of a Heavenly Father. Could he, Adrien\nSixte, write to this young man: \u201cRepent; cease to believe that which I\nhave shown you to be true?\u201d\n\nAnd yet it was frightful to see a soul die without trying to do\nsomething to save it. At this point of his meditation the thinker was\nbrought to a stand by the insoluble problem of the unexplained life of\nthe soul, as desperate for the psychologist as is the unexplained life\nof the body for the physiologist.\n\nThe author of the book upon God and who had written this sentence:\n\u201cThere is no mystery; there are only ignorances,\u201d refused the\ncontemplation of the beyond, which, showing an abyss behind all\nreality, leads science to bow before the enigma and say: \u201cI do not\nknow, I shall never know,\u201d and which permits religion to interpose.\n\nHe felt his incapacity for doing anything for this young soul in\ndistress, and who had need of supernatural aid. But to only speak of\nsuch a formula, with his ideas, was as foolish as to talk of squaring\nthe circle, or of giving three right angles to a triangle.\n\nA very simple event rendered this struggle more tragic by imposing\nthe necessity for immediate action. An anonymous hand sent him a\npaper which contained an article of extreme violence against himself\nand his influence in regard to Robert Greslon. The writer, evidently\ninspired by some relation or some friend of the Jussats, branded modern\nphilosophy and its doctrines, incarnated in Adrien Sixte and in several\nother savants.\n\nThen he called up an example. In a final paragraph, improvised in the\nmodern style, with the realism of imagery which is the rhetoric of\nto-day, as the poesy of the metaphor was that of the past, he showed\nthe assassin of Mlle. de Jussat mounting the scaffold, and a whole\ngeneration of young decadents cured of their pessimism by this example.\n\nIn any other circumstances the great psychologist would have smiled\nat this declaration. He would have thought that the _envoi_ came\nfrom his enemy Dumoulin, and resumed his work with the tranquillity of\nArchimedes tracing his geometrical figures on the sand during the sack\nof the city. But in reading this chronicle, scribbled without doubt on\nthe corner of a table in the Tortoni _caf\u00e9_ by a moralist of the\nboulevard, he perceived one fact of which he had not thought, so much\nhad the folly of abstraction withdrawn him from the social world: that\nthis moral drama was becoming a real drama.\n\nIn a few weeks, perhaps in a few days, he of whose innocence he held\nthe proof, would be judged. Now, according to the justice of men,\nthe supposed assassin of Mlle. de Jussat was innocent; and if this\nmemoir did not constitute a decisive proof, it offered an indisputable\ncharacter of veracity which was sufficient to save a life.\n\nWould he allow this head to fall, he, the confidant of the misery,\nthe shame, the perfidy of the young man, but who also knew that this\nintellectual scoundrel was not an actual murderer?\n\nWithout doubt he was bound by the tacit engagement contracted in\nopening the manuscript; but was this engagement valid in the presence\nof death? There was, in this solitary being assailed for a month by\nmoral torment, such a need of escaping from the ineffectual and sterile\ncorrosion of his thoughts by a positive volition, that he felt it a\nrelief when he had at last decided on a part.\n\nFrom other journals which he anxiously consulted, he learned that the\nGreslon case would come before the assizes of Riom, on Friday, March\n11th.\n\nOn the 10th he gave Mariette the order to prepare his valise, and\nthe same evening he took the train after posting a letter addressed\nto M. the Count Andr\u00e9 de Jussat, Captain of Dragoons in garrison at\nLun\u00e9ville. This letter, not signed, simply contained the lines:\n\n\u201cMonsieur, Count de Jussat has in his hands a letter from his sister\nwhich contains the proof of the innocence of Robert Greslon. Will he\npermit an innocent man to be condemned?\u201d\n\nThe nihilistic psychologist had not been able to write the words\n_right_ and _duty_. But his resolution was taken. He would\nwait until the trial was ended, and if M. de Jussat were still silent,\nif Greslon were condemned, he would place the memoir in the hands of\nthe president.\n\n\u201cHe took his ticket for Riom,\u201d said Mlle. Trapenard to Father Carbonnet\non returning from the station whither she had accompanied her master,\nalmost in spite of himself, \u201cbut the idea of his going away off there,\nalone, and in this cold, when he is so comfortable here!\u201d\n\n\u201cBe easy, Mlle. Mariette,\u201d said the astute porter. \u201cWe shall know\nall some day. But nothing will make me think that there is not an\nillegitimate son in it somewhere.\u201d\n\n\n\n\n                                  VI.\n\n                             COUNT ANDR\u00c9.\n\n\nAT the moment when the note which had been put into the box by Adrien\nSixte arrived at Lun\u00e9ville, Count Andr\u00e9 was himself at Riom. Chance\nwilled that these two men should not meet, for the celebrated writer,\non leaving the train, took his place at a venture in the omnibus for\nthe H\u00f4tel du Commerce, while the count had his apartment at the H\u00f4tel\nde l\u2019Univers.\n\nThere in a parlor furnished with old furniture, hung with a faded\npaper, with worn curtains and a patched carpet, and on the morning\nof this Friday, March 11, 1887, on which the Greslon trial opened,\nthe brother of poor Charlotte was walking up and down. Noon was about\nto strike from the clock of ornamented copper, which decorated the\nchimney-piece.\n\nOutside, the sky was covered with clouds, one of those Auvergne skies\nwhich brings the icy wind of the mountains.\n\nThe count\u2019s orderly, a dragoon with a jovial physiognomy, had brought\na little military order into this salon, and, after having wound the\nclock stirred up the fire he began to set the table for two. From time\nto time he watched his captain, who, stroking his mustache with one\nhand, biting his lips, wrinkling his brow, wore the expression of the\nmost painful anxiety. But Joseph Pourat, this was the orderly\u2019s name,\nsimply thought that the count was scarcely master of himself, while\nthey were trying the assassin of his sister. For him, as for all who\nwere in any way connected with the Jussat-Randons and who had known\nCharlotte, there was no doubt of Robert Greslon\u2019s guilt. What the\nfaithful soldier less understood, knowing the energy of his officer,\nwas that he had allowed the old marquis to go to the trial alone.\n\n\u201cThat will do very well,\u201d said the count, and Pourat, who placed the\nplates and forks after having wiped them, a necessary preliminary,\nthought in presence of the visible agony of his master:\n\n\u201cHe has a good heart all the same, if he is a little brusque. How much\nhe loved her!\u201d\n\nAndr\u00e9 de Jussat did not seem to even suspect there was any one in\nthe room beside himself. His brown eyes close to his nose, which had\nastonished, almost disturbed Robert Greslon, by their resemblance to\nthose of a bird of prey, no longer shot forth that proud look which\ngoes straight to an object, and takes hold of it. No, there was a\nspecies of shrinking back, almost a shame, like a fear of showing\nhis inmost suffering. They were the eyes of a man whom a fixed idea\npossesses and whom the sting of an intolerable pain constantly touches\nin the most sensitive part of his soul.\n\nThis pain dated from the day on which he had received his sister\u2019s\nletter revealing her terrible project of suicide. A dispatch had\narrived almost at the same moment, announcing the death of Charlotte,\nand he had taken the train for Auvergne precipitately, without knowing\nhow to inform his father of the fearful truth, but decided to have a\njust revenge on Greslon. And the marquis had received him with these\nwords: \u201cYou received my dispatch? We have the assassin.\u201d\n\nThe count had said nothing, comprehending that there must be a\nmisunderstanding; and the marquis had stated the suspicions against the\npreceptor, also the fact that he had just been arrested.\n\nImmediately this idea imposed itself upon the brother, who was mad with\ngrief, that destiny offered him this vengeance, the only object of his\nthought since he had read the confession of the dead and the detail of\nher misery, of her errors, her resistances her atrocious deception, of\nher fatal resolution.\n\nHe had only not to hide the letter, and the cowardly moral assassin of\nthe young girl would be accused, imprisoned, no doubt condemned. The\nhonor of Charlotte would be saved, for Robert Greslon could not prove\nhis relations with the girl. The marquis and the marquise, the father\nand the mother, so confiding so penetrated by the truest love for the\nmemory of their poor child, would at least be ignorant of the fault of\nthis dear one which would be to them a new despair greater than the\ngirl\u2019s tragic death.\n\nAnd Count Andr\u00e9 was silent. Not, however, without a violent effort over\nhimself. This courageous man who possessed by nature and by will the\ntrue virtues of a soldier, detested perfidy, compromises of conscience,\nall expedients and all dastardliness.\n\nHe had felt that it was his duty to speak, not to allow an innocent\nperson to be accused. He had in vain said to himself that this Greslon\nwas the moral assassin of Charlotte, and that this assassination\nmerited a punishment as well as the other; this sophism of his hate\nhad not quite controlled the other voice, that which forbids us to\nbecome accomplices in an iniquity, and the condemnation of Greslon as a\npoisoner was certainly iniquitous.\n\nAn unexpected and to him an almost monstrous circumstance had\ncompletely overwhelmed Andr\u00e9 de Jussat; the silence of the accused.\n\nIf Greslon had spoken, recounted his amours, defending his life at the\nprice of the honor of his victim, the count could not have despised\nhim enough. By a contrast of character which must appear still more\ninexplicable to a simple mind, this infamous man suddenly displayed the\ngenerosity of a gentleman in not speaking a word which could soil the\nmemory of one whom he had drawn into so detestable an ambuscade.\n\nThis scoundrel was brave in the presence of justice, almost heroic in\nhis way. In any case he ceased to be worthy of disgust only. Andr\u00e9 said\nto himself that this might be the tactics of the court of assizes, a\nproceeding to obtain an acquittal in the absence of proofs. But, on the\nother hand, he knew by the letter of his sister of the existence of\nthe journal in which the details of the scientific experiment had been\nconsigned hour by hour. This journal singularly diminished the chances\nof conviction, and Greslon did not produce it.\n\nThe officer could not have explained why this dignity of attitude on\nthe part of his enemy so angered him, that he had a frantic desire to\nrush to the magistrate, in order that the truth might be brought to\nlight, and the dead should owe nothing, not an atom of her posthumous\nhonor to this scoundrel who had won her love.\n\nWhen he thought of his sister, the sweet creature whom he had loved,\nwith so virile and noble an affection, that of an elder brother for\na frail refined child, in the possession of this clown, this chance\npreceptor, him who had inflicted on his race an outrage so abject he\ncould have roared with fury, as when, during the war, it had been\nnecessary to assist at the capitulation of Metz and to give up his arms.\n\nHe felt then a solace in thinking that the bench of infamy on which\nwere seated burglars, swindlers, and murderers was waiting for this\nman, and then the scaffold or the galleys. And he stifled the voice\nwhich said: \u201cYou ought to speak.\u201d\n\nMy God! what agony for him in these three months, during which there\nhad not been five minutes in which he had not struggled against these\ncontradictory sentiments.\n\nOn the field of drill, for he had returned to service; on horseback,\ngalloping over the roads of Lorraine; in his room thinking, over this\nquestion: \u201cWhat was he to do?\u201d\n\nWeeks had passed without any answer, but the moment had come when it\nwas necessary to act and to decide, for in two days--the trial must\noccupy four sessions--Greslon would be judged and condemned. There\nwould be still some time after the conviction; but what of it! The\nsame debate would only have to be gone over again. He had not decided\nto be silent until the last. He refrained from speaking, but he had\nnot vowed to himself that he would refrain from speaking. This was\nthe reason it had been physically impossible for him to accompany his\nfather to the Palais de Justice during this first session, of which he\nshould soon hear the account, as twelve was striking, twelve very harsh\nstrokes followed by a carillon in the steeple of a neighboring church.\n\n\u201cMy captain, here is M. the Marquis,\u201d said the orderly, who had heard\nthe rolling of a carriage, then its stop before the hotel, after which\nhe took a look out of the window.\n\n\u201cAh, well, my father?\u201d asked Andr\u00e9 anxiously as soon as the marquis had\nentered.\n\n\u201cAh, well! the jury is for us,\u201d responded M. de Jussat. He was no\nlonger the broken down monomaniac whom Greslon had so bitterly mocked\nin his memoir. His eyes were brilliant and there was youth in his\nvoice and gestures. The passion for vengeance, instead of breaking him\ndown, sustained him. He had forgotten his hypochondria, and his speech\nwas quick, impetuous, and clear. \u201cThey were drawn this morning. Among\nthe twelve jurors, there are three farmers, two retired officers, a\nphysician, two shopkeepers, two proprietors, a manufacturer, and a\nprofessor, all good men, men of family, and who would wish to make\nan example. The procureur-g\u00e9n\u00e9ral is sure of a conviction. Ah! the\nscoundrel! but I was happy, the only time in three months, when I saw\nhim between two gendarmes! But what audacity! He looked around the\nhall. I was on the first bench. He saw me. Would you believe it, he\ndid not turn away his eyes? He looked at me fixedly as if he wished to\nbrave me. Ah! we must have his head, and we will have it.\u201d\n\nThe old man had spoken with a savage accent and he had not noticed the\npainful expression that his words had brought to the face of the count.\nThis last, at the picture of his enemy, thus conquered by public force,\nseized by the gendarmes, as if caught in the gear of that anonymous\nand invincible machine of justice, trembled with a chill of shame, the\nshame of a man who has employed bravos in a work of death.\n\nThese gendarmes, and these magistrates, were really the bravos employed\nin doing what he would so much have liked to do himself, with his own\nhands and upon his own responsibility. Decidedly, it was cowardly not\nto have spoken.\n\nThen the look thrown by Greslon at the Marquis de Jussat, what did it\nmean? Did he know that Charlotte had written her letter of confession\nthe evening before her suicide? And if he knew it, what did he think?\nThe idea alone that this young man could suspect the truth and despise\nthem for their silence lighted a fever in the blood of the count.\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d said he to himself when the marquis had gone back for the\nafternoon session after a dinner eaten in haste, \u201cI cannot keep silent.\nI will speak, or I will write.\u201d\n\nHe seated himself and began to trace mechanically these words at the\nhead of a sheet:\n\n\u201cMonsieur the President:\u201d\n\nThe night fell while this unhappy man was still in the same place, his\nbrow in his hand, and not having written the first line of this letter.\nHe waited for the news of the second session, and it was with a shock\nthat he heard his father recount the details of it.\n\n\u201cAh! my dear Andr\u00e9! You were right not to come! What infamy! Ah! what\ninfamy! Greslon was questioned. He continues his system and refuses\nto say anything. That is nothing. The experts reported the results of\ntheir analyses. Our good doctor first. His voice trembled, the dear\nman, when he described his impression at seeing our poor Charlotte,\nyou know, in her room. And then Professor Armand; you could not have\nendured this horrible thing, this autopsy of our angel in that room in\nwhich there were certainly five hundred persons. And then the Paris\nchemist. If there could be any doubt after that! The bottle which that\nmonster used, was on the table. I saw it. And then--how did he dare?\nHis lawyer, an official advocate, however, and who has not even the\nexcuse of being the friend of his client. His advocate. But how shall I\ntell you? He asked if Charlotte had had a lover. There was a murmur of\ndisgust in the hall, of indignation from everybody. She, my child, so\npure, so noble, a saint! I could have choked the man. Even the assassin\nwas moved, he whom nothing touches. I saw him. At that moment he put\nhis head in his hands and wept. Answer, ought it not to be forbidden\nby law, to speak in that way of a victim in open court? What did this\nrogue believe then, that she had a lover? A lover! She a lover!\u201d\n\nThe old man\u2019s indignation was so strong that he suddenly burst into\ntears. The son, in presence of this touching grief felt his heart melt\nand the tears fill his eyes, and the two men embraced one another\nwithout a word.\n\n\u201cYou see,\u201d resumed the father when he was able to speak, \u201cthis is\nthe dreadful side of these trials, the public discussion of the most\nprivate matters. I have told you before that I was sure she was unhappy\nall winter because Maxime was absent. She loved him, but was not\nwilling that it should be seen. It was this that aroused Greslon\u2019s\njealousy when he came to the house and found her so gracious, so\nunpretentious, he believed that he could win her. How could she have\nsuspected such a thing, when I who have had so much experience of men,\nnever saw or guessed any thing?\u201d\n\nOnce started on this subject the marquis talked all through the dinner,\nthen during the whole evening. He enjoyed the consolation, the only one\npossible in certain crises, of recollecting aloud. And the religious\nworship which the unhappy father preserved for the dead was for the\nson, who listened without responding, something tragical at this moment\nwhen he was preparing to do what? Was he really about to bring this\nterrible blow on the old man? In his own room, with the great silence\nof a provincial city around him, he took up his sister\u2019s letter and\nread it again, although he knew by heart every phrase in it. There\narose from these pages traced by the hand forever still, a sigh so\nprofound, a breath of agony so sad and so heartrending! The illusion of\nthe girl had been so mad, her struggles so sincere, her awakening so\nbitter, that the count felt again the tears flow down his cheeks. This\nwas the second time that he had wept that day, he who, since the death\nof Charlotte, had kept his eyes dry and burning with hate.\n\nHe said: \u201cGreslon has deserved--\u201d He remained motionless some\nminutes, and, walking toward the chimney in which the fire was just\nextinguished, he placed on the half-consumed log the leaves of the\nletter. He struck a match and slipped it under the paper. He saw the\nline of flame develop all around, then again the frail writing, then\ntransform this only proof of the miserable amour and suicide into a\nblackish mass.\n\nThe brother finished by mixing this debris with the ashes. He lay down\nsaying aloud: \u201cIt is done,\u201d and he slept, as on the night after his\nfirst battle, the exhausted sleep which succeeds with men of action,\ngreat expenditure of will, and he did not open his eyes until nine\no\u2019clock the next day.\n\n\u201cMonsieur, the marquis forbade me to wake you,\u201d said Pourat when,\ncalled by his master, he opened the shutters. The sunlight entered,\nthe bright sunlight instead of the sad and lowering sky of the evening\nbefore. \u201cHe has been gone an hour. My captain knows that to-day they\nare going to take the accused by the subterranean passage, everybody is\nso excited against him.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat subterranean passage?\u201d asked Andr\u00e9.\n\n\u201cThat one which goes from the jail to the Palais de Justice. They\nuse it for great criminals, those who might be torn to pieces by the\npublic. Faith, captain, if I saw that fellow go by, I believe I should\nfeel like knocking him over on the spot. Those enraged dogs do not\njudge, they kill. But,\u201d he continued, \u201cI have forgotten the morning\u2019s\nletters in the salon.\u201d\n\nHe returned in a minute, having in his hand three envelopes. Andr\u00e9, who\nthrew a glance at the first two, saw at once from whom they came. The\nthird was in an unknown hand. It had been addressed to Lun\u00e9ville, from\nParis, then sent on to Riom. The count opened it, and read the three\nlines which Sixte had written before taking the train for Riom. The\nhands of this brave officer who did not know the meaning of the word\nfear, began to tremble. He became as pale as the paper which he held in\nhis trembling hands, so pale that Pourat said to him with fear:\n\n\u201cMy captain is ill.\u201d\n\n\u201cLeave me,\u201d said the count brusquely. \u201cI will dress myself alone.\u201d\n\nHe had need to recover from the sudden blow which had just struck him.\nThere was some one in the world who knew the terrible secret, some\none who knew the mystery of Charlotte\u2019s death and who was not Robert\nGreslon, for he had seen some of the young man\u2019s writing and this was\nquite unlike it.\n\nThis was a shock of terror such as the most courageous might feel\nbefore a fact so absolutely unexpected that it takes on a supernatural\ncharacter. If the brother of Charlotte had seen his sister, alive there\nbefore him, he could not have been more prostrated with astonishment.\n\nSome one knew of the suicide of the young girl, and of the letter\nwritten by her before her death, and possibly all the rest. And this\nsome one, this mysterious witness of the truth, what did he think of\nhim? The question with which the note ended told plainly enough.\n\nSuddenly the count remembered what he had dared to do. He remembered\nthe letter thrown into the fire, and the purple of shame rushed to his\ncheeks. The resolution, taken the evening before, could not be kept.\nThat any man should have the right to say: \u201cThe Count de Jussat has\ncommitted a cowardly act,\u201d was more than this gentleman so proud of his\nhonor, was able to endure. The trouble of the night before, that he\nhad believed ended, revived, and was rendered more intolerable by the\nreturn of his father who said:\n\n\u201cThey have heard all the witnesses. I have deposed. But what was very\nhard was to find myself in the small hall with Greslon\u2019s mother. It\nis a chance if she does not come down here. She is at the H\u00f4tel du\nCommerce, where she has begged me to come to talk with her. Ah! what a\nscene! She has a face not to be forgotten, a severe face, with black\neyes which have, as it were, a fire in their tears. She walked up to\nme and spoke to me. She adjured me to say that her son was innocent,\nthat I knew it, that I had no right to depose against him. Yes, it was\na terrible scene, and the gendarme interrupted it. The unhappy woman!\nI cannot feel hard toward her. He is her son. What a strange thing\nthat a rascal like him can still have in the world a heart that loves\nhim, even as I loved Charlotte, as I love you! Alas!\u201d continued the old\nman. \u201cIt is one o\u2019clock. The attorney-general is going to speak. Then\nthe defense. Between five and six o\u2019clock we shall have the verdict.\nAh, but that will satisfy the heart to see him when the sentence is\npronounced! It is only just. He has committed murder. He ought to die.\u201d\n\nWhen the count was again alone, he began to walk up and down, as the\nevening before, while Pourat with the valet of M. de Jussat, cleared\naway the table. These two men have since declared that their master had\nnever seemed so violently uneasy, as during the thirty minutes that\nthey were busy in the room. Their astonishment was very great when he\nasked to have his uniform got ready.\n\nIn a quarter of an hour he was dressed and left the hotel. One\ndetail made the brave Pourat shiver. He stated that the officer took\nhis revolver with him which had been placed for two nights on the\nnightstand. The soldier communicated his fears to his companion.\n\n\u201cIf this Greslon is acquitted,\u201d said he, \u201cthe captain is the man to\nblow his brains out on the spot.\u201d\n\n\u201cWe ought to follow him, perhaps?\u201d responded the\n_valet-de-chambre_.\n\nWhile the two servants were deliberating, the count followed the main\nstreet which led to the Palais de Justice. He knew it, for he had\noften been to Riom in his childhood. This old parliamentary city, with\nits large hotels with the high windows, built in black Volvic stone,\nseemed more empty, more silent, more dead than usual as the brother of\nCharlotte walked toward the court.\n\nNear the approaches to Palais there was a dense crowd which filled\nthe narrow Rue Saint-Louis by which one reaches the hall of assize.\nThe Greslon case had attracted all who had an hour to spare. Andr\u00e9\ncould scarcely force his way through the mass of people, composed of\ncountrymen and small shopkeepers who were conversing with passionate\nanimation.\n\nHe arrived at the steps which lead to the vestibule. Two soldiers\nguarded the door, charged to keep back the crowd. The count seemed to\nhesitate, then, instead of entering, he pushed on to the end of the\nstreet. He reached a terrace, which, situated between the sinister\nwalls of the central building and the dark mass of the Palais, gave a\nview of the immense plain of the Limagne.\n\nA fountain charmed the silence of this spot, and the sound of its\nmurmuring could be heard even above the noise of the crowd in the\nneighboring street. Andr\u00e9 sat down on a bench near the fountain. He\nwas never able to tell why he remained there more than half an hour,\nnor the exact reason why he arose, walked toward the Palais, wrote his\nname and some words on a card, and gave this card to a soldier to be\ncarried by the bailiff to the president.\n\nHe had the very distinct feeling that he must act, almost in spite\nof himself, and as in a dream. His resolution nevertheless was taken\nand he felt that he should not weaken again, although he apprehended\nwith horrible anguish the meeting with his father, who was over there,\nbeyond those people whose heads were bent forward, their shoulders\ncurved.\n\nHe felt in his agony the only solace he could experience when the\nbailiff came for him. For, instead of introducing him at once into the\nhall, this man led him through a passage to a small room which was,\nwithout doubt, the office of the president. Some packets were lying\non the table. An overcoat and a hat hung on a peg. Arrived there, his\nguide said to him:\n\n\u201cMonsieur the president will come to you as soon as the\nattorney-general has finished.\u201d What unexpected consolation in his\npain! The punishment of deposing in public and before his father\nwould be spared him! This hope was of short duration. The officer had\nnot been ten minutes in the office of the president when the latter\nentered: a large old man, with a face yellow from bile and with gray\nhair, whom the contrast of his red robe made look greenish. After the\nfirst words and before the affirmation of the count that he brought\nproof of the innocence of the accused:\n\n\u201cOn these conditions, monsieur,\u201d said the president, \u201cI cannot receive\nyour confidences. The audience is to be resumed and you will be heard\nas a witness, provided neither the prosecution nor the defense object.\u201d\n\nThus none of the stations toward his Calvary could the brother of\nCharlotte avoid. He was about to come in contact with this impassible\nmachinery of justice, which does not stop, which cannot stop on account\nof human sensibility. He must seat himself in the witness chamber, and\nrecall the scene which had passed there between his father and the\nmother of Greslon, then enter the hall of assize. He could see the\nbare wall with the image of the crucified which overlooked this hall,\nthe heads turned toward him in supreme attention, the president among\nhis judges, and the attorney-general, all in their red robes; the\njurors on the left of the court. Robert Greslon was on the right on the\nprisoner\u2019s bench, his arms folded, livid but impassible, and everybody\ncrowded everywhere, behind the magistrates, in the tribunes.\n\nOn the witness bench Andr\u00e9 recognized his father and his white hairs.\nAh! how this sight cut him to the heart--the heart which did not\nfalter however, when the president, after asking the counsel and\nattorney-general if they did not object to hearing the witness, asked\nhim to state his name and title and take oath according to the formula.\nThe magistrates who assisted at this scene are unanimous in declaring\nthat they never experienced an emotion in court at all comparable to\nthat which seized the audience and themselves when this man, whose\nheroic past all were acquainted with through the articles published\nin the journals, began in a firm voice, but one which betrayed\nexcruciating grief:\n\n\u201cGentlemen of the jury: I have only a few words to say. My sister was\nnot assassinated, she killed herself. The night before her death she\nwrote me a letter in which she announced her resolution to die, and\nwhy. Gentlemen, I believe that I had the right to conceal this suicide,\nI burned this letter. If the man whom you have before you,\u201d and he\nindicated Greslon with his left hand--\u201cdid not give the poison, he\nhas done worse. But this is not for your justice to consider, and he\nought not to be convicted as an assassin. He is innocent. In default of\nmaterial proof which I can no longer give, I bring you my word.\u201d\n\nThese sentences fell one by one, amid the anguish of the whole\naudience. There was a cry followed by groans.\n\n\u201cHe is mad,\u201d said a voice, \u201che is mad, do not listen to him.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, my Father,\u201d replied Count Andr\u00e9, who recognized the voice of the\nmarquis, and who turned toward the old man, who lay back, crushed, on\nhis bench. \u201cI am not mad. I have done what honor compelled. I hope,\nmonsieur the president, that I may be spared from saying any more.\u201d\n\nThere was entreaty in his voice, the voice of this proud man, as he\nuttered this last sentence, and it so affected the hearers that a\nmurmur ran through the crowd when the president replied:\n\n\u201cTo my great regret, monsieur, I cannot grant what you ask. The extreme\nimportance of the deposition which you have just made does not permit\njustice to rest upon the information which is our duty--a very painful\nduty--to ask you to state precisely.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is well, monsieur, I also will do my duty to the end.\u201d\n\nThere was in the accent with which the witness uttered this sentence\nsuch resolution that the murmur of the crowd gave way suddenly to\nsilence, and the president was heard saying:\n\n\u201cYou spoke of a letter, monsieur, which your sister had written to you.\nPermit me to say that it is at least extraordinary that your first idea\nwas not to enlighten justice by communicating it at once.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt contained,\u201d said the count, \u201ca secret which I would have been\nwilling to conceal at the price of my blood.\u201d\n\nHe has since told the friend who remained so true to the end of this\ndrama, Maxime de Plane, that this was the most terrible moment of\nhis sacrifice--but his emotion was suppressed by its very excess. He\nwas obliged to give all the details of the letter--and recount his\nown sensations, and confess all his agonies. As to what followed, he\nhas declared that he could recall only a few material details--and\nthose the most unexpected--the coldness to his hand of an iron column\nagainst which he was leaning when he ought to have been sitting on the\nwitness bench from which some one came to take him to his father who\nhad fainted at the last words of his deposition. He noticed also the\ndrawling Lorraine accent of the procureur-g\u00e9n\u00e9ral who had risen to\nabandon the prosecution.\n\nHow much time elapsed between the speeches of the procureur and of\nGreslon\u2019s counsel, the retiring of the jury and its re-entrance with a\nnegative verdict, he never knew. He has never known how he employed\nhis evening, after the doorkeeper had invited him to leave. He\nremembers to have walked a great distance. Some citizens of Combronde\nmet him on the road to this village. He went to an inn where he wrote\nsome letters, addressed, one to his father, one to his mother and a\nthird to his colonel, and a last to Maxime de Plane. At nine o\u2019clock he\nknocked at the door of the H\u00f4tel du Commerce, where his father had told\nhim the mother of Greslon had gone, and he asked the _concierge_\nif M. Greslon was there. This fellow had heard of the dramatic scene.\nHe guessed from the uniform of the captain who he was, and had the good\nsense to reply that M. Robert Greslon had not appeared. Unfortunately\nhe thought it right to inform the young man, who was at that moment\nwith his mother and M. Adrien Sixte. This last could not resist the\nsupplications of the widow who, having met him in the corridor of the\nhotel, had conjured him to aid her in comforting her son.\n\n\u201cMonsieur,\u201d said the _concierge_ to Robert after having asked\npermission to speak to him apart, \u201cbe careful, M. de Jussat is looking\nfor you.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhere is he?\u201d asked Greslon feverishly.\n\n\u201cHe cannot have left the street,\u201d responded the _concierge_, \u201cbut\nI told him that you were not here.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou did wrong,\u201d replied Greslon. And taking his hat, he rushed toward\nthe stairs.\n\n\u201cWhere are you going?\u201d implored his mother. The young man did not\nanswer. Perhaps he did not even hear this cry, he was in such haste to\ngo down the stairs. The idea that Count Andr\u00e9 believed him cowardly\nenough to hide himself maddened him. He had not long to look for his\nenemy. The count was on the opposite side of the street, watching the\ndoor. Robert saw him and walked straight up to him.\n\n\u201cYou have something to say to me, monsieur?\u201d he asked proudly.\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d said the count.\n\n\u201cI am at your service,\u201d continued Greslon, \u201cfor whatever reparation\nthat it may please you to exact. I will not leave Riom, I give you my\nword.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, monsieur,\u201d responded Andr\u00e9 de Jussat, \u201cone does not fight with\nsuch men as you, one executes them.\u201d\n\nHe drew his revolver from his pocket, and as the other, instead of\nfleeing, remained standing before him and seemed to say: \u201cI dare you,\u201d\nhe lodged a bullet in his head. The noise of the report, and a cry of\nagony were heard at the same time at the hotel, and when they ran to\nsee the cause, they found Count Andr\u00e9 standing against the wall, who,\nthrowing down his pistol and, folding his arms said simply, pointing to\nthe body of his sister\u2019s lover at his feet:\n\n\u201cI have executed justice.\u201d\n\nAnd he allowed himself to be arrested without any resistance.\n\nDuring the night which followed this tragic scene, the admirers of the\n\u201cPsychology of God\u201d of the \u201cTheory of the Passions\u201d and of the \u201cAnatomy\nof the Will,\u201d would have been astonished if they could have seen what\nwas passing in room No. 3 of the H\u00f4tel du Commerce, and in the mind of\ntheir implacable and powerful master. At the foot of the bed on which\nlay the dead man, with his brow bandaged, knelt the mother of Robert\nGreslon.\n\nThe great negator, seated on a chair, looked at this woman praying, and\nat the dead man who had been his disciple, sleeping the sleep which\nCharlotte de Jussat was also sleeping; and, for the first time, feeling\nhis mind powerless to sustain him, this analyst, almost inhuman by\nforce of logic, bowed before the impenetrable mystery of destiny. The\nwords of the only prayer he remembered: \u201cOur Father who art in heaven,\u201d\ncame to his mind. Surely he did not pronounce them. Perhaps he never\nwill pronounce them. But if he exist, then the only father toward whom\nthey could turn in their hours of distress and in whom was their only\nresource, was their heavenly father. And voices of prayer the most\ntouching went up. And if this heavenly father did only exist, should we\nhave this hunger and not insist for him in such hours as this? \u201cThou\nwouldst not sent me if thou hadst not found me!\u201d At that very moment,\nthanks to the lucidity of mind which accompanies the scholar into all\ncrises, Adrien Sixte recalled this admirable sentence of Pascal in\nhis \u201cMyst\u00e8re de J\u00e9sus\u201d, and when the mother arose from her knees the\nphilosopher was also weeping.\n\n\n\n\n                               THE END.","title":"The disciple","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":79172}