Читать книгу Stories for Ninon + New Stories for Ninon (Unabridged) - Emile Zola - Страница 9

Table of Contents

I

I know a young man, Ninon, to whom you would give a good scolding. Léon is passionately fond of Balzac and cannot bear George Sand; Michelet’s book almost made him sick. He naïvely says that woman is born a slave, and never utters the words love and modesty without laughing. Ah! how ill he speaks of you! No doubt, he communes with himself at night the better to tear you to pieces during the daytime. He is twenty.

Ugliness seems to him a crime. Small eyes, a mouth too large, set him beside himself. He pretends that as there are no ugly flowers in the fields, all girls should be born equally beautiful. When by chance he meets an ugly one in the street, he fumes for three whole days about her scanty stock of hair, large feet and thick hands. When on the contrary the woman is pretty, he smiles wickedly, and his silence then is so full of naughty thoughts that it seems quite dreadful.

I know not which of you would find favour in his eyes. Blondes and brunettes, young and old, graceful and deformed, he envelops you all in the same malediction. The naughty boy! And how laughingly tender are his eyes! how soft and fondling his speech!

Léon lives in the midst of the Latin Quarter.

And now, Ninon, I feel very much embarrassed At the least thing, I would hold my tongue, regretting I ever had the singular idea to commence this story. Your inquisitive mind is eager for the scandal, and I hardly know how to introduce you to a world where you have never placed the tips of your little toes.

This world, my well-beloved, would be Paradise, if it were not Hell.

Let us open the poet’s volume and read the song of twenty summers. Look, the window faces the south; the garret, full of flowers and light, is so high, so high in the sky, that sometimes one hears the angels chatting on the roof. Like the birds that select the loftiest branch to hide their nests from man, so have the lovers built theirs on the last storey. There the sun gives them his first kiss in the morning and his last farewell at night What do they live on? Who knows? Perhaps on smiles and kisses. They love each other so much, that they have no leisure to think about the missing meal. They have no bread, and yet they throw crumbs to sparrows. When they open the empty cupboard, they satisfy their hunger by laughing at their poverty.

Their love dates from the blooming of the first blue corn flower. They met in a wheat field. Having long known one another, without ever having seen each other, they took the same path to return to the city. She wore a large nosegay at her bosom, like one betrothed. She ascended the seven floors, and, feeling too tired, was unable to go down again.

Will she have strength to do so tomorrow? She does not know. In the meantime she is resting, whilst tripping about the garret, watering the flowers, looking after a home which does not exist. Then she sews, whilst the youth works. Their chairs touch; little by little, for greater comfort, they end by taking only one for both of them. Night comes. They scold each other for their idleness.

Ah! what fibs that poet tells, Ninon, and how delightful his falsehoods are! May that unalterable child never become a man! May he continue to deceive us when he can no longer deceive himself! He comes from Paradise to tell us of its love-making. He met two saints there, Musette and Mimi, whom it pleased him to bring among us. They only just grazed the earth with their wings, and went off again in the ray that brought them. Hearts twenty summers old are seeking for those saints, and weeping at not finding them.

Must I, in my turn, tell you fibs, my well-beloved, by bringing them from Paradise, or must I confess that I met them in Gehenna? If there, near the fire, in that armchair where you are rocking yourself, a friend were listening to me, I would boldly raise the golden veil with which the poet has decked such unworthy shoulders! But you — you would close my lips with your little hands, you would get angry, you would vow it was false, because it was so true. How could you believe in lovers of our age drinking in the gutter when they feel thirsty in the street? How angry you would be if I dared tell you that your sisters, the loving ones, have unfastened their fichus and unbound their hair! You live laughing and serene in the nest I built for you; you are ignorant of the ways of the world. I shall not have the courage to confess to you that flowers are very sick of those ways, and that tomorrow, perhaps, the hearts that are there will be dead.

Close not your ears, darling: you will not have to blush.

II

Léon, then, lives in the midst of the Latin Quarter. His hand is more grasped than any other in that land where all hands know one another. His frank look makes each passerby his friend.

The women dare not forgive him the hatred he bears them, and are furious they cannot confess they love him. They detest him whilst doting on him.

Previous to the facts I am about to relate to you, I never knew him to have a sweetheart. He says he is blasé, and speaks of the pleasures of this world as would a Trappist, were he to break his long silence. He has a weakness for good living, and cannot bear bad wine. His linen is very fine, and his garments are always exquisitely elegant.

I see him sometimes stop before pictures representing virgins of the Italian school with moist eyes. A fine marble procures him an hour’s ecstasy.

Léon, moreover, leads a student’s life, working as little as possible, strolling in the sun, lounging obliviously on all the divans he meets with. It is particularly during these hours of semi-slumber that he gives utterance to his worst abuse of women. With closed eyes, he seems to be fondling a vision whilst cursing reality.

One May morning I met him looking quite cheerless. He did not know what to do, and was rambling through the streets on the lookout for something to interest him. The pavement was muddy; and although the unforeseen was encountered from place to place by the pedestrian’s feet, it was only in the form of a puddle. I took pity on him, and suggested going into the fields to see if the hawthorn were in flower.

For an hour I had to listen to a lot of long philosophical orations, all of which pointed to the nihility of our pleasures. Houses gradually became scarcer. Already on the thresholds of the doors, we perceived dirty brats rolling over fraternally with great dogs. As we reached the real country, Léon suddenly stopped before a group of children playing in the sun. He fondled one of them, and then owned to me that he adored fair heads.

For my part I have always liked those narrow lanes, confined between a couple of hedges, which are free from the ruts of great waggon-wheels. The ground is covered with fine moss, as soft to the feet as a velvety carpet. One treads amid mystery and silence; and when an amorous couple lose themselves there, the thorns in the verdant wall compel the fond girl to press against her lover’s heart. Léon and I found ourselves in one of these out-of-the-way walks, where kisses are only overheard by feathered songsters. The first smile of spring had vanquished my philosopher’s misanthropy. He experienced prolonged tenderness for each drop of dew, and sang like a schoolboy who had broken out of bounds.

The lane continued to stretch ahead. The high thick hedges were all our horizon. This sort of confinement, and our ignorance as to where we were, made us doubly merry.

The pathway gradually became narrower; we had to walk in single file. The hedges began to take sudden turns, and the lane was transformed into a labyrinth.

Then, at the narrowest part, we heard a sound of voices; next, three persons appeared at one of the leafy corners. Two young men marched in front, putting aside the branches that were too long. A young woman followed them.

I stopped and bowed. The young fellow facing me did the same. After that we looked at each other. The position was delicate; the hedges shutting us in on either side were thicker than ever, and neither of us seemed inclined to turn round. It was then that Léon, who was behind me, standing up on tip-toe, perceived the young woman. Without uttering a word, he dashed bravely in among the hawthorns; his clothes were torn by the brambles, and a few drops of blood appeared upon his hands. I had to do as he had done.

The young men passed by, thanking us. The young woman, as if to reward Léon for his self-sacrifice, stopped before him, wavering, gazing at him with her great black eyes. He immediately sought to frown, and could not.

When she had disappeared I came out of the bush, sending gallantry to the deuce. A thorn had torn my neck, and my hat was so beautifully suspended between two branches that I had the greatest difficulty imaginable in getting it down. Léon shook himself. As I had given the pretty passerby a friendly nod, he inquired if I knew her.

“Certainly,” I answered. “Her name’s Antoinette. She was three months my neighbour.”

We had begun walking on again. He held his tongue. Then I talked to him of Mademoiselle Antoinette.

She was a fresh and delicate little party, with a half-mocking, half-tender look, a determined air, and a smart, nimble gait; in a word, she was a nice girl. She could be distinguished among her fellows by her openheartedness and probity, qualities peculiarly rare in the society in which she lived. She expressed an opinion about her own self without vanity, as also without modesty, and announced openly that she was born to love and take her pleasure where fancy led her.

For three long winter months I had seen her living, poor and alone, on the produce of her labour. She acted thus without display, without uttering that big word virtue, because that was her idea at the time. So long as her needle sped on, I never knew her to have a lover. She was a good comrade to the men who came to see her; she pressed their hands, laughed with them, but bolted her door at the first pretence of a kiss. I confess I had tried to court her a bit. One day when I offered her a ring and pendants, she said:

“My friend, take back your jewellery. When I give myself away it is only for a flower.”

When in love she was idle and indolent. Lace and silk then took the place of calico. She carefully got rid of all traces of the needle, and the workgirl became a grand lady.

Besides, when in love, she maintained her grisette liberty. The man she was enamoured of soon knew it; he knew quite as quickly when she loved him no more. She was not, however, one of those pretty, capricious creatures who change their sweetheart each time they wear out a pair of shoes. She had a broad intelligence and a great heart. But the poor girl often made mistakes; she placed her own hands in others that were unworthy, and rapidly withdrew them in disgust. And so she was tired of this Latin Quarter, where the young men appeared to her very old.

At each new wreck her face became a little more sad. She told men disagreeable truths, and scolded herself for being unable to live without loving. Then she shut herself up, until her heart broke the bars.

I had met her the previous evening. She was in great grief: a sweetheart had just thrown her over, whilst she still cared for him a little.

“Of course I know,” she had said to me, “that in a week’s time I should have left him myself: he was an unkind fellow. But I still kissed him tenderly on both cheeks. It’s a loss of at least thirty kisses.”

She had added, that since then she had had two suitors at her heels who overwhelmed her with bouquets. She let them do so, and sometimes held this language to them: “My friends, I love neither of you; you would be great fools to quarrel for my smiles. Be amicable, instead. I can see you are good chaps; we will amuse ourselves like old chums. But, at the first quarrel, I leave you.”

The poor fellows, therefore, warmly shook hands, whilst wishing each other at the deuce. It was probably them whom we had just met.

Such was Mademoiselle Antoinette: a poor loving heart gone astray in the land of debauchery; a gentle, charming girl who sprinkled her crumbs of tenderness to all the thieving sparrows on the road.

I gave Léon these details. He listened to me without showing much interest, without encroaching on my confidence by the least question. When I was silent he said:

“That girl is too frank; I don’t like her way of understanding love.”

He had tried so hard to frown that he had at length succeeded in doing so.

III

We had at last got away from the hedges. The Seine was running at our feet; on the opposite bank a village was reflected in the river. We were in a familiar neighbourhood; we had often wandered in the islands down stream.

After a long rest beneath a neighbouring oak, Léon announced that he was dying of hunger and thirst, just as I was about to tell him I was dying of thirst and hunger. Then we held council. The result was touching in its unanimity. We would go to the village; there, we would procure a large basket; this basket would be nicely filled with viands and bottles; finally all three, the basket and ourselves, would make for the most verdant isle.

Twenty minutes later, it only remained for us to find a boat. I had obligingly taken charge of the basket. I say basket, and the term is modest enough. Léon walked on ahead, inquiring of each angler along the river bank for a boat. They were all engaged. I was on the point of suggesting to my companion that we should spread our table on the continent, when some one directed us to a place where he said we might perhaps find what we required.

The man lived in a cottage standing at the corner of two streets, at the end of the village. And it happened that, on turning this corner, we again found ourselves face to face with Mademoiselle Antoinette, followed by her two lovers. One of them, like myself, was bending beneath the weight of an enormous basket; the other, like Léon, had the busy appearance of a man in search of something he could not find. I cast a look of pity on the poor fellow who was bathed in perspiration, whilst Léon seemed to be thanking me for having accepted a burden that made the young woman laugh rather wickedly.

The man who let out the boats was smoking on the threshold of his door. For fifty years he had seen thousands of couples come and borrow his oars to reach the desert He loved those amorous blondes who set out with starched fichus and came back with them a trifle crumpled, and with their ribbons in great disorder. He smiled at them on their return, when they thanked him for his boats, which were so familiar with the isles where the grass grew highest, that they went there almost of their own accord. As soon as the worthy man caught sight of our baskets he advanced to meet us.

“Young people,” he said, “I have only one boat left. Those who are too hungry had better sit down to table over there under the trees.”

That remark was certainly a very clumsy one: you never own before a woman that you are too hungry. We held our tongues, hesitating, not daring after that to refuse the boat. Antoinette, who still had a mocking air about her, nevertheless took pity on us.

“You gentlemen,” she said, addressing Léon, “made a sacrifice for us this morning; we will do the same now.”

I looked at my philosopher. He hesitated; he stuttered like a person who is afraid to say what he thinks. When he saw me fix my eyes on him, he exclaimed:

“But there is no question of self-sacrifice now: one boat will suffice. These gentlemen will put us ashore at the first island we come to, and will pick us up on their return. Do you agree to that arrangement, gentlemen?”

Antoinette answered that she accepted. The baskets were carefully placed at the bottom of the boat. I took a seat close to mine, and as far away from the oars as possible. Antoinette and Léon, not being able to do otherwise no doubt, sat down side by side on the seat remaining vacant As to the two sweethearts, they continued to vie with each other in showing good humour and gallantry, and seized the oars in brotherly harmony.

They reached the current. There, as they balanced the boat, allowing it to descend the stream, Mademoiselle Antoinette pretended that the islands up the river were more deserted and shady. The oarsmen looked at one another disappointed. They turned the boat round and pulled laboriously up stream, struggling against the current, which was very strong at that spot. There is a kind of tyranny that is very oppressive and very sweet: it is the desire of a tyrant with rosy lips, who, in one of her moments of caprice, can ask for the world and pay for it with a kiss.

The young woman had leant over the side of the boat and dipped her hand in the water. She withdrew it full; then, dreamily, seemed to be counting the pearly drops escaping between her fingers. Léon watched her and held his tongue, apparently uncomfortable at finding himself so close to an enemy. Twice he opened his lips, no doubt to utter some stupidity; but he closed them quickly on noticing me smile. Yet neither of them seemed very pleased at being such close neighbours. They even slightly turned their backs to one another.

Antoinette, weary of wetting her lace, talked to me about her recent bereavement. She told me she had got over it. But she was still sad; she could not live without love in summer time. She did not know what to do until autumn came round again.

“I am looking out for a nest,” she added. “It must be al! in blue silk. One ought to love longer when furniture, carpets, and curtains are the colour of the sky. The sun would make a mistake, would forget itself there of an evening thinking it was slumbering in a cloud. But I seek in vain; men are so unkind.”

We were opposite an island. I tell the oarsmen to put us ashore. I had already one foot on the bank, when Antoinette protested, finding the island ugly and devoid of foliage, and declaring she would never consent to abandon us on such a rock. Léon had not moved from his seat. I returned to my place, and we continued to ascend the river.

The young woman, with childlike delight, began to describe the nest she had set her mind on. The room must be square; the ceiling high and arched. The hangings on the walls would be white, strewn with blue cornflowers bound together in bunches with ribbon. At the four corners would be pier tables loaded with flowers; another table in the centre also covered with flowers. Then a sofa, but a small one, so that two persons could hardly sit there together whilst pressing very close to one another; no glass to attract the eyes and make one egotistically coquettish; very thick carpets and curtains to drown the sound of kisses. Flowers, sofa, carpet, curtains would be blue. She would put on a blue gown, and would not open the window on days when the sky was cloudy.

I wanted, in my turn, to ornament the room a bit, and spoke of the fireplace, a clock, a wardrobe.

“But,” she exclaimed in astonishment, “we shall not warm ourselves and we shall not want to know the time. I consider your wardrobe ridiculous. Do you think me so stupid as to drag our miseries into my nest? I wish to live there free, without care, not always, but for a few happy hours each summer evening. If men became angels they would get tired of Paradise itself. I know all about it I should have the key of Paradise in my pocket.”

We were opposite a second green isle. Antoinette clapped her hands. It was the most charming little deserted nook that any Robinson Crusoe of twenty summers could have dreamt of. The bank, which was rather high, was bordered by great trees, between which sweetbriars and grass struggled for supremacy in growth. An impenetrable wall built itself up there each spring, a wall of leaves, branches, moss, which continued to rise and reflected itself in the water. Outside, a rampart of interlaced boughs; within, one knew not what. This ignorance as to what the glades were like, this broad curtain of verdure quivering in the breeze, without ever opening, made the island a mysterious place of seclusion, which the passerby on the neighbouring banks might easily have taken to be peopled by the pale nymphs of the river.

We rowed a long way round this enormous mass of foliage, before we found a landing-place. It seemed as if it had determined that it would only have the free birds for inhabitants. At last we were able to step on shore under a great bush spreading over the water. Antoinette watched us land, and straining her neck endeavoured to see beyond the trees.

One of the oarsmen who was keeping the boat in position whilst holding on to a branch, let the craft go. Then the young woman, feeling herself drifting away, extended her arm and seized a root. She clung to it, called for help, and cried out that she did not want to go any further. Then, when the oarsmen had secured the boat, she sprang on to the grass and came to us, all rosy from the effects of her achievement.

“Don’t be afraid, gentlemen,” she said to us, “I do not wish to be in your way; if it pleases you to go to the north, we will go to the south.”

IV

I had taken up my basket again, and gravely set out to look for the plot of turf that was the least damp. Léon followed me, and was followed himself by Antoinette and her sweethearts. In this order we walked round the island. On returning to our point of departure, I sat down, decided not to make any further search. Antoinette took a few steps, appeared to hesitate, then returned and placed herself opposite me. We were at the north, she did not think of going to the south. Léon then found the site charming, and vowed I could not have made a better selection.

I do not know how it occurred, the baskets happened to be side by side, the provisions went together so perfectly, when they were spread out on the grass, that neither party was able to distinguish which was which. We had to have but one cloth, and in a spirit of justice, we shared the viands.

The two lovers had hastened to seat themselves on either side of the young woman. They anticipated all her wishes. For one piece of anything she asked for, she regularly received two. Her appetite, however, was good.

Léon, on the contrary, ate little, but watched us devouring. Being obliged to sit next to me, he held his tongue, giving me a mocking look each time Antoinette smiled at his neighbours. As she was receiving food on both sides, she held her hands out right and left with equal complacency, tendering thanks each time with her soft voice. Léon, on seeing this, made energetic signs to me which I did not understand.

The young woman was desperately coquettish that day. With her feet drawn under her petticoats, she almost disappeared in the grass; a poet would have made no difficulty about comparing her to a large flower gifted with looks and smiles. She, who was generally so natural, gave herself roguish airs, and there was a simpering tone in her voice which I had never noticed before. The lovers, confused at her kind remarks, looked at each other triumphantly. For my part, astonished at this sudden coquetry; seeing the wicked creature laughing every now and then in her sleeve, I wondered which of us was transforming this simple girl into a shrewd woman.

The repast was almost over. We laughed more than we talked. Léon changed his seat continually, unable to make himself comfortable anywhere. As he had resumed his disagreeable manner, I was afraid a speech was coming, and with a look I begged our lady-friend to pardon me for having such a sulky companion. But she was a plucky girl: a philosopher of twenty, however serious he might be, could not put her out of countenance.

“Sir,” she said to Léon, “you are sad; our merriment seems to annoy you. I am afraid to laugh any more.”

“Laugh, laugh, madam,” he answered. “If I hold my tongue, it is because I am unable to find fine phrases to delight you, like these gentlemen.”

“Does that mean that you do not flatter? In that case speak out at once. I am all attention, I want brutal truths.”

“Women do not like them, madam. Besides, when they are young and pretty, what fib can one tell them that is not true?”

“Come, you see, you are a courtier like the rest. Now you are making me blush. When we are absent, you men tear us to pieces; but let the most insignificant of us appear, and you cannot bow low enough or find language sufficiently tender. That’s hypocrisy! As for myself I am frank, I say: Men are cruel, they do not know how to love. Look here, sir, be straightforward too. What do you say of women?”

“Have I full liberty?”

“Certainly.”

“You will not get angry?”

“Eh! no, I will laugh rather than do so.” Léon struck the attitude of an orator. As I knew the speech by heart, having heard it more than a hundred times over, I began to throw pebbles into the Seine to divert myself and bear with it.”

“When our Maker,” he said, “perceived a being was wanting in His creation, and had used up all the mud, He did not know where to find the necessary material wherewith to repair His forgetfulness. He had to turn to the dumb animals; He took a little flesh from each of them, and with these contributions from the serpent, she-wolf, vulture and so on, He created woman. And so the wise who are familiar with this circumstance, omitted from the Bible, are not surprised to see woman whimsical and everlastingly a prey to contrary humours, as she is a faithful image of the different elements of which she is composed. Each creature has given her a vice; all the evil dispersed throughout creation has been assembled in her; hence her hypocritical caresses, her treachery, her debauchery—”

Any one would have said that Léon was repeating a lesson. He held his tongue, searching for the continuation. Antoinette applauded.

“Women,” resumed the orator, “are born coquettish and giddy, just as they are born dark or fair. They give themselves away by egotism, and take little care to choose according to merit. Let a man be foppish with the regular beauty of a fool, and they will fight over him. Let him be simple and affectionate, ‘satisfied with being a man of intelligence, without proclaiming it from the housetops, and they will not even know of his existence. In all matters they must have playthings that sparkle: silk petticoats, golden necklaces, precious stones, lovers combed and pomatumed. As to the springs of the amusing machine, it matters little whether they work well or badly. They have nothing to do with minds. They know all about black hair and amorous lips, but they are ignorant of things connected with the heart. It is thus that they throw themselves into the arms of the first simpleton they meet, having full confidence in his grand appearance. They love him because he pleases them; and he pleases them, because he pleases them. One day the simpleton thrashes them. They then talk about being martyrs; they are plunged in grief, and say a man cannot touch a heart without breaking it. What foolish creatures. Why do they not seek for the flower of love where it blooms?”

Antoinette applauded again. The speech, as I knew it, stopped there. Léon had delivered it straight off, as if in a hurry to reach the end. When he had uttered the last sentence, he gazed at the young woman and seemed dreaming. Then, declaiming no longer, he added:

“I never had but one sweetheart. She was ten and I twelve. One day she threw me over, for a big dog who let himself be teased without ever showing his teeth. I wept bitterly and vowed I would never love again. I have kept that vow. I know nothing about women. If I were in love I should be jealous and disagreeable; I should love too fondly; I should make myself hated; they would deceive me, and that would be my death.”

He said no more, and, with moist eyes, sought in vain to laugh. Antoinette was no longer joking. She had listened to him very seriously; then, leaving her neighbours, looking Léon in the face, she went and placed her hand on his shoulder.

“You are a child,” she simply said to him.

V

A last beam of the sun gliding over the surface of the river, transformed it into a ribbon of creamy gold. We waited for the first star, so as to descend the current in the cool of the evening. The baskets had been carried back to the boat, and we had laid down, here and there, each according to fancy.

Antoinette and Léon had seated themselves beneath a large sweetbriar, which extended its limbs above their heads. They were half hidden by the green branches. As their backs were turned to me, I could not see whether they were laughing or crying. They spoke in an undertone, and appeared to be quarrelling. As for myself, I had selected a little mound covered with fine grass; and stretching out lazily, I saw at the same time the heavens and the turf on which my feet were resting. The two lovers, appreciating, no doubt, the charm of my attitude, had come and laid down, one on my right and the other on my left.

They profited by their position to talk to me both at the same time.

The one on my left nudged me slightly with his arm when he found I was no longer listening to him.

“Sir,” he said to me, “I have rarely met a more capricious woman than Mademoiselle Antoinette. You cannot imagine how her head turns at the least thing. For example, when we met you this morning we were on our way to dine two leagues away from here. You had hardly disappeared, when she made us retrace our steps; the country didn’t please her, she said. It’s enough to drive one crazy. For my part, I like doing things one can understand.”

The man who was on my right said at the same time, obliging me to listen to him:

“Sir, I have been seeking an opportunity to speak to you in private since this morning. My companion and myself think we owe you an explanation. We have noticed your great friendship for Mademoiselle Antoinette, and we very much regret to interfere with your plans. If we had known of your love a week earlier, we would have withdrawn, so as not to cause a gentleman the least pain; but now it is rather late: we no longer feel strong enough to make the sacrifice. Besides, I will be straightforward: Antoinette loves me. I pity you, and am ready to give you satisfaction.”

I hastened to allay his fears. But although I vowed to him that I never had been, and never would be Antoinette’s sweetheart, he nevertheless continued to lavish the most tender consolation upon me. He found it so delicious to think that he had robbed me of my love.

The other, annoyed at the attention I was paying to his companion, bent over towards me. To compel me to lend him an ear, he confided to me a great secret.

“I want to be straightforward with you,” he said; “Antoinette loves me. I sincerely pity her other admirers.”

At that moment I heard a peculiar sound; it came from the bush beneath which Léon and Antoinette were sheltering themselves. I couldn’t tell whether it was a kiss or the note of a frightened fauvette.

In the meanwhile, my right-hand neighbour had surprised my left-hand neighbour, telling me Antoinette loved him. He raised himself and looked at him defiantly. I slipped away from them, and slyly gained a hedge, behind which I ensconced myself. Then they found themselves face to face.

My cluster of brambles was admirably situated. I could see Antoinette and Léon, but without, however, hearing what they said. They were still quarrelling; only they seemed closer to one another. As to the men in love, they were above me, and I could follow their dispute. The young woman was turning her back to them, so they were able to give vent to their fury at ease.

“You have behaved very badly,” said one; “you should have withdrawn two days ago. Haven’t you sufficient intelligence to see? Antoinette prefers me.”

“No indeed,” answered the other, “I have not that intelligence. But you have the stupidity, you, to take for yourself the smiles and glances intended for me.”

“Rest assured, my poor gentleman, that Antoinette loves me.”

“Rest assured, my happy sir, that Antoinette adores me.”

I looked at Antoinette. There was certainly no fauvette in the bush.

“I am tired of all this,” resumed one of the suitors. “Are not you of my opinion, that it is time for one of us to make himself scarce?”

“I was about to suggest to you that we should cut one another’s throats,” answered the other.

They had raised their voices; were gesticulating, getting up and sitting down again in their anger. The young woman, attracted by the increasing noise of the quarrel, turned her head. I saw her look astonished, then smile. She called Léon’s attention to the two young men, and said a few words to him which made him quite merry.

He rose and went towards the river, leading his companion along with him. They stifled their bursts of laughter, and avoided kicking the stones as they walked along. I thought they were going to hide themselves, so as to cause a search to be made for them afterwards.

The two wooers were shouting still louder; having no swords, they were making ready to use their fists. In the meantime Léon had reached the. boat; he helped Antoinette into it, and quietly began to undo the cord; then he jumped in himself.

Just as one of the suitors was about to strike the other, he caught sight of the boat in mid-stream. Thunderstruck, forgetting to hit, he pointed it out to his companion.

“Heh! heh!” he shouted, running to the bank, “what’s the meaning of this joke?”

I had been entirely forgotten behind my bush. Happiness and misfortune, alike, make persons egotists. I rose.

“Gentlemen,” I said to the poor fellows who stood gaping and bewildered, “don’t you remember the fable? The joke means this: Antoinette, whom you thought you had stolen from me, is being stolen from you.”

“The comparison is gallant!” Léon shouted out to me. “Those gentlemen are thieves, and madam is an—”

Madam kissed him, and the kiss smothered the ugly word.

“Brothers,” I added, turning towards my stranded companions, “here we are without food and without a roof above our heads. Let us build a hut, and live on wild berries until a vessel comes to take us off our desert island.”

VI

And then?

And then, what do I know! You are asking me too much, Ninette. Antoinette and Léon have been living for two months, now, in the sky-blue nest. Antoinette continues a frank and good girl. Léon speaks ill of women more impetuously than ever. They dote on each other.