Sons of the Soil

CHAPTER I

THE CHATEAU

Les Aigues, Au­gust 6, 1823.

To Mon­sieur Nathan,

My dear Nathan,--You, who pro­vide the pub­lic with such de­light­ful dreams through the mag­ic of your imag­ina­tion, are now to fol­low me while I make you dream a dream of truth. You shall then tell me whether the present cen­tu­ry is like­ly to be­queath such dreams to the Nathans and the Blon­dets of the year 1923; you shall es­ti­mate the dis­tance at which we now are from the days when the Florines of the eigh­teenth cen­tu­ry found, on awak­ing, a chateau like Les Aigues in the terms of their bar­gain.

My dear fel­low, if you re­ceive this let­ter in the morn­ing, let your mind trav­el, as you lie in bed, fifty leagues or there­abouts from Paris, along the great mail road which leads to the con­fines of Bur­gundy, and be­hold two small lodges built of red brick, joined, or sep­arat­ed, by a rail paint­ed green. It was there that the dili­gence de­posit­ed your friend and cor­re­spon­dent.

On ei­ther side of this dou­ble pavil­ion grows a quick-​set hedge, from which the bram­bles strag­gle like stray locks of hair. Here and there a tree shoots bold­ly up; flow­ers bloom on the slopes of the way­side ditch, bathing their feet in its green and slug­gish wa­ter. The hedge at both ends meets and joins two strips of wood­land, and the dou­ble mead­ow thus in­closed is doubt­less the re­sult of a clear­ing.

These dusty and de­sert­ed lodges give en­trance to a mag­nif­icent av­enue of cen­ten­ni­al elms, whose um­bra­geous heads lean to­ward each oth­er and form a long and most ma­jes­tic ar­bor. The grass grows in this av­enue, and on­ly a few wheel-​tracks can be seen along its dou­ble width of way. The great age of the trees, the breadth of the av­enue, the ven­er­able con­struc­tion of the lodges, the brown tints of their stone cours­es, all be­speak an ap­proach to some half-​re­gal res­idence.

Be­fore reach­ing this en­clo­sure from the height of an em­inence such as we French­men rather con­ceit­ed­ly call a moun­tain, at the foot of which lies the vil­lage of Conch­es (the last post-​house), I had seen the long val­ley of Aigues, at the far­ther end of which the mail road turns to fol­low a straight line in­to the lit­tle sub-​pre­fec­ture of La Ville-​aux-​Fayes, over which, as you know, the nephew of our friend des Lu­peaulx lords it. Tall forests ly­ing on the hori­zon, along vast slopes which skirt a riv­er, com­mand this rich val­ley, which is framed in the far dis­tance by the moun­tains of a less­er Switzer­land, called the Mor­van. These forests be­long to Les Aigues, and to the Mar­quis de Ron­querolles and the Comte de Soulanges, whose cas­tles and parks and vil­lages, seen in the dis­tance from these heights, give the scene a strong re­sem­blance to the imag­inary land­scapes of Vel­vet Breughel.

If these de­tails do not re­mind you of all the cas­tles in the air you have de­sired to pos­sess in France you are not wor­thy to re­ceive the present nar­ra­tive of an as­tound­ed Parisian. At last I have seen a land­scape where art is blend­ed with na­ture in such a way that nei­ther of them spoils the oth­er; the art is nat­ural, and the na­ture artis­tic. I have found the oa­sis that you and I have dreamed of when read­ing nov­els,--na­ture lux­uri­ant and adorned, rolling lines that are not con­fused, some­thing wild with­al, un­kempt, mys­te­ri­ous, not com­mon. Jump that green rail­ing and come on!

When I tried to look up the av­enue, which the sun nev­er pen­etrates ex­cept when it ris­es or when it sets, strip­ing the road like a ze­bra with its oblique rays, my view was ob­struct­ed by an out­line of ris­ing ground; af­ter that is passed, the long av­enue is ob­struct­ed by a copse, with­in which the roads meet at a cross-​ways, in the cen­tre of which stands a stone obelisk, for all the world like an eter­nal ex­cla­ma­tion mark. From the crevices be­tween the foun­da­tion stones of this erec­tion, which is topped by a spiked ball (what an idea!), hang flow­er­ing plants, blue or yel­low ac­cord­ing to the sea­son. Les Aigues must cer­tain­ly have been built by a wom­an, or for a wom­an; no man would have had such dain­ty ideas; the ar­chi­tect no doubt had his cue.

Pass­ing through the lit­tle wood placed there as sen­tinel, I came up­on a charm­ing de­cliv­ity, at the foot of which foamed and gur­gled a lit­tle brook, which I crossed on a cul­vert of mossy stones, su­perb in col­or, the pret­ti­est of all the mo­saics which time man­ufac­tures. The av­enue con­tin­ues by the brook­side up a gen­tle rise. In the dis­tance, the first tableau is now seen,--a mill and its dam, a cause­way and trees, linen laid out to dry, the thatched cot­tage of the miller, his fish­ing-​nets, and the tank where the fish are kept,--not to speak of the miller's boy, who was al­ready watch­ing me. No mat­ter where you are in the coun­try, how­ev­er soli­tary you may think your­self, you are cer­tain to be the fo­cus of the two eyes of a coun­try bump­kin; a la­bor­er rests on his hoe, a vine-​dress­er straight­ens his bent back, a lit­tle goat-​girl, or shep­herdess, or milk­maid climbs a wil­low to stare at you.

Present­ly the av­enue merges in­to an al­ley of aca­cias, which leads to an iron rail­ing made in the days when iron-​work­ers fash­ioned those slen­der fi­la­grees which are not un­like the copies set us by a writ­ing-​mas­ter. On ei­ther side of the rail­ing is a ha-​ha, the edges of which bris­tle with an­gry spikes,--reg­ular por­cu­pines in met­al. The rail­ing is closed at both ends by two porter's-​lodges, like those of the palace at Ver­sailles, and the gate­way is sur­mount­ed by colos­sal vas­es. The gold of the arabesques is rud­dy, for rust has added its tints, but this en­trance, called “the gate of the Av­enue,” which plain­ly shows the hand of the Great Dauphin (to whom, in­deed, Les Aigues owes it), seems to me none the less beau­ti­ful for that. At the end of each ha-​ha the walls of the park, built of rough-​hewn stone, be­gin. These stones, set in a mor­tar made of red­dish earth, dis­play their var­ie­gat­ed col­ors, the warm yel­lows of the silex, the white of the lime car­bon­ates, the rus­set browns of the sand­stone, in many a fan­tas­tic shape. As you first en­ter it, the park is gloomy, the walls are hid­den by creep­ing plants and by trees that for fifty years have heard no sound of axe. One might think it a vir­gin for­est, made primeval again through some phe­nomenon grant­ed ex­clu­sive­ly to forests. The trunks of the trees are swathed with lichen which hangs from one to an­oth­er. Mistle­toe, with its vis­cid leaves, droops from ev­ery fork of the branch­es where mois­ture set­tles. I have found gi­gan­tic ivies, wild arabesques which flour­ish on­ly at fifty leagues from Paris, here where land does not cost enough to make one spar­ing of it. The land­scape on such free lines cov­ers a great deal of ground. Noth­ing is smoothed off; rakes are un­known, ruts and ditch­es are full of wa­ter, frogs are tran­quil­ly de­liv­ered of their tad­poles, the wood­land flow­ers bloom, and the heather is as beau­ti­ful as that I have seen on your man­tle-​shelf in Jan­uary in the el­egant beau-​pot sent by Florine. This mys­tery is in­tox­icat­ing, it in­spires vague de­sires. The for­est odors, beloved of souls that are epi­cures of poesy, who de­light in the tiny moss­es, the nox­ious fun­gi, the moist mould, the wil­lows, the bal­sams, the wild thyme, the green wa­ters of a pond, the gold­en star of the yel­low wa­ter-​lily,--the breath of all such vig­or­ous prop­aga­tions came to my nos­trils and filled me with a sin­gle thought; was it their soul? I seemed to see a rose-​tint­ed gown float­ing along the wind­ing al­ley.

The path end­ed abrupt­ly in an­oth­er copse, where birch­es and poplars and all the quiv­er­ing trees pal­pi­tat­ed,--an in­tel­li­gent fam­ily with grace­ful branch­es and el­egant bear­ing, the trees of a love as free! It was from this point, my dear fel­low, that I saw a pond cov­ered with the white wa­ter-​lily and oth­er plants with broad flat leaves and nar­row slen­der ones, on which lay a boat paint­ed white and black, as light as a nut-​shell and dain­ty as the wher­ry of a Seine boat­man. Be­yond rose the chateau, built in 1560, of fine red brick, with stone cours­es and cop­ings, and win­dow-​frames in which the sash­es were of small lead­ed panes (O Ver­sailles!). The stone is hewn in di­amond points, but hol­lowed, as in the Ducal Palace at Venice on the fa­cade to­ward the Bridge of Sighs. There are no reg­ular lines about the cas­tle ex­cept in the cen­tre build­ing, from which projects a state­ly por­ti­co with dou­ble flights of curv­ing steps, and round balus­ters slen­der at their base and broad­en­ing at the mid­dle. The main build­ing is sur­round­ed by clock-​tow­ers and sundry mod­ern tur­rets, with gal­leries and vas­es more or less Greek. No har­mo­ny there, my dear Nathan! These het­ero­ge­neous erec­tions are wrapped, so to speak, by var­ious ev­er­green trees whose branch­es shed their brown nee­dles up­on the roofs, nour­ish­ing the lichen and giv­ing tone to the cracks and crevices where the eye de­lights to wan­der. Here you see the Ital­ian pine, the stone pine, with its red bark and its ma­jes­tic para­sol; here a cedar two hun­dred years old, weep­ing wil­lows, a Nor­way spruce, and a beech which over­tops them all; and there, in front of the main tow­er, some very sin­gu­lar shrubs,--a yew trimmed in a way that re­calls some long-​de­cayed gar­den of old France, and mag­no­lias with hort­en­sias at their feet. In short, the place is the In­valides of the heroes of hor­ti­cul­ture, once the fash­ion and now for­got­ten, like all oth­er heroes.

A chim­ney, with cu­ri­ous cop­ings, which was send­ing forth great vol­umes of smoke, as­sured me that this de­light­ful scene was not an opera set­ting. A kitchen re­veals hu­man be­ings. Now imag­ine _me_, Blon­det, who shiv­er as if in the po­lar re­gions at Saint-​Cloud, in the midst of this glow­ing Bur­gun­di­an cli­mate. The sun sends down its warmest rays, the king-​fish­er watch­es on the shores of the pond, the crick­et chirps, the grain-​pods burst, the pop­py drops its mor­phia in gluti­nous tears, and all are clear­ly de­fined on the dark-​blue ether. Above the rud­dy soil of the ter­races flames that joy­ous nat­ural punch which in­tox­icates the in­sects and the flow­ers and daz­zles our eyes and browns our faces. The grape is bead­ing, its ten­drils fall in a veil of threads whose del­ica­cy puts to shame the lace-​mak­ers. Be­side the house blue lark­spur, nas­tur­tium, and sweet-​peas are bloom­ing. From a dis­tance or­ange-​trees and tuberos­es scent the air. Af­ter the po­et­ic ex­ha­la­tions of the woods (a grad­ual prepa­ra­tion) came the delectable pastilles of this botan­ic seraglio.

Stand­ing on the por­ti­co, like the queen of flow­ers, be­hold a wom­an robed in white, with hair un­pow­dered, hold­ing a para­sol lined with white silk, but her­self whiter than the silk, whiter than the lilies at her feet, whiter than the star­ry jas­mine that climbed the balustrade,--a wom­an, a French­wom­an born in Rus­sia, who said as I ap­proached her, “I had al­most giv­en you up.” She had seen me as I left the copse. With what per­fec­tion do all wom­en, even the most guile­less, un­der­stand the ar­range­ment of a scenic ef­fect? The move­ments of the ser­vants, who were prepar­ing to serve break­fast, showed me that the meal had been de­layed un­til af­ter the ar­rival of the dili­gence. She had not ven­tured to come to meet me.

Is this not our dream,--the dream of all lovers of the beau­ti­ful, un­der what­so­ev­er form it comes; the seraph­ic beau­ty that Lui­ni put in­to his Mar­riage of the Vir­gin, that no­ble fres­co at Sarono; the beau­ty that Rubens grasped in the tu­mult of his “Bat­tle of the Ther­mod­on”; the beau­ty that five cen­turies have elab­orat­ed in the cathe­drals of Seville and Mi­lan; the beau­ty of the Sara­cens at Grana­da, the beau­ty of Louis XIV. at Ver­sailles, the beau­ty of the Alps, and that of this Li­magne in which I stand?

Be­long­ing to the es­tate, about which there is noth­ing too prince­ly, nor yet too fi­nan­cial, where prince and farmer-​gen­er­al have both lived (which fact serves to ex­plain it), are four thou­sand acres of wood­land, a park of some nine hun­dred acres, the mill, three leased farms, an­oth­er im­mense farm at Conch­es, and vine­yards,--the whole pro­duc­ing a rev­enue of about sev­en­ty thou­sand francs a year. Now you know Les Aigues, my dear fel­low; where I have been ex­pect­ed for the last two weeks, and where I am at this mo­ment, in the chintz-​lined cham­ber as­signed to dear­est friends.

Above the park, to­wards Conch­es, a dozen lit­tle brooks, clear, limpid streams com­ing from the Mor­van, fall in­to the pond, af­ter adorn­ing with their sil­very rib­bons the val­leys of the park and the mag­nif­icent gar­dens around the chateau. The name of the place, Les Aigues, comes from these charm­ing streams of wa­ter; the es­tate was orig­inal­ly called in the old ti­tle-​deeds “Les Aigues-​Vives” to dis­tin­guish it from “Aigues-​Mortes”; but the word “Vives” has now been dropped. The pond emp­ties in­to the stream, which fol­lows the course of the av­enue, through a wide and straight canal bor­dered on both sides and along its whole length by weep­ing wil­lows. This canal, thus arched, pro­duces a de­light­ful ef­fect. Glid­ing through it, seat­ed on a thwart of the lit­tle boat, one could fan­cy one's self in the nave of some great cathe­dral, the choir be­ing formed of the main build­ing of the house seen at the end of it. When the set­ting sun casts its or­ange tones min­gled with am­ber up­on the case­ments of the chateau, the ef­fect is that of paint­ed win­dows. At the oth­er end of the canal we see Blangy, the coun­ty-​town, con­tain­ing about six­ty hous­es, and the vil­lage church, which is noth­ing more than a tum­ble-​down build­ing with a wood­en clock-​tow­er which ap­pears to hold up a roof of bro­ken tiles. One com­fort­able house and the par­son­age are dis­tin­guish­able; but the town­ship is a large one,--about two hun­dred scat­tered hous­es in all, those of the vil­lage form­ing as it were the cap­ital. The roads are lined with fruit-​trees, and nu­mer­ous lit­tle gar­dens are strewn here and there,--true coun­try gar­dens with ev­ery­thing in them; flow­ers, onions, cab­bages and grapevines, cur­rants, and a great deal of ma­nure. The vil­lage has a prim­itive air; it is rus­tic, and has that dec­ora­tive sim­plic­ity which we artists are for­ev­er seek­ing. In the far dis­tance is the lit­tle town of Soulanges over­hang­ing a vast sheet of wa­ter, like the build­ings on the lake of Thune.

When you stroll in the park, which has four gates, each su­perb in style, you feel that our mytho­log­ical Ar­ca­dias are flat and stale. Ar­ca­dia is in Bur­gundy, not in Greece; Ar­ca­dia is at Les Aigues and nowhere else. A riv­er, made by scores of brook­lets, cross­es the park at its low­er lev­el with a ser­pen­tine move­ment; giv­ing a dewy fresh­ness and tran­quil­li­ty to the scene,--an air of soli­tude, which re­minds one of a con­vent of Carthu­sians, and all the more be­cause, on an ar­ti­fi­cial is­land in the riv­er, is a her­mitage in ru­ins, the in­te­ri­or el­egance of which is wor­thy of the lux­uri­ous fi­nancier who con­struct­ed it. Les Aigues, my dear Nathan, once be­longed to that Bouret who spent two mil­lions to re­ceive Louis XV. on a sin­gle oc­ca­sion un­der his roof. How many ar­dent pas­sions, how many dis­tin­guished minds, how many for­tu­nate cir­cum­stances have con­tribut­ed to make this beau­ti­ful place what it is! A mis­tress of Hen­ri IV. re­built the chateau where it now stands. The fa­vorite of the Great Dauphin, Made­moi­selle Choin (to whom Les Aigues was giv­en), added a num­ber of farms to it. Bouret fur­nished the house with all the el­egan­cies of Parisian homes for an Opera celebri­ty; and to him Les Aigues owes the restora­tion of its ground floor in the style Louis XV.

I have of­ten stood rapt in ad­mi­ra­tion at the beau­ty of the din­ing-​room. The eye is first at­tract­ed to the ceil­ing, paint­ed in fres­co in the Ital­ian man­ner, where light­some arabesques are frol­ick­ing. Fe­male forms, in stuc­co end­ing in fo­liage, sup­port at reg­ular dis­tances cor­beils of fruit, from which spring the gar­lands of the ceil­ing. Charm­ing paint­ings, the work of un­known artists, fill the pan­els be­tween the fe­male fig­ures, rep­re­sent­ing the lux­uries of the ta­ble, --boar's-​heads, salmon, rare shell-​fish, and all ed­ible things,--which fan­tas­ti­cal­ly sug­gest men and wom­en and chil­dren, and ri­val the whim­si­cal imag­ina­tion of the Chi­nese,--the peo­ple who best un­der­stand, to my think­ing at least, the art of dec­ora­tion. The mis­tress of the house finds a bell-​wire be­neath her feet to sum­mon ser­vants, who en­ter on­ly when re­quired, dis­turb­ing no in­ter­views and over­hear­ing no se­crets. The pan­els above the door­ways rep­re­sent gay scenes; all the em­bra­sures, both of doors and win­dows, are in mar­ble mo­saics. The room is heat­ed from be­low. Ev­ery win­dow looks forth on some de­light­ful view.

This room com­mu­ni­cates with a bath-​room on one side and on the oth­er with a boudoir which opens in­to the sa­lon. The bath-​room is lined with Sevres tiles, paint­ed in monochrome, the floor is mo­sa­ic, and the bath mar­ble. An al­cove, hid­den by a pic­ture paint­ed on cop­per, which turns on a piv­ot, con­tains a couch in gilt wood of the truest Pom­padour. The ceil­ing is lapis-​lazuli starred with gold. The tiles are paint­ed from de­signs by Bouch­er. Bath, ta­ble and love are there­fore close­ly unit­ed.

Af­ter the sa­lon, which, I should tell you, my dear fel­low, ex­hibits the mag­nif­icence of the Louis XIV. man­ner, you en­ter a fine bil­liard-​room un­ri­valled so far as I know in Paris it­self. The en­trance to this suite of ground-​floor apart­ments is through a se­mi-​cir­cu­lar an­techam­ber, at the low­er end of which is a fairy-​like stair­case, light­ed from above, which leads to oth­er parts of the house, all built at var­ious epochs--and to think that they chopped off the heads of the wealthy in 1793! Good heav­ens! why can't peo­ple un­der­stand that the mar­vels of art are im­pos­si­ble in a land where there are no great for­tunes, no se­cure, lux­uri­ous lives? If the Left in­sists on killing kings why not leave us a few lit­tle princelings with mon­ey in their pock­ets?

At the present mo­ment these ac­cu­mu­lat­ed trea­sures be­long to a charm­ing wom­an with an artis­tic soul, who is not con­tent with mere­ly restor­ing them mag­nif­icent­ly, but who keeps the place up with lov­ing care. Sham philoso­phers, study­ing them­selves while they pro­fess to be study­ing hu­man­ity, call these glo­ri­ous things ex­trav­agance. They grov­el be­fore cot­ton prints and the taste­less de­signs of mod­ern in­dus­try, as if we were greater and hap­pi­er in these days than in those of Hen­ri IV., Louis XIV., and Louis XVI., monar­chs who have all left the stamp of their reigns up­on Les Aigues. What palace, what roy­al cas­tle, what man­sions, what no­ble works of art, what gold bro­cad­ed stuffs are sa­cred now? The pet­ti­coats of our grand­moth­ers go to cov­er the chairs in these de­gen­er­ate days. Self­ish and thiev­ing in­ter­lop­ers that we are, we pull down ev­ery­thing and plant cab­bages where mar­vels once were rife. On­ly yes­ter­day the plough lev­elled Per­san, that mag­nif­icent do­main which gave a ti­tle to one of the most op­ulent fam­ilies of the old par­lia­ment; ham­mers have de­mol­ished Mont­moren­cy, which cost an Ital­ian fol­low­er of Napoleon un­told sums; Val, the cre­ation of Reg­nault de Saint-​Jean d'Ange­ly, Cas­san, built by a mis­tress of the Prince de Con­ti; in all, four roy­al hous­es have dis­ap­peared in the val­ley of the Oise alone. We are get­ting a Ro­man cam­pagna around Paris in ad­vance of the days when a tem­pest shall blow from the north and over­turn our plas­ter palaces and our paste­board dec­ora­tions.

Now see, my dear fel­low, to what the habit of bom­bas­ti­cis­ing in news­pa­pers brings you to. Here am I writ­ing a down­right ar­ti­cle. Does the mind have its ruts, like a road? I stop; for I rob the mail, and I rob my­self, and you may be yawn­ing--to be con­tin­ued in our next; I hear the sec­ond bell, which sum­mons me to one of those abun­dant break­fasts the fash­ion of which has long passed away, in the din­ing-​rooms of Paris, be it un­der­stood.

Here's the his­to­ry of my Ar­ca­dia. In 1815, there died at Les Aigues one of the fa­mous wan­tons of the last cen­tu­ry,--a singer, for­got­ten of the guil­lo­tine and the no­bil­ity, af­ter prey­ing up­on ex­che­quers, up­on lit­er­ature, up­on aris­toc­ra­cy, and all but reach­ing the scaf­fold; for­got­ten, like so many fas­ci­nat­ing old wom­en who ex­pi­ate their gold­en youth in coun­try soli­tudes, and re­place their lost loves by an­oth­er, --man by Na­ture. Such wom­en live with the flow­ers, with the wood­land scents, with the sky, with the sun­shine, with all that sings and skips and shines and sprouts,--the birds, the squir­rels, the flow­ers, the grass; they know noth­ing about these things, they can­not ex­plain them, but they love them; they love them so well that they for­get dukes, mar­shals, ri­val­ries, fi­nanciers, fol­lies, lux­uries, their paste jew­els and their re­al di­amonds, their heeled slip­pers and their rouge,--all, for the sweet­ness of coun­try life.

I have gath­ered, my dear fel­low, much pre­cious in­for­ma­tion about the old age of Made­moi­selle La­guerre; for, to tell you the truth, the af­ter life of such wom­en as Florine, Ma­ri­ette, Suzanne de Val No­ble, and Tul­lia has made me, ev­ery now and then, ex­treme­ly in­quis­itive, as though I were a child in­quir­ing what had be­come of the old moons.

In 1790 Made­moi­selle La­guerre, alarmed at the turn of pub­lic af­fairs, came to set­tle at Les Aigues, bought and giv­en to her by Bouret, who passed sev­er­al sum­mers with her at the chateau. Ter­ri­fied at the fate of Madame du Bar­ry, she buried her di­amonds. At that time she was on­ly fifty-​three years of age, and ac­cord­ing to her la­dy's-​maid, af­ter­wards mar­ried to a gen­darme named Soudry, “Madame was more beau­ti­ful than ev­er.” My dear Nathan, Na­ture has no doubt her pri­vate rea­sons for treat­ing wom­en of this sort like spoiled chil­dren; ex­cess­es, in­stead of killing them, fat­ten them, pre­serve them, re­new their youth. Un­der a lym­phat­ic ap­pear­ance they have nerves which main­tain their mar­vel­lous physique; they ac­tu­al­ly pre­serve their beau­ty for rea­sons which would make a vir­tu­ous wom­an hag­gard. No, up­on my word, Na­ture is not moral!

Made­moi­selle La­guerre lived an ir­re­proach­able life at Les Aigues, one might even call it a saint­ly one, af­ter her fa­mous ad­ven­ture,--you re­mem­ber it? One evening in a parox­ysm of de­spair­ing love, she fled from the opera-​house in her stage dress, rushed in­to the coun­try, and passed the night weep­ing by the way­side. (Ah! how they have ca­lum­ni­at­ed the love of Louis XV.'s time!) She was so un­used to see the sun­rise, that she hailed it with one of her finest songs. Her at­ti­tude, quite as much as her tin­sel, drew the peas­ants about her; amazed at her ges­tures, her voice, her beau­ty, they took her for an an­gel, and dropped on their knees around her. If Voltaire had not ex­ist­ed we might have thought it a new mir­acle. I don't know if God gave her much cred­it for her tardy virtue, for love af­ter all must be a sick­en­ing thing to a wom­an as weary of it as a wan­ton of the old Opera. Made­moi­selle La­guerre was born in 1740, and her hey-​day was in 1760, when Mon­sieur (I for­get his name) was called the “min­istre de la guerre,” on ac­count of his li­ai­son with her. She aban­doned that name, which was quite un­known down here, and called her­self Madame des Aigues, as if to merge her iden­ti­ty in the es­tate, which she de­light­ed to im­prove with a taste that was pro­found­ly artis­tic. When Bona­parte be­came First Con­sul, she in­creased her prop­er­ty by the pur­chase of church lands, for which she used the pro­ceeds of her di­amonds. As an Opera di­vin­ity nev­er knows how to take care of her mon­ey, she in­trust­ed the man­age­ment of the es­tate to a stew­ard, oc­cu­py­ing her­self with her flow­ers and fruits and with the beau­ti­fy­ing of the park.

Af­ter Made­moi­selle was dead and buried at Blangy, the no­tary of Soulanges--that lit­tle town which lies be­tween Ville-​aux-​Fayes and Blangy, the cap­ital of the town­ship--made an elab­orate in­ven­to­ry, and sought out the heirs of the singer, who nev­er knew she had any. Eleven fam­ilies of poor la­bor­ers liv­ing near Amiens, and sleep­ing in cot­ton sheets, awoke one fine morn­ing in gold­en ones. The prop­er­ty was sold at auc­tion. Les Aigues was bought by Mont­cor­net, who had laid by enough dur­ing his cam­paigns in Spain and Pomera­nia to make the pur­chase, which cost about eleven hun­dred thou­sand francs, in­clud­ing the fur­ni­ture. The gen­er­al, no doubt, felt the in­flu­ence of these lux­uri­ous apart­ments; and I was ar­gu­ing with the count­ess on­ly yes­ter­day that her mar­riage was a di­rect re­sult of the pur­chase of Les Aigues.

To right­ly un­der­stand the count­ess, my dear Nathan, you must know that the gen­er­al is a vi­olent man, red as fire, five feet nine inch­es tall, round as a tow­er, with a thick neck and the shoul­ders of a black­smith, which must have am­ply filled his cuirass. Mont­cor­net com­mand­ed the cuirassiers at the bat­tle of Essling (called by the Aus­tri­ans Gross-​As­pern), and came near per­ish­ing when that no­ble corps was driv­en back on the Danube. He man­aged to cross the riv­er astride a log of wood. The cuirassiers, find­ing the bridge down, took the glo­ri­ous res­olu­tion, at Mont­cor­net's com­mand, to turn and re­sist the en­tire Aus­tri­an army, which car­ried off on the mor­row over thir­ty wag­on-​loads of cuirass­es. The Ger­mans in­vent­ed a name for their en­emies on this oc­ca­sion which means “men of iron.”[*] Mont­cor­net has the out­er man of a hero of an­tiq­ui­ty. His arms are stout and vig­or­ous, his chest deep and broad; his head has a leo­nine as­pect, his voice is of those that can or­der a charge in the thick of bat­tle; but he has noth­ing more than the courage of a dar­ing man; he lacks mind and breadth of view. Like oth­er gen­er­als to whom mil­itary com­mon-​sense, the nat­ural bold­ness of those who spend their lives in dan­ger, and the habit of com­mand gives an ap­pear­ance of su­pe­ri­or­ity, Mont­cor­net has an im­pos­ing ef­fect when you first meet him; he seems a Ti­tan, but he con­tains a dwarf, like the paste­board gi­ant who salut­ed Queen Eliz­abeth at the gates of Ke­nil­worth. Cho­ler­ic though kind, and full of im­pe­ri­al hau­teur, he has the caus­tic tongue of a sol­dier, and is quick at repar­tee, but quick­er still with a blow. He may have been su­perb on a bat­tle-​field; in a house­hold he is sim­ply in­tol­er­able. He knows no love but bar­rack love,--the love which those clever myth-​mak­ers, the an­cients, placed un­der the pa­tron­age of Eros, son of Mars and Venus. Those de­light­ful chron­iclers of the old re­li­gions pro­vid­ed them­selves with a dozen dif­fer­ent Loves. Study the fa­thers and the at­tributes of these Loves, and you will dis­cov­er a com­plete so­cial nomen­cla­ture, --and yet we fan­cy that we orig­inate things! When the world turns up­side down like an hour-​glass, when the seas be­come con­ti­nents, French­men will find canons, steam­boats, news­pa­pers, and maps wrapped up in sea­weed at the bot­tom of what is now our ocean.

[*] I do not, on prin­ci­ple, like foot-​notes, and this is the first I have ev­er al­lowed my­self. Its his­tor­ical in­ter­est must be my ex­cuse; it will prove, more­over, that de­scrip­tions of bat­tles should be some­thing more than the dry par­tic­ulars of tech­ni­cal writ­ers, who for the last three thou­sand years have told us about left and right wings and cen­tres be­ing bro­ken or driv­en in, but nev­er a word about the sol­dier him­self, his suf­fer­ings, and his hero­ism. The con­sci­en­tious care with which I pre­pared my­self to write the “Scenes from Mil­itary Life,” led me to many a bat­tle-​field once wet with the blood of France and her en­emies. Among them I went to Wa­gram. When I reached the shores of the Danube, op­po­site Lobau, I no­ticed on the bank, which is cov­ered with turf, cer­tain un­du­la­tions that re­mind­ed me of the fur­rows in a field of lucern. I asked the rea­son of it, think­ing I should hear of some new method of agri­cul­ture: “There sleep the cav­al­ry of the im­pe­ri­al guard,” said the peas­ant who served us as a guide; “those are their graves you see there.” The words made me shud­der. Prince Fred­er­ic Schwartzen­burg, who trans­lat­ed them, added that the man had him­self driv­en one of the wag­ons laden with cuirass­es. By one of the strange chances of war our guide had served a break­fast to Napoleon on the morn­ing of the bat­tle of Wa­gram. Though poor, he had kept the dou­ble napoleon which the Em­per­or gave him for his milk and his eggs. The cu­rate of Gross-​As­pern took us to the fa­mous ceme­tery where French and Aus­tri­ans strug­gled to­geth­er knee-​deep in blood, with a courage and ob­sti­na­cy glo­ri­ous to each. There, while ex­plain­ing that a mar­ble tablet (to which our at­ten­tion had been at­tract­ed, and on which were in­scribed the names of the own­er of Gross-​As­pern, who had been killed on the third day) was the sole com­pen­sa­tion ev­er giv­en to the fam­ily, he said, in a tone of deep sad­ness: “It was a time of great mis­ery, and of great hopes; but now are the days of for­get­ful­ness.” The say­ing seemed to me sub­lime in its sim­plic­ity; but when I came to re­flect up­on the mat­ter, I felt there was some jus­ti­fi­ca­tion for the ap­par­ent in­grat­itude of the House of Aus­tria. Nei­ther na­tions nor kings are wealthy enough to re­ward all the de­vo­tions to which these trag­ic strug­gles give rise. Let those who serve a cause with a se­cret ex­pec­ta­tion of rec­om­pense, set a price up­on their blood and be­come mer­ce­nar­ies. Those who wield ei­ther sword or pen for their coun­try's good ought to think of noth­ing but of _do­ing their best_, as our fa­thers used to say, and ex­pect noth­ing, not even glo­ry, ex­cept as a hap­py ac­ci­dent.

It was in rush­ing to re­take this fa­mous ceme­tery for the third time that Masse­na, wound­ed and car­ried in the box of a cabri­olet, made this splen­did ha­rangue to his sol­diers: “What! you ras­cal­ly curs, who have on­ly five sous a day while I have forty thou­sand, do you let me go ahead of you?” All the world knows the or­der which the Em­per­or sent to his lieu­tenant by M. de Sainte-​Croix, who swam the Danube three times: “Die or re­take the vil­lage; it is a ques­tion of sav­ing the army; the bridges are de­stroyed.”

The Au­thor.

Now, I must tell you that the Comtesse de Mont­cor­net is a frag­ile, timid, del­icate lit­tle wom­an. What do you think of such a mar­riage as that? To those who know so­ci­ety such things are com­mon enough; a well-​as­sort­ed mar­riage is the ex­cep­tion. Nev­er­the­less, I have come to see how it is that this slen­der lit­tle crea­ture han­dles her bob­bins in a way to lead this heavy, sol­id, stol­id gen­er­al pre­cise­ly as he him­self used to lead his cuirassiers.

If Mont­cor­net be­gins to blus­ter be­fore his Vir­ginie, Madame lays a fin­ger on her lips and he is silent. He smokes his pipes and his cigars in a kiosk fifty feet from the chateau, and airs him­self be­fore he re­turns to the house. Proud of his sub­jec­tion, he turns to her, like a bear drunk on grapes, and says, when any­thing is pro­posed, “If Madame ap­proves.” When he comes to his wife's room, with that heavy step which makes the tiles creak as though they were boards, and she, not want­ing him, calls out: “Don't come in!” he per­forms a mil­itary volte-​face and says humbly: “You will let me know when I can see you?” --in the very tones with which he shout­ed to his cuirassiers on the banks of the Danube: “Men, we must die, and die well, since there's noth­ing else we can do!” I have heard him say, speak­ing of his wife, “Not on­ly do I love her, but I ven­er­ate her.” When he flies in­to a pas­sion which de­fies all re­straint and bursts all bonds, the lit­tle wom­an re­tires in­to her own room and leaves him to shout. But four or five hours lat­er she will say: “Don't get in­to a pas­sion, my dear, you might break a blood-​ves­sel; and be­sides, you hurt me.” Then the li­on of Essling re­treats out of sight to wipe his eyes. Some­times he comes in­to the sa­lon when she and I are talk­ing, and if she says: “Don't dis­turb us, he is read­ing to me,” he leaves us with­out a word.

It is on­ly strong men, cho­ler­ic and pow­er­ful, thun­der-​bolts of war, diplo­mats with olympian heads, or men of ge­nius, who can show this ut­ter con­fi­dence, this gen­er­ous de­vo­tion to weak­ness, this con­stant pro­tec­tion, this love with­out jeal­ousy, this easy good hu­mor with a wom­an. Good heav­ens! I place the sci­ence of the count­ess's man­age­ment of her hus­band as far above the pee­vish, arid virtues as the satin of a causeuse is su­pe­ri­or to the Utrecht vel­vet of a dirty bour­geois so­fa.

My dear fel­low, I have spent six days in this de­light­ful coun­try-​house, and I nev­er tire of ad­mir­ing the beau­ties of the park, sur­round­ed by forests where pret­ty wood-​paths lead be­side the brooks. Na­ture and its si­lence, these tran­quil plea­sures, this placid life to which she woos me,--all at­tract. Ah! here is true lit­er­ature; no fault of style among the mead­ows. Hap­pi­ness for­gets all things here,--even the De­bats! It has rained all the morn­ing; while the count­ess slept and Mont­cor­net tramped over his do­main, I have com­pelled my­self to keep my rash, im­pru­dent promise to write to you.

Un­til now, though I was born at Alen­con, of an old judge and a pre­fect, so they say, and though I know some­thing of agri­cul­ture, I sup­posed the tale of es­tates bring­ing in four or five thou­sand francs a month to be a fa­ble. Mon­ey, to me, meant a cou­ple of dread­ful things,--work and a pub­lish­er, jour­nal­ism and pol­itics. When shall we poor fel­lows come up­on a land where gold springs up with the grass? That is what I de­sire for you and for me and the rest of us in the name of the the­atre, and of the press, and of book-​mak­ing! Amen!

Will Florine be jeal­ous of the late Made­moi­selle La­guerre? Our mod­ern Bourets have no French no­bles now to show them how to live; they hire one opera-​box among three of them; they sub­scribe for their plea­sures; they no longer cut down mag­nif­icent­ly bound quar­tos to match the oc­tavos in their li­brary; in fact, they scarce­ly buy even stitched pa­per books. What is to be­come of us?

Adieu; con­tin­ue to care for Your Blon­det.

If this let­ter, dashed off by the idlest pen of the cen­tu­ry, had not by some lucky chance been pre­served, it would have been al­most im­pos­si­ble to de­scribe Les Aigues; and with­out this de­scrip­tion the his­to­ry of the hor­ri­ble events that oc­curred there would cer­tain­ly be less in­ter­est­ing.

Af­ter that re­mark some per­sons will ex­pect to see the flash­ing of the cuirass of the for­mer colonel of the guard, and the rag­ing of his anger as he falls like a wa­ter­spout up­on his lit­tle wife; so that the end of this present his­to­ry may be like the end of all mod­ern dra­mas, --a tragedy of the bed-​cham­ber. Per­haps the fa­tal scene will take place in that charm­ing room with the blue monochromes, where beau­ti­ful ide­al birds are paint­ed on the ceil­ings and the shut­ters, where Chi­nese mon­sters laugh with open jaws on the man­tle-​shelf, and drag­ons, green and gold, twist their tails in cu­ri­ous con­vo­lu­tions around rich vas­es, and Japanese fan­ta­sy em­broi­ders its de­signs of many col­ors; where so­fas and re­clin­ing-​chairs and con­soles and what-​nots in­vite to that con­tem­pla­tive idle­ness which for­bids all ac­tion.

No; the dra­ma here to be de­vel­oped is not one of pri­vate life; it con­cerns things high­er, or low­er. Ex­pect no scenes of pas­sion; the truth of this his­to­ry is on­ly too dra­mat­ic. And re­mem­ber, the his­to­ri­an should nev­er for­get that his mis­sion is to do jus­tice to all; the poor and the pros­per­ous are equals be­fore his pen; to him the peas­ant ap­pears in the grandeur of his mis­ery, and the rich in the pet­ti­ness of his fol­ly. More­over, the rich man has pas­sions, the peas­ant on­ly wants. The peas­ant is there­fore dou­bly poor; and if, po­lit­ical­ly, his ag­gres­sions must be piti­less­ly re­pressed, to the eyes of hu­man­ity and re­li­gion he is sa­cred.