walked about his house like a wild beast in its cage, putting his

eat to the door to listen if the other were there, and defying
him through the wall. Then as soon as he dozed, overcome by

fatigue, he heard the voice which made him leap to his feet.
At last one night, as cowards do when driven to extremity, he

sprang to the door and opened it, to see who was calling him, and
to force him to keep quiet. But such a gust of cold wind blew

into his face that it chilled him to the bone. He closed and
bolted the door again immediately, without noticing that Sam had

rushed out. Then, as he was shivering with cold, he threw some
wood on the fire, and sat down in front of it to warm himself.

But suddenly he started, for somebody was scratching at the wall,
and crying. In desperation he called out: "Go away!" but was

answered by another long, sorrowful wail.
Then all his remaining senses forsook him, from sheer fright. He

repeated: "Go away!" and turned round to find some corner in
which to hide, while the other person went round the house still

crying, and rubbing against the wall. Ulrich went to the oak
sideboard, which was full of plates and dishes and of provisions,

and lifting it up with superhuman strength, he dragged it to the
door, so as to form a barricade. Then piling up all the rest of

the furniture, the mattresses, paillasses, and chairs, he stopped
up the windows as men do when assailed by an enemy.

But the person outside now uttered long, plaintive, mournful
groans, to which the young man replied by similar groans, and

thus days and nights passed without their ceasing to howl at each
other. The one was continually walking round the house and

scraped the walls with his nails so vigorously that it seemed as
if he wished to destroy them, while the other, inside, followed

all his movements, stooping down, and holding his ear to the
walls, and replying to all his appeals with terrible cries. One

evening, however, Ulrich heard nothing more, and he sat down, so
overcome by fatigue that he went to sleep immediately, and awoke

in the morning without a thought, without any recollection of
what had happened, just as if his head had been emptied during

his heavy sleep. But he felt hungry, and he ate.
The winter was over, and the Gemmi pass was practicable again, so

the Hauser family started off to return to their inn. As soon as
they had reached the top of the ascent, the women mounted their

mule, and spoke about the two men who they would meet again
shortly. They were, indeed, rather surprised that neither of them

had come down a few days before, as soon as the road became
passable, in order to tell them all about their long winter

sojourn. At last, however, they saw the inn, still covered with
snow, like a quilt. The door and the windows were closed, but a

little smoke was coming out of the chimney, which reassured old
Hauser; on going up to the door, however, he saw the skeleton of

an animal which had been torn to pieces by the eagles, a large
skeleton lying on its side.

They all looked closely at it, and the mother said: "That must be
Sam." Then she shouted: "Hi! Gaspard!" A cry from the interior of

the house answered her, so sharp a cry that one might have
thought some animal uttered it. Old Hauser repeated: "Hi!

Gaspard!" and they heard another cry, similar to the first.
Then the three men, the father and the two sons, tried to open

the door, but it resisted their efforts. From the empty cow-stall
they took a beam to serve as a battering-ram, and hurled it

against the door with all their might. The wood gave way, and the
boards flew into splinters; then the house was shaken by a loud

voice, and inside, behind the sideboard which was overturned,
they saw a man standingupright, his hair falling on to his

shoulders and a beard descending to his breast, with shining eyes
and nothing but rags to cover him. They did not recognize him,

but Louise Hauser exclaimed: "It is Ulrich, mother." And her
mother declared that it was Ulrich, although his hair was white.

He allowed them to go up to him, and to touch him, but he did not
reply to any of their questions, and they were obliged to take

him to Loeche, where the doctors found that he was mad. Nobody
ever knew what had become of his companion.

Little Louise Hauser nearly died that summer of decline, which
the medical men attributed to the cold air of the mountains.

A FAMILY
I was going to see my friend Simon Radevin once more, for I had

not seen him for fifteen years. Formerly he was my most intimate
friend, and I used to spend long, quiet, and happy evenings with

him. He was one of those men to whom one tells the most intimate
affairs of the heart, and in whom one finds, when quietly

talking, rare, clever, ingenious, and refined thoughts--thoughts
which stimulate and capture the mind.

For years we had scarcely been separated: we had lived, traveled,
thought, and dreamed together; had liked the same things with the

same liking, admired the same books, comprehended the same works,
shivered with the same sensations, and very often laughed at the

same individuals, whom we understood completely, by merely
exchanging a glance.

Then he married--quite unexpectedly married a little girl from
the provinces, who had come to Paris in search of a husband. How

ever could that little, thin, insipidly fair girl, with her weak
hands, her light, vacant eyes, and her clear, silly voice, who was

exactly like a hundred thousand marriageable dolls, have picked up
that intelligent, clever young fellow? Can anyone understand these

things? No doubt he had hoped for happiness, simple, quiet, and
long-enduring happiness, in the arms of a good, tender, and

faithful woman; he had seen all that in the transparent looks of
that schoolgirl with light hair.

He had not dreamed of the fact that an active, living, and
vibrating man grows tired as soon as he has comprehended the

stupid reality of a common-place life, unless indeed, he becomes
so brutalized as to be callous to externals.

What would he be like when I met him again? Still lively, witty,
light-hearted, and enthusiastic, or in a state of mental torpor

through provincial life? A man can change a great deal in the
course of fifteen years!

The train stopped at a small station, and as I got out of the
carriage, a stout, a very stout man with red cheeks and a big

stomach rushed up to me with open arms, exclaiming: "George!"
I embraced him, but I had not recognized him, and then I said, in

astonishment: "By Jove! You have not grown thin!"
And he replied with a laugh: "What did you expect? Good living, a

good table, and good nights! Eating and sleeping, that is my
existence!"

I looked at him closely, trying to find the features I held so
dear in that broad face. His eyes alone had not altered, but I no

longer saw the same looks in them, and I said to myself: "If
looks be the reflection of the mind, the thoughts in that head

are not what they used to be--those thoughts which I knew so
well."

Yet his eyes were bright, full of pleasure and friendship, but
they had not that clear, intelligent expression which tells

better than do words the value of the mind. Suddenly he said to
me:

"Here are my two eldest children." A girl of fourteen, who was
almost a woman, and a boy of thirteen, in the dress of a pupil

from a lycee, came forward in a hesitating and awkward manner,
and I said in a low voice: "Are they yours?"

"Of course they are," he replied laughing.
"How many have you?"