This great unknown artist belonged to the kindly class of the self-
forgetting, who give their time and their soul to others, just as they

leave their gloves on every table and their umbrella at all doors. His
hands were of the kind that are dirty as soon as washed. In short, his

old body, badly poised on its knotted old legs, proving to what degree
a man can make it the mere accessory of his soul, belonged to those

strange creations which have been properly depicted only by a German,
--by Hoffman, the poet of that which seems not to exist but yet has

life.
Such was Schmucke, formerly chapel-master to the Margrave of Anspach;

a musicalgenius, who was now examined by a council of devotes, and
asked if he kept the fasts. The master was much inclined to answer,

"Look at me!" but how could he venture to joke with pious dowagers and
Jansenist confessors? This apocryphal old fellow held such a place in

the lives of the two Maries, they felt such friendship for the grand
and simple-minded artist, who was happy and contented in the mere

comprehension of his art, that after their marriage, they each gave
him an annuity of three hundred francs a year,--a sum which sufficed

to pay for his lodging, beer, pipes, and clothes. Six hundred francs a
year and his lessons put him in Eden. Schmucke had never found courage

to confide his poverty and his aspirations to any but these two
adorable young girls, whose hearts were blooming beneath the snow of

maternal rigor and the ice of devotion. This fact explains Schmucke
and the girlhood of the two Maries.

No one knew then, or later, what abbe or pious spinster had discovered
the old German then vaguely wandering about Paris, but as soon as

mothers of families learned that the Comtesse de Granville had found a
music-master for her daughters, they all inquired for his name and

address. Before long, Schmucke had thirty pupils in the Marais. This
tardy success was manifested by steel buckles to his shoes, which were

lined with horse-hair soles, and by a more frequent change of linen.
His artless gaiety, long suppressed by noble and decentpoverty,

reappeared. He gave vent to witty little remarks and flowery speeches
in his German-Gallic patois, very observing and very quaint and said

with an air which disarmed ridicule. But he was so pleased to bring a
laugh to the lips of his two pupils, whose dismal life his sympathy

had penetrated, that he would gladly have made himself wilfully
ridiculous had he failed in being so by nature.

According to one of the nobler ideas of religious education, the young
girls always accompanied their master respectfully to the door. There

they would make him a few kind speeches, glad to do anything to give
him pleasure. Poor things! all they could do was to show him their

womanhood. Until their marriage, music was to them another life within
their lives, just as, they say, a Russian peasant takes his dreams for

reality and his actual life for a troubled sleep. With the instinct of
protecting their souls against the pettiness that threatened to

overwhelm them, against the all-pervading asceticism of their home,
they flung themselves into the difficulties of the musical art, and

spent themselves upon it. Melody, harmony, and composition, three
daughters of heaven, whose choir was led by an old Catholic faun drunk

with music, were to these poor girls the compensation of their trials;
they made them, as it were, a rampart against their daily lives.

Mozart, Beethoven, Gluck, Paesiello, Cimarosa, Haydn, and certain
secondary geniuses, developed in their souls a passionate emotion

which never passed beyond the chasteenclosure of their breasts,
though it permeated that other creation through which, in spirit, they

winged their flight. When they had executed some great work in a
manner that their master declared was almost faultless, they embraced

each other in ecstasy and the old man called them his Saint Cecilias.
The two Maries were not taken to a ball until they were sixteen years

of age, and then only four times a year in special houses. They were
not allowed to leave their mother's side without instructions as to

their behavior with their partners; and so severe were those
instructions that they dared say only yes or no during a dance. The

eye of the countess never left them, and she seemed to know from the
mere movement of their lips the words they uttered. Even the ball-

dresses of these poor little things were piously irreproachable; their
muslin gowns came up to their chins with an endless number of thick

ruches, and the sleeves came down to their wrists. Swathing in this
way their natural charms, this costume gave them a vague resemblance

to Egyptian hermae; though from these blocks of muslin rose enchanting
little heads of tender melancholy. They felt themselves the objects of

pity, and inwardly resented it. What woman, however innocent, does not
desire to excite envy?

No dangerous idea, unhealthy or even equivocal, soiled the pure pulp
of their brain; their hearts were innocent, their hands were horribly

red, and they glowed with health. Eve did not issue more innocent from
the hands of God than these two girls from their mother's home when

they went to the mayor's office and the church to be married, after
receiving the simple but terrible injunction to obey in all things two

men with whom they were henceforth to live and sleep by day and by
night. To their minds, nothing could be worse in the strange houses

where they were to go than the maternalconvent.
Why did the father of these poor girls, the Comte de Granville, a wise

and upright magistrate (though sometimes led away by politics),
refrain from protecting the helpless little creatures from such

crushing despotism? Alas! by mutual understanding, about ten years
after marriage, he and his wife were separated while living under one

roof. The father had taken upon himself the education of his sons,
leaving that of the daughters to his wife. He saw less danger for

women than for men in the application of his wife's oppressivesystem.
The two Maries, destined as women to enduretyranny, either of love or

marriage, would be, he thought, less injured than boys, whose minds
ought to have freer play, and whose manly qualities would deteriorate

under the powerful compression of religious ideas pushed to their
utmost consequences. Of four victims the count saved two.

The countess regarded her sons as too ill-trained to admit of the
slightest intimacy with their sisters. All communication between the

poor children was thereforestrictly watched. When the boys came home
from school, the count was careful not to keep them in the house. The

boys always breakfasted with their mother and sisters, but after that
the count took them off to museums, theatres, restaurants, or, during

the summer season, into the country. Except on the solemn days of some
family festival, such as the countess's birthday or New Year's day, or

the day of the distribution of prizes, when the boys remained in their
father's house and slept there, the sisters saw so little of their

brothers that there was absolutely no tie between them. On those days
the countess never left them for an instant alone together. Calls of

"Where is Angelique?"--"What is Eugenie about?"--"Where are my
daughters?" resounded all day. As for the mother's sentiments towards

her sons, the countess raised to heaven her cold and macerated eyes,
as if to ask pardon of God for not having snatched them from iniquity.

Her exclamations, and also her reticences on the subject of her sons,
were equal to the most lamenting verses in Jeremiah, and completely

deceived the sisters, who supposed their sinful brothers to be doomed
to perdition.

When the boys were eighteen years of age, the count gave them rooms in
his own part of the house, and sent them to study law under the

supervision of a solicitor, his former secretary. The two Maries knew
nothing therefore of fraternity, except by theory. At the time of the

marriage of the sisters, both brothers were practising in provincial
courts, and both were detained by important cases. Domestic life in

many families which might be expected to be intimate, united, and
homogeneous, is really spent in this way. Brothers are sent to a

distance, busy with their own careers, their own advancement,
occupied, perhaps, about the good of the country; the sisters are

engrossed in a round of other interests. All the members of such a
family live disunited, forgetting one another, bound together only by

some feeble tie of memory, until, perhaps, a sentiment of pride or
self-interest either joins them or separates them in heart as they

already are in fact. Modern laws, by multiplying the family by the
family, has created a great evil,--namely, individualism.

In the depths of this solitude where their girlhood was spent,
Angelique and Eugenie seldom saw their father, and when he did enter

the grand apartment of his wife on the first floor, he brought with
him a saddened face. In his own home he always wore the grave and