excellent sale, for the house had only cost him twenty-seven thousand

francs. The believers were depressed by this practical observation of
the incredulous. Choisnel, Mademoiselle Cormon's notary, asserted the

latter, had heard nothing about the marriage contract; but the
believers, still firm in their faith, carried off, on the twentieth

day, a signal victory: Monsieur Lepressoir, the notary of the
liberals, went to Mademoiselle Cormon's house, and the contract was

signed.
This was the first of the numerous sacrifices which Mademoiselle

Cormon was destined to make to her husband. Du Bousquier bore the
deepest hatred to Choisnel; to him he owed the refusal of the hand of

Mademoiselle Armande,--a refusal which, as he believed, had influenced
that of Mademoiselle Cormon. This circumstance alone made the marriage

drag along. Mademoiselle received several anonymous letters. She
learned, to her great astonishment, that Suzanne was as truly a virgin

as herself so far as du Bousquier was concerned, for that seducer with
the false toupet could never be the hero of any such adventure.

Mademoiselle Cormon disdained anonymous letters; but she wrote to
Suzanne herself, on the ground of enlightening the Maternity Society.

Suzanne, who had no doubt heard of du Bousquier's proposed marriage,
acknowledged her trick, sent a thousand francs to the society, and did

all the harm she could to the old purveyor. Mademoiselle Cormon
convoked the Maternity Society, which held a special meeting at which

it was voted that the association would not in future assist any
misfortunes about to happen, but solely those that had happened.

In spite of all these various events which kept the town in the
choicest gossip, the banns were published in the churches and at the

mayor's office. Athanase prepared the deeds. As a matter of propriety
and public decency, the bride retired to Prebaudet, where du

Bousquier, bearingsumptuous and horrible bouquets, betook himself
every morning, returning home for dinner.

At last, on a dull and rainy morning in June, the marriage of
Mademoiselle Cormon and the Sieur du Bousquier took place at noon in

the parish church of Alencon, in sight of the whole town. The bridal
pair went from their own house to the mayor's office, and from the

mayor's office to the church in an open caleche, a magnificentvehicle
for Alencon, which du Bousquier had sent for secretly to Paris. The

loss of the old carriole was a species of calamity in the eyes of the
community. The harness-maker of the Porte de Seez bemoaned it, for he

lost the fifty francs a year which it cost in repairs. Alencon saw
with alarm the possibility of luxury being thus introduced into the

town. Every one feared a rise in the price of rents and provisions,
and a coming invasion of Parisian furniture. Some persons were

sufficiently pricked by curiosity to give ten sous to Jacquelin to
allow them a close inspection of the vehicle which threatened to upset

the whole economy of the region. A pair of horses, bought in
Normandie, were also most alarming.

"If we bought our own horses," said the Ronceret circle, "we couldn't
sell them to those who come to buy."

Stupid as it was, this reasoning seemed sound; for surely such a
course would prevent the region from grasping the money of foreigners.

In the eyes of the provinces wealth consisted less in the rapid
turning over of money than in sterile accumulation. It may be

mentioned here that Penelope succumbed to a pleurisy which she
acquired about six weeks before the marriage; nothing could save her.

Madame Granson, Mariette, Madame du Coudrai, Madame du Ronceret, and
through them the whole town, remarked that Madame du Bousquier entered

the church WITH HER LEFT FOOT,--an omen all the more dreadful because
the term Left was beginning to acquire a political meaning. The priest

whose duty it was to read the openingformula opened his book by
chance at the De Profundis. Thus the marriage was accompanied by

circumstances so fateful, so alarming, so annihilating that no one
dared to augur well of it. Matters, in fact, went from bad to worse.

There was no wedding party; the married pair departed immediately for
Prebaudet. Parisian customs, said the community, were about to triumph

over time-honored provincial ways.
The marriage of Jacquelin and Josette now took place: it was gay; and

they were the only two persons in Alencon who refuted the sinister
prophecies relating to the marriage of their mistress.

Du Bousquier determined to use the proceeds of the sale of his late
residence in restoring and modernizing the hotel Cormon. He decided to

remain through two seasons at Prebaudet, and took the Abbe de Sponde
with them. This news spread terror through the town, where every

individual felt that du Bousquier was about to drag the community into
the fatal path of "comfort." This fear increased when the inhabitants

of Alencon saw the bridegroom driving in from Prebaudet one morning to
inspect his works, in a fine tilbury drawn by a new horse, having Rene

at his side in livery. The first act of his administration had been to
place his wife's savings on the Grand-Livre, which was then quoted at

67 fr. 50 cent. In the space of one year, during which he played
constantly for a rise, he made himself a personal fortune almost as

considerable as that of his wife.
But all these foreboding prophecies, these perturbing innovations,

were superseded and surpassed by an event connected with this marriage
which gave a still more fatal aspect to it.

On the very evening of the ceremony, Athanase and his mother were
sitting, after their dinner, over a little fire of fagots, which the

servant lighted usually at dessert.
"Well, we will go this evening to the du Roncerets', inasmuch as we

have lost Mademoiselle Cormon," said Madame Granson. "Heavens! how
shall I ever accustom myself to call her Madame du Bousquier! that

name burns my lips."
Athanase looked at his mother with a constrained and melancholy air;

he could not smile; but he seemed to wish to welcome that naive
sentiment which soothed his wound, though it could not cure his

anguish.
"Mamma," he said, in the voice of his childhood, so tender was it, and

using the name he had abandoned for several years,--"my dear mamma, do
not let us go out just yet; it is so pleasant here before the fire."

The mother heard, without comprehending, that supreme prayer of a
mortal sorrow.

"Yes, let us stay, my child," she said. "I like much better to talk
with you and listen to your projects than to play at boston and lose

my money."
"You are so handsome to-night I love to look at you. Besides, I am in

a current of ideas which harmonize with this poor little salon where
we have suffered so much."

"And where we shall still suffer, my poor Athanase, until your works
succeed. For myself, I am trained to poverty; but you, my treasure! to

see your youth go by without a joy! nothing but toil for my poor boy
in life! That thought is like an illness to a mother; it tortures me

at night; it wakes me in the morning. O God! what have I done? for
what crime dost thou punish me thus?"

She left her sofa, took a little chair, and sat close to Athanase, so
as to lay her head on the bosom of her child. There is always the

grace of love in true motherhood. Athanase kissed her on the eyes, on
her gray hair, on her forehead, with the sacred desire of laying his

soul wherever he applied his lips.
"I shall never succeed," he said, trying to deceive his mother as to

the fatal resolution he was revolving in his mind.
"Pooh! don't get discouraged. As you often say, thought can do all

things. With ten bottles of ink, ten reams of paper, and his powerful
will, Luther upset all Europe. Well, you'll make yourself famous; you

will do good things by the same means which he used to do evil things.
Haven't you said so yourself? For my part, I listen to you; I

understand you a great deal more than you think I do,--for I still
bear you in my bosom, and your every thought still stirs me as your

slightest motion did in other days."
"I shall never succeed here, mamma; and I don't want you to witness

the sight of my struggles, my misery, my anguish. Oh, mother, let me
leave Alencon! I want to suffer away from you."

"And I wish to be at your side," replied his mother, proudly. "Suffer
without your mother!--that poor mother who would be your servant if

necessary; who will efface herself rather than injure you; your
mother, who will never shame you. No, no, Athanase; we must not part."

Athanase clung to his mother with the ardor of a dying man who clings
to life.

"But I wish it, nevertheless. If not, you will lose me; this double