beard, whom I have often seen at the opera, and who was leading the

attack, threw up the man's gun, and saved me.' So my adorer was
evidently a republican! In 1831, after I came to lodge in this house,

I found him, one day, leaning with his back against the wall of it; he
seemed pleased with my disasters; possibly he may have thought they

drew us nearer together. But after the affair of Saint-Merri I saw him
no more; he was killed there. The evening before the funeral of

General Lamarque, I had gone out on foot with my son, and my
republican accompanied us, sometimes behind, sometimes in front, from

the Madeleine to the Passage des Panoramas, where I was going."
"Is that all?" asked the marquise.

"Yes, all," replied the princess. "Except that on the morning Saint-
Merri was taken, a gamin came here and insisted on seeing me. He gave

me a letter, written on common paper, signed by my republican."
"Show it to me," said the marquise.

"No, my dear. Love was too great and too sacred in the heart of that
man to let me violate its secrets. The letter, short and terrible,

still stirs my soul when I think of it. That dead man gives me more
emotions than all the living men I ever coquetted with; he constantly

recurs to my mind."
"What was his name?" asked the marquise.

"Oh! a very common one: Michel Chrestien."
"You have done well to tell me," said Madame d'Espard, eagerly. "I

have often heard of him. This Michel Chrestien was the intimate friend
of a remarkable man you have already expressed a wish to see,--Daniel

d'Arthez, who comes to my house some two or three times a year.
Chrestien, who was really killed at Saint-Merri, had no lack of

friends. I have heard it said that he was one of those born statesmen
to whom, like de Marsay, nothing is wanting but opportunity to become

all they might be."
"Then he had better be dead," said the princess, with a melancholy

air, under which she concealed her thoughts.
"Will you come to my house some evening and meet d'Arthez?" said the

marquise. "You can talk of your ghost."
"Yes, I will," replied the princess.

CHAPTER II
DANIEL D'ARTHEZ

A few days after this conversation Blondet and Rastignac, who knew
d'Arthez, promised Madame d'Espard that they would bring him to dine

with her. This promise might have proved rash had it not been for the
name of the princess, a meeting with whom was not a matter of

indifference to the great writer.
Daniel d'Arthez, one of the rare men who, in our day, unite a noble

character with great talent, had already obtained, not all the
popularity his works deserve, but a respectfulesteem to which souls

of his own calibre could add nothing. His reputation will certainly
increase; but in the eyes of connoisseurs it had already attained its

full development. He is one of those authors who, sooner or later, are
put in their right place, and never lose it. A poor nobleman, he had

understood his epoch well enough to seek personal distinction only. He
had struggled long in the Parisian arena, against the wishes of a rich

uncle who, by a contradiction which vanity must explain, after leaving
his nephew a prey to the utmost penury, bequeathed to the man who had

reached celebrity the fortune so pitilessly refused to the unknown
writer. This sudden change in his position made no change in Daniel

d'Arthez's habits; he continued to work with a simplicityworthy of
the antique past, and even assumed new toils by accepting a seat in

the Chamber of Deputies, where he took his seat on the Right.
Since his accession to fame he had sometimes gone into society. One of

his old friends, the now-famous physician, Horace Bianchon, persuaded
him to make the acquaintance of the Baron de Rastignac, under-

secretary of State, and a friend of de Marsay, the prime minister.
These two political officials acquiesced, rather nobly, in the strong

wish of d'Arthez, Bianchon, and other friends of Michel Chrestien for
the removal of the body of that republican to the church of Saint-

Merri for the purpose of giving it funeral honors. Gratitude for a
service which contrasted with the administrative rigor displayed at a

time when political passions were so violent, had bound, so to speak,
d'Arthez to Rastignac. The latter and de Marsay were much too clever

not to profit by that circumstance; and thus they won over other
friends of Michel Chrestien, who did not share his political opinions,

and who now attached themselves to the new government. One of them,
Leon Giraud, appointed in the first instance master of petitions,

became eventually a Councillor of State.
The whole existence of Daniel d'Arthez is consecrated to work; he sees

society only by snatches; it is to him a sort of dream. His house is a
convent, where he leads the life of a Benedictine; the same sobriety

of regimen, the same regularity of occupation. His friends knew that
up to the present time woman had been to him no more than an always

dreaded circumstance; he had observed her too much not to fear her;
but by dint of studying her he had ceased to understand her,--like, in

this, to those deep strategists who are always beaten on unexpected
ground, where their scientific axioms are either modified or

contradicted. In character he still remains a simple-hearted child,
all the while proving himself an observer of the first rank. This

contrast, apparently impossible, is explainable to those who know how
to measure the depths which separate faculties from feelings; the

former proceed from the head, the latter from the heart. A man can be
a great man and a wicked one, just as he can be a fool and a devoted

lover. D'Arthez is one of those privileged" target="_blank" title="a.有特权的；特许的">privileged beings in whom shrewdness
of mind and a broad expanse of the qualities of the brain do not

exclude either the strength or the grandeur of sentiments. He is, by
rare privilege, equally a man of action and a man of thought. His

private life is noble and generous. If he carefully avoided love, it
was because he knew himself, and felt a premonition of the empire such

a passion would exercise upon him.
For several years the crushing toil by which he prepared the solid

ground of his subsequent works, and the chill of poverty, were
marvellous preservatives. But when ease with his inherited fortune

came to him, he formed a vulgar and most incomprehensible connection
with a rather handsome woman, belonging to the lower classes, without

education or manners, whom he carefully concealed from every eye.
Michel Chrestien attributed to men of genius the power of transforming

the most massive creatures into sylphs, fools into clever women,
peasants into countesses; the more accomplished a woman was, the more

she lost her value in their eyes, for, according to Michel, their
imagination had the less to do. In his opinion love, a mere matter of

the senses to inferior beings, was to great souls the most immense of
all moral creations and the most binding. To justify d'Arthez, he

instanced the example of Raffaele and the Fornarina. He might have
offered himself as an instance for this theory, he who had seen an

angel in the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse. This strange fancy of d'Arthez
might, however, be explained in other ways; perhaps he had despaired

of meeting here below with a woman who answered to that delightful
vision which all men of intellect dream of and cherish; perhaps his

heart was too sensitive, too delicate, to yield itself to a woman of
society; perhaps he thought best to let nature have her way, and keep

his illusions by cultivating his ideal; perhaps he had laid aside love
as being incompatible with his work and the regularity of a monastic

life which love would have wholly upset.
For several months past d'Arthez had been subjected to the jests and

satire of Blondet and Rastignac, who reproached him with knowing
neither the world nor women. According to them, his authorship was

sufficiently advanced, and his works numerous enough, to allow him a
few distractions; he had a fine fortune, and here he was living like a

student; he enjoyed nothing,--neither his money nor his fame; he was
ignorant of the exquisite enjoyments of the noble and delicate love

which well-born and well-bred women could inspire and feel; he knew
nothing of the charming refinements of language, nothing of the proofs

of affectionincessantly given by refined women to the commonest
things. He might, perhaps, know woman; but he knew nothing of the

divinity. Why not take his rightful place in the world, and taste the
delights of Parisian society?

"Why doesn't a man who bears party per bend gules and or, a bezant and
crab counterchanged," cried Rastignac, "display that ancient

escutcheon of Picardy on the panels of a carriage? You have thirty
thousand francs a year, and the proceeds of your pen; you have