The Project Gutenberg eBook of Stories in yellow, black, white, blue, violet and red
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.
Title: Stories in yellow, black, white, blue, violet and red
Author: Remy de Gourmont
Editor: E. Haldeman-Julius
Translator: Isaac Goldberg
Release date: April 13, 2026 [eBook #78436]
Language: English
Original publication: Girard: Haldeman-Julius Company, 1924
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78436
Credits: Tim Lindell, chenzw, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STORIES IN YELLOW, BLACK, WHITE, BLUE, VIOLET AND RED ***
LITTLE BLUE BOOK NO. 540
Edited by E. Haldeman-Julius
Stories in Yellow, Black,
White, Blue, Violet
and Red
Remy de Gourmont
Translated from the French by
Isaac Goldberg.
HALDEMAN-JULIUS COMPANY
GIRARD, KANSAS
Copyright, 1924.
Haldeman-Julius Company.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
STORIES IN YELLOW, BLACK, WHITE,
BLUE, VIOLET AND RED
FOREWORD
It is now some time since I wrote, somewhat vaguely (with reference
to one of d’Annunzio’s books) that a novel is a poem and should be
conceived and executed as such if it is to prove of worth.
At that time I said:
“The novel is based upon the same esthetic as the poem; the original
novel was composed in verse: for example, the Odyssey, a novel of
adventure; the Aeneid, a chivalrous romance; the first French novels,
as everybody knows, were poems, and it is only at a fairly late day
that they were transposed into prose to adapt them to the indolence and
the ignorance of a larger reading public. From this origin the novel
inherits the possibility of a certain nobility, and any genuine writer,
if he concerns himself with it, will restore that nobility to the form:
whom would one wish to convince that _Don Quixote_ is not a poem, that
_Pantagruel_ is not a poem, that _Salammbo_ is not a poem? The novel is
a poem; the novel that is not a poem does not exist.”
Flaubert had not yet taught me, through the letters that narrate the
arduous composition of _Madame Bovary_, that one must “endow prose
with the rhyme of verse (leaving to it, however, its distinctly
prosaic character) and write to ordinary life as one writes history or
epic.” Upon thinking this over I found that Flaubert carried a bit too
far the idea that we must achieve a literary prose whose beauty may be
fashioned only of words and rhythm, the rhythm being primordial. The
method that he prescribed for the novel I believe suited likewise to
the play, the tale, even when it is but an anecdote--almost all form of
composition--even the simple article done for the morning-paper. There
is no inferior art. An article may be a poem from the moment one has
assigned to it the rhythm against which it will dance its brief pavan.
Once the rhythm has been found, all is found, for the idea incorporates
itself into the tempo, and the ball of yarn or silk is formed almost
without the intervention of any consciousness of a task.
The tale, it seems to me, demands a special condition: in order to
write it one must possess the illusion, no matter how fleeting, of
being happy; a merry afternoon is enough. And this relates it more
closely to the poem than any reasoned-out theory could do. To be
happy--that is to say, to have enjoyed a flower, the flower of one’s
choice, or the bright glance of certain eyes: then one becomes
interested in the games of others. In fact, when one is happy, or
almost so, one can no longer stay inside, where one sees well only
through desire. A tale is a stroll.
Almost all the stories that you are about to read were written in a
single breath, save the polishing touches, the expansion of too slender
parts, and excisions. Thus there comes, at certain times, a moment when
the breath runs short. One lays the work aside for the following day,
and this is a pity, for dreams trouble one’s days.
I do not write all this to instruct in a method a public that cares
very little for methods. The stream of these notes flowed one evening
in a few moments on to a stray sheet of paper.
I clarified it, at first for my own pleasure, and then in an attempt
to solve a problem. Take this poet who now overflows in novels, even
in feuilletons, in all the petty tasks of a man of letters--do you
really think him unfaithful to his first muse? Yes, doubtless, often.
Not always. As long as rhythm sings within him, he is faithful.
His downfall does not begin until that day when the harmony of the
phrase is utterly sacrificed to reason--to what persons without any
beyond in their spirits call truth. The true poet and the true
sage can always, like Goethe, conciliate Poesy and Reality, and all
the more easily since Poesy is the daughter of Reality. I remember
hearing M. Quinton express surprise that Pasteur should have written
a tragedy. Beyond doubt it was very bad (not worse than those in
which M. Claretie’s abilities as régisseur excel), but this exercise
attests an original sense of rhythm. His beautiful experiments were,
in the days that followed, rhythmed like poems, like the marbles of
his compatriots Hugo, Rude, Clésinger. The _Satyre_ who scales the
mountain of mysteries, the _Bacchante au Thyrse_, who rushes into
voluptuousness, the game of chemical retorts which prove that life
arises only from life--these are the gestures of genius animated by
one and the same rhythm. One likes to recall that Descartes composed a
ballet to pleasure the great Christine; one is fond of remembering that
Montesquieu rhythmed the games of his young imagination, that Pascal
composed a symphony upon the Passions of love, that Nietzsche caused
the forests to resound with the superhuman laughter of Zarathustra,
that Flaubert rhythmed like Homeric verses the quotidian words of that
Stupidity to whom he played Hercules.
It is rhythm that lends beauty to the poor ballerina who seems draped
only in her chemise. May it lend a little to those women who, in their
rushing adventures, dance too madly perhaps, each in one of the rays of
light resolved by the naïve prism of their desire.--R. G.
July 30, 1908.
YELLOW
_Que c’est beau, le jaune!_
Van Gogh.
It was understood.
The last time he had sent her a long kiss, his eyes closed as in
ecstasy, and she had smiled tenderly, drooping her lashes.
They had never spoken to each other.
She lived there. There were houses, along the river bank and half way
up the hill, bordering the road that wound up the slope: there was a
mill, a tavern, a sabot factory and two or three little farmhouses,
with a shed in which slumbered a cart. One could hear whinnying, a
waggoner’s heavy oath, the crowing of a cock, the patter of the water
under the mill wheels and its murmuring beneath the wooden bridge.
He, too, lived there, but higher up, behind the trees that framed the
horizon. At evening, returning from the hunt, he would pause upon the
bridge, look at the water, the willows, the grass, the narrow valley,
where the sun, before dying, came to rest for a moment.
It was from this point that he had beheld her. She was spreading out
upon the fresh lawn some strips of unbleached linen. He thought she
must be the daughter of the weaver who could be heard at work near
the tavern, or else some servant. On other days she would be washing
clothes beneath the large hazel tree whose branches bent to kiss the
stream, and would lay them on the bushes; then, before returning, she
would pick some hazel nuts, or flowers, or would throw pebbles into the
water. When she felt that she was being observed she would laugh, but
she refused to be disturbed in her work or her play.
One day, however, she stood for a long time looking at him, eating
hazel nuts that she cracked between her teeth with all the nimbleness
of a squirrel.
Then he came daily. She would be there, or else she would arrive
slowly, raising her head. They might have spoken to each other, but
they said nothing. He threw flowers to her, or twigs, and she paid no
attention. He brought her a yellow carnation: she hid it in her corsage
and, without a token, disappeared.
It was on the next day that their mute agreement was concluded.
The following evening, after the first glances had been exchanged,
he saw her climb in the direction of the woods and plunge into the
coppice. He made a detour and caught up with her just as she was
clearing the rails of a fence. Her short skirt pulled up. She showed a
white knee. That decided him. This fresh little peasant lass was just
the thing. Desire made him tremble a little.
He received her into his arms, pressed her close, kissed her upon the
lips, but gently she freed herself and, curving her shoulders, glided
in under the branches.
It was a sunken, abandoned path that led to an old cart-road; she ran
quickly, avoiding the brambles, grazing the broom, the honeysuckle and
the foxglove that made a crazy arabesque in this sombre lair of sand
and gravel which the branches of the beeches, the ash-trees and the
oaks sheltered with their thick green mantle.
Stopped by a bramble that clutched at her legs, she was caught by him;
he knelt down, vanquished the bramble and threw his arm about her
knees. But she did not wish to fall yet. She stiffened; she turned her
back upon him. He rose to his feet; his hands ascended to the breasts
which she was pressing; he kissed the back of her neck; he nibbled at
an ear.
Then she turned her head; her eyes were serious; she abandoned all
resistance. Leaning against the arm that encircled her waist, she
surrendered her mouth to kisses, her body to caresses.
They fell tenderly.
Seated now side by side they glanced at each other from the corners of
their eyes, occupied in similar motions. She was dressing her hair; he
was knotting his cravat.
She was smiling.
He was dreaming.
This happy encounter enchanted him. In his career as an equivocal
huntsman he had met with few that could match it. “But how difficult
it is to rouse women! The transports of this loving lass were pretty
feeble. She seemed more ashamed than tender, more resolved than
self-abandoned, I can’t just say.”
He, however, had tasted intense happiness, and what sweet peace he now
enjoyed! What charm in this young body, in those contours fresh with
their first form. “She is as lissome as the trunk of a beech-tree and
her flesh yielded with such pride, yet with such simplicity as well!
How simple is love!”
He looked at the young girl, hunting words to say to her, but he did
not have the habit of speech, and above all of tender speeches.
She appeared prettier than ever, now--more natural. This sensation of
naturalness he had never before experienced. Perhaps the silence had
led him to reflect.
At last he spoke, mentioning the charm of the moment, the coolness of
this grotto, his happiness, his repose.
She tapped her skirt awkwardly, twisted a scape of foxglove between her
fingers, smiled, but gave no sign of contentment.
“It seems to me that I could love her, almost, if she would only fondle
me.”
Wishing to take out his pipe, he put his hand into the wrong pocket and
struck his purse.
“Ah!”
Secretly he extracted a gold-piece, took the child’s hand and clamped
her fingers over the surprise. She opened them immediately, looked, and
blushed; her bosom swelled, she heaved a deep sigh, then crushed into
her friend’s arms, all aquiver with nervous sobs of joy.
On her knees before him, she kissed his eyes, his cheeks, his chin, the
corners of his lips.
She was happy.
BLACK
_Le charme inattendu d’un bijou rose et noir._
Baudelaire.
The most beautiful flower that Duclos had ever seen was a black dahlia.
It was in the public garden of a little town in Normandy--a garden of
tulips, of daisies, of wistaria, hornbeams and orange trees--a garden
where the rare plant, sprung up amidst the familiar ones, seemed truly
rare, exceptional and beautiful.
How well a bunch of white violets would go in a torrid greenhouse,
amidst the singularity of the orchids! How welcome is an orchid, and
how strangely it strikes the eye in a spacious provincial garden, where
three children are laughing, or an ecclesiastic, who has just finished
his breviary, exchanges timorous words with two old ladies in black!
This garden was fresh and attractive, as elegant as a young woman who
is perhaps on her way to love, for surely enough one discovers here the
four-leaf clover. Its plots and its beds mingled willingly with the
hothouse flowers that were out to take the air, and with the rustic
blossoms that sleep outside--those that close at night the eyes which
they open to the sun, those that have always a new smile to take the
place of the one that has died, and those who surrender completely, all
at once, in a single great kiss.
There were also numerous trees, and even ash, willows and red osiers,
among the lilacs, the snowballs and the roses of Jericho. There were
lawns, basins, fountains, red fishes and white fishes.
There were black flowers.
During all the summer that he spent in this little town, Duclos came
every morning for a walk along the avenue of dahlias. He looked like
an inspector of flowers. He examined them one by one, welcoming the
newcomers and deploring the fate of those which were about to die.
He would pause for a long time before the clump of black dahlias. A
black flower is black. It is a strip of black velvet cut in the shape
of a flower, and nothing more.
Black dahlias are simple or double, like all dahlias. The double
dahlias are fluted balls, stiff, seemingly fashioned of metal or linen
that has been well starched and ironed. Simple dahlias are shaped like
a sun or a monstrance and seem, from the height of their green stems,
to spread a friendly benediction. They have an eye, and almost always,
in the black dahlias, a yellow eye--an insolvent louis d’or placed in
the center of the black velvet sun. They inspire fear, for they seem to
be alive, and this is contrary to the nature of flowers, which must be
only things, pretty things.
However, the black dahlias that so exalted Duclos every morning in the
large solitary garden had no eyes: crisp, curly petals intertwined
above the mystery of the stamens and pistils.
“This flower is only an idea, it is a desire. It is a flower?”
One day he met with a surprise. A tiny bindweed had slipped its supple
stem in between the petals of a large dahlia and had just opened in the
heart of the flower. It had dared to set amidst this night of black
velvet the caress of a carnal mother-of-pearl.
“... And I,” he said to himself, “... to think that I never understood
that line of Baudelaire’s.... No, it’s impossible.... Farewell,
innocent flower that offends the peace of my heart.... Whom am I to
love now, since you are not a woman and this country is a desert of
love?”
He walked off ill content, his eyes lowered, thrusting at the pebbles
of the path with his foot and with the tip of his cane, meditating
upon the disharmony between thought and deed that renders pleasant
realizations so difficult and so rare.
“Desire comes rarely at the right moment. One yearns only after the
impossible--water that flows, the bird that flies off, the woman who
goes back into the house and rudely slams her door. Wisdom would
consist in never desiring anything save the bit of bread one is raising
to his mouth. And even then, who knows whether one’s throat will not
contract as the food is swallowed? Better, then, to desire only that
which has already been accomplished, to accept chance and live over
again those moments which were happy....”
A cry interrupted his reflections.
He looked up and perceived, seated upon a bench before him, a young
woman who, with the hem of her skirt turned up somewhat, was feeling
her ankle uneasily, above a white shoe. The hem was black.
Duclos was not timid. As he bowed, his hat in hand, explaining the
wickedness of the pebbles that one is apt to trip over, he observed the
severity of a toilette that enchanted him. Everything was black and
white, save, at the neck, the gleam of a pink ribbon, quite similar in
shade to the bindweed that opened, yonder, in the heart of the black
dahlia.
Near the woman, a play in brochure form, yellow and somewhat soiled. He
connected this with a large poster that he had seen that morning, and
still drunk with his flower and his desire, he murmured, looking at her
neck, which was so fresh, then at her subdued, golden face and her very
sombre eyes: “_The unexpected charm of a pink and black jewel._”
“White, black and pink,” he amended, smiling.
A somewhat forced smile replied to him.
The spoke of the drama. And when he took a seat upon the bench no one
made a wry face.
“Such stupidity!” exclaimed the lady, rolling up the pamphlet.
Then he recited some verses for her:
O music, music of the trees,
Lull me, cradle me.
Warm breath of the wind, cooled by the stream,
Caress me, fondle me....
She was soon gazing at him through tender eyes.
Long, shrill whistles. The train rumbled by.
“The station is near,” said Duclos. “You go down a small staircase.”
“We have the afternoon,” murmured the lady.
“I love you!” said the young man.
“Why not?” replied the lady.
“Who knows?”
“Who knows?”
They arose at the same impulse.
As they passed the large black dahlia, black and pink now, Duclos
stopped, and pointing to the flower:
“I love you, because I love this black and pink flower. I love you,
because you are both sisters.”
“And to think,” she said, “that this morning I was weeping over the
wickedness of men....”
“Not all men are wicked.”
They gazed at each other for a long time, then took each other’s hands.
“Are you my destined one?”
“Perhaps,” she answered.
Then she added, as at the first time:
“Who knows?”
“Quickly,” said Duclos, “this is the hour.”
They hastened down the little staircase to the station. They set out on
their journey.
Sometimes Duclos would call his lady friend “My Dahlia.” This would
make her laugh, and dream, too.
As soon as they had known each other each loved the other with deep
passion.
The black dahlia with the pink heart became for Duclos an everlasting
comfort. The large velvet flower soothed his brow, his heart and his
lips. It made a beautiful mystery against the marble whiteness.
WHITE
_Cet unanime blanc conflit d’une guirlande avec la même._
S. Mallarmé.
Once upon a time there were two children of the same age--a little
boy and a little girl. They were exceedingly fond of each other, were
never happy unless together, and there was something tender about their
games. At hide and seek, when the little girl had been caught, she
would drop into the arms of her companion, throw back her head, lower
her lashes, purse her lips; and if the kisses did not rain down, she
would demand them, or go to seek them by graciously raising her lips to
the other pair of distrait or timid lips. They had just passed their
tenth year.
One very warm day they rolled down their stockings to go wading in the
brook. They got very wet and lay down to dry upon the warm grass, in
the sun. The sight of their little pink legs, however, and of their
dripping knees excited their curiosity. They made comparisons, and the
little boy was wise enough to adjudge his skin the less smooth. “It is
also less soft,” he said; and his hands went in company of his eyes.
They began anew the next day, and each day they read more. Their
kisses, now, were companioned by sweet caresses that sent the blood
swirling to their heads. But the very next instant they had already
forgotten this and their innocence burst into laughter. They were happy.
With the coming of the first cold weather and the rain, they
transferred their games to a large, half empty room that was left to
them. The little boy, who went to school, would spend all his spare
time at his friend’s. The little girl received her instruction at
home. Upon certain days when the weather was bad the little boy would
take his lessons with her. Their parents, with an eye to the future,
observed this childish tenderness of the two pupils with great pleasure.
Towards the month of December a curate came to the house and was led
by the mother to the large room in which the children were playing. An
armchair and a footstool were brought for him. He sat down, took out
his snuff-box, wiped his lips, sniffed a generous pinch and spoke of
the good Lord. This subject was already known to him, but the little
girl grew attentive when the priest, turning toward her, addressed her
thus:
“My child, you will soon, I hope, make the acquaintance of your
Creator. You know how much he loves you, and you love him, too. Pure
hearts always love the good Lord. But real love demands closer intimacy
and more abandon. Jesus will come to you and you will surrender to him
confidently. You will feel the sacred embraces of your Creator. In a
word, my dear little girl, we are going to prepare you for your first
communion.”
“And what about me?” asked the little boy.
“Listen,” said the priest, “and profit duly by my words. You know,” he
continued, turning back to the little girl, “the great importance of
such an act. The catechism has instructed you in the grandeur of the
sacrament. What a mystery is the union of the Creator and the created!
This union is effected by the eucharistic communion and it brings to
those beings who know how to prepare for it and make themselves worthy
of it all the ineffable joys of divine love....”
He spoke for a long time, and the coldness of his speech contrasted
with the exaltation of the sentiments that he expressed. At every
moment he would unfold a large red, very dirty handkerchief, open his
snuff-box, take a pinch, hawk and sneeze. The little girl understood
nothing of the great words of love uttered by this old automaton;
still, he spoke of love and this word, even in such a mouth, charmed
her and made her shudder a little.
Her confessor had not yet questioned her upon the sixth commandment,
but, upon the approach of the great day, he abandoned his reserve
or his indifference. His very precise questions, which for the rest
conformed to the manuals of devotion, interested the little girl
deeply. Upon reflection she became heartbroken. So all those nice
things were sins. Those games, those kisses, those touches, those
caresses--sins! The priest taught her, then, only this--that without
realizing it she had ceased to be innocent.
One afternoon she refused her friend’s kiss and, with no further
explanation, went to a corner of the room and sank to her knees. Then
she took a book and read: “Let us faithfully remove all obstacles that
might impede the arrival of Jesus into us. Let us prepare for Him a
pure sanctuary, adorned and aglow with love; and when He shall have
come, we will be able to say to Him, in the fervor of our joy: ‘My
well-beloved is mine, he has reposed upon my heart.’....”
She had uttered these words aloud. The little boy heard them and
asked, through tears:
“It’s no longer I whom you love?”
“You can’t understand those things. I love you as my brother and as my
little friend; I have a deep affection for you, but my love belongs to
Jesus.”
“To Jesus!”
He shrugged his shoulders in peevish chagrin.
“Jesus loves me. How then can I not love Him? He courts me; how then
resist Him? Don’t you know that He is all-powerful and that He can
pulverize the both of us on the spot?”
“Really?”
Overwhelmed, he meditated upon this Stranger, so strong and so cruel,
who had come to bear off his friend and to break his heart.
“Ah! Let Him kill me, but let him not take you away!”
“He won’t take me away. Did He take away Angéle, Laure, Juliette, whom
He loved so much a year ago and who are all still so happy with Him?”
“Then He won’t love you always?”
“He will love me always, but from afar, and I, too, shall love Him.
But I’m not the only one on earth and He must enter the hearts of all
little girls who take their first communion.”
“Does He enter the hearts of little boys, too?”
“I don’t think so,” she replied in ironic tones. “He can offer to
little boys only a good, firm friendship.”
“As for me, I’ll never love Him.”
“You’ll be compelled to love Him, when you’ll have a pure heart, you’ll
see.”
“Ah!”
“Now, I have a pure heart, I’ve confessed all my sins!”
“What sins!”
“Silence, and ask pardon of God.”
She renewed her prayers.
Her friend meditated.
Little boys, less early developed, generally take their first communion
a year later than little girls of their age. This was a custom; he
did not feel humiliated by it. Nevertheless, he would have liked very
much to share in the mysteries into which his friend was about to be
initiated. He felt a mingled jealousy and fear.
“I only hope,” he told himself, “that He does her no harm!”
At last the great day arrived. He saw his little friend pale and
winsome in a cloud of muslin. These two whitenesses were charming.
Drawing near to her, he murmured:
“How I love you!”
She lowered her eyes and rolled in her white-gloved fingers the beads
of her mother-of-pearl chaplet. She walked on without answer, without
so much as looking at him. He was sad throughout the ceremony. The
recital of acts stirred him a trifle, but at the sound of his friend’s
voice his heart broke:
“Oh, my sole possession, my treasure, my life, my paradise, my love,
my All, I wish to receive You with a heart aflame with love.... Oh, my
treasure, I wish to live and die in a continual union with You!... My
well-beloved has given Himself all to me I give myself likewise all to
Him. Oh, my Jesus, I desire no longer to belong to myself. I would be
yours alone. Let my senses belong to You and may they no longer serve
for aught but to give You pleasure....”
“Ungrateful wretch!” he thought. He stirred with anger. Then he
recalled the charming hours spent with his friend--their games, their
laughter, those long kisses that put them out of breath, those embraces
out of which they came blushing, with scorching skin and moist eyes....
“And now all these pleasures she is to give to another! And I’m left
all alone.... She loves me no more....”
The little girl had the honor of speaking again after the communion.
She returned to her place, the first one in the white procession,
kneeled with her head in her hands and remained for a long time
absorbed. A powerful emotion crushed her. She felt at once grieved and
happy:
“He is within me, I feel Him in my heart.... My heart swells.... I
stifle, but it is with happiness.... I am beloved, I am beloved....
Is it Thou, my love? Oh! Stay in my arms, clasp me tightly yet again!
Ah! I feel bad.... My head is in a whirl.... Ah! Ah! What a feeling!
Now I will declare my love for Him unafraid. I am well content, deeply
proud.... Thou lovest me, say? He loves me.”
She arose and spoke:
“Oh loving Savior, I have given myself to You and You have given
Yourself to me. I wish to sacrifice to You all the pleasures of the
earth; I sacrifice to you my body, my soul, my will. I have only
these to offer You, alas! If I had more, I would give You more. I
would gladly die for you.... Kindle me with Your love! But I am not
satisfied with a spark, I want a flame, I want a thousand flames, I
want a conflagration that shall on the instant destroy within me all
attachment to earthly creatures.... Vain creatures, leave me; you will
never again behold me. Ask no more for my affection. My heart belongs
entirely to my well-beloved....”
“She loves me no more,” he said to himself. “She will never love me
again.”
He wept. The persons near him believed that it was through pious
emotion.
At last mass was over and the seats were heard to move about on the
lower floor of the church. The little girl who had been reborn through
love felt likewise devoured by hunger. Then she began to think of
her house, her parents, her friend, the beautiful table set for the
celebration, aglitter with flowers, with crystal and silver; she
thought of the kitchen, of the cook. Surely a good plate of soup was
getting cold for her.
“After that, I’ll eat a nice tart.... My friend will be there, eager to
serve me attentively.... I love him so.... While waiting for vespers
we’ll take a stroll, we’ll pick flowers, only white flowers, as white
as my veil, as my heart. I’m so happy!”
The little boy had run to his friend’s house, where his family was
dining that day. He had gone to notify the cook, and, in the pantry,
on a corner of the table, there had been laid aside specially two
plates of soup, two royal patties and two glasses of wine.
When the little girl arrived he took her by the hand and she let him
pull her along. At the sight of the dainty banquet her little feminine
heart melted with tenderness. She threw herself around the little boy’s
neck and hugging him with all her might, said:
“You know, Jesus is my mystic husband, but that isn’t going to last
long. While he loves me, tell me what you want, for He’ll refuse his
little wife nothing.”
“I want you to love me as before.”
“Here,” she said.
She gave him her lips.
“Are you satisfied? Let’s eat, now. I’m as hungry as a bear.”
BLUE
She was a princess. A sister of the queen; she lived at her side and
shared her honors. But the fancy of the princess, suggested less
pompous pleasures to her, and she gladly would visit one of her ladies
in waiting whose husband was a simple member of the bodyguard and
moreover an excellent gentleman--young, handsome, witty, tender.
The princess had been married in her country to a prince who might
become king, if several generations were to disappear in some
cataclysm. They had never loved each other. The princess, too, who was
at times mocking and always proud, was reputed to have a heart of iron.
She had been showered with plenty of homage, but had accepted no one.
Now she would scoff, now she would assume a glacial tone. She was fond
only of her toilette, gaming and domination. What pleased her about the
guard was that he accepted her smiles as commands; then, she always won
at _vingt-et-un_; and her gowns and her diamonds eclipsed all other
adornments and all other gowns. The guard had never displayed for her
any feeling other than a deep respect.
As she was blonde, she liked blue stuffs, blue flowers, sapphires, as
blue as her eyes, so that people began to call her the Blue Princess.
The name, which seemed to have come out of a fairy tale, pleasured her.
One day, hearing the sad confidences of her lady in waiting, she felt a
certain languor steal through her thoughts and into her limbs, and she
said: “My soul is a blue bird.” This phrase, which she repeated several
times, restored all her serenity, so beautiful it was. Then she looked
about her:
“So your husband is away, my dear? I believe he hasn’t come to pay his
respects to me.”
“My husband seems absent to you today, but isn’t he absent every day?”
“What do you mean?”
“Isn’t he every day absent from himself?”
“My poor friend, that signifies that he neglects you.”
“He no longer loves me.”
“Truly, this is fine behavior. But it’s impossible. Besides, I’ll not
allow it. I don’t want my friend to be unhappy. He is going to get
orders from me.”
“Ah, madame! You believe, then, that hearts may be commanded?”
“Why, without a doubt. Was I consulted when they married me off--me, a
princess? I was told to love my husband, and I loved him.”
“How long?”
“Why, I should have loved him always, had he wished it. He did not wish
it.”
“So you see.”
“He did not wish it, or perhaps he could not. The marriage gave me no
pleasure; he reproached me for my coldness, and I wept. Since that
moment we have never met without witnesses. At first I felt exceedingly
humiliated, then I appreciated the quietude of solitary nights. I am
very happy to be a girl again. But since my experience I understand
somewhat the less all games, dramas and comedies of love.... Then you
find amusement, do you, in the conjugal ceremony?”
The lady gazed at her mistress with respectful, sorrowful irony.
Then she said:
“I fear lest my husband has some lady-love upon his mind, or some
light-o’-love.”
“Light-o’-love?” repeated the princess. “The word’s a pretty one.
Light-o’-love. That can hardly be serious, can it?”
“Serious? No. Light-o’-love passes and love remains. But I don’t know.
Perhaps it’s a genuine love passion that takes him from me. I’m afraid,
really.”
“I understand almost nothing of all this,” said the princess, “but I
should be glad to see you as happy as I myself am. As far as that is
concerned, I need only the life that goes by and that I breathe. As
for you, since you need love, I’ll do my best, I repeat, to help you.
The word of his princess will touch his heart.... Eh! My good friend,
perhaps it is I whom he adores?”
“Perhaps, alas!”
“Why ‘alas’? If it is I, you are saved.”
At this moment the guard entered and advanced to salute the princess.
“Monsieur,” she said to him, “I will receive you at six o’clock at the
palace, in private audience.”
She arose and left.
Everybody followed the example of the princess, and man and wife were
left face to face, both exceedingly uneasy.
“Madame,” said the husband, “so you have displeased the princess? So
it’s to you that I owe this insult?”
“Insult? What do you mean? The lady of your thoughts makes a private
appointment for you and yet you complain?”
He was at a loss for reply, for this was the first time that his wife
had referred to feelings which he had imagined he held well hidden in
his heart.
“The lady of my thoughts,” he answered, brutally, “is my career, and
you have doubtless ruined that with your prating.”
“I’m no gossip.”
“You’re stupid.”
“Ah! Leave me. You don’t deserve to be loved.”
The lady in waiting fled, brimming with a sad anger. But, in defiance
of all reason, she hoped that the intercession of the princess would
prove fruitful, and she spent the rest of that day weeping softly.
The guard adored the princess secretly and without hope. Timid and
violent, he saved his timidity for his divinity, his violence for his
wife; but when he had been brutal he would be overwhelmed with shame
and his timidity would cause him much suffering. He was almost always
unhappy. Thus, for some time he had been seeking in ambition a remedy
for his ills. He had just spent the afternoon in executing the most
humiliating errands for the king’s mistress, who was troubled by the
attentions of a lover of inferior station whom she had dismissed.
The guard, in exchange for a note three lines long, was to receive a
captain’s brevet. He had the note in his wallet and it was supposed to
be delivered to the mistress at exactly six o’clock.
Love, curiosity and disquietude triumphed over ambition. He went to
dress for the occasion, perfumed himself and ran to the interview,
saying to himself: “Perhaps it’s a rendez-vouz.”
The princess, instead of letting him dance attendance, was herself
waiting for him when he arrived, and not without impatience. She was
prettier than ever, because more pale, with sparkling eyes. Her face
was as tender as a cluster of white lilacs hidden beneath the leaves,
but these leaves were blonde: her coiffure, in most artistic disarray,
let a few curly tresses droop to her shoulders.
“Come nearer,” she said in a sorrowing voice. “Come nearer. Stand here,
beside me. I am suffering, and can speak only in the lowest tones. And
then, it’s the friend, the friend of your wife who receives you--not
the princess. Now, then: I have become aware that you no longer love
Elizabeth and that gives me pain. Have you really ceased to love her?”
“Alas!”
“And how about your sense of duty, of your honor?”
“My honor?”
“Yes. You had vowed to her, besides conjugal fidelity, an eternal
tenderness....”
“She believed it.... Perhaps I, too, believed.”
“It’s wrong to abandon her, to torment her.... She is weeping at this
moment, I am sure....”
“I am not bad to her.”
“Very well. Promise me never to cause her displeasure again.”
“I will never voluntarily cause her displeasure.”
“Good. But promise me more. Promise me....”
She seemed oppressed, and her voice sank so low that, in order to hear
it, the guard had to lean toward the princess, almost grazing her
tresses. This man, although he was accustomed to all the dissemblances
of the courtly folk, suffered frightfully. To love the princess from
afar had seemed to him a sweet torture in comparison to the agony
which, at this moment, was stirred in him by desire. Were she any
other woman, either he would have fallen to his knees or taken to
flight; with the princess, he must remain, keep silent and preserve the
attitude of a soldier receiving orders.
“Promise me,” resumed the princess, “that you will be kind to her, very
kind, and that you will love her again....”
The guard said nothing.
“You promise?”
Still he said nothing.
“Then it’s no longer possible? All is then over between you? Have you
any serious fault to find with her?”
“I have no fault to find. I no longer love her. That is all.”
“Let her not discover this, at least!”
“I was hoping that she would never discover it.”
“One may cease loving a woman, then, without her discovering?”
“It is hard. I lacked the necessary skill. What is too easy, alas, is
to love a woman without her discovering it.”
“Oh! You really think so?”
“I am sure of it. She whom I love has never suspected my love and will
never suspect it.”
“Sir guard,” said the princess, “sir soldier man, you are a child. She
whom you love knows your love....”
“Alas!” he said, incredulously.
“... and she loves you,” she added, giving him her two hands.
He threw himself upon the gift, but he was still undecided, so troubled
that he panted.
“Kiss them, my child,” said the princess. “Kiss me, you who love me,
you who have desired me so long in the secret chamber of your heart.
Kiss your blue princess, kiss your love.”
On the next morning the maid said to her mistress:
“Oh! Madame has a blue spot upon her throat.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. It’s a mark. But so strange! Now it’s here,
now there. It appears, it vanishes. On my throat, it’s true, and on my
heart....”
“Perhaps that’s why they call Madame the blue princess?” continued the
innocent woman.
“Go, see if my lady-in-waiting is there.”
The princess, left for a moment by herself, gazed feelingly at her blue
spot.
“Lord, how happy I am!” she said to herself. “And how cunning! And how
stupid is my friend! To confide her love troubles! Poor Ariane, without
you, I should perhaps never have known anything. Those glances which I
took for the signs of an ardent, respectful attachment were love!...
But here she comes....”
The lady-in-waiting entered excitedly.
“Ah! Princess? I had to stay up for him till four in the morning! I am
beside myself! All is lost.”
“There! Can’t you ever be reasonable? On the contrary, all is settled.”
“Ah! Thanks!”
“Listen to me. I received his confession. It was difficult, it was
long. At last I know the truth. It’s a light-o’-love. The person who
has turned your husband’s head is a humble actress of no consequence.
Men take them, drop them, pick them up again. This one had already
passed through many hands, and among others, through my husband’s....
You see, you and I have a family relationship.... Now then. An actress
is hardly ever free during the day time. Her liberty begins when
that of other women ends, at midnight. So I have decided that your
husband’s duties shall be shifted to my palace from midnight to four
in the morning.... Naturally he will receive compensation, for that’s
an arduous task.... His future is assured, and his happiness.... Is
he ambitious? Yes. Very well. Would he like a title? A decoration? At
first I’ll attach him to my personal suite. As soon as there is an
opening, in six months, in three, he will be made my aide-de-camp, my
secretary. He will leave me only to court you, happy wife. Between the
two of us we will keep watch over him....”
“How good you are!”
“Am I not, indeed?”
“You are kindness itself.”
“You are beautiful. You are, and that is worth more.”
“Beautiful? Who is more beautiful than you?”
“Flatterer! I am thirty and you are twenty-five.... Alas! I have
renounced everything. You will love me, at least?”
“I have always loved you. Henceforth I will adore you. My life belongs
to you. I will devote myself to you until death, and my husband, too, I
fondly hope.”
“I, too, hope so. I have perhaps delivered him from a grave peril, from
an unhappy love, for what joy can one find in the adventure that he was
engaged in?”
“When he comes to his right senses he will be deeply grateful to
you.... Yesterday evening, that is to say this morning, he was greatly
troubled. When he returned, I thought him drunk. He stared at me out of
wandering eyes. As soon as he entered his room he bolted the door and I
heard him cry out: ‘Ah! Ah! Ah!’...”
“He said nothing else?”
“I don’t think so. He is not very talkative.”
“A precious virtue. What would you say of a husband who imparted
humiliating confidences?... There _are_ some like that.... Mine, for
example....”
“You were indeed unhappy!”
“Yes and no. I never think of it any more The present exalts my
heart.... To bring happiness to those you love and who love you,--can
anything in the world equal that?”
“You are adorable!”
“And I am adored.”
“Oh! Yes.”
“My dear friend!”
She did not withhold her hand, which the lady in waiting covered with
kisses.
“They are superimposed,” she thought, “but the last does not efface
the first. Your lips, poor couple, still meet in fervor, but upon my
skin.... It is indeed curious....”
“Ah!” she resumed, aloud, “now that you are sure to rediscover your
happiness one day or another, I hope that you will be prudent.
According to the tales confided to me, your husband has been a trifle
fatigued by conjugal joys. Men don’t like to have advances made to
them....”
“Oh! Between husband and wife! Never mind. I will be discreet, generous
friend....”
“More generous than you think! For, after all, your husband is
very seductive. He is young, younger than I,--handsome, ardent,
passionate....”
“He was.”
“He still is, you may be sure, and you will notice it soon enough. If
I had not renounced everything, if I were not a princess.... In your
place I should be jealous.”
“Ah! Lord, I know your heart too well.”
“Then you will go home in full confidence? Yet a mite sad.”
“Yet a mite.”
“But the clouds are scattering, the sky is beginning to turn blue
again?”
“Yes.”
“As blue as my soul, my tender darling, as blue as my heart.”
And she thrust her finger into her bosom, toward the spot of the blue
bruise that so enchanted her amorous flesh.
VIOLET
_L’heure violette._
Leo Larguier.
They called her the old maid, and yet, though she was both a maid
and old, she looked like neither one nor the other. Her appearance
suggested a widow just past her prime. She always dressed in black,
with a profusion of embroidery, ornaments and violet ribbons. Most
frequently a bouquet of pale violets would bedeck her corsage and
would be repeated, artificially, upon her hat. The scent of violets
floated through her garden, her house and her heart: her soft eyes were
two beautiful violets. The old maid was jolly and religious; and the
curates were not slow in adducing this as a proof that good humor is
the inseparable companion of virtue and piety: “Just see the old maid.
Heaven is in her soul and in her eyes.” Her eyes were indeed of the
sweetest, and a smile, at once celestial and childish, would scatter
its benediction over the pink plenitude of her countenance. She was, in
every aspect, plump, but not to excess, and the entire effect revealed
that restful suavity of definite architectural structures.
A single token betrayed her age--the color of her hair. Their very
ashen blond had become even more faded when she reached forty,
dissolving into the shade of tawny linen which the years, those skilful
laundresses, bleach at each springtime a little.
In short, the old maid was an agreeable canoness.
Toward that period in which she had to undergo the great feminine
crisis, her fortune, through the establishment of a railroad that
cut across one of her farms, rose considerably. Then, her head
being troubled by vapors, she felt a desire to move. She made
distant pilgrimages, but only in the company of a lady friend, and
at her leisure. Having seen the provinces and some new faces, she
felt different; her curiosity, too long dormant, awoke. A literary
ecclesiastic loaned her some books of history. The novel treats only of
possible loves, while history speaks of real loves attested by letters
and relics. The old maid was surprised; one day she dreamed for a long
time before the picture of a handsome worldly cardinal which decorated
a serious book.
_Galeotto fu ’l libro e chi lo scrisse._[A]
[A] Translator’s Note--This is the famous line from Dante’s
Inferno,--episode of Paolo and Francesca. “Galeotto was the book and he
who wrote it.”
She had not married, through piety, having, at the hands of a priest
implacable before all terrestrial pleasures, taken a vow to consecrate
herself to the Lord. Her mother, informed of this, wept and threatened
to die; then the daughter deferred, postponing this abandonment of the
world until her mother should have departed. But the years, without
abating her piety, had little by little effaced in her spirit even the
memory of this vow, and when she had found herself free to fulfill it,
she had no longer thought of it. The fanatical priest was dead. The
hour of marriage was dead, too. Having refused all the eligibles of the
region, she had become, without noticing it, the old maid; and now that
she did realize it, it was too late. Besides, she was happy thus, and
happier still since she had taken to dreaming.
So the old maid was dreaming, one beautiful twilight toward the end of
September, as she shelled peas in her garden together with her servant.
One could descry the little town, reclining like a lazy lass along the
river bank; one of her arms, half bare, rose toward the station; the
other was lost in a forest; her head was formed by the church; her
body, the city; and her legs, the suburbs. And all this dozed, even the
station, between two cries.
The old maid was dreaming so well that her servant, wearied of not
obtaining any replies to her talk, had ceased speaking; she was
dreaming so well that, at the sound of the front-door bell, she started
and half rose with a bewildered air.
The visitor did not correspond to her dream. She recognized one of her
girlhood companions, a poor woman who lived in the country, married to
a petty notary and burdened with children. An urchin of some twelve
years, garbed in a sorry gray uniform, followed this figure, with
humble mien and his cap in his hands.
The reception was a cold one, but the poor woman was so amiable and
she brought such pretty rustic flowers and such large plums, that the
old maid rediscovered her smile. The youngster was introduced to her;
he was going, on the following day, to enter the town academy as a
pensioner. Now, the parents, who were too busy and not wealthy, could
come all that distance to see him only three or four times per year,
perhaps. What was desired of her was, that if it did not inconvenience
her too greatly, she should board during holidays this youngster, who
was so well-behaved, so gentle, so respectful, and so well advanced in
his studies, since he had just won a scholarship.
The old maid consented. This seemed to her at first an act of charity.
“If I can’t attend to it,” she said, “Rosalie will hunt him up and see
after him. She’ll take him to my Pine farm in good weather. He’ll drink
milk. Is he fond of milk?”
“Oh!” replied the mother, “very much. Thank the mademoiselle.”
“Thank you, mademoiselle.”
At the sound of this sweet voice, already almost masculine, the old
maid looked at the youngster.
That was all. As night had fallen the peas were brought in, and the old
maid, summoned by the Angelus, went off to church.
Rosalie, toward the middle of October, went to the academy. The boy was
given to her.
Mademoiselle would not return till evening. Alone with a servant, the
boy soon began to take liberties. Then, tired, he became serious and
spoke of his studies, of his plans for the future. When Mademoiselle
arrived unexpectedly, she found a young man who was saying, solemnly:
“As soon as I shall have become a sub-lieutenant, I will marry; I
already am considering it.”
“And perhaps you know whom?”
“I know very well.”
The servant laughed. She, too, knew whom he would marry as soon as it
would be possible.
“Why, he’s charming--this little fellow!” exclaimed the old maid.
After this first day, she never failed to be at home during the school
holidays. They would chat, take strolls, or play by the fire. She used
the familiar form of address when speaking to him, she would kiss him,
touch his clothes, mother him; she loved him.
In the meantime the youngster became thirteen, then came vacation days;
she let them pass, and herself went on a trip. But the end of September
was like an anniversary; she wished herself to go and fetch him whom
she called her protégé. While waiting for school to reopen, he spent
three days in her home. She was so attentive, so tender, almost, that
Rosalie felt pangs of jealousy.
The holidays came around again, all alike, all happy. There were hours
of intimacy, family hours, but mingled with a certain indescribable
uneasiness, ever so sweet, of an acute, enervating sweetness. The days
went by and the boy grew to fourteen.
The absence of Rosalie on one afternoon that she went to the farm
troubled them as an animal is troubled by the sudden opening of his
cage. By a common impulse they went into the house. It was stormy and
very warm.
“Come,” she said, “to my room. It’s the only cool place in the house.”
And all this was innocent and inevitable.
In her room they drew near to a table where there were albums; they
looked them over together, but without seeing anything. Their voices,
when they spoke, seemed to them different. Their knees touched, then
their hands, then their lips, and the rest came, too, though with
difficulty.
The thrill of the chaste old maid was moving. She wept. Then she sank
to her knees and worshipped, as a sacred symbol, the adorable body of
her little friend. The god that she had sought distractedly on her
pious journeys had at last appeared, and the happiness that the priests
had prophesied for her she had at last felt swelling her heart.
The young boy was far less perturbed, for at that age pleasure does
not radiate. He was absorbed by anatomical curiosity. He made a tour
of the woman he had conquered, like the adolescent who feels his first
partridge all about and who brushes back all its feathers.
“My little Jesus,” said the old maid, “Rosalie will soon be here.”
The hours that intervened before dinner were like acts of grace. She
dined as one listening to mass.
And this continued for four years, from Thursday to Thursday, from
vacation to vacation. The young boy, at times, felt a desire for other
loves, but tiny hamlets are not very fertile in adventures and, then
again, such powerful arms enfolded him, such generous hands!
Rosalie, who detected the secret of her mistress, took advantage of it
to procure herself a dowry in view of the uncertainty of the future,
and the adopted son of the “old maid” became a young man who enjoyed
high esteem.
And now the old maid discovered that, among her friend’s children there
were two other little boys, one of twelve and one of eight.
“I’ll see them through their school career,” she said. “But I want only
one at a time.”
And thus it was arranged. These three little friends took care of
her to her sixtieth year. Rich in the years of youth that she had
economised, and unceasingly refreshed by youthful flesh, this innocent
Ninon continued, up to an advanced age, to be the benefactress of the
honorable poor families who had sons to send to school. Her piety,
now become uncertain, gave concern to the clergy, but since one of
her pupils, disgusted with his love tasks, entered the ecclesiastical
seminary, where the old maid paid his expenses generously, the church
was reassured. There are crises of indifference even in the souls of
the most religious.
Only the confessor of the old maid, for she confessed regularly and
voluptuously--only this honest old canon knew the whole truth. He would
lower his eyes as they met those of his penitent and would flee at her
approach. The odor of the secret that sealed his lips poisoned his
heart. He died of grief at the sight of his tender lioness devouring
her seventh lamb.
Violets continued ever to adorn and to perfume the corsage and the hat,
the garden and the heart of the old maid with the violet eyes.
RED
_Cum vere rubenti Candida venit avis._
Virgil.
She was already returning, her arms rigid with the weight of the milk
pails; her sabots were wet with the dew, and the hem of her skirt felt
cold. When the sun became visible, red through the morning mist, she
said to herself:
“It’s going to be a beautiful day.”
She mused upon this for a long while, avoiding the pebbles of the
path so as not to spill her milk, and the tall bending, weeping grass
because her bare legs were really cold.
“It’s going to be a beautiful day.”
She walked on, now crossing a field of gorse where the path, much
wider, made expressly for the farmhands, stretched straight ahead of
her. The mist had disappeared, enchanted by the sun--had risen yonder
above, doubtless, whence it would descend again gently, as serene
dew, a mantle of coolness which the stars spread fraternally over the
shoulders of the parched earth.
She mused again:
“It’s going to be very warm.”
Then a stem of buckwheat, lost there by a bird, suggested to her:
“The buckwheat will be ripe for threshing.”
This idea gave her pleasure, then became a source of worriment, for
the season had been a wet one, and if the buckwheat were ripe for
threshing, surely it would be threshed. This meant that she must
quickly get in, quickly strain the milk, feed the fowl and many things,
so many that she felt a tug at her heart.
As she was striding along too quickly, a drop of milk splashed from the
pail and fell upon her sabot. She stopped, put down the pails, happy
for a chance to rest, although she was somewhat remorseful, too; in
order to limber them she raised her beautiful pink arms very high, thus
gilding them with the fire of the sun.
Suddenly she started, becoming almost pale, and bringing her hand to
her bosom. She had not been frightened. She had simply been surprised
by the first gun shot of the year.
At the same moment she saw a cloudlet of smoke; a feather flew by her;
a wounded partridge fell amidst the gorse.
“Here, Tom!” cried a voice. “Go look. Fetch it.”
The dog bounded along the path, pressed forward, returned, intent and
troubled, but definitely resolved not to plunge into the dangerous
forest. As the voice, now more imperious, more angry and nearer as
well, repeated the commandment, Tom, his tail between his legs, took
refuge in the skirts of the young girl, who bent over to caress him and
encourage him.
“Don’t fondle him, beat him!” cried the voice.
It was that of a young man who now appeared, standing in the hedge
amidst the branches.
The milk maid straightened up, looked and turned red. From the voice
she had not been able to tell whether it was the father or the son. She
thought that it was the father; she wished it were, for the scorn of
the haughty young man, who had never spoken a word to her, pained her
deeply.
She went red and felt uneasy, but could not lower her glance. She was
lost in admiration, she was ready to fall to her knees.
The command was repeated, the dog pretended death.
Then, with legs and arm bare, she plunged into the gorse and was badly
scratched. She walked along almost blindly, as fast as she could,
holding back her tears.
Having fetched the partridge she threw it into Tom’s mouth.
The young man, still standing amidst the trees, above the sea of cruel
gorse, made her a friendly sign then jumped forward, proceeding in
front of his hound.
She, without replying, perhaps without having seen the friendly gesture
that thanked the poor servant, once more bent her shoulders beneath the
neck yoke, and the milk pails, well balanced, hung from her red hands.
She walked on, thinking no longer of anything but matters so vague and
so deep that her mind could not grasp them.
Her legs were bleeding, her hand was bleeding, and around her right arm
was a scratch that encircled it like a bracelet.
“That’s a briar.”
The gorse pricks but does not tear.
The milk pails, in the meantime, seemed to grow lighter. She walked on,
quickly, as quickly as her unstable burden would permit.
A man whom she passed near the farmhouse looked at her bleeding arm.
Then she turned red. Later, as she strained the milk, she thought that
she felt ill.
The purple bracelet gripped her arm, but it was in her heart that she
felt the clutch.
Tom was running up to her. She was afraid.
“Is it going to begin all over again?” she asked herself, upset by
emotion.
Panting but happy, the dog lay at her feet. Then, espying a bowl, she
poured out a little milk for him.
“You spoil him,” said the young man, approaching. “I told you, he
rather deserved a beating.”
She found some words to say:
“Beat your dog?”
“Upon my word, if I had been alone, the partridge should have remained
in the gorse. Did you hurt yourself? Oh! You’re bleeding?”
She was so happy that she no longer felt her joy. She was in another
world. She was a woman face to face with a man.
“Let me see!”
She held out her pink, golden arm and at once drew it back, thus
causing her breasts to shake under the coarse plaited linen. The young
man was tempted, but controlled himself:
“Don’t say anything. But I don’t want anybody to know that I met you
near the gorse.”
He went off, knowing full well what he was to do.
The next morning as the dew was disappearing and Tom was off in search
of yesterday’s partridges, a sudden cry, a sweet and dolorous cry, rose
from amidst the tall dry grass, near the gorse field, yonder where the
heather begins.
The servant returned as on the previous day, her shoulders beneath the
yoke, her hands hanging, holding the milk pails. She did not stop on
the way, although she was very weary and deeply moved. She strained
her milk, as on every other day, sunk in vague thought. But, her task
finished, she sat down upon a stool and gazed at her arm.
A mad bite had placed upon the bracelet of blood a red clasp.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
Typos in punctuation corrected, and author’s spelling of “Angéle”
retained.
Unexpected change in character name from “Elizabeth” (page 37) to
“Ariane” (page 40) retained.
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STORIES IN YELLOW, BLACK, WHITE, BLUE, VIOLET AND RED ***
Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will
be renamed.
Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright
law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,
so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United
States without permission and without paying copyright
royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part
of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™
concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,
and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following
the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use
of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for
copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very
easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation
of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project
Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may
do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected
by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark
license, especially commercial redistribution.
START: FULL LICENSE
THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK
To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full
Project Gutenberg License available with this file or online at
www.gutenberg.org/license.
Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg
electronic works
1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or
destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg electronic works in your
possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a
Project Gutenberg electronic work and you do not agree to be bound
by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person
or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.
1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg electronic works if you follow the terms of this
agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg
electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.
1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the
Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection
of Project Gutenberg electronic works. Nearly all the individual
works in the collection are in the public domain in the United
States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the
United States and you are located in the United States, we do not
claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing,
displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as
all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope
that you will support the Project Gutenberg mission of promoting
free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg
works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the
Project Gutenberg name associated with the work. You can easily
comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the
same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg License when
you share it without charge with others.
1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are
in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States,
check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this
agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing,
distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any
other Project Gutenberg work. The Foundation makes no
representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any
country other than the United States.
1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:
1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other
immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg License must appear
prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg work (any work
on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the
phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed,
performed, viewed, copied or distributed:
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg™ License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you
are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws
of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is
derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not
contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the
copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in
the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are
redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply
either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or
obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg
trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any
additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms
will be linked to the Project Gutenberg License for all works
posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the
beginning of this work.
1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg.
1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg License.
1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including
any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access
to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg work in a format
other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official
version posted on the official Project Gutenberg website
(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense
to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means
of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain
Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the
full Project Gutenberg License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.
1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg electronic works
provided that:
• You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
the use of Project Gutenberg works calculated using the method
you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed
to the owner of the Project Gutenberg trademark, but he has
agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid
within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are
legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty
payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in
Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation.”
• You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™
License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all
copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue
all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™
works.
• You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of
any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of
receipt of the work.
• You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.
1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than
are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing
from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of
the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set
forth in Section 3 below.
1.F.
1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project
Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may
contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate
or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or
other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or
cannot be read by your equipment.
1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right
of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.
1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium
with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you
with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in
lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person
or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second
opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If
the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing
without further opportunities to fix the problem.
1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO
OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.
1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of
damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement
violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the
agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or
limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or
unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the
remaining provisions.
1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in
accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the
production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses,
including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of
the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this
or any Project Gutenberg work, (b) alteration, modification, or
additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg work, and (c) any
Defect you cause.
Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg
Project Gutenberg is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of
computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It
exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations
from people in all walks of life.
Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg’s
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg collection will
remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg and future
generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see
Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.
Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by
U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.
The Foundation’s business office is located at 41 Watchung Plaza #516,
Montclair NJ 07042, USA, +1 (862) 621-9288. Email contact links and up
to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website
and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact
Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation
Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread
public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.
The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND
DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state
visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.
While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.
International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.
Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation
methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To
donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.
Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg electronic works
Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project
Gutenberg concept of a library of electronic works that could be
freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and
distributed Project Gutenberg eBooks with only a loose network of
volunteer support.
Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in
the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not
necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper
edition.
Most people start at our website which has the main PG search
facility: www.gutenberg.org.
This website includes information about Project Gutenberg,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.
