Paul Bourget

“ The apartment was scented with the exhalations from the flowers, the cups and vases of which she used herself to trim, and she alternately dreaded and desired the entry of Hubert. Would he forgive her? Would he repel her? And finally she had to leave this refuge of her last hope, and she departed, her veil drawn down, her soul flooded by the same sadness that she used formerly to feel when Hubert's kisses were still fresh on her lips, at once comforted and terrified by this thought:
"When shall I see him again? Will it be to-morrow?" ”

“ It was as though she felt the time slipping away, bearing her happiness with it. In spite of a sky, daily warmer and of a softer azure; in spite of the blue sea, of the odors permeating the soft, balmy air; in spite of the fascination of the flowers, blooming all around, as she strolled down the alleys, still bordered with cinerarias, anemones, and pansies, she felt that her heart was not as light as when she had flown to the last rendezvous. She perceived Hautefeuille, in profile, awaiting her under the branches of the big pine, at the foot of which they had rested. ”

“ On the contrary, we have M. Paul Bourget's group of stories, "Pastels of Men," which are not prose poems at all, nor brief pen pictures; but tales of a rather elaborate and unclean order, full of wan sentiment, and that cheerless vice which robs the soul without gratifying the body. Occasionally, as in the sketch of the poor old teacher living his meagre life from hour to hour, M. Bourget draws for us, with melancholy skill, a single scene from the painful drama of existence. ”

“ Again, as in the ride at the head of his dragoons to Hugueville-en-Plaine, he seemed to see him and only him—only him on the railway platform, where very few of his friends had the courage to come to bid him adieu; only him in the carriage, where, lulled by the monotonous rumbling of the train, he tried to imagine the words he was about to hear and those that he would say in reply, endlessly and anxiously; only him, finally, in Paris, where, as he stood in Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Honoré, before the door of their house, his suffering acquired fresh intensity. ”

“ I repented of these two weaknesses before I was down the staircase of the house in the Place Delaborde, but not enough, alas, to return and take back my note, which Jacques had promised to deliver. My remorse increased as directly I entered my studio I saw Camille’s head upon my easel. Delicious in her phantom and unfinished life, she smiled at me from her frameless canvas. “No, you will never finish me,” she seemed to say to me with her sad eyes, her fine oval face, and her mouth framed in a melancholy smile. ”

“ She was certain that Pierre would not betray their dear secret. But he was so young, so innocent, so transparent to the observer, while the other was so penetrating, so keen!—She was going to learn if their love had been suspected by Olivier, if this man had warned his friend against her in revenge.—When she heard Pierre's slow, furtive footsteps upon the pathway, her heart beat so strongly that she seemed to hear it echo through the deathly silence of the hothouse!—He is here. She takes his hand. She feels that the beloved fingers reply with their old confident pressure. ”

“ This old parliamentary city, with its large hotels with the high windows, built in black Volvic stone, seemed more empty, more silent, more dead than usual as the brother of Charlotte walked toward the court.
Near the approaches to Palais there was a dense crowd which filled the narrow Rue Saint-Louis by which one reaches the hall of assize. The Greslon case had attracted all who had an hour to spare. André could scarcely force his way through the mass of people, composed of countrymen and small shopkeepers who were conversing with passionate animation. ”

“ PAUL BOURGET. LE DISCIPLE. "Le Disciple" is perhaps the best work of this voluminous and interesting writer. Devoid of irony, deficient in humor, lacking any large imaginative power, Paul Bourget holds, all the same, an unassailable place among French writers. Though a devoted adherent of Goethe and Stendhal, Bourget represents, along with Bordeaux, the conservative ethical reaction. He upholds Catholicism and the sacredness of the "home." He is a master in plot and has a clear, vigorous and appealing style. A gravely portentous sentiment sometimes spoils his tragic effects ”

“ There are women who have a delightful way of paying no heed to the familiarities which some people will take with them. René pressed her dainty hand, and, as she did not resent it, he began to speak in a voice trembling with emotion:
'I have no right to be surprised at your thinking that of me. Why should you think that my feelings towards you differ from those of other men you meet? And yet if I told you that since the day when I first spoke to you at Madame Komof's my life has changed for ever—ah! do not smile—yes, for ever! ”

“ I can endure falsehood no longer. I must have the truth, whatever it may be. I saw you yesterday in the Jardin des Plantes, in the main avenue. I was there—I saw you. You were walking together, and in the evening she said to you: 'How have you been since yesterday?' You do not hide from me? Repeat that now. Ah, why have you both lied to me?"
"You are right," replied Armand, "we ought to have spoken to you about it immediately. That is the way in which the most innocent things assume an appearance of mystery."
While affecting the most absolute calmness, he said to himself: "Helen is saved." ”

“ The author of the anonymous letters had chosen her moment only too well. As soon as the door of the studio was closed, the Countess rose to approach Lincoln. She entwined around the young man's neck her arms, which gleamed through the transparent sleeves of her summer gown, and she kissed with greedy lips his eyes and mouth. Lydia, who had retained one of the girl's hands in hers, felt that hand tremble convulsively. A hunter who hears rustle the foliage of the thicket through which should pass the game he is awaiting, does not experience a joy more complete. ”

“ My God! What is to be done?" he cried, on seeing, as he spoke, tears gush from the young girl's eyes, which she did not wipe away.
"Go away," she replied, "leave me. I do not want you. I am grateful to you for not having deceived me."
"But your presence is too cruel. I am ashamed of having spoken to you, now that I know you do not love me. I have been mad, do not punish me by remaining longer. After the conversation we have just had, my honor will not permit us to talk longer."
"You are right," said Julien, after another pause. ”

“ Night fell—a wintry night preceded by a short, dismal twilight. Worn out by the excess of emotion, René at last decided to adopt the only course that could be put into immediate execution—that of writing to Suzanne. On reaching the village of Saint-Cloud he entered a café, and there, on a beer-stained blotting-pad, with a spluttering pen, disgusted with the paper he used and the place he was in, disturbed by the noise of billiard balls and blinded by the smoke of the players' pipes, he wrote, under the insolent gaze of a dirty waiter, first one letter, then another, and finally a third. ”

“ He harnessed them, trimmed them, ornamented them so fantastically that they drew from all Miss Marsh's compatriots, from Antibes to Napoule, the same exclamations of "How lovely, how enchanting, how fascinating!" that they would have uttered before a Raphael or a Worth dress, a polo match or a noted gymnast. Doubtless the wily old man, with his shrewd smile, possessed diplomatic talents which might make him useful in a secret intrigue, for the prudent Corancez never took any other carriage, especially when he had, as on this morning, a rendezvous with the Marquise Andryana. ”

“ There remains the matter of these rooms. I shall write to Emmanuel Deroy to let him know that I shall come here no more. It is useless for us to meet here again, is it not? We have nothing more to say to each other."
"You are right," said Theresa, in a crushed voice; then, as though forming a supreme resolution, she rose.
She passed both her hands across her eyes, and loosing from her wrist the bracelet to which the little key was suspended, she offered the trinket to Hubert without uttering a word. He took the gold chainlet, and his fingers met those of the young woman. ”

“ The world, having known nothing of what has happened, would not know of the secret compact between us. People would say: 'Claviers is crazy. It wasn't worth while to make such an outcry, only to give way finally.'—What do I care? I should have you. You would close my eyes."
"No," the young man replied with extraordinary decision, "it is impossible. One adopts a stranger, a kinsman, but not one like me." Lowering his eyes, the child of sin repeated: "Not one like me! At this moment it is your affection that is stirring and that speaks, not your mind. ”

“ He would take out the cigarette case he had bought at Monte Carlo with such happiness. The sight of this foreign trinket wounded his soul, for it brought back to him the words uttered by his friend in the woods of Vallauris, "She had lovers before me; at any rate she had one, a Russian, who was killed at Plevna."
It was probably this lover who had given Ely the object around which he, Pierre, had woven so many cherished ideas, which he had worshipped almost with a scrupulous piety. This ironical contrast was so humiliating that the young man quivered with indignation. ”

“ Why not make one more attempt to escape the misery of an existence in which there was not a single illusion left? Why not go at once, without again beholding the woman who had exercised a more baneful influence upon him than Suzanne had had upon René?
The agitation brought on by this sudden prospect of a still possible salvation drove him from his rooms, but not before he had told Ferdinand to pack his trunk. He went out and wandered aimlessly as far as the entrance to the Champs-Elysées. On this bright May evening the roadway was crowded with an interminable line of carriages. ”

“ The young have sense enough not to go into facts which lend themselves to the gratification of their desires. This system sometimes leads them along perilous paths, but they cull many a flower by the wayside and enjoy its fragrance, nevertheless. When the poet walked across half Paris to reach his little suite in the Rue des Dames there was a music in his heart that shut out all dissonant voices of suspicion. His meetings with Suzanne were generally in the morning. René had never asked himself why that time of the day was most convenient to his beloved. ”

“ It is impossible to struggle against certain unexpected events, it is impossible to complain of them. What reproach could he make to Pierre? What was the good of reproaching him if he had really conceived the idea of breaking the compact he had entered into with him? Yes, what was the good? And Olivier remained leaning upon the windowsill, summoning up all his dignity to keep from going to his friend's room while repeating that it was impossible.
And then, at a certain moment, he thought he saw Pierre's profile as some one crossed the garden of the hotel. ”

“ She extended her hand and snatched the flask away, saying: “No! No!” She looked at it, read the inscription on the red label and trembled. Her countenance became still more changed. A wrinkle hollowed itself between her eyebrows. Her lips trembled. Her eyes expressed the agony of a last anxiety, then, in a voice almost harsh, jerking her words as if they were drawn from her by a torturing and irresistible power.
“I, too,” said she, “I have suffered much, I have struggled hard. No,” she continued, advancing toward me and taking me by the arm, “you must not go alone, not alone. ”

“ You may be proud. It is so rare that he welcomes a new face. Poor René,' she continued, placing both her hands on her lover's shoulder, and laying her cheek on her hands, 'how you must have suffered!'
'I have indeed suffered,' replied René, in a hollow voice. He looked at the pretty face so near his own and remembered what Suzanne had said to him in the Louvre before the portrait of the Giorgione's mistress, 'How can anyone lie with a face like that?' Yet she had lied to him. ”

“ For the very reason that he was ignorant of the real reason for the dismissal of the steward of the Claviers-Grandchamps, he was unwilling to appear to dread a conversation with the future head of that house, and he thought:—
"What does he want of me? Doubtless he has come on account of the will. He is going to ask me not to mention what I may have heard and guessed. Those people have no appreciation of the honor of the medical profession. Bah! the honor of a bourgeois in the eyes of a noble!—A noble?" ”

“ I knew not; but—of learning. Instead of throwing the packet of letters into the fire, I flung it to one side, under a chair, returned to the bedside and told her in a voice which I endeavoured to keep steady and calm, that her directions had been obeyed, that the letters were burning. She took my hand and kissed it. Oh, what a stab that gentle caress inflicted upon me! I knelt down by her bedside, and hid my head in the sheets, so that her eyes should not meet mine. Alas! it was not for long that I had to dread her glance. At ten she fell asleep, but at noon her restlessness recurred. ”