Ivas, abandoned, seated himself alone on a bench, his head bowed. The sight of the men and women around him who had leisure to occupy themselves with sentiments of love, and their conversation, made a sad impression.

Hunger, misery, political passions, consumed him. He thought of his country and its future. He sought a remedy for his unhappiness and the sorrows of his countrymen. What mattered to him the sweet words of women, their tender glances, their whispered promises; women for him did not exist before the vision of his misery and his despair. An inexpressible sadness tortured him. Was he not going to risk his life in order to breathe his native air?

His melancholy thoughts were rocked by the sea breeze when some one clapped him on the shoulder. It was Jacob.

"Let us return," said he with vivacity.

"I am at your service, but first let me tell you that we are invited to take tea with the Italian lady at her hotel."

"No! I will not go! I need solitude. Have you accepted?"

"Certainly, for I do not enjoy being alone with my thoughts. And I believe, dear friend of forty-eight hours, that it will do you good to go also. We have not known each other long, but permit me to suggest that there are things that one had better bury in the bottom of the heart. Come, Coloni is very curious. If we do not go she is capable of coming after us. That would be worse still."

"It is true that we are recommended to cure old wounds by distraction. Come, then, we will forget ourselves in a foolish and gay society."

"You speak of old wounds. Then this lady"--

"Do not speak of her. Are there not other persons, other faces and names, which awaken old memories? You had better speak of man rather than of woman. This one is an unfortunate who slowly works out her destiny."

"Let us go, then!"

"Let us go! I will be gay in spite of"--

"Of what?"

"In spite of mournful remembrances."

They turned and walked rapidly along the dark streets which conducted them to the shore. Here were built two hotels. In the morning this part of the city was very busy on account of the bourse, but all was silent and deserted at this hour of the evening.

They entered the Hotel de France.

On the first floor Lucie reigned in a little salon, fresh and elegant. Here they found all the rest of the company. Seated in the balcony, the Russian smoked in silence. It was easy to be seen that this impromptu tea was not pleasing to him, for he shut himself up in complete reserve without joining in the conversation.

The Tsigane, installed comfortably on the sofa, looked around him with supreme indifference. The Dane paid special attention to his hostess, and the Italians were in gay spirits. When the door opened and Jacob appeared, Madame Coloni went hastily to meet him.

"Grazie tante! Grazie tante!" cried she. "You are so kind to have come. It is a sacrifice for which I thank you."

"How can it be called a sacrifice to pass the evening in your charming society, and to have the pleasure of looking at you," said Jacob.

"Unworthy flatterer!" replied she, striking him softly on his hand. "No more compliments. You mock me! Seat yourself, sir, and tell me quickly who is our singer. Who is this beautiful lady with accents so sad that on hearing her we have tears in our eyes? Why was she so agitated on seeing you? Why did you grow so pale?"

Jacob had great control over himself. He laughed so naturally that he deceived his fair questioner, who began to lose the hope of hearing a romantic history.

"You have truly a vivid imagination!" said he. "You have already composed a sad song. You have invested me with the sufferings of the hero of your romance; but I am no hero, I assure you. The lady is a countrywoman of mine and a co-religionist. She and her husband are Jews and live in Warsaw. Our acquaintance is then very natural. Behold the truth in simple prose."

The Italian tapped her foot impatiently. "This truth seems a little false," said she. "I observed you closely when you first met her."

Jacob made an effort to smile.

"The real truth is that I might well have been grieved and astonished, for I know the sad history of this woman."

"Ah! there is, then, as I thought, a sad story?"

"Yes, but I did not figure in it."

Lucie looked at him fixedly, but he returned her glance without emotion.

"Oh! pray, monsieur," demanded she in a caressing voice, "relate to me this story. I am dying to hear it."

"I warn you, madame, that it is not remarkable, and as it is the story of a Jewess it will be less interesting to you than to me. I am afraid I shall weary you. I am a bad story-teller, long and tiresome."

"You take a long time to tell a story! So much the better, we have plenty of time to listen. But do not torment me. Begin."

"Permit me, madame, to collect my thoughts for a moment."

"If," said the Dane, "the story is as long as monsieur promises us, and there is in the story a sentimental woman encumbered with a beast of a husband and a noble lover, I will excuse myself from listening. I can guess it all in advance."

"I also," said the Tsigane. "It is always the same thing."

"Where can true love be found to-day?" cried the Dane.

Lucie protested against this atrocious blasphemy, but the Tsigane replied imperturbably:--

"You will grant that the times of chivalrous love have vanished. Only the turtle-doves are innocent enough to sigh still. Formerly, as we are told, humanity passed through a long epoch of exalted love. Today men have almost abandoned these ways. A hundred years from now they will laugh at such love-stories and wonder how it could have been. I speak of such loves as those of Leander and Hero, not that of Calypso for young and handsome warriors, nor of the love of Nero for Poppea. That kind of love lasts because it is natural. But love which is torture, which suffers for some ideal beauty, it is an old, stereotyped plate, out of fashion. Show me to-day some one who loves in this way or who would be disposed to make serious sacrifices for love. The young girls marry because the husband suits the father and mother. The men marry for settlements, or for charms more or less fascinating. They do not marry at all for love,--that fantasy has gone out of fashion."

"Why," said Lucie indignantly, "you cannot maintain such ridiculous assertions."

"I can prove them by facts. Look around you. Everywhere caprice, passion, love of excitement, etc., but true love nowhere."

Lucie sighed.

"Is this progress or decadence?" asked she.

"I know not. It is sad for you beautiful women to descend from the pedestal on which you were elevated, but how can you refuse the evidence of things?"

"Is it so evident?"

"Alas! I do not wish to impose my opinion on you, but reflect seriously. Where can you find as formerly two souls created for each other?"

"What you say," interrupted Jacob, "is true up to a certain point. But I hope the world has only temporarily renounced this poetry. If all ideality should disappear it would be a sad thing. I will add a commentary to your remarks, Monsieur Gako. Men do not love themselves as much as they used. That is why existence is in some sort lessened, and the number of suicides from weariness of life is daily augmented."

Madame Coloni clapped her hands and reminded Jacob of his promise to relate a history.

The Tsigane yawned. The Russian lighted a fresh cigarette, the Dane went out, and when it was silent the Jew commenced in a low voice:--

"In all the legislation of the world the most badly understood and the most badly judged is perhaps that of Moses. It belongs to me to defend it in my character of Jew. Our law is the fundamental base of yours. Do not forget that Jesus said that he came not to destroy the law, but to complete it.

"It is generally supposed that the Hebrew women were debased to the level of slaves. Nothing of the kind. Customs were sometimes swerved from the law, influenced as they were by the barbarity of the times, but it is not the law which abases woman.

"In the Jewish language she is called Ischa, the feminine of Isch, which means 'man.' This name alone indicates the perfect equality of the sexes. Deuteronomy xxi. 10-15 commends us to respect even the captives. Polygamy, exceptionally practised by the kings, is forbidden in a formal manner. The Bible reveals to us in more than one page the disastrous effects of this immoral custom. On a level with man, Isch, woman, Ischa, it is true, was not priest, but she was permitted to bear the offerings to the altar. No legislation of antiquity or even of later epochs can show us woman better treated or more respected than with the Jews. The mothers of the Maccabees and of Judith prove the importance of that rÔle.

"A young girl of twelve years, Ketannah, could be promised in marriage by her father, but, above that age, become Nairah, she could marry to please herself.

"Pagan and barbarous usages, nevertheless, penetrated even among us at the epoch of the Kings. The sexes were more strictly separated. Sometimes, for example, the Jews cloistered the women in a harem, or, if they were poor, compelled them to do manual labour. There rests this stain against us, contrary to the true spirit of the Mosaic law.

"Pardon this digression, too grave, perhaps, for a love idyl between a man and woman. But you will see later on that it was necessary."

"I believe that your story will contain at least two men," said Lucie lightly.

"It suffices me to put only one in strong relief, although two or three men will find a place in this history, this idyl, or, if you prefer, this drama. Without them there could be no drama."

"Or simply a monodrama depending on one man."

"You have all seen this woman whose voice has so charmed us. She is the most unfortunate of women, because she is obliged to submit to a situation that is revolting to her.

"Her father, a rich Jew, belongs, or rather belonged, to those of his race who, owing to a European education, have sunk into a destructive scepticism, and regard as an imposture all religions, including his own. Entering early into active life, he attributed the success of his career partly to luck, but above all to his own intelligence and energy. Outside of these three forces, there was for him nothing else here below but a poetical Utopia for the amusement of simpletons.

"The mother of Mathilde was a devout Israelite, but she died young, and her child was left to the care of so-called Christians, who taught her their own unbelief in the ideal, and left her to form her mind for good or evil by reading without discernment. They taught her that there was neither virtue nor vice, but skill or stupidity, calculation or improvidence, decency or unseemliness. So that when the maiden entered society she looked on men as mere ciphers or figures, as they appear in one of the tables of Pythagoras. Such a society seemed unattractive to a youthful imagination which had an instinctive longing for the perfumes of life, and found only dead and withered flowers.

"At an early age she was deprived of these illusions. She was told that men were wicked, heartless, and deceivers. It would not do to believe in their protestations; she must view them with contempt and aversion. It was a good thing to be honest, to spare one's self the trouble of embarrassment, and honesty is often the best policy. On this theory crime was only an awkwardness, and virtue without intrinsic worth unless it brought assured profits.

"As Mathilde might marry an Israelite, a Mussulman, or a Christian, she had access to the literature of all religious beliefs. She read the Bible, but her father ridiculed the most sacred passages. This critical raillery and the numerous books perused by her left her mind nothing but unbelief.

"Add to this the practical education which endeavoured prematurely to tear from her all heart, as one pulls an aching tooth to prevent further suffering, and you can form some idea of what they had done to this poor child.

"Mathilde entered this existence like an insensible statue, without taste for life. She foresaw that she would not be happy, for she well knew that there could be no happiness for noble souls. Her sentiments did not accord with the line of conduct that had been drawn for her. Her aspirations were pure, but she was taught that self-interest should be the only motive of all her aspirations, and that any other course was a morbid weakness, and would lead to ruin. Although she was ignorant of many things that had been concealed from her, she divined them, and each day she rebelled against this desperate reality. Her widowed father lived on, following his own whims without regard to moral law, and without belief in virtue. Coveting all that was accessible to him, he led a selfish life, and, although he was careful to observe the proprieties in his house, his practices were visible to the eyes of his young daughter, who was convinced that true affection had no place in the hearts of men. Her generous nature revolted sadly against this paternal materialism. Any other woman under the influence of such an example, in such an immoral atmosphere, would have been corrupted. Mathilde felt only a profound melancholy. Nature and study became her consolers. Art spoke to her of the great sentiments toward which she had wished to raise herself, but had been prevented.

"There is perhaps no torture more intense than a struggle like this between noble instincts and the animalism of the world. Mathilde in her fourteenth year was already as sad, as wearied, as she is to-day of this existence without future and without hope. Before her appeared the certainty of an advantageous marriage which would render her life a success in a worldly sense. Nothing more! Her father, with his wealth, was sure to find a young husband of good position, possessed of riches equal to his own. It was not to be supposed that he would seek for other qualities, and it was certain that he would not suffer from his daughter, whom he loved after his own fashion, the least remonstrance in regard to his choice.

"While the girl was growing up in this poisonous moral atmosphere, in the midst of every luxury, a young man came to the house."

"I have waited for him a long time with impatience," cried Lucie Coloni. "Behold, at last he is here!"

"Do not ask me to describe his character," said Jacob. "The heroes of true romances like this all resemble each other in general. They have external fascinations, all the virtues, all the grand and noble qualities, an affectionate heart and an exalted head, and so forth. But my hero, nevertheless, differs a little from the ordinary. He had some distinctive traits; he had been poor, and was little accustomed to salons. He had drawn all the forces of his success and energy from the school of humility; he was modest, peaceable, and little expansive, like all those to whom a premature sadness has proved that to ask sympathy provokes only raillery in this world. The father of Mathilde was a distant relative of this young man, and had taken him to his house to finish his education, having recognized in him a certain capacity. He intended to push his fortunes owing to a noble sentiment of relationship which remained in his heart, and was almost the only trace of old Judaism. He also felt some pride in protecting a young man who promised to do himself honour in the world. This promise was only partly fulfilled, for too precocious talents do not always produce the fruits that are expected of them.

"The young man, who had finished his studies and was preparing himself for business, lived in the house of his protector, who intended to send him to foreign parts to oversee his business. You may give to my hero any name you wish."

"Call him Jacob," said Ivas.

"No, no! let us call him Janus, the Polish equivalent for Jonas. I do not know, madame, if it is hardly worth while to relate the rest to you, for it is easy to divine. Two orphaned souls, aspiring to the poetry of life, could not meet without loving. Mathilde found in him a nobleness which responded to her ideal of a man's character, and he recognized in her his ideal of melancholy beauty.

"In his protector's house it was necessary to be on guard, lest he should suspect an inclination which would cause them to be separated, and should chase Janus from his Paradise. The young people well understood that they must feign indifference for fear of such a catastrophe. A few words exchanged in a room full of people, on the street, or near the piano, some furtive glances,--behold the relations of the young man with Mathilde!

"The father had not the least idea that this unfortunate youth could dare to throw his eyes on an inheritance worthy of a Rothschild. If such a thought had by chance entered his head, he would have put it away as a thing impossible.

"The English governess, mature but romantic still, was very fond of these Platonic friendships, and had herself even such a weakness for the young man that she hoped to fascinate him by the multiplicity of her talents. She put no restraint upon her pupil, and she even took it upon herself to assist them. His host, seeing the manoeuvres of Miss Burnet, for he had for these things much perspicuity, laughed in his sleeve, thinking it quite natural for Janus thus to commence his virile career, and never dreaming that it was his daughter to whom the youth aspired."

Jacob paused, as if short of breath, and Lucie gave him some sherbet. There was a moment of silence, then he resumed his narrative in a weaker voice:--

"Recall, each one of you, kind listeners, your youth and the earliest flower of the springtime of your first love. Consider that angel of candour, chained unhappily to the earth, this most prosaic earth, while her wings unfold and open to carry her to heaven. The youth adored her as a divinity, and she saw in him a celestial messenger sent to her from the ethereal world. That is the romance which they held in their hearts, and which they would not manifest visibly. Two words sufficed to make them happy for a long time. A look, when they met during the day, gave them new strength to live.

"The word 'love' was never mentioned between them. The same chaste sentiment beat in unison in their hearts without inflaming their brains or their senses. For them silence even was a poem of happiness; the smile, a joy divine; and a flower was an avowal.

"These felicities, which appeared afterward like child's play, and which reason turned to raillery, passed unperceived.

"Neither Mathilde's father nor her governess had the least suspicion of anything serious. The father even thought that, at times, his daughter was too timid and too cold toward Janus, and Miss Burnet reproached her for the same thing. The want of theory or of practice, I know not which, deceived her, and she supposed that it was to herself that Janus aspired.

"Alas! this dream of the heart, this love without hope, vanished like a dream at the gate of Paradise. One morning, or rather one afternoon, the father ordered his daughter, with a very indifferent air, to dress herself with much care, as he expected a visitor. A short time before dinner there entered a young man, distinguished, well-bred, a perfect man of the world, and whom the father presented under the name of Henri Segel.

"There are presentiments! This black-eyed AntinoÜs, with a perpetual smile on his lips, with an amiability so spiritual and so courteous, frightened the girl. She felt for him a violent repulsion, a strange sentiment which is explained by psychology only; she detested him, although she had nothing with which to reproach him.

"He loved music, and was himself a good musician, and he was said to be enormously rich.

"Three days after, the father said quietly to his daughter, without asking her opinion, that Henri Segel was her betrothed. In announcing this he said that she was to be congratulated on having pleased Monsieur Segel, and that he had fallen desperately in love with her. All this was in a tone which did not permit the slightest contradiction. The thing was settled; she had nothing to say about it.

"The marriage seemed to him so suitable that all hesitation or opposition would have appeared an unpardonable childishness. She ought to consider herself a very lucky girl.

"Mathilde did not reply, but she grew frightfully pale. She was congratulated on all sides, while she suffered in her heart. Her sad glance seemed to say to Jacob"--

"Pardon me," cried Ivas, "but you called him Janus."

Jacob blushed, drank a glass of water, wiped his brow, and seemed unable to continue his story.

"You are right," said he at last. "I was mistaken."

"Continue, monsieur,--continue, I beg of you," cried Lucie.

"It was," said the Jew, "a pleasant evening in springtime. The perfume of flowers was spread abroad, and on the leaves glistened drops of dew. Mathilde and Miss Burnet walked in the garden. Seated on a bench, Janus held a book which he did not read. The Englishwoman saw him and directed their steps toward him. Happily, or perhaps unfortunately, just then there came a friend of Miss Burnet. Chance willed that the lovers were left alone together. They were both glad and frightened at this unexpected circumstance. They walked together for some time in silence, trembling and hardly breathing. The two Englishwomen had a thousand secrets to relate, and left them alone a long time. The governess had even whispered to her pupil on leaving, 'Go as far as you please.'

"They strolled along in silence. She gathered flowers, among the leaves of which her tears mingled with the dew-drops. He, pensive, looked at her and man-like held back the tears that rose to his eyes. Suddenly Mathilde stopped. She raised her head proudly, as if she had gained a victory over herself. She put her hand to her side, and threw on her kinsman a strange look in which she gave herself to him for eternity.

"'Very soon,' murmured she, 'we must separate. You know what awaits me. It will be sweet for me to recall this evening's walk. And you, will you remember?'

"She spoke to him for the first time in a sad and solemn voice. Her expressive words went to Janus' heart, and he thought he should go mad. His heart beat violently, his hands were clenched on his breast.

"'Forget you, Mathilde!' cried he. 'Forget the happiness I have tasted with you! Oh, no, never! Never! I swear to you that I will never marry another woman, for I have loved you, and I love you still, as one loves but once in life. Why need I tell you all my love when you know it already!'

"'I have believed it, and I still believe it, but life is long and memory unfaithful. For you men, it is said that love is a pastime, for us it is existence. I have loved you, and I will never cease to love you!'

"Stifled sobs interrupted her words.

"'Love could never be a plaything to me,' said Janus. 'In my eyes it is the most sacred thing in life. It is the marriage of two souls for eternity.'

"'I believe it,' cried Mathilde, 'and that is why I love you. I feel that you are honest and sincere; you know what awaits me. They have sold me to a man for whom I have an invincible aversion. But I will not suffer long, for I shall soon die. May your soul be the tomb where my memory will not perish! My father will raise for me a monument, my husband will give me a fine funeral, but my grave before long will be covered with weeds; may a memory of me remain, at least, in your heart!'

"The Englishwomen were so absorbed in their conversation that they prolonged their farewells for some time.

"'To-day,' continued Mathilde, 'I have seen you so sad that I have wished, under pretence of saying adieu, to give you some words of consolation. Who knows if we shall ever meet alone again; let me then repeat that I love you; that I love and will love you until death.'

"'Mathilde,' cried he, rebelling against their destiny, 'if you have confidence in me, leave this house. Behold two arms which can procure you bread. Your father will forgive us, and you will be mine forever.'

"'No!' she answered firmly, after an instant of reflection; 'I love you like a child, but I can reason like a mature woman. I do not believe in a future; for me the future is a lure. I should bring you, perhaps, some moments of happiness, but afterward I should be a cause of weariness and remorse. You have no right to show yourself so ungrateful to your protector, who has done much for you. Who knows whether you would not be disappointed in me. I am already fading, having been poisoned from my cradle. My unbelief awakens. I hear a mocking laugh vibrate in my ears, even when tears are in my eyes. No, no! a hundred times no! It will be better for you to love the dead, for who knows if living, you would love me long.'

"She dismissed him with a sigh, and withdrew from him as if she feared that she might be persuaded.

"After a little, she returned to Janus, who was lost in bitter thoughts. He had remained where she had left him, with bowed head and clasped hands.

"'What do you think of my future husband?' asked she.

"'I detest him.'

"'Is it because he is to be my husband?'

"'No. He produced this impression at first sight.'

"'And why?'

"'I know not. He is odious to me, although I know nothing against him. He is rich, fashionable, very amiable. And with all that I cannot like him.'

"'I even fear,' added Mathilde, 'that he has nothing human in him. He is a being which appears to me to be utterly without heart, a sort of automaton fabricated by the nineteenth century. With all his knowledge, I am sure that he does not know how to weep, nor suffer, nor to have pity or compassion on the sorrows of others. If he gives alms, it is for ostentation or calculation; but he will not grieve for an unfortunate; he will never sympathize with him nor mingle his tears with his. Our epoch of iron has fashioned men worthy of herself. She has made them of iron, and the blood that courses in their veins is no longer pure, but has grown rusty.'

"'Perhaps you are a little too severe,' said Janus. 'However, it is the same impression that I have formed of him. But love and a wife often transform a man.'

"'A man, yes, but not an automaton. His very look freezes me. This sweet smile, this perpetual gayety which cannot be natural, irritates me. He is always the same,--a being of marble. My God! have pity on me!'

"In saying these words she drew from her hand a ring and put it on one of his fingers.

"'I bought this expressly for you. Preserve it in memory of her whom you have loved. It is black; it is a mourning ring, the only kind appropriate to our unhappy love. After to-day any conversation between us will be impossible, so farewell, and forget me not.'

"She left him and joined her governess.

"These were the first and last words of love that passed between them. They saw each other every day, but as strangers. They bowed to each other, but neither of them ever sought another interview. Hereafter only shadows and silence would surround their passion.

"Mathilde accepted, without a word, the husband that her father had chosen for her. The marriage was celebrated with great ostentation. The victim walked to the altar robed in satin and lace and covered with diamonds.

"Her father was radiant with the joy of having so well established his daughter. Every one knew that he had given her a million for a wedding dowry, and that still another was promised, and that the husband possessed several himself, with expectations besides. All the mothers, all the fathers, and all the marriageable young girls envied Mathilde's luck. Behold, in all its simplicity, the end of my story!

"Two years have passed, and you have met this husband and wife. He is always calm and happy, she, sad. The only thing that ever troubles him is when he fails to receive in good time the reports of the bourse of Paris or London. To amuse him she sings, as you have heard, the music of Mendelssohn. Truly, it was hardly worth while to listen to my story. It is a romance which happens every day, and which has been related a thousand times before."

"And Janus?" asked the lady.

"Janus wears always the ring of his only beloved. He bears his sorrow, for in one hour he drained the dregs of despair. To-day he is only a body without soul."

"The story is heart-rending above all expression," said Lucie, "and I admit that I expected something more dramatic. The victim has all my sympathy. As for the lover, I am not anxious about him. This 'body without soul' will soon be consoled."

"I doubt it," replied Jacob. "Consolation comes only to those who wish to console themselves. Janus is resigned to a perpetual mourning of the heart."

"No one would believe," remarked Madame Coloni, "that this story was of our day; its character is so simple and so elegiac."

Jacob rose; the hour was late, and all the company prepared to retire. The Russian, who had remained silent all the evening, was the only one who did not hasten to depart.

"Then, if not in Genoa, we shall meet again in Warsaw," said Lucie to Ivas and Jacob.

"You are surely going there, madame?"

"It appears that it is decided," replied she, looking at her companion. "The hour of departure only is not yet fixed. You will, perhaps, be kind enough to come to see me."

Ivas and Jacob returned to the Hotel FÉder.

"I believe," said Ivas, "that I will not hear the rest of your biography this evening. You are already too fatigued with your remembrances. Good-night!"