A FAMOUS MAN'S NEICE.

Taranaki Daily News, Volume L, Issue 61, 2 November 1907, Page 4

A FAMOUS MAN'S NEICE.

It was in 1875 the year I competed for the Academy prize for my novel, "Fatal Love." But what is the use oi telling you its name? Doubtless you never heard of it; it did not win the prize, and almost all the copies are still on the booksellers' shelves. "You have made it too straight-laced," said the publisher, who had consented to get it out, at my expense, only after I had advanced the full cost of publication.

Yet, such is the irony of fate, my unhappy work was cast out by the Forty Immortals on the pretext that certain passages were too risky. However, this double check did not stop my career in the production of masterpieces of fiction. But it is to my "Fatal Love"

that I owe having been ridiculous once ill my life. I sincerely hope it was the only time.

I was young—for I was not much more than twenty—and I was inexperienced—for, after having frankly published a novel at my own expense, I sent three copies, in all seriousness, to the secretary of the Academic Francaise, and took no further steps in the matter, confident on my merit. How«ver, an old aunt whom I had informed of my ambitious project, gave mc some good advice.

"My dear nephew," she said, "X know an Academician, the well-known writer, Z . Take him a copy of the book with a special dedication. I will speak to him about it, for 1 meet him every week at some house or other when I am dining out." The very next mornin'g my book was despatched to the famous writer Z , who is dead now; but not, as you shall see, from having read my book. Summer was coming on, and I went down into Burgundy to get a breath of country air, to see my family, and to economise a little. The publication of my book had created a stringency in my finances. Times have changed since authors were the rain of publishers. In a compartment of the Paris, Lyons, and Marseilles express there awaited me the sweetest satisfaction that literature has ever afforded me. It was brief, alas; but, nevertheless, even now I cannot recall the fleeting memory of my youth without a thrill of emotion. There were three of us in the compartment; myself, of course; then a man of. about sixty years, sliort of figure, red of face, liald, and—a strange thing at his .age—without .the red ribbon of the Legion of Honor. It might be a man of brilliant intellect; but, if so, lie concealed it under a rather heavy outol husk. His costume evinced an ordinary regard for the dictates of fashion. On the other hand, the young girl who accompanied him—his daughter, doubtless —seemed to me a person of indisputable distinction, for she wore silk stockings. 1 have learned since, to my sorrow, that it does rot do to pin one's faith to silk stockings. However, the fair unknown might have worn sabots, had only one eye, been hunch-backed. It was not on her that my dazzled eyes rested, it was on the book she was reading—a book in a salmon colored binding that I would have recognised miles away; Oreat heavens, it was my book! Everyone can see the presses working nowadays. Who amoiig us lias not given himself the refined delight of seeing his name blazing forth from a bookseller's window between those of Octave Feuillet and Balzac? But to see one's self read! Ah, what a voluptuous delight it is! My neiplilwr was not agitated; slip, was yawning. Doubtless—l forced myself to believe so—she bad got up very early that morning to prepare for her journey. Her eyes closed little by little; her rosy chin sank towards a charming cushion which nature had Set to its hanil; her firmly-gloved hands relaxed, and—my book fell to the floor. It is not jin inexcusable downfall to fall at the feet of a pretty woman—especially if (hose feet be elad in silk.

She had not moved. Her slumber was no trifling catnap, but sober, serious, and enduring. It was, presumably, a family trait, for the father had been snoring gently for some time. Happily, he haa not been reading "Fatal Love," which fact cut sliort certain disquietening suppositions. As these thoushts flashed through my brain, T stopped to pick up the book. Alas, my happiness did not last long. No, she had not bought the book-, for, on the ily-leaf, T found these lines, which T recognised, for 1 had written t.hem myself: To Monsier Z (of the Academie Franeaise). "Dear master, allow me whom von do nei know to ofttr you I he honiag! of this humble book, as a token of respect for your sublime genius." But then—this apoplectic and neglected personage sleeping in the corner was —oil, joh!—he was the famous writer, Z —! And ho had noticed my book, for he had taken it with him. He allowed—wlio knows?—perhaps he had advised, his child to read it!

T must profit by this unhoped-for meeting. I had fully six hours to spend with my Academician—more than enough to assure me of his vote, which, according to my aunt, would carry with it thirty-one others. There was no reason why I should not begin operations on hi :>i tlirough his daughter. It was a roundabout way to reach ray end, but what a charming detour! If all the v. ork« of the famous writer Z—— were n« good as this, the wj.-thy man was ;:i titled to a seat in the Academy.

Imagine a hi unette, with red and pouting lips, with a figure that was not' turned on a lathe, for I would defy the most perfect machine to produce such j I-nrc and striking outlines, such adorable contrasts of slenderness and swell- \ ing curves, of hills and valleys, suggestive of everything but the Academy and its prizes. But it was no time to fall in love; I must think of my book. Poor book! the leaves were not yet cut, and, if matters went on in this way, they might never be. So, having nothing better to do, I drew forth my penknife and set to cutting tile pages. The rustling of the leaves—the most irritating of noises—awoke my neighbor, who looked astonished at i.he sight-of my occupation. ''Sir." she began, reaching out her hand to recover the property • "Allow me to save you a littb trouble," T replied. "If will take only a minute."

She thanked me with a smile—what superb teeth she had! The entire Institute could not offer the like. X saw that she regarded me with certain com plaisance; evidently I did not displease her. Now was my chance to get to business.

"Besilos, I have almost a right to do it," 1 continued, throwing into my face a world of meaning. "A light!" she repeated, opening her eyes wide. ''Why, yes. For, If you will permit me to introduce myself, I am the author —the humble and obscure author of this book."

She took the book, and, with lively curiosity, read the plebeian pseudonym on the cover. I must confess that the commonplace name of Pierre Lcjeune chilled lier a bit, and it was with a slightly disdainful tone that she resumed: ''Then, sir, you are an author?" "1 have that honor, for I do not doubt that it is an honor in your eyes. You must know many of the leading litterateurs of the day." "(Juitc a number come to our house, but they are mostly old men." "Papa keeps a sharp eye on his daughter," thought I, and then I added, aloud, "Doubtless you read a good deal?"

"Oh, yes', in the summer, in the country, In winter, in Paris, I have no time."

t indicated by a gesture that that seemed to me very natural; at her age, with her lieauty and style, she must he much sought after." Then I remembered the business I had in hand. r 'Do you think your father will do me the honor to glance over this modest effort? I need not tell you how important such indorsement as his——" "He is not my father, lie is my uncle, jDo you know 'him ?" , "By reputation, of course. WKat talent lie has I" ,

She nodded her head in approval. "Unfortunately," she said, speaking in a tower tone, "he is growing old, and one is soon worn out in his vocation. We have had a busy house this season, several large dinners every week, and, between ourselves, my poor uncle lias been just rushed to death."

"That is one of the consequences of being a great man. But he will be able to rest now. You are going to the country, doubtless?"

"Don't imagine that country life will be a rest. In Burgundy, the dinners are simply endless."

"Ah," 1 exclaimed, "you are going to Burgundy ?" "Yes, to Cluimprive." "lo the duchess'sV Shall you be there long?" '

"All the autumn. Do you know the neighborhood?"

"I visited that superb residenoe some years ago. What would you say if I visited you there in a few days?" She seemed astonished, and stared at me as if to see if I were speaking seriously.

"It would only be," I continued, "to learn what you think of my book, and if you have had the goodness, after having read it, to say a good word for it to your uncle." She burst out laughing—a pearly, rippling, delicious laugh. Heavens, but she was pretty! "You're joking," she said; "you wouldn't come to see me." "Not to see you? Why not? You shall see. Promise ine, though, that in tho meantime you will not have forgotten him who will carry forever in his heart" the uncle still a dormouse — "beauty."

fcihe was too intelligent not to see that I was sincere; not foolisli enough to be angry, for, bold as were my words, my manner was perfectly respectful. Besides, I saw that she was no novice at coquetry and even could have given me points in the game—a moat delightful , game, I assure you, and one that interested me so much that I had completely forgotten Academy and Academicians, including the one who snored away 'll the corner. We talked of everything, of Paris and Burgundy, theatres and hunting, the Duchess de Champrive, whom she evidently knew very intimately, hut on whom she expressed herself with reserve that seemed to me in excellent taste. I even dared—oh, the audacity of a youth of twenty!—to ask her name, which she gave me with adorable ingenuousness: "Felecie Legerot." "Your uncle is not your father*3 brother, then," I remarked, "for you have not the same name."

When I alighted at Dijon—my companions went on to Beanme—l had not made much progress as regards my literary future, but I certainly had no cause to complain of that which I had made in Felicie's affections. In the Blaisy tunnel (five thousand feat long) I had devoured her hands with kisses through the violently perfumed gloves that covered them, and I had whispered, "I shall see you again soon" to hev, emphasising the words with a passionate of her supple fingers. ,r nut it, is impossible," she had protested, though not angrily. "You must not attempt to see me again, M. Le. jenne."

"Come, come," I exclaimed, with a happy laugh, "haven't you guessed that Lejeune is a literary pseudonym?" And, bringing my lips a little nearer her pink ear, than perhaps, strict decorum would permit, I confided to my pretty neighboi the honorable name and title my aneastoi'J had bequeathed me. Under any other circumstances, Felicie's reply would have seemed a little hard on my literary pride. "There!" she exclaimed,. "T thought all the time you didn't look like a real author."

Her uncle finally woke up, but, for some reason unknown to me, his niece refused to introduce me, and she even seemed surprised at my insistence. However, as Z . had the appearance of a simple sort of man, superior to the stupid prejudices of etiquette, I 3poke to him as the train stopped. "Dear master,'' I said, "I have respected the repose needful to a great intellect like yours. Let me assure yo'i, however, of my strong ffesire to be 'presented to you soon at the duchess's. Though you do not suspect if, yon see before you a petitioner for your good offices."

He seemed surprised, but made no effort to understand me.

"Sir," said he cordially, "if it is anything that lies in my province, you may count on me." And we shook hands warmly. The reader need not ho told after what manoeuvres I found myself a week later at the Duchess de Chaniprive's, who invited me to luncheon a few days later.

I was thinking too much of Felicie to pay attention to anything else, and you can imagine my disappointment when, as we entered the dining room, I saw that neither she nor her uncle were among the company. What had happened? They told me they were to he the duchess's guests until the end of the autumn.

Profiting by a moment of silence, I determined to ask for them. "Has our distinguished friend Z left you, madaiue?" I asked, raising my voice; "I hoped to meet him here." "He did not come this year. Do you know hi in?" "Only enough to have offered him $ book which "

"I thought as much. So you are an author, sir? Our friend, Z lent me your book, recommending it as the work of a compatriot, I read it, and found it charming." Poor woman, may Heaven forgive her tile (ib. But just then I was thinking of other things. "What," I insisted, "M. Z has not come? Why, I travelled down here with him, the other day; he was coming here with his niece." "His niece f

'Tfes, madame. She has a great admiration for you. Slie is extremely pretty, and so sensible, too." "Z—-'s niece! Do you know her name ?"

"Mile. Pelicie Legerot." Mine. de Champrive crushed mo with a look. The duke seemed astonished, and glanced at me in a droll manner out of the corner of his eye. And as I was mechanically staring at the butler,- who stood opposite me, I saw the face of I that grave man express stupefaction so I profound that I intuitively felt that 1 i had committed some horrible blunder -which was irremediable because I had not the faintest idea where the trouble | toy-

Finally, it was the first trial—the suggestion was made that some guests from Paris and I should inspect the chateau. That over, T hoped to ask for my tilbury aud escape to my own roof, hoping that sooner or later some chance would reveal to me that fatal error I had committed, of which T vainly sought to imagine the nature and extent.

That chance was not long in coming. As we (legended to the kitchen, the duchess keeping me at her side—l have "-"or been able to rid myself of the idea that she did it on purpose—do you know \ iiom I saw in the immense, crypt-like worn, with its great stone pillars? IDo you know whom I snw in cap, apron, and shirt-sleeves, standing liefore the immense range? Simply Z-—, the Academician, or, rather the false Z—, fatter, redder, than in the railway ear, but not asleep this time, for he was in the act of preparing an aspic dii volaillc for dinner. And do you know whom I saw enter by another door, in a coquettish white apron and carrying a kettle that she had doubtless just filled with hot water? Felieie Legerot in person. The young unknown for whom I had got luncheon at Tonnerre, whose hand I had kissed with imyetuous ardor in the Blaisy tunnel, was the duchess's maid. He whom T had taken 'for the famous writer Z , was the cook, I had just eatsn his masterpieces! and "Fatal Stove," the cause of all this confusion, had been filched by Felieie from luff mistress. Wt—Felieie, her uncle, and I—must, have looked unspeakably funny as we recognised each other, for the Duchess de Champrive could not restrain herself, and, in spite of her dignity, had to lean against one of the pillars that supported the roof, to lauijb at her case. As to Felieie, the shameless hussy, she (led to the next room, where I heard her shriek with laughter.

All this happened ten years ago, and never since have I been seen at Champrive. T have met the duchess oiue or twice in Paris, but I hope she didn't recognise me. Tf she did, it eertain'y was not my fault.—Translated for the Argonaut from the French of Leon Tinseau,