LITMIR.BIZ

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      JEAN

      With a love that I feel is ineffaceable.

      GILBERTE

      Did you love her?

      JEAN

      I did indeed love her. I experienced a tender attachment for a gentle and devoted girl. [_In a low voice, with passion._] Listen: that which I am going to tell you is unworthy, perhaps infamous, but I am only a human being, feeble as anyone else. Well, just now, in the presence of this poor, dying girl, my eyes were filled with tears and my sobs choked me--all my being vibrated with sorrow; but at the bottom of my soul, in the depths of my being, I thought only of you.

      GILBERTE [_rises quickly_]

      Do you mean that?

      JEAN [_simply_]

      I cannot lie to you.

      GILBERTE

      Well, do you know what made me suffer just now when my brother told me of this intrigue and death? I can tell it to you now. I was jealous! It was unworthy of me, wasn't it? Jealous of this poor, dead woman! But he spoke so well of her as to move me, and I felt that she loved you so much that you might find me perhaps indifferent and cold after her, and that hurt me so! I had so much fear of experiencing that that I thought of renouncing you.

      JEAN

      And now?--Gilberte! Gilberte!

      GILBERTE [_extends her hands_]

      I am here, Jean! take me!

      JEAN

      Ah, how grateful I am. [_Kisses her hands; then immediately after, with emotion._] But here another anguish seizes me. I have promised this poor woman to take and cherish this child in my own home. [Gilberte _makes a movement_.] That is not all. Do you know what her last thought, her last prayer was? She entreated me to commend the child to you.

      GILBERTE

      To me!

      JEAN

      To you, Gilberte.

      GILBERTE [_profoundly moved_]

      She did this, the poor woman? Did she believe that I would take--

      JEAN

      She hoped it, and in that hope her death was made easier.

      GILBERTE [_in exalted mood, crosses_ R.]

      Yes, I will take it! where is it?

      JEAN

      At my house.

      GILBERTE

      At your house? You must go to it immediately.

      JEAN

      What! leave you now, at this moment?

      GILBERTE

      We will go together, since I was to have accompanied you to your house this evening.

      JEAN [_joyously_]

      Oh, Gilberte! But your father will not let us go.

      GILBERTE

      Well, do you know what we must do, since my packing is finished, and my maid awaits me at your house? You must carry me off.

      JEAN

      Carry you off?

      GILBERTE

      Give me my cloak and let us go. All can be explained tomorrow. [_Shows the cloak that she had left upon the chair in the first act._] My cloak, please.

      JEAN [_picks up the cloak quickly and throws it over her shoulders_]

      You are the most adorable creature! [Gilberte _takes his arm and they go toward door_ R.]

      SCENE VIII.

      (_Enter_ Mme. de Ronchard, M. Petitpr?, M. Martinel, _and_ L?on C.)

      MME. DE RONCHARD

      Well, what are they doing? Are they going away now?

      PETITPR?

      Why, what does it mean?

      GILBERTE

      Yes; father, I am going away. I am going with my husband; but I shall be here to-morrow to ask pardon for this hurried flight, and to explain to you the reason for it.

      PETITPR?

      Were you going without saying good-bye to us--without embracing us?

      GILBERTE

      Yes, in order to avoid more discussions.

      L?ON

      She is right. Let them go.

      GILBERTE [_throws herself upon_ Petitpr?'s _neck_]

      Till to-morrow, father; till to-morrow, my dear Aunt. Good night, all; I have had enough of emotion and fatigue.

      MME. DE RONCHARD [_goes to_ Gilberte _and embraces her_]

      Yes, run along, darling--there is a little one over there who waits for a mother!

      _Curtain._

      THE LANCER'S WIFE

      AND

      OTHER TALES

      THE LANCER'S WIFE

      It was after Bourbaki's defeat in the east of France. The army, broken up, decimated and worn out, had been obliged to retreat into Switzerland, after that terrible campaign. It was only the short duration of the struggle that saved a hundred and fifty thousand men from certain death. Hunger, the terrible cold, and forced marches in the snow without boots, over bad mountainous roads, had caused the _francs-tireurs_ especially the greatest suffering, for we were without tents and almost without food, always in front when we were marching toward Belfort, and in the rear when returning by the Jura. Of our brigade, that had numbered twelve hundred men on the first of January, there remained only twenty-two pale, thin, ragged wretches, when at length we succeeded in reaching Swiss territory.

      There we were safe and could rest. Everybody knows what sympathy was shown to the unfortunate French army, and how well it was cared for. We all gained fresh life, and those who had been rich and happy before the war declared that they had never experienced a greater feeling of comfort than they did then. Just think. We actually had something to eat every day, and could sleep every night.

      Meanwhile, the war continued in the east of France, which had been excluded from the armistice. Besan?on still kept the enemy in check, and the latter had their revenge by ravaging the Comte Franch?. Sometimes we heard that they had approached quite close to the frontier, and we saw Swiss troops, who were to form a line of observation between us and the Germans, set out on their march.

      But this hurt our pride, and as we regained health and strength the longing for fighting laid hold of us. It was disgraceful and irritating to know that within two or three leagues of us the Germans were victorious and insolent, to feel that we were protected by our captivity, and to feel that on that account we were powerless against them.

      One day, our captain took five or six of us aside, and spoke to us about it, long and earnestly. He was a fine fellow, that captain. He had been a sub-lieutenant in the Zouaves, was tall and thin and as hard as steel, and during the whole campaign had given a great deal of trouble to the Germans. He fretted in inactivity and could not accustom himself to the idea of being a prisoner and of doing nothing.

      "Confound it!" he said to us, "does it not pain you to know that there are a lot of uhlans within two hours of us? Does it not almost drive you mad to know that those beggarly wretches are walking about as masters in our mountains, where six determined men might kill a whole troop any day? I cannot endure it any longer,

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