III. PASSAGES FOR TRANSLATION INTO FRENCH

Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday the old Abbé Faber used to go to church to hear the confessions of the pénitent, although three times out of four there was no one there. One Wednesday evening it was raining hard, but he set out as usual in spite of the rain. He was ail the more annoyed at going out that evening because he was leaving a good fire and an interesting book behind him. Having arrivée! at the church he found to his surprise a pénitent awaiting him, and what is more, a maie pénitent. The abbé entered the confessional, took a pinch of snuff, drew back the little curtain and invited the man to confess. The latter began by begging the priest to forgive him if he did not speak properly. He had not confessed for many years, but this time he had something on his conscience : he had killed a man ! This was the most astonishing confession the good Abbé had ever heard, but before he could recover from his surprise the man continued his story. His naine was James. He was a bricklayer, and had corne to Paris twenty years before with a comrade, whose name was Philip. They both worked for the same master, but Philip was fond of pleasure, while he had to send his savings to his poor mother in the country. He fell in love with the daughter of a fruiterer, but he could net marry

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Catherine because of his poverty. At length his mother died, and then it seemed to him he had enough to set up house with. He spoke to Catherine about it, and the marriage was agreed upon.

Unfortunately he had told ail to Philip. Now Philip was a handsome fellow, and having made Catherine's acquaintance, he won the poor girl's affections, so that, when James offered her a présent on her birthday, she refused it. " I was in the deepest despair, father," continued James ; "but what was to be done ? I loved them both. Well, they were married, and they had a boy whom they named Camille. Then Philip became an idler and a drunkard, and Catherine had to take ail the furniture to the pawnbroker's. I did what I could for her, but that was very little. Meanwhile time went on ; Camille has grown up and is now more than twenty years old. Yesterday evening I met him in the street looking very sad. I asked him what was the matter. He told me he had drawn lots, and would hâve to do his five years' military service in the colonies. This morning I was working on a scaffolding with Philip at my side. I knew that if Philip were dead, Camille, as the son of a widow, would escape military service, and would be able to support his mother. The devil tempted me — I could not resist — I flung him from the scaffolding. He was picked up stone dead, and it was thought an accident. That is what I wanted to say, father, and hère is the présent I had formerly bought for Catherine. Sell it and give the money to the poor."

It was raining hard. An omnibus had just turned the corner of the Rue de Sèvres, and the passengers were leaving the waiting-room in order to take their places. " There

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are still three places ! " cried the conductor. They were at once taken by two sisters of charity and a poor woman, who was carrying a sickly-looking little boy in her arms. " I say, madame!" said the conductor, "you must pay for that child." "Why, he is only three and a half!" replied the mother. " Indeed ? Very well," and the bus was set in motion. The two sisters sat beside one another ; the one was a woman about fifty, while the other was perhaps twenty-four. The poor woman began to talk to the conductor ; he was wearing the Crimean medal, and proved more amiable than she had expected. " Yes," she said, " the poor child has been in the hospital for six weeks, and I hâve just brought him out. He fell ill in July just'when my husband, who is a binder, had nothing to do. It is the time when his customers go either into the country or to the sea-side. I was angry with my husband at the time, because he was always thinking of politics. However, we took the child to the hospital in a cab ; that cost me a couple of sheets which I pawned at the broker's. My husband would not enter the hospital ; he said he had not the courage. On my return, I found him smoking outside. When he saw me coming without the child, he flung his pipe to the ground, and smashed it in a thousand pièces.

"We shall never forget those six weeks. I believe the weather has been fine, but it seemed to us as though there was no sun. I was allowed to see the child every Monday and Thursday, and they told me he was getting better. My husband could not corne with me, because he had found work again, but he suffered as much as I did in silence. And now it is ail over ; little Leopold is cured and is going to see his father again." While the poor woman spoke, the conductor and the elder sister listened attentively. But what was the younger one thinking of ail this time ? She was thinking of the happiness of this man and wife

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even in the midst of their misfortunes ; she was thinking of lier ovvn past. Six years ago she was living with her father, the duke, and was engaged to an Irish peer. Then the latter fell into disgrâce ; she was taken away to one of her fathers castles in Auvergne, and she was forbidden to mention his name. After that she became ill, and ever repeated the name of her betrothed in her deliiïum. Finally, in spite of her father's advice, she decided to become a sister of charity, and the only object she kept was a medal which the Irish peer had given her. The bus stopped at the Boulevard Magenta. The young sister woke up and saw the poor woman and the child before her. Quickly taking the medal from her neck, she asked the mother to do her the pleasure of accepting it. " It was blessed," she said, "six years ago by the Pope himself. Hang it round the neck of your child."

Captain Mercadier, after a great many years' service, retired to a little country town. This town possessed -a river in which one could fish, a church, and some 3000 inhabitants. Captain Mercadier had selected it for his résidence, because he was born there. Unfortunately there was no one there now whom he knew, for ail his acquaintances had either died or disappeared, and he feared he would be horribly bored. He had only reached the rank of captain after great efforts. Most of his life had been spent in Algeria, where he had received a bullet in his chest and other wounds, and now he had a pension of 2000 francs, which would protect him from absolute misery. During his journey on the diligence he had been telling the conductor one of his long stories, but the latter had not paid great attention to it. At last the carriage stopped, and the captain offered the coachman some white wine. His first care was to choose a furnished room. He soon found one, and in half an hour he had emptied his trunk

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and hung up his clothes. Then he went to the grocer's opposite and bought himself some candies, and having shaved himself he went out into town to look for a café. For you must know that the captain had three vices, tobacco, absinthe, and cards, and he could indulge in ail three in a café.

He then took a turn round the town and decided that Prospères café would suit him. It was not exactly what he had hoped for, but it was the best he could find. He was a welcome recruit to the frequenters of the café, because the new-comer had so many stories to tell. He was not long in proving to every one that he was a past master in every kind of game, so that in a short time the little town became quite proud of its retired captain. However, the captain was not perfectly happy. He discovered to his disgust that every Monday,- the town market-day, the café was crowded with farmers and pig-dealers. On that day every one was busy, and neither master nor waiter attended to him. Now one market-day, knowing that there would be no room for him in the café, he was sitting in the sun at the door of his house, when a little girl went by driving before her a few geese. What struck the captain most was that she had a wooden leg. He asked her what was her name, and she told him her name was Pierrette, that she slept under the staircase, and that he woke her up every evening when he came home. She would be nine years old on Ail Saints' Day, and owed her wooden leg to a cow which had kicked her when she was five. She added with a blush that she came from the Foundling Hospital, and then entered the house.

The captain went to his café, but there was such a crowd there that he went home dissatisfied. For the first

time his room seemed to him bare and misérable. The curtains looked dirty, the grate was mil of cigar-ends, and the dust was so thick everywhere that one might hâve vvritten one's name in it. It was évident that he required a servant, and then he remembered the little girl. Going out, he met the mistress of the house, and asked her whether the child could sew and make soup. " Of course," she replied, " she learnt that long ago. If you want a servant, and will undertake to feed and lodge her, I will give her up to you." " Very well, I will take her," said the captain. But the good man soon found that this luxury cost him more money than he expected. He gave up his morning absinthe and his dear cigars in order that Pierrette might hâve a small room beside his. In her turn she showed her gratitude by keeping the furniture clean, sweeping away the spider's webs, and making excellent soup. Many a time the captain had a hard struggle to keep away from the café, but he succeeded in doing so through his love for Pierrette. In fact she was no longer a servant. One day he exclaimed suddenly : " Pierrette, I can stand it no longer ; you must kiss me and call me * thou.' " The captain has long since given up his three vices, and when he dies Pierrette will not be penniless.

He was a child of ten, and he had been arrested for vagrancy. He told the judges that his name was Leturc, and that for six months he had been with a man who sang in the streets. His mother, who had been a laundress, was dead, and he wanted to know now whether they were going to put him in prison. He was only a little street boy in rags, and, as no one claimed him, he was sent to the " Jeunes Détenus." Although he was idle and clumsy, he was the most obedient child they had ever had. But when he was seventeen, he found himself free again to prowl about the streets and to associate himself with the worst

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characters in Paris. In a few months lie was condemned to a year's imprisonment for theft, and during the year which he spent in Sainte-Pélagie he lived with the strangest companions he had ever met. They were ail politicians, or pretended to be, and little Leturc did not understand half of what they said. When his time was up, he found himself again in the streets, and watched by the police, although he did not suspect it. He was like one of those cockchafers which boys tie to the end of a thread and make to fly about as if they were free. Everything was against him. By drawing a good number he escaped military service. He would hâve done better if he had drawn a bad one ; that might hâve saved him.

It was scarcely six weeks later when Leturc was again arrested for theft, but this time it was something more serious, and the judges condemned him to five years' pénal servitude at Toulon. During part of this time he worked in the harbour at Toulon, and then after spending a year or two on the river at Vernon he returned to Paris. As he wandered about the streets one day, he found himself in Montmartre before the school where he had been taught to read. He stood watching the boys at play in the court, and for the first time he recalled the happy days he had spent there. He doubted very much whether he could ever become again what he was in his childhood, but he said to himself: " Perhaps it is not too late, after ail; I will get work as a mason's assistant, I only want three francs a day, and, provided the police forget me, I shall be happy." Six months later he was a différent man ; he worked hard, he slept well, he was free, and what was more, he had a friend. His friend's name was Savinien, and Leturc liked him because he possessed ail the qualities which he had lost years before. On the other hand, Savinien was not sorry to find a comrade who shunned the wine-seller's and

who had the same tastes as himself. Being a peasant he was able to teach Leturc many détails he was ignorant of. The latter was almost astonished to find that such things as sowing-time, harvest, and vintage existed in the world.

Meanwhile Leturc was haunted by the fear lest his friend should discover the story of his past. Besides, Savinien's unexpected behaviour soon gave him a good deal of anxiety. To Leturc's regret he began to change his habits entirely ; he would spend money more freely, and then he would borrow a few francs from him and forget to pay them back. In order to lessen the cost of their lodging, they had been obliged to admit a third comrade, an old man, into their little room. One evening Leturc heard voices in their room ; he listened attentively on the landing. It was the old man complaining to the lodging-house keeper that he had been robbed of three louis which he had put in his box. " It must be the servant, or Savinien," he was saying, " unless it is Leturc who has stolen them, which I do not believe. Corne along, let us search the trunks ! " They began the search. In a few minutes Leturc heard the old man exclaim : " Hère they are in the waistcoat pocket of that Savinien ! " At that moment Savinien began to mount the stairs. Without the slightest hésitation Leturc entered the room and said it was he who had taken the louis and put them in Savinien's trunk. Let them run and fetch the police. When Savinien saw what had happened, he thought he was lost. But Leturc whispered to him that he had taken the matter on his own shoulders. They embraced and said goodbye to one another. Leturc's sentence was pénal servitude for life.

M. Matoussaint, the retired ironmonger, was very angry when his servant Caroline told him that she was going to

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be married in a few days. For an old bachelor of fiftyfive this was a great disappointment. He had retired from business some ten years before, and with an income of about 15,000 francs he was well satisfied with himself. As for Caroline, she was an excellent cook, and had been living with him for many years. However, he could not prevent the girl from marrying the locksmith, so he merely said to lier : " My child, you are a fool to marry this man ; I hâve known him by sight for two or three years ; he may be a drunkard and he may beat you." Then the old fellow gave lier a wedding-dress. A year later Caroline came to see him, carrying her baby proudly in her arms. "We hâve called him Vincent," she said, "and isn't he a fine child ? It would gïve my husband and me great pleasure, sir, if you would be Vincent's godfather." " Willingly," replied M. Matoussaint ; " when are you going to baptize him ? " " Next Sunday week, sir, at half-past twelve at St. Paul's. My husband's mother is going to be his godmother." The baptism duly took place, and . after the ceremony M. Matoussaint gave the guests a fine luncheon, with plenty of sandwiches and sweets, and as much Champagne as they could drink.

Little by little the retired ironmonger discovered that the baby was less ugly than he had thought when he first saw it. "Why, I must hâve been like that mys'elf once," said lie ; " I had a mother who must hâve held me on lier knees and kissed me just as Caroline does with her baby ! " He was always calling at Caroline's house to ask after his godson, and he seldom went to the café where he used to be so fond of playing billiards and making magnificent cannons. One day, however, the child fell ill ; its skin was red and it coughed violently, and they feared lest it would hâve croup. M. Matoussaint asked to go up and see it, but the doctor would not allow him. That evening lie

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asked one of his friends at the café if children were ever cured of croup. " Why, yes ! " he replied ; "my little girl had it, and we feared she would die, but in the end we saved her." You may imagine M. Matoussaint's joy the day when the doctor declared Vincent cured. He invited the whole family to luncheon, made Vincent sit beside him, and acted like a mother. " You will spoil baby, if you go on like that," said the father. " Do you think so ? " said M. Matoussaint ; " well, I hâve the right to do so, I am his godfather. '

John Vidal was a late non-commissioned officer, who had lost his left arm in Italy at Melegnano. He was only forty, and yet we ail called him old Vidal. As I lived in his neighbourhood I saw him pretty often, and I used to make him tell me about his campaigns. One evening we were walking along the Boulevard de Grenelle, when he suddenly saw in a window something which interested him. It was an old officer's tunic with a little round hole in the back, and I ventured to ask old Vidal how an officer of zouaves could receive a bullet in his back. But he was talking to himself : how could that uniform hâve corne there ? he must hâve seen it and recognised it ! At last he turned to me and told me the story. " But before I begin," said he, " you must swear to say nothing about it to any one. La-Soif was a sergeant in the 2nd zouaves ; he was a fine soldier, but a terrible drunkard. He would hâve been an officer long ago, if he had not been so fond of drinking. Several times his stripes were taken away, but each time, thanks to the kindness of his officers, he recovered them. By mischance a young captain, named Gentile, was sent to us ; he was ambitious and enterprising, but the most exacting officer we had ever had. The moment he arrived he took a dislike to La-Soif. The first time the latter got drunk, Gentile gave him a fortnight's confinement. He would hâve softened a little if he had seen the anger in La-Soifs face.

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" At this time the Emperor declared war on the Austrians, and we embarked for Italy. The day before the battle of Melegnano the captain had warned us that he would severely punish any one vvho behaved badly towards the Italians. That night La-Soif, who was very drunk, insulted an Italian girl and was brought before the captain. The latter told La-Soif that such wretches as he ought to be shot, and recommended him to get himself killed in the battle the following day. The fight had begun ; La-Soif and I were lying with the others in a corn-field, while Gentile and the officers were standing in front of us. Before I could stop him, La-Soif cocked his gun and fired, and I saw Gentile drop his sword and fall heavily. ' Coward ! ' I hissed. ' Oh,' he replied coolly, ' how can you prove that I killed him ? ' At that moment we received orders to charge the Austrian battery ; we took it, and La-Soif, the assassin, having captured an Austrian flag, presented it to the colonel after the charge. He received the cross, and I hâve never seen him since. It was my duty to denounce him, but, you see, I had no proofs." A few days later I met Vidal, who handed me a newspaper. " Read that," said he. This is what I read : — " Yesterday morning a sergeant of zouaves, called La-Soif, suddenly had a fit of delirium as he was looking at some old uniforms in a shopwindow in the Boulevard de Grenelle. The doctors fear he will lose his reason for ever." "Ah !" said Vidal, "at last Captain Gentile has avenged himself ! "