Essays from 'The Guardian'

CONTES DU CENTENAIRE." PAR AUGUST

ves than can be estimated by mere lapse of time, and where a fully detailed antiquarian knowledge, used with admirable tact and economy, is indeed serviceable in giving reality of effect to scene and character. In truth, M. Filon's very lively antiquarianism carries with it a genuine air of personal memory. With him, as happens so rarely, an intimate knowledge of historic detail is the secret of life, of the impression of life; puts his own imagination on the wing; secures the imaginative cooperation of the reader. A stately age-to us, perhaps, in the company of the historic muse, seeming even more stately than it actually was-it is pleasant to find it, as we do now and again on these pages, in graceful déshabille. With perfect lightness of to

keeper. The various distinguished people who had fingered his clavecins, and turned over the [140] folios of music, for half a century past, had left their memories behind them; M. de Voltaire, for instance, who had caressed the head of Phlipote with an aged, skeleton hand, leaving, apparently, no very agreeable impression on the child, though her father delighted to recall the incident, being himself a demi-philosophe. He went to church, that is to say, only twice a year, on the Feast of St. Cecilia and on the Sunday when the Luthiers offered the pain bénit. It was his opinio

ed confidences. "It [141] is not always," observes Phlipote, whom eve

one loves those o

too, a secret, m

de! Then what

nd and wife, but we can be friends-good and faithful friends

ure you would

first? The woman I love-Ah! b

not laugh. I know too

when love i

pele

r spoken to her. Pe

on't even know the name of h

oor Phl

r Cla

he young man took the tiny hand of

dore is Mademoi

the Opera?-the fian

lle Coupain play the organ and witness the extraordinary spectacle of the convulsionnaires, brought thither to be touched by the relic of the True Cross. In the press of the crowd at this exciting scene Phlipote faints, or nearly faints, wh

im no More?' asks Cla

the way, but with cautious glances towards our house. Only, as he did not know what stor

d have show

, with a delicious gestu

e great Guimard, she of her unknown lover, scarce l

ce of Christopher Marteau. '

th me. Now, when I know you can't bear me, I [144] shall be nicely in love with you.' The soft warmth of her arm seemed to pass through Claude, and gave him strange sensations. He resumed na?vely, 'Yes! and how od

s. Phlipote allows Claude entrance to her chamber, full of admiration for its graceful arrangements, its virgin cleanliness. He inspects slowly all the familiar objects daily touched by her, her books, her girlish ornaments. One day she cried wit

object of his affections, but to his immense disillusion. If he could but speak to her, he fancies he should find the courage, the

to the Théatre Fran?ais that he could not refuse; and it is you

a gentleman, who resembled point by point your description of

u didn't

hung h

young girl asks im

, hardly understand, myself.

yourself as smart as you c

ointment on seeing the great actress at home-plain, five-and-f

e knights of the Order Du Saint-Esprit in their robes of ceremony, who came to range themselves in the choir according to the date of their creation. The press was so great that the parents were separated from the young people. Claude, however, at the side of Phlipote, realized the ideal of a faithful and jealous guardian.

e of sombre blue velvet lined with yellow satin. Phlipote watched mechanically the double file of haughty

hose heart is broken by a great blow. Claude, without a word, sustained, soothed her. A

Fancy! You will laugh at me! But in one of the handsomest of the Chevaliers I felt sure I

in a faint voice. "Pardi!" cries the father. "'Tis what I a

over, Claude was afterwards a good and devoted husband. Phlipote never again opened her lips regarding the vague love which for a moment had flowered in her heart: only

ere were ten faces; but she had eyes for one alone. She had not forgotten, could not mistake, him-that pale head, so proud and fine, but now thin with suffering; the beautiful mobile eyes, now encircled with the signs of sorrow and watching. The convict's shirt, open in large, broad

, lost herself in prayer. There was a distant roll of drum

d always he is all delicacy-a delicacy which keeps his large yet minute antiquarian knowledge of that vanished time ever in service

E

Jul