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218 Chapter 6: The Normal Distribution and Other Continuous Distributions

CHAPTER 6

6.1 PHStat output:

Normal Probabilities

Common Data
Mean 0
Standard Deviation 1
Probability for a Range
Probability for X <= From X Value 1.57
X Value 1.57 To X Value 1.84
Z Value 1.57 Z Value for 1.57 1.57
P(X<=1.57) 0.9417924 Z Value for 1.84 1.84
P(X<=1.57) 0.9418
Probability for X > P(X<=1.84) 0.9671
X Value 1.84 P(1.57<=X<=1.84) 0.0253
Z Value 1.84
P(X>1.84) 0.0329 Find X and Z Given Cum. Pctage.
Cumulative Percentage 95.00%
Probability for X<1.57 or X >1.84 Z Value 1.644854
P(X<1.57 or X >1.84) 0.9747 X Value 1.644854
(a) P(Z < 1.57) = 0.9418
(b) P(Z > 1.84) = 1 – 0.9671 = 0.0329
(c) P(1.57 < Z < 1.84) = 0.9671 – 0.9418 = 0.0253
(d) P(Z < 1.57) + P(Z > 1.84) = 0.9418 + (1 – 0.9671) = 0.9747

6.2 PHStat output:

Normal Probabilities

Common Data
Mean 0
Standard Deviation 1
Probability for a Range
Probability for X <= From X Value 1.57
X Value -1.57 To X Value 1.84
Z Value -1.57 Z Value for 1.57 1.57
P(X<=-1.57) 0.0582076 Z Value for 1.84 1.84
P(X<=1.57) 0.9418
Probability for X > P(X<=1.84) 0.9671
X Value 1.84 P(1.57<=X<=1.84) 0.0253
Z Value 1.84
P(X>1.84) 0.0329 Find X and Z Given Cum. Pctage.
Cumulative Percentage 84.13%
Probability for X<-1.57 or X >1.84 Z Value 0.999815
P(X<-1.57 or X >1.84) 0.0911 X Value 0.999815
(a) P(– 1.57 < Z < 1.84) = 0.9671 – 0.0582 = 0.9089

Copyright ©2017 Pearson Education, Inc.

 Solutions to End-of-Section and Chapter Review Problems 219

6.2 (b) P(Z < – 1.57) + P(Z > 1.84) = 0.0582 + 0.0329 = 0.0911
cont. (c) If P(Z > A) = 0.025, P(Z < A) = 0.975. A = + 1.96.
(d) If P(–A < Z < A) = 0.6826, P(Z < A) = 0.8413. So 68.26% of the area is captured between
–A = – 1.00 and A = + 1.00.

6.3 (a) Partial PHStat output:

Normal
Probabilities

Common Data
Mean 0
Standard Deviation 1
Probability for a Range
Probability for X <= From X Value 1.57
X Value 1.08 To X Value 1.84
Z Value 1.08 Z Value for 1.57 1.57
P(X<=1.08) 0.8599289 Z Value for 1.84 1.84
P(X<=1.57) 0.9418
Probability for X > P(X<=1.84) 0.9671
X Value -0.21 P(1.57<=X<=1.84) 0.0253
Z Value -0.21
P(X>-0.21) 0.5832 Find X and Z Given Cum. Pctage.
Cumulative Percentage 84.13%
Probability for X<1.08 or X >-0.21 Z Value 0.999815
P(X<1.08 or X >- 1.4431 X Value 0.999815
0.21)
P(Z < 1.08) = 0.8599
(b) P(Z > – 0.21) = 1.0 – 0.4168 = 0.5832
(c) Partial PHStat output:
Probability for X<-0.21 or X >0
P(X<-0.21 or X >0) 0.9168
P(Z < – 0.21) + P(Z > 0) = 0.4168 + 0.5 = 0.9168
(d) Partial PHStat output:
Probability for X<-0.21 or X >1.08
P(X<-0.21 or X >1.08) 0.5569
P(Z < – 0.21) + P(Z > 1.08) = 0.4168 + (1 – 0.8599) = 0.5569

Copyright ©2017 Pearson Education, Inc.

220 Chapter 6: The Normal Distribution and Other Continuous Distributions

6.4 PHStat output:

Normal Probabilities

Common Data
Mean 0
Standard Deviation 1
Probability for a Range
Probability for X <= From X Value -1.96
X Value -0.21 To X Value -0.21
Z Value -0.21 Z Value for -1.96 -1.96
P(X<=-0.21) 0.4168338 Z Value for -0.21 -0.21
P(X<=-1.96) 0.0250
Probability for X > P(X<=-0.21) 0.4168
X Value 1.08 P(-1.96<=X<=-0.21) 0.3918
Z Value 1.08
P(X>1.08) 0.1401 Find X and Z Given Cum. Pctage.
Cumulative Percentage 84.13%
Probability for X<-0.21 or X >1.08 Z Value 0.999815
P(X<-0.21 or X >1.08) 0.5569 X Value 0.999815
(a) P(Z > 1.08) = 1 – 0.8599 = 0.1401
(b) P(Z < – 0.21) = 0.4168
(c) P(– 1.96 < Z < – 0.21) = 0.4168 – 0.0250 = 0.3918
(d) P(Z > A) = 0.1587, P(Z < A) = 0.8413. A = + 1.00.

6.5 (a) Partial PHStat output:

Common Data
Mean 100
Standard Deviation 10

Probability for X <=

X Value 70
Z Value -3
P(X<=70) 0.0013499

Probability for X >

X Value 75
Z Value -2.5
P(X>75) 0.9938
X–μ 75 –100
Z= = = – 2.50
σ 10
P(X > 75) = P(Z > – 2.50) = 1 – P(Z< – 2.50) = 1 – 0.0062 = 0.9938
X–μ 70 – 100
(b) Z= = = – 3.00
σ 10
P(X < 70) = P(Z < – 3.00) = 0.00135

Copyright ©2017 Pearson Education, Inc.

 Solutions to End-of-Section and Chapter Review Problems 221

6.5 (c) Partial PHStat output:

cont.
Common Data
Mean 100
Standard Deviation 10
Probability for X <=
X Value 80
Z Value -2
P(X<=80) 0.0227501

Probability for X >

X Value 110
Z Value 1
P(X>110) 0.1587

Probability for X<80 or X >110

P(X<80 or X >110) 0.1814
X–μ 80 – 100 X–μ 110 – 100
Z= = = –2.00 Z= = = 1.00
σ 10 σ 10
P(X < 80) = P(Z < – 2.00) = 0.0228
P(X > 110) = P(Z > 1.00) = 1 – P(Z < 1.00) = 1.0 – 0.8413 = 0.1587
P(X < 80) + P(X > 110) = 0.0228 + 0.1587 = 0.1815
(d) P(Xlower < X < Xupper) = 0.80
P(– 1.28 < Z) = 0.10 and P(Z < 1.28) = 0.90
X lower –100 Xupper – 100
Z = –1.28 = Z = +1.28 =
10 10
Xlower = 100 – 1.28(10) = 87.20 and Xupper = 100 + 1.28(10) = 112.80

6.6 (a) Partial PHStat output:

Common Data
Mean 50
Standard Deviation 4
Probability for a Range
Probability for X <= From X Value 42
X Value 42 To X Value 43
Z Value -2 Z Value for 42 -2
P(X<=42) 0.0227501 Z Value for 43 -1.75
P(X<=42) 0.0228
Probability for X > P(X<=43) 0.0401
X Value 43 P(42<=X<=43) 0.0173
Z Value -1.75
P(X>43) 0.9599 Find X and Z Given Cum. Pctage.
Cumulative Percentage 5.00%
Probability for X<42 or X >43 Z Value -1.644854
P(X<42 or X >43) 0.9827 X Value 43.42059
P(X > 43) = P(Z > – 1.75) = 1 – 0.0401 = 0.9599

Copyright ©2017 Pearson Education, Inc.

222 Chapter 6: The Normal Distribution and Other Continuous Distributions

6.6 (b) P(X < 42) = P(Z < – 2.00) = 0.0228

cont. (c) P(X < A) = 0.05,
A − 50
Z = −1.645 = A = 50 – 1.645(4) = 43.42
4
(d) Partial PHStat output:
Find X and Z Given Cum. Pctage.
Cumulative Percentage 80.00%
Z Value 0.841621
X Value 53.36648
P(Xlower < X < Xupper) = 0.60
P(Z < – 0.84) = 0.20 and P(Z < 0.84) = 0.80
Xlower – 50 Xupper – 50
Z = –0.84 = Z = +0.84 =
4 4
Xlower = 50 – 0.84(4) = 46.64 and Xupper = 50 + 0.84(4) = 53.36

6.7 (a) P(X > 33) = P(Z > -0.1) = 0.5398

Probability for X >
X Value 33
Z Value ‐0.1
P(X>33) 0.5398
(b) P(10 < X < 20) = P(-2.4 < Z < -1.4) = 0.0726
Probability for a Range
From X Value 10
To X Value 20
Z Value for 10 ‐2.4
Z Value for 20 ‐1.4
P(X<=10) 0.0082
P(X<=20) 0.0808
P(10<=X<=20) 0.0726
(c) P(X < 10) = P(Z < -2.4) = 0.0082
Probability for X <=
X Value 10
Z Value ‐2.4
P(X<=10) 0.0082
(d) P(X < A) = 0.99 A = 57.2635
Find X and Z Given Cum. Pctage.
Cumulative Percentage 99.00%
Z Value 2.3263
X Value 57.2635
Note: The above answers are obtained using PHStat. They may be slightly different
when Table E.2 is used.

Copyright ©2017 Pearson Education, Inc.

 Solutions to End-of-Section and Chapter Review Problems 223

6.8 Partial PHStat output:

Common Data
Mean 50
Standard
Deviation 12
Probability for a Range
Probability for X <= From X Value 34
X Value 30 To X Value 50
Z Value -1.666667 Z Value for 34 -1.333333
P(X<=30) 0.0477904 Z Value for 50 0
P(X<=34) 0.0912
Probability for X > P(X<=50) 0.5000
X Value 60 P(34<=X<=50) 0.4088
Z Value 0.8333333
P(X>60) 0.2023 Find X and Z Given Cum. Pctage.
Cumulative Percentage 20.00%
Probability for X<30 or X >60 Z Value -0.841621
P(X<30 or X >60) 0.2501 X Value 39.90055
(a) P(34 < X < 50) = P(– 1.33 < Z < 0) = 0.4088
(b) P(X < 30) + P(X > 60) = P(Z < – 1.67) + P(Z > 0.83)
= 0.0475 + (1.0 – 0.7967) = 0.2508
A – 50
(c) P(X > A) = 0.80 P(Z < – 0.84) ≅ 0.20 Z = –0.84 =
12
A = 50 – 0.84(12) = 39.92 thousand miles or 39,920 miles
(d) Partial PHStat output:
Common Data
Mean 50
Standard
Deviation 10
Probability for a Range
Probability for X <= From X Value 34
X Value 30 To X Value 50
Z Value -2 Z Value for 34 -1.6
P(X<=30) 0.0227501 Z Value for 50 0
P(X<=34) 0.0548
Probability for X > P(X<=50) 0.5000
X Value 60 P(34<=X<=50) 0.4452
Z Value 1
P(X>60) 0.1587 Find X and Z Given Cum. Pctage.
Cumulative Percentage 20.00%
Probability for X<30 or X >60 Z Value -0.841621
P(X<30 or X >60) 0.1814 X Value 41.58379
The smaller standard deviation makes the Z-values larger.
(a) P(34 < X < 50) = P(– 1.60 < Z < 0) = 0.4452
(b) P(X < 30) + P(X > 60) = P(Z < – 2.00) + P(Z > 1.00)
= 0.0228 + (1.0 – 0.8413) = 0.1815
(c) A = 50 – 0.84(10) = 41.6 thousand miles or 41,600 miles

Copyright ©2017 Pearson Education, Inc.

224 Chapter 6: The Normal Distribution and Other Continuous Distributions

6.9 (a) Partial PHStat output:

Probability for X >
X Value 16
Z Value 0.35
P(X>16) 0.3632
P(X > 16) = P(Z > 0.35) = 0.3632
(b) Partial PHStat output:
Probability for a Range
From X Value 10
To X Value 12
Z Value for 10 ‐2.65
Z Value for 12 ‐1.65
P(X<=10) 0.0040
P(X<=12) 0.0495
P(10<=X<=12) 0.0454
P(10 < X < 12) = P(-2.65< Z < -1.65) = 0.0454
(c) Partial PHStat output:
Find X Values Given a Percentage
Percentage 95.00%
Z Value ‐1.96
Lower X Value 11.38
Upper X Value 19.22
P(Xlower < X < Xupper) = 0.95
X lower –15.3 X upper –15.3
Z = –1.96 = Z = +1.96 =
2 2
Xlower = $11.38 and Xupper = $19.22

6.10 PHStat output:

Common Data
Mean 73
Standard Deviation 8
Probability for a Range
Probability for X <= From X Value 65
X Value 91 To X Value 89
Z Value 2.25 Z Value for 65 -1
P(X<=91) 0.9877755 Z Value for 89 2
P(X<=65) 0.1587
Probability for X > P(X<=89) 0.9772
X Value 81 P(65<=X<=89) 0.8186
Z Value 1
P(X>81) 0.1587 Find X and Z Given Cum. Pctage.
Cumulative Percentage 95.00%
Probability for X<91 or X >81 Z Value 1.644854
P(X<91 or X >81) 1.1464 X Value 86.15883

Copyright ©2017 Pearson Education, Inc.

 Solutions to End-of-Section and Chapter Review Problems 225

6.10 (a) P(X < 91) = P(Z < 2.25) = 0.9878

cont. (b) P(65 < X < 89) = P(– 1.00 < Z < 2.00) = 0.9772 – 0.1587 = 0.8185
(c) P(X > A) = 0.05 P(Z < 1.645) = 0.9500
A – 73
Z = 1.645 = A = 73 + 1.645(8) = 86.16%
8
(d) Option 1: P(X > A) = 0.10 P(Z < 1.28) ≅ 0.9000
81 – 73
Z= = 1.00
8
Since your score of 81% on this exam represents a Z-score of 1.00, which is below the
minimum Z-score of 1.28, you will not earn an “A” grade on the exam under this grading
option.
68 – 62
Option 2: Z = = 2.00
3
Since your score of 68% on this exam represents a Z-score of 2.00, which is well above
the minimum Z-score of 1.28, you will earn an “A” grade on the exam under this grading
option. You should prefer Option 2.

6.11 PHStat output:

(a) P(X < 150) = P(Z < – 1.60) = 0.0548
Probability for X <=
X Value 150
Z Value ‐1.6
P(X<=150) 0.0548
(b) P(150 < X < 198) = P(– 1.6 < Z < 1.6) = 0.8904
Probability for a Range
From X Value 150
To X Value 198
Z Value for 150 ‐1.6
Z Value for 198 1.6
P(X<=150) 0.0548
P(X<=198) 0.9452
P(150<=X<=198) 0.8904
(c) P(X > 198) = P(Z > 1.60) = 0.0548
Probability for X >
X Value 198
Z Value 1.6
P(X>198) 0.0548
(d) P(X < A) = 0.01 P(Z < -2.3263) = 0.01
A = 174 – 15(2.3263) = 139.1048 minutes
Find X and Z Given Cum. Pctage.
Cumulative Percentage 1.00%
Z Value ‐2.3263
X Value 139.1048

Copyright ©2017 Pearson Education, Inc.

226 Chapter 6: The Normal Distribution and Other Continuous Distributions

6.12 (a) P(X > 60) = P(Z > 1.3769) = 0.0843

Probability for X >
X Value 60
Z Value 1.3769231
P(X>60) 0.0843
(b) P(15 < X < 30) = P(-2.0846 < Z < -0.9308) = 0.1574
Probability for a Range
From X Value 15
To X Value 30
Z Value for 15 ‐2.084615
Z Value for 30 ‐0.930769
P(X<=15) 0.0186
P(X<=30) 0.1760
P(15<=X<=30) 0.1574
(c) P(X < 15) = P(Z < -2.0846) = 0.0186
Probability for X <=
X Value 15
Z Value ‐2.084615
P(X<=15) 0.0186
(d) P(X < A) = 0.99 Z = 2.3263 A = 72.3425 gallons
Find X and Z Given Cum. Pctage.
Cumulative Percentage 99.00%
Z Value 2.3263
X Value 72.3425

6.13 (a) Partial PHStat output:

Probability for a Range
From X Value 21.99
To X Value 22
Z Value for 21.99 -2.4
Z Value for 22 -0.4
P(X<=21.99) 0.0082
P(X<=22) 0.3446
P(21.99<=X<=22) 0.3364
P(21.99 < X < 22.00) = P(– 2.4 < Z < – 0.4) = 0.3364
(b) Partial PHStat output:
Probability for a Range
From X Value 21.99
To X Value 22.01
Z Value for 21.99 -2.4
Z Value for 22.01 1.6
P(X<=21.99) 0.0082
P(X<=22.01) 0.9452
P(21.99<=X<=22.01) 0.9370
P(21.99 < X < 22.01) = P(– 2.4 < Z < 1.6) = 0.9370

Copyright ©2017 Pearson Education, Inc.

 Solutions to End-of-Section and Chapter Review Problems 227

6.13 (c) Partial PHStat output:

cont.
Find X and Z Given Cum. Pctage.
Cumulative Percentage 98.00%
Z Value 2.05375
X Value 22.0123
P(X > A) = 0.02 Z = 2.05 A = 22.0123
(d) (a) Partial PHStat output:
Probability for a Range
From X Value 21.99
To X Value 22
Z Value for 21.99 -3
Z Value for 22 -0.5
P(X<=21.99) 0.0013
P(X<=22) 0.3085
P(21.99<=X<=22) 0.3072
P(21.99 < X < 22.00) = P(– 3.0 < Z < – 0.5) = 0.3072
(d) (b) Partial PHStat output:
Probability for a Range
From X Value 21.99
To X Value 22.01
Z Value for 21.99 -3
Z Value for 22.01 2
P(X<=21.99) 0.0013
P(X<=22.01) 0.9772
P(21.99<=X<=22.01) 0.9759
P(21.99 < X < 22.01) = P(– 3.0 < Z < 2) = 0.9759
(c) Partial PHStat output:
Find X and Z Given Cum. Pctage.
Cumulative Percentage 98.00%
Z Value 2.05375
X Value 22.0102
P(X > A) = 0.02 Z = 2.05 A = 22.0102

6.14 With 39 values, the smallest of the standard normal quantile values covers an area under the normal
curve of 0.025. The corresponding Z value is -1.96. The middle (20th) value has a cumulative area
of 0.50 and a corresponding Z value of 0.0. The largest of the standard normal quantile values covers
an area under the normal curve of 0.975, and its corresponding Z value is +1.96.

6.15 Area under normal curve covered: 0.1429 0.2857 0.4286 0.5714 0.7143 0.8571
Standardized normal quantile value: – 1.07 – 0.57 – 0.18 + 0.18 + 0.57 + 1.07

Copyright ©2017 Pearson Education, Inc.

228 Chapter 6: The Normal Distribution and Other Continuous Distributions

6.16 (a) Excel output:

MPG
Mean 23.15
Median 22.5
Mode 22
Minimum 21
Maximum 28
Range 7
Variance 3.8184
Standard Deviation 1.9541
Coeff. of Variation 8.44%
Skewness 0.9427
Kurtosis 0.3998
Count 20
Standard Error 0.4369
First Quartile 22
Third Quartile 24
Interquartile Range 2
1.33 Interquartile Ra 2.66
6S 11.72446834
The mean is about the same as the median. The range is significantly smaller than 6 times
the standard deviation and the interquartile range is smaller than 1.33 times the standard
deviation. Thus, the data appear to deviate slightly from the normal distribution.
(b)
Normal Probability Plot
30

25

20
MPG

15
MPG
10

0
‐2 ‐1 0 1 2
Z Value

The normal probability plot indicates departure from normal distribution. The kurtosis is
0.3998, indicating a distribution that is slightly more peaked than a normal distribution,
with more values in the tails. The skewness of 0.9427 indicates a slightly right-skewed
distribution.

Copyright ©2017 Pearson Education, Inc.

 Solutions to End-of-Section and Chapter Review Problems 229

6.17 Excel output:

Cost ($)
Mean 333.53
Median 303.80
Mode #N/A
Minimum 212.40
Maximum 676.42
Range 464.02
Variance 11088.2570
Standard Deviation 105.3008
Coeff. of Variation 31.57%
Skewness 1.5536
Kurtosis 2.7140
Count 30
Standard Error 19.2252
First Quartile 263.1
Third Quartile 369.86
Interquartile Range 106.76
1.33 Interquartile Range 141.9908
6s 631.8047575
(a) The mean is higher than the median. The range is smaller than 6 times the standard
deviation. The interquartile range is smaller than 1.33 times the standard deviation. Thus,
the data appear to deviate slightly from the normal distribution.
(b)
Normal Probability Plot
800

700

600

500
Cost ($)

400
Cost ($)
300

200

100

0
‐3 ‐2 ‐1 0 1 2 3
Z Value

According to the normal probability plot, the data appear to be right skewed. The kurtosis
is 2.7140 indicating a distribution that is slightly more peaked than a normal distribution,
with more values in the tails. The skewness of 1.5536 indicates a right-skewed
distribution.

Copyright ©2017 Pearson Education, Inc.

230 Chapter 6: The Normal Distribution and Other Continuous Distributions

6.18 Excel output:

Property Taxes Per Capita ($)
Mean 1332.235
Standard Error 80.91249
Median 1230
Mode #N/A
Standard Deviation 577.8308
Sample Variance 333888.4
Kurtosis 0.539467
Skewness 0.918321
Range 2479
Minimum 506
Maximum 2985
Sum 67944
Count 51
First Quartile 867
Third Quartile 1633
Interquartile Range 766
6 * std.dev 3466.985
1.33 * std.dev 768.515
(a) Because the mean is slightly larger than the median, the interquartile range is slightly less
than 1.33 times the standard deviation, and the range is much smaller than 6 times the
standard deviation, the data appear to deviate from the normal distribution.
(b)
Normal Probability Plot
3500

3000
Property Taxes Per Capita ($)

2500

2000

1500

1000

500

0
‐3 ‐2 ‐1 0 1 2 3
Z Value

The normal probability plot suggests that the data appear to be right-skewed. The kurtosis
is 0.5395 indicating a distribution that is slightly more peaked than a normal distribution,
with more values in the tails. A skewness of 0.9183 indicates a right-skewed distribution.

Copyright ©2017 Pearson Education, Inc.

 Solutions to End-of-Section and Chapter Review Problems 231

6.19 (a) Mean = 185.8, median = 166.2, standard deviation = 131.4613.

Interquartile range = 118.4, range = 692.1
1.33 * standard deviation = 174.8435, 6 * standard deviation = 788.7680.
The mean is greater than the median; the range is smaller than 6 times the standard
deviation and the interquartile range is significantly smaller than 1.33 * standard
deviation. The data do not appear to be normally distributed.
(b)
Normal Probability Plot
800

700

600
Market Cap ($bil)

500

400
Market Cap ($bil)
300

200

100

0
‐3 ‐2 ‐1 0 1 2 3
Z Value

The normal probability plot suggests that the data are skewed to the right with an outlier.
(c)
Histogram of Market Cap ($bil)
12

10

8
Frequency

0
50 150 250 350 450 550 650 750
Midpoints

The histogram suggests that the data are skewed to the right with an outlier.

Copyright ©2017 Pearson Education, Inc.

232 Chapter 6: The Normal Distribution and Other Continuous Distributions

6.20 Excel output:

Error
Mean -0.00023
Median 0
Mode 0
Standard Deviation 0.001696
Sample Variance 2.88E-06
Range 0.008
Minimum -0.003
Maximum 0.005
First Quartile -0.0015
Third Quartile 0.001
1.33 Std Dev 0.002255
Interquartile Range 0.0025
6 Std Dev 0.010175
(a) Because the interquartile range is close to 1.33S and the range is also close to 6S, the data
appear to be approximately normally distributed.
(b)
Normal Probability Plot
0.006
0.005
0.004
0.003
0.002
Error

0.001
0
-0.001 -3 -2 -1 0 1 2 3

-0.002
-0.003
-0.004

Z Value

The normal probability plot suggests that the data appear to be approximately normally
distributed.

Copyright ©2017 Pearson Education, Inc.

Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
 A BAL MASQUÉ
BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS

I said that I was in to no one; one of my friends forced admission.

My servant announced Mr. Anthony R——. Behind Joseph’s livery I
saw the corner of a black redingote[1]; it is probable that the wearer
of the redingote, from his side, saw a flap of my dressing gown;
impossible to conceal myself.
“Very well! Let him enter,” I said out loud. “Let him go to the Devil,” I
said to myself.
While working it is only the woman you love who can disturb you
with impunity, for she is always at bottom interested in what you are
doing.
I went up to him, therefore, with the half-bored face of an author
interrupted in one of those moments of sorest self-mistrust, while I
found him so pale and haggard that the first words I addressed to
him were these:
“What is the matter? What has happened to you?”
“Oh! Let me take breath,” said he. “I’m going to tell you all about it,
besides, it’s a dream perhaps, or perhaps I am mad.”
He threw himself into an armchair, and let his head drop between his
hands.
I looked at him in astonishment; his hair was dripping with rain; his
shoes, his knees, and the bottom of his trousers were covered with
mud. I went to the window; I saw at the door his servant and his
cabriolet; I could make nothing out of it all.
He saw my surprise.
“I have been to the cemetery of Père-Lachaise,” said he.
“At ten o’clock in the morning?”
“I was there at seven—cursed bal masqué!”
I could not imagine what a bal masqué and Père-Lachaise had to do
with one another. I resigned myself, and turning my back to the
mantelpiece began to roll a cigarette for him between my fingers
with the phlegm and the patience of a Spaniard.
While he was coming to the point I hinted to Anthony that I, for my
part, was commonly very susceptible to attentions of that kind.
He made me a sign of thanks, but pushed my hand away.
Finally I bent over to light the cigarette for myself: Anthony stopped
me.
“Alexandre,” he said to me, “Listen, I beg of you.”
“But you have been here already a quarter of an hour and have not
told me anything.”
“Oh! it is a most strange adventure.”
I got up, placed my cigarette on the mantelpiece and crossed my
arms like a man resigned; only I began to believe, as he did, that he
was fast becoming mad.
“You remember the ball at the Opera, where I met you?” he said to
me after a moment’s silence.
“The last one where there were at least two hundred people?”
“The very same. I left you with the intention of abandoning myself
to one of those varieties of which they spoke to me as being a
curiosity even in the midst of our curious times; you wished to
dissuade me from going; a fatality drove me on. Oh! you, why did
you not see it all, you who have the knack of observation? Why were
not Hoffman or Callot there to paint the picture as the fantastic,
burlesque thing kept unrolling itself beneath my eyes? Unsatisfied
and in melancholy mood I walked away, about to quit the Opera; I
came to a hall that was overflowing and in high spirits: corridors,
boxes, parterre. Everything was obstructed. I made a tour of the
room; twenty masks called me by name and told me theirs. These
were all leaders—aristocrats and merchants—in the undignified
disguise of pierrots, of postilions, of merry-andrews, or of fishwives.
They were all young people of family, of culture, of talent; and there,
forgetful of family, talent, breeding, they were resurrecting in the
midst of our sedate and serious times a soirée of the Regency. They
had told me about it, and yet I could not have believed it!—I
mounted a few steps and leaning against a pillar, half hidden by it, I
fixed my eyes on that sea of human beings surging beneath me.
Their dominoes, of all colors, their motley costumes, their grotesque
disguises formed a spectacle resembling nothing human. The music
began to play. Oh, it was then these gargoyle creatures stirred
themselves to the sound of that orchestra whose harmony reached
me only in the midst of cries, of laughs, of hootings; they hung on to
each other by their hands, by their arms, by their necks; a long coil
formed itself, beginning with a circular motion, the dancers, men and
women, stamping with their feet, made the dust break forth with a
noise, the atoms of which were rendered visible by the wan light of
the lustres; turning at ever-increasing speed with bizarre postures,
with unseemly gestures, with cries full of abandonment; turning
always faster and still faster, swaying and swinging like drunken
men, yelling like lost women, with more delirium than delight, with
more passion than pleasure; resembling a coil of the damned doing
infernal penance under the scourge of demons! All this passed
beneath my eyes, at my feet. I felt the wind of their whirling past;
as they rushed by each one whom I knew flung a word at me that
made me blush. All this noise, all this humming, all this confusion, all
this music went on in my brain as well as in the room! I soon came
to the point of no longer knowing whether that which I had before
my eyes was a dream or reality; I came to the point of asking myself
whether it was not I who was mad and they who were sane; I was
seized with a weird temptation to throw myself into the midst of this
pandemonium, like Faust through the Witches’ Sabbath, and I felt
that I too, would then have cries, postures, laughs like theirs. Oh!
from that to madness there is but one step. I was appalled; I flung
myself out of the room, followed even to the street door by shrieks
that were like those cries of passion that come out of the caverns of
the fallow deer.
“I stopped a moment under the portico to collect myself; I did not
wish to venture into the street; with such confusion still in my soul I
might not be able to find my way; I might, perhaps, be thrown
under the wheels of some carriage I had not seen coming. I was as
a drunken man might be who begins to recover sufficient reason in
his clouded brain to recognize his condition, and who, feeling the will
return but not the power, with fixed eyes and staring, leans
motionless against some street post or some tree on the public
promenade.
“At that moment a carriage stopped before the door, a woman
alighted or rather shot herself from the doorway.
“She entered beneath the peristyle, turning her head from right to
left like one who had lost her way; she was dressed in a black
domino, had her face covered by a velvet mask. She presented
herself at the door.
“‘Your ticket,’ said the doorkeeper.
“‘My ticket?’ she replied. ‘I have none.’
“‘Then get one at the box-office.’
“The domino came back under the peristyle, fumbled nervously
about in all her pockets.
“‘No money!’ she cried. ‘Ah! this ring—a ticket of admission for this
ring,’ she said.
“‘Impossible,’ replied the woman who was distributing the cards; ‘we
do not make bargains of that kind.’
“And she pushed away the brilliant, which fell to the ground and
rolled to my side.
“The domino remained still without moving, forgetting the ring, sunk
in thought.
“I picked up the ring and handed it to her.
“Through her mask I saw her eyes fixed on mine.
“‘You must help me to get in,’ she said to me; ‘You must, for pity’s
sake.’
“‘But I am going out, madame,’ I said to her.
“‘Then give me six francs for this ring, and you will render me a
service for which I shall bless you my life long.’
“I replaced the ring on her finger; I went to the box-office, I took
two tickets. We reentered together.
“As we arrived within the corridor I felt that she was tottering. Then
with her second hand she made a kind of ring around my arm.
“‘Are you in pain?’ I asked her.
“‘No, no, it is nothing,’ she replied, ‘a dizziness, that is all—’
“She hurried me into the hall.
“We reentered into that giddy Charenton.[2]
“Three times we made the tour, breaking our way with great
difficulty through the waves of masks that were hurling themselves
one upon the other; she trembling at every unseemly word that
came to her ear; I blushing to be seen giving my arm to a woman
who would thus put herself in the way of such words; then we
returned to the end of the hall.
“She fell upon a sofa. I remained standing in front of her, my hand
leaning on the back of her seat.
“‘Oh! this must seem to you very bizarre,’ she said, ‘but not more so
than to me, I swear to you. I have not the slightest idea of all this’
(she looked at the ball), ‘for even in my dreams I could not imagine
such things. But they wrote me, you see, that he would be here with
a woman, and what sort of a woman should it be who could come to
a place like this?’
“I made a gesture of surprise; she understood.
“‘But I am here, you wish to ask, do you not? Oh! but for me that is
another thing: I, I am looking for him; I, I am his wife. As for these
people, it is madness and dissipation that drives them hither. But I,
I, it is jealousy infernal! I have been everywhere looking for him; I
have been all night in a cemetery; I have been at Grève[3] on the
day of an execution; and yet, I swear to you, as a young girl I have
never once gone into the street without my mother; as a wife I have
never taken one step out of doors without being followed by a
lackey; and yet here I am, the same as all these women who are so
familiar with the way; here I am giving my arm to a man whom I do
not know, blushing under my mask at the opinion he ought to have
of me! I know all this!—Have you ever been jealous, monsieur?’
“‘Unhappily,’ I replied to her.
“‘Then you will forgive me, for you understand. You know that voice
that cries out to you “Do!” as in the ear of a madman; you have felt
that arm that pushes one into shame and crime, like the arm of fate.
You know that at such a moment one is capable of everything, if one
can only get vengeance.’
“I was about to reply; all at once she rose, her eyes fastened on two
dominoes that were passing in front of us at that moment.
“‘Silence!’ she said.
“And she hurried me on following in their footsteps. I was thrown
into the middle of an intrigue of which I understood nothing; I could
feel all the threads vibrating, but could take hold of none of them by
the end; but this poor wife seemed so troubled that she became
interesting. I obeyed like a child, so imperious is real feeling, and we
set ourselves to follow the two masks, one of which was evidently a
man, the other a woman. They spoke in a low voice; the sounds
reached our ears with difficulty.
“‘It is he!’ she murmured; ‘it is his voice; yes, yes, that is his figure
—’
“The latter of the two dominoes began to laugh.
“‘That is his laugh,’ said she; ‘it is he, monsieur, it is he! The letter
said true, O, mon Dieu, mon Dieu!’
“In the mean while the two masks kept on, and we followed them
always. They went out of the hall, and we went out after them; they
took the stairs leading to the boxes, and we ascended in their
footsteps; they did not stop till they came to the boxes in the centre;
we were like their two shadows. A little closed box was opened; they
entered it; the door again closed upon them.
“The poor creature I was supporting on my arm frightened me by
her excitement. I could not see her face, but crushed against me as
she was, I could feel her heart beating, her body shivering, her limbs
trembling. There was something uncanny in the way there came to
me such knowledge of unheard-of suffering, the spectacle of which I
had before my very eyes, of whose victim I knew nothing, and of the
cause of which I was completely ignorant. Nevertheless, for nothing
in this world would I have abandoned that woman at such a
moment.
“As she saw the two masks enter the box and the box close upon
them, she stopped still a moment, motionless, and as if
overwhelmed. Then she sprang forward to the door to listen. Placed
as she was her slightest movement would betray her presence and
ruin her; I dragged her back violently by the arm, I lifted the latch of
the adjoining box, I drew her in after me, I lowered the grille and
pulled the door to.
“‘If you wish to listen,’ I said to her, ‘at least listen from here.’
“She fell upon one knee and flattened her ear against the partition,
and I—I held myself erect on the opposite side, my arms crossed,
my head bent and thoughtful.
“All that I had been able to observe of that woman seemed to me to
indicate a type of beauty. The lower part of her face, which was not
concealed by her mask, was youthful, velvety, and round; her lips
were scarlet and delicate; her teeth, which the black velvet mask
falling just above them made appear still whiter, were small,
separated, and glistening; her hand was one to be modeled, her
figure to be held between the fingers; her black hair, silky, escaped
in profusion from beneath the hood of her domino, and the foot of a
child, that played in and out under her skirt, looked as if it should
have trouble in balancing her body, all lithe, all graceful, all airy as it
was. Oh! what a marvelous piece of perfection must she be! Oh! he
that should hold her in his arms, that should see every faculty of
that spirit absorbed in loving him, that should feel the beating of her
heart against his, her tremblings, her nervous palpitations, and that
should be able to say: ‘All of this, all of this, comes of love, of love
for me, for me alone among all the millions of men, for me, angel
predestined! Oh! that man!—that man!—’
“Such were my thoughts, when all at once I saw that woman rise,
turn toward me, and say to me in a voice broken and fierce:
“‘Monsieur, I am beautiful, I swear it; I am young, I am but
nineteen. Until now I have been white as an angel of the Creation—
ah, well—’ she threw both arms about my neck,‘—ah, well, I am
yours—take me!—’
“At the same instant I felt her lips pressed close to mine, and the
effect of a bite, rather than that of a kiss, ran shuddering and
dismayed through my whole body; over my eyes passed a cloud of
flame.
“Ten minutes later I was holding her in my arms, in a swoon, half
dead and sobbing.
“Slowly she came to herself; through her mask I made out how
haggard were her eyes; I saw the lower part of her pale face, I
heard her teeth chatter one upon the other, as in the chill of a fever.
I see it all once more.
“She remembered all that had taken place, and fell at my feet.
“‘If you have any compassion,’ she said to me, sobbing, ‘any pity,
turn away your eyes from me, never seek to know me; let me go
and forget me. I will remember for two!’
“At these words she rose again; quickly, like a thought that escapes
us, she darted toward the door, opened it, and coming back again,
‘Do not follow me, in heaven’s name, Monsieur, do not follow me!’
she said.
“The door pushed violently open, closed again between her and me,
stole her from my sight, like an apparition. I have never seen her
more!
“I have never seen her more! And ever since, ever since the six
months that have glided by, I have sought her everywhere, at balls,
at spectacles, at promenades. Every time I have seen from a
distance a woman with lithe figure, with a foot like a child’s, with
black hair, I have followed her, I have drawn near to her, I have
looked into her face, hoping that her blushes would betray her.
Nowhere have I found her again, in no place have I seen her again
—except at night, except in my dreams! Oh! there, there she
reappears; there I feel her, I feel her embraces, her biting caresses
so ardent, as if she had something of the devil in her; then the mask
has fallen and a face most grotesque appeared to me at times
blurred as if veiled in a cloud; sometimes brilliant, as if circled by an
aureole; sometimes pale, with a skull white and naked, with eyes
vanished from the orbits, with teeth chattering and few. In short,
ever since that night, I have ceased to live; burning with mad
passion for a woman I do not know, hoping always and always
disappointed at my hopes. Jealous without the right to be so,
without knowing of whom to be jealous, not daring to avow such
madness, and all the time pursued, preyed upon, wasted away,
consumed by her.”
As he finished these words he tore a letter from his breast.
“Now that I have told you everything,” he said to me, “take this
letter and read it.”
I took the letter and read:
“Have you perhaps forgotten a poor woman who has forgotten
nothing and who dies because she can not forget?
“When you receive this letter I shall be no more. Then go to the
cemetery of Père-Lachaise, tell the concierge to let you see among
the newest graves one that bears on its stone the simple name
‘Marie,’ and when you are face to face with that grave, fall on your
knees and pray.”
“Ah, well!” continued Anthony, “I received that letter yesterday, and I
went there this morning. The concierge conducted me to the grave,
and I remained two hours on my knees there, praying and weeping.
Do you understand? She was there, that woman. Her flaming spirit
had stolen away; the body consumed by it had bowed, even to
breaking, beneath the burden of jealousy and of remorse; she was
there, under my feet, and she had lived, and she had died, for me
unknown; unknown!—and taking a place in my life as she had taken
one in the grave; unknown!—and burying in my heart a corpse, cold
and lifeless, as she had buried one in the sepulchre—Oh! Do you
know anything to equal it? Do you know any event so appalling?
Therefore, now, no more hope. I will see her again never. I would
dig up her grave that I might recover, perhaps, some traces
wherewithal to reconstruct her face; and I love her always! Do you
understand, Alexandre? I love her like a madman; and I would kill
myself this instant in order to rejoin her, if she were not to remain
unknown to me for eternity, as she was unknown to me in this
world.”
With these words he snatched the letter from my hands, kissed it
over and over again, and began to weep like a little child.
I took him in my arms, and not knowing what to say to him, I wept
with him.
 FOOTNOTES:
[1] Redingote is a French corruption of the English word “riding
coat” and means generally a long, plain double-breasted street
coat.
[2] Charenton Saint Maurice, the lunatic asylum near Paris,
commonly designated as Charenton.
[3] The name of a public square in Paris where executions
formerly took place.
 HOW THE REDOUBT WAS TAKEN
BY PROSPER MÉRIMÉE

Prosper Mérimée, novelist, historian, dramatist, and critic, was

born in Paris in 1803. Rarely gifted and highly educated, he held
various offices in the civil service, was an Academician, and in
1853 a Senator of the Empire. He was a great traveler, and
through his tact and engaging personality was welcomed among
all classes, observing wherever he went, and gathering material
for his stories, in which a great variety of types are noticeable. His
literary style—clear, simple, artistic—is considered a model of
restraint and conciseness. “Carmen,” on which Bizet’s opera is
founded, and the novel, “Columba,” are probably the best known
of his works. The latter part of his life he devoted to introducing
through his own translation the great Russian authors, Poushkin,
Gogol, and Turgenev. The famous “Lettres à une Inconnue” were
published after his death at Cannes, in 1870, where they have
lately erected a monument to him.
 HOW THE REDOUBT WAS TAKEN
BY PROSPER MÉRIMÉE
Copyright, 1896, by The Current Literature Publishing Company.

A friend of mine, a soldier, who died in Greece of fever some years

since, described to me one day his first engagement. His story so
impressed me that I wrote it down from memory. It was as follows:
I joined my regiment on September 4th. It was evening. I found the
colonel in the camp. He received me rather bruskly, but having read
the general’s introductory letter he changed his manner and
addressed me courteously.
By him I was presented to my captain, who had just come in from
reconnoitring. This captain, whose acquaintance I had scarcely time
to make, was a tall, dark man, of harsh, repelling aspect. He had
been a private soldier, and had won his cross and epaulettes upon
the field of battle. His voice, which was hoarse and feeble,
contrasted strangely with his gigantic stature. This voice of his he
owed, as I was told, to a bullet which had passed completely
through his body at the battle of Jena.
On learning that I had just come from college at Fontainebleau, he
remarked, with a wry face: “My lieutenant died last night.”
I understood what he implied, “It is for you to take his place, and
you are good for nothing.”
A sharp retort was on my tongue, but I restrained it.
The moon was rising behind the redoubt of Cheverino, which stood
two cannon-shots from our encampment. The moon was large and
red, as is common at her rising; but that night she seemed to me of
extraordinary size. For an instant the redoubt stood out coal-black
against the glittering disk. It resembled the cone of a volcano at the
moment of eruption.
An old soldier, at whose side I found myself, observed the color of
the moon.
“She is very red,” he said. “It is a sign that it will cost us dear to win
this wonderful redoubt.”
I was always superstitious, and this piece of augury, coming at that
moment, troubled me. I sought my couch, but could not sleep. I
rose, and walked about a while, watching the long line of fires upon
the heights beyond the village of Cheverino.
When the sharp night air had thoroughly refreshed my blood I went
back to the fire. I rolled my mantle round me, and I shut my eyes,
trusting not to open them till daybreak. But sleep refused to visit
me. Insensibly my thoughts grew doleful. I told myself that I had
not a friend among the hundred thousand men who filled that plain.
If I were wounded, I should be placed in hospital, in the hands of
ignorant and careless surgeons. I called to mind what I had heard of
operations. My heart beat violently, and I mechanically arranged, as
a kind of rude cuirass, my handkerchief and pocketbook upon my
breast. Then, overpowered with weariness, my eyes closed drowsily,
only to open the next instant with a start at some new thought of
horror.
Fatigue, however, at last gained the day. When the drums beat at
daybreak I was fast asleep. We were drawn up in ranks. The roll was
called, then we stacked our arms, and everything announced that
we should pass another uneventful day.
But about three o’clock an aide-de-camp arrived with orders. We
were commanded to take arms.
Our sharpshooters marched into the plain. We followed slowly, and
in twenty minutes we saw the outposts of the Russians falling back
and entering the redoubt. We had a battery of artillery on our right,
another on our left, but both some distance in advance of us. They
opened a sharp fire upon the enemy, who returned it briskly, and the
redoubt of Cheverino was soon concealed by volumes of thick
smoke. Our regiment was almost covered from the Russians’ fire by
a piece of rising ground. Their bullets (which besides were rarely
aimed at us, for they preferred to fire upon our cannoneers) whistled
over us, or at worst knocked up a shower of earth and stones.
Just as the order to advance was given, the captain looked at me
intently. I stroked my sprouting mustache with an air of unconcern;
in truth, I was not frightened, and only dreaded lest I might be
thought so. These passing bullets aided my heroic coolness, while
my self-respect assured me that the danger was a real one, since I
was veritably under fire. I was delighted at my self-possession, and
already looked forward to the pleasure of describing in Parisian
drawing-rooms the capture of the redoubt of Cheverino.
The colonel passed before our company. “Well,” he said to me, “you
are going to see warm work in your first action.”
I gave a martial smile, and brushed my cuff, on which a bullet, which
had struck the earth at thirty paces distant, had cast a little dust.
It appeared that the Russians had discovered that their bullets did
no harm, for they replaced them by a fire of shells, which began to
reach us in the hollows where we lay. One of these, in its explosion,
knocked off my shako and killed a man beside me.
“I congratulate you,” said the captain, as I picked up my shako. “You
are safe now for the day.”
I knew the military superstition which believes that the axiom “non
bis in idem” is as applicable to the battlefield as to the courts of
justice. I replaced my shako with a swagger.
“That’s a rude way to make one raise one’s hat,” I said, as lightly as
I could. And this wretched piece of wit was, in the circumstances,
received as excellent.
“I compliment you,” said the captain. “You will command a company
to-night; for I shall not survive the day. Every time I have been
wounded the officer below me has been touched by some spent ball;
and,” he added, in a lower tone, “all the names began with P.”
I laughed skeptically; most people would have done the same; but
most would also have been struck, as I was, by these prophetic
words. But, conscript though I was, I felt that I could trust my
thoughts to no one, and that it was my duty to seem always calm
and bold.
At the end of half an hour the Russian fire had sensibly diminished.
We left our cover to advance on the redoubt.
Our regiment was composed of three battalions. The second had to
take the enemy in flank; the two others formed a storming party. I
was in the third.
On issuing from behind the cover, we were received by several
volleys, which did but little harm. The whistling of the balls amazed
me. “But after all,” I thought, “a battle is less terrible than I
expected.”
We advanced at a smart run, our musketeers in front.
All at once the Russians uttered three hurrahs—three distinct
hurrahs—and then stood silent, without firing.
“I don’t like that silence,” said the captain. “It bodes no good.”
I began to think our people were too eager. I could not help
comparing, mentally, their shouts and clamor with the striking
silence of the enemy.
We quickly reached the foot of the redoubt. The palisades were
broken and the earthworks shattered by our balls. With a roar of
“Vive l’Empereur,” our soldiers rushed across the ruins.
I raised my eyes. Never shall I forget the sight which met my view.
The smoke had mostly lifted, and remained suspended, like a
canopy, at twenty feet above the redoubt. Through a bluish mist
could be perceived, behind the shattered parapet, the Russian
Grenadiers, with rifles lifted, as motionless as statues. I can see
them still—the left eye of every soldier glaring at us, the right hidden
by his lifted gun. In an embrasure at a few feet distant, a man with
a fuse stood by a cannon.
I shuddered. I believed that my last hour had come.
“Now for the dance to open,” cried the captain. These were the last
words I heard him speak.
There came from the redoubts a roll of drums. I saw the muzzles
lowered. I shut my eyes; I heard a most appalling crash of sound, to
which succeeded groans and cries. Then I looked up, amazed to find
myself still living. The redoubt was once more wrapped in smoke. I
was surrounded by the dead and wounded. The captain was
extended at my feet; a ball had carried off his head, and I was
covered with his blood. Of all the company, only six men, except
myself, remained erect.
This carnage was succeeded by a kind of stupor. The next instant
the colonel, with his hat on his sword’s point, had scaled the parapet
with a cry of “Vive l’Empereur.” The survivors followed him. All that
succeeded is to me a kind of dream. We rushed into the redoubt, I
know not how, we fought hand to hand in the midst of smoke so
thick that no man could perceive his enemy. I found my sabre
dripping blood; I heard a shout of “Victory”; and, in the clearing
smoke, I saw the earthworks piled with dead and dying. The
cannons were covered with a heap of corpses. About two hundred
men in the French uniform were standing, without order, loading
their muskets or wiping their bayonets. Eleven Russian prisoners
were with them.
The colonel was lying, bathed in blood, upon a broken cannon. A
group of soldiers crowded round him. I approached them.
“Who is the oldest captain?” he was asking of a sergeant.
The sergeant shrugged his shoulders most expressively.
“Who is the oldest lieutenant?”
“This gentleman, who came last night,” replied the sergeant calmly.
The colonel smiled bitterly.
“Come, sir,” he said to me, “you are now in chief command. Fortify
the gorge of the redoubt at once with wagons, for the enemy is out
in force. But General C—— is coming to support you.”
“Colonel,” I asked him, “are you badly wounded?”
“Pish, my dear fellow. The redoubt is taken.”
 THE VENDEAN MARRIAGE
BY JULES GABRIEL JANIN

Thackeray, writing from Paris to Mrs. Brookfield in 1849, says of

Jules Janin: “He has made his weekly feuilleton (the Journal des
Débats), famous throughout Europe—he does not know a word of
English, but he translated Sterne and I think ‘Clarissa Harlowe.’ He
has the most wonderful verve, humor, oddity, honesty, bonhomie
... bounced about the room, gesticulating, joking, gasconading,
quoting Latin....” We know that Janin was more concerned in
amusing his readers and himself than imparting instruction—
though he did both.
Jules Janin was born at Saint-Étienne in 1804, and died in Paris in
1874. In 1836 he entered on that famous career of forty years as
dramatic critic of the “Journal des Débats.” These contributions
were afterward collected under the title “History of Dramatic
Literature.”
 THE VENDEAN MARRIAGE
BY JULES JANIN
Translated by Jane G. Cooke.
Copyright, 1899, by The Current Literature Publishing Company.

So you have never heard the circumstances of Monsieur Baudelot de

Dairval’s marriage, the man who died four years ago, and was so
mourned by his wife that she died a week later herself, good lady?
Yet it is a story worth telling.
It happened in the Vendée, and the hero, a Vendean, brave, young,
daring, and of fine family, died tranquilly in his bed without ever
suspecting that there would be a second Vendée.
Baudelot de Dairval was the grandson of that César Baudelot who is
mentioned in the Memoirs of the Duchess of Orleans, own mother of
the regent Louis Philippe. This woman, who has thrown such
contempt on the greatest names of France, could not help praising
César de Baudelot. Saint-Simon, skeptic and mocker, but good fellow
withal, also spoke highly of him. So you’ll understand that bearing
such a name young Henri was not lost to report in the first Vendée,
to protest arms in hand against the excesses of the Revolution.
Baudelot was a Vendean simply because a man of his name and
nature could be nothing else. He fought like his associates, neither
more nor less. He was the friend of Cathelmeau and of all the
others. He took part in those battles of giants; he took part fighting
stoutly, and then laughing and singing as soon as he no longer
heard the cries of the wounded. What wars, what livid tempests
were ever like those? But it is not my business to tell again the story
so often told.
But I want to tell you that one day, surprised at a farm by a
detachment of Blues, Baudelot unexpectedly called together his
troop. “My friends,” said he, “this farm is surrounded. You must all
escape! Take with you the women and children. Rejoin our chief,
Cathelmeau. As for me, I’ll stay and defend the gate. I certainly can
hold it alone for ten minutes. Those three thousand out there would
massacre us all. Good-by, good-by, my brave fellows! Don’t forget
me! It’s my turn to-day. You’ll get yourselves killed to-morrow!”
In those exceptional times and in that exceptional war, nothing
seemed astonishing. Men did not even think of those rivalries in
heroism so frequent in elegant warfare. In such a struggle of
extermination there was no time to pose for sublimity of soul.
Heroism was quite unaffected. So Baudelot’s soldiers judged for
themselves that their chief spoke sensibly, and obeyed as simply as
he had commanded. They withdrew by the roof, taking away the
women and children. Baudelot remained at the door making noise
enough for forty, haranguing, disputing and discharging his gun. One
would have thought a whole regiment ready to fire was stationed
there, and the Blues held themselves on the alert. Baudelot
remained on the defensive as long as he had any voice. But when
that failed and he thought his troop must have reached a place of
safety, he tired of the warlike feint. He felt ill at ease at thus
commanding the absent; and keeping quiet, he merely propped up
the door as it was shaken from outside. This lasted several minutes,
then the door cracked, and the Blues began to fire through the
fissures. Baudelot was not wounded, and as his meal had been
interrupted, he returned to the table and tranquilly ate some bread
and cheese, and emptied a pitcher of country wine, thinking
meanwhile that this was his last repast!
Finally the Blues forced the door and rushed in. It took them some
minutes to clear away obstructions, and to recognize each other in
the smoke of their guns. These soldiers of the Republic hunted
eagerly with look and sword for the armed troop which had
withstood them so long. Judge their surprise at seeing only a tall,
very handsome young man, calmly eating black bread moistened
with wine. Dumb with astonishment the conquerors stopped and
leaned on their guns, and thus gave Henri Baudelot time to swallow
his last mouthful.
“To your health, gentlemen!” he said, lifting his glass to his lips. “The
garrison thanks you for the respite you have granted.” At the same
time he rose, and going straight to the Captain, said: “Monsieur, I
am the only person in this house. I am quite ready for death.”
Then he kept quiet, and waited. To his great surprise he was not
shot at once. Perhaps he had fallen into the hands of recruits so little
exercised as to delay twenty-four hours before killing a man.
Perhaps his captors were moved by his coolness and fine bearing,
and were ashamed at setting three hundred to kill one. We must
remember that in that sad war there were French feelings on both
sides.
So they contented themselves with tying his hands and leading him,
closely watched, to a manor on the outskirts of Nantes, which, once
an attractive country-seat, had now become a kind of fortress. Its
master was no other than the chief of the Blues, who had captured
Baudelot. This Breton, a gentleman although a Blue, had been one
of the first to share revolutionary transports. He was one of those
nobles so heroic to their own injury, who renounced in a day
fortunes, coats of arms, and their own names, forgetting both what
they had promised their fathers and what they owed to their sons,
equally oblivious of past and future, and unfortunate victims of the
present. But we will not reproach them, for either they died under
the stroke of the Revolution, or lived long enough to see that all
their sacrifices were vain.
Baudelot de Dairval was confined in the donjon, or, rather, in the
pigeon-house of his conqueror. The doves had been expelled to give
place to Chouan captives. Still covered with shining slates, still
surmounted by its creaking weather-cock, this prison had retained a
calm, gracious air, and it had not been thought necessary to bar the
openings by which the pigeons came and went. Much as ever, a little
straw had been added to the usual furniture.
At first the dovecote of a country manor struck him as a novel
prison. He decided that as soon as his hands were free he would
compose a romance upon it, with a guitar accompaniment. While
thus thinking, he heard a violin and other instruments playing a
joyful march. By piling up the straw against the wall and leaning on
it with his elbow, Baudelot could look out of one of the openings. He
saw a long procession of young men and pretty women in white
gowns, preceded by village fiddlers, and all merry and joyous. As it
passed at the foot of the dovecote, a pretty girl looked up
attentively. She was fair, slender and dreamy-looking. Baudelot felt
that she knew of the prisoner, and he began to whistle the air of
Richard, “In an Obscure Tower,” or something of the kind. For this
young man was versed in all kinds of combats and romances,
equally skilful with sword and guitar, an adept at horsemanship, a
fine dancer, a true gentleman of wit and sword, such as are
manufactured no more.
The wedding procession passed, or, at least, if not a wedding it was
a betrothal, and Baudelot stopped singing. He heard a sound at his
prison door; some one entered.
It was the master of the house himself. He had been a Marquis
under Capet, now he called himself simply Hamelin. He was a Blue,
but a good fellow enough. The Republic ruled him body and soul; he
lent his sword and his castle. But he had not become cruel or wicked
in its service. The morning of this very day, Captain Hamelin, for so
he had been appointed by the Republic, learned that some Chouans
were at his farm, had headed a detachment of Blues and postponed
his betrothal. You know how he had seized Baudelot. As soon as the
Chouan was in keeping the Captain had returned to his betrothal
feast, and this is the reason why he did not shoot his prisoner at
once or take him to Nantes.
Captain Hamelin was not so thorough a Blue as to have quite
forgotten the hospitable old customs of Bretagne soil. Therefore,
while his friends were sitting down to table, he felt it incumbent to
call upon his captive.
“Can I do anything for you, monsieur?” he asked.
“Monsieur,” said Baudelot, bowing, “I should like the use of at least
one of my hands.”
“Your hands shall be unbound, monsieur,” answered Hamelin, “if you
will promise not to try to escape. But before you promise, remember
that at six o’clock to-morrow morning you will surely be taken to
Nantes.”
“And shot at eight o’clock just as surely?” asked Baudelot.
Captain Hamelin was silent.
“Very well, monsieur,” said Baudelot. “Unbind my hands and unless
I’m delivered, I give my word as a gentleman and a Christian to stay
here like a pigeon with clipped wings.”
Captain Hamelin could not help smiling at his prisoner’s allusion, and
untied his hands.
“Now,” said Baudelot, stretching his arms like a man stiff from sleep,
“now, monsieur, I thank you, and am truly your servant until to-
morrow. It will not be my fault if my gratitude does not last longer!”
Captain Hamelin said: “If you have any last arrangements—a will to
make, for instance—I will send you writing materials.” He was
touched, for he was not a Breton for nothing.
Seeing this, Baudelot took his hand. “Do you know,” he said sadly,
“that simple word ‘will’ wounds me more than the words ‘death at
Nantes!’ It recalls that all my friends are dead. There is no one to
whom I can bequeath my name, my sword, my love and my hate,
and these are all I have left. Yet, it must be sweet to dispose of a
fortune, to be generous even beyond the tomb; and while writing
last benefits, to imagine the tears of joys and sorrow they will cause.
That is sweet and honorable, isn’t it, Captain? I must not think of it.”
“I will send you some dinner,” said Hamelin. “This is my day of
betrothal, and my table is better provided than usual. My fiancée
herself shall serve you, monsieur.”
In one of the highest apertures of his cage, Baudelot saw a daisy
which had been sown there by one of the first occupants of the
dovecote. The pretty flower swayed joyously in the wind, and he
gathered it and offered it to the Captain.
“It is our custom at home, Captain, to offer the bride a gift. Be so
good as to give yours this little flower, which has blossomed in my
domain. And now, good night. I have kept you from your loves long
enough. May God remember your kindness toward me! Good-by.
Best wishes! Send me some supper, for I’m hungry and need rest.”
And they separated with friendly looks.
Dinner was brought the young Vendean by a pretty Breton girl with
white teeth, rosy lips and the pensive air which befitted a shy
country maiden, who had already seen so many proscripts. She
served him zealously, and gave him no peace if he did not eat of this
or that dish, drink this or that wine. It was a magnificent repast. The
dovecote grew fragrant. It was almost like the time when the winged
occupants of the tower gathered crumbs from the feast. As the girl
was pouring champagne, Baudelot said to her:
“What is your name, my child?”
“My name is Marie,” she answered.
“The same as my cousin’s,” went on the young man; “and how old
are you, Marie?”
“Seventeen years,” said Marie.
“The age of my cousin,” said Baudelot, and as he thought of his
pretty cousin butchered by the executioner, his heart almost failed
him. But he blushed to weep before this child in whose eyes tears
were gathering, and as he could not speak, he held out his glass.
But the glass was full, and in the last rays of the sun the champagne
sparkled joyously, for wine sparkled and spring bloomed even during
the Terror. Seeing that his glass was full, Baudelot said:
“You have no glass, Marie?”
“I am not thirsty,” said Marie.
“Oh!” said Baudelot, “this bright wine does not like to be drunk by a
man alone. It is convivial by nature, and rejoices to be among boon
companions. It is the great support of the Fraternity of which you
have heard so much, my poor Marie, and which men really
comprehend so little. Be friendly; dip your lips in my glass, my pretty
Breton, if you would have me drink champagne once more before I
die,” and he lifted the glass to Marie’s lips. She held them out, but at
the words, “to die,” her heart overflowed, and copious tears rolled
into the joyous wine.
“To your health, Marie!” said Baudelot, and drank both wine and
tears.
Just then they heard the horn, the hautboys, and the violins. “What’s
that?” said the young man setting down his glass. “God bless me, it’s
a ball!”
“Alas!” said Marie, “alas! yes, it’s a ball. My young mistress did not
want dancing, but her lover and her father insisted. She is very
unhappy this evening.”
“Oh!” said the young Vendean, “my good Marie, if you are as kind as
I think, you’ll do something for me! Go, run, fly, tell your mistress
that Count Baudelot de Dairval, Colonel of Light Horse, requests
permission to pay her his respects. Or, no; find my host, not his
bride, and tell him that his prisoner is very dull, that the noise of the
ball will prevent his sleeping, that the night will be long and cold,
that it’s a charity to snatch an unhappy young man from the sad