The Red Lily

rted the branches of candelabra. This centrepiece of the Empire style had been given by Napoleon, in 1812, to Count Martin de l'Aisne, grandfather of the present Count Martin-Belleme. Martin de

proved the report in which Laine censured power and misfortune, by giving to the Empire tardy advice. January 1, 1814, he went with his colleagues to the Tuileries. The Emperor received

dirty linen at home." And while in his anger he twisted in his hand the embroidered collar of the deputy, he said: "The people know me. They do not know you. I am the elect of the nation. You are the obscure delegates of a department." He predicted to them the fate of the Girondins. The noise of his spurs accompanied the sound of his voice. Count Martin remained trembling the rest of his life, and trembli

s XV, elevated the Jacobin origins of the Martins. The second Count Martin was a member of all the Assemblies until his death in 1881. His son took without trouble his seat in the Chamber of Deputies. Having married Mademoiselle Therese Monte

pposite him, on the other side of the table, Countess Martin, having by her side General Lariviere and M. Schmoll, member of the Academie des Inscriptions, caressed with her fan her smooth white shoulders. At the two semicircles, whereby the dinner-table was prolonged, were M. Montessuy, robust, with blue eyes and ruddy complexion; a young cousin, Madame Bell

istaken: dreamers do a great heal of harm. Even apparently inoffensive utopian id

se reality is not beau

of permanent armies in the time of the Empire, for the separation of church and state, and had remained always

ssuy

gs are as they should be. Yes, things are as they should be; but they change incessantly. Since 1870 the industrial and financial situation of the country has gone through fou

and the socialists troubled him little. Without caring whether the sun and capital should be extinguished some day, he enjoye

d irritated M. Schmoll, who began to grumble and to prophesy. He explained that Christian nations were incapable, alone and by themselves, of throwing

nes who can save it to-day from the evangelical evil by which it is devoured. But they have not fulfilled their duty. They have made Christians of themselves among the Christians. And God punishes them. He permits them to be exiled and to be despoiled. Anti-Semitism is making fearful progress everywhere. From Russia my co-religionists are expelled like savage beasts. In France, civil and military employments are closing against Jews. They have no longer access to aristocratic circles. My nephe

world. Grotesque and terrible, he threw the table into consternation by

ike a beautiful Jewish lady of my acquaintance who, having read in a journal that she re

ul and superior to all other moralities is Jewish mo

exhibitions of paintings, fashionable scandals, and Academy speeches. They talked of the ne

onger a popular hero, a demi-god, wearing boots for his country, as in the days when Norvins and Beranger, Charlet and Raffet were composing his legend;

rs, or of suppressing anything. Calm and severe, he saw in Napoleon only Taine's 'condottiere' who kicked Volney in the stomach. Everybody wished to define the true Napoleon. Count Martin, in the face of the imperial centrepiece and of the winged Victorys, talked suitably of Napoleon as an organizer and administrator, and placed him in a high position as presiden

f order. "He liked," he said, "work well do

that the bronze of that mask was hanging in all the old shops, among eagles and sphinxes made of gilded wood. And, according to him, since the true face of Napoleon was not that of the ideal Napoleon, his real soul may not have been as idealists fancied it. Perhaps i

the first time in 1833, under Louis Philippe, and had then inspired surprise and mistrust. People suspected the Italian chemist, who was a sort of buffoon, always talkative and famished, of having tried to make fun of people. Disciples

nly for having kicked Volney in the stomach and stealing a snuff

Martin, "nobody is sure

ncess, gayly. "Napoleon did nothing at all. He did not

at he should say somethin

ampaign of 1813 i

had no other idea. However, he succeeded,

uation he should not have committed an

Marti

Vence, what do you

interests the public. I find character and life in it. There is no poem or novel that is worth the Memoirs of Saint Helena, although it is written in ridiculous fashion. Wh

every one

Vence c

world the same opinion as any one of his grenadiers. He retained always the infantile gravity which finds pleasure in playing with swords and drums, and the sort of innocence which makes good military men. He esteemed force sincerely. He was a man among men, the flesh of human flesh. He had not a thought that

to you, he was not an intellectu

r the world, and embraced it all. Nothing of that mind was lost in the infinite. Himself a poet, he knew only the poetry of action. He limited to the earth his powerful dream of life. In his terrible and touching naivete he believed that a man could be great, and neither time nor misfortune made him lose that idea. His youth, or rather his sublime adolescence, lasted as long as he lived, because life never brought him a real maturity. Such is the abnormal state of men of action. They live entirely in the present, and their genius concentrates on one point. The hours of their existence are not connected by a chain of grave and disinterested

's ingenious turn of wit and langua

there was something of

ers inspire horror. Napoleon was loved by an entire people. He had the p

chartre to give his opinion. But he

the parable of the three rings, subl

rilliant paradox, regretted that wit should be

said, "is that men shoul

brusquely; "do you judge them by their

of silverware. A warm air bathed the room. The roses shed their

iviere fell

he said to his neighbor, "I shall go to

d gardener; his name had been given

f they knew the parab

ss rallied

Garain, that one does the same t

said she

London. One learns from it that the great seducer lost his time with three women. One was a bourgeoise: she was in love with her husband; the other was a nun: she would not consent to violate her vows; the third, who had for a long time led a life of debauchery, had become ugly, and wa

"have our look, our face: they are our da

took the Ge

e drawing-room t

express our real selves at all. They ar

ed vainly in their faded beauty a

ousin, Madame Belleme de Saint-Nom. She complime

ar. I have noticed that children, when they are handsome, look, when they pout, like

ing toward

like N

Revolution. And Napoleon

say this at dinner? But I see you pre

omen. Princess Seniavine asked him if he had finished his novel, and what was the subject of it

res a moral force which history,

book was written for wo

ot to write for women. A superior

now what gave

all the intelligen

bore

e. They would have more resources to employ in bo

ou in

sist upon

hom he loves, he studies, he reads books. In his mind, simple and receptive, ideas lodge themselves like bullets in a wall. He has no desires. He has neither the passions nor the vices that attach us to life. He is solitary and pure. En

t be sensual

iness society must be destroyed. Thirst for martyrdom devours him. One morning, having kissed his mother, he goes out; he watches for the socialist deputy of his district, sees him, throw

our fault. Your anarchists are as timid and moderate as other F

and had invited him. She knew nothing of him, not even his name. Paul Vence could only say that he was

nd pitiful air. His coat was damp and he was warming himself. He was talking with old colleagues and saying, while rubbing his hands: 'The proof that the Republic is the best o

aid Madame Martin. "And to t

ace of her housewifely mind, and dreamed of her vegetable garden on

of the smoking-room. The General took a seat

se. She said, 'General, how do you manage to have such fine horses?' I replied:

ed with his reply that

ame near Cou

vice-president of a political society, and author

eral co

ing fun of me, I saw, because I sought shelter. He imagines that because I am a general I must like win

ause; the Gen

t I don't envy him. Foxh

useful," sa

shrugged h

-coops in the spring when the fo

less harm to farmers than to hun

the Princess, who was talki

ll me that he

hinking, dear?" in

ting," Therese repl