o became and
remained for us Mademoiselle Pearl."

II

M. Chantal stopped. He was sitting on the edge of the billiard table, his
feet hanging, and was playing with a ball with his left hand, while with
his right he crumpled a rag which served to rub the chalk marks from the
slate. A little red in the face, his voice thick, he was talking away to
himself now, lost in his memories, gently drifting through the old scenes
and events which awoke in his mind, just as we walk through old family
gardens where we were brought up and where each tree, each walk, each
hedge reminds us of some occurrence.

I stood opposite him leaning against the wall, my hands resting on my
idle cue.

After a slight pause he continued:

"By Jove! She was pretty at eighteen--and graceful--and
perfect. Ah! She was so sweet--and good and true--and charming!
She had such eyes--blue-transparent--clear--such eyes as
I have never seen since!"

He was once more silent. I asked: "Why did she never marry?"

He answered, not to me, but to the word "marry" which had caught his ear:
"Why? why? She never would--she never would! She had a dowry of
thirty thousand francs, and she received several offers--but she
never would! She seemed sad at that time. That was when I married my
cousin, little Charlotte, my wife, to whom I had been engaged for six
years."

I looked at M. Chantal, and it seemed to me that I was looking into his
very soul, and I was suddenly witnessing one of those humble and cruel
tragedies of honest, straightforward, blameless hearts, one of those
secret tragedies known to no one, not even the silent and resigned
victims. A rash curiosity suddenly impelled me to exclaim:

"You should have married her, Monsieur Chantal!"

He started, looked at me, and said:

"I? Marry whom?"

"Mademoiselle Pearl."

"Why?"

"Because you loved her more than your cousin."

He stared at me with strange, round, bewildered eyes and stammered:

"I loved her--I? How? Who told you that?"

"Why, anyone can see that--and it's even on account of her that you
delayed for so long your marriage to your cousin who had been waiting for
you for six years."

He dropped the ball which he was holding in his left hand, and, seizing
the chalk rag in both hands, he buried his face in it and began to sob.
He was weeping with his eyes, nose and mouth in a heartbreaking yet
ridiculous manner, like a sponge which one squeezes. He was coughing,
spitting and blowi