a woman of her reputation could not give herself to the first comer.
“She needed a man of the world, the most exclusive social world, who would crown her reputation while supplying her daily bread. A wealthy sybarite had compromised her daughter beyond hope and made her marriage very problematic. She could not now afford to resort to a professional go-between or shady intermediaries who could once have extricated her from her difficulties.
“Besides, she had to maintain her establishment, and continue to keep open house, in order not to lose all chance of finding among her many visitors the discreet and distinguished friend for whom she was waiting, whom she would choose.
“I convinced her that there was little prospect of my getting back my thirty thousand francs, since when she had run through them, it would be necessary for her to make at least sixty thousand in one haul before she could repay me my half.
“She listened to me in apparent distress. And I did not know what to suggest, until an idea, a really original idea, flashed across my mind.
“I had just bought the Renaissance Christ I showed you, an admirable piece, quite the most beautiful bit of work in that manner I have ever seen.
“ ‘My dear friend,’ I said to her, ‘I am going to send you home this ivory. You will invent an ingenious story for it, a really moving, romantic story, any story you like, to explain your desire to get rid of it. It is, of course, a family treasure inherited from your father.
“ ‘I will send collectors to you and bring them to you myself. I leave the rest to you. I will let you have all necessary information about them the day before. This Christ is worth fifty thousand francs, but I will let it go for thirty thousand. The difference will be your commission.’
“She reflected a few moments with an air of profound gravity, and answered: ‘Yes, it is possibly a good idea. Thank you very much.’
“I had my Christ taken to her house next day, and the same evening I sent her the Baron de Saint-Hospital.
“For three months I went on sending clients to her, my very best clients, those whose high standing had been amply proved in my business relations with them. But I heard nothing of her.
“Then I had a visit from a foreigner who spoke French very badly, and I decided to take him myself to the Samoris’ house to see what was going on.
“A footman in black livery opened the door and showed me into a pretty drawing room, decorated in subdued colours and furnished in excellent taste. We waited here for some minutes. She appeared, looking charming, shook hands with me, and asked us to sit down; and when I had explained to her the reason of my visit, she rang.
“The footman reappeared.
“ ‘See whether Mlle. Isabella will let us visit her chapel,’ she said.
“The young girl brought her answer herself. She was fifteen years old, radiant with first youth, and wore an air of modest simplicity.
“She would take us herself to her chapel.
“It was a kind of sacred boudoir where a silver lamp was burning before the Christ, my Christ, laid on a bed of black velvet. The whole setting was charming and very clever.
“The child crossed herself, then said to us:
“ ‘Look at it, gentlemen, is it not lovely?’
“I took the thing up, examined it and pronounced it quite remarkable. The foreigner considered it too, but he seemed much more interested in the two women than in the Christ.
“Their house gave one a feeling of well-being; there was a scent of incense, flowers and perfumes. It was happiness to be there. It was so comfortable a place that one longed to stay.
“When we returned to the drawing room I broached, in a reserved and delicate fashion, the question of price. Lowering her glance, Mme. Samoris said fifty thousand francs.
“Then she added: ‘If you would like to see it again, monsieur, I rarely go out before three o’clock, and I am at home every day.’
“When we were in the street, the foreigner demanded to be told more about the Baroness, whom he had found altogether exquisite. But I heard nothing further of either of them.
“Another three months went by.
“One morning, less than a fortnight ago, she arrived here at breakfast time, and laid a pocketbook in my hands: ‘My dear, you’re an angel. I have brought you fifty thousand francs: I am buying your Christ myself, and I am paying twenty thousand francs more than the price agreed, on condition that you go on sending me … sending me clients … because he is still for sale … my Christ …’ ”
The Horla
May 8. What a glorious day! I have spent the whole morning lying on the grass in front of my house, under the enormous plane-tree that forms a complete covering, shelter and shade for it. I love this country, and I love living here because it is here I have my roots, those deep-down slender roots that hold a man to the place where his forefathers were born and died, hold him to ways of thought and habits of eating, to customs as to particular foods, to local fashions of speech, to the intonations of country voices, to the scent of the soil, the villages, and the very air itself.
I love this house of mine where I grew up. From my windows I see the Seine flowing alongside my garden, beyond the high road, almost at my door, the great wide Seine, running from Rouen to Havre, covered with passing boats.
Away to the left, Rouen, the widespread town, with its blue roofs lying under the bristling host of Gothic belfries. They are beyond number, frail or sturdy, dominated by the leaden steeples of the cathedral, and filled with bells that ring out in the limpid air of fine mornings, sending me the sweet and far-off murmur of their iron tongues, a brazen song borne
