Elephant Island Chronicles

The Question Of Latin

The Elephant Island Chronicles Presents The Question Of Latinby Guy de Maupassant Translated by ALBERT M. C. Mcmaster, B.A.; A. E. HENDERSON, B.A.; MME. QUESADA And Others Narration by Eleven Labs Forward by Gio Marron Foreword In The Question of Latin, Guy de Maupassant turns his sharp satirical eye toward the rigid structures of classical education and the bureaucracies that uphold them. Written during a period when Latin was still considered the pinnacle of academic achievement in French schools, the story exposes the absurd lengths to which educational authorities will go to preserve appearances, even in the face of failure. What unfolds is not just a critique of outdated pedagogy, but a broader indictment of a system more concerned with optics than with learning. The child's inability to answer a question becomes less important than the officials’ eagerness to reframe ignorance as virtue. Maupassant, with characteristic irony, reveals how social prestige, institutional pride, and empty decorum often conspire to obscure truth. Though specific in its cultural setting, the story remains strikingly relevant today—as debates over educational relevance, performance-based evaluation, and institutional credibility continue. This brief tale reminds us that the true farce is not ignorance itself, but the elaborate fictions we create to conceal it. Gio Marron The Question Of Latin by Guy de Maupassant Translated by AlbertM. C. Mcmaster, B.A.; A. E. Henderson, B.A.; MME. Quesada And Others This subject of Latin that has been dinned into our ears for some time past recalls to my mind a story—a story of my youth. I was finishing my studies with a teacher, in a big central town, at the Institution Robineau, celebrated through the entire province for the special attention paid there to the study of Latin. For the past ten years, the Robineau Institute beat the imperial lycee of the town at every competitive examination, and all the colleges of the subprefecture, and these constant successes were due, they said, to an usher, a simple usher, M. Piquedent, or rather Pere Piquedent. He was one of those middle-aged men quite gray, whose real age it is impossible to tell, and whose history we can guess at first glance. Having entered as an usher at twenty into the first institution that presented itself so that he could proceed to take first his degree of Master of Arts and afterward the degree of Doctor of Laws, he found himself so enmeshed in this routine that he remained an usher all his life. But his love for Latin did not leave him and harassed him like an unhealthy passion. He continued to read the poets, the prose writers, the historians, to interpret them and penetrate their meaning, to comment on them with a perseverance bordering on madness. One day, the idea came into his head to oblige all the students in his class to answer him in Latin only; and he persisted in this resolution until at last they were capable of sustaining an entire conversation with him just as they would in their mother tongue. He listened to them, as a leader of an orchestra listens to his musicians rehearsing, and striking his desk every moment with his ruler, he exclaimed: “Monsieur Lefrere, Monsieur Lefrere, you are committing a solecism! You forget the rule. “Monsieur Plantel, your way of expressing yourself is altogether French and in no way Latin. You must understand the genius of a language. Look here, listen to me.” Now, it came to pass that the pupils of the Institution Robineau carried off, at the end of the year, all the prizes for composition, translation, and Latin conversation. Next year, the principal, a little man, as cunning as an ape, whom he resembled in his grinning and grotesque appearance, had had printed on his programmes, on his advertisements, and painted on the door of his institution: “Latin Studies a Specialty. Five first prizes carried off in the five classes of the lycee. “Two honor prizes at the general examinations in competition with all the lycees and colleges of France.” For ten years the Institution Robineau triumphed in the same fashion. Now my father, allured by these successes, sent me as a day pupil to Robineau's—or, as we called it, Robinetto or Robinettino's—and made me take special private lessons from Pere Piquedent at the rate of five francs per hour, out of which the usher got two francs and the principal three francs. I was then eighteen, and was in the philosophy class. These private lessons were given in a little room looking out on the street. It so happened that Pere Piquedent, instead of talking Latin to me, as he did when teaching publicly in the institution, kept telling me his troubles in French. Without relations, without friends, the poor man conceived an attachment to me, and poured out his misery to me. He had never for the last ten or fifteen years chatted confidentially with any one. “I am like an oak in a desert,” he said—“'sicut quercus in solitudine'.” The other ushers disgusted him. He knew nobody in the town, since he had no time to devote to making acquaintances. “Not even the nights, my friend, and that is the hardest thing on me. The dream of my life is to have a room with my own furniture, my own books, little things that belong to myself and which others may not touch. And I have nothing of my own, nothing except my trousers and my frock-coat, nothing, not even my mattress and my pillow! I have not four walls to shut myself up in, except when I come to give a lesson in this room. Do you see what this means—a man forced to spend his life without ever having the right, without ever finding the time, to shut himself up all alone, no matter where, to think, to reflect, to work, to dream? Ah! my dear boy, a key, the key of a door which one can lock—this is happiness, mark you, the only happiness! “Here, all day long, teaching all those restless rogues, and during the night the dormitory with the same restless rogues snoring. And I have to sleep in the bed at the end of two rows of beds occupied by these youngsters whom I must look after. I can never be alone, never! If I go out I find the streets full of people, and, when I am tired of walking, I go into some cafe crowded with smokers and billiard players. I tell you what, it is the life of a galley slave.” I said: “Why did you not take up some other line, Monsieur Piquedent?” He exclaimed: “What, my little friend? I am not a shoemaker, or a joiner, or a hatter, or a baker, or a hairdresser. I only know Latin, and I have no diploma which would enable me to sell my knowledge at a high price. If I were a doctor I would sell for a hundred francs what I now sell for a hundred sous; and I would supply it probably of an inferior quality, for my title would be enough to sustain my reputation.” Sometimes he would say to me: “I have no rest in life except in the hours spent with you. Don't be afraid! you'll lose nothing by that. I'll make it up to you in the class-room by making you speak twice as much Latin as the others.” One day, I grew bolder, and offered him a cigarette. He stared at me in astonishment at first, then he gave a glance toward the door. “If any one were to come in, my dear boy?” “Well, let us smoke at the window,” said I. And we went and leaned our elbows on the windowsill looking on the street, holding concealed in our hands the little rolls of tobacco. Just opposite to us was a laundry. Four women in loose white waists were passing hot, heavy irons over the linen spread out before them, from which a warm steam arose. Suddenly, another, a fifth, carrying on her arm a large basket which made her stoop, came out to take the customers their shirts, their handkerchiefs, and their sheets. She stopped on the threshold as if she were already fatigued; then, she raised her eyes, smiled as she saw us smoking, flung at us, with her left hand, which was free, the sly kiss characteristic of a free-and-easy working-woman, and went away at a slow place, dragging her feet as she went. She was a woman of about twenty, small, rather thin, pale, rather pretty, with a roguish air and laughing eyes beneath her ill-combed fair hair. Pere Piquedent, affected, began murmuring: “What an occupation for a woman! Really a trade only fit for a horse.” And he spoke with emotion about the misery of the people. He had a heart which swelled with lofty democratic sentiment, and he referred to the fatiguing pursuits of the working class with phrases borrowed from Jean-Jacques Rousseau, and with sobs in his throat. Next day, as we were leaning our elbows on the same window sill, the same woman perceived us and cried out to us: “Good-day, scholars!” in a comical sort of tone, while she made a contemptuous gesture with her hands. I flung her a cigarette, which she immediately began to smoke. And the four other ironers rushed out to the door with outstretched hands to get cigarettes also. And each day a friendly intercourse was established between the working-women of the pavement and the idlers of the boarding school. Pere Piquedent was really a comical sight. He trembled at being noticed, for he might lose his position; and he made timid and ridiculous gestures, quite a theatrical display of love signals, to which the women responded with a regular fusillade of kisses. A perfidious idea came into my mind. One day, on entering our room, I said to the old usher in a low tone: “You would not believe it, Monsieur Piquedent, I met the little washerwoman! You know the one I mean, the woman who had the basket, and I spoke to her!” He asked, rather worried at my manner: “What did she say to you?” “She said to me—why, she said she thought you were very nice. The fact of the matter is, I believe, I believe, that she is a little in love with you.” I saw that he was growing pale. “She is laughing at me, of course. These things don't happen at my age,” he replied. I said gravely: “How is that? You are all right.” As I felt that my trick had produced its effect on him, I did not press the matter. But every day I pretended that I had met the little laundress and that I had spoken to her about him, so that in the end he believed me, and sent her ardent and earnest kisses. Now it happened that one morning, on my way to the boarding school, I really came across her. I accosted her without hesitation, as if I had known her for the last ten years. “Good-day, mademoiselle. Are you quite well?” “Very well, monsieur, thank you.” “Will you have a cigarette?” “Oh! not in the street.” “You can smoke it at home.” “In that case, I will.” “Let me tell you, mademoiselle, there's something you don't know.” “What is that, monsieur?” “The old gentleman—my old professor, I mean—” “Pere Piquedent?” “Yes, Pere Piquedent. So you know his name?” “Faith, I do! What of that?” “Well, he is in love with you!” She burst out laughing wildly, and exclaimed: “You are only fooling.” “Oh! no, I am not fooling! He keeps talking of you all through the lesson. I bet that he'll marry you!” She ceased laughing. The idea of marriage makes every girl serious. Then she repeated, with an incredulous air: “This is humbug!” “I swear to you, it's true.” She picked up her basket which she had laid down at her feet. “Well, we'll see,” she said. And she went away. Presently when I had reached the boarding school, I took Pere Piquedent aside, and said: “You must write to her; she is infatuated with you.” And he wrote a long letter, tenderly affectionate, full of phrases and circumlocutions, metaphors and similes, philosophy and academic gallantry; and I took on myself the responsibility of delivering it to the young woman. She read it with gravity, with emotion; then she murmured: “How well he writes! It is easy to see he has got education! Does he really mean to marry me?” I replied intrepidly: “Faith, he has lost his head about you!” “Then he must invite me to dinner on Sunday at the Ile des Fleurs.” I promised that she should be invited. Pere Piquedent was much touched by everything I told him about her. I added: “She loves you, Monsieur Piquedent, and I believe her to be a decent girl. It is not right to lead her on and then abandon her.” He replied in a firm tone: “I hope I, too, am a decent man, my friend.” I confess I had at the time no plan. I was playing a practical joke a schoolboy joke, nothing more. I had been aware of the simplicity of the old usher, his innocence and his weakness. I amused myself without asking myself how it would turn out. I was eighteen, and I had been for a long time looked upon at the lycee as a sly practical joker. So it was agreed that Pere Piquedent and I should set out in a hack for the ferry of Queue de Vache, that we should there pick up Angele, and that I should take them into my boat, for in those days I was fond of boating. I would then bring them to the Ile des Fleurs, where the three of us would dine. I had inflicted myself on them, the better to enjoy my triumph, and the usher, consenting to my arrangement, proved clearly that he was losing his head by thus risking the loss of his position. When we arrived at the ferry, where my boat had been moored since morning, I saw in the grass, or rather above the tall weeds of the bank, an enormous red parasol, resembling a monstrous wild poppy. Beneath the parasol was the little laundress in her Sunday clothes. I was surprised. She was really pretty, though pale; and graceful, though with a rather suburban grace. Pere Piquedent raised his hat and bowed. She put out her hand toward him, and they stared at one another without uttering a word. Then they stepped into my boat, and I took the oars. They were seated side by side near the stern. The usher was the first to speak. “This is nice weather for a row in a boat.” She murmured: “Oh! yes.” She dipped her hand into the water, skimming the surface, making a thin, transparent film like a sheet of glass, which made a soft plashing along the side of the boat. When they were in the restaurant, she took it on herself to speak, and ordered dinner, fried fish, a chicken, and salad; then she led us on toward the isle, which she knew perfectly. After this, she was gay, romping, and even rather tantalizing. Until dessert, no question of love arose. I had treated them to champagne, and Pere Piquedent was tipsy. Herself slightly the worse, she called out to him: “Monsieur Piquenez.” He said abruptly: “Mademoiselle, Monsieur Raoul has communicated my sentiments to you.” She became as serious as a judge. “Yes, monsieur.” “What is your reply?” “We never reply to these questions!” He puffed with emotion, and went on: “Well, will the day ever come that you will like me?” She smiled. “You big stupid! You are very nice.” “In short, mademoiselle, do you think that, later on, we might—” She hesitated a second; then in a trembling voice she said: “Do you mean to marry me when you say that? For on no other condition, you know.” “Yes, mademoiselle!” “Well, that's all right, Monsieur Piquedent!” It was thus that these two silly creatures promised marriage to each other through the trick of a young scamp. But I did not believe that it was serious, nor, indeed, did they, perhaps. “You know, I have nothing, not four sous,” she said. He stammered, for he was as drunk as Silenus: “I have saved five thousand francs.” She exclaimed triumphantly: “Then we can set up in business?” He became restless. “In what business?” “What do I know? We shall see. With five thousand francs we could do many things. You don't want me to go and live in your boarding school, do you?” He had not looked forward so far as this, and he stammered in great perplexity: “What business could we set up in? That would not do, for all I know is Latin!” She reflected in her turn, passing in review all her business ambitions. “You could not be a doctor?” “No, I have no diploma.” “Or a chemist?” “No more than the other.” She uttered a cry of joy. She had discovered it. “Then we'll buy a grocer's shop! Oh! what luck! we'll buy a grocer's shop. Not on a big scale, of course; with five thousand francs one does not go far.” He was shocked at the suggestion. “No, I can't be a grocer. I am—I am—too well known: I only know Latin, that is all I know.” But she poured a glass of champagne down his throat. He drank it and was silent. We got back into the boat. The night was dark, very dark. I saw clearly, however, that he had caught her by the waist, and that they were hugging each other again and again. It was a frightful catastrophe. Our escapade was discovered, with the result that Pere Piquedent was dismissed. And my father, in a fit of anger, sent me to finish my course of philosophy at Ribaudet's school. Six months later I took my degree of Bachelor of Arts. Then I went to study law in Paris, and did not return to my native town till two years later. At the corner of the Rue de Serpent a shop caught my eye. Over the door were the words: “Colonial Products—Piquedent”; then underneath, so as to enlighten the most ignorant: “Grocery.” I exclaimed: “'Quantum mutatus ab illo!'” Piquedent raised his head, left his female customer, and rushed toward me with outstretched hands. “Ah! my young friend, my young friend, here you are! What luck! what luck!” A beautiful woman, very plump, abruptly left the cashier's desk and flung herself on my breast. I had some difficulty in recognizing her, she had grown so stout. I asked: “So then you're doing well?” Piquedent had gone back to weigh the groceries. “Oh! very well, very well, very well. I have made three thousand francs clear this year!” “And what about Latin, Monsieur Piquedent?” “Oh, good heavens! Latin, Latin, Latin—you see it does not keep the pot boiling!” From all of us here at the Elephant Island Chronicles, we hope you have enjoyed this short story by Guy de Maupassant. Until next time, stay curious. Get full access to The Elephant Island Chronicles at giomarron.substack.com/subscribe [https://giomarron.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_4]

The Cipher of Rue Royal

Voice-over provided by Eleven Labs [http://elevenlabs.io/?from=partnerjackson1662] or Amazon Polly The Cipher of Rue Royal A Mimi Delboise Mystery By Gio Marron The brass nameplate on the door read "M. Delboise, Private Detective" in letters that caught the morning light filtering through the French Quarter's narrow streets. Mimi Delboise adjusted the tilt of her hat and checked her pocket watch—eight-thirty sharp. Punctuality was a virtue she demanded of herself, if not always of her clients. The woman waiting in her small office was clearly nervous, her gloved hands worrying the clasp of an expensive leather purse. She couldn't have been more than twenty-five, with the pale complexion of someone who spent little time in New Orleans' unforgiving sun. Her dress was fashionable but not ostentatious—the carefully calculated appearance of new money trying not to appear too eager. "Mrs. Boudreaux, I presume?" Mimi settled behind her desk, noting how the woman's eyes darted to the window overlooking Royal Street before returning to meet her gaze. "Yes, though I... I wasn't certain you would see me. Some of the ladies at the Literary Society suggested that perhaps a woman inquiry agent might not be... suitable for such matters." Mimi had heard variations of this conversation many times. She leaned back in her chair, allowing a slight smile to play at the corners of her mouth. "And yet here you are. Which suggests your need outweighs your social circle's reservations." A flush crept up Mrs. Boudreaux's neck. "My husband is receiving threatening letters. The police dismiss them as pranks, but..." She reached into her purse and withdrew a folded paper. "This arrived yesterday." Mimi accepted the letter, immediately noting the quality of the paper—expensive but not the finest available. The handwriting was educated, with the slight flourishes suggesting European training, but something was deliberately theatrical about the script. Your accounts must be settled before the moon wanes, or your secrets will illuminate the shadows where your reputation now hides. "Cryptic," Mimi observed, turning the paper to examine the watermark. "But not particularly threatening. Has your husband any idea what accounts might be referenced?" "He claims ignorance entirely. Says it's merely some competitor trying to unnerve him before the cotton exchange votes on new regulations." Mrs. Boudreaux's voice carried the careful neutrality of a wife who had practiced believing her husband's explanations. "But you suspect otherwise." "I suspect my husband keeps ledgers I've never seen." The admission came quietly, followed by a quick glance toward the door as if Gabriel Boudreaux might materialize to overhear his wife's disloyalty. Mimi studied the young woman's face, noting the faint shadows beneath her eyes that suggested sleepless nights. "Mrs. Boudreaux, before we proceed, I must ask—are you prepared for the possibility that your suspicions may prove correct? My investigations have a tendency to uncover truths that clients sometimes wish had remained buried." The silence stretched between them, filled with the distant sounds of the French Quarter awakening—street vendors calling their wares, the clip-clop of horses on cobblestones, the musical cadence of Creole French drifting through the open window. "I need to know," Mrs. Boudreaux said finally. "Whatever it is, I need to know." Two hours later, Mimi stood in the shadow of the Cabildo, watching the morning's commerce unfold in Jackson Square. The letter had yielded several clues to someone trained in observation: the particular shade of blue ink suggested a specific type of pen, likely German-made and expensive. The paper's watermark belonged to a shop on Royal Street that catered to the city's more discerning letter-writers. Most intriguingly, the phrasing carried the careful cadence of someone whose first language was not English—French, most likely, though she detected hints of Spanish influence in the sentence structure. The watermark led her first to Papeterie Dubois, a narrow shop squeezed between a millinery and a dealer in rare books. The proprietor, Monsieur Dubois, was an elderly Creole gentleman whose careful manners barely concealed his assessment of Mimi's unconventional appearance. "Bonjour, Madame. You inquire about our correspondence papers?" Mimi produced the letter, keeping the text carefully folded away. "This particular stock. Do you recall who might have purchased it recently?" Dubois examined the paper with the solemnity of a wine connoisseur evaluating a vintage. "Ah, yes. Our finest grade. We sell perhaps twenty sheets per month of this quality." He paused, his eyes meeting hers. "You are investigating some matter of consequence?" "A private matter for a client. Nothing that need concern the authorities." The assurance seemed to ease his reluctance. "There have been three purchases this month. Madame Thibodaux for her weekly correspondence with her sister in Baton Rouge—but she has used this paper for twenty years, since her dear husband's passing. Monsieur Beauregard purchased two packets last week, but his secretary collects his supplies on the fifteenth of each month, regular as clockwork." "And the third?" "A gentleman I did not recognize. Well-dressed, spoke French with an accent I could not place. Perhaps from the islands? He purchased only one packet, paid in cash, and seemed... nerveux. Nervous, you understand." Mimi nodded, filing away the description. "When was this?" "Voyons... three days ago. Tuesday morning, just after we opened." Tuesday. The same day the first letter had arrived, according to Mrs. Boudreaux. The timing was too convenient to be coincidence. Her next stop took her deeper into the Vieux Carré, to a café on Chartres Street where she had arranged to meet Marie Trosclair. Marie operated a small but successful dressmaking establishment and, more importantly for Mimi's purposes, possessed an encyclopedic knowledge of the Quarter's gossip networks. "Chère Mimi," Marie called out as she approached the small table tucked into the café's courtyard. "You look like a woman with questions that need answers." Mimi settled into the wrought-iron chair, grateful for the shade provided by the ancient oak tree that dominated the courtyard. "When do I not? What do you know about Gabriel Boudreaux?" Marie's eyebrows rose slightly. "The cotton factor? New money, from up north somewhere. Married that pretty Treme girl—Céleste—last spring. Big wedding at the Cathedral, reception at the St. Charles Hotel." She paused, sipping her café au lait. "Why do you ask?" "Professional curiosity. Has he any particular enemies? Business rivals who might wish him ill?" "Mais non, nothing like that. Though..." Marie leaned forward, lowering her voice despite the courtyard's relative privacy. "I heard from Madame Reeves, who does alterations for some of the American wives, that he's been seen at Baccarat Bob's establishment rather frequently." Mimi knew the name—Robert Baccarat ran one of the Quarter's more exclusive gambling houses, catering to gentlemen who could afford to lose substantial sums without damaging their social standing. "Recently?" "The past month or so. And you know what they say about cotton factors and gambling debts." Indeed she did. The cotton trade was notoriously volatile, fortunes made and lost on the fluctuations of global markets. A man facing significant gambling debts might find himself making increasingly desperate financial decisions. "Marie, have you heard anything about someone new in the Quarter? A gentleman, well-dressed, speaks French with an island accent?" Marie considered this, tapping one finger against her cup. "There's been talk of a Haitian gentleman staying at the Pension Marigny. Calls himself Monsieur Dubois—no relation to the paper seller, I assume. Keeps to himself mostly, pays his bills promptly. Madame Marigny says he's been here about two weeks." The pieces were beginning to form a picture, though Mimi suspected the complete image would prove more complex than these initial fragments suggested. The Pension Marigny occupied a corner lot on Ursulines Street, its Creole cottage architecture typical of the Quarter's residential buildings. Madame Marigny herself answered Mimi's knock—a woman of indeterminate age whose sharp eyes suggested she missed little of what transpired in her establishment. "I'm inquiring about one of your guests," Mimi began, presenting her card. "A Monsieur Dubois?" Madame Marigny examined the card with the same attention she might give a suspicious bank note. "You are an inquiry agent, vraiment? A woman detective?" The concept seemed to both surprise and intrigue her. "I am investigating a matter involving threatening letters. Nothing that reflects poorly on your establishment, I assure you." This seemed to satisfy her concerns about propriety. "Monsieur Dubois has been a model guest. Quiet, courteous, pays in advance. He keeps regular hours—leaves each morning after breakfast, returns before dinner." "Has he received any visitors? Or sent any correspondence?" "No visitors that I've observed. As for correspondence..." She paused, clearly weighing discretion against curiosity. "He did ask about a reliable messenger service yesterday. Said he had several letters to deliver but preferred not to entrust them to the postal service." Another piece fell into place. "Did he say anything about the nature of these letters?" "Only that they concerned debts of honor. I assumed he meant gambling debts—such things are common enough among gentlemen of a certain class." Mimi thanked Madame Marigny and made her way back toward the river, her mind working through the connections she had uncovered. A Haitian gentleman with access to expensive paper, sending letters about debts to Gabriel Boudreaux, who had been frequenting the city's gambling houses. The outline of the situation was becoming clearer, but several crucial questions remained unanswered. Baccarat Bob's establishment occupied the upper floors of a building on Royal Street, its entrance marked only by a discrete brass plaque and a doorman whose intimidating presence discouraged casual visitors. Mimi had no intention of attempting to enter—such places did not welcome women, regardless of their professional credentials—but she knew someone who could provide the information she needed. She found Thomas Lafitte two blocks away, tending bar at a establishment that catered to river men and dock workers. Despite his surname, Thomas claimed no relation to the famous pirate brothers, though his knowledge of the Quarter's less respectable enterprises was comprehensive. "Gabriel Boudreaux?" Thomas wiped down a glass with more attention than it required. "Yeah, I know him. Been coming around the past month or so, playing higher stakes than a smart man ought to." "How much higher?" "Started with twenty-dollar pots, worked his way up to hundreds. Last week, I heard he dropped near two thousand in a single evening." Thomas set down the glass and leaned against the bar. "Word is, he's been trying to chase his losses with bigger bets. Never works out well." Two thousand dollars was a substantial sum—more than many working men earned in a year. "Has he been paying his debts?" "That's where it gets interesting. Bob usually don't extend credit past thirty days, but Boudreaux's been getting special consideration. Seems he's got something Bob wants besides money." Mimi felt her detective instincts sharpen. "What kind of something?" "Cotton Exchange information. Advance word on votes, regulatory changes, that sort of thing. Bob's got business interests that benefit from knowing which way the wind's blowing before it starts blowing." The situation was more complex than simple gambling debts. Gabriel Boudreaux wasn't just losing money—he was trading insider information to cover his losses, which meant the threatening letters might be about far more than unpaid gambling debts. She returned to her office as the afternoon heat was settling over the Quarter like a heavy blanket. The shutters were drawn against the sun, leaving the room in comfortable dimness. Mimi settled behind her desk and spread out the information she had gathered, looking for the pattern that would reveal the true nature of the threat against Gabriel Boudreaux. The door opened without ceremony, and a man stepped inside. He was well-dressed, as Dubois had described, with the bearing of someone accustomed to deference. His skin suggested mixed heritage—likely African and European, common enough in New Orleans but carrying social complications that varied depending on which community claimed him. "Madame Delboise? I am Henri Dubois. I believe you have been inquiring about me." Mimi didn't reach for the small pistol in her desk drawer, but she calculated the distance between her position and the weapon. "Indeed I have, Monsieur Dubois. Please, sit." He took the chair recently vacated by Mrs. Boudreaux, his movements careful and controlled. "You are investigating the letters I have sent to Monsieur Boudreaux." "I am investigating threats made against my client's husband. Whether those threats originated with you remains to be determined." Dubois smiled, though there was no warmth in the expression. "You are careful with your words. Wise, in a woman who has chosen such an... unconventional profession." "My profession requires precision, Monsieur Dubois. Perhaps you could provide some precision regarding your business with Gabriel Boudreaux?" "Gladly." He reached into his coat—slowly, keeping his hands visible—and withdrew a leather portfolio. "I represent certain interests in Haiti. Coffee growers, sugar producers, merchants who trade with New Orleans. We have been... disadvantaged by recent changes in cotton exchange regulations." He opened the portfolio and removed several documents. "Monsieur Boudreaux provided advance information about these regulatory changes. Information that allowed certain competitors to adjust their positions while our clients suffered substantial losses." Mimi examined the documents—shipping manifests, letters of credit, trading records that showed a pattern of perfectly timed market transactions. "You're accusing him of insider trading." "I am stating a fact. The question is what remedy might be appropriate for such... indiscretions." "And the remedy you propose involves threatening letters?" "The letters were intended to encourage voluntary restitution. My clients would prefer to resolve this matter privately, without involving either the authorities or the Cotton Exchange's disciplinary committee." Mimi leaned back in her chair, reassessing the situation. "How much restitution are we discussing?" "Fifty thousand dollars." The sum was staggering—more than enough to destroy Gabriel Boudreaux financially and socially. "And if he refuses?" "Then my clients will pursue other remedies. The Cotton Exchange takes violations of fiduciary duty very seriously. Criminal charges might also be appropriate." Mimi studied Dubois's face, looking for tells that might indicate his intentions beyond what he was stating directly. "You've done your research, Monsieur Dubois. You know that fifty thousand dollars exceeds what a cotton factor might reasonably be expected to pay." "Indeed. Which is why my clients might be willing to accept... alternative forms of compensation." "Such as?" "His cooperation. Advance information about future regulatory decisions. Monsieur Boudreaux has proven quite useful to others in this regard." The true nature of the situation crystallized. This wasn't about punishment for past indiscretions—it was about ensuring future compliance. Dubois wasn't just collecting a debt; he was recruiting a permanent agent within the Cotton Exchange. "I see." Mimi closed the portfolio and slid it back across the desk. "Thank you for your candor, Monsieur Dubois. I believe I understand the situation now." "I hope you do, Madame. It would be unfortunate if misunderstandings led to... complications." After he left, Mimi sat in the gathering darkness, considering her options. Gabriel Boudreaux was guilty of insider trading, but he was also being coerced into ongoing criminal activity. His wife had hired her to investigate threats, but the threats were legitimate responses to her husband's crimes. The case had no clean resolution—only choices between different types of damage. Mrs. Boudreaux returned the following morning, her nervousness replaced by a determined calm that suggested she had spent the night preparing herself for unpleasant truths. "You've discovered something," she said, settling into the same chair she had occupied two days earlier. "I have." Mimi chose her words carefully. "Your husband has been gambling heavily and losing substantially. To cover his debts, he has been trading Cotton Exchange information to parties who use that information for illegal market manipulation." Mrs. Boudreaux absorbed this without visible reaction. "How much does he owe?" "The gambling debts are manageable—perhaps three thousand dollars. The larger problem is that he's being blackmailed by the parties who lost money due to his insider information. They want fifty thousand dollars or his cooperation in future market manipulation schemes." "Fifty thousand..." Mrs. Boudreaux's composure finally cracked slightly. "We don't have fifty thousand dollars." "Which is precisely the point. They don't want the money—they want your husband as a permanent source of inside information." The silence stretched between them, filled with the weight of choices that had no good outcomes. Finally, Mrs. Boudreaux spoke. "What are my options?" "Limited. Your husband could confess to the Cotton Exchange and face disciplinary action, which would likely end his career but might provide some legal protection. He could attempt to continue the cooperation, which would eventually lead to more serious criminal charges. Or..." "Or?" "He could disappear. Leave New Orleans, assume a new identity, start over somewhere else." Mrs. Boudreaux considered this. "What would you do, Madame Delboise?" Mimi thought of her own husband, of the choices that had led to his death, of the compromises that seemed reasonable until their consequences became clear. "I would choose the option that allowed me to sleep at night. Money can be replaced. Reputations can be rebuilt. But moral compromises have a way of compounding until they destroy everything you thought you were protecting." Two weeks later, Mimi read in the Times-Picayune that Gabriel and Céleste Boudreaux had departed New Orleans for an extended honeymoon in California. Their house in the Garden District had been quietly sold, their affairs settled through intermediaries. The Cotton Exchange noted his resignation with polite regret. Henri Dubois had checked out of the Pension Marigny the same day, leaving no forwarding address. Mimi's fee had been paid in full, along with a brief note thanking her for her discretion and expressing hope that she and Gabriel might find in California the fresh start that New Orleans had been unable to provide. She folded the letter and placed it in her files, then turned her attention to the new case that had arrived that morning—something about a missing painting and a suspicious art dealer. Simple theft, most likely, though experience had taught her that in New Orleans, nothing was ever quite as simple as it first appeared. Outside her window, the French Quarter continued its daily dance of commerce and intrigue, secrets and revelations, the eternal cycle of human ambition and consequence that provided the backdrop for her chosen profession. Somewhere in those narrow streets, another mystery was taking shape, another client was discovering that the truth they sought might not be the truth they wanted to find. Mimi Delboise adjusted the tilt of her hat, checked her pocket watch, and prepared to meet whatever complications the day might bring. The End. From all of us here at the Elephant Island Chronicles, we hope you have enjoyed this original short story by Gio Marron. Until next time, stay curious. Gio's World is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Do you like what you read but aren’t yet ready or able to get a paid subscription? Then consider a one-time tip at: https://www.venmo.com/u/TheCogitatingCeviche [https://www.venmo.com/u/TheCogitatingCeviche] Ko-fi.com/thecogitatingceviche [http://ko-fi.com/thecogitatingceviche] Get full access to The Elephant Island Chronicles at giomarron.substack.com/subscribe [https://giomarron.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_4]

Three Miles Out

Three Miles OutBy Gio Marron Voice-over provided by Eleven Labs [http://elevenlabs.io/?from=partnerjackson1662] The Ship The USS Theodore Roosevelt dropped anchor three miles off the coast of Virginia, hull cutting a stark silhouette against the dawn sky. Not far enough to forget land, not close enough to touch it. Virginia Beach shimmered on the horizon like a mirage—real, but out of reach. Petty Officer Third Class Michael Reese stood motionless at the port side rail, the salt-heavy air filling his lungs after months of desert sand. The Hopeful Voice: He stood at the rail in the pale light of early morning, watching the coastline sharpen as the day began. Home. Not metaphorical—actual, American home. The scent of boardwalk fries and saltwater taffy seemed to drift across the water. That was the moment. The crossing back. Six months of carrier ops in the Persian Gulf dissolved into this single point of return. He'd made it. The war was behind him now, three miles of calm water separating then from now. The Realist Voice: No, it wasn't a return. It was a holding pattern. A bureaucratic pause designed by people who'd never had to wait. Like someone put a bookmark in his life and forgot to come back to it. The ship hung in the water like a question with no answer—not there, not here. Just suspended. The land looked almost painted onto the horizon, unreal and mocking. He counted jet skis, speedboats, gulls. Anything that moved. Everything moved—except the ship. Fifteen jet skis. Twenty-three gulls. Four fishing boats. He counted because counting was control, and control was all he had left. "Hey, Reese," someone called behind him. Collins approached, that familiar half-smile on his face. "Beautiful view, right? Almost like we're home." "Almost," Reese replied, the word hollow. Collins leaned against the rail. "I could make that swim," he said, nodding toward shore. "Bet you fifty I could make that swim." "Save your money, Collins." Reese managed a short laugh but it wasn't funny. Nothing about being stuck in sight of home was funny. The Hopeful Voice: He imagined the swim. Not as escape—but arrival. A baptism, almost. A way to feel the distance with his body instead of pretending it didn't matter. He'd done tougher swims in training. Three miles was nothing compared to what he'd already accomplished. He'd cut through the water, each stroke carrying him closer to solid ground, to reality, to a life where the horizon didn't always hide threats. The Realist Voice: He imagined the swim because it was the only way he could believe he'd ever reach shore. The Navy had brought him to war and nearly brought him back—but not all the way. Three miles might as well have been three hundred. The water between ship and shore wasn't just water—it was time, it was protocol, it was everything that separated what he'd become from what he'd been. And nobody was building a bridge across that gap. The Hopeful Voice: Of course they'd notice if he tried. You don't just slip off a carrier unnoticed. The watch would spot him. They'd probably laugh, understand the impulse. Maybe even cheer him on a little before fishing him out. The guys in his division would never let him hear the end of it— "Remember when Reese tried to swim home?"—but it would be a good story. Something to tell at reunions. The Realist Voice: But would they stop him? Or would they just watch, the way everyone watches everything out here—with detached professional interest, marking coordinates, reporting position, never actually engaging. He knew the regs better than most. Man overboard. Full stop. Retrieval protocols. But he wondered sometimes if anyone would really care beyond the paperwork it would generate. He stayed there a long time, gripping the rail like it held him to the world, the metal warm under his palms. He told himself he was just watching the coastline wake up. He told himself he wasn't angry. He told himself a lot of things. The Hopeful Voice: He'd come back changed. Everyone says that about deployment. But really—he'd just come back aware. Aware of the absurdity of time and distance. Aware of how much he'd taken for granted before. Aware of the nearness of things, and how unreachable they could still be. It was a good kind of awareness—the kind that made you appreciate small moments. The kind that would make civilian coffee taste better, civilian beds feel softer. The Realist Voice: He came back knowing the war would always arrive faster than the welcome. That's what they didn't tell you in the recruitment office or the deployment briefs. They talked about readjustment periods and decompression time. They didn't mention the way the world splits into before and after, or how sometimes you get stuck in the space between, watching both sides from a distance. They didn't tell you that coming home was its own kind of deployment—uncertain, dangerous in ways you couldn't prepare for. Pier, No Trumpets They finally brought the ship in two days later. Norfolk Naval Station, Pier 12 North. The gangway lowered with the usual hydraulics and yelling, nothing ceremonial about it. The Chief bellowing orders. Sailors in dress whites scrambling to make fast the lines. It was bright, stupidly bright. Concrete and sea spray and sun in his eyes. And people—God, so many people crowded against the barriers, a wall of color and noise after months of khaki and steel. The Hopeful Voice: They came for their sons, husbands, brothers, and fathers. The crowd waited like something sacred was about to happen. Balloons twisted in the breeze. Camcorders catching every moment. Some of the signs had glitter on them, sparkling in the morning light—"Welcome Home Daddy," "My Hero Returns," "Finally Complete Again." People whooped when the first sailors hit the pier, a sound of pure joy that seemed to lift everyone higher. This was what homecoming looked like. This was the moment they'd all dreamed about during midnight watches and long deployments. The Realist Voice: Not for him. There was no sign. No one waiting. Just a wall of other people's joy that he had to navigate through, shoulders squared, eyes forward. He scanned the crowd anyway. Some reflex you can't turn off, like checking corners when you enter a room or counting exits in a restaurant. But there was nothing to find. No familiar face in the sea of strangers celebrating reunions that weren't his. "Heading straight out, Reese?" Lieutenant Jameson stopped beside him, sea bag in hand. "Yes, sir. Flight leaves in three hours." The Lieutenant nodded. "Good deployment, Reese. Get some real rest." "Thank you, sir." The brief exchange felt both normal and strange—like speaking a language he was rapidly forgetting. He adjusted his cover, slung his sea bag over his shoulder, and walked. One foot after another. Move tactically through the minefield of embracing couples and crying children. Don't make eye contact. Don't get caught in someone else's moment. The Hopeful Voice: He was tired, yes. But not broken. He'd done his part—six months of catapult launches, mine watches, midnights in full gear for drills that always felt a little too real. One hundred and twelve days without setting foot on solid ground. He didn't need a parade. Just a cab and a bed and maybe a beer that hadn't been stored in a ship's hold. He'd earned that much, at least. And there was something dignified about walking off alone, handling his own homecoming in his own way. The Realist Voice: He needed something. Someone to say, "There you are." Someone to look like they'd been watching the horizon for him every day since he left. But the crowd opened around him like he wasn't there. He was just another uniform walking past the real reunions, the ones that mattered. The ones with beginnings and middles and ends, like proper stories. He paused at the edge of the pier where the cement met the first stretch of actual land. People were hugging, crying, lifting toddlers in the air. One woman clung to her husband like she was afraid he'd disappear again if she loosened her grip. A little girl wore a t-shirt that said "Half my heart has been in the Persian Gulf." He watched it like TV, like something happening to other people in other lives. The Hopeful Voice: He smiled at that. That's the stuff you remember. That's the good part. Not the long watches or the midrats in the galley or the endless briefings. But this—people finding each other again. He smiled because it meant something was still working right in the world. And because next time, maybe there'd be someone waiting for him too. Maybe he'd call Rebecca when he got to a phone. They'd left things "on pause" before deployment, but maybe now... The Realist Voice: He didn't smile. Not really. What his face did was something else—a reflexive tightening of muscles that had nothing to do with joy. He adjusted his grip on the sea bag until the strap cut into his shoulder, a discomfort to focus on. It was all fine. No one owed him anything. He'd volunteered, after all. Signed the papers. Taken the oath. He repeated that to himself until he believed it for a full three seconds. A yellow cab pulled up at the pickup point, and he raised a hand. The driver didn't even get out to help with the bag. Just popped the trunk with a lever and waited, meter already running. Cab Ride The cab smelled faintly of cigarettes and old coffee, upholstery worn thin by thousands of nameless passengers. The driver didn't say much, just checked the mirror once—taking in the uniform, the close-cropped hair, the sea bag—and pulled out from the curb, merging into the traffic crawling away from the piers. "Airport?" the driver asked, voice thick with an accent Reese couldn't place. "Yeah. Norfolk International." "Coming home or going away?" "Both, I guess." The driver nodded like this made perfect sense and fell silent again. The world outside the window was impossibly green after months of desert colors and open ocean. Lawn sprinklers casting rainbows in suburbia. Minivans carrying soccer teams. Mailboxes shaped like lighthouses. A whole ecosystem of normal life continuing as if nothing had happened. The Hopeful Voice: He sat back and tried to relax. Leave had started. He could finally let his mind wander where it wanted instead of keeping it locked on checklists and protocols. Two weeks of freedom earned by six months of long days and longer nights. He thought about what he'd do first—maybe sleep until noon, or just listen to nothing at all. Maybe drive down to Virginia Beach and walk barefoot in the sand, feeling solid ground shift beneath him. Simple pleasures that meant more now. The Realist Voice: He didn't relax. He watched the street signs slip past, scanning for threats out of habit. His head felt full of static, like a radio caught between stations. Every time the cab hit a pothole, something in his shoulders clenched, his body still anticipating the next impact. Six months of hypervigilance didn't dissolve just because you crossed a pier. The driver switched on the radio. Someone was talking about the war—about ships, about homecomings, about heroes. A politician thanking "our brave men and women in uniform" while debating the latest spending bill. The words floated disconnected from any reality he recognized. He leaned forward and asked that he turned it off, the silence settling like another passenger between them. "Sorry," Reese said, not sure why he was apologizing. "No problem," the driver shrugged. "Your ride, your music." The Navy was never really quiet, not even at sea. There was always the whine of turbines, the clang of hatches, and the distant shuffle of boots at midnight. In the desert, the sky was black and full of aircraft on launch, orange flares reflected off the water, and the comms crackled in the ready room. On station, everyone moved like a machine, everything timed and measured and checked twice, a choreography of purpose that never stopped, even in sleep. The Hopeful Voice: He remembered the rhythm of flight ops, the catapults launching birds into the night. The pride of watching the jets come back, sometimes scorched, always alive. That sense of purpose was something you carried, even when the rest faded. He could almost hear the launch officer's hand signals, the final thumbs up, the steam and thunder of another plane lauching from the deck. There was something pure about it—all that training, all that technology, all that human skill focused on a single point. Whatever else the war was or wasn't, those moments had been real. The Realist Voice: He remembered the monotony—the endless searching for sea mines, the drills at all hours, the silent meals eaten shoulder to shoulder but never truly together. He remembered the fatigue that gnawed at his bones, the sweat that never quite dried, the constant tension, the waiting for alarms that sometimes came and sometimes didn't. He remembered the night they lost Wilson's plane, the endless hours of search patterns, the rescue helicopters coming back empty, the personal effects packed up without ceremony. Sometimes, in the middle of it all, he'd catch himself staring at the empty sea and feel nothing but distance, as if he was already gone. As if he'd left his body at some checkpoint and kept moving through the motions, a ghost performing duties by rote. The cab pulled onto the interstate, merging with a river of cars headed everywhere but where he'd just come from. The wheels hummed against the asphalt, a different rhythm than the constant vibration of the carrier. The base exchange passed on the right, a place of momentary respit when in port. Plane Ride At the airport, with a ticket home he'd bought with the card he'd barely used during deployment. The terminal was all linoleum and fluorescent lights, tired chairs filled with people rushing to go places they'd never really see. He found his gate, slung his sea bag at his feet, and waited for boarding, the PA system announcing departures to cities that felt increasingly unreal. Atlanta. Chicago. Denver. Places that existed on maps but not in any geography that mattered anymore. The Hopeful Voice: He watched the families, the businessmen, the kids chasing each other around the waiting area. He felt invisible but also safe—no one expected anything from him here. He'd blend in, just another tired traveler. No rank to maintain, no example to set, no responsibilities beyond showing up at the right gate with the right documents. There was freedom in that anonymity. He could be anyone now, not just Petty Officer Reese with his division to worry about. The Realist Voice: He was out of place. The lights were too bright. The chatter too normal. Every loudspeaker announcement set his teeth on edge. He kept his back to the wall, out of habit, watching the crowd flow past with their rolling suitcases and their casual indifference. A child dropped an ice cream cone and wailed like it was the end of the world. A couple argued about rental cars and dinner reservations. He felt like he was watching a foreign film without subtitles—recognizing the shapes of things but unable to extract meaning. An elderly man in a Korean War veteran's cap stopped in front of him. "Navy?" the man asked, gesturing at Reese's uniform. "Yes, sir." "Just get back?" "This morning." The old veteran nodded. "Welcome home, son." He extended a weathered hand. Reese shook it, feeling suddenly exposed. "Thank you, sir." "Gets easier," the man said. "Not right away. But it does." Before Reese could respond, the veteran moved on, disappearing into the flow of travelers. On board, the engines hummed, and the windows filled with clouds. He looked out, trying to place himself somewhere between the ship and the shore, the war and the waiting room. Thirty thousand feet between nothing and something. The flight attendant's voice explaining safety procedures he could recite in his sleep. Oxygen masks. Emergency exits. Flotation devices. The vocabulary of potential disaster that nobody really listened to. The Hopeful Voice: He closed his eyes and drifted. He remembered standing on the flight deck at dusk, the sun sinking behind a distant storm, turning the whole world gold and purple. Salt in the air. The sound of waves hitting steel. The endless horizon curving slightly at the edges. Someone had laughed that night, a real laugh—maybe the only one he'd heard in weeks. Chief Mendoza, telling a story about his kid's science project gone wrong. It had felt like permission to breathe. A reminder that somewhere, normal life was still happening, still waiting. That moment had carried him through three bad days afterward. The Realist Voice: He remembered the nights when sleep never came, just the rattle of pipes and the endless checklist of what could go wrong. He remembered the smell of jet fuel, the constant alertness, the way his hands sometimes shook for no reason. He remembered letters that felt written by someone else, full of reassurances he didn't believe even as he wrote them. "Everything's fine here." "Don't worry." "It's not like what you see on TV." Every time the plane banked, he gripped the armrest—reminded again that land and sky were never solid for long. That gravity was just an agreement that could be broken. That falling was always one mechanical failure away. The flight attendant offered coffee, but he just shook his head. The minutes ticked by marked by the slow crawl of shadow across the clouds below. The seatbelt light blinked on. The descent began, that sickening lurch as the plane dropped through layers of atmosphere, reality rushing up to meet them. The Hopeful Voice: He pictured the airport at the other end, the moment he'd walk out of the tunnel and see the faces that meant home. Two weeks to let the world feel small again. Maybe even normal. He'd sleep in his old bedroom with the model ships he'd built as a kid still on the shelves. He'd let his mother cook too much food. He'd help his father fix that leaky gutter he'd been complaining about for years. He'd sit on the porch and watch the neighbors walk their dogs, mow their lawns, live lives untouched by distant conflicts. He'd remember how to be part of that again, even if just for a little while. The Realist Voice: He wasn't sure what he'd find. Maybe just the same feeling of watching from a distance, part of things but not really in them. Maybe that's what coming home was—close, but not quite there. Another holding pattern, just at a different altitude. He'd smile when he was supposed to smile. He'd answer the questions people could handle hearing answers to. He'd measure the distance between what they thought they were welcoming home and what was actually arriving. He'd learn to live in the gap. The plane touched down, rolling to the gate. He waited for the line to shuffle forward, sea bag at his feet, the smell of recycled air and jet fuel sharp in his nose. All around him, people retrieved belongings, checked watches, and planned next steps as if they knew exactly where they were heading. He stood, adjusted his cover, and stepped into the jetway. As he emerged into the gate area, he scanned the waiting crowd automatically. His mother had written that they'd be there to meet him, but in the sea of faces... Then he saw them: his mother in her red sweater clutching a small welcome home sign, and his father standing tall beside her, eyes searching the deplaning passengers. They hadn't spotted him yet. For a brief moment, he could observe without being observed—one final moment of distance before he'd have to step back into a life that might still feel like it belonged to someone else. The space between departure and arrival stretched like an ocean three miles wide, but he was swimming now. And there on the shore, people were waiting. Maybe that was enough for today—to keep moving, to acknowledge both voices in his head, and to trust that even if he never fully arrived, he wasn't standing still anymore. He took a deep breath and walked forward. From all of us here at the Elephant Island Chronicles, we hope you have enjoyed this original short story by Gio Marron. Until next time, stay curious. Get full access to The Elephant Island Chronicles at giomarron.substack.com/subscribe [https://giomarron.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_4]

Don Juan's Most Beautiful Love

The Elephant Island Chronicles Presents Don Juan's Most Beautiful Love By Jules Barbey d'Aurevilly Translated by Gio Marron Translation Note This translation of Jules Barbey d'Aurevilly's "Le plus bel amour de Don Juan" represents a collaborative effort between myself, Gio Marron, with assistance from AI language models including Claude, ChatGPT, and Perplexity. The translation process involved multiple iterations, with initial drafts produced through AI assistance, followed by substantial literary refinement to capture the nuanced tone, style, and period-appropriate language of Barbey d'Aurevilly's distinctive prose. As primary translator, I focused on preserving the original's ornate, decadent literary style while ensuring readability for contemporary English-speaking audiences. Special attention was given to maintaining the psychological complexity and subtle irony that characterize Barbey d'Aurevilly's work, particularly the supernatural elements that transform this tale from a conventional seduction narrative into something more metaphysical and profound. The translation aims to serve both general readers interested in 19th-century French literature and scholarly audiences familiar with the Decadent movement and the evolution of the Don Juan archetype in European literary tradition. Gio Marron May 2025 Don Juan's Most Beautiful Love By Jules Barbey d'Aurevilly In this masterpiece of psychological insight and irony, Jules Barbey d'Aurevilly transforms the Don Juan legend into a tale of supernatural suggestion. When a aging seducer recounts his "most beautiful love" to a circle of aristocratic women, the revelation subverts all expectations—proving that the most powerful conquests happen in the realm of imagination rather than the bedchamber. A brilliant exploration of innocence, corruption, and the mystical dimensions of desire from one of 19th-century France's most provocative writers. I The devil's finest delicacy is an innocence. (A.) So he still lives, that old scoundrel? "By God, indeed he lives! — and by God's decree, Madame," I added, checking myself, for I remembered she was devout, and from the parish of Sainte-Clotilde no less—the parish of dukes! "The king is dead! Long live the king!" they used to say under the old monarchy before it shattered like Sèvres porcelain. Don Juan, democracy be damned, remains a monarch who will never be broken. "Indeed, the devil is immortal!" she remarked, as if confirming something to herself. "He has even—" "Who? The devil?" "No, Don Juan... supped, three days ago, in high spirits. Guess where?" "At your dreadful Maison-d'Or, no doubt." "Fie, Madame! Don Juan no longer goes there... nothing there to fricassee for his grandeur. Lord Don Juan has always been somewhat like that famous monk of Arnaud de Brescia who, according to the Chronicles, lived solely on the blood of souls. That's what he likes to tint his champagne with—and such fare hasn't been found in courtesans' cabarets for quite some time!" "I suppose," she resumed with irony, "he must have supped at the Benedictine convent with those ladies..." "Of Perpetual Adoration, yes, Madame! For the adoration that devil of a man once inspired seems to me to last in perpetuity." "For a Catholic, I find you rather profane," she said slowly, though visibly tense, "and I ask you to spare me the details of your harlots' suppers, if speaking of Don Juan tonight is merely your invented way of reporting on their activities." "I'm inventing nothing, Madame. The harlots of the supper in question, if harlots they are, aren't mine... regrettably..." "Enough, Monsieur!" "Allow me to be modest. They were—" "The mille e tre?" she asked, curiosity rekindling her almost-amicable manner. "Oh! not all of them, Madame... Only a dozen. That's already quite respectable..." "And disreputable too," she added. "Besides, you know as well as I that not many can fit into Countess de Chiffrevas's boudoir. Grand things may have transpired there, but the boudoir itself is decidedly small..." "What?" she exclaimed, surprised. "So it was in the boudoir that they supped?" "Yes, Madame, in the boudoir. And why not? Men dine on battlefields. They wanted to give an extraordinary supper to Lord Don Juan, and it was worthier of him to offer it in the theater of his glory, where memories bloom in place of orange trees. A lovely notion, tender and melancholic! It wasn't the victims' ball; it was their supper." "And Don Juan?" she asked, as Orgon says "And Tartuffe?" in the play. "Don Juan received the affair splendidly and supped magnificently, He, alone, before them all! in the person of someone you know... none other than Count Jules-Amédée-Hector de Ravila de Ravilès." "Him! He is indeed Don Juan," she said. And, though she had outgrown the age of reverie, this sharp-beaked, sharp-clawed devotee began to dream of Count Jules-Amédée-Hector—of that man of the Juan bloodline—that ancient, eternal Juan lineage, to whom God has not given the world, but has permitted the devil to bestow it upon him. II What I had just told the old lady was the unvarnished truth. Barely three days had passed since a dozen women of the virtuous Faubourg Saint-Germain (rest assured, I shall not name them!) who, all twelve, according to the dowagers' gossip, had been on the most intimate terms (a charming old expression) with Count Ravila de Ravilès, had conceived the singular idea of offering him supper—with him as the only man—to celebrate... what? They didn't say. Such a supper was bold, but women, cowardly individually, are audacious in groups. Perhaps not one of this feminine banquet would have dared to offer it at her home, tête-à-tête, to Count Jules-Amédée-Hector; but together, bolstering one another, they had not feared to form the chain of Mesmer's tub around this magnetic and compromising man, Count de Ravila de Ravilès... "What a name!" "A providential name, Madame... Count de Ravila de Ravilès, who, incidentally, had always obeyed the imperatives of this commanding name, was indeed the incarnation of all seducers spoken of in novels and history. Even the Marquise Guy de Ruy—that discontented old woman with cold, sharp blue eyes, though less cold than her heart and less sharp than her wit—herself admitted that in these times, when the woman question daily loses importance, if anyone could recall Don Juan, surely it was he! Unfortunately, it was Don Juan in the fifth act. Prince de Ligne could never comprehend how Alcibiades might reach fifty. Yet in this respect too, Count de Ravila would forever remain Alcibiades. Like d'Orsay, that dandy carved from Michelangelo's bronze who remained handsome until his final hour, Ravila possessed that beauty peculiar to the Juan race—that mysterious lineage which proceeds not from father to son like others, but which appears sporadically, at certain intervals, among humanity's families. It was true beauty—insolent, joyful, imperial, Juanesque beauty; the word says everything and dispenses with description. And—had he made a pact with the devil?—he retained it still... Only, God was exacting his due; life's tiger claws were beginning to score his divine brow, crowned with the roses of so many lips, and on his broad impious temples appeared the first white hairs announcing the approaching barbarian invasion and the Empire's end... He wore these, moreover, with the impassivity of pride intensified by power; but the women who had loved him sometimes regarded them with melancholy. Who knows? Perhaps they were reading the hour striking for themselves upon that brow. Alas, for them as for him, it was the hour of that terrible supper with the cold Commander of white marble, after which comes only hell—the hell of old age, until the real one arrives! And that is perhaps why, before sharing this bitter and final supper with him, they thought to offer him theirs, crafting it into a masterpiece. Yes, a masterpiece of taste, delicacy, patrician luxury, refinement, and exquisite conception; the most charming, delicious, dainty, intoxicating, and above all most original of suppers. Original! Consider—usually joy and the thirst for amusement inspire a supper; but here, it was memory, regret, almost despair—though despair in evening dress, concealed beneath smiles or laughter, still craving this final feast or folly, this last escapade toward youth returned for an hour, this final intoxication before bidding it farewell forever! The Amphitryonesses of this incredible supper, so incongruous with the trembling customs of their society, must have experienced something akin to Sardanapalus on his pyre, when he heaped upon it his women, slaves, horses, jewels—all his life's opulence to perish with him. They too heaped at this burning supper all their own opulence, bringing everything they possessed of beauty, wit, resources, adornment, and power, to pour it all, at once, into this supreme conflagration. The man before whom they draped themselves in this final flame meant more to their eyes than all Asia did to Sardanapalus. They were coquettish for him as no women had ever been for any man—let alone for one seated among twelve—and this coquetry they inflamed with that jealousy normally hidden in society, yet which they needn't conceal, for they all knew this man had belonged to each of them, and shame shared is shame dispelled... Among them all, each competed to engrave her epitaph deepest in his heart. He, that night, savored the satiated, sovereign, nonchalant, connoisseur's voluptuousness of both the nuns' confessor and the sultan. Seated like a king—like the master—at the table's center, facing Countess de Chiffrevas, in that boudoir the hue of peach blossom—or perhaps of sin itself (the spelling of that boudoir's color was never quite settled), Count de Ravila embraced with his hell-blue eyes, which so many poor creatures had mistaken for heaven's blue, that radiant circle of twelve women, dressed with genius, who at that table laden with crystal, lit candles, and flowers, displayed all the nuances of maturity, from the vermilion of the open rose to the softened gold of amber-colored grapes. There were no tender green youths there, no little misses whom Byron detested, smelling of tarts and still mere peeled twigs in figure, but splendid and savory summers, bountiful autumns, blossomings and plenitudes, dazzling bosoms heaving majestically at bodices' uncovered edges, and beneath the cameos of bare shoulders, arms of every form—especially powerful arms, those biceps of Sabine women who had wrestled with Romans, capable of interlacing themselves to halt the very spokes of life's chariot wheel. I mentioned ideas. One of the most charming of this supper was to have it served by chambermaids, so none could say anything had disturbed the harmony of a feast where women reigned supreme, since they were its hostesses... Lord Don Juan—from the Ravila branch—could thus bathe his tawny gaze in a sea of luminous, living flesh as Rubens places in his plump, robust paintings, while also plunging his pride into the more or less limpid, more or less troubled ether of all these hearts. For at bottom, despite all evidence to the contrary, Don Juan is a fierce spiritualist! He resembles the devil himself, who loves souls even more than bodies, and who prefers that commerce to any other, the infernal slave trader! Spiritual, noble, with the quintessential Faubourg Saint-Germain tone, yet that night as bold as pages of the King's household in days when kings and pages existed, they achieved an incomparable scintillation of wit, movement, verve, and brio. They felt superior to all they had ever been in their most brilliant evenings, enjoying an unknown power released from deep within themselves, one they had never before suspected. The happiness of this discovery, the sensation of life's tripled forces, alongside physical influences so decisive upon nervous beings—the brilliance of lights, the penetrating fragrance of flowers swooning in the atmosphere heated by these beautiful bodies with effluvia too potent for the blossoms, the spur of provocative wines, the idea of this supper with precisely the piquant merit of the sin the Neapolitan woman demanded of her sherbet to find it exquisite, the intoxicating thought of complicity in this little crime of a daring supper—yes! But one that didn't descend vulgarly into Regency debauchery; one that remained a Faubourg Saint-Germain, nineteenth-century supper, where from all these adorable bodices, lined with hearts that had witnessed passion and still enjoyed kindling it, not a single pin fell... All these elements, acting in concert, stretched the mysterious harp each of these marvelous temperaments carried within, as taut as possible without breaking, reaching sublime octaves and ineffable crescendos... It must have been a sight, mustn't it? Will Ravila ever write this extraordinary page of his Memoirs? That remains a question, but only he could write it... As I told the Marquise Guy de Ruy, I was not present at this supper, and if I relate some details and the story of its conclusion, it's because I have them from Ravila himself, who, faithful to the traditional and characteristic indiscretion of the Juan race, took the trouble one evening to recount them to me. III It was late, then—or rather, early! Morning approached. Against the ceiling and at a certain spot on the hermetically sealed pink silk curtains of the boudoir, one could see an opal drop forming and rounding, like a growing eye—day's curious eye peering through to observe the proceedings in this inflamed boudoir. Languor was beginning to overcome these Round Table knights, these female diners so animated moments before. We know that moment in all suppers when the fatigue of emotion and the night passed seems to cast itself over everything—over collapsing hairdos, burning vermilioned or pale cheeks, weary gazes in darkened eyes growing heavy, and even over the widening, creeping lights of the thousand candles in the candelabra, those fire bouquets with stems of sculpted bronze and gold. The general conversation, long sustained with animation, a shuttlecock game where each had extended her racket stroke, had fragmented and crumbled. Nothing distinct could be heard amid the harmonious murmur of those aristocratic voices, mingling and chattering like birds at dawn on a woodland edge... when one of them—a head voice, that one!—imperious and almost impertinent, as a duchess's voice should be, suddenly said above the others to Count de Ravila words that were doubtless the conclusion of a private conversation between them, which none of these women, each chatting with her neighbor, had overheard: "You who are reputed to be the Don Juan of our time, you should tell us about the conquest that most flattered your masculine pride and which you judge, in the light of this moment, the most beautiful love of your life." And the question, like the voice that spoke it, cut sharply through the noise of all these scattered conversations, suddenly imposing silence. It was the voice of the Duchess of ***. I shall not lift her mask of asterisks, but perhaps you'll recognize her when I tell you she is the palest blonde in both complexion and hair, with the blackest eyes beneath long amber eyebrows, in all the Faubourg Saint-Germain. She sat like a righteous soul at God's right hand—at Count de Ravila's right, the god of this feast who no longer required his enemies to serve as footstools; slender and ideal as an arabesque, as a fairy, in her green velvet gown with silver reflections, whose long train twisted around her chair, rather perfectly representing the serpent's tail that ended Melusine's charming haunches. "Now there's an idea!" said Countess de Chiffrevas, as if to support, in her capacity as hostess, the duchess's desire and motion. "Yes, of all loves, inspired or felt, which would you most wish to relive, if possible?" "Oh! I would relive them all!" exclaimed Ravila with that insatiability of a Roman Emperor that these thoroughly jaded men sometimes possess. He raised his champagne glass—not the crude, pagan goblet that has replaced it today, but the true flute of our ancestors, perhaps named so for the celestial melodies it often pours into our hearts. Then he embraced with a circular glance all these women forming such a magnificent belt around the table. "And yet," he added, replacing his glass before him with an astonishing melancholy for such a Nebuchadnezzar who had thus far eaten no herb but the tarragon salads of Café Anglais, "and yet it's true that among life's passions, one always shines stronger in memory than the others as life advances—one for which a man would sacrifice all the rest!" "The diamond of the jewel box," said Countess de Chiffrevas pensively, perhaps examining the facets of her own. "And from my country's legend," Princess Jable added in turn, who hails from the Ural Mountains' foothills, "that famous and fabulous diamond, pink at first, which later turns black, yet remains a diamond—even more brilliant black than pink..." She said this with the strange charm peculiar to her, that Bohemian! For she is indeed a Bohemian, married for love by the handsomest prince of the Polish emigration, who appears every bit as much a princess as if born beneath the Jagellons' canopies. Then came an explosion! "Yes," they all cried. "Tell us, Count!" they added passionately, already imploring, with curiosity's quivers even in the curls at the napes of their necks; pressing together, shoulder against shoulder; some with cheek in hand, elbow on table; others leaning back against chair backs, open fans over mouths; all firing at him with their bright, inquisitive eyes. "If you absolutely insist..." said the Count with the nonchalance of one who knows that waiting intensifies desire. "Absolutely!" declared the duchess, looking like a Turkish despot examining the edge of his scimitar—the golden edge of her dessert knife. "Listen, then," he concluded, still nonchalant. They melted with attentiveness, watching him. They devoured him with their eyes. Any love story interests women, but perhaps this one's charm lay, for each of them, in the thought that the story he would tell might be her own... They knew him too much the gentleman, too steeped in society's ways, not to trust he would conceal names and thicken, when necessary, details too transparent; and this idea, this certainty, only heightened their desire for the story. They felt more than desire; they felt hope. Their vanity discovered rivals in this memory evoked as the most beautiful in the life of a man who must have had so many splendid ones! The old sultan was about to toss the handkerchief once more—which no hand would retrieve, yet which she to whom it was thrown would feel falling silently into her heart... Now here, contrary to their expectations, is the little unexpected thunderclap he sent rolling across all those attentive foreheads: IV "I have often heard moralists, great experimenters of life," said Count de Ravila, "claim that the strongest of all our loves is neither the first nor the last, as many believe, but the second. Yet in matters of love, everything is both true and false, and at any rate, this wasn't so for me... What you ask of me, Ladies, what I have to tell you tonight, dates to the most beautiful moment of my youth. I was no longer precisely what one calls a young man, but I was a young man, and, as an old uncle of mine, a Knight of Malta, used to say to designate that period of life, 'I had completed my caravans.' In full vigor, then, I also found myself in what the Italians so charmingly call 'full relation' with a woman whom you all know and have all admired..." Here the look they all exchanged simultaneously, each with all the others, this group of women drinking in the words of this old serpent, was something one must witness, for it defies description. "This woman was indeed," continued Ravila, "everything you might imagine most distinguished, in every sense that word permits. She was young, wealthy, of a superb name, beautiful, witty, with a broad artistic intelligence, and natural with it all, as one is in your world when one truly is... Besides, having, in that world, no other aspiration than to please me and devote herself—to appear to me the most tender of mistresses and the best of friends. I was not, I believe, the first man she had loved... She had already loved once, and it wasn't her husband; but it had been virtuously, platonically, idealistically, with that love which exercises the heart more than it fills it, which prepares its strengths for another love that must always soon follow; with that trial love, finally, which resembles the white mass young priests say to practice saying, without error, the true mass, the consecrated mass... When I entered her life, she was still only at the white mass. I became the real mass, and she then celebrated it with all the ceremony required and as sumptuously as a cardinal." At that word, the prettiest circle of smiles turned on these twelve delicious attentive mouths, like a circular ripple on a limpid lake's surface... Rapid, but enchanting! "She was truly a singular being!" resumed the Count. "Rarely have I seen more genuine goodness, more compassion, more excellent sentiments, even in passion which, as you know, isn't always kind. Never have I seen less artifice, less prudery and coquetry—those two qualities so often entangled in women like a skein through which a cat's claw has passed... There was no cat in this one... She was what these infernal bookmakers, who poison us with their manners of speaking, would call a primitive nature, adorned by civilization; but she had only its charming luxuries, and not a single one of those little corruptions which seem to us even more charming than these luxuries..." "Was she brunette?" interrupted the duchess suddenly and directly, impatient with all this metaphysics. "Ah! your vision isn't keen enough!" said Ravila shrewdly. "Yes, she was brunette, brunette of hair to the blackest jet, the most mirror-like ebony I've ever seen gleam on the voluptuous convexity of a woman's lustrous head, but she was blonde of complexion—and it's by complexion, not hair, that one must judge whether one is brunette or blonde," added the great observer, who hadn't studied women merely to paint their portraits. "She was a blonde with black hair..." All the blonde heads at this table, blonde only by their hair, made an imperceptible movement. Evidently for them, the story's interest was already waning. "She had Night's hair," resumed Ravila, "but upon Dawn's face, for her visage was resplendent with that incarnadine, dazzling, and rare freshness that had withstood everything in that nocturnal Parisian life she had led for years, which burns so many roses in its candelabra flames. Hers seemed merely to have caught fire, so luminous was the carmine on her cheeks and lips! Their double brilliance harmonized well with the ruby she habitually wore on her forehead, for in those days women wore ferronières, creating in her face, with her two incendiary eyes whose flame concealed their color, a triangle of three rubies! Slender but robust, even majestic, built to be a cuirassier colonel's wife—her husband was then merely a squadron leader in the light cavalry—she possessed, great lady though she was, a peasant woman's health, one who absorbs sunlight through her skin, and she possessed likewise the ardor of this imbibed sun, as much in her soul as in her veins—yes, present and always ready... But here's where the strangeness began! This powerful and ingenuous being, this crimson and pure nature like the blood watering her beautiful cheeks and rosying her arms, was... would you believe it? awkward in her caresses..." Here some eyes lowered, but rose again, mischievous... "Awkward in her caresses as she was imprudent in life," continued Ravila, placing no more emphasis on the information. "The man she loved had constantly to teach her two things she never learned... how not to ruin herself before a world always armed and implacable, and how to practice in intimacy love's great art, which prevents love from dying. She possessed love, however; but love's art eluded her... The opposite of so many women who possess only the art! Now, to understand and apply the Prince's politics, one must already be Borgia. Borgia precedes Machiavelli. One is the poet; the other, the critic. She was not at all Borgia. She was an honest woman in love, naive despite her colossal beauty, like the little girl in the overdoor painting who, being thirsty, tries to cup water from the fountain in her hand, and who, breathless, lets everything slip through her fingers, remaining confused... It was almost charming, moreover, this contrast between confusion and awkwardness in this tall passionate woman who, seeing her in society, would have deceived so many observers—who had everything of love, even happiness, but lacked the power to return it as it was given. Only I wasn't then contemplative enough to content myself with this artistic charm, and it's even the reason which, on certain days, made her anxious, jealous, and violent—all that one becomes when in love, and she loved! But jealousy, anxiety, violence, all perished in the inexhaustible goodness of her heart at the first harm she wished or thought to inflict, as maladroit at wounding as at caressing! A lioness of an unknown species, who imagined she had claws, but who, when she wished to extend them, never found any in her magnificent velvet paws. With velvet she scratched! "Where is he going with this?" said Countess de Chiffrevas to her neighbor, "for truly, this cannot be Don Juan's most beautiful love!" All these complicated women couldn't believe in such simplicity! "We lived, then," said Ravila, "in an intimacy occasionally stormy but never torn, and this intimacy was, in that provincial town called Paris, a secret to no one... The Marquise... she was a marquise..." There were three at this table, also dark-haired. But they didn't flinch. They knew too well he wasn't speaking of them... The only velvet they collectively possessed was on one's upper lip—a voluptuously shaded lip which, at that moment, I swear, expressed considerable disdain. "And thrice marquise, as pashas can be three-tailed pashas!" continued Ravila, whose verve was rising. "The Marquise belonged to that class of women who can hide nothing and who, even if they wished, could not. Her own daughter, a thirteen-year-old child, despite her innocence, perceived all too clearly her mother's feelings for me. I don't know which poet asked what daughters think of us who have loved their mothers. A profound question! which I've often asked myself when surprised by the spy's gaze, black and threatening, ambushing me from the depths of this girl's large dark eyes. This child, fiercely reserved, who usually left the salon upon my arrival and placed herself as far from me as possible when forced to remain, harbored for me an almost convulsive horror... which she sought to conceal, but which, stronger than herself, betrayed her... This revealed itself in imperceptible details, not one of which escaped me. The Marquise, no observer herself, nevertheless constantly told me: 'We must be careful, my friend. I believe my daughter is jealous of you...' "I exercised far more caution than she. This child could have been the devil incarnate, I would have defied her to read my game... But her mother's game was transparent. Everything showed in the purple mirror of that face, so often troubled! From the daughter's apparent hatred, I couldn't help thinking she had discovered her mother's secret through some expressed emotion, some involuntarily drenched look of tenderness. She was, if you care to know, a sickly child, entirely unworthy of the splendid mold from which she came, ugly even by her mother's admission, who only loved her more for it; a little burnt topaz... what shall I say? a kind of bronze maquette, but with black eyes... Magical! And who, since..." He stopped after this flash... as if wanting to extinguish it, having said too much... Interest had returned, general, noticeable, intense, to every face, and the countess had even muttered between her beautiful teeth the word of enlightened impatience: "At last!" V "When I first began my liaison with her mother," resumed Count de Ravila, "I had shown this little girl all the caressing familiarities one has with all children... I brought her bags of sweets. I called her 'little mask', and very often, while chatting with her mother, I amused myself by smoothing her headband at the temple—a band of unhealthy hair, black, with tinder reflections—but the 'little mask', whose wide mouth offered a pretty smile to everyone else, withdrew her smile for me alone, fiercely knitting her eyebrows, and, through sheer tension, transformed from a 'little mask' into a truly wrinkled mask of a humiliated caryatid, seeming, when my hand passed over her forehead, to bear an entablature's weight beneath it. So, encountering this sullenness always in the same place, appearing almost hostile, I eventually abandoned this sensitive plant, marigold-colored, which contracted so violently at the slightest caress... I no longer even spoke to her! 'She senses well that you're stealing from her,' the Marquise would tell me. 'Her instinct warns her you're taking a portion of her mother's love.' And sometimes, in her straightforwardness, she added: 'This child is my conscience and my remorse, her jealousy.' Once, wishing to question her about this profound estrangement she felt toward me, the Marquise received only broken, stubborn, stupid responses, which must be extracted with a corkscrew of repeated questions from all children unwilling to speak... 'There's nothing... I don't know,' and seeing this little bronze's hardness, she ceased questioning her and, weary, turned away... I forgot to mention that this bizarre child was intensely devout, with a somber, Spanish, medieval, superstitious devotion. She twisted around her lean body all kinds of scapulars and plastered on her chest, flat as the back of a hand, and around her tanned neck, heaps of crosses, Virgins, and Holy Spirits! 'You are unfortunately an impious man,' the Marquise told me. 'Perhaps while chatting you've scandalized her. Be careful of everything you say before her, I beg you. Don't aggravate my wrongs in this child's eyes, toward whom I already feel so guilty!' Yet as the child's conduct never changed, never softened: 'You'll end up hating her,' added the anxious Marquise, 'and I couldn't blame you.' But she was mistaken: I felt merely indifferent toward this sullen little girl, except when she exasperated me. I maintained between us the politeness that exists between adults, particularly adults who dislike each other. I treated her ceremoniously, addressing her pompously as 'Mademoiselle', while she returned an icy 'Monsieur'. She refused to do anything before me that might reveal her—I won't say in a favorable light, but simply outside herself... Her mother could never persuade her to show me a drawing or play piano for me. When I surprised her at it, practicing with great ardor and concentration, she would stop abruptly, rise from the stool, and play no more... Once, her mother insisting (there were people present), she positioned herself before the open instrument with a martyred air that, I assure you, held nothing sweet about it, and began some piece or other with abominably contradictory fingers. I stood at the fireplace, observing her obliquely. Her back was turned to me, with no mirror before her in which she might see me watching... Suddenly her back (she habitually carried herself poorly, her mother often saying: 'If you always hold yourself so, you'll develop a chest ailment'), suddenly her back straightened as if my gaze had broken her spine like a bullet; and violently slamming down the piano lid, which made a dreadful noise in falling, she fled the salon... They went to find her, but that evening they could never induce her to return. "Well, it seems the most conceited men are never conceited enough, for this shadowy child's conduct, which interested me so little, gave me nothing to think about regarding her feelings toward me. Nor did it strike her mother. The Marquise, jealous of every woman in her salon, was no more jealous than I was vain concerning this little girl, who eventually revealed herself in an incident that the Marquise, effusiveness itself in intimate moments, still pale from the terror she had experienced yet laughing heartily at having felt it, had the imprudence to relate to me." He emphasized by inflection the word "imprudence" as the most skillful actor might have done—a man who knew that his entire story's interest now hung by that single word's thread! But apparently that sufficed, for these twelve beautiful women's faces had reignited with a feeling as intense as Cherubim's faces before God's throne. Is not the feeling of curiosity in women as intense as the feeling of adoration in Angels?... He regarded them all, these Cherubim faces not ending at the shoulders, and finding them sufficiently primed for what he must tell them, resumed quickly without further pause: "Yes, she was laughing heartily, the Marquise, just thinking about it! But she hadn't always laughed!—she told me some time later, reporting the incident. 'Imagine,' she said (I'll try to recall her exact words), 'I was sitting exactly where we are now'—(on one of those settees called dos-à-dos, furniture best conceived for sulking and reconciling without changing places)—'But you weren't where you are now, thankfully! when they announced... guess who?... you'd never guess... the parish priest of Saint-Germain-des-Prés. Do you know him?... No! You never attend mass, which is terribly wrong... How could you know this poor old priest, a saint who never sets foot in any parish woman's house except for collections for his poor or his church? I initially thought that was his purpose. He had once prepared my daughter for her first communion, and she, who took communion often, had kept him as her confessor. For this reason, I had many times invited him to dinner, always in vain. When he entered, he appeared extremely troubled, and I noticed on his ordinarily placid features an embarrassment so poorly concealed and so profound that it couldn't possibly stem from mere shyness, compelling me to immediately ask: Goodness! what's the matter, Father? —What's the matter, Madame, he replied, is that you see before you the most embarrassed man alive. For over fifty years I've served in holy ministry, yet never have I been charged with a more delicate commission nor one that I understood less than the one I must now carry out for you...' 'And he sat down, asking me to have my door closed for the duration of our conversation. You can well imagine that all these solemnities frightened me a little... He noticed it. — Do not be so alarmed, Madame, — he continued; — you need all your composure to listen to me and to help me understand the unheard-of matter at hand, which in truth I cannot accept... Your daughter, on whose behalf I come, is, you know as well as I, an angel of purity and piety. I know her soul. I have held it in my hands since she was seven years old, and I am persuaded that she is mistaken... perhaps through excess of innocence... But this morning, she came to declare to me in confession that she was, you will scarcely believe it, Madame, nor do I, but I must speak the word... pregnant!' 'I uttered a cry... — I cried out just as you did in my confessional this morning, the priest continued, at this declaration made with all the marks of the most sincere and most terrible despair! I know this child thoroughly. She is ignorant of everything in life and sin... She is certainly of all the young girls I confess the one for whom I would most answer before God. That is all I can tell you! We priests are the surgeons of souls, and we must deliver them of the shames they conceal with hands that neither wound nor stain them. I therefore questioned this despairing child with every possible precaution, pressed her with questions, yet once she had spoken, once the fault was confessed—which she calls a crime and her eternal damnation, for she believes herself damned, poor girl!—she answered me no more and obstinately enclosed herself in a silence broken only to beg me to come to you, Madame, and inform you of her crime, — for mama must know, — she said, — and I will never have the strength to confess it to her!' 'I listened to the priest of Saint-Germain-des-Prés. You can imagine with what mixture of stupefaction and anxiety! Like him and even more than he, I believed myself certain of my daughter's innocence; but innocents often fall, even through innocence... And what she had told her confessor was not impossible... I didn't believe it... I didn't want to believe it; but nevertheless it wasn't impossible!... She was only thirteen, but she was already a woman, and this very precocity had frightened me... A fever, a surge of curiosity seized me. I want and will know everything! — I said to this bewildered priest before me who, as he listened, was overflowing with embarrassment from his hat. — Leave me, Father. She wouldn't speak before you. But I'm certain she'll tell me everything... that I'll extract it all from her, and then we'll understand what is now incomprehensible!' 'And the priest departed on that note, — and as soon as he had gone, I hurried to my daughter's room, lacking the patience to have her summoned and wait for her. I found her prostrate before the crucifix above her bed, not kneeling but prostrate, pale as death, her eyes dry yet very red, like eyes that have wept abundantly. I took her in my arms, seated her beside me, then upon my knees, and told her I couldn't believe what her confessor had just told me. But she interrupted me to assure me with heartbreaking tones and expressions that it was true, what he had said, and it was then that, increasingly anxious and astonished, I asked her the name of the one who... I didn't finish... Ah! that was the terrible moment! She buried her head and face on my shoulder... but I could see the fiery flush at the back of her neck, and I felt her trembling. The silence she had opposed to her confessor, she now maintained with me. It was impenetrable. — It must be someone far beneath you, for you to feel such shame?... — I said, hoping to make her speak by provoking her pride, for I knew she was proud. But it was still the same silence, the same burying of her head against my shoulder. This lasted what seemed an eternity to me, when suddenly she said without raising herself: 'Swear to me that you will forgive me, mama.' I swore everything she wanted, even at the risk of a hundred perjuries—I cared so little! I was impatient. I was seething... It seemed my forehead would burst open and release my brain... — 'Well! it is Monsieur de Ravila', she said in a low voice; and she remained as she was in my arms. — 'Ah! the effect of that name, Amédée! I received in a single blow, straight to the heart, the punishment for the great sin of my life! You are, in matters of women, such a formidable man, you have made me fear such rivalries, that the horrible 'why not?' said about the man one loves and of whom one doubts, rose within me... What I felt, I had the strength to hide from this cruel child, who had perhaps divined her mother's love. — Monsieur de Ravila! — I said, with a voice that seemed to me to reveal everything, — but you never speak to him?' — You avoid him, — I was about to add, for anger was beginning; I felt it rising... You are both so deceptive then? — But I suppressed that... Didn't I need to learn the details, one by one, of this horrible seduction?... And I asked them of her with a gentleness I thought would kill me, when she freed me from this vise, from this torture, by saying to me naively: — 'Mother, it was one evening. He was in the large armchair at the corner of the fireplace, opposite the settee. He remained there a long time, then he rose, and I had the misfortune to sit down after him in this armchair he had vacated. Oh! mama!... it was as if I had fallen into fire. I wanted to get up, I couldn't... my heart failed me! and I felt... here, mama... that what I had... was a child!...' The Marquise had laughed, said Ravila, when she recounted this story to him; but none of the twelve women seated around this table thought of laughing—nor did Ravila himself. "And that is, Ladies, believe it if you will," he added by way of conclusion, "the most beautiful love that I have inspired in my life!" And he fell silent, as did they. They were pensive... Had they understood him? When Joseph was a slave at Potiphar's house, he was so handsome, says the Koran, that, from reverie, the women he served at table cut their fingers with their knives while gazing at him. But we are no longer in Joseph's time, and the preoccupations one has at dessert are less intense. "What a great fool, with all her wit, your Marquise was, to have told you such a thing!" said the Duchess, who permitted herself to be cynical, but who cut nothing at all with the gold knife she still held in her hand. Countess de Chiffrevas was gazing attentively into the depths of a Rhine wine glass, emerald crystal, as mysterious as her thought. "And the little mask?" she asked. "Oh, she had died, very young and married in the provinces, when her mother told me this story," replied Ravila. "Otherwise!..." said the pensive Duchess. From all of us here at the Elephant Island Chronicles, we hope you have enjoyed this short story by Jules Barbey d'Aurevilly. Until next time, stay curious. Get full access to The Elephant Island Chronicles at giomarron.substack.com/subscribe [https://giomarron.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_4]

The Dancer (Ang Mánanayaw)

The Dancer by Rosauro Almario Translated from the Tagalog (1910 Edition) by Gio Marron with AI assistance from ChatGPT, Claude, and Perplexity Narration by Eleven Labs Foreword The Dancer (Ang Mánanayaw) by Rosauro Almario, first published in 1910 by Aklatang Bayan in Manila, is a short Tagalog novel that serves as both a literary work and a moral allegory. Written during the early American colonial period in the Philippines, it stands as a window into a society undergoing cultural, political, and moral upheaval. This translation seeks to preserve not just the story, but the rhetorical force, social commentary, and emotional tone of the original. The novel follows Sawî, a provincial youth newly arrived in the city, and his fateful entanglement with Pati, a beautiful but cunning dancer in Manila. Their story is more than a tale of seduction and downfall; it is an exploration of urban corruption, class vulnerability, and the slow erosion of character under the pressure of illusion, lust, and modernity. Almario writes with didactic urgency. The prose is steeped in the influence of Spanish literary traditions, evident in its rhetorical flourishes and formal tone, but it also draws from native Tagalog moral storytelling. This dual heritage reflects the transitional identity of early 20th-century Filipino literature, which sought to both entertain and instruct in a time of national redefinition. The Dancer is not subtle. It is polemical, almost theatrical in its structure and tone, designed to shock, warn, and moralize. But in its theatricality lies its power. The dance halls of Manila become battlegrounds of virtue and vice. Pati, though framed as a femme fatale, is in fact a product of social decay—a survivor using what tools she has in a world that offers her few options. Sawî, for his part, is not simply a victim of seduction but of his own romantic delusions and failure to discern appearances from substance. This translation uses modern English dialogue conventions and idioms while preserving the formal diction and tonal gravity of the original. Where the Tagalog text relies on repetition or florid metaphor, the English renders those ideas with clarity but does not omit them. The goal is not modernization but accessibility—to bring Almario's moral vision and artistic voice to readers unfamiliar with early Tagalog prose. In its time, Ang Mánanayaw was part of a larger project by Aklatang Bayan: to use literature as a weapon in the fight against moral decline, colonial disorientation, and cultural amnesia. Today, it stands as a potent reminder of the tensions that defined Filipino identity in the shadow of empire, and the enduring battle between desire and dignity. Gio Marron The Dancer Jóvenes qué estais bailando, al infierno vais saltando.[^1] Chapter One: Beginning Pati: A dancer. Of indeterminate stature; neither short nor tall; her body robust, full of vitality, radiantly fresh; her large bluish eyes like twin windows from which a burning soul gazed out, a soul ablaze with the flames of passion flowing with momentary pleasures—pleasures that could drown, irritate, and ultimately destroy any soul foolish enough to immerse itself in them. Sawî[^2]: Born in the provinces, a young man pursuing his studies in Manila. Coming from a good family of means, Sawî was raised amidst plenty and comfort: timid, exceedingly shy, with somewhat delicate mannerisms, entirely unlike those city youths whose sole aspiration was to flit about like butterflies or bees, forever seeking new flowers from which to draw fragrance. Tamád[^3]: A wastrel, a good-for-nothing, as the common folk called him. Orphaned of both father and mother. Without wife, child, sibling, or any relation except for one: "Joy"—a joy that, for him, could never be found in any place or corner save for billiard halls, cockpits, gambling dens, dance houses, and those ever-hungry jaws of hell that always stood ready to receive him. "Tamád, how's the bird?" Pati inquired. "Good news, Pati—he's becoming quite tame now," Tamád replied. "Ready to enter the cage, then?" "Oh, without a doubt he'll enter it willingly!" "What has he said to you about me?" she probed further. Tamád flashed a mischievous smile. "The same as when I first introduced you at that party. He declares you're beautiful as Venus herself, radiant as the Morning Star. He's already fallen for you! You can be certain he's ensnared in your net." Pati parted her crimson lips to release a resonant laugh. "So he's in love with me already, is he?" "And he'll be searching for you later tonight." "Where? Where did you tell him I would be?" "At the dance hall." "Then he already knows I'm a dancer?" she asked with feigned concern. "And what was his reaction? Hasn't he read those newspaper reports claiming that women who dance at subscription parties aren't women at all but merely a bundle of leeches in skirts?" "He... he mentioned something of that nature," Tamád acknowledged. "But I assured him such rumors might occasionally hold truth, but not invariably. 'Pati,' I told him, 'that young woman I introduced at the party is living proof that a beautiful pearl may yet be found amidst the mud...'" Tamád paused momentarily to swallow before continuing: "And Sawî—our bird in question—believed me entirely. He's convinced you're a 'rare pearl,' a modest young woman of virtue and dignity." "And didn't he question why I found myself in a dance hall?" Pati asked. "He did ask—how could he not?" replied Tamád. "But the tongue of Tamád—your faithful procurer—created such elaborate dreams in that moment, painting images so lifelike they appeared as truth itself, witnessed by my own eyes. I told him, my voice nearly breaking with emotion: 'Oh, Sawî, if you only knew the complete history of Pati—the beautiful Pati whom you so admire—you would surely see her in your mind's eye as nothing less than a virtuous woman, a paragon of maidenhood. For she,' I continued dramatically, 'is an orphan who has endured considerable misfortune in life, reduced to begging, to pleading for alms, and when those she approached no longer extended their compassion, she was forced into servitude, selling her strength to a wealthy man... but...'" "What happened next in this fabrication of yours?" Pati asked with an arched eyebrow. "The wealthy man," Tamád continued with theatrical flair, "confronted with your unrivaled beauty, developed designs to violate your honor." "Violate!" Pati scoffed. "You've quite a talent for weaving falsehoods. And what heroic action did I supposedly take?" "You resisted his base desires with unwavering virtue." "And then?" "You departed from the house where you served to enter—by necessity—the profession of dancing." "So in summary," Pati concluded with sardonic precision, "in Sawî's imagination, I am a virtuous woman, an orphan mistreated by Fate, who became a beggar, then a supplicant, a servant, essentially a slave; and because I defended my honor, I left the wealthy man's house to enter a different profession. Is that the fiction you've constructed?" "Precisely so," Tamád affirmed with satisfaction. Oh, if only God had ordained that lies, before leaving the lips of liars, should first transform into flames...! Pati, to those of us who truly knew her, was nothing but a baitfish[^4]—outwardly displaying only the glittering shimmer of scales while harboring nothing but fetid mud within. She was not merely flirtatious or fickle; she was something far more dangerous—a predator, an executioner of souls unfortunate enough to fall into her embrace. Even as a young girl—barely blossoming into womanhood—Pati had already inspired fear among the young men in her neighborhood. How could they not be wary when she would consent to anyone's advances, make promises to everyone, swear oaths to all comers? Each promise and oath was sealed with some token or pledge extracted from her victims—deposits that could never be reclaimed once given. But now Tamád was speaking again. Let us listen to his words: "Pati," he said with a smirk, "later tonight I shall certainly bring your bird to you." "When you arrive," she replied coolly, "the cage will be ready and waiting." And with that exchange, they parted ways. Chapter Two: The Cage Opens They had already arrived at the first step of the stairway that led into Pluto's realm[^5]: the dance hall. Tamád led the way, the tempter, while Sawî followed timidly behind him. The Temple of the cheerful goddess Terpsichore[^6], at that moment, transformed into a veritable Garden of Delights: everywhere the eye turned, it beheld nothing but modern-day Eves and latter-day Adams. Throughout this Eden, flowers seemed to have scattered themselves of their own accord, while human butterflies flitted to and fro, dancing around one another in perpetual motion. Upon the arrival of Sawî and Tamád at the dance hall, Pati, who had been waiting for them, cheerfully came forward and, with a smile and a laugh, greeted them: "You've wandered in here..." Sawî did not respond. Pati's words, those utterances that seemed as if dipped in sweetness, reached one by one into the heart of the stunned young man. How beautiful Pati looked at that moment! Inside her dress that shimmered with light, in Sawî's vision she resembled what Flammarion saw in his dream: a person made of light, and her hands were two wings. Tamád, seeing his companion freeze like this, winked once at Pati and secretly pointed to him: "He's truly awkward!" Just then, a signal from the orchestra was heard: "Waltz!" called out the impatient dancers in unison. And the large hall echoed with the scuffing of shoes. Pati, who had moved away from the two companions, at the beginning of the dance approached Sawî again: "Would you like to dance?" she asked affectionately. "No... it's up to you... perhaps later." And he stood up as if warmed by sitting too long; he took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the sweat that was beading on his forehead. "Too shy for your own good!" murmured the beautiful dancer. And she turned her back on the young man, almost stomping. She seemed angered by such a refusal from her invitee. Sawî noticed this, so he whispered to himself as he sat down: "I think she's angry!" And this worry grew even more when he saw Pati being taken by an elegant dancer: "What a shame I didn't dance with her!" Who was the man who took his beautiful dancer? Could he already be her suitor? Could he already be her lover? Such thoughts traced through the young man's mind, when Tamád's question pierced his hearing. "Why didn't you dance?" And without giving the one being questioned time to answer, Tamád continued his teasing: "Do you believe that only people of no importance attend dance halls?" "It's not that, friend..." "Do you believe," Tamád repeated, "that only God-forsaken people frequent dance houses? Ah, those who hold such beliefs are mistaken, and solid evidence of this error is what you see now, friend Sawî. That gentleman dancing with Pati is a lawyer known in these parts of Manila... that gentleman—and he pointed to one whirling around, also embracing a woman with a long face and narrow eyes—that gentleman is a pharmacist; and this one, this one passing by us now with a flower pinned to his chest, is a wealthy merchant..." And so each person there was introduced by Tamád to Sawî: there were law students, medical students, merchants, politicians, and other "hopes of the Nation," as our Great Hero once said. But such introductions by Tamád seemed unnoticed by the one he was addressing, for after he stopped, there was no other response except: "Who is dancing with Pati?" Such indifference from his companion did not anger Tamád. Rather, it delighted him! He noticed that in Sawî's heart, at those moments, there was nothing filling it but the image of his candidate, and the young man neither heard nor saw anything else but the soft scraping of Pati's shoes on the hall's floor and her enchanting posture. Sawî, whose heart was always closed to the lure of sin, was now slowly opening to a new feeling, a feeling he didn't know what it was, yet he knew, yes, that this feeling was no different from the coal that gives heat to a boiler, a fire awakening what was once asleep and giving vigor to a formerly cold heart. The flower that once feared the kiss of the sun was now blooming in the storm. While the couples swirled, in the middle of the hall; while the couples endlessly whispered, nudged, winked, pinched, and sometimes exchanged more than just words; Sawî, in the seat where he sat, thought of nothing else but "how he should convey to the enchanting lady the beating of his soul." "Tamád," he called again to his seatmate, "I want you to be truthful with me: what is Pati's real situation? Single or married? Free or with a suitor?" "Have you already forgotten the quick answer I gave when you asked these same questions the first time we were together?" "Perhaps... what did you tell me then?" "I told you Pati is single and unmarried, free and without a suitor." "Therefore..." "Therefore," Tamád quickly added, "therefore Pati is free, free as a fish in water, a butterfly in a garden, a bird in the clouds." "What if I were to offer her..." Tamád grinned, cutting him off. "Why not? Why couldn't you offer her your love? Aren't you a man, and isn't she a woman? Aren't you a handsome young man, and isn't she a beautiful lady? Why not...?" "Friend Tamád, it seems you're teasing me." "Teasing you? I haven't even told you everything I know about that woman, because I'm truly worried that you might be overwhelmed..." "Overwhelmed?" "If I tell you that Pati seems... seems..." "Seems what?" "Seems to be growing fond of you..." "Growing fond! Is it true? Is it true that Pati is growing fond of me?" "And why do you say this?" he questioned with a mixture of eagerness. "Why not, when I observe her every movement?" Just then, as if to confirm it, Pati looked at Sawî. Tamád noticed this. He nudged his companion and said with a smile: "Did you see that... just now she looked at you again!" "It's true!" Sawî whispered to himself. "And what a tender glance it was, how sweet, how delightful!" The first waltz ended. At the second signal from the orchestra announcing a fine two-step, Sawî could no longer resist: "I want to dance with her!" And he left his seat, quickly approached Pati, and respectfully asked: "Would you honor me with this dance?" To this question from the young man, Pati did not even open her mouth; but she answered with her small white hand, which she immediately linked through the arm of her suitor. Eyes that could read a man's heart would have already glimpsed Pati's approaching victory: "The bird is caught, caught, caught!" she whispered to herself. And when they began to dance, she allowed her small and slender waist to play so freely in the hands of her partner. Sawî, under this woman's scheme, was gradually diminishing like a candle being consumed by the wind. And the intoxicating fragrance of jasmine he was inhaling at those moments was slowly penetrating to the depths of his feelings. He was in love now... and in love with a thorough, ardent, passionate love, like a blaze in the breath of wind, like a fire in the flow of gas! Each smile of Pati, each enticing glance she fixed on him, deeply penetrated, burrowed, wounded the chest of the endangered Sawî, like the penetration, burrowing, and wounding of a savage arrow. "Miss Pati," he timidly called to his dance partner, "if I were to come here every night, would I be able to dance with you?" "Why not?" was the sweet reply of the one being asked. Our young man, the awkward Sawî, in response to this affirmative from Pati, had nothing else to say but a gentle: "Thank you." And he did not speak again until the end of the dance. Simoun, the fearsome Simoun in Rizal's Filibusterismo, after the doors of Terpsichore's Temple closed, displayed on his trembling lips a mocking smile; and then said: "Buena está la juventud!..." Chapter Three: Entangled Sawî could no longer contain his love for Pati. Every passing moment became like an arrow striking him, each moment gone leaving another wound in his breast. "Oh, Pati!" he thought. "When will you come to know how deeply I love you? When will you discover that my heart has become a sacred shrine housing your precious image? When will you understand that I have nothing left to pray for, nothing left to whisper but your name—the sweetest name that has ever graced my ears?" His tongue, timid and bound by excessive reverence, compelled him to contain his feelings within sighs and yearning breaths. To confess to Pati? The thought alone made him tremble. "What if she should mock me? What if she refused to take my love seriously? What if she scorned the very feelings that consume me? Ah!..." But, if he had realized that Pati was a merciful woman who denied no one her love, if he had realized that Pati was a merciful woman who withheld her compassion from no one, if he had realized that Pati was waiting for nothing more than a nudge, a word to fully entrust to him her soul, her body; such anguish and doubt would not have crossed his mind. But Sawî was still inexperienced; that's why he didn't know that, in Manila, the word "dancer" corresponds to the words "bandit under the law," "thief inside the house." If he had known that in dance halls they don't use words to say: "I love you," "I want to devour you," but that glances, winks, and nudges are enough, perhaps Pati would have long been his, or to speak more truly and precisely, he would have belonged to Pati. However, his lamentations did not last very long, for one night when Pati was leaving the dance hall to go home, he had the fortune—thanks to the help and mercy of his friend Tamád—to accompany her. "Miss Pati," the young man called, when they were alone in the midst of darkness, "would you be angry if I said something to you?" "If it would make me angry..." came the seemingly playful reply from the one asked. Sawî froze. What should he do now? Where should he go from here? The hole he wished to enter had been covered before he could knock. He remained silent for a long time. Confronted with this situation, Pati secretly smiled: "He truly is inexperienced!" she said to herself. When the young man still would not speak, it was Pati herself who took the trouble to lay a trap. "Mr. Sawî," she began, "if I'm not mistaken, I think I've seen you before, before you arrived at our dance hall." "Where?" quickly asked the young man. "In the province perhaps, in the poor province where I first saw light?" "No, here in Manila... I just don't know where and when; but I have seen you." "Great is my fortune if that's so." "It's I who am truly wretched, since I saw you but went unnoticed." "Unnoticed! Miss Pati! Miss Pati! I didn't notice you? But how could that be? How could you go unnoticed by me?" "Truly, it's just that someone as small as I am..." "So small! How can that be, that one who is served is smaller than one who serves?" "One who is served, you said?" Sawî's heart fluttered, and he worried that he might have been too forward... but, hope and courage! What had been traversed could no longer be retraced. "Adelante!" as Golfin says in Galdós's Marianela, "adelante, siempre adelante!" "Yes," he confirmed without his tongue faltering, "served, that's what I said." "I am served! And by whom?" "B-b-by me." Pati secretly laughed. Sawî secretly trembled. "I think I'm being too bold?" And he waited for the young woman to answer, like a defendant awaiting a judge's verdict. Sawî's fate, at that moment, hung on Pati's lips. What would she say to him? Yes? Oh, heaven!... No? Oh, death! Pati, after pressing her stomach that also ached from suppressed laughter, uttered these words: "Mr. Sawî: are you perhaps mocking me?" "No, truly, truly what I said is true. Oh, if only my heart could be opened!..." Their conversation continued. From afar, in a corner of the sky, a mountain-like shape the color of smoke appeared above their sight, the cloud, the thick cloud, herald of impending rain. At that moment, the walkers were just arriving at a small upstairs house located on the left side of the broad avenue of Azcárraga. "Come up first," Pati invited the young man, "it's still early anyway." Still early! "Still early," said that woman, even though it was almost one in the morning? "Manila women are indeed very different from provincial women!..." he whispered to himself, unable to contain his wonder at what he heard. Nevertheless, he replied with a sincere thanks to his inviter. And he made as if to turn away to go home; but, coincidence! at that moment, the rain began to pour. A triumphant smile bloomed on Pati's lips: "The bird will truly be caught!" And again and again she invited the young man until he finally yielded: "Since you permit it..." was the soft reply that Pati barely heard. Pati ascended first. Behind her followed Sawî. Upstairs, the first thing Sawî noticed was the orderly ornaments hanging there, the paintings competing in beauty, the portraits, landscapes, and other things that could delight the eye. A young child met them in this house, Pati's servant. "Bulilít," the homeowner called to her servant upon reaching the top step, "give our visitor a chair." The one commanded promptly obeyed. Sawî sat down; and the child disappeared from his sight. While the young man crossed his hands in his seat, Pati entered the house's room to fix her hair that had been disarranged at the dance hall, and to powder her face which was now streaming with sweat. And before coming out again, she repeatedly assessed her appearance and asked herself if her current look was enough to make a man's heart leap from its place. And when she seemed satisfied, only then did she sit in a chair just an arm's length away from her guest. How beautiful Pati looked then in Sawî's eyes! "Oh," he said to himself, "even if it were the bald-headed St. Peter, or the drowsy-eyed St. John, or the gentle-faced St. Pascal, before such beauty they would be compelled to marry! And he, a mere ordinary man, how could he resist temptation?..." "Pati! Miss Pati!..." he called repeatedly, his entire body trembling. The one called did not answer. But she smiled secretly, for now she sensed that the intoxicating heat of her body was affecting Sawî's heart. And Pati moved closer to her companion, and laughed, with glances supremely delightful. Sawî trembled more. Pati moved even closer to him, made her smile even more affectionate, made her gaze even more enticing. Sawî wanted to run, wanted to shout, wanted to escape, to avoid temptation. He was burning with heat! But at that moment, Pati's pale candle-like fingers touched his hand, followed by the affectionate question: "What's wrong with you? You're freezing!" "Yes... yes... I am cold indeed." And simultaneously he stood up from his seat, opened his arms and wrapped them around Pati's neck, and pleaded with a broken voice: "Pati, Pati, forgive me...!" Chapter Four: Descent From the very first night he inhaled the warmth of Pati's embrace, Sawî swore loyalty to the goddess of the dance floor—Terpsichore. He didn't whisper it aloud, but his soul had already defected. He had become a regular. A fixture. The books that once kept him company at night were now his enemies, collecting dust, forgotten. He no longer spared them even a glance, not a moment of listening or reflection. All his time belonged to fleeting pleasures.All his spirit, like a malnourished body, began to starve.His soul dimmed, collapsed, corroded by the fog that now veiled the sky of his conscience. He drank now, not from truth or wisdom, but from the lips of Pati. Thin, red lips. Lips that burned. To him, Pati was everything: his hope, his joy, his love, his heaven. Oh, what a venomous seed love becomes when it grows in the heart of a woman like her. One day, as they sat together, he turned to her—earnest, trembling. "Pati, my Pati, do you truly love me?" She paused, almost stifled a laugh, then caught herself. "Answer me," he pleaded. "Please." "Yes," she said sweetly. "Yes, my Sawî, I love you." "Like I love you?" "More," she said, putting her hand on his. "A thousand times more. I love you like a blind man loves the sun, like a fish loves water, like a saint loves God. Are you satisfied now?" "Pati, Pati, is that really true?" "As true as night is dark, as the sun is hot, as the moon is cold. As true as my heart beats and your liver trembles, as true as you are handsome and I... am not." "Pati... Pati," he whispered, pressing his hand against his chest as if to keep it from bursting. He wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her on the forehead—long, soft, trembling. "Do you hear that?" he asked, voice low. "That fast beating? That's my soul speaking. It says you're my life, my happiness, my heaven..." "Of course," she replied. "And it says," he continued breathlessly, "that it has built a shrine, deep inside me, a secret sanctuary filled with white jasmine flowers, burning with incense. And there it worships an image: a woman, a saint, my beautiful Pati." The leech, after a week of sipping from his blood, could no longer hold back. "It's time you paid," she thought. "Sawî, my darling," she said aloud, "could you give me five pesos? I need to buy a new blouse." He opened his hand without hesitation. "Here, my treasure. Take it." The first day passed. Then the second. "Sawî, love," she said again, "could you give me ten pesos? I need a skirt." Ten now. Not five. Still, he didn't refuse. "Here, sweetheart. Take it." And on the third day, she pressed harder—more cunning, more demanding. "Love, I need twenty pesos this time—for shoes, powder, perfume, stockings..." Twenty. Sawî, still glowing, reached into his purse. "Take it, my love. Anything for you." But the bites weren't confined merely to his flesh. Pati's teeth—sharp and cunningly hidden—were penetrating to the bone. Once, as he tenderly cradled her soft cheeks in his hands and covered them with kiss after kiss, she asked with a half-mocking tone: "How many kisses have you given me?" He laughed softly, intoxicated by her presence. "One... two... three... four... ten... fifteen—oh, too many to count! I've lost track entirely." "Each kiss costs one peso." "One peso?!" he exclaimed, startled. What purse, however well-filled, could possibly endure such a drain? Just as a barrel, no matter how abundantly full, must eventually run dry if its leak remains unsealed, so it was with Sawî. His wealth—once substantial—trickled away slowly at first, then rushed out all at once. Gradually but inexorably, he descended into the abyss of poverty—down into that dark kingdom ruled by want and shadowed by shame. Now what? Should he borrow? Pawn something? Beg? Each one scraped against his pride. But... how could he leave Pati? How could he live without her? He could starve. He could go barefoot. But abandon her?Never. She was his hope. His glory. His life.She was the sun that gave his soul its warmth.The fire that kept his heart alive. Oh, she was a vine. And his heart—a patch of earth.And the vine had rooted so deep, he could not pull it out without tearing up the soil. A few days passed—days of silence, days of poverty. He didn't visit her. Where would he even find the money to meet her demands? "I'll pawn something," he decided. He did. And it ran out. He borrowed. That ran out too. He begged. Same result. "What now?" he asked himself. Write to his parents?They were gone—either dead or done with him. Family? None left. He had become a burden to them all. Who wouldn't turn their back on a son like him?A disgrace. He squandered the savings earned by honest toil.Dragged his family's name through the streets.He'd turned their love into ridicule. Their sacrifice into waste. And worse—he became unrecognizable. To his old classmates, his old friends, he was now a stranger. A ghost. Once they called him "friend."Now, they avoided him like a plague. The deepest sting came when he passed familiar faces in the street—once-kind, now curled into smirks and sneers. Sometimes, they'd point. Sometimes, they'd whisper. "There goes the bum." Each word was a dart in his chest. A fresh wound. "Maybe I should forget her," he whispered one night, lying alone. But just then—a knock. "Who is it?" he called. He opened the door—and froze. Tamád. The man who had ruined him. His fists clenched. His brow darkened. His eyes blazed. "Tamád!" he roared. "Get out of my house!" Tamád blinked. "What the hell?" "Get out!" Sawî shouted again. "Now!" The layabout looked confused. "I didn't come here for me..." "Then for who?" "She sent me," Tamád said quietly, his voice lowering. "She sent me, okay?" Sawî's anger softened—slightly. Pati. That name—still sweet, still poisonous. Tamád saw the shift in his face. "She told me to tell you... that you've been acting proud." "Proud?!" "She's cried over you, you know. For days. Do you realize that?" "She cried... for me?" "She did. And I think—I think she's still waiting." Sawî swallowed. "What else did she say?" "She gave me this," Tamád said, pulling a folded letter from his pocket. "Here." And with that, he left. Sawî ripped the letter open. Inside, the handwriting curled like smoke: My Bird, It's almost been a week now that you've orphaned me in the midst of sighs and tears. One week without seeing you, for me is like one week of God's death! Have you forgotten the unfortunate Pati? Have you forgotten the wretched dancer, after stealing her HONOR? Have you forgotten the magnificent moments experienced in her company? Have you forgotten the touch of your lips imprinted on my cheeks, touches that until now I feel as if they're still burning with the fire of love? Have you forgotten the moments savored in my embrace, in the flame of my glances, in the sweetness of my smiles, in the sound of my kisses? Have you forgotten? Have you forgotten that night when you lay in my arms while, once, twice, and thrice Cupid SANG his victories? Have you forgotten the moment when you sipped from my lips the incomparably sweet honey of love? Have you forgotten those moments extracting from my lips the wine that intoxicates Cupid? Have you forgotten? Have you forgotten the moments when, in the surge of your burning passion, you said to me: "Pati, you are my heart, you are my life, you are my goddess"? Where is the fulfillment of these promises? Ah, Sawî! Ah, my bird! Come and at all hours you will find open the cage that became the nest of our golden dreams, of our joys and comforts! YOUR DOVE. These words—like pins pressed into his chest. Each one waking the beast in his heart, the beast he thought was dying. The memories returned. One by one. Like ghosts summoned by a spell. The beast reared up again—growled, shook, and roared. He stood. "Pati," he whispered. "I'm coming back..." Chapter Five: Ending Midnight. The sky was black and heavy, smothered by thick clouds. The wind howled like a beast, its furious gusts lashing at every rooftop, rattling every shutter like a hand demanding entry. Lightning cut across the sky in violent arcs—golden snakes chasing one another through the clouds. Thunder cracked the silence with the fury of a broken god. On the wide plaza of Azcárraga, beneath that furious storm, a figure walked alone. Who was he?What soul dares cross the world on a night like this? His steps were fast. His head low. His path unbending. He reached a house on the left side of the avenue—a house faintly lit, its windows pulsing with dim, flickering yellow. He approached the door. Before he could knock, it creaked open. A shadow peered out—slender, veiled, feminine. Pati. "Do you think he'll still come?" asked another voice, the same one who had opened the door. "I don't think so," Pati answered, "not with this rain. Come in." And the voice obeyed. Outside, Sawî froze. He?He who? He bit his lip hard enough to taste blood. Are they mocking me? He moved closer. His heart pounded. Who had she let in? The figure had moved like a man—stood like a man—spoken like a man. She betrayed me. Pati—she betrayed me. He took another step forward. Outside the door now. He pushed gently. It swung open with a groan. He crept up the stairs, breath tight in his throat. From beyond the hallway, he heard the murmur of voices. A woman. A man. Pati. And... Tamád. A flash of lightning lit the room. In that instant, he saw them together. The betrayal was not a guess. It was a fact. Sawî staggered, then stormed in like a demon loosed from hell. Pati didn't even scream.Tamád flinched.Sawî's eyes burned. He strode forward and spat on them both—once on her face, once on his. Then, with each hand, he grabbed their throats. "God—" Pati gasped. Sawî's teeth clenched. His mouth foamed with rage. "To you!" he shouted at Tamád. "Coward!" To Pati: "Traitor!" Pati said nothing. Tamád tried to pull away. He reached to run. But Sawî struck him hard across the face. "Son of Lucifer! You want to flee now? Ah, coward!" "Forgive me—" "Forgive you? Forgive you after you have degraded my being? Forgive you after I have been cast into hell, after I have been tempted, and have been deceived?" "No more..." "No more... no more, after my essence has been drained, after I have suffered, after I have been corrupted in the embrace of this woman?"—and he pointed at Pati, who was trembling with fear. "And you," he turned to her, "who have been the cause of all my suffered misfortunes; you, who have been the reason for my estrangement from my former friends; you, who have been the reason for my distance from father and mother, for their withdrawal of love for me; where was your heart that you would repay me with such betrayal? A fine payment for my silver that you dissolved; a fine payment for my blood that you drank!" Pati, trembling, answered: "Forgive me!" "Do you know, Pati," Sawî continued, "do you know how much my love for you has cost me? Silver, much silver... gold, handfuls of gold. Gold and silver, each piece representing a drop of sweat, a drop of blood from my virtuous parents." "And my name," he added, almost choking on the spasms of words rushing forth, "my name that is now the target of all criticism, that is now a thicket despised by all lips, like the revulsion for a pusalì, for a heap of stinking garbage? Where have you placed my humanity?" Pati did not answer. Sawî continued: "Ah, now I fully believe what the newspapers say—that in the fishponds (dance halls) where you swim, nothing is seen but baitfish, fish that display only the glitter of scales on the outside, but are filled with mud inside!" "Sawî, forgive me... I am without sin!" "Without sin!" And then it struck him—sharp and clear. "You're right," he whispered. "You didn't pull me in." "I dove." Pati opened her mouth. She may have said something. But Sawî wasn't listening. He had already turned. Outside, the rain still fell in torrents. He walked into the storm, unblinking, unsheltered, soaking wet. Every drop stabbed his skin like needles. He didn't stop. He didn't turn. He walked into the blackness, into the wide night, into silence. The street swallowed him. Only the wind followed. End. [^1]: Spanish proverb meaning "Young people who are dancing, to hell you are jumping" - a common warning in conservative Catholic societies about the moral dangers of dancing. [^2]: The name "Sawî" in Tagalog suggests someone who is unlucky or ill-fated, foreshadowing the character's destiny. [^3]: "Tamád" means "lazy" in Tagalog, indicating the character's nature as a layabout. [^4]: "Isdâng kapak" in the original Tagalog—a fish with attractive exterior but worthless insides, a common metaphor for beautiful but corrupt people. [^5]: A reference to Pluto (Hades), god of the underworld in Greek mythology, suggesting the dance hall is viewed as a morally corrupting place, an earthly entrance to hell. [^6]: In Greek mythology, Terpsichore was the Muse of dance and chorus, her name meaning "delight in dancing." This classical reference elevates yet simultaneously condemns the dance hall in the narrative. Literary and Historical Commentary Ang Mánanayaw by Rosauro Almario A Window Into 1910s Manila Ang Mánanayaw exemplifies early 20th-century Tagalog literature through its melodramatic style, moral didacticism, and distinctly urban focus. Written during the American colonial period (1898-1946), it portrays Manila as a modernizing metropolis that enticed provincial newcomers with its bright lights and novel pleasures, only to consume their moral virtue and financial resources. The novel emerged from Aklatang Bayan (People's Library), a nationalist literary press explicitly dedicated to "fighting against corrupt morals, false beliefs, and social decay"—a mission Almario articulates in his foreword. This publishing house pursued not merely artistic expression but ideological intervention, conceptualizing literature as a weapon in the battle for moral and cultural preservation during a period of profound social transformation. Themes: Seduction, Ruin, and Social Class At its foundation, Ang Mánanayaw functions as a morality tale with clear didactic purpose. Sawî, whose name literally translates as "unfortunate" or "ill-fated," embodies the vulnerable provincial elite—sufficiently wealthy to become prey to urban temptations, yet too innocent to recognize the danger. His downfall stems not merely from sin itself, but from a triad of fatal weaknesses: naïveté regarding Manila's moral landscape, misplaced idealism about love, and romantic illusions that blind him to Pati's true nature. Pati, the eponymous dancer, defies simple categorization as a femme fatale in the Western literary tradition. Instead, she represents a pragmatic survivalist operating within a harsh social economy. In Almario's conceptual framework, she functions as a powerful symbol of modernity's corrupting influence. Her calculated duplicity operates as a business transaction; her charm deployed with mechanical precision. She entices Sawî not from passion or desire—but for practical acquisition of wealth, influence, and security. This dynamic illuminates a profound cultural anxiety permeating Almario's era: the increasingly fraught collision between provincial moral purity and metropolitan corruption. The Manila portrayed in Ang Mánanayaw emerges as a landscape of moral dissolution, with dance halls (bailes[^7]) serving as potent symbols of Western-style permissiveness—a cultural development regarded with profound apprehension by conservative Filipino intellectuals of the period. [^7]: Dance parties, often subscription-based events where men would pay to dance with women, representing modern Western influence that was viewed with suspicion by traditional Filipino society. Language and Form Composed in elevated yet accessible Tagalog, the novel demonstrates both Spanish prose influences (particularly in its rhetorical flourishes and dialogue formatting) and the moral didacticism characteristic of traditional Tagalog kathang buhay[^8] ("life stories" or realistic fiction). Almario masterfully synthesizes these diverse traditions with an unmistakable sense of urgency. His sentences pulsate with moral judgment; his characters speak in passionate absolutes. [^8]: A traditional Filipino literary form focusing on realistic depictions of life with strong moral messages. Despite this overt moralizing, Sawî's progressive deterioration is portrayed not with ridicule but with genuine pathos. Almario reserves his deepest critique not exclusively for individual characters like Pati or Tamád, but for the broader social conditions that force women like Pati to survive through seduction, deception, and exploitation. Cultural Function During an era when nobelang Tagalog[^9] (Tagalog novels) circulated widely in inexpensive editions among the increasingly literate working and middle classes, this work performed dual functions: entertaining engagement and moral instruction. It served particularly as a cautionary tale directed at provincial youth—especially young men—warning them against the seductive but spiritually perilous enticements of the capital city. [^9]: Popular Tagalog-language novels of the early 20th century, usually published in inexpensive formats for mass consumption. Beyond this obvious cautionary purpose, the novel also operated as a subtle critique of American colonial capitalism. The traditional social structure was undergoing rapid transformation, and conventional Filipino masculinity—historically anchored in notions of honor, family responsibility, and personal restraint—faced reconstruction under the influence of novel temptations, economic pressures, and unfamiliar modes of failure. Legacy While Ang Mánanayaw may not share the canonical status of José Rizal's Noli Me Tangere or Lope K. Santos's Banaag at Sikat, it represents a valuable historical and literary artifact. It reveals how nationalist writers of Almario's generation employed fiction not merely as entertainment but as a means to guide a generation navigating between competing worlds: between rural tradition and urban modernity, between Spanish Catholic heritage and American secular influences, between moral virtue and hedonistic pleasure. In today's Philippines, the work continues to illuminate the anxieties, compromises, and cultural negotiations that characterized the formative period of modern Filipino national identity. From all of us here at the Elephant Island Chronicles, we hope you have enjoyed this novella by Rosauro Almario. Until next time, stay curious. Get full access to The Elephant Island Chronicles at giomarron.substack.com/subscribe [https://giomarron.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_4]