DAMAGED GOODS

The Great Play "Les Avaries" of Eugene Brieux

Novelized with the approval of the author

by Upton Sinclair



THE PRODUCTION OF EUGENE BRIEUX'S PLAY, "LES AVARIES," OR, TO GIVE IT
ITS ENGLISH TITLE, "DAMAGED GOODS," HAS INITIATED A MOVEMENT IN THIS
COUNTRY WHICH MUST BE REGARDED AS EPOCH-MAKING.--New York Times



+++Page 4 is a virtually unreadable letter in handwritten script from M.
Brieux.+++




PREFACE

My endeavor has been to tell a simple story, preserving as closely as
possible the spirit and feeling of the original. I have tried, as it
were, to take the play to pieces, and build a novel out of the same
material. I have not felt at liberty to embellish M. Brieux's ideas, and
I have used his dialogue word for word wherever possible. Unless I have
mis-read the author, his sole purpose in writing LES AVARIES was to
place a number of most important facts before the minds of the public,
and to drive them home by means of intense emotion. If I have been able
to assist him, this bit of literary carpentering will be worth while. I
have to thank M. Brieux for his kind permission to make the attempt, and
for the cordial spirit which he has manifested.

Upton Sinclair




PRESS COMMENTS ON THE PLAY

DAMAGED GOODS was first presented in America at a Friday matinee on
March 14th, 1913, in the Fulton Theater, New York, before members of
the Sociological Fund. Immediately it was acclaimed by public press and
pulpit as the greatest contribution ever made by the Stage to the cause
of humanity. Mr. Richard Bennett, the producer, who had the courage to
present the play, with the aid of his co-workers, in the face of most
savage criticism from the ignorant, was overwhelmed with requests for a
repetition of the performance.

Before deciding whether of not to present DAMAGED GOODS before the
general public, it was arranged that the highest officials in the United
States should pass judgment upon the manner in which the play teaches
its vital lesson. A special guest performance for members of the
Cabinet, members of both houses of Congress, members of the United
States Supreme Court, representatives of the Diplomatic corps and others
prominent in national life was given in Washington, D.C.

Although the performance was given on a Sunday afternoon (April 6,
1913), the National Theater was crowded to the very doors with the most
distinguished audience ever assembled in America, including exclusively
the foremost men and women of the Capital. The most noted clergymen of
Washington were among the spectators.

The result of this remarkable performance was a tremendous endorsement
of the play and of the manner in which Mr. Bennett and his co-workers
were presenting it.

This reception resulted in the continuance of the New York performances
until mid-summer and is responsible for the decision on the part of Mr.
Bennett to offer the play in every city in America where citizens feel
that the ultimate welfare of the community is dependent upon a higher
standard of morality and clearer understanding of the laws of health.


The WASHINGTON POST, commenting on the Washington performance, said:

The play was presented with all the impressiveness of a sermon; with all
the vigor and dynamic force of a great drama; with all the earnestness
and power of a vital truth.

In many respects the presentation of this dramatization of a great
social evil assumed the aspects of a religious service. Dr. Donald C.
Macleod, pastor of the First Presbyterian Church, mounted the rostrum
usually occupied by the leader of the orchestra, and announced that the
nature of the performance, the sacredness of the play, and the character
of the audience gave to the play the significance of a tremendous sermon
in behalf of mankind, and that as such it was eminently fitting that
a divine blessing be invoked. Dr. Earle Wilfley, pastor of the Vermont
Avenue Christian Church, asked all persons in the audience to bow
their heads in a prayer for the proper reception of the message to be
presented from the stage. Dr. MacLeod then read the Bernard Shaw preface
to the play, and asked that there be no applause during the performance,
a suggestion which was rigidly followed, thus adding greatly to the
effectiveness and the seriousness of the dramatic portrayal.

The impression made upon the audience by the remarkable play is
reflected in such comments as the following expressions voiced after the
performance:

RABBI SIMON, OF THE WASHINGTON HEBREW CONGREGATION--If I could preach
from my pulpit a sermon one tenth as powerful, as convincing, as
far-reaching, and as helpful as this performance of DAMAGED GOODS must
be, I would consider that I had achieved the triumph of my life.

COMMISSIONER CUNO H. RUDOLPH--I was deeply impressed by what I saw, and
I think that the drama should be repeated in every city, a matinee one
day for father and son and the next day for mother and daughter.

REV. EARLE WILFLEY--I am confirmed in the opinion that we must take up
our cudgels in a crusade against the modern problems brought to the
fore by DAMAGED GOODS. The report that these diseases are increasing is
enough to make us get busy on a campaign against them.

SURGEON GENERAL BLUE--It was a most striking and telling lesson. For
years we have been fighting these condition in the navy. It is high time
that civilians awakened to the dangers surrounding them and crusaded
against them in a proper manner.

MRS. ARCHIBALD HOPKINS--The play was a powerful presentation of a very
important question and was handled in a most admirable manner. The
drama is a fine entering wedge for this crusade and is bound to do
considerable good in conveying information of a very serious nature.

MINISTER PEZET, OF PERU--There can be no doubt but that the performance
will have great uplifting power, and accomplish the good for which it
was created. Fortunately, we do not have the prudery in South America
that you of the north possess, and have open minds to consider these
serious questions.

JUSTICE DANIEL THEW WRIGHT--I feel quite sure that DAMAGED GOODS will
have considerable effect in educating the people of the nature of the
danger that surrounds them.

SENATOR KERN, OF INDIANA--There can be no denial of the fact that it is
time to look at the serious problems presented in the play with an open
mind.


Brieux has been hailed by Bernard Shaw as "incomparably the greatest
writer France has produced since Moliere," and perhaps no writer ever
wielded his pen more earnestly in the service of the race. To quote from
an article by Edwin E. Slosson in the INDEPENDENT:

Brieux is not one who believes that social evils are to be cured by laws
and yet more laws. He believes that most of the trouble is caused
by ignorance and urges education, public enlightenment and franker
recognition of existing conditions. All this may be needed, but still we
may well doubt its effectiveness as a remedy. The drunken Helot argument
is not a strong one, and those who lead a vicious life know more about
its risks than any teacher or preacher could tell them. Brieux also
urges the requirement of health certificates for marriage, such as many
clergymen now insist upon and which doubtless will be made compulsory
before long in many of our States.

Brieux paints in black colors yet is no fanatic; in fact, he will
be criticised by many as being too tolerant of human weakness. The
conditions of society and the moral standards of France are so different
from those of America that his point of view and his proposals for
reform will not meet with general acceptance, but it is encouraging to
find a dramatist who realizes the importance of being earnest and who
uses his art in defense of virtue instead of its destruction.


Other comments follow, showing the great interest manifested in the play
and the belief in the highest seriousness of its purpose:

There is no uncleanness in facts. The uncleanness is in the glamour, in
the secret imagination. It is in hints, half-truths, and suggestions the
threat to life lies.

This play puts the horrible truth in so living a way, with such clean,
artistic force, that the mind is impressed as it could possibly be
impressed in no other manner.

Best of all, it is the physician who dominates the action. There is no
sentimentalizing. There is no weak and morbid handling of the theme.
The doctor appears in his ideal function, as the modern high-priest of
truth. Around him writhe the victims of ignorance and the criminals
of conventional cruelty. Kind, stern, high-minded, clear-headed, yet
human-hearted, he towers over all, as the master.

This is as it should be. The man to say the word to save the world of
ignorant wretches, cursed by the clouds and darkness a mistaken modesty
has thrown around a life-and-death instinct, is the physician.

The only question is this: Is this play decent? My answer is that it is
the decentest play that has been in New York for a year. It is so decent
that it is religious.--HEARST'S MAGAZINE.


The play is, above all, a powerful plea for the tearing away of the veil
of mystery that has so universally shrouded this subject of the penalty
of sexual immorality. It is a plea for light on this hidden danger, that
fathers and mothers, young men and young women, may know the terrible
price that must be paid, not only by the generation that violates the
law, but by the generations to come. It is a serious question just how
the education of men and women, especially young men and young women, in
the vital matters of sex relationship should be carried on. One thing is
sure, however. The worst possible way is the one which has so often been
followed in the past--not to carry it on at all but to ignore it.--THE
OUTLOOK.


It (DAMAGED GOODS) is, of course, a masterpiece of "thesis drama,"--an
argument, dogmatic, insistent, inescapable, cumulative, between science
and common sense, on one side, and love, of various types, on the other.
It is what Mr. Bernard Shaw has called a "drama of discussion"; it
has the splendid movement of the best Shaw plays, unrelieved--and
undiluted--by Shavian paradox, wit, and irony. We imagine that many
audiences at the Fulton Theater were astonished at the play's showing
of sheer strength as acted drama. Possibly it might not interest the
general public; probably it would be inadvisable to present it to them.
But no thinking person, with the most casual interest in current social
evils, could listen to the version of Richard Bennett, Wilton Lackaye,
and their associates, without being gripped by the power of Brieux's
message.--THE DIAL.


It is a wonder that the world has been so long in getting hold of this
play, which is one of France's most valuable contributions to the drama.
Its history is interesting. Brieux wrote it over ten years ago. Antoine
produced it at his theater and Paris immediately censored it, but soon
thought better of it and removed the ban. During the summer of 1910
it was played in Brussels before crowded houses, for then the city was
thronged with visitors to the exposition. Finally New York got it last
spring and eugenic enthusiasts and doctors everywhere have welcomed it.
--THE INDEPENDENT.


A letter to Mr. Bennett from Dr. Hills, Pastor of Plymouth Church,
Brooklyn.

23 Monroe Street Bklyn. August 1, 1913.

Mr. Richard Bennett, New York City, N.Y. My Dear Mr. Bennett:

During the past twenty-one years since I entered public life, I have
experienced many exciting hours under the influence of reformer, orator
and actor, but, in this mood of retrospection, I do not know that I
have ever passed through a more thrilling, terrible, and yet hopeful
experience than last evening, while I listened to your interpretation of
Eugene Brieux' "DAMAGED GOODS."

I have been following your work with ever deepening interest. It is not
too much to say that you have changed the thinking of the people of our
country as to the social evil. At last, thank God, this conspiracy of
silence is ended. No young man who sees "Damaged Goods" will ever be the
same again. If I wanted to build around an innocent boy buttresses of
fire and granite, and lend him triple armour against temptation and the
assaults of evil, I would put him for one evening under your influence.
That which the teacher, the preacher and the parent have failed to
accomplish it has been given to you to achieve. You have done a work for
which your generation owes you an immeasurable debt of gratitude.

I shall be delighted to have you use my Study of Social Diseases and
Heredity in connection with your great reform.

With all good wishes, I am, my dear Mr. Bennett, Faithfully yours,

Newell Dwight Hillis




CHAPTER I

It was four o'clock in the morning when George Dupont closed the door
and came down the steps to the street. The first faint streaks of dawn
were in the sky, and he noticed this with annoyance, because he knew
that his hair was in disarray and his whole aspect disorderly; yet he
dared not take a cab, because he feared to attract attention at home.
When he reached the sidewalk, he glanced about him to make sure that no
one had seen him leave the house, then started down the street, his eyes
upon the sidewalk before him.

George had the feeling of the morning after. There are few men in this
world of abundant sin who will not know what the phrase means. The fumes
of the night had evaporated; he was quite sober now, quite free from
excitement. He saw what he had done, and it seemed to him something
black and disgusting.

Never had a walk seemed longer than the few blocks which he had to
traverse to reach his home. He must get there before the maid was
up, before the baker's boy called with the rolls; otherwise, what
explanation could he give?--he who had always been such a moral man, who
had been pointed out by mothers as an example to their sons.

George thought of his own mother, and what she would think if she could
know about his night's adventure. He thought again and again, with a
pang of anguish, of Henriette. Could it be possible that a man who was
engaged, whose marriage contract had actually been signed, who was soon
to possess the love of a beautiful and noble girl--that such a man could
have been weak enough and base enough to let himself be trapped into
such a low action?

He went back over the whole series of events, shuddering at them, trying
to realize how they had happened, trying to excuse himself for them.
He had not intended such a culmination; he had never meant to do such a
thing in his life. He had not thought of any harm when he had accepted
the invitation to the supper party with his old companions from the law
school. Of course, he had known that several of these chums led "fast"
lives--but, then, surely a fellow could go to a friend's rooms for a
lark without harm!

He remembered the girl who had sat by his side at the table. She had
come with a friend who was a married woman, and so he had assumed that
she was all right. George remembered how embarrassed he had been when
first he had noticed her glances at him. But then the wine had begun
to go to his head--he was one of those unfortunate wretches who cannot
drink wine at all. He had offered to take the girl home in a cab, and on
the way he had lost his head.

Oh! What a wretched thing it was. He could hardly believe that it was he
who had spoken those frenzied words; and yet he must have spoken them,
because he remembered them. He remembered that it had taken a long
time to persuade her. He had had to promise her a ring like the one her
married friend wore. Before they entered her home she had made him take
off his shoes, so that the porter might not hear them. This had struck
George particularly, because, even flushed with excitement as he was,
he had not forgotten the warnings his father had given him as to the
dangers of contact with strange women. He had thought to himself, "This
girl must be safe. It is probably the first time she has ever done such
a thing."

But now George could get but little consolation out of that idea. He
was suffering intensely--the emotion described by the poet in the bitter
words about "Time's moving finger having writ." His mind, seeking some
explanation, some justification, went back to the events before that
night. With a sudden pang of yearning, he thought of Lizette. She was a
decent girl, and had kept him decent, and he was lonely without her. He
had been so afraid of being found out that he had given her up when he
became engaged; but now for a while he felt that he would have to break
his resolution, and pay his regular Sunday visit to the little flat in
the working-class portion of Paris.

It was while George was fitting himself for the same career as his
father--that of notary--that he had made the acquaintance of the young
working girl. It may not be easy to believe, but Lizette had really been
a decent girl. She had a family to take care of, and was in need. There
was a grandmother in poor health, a father not much better, and three
little brothers; so Lizette did not very long resist George Dupont, and
he felt quite virtuous in giving her sufficient money to take care of
these unfortunate people. Among people of his class it was considered
proper to take such things if one paid for them.

All the family of this working girl were grateful to him. They adored
him, and they called him Uncle Raoul (for of course he had not been so
foolish as to give them his true name).

Since George was paying for Lizette, he felt he had the right to control
her life. He gave her fair warning concerning his attitude. If she
deceived him he would leave her immediately. He told this to her
relatives also, and so he had them all watching her. She was never
trusted out alone. Every Sunday George went to spend the day with his
little "family," so that his coming became almost a matter of tradition.
He interested her in church affairs--mass and vespers were her regular
occasions for excursions. George rented two seats, and the grandmother
went with her to the services. The simple people were proud to see their
name engraved upon the brass plate of the pew.

The reason for all these precautions was George's terror of disease.
He had been warned by his father as to the dangers which young men
encounter in their amours. And these lessons had sunk deep into George's
heart; he had made up his mind that whatever his friends might do, he,
for one, would protect himself.

That did not mean, of course, that he intended to live a virtuous life;
such was the custom among young men of his class, not had it probably
ever occurred to his father that it was possible for a young man to do
such a thing. The French have a phrase, "l'homme moyen sensuel"--the
average sensual man. And George was such a man. He had no noble
idealisms, no particular reverence for women. The basis of his attitude
was a purely selfish one; he wanted to enjoy himself, and at the same
time to keep out of trouble.

He did not find any happiness in the renunciation which he imposed
upon himself; he had no religious ideas about it. On the contrary,
he suffered keenly, and was bitter because he had no share in the
amusements of his friends. He stuck to his work and forced himself to
keep regular hours, preparing for his law examinations. But all the
time he was longing for adventures. And, of course, this could not go
on forever, for the motive of fear alone is not sufficient to subdue the
sexual urge in a full-blooded young man.

The affair with Lizette might have continued much longer had it not been
for the fact that his father died. He died quite suddenly, while George
was away on a trip. The son came back to console his broken-hearted
mother, and in the two week they spent in the country together the
mother broached a plan to him. The last wish of the dying man had
been that his son should be fixed in life. In the midst of his intense
suffering he had been able to think about the matter, and had named the
girl whom he wished George to marry. Naturally, George waited with some
interest to learn who this might be. He was surprised when his mother
told him that it was his cousin, Henriette Loches.

He could not keep his emotion from revealing itself in his face. "It
doesn't please you?" asked his mother, with a tone disappointment.

"Why no, mother," he answered. "It's not that. It just surprises me."

"But why?" asked the mother. "Henriette is a lovely girl and a good
girl."

"Yes, I know," said George; "but then she is my cousin, and--" He
blushed a little with embarrassment. "I had never thought of her in that
way."

Madame Dupont laid her hand upon her son's. "Yes, George," she said
tenderly. "I know. You are such a good boy."

Now, of course, George did not feel that he was quite such a good boy;
but his mother was a deeply religious woman, who had no idea of the
truth about the majority of men. She would never have got over the shock
if he had told her about himself, and so he had to pretend to be just
what she thought him.

"Tell me," she continued, after a pause, "have you never felt the least
bit in love?"

"Why no--I don't think so," George stammered, becoming conscious of a
sudden rise of temperature in his cheeks.

"Because," said his mother, "it is really time that you were settled in
life. Your father said that we should have seen to it before, and now it
is my duty to see to it. It is not good for you to live alone so long."

"But, mother, I have YOU," said George generously.

"Some day the Lord may take me away," was the reply. "I am getting
old. And, George, dear--" Here suddenly her voice began to tremble with
feeling--"I would like to see my baby grandchildren before I go. You
cannot imagine what it would mean to me."

Madame Dupont saw how much this subject distressed her son, so she went
on to the more worldly aspects of the matter. Henriette's father was
well-to-do, and he would give her a good dowry. She was a charming and
accomplished girl. Everybody would consider him most fortunate if the
match could be arranged. Also, there was an elderly aunt to whom Madame
Dupont had spoken, and who was much taken with the idea. She owned a
great deal of property and would surely help the young couple.

George did not see just how he could object to this proposition, even if
he had wanted to. What reason could he give for such a course? He could
not explain that he already had a family--with stepchildren, so to
speak, who adored him. And what could he say to his mother's obsession,
to which she came back again and again--her longing to see her
grandchildren before she died? Madame Dupont waited only long enough for
George to stammer out a few protestations, and then in the next breath
to take them back; after which she proceeded to go ahead with the match.
The family lawyers conferred together, and the terms of the settlement
were worked out and agreed upon. It happened that immediately afterwards
George learned of an opportunity to purchase the practice of a notary,
who was ready to retire from business in two months' time. Henriette's
father consented to advance a portion of her dowry for this purpose.

Thus George was safely started upon the same career as his father, and
this was to him a source of satisfaction which he did not attempt to
deny, either to himself of to any one else. George was a cautious young
man, who came of a frugal and saving stock. He had always been taught
that it was his primary duty to make certain of a reasonable amount of
comfort. From his earliest days, he had been taught to regard material
success as the greatest goal in life, and he would never have dreamed
of engaging himself to a girl without money. But when he had the good
fortune to meet one who possessed desirable personal qualities in
addition to money, he was not in the least barred from appreciating
those qualities. They were, so to speak, the sauce which went with the
meat, and it seemed to him that in this case the sauce was of the very
best.

George--a big fellow of twenty-six, with large, round eyes and a
good-natured countenance--was full blooded, well fed, with a hearty
laugh which spoke of unimpaired contentment, a soul untroubled in its
deeps. He seemed to himself the luckiest fellow in the whole round
world; he could not think what he had done to deserve the good fortune
of possessing such a girl as Henriette. He was ordinarily of a somewhat
sentimental turn--easily influenced by women and sensitive to their
charms. Moreover, his relationship with Lizette had softened him. He had
learned to love the young working girl, and now Henriette, it seemed,
was to reap the benefit of his experience with her.

In fact, he found himself always with memories of Lizette in his
relationships with the girl who was to be his wife. When the engagement
was announced, and he claimed his first kiss from his bride-to-be, as
he placed a ring upon her finger, he remembered the first time he had
kissed Lizette, and a double blush suffused his round countenance. When
he walked arm and arm with Henriette in the garden he remembered how he
had walked just so with the other girl, and he was interested to compare
the words of the two. He remembered what a good time had had when he
had taken Lizette and her little family for a picnic upon one of the
excursion steamers which run down the River Seine. Immediately he
decided that he would like to take Henriette on such a picnic, and he
persuaded an aunt of Henriette's to go with her as a chaperon. George
took his bride-to-be to the same little inn where he had lunch before.

Thus he was always haunted by memories, some of which made him cheerful
and some of which made him mildly sad. He soon got used to the idea, and
did not find it awkward, except when he had to suppress the impulse to
tell Henriette something which Lizette had said, or some funny incident
which had happened in the home of the little family. Sometimes he found
himself thinking that it was a shame to have to suppress these impulses.
There must be something wrong, he thought, with a social system which
made it necessary for him to hide a thing which was so obvious and so
sensible. Here he was, a man twenty-six years of age; he could not
have afforded to marry earlier, nor could he, as he thought, have been
expected to lead a continent life. And he had really loved Lizette; she
was really a good girl. Yet, if Henriette had got any idea of it, she
would have been horrified and indignant--she might even have broken off
the engagement.

And then, too, there was Henriette's father, a personage of great
dignity and importance. M. Loches was a deputy of the French Parliament,
from a district in the provinces. He was a man of upright life, and a
man who made a great deal of that upright life--keeping it on a pedestal
where everyone might observe it. It was impossible to imagine M. Loches
in an undignified or compromising situation--such as the younger man
found himself facing in the matter of Lizette.

The more he thought about it the more nervous and anxious George became.
Then it was decided it would be necessary for him to break with
the girl, and be "good" until the time of his marriage. Dear little
soft-eyed Lizette--he did not dare to face her personally; he could
never bear to say good-by, he felt. Instead, he went to the father,
who as a man could be expected to understand the situation. George was
embarrassed and not a little nervous about it; for although he had never
misrepresented his attitude to the family, one could never feel entirely
free from the possibility of blackmail in such cases. However, Lizette's
father behaved decently, and was duly grateful for the moderate sum of
money which George handed him in parting. He promised to break the news
gently to Lizette, and George went away with his mind made up that he
would never see her again.

This resolution he kept, and he considered himself very virtuous in
doing it. But the truth was that he had grown used to intimacy with a
woman, and was restless without it. And that, he told himself, was why
he yielded to the shameful temptation the night of that fatal supper
party.

He paid for the misadventure liberally in remorse. He felt that he had
been a wretch, that he had disgraced himself forever, that he had proved
himself unworthy of the pure girl he was to marry. So keen was his
feeling that it was several days before he could bring himself to see
Henriette again; and when he went, it was with a mind filled with a
brand-new set of resolutions. It was the last time that he would ever
fall into error. He would be a new man from then on. He thanked God
that there was no chance of his sin being known, that he might have an
opportunity to prove his new determination.

So intense were his feelings that he could not help betraying a part of
them to Henriette. They sat in the garden one soft summer evening, with
Henriette's mother occupied with her crocheting at a decorous distance.
George, in reverent and humble mood, began to drop vague hints that he
was really unworthy of his bride-to-be. He said that he had not always
been as good as he should have been; he said that her purity and
sweetness had awakened in him new ideals; so that he felt his old life
had been full of blunders. Henriette, of course, had but the vaguest of
ideas as to what the blunders of a tender and generous young man like
George might be. So she only loved him the more for his humility, and
was flattered to have such a fine effect upon him, to awaken in him such
moods of exaltation. When he told her that all men were bad, and that
no man was worthy of such a beautiful love, she was quite ravished, and
wiped away tears from her eyes.

It would have been a shame to spoil such a heavenly mood by telling the
real truth. Instead, George contented himself with telling of the new
resolutions he had formed. After all, they were the things which really
mattered; for Henriette was going to live with his future, not with his
past.

It seemed to George a most wonderful thing, this innocence of a young
girl, which enabled her to move through a world of wickedness with
unpolluted mind. It was a touching thing; and also, as a prudent young
man could not help realizing, a most convenient thing. He realized the
importance of preserving it, and thought that if he ever had a daughter,
he would protect her as rigidly as Henriette had been protected. He
made haste to shy off from the subject of his "badness" and to turn the
conversation with what seemed a clever jest.

"If I am going to be so good," he said, "don't forget that you will have
to be good also!"

"I will try," said Henriette, who was still serious.

"You will have to try hard," he persisted. "You will find that you have
a very jealous husband."

"Will I?" said Henriette, beaming with happiness--for when a woman is
very much in love she doesn't in the least object to the man's being
jealous.

"Yes, indeed," smiled George. "I'll always be watching you."

"Watching me?" echoed the girl with a surprised look.

And immediately he felt ashamed of himself for his jest. There could be
no need to watch Henriette, and it was bad taste even to joke about it
at such a time. That was one of the ideas which he had brought with him
from his world of evil.

The truth was, however, that George would always be a suspicious
husband; nothing could ever change that fact, for there was something in
his own conscience which he could not get out, and which would make it
impossible for him to be at ease as a married man. It was the memory of
something which had happened earlier in his life before he met Lizette.
There had been one earlier experience, with the wife of his dearest
friend. She had been much younger than her husband, and had betrayed an
interest in George, who had yielded to the temptation. For several years
the intrigue continued, and George considered it a good solution of a
young man's problem. There had been no danger of contamination, for he
knew that his friend was a man of pure and rigid morals, a jealous
man who watched his wife, and did not permit her to contract those new
relations which are always dangerous. As for George, he helped in this
worthy work, keeping the woman in terror of some disease. He told her
that almost all men were infected, for he hoped by this means to keep
her from deceiving him.

I am aware that this may seem a dreadful story. As I do not want anyone
to think too ill of George Dupont, I ought, perhaps, to point out that
people feel differently about these matters in France. In judging the
unfortunate young man, we must judge him by the customs of his own
country, and not by ours. In France, they are accustomed to what is
called the MARIAGE DE CONVENANCE. The young girl is not permitted to go
about and make her own friends and decide which one of them she prefers
for her husband; on the contrary, she is strictly guarded, her training
often is of a religious nature, and her marriage is a matter of
business, to be considered and decided by her parents and those of the
young man. Now, whatever we may think right, it is humanly certain that
where marriages are made in that way, the need of men and women for
sympathy and for passionate interest will often lead to the forming of
irregular relationships after marriage. It is not possible to present
statistics as to the number of such irregular relationships in Parisian
society; but in the books which he read and in the plays which he saw,
George found everything to encourage him to think that it was a romantic
and delightful thing to keep up a secret intrigue with the wife of his
best friend.

It should also, perhaps, be pointed out that we are here telling the
truth, and the whole truth, about George Dupont; and that it is not
customary to tell this about men, either in real life or in novels.
There is a great deal of concealment in the world about matters of sex;
and in such matters the truth-telling man is apt to suffer in reputation
in comparison with the truth-concealing one.

Nor had George really been altogether callous about the thing. It had
happened that his best friend had died in his arms; and this had so
affected the guilty pair that they had felt their relationship was no
longer possible. She had withdrawn to nurse her grief alone, and
George had been so deeply affected that he had avoided affairs and
entanglements with women until his meeting with Lizette.

All this was now in the far distant past, but it had made a deeper
impression upon George than he perhaps realized, and it was now working
in his mind and marring his happiness. Here was a girl who loved him
with a noble and unselfish and whole-hearted love--and yet he would
never be able to trust her as she deserved, but would always have
suspicions lurking in the back of his mind. He would be unable to have
his friends intimate in his home, because of the memory of what he had
once done to a friend. It was a subtle kind of punishment. But so it
is that Nature often finds ways of punishing us, without our even being
aware of it.

That was all for the future, however. At present, George was happy. He
put his black sin behind him, feeling that he had obtained absolution
by his confession to Henriette. Day by day, as he realized his good
fortune, his round face beamed with more and yet more joy.

He went for a little trip to Henriette's home in the country. It was
a simple village, and they took walks in the country, and stopped to
refresh themselves at a farmhouse occupied by one of M. Loches' tenants.
Here was a rosy and buxom peasant woman, with a nursing child in her
arms. She was destined a couple of years later to be the foster-mother
of Henriette's little girl and to play an important part in her life.
But the pair had no idea of that at present. They simply saw a proud
and happy mother, and Henriette played with the baby, giving vent to
childish delight. Then suddenly she looked up and saw that George was
watching her, and as she read his thoughts a beautiful blush suffused
her cheeks.

As for George, he turned away and went out under the blue sky in a kind
of ecstasy. Life seemed very wonderful to him just then; he had found
its supreme happiness, which was love. He was really getting quite mad
about Henriette, he told himself. He could hardly believe that the day
was coming when he would be able to clasp her in his arms.

But in the blue sky of George's happiness there was one little cloud of
storm. As often happens with storm-clouds, it was so small that at first
he paid no attention to it at all.

He noted upon his body one day a tiny ulcer. At first he treated it with
salve purchased from an apothecary. Then after a week or two, when this
had no effect, he began to feel uncomfortable. He remembered suddenly he
had heard about the symptoms of an unmentionable, dreadful disease, and
a vague terror took possession of him.

For days he tried to put it to one side. The idea was nonsense, it was
absurd in connection with a woman so respectable! But the thought would
not be put away, and finally he went to a school friend, who was a man
of the world, and got him to talk on the subject. Of course, George had
to be careful, so that his friend should not suspect that he had any
special purpose in mind.

The friend was willing to talk. It was a vile disease, he said; but one
was foolish to bother about it, because it was so rare. There were other
diseases which fellows got, which nearly every fellow had, and to which
none of them paid any attention. But one seldom met anyone who had the
red plague that George dreaded.

"And yet," he added, "according to the books, it isn't so uncommon.
I suppose the truth is that people hide it. A chap naturally wouldn't
tell, when he knew it would damn him for life."

George had a sick sensation inside of him. "Is it as bad as that?" he
asked.

"Of course," said the other, "Should you want to have anything to do
with a person who had it? Should you be willing to room with him or
travel with him? You wouldn't even want to shake hands with him!"

"No, I suppose not," said George, feebly.

"I remember," continued the other, "an old fellow who used to live out
in the country near me. He was not so very old, either, but he looked
it. He had to be pushed around in a wheel-chair. People said he had
locomotor ataxia, but that really meant syphilis. We boys used to poke
all kinds of fun at him because one windy day his hat and his wig were
blown off together, and we discovered that he was as bald as an egg.
We used to make jokes about his automobile, as we called it. It had a
little handle in front, instead of a steering-wheel, and a man behind to
push, instead of an engine."

"How horrible!" remarked George with genuine feeling.

"I remember the poor devil had a paralysis soon after," continued the
friend, quite carelessly. "He could not steer any more, and also he lost
his voice. When you met him he would look at you as it he thought he was
talking, but all he could say was 'Ga-ga-ga'."

George went away from this conversation in a cold sweat. He told himself
over and over again that he was a fool, but still he could not get the
hellish idea out of his mind. He found himself brooding over it all day
and lying awake at night, haunted by images of himself in a wheel-chair,
and without any hair on his head. He realized that the sensible thing
would be for him to go to a doctor and make certain about his condition;
but he could not bring himself to face the ordeal--he was ashamed to
admit to a doctor that he had laid himself open to such a taint.

He began to lose the radiant expression from his round and rosy face. He
had less appetite, and his moods of depression became so frequent that
he could not hide then even from Henriette. She asked him once or twice
if there were not something the matter with him, and he laughed--a
forced and hurried laugh--and told her that he had sat up too late the
night before, worrying over the matter of his examinations. Oh, what a
cruel thing it was that a man who stood in the very gateway of such
a garden of delight should be tormented and made miserable by this
loathsome idea!

The disturbing symptom still continued, and so at last George purchased
a medical book, dealing with the subject of the disease. Then, indeed,
he opened up a chamber of horrors; he made up his mind an abiding place
of ghastly images. In the book there were pictures of things so awful
that he turned white, and trembled like a leaf, and had to close the
volume and hide it in the bottom of his trunk. But he could not banish
the pictures from his mind. Worst of all, he could not forget the
description of the first symptom of the disease, which seemed to
correspond exactly with his own. So at last he made up his mind he must
ascertain definitely the truth about his condition.

He began to think over plans for seeing a doctor. He had heard somewhere
a story about a young fellow who had fallen into the hands of a quack,
and been ruined forever. So he decided that he would consult only the
best authority.

He got the names of the best-known works on the subject from a
bookstore, and found that the author of one of these books was
practicing in Paris as a specialist. Two or three days elapsed before he
was able to get up the courage to call on this doctor. And oh, the shame
and horror of sitting in his waiting-room with the other people, none of
whom dared to look each other in the eyes! They must all be afflicted,
George thought, and he glanced at them furtively, looking for the
various symptoms of which he had read. Or were there, perhaps, some like
himself--merely victims of a foolish error, coming to have the hag of
dread pulled from off their backs?

And then suddenly, while he was speculating, there stood the doctor,
signaling to him. His turn had come!



CHAPTER II

The doctor was a man about forty years of age, robust, with every
appearance of a strong character. In the buttonhole of the frock coat
he wore was a red rosette, the decoration of some order. Confused and
nervous as George was, he got a vague impression of the physician's
richly furnished office, with its bronzes, marbles and tapestries.

The doctor signaled to the young man to be seated in the chair before
his desk. George complied, and then, as he wiped away the perspiration
from his forehead, stammered out a few words, explaining his errand. Of
course, he said, it could not be true, but it was a man's duty not
to take any chances in such a matter. "I have not been a man of loose
life," he added; "I have not taken so many chances as other men."

The doctor cut him short with the brief remark that one chance was all
that was necessary. Instead of discussing such questions, he would make
an examination. "We do not say positively in these cases until we have
made a blood test. That is the one way to avoid the possibility of
mistake."

A drop of blood was squeezed out of George's finger on to a little glass
plate. The doctor retired to an adjoining room, and the victim sat
alone in the office, deriving no enjoyment from the works of art which
surrounded him, but feeling like a prisoner who sits in the dock with
his life at stake while the jury deliberates.

The doctor returned, calm and impassive, and seated himself in his
office-chair.

"Well, doctor?" asked George. He was trembling with terror.

"Well," was the reply, "there is no doubt whatever."

George wiped his forehead. He could not credit the words. "No doubt
whatever? In what sense?"

"In the bad sense," said the other.

He began to write a prescription, without seeming to notice how George
turned page with terror. "Come," he said, after a silence, "you must
have known the truth pretty well."

"No, no, sir!" exclaimed George.

"Well," said the other, "you have syphilis."

George was utterly stunned. "My God!" he exclaimed.

The doctor, having finished his prescription, looked up and observed his
condition. "Don't trouble yourself, sir. Out of every seven men you meet
upon the street, in society, or at the theater, there is at least one
who has been in your condition. One out of seven--fifteen per cent!"

George was staring before him. He spoke low, as if to himself. "I know
what I am going to do."

"And I know also," said the doctor, with a smile. "There is your
prescription. You are going to take it to the drugstore and have it put
up."

George took the prescription, mechanically, but whispered, "No, sir."

"Yes, sir, you are going to do as everybody else does."

"No, because my situation is not that of everybody else. I know what I
am going to do."

Said the doctor: "Five times out of ten, in the chair where you are
sitting, people talk like that, perfectly sincerely. Each one believes
himself more unhappy than all the others; but after thinking it over,
and listening to me, they understand that this disease is a companion
with whom one can live. Just as in every household, one gets along at
the cost of mutual concessions, that's all. Come, sir, I tell you again,
there is nothing about it that is not perfectly ordinary, perfectly
natural, perfectly common; it is an accident which can happen to any
one. It is a great mistake that people speak if this as the 'French
Disease,' for there is none which is more universal. Under the picture
of this disease, addressing myself to those who follow the oldest
profession in the world, I would write the famous phrase: 'Here is your
master. It is, it was, or it must be.'"

George was putting the prescription into the outside pocket of his
coat, stupidly, as if he did not know what he was doing. "But, sir," he
exclaimed, "I should have been spared!"

"Why?" inquired the other. "Because you are a man of position, because
you are rich? Look around you, sir. See these works of art in my
room. Do you imagine that such things have been presented to me by
chimney-sweeps?"

"But, Doctor," cried George, with a moan, "I have never been a
libertine. There was never any one, you understand me, never any one
could have been more careful in his pleasures. If I were to tell you
that in all my life I have only had two mistresses, what would you
answer to that?"

"I would answer, that a single one would have been sufficient to bring
you to me."

"No, sir!" cried George. "It could not have been either of those women."
He went on to tell the doctor about his first mistress, and then about
Lizette. Finally he told about Henriette, how much he adored her. He
could really use such a word--he loved her most tenderly. She was so
good--and he had thought himself so lucky!

As he went on, he could hardly keep from going to pieces. "I had
everything," he exclaimed, "everything a man needed! All who knew me
envied me. And then I had to let those fellows drag me off to that
miserable supper-party! And now here I am! My future is ruined, my whole
existence poisoned! What is to become of me? Everybody will avoid me--I
shall be a pariah, a leper!"

He paused, and then in sudden wild grief exclaimed, "Come, now! Would
it not be better that I should take myself out of the way? At least, I
should not suffer any more. You see that there could not be any one
more unhappy than myself--not any one, I tell you, sir, not any one!"
Completely overcome, he began to weep in his handkerchief.

The doctor got up, and went to him. "You must be a man," he said, "and
not cry like a child."

"But sir," cried the young man, with tears running down his cheeks,
"if I had led a wild life, if I had passed my time in dissipation with
chorus girls, then I could understand it. Then I would say that I had
deserved it."

The doctor exclaimed with emphasis, "No, no! You would not say it.
However, it is of no matter--go on."

"I tell you that I would say it. I am honest, and I would say that I
had deserved it. But no, I have worked, I have been a regular grind. And
now, when I think of the shame that is in store for me, the disgusting
things, the frightful catastrophes to which I am condemned--"

"What is all this you are telling me?" asked the doctor, laughing.

"Oh, I know, I know!" cried the other, and repeated what his friend
had told him about the man in a wheel-chair. "And they used to call me
handsome Raoul! That was my name--handsome Raoul!"

"Now, my dear sir," said the doctor, cheerfully, "wipe your eyes one
last time, blow your nose, put your handkerchief into your pocket, and
hear me dry-eyed."

George obeyed mechanically. "But I give you fair warning," he said, "you
are wasting your time."

"I tell you--" began the other.

"I know exactly what you are going to tell me!" cried George.

"Well, in that case, there is nothing more for you to do here--run
along."

"Since I am here," said the patient submissively, "I will hear you."

"Very well, then. I tell you that if you have the will and the
perseverance, none of the things you fear will happen to you."

"Of course, it is your duty to tell me that."

"I will tell you that there are one hundred thousand like you in
Paris, alert, and seemingly well. Come, take what you were just
saying--wheel-chairs. One doesn't see so many of them."

"No, that's true," said George.

"And besides," added the doctor, "a good many people who ride in them
are not there for the cause you think. There is no more reason why
you should be the victim of a catastrophe than any of the one hundred
thousand. The disease is serious, nothing more."

"You admit that it is a serious disease?" argued George.

"Yes."

"One of the most serious?"

"Yes, but you have the good fortune--"

"The GOOD fortune?"

"Relatively, if you please. You have the good fortune to be infected
with one of the diseases over which we have the most certain control."

"Yes, yes," exclaimed George, "but the remedies are worse than the
disease."

"You deceive yourself," replied the other.

"You are trying to make me believe that I can be cured?"

"You can be."

"And that I am not condemned?"

"I swear it to you."

"You are not deceiving yourself, you are not deceiving me? Why, I was
told--"