With Bazin literary life does not become a mirage obscuring the vision of real life.  Before being an author Rene Bazin is a man, with a family attached to the country, rooted in the soil; a guaranty of the dignity of his work as well as of the writer, and a safeguard against many extravagances.  He has remained faithful to his province.  He lives in the attractive city of Angers.  When he leaves it, it is for a little tour through France, or a rare journey-once to Sicily and once to Spain.  He is seldom to be met on the Parisian boulevards.  Not that he has any prejudice against Paris, or fails to appreciate the tone of its society, or the quality of its diversions; but he is conscious that he has nothing to gain from a residence in the capital, but, on the contrary, would run a risk of losing his intense originality and the freshness of his genius.

                  E. LAVISSE
               de l’Academie Francaise.

THE INK-STAIN

BOOK 1.

CHAPTER I

THE ACCIDENT

All I have to record of the first twenty-three years of my life is the enumeration of them.  A simple bead-roll is enough; it represents their family likeness and family monotony.

I lost my parents when I was very young.  I can hardly recall their faces; and I should keep no memories of La Chatre, our home, had I not been brought up quite close to it.  It was sold, however, and lost to me, like all the rest.  Yes, fate is hard, sometimes.  I was born at La Chatre; the college of La Chatre absorbed eighteen years of my life.  Our head master used to remark that college is a second home; whereby I have always fancied he did some injustice to the first.

My school-days were hardly over when my uncle and guardian, M. Brutus Mouillard, solicitor, of Bourges, packed me off to Paris to go through my law course.  I took three years over it:  At the end of that time, just eighteen months ago, I became a licentiate, and “in the said capacity”—­as my uncle would say took an oath that transformed me into a probationary barrister.  Every Monday, regularly, I go to sign my name among many others on an attendance list, and thereby, it appears, I am establishing a claim upon the confidence of the widow and the orphan.

In the intervals of my legal studies I have succeeded in taking my Arts Degree.  At present I am seeking that of Doctor of Law.  My examinations have been passed meritoriously, but without brilliance; my tastes run too much after letters.  My professor, M. Flamaran, once told me the truth of the matter:  “Law, young man, is a jealous mistress; she allows no divided affection.”  Are my affections divided?  I think not, and I certainly do not confess any such thing to M. Mouillard, who has not yet forgotten what he calls “that freak” of a Degree in Arts.  He builds some hopes upon me, and, in return, it is natural that I should build a few upon him.