L’Immortel is a satire springing from personal reasons; L’Evangeliste and Rose et Ninette—­the latter on the divorce problem—­may be classed as clever novels; but had Daudet never written more than ’Fromont et Risler’, ‘Tartarin sur les Alces’, and ‘Port Tarascon’, these would keep him in lasting remembrance.

We must not omit to mention also many ‘contes’ and his ’Trente ans de Paris (A travers ma vie et mes livres), Souvenirs d’un Homme de lettres (1888), and Notes sur la Vie (1899)’.

Alphonse Daudet died in Paris, December 16, 1897

Leconte de Lisle
de l’Academie Francaise.

FROMONT AND RISLER

BOOK 1.

CHAPTER I

A WEDDING-PARTY AT THE CAFE VEFOUR

“Madame Chebe!”

“My boy—­”

“I am so happy!”

This was the twentieth time that day that the good Risler had said that he was happy, and always with the same emotional and contented manner, in the same low, deep voice-the voice that is held in check by emotion and does not speak too loud for fear of suddenly breaking into violent tears.

Not for the world would Risler have wept at that moment—­imagine a newly-made husband giving way to tears in the midst of the wedding-festival!  And yet he had a strong inclination to do so.  His happiness stifled him, held him by the throat, prevented the words from coming forth.  All that he could do was to murmur from time to time, with a slight trembling of the lips, “I am happy; I am happy!”

Indeed, he had reason to be happy.

Since early morning the poor man had fancied that he was being whirled along in one of those magnificent dreams from which one fears lest he may awake suddenly with blinded eyes; but it seemed to him as if this dream would never end.  It had begun at five o’clock in the morning, and at ten o’clock at night, exactly ten o’clock by Vefour’s clock, he was still dreaming.

How many things had happened during that day, and how vividly he remembered the most trivial details.

He saw himself, at daybreak, striding up and down his bachelor quarters, delight mingled with impatience, clean-shaven, his coat on, and two pairs of white gloves in his pocket.  Then there were the wedding-coaches, and in the foremost one—­the one with white horses, white reins, and a yellow damask lining—­the bride, in her finery, floated by like a cloud.  Then the procession into the church, two by two, the white veil in advance, ethereal, and dazzling to behold.  The organ, the verger, the cure’s sermon, the tapers casting their light upon jewels and spring gowns, and the throng of people in the sacristy, the tiny white cloud swallowed up, surrounded, embraced, while the bridegroom distributed hand-shakes among all the