the adopted son, the support and joy of his old age, in whom he would live again the scope, the freedom, but not the licence of his own young years. The future glimmered before Verlaine's tired eyes in roseate colours: he had a home, he had a son, he was on the verge of obtaining employment. And all this bright sunlight was due to Lucien : Mon ami, ma plus belle amitié, ma meilleure, Les morts sont morts, douce leur soit l'éternité ! Tu parus sur ma vie et tu vins dans mon cœur, ... Poor Verlaine! his schemes for Lucien's future went even further. He wished him to marry. He wished to find for him some calm and delicate nature who would appreciate Lucien, who would bear him children. There are poems in this strain which recall the earlier sequence of Shakespeare's Sonnets. Yes! Verlaine would at last realise, if only vicariously, the presage of La Bonne Chanson. Le petit coin, le petit nid L'âme aimante au cœur fait exprès, Ce dévouement, Viennent donner un dénouement Calme et si frais A la détresse de ma vie Inassouvie D'avoir satisfait toute envie ! The dénouement which Verlaine sang in these verses, so reminiscent of his older manner, a manner now tragically slipping from him, was to come soon enough, and weighted with unforeseen tragedy. Quite suddenly Lucien sickened with typhoid and was taken to the Hospital de la Pitié. By the time Verlaine had reached his bedside, the boy was delirious. In a few days he died. For the third time in his life Verlaine had given his whole heart away and saw himself abandoned. The shock was terrible. "My son is dead," he cries. "Oh! God of mine, your punishment is hard. My son is dead. You take him from me when my poor footsteps ached for this dear guide in my narrow path. You gave him to me, you are taking him away. You gave him, I give you back his purity": Et je reste sanglant, tirant Mes pas saignants vers le torrent Qui hurle à travers mon bois chaste. Lucien Letinois was buried in the Communal Cemetery at Ivry. His father and mother, with Verlaine and Ernest Delahaye, followed the bier to the cemetery. The coffin was covered with a white pall. "He at least," Verlaine sobbed to Delahaye, has earned that virginal coverlet. How many young men at his age-I wonder? V MIDDLE AGE Ils ont passé ma substance au tamis, |