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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Ink-Stain, Complete + +Author: Rene Bazin + +Release Date: October 5, 2006 [EBook #3975] +Last updated: August 23, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE INK-STAIN, COMPLETE *** + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + + +</pre> + + <h1> + THE INK STAIN + </h1> + <h3> + (Tache d’Encre) + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Rene Bazin + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> RENE BAZIN </a><br /><br /><br /> <a + href="#link2H_4_0003"> <b>BOOK 1.</b> </a> <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I. </a>THE ACCIDENT <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II. </a>THE JUNIAN LATINS <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III. </a>AN APOLOGY <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV. </a>THE STORY OF SYLVESTRE <br /><br /> + <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V. </a>A FRUITLESS SEARCH <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI. </a>THE FLOWER-SHOW <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII. </a>A WOODLAND SKETCH <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2H_4_0011"> <b>BOOK 2.</b> </a> <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII. </a>JOY AND MADNESS <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX. </a>A VISIT FROM MY UNCLE <br /><br /> + <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X. </a>A FAMILY BREACH <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI. </a>IN THE BEATEN PATH <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII. </a>I GO TO ITALY <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII. </a>STARTLING NEWS FROM SYLVESTRE + <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV. </a>A SURPRISING + ENCOUNTER <br /><br /> <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> <b>BOOK 3.</b> </a> <br /><br /> + <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV. </a>BACK TO PARIS <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI. </a>A FISHING-TRIP AND AN OLD FRIEND + <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII. </a>PLEASURES OF + EAVESDROPPING <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII. </a>A + COOL RECEPTION <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX. </a>JEANNE + THE ENCHANTRESS <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XX. </a>A + HAPPY FAMILY <br /><br /> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + RENE BAZIN + </h2> + <p> + RENE-NICHOLAS-MARIE BAZIN was born at Angers, December 26, 1853. He + studied for the bar, became a lawyer and professor of jurisprudence at the + Catholic University in his native city, and early contributed to ‘Le + Correspondant, L’Illustration, Journal des Debats, Revue du Deux Mondes,’ + etc. Although quietly writing fiction for the last fifteen years or so, he + was not well known until the dawn of the twentieth century, when his moral + studies of provincial life under the form of novels and romances became + appreciated. He is a profound psychologist, a force in literature, and his + style is very pure and attractive. He advocates resignation and the + domestic virtues, yet his books are neither dull, nor tiresome, nor + priggish; and as he has advanced in years and experience M. Bazin has + shown an increasing ambition to deal with larger problems than are + involved for instance, in the innocent love-affairs of ‘Ma Tante Giron’ + (1886), a book which enraptured Ludovic Halevy. His novel, ‘Une Tache + d’Encre’ (1888), a romance of scholarly life, was crowned by the French + Academy, to which he was elected in 1903. + </p> + <p> + It is safe to say that Bazin will never develop into an author dangerous + to morals. His works may be put into the hands of cloistered virgins, and + there are not, to my knowledge, many other contemporary French imaginative + writers who could endure this stringent test. Some critics, indeed, while + praising him, scoff at his chaste and surprising optimism; but it is + refreshing to recommend to English readers, in these days of Realism and + Naturalism, the works of a recent French writer which do not require + maturity of years in the reader. ‘Une Tache d’Encre’, as I have said, was + crowned by the French Academy; and Bazin received from the same exalted + body the “Prix Vitet” for the ensemble of his writings in 1896, being + finally admitted a member of the Academy in June, 1903. He occupies the + chair of Ernest Legouve. + </p> + <p> + Bazin’s first romance, ‘Stephanette’, was published under the pseudonym + “Bernard Seigny,” in 1884; then followed ‘Victor Pavie (1887); Noellet + (1890); A l’Aventure (1891) and Sicile (1892)’, two books on Italy, of + which the last mentioned was likewise crowned by the French Academy; ‘La + Legende de Sainte-Bega (1892); La Sarcelle Bleue (1892); Madame Corentine + (1893); Les Italiens d’aujourd’hui (1894); Humble Amour (1894); En + Province (1896); De toute son Ame (1897)’, a realistic but moderate + romance of a workingman’s life; ‘Les Contes de Perrette (1898); La Terre + qui Meurt (1899); Le Guide de l’Empereur (1901); Les Oberle (1902), a tale + from Alsace of to-day, sketching the political situation, approximately + correct, and lately adapted for the stage; ‘Donatienne’ (1903). + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + E. LAVISSE + de l’Academie Francaise. +</pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h1> + THE INK-STAIN + </h1> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BOOK 1. + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. THE ACCIDENT + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Really, that sums up all my past: two certificates! A third diploma in + prospect and an uncle to leave me his money—that is my future. Can + anything more commonplace be imagined? + </p> + <p> + I may add that I never felt any temptation at all to put these things on + record until to-day, the tenth of December, 1884. Nothing had ever + happened to me; my history was a blank. I might have died thus. But who + can foresee life’s sudden transformations? Who can foretell that the + skein, hitherto so tranquilly unwound, will not suddenly become tangled? + This afternoon a serious adventure befell me. It agitated me at the time, + and it agitates me still more upon reflection. A voice within me whispers + that this cause will have a series of effects, that I am on the threshold + of an epoch, or, as the novelists say, a crisis in my existence. It has + struck me that I owe it to myself to write my Memoirs, and that is the + reason why I have just purchased this brown memorandum-book in the Odeon + Arcade. I intend to make a detailed and particular entry of the event, + and, as time goes on, of its consequences, if any should happen to flow + from it. + </p> + <p> + “Flow from it” is just the phrase; for it has to do with a blot of ink. + </p> + <p> + My blot of ink is hardly dry. It is a large one, too; of abnormal shape, + and altogether monstrous, whether one considers it from the physical side + or studies it in its moral bearings. It is very much more than an + accident; it has something of the nature of an outrage. It was at the + National Library that I perpetrated it, and upon—But I must not + anticipate. + </p> + <p> + I often work in the National Library; not in the main hall, but in that + reserved for literary men who have a claim, and are provided with a + ticket, to use it. I never enter it without a gentle thrill, in which + respect is mingled with satisfied vanity. For not every one who chooses + may walk in. I must pass before the office of the porter, who retains my + umbrella, before I make my way to the solemn beadle who sits just inside + the doorway—a double precaution, attesting to the majesty of the + place. The beadle knows me. He no longer demands my ticket. To be sure, I + am not yet one of those old acquaintances on whom he smiles; but I am no + longer reckoned among those novices whose passport he exacts. An + inclination of his head makes me free of the temple, and says, as plainly + as words, “You are one of us, albeit a trifle young. Walk in, sir.” + </p> + <p> + And in I walk, and admire on each occasion the vast proportions of the + interior, the severe decoration of the walls, traced with broad foliated + pattern and wainscoted with books of reference as high as hand can reach; + the dread tribunal of librarians and keepers in session down yonder, on a + kind of judgment-seat, at the end of the avenue whose carpet deadens all + footsteps; and behind again, that holy of holies where work the doubly + privileged—the men, I imagine, who are members of two or three + academies. To right and left of this avenue are rows of tables and + armchairs, where scatters, as caprice has chosen and habit consecrated, + the learned population of the library. Men form the large majority. Viewed + from the rear, as they bend over their work, they suggest reflections on + the ravages wrought by study upon hair-clad cuticles. For every hirsute + Southerner whose locks turn gray without dropping off, heavens, what a + regiment of bald heads! Visitors who look in through the glass doors see + only this aspect of devastation. It gives a wrong impression. Here and + there, at haphazard, you may find a few women among these men. George Sand + used to come here. I don’t know the names of these successors of hers, nor + their business; I have merely observed that they dress in sober colors, + and that each carries a number of shawls and a thick veil. You feel that + love is far from their thoughts. They have left it outside, perhaps—with + the porter. + </p> + <p> + Several of these learned folk lift their heads as I pass, and follow me + with the dulled eye of the student, an eye still occupied with the written + thought and inattentive to what it looks on. Then, suddenly, remorse + seizes them for their distraction, they are annoyed with me, a gloomy + impatience kindles in their look, and each plunges anew into his open + volume. But I have had time to guess their secret ejaculations: “I am + studying the Origin of Trade Guilds!” “I, the Reign of Louis the Twelfth!” + “I, the Latin Dialects!” “I, the Civil Status of Women under Tiberius!” “I + am elaborating a new translation of Horace!” “I am fulminating a seventh + article, for the Gazette of Atheism and Anarchy, on the Russian Serfs!” + And each one seems to add, “But what is thy business here, stripling? What + canst thou write at thy age? Why troublest thou the peace of these + hallowed precincts?” My business, sirs? Alas! it is the thesis for my + doctor’s degree. My uncle and venerated guardian, M. Brutus Mouillard, + solicitor, of Bourges, is urging me to finish it, demands my return to the + country, grows impatient over the slow toil of composition. “Have done + with theories,” he writes, “and get to business! If you must strive for + this degree, well and good; but what possessed you to choose such a + subject?” + </p> + <p> + I must own that the subject of my thesis in Roman law has been + artistically chosen with a view to prolonging my stay in Paris: “On the + ‘Latini Juniani.’” Yes, gentle reader, a new subject, almost incapable of + elucidation, having no connection—not the remotest—with the + exercise of any profession whatsoever, entirely devoid of practical + utility. The trouble it gives me is beyond conception. + </p> + <p> + It is true that I intersperse my researches with some more attractive + studies, and one or two visits to the picture-galleries, and more than an + occasional evening at the theatre. My uncle knows nothing of this. To keep + him soothed I am careful to get my reader’s ticket renewed every month, + and every month to send him the ticket just out of date, signed by M. + Leopold Delisle. He has a box full of them; and in the simplicity of his + heart Monsieur Mouillard has a lurking respect for this nephew, this + modern young anchorite, who spends his days at the National Library, his + nights with Gaius, wholly absorbed in the Junian Latins, and indifferent + to whatsoever does not concern the Junian Latins in this Paris which my + uncle still calls the Modern Babylon. + </p> + <p> + I came down this morning in the most industrious mood, when the misfortune + befell. Close by the sanctum where the librarians sit are two desks where + you write down the list of the books you want. I was doing so at the + right-hand desk, on which abuts the first row of tables. Hence all the + mischief. Had I written at the left-hand desk, nothing would have + happened. But no; I had just set down as legibly as possible the title, + author, and size of a certain work on Roman Antiquities, when, in + replacing the penholder, which is attached there by a small brass chain, + some inattentiveness, some want of care, my ill-luck, in short, led me to + set it down in unstable equilibrium on the edge of the desk. It tumbled-I + heard the little chain rattle-it tumbled farther-then stopped short. The + mischief was done. The sudden jerk, as it pulled up, had detached an + enormous drop of ink from the point of the pen, and that drop—Ah! I + can see him yet, as he rose from the shadow of the desk, that small, + white-haired man, so thin and so very angry! + </p> + <p> + “Clumsy idiot! To blot an Early Text!” + </p> + <p> + I leaned over and looked. Upon the page of folio, close to an illuminated + capital, the black drop had flattened itself. Around the original sphere + had been shed splashes of all conceivable shapes-rays, rockets, dotted + lines, arrowheads, all the freakish impromptu of chaos. Next, the slope + lending its aid, the channels had drained into one, and by this time a + black rivulet was crawling downward to the margin. One or two readers near + had risen, and now eyed me like examining magistrates. I waited for an + outbreak, motionless, dazed, muttering words that did not mend the case at + all. “What a pity! Oh, I’m so sorry! If I had only known—” The + student of the Early Text stood motionless as I. Together we watched the + ink trickle. Suddenly, summoning his wits together, he burrowed with + feverish haste in his morocco writing-case, pulled out a sheet of + blotting-paper, and began to soak up the ink with the carefulness of a + Sister of Mercy stanching a wound. I seized the opportunity to withdraw + discreetly to the third row of tables, where the attendant had just + deposited my books. Fear is so unreasoning. Very likely by saying no more + about it, by making off and hiding my head in my hands, like a man crushed + by the weight of his remorse, I might disarm this wrath. I tried to think + so. But I knew well enough that there was more to come. I had hardly taken + my seat when, looking up, I could see between my fingers the little man + standing up and gesticulating beside one of the keepers. At one moment he + rapped the damning page with his forefinger; the next, he turned sidewise + and flung out a hand toward me; and I divined, without hearing a word, all + the bitterness of his invective. The keeper appeared to take it seriously. + I felt myself blushing. “There must be,” thought I, “some law against + ink-stains, some decree, some regulation, something drawn up for the + protection of Early Texts. And the penalty is bound to be terrible, since + it has been enacted by the learned; expulsion, no doubt, besides a fine—an + enormous fine. They are getting ready over there to fleece me. That book + of reference they are consulting is of course the catalogue of the sale + where this treasure was purchased. I shall have to replace the Early Text! + O Uncle Mouillard!” + </p> + <p> + I sat there, abandoned to my sad reflections, when one of the attendants, + whom I had not seen approaching, touched me on the shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “The keeper wishes to speak to you.” + </p> + <p> + I rose up and went. The terrible reader had gone back to his seat. + </p> + <p> + “It was you, sir, I believe, who blotted the folio just now?” + </p> + <p> + “It was, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “You did not do so on purpose?” + </p> + <p> + “Most certainly not, sir! I am indeed sorry for he accident.” + </p> + <p> + “You ought to be. The volume is almost unique; and the blot, too, for that + matter. I never saw such a blot! Will you, please, leave me your Christian + name, surname, profession, and address?” + </p> + <p> + I wrote down, “Fabien Jean Jacques Mouillard, barrister, 91 Rue de + Rennes.” + </p> + <p> + “Is that all?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir, that is all for the present. But I warn you that Monsieur + Charnot is exceedingly annoyed. It might be as well to offer him some + apology.” + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Charnot?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. It is Monsieur Charnot, of the Institute, who was reading the Early + Text.” + </p> + <p> + “Merciful Heavens!” I ejaculated, as I went back to my seat; “this must be + the man of whom my tutor spoke, the other day! Monsieur Flamaran belongs + to the Academy of Moral and Political Science, the other to the Institute + of Inscriptions and the Belles-Lettres. Charnot? Yes, I have those two + syllables in my ear. The very last time I saw Monsieur Flamaran he let + fall ‘my very good friend Charnot, of the ‘Inscriptions.’ They are + friends. And I am in a pretty situation; threatened with I don’t know what + by the Library—for the keeper told me positively that this was all + ‘for the present’—but not for the future; threatened to be disgraced + in my tutor’s eyes; and all because this learned man’s temper is upset. + </p> + <p> + “I must apologize. Let me see, what could I say to Monsieur Charnot? As a + matter of fact, it’s to the Early Text that I ought to apologize. I have + spilled no ink over Monsieur Charnot. He is spotless, collar and cuffs; + the blot, the splashes, all fell on the Text. I will say to him, ‘Sir, I + am exceedingly sorry to have interrupted you so unfortunately in your + learned studies! ‘Learned studies’ will tickle his vanity, and should go + far to appease him.” + </p> + <p> + I was on the point of rising. M. Charnot anticipated me. + </p> + <p> + Grief is not always keenest when most recent. As he approached I saw he + was more irritated and upset than at the moment of the accident. Above his + pinched, cleanshaven chin his lips shot out with an angry twitch. The + portfolio shook under his arm. He flung me a look full of tragedy and went + on his way. + </p> + <p> + Well, well; go your way, M. Charnot! One doesn’t offer apologies to a man + in his wrath. You shall have them by-and-bye, when we meet again. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. THE JUNIAN LATINS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + December 28, 1884. +</pre> + <p> + This afternoon I paid M. Flamaran a visit. I had been thinking about it + for the last week, as I wanted him to help my Junian Latins out of a mess. + I am acquiring a passion for that interesting class of freedmen. And + really it is only natural. These Junian Latins were poor slaves, whose + liberation was not recognized by the strict and ancient laws of Rome, + because their masters chose to liberate them otherwise than by ‘vindicta, + census, or testamentum’. On this account they lost their privileges, poor + victims of the legislative intolerance of the haughty city. You see, it + begins to be touching, already. Then came on the scene Junius Norbanus, + consul by rank, and a true democrat, who brought in a law, carried it, and + gave them their freedom. In exchange, they gave him immortality. + Henceforward, did a slave obtain a few kind words from his master over his + wine? he was a Junian Latin. Was he described as ‘filius meus’ in a public + document? Junian Latin. Did he wear the cap of liberty, the pileus, at his + master’s funeral? Junian Latin. Did he disembowel his master’s corpse? + Junian Latin, once more, for his trouble. + </p> + <p> + What a fine fellow this Norbanus must have been! What an eye for + everything, down to the details of a funeral procession, in which he could + find an excuse for emancipation! And that, too, in the midst of the wars + of Marius and Sylla in which he took part. I can picture him seated before + his tent, the evening after the battle. Pensive, he reclines upon his + shield as he watches the slave who is grinding notches out of his sword. + His eyes fill with tears, and he murmurs, “When peace is made, my faithful + Stychus, I shall have a pleasant surprise for you. You shall hear talk of + the Lex Junia Norband, I promise you!” + </p> + <p> + Is not this a worthy subject for picture or statue in a competition for + the Prix de Rome? + </p> + <p> + A man so careful of details must have assigned a special dress to these + special freedmen of his creation; for at Rome even freedom had its livery. + What was this dress? Was there one at all? No authority that I know of + throws any light on the subject. Still one hope remains: M. Flamaran. He + knows so many things, he might even know this. + </p> + <p> + M. Flamaran comes from the south-Marseilles, I think. He is not a + specialist in Roman law; but he is encyclopedic, which comes to the same + thing. He became known while still young, and deservedly; few lawyers are + so clear, so safe, so lucid. He is an excellent lecturer, and his opinions + are in demand. Yet he owes much of his fame to the works which he has not + written. Our fathers, in their day, used to whisper to one another in the + passages of the Law School, “Have you heard the news? Flamaran is going to + bring out the second volume of his great work. He means to publish his + lectures. He has in the press a treatise which will revolutionize the law + of mortgages; he has been working twenty years at it; a masterpiece, I + assure you.” Day follows day; no book appears, no treatise is published, + and all the while M. Flamaran grows in reputation. Strange phenomenon! + like the aloe in the Botanical Gardens. The blossoming of the aloe is an + event. “Only think!” says the gaping public, “a flower which has taken + twenty springs, twenty summers, twenty autumns, and twenty winters to make + up its mind to open!” And meanwhile the roses bloom unnoticed by the town. + But M. Flamaran’s case is still more strange. Every year it is whispered + that he is about to bloom afresh; he never does bloom; and his reputation + flourishes none the less. People make lists of the books he might have + written. Lucky author! + </p> + <p> + M. Flamaran is a professor of the old school, stern, and at examination a + terror to the candidates. Clad in cap and gown, he would reject his own + son. Nothing will serve. Recommendations defeat their object. An + unquestioned Roumanian ancestry, an extraction indisputably Japanese, find + no more favor in his eyes than an assumed stammer, a sham deafness, or a + convalescent pallor put on for the occasion. East and west are alike in + his sight. The retired registrar, the pensioned usher aspiring late in + life to some petty magistrature, are powerless to touch his heart. For him + in vain does the youthful volunteer allow his uniform to peep out beneath + his student’s gown: he will not profit by the patriotic indulgence he + counted on inspiring. His sayings in the examination-room are famous, and + among them are some ghastly pleasantries. Here is one, addressed to a + victim: “And you, sir, are a law student, while our farmers are in want of + hands!” + </p> + <p> + For my own part I won his favor under circumstances that I never shall + forget. I was in for my first examination. We were discussing, or rather I + was allowing him to lecture on, the law of wardship, and nodding my assent + to his learned elucidations. Suddenly he broke off and asked, “How many + opinions have been formulated upon this subject?” + </p> + <p> + “Two, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “One is absurd. Which? Beware how you give the wrong answer!” + </p> + <p> + I considered for three agonizing seconds, and hazarded a guess. “The + first, sir.” I had guessed right. We were friends. At bottom the professor + is a capital fellow; kindly, so long as the dignity of the Code is not in + question, or the extent of one’s legal knowledge; proverbially upright and + honorable in his private life. + </p> + <p> + At home he may be seen at his window tending his canaries, which, he says, + is no change of occupation. To get to his house I have only to go by my + favorite road through the Luxembourg. I am soon at his door. + </p> + <p> + “Is Monsieur Flamaran at home?” + </p> + <p> + The old servant who opened the door eyed me solemnly. So many young + freshmen come and pester her master under the pretext of paying their + respects. Their respects, indeed! They would bore him to death if he had + to see them all. The old woman inferred, probably from my moustache, that + I had taken at least my bachelor’s degree. + </p> + <p> + “I think he is.” + </p> + <p> + He was very much at home in his overheated study, where he sat wrapped up + in a dressing-gown and keeping one eye shut to strengthen the other. + </p> + <p> + After a moment’s hesitation he recognized me, and held out his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! my Junian Latin. How are you getting on?” + </p> + <p> + “I am all right, sir; it’s my Junian Latins who are not getting on.” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t say so. We must look into that. But before we begin—I + forget where you come from. I like to know where people come from.” + </p> + <p> + “From La Chatre. But I spend my vacations at Bourges with my Uncle + Mouillard.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes, Mouillart with a t, isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “No, with a d.” + </p> + <p> + “I asked, you know, because I once knew a General Mouillart who had been + through the Crimea, a charming man. But he can not have been a relative, + for his name ended with a t.” + </p> + <p> + My good tutor spoke with a delightful simplicity, evidently wishing to be + pleasant and to show some interest in me. + </p> + <p> + “Are you married, young man?” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir; but I have no conscientious objections.” + </p> + <p> + “Marry young. Marriage is the salvation of young men. There must be plenty + of pretty heiresses in Bourges.” + </p> + <p> + “Heiresses, yes. As to their looks, at this distance—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I understand, at this distance of course you can’t tell. You should + do as I did; make inquiries, go and see. I went all the way to Forez + myself to look for my wife.” + </p> + <p> + “Madame Flamaran comes from Forez?” + </p> + <p> + “Just so; I stayed there a fortnight, fourteen days exactly, in the middle + of term-time, and brought back Sidonie. Bourges is a nice town.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, in summer.” + </p> + <p> + “Plenty of trees. I remember a grand action I won there. One of my learned + colleagues was against me. We had both written opinions, diametrically + opposed, of course. But I beat him—my word, yes!” + </p> + <p> + “I dare say.” + </p> + <p> + “My boy, there was nothing left of him. Do you know the case?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “A magnificent case! My notes must be somewhere about; I will get them out + for you.” + </p> + <p> + The good man beamed. Evidently he had not had a talk all day, and felt he + must expand and let himself out to somebody. I appeared in the nick of + time, and came in for all his honey. He rose, went to a bookcase, ran his + eye along a shelf, took down a volume, and began, in a low tone: + “‘Cooperation is the mighty lever upon which an effete society relies to + extricate itself from its swaddling-clothes and take a loftier flight.’ + Tut, tut! What stuff is this? I beg your pardon. I was reading from a work + on moral philosophy. Where the deuce is my opinion?” + </p> + <p> + He found it and, text in hand, began a long account of the action, with + names, dates, moments of excitement, and many quotations in extenso. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my young friend, two hundred and eighteen thousand francs did I win + in that action for Monsieur Prebois, of Bourges; you know Prebois, the + manufacturer?” + </p> + <p> + “By name.” + </p> + <p> + At last he put the note-book back on its shelf, and deigned to remember + that I had come about the Junian Latins. + </p> + <p> + “In which of the authorities do you find a difficulty?” + </p> + <p> + “My difficulty lies in the want of authorities, sir, I wish to find out + whether the Junian Latins had not a special dress.” + </p> + <p> + “To be sure.” He scratched his head. “Gaius says nothing on the point?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Papinian?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Justinian?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I see only one resource.” + </p> + <p> + “What is that?” + </p> + <p> + “Go to see Charnot.” + </p> + <p> + I felt myself growing pale, and stammered, with a piteous look: + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Charnot, of the Acad—” + </p> + <p> + “The Academy of Inscriptions; an intimate friend of mine, who will welcome + you like a son, for he has none himself, poor man!” + </p> + <p> + “But perhaps the question is hardly important enough for me to trouble him + like this—” + </p> + <p> + “Hey? Not important enough? All new questions are important. Charnot + specializes on coins. Coins and costumes are all one. I will write to tell + him you are coming.” + </p> + <p> + “I beg, sir—” + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense; Nonsense; I’ll write him this very evening. He will be + delighted to see you. I know him well, you understand. He is like me; he + likes industrious young men.” + </p> + <p> + M. Flamaran held out his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Good-by, young man. Marry as soon as you have taken your degree.” + </p> + <p> + I did not recover from the shock till I was halfway across the Luxembourg + Gardens, near the Tennis Court, when I sat down, overcome. See what comes + of enthusiasm and going to call on your tutor! Ah, young three-and-twenty, + when will you learn wisdom? + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. AN APOLOGY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 9 P.M. +</pre> + <p> + I have made up my mind. I shall go to see M. Charnot. But before that I + shall go to his publisher’s and find out something about this famous man’s + works, of which I know nothing whatever. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + December 31st +</pre> + <p> + He lives in the Rue de l’Universite. + </p> + <p> + I have called. I have seen him. I owe this to an accident, to the + servant’s forgetting her orders. + </p> + <p> + As I entered, on the stroke of five, he was spinning a spiral twist of + paper beneath the lamplight to amuse his daughter—he a member of the + Institute, she a girl of eighteen. So that is how these big-wigs employ + their leisure moments! + </p> + <p> + The library where I found them was full of book cases-open bookcases, + bookcases with glass doors, tall bookcases, dwarf bookcases, bookcases + standing on legs, bookcases standing on the floor—of statuettes + yellow with smoke, of desks crowded with paper-weights, paper-knives, + pens, and inkstands of “artistic” pat terns. He was seated at the table, + with his back to the fire, his arm lifted, and a hairpin between his + finger and thumb—the pivot round which his paper twist was spinning + briskly. Across the table stood his daughter, leaning forward with her + chin on her hands and her white teeth showing as she laughed for + laughing’s sake, to give play to her young spirits and gladden her old + father’s heart as he gazed on her, delighted. + </p> + <p> + I must confess it made a pretty picture; and M. Charnot at that moment was + extremely unlike the M. Charnot who had confronted me from behind the + desk. + </p> + <p> + I was not left long to contemplate. + </p> + <p> + The moment I lifted the ‘portiere’ the girl jumped up briskly and regarded + me with a touch of haughtiness, meant, I think, to hide a slight + confusion. To compare small things with great, Diana must have worn + something of that look at sight of Actaeon. M. Charnot did not rise, but + hearing somebody enter, turned half-round in his armchair, while his eyes, + still dazzled with the lamplight, sought the intruder in the partial + shadow of the room. + </p> + <p> + I felt myself doubly uneasy in the presence of this reader of the Early + Text and of this laughing girl. + </p> + <p> + “Sir,” I began, “I owe you an apology—” + </p> + <p> + He recognized me. The girl moved a step. + </p> + <p> + “Stay, Jeanne, stay. We shall not take long. This gentleman has come to + offer an apology.” + </p> + <p> + This was a cruel beginning. + </p> + <p> + She thought so, too, perhaps, and withdrew discreetly into a dim corner, + near the bookcase at the end of the room. + </p> + <p> + “I have felt deep regret, sir, for that accident the other day—I set + down the penholder clumsily, in equilibrium—unstable equilibrium—besides, + I had no notion there was a reader behind the desk. Of course, if I had + been aware, I should—I should have acted differently.” + </p> + <p> + M. Charnot allowed me to flounder on with the contemplative satisfaction + of an angler who has got a fish at the end of his line. He seemed to find + me so very stupid, that as a matter of fact I became stupid. And then, + there was no answer—not a word. Silence, alas! is not the reproof of + kings alone. It does pretty well for everybody. I stumbled on two or three + more phrases quite as flatly infelicitous, and he received them with the + same faint smile and the same silence. + </p> + <p> + To escape from my embarrassment: + </p> + <p> + “Sir,” I said, “I came also to ask for a piece of information.” + </p> + <p> + “I am at your service, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Flamaran has probably written to you on the matter?” + </p> + <p> + “Flamaran?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, three days ago.” + </p> + <p> + “I have received no letter; have I, Jeanne?” + </p> + <p> + “No, father.” + </p> + <p> + “This is not the first time that my excellent colleague has promised to + write a letter and has not written it. Never mind, sir; your own + introduction is sufficient.” + </p> + <p> + “Sir, I am about to take my doctor’s degree.” + </p> + <p> + “In arts?” + </p> + <p> + “No, in law; but I have a bachelor’s degree in arts.” + </p> + <p> + “You will follow it up with a degree in medicine, no doubt?” + </p> + <p> + “Really, sir—” + </p> + <p> + “Why—Why not, since you are collecting these things? You have, then, + a bent toward literature?” + </p> + <p> + “So I have been told.” + </p> + <p> + “A pronounced inclination—hey? to scribble verse.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, yes!” + </p> + <p> + “The old story; the family driving a lad into law; his heart leaning + toward letters; the Digest open on the table, and the drawers stuffed with + verses! Isn’t that so?” + </p> + <p> + I bowed. He glanced toward his daughter. + </p> + <p> + “Well, sir, I confess to you that I don’t understand—don’t + understand at all—this behavior of yours. Why not follow your + natural bent? You youngsters nowadays—I mean no offence—you + youngsters have no longer any mind of your own. Take my case; I was + seventeen when I began to take an interest in numismatics. My family + destined me for the Stamp Office; yes, sir, the Stamp Office. I had + against me two grandfathers, two grandmothers, my father, my mother, and + six uncles—all furious. I held out, and that has led me to the + Institute. Hey, Jeanne?” + </p> + <p> + Mademoiselle Jeanne had returned to the table, where she was standing when + I entered, and seemed, after a moment, to busy herself in arranging the + books scattered in disarray on the green cloth. But she had a secret + object—to regain possession of the paper spiral that lay there + neglected, its pin sticking up beside the lamp-stand. Her light hand, + hovering hither and thither, had by a series of cunning manoeuvres got the + offending object behind a pile of duodecimos, and was now withdrawing it + stealthily among the inkstands and paperweights. + </p> + <p> + M. Charnot interrupted this little stratagem. + </p> + <p> + She answered very prettily, with a slight toss of the head: + </p> + <p> + “But, father, not everybody can be in the Institute.” + </p> + <p> + “Far from it, Jeanne. This gentleman, for instance, devotes himself to one + method of inking parchment that never will make him my colleague. Doctor + of Laws and Master of Arts,—I presume, sir, you are going to be a + notary?” + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me, an advocate.” + </p> + <p> + “I was sure of it. Jeanne, my dear, in country families it is a standing + dilemma; if not a notary, then an advocate; if not an advocate, then a + notary.” + </p> + <p> + M. Charnot spoke with an exasperating half-smile. + </p> + <p> + I ought to have laughed, to be sure; I ought to have shown sense enough at + any rate to hold my tongue and not to answer the gibes of this vindictive + man of learning. Instead, I was stupid enough to be nettled and to lose my + head. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” I retorted, “I must have a paying profession. That one or another—what + does it matter? Not everybody can belong to the Institute, as your + daughter remarked; not everybody can afford himself the luxury of + publishing, at his own expense, works that sell twenty-seven copies or + so.” + </p> + <p> + I expected a thunderbolt, an explosion. Not a bit of it. M. Charnot smiled + outright with an air of extreme geniality. + </p> + <p> + “I perceive, sir, that you are given to gossiping with the booksellers.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, yes, sir, now and then.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a very pretty trait, at your age, to be already so strong in + bibliography. You will permit me, nevertheless, to add something to your + present stock of notions. A large sale is one thing to look at, but not + the right thing. Twenty-seven copies of a book, when read by twenty-seven + men of intelligence, outweigh a popular success. Would you believe that + one of my friends had no more than eight copies printed of a mathematical + treatise? Three of these he has given away. The other five are still + unsold. And that man, sir, is the first mathematician in France!” + </p> + <p> + Mademoiselle Jeanne had taken it differently. With lifted chin and + reddened cheek she shot this sentence at me from the edge of a lip + disdainfully puckered: + </p> + <p> + “There are such things as ‘successes of esteem,’ sir!” + </p> + <p> + Alas! I knew that well, and I had no need of this additional lesson to + teach me the rudeness of my remark, to make me feel that I was a brute, an + idiot, hopelessly lost in the opinion of M. Charnot and his daughter. It + was cruel, all the same. Nothing was left for me but to hurry my + departure. I got up to go. + </p> + <p> + “But,” said M. Charnot in the smoothest of tones, “I do not think we have + yet discussed the question that brought you here.” + </p> + <p> + “I should hesitate, sir, to trespass further on your time.” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind that. Your question concerns?” + </p> + <p> + “The costume of the Latini Juniani.” + </p> + <p> + “Difficult to answer, like most questions of dress. Have you read the + work, in seventeen volumes, by the German, Friedchenhausen?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “You must have read, at any rate, Smith, the Englishman, on ancient + costume?” + </p> + <p> + “Nor that either. I only know Italian.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, look through two or three treatises on numismatics, the + ‘Thesaurus Morellianus’, or the ‘Praestantiora Numismata’, of Valliant, or + Banduri, or Pembrock, or Pellerin. You may chance upon a scent.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, thank you, sir!” + </p> + <p> + He saw me to the door. + </p> + <p> + As I turned to go I noticed that his daughter was standing motionless + still, with the face of an angry Diana. She held between her fingers the + recovered spiral. + </p> + <p> + I found myself in the street. + </p> + <p> + I could not have been more clumsy, more ill-bred, or more unfortunate. I + had come to make an apology and had given further offence. Just like my + luck! And the daughter, too—I had hurt her feelings. Still, she had + stood up for me; she had said to her father, “Not every one can be in the + Institute,” evidently meaning, “Why are you torturing this poor young man? + He is bashful and ill at ease. I feel sorry for him.” Sorry—yes; no + doubt she felt sorry for me at first. But then I came out with that + impertinence about the twenty-seven copies, and by this time she hates me + beyond a doubt. Yes, she hates me. It is too painful to think of. + </p> + <p> + Mademoiselle Charnot will probably remain but a stranger to me, a fugitive + apparition in my path of life; yet her anger lies heavy upon me, and the + thought of those disdainful lips pursues me. + </p> + <p> + I had rarely been more thoroughly disgusted with myself, and with all + about me. I needed something to divert me, to distract me, to make me + forget, and so I set off for home by the longest way, going down the Rue + de Beaune to the Seine. + </p> + <p> + I declare, we get some perfect winter days in Paris! Just now, the folks + who sit indoors believe that the sun is down and have lighted their lamps; + but outside, the sky—a pale, rain-washed blue—is streaked with + broad rays of rose-pink. It is freezing, and the frost has sprinkled + diamonds everywhere, on the trees, the roofs, the parapets, even on the + cabmen’s hats, that gather each a sparkling cockade as they pass along + through the mist. The river is running in waves, white-capped here and + there. On the penny steamers no one but the helmsman is visible. But what + a crowd on the Pont de Carrousel! Fur cuffs and collars pass and repass on + the pavements; the roadway trembles beneath the endless line of + Batignolles—Clichy omnibuses and other vehicles. Every one seems in + a hurry. The pedestrians are brisk, the drivers dexterous. Two lines of + traffic meet, mingle without jostling, divide again into fresh lines and + are gone like a column of smoke. Although slips are common in this crowd, + its intelligent agility is all its own. Every face is ruddy, and almost + all are young. The number of young men, young maidens, young wives, is + beyond belief, Where are the aged? At home, no doubt, by the + chimney-corner. All the city’s youth is out of doors. + </p> + <p> + Its step is animated; that is the way of it. It is wide-eyed, and in its + eyes is the sparkle of life. The looks of the young are always full of the + future; they are sure of life. Each has settled his position, his career, + his dream of commonplace well-being. They are all alike; and they might + all be judges, so serious they appear about it. They walk in pairs, bolt + upright, looking neither right nor left, talking little as they hurry + along toward the old Louvre, and are soon swallowed out of sight in the + gathering mist, out of which the gaslights glimmer faintly. + </p> + <p> + They are all on their way to dine on the right bank. + </p> + <p> + I am going to dine on the left bank, at Carre’s, where one sees many odd + customers. Farewell, river! Good night, old Charnot! Blessings on you, + Mademoiselle Jeanne! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. THE STORY OF SYLVESTRE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 8 P.M. +</pre> + <p> + I am back in my study. It is very cold; Madame Menin, my housekeeper, has + let the fire out. Hallo! she has left her duster, too, lying on the + manuscript of my essay. + </p> + <p> + Is it an omen, a presage of that dust which awaits my still unfinished + work? Who can fathom Dame Fortune’s ironic humor? + </p> + <p> + Eight o’clock.... Counsellor Mouillard has finished his pleadings and must + be sitting down to a game of whist with Counsellors Horlet and Hublette, + of the Court of Bourges. They wait for me to make up the four. Perish the + awful prospect! + </p> + <p> + And M. Charnot? He, I suppose, is still spinning the paper spiral. How + easily serious people are amused! Perhaps I am a serious person. The least + thing amuses me. By the way, is Mademoiselle Jeanne fair or dark? Let me + try to recollect. Why, fair, of course. I remember the glint of gold in + the little curls about her temples, as she stood by the lamp. A pleasant + face, too; not exactly classic, but rosy and frank; and then she has that + animation which so many pretty women lack. + </p> + <p> + Madame Menin has forgotten something else. She has forgotten to shut my + window. She has designs upon my life! + </p> + <p> + I have just shut the window. The night is calm, its stars twinkling + through a haze. The year ends mournfully. + </p> + <p> + I remember at school once waking suddenly on such a night as this, to find + the moonlight streaming into my eyes. At such a moment it is always a + little hard to collect one’s scattered senses, and take in the midnight + world around, so unhomely, so absolutely still. First I cast my eyes along + the two rows of beds that stretched away down the dormitory—two + parallel lines in long perspective; my comrades huddled under their + blankets in shapeless masses, gray or white according as they lay near or + far from the windows; the smoky glimmer of the oil lamp half-way down the + room; and at the end, in the deeper shadows, the enclosure of yellow + curtains surrounding the usher’s bed. + </p> + <p> + Not a sound about me; all was still. But without, my ear, excited and + almost feverishly awake, caught the sound of a strange call, very sweet, + again and again repeated—fugitive notes breathing appeal, tender and + troubled. Now they grew quite distant, and I heard no more than a phantom + of sound; now they came near, passed over my head, and faded again into + the distance. The moon’s clear rays invited me to clear up the mystery. I + sprang from my bed, and ran in my nightshirt to open the window. It was + about eleven o’clock. Together the keen night-air and the moonlight + wrapped me round, thrilling me with delight. The large courtyard lay + deserted with its leafless poplars and spiked railings. Here and there a + grain of sand sparkled. I raised my eyes, and from one constellation to + another I sought the deep blue of heaven in vain; not a shadow upon it, + not one dark wing outlined. Yet all the while the same sad and gentle cry + wandered and was lost in air, the chant of an invisible soul which seemed + in want of me, and had perhaps awakened me. + </p> + <p> + The thought came upon me that it was the soul of my mother calling to me—my + mother, whose voice was soft and very musical. + </p> + <p> + “I am caring for thee,” said the voice. “I am caring for thee; I can see + thee,” it said, “I can see thee. I love thee! I love thee!” + </p> + <p> + “Reveal thyself!” I called back. “Oh, mother, reveal thyself!” And I + strove feverishly to catch sight of her, following the voice as it swept + around in circles; and seeing nothing, I burst into tears. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly I was seized roughly by the ear. + </p> + <p> + “What are you doing here, you young rascal? Are you mad? The wind is + blowing right on to my bed. Five hundred lines!” + </p> + <p> + The usher, in nightdress and slippers, was rolling his angry eyes on me. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir; certainly, sir! But don’t you hear her?” + </p> + <p> + “Who is it?” + </p> + <p> + “My mother.” + </p> + <p> + He looked to see whether I were awake; cocked his head to one side and + listened; then shut the window angrily and went off shrugging his + shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “It’s only the plovers flying about the moon,” said he. “Five hundred + lines!” + </p> + <p> + I did my five hundred lines. They taught me that dreaming was illegal and + dangerous, but they neither convinced nor cured me. + </p> + <p> + I still believe that there are scattered up and down in nature voices that + speak, but which few hear; just as there are millions of flowers that + bloom unseen by man. It is sad for those who catch a hint of it. Perforce + they come back and seek the hidden springs. They waste their youth and + vigor upon empty dreams, and in return for the fleeting glimpses they have + enjoyed, for the perfect phrase half caught and lost again, will have + given up the intercourse of their kind, and even friendship itself. Yes, + it is sad for the schoolboys who open their windows to gaze at the moon, + and never drop the habit! They will find themselves, all too soon, + solitaries in the midst of life, desolate as I am desolate tonight, beside + my dead fire. + </p> + <p> + No friend will come to knock at my door; not one. I have a few comrades to + whom I give that name. We do not loathe one another. At need they would + help me. But we seldom meet. What should they do here? Dreamers make no + confidences; they shrivel up into themselves and are caught away on the + four winds of heaven. Politics drive them mad; gossip fails to interest + them; the sorrows they create have no remedy save the joys that they + invent; they are natural only when alone, and talk well only to + themselves. + </p> + <p> + The only man who can put up with this moody contrariety of mine is + Sylvestre Lampron. He is nearly twenty years older than I. That explains + his forbearance. Besides, between an artist like him and a dreamer like + myself there is only the difference of handiwork. He translates his + dreams. I waste mine; but both dream. Dear old Lampron! Kindly, stalwart + heart! He has withstood that hardening of the moral and physical fibre + which comes over so many men as they near their fortieth year. He shows a + brave front to work and to life. He is cheerful, with the manly + cheerfulness of a noble heart resigned to life’s disillusions. + </p> + <p> + When I enter his home, I nearly always find him sitting before a small + ground-glass window in the corner of his studio, bent over some engraving. + I have leave to enter at all hours. He is free not to stir from his work. + “Good-day,” he calls out, without raising his head, without knowing for + certain who has come in, and goes on with the engraving he has in hand. I + settle down at the end of the room, on the sofa with the faded cover, and, + until Lampron deigns to grant me audience, I am free to sleep, or smoke, + or turn over the wonderful drawings that lean against the walls. Among + them are treasures beyond price; for Lampron is a genius whose only + mistake is to live and act with modesty, so that as yet people only say + that he has “immense talent.” No painter or engraver of repute—and + he is both—has served a more conscientious apprenticeship, or sets + greater store on thoroughness in his art. His drawing is correct beyond + reproach—a little stiff, like the early painters. You can guess from + his works his partiality for the old masters—Perugino, Fra Angelico, + Botticelli, Memling, Holbein—who, though not the masters in fashion, + will always be masters in vigor of outline, directness, in simple grace, + and genuine feeling. He has copied in oils, water-colors, pen, or pencil, + nearly all the pictures of these masters in the Louvre, in Germany, in + Holland, and especially in Italy, where he lived for many years. With + tastes such as his came the habit, or rather the fixed determination, + never to paint or engrave any but sacred subjects. Puffs and cliques are + his abomination. His ideal is the archaic rendered by modern methods. An + artist of this type can but obtain the half-grudging esteem of his own + profession, and of the few critics who really understand something about + art. Gladly, and with absolute disdain, he leaves to others the applause + of the mob, the gilded patronage of American purchasers, and the right to + wear lace cuffs. In short, in an age when the artist is often half a + manufacturer and half a charlatan, he is an artist only. + </p> + <p> + Now and then he is rich, but never for long. Half of his earnings goes in + alms; half into the pockets of his mendicant brethren. They hear the gold + jingle before it is counted, and run with outstretched palms. Each is in + the depths of misfortune; on the eve of ascending the fatal slope; lost, + unless the helpful hand of Lampron will provide, saved if he will lend + wherewithal to buy a block of marble, to pay a model, to dine that + evening. He lends—I should say gives; the words mean the same in + many societies. Of all that he has gained, fame alone remains, and even + this he tries to do without—modest, retiring, shunning all + entertainments. I believe he would often be without the wherewithal to + live were it not for his mother, whom he supports, and who does him the + kindness to need something to live on. Madame Lampron does not hoard; she + only fills the place of those dams of cut turf which the peasants build in + the channels of the Berry in spring; the water passes over them, beneath + them, even through them, but still a little is left for the great + droughts. + </p> + <p> + I love my friend Lampron, though fully aware of his superiority. His + energy sets me up, his advice strengthens me, he peoples for me the vast + solitude of Paris. + </p> + <p> + Suppose I go to see him? A lonely watch to-night would be gloomier than + usual. The death of the year brings gloomy thoughts, the thirty-first of + December, St. Sylvester’s day—St. Sylvester! Why, that is his + birthday! Ungrateful friend, to give no thought to it! Quick! my coat, my + stick, my hat, and let me run to see these two early birds before they + seek their roost. + </p> + <p> + When I entered the studio, Lampron was so deep in his work that he did not + hear me. The large room, lighted only in one corner, looked weird enough. + Around me, and among the medley of pictures and casts and the piles of + canvases stacked against the wall, the eye encountered only a series of + cinder-gray tints and undetermined outlines casting long amorphous shadows + half-way across the ceiling. A draped lay figure leaning against a door + seemed to listen to the whistling of the wind outside; a large glass bay + opened upon the night. Nothing was alive in this part of the room, nothing + alight except a few rare glints upon the gold of the frames, and the + blades of two crossed swords. Only in a corner, at the far end, at a + distance exaggerated by the shadows, sat Lampron engraving, solitary, + motionless, beneath the light of a lamp. His back was toward me. The + lamp’s rays threw a strong light on his delicate hand, on the workmanlike + pose of his head, which it surrounded with a nimbus, and on a painting—a + woman’s head—which he was copying. He looked superb like that, and I + thought how doubly tempted Rembrandt would have been by the deep + significance as well as by the chiaroscuro of this interior. + </p> + <p> + I stamped my foot. Lampron started, and turned half around, narrowing his + eyes as he peered into the darkness. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, it’s you,” he said. He rose and came quickly toward me, as if to + prevent me from approaching the table. + </p> + <p> + “You don’t wish me to look?” + </p> + <p> + He hesitated a moment. + </p> + <p> + “After all, why not?” he answered. + </p> + <p> + The copper plate was hardly marked with a few touches of the needle. He + turned the reflector so as to throw all its rays upon the painting. + </p> + <p> + “O Lampron, what a charming head!” + </p> + <p> + It was indeed a lovely head; an Italian girl, three quarter face, painted + after the manner of Leonardo, with firm but delicate touches, and lights + and shades of infinite subtlety, and possessing, like all that master’s + portraits of women, a straightforward look that responds to the gazer’s, + but which he seeks to interrogate in vain. The hair, brown with golden + lights, was dressed in smooth plaits above the temples. The neck, somewhat + long, emerged from a dark robe broadly indicated. + </p> + <p> + “I do not know this, Sylvestre?” + </p> + <p> + “No, it’s an old thing.” + </p> + <p> + “A portrait, of course?” + </p> + <p> + “My first.” + </p> + <p> + “You never did better; line, color, life, you have got them all.” + </p> + <p> + “You need not tell me that! In one’s young days, look you, there are + moments of real inspiration, when some one whispers in the ear and guides + the hand; a lightness of touch, the happy audacity of the beginner, a + wealth of daring never met with again. Would you believe that I have tried + ten times to reproduce that in etching without success?” + </p> + <p> + “Why do you try?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, that is the question. Why? It’s a bit foolish.” + </p> + <p> + “You never could find such a model again; that is one reason.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, no, you are right. I never could find her again.” + </p> + <p> + “An Italian of rank? a princess, eh?” + </p> + <p> + “Something like it.” + </p> + <p> + “What has become of her?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, no doubt what becomes of all princesses. Fabien, my young friend, you + who still see life through fairy-tales, doubtless you imagine her happy in + her lot—wealthy, spoiled, flattered, speaking with disdainful lips + at nightfall, on the terrace of her villa among the great pines, of the + barbarian from across the Alps who painted her portrait twenty years + since; and, in the same sentence, of her—last new frock from Paris?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I see her so—still beautiful.” + </p> + <p> + “You are good at guessing, Fabien. She is dead, my friend, and that ideal + beauty is now a few white bones at the bottom of a grave.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor girl!” + </p> + <p> + Sylvestre had used a sarcastic tone which was not usual with him. He was + contemplating his work with such genuine sadness that I was awed. I + divined that in his past, of which I knew but little, Lampron kept a + sorrow buried that I had all unwittingly revived. + </p> + <p> + “My friend,” said I, “let that be; I come to wish you many happy returns.” + </p> + <p> + “Many happy returns? Ah, yes, my poor mother wished me that this morning; + then I set to work and forgot all about it. I am glad you came. She would + feel hurt, dear soul, if I forgot to pass a bit of this evening with her. + Let us go and find her.” + </p> + <p> + “With all my heart, Sylvestre, but I, too, have forgotten something.” + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “I have brought no flowers.” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind, she has plenty; strong-scented flowers of the south, a whole + basketful, enough to keep a hive of bees or kill a man in his sleep, which + you will. It is a yearly attention from an unhappy creditor.” + </p> + <p> + “Debtor, you mean.” + </p> + <p> + “I mean what I say—a creditor.” + </p> + <p> + He lifted the lamp. The shadows shifted and ran along the walls like huge + spiders, the crossed swords flashed, the Venus of Milo threw us a lofty + glance, Polyhymnia stood forth pensive and sank back into shadow. At the + door I took the draped lay figure in my arms. “Excuse me,” I said as I + moved it—and we left the studio for Madame Lampron’s little + sitting-room. + </p> + <p> + She was seated near a small round table, knitting socks, her feet on a + hot-water bottle. Her kind old rough and wrinkled face beamed upon us. She + thrust her needles under the black lace cap she always wore, and drew them + out again almost immediately. + </p> + <p> + “It needed your presence, Monsieur Mouillard,” said she, “to drag him from + his work.” + </p> + <p> + “Saint Sylvester’s day, too. It is fearful! Love for his art has changed + your son’s nature, Madame Lampron.” + </p> + <p> + She gave him a tender look, as on entering the room he bent over the fire + and shook out his half-smoked pipe against the bars, a thing he never + failed to do the moment he entered his mother’s room. + </p> + <p> + “Dear child!” said she. + </p> + <p> + Then turning to me: + </p> + <p> + “You are a good friend, Monsieur Fabien. Never have we celebrated a Saint + Sylvester without you since you came to Paris.” + </p> + <p> + “Yet this evening, Madame, I have failed in my traditions, I have no + flowers. But Sylvestre tells me that you have just received flowers from + the south, from an unfortunate creditor.” + </p> + <p> + My words produced an unusual effect upon her. She, who never stopped + knitting to talk or to listen, laid her work upon her knees, and fixed her + eyes upon me, filled with anxiety. + </p> + <p> + “Has he told you?” + </p> + <p> + Lampron who was poking the fire, his slippered feet stretched out toward + the hearth, turned his head. + </p> + <p> + “No, mother, I merely told him that we had received a basket of flowers. + Not much to confide. Yet why should he not know all? Surely he is our + friend enough to know all. He should have known it long since were it not + cruel to share between three a burden that two can well bear.” + </p> + <p> + She made no answer, and began again to twist the wool between her needles, + but nervously and as if her thoughts were sad. + </p> + <p> + To change the conversation I told them the story of my twofold mishap at + the National Library and at M. Charnot’s. I tried to be funny, and fancied + I succeeded. The old lady smiled faintly. Lampron remained grave, and + tossed his head impatiently. I summed my story thus: + </p> + <p> + “Net gain: two enemies, one of them charming.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, enemies!” said Sylvestre, “they spring up like weeds. One can not + prevent them, and great sorrows do not come from them. Still, beware of + charming enemies.” + </p> + <p> + “She hates me, I swear. If you could have seen her!” + </p> + <p> + “And you?” + </p> + <p> + “Me? She is nothing to me.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you sure?” + </p> + <p> + He put the question gravely, without looking in my face, as he twisted a + paper spill. + </p> + <p> + I laughed. + </p> + <p> + “What is the matter with you to-day, misanthrope? I assure you that she is + absolutely indifferent to me. But even were it otherwise, Sylvestre, where + would be the wrong?” + </p> + <p> + “Wrong? No wrong at all; but I should be anxious for you; I should be + afraid. See here, my friend. I know you well. You are a born man of + letters, a dreamer, an artist in your way. You have to help you on + entering the redoubtable lists of love neither foresight, nor a cool head, + nor determination. You are guided solely by your impressions; by them you + rise or fall. You are no more than a child.” + </p> + <p> + “I quite agree. What next?” + </p> + <p> + “What next?” He had risen, and was speaking with unusual vehemence. “I + once knew some one like you, whose first passion, rash, but deep as yours + would be, broke his heart forever. The heart, my friend, is liable to + break, and can not be mended like china.” + </p> + <p> + Lampron’s mother interrupted him afresh, reproachfully. + </p> + <p> + “He came to wish you a happy birthday, my child.” + </p> + <p> + “One day, mother, is as good as another to listen to good advice. Besides, + I am only talking of one of my friends. ‘Tis but a short story, Fabien, + and instructive. I will give it you in very few words. My friend was very + young and enthusiastic. He was on his way through the galleries of Italy, + brush in hand, his heart full of the ceaseless song of youth in holiday. + The world never had played him false, nor balked him. He made the future + bend to the fancy of his dreams. He seldom descended among common men from + those loftier realms where the contemplation of endless masterpieces kept + his spirit as on wings. He admired, copied, filled his soul with the + glowing beauty of Italian landscape and Italian art. But one day, without + reflection, without knowledge, without foresight, he was rash enough to + fall in love with a girl of noble birth whose portrait he was painting; to + speak to her and to win her love. He thought then, in the silly innocence + of his youth, that art abridges all distance and that love effaces it. + Crueller nonsense never was uttered, my poor Fabien. He soon found this; + he tried to struggle against the parent’s denial, against himself, against + her, powerless in all alike, beaten at every point.... The end was—Do + you care to learn the end? The girl was carried off, struck down by a + brief illness, soon dead; the man, hurled out of heaven, bruised, a + fugitive also, is still so weak in presence of his sorrow that even after + these long years he can not think of it without weeping.” + </p> + <p> + Lampron actually was weeping, he who was so seldom moved. Down his brown + beard, tinged already with gray, a tear was trickling. I noticed that + Madame Lampron was stooping lower and lower over her needles. He went on: + </p> + <p> + “I have kept the portrait, the one you saw, Fabien. They would like to + have it over yonder. They are old folk by now. Every year they ask me for + this relic of our common sorrow; every year they send me, about this time + a basket of white flowers, chiefly lilacs, the dead girl’s flower, and + their meaning is, ‘Give up to us what is left of her, the masterpiece + built up of your youth and hers.’ But I am selfish, Fabien. I, like them, + am jealous of all the sorrows this portrait recalls to me, and I deny + them. Come, mother, where are the flowers? I have promised Fabien to show + them to him.” + </p> + <p> + But his old mother could not answer. Having no doubt bewept this sorrow + too often to find fresh tears, her eyes followed her son with restless + compassion. He, beside the window, was hunting among the chairs and + lounges crowded in this corner of the little sitting-room. + </p> + <p> + He brought us a box of white wood. “See,” said he, “‘tis my wedding + bouquet.” + </p> + <p> + And he emptied it on the table. Parma violets, lilacs, white camellias and + moss rolled out in slightly faded bunches, spreading a sweet smell in + which there breathed already a vague scent of death and corruption. A + violet fell on my knees. I picked it up. + </p> + <p> + He looked for a moment at the heap on the table. + </p> + <p> + “I keep none,” said he: “I have too many reminders without them. Cursed + flowers!” + </p> + <p> + With one motion of his arm he swept them all up and cast them upon the + coals in the hearth. They shrivelled, crackled, grew limp and discolored, + and vanished in smoke. + </p> + <p> + “Now I am going back to my etching. Good-by, Fabien. Good-night, mother.” + </p> + <p> + Without turning his head, he left the room and went back to his studio. + </p> + <p> + I made a movement to follow him and bring him back. + </p> + <p> + Madame Lampron stopped me. “I will go myself,” said she, “later—much + later.” + </p> + <p> + We sat awhile in silence. When she saw me somewhat recovered from the + shock of my feelings she went on: + </p> + <p> + “You never have seen him like this, but I have seen it often. It is so + hard! I knew her whom he loved almost as soon as he, for he never hid + anything from me. You can judge from her portrait whether hers was not the + face to attract an artist like Sylvestre. I saw at once that it was a + trial, in which I could do nothing. They were very great people; different + from us, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “They refused to let them marry?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no! Sylvestre did not ask; they never had the opportunity of + refusing. No, no; it was I. I said to him: ‘Sylvestre, this can never + be-never!’ He was convinced against his will. Then she spoke to her + parents on her own account. They carried her off, and there was an end of + it.” + </p> + <p> + “He never saw her again.” + </p> + <p> + “Never; he would not have wished it; and then she lived a very little + time. I went back there two years later, when they wanted to buy the + picture. We were still living in Italy. That was one of the hardest hours + of my life. I was afraid of their reproaches, and I did not feel sure of + myself. But no, they suffered for their daughter as I for my son, and that + brought us together. Still, I did not give up the portrait; Sylvestre set + too great store by it. He insists on keeping it, feeding his eyes on it, + reopening his wound day by day. Poor child! Forget all this, Monsieur + Fabien; you can do nothing to help. Be true to your youth, and tell us + next time of Monsieur Charnot and Mademoiselle Jeanne.” + </p> + <p> + Dear Madame Lampron! I tried to console her; but as I never knew my + mother, I could find but little to say. All the same, she thanked me and + assured me I had done her good. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. A FRUITLESS SEARCH + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + January 1, 1885. +</pre> + <p> + The first of January! When one is not yet an uncle and no longer a godson, + if one is in no government employ and goes out very little, the number of + one’s calls on New Year’s Day is limited. I shall make five or six this + afternoon. It will be “Not at home” in each case; and that will be all my + compliments of the season. + </p> + <p> + No, I am wrong. I have received the compliments of the season. My porter’s + wife came up just now, wreathed in smiles. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Mouillard, I wish you a Happy New Year, good health, and Heaven + to end your days.” She had just said the same to the tenants on the first, + second, and third floors. My answer was the same as theirs. I slipped into + her palm (with a “Many thanks!” of which she took no notice) a piece of + gold, which brought another smile, a curtsey, and she is gone. + </p> + <p> + This smile comes only once a year; it is not reproduced at any other + period, but is a dividend payable in one instalment. This, and a tear on + All Souls’ Day, when she has been to place a bunch of chrysanthemums on + her baby’s grave, are the only manifestations of sensibility that I have + discovered in her. From the second of January to the second of November + she is a human creature tied to a bell-rope, with an immovably stolid face + and a monosyllabic vocabulary in which politer terms occur but sparsely. + </p> + <p> + This morning, contrary to her habits, she has brought up by post two + letters; one from my Uncle Mouillard (an answer), and the other—I + don’t recognize the other. Let’s open it first: big envelope, ill-written + address, Paris postmark. Hallo! a smaller envelope inside, and on it: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ANTOINE AND MARIE PLUMET. +</pre> + <p> + Poor souls! they have no visiting-cards. But kind hearts are more than + pasteboard. + </p> + <p> + Ten months ago little Madame Plumet, then still unmarried, was in a + terrible bother. I remember our first meeting, on a March day, at the + corner of the Rue du Quatre-Septembre and the Rue Richelieu. I was walking + along quickly, with a bundle of papers under my arm, on my way back to the + office where I was head clerk. Suddenly a dressmaker’s errand-girl set + down her great oilcloth-covered box in my way. I nearly went head first + over it, and was preparing to walk around it, when the little woman, red + with haste and blushes, addressed me. “Excuse me, sir, are you a lawyer?” + </p> + <p> + “No, Mademoiselle, not yet.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps, sir, you know some lawyers?” + </p> + <p> + “To be sure I do; my master, to begin with, Counsellor Boule. He is quite + close, if you care to follow me.” + </p> + <p> + “I am in a terrible hurry, but I can spare a minute or two. Thank you very + much, Monsieur.” + </p> + <p> + And thus I found myself escorted by a small dressmaker and a box of + fashions. I remember that I walked a little ahead for fear of being seen + in such company by a fellow-clerk, which would have damaged my reputation. + </p> + <p> + We got to the office. Down went the box again. The little dressmaker told + me that she was engaged to M. Plumet, frame-maker. She told her tale very + clearly; a little money put by, you see, out of ten years’ wages; one may + be careful and yet be taken in; and, alas! all has been lent to a cousin + in the cabinetmaking trade, who wanted to set up shop; and now he refuses + to pay up. The dowry is in danger, and the marriage in suspense. + </p> + <p> + “Do not be alarmed, Mademoiselle; we will summons this atrocious + cabinet-maker, and get a judgment against him. We shall not let him go + until he has disgorged, and you shall be Madame Plumet.” + </p> + <p> + We kept our word. Less than two months later—thanks to my efforts—the + dowry was recovered; the banns were put up; and the little dressmaker paid + a second visit to the office, this time with M. Plumet, who was even more + embarrassed than she. + </p> + <p> + “See, Antoine! this is Monsieur Mouillard, who undertook our case! Thank + you again and again, Monsieur Mouillard, you really have been too kind! + What do I owe you for your trouble?” + </p> + <p> + “You must ask my master what his fees come to, Mademoiselle.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but you? What can I do for you?” + </p> + <p> + The whole office, from the messenger to the clerk who came next to me, had + their eyes upon me. I rose to the occasion, and in my uncle’s best manner + I replied: + </p> + <p> + “Be happy, Mademoiselle, and remember me.” + </p> + <p> + We laughed over it for a week. + </p> + <p> + She has done better, she has remembered it after eight months. But she has + not given her address. That is a pity. I should have liked to see them + both again. These young married folk are like the birds; you hear their + song, but that does not tell you the whereabouts of their nest. + </p> + <p> + Now, uncle, it’s your turn. + </p> + <p> + Here it is again, your unfailing letter anticipated, like the return of + the comets, but less difficult to analyze than the weird substance of + which comets are composed. Every year I write to you on December 28th, and + you answer me on the 31st in time for your letter to reach me on New + Year’s morning. You are punctual, dear uncle; you are even attentive; + there is something affectionate in this precision. But I do not know why + your letters leave me unmoved. The eighteen to twenty-five lines of which + each is composed are from your head, rather than your heart. Why do you + not tell me of my parents, whom you knew; of your daily life; of your old + servant Madeleine, who nursed me as a baby; of the Angora cat almost as + old as she; of the big garden, so green, so enticing, which you trim with + so much care, and which rewards your attention with such luxuriance. It + would be so nice, dear uncle, to be a shade more intimate. + </p> + <p> + Ah, well! let us see what he writes: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “BOURGES, December 31, 1884. + + “MY DEAR NEPHEW: + + “The approach of the New Year does not find me with the same + sentiments with which it leaves you. I make up my yearly accounts + from July 31st, so the advent of the 31st of December finds me as + indifferent as that of any other day of the said month. Your + repinings appear to me the expressions of a dreamer. + + “It would, however, not be amiss if you made a start in practical + life. You come of a family not addicted to dreaming. Three + Mouillards have, if I may say so, adorned the legal profession at + Bourges. You will be the fourth. + + “As soon as you have taken your doctor’s degree-which I presume + should not be long—I shall expect you the very next day, or the day + after that at the furthest; and I shall place you under my + supervision. + + “The practice is not falling off, I can assure you. In spite of + age, I still possess good eyes and good teeth, the chief + qualifications for a lawyer. You will find everything ready and in + good order here. + + “I am obliged to you for your good wishes, which I entirely + reciprocate. + + “Your affectionate uncle, + + “BRUTUS MOUILLARD.” + + “P. S.—The Lorinet family have been to see me. Mademoiselle Berthe + is really quite pretty. They have just inherited 751,351 francs. + + “I was employed by them in an action relating thereto.” + </pre> + <p> + Yes, my dear uncle, you were employed, according to the formula, “in + virtue of these and subsequent engagements,” and among the “subsequent + engagements” you are kind enough to reckon one between Mademoiselle Berthe + Lorinet, spinster, of no occupation, and M. Fabien Mouillard, lawyer. + “Fabien Mouillard, lawyer”—that I may perhaps endure, but “Fabien + Mouillard, son-in-law of Lorinet,” never! One pays too dear for these rich + wives. Mademoiselle Berthe is half a foot taller than I, who am moderately + tall, and she has breadth in proportion. Moreover, I have heard that her + wit is got in proportion. I saw her when she was seventeen, in a short + frock of staring blue; she was very thin then, and was escorted by a + brother, squeezed inside a schoolboy’s suit; they were out for their first + walk alone, both red-faced, flurried, shuffling along the sidewalks of + Bourges. That was enough. For me she will always wear that look, that + frock, that clumsy gait. Recollections, my good uncle, are not unlike + instantaneous photographs; and this one is a distinct negative to your + designs. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + March 3d. +</pre> + <p> + The year is getting on. My essay is growing. The Junian Latin emerges from + the fogs of Tiber. + </p> + <p> + I have had to return to the National Library. My first visits were not + made without trepidation. I fancied that the beadle was colder, and that + the keepers were shadowing me like a political suspect. I thought it wise + to change my side, so now I make out my list of books at the left-hand + desk and occupy a seat on the left side of the room. + </p> + <p> + M. Charnot remains faithful to his post beneath the right-hand inkstand. + </p> + <p> + I have been watching him. He is usually one of the first to arrive, with + nimble, almost springy, step. His hair, which he wears rather long, is + always carefully parted in the middle, and he is always freshly shaven. + His habit of filling the pockets of his frock-coat with bundles of notes + has made that garment swell out at the top into the shape of a basket. He + puts on a pair of spectacles mounted in very thin gold, and reads + determinedly, very few books it is true, but they are all bound in vellum, + and that fixes their date. In his way of turning the leaves there is + something sacerdotal. He seems popular with the servants. Some of the + keepers worship him. He has very good manners toward every one. Me he + avoids. Still I meet him, sometimes in the cloakroom, oftener in the Rue + Richelieu on his way to the Seine. He stops, and so do I, near the + Fontaine Moliere, to buy chestnuts. We have this taste in common. He buys + two sous’ worth, I buy one; thus the distinctions of rank are preserved. + If he arrives after me, I allow him the first turn to be served; if he is + before me, I await my turn with a patience which betokens respect. Yet he + never seems to notice it. Once or twice, certainly, I fancied I caught a + smile at the corners of his mouth, and a sly twinkle in the corners of his + eyes; but these old scholars smile so austerely. + </p> + <p> + He must have guessed that I wish to meet him. For I can not deny it. I am + looking out for an opportunity to repair my clumsy mistake and show myself + in a less unfavorable light than I did at that ill-starred visit. And she + is the reason why I haunt his path! + </p> + <p> + Ever since M. Mouillard threatened me with Mademoiselle Berthe Lorinet, + the graceful outlines of Mademoiselle Jeanne have haunted me with a + persistence to which I have no objection. + </p> + <p> + It is not because I love her. It does not go as far as that. I am leaving + her and leaving Paris forever in a few months. No; the height of my desire + is to see her again—in the street, at the theatre, no matter where—to + show her by my behavior and, if possible, by my words that I am sorry for + the past, and implore her forgiveness. Then there will no longer be a gulf + betwixt her and me, I shall be able to meet her without confusion, to + invoke her image to put to flight that of Mademoiselle Lorinet without the + vision of those disdainful lips to dash me. She will be for me at once the + type of Parisian grace and of filial affection. I will carry off her image + to the country like the remembered perfume of some rare flower; and if + ever I sing ‘Hymen Hymnaee’! it shall be with one who recalls her face to + me. + </p> + <p> + I do not think my feelings overpass these bounds. Yet I am not quite sure. + I watch for her with a keenness and determination which surprise me, and + the disappointment which follows a fruitless search is a shade too lively + to accord with cool reason. + </p> + <p> + After all, perhaps my reason is not cool. + </p> + <p> + Let me see, I will make up the account of my ventures. + </p> + <p> + One January afternoon I walked up and down the Rue de l’Universite eight + times in succession, from No. 1 to No. 107, and from No. 107 to No. 1. + Jeanne did not come out in spite of the brilliancy of the clear winter + day. + </p> + <p> + On the nineteenth of the same month I went to see Andromache, although the + classic writers, whom I swear by, are not the writers I most care to hear. + I renewed this attempt on the twenty-seventh. Neither on the first nor on + the second occasion did I see Mademoiselle Charnot. + </p> + <p> + And yet if the Institute does not escort its daughters in shoals to + applaud Andromache, where on earth does it take them? + </p> + <p> + Perhaps nowhere. + </p> + <p> + Every time I cross the Tuileries Garden I run my eyes over the groups + scattered among the chestnut-trees. I see children playing and falling + about; nursemaids who leave them crying; mothers who pick them up again; a + vagrant guardsman. No Jeanne. + </p> + <p> + To wind up, yesterday I spent five hours at the Bon Marche. + </p> + <p> + The spring show was on, one of the great occasions of the year; and I + presumed, not without an apparent foundation of reason, that no young or + pretty Parisian could fail to be there. When I arrived, about one o’clock, + the crowd already filled the vast bazaar. It was not easy to stand against + certain currents that set toward the departments consecrated to spring + novelties. Adrift like a floating spar I was swept away and driven ashore + amid the baby-linen. There it flung me high and dry among the shop-girls, + who laughed at the spectacle of an undergraduate shipwrecked among the + necessaries of babyhood. I felt shy, and attaching myself to the fortunes + of an Englishwoman, who worked her elbows with the vigor of her nation, I + was borne around nearly twenty counters. At last, wearied, mazed, dusty as + with a long summer walk, I took refuge in the reading-room. + </p> + <p> + Poor simpleton! I said to myself, you are too early; you might have known + that. She can not come with her father before the National Library closes. + Even supposing they take an omnibus, they will not get here before a + quarter past four. + </p> + <p> + I had to find something to fill up the somewhat long interval which + separated me from that happy moment. I wrote a letter to my Uncle + Mouillard, taking seven minutes over the address alone. I had not shown + such penmanship since I was nine years old. When the last flourish was + completed I looked for a paper; they were all engaged. The directory was + free. I took it, and opened it at Ch. I discovered that there were many + Charnots in Paris without counting mine: Charnot, grocer; Charnot, + upholsterer; Charnot, surgical bandage-maker. I built up a whole family + tree for the member of the Institute, choosing, of course, those persons + of the name who appeared most worthy to adorn its branches. Of what + followed I retain but a vague recollection. I only remember that I felt + twice as if some inquisitive individual were looking over my shoulder. The + third time I woke up with a start. + </p> + <p> + “Sir,” said a shopwalker, with the utmost politeness, “a gentleman has + been waiting three quarters of an hour for the directory. Would you kindly + hand it to him if you have quite finished with it?” + </p> + <p> + It was a quarter to six. I still waited a little while, and then I left, + having wasted my day. + </p> + <p> + O Jeanne! where do you hide yourself? Must I, to meet you, attend mass at + St. Germain des Pres? Are you one of those early birds who, before the + world is up, are out in the Champs Elysees catching the first rays of the + morning, and the country breeze before it is lost in the smoke of Paris? + Are you attending lectures at the Sorbonne? Are you learning to sing? and, + if so, who is your teacher? + </p> + <p> + You sing, Jeanne, of course. You remind me of a bird. You have all the + quick and easy graces of the skylark. Why should you not have the + skylark’s voice? + </p> + <p> + Fabien, you are dropping into poetry! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI. THE FLOWER-SHOW + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + April 3d. +</pre> + <p> + For a month I have written nothing in this brown notebook. But to-day + there is plenty to put down, and worth the trouble too. + </p> + <p> + Let me begin with the first shock. This morning, my head crammed with + passages from Latin authors, I leaned my brow against the pane of my + window which looks on the garden. The garden is not mine, of course, since + I live on the fourth floor; but I have a view of the big weeping-willow in + the centre, the sanded path that runs around it, and the four walls lined + with borders, one of which separates it from the huge premises of the + Carmelites. It is an almost deserted garden. The first-floor tenant hardly + ever walks there. His son, a schoolboy of seventeen, was there this + morning. He stood two feet from the street wall, motionless, with head + thrown back, whistling a monotonous air, which seemed to me like a signal. + Before him, however, was nothing but the moss on the old wall gleaming + like golden lights. People do not whistle to amuse stones nor yet moss. + Farther off, on the other side of the street, the windows of the opposite + houses stretched away in long straight lines, most of them standing open. + </p> + <p> + I thought: “The bird is somewhere there. Some small Abigail with her white + cap will look out in a moment.” + </p> + <p> + The suspicion was stupid and ill-natured. How rash are our lightest + judgments! Suddenly the school-boy took one step forward, swept his hand + quickly along the moss as if he were trying to catch a fly, and ran off to + his mother triumphant, delighted, beside himself, with an innocent gray + lizard on the tips of his fingers. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve got him! I’ve got him! He was basking in the sun and I charmed him!” + </p> + <p> + “Basking in the sun!” This was a revelation to me. I flung up the window. + Yes, it was true. Warmth and light lay everywhere: on the roofs still + glistening with last night’s showers; across the sky, whose gay blue + proclaimed that winter was done. I looked downward and saw what I had not + seen before: the willow bursting into bud; the hepatica in flower at the + foot of the camellias, which had ceased to bloom; the pear-trees in the + Carmelites’ garden flushing red as the sap rose within them; and upon the + dead trunk of a fig-tree was a blackbird, escaped from the Luxembourg, + who, on tiptoe, with throat outstretched, drunk with delight, answered + some far-off call that the wind brought to him, singing, as if in woodland + depths, the rapturous song of the year’s new birth. Then, oh! then, I + could contain myself no longer. I ran down the stairs four at a time, + cursing Paris and the Junian Latins who had been cheating me of the + spring. What! live there cut off from the world which was created for me, + tread an artificial earth of stone or asphalt, live with a horizon of + chimneys, see only the sky chopped into irregular strips by roofs smirched + with smoke, and allow this exquisite spring to fleet by without drinking + in her bountiful delight, without renewing in her youthfulness our youth, + always a little staled and overcast by winter! No, that can not be; I mean + to see the spring. + </p> + <p> + And I have seen it, in truth, though cut and tied into bouquets, for my + aimless steps led me to the Place St. Sulpice, where the flower-sellers + were. There were flowers in plenty, but very few people; it was already + late. None the less did I enjoy the sight of all the plants arranged by + height and kind, from the double hyacinths, dear to hall-porters, to the + first carnations, scarcely in bud, whose pink or white tips just peeped + from their green sheaths; then the bouquets, bundles of the same kinds and + same shades of flowers wrapped up in paper: lilies-of-the-valley, lilacs, + forget-me-nots, mignonette, which being grown under glass has guarded its + honey from the bees to scent the air here. Everyone had a look of welcome + for those exiles. The girls smiled at them without knowing the reason why. + The cabdrivers in line along the sidewalk seemed to enjoy their + neighborhood. I heard one of them, with a face like a halfripened + strawberry, red, with a white nose, say to a comrade, “Hallo, Francis! + that smells good, doesn’t it!” + </p> + <p> + I was walking along slowly, looking into every stall, and when I came to + the end I turned right about face. + </p> + <p> + Great Heavens! Not ten feet off! M. Flamaran, M. Charnot, and Mademoiselle + Jeanne! + </p> + <p> + They had stopped before one of the stalls that I had just left. M. + Flamaran was carrying under his arm a pot of cineraria, which made his + stomach a perfect bower. M. Charnot was stooping, examining a superb pink + carnation. Jeanne was hovering undecided between twenty bunches of + flowers, bending her pretty head in its spring hat over each in turn. + </p> + <p> + “Which, father?” + </p> + <p> + “Whichever you like; but make up your mind soon; Flamaran is waiting.” + </p> + <p> + A moment more, and the elective affinities carried the day. + </p> + <p> + “This bunch of mignonette,” she said. + </p> + <p> + I would have wagered on it. She was sure to choose the mignonette—a + fair, well-bred, graceful plant like herself. Others choose their + camellias and their hyacinths; Jeanne must have something more refined. + </p> + <p> + She put down her money, caught up the bunch, looked at it for a moment, + and held it close to her breast as a mother might hold her child, while + all its golden locks drooped over her arm. Then off she ran after her + father, who had only changed one carnation for another. They went on + toward St. Sulpice—M. Flamaran on the right, M. Charnot in the + middle, Jeanne on the left. She brushed past without seeing me. I followed + them at a distance. All three were laughing. At what? I can guess; she + because she was eighteen, they for joy to be with her. At the end of the + marketplace they turned to the left, followed the railings of the church, + and bent their steps toward the Rue St. Sulpice, doubtless to take home M. + Flamaran, whose cineraria blazed amid the crowd. I was about to turn in + the same direction when an omnibus of the Batignolles-Clichy line stopped + my way. In an instant I was overwhelmed by the flood of passengers which + it poured on the pavements. + </p> + <p> + “Hallo, you here! How goes it? What are you staring at? My stovepipe? + Observe it well, my dear fellow—the latest invention of Leon; the + patent ventilating, anti-sudorific, and evaporating hat!” + </p> + <p> + It was Larive who had just climbed down from the knifeboard. + </p> + <p> + Every one knows Larive, head clerk in Machin’s office. He is to be seen + everywhere—a tall, fair man, with little closetrimmed beard, and + moustache carefully twisted. He is always perfectly dressed, always in a + tall hat and new gloves, full of all the new stories, which he tells as + his own. If you believe him, he is at home in all the ministries, whatever + party is in power; he has cards for every ball, and tickets for every + first night. With all that he never misses a funeral, is a good lawyer, + and as solemn when in court as a dozen old mandarins. + </p> + <p> + “Come, Fabien, will you answer? What are you staring at?” + </p> + <p> + He turned his head. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I see—pretty Mademoiselle Charnot.” + </p> + <p> + “You know her?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course I do, and her father, too. A pretty little thing!” + </p> + <p> + I blushed with pleasure. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, a very pretty little thing; but wants style—dances poorly.” + </p> + <p> + “An admirable defect.” + </p> + <p> + “A little big, too, for her eyes.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean by that?” + </p> + <p> + “Her eyes are a little too small, you understand me?” + </p> + <p> + “What matters that if they are bright and loving?” + </p> + <p> + “No matter at all to me; but it seems to have some effect on you. Might + you be related?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Or connected by marriage?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “So much the better—eh, my boy? And how’s uncle? Still going + strong?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; and longing to snatch me from this Babylon.” + </p> + <p> + “You mean to succeed him?” + </p> + <p> + “As long hence as possible.” + </p> + <p> + “I had heard you were not enthusiastic. A small practice, isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “Not exactly. A matter of a thousand a year!” + </p> + <p> + “Clear profit?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s good enough. But in the country, my poor fellow, in the country!” + </p> + <p> + “It would be the death of you, wouldn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “In forty-eight hours.” + </p> + <p> + “However did you manage to be born there, Larive? I’m surprised at you.” + </p> + <p> + “So am I. I often think about it. Good-by. I must be off.” + </p> + <p> + I caught him by the hand which he held out to me. + </p> + <p> + “Larive, tell me where you have met Mademoiselle Charnot?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, come!—I see it’s serious. My dear fellow, I am so sorry I did + not tell you she was perfection. If I had only known!” + </p> + <p> + “That’s not what I asked you. Where have you seen her?” + </p> + <p> + “In society, of course. Where do you expect me to see young girls except + in society? My dear Fabien!” + </p> + <p> + He went off laughing. When he was about ten yards off he turned, and + making a speaking-trumpet of his hands, he shouted through them: + </p> + <p> + “She’s perfection!” + </p> + <p> + Larive is decidedly an ass. His jokes strike you as funny at first; but + there’s nothing in him, he’s a mere hawker of stale puns; there’s nothing + but selfishness under his jesting exterior. I have no belief in him. Yet + he is an old school friend; the only one of my twenty-eight classmates + whose acquaintance I have kept up. Four are dead, twenty-three others are + scattered about in obscure country places; lost for want of news, as they + say at the private inquiry offices. Larive makes up the twenty-eight. I + used to admire him, when we were low in the school, because of his long + trousers, his lofty contempt of discipline, and his precocious intimacy + with tobacco. I preferred him to the good, well-behaved boys. Whenever we + had leave out I used to buy gum-arabic at the druggist’s in La Chatre, and + break it up with a small hammer at the far end of my room, away from + prying eyes. I used there to distribute it into three bags ticketed + respectively: “large pieces,” “middle-sized pieces,” “small pieces.” When + I returned to school with the three bags in my pocket, I would draw out + one or the other to offer them to my friends, according to the importance + of the occasion, or the degrees of friendship. Larive always had the big + bits, and plenty of them. Yet he was none the more grateful to me, and + even did not mind chaffing me about these petty attentions by which he was + the gainer. He used to make fun of everything, and I used to look up to + him. He still makes fun of everything; but for me the age of gumarabic is + past and my faith in Larive is gone. + </p> + <p> + If he believes that he will disparage this charming girl in my eyes by + telling me that she is a bad dancer, he is wrong. Of great importance it + is to have a wife who dances well! She does not dance in her own house, + nor with her husband from the wardrobe to the cradle, but at others’ + houses, and with other men. Besides, a young girl who dances much has a + lot of nonsense talked to her. She may acquire a taste for Larive’s + buffooneries, for a neat leg, or a sharp tongue. In that case what welcome + can she give to simple, timid affection? She will only laugh at it. But + you would not laugh, Jeanne, were I to tell you that I loved you. No, I am + quite convinced that you would not laugh. And if you loved me, Jeanne, we + should not go into society. That would just suit me. I should protect you, + yet not hide you. We should have felicity at home instead of running after + it to balls and crushes, where it is never to be found. You could not help + being aware of the fascination you exert; but you would not squander it on + a mob of dancers, and bring home only the last remnants of your good + spirits, with the last remnants of your train. Jeanne, I am delighted to + hear that you dance badly. + </p> + <p> + Whither away, Fabien, my friend, whither away? You are letting your + imagination run away with you again. A hint from it, and off you go. Come, + do use your reason a little. You have seen this young lady again, that is + true. You admired her; that was for the second time. But she, whom you so + calmly speak of as “Jeanne,” as if she were something to you, never even + noticed you. You know nothing about her but what you suspect from her + maiden grace and a dozen words from her lips. You do not know whether she + is free, nor how she would welcome the notions you entertain if you gave + them utterance, yet here you are saying, “We should go here,” “We should + do this and that.” Keep to the singular, my poor fellow. The plural is far + away, very far away, if not entirely beyond your reach. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII. A WOODLAND SKETCH + </h2> + <h3> + April 27th. + </h3> + <p> + The end of April. Students, pack and be off! The first warm breezes burst + the buds. Meudon is smiling; Clamart breaks into song; the air in the + valley of Chevreuse is heavy with violets; the willows shower their + catkins on the banks of the Yvette; and farther yet, over yonder beneath + the green domes of the forest of Fontainebleau, the deer prick their ears + at the sound of the first riding-parties. Off with you! Flowers line the + pathways, the moors are pink with bloom, the undergrowth teems with + darting wings. All the town troops out to see the country in its gala + dress. The very poorest have a favorite nook, a recollection of the bygone + year to be revived and renewed; a sheltered corner that invited sleep, a + glade where the shade was grateful, a spot beside the river’s brink where + the fish used to bite. Each one says, “Don’t you remember?” Each one seeks + his nest like a home-coming swallow. Does it still hold together? What + havoc has been made by the winter’s winds, and the rain, and the frost? + Will it welcome us, as of old? + </p> + <p> + I, too, said to Lampron, “Don’t you remember?” for we, too, have our nest, + and summer days that smile to us in memory. He was in the mood for work, + and hesitated. I added in a whisper, “The blackbird’s pool!” He smiled, + and off we went. + </p> + <p> + Again, as of old, our destination was St. Germain—not the town, nor + the Italian palace, nor yet the terrace whence the view spreads so wide + over the Seine, the country dotted with villas, to Montmartre blue in the + distance—not these, but the forest. “Our forest,” we call it; for we + know all its young shoots, all its giant trees, all its paths where + poachers and young lovers hide. With my eyes shut I could find the + blackbird’s pool, the way to which was first shown us by a deer. + </p> + <p> + Imagine at thirty paces from an avenue, a pool—no, not a pool (the + word is incorrect), nor yet a pond—but a fountain hollowed out by + the removal of a giant oak. Since the death of this monarch the birches + which its branches kept apart have never closed together, and the fountain + forms the centre of a little clearing where the moss is thick at all + seasons and starred in August with wild pinks. The water, though deep, is + deliciously clear. At a depth of more than six feet you can distinguish + the dead leaves at the bottom, the grass, the twigs, and here and there a + stone’s iridescent outline. They all lie asleep there, the waste of + seasons gone by, soon to be covered by others in their turn. From time to + time out of the depths of these submerged thickets an eft darts up. He + comes circling up, quivering his yellowbanded tail, snatches a mouthful of + air, and goes down again head first. Save for these alarms the pool is + untroubled. It is guarded from the winds by a juniper, which an eglantine + has chosen for its guardian and crowns each year with a wreath of roses. + Each year, too, a blackbird makes his nest here. We keep his secret. He + knows we shall not disturb him. And when I come back to this little nook + in the woods, which custom has endeared to us, merely by looking in the + water I feel my very heart refreshed. + </p> + <p> + “What a spot to sleep in!” cried Lampron. “Keep sentry, Fabien; I am going + to take a nap.” + </p> + <p> + We had walked fast. It was very hot. He took off his coat, rolled it into + a pillow, and placed it beneath his head as he lay down on the grass. I + stretched myself prone on a velvety carpet of moss, and gave myself up to + a profound investigation of the one square foot of ground which lay + beneath my eyes. The number of blades of grass was prodigious. A few, + already awned, stood above their fellows, waving like palms-meadowgrass, + fescue, foxtail, brome-grass—each slender stalk crowned with a tuft. + Others were budding, only half unfolded, amid the darker mass of spongy + moss which gave them sustenance. Amid the numberless shafts thus raised + toward heaven a thousand paths crisscrossed, each full of obstacles-chips + of bark, juniper-berries, beech-nuts, tangled roots, hills raised by + burrowing insects, ravines formed by the draining off of the rains. Ants + and beetles bustled along them, pressing up hill and down to some + mysterious goal. Above them a cunning red spider was tying a blade of + grass to an orchid leaf, the pillars it had chosen for its future web; and + when the wind shook the leaves and the sun pierced through to this spot, I + saw the delicate roof already mapped out. + </p> + <p> + I do not know how long my contemplation lasted. The woods were still. Save + for a swarm of gnats which hummed in a minor key around the sleeping + Lampron, nothing stirred, not a leaf even. All nature was silent as it + drank in the full sunshine. + </p> + <p> + A murmur of distant voices stole on my ear. I rose, and crept through the + birches and hazels to the edge of the glade. + </p> + <p> + At the top of the slope, on the green margin of the glade, shaded by the + tall trees, two pedestrians were slowly advancing. At the distance they + still were I could distinguish very little except that the man wore a + frock-coat, and that the girl was dressed in gray, and was young, to judge + by the suppleness of her walk. Nevertheless I felt at once that it was + she! + </p> + <p> + I hid at they came near, and saw her pass on her father’s arm, chatting in + low tones, full of joy to have escaped from the Rue de l’Universite. She + was looking before her with wide-open eyes. M. Charnot kept his eyes on + his daughter, more interested in her than in all the wealth of spring. He + kept well to the right of the path as the sun ate away the edge of the + shadows; and asked, from time to time: + </p> + <p> + “Are you tired?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no!” + </p> + <p> + “As soon as you are tired, my dear, we will sit down. I am not walking too + fast?” + </p> + <p> + She answered “No” again, and laughed, and they went on. + </p> + <p> + Soon they left the avenue and were lost in a green alley. Then a sudden + twilight seemed to have closed down on me, an infinite sadness swelled in + my heart. I closed my eyes, and—God forgive my weakness, but the + tears came. + </p> + <p> + “Hallo! What part do you intend me to play in all this?” said Lampron + behind me. + </p> + <p> + “‘What part’?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. It’s an odd notion to invite me to your trysting-place.” + </p> + <p> + “Trysting-place? I haven’t one.” + </p> + <p> + “You mean to tell me, perhaps, that you came here by chance?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly.” + </p> + <p> + “And chanced upon the very moment and the spot where she was passing?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you want a proof? That young lady is Mademoiselle Charnot.” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I never have said another word to her since my one visit to her + father; I have only seen her once, for a moment, in the street. You see + there can be no question of trysting-places in this case. I was wondering + at her appearance when you awoke. It is luck, or a friendly providence, + that has used the beauty of the sunlight, the breeze, and all the sweets + of April to bring her, as it brought us, to the forest.” + </p> + <p> + “And that is what fetched the tears?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, no.” + </p> + <p> + “What, then?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + “My full-grown baby, I will tell you. You are in love with her!” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed, Sylvestre, I believe you’re right. I confess it frankly to you as + to my best friend. It is an old story already; as old, perhaps, as the day + I first met her. At first her figure would rise in my imagination, and I + took pleasure in contemplating it. Soon this phantom ceased to satisfy; I + longed to see her in person. I sought her in the streets, the shops, the + theatre. I still blinded myself, and pretended that I only wanted to ask + her pardon, so as to remove, before I left Paris, the unpleasant + impression I had made at our first meeting. But now, Sylvestre, all these + false reasons have disappeared, and the true one is clear. I love her!” + </p> + <p> + “Not a doubt of it, my friend, not a doubt of it. I have been through it + myself.” + </p> + <p> + He was silent, and his eyes wandered away to the faroff woods, perhaps + back to those distant memories of his. A shadow rested on his strong face, + but only for an instant. He shook off his depression, and his old smile + came back as he said: + </p> + <p> + “It’s serious, then?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, very serious.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not surprised; she is a very pretty girl.” + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t she lovely?” + </p> + <p> + “Better than that, my friend; she is good. What do you know about her?” + </p> + <p> + “Only that she is a bad dancer.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s something, to be sure.” + </p> + <p> + “But it isn’t all.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, no. But never mind, find out the rest, speak to her, declare your + passion, ask for her hand, and marry her.” + </p> + <p> + “Good heavens, Sylvestre, you are going ahead!” + </p> + <p> + “My dear fellow, that is the best and wisest plan; these vague idyls ought + to be hurried on, either to a painless separation or an honorable end in + wedlock. In your place I should begin to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not to-day?” + </p> + <p> + “How so?” + </p> + <p> + “Let’s catch them up, and see her again at least.” + </p> + <p> + He began to laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Run after young girls at my age! Well, well, it was my advice. Come + along!” + </p> + <p> + We crossed the avenue, and plunged into the forest. + </p> + <p> + Lampron had formerly acquired a reputation for tireless agility among the + fox-hunters of the Roman Campagna. He still deserves it. In twenty strides + he left me behind. I saw him jumping over the heather, knocking off with + his cane the young shoots on the oaks, or turning his head to look at me + as I struggled after, torn by brambles and pricked by gorse. A startled + pheasant brought him to a halt. The bird rose under his feet and soared + into the full light. + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t it beautiful?” said he. “Look out, we must be more careful; we are + scaring the game. We should come upon the path they took, about sixty + yards ahead.” + </p> + <p> + Five minutes later he was signalling to me from behind the trunk of a + great beech. + </p> + <p> + “Here they are.” + </p> + <p> + Jeanne and M. Charnot were seated on a fallen trunk beside the path, which + here was almost lost beneath the green boughs. Their backs were toward us. + The old man, with his shoulders bent and his gold-knobbed cane stuck into + the ground beside him, was reading out of a book which we could not see, + while Jeanne, attentive, motionless, her face half turned toward him, was + listening. Her profile was outlined against a strip of clear sky. The deep + silence of the wood wrapped us round, and we could hear the old scholar’s + voice; it just reached us. + </p> + <p> + “Straightway the godlike Odysseus spake these cunning words to the fair + Nausicaa: ‘Be thou goddess or mortal, O queen, I bow myself before thee! + If thou art one of the deities who dwell in boundless heaven, by thy + loveliness and grace and height I guess thee to be Artemis, daughter of + high Zeus. If thou art a mortal dwelling upon earth, thrice blessed thy + father and thy queenly mother, thrice blessed thy dear brothers! Surely + their souls ever swell with gladness because of thee, when they see a + maiden so lovely step into the circle of the dance. But far the most + blessed of all is he who shall prevail on thee with presents and lead thee + to his home!’” + </p> + <p> + I turned to Lampron, who had stopped a few steps in front of me, a little + to the right. He had got out his sketch-book, and was drawing hurriedly. + Presently he forgot all prudence, and came forth from the shelter of a + beech to get nearer to his model. In vain I made sign upon sign, and tried + to remind him that we were not thereto paint or sketch. It was useless; + the artist within him had broken loose. Sitting down at the required + distance on a gnarled root, right in the open, he went on with his work + with no thought but for his art. + </p> + <p> + The inevitable happened. Growing impatient over some difficulty in his + sketch, Lampron shuffled his feet; a twig broke, some leaves + rustled-Jeanne turned round and saw me looking at her, Lampron sketching + her. + </p> + <p> + What are the feelings of a young girl who in the middle of a forest + suddenly discovers that two pairs of eyes are busy with her? A little + fright at first; then—when the idea of robbers is dismissed, and a + second glance has shown her that it is her beauty, not her life, they want—a + touch of satisfied vanity at the compliment, not unmixed with confusion. + </p> + <p> + This is exactly what we thought we saw. At first she slightly drew back, + with brows knitted, on the verge of an exclamation; then her brows unbent, + and the pleasure of finding herself admired, confusion at being taken + unawares, the desire of appearing at ease, all appeared at once on her + rosy cheeks and in her faintly troubled smile. + </p> + <p> + I bowed. Sylvestre pulled off his cap. + </p> + <p> + M. Charnot never stirred. + </p> + <p> + “Another squirrel?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Two this time, I think, father,” she answered, in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + He went on reading. + </p> + <p> + “‘My guest,’ made answer the fair Nausicaa, ‘for I call thee so since thou + seemest not base nor foolish, it is Zeus himself that giveth weal to men—‘” + </p> + <p> + Jeanne was no longer listening. She was thinking. Of what? Of several + things, perhaps, but certainly of how to beat a retreat. I guessed it by + the movement of her sunshade, which was nervously tracing figures in the + turf. I signalled to Lampron. We retired backward. Yet it was in vain; the + charm was broken, the peace had been disturbed. + </p> + <p> + She gave two coughs—musical little coughs, produced at will. + </p> + <p> + M. Charnot broke off his reading. + </p> + <p> + “You are cold, Jeanne?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, no, father.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes, you’re cold. Why did you not say so before? Lord, Lord, these + children! Always the same—think of nothing!” + </p> + <p> + He rose without delay, put his book in his pocket, buttoned up his coat, + and, leaning on his stick, glanced up a moment at the tree-tops. Then, + side by side, they disappeared down the path, Jeanne stepping briskly, + upright and supple, between the young branches which soon concealed her. + </p> + <p> + Still Lampron continued to watch the turning in the path down which she + had vanished. + </p> + <p> + “What are you thinking about?” said I. + </p> + <p> + He stroked his beard, where lurked a few gray hairs. + </p> + <p> + “I am thinking, my friend, that youth leaves us in this same way, at the + time when we love it most, with a faint smile, and without a word to tell + us whither. Mine played me this trick.” + </p> + <p> + “What a good idea of yours to sketch them both. Let me see the sketch.” + </p> + <p> + “No!” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “It can scarcely be called a sketch; it’s a mere scratch.” + </p> + <p> + “Show it, all the same.” + </p> + <p> + “My good Fabien, you ought to know that when I am obstinate I have my + reasons, like Balaam’s ass. You will not see my sketch-book to-day, nor + to-morrow, nor the day after.” + </p> + <p> + I answered with foolish warmth: + </p> + <p> + “Please yourself; I don’t care.” + </p> + <p> + Really I was very much annoyed, and I was rather cool with Lampron when we + parted on the platform. + </p> + <p> + What has come to the fellow? To refuse to show me a sketch he had made + before my eyes, and a sketch of Jeanne, too! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + April 28th, 9 A.M. +</pre> + <p> + Hide your sketches, Sylvestre; stuff them away in your portfolios, or your + pockets; I care little, for I bear Jeanne’s image in my heart, and can see + it when I will, and I love her, I love her, I love her! + </p> + <p> + What is to become of her and of me I can not tell. I hope without knowing + what or why, or when, and hope alone is comforting. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 9 P.M. +</pre> + <p> + This afternoon, at two o’clock, I met Lampron in the Boulevard St. Michel. + He was walking fast with a portfolio under his arm. I went up to him. He + looked annoyed, and hardly seemed pleased when I offered to accompany him. + I grew red and angry. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, very well,” I said; “good-by, then, since you don’t care to be seen + with me.” + </p> + <p> + He pondered a moment. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, come along if you like; I am going to my framemaker’s.” + </p> + <p> + “A picture?” + </p> + <p> + “Something of the kind.” + </p> + <p> + “And that’s all the mystery! Yesterday it was a sketch I mustn’t look at; + to-day it’s a picture. It is not nice of you, Sylvestre; no, decidedly it + is not nice.” + </p> + <p> + He gave me a look of friendly compassion. + </p> + <p> + “Poor little chap!” said he. + </p> + <p> + Then, in his usual clear, strong voice: + </p> + <p> + “I am in a great hurry; but come if you like. I would rather it were four + days later; but as it is, never mind; it is never too soon to be happy.” + </p> + <p> + When Lampron chooses to hold his tongue it is useless to ask him + questions. I gave myself up to meditating on the words, “It is never too + soon to be happy.” + </p> + <p> + We went down the boulevard, past the beer-houses. There is distinction in + my friend’s walk; he is not to be confused with the crowd through which he + passes. You can tell, from the simple seriousness of the man, his + indifference to the noise and petty incidents of the streets, that he is a + stout and noble soul. Among the passers-by he is a somebody. I heard from + a group of students seated before a cafe the following words, which + Sylvestre did not seem to notice: + </p> + <p> + “Look, do you see the taller of those two there? That’s Sylvestre + Lampron.” + </p> + <p> + “Prix du Salon two years ago?” + </p> + <p> + “A great gun, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “He looks it.” + </p> + <p> + “To the left,” said Lampron. + </p> + <p> + We turned to the left, and found ourselves in the Rue Hautefeuille, before + a shabby house, within the porch of which hung notices of apartments to + let; this was the framemaker’s. The passage was dark, the walls were + chipped by the innumerable removals of furniture they had witnessed. We + went upstairs. On the fourth floor a smell of glue and sour paste on the + landing announced the tenant’s profession. To make quite certain there was + a card nailed to the door with “Plumet, Frame-Maker.” + </p> + <p> + “Plumet? A newly-married couple?” + </p> + <p> + But already Madame Plumet is at the door. It is the same little woman who + came to Boule’s office. She recognizes me in the dim light of the + staircase. + </p> + <p> + “What, Monsieur Lampron, do you know Monsieur Mouillard?” + </p> + <p> + “As you apparently do, too, Madame Plumet.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes! I know him well; he won my action, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, to be sure-against the cabinet-maker. Is your husband in?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir, in the workshop. Plumet!” + </p> + <p> + Through the half-opened door giving access to an inner room we could + see-in the midst of his molders, gilders, burnishers, and framers—a + little dark man with a beard, who looked up and hurriedly undid the + strings of his working-apron. + </p> + <p> + “Coming, Marie!” + </p> + <p> + Little Madame Plumet was a trifle upset at having to receive us in + undress, before she had tidied up her rooms. I could see it by her blushes + and by the instinctive movement she made to smooth her disordered curls. + </p> + <p> + The husband had hardly answered her call before she left us and went off + to the end of the room, into the obscure recesses of an alcove overcrowded + with furniture. There she bent over an oblong object, which I could not + quite see at first, and rocked it with her hand. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Mouillard,” said she, looking up to me—“Monsieur + Mouillard, this is my son, Pierre!” + </p> + <p> + What tender pride in those words, and the smile which accompanied them! + With a finger she drew one of the curtains aside. Under the blue muslin, + between the pillow and the white coverlet, I discovered two little black + eyes and a tuft of golden hair. + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t he a little rogue!” she went on, and began to caress the waking + baby. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile Sylvestre had been talking to Plumet at the other end of the + room. + </p> + <p> + “Out of the question,” said the frame-maker; “we are up to our knees in + arrears; twenty orders waiting.” + </p> + <p> + “I ask you to oblige me as a friend.” + </p> + <p> + “I wish I could oblige you, Monsieur Lampron; but if I made you a promise, + I should not be able to keep it.” + </p> + <p> + “What a pity! All was so well arranged, too. The sketch was to have been + hung with my two engravings. Poor Fabien! I was saving up a surprise for + you. Come and look here.” + </p> + <p> + I went across. Sylvestre opened his portfolio. + </p> + <p> + “Do you recognize it?” + </p> + <p> + At once I recognized them. M. Charnot’s back; Jeanne’s profile, exactly + like her; a forest nook; the parasol on the ground; the cane stuck into + the grass; a bit of genre, perfect in truth and execution. + </p> + <p> + “When did you do that?” + </p> + <p> + “Last night.” + </p> + <p> + “And you want to exhibit it?” + </p> + <p> + “At the Salon.” + </p> + <p> + “But, Sylvestre, it is too late to send in to the Salon. The Ides of March + are long past.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, for that very reason I have had the devil of a time, intriguing all + the morning. With a large picture I never should have succeeded; but with + a bit of a sketch, six inches by nine—” + </p> + <p> + “Bribery of officials, then?” + </p> + <p> + “Followed by substitution, which is strictly forbidden. I happened to have + hung there between two engravings a little sketch of underwoods not unlike + this; one comes down, the other is hung instead—a little bit of + jobbery of which I am still ashamed. I risked it all for you, in the hope + that she would come and recognize the subject.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course she will recognize it, and understand; how on earth could she + help it? My dear Sylvestre, how can I thank you?” + </p> + <p> + I seized my friend’s hand and begged his forgiveness for my foolish haste + of speech. + </p> + <p> + He, too, was a little touched and overcome by the pleasure his surprise + had given me. + </p> + <p> + “Look here, Plumet,” he said to the frame-maker, who had taken the sketch + over to the light, and was studying it with a professional eye. “This + young man has even a greater interest than I in the matter. He is a suitor + for the lady’s hand, and you can be very useful to him. If you do not + frame the picture his happiness is blighted.” + </p> + <p> + The frame-maker shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “Let’s see, Antoine,” said a coaxing little voice, and Madame Plumet left + the cradle to come to our aid. + </p> + <p> + I considered our cause as won. Plumet repeated in vain, as he pulled his + beard, that it was impossible; she declared it was not. He made a move for + his workshop; she pulled him back by the sleeve, made him laugh and give + his consent. + </p> + <p> + “Antoine,” she insisted, “we owe our marriage to Monsieur Mouillard; you + must at least pay what you owe.” + </p> + <p> + I was delighted. Still, a doubt seized me. + </p> + <p> + “Sylvestre,” I said to Lampron, who already had his hand upon the + door-handle, “do you really think she will come?” + </p> + <p> + “I hope so; but I will not answer for it. To make certain, some one must + send word to her: ‘Mademoiselle Jeanne, your portrait is at the Salon.’ If + you know any one who would not mind taking this message to the Rue de + l’Universite—” + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid I don’t.” + </p> + <p> + “Come on, then, and trust to luck.” + </p> + <p> + “Rue de l’Universite, did you say?” broke in little Madame Plumet, who + certainly took the liveliest interest in my cause. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; why?” + </p> + <p> + “Because I have a friend in the neighborhood, and perhaps—” + </p> + <p> + I risked giving her the number and name under the seal of secrecy; and it + was a good thing I did so. + </p> + <p> + In three minutes she had concocted a plan. It was like this: her friend + lived near the hotel in the Rue de l’Universite, a porter’s wife of + advanced years, and quite safe; by means of her it might be possible to + hint to Mademoiselle Jeanne that her portrait, or something like it, was + to be seen at the Salon—discreetly, of course, and as if it were the + merest piece of news. + </p> + <p> + What a plucky, clever little woman it is! Surely I was inspired when I did + her that service. I never thought I should be repaid. And here I am repaid + both capital and interest. + </p> + <p> + Yet I hesitated. She snatched my consent. + </p> + <p> + “No, no,” said she, “leave me to act. I promise you, Monsieur Mouillard, + that she shall hear of it, and you, Monsieur Lampron, that the picture + shall be framed.” + </p> + <p> + She showed us to the top of the stairs, did little Madame Plumet, pleased + at having won over her husband, at having shown herself so cunning, and at + being employed in a conspiracy of love. In the street Lampron shook me by + the hand. “Good-by, my friend,” he said; “happy men don’t need company. + Four days hence, at noon, I shall come to fetch you, and we will pay our + first visit to the Salon together.” + </p> + <p> + Yes, I was a happy man! I walked fast, without seeing anything, my eyes + lost in day dreams, my ears listening to celestial harmonies. I seemed to + wear a halo. It abashed me somewhat; for there is something insolent in + proclaiming on the housetops: “Look up at me, my heart is full, Jeanne is + going to love me!” Decidedly, my brain was affected. + </p> + <p> + Near the fountain in the Luxembourg, in front of the old palace where the + senate sits, two little girls were playing. One pushed the other, who fell + down crying, + </p> + <p> + “Naughty Jeanne, naughty girl!” I rushed to pick her up, and kissed her + before the eyes of her astonished nurse, saying, “No, Mademoiselle, she is + the most charming girl in the world!” + </p> + <p> + And M. Legrand! I still blush when I think of my conversation with M. + Legrand. He was standing in a dignified attitude at the door of his shop. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “ITALIAN WAREHOUSE; DRESSED PROVISIONS; + SPECIALTY IN COLONIAL PRODUCE.” + </pre> + <p> + He and I are upon good terms; I buy oranges, licorice from him, and rum + when I want to make punch. But there are distinctions. Well, to-day I + called him “Dear Monsieur Legrand;” I addressed him, though I had nothing + to buy; I asked after his business; I remarked to him, “What a heavenly + day, Monsieur Legrand! We really have got fine weather at last!” + </p> + <p> + He looked up to the top of the street, and looked down again at me, but + refrained from differing, out of respect. + </p> + <p> + And, as a matter of fact, I noticed afterward that there was a most + unpleasant drizzle. + </p> + <p> + To wind up with, just now as I was coming home after dinner, I passed a + workman and his family in the Rue Bonaparte, and the man pointed after me, + saying: + </p> + <p> + “Look! there goes a poet.” + </p> + <p> + He was right. In me the lawyer’s clerk is in abeyance, the lawyer of + to-morrow has disappeared, only the poet is left—that is to say, the + essence of youth freed from the parasitic growths of everyday life. I feel + it roused and stirring. How sweet life is, and what wonderful instruments + we are, that Hope can make us thus vibrate by a touch of her little + finger! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BOOK 2. + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII. JOY AND MADNESS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + May 1st. +</pre> + <p> + These four days have seemed as if they never would end—especially + the last. But now it wants only two minutes of noon. In two minutes, if + Lampron is not late— + </p> + <p> + Rat-a-tat-tat! + </p> + <p> + “Come in.” + </p> + <p> + “It is twelve o’clock, my friend; are you coming?” + </p> + <p> + It was Lampron. + </p> + <p> + For the last hour I had had my hat on my head, my stick between my legs, + and had been turning over my essay with gloved hands. He laughed at me. I + don’t care. We walked, for the day was clear and warm. All the world was + out and about. Who can stay indoors on May Day? As we neared the Chamber + of Deputies, perambulators full of babies in white capes came pouring from + all the neighboring streets, and made their resplendent way toward the + Tuileries. Lampron was in a talkative mood. He was pleased with the + hanging of his pictures, and his plan of campaign against Mademoiselle + Jeanne. + </p> + <p> + “She is sure to have heard of it, Fabien, and perhaps is there already. + Who can tell?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, cease your humbug! Yes, very possibly she is there before us. I have + had a feeling that she would be for these last four days.” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t say so!” + </p> + <p> + “I have pictured her a score of times ascending the staircase on her + father’s arm. We are at the foot, lost in the crowd. Her noble, clear-cut + profile stands out against the Gobelin tapestries which frame it with + their embroidered flowers; one would say some maiden of bygone days had + come to life, and stepped down from her tapestried panel.” + </p> + <p> + “Gentlemen!” said Lampron, with a sweep of his arm which took in the whole + of the Place de la Concorde, “allow me to present to you the intending + successor of Counsellor Mouillard, lawyer, of Bourges. Every inch of him a + man of business!” + </p> + <p> + We were getting near. Crowds were on their way to the exhibition from all + sides, women in spring frocks, many of the men in white waistcoats, one + hand in pocket, gayly flourishing their canes with the other, as much as + to say, “Look at me-well-to-do, jaunty, and out in fine weather.” The + turnstiles were crowded, but at last we got through. We made but one step + across the gravel court, the realm of sculpture where antique gods in + every posture formed a mythological circle round the modern busts in the + central walk. There was no loitering here, for my heart was elsewhere. We + cast a look at an old wounded Gaul, an ancestor unhonored by the crowd, + and started up the staircase—no Jeanne to lead the way. We came to + the first room of paintings. Sylvestre beamed like a man who feels at + home. + </p> + <p> + “Quick, Sylvestre, where is the sketch? Let’s hurry to it.” + </p> + <p> + But he dragged me with him around several rooms. + </p> + <p> + Have you ever experienced the intoxication of color which seizes the + uninitiated at the door of a picture-gallery? So many staring hues impinge + upon the eyes, so many ideas take confused shape and struggle together in + the brain, that the eyes grow weary and the brain harassed. It hovers + undecided like an insect in a meadow full of flowers. The buzzing remarks + of the crowd add to the feeling of intoxication. They distract one’s + attention before it can settle anywhere, and carry it off to where some + group is gathered before a great name, a costly frame, an enormous canvas, + or an outrage on taste; twenty men on a gallows against a yellow sky, with + twenty crows hovering over them, or an aged antediluvian, some mighty + hunter, completely nude and with no property beyond a loaded club. One + turns away, and the struggle begins again between the eye, attracted by a + hundred subjects, and the brain, which would prefer to study one. + </p> + <p> + With Lampron this danger has no existence; he takes in a room at a glance. + He has the sportsman’s eye which, in a covey of partridges, marks its bird + at a glance. He never hesitates. “That is the thing to make for,” he says, + “come along”—and we make for it. He plants himself right in front of + the picture, with both hands in his overcoat pockets, and his chin sunk in + his collar; says nothing, but is quite happy developing an idea which has + occurred to him on his way to it; comparing the picture before him with + some former work by the same artist which he remembers. His whole soul is + concentrated on the picture. And when he considers that I have understood + and penetrated the meaning of the work, he gives his opinion in few words, + but always the right ones, summing up a long sequence of ideas which I + must have shared with him, since I see exactly as he does. + </p> + <p> + In this way we halted before the “Martyrdom of Saint Denis,” by Bonnat, + the two “Adorations,” by Bouguereau, a landscape of Bernier’s, some other + landscapes, sea pieces, and portraits. + </p> + <p> + At last we left the oil paintings. + </p> + <p> + In the open gallery, which runs around the inside of the huge oblong and + looks on the court, the watercolors, engravings, and drawings slumbered, + neglected. Lampron went straight to his works. I should have awarded them + the medaille d’honneur; an etching of a man’s head, a large engraving of + the Virgin and Infant Jesus from the Salon Carre at the Louvre, and the + drawing which represents— + </p> + <p> + “Great Heavens! Sylvestre, she’s perfectly lovely; she will make a great + mistake if she does not come and see herself!” + </p> + <p> + “She will come, my dear sir; but I shall not be there to see her.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you going?” + </p> + <p> + “I leave you to stalk your game; be patient, and do not forget to come and + tell me the news this evening.” + </p> + <p> + “I promise.” + </p> + <p> + And Lampron vanished. + </p> + <p> + The drawing was hung about midway between two doorways draped with + curtains, that opened into the big galleries. I leaned against the + woodwork of one of them, and waited. On my left stretched a solitude + seldom troubled by the few visitors who risk themselves in the realms of + pen and pencil. These, too, only came to get fresh air, or to look down on + the many-colored crowd moving among the white statues below. + </p> + <p> + At my right, on the contrary, the battling currents of the crowd kept + passing and repassing, the provincial element easily distinguished by its + jaded demeanor. Stout, exhausted matrons, breathless fathers of families, + crowded the sofas, raising discouraged glances to the walls, while around + them turned and tripped, untiring as at a dance, legions of Parisiennes, + at ease, on their high heels, equally attentive to the pictures, their own + carriage, and their neighbors’ gowns. + </p> + <p> + O peaceful functionaries, you whose business it is to keep an eye upon + this ferment! unless the ceaseless flux of these human phenomena lull you + to a trance, what a quantity of silly speeches you must hear! I picked up + twenty in as many minutes. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly there came a sound of little footsteps in the gallery. Two little + girls had just come in, two sisters, doubtless, for both had the same + black eyes, pink dresses, and white feathers in their hats. Hesitating, + with outstretched necks, like fawns on the border of a glade, they seemed + disappointed at the unexpected length of the gallery. They looked at each + other and whispered. Then both smiled, and turning their backs on each + other, they set off, one to the right, the other to the left, to examine + the drawings which covered the walls. They made a rapid examination, with + which art had obviously little to do; they were looking for something, and + I thought it might be for Jeanne’s portrait. And so it turned out; the one + on my side soon came to a stop, pointed a finger to the wall, and gave a + little cry. The other ran up; they clapped their hands. + </p> + <p> + “Bravo, bravo!” + </p> + <p> + Then off they went again through the farther door. + </p> + <p> + I guessed what they were about to do. + </p> + <p> + I trembled from head to foot, and hid myself farther behind the curtains. + </p> + <p> + Not a minute elapsed before they were back, not two this time, but three, + and the third was Jeanne, whom they were pulling along between them. + </p> + <p> + They brought her up to Lampron’s sketch, and curtsied neatly to her. + </p> + <p> + Jeanne bent down, smiled, and seemed pleased. Then, a doubt seizing her, + she turned her head and saw me. The smile died away; she blushed, a tear + seemed ready to start to her eyes. Oh, rapture! Jeanne, you are touched; + Jeanne, you understand! + </p> + <p> + A deep joy surged across my soul, so deep that I never have felt its like. + </p> + <p> + Alas! at that instant some one called, “Jeanne!” + </p> + <p> + She stood up, took the two little girls by the hand, and was gone. + </p> + <p> + Far better had it been had I too fled, carrying with me that dream of + delight! + </p> + <p> + But no, I leaned forward to look after them. In the doorway beyond I saw + M. Charnot. A young man was with him, who spoke to Jeanne. She answered + him. Three words reached me: + </p> + <p> + “It’s nothing, George.” + </p> + <p> + The devil! She loves another! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + May 2d. +</pre> + <p> + In what a state of mind did I set out this morning to face my examiners! + Downhearted, worn out by a night of misery, indifferent to all that might + befall me, whether for good or for evil. + </p> + <p> + I considered myself, and indeed I was, very wretched, but I never thought + that I should return more wretched than I went. + </p> + <p> + It was lovely weather when at half past eleven I started for the Law + School with an annotated copy of my essay under my arm, thinking more of + the regrets for the past and plans for the future with which I had + wrestled all night, than of the ordeal I was about to undergo. I met in + the Luxembourg the little girl whom I had kissed the week before. She + stopped her hoop and stood in my way, staring with wideopen eyes and a + coaxing, cunning look, which meant, “I know you, I do!” I passed by + without noticing. She pouted her lip, and I saw that she was thinking, + “What’s the matter with him?” + </p> + <p> + What was the matter? My poor little golden-locks, when you are grown a + fair woman I trust you may know as little of it as you do to-day. + </p> + <p> + I went up the Rue Soufliot, and entered the stuffy courtyard on the stroke + of noon. + </p> + <p> + The morning lectures were over. Beneath the arcades a few scattered + students were walking up and down. I avoided them for fear of meeting a + friend and having to talk. Several professors came running from their + lunch, rather red in the face, at the summons of the secretary. These were + my examiners. + </p> + <p> + It was time to get into costume, for the candidate, like the criminal, has + his costume. The old usher, who has dressed me up I don’t know how many + times in his hired gowns, saw that I was downcast, and thought I must be + suffering from examination fever, a peculiar malady, which is like what a + young soldier feels the first time he is under fire. + </p> + <p> + We were alone in the dark robing-room; he walked round me, brushing and + encouraging me; doctors of law have a moral right to this touch of the + brush. + </p> + <p> + “It will be all right, Monsieur Mouillard, never fear. No one has been + refused a degree this morning.” + </p> + <p> + “I am not afraid, Michu.” + </p> + <p> + “When I say ‘no one,’ there was one refused—you never heard the + like. Just imagine—a little to the right, please, Monsieur Mouillard—imagine, + I say, a candidate who knew absolutely nothing. That is nothing + extraordinary. But this fellow, after the examination was over, + recommended himself to mercy. ‘Have compassion on me, gentlemen,’ he said, + ‘I only wish to be a magistrate!’ Capital, isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes.” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t seem to think so. You don’t look like laughing this morning.” + </p> + <p> + “No, Michu, every one has his bothers, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “I said to myself as I looked at you just now, Monsieur Mouillard has some + bother. Button up all the way, if you please, for a doctor’s essay; + if-you-please. It’s a heartache, then?” + </p> + <p> + “Something of the kind.” + </p> + <p> + He shrugged his shoulders and went before me, struggling with an asthmatic + chuckle, until we came to the room set apart for the examination. + </p> + <p> + It was the smallest and darkest of all, and borrowed its light from a + street which had little enough to spare, and spared as little as it could. + On the left against the wall is a raised desk for the candidate. At the + end, on a platform before a bookcase, sit the six examiners in red robes, + capes with three bands of ermine, and gold-laced caps. Between the + candidate’s desk and the door is a little enclosure for spectators, of + whom there were about thirty when I entered. + </p> + <p> + My performance, which had a chance of being brilliant, was only fair. + </p> + <p> + The three first examiners had read my essay, especially M. Flamaran, who + knew it well and had enjoyed its novel and audacious propositions. He + pursed up his mouth preparatory to putting the first question, like an + epicure sucking a ripe fruit. And when at length he opened it, amid the + general silence, it was to carry the discussion at once up to such heights + of abstraction that a good number of the audience, not understanding a + word of it, stealthily made for the door. + </p> + <p> + Each successive answer put fresh spirit into him. + </p> + <p> + “Very good,” he murmured, “very good; let us carry it a step farther. Now + supposing—” + </p> + <p> + And, the demon of logic at his heels, we both went off like inspired + lunatics into a world of hypotheses where never man had set foot. He was + examining no longer, he was inventing and intoxicating himself with + deductions. No one was right or wrong. We were reasoning about chimeras, + he radiant, I cool, before his gently tickled colleagues. I never realized + till then what imagination a jurist’s head could contain. + </p> + <p> + Perspiring freely, he set down a white mark, having exceeded by ten + minutes the recognized time for examination. + </p> + <p> + The second examiner was less enthusiastic. He made very few suppositions, + and devoted all his art to convicting me of a contradiction between page + seventeen and page seventy-nine. He kept repeating, “It’s a serious + matter, sir, very serious.” But, nevertheless, he bestowed a second white + mark on me. I only got half white from the third. The rest of the + examination was taken up in matters extraneous to the subject of my essay, + a commonplace trial of strength, in which I replied with threadbare + arguments to outworn objections. + </p> + <p> + And then it ended. Two hours had passed. + </p> + <p> + I left the room while the examiners made up their minds. + </p> + <p> + A few friends came up to me. + </p> + <p> + “Congratulations, old man, I bet on six whites.” + </p> + <p> + “Hallo, Larive! I never noticed you.” + </p> + <p> + “I quite believe you; you didn’t notice anybody, you still look + bewildered. Is it the emotion inseparable from—” + </p> + <p> + “I dare say.” + </p> + <p> + “The candidate is requested to return to the examination room!” said the + usher. + </p> + <p> + And old Michu added, in a whisper, “You have passed. I told you so. You + won’t forget old Michu, sir.” + </p> + <p> + M. Flamaran conferred my degree with a paternal smile, and a few kind + words for “this conscientious study, full of fresh ideas on a difficult + subject.” + </p> + <p> + I bowed to the examiners. Larive was waiting for me in the courtyard, and + seized me by the arm. + </p> + <p> + “Uncle Mouillard will be pleased.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose so.” + </p> + <p> + “Better pleased than you.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s very likely.” + </p> + <p> + “He might easily be that. Upon my word I can’t understand you. These two + years you have been working like a gang of niggers for your degree, and + now you have got it you don’t seem to care a bit. You have won a smile + from Flamaran and do not consider yourself a spoiled child of Fortune! + What more did you want? Did you expect that Mademoiselle Charnot would + come in person—” + </p> + <p> + “Look here, Larive—” + </p> + <p> + “To look on at your examination, and applaud your answers with her neatly + gloved hands? Surely you know, my dear fellow, that that is no longer + possible, and that she is going to be married.” + </p> + <p> + “Going to be married?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t pretend you didn’t know it.” + </p> + <p> + “I have suspected as much since yesterday; I met her at the Salon, and saw + a young man with her.” + </p> + <p> + “Fair?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Tall?” + </p> + <p> + “Rather.” + </p> + <p> + “Good-looking?” + </p> + <p> + “H’m—well” + </p> + <p> + “Dufilleul, old chap, friend Dufilleul. Don’t you know Dufilleul?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes you do—a bit of a stockjobber, great at ecarte, studied law + in our year, and is always to be seen at the Opera with little Tigra of + the Bouffes.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor girl!” + </p> + <p> + “You pity her?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s too awful.” + </p> + <p> + “What is?” + </p> + <p> + “To see an unhappy child married to a rake who—” + </p> + <p> + “She will not be the first.” + </p> + <p> + “A gambler!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, there is that, to be sure.” + </p> + <p> + “A fool, as it seems, who, in exchange for her beauty, grace, and youth, + can offer only an assortment of damaged goods! Yes, I do pity girls duped + thus, deceived and sacrificed by the very purity that makes them believe + in that of others.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve some queer notions! It’s the way of the world. If the innocent + victims were only to marry males of equal innocence, under the + guardianship of virtuous parents, the days of this world would be + numbered, my boy. I assure you that Dufilleul is a good match, handsome + for one thing—” + </p> + <p> + “That’s worth a deal!” + </p> + <p> + “Rich.” + </p> + <p> + “The deuce he is!” + </p> + <p> + “And then a name which can be divided.” + </p> + <p> + “Divided?” + </p> + <p> + “With all the ease in the world. A very rare quality. At his marriage he + describes himself as Monsieur du Filleul. A year later he is Baron du + Filleul. At the death of his father, an old cad, he becomes Comte du + Filleul. If the young wife is pretty and knows how to cajole her husband, + she may even become a marquise.” + </p> + <p> + “Ugh!” + </p> + <p> + “You are out of spirits, my poor fellow; I will stand you an absinthe, the + only beverage that will suit the bitterness of your heart.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I shall go home.” + </p> + <p> + “Good-by, then. You don’t take your degree cheerfully.” + </p> + <p> + “Good-by.” + </p> + <p> + He spun round on his heels and went down the Boulevard St. Michel. + </p> + <p> + So all is over forever between her and me, and, saddest of all, she is + even more to be pitied than I. Poor girl! I loved her deeply, but I did it + awkwardly, as I do everything, and missed my chance of speaking. The mute + declaration which I risked, or rather which a friend risked for me, found + her already engaged to this beast who has brought more skill to the task, + who has made no blots at the National Library, who has dared all when he + had everything to fear— + </p> + <p> + I have allowed myself to be taken by her maiden witchery. All the fault, + all the folly is mine. She has given me no encouragement, no sign of + liking me. If she smiled at St. Germain it was because she was surprised + and flattered. If she came near to tears at the Salon it was because she + pitied me. I have not the shadow of a reproach to make her. + </p> + <p> + That is all I shall ever get from her—a tear, a smile. That’s all; + never mind, I shall contrive to live on it. She has been my first love, + and I shall keep her a place in my heart from which no other shall drive + her. I shall now set to work to shut this poor heart which did so wrong to + open.... I thought to be happy to-night, and I am full of sorrow. + Henceforward I think I shall understand Sylvestre better. Our sorrows will + bring us nearer. I will go to see him at once, and will tell him so. + </p> + <p> + But first I must write to my uncle to tell him that his nephew is a Doctor + of Law. All the rest, my plans, my whole future can be put off till + to-morrow, or the day after, unless I get disgusted at the very thought of + a future and decide to conjugate my life in the present indicative only. + That is what I feel inclined to do. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + May 4th. +</pre> + <p> + Lampron has gone to the country to pass a fortnight in an out-of-the-way + place with an old relative, where he goes into hiding when he wishes to + finish an engraving. + </p> + <p> + But Madame Lampron was at home. After a little hesitation I told her all, + and I am glad I did so. She found in her simple, womanly heart just the + counsel that I needed. One feels that she is used to giving consolation. + She possesses the secret of that feminine deftness which is the great + set-off to feminine weakness. Weak? Yes, women perhaps are weak, yet less + weak than we, the strong sex, for they can raise us to our feet. She + called me, “My dear Monsieur Fabien,” and there was balm in the very way + she said the words. I used to think she wanted refinement; she does not, + she only lacks reading, and lack of reading may go with the most delicate + and lofty feelings. No one ever taught her certain turns of expression + which she used. “If your mother was alive,” said she, “this is what she + would say.” And then she spoke to me of God, who alone can determinate + man’s trials, either by the end He ordains, or the resignation He + inspires. I felt myself carried with her into the regions where our + sorrows shrink into insignificance as the horizon broadens around them. + And I remember she uttered this fine thought, “See how my son has + suffered! It makes one believe, Monsieur Fabien, that the elect of the + earth are the hardest tried, just as the stones that crown the building + are more deeply cut than their fellows.” + </p> + <p> + I returned from Madame Lampron’s, softened, calmer, wiser. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX. A VISIT FROM MY UNCLE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + May 5th. +</pre> + <p> + A letter from M. Mouillard breathing fire and fury. Were I not so low + spirited I could laugh at it. + </p> + <p> + He would have liked me, after taking my degree at two in the afternoon, to + take the train for Bourges the same evening, where my uncle, his practice, + and provincial bliss awaited me. M. Mouillard’s friends had had due + notice, and would have come to meet me at the station. In short, I am an + ungrateful wretch. At least I might have fixed the hour of my imminent + arrival, for I can not want to stop in Paris with nothing there to detain + me. But no, not a sign, not a word of returning; simply the announcement + that I have passed. This goes beyond the bounds of mere folly and + carelessness. M. Mouillard, his most elementary notions of life shaken to + their foundations, concludes in these words: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Fabien, I have long suspected it; some creature has you in bondage. + I am coming to break the bonds! + + “BRUTUS MOUILLARD.” + </pre> + <p> + I know him well; he will be here tomorrow. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + May 6th. +No uncle as yet. + + May 7th. +No more uncle than yesterday. + + May 8th. +Total eclipse continues. No news of M. Mouillard. This is very strange. + + May 9th. +This evening at seven o’clock, just as I was going out to dine, I saw, +a few yards away, a tall, broad-brimmed hat surmounting a head of lank +white hair, a long neck throttled in a white neckcloth, a frock-coat +flapping about a pair of attenuated legs. I lifted up my voice: +</pre> + <p> + “Uncle!” + </p> + <p> + He opened his arms to me and I fell into them. His first remark was: + </p> + <p> + “I trust at least that you have not yet dined.” + </p> + <p> + “No, uncle.” + </p> + <p> + “To Foyot’s, then!” + </p> + <p> + When you expect to meet a man in his wrath and get an invitation to + dinner, you feel almost as if you had been taken in. You are heated, your + arguments are at your fingers’ ends, your stock of petulance is ready for + immediate use; and all have to be stored in bond. + </p> + <p> + When I had recovered from my surprise, I said: + </p> + <p> + “I expected you sooner, from your letter.” + </p> + <p> + “Your suppositions were correct. I have been two days here, at the Grand + Hotel. I went there on account of the dining-room, for my friend Hublette + (you remember Hublette at Bourges) told me: ‘Mouillard, you must see that + room before you retire from business.’” + </p> + <p> + “I should have gone to see you there, uncle, if I had known it.” + </p> + <p> + “You would not have found me. Business before pleasure, Fabien. I had to + see three barristers and five solicitors. You know that business of that + kind can not wait. I saw them. Business over, I can indulge my feelings. + Here I am. Does Foyot suit you?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly, uncle.” + </p> + <p> + “Come on, then nephew, quick, march! Paris, makes one feel quite young + again!” + </p> + <p> + And really Uncle Mouillard did look quite young, almost as young as he + looked provincial. His tall figure, and the countrified cut of his coat, + made all who passed him turn to stare, accustomed as Parisians are to + curiosities. He tapped the wood pavement with his stick, admired the + effects of Wallace’s philanthropy, stopped before the enamelled + street-signs, and grew enthusiastic over the traffic in the Rue de + Vaugirard. + </p> + <p> + The dinner was capital—just the kind a generous uncle will give to a + blameless nephew. M. Mouillard, who has a long standing affection for + chambertin, ordered two bottles to begin with. He drank the whole of one + and half of the other, eating in proportion, and talked unceasingly and + positively at the top of his voice, as his wont was. He told me the story + of two of his best actions this year, a judicial separation—my uncle + is very strong in judicial separations—and the abduction of a minor. + At first I looked out for personal allusions. But no, he told the story + from pure love of his art, without omitting an interlocutory judgment, or + a judgment reserved, just as he would have told the story of Helen and + Paris, if he had been employed in that well-known case. Not a word about + myself. I waited, yet nothing came but the successive steps in the action. + </p> + <p> + After the ice, M. Mouillard called for a cigar. + </p> + <p> + “Waiter, what cigars have you got?” + </p> + <p> + “Londres, conchas, regalias, cacadores, partagas, esceptionales. Which + would you like, sir?” + </p> + <p> + “Damn the name! a big one that will take some time to smoke.” + </p> + <p> + Emile displayed at the bottom of a box an object closely resembling a + distaff with a straw through the middle, doubtless some relic of the last + International Exhibition, abandoned by all, like the Great Eastern, on + account of its dimensions. My uncle seized it, stuck it in the amber + mouthpiece that is so familiar to me, lighted it, and under the pretext + that you must always first get the tobacco to burn evenly, went out + trailing behind him a cloud of smoke, like a gunboat at full speed. + </p> + <p> + We “did” the arcades round the Odeon, where my uncle spent an eternity + thumbing the books for sale. He took them all up one after another, from + the poetry of the decedents to the Veterinary Manual, gave a glance at the + author’s name, shrugged his shoulders, and always ended by turning to me + with: + </p> + <p> + “You know that writer?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, yes, uncle.” + </p> + <p> + “He must be quite a new author; I can’t recall that name.” + </p> + <p> + M. Mouillard forgot that it was forty-five years since he had last visited + the bookstalls under the Odeon. + </p> + <p> + He thought he was a student again, loafing along the arcades after dinner, + eager for novelty, careless of draughts. Little by little he lost himself + in dim reveries. His cigar never left his lips. The ash grew longer and + longer yet, a lovely white ash, slightly swollen at the tip, dotted with + little black specks, and connected with the cigar by a thin red band which + alternately glowed and faded as he drew his breath. + </p> + <p> + M. Mouillard was so lost in thought, and the ash was getting so long, that + a young student—of the age that knows no mercy-was struck by these + twin phenomena. I saw him nudge a friend, hastily roll a cigarette, and, + doffing his hat, accost my uncle. + </p> + <p> + “Might I trouble you for a light, sir!” + </p> + <p> + M. Mouillard emitted a sigh, turned slowly round, and bent two terrible + eyes upon the intruder, knocked off the ash with an angry gesture, and + held out the ignited end at arm’s length. + </p> + <p> + “With pleasure, sir!” + </p> + <p> + Then he replaced the last book he had taken up—a copy of Musset—and + called me. + </p> + <p> + “Come, Fabien.” + </p> + <p> + Arm in arm we strolled up the Rue de Medicis along the railings of the + Luxembourg. + </p> + <p> + I felt the crisis approaching. My uncle has a pet saying: “When a thing is + not clear to me, I go straight to the heart of it like a ferret.” + </p> + <p> + The ferret began to work. + </p> + <p> + “Now, Fabien, about these bonds I mentioned? Did I guess right?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, uncle, I have been in bondage.” + </p> + <p> + “Quite right to make a clean breast of it, my boy; but we must break your + bonds.” + </p> + <p> + “They are broken.” + </p> + <p> + “How long ago?” + </p> + <p> + “Some days ago.” + </p> + <p> + “On your honor?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s quite right. You’d have done better to keep out of bondage. But + there, you took your uncle’s advice; you saw the abyss, and drew back from + it. Quite right of you.” + </p> + <p> + “Uncle, I will not deceive you. Your letter arrived after the event. The + cause of the rupture was quite apart from that.” + </p> + <p> + “And the cause was?” + </p> + <p> + “The sudden shattering of my illusions.” + </p> + <p> + “Men still have illusions about these creatures?” + </p> + <p> + “She was a perfect creature, and worthy of all respect.” + </p> + <p> + “Come, come!” + </p> + <p> + “I must ask you to believe me. I thought her affections free.” + </p> + <p> + “And she was—” + </p> + <p> + “Betrothed.” + </p> + <p> + “Really now, that’s very funny!” + </p> + <p> + “I did not find it funny, uncle. I suffered bitterly, I assure you.” + </p> + <p> + “I dare say, I dare say. The illusions you spoke of anyhow, it’s all over + now?” + </p> + <p> + “Quite over.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, that being the case, Fabien, I am ready to help you. Confess + frankly to me. How much is required?” + </p> + <p> + “How much?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, you want something, I dare say, to close the incident. You know what + I mean, eh? to purchase what I might call the veil of oblivion. How much?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, nothing at all, uncle.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be afraid, Fabien; I’ve got the money with me.” + </p> + <p> + “You have quite mistaken the case, uncle; there is no question of money. I + must tell you again that the young lady is of the highest respectability.” + </p> + <p> + My uncle stared. + </p> + <p> + “I assure you, uncle. I am speaking of Mademoiselle Jeanne Charnot.” + </p> + <p> + “I dare say.” + </p> + <p> + “The daughter of a member of the Institute.” + </p> + <p> + “What!” + </p> + <p> + My uncle gave a jump and stood still. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, of Mademoiselle Charnot, whom I was in love with and wished to + marry. Do you understand?” + </p> + <p> + He leaned against the railing and folded his arms. + </p> + <p> + “Marry! Well, I never! A woman you wanted to marry?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, yes; what’s the matter?” + </p> + <p> + “To marry! How could I have imagined such a thing? Here were matters of + the utmost importance going on, and I knew nothing about them. Marry! You + might be announcing your betrothal to me at this moment if you’d-Still you + are quite sure she is betrothed?” + </p> + <p> + “Larive told me so.” + </p> + <p> + “Who’s Larive?” + </p> + <p> + “A friend of mine.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, so you have only heard it through a friend?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, uncle. Do you really think there may still be hope, that I still + have a chance?” + </p> + <p> + “No, no; not the slightest. She is sure to be betrothed, very much + betrothed. I tell you I am glad she is. The Mouillards do not come to + Paris for their wives, Fabien—we do not want a Parisienne to carry + on the traditions of the family, and the practice. A Parisienne! I shudder + at the thought of it. Fabien, you will leave Paris with me to-morrow. + That’s understood.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not, uncle.” + </p> + <p> + “Your reasons?” + </p> + <p> + “Because I can not leave my friends without saying goodby, and because I + have need to reflect before definitely binding myself to the legal + profession.” + </p> + <p> + “To reflect! You want to reflect before taking over a family practice, + which has been destined for you since you were an infant, in view of which + you have been working for five years, and which I have nursed for you, I, + your uncle, as if you had been my son?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, uncle.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be a fool! You can reflect at Bourges quite as well as here. Your + object in staying here is to see her again.” + </p> + <p> + “It is not.” + </p> + <p> + “To wander like a troubled spirit up and down her street. By the way, + which is her street?” + </p> + <p> + “Rue de l’Universite.” + </p> + <p> + My uncle took out his pocketbook and made a note, “Charnot, Rue de + l’Universite.” Then all his features expanded. He gave a snort, which I + understood, for I had often heard it in court at Bourges, where it meant, + “There is no escape now. Old Mouillard has cornered his man.” + </p> + <p> + My uncle replaced his pencil in its case, and his notebook in his pocket, + and merely added: + </p> + <p> + “Fabien, you’re not yourself to-night. We’ll talk of the matter another + time. Five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.” He was counting on his fingers. + “These return tickets are very convenient; I need not leave before + to-morrow evening. And, what’s more, you’ll go with me, my boy.” + </p> + <p> + M. Mouillard talked only on indifferent subjects during our brief walk + from the Rue Soufflot to catch the omnibus at the Odeon. There he shook me + by the hand and sprang nimbly into the first bus. A lady in black, with + veil tightly drawn over a little turned up nose, seeing my uncle burst in + like a bomb, and make for the seat beside her, hurriedly drew in the folds + of her dress, which were spread over the seat. My uncle noticed her + action, and, fearing he had been rude, bent over toward her with an + affable expression. “Do not disturb yourself, Madame. I am not going all + the way to Batignolles; no farther, indeed, than the Boulevards. I shall + inconvenience you for a few moments only, a very few moments, Madame.” I + had time to remark that the lady, after giving her neighbor a glance of + Juno-like disdain, turned her back upon him, and proceeded to study the + straps hanging from the roof. + </p> + <p> + The brake was taken off, the conductor whistled, the three horses, their + hoofs hammering the pavement, strained for an instant amid showers of + sparks, and the long vehicle vanished down the Rue de Vaugirard, bearing + with it Brutus and his fortunes. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X. A FAMILY BREACH + </h2> + <h3> + May 10th. + </h3> + <p> + It is an awful fate to be the nephew of M. Mouillard! I always knew he was + obstinate, capable alike of guile and daring, but I little imagined what + his intentions were when he left me! + </p> + <p> + My refusal to start, and my prayer for a respite before embarking in his + practice, drove him wild. He lost his head, and swore to drag me off, ‘per + fas et nefas’. He has mentally begun a new action—Mouillard v. + Mouillard, and is already tackling the brief; which is as much as to say + that he is fierce, unbridled, heartless, and without remorse. + </p> + <p> + Some might have bent. I preferred to break. + </p> + <p> + We are strangers for life. I have just seen him to the landing of my + staircase. + </p> + <p> + He came here about a quarter of an hour ago, proud, and, I may say, + swaggering, as he does over his learned friends when he has found a flaw + in one of their pleadings. + </p> + <p> + “Well, nephew?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, uncle?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve got some news for you.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed?” + </p> + <p> + M. Mouillard banged his hat down furiously upon my table. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, you know my maxim: when anything does not seem quite clear to me—” + </p> + <p> + “You ferret it out.” + </p> + <p> + “Quite so; I have always found it answer. Your business did not seem clear + to me. Was Mademoiselle Charnot betrothed, or was she not? To what extent + had she encouraged your attentions? You never would have told me the story + correctly, and I never should have known. That being so, I put my maxim + into practice, and went to see her father.” + </p> + <p> + “You did that?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly I did.” + </p> + <p> + “You have been to see Monsieur Charnot?” + </p> + <p> + “In the Rue de l’Universite. Wasn’t it the simplest thing to do? Besides, + I was not sorry to make the acquaintance of a member of the Institute. And + I must admit that he behaved very nicely to me—not a bit stuck up.” + </p> + <p> + “And you told him?” + </p> + <p> + “My name to begin with: Brutus Mouillard. He reflected a bit, just a + moment, and recalled your appearance: a shy youth, a bachelor of arts, + wearing an eyeglass.” + </p> + <p> + “Was that all his description?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, he remembered seeing you at the National Library, and once at his + house. I said to him, ‘That is my nephew, Monsieur Charnot.’ He replied, + ‘I congratulate you, sir; he seems a youth of parts.’—‘That he is, + but his heart is very inflammable.’—‘At his age, sir, who is not + liable to take fire?’ That was how we began. Your friend Monsieur Charnot + has a pretty wit. I did not want to be behindhand with him, so I answered, + ‘Well, sir, it caught fire in your house.’ He started with fright and + looked all round the room. I was vastly amused. Then we came to + explanations. I put the case before him, that you were in love with his + daughter, without my consent, but with perfectly honorable intentions; + that I had guessed it from your letters, from your unpardonable neglect of + your duties to your family, and that I hurried hither from Bourges to take + in the situation. With that I concluded, and waited for him to develop. + There are occasions when you must let people develop. I could not jump + down his throat with, ‘Sir, would you kindly tell me whether your daughter + is betrothed or not?’ You follow me? He thought, no doubt, I had come to + ask for his daughter’s hand, and passing one hand over his forehead, he + replied, ‘Sir, I feel greatly flattered by your proposal, and I should + certainly give it my serious attention, were it not that my daughter’s + hand is already sought by the son of an old schoolfellow of mine, which + circumstance, as you will readily understand, does not permit of my + entertaining an offer which otherwise should have received the most mature + consideration.’ I had learned what I came for without risking anything. + Well, I didn’t conceal from him that, so far as I was concerned, I would + rather you took your wife from the country than that you brought home the + most charming Parisienne; and that the Mouillards from father to son had + always taken their wives from Bourges. He entered perfectly into my + sentiments, and we parted the best of friends. Now, my boy, the facts are + ascertained: Mademoiselle Charnot is another’s; you must get your mourning + over and start with me to-night. To-morrow morning we shall be in Bourges, + and you’ll soon be laughing over your Parisian delusions, I warrant you!” + </p> + <p> + I had heard my uncle out without interrupting him, though wrath, + astonishment, and my habitual respect for M. Mouillard were struggling for + the mastery within me. I needed all my strength of mind to answer, with + apparent calm. + </p> + <p> + “Yesterday, uncle, I had not made up my mind; today I have.” + </p> + <p> + “You are coming?” + </p> + <p> + “I am not. Your action in this matter, uncle—I do not know if you + are aware of it—has been perfectly unheard-of. I can not acknowledge + your right to act thus. It puts between you and me two hundred miles of + rail, and that forever. Do you understand me? You have taken the liberty + of disclosing a secret which was not yours to tell; you have revealed a + passion which, as it was hopeless, should not have been further mentioned, + and certainly not exposed to such humiliation. You went to see Monsieur + Charnot without reflecting whether you were not bringing trouble into his + household; without reflecting, further, whether such conduct as yours, + which may perhaps be usual among your business acquaintances, was likely + to succeed with me. Perhaps you thought it would. You have merely + completed an experiment, begun long ago, which proves that we do not + understand life in the same way, and that it will be better for both of us + if I continue to live in Paris, and you continue to live at Bourges.” + </p> + <p> + “Ha! that’s how you take it, young man, is it? You refuse to come? you try + to bully me?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Consider carefully before you let me leave here alone. You know the + amount of your fortune—fourteen hundred francs a year, which means + poverty in Paris.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I do.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, attend to what I am about to say. For years past I have been + saving my practice for you—that is, an honorable and lucrative + position all ready for you to step into. But I am tired at length of your + fads and your fancies. If you do not take up your quarters at Bourges + within a fortnight from now, the Mouillard practice will change its name + within three weeks!” My uncle sniffed with emotion as he looked at me, + expecting to see me totter beneath his threats. I made no answer for a + moment; but a thought which had been harassing me from the beginning of + our interview compelled me to say: + </p> + <p> + “I have only one thing to ask you, Monsieur Mouillard.” + </p> + <p> + “Further respite, I suppose? Time to reflect and fool me again? No, a + hundred times no! I’ve had enough of you; a fortnight, not a day more!” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir; I do not ask for respite.” + </p> + <p> + “So much the better, for I should refuse it. What do you want?” + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Mouillard, I trust that Jeanne was not present at the interview, + that she heard none of it, that she was not forced to blush—” + </p> + <p> + My uncle sprang to his feet, seized his gloves, which lay spread out on + the table, bundled them up, flung them passionately into his hat, clapped + the whole on his head, and made for the door with angry strides. + </p> + <p> + I followed him; he never looked back, never made answer to my “Good-by, + uncle.” But, at the sixth step, just before turning the corner, he raised + his stick, gave the banisters a blow fit to break them, and went on his + way downstairs exclaiming: + </p> + <p> + “Damnation!” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + May 20th. +</pre> + <p> + And so we have parted with an oath, my uncle and I! That is how I have + broken with the only relative I possess. It is now ten days since then. I + now have five left in which to mend the broken thread of the family + tradition, and become a lawyer. But nothing points to such conversion. On + the contrary, I feel relieved of a heavy weight, pleased to be free, to + have no profession. I feel the thrill of pleasure that a fugitive from + justice feels on clearing the frontier. Perhaps I was meant for a + different course of life than the one I was forced to follow. As a child I + was brought up to worship the Mouillard practice, with the fixed idea that + this profession alone could suit me; heir apparent to a lawyer’s stool—born + to it, brought up to it, without any idea, at any rate for a long time, + that I could possibly free myself from the traditions of the law’s sacred + jargon. + </p> + <p> + I have quite got over that now. The courts, where I have been a frequent + spectator, seem to me full of talented men who fine down and belittle + their talents in the practice of law. Nothing uses up the nobler virtues + more quickly than a practice at the bar. Generosity, enthusiasm, + sensibility, true and ready sympathy—all are taken, leaving the man, + in many instances nothing but a skilful actor, who apes all the emotions + while feeling none. And the comedy is none the less repugnant to me + because it is played through with a solemn face, and the actors are richly + recompensed. + </p> + <p> + Lampron is not like this. He has given play to all the noble qualities of + his nature. I envy him. I admire his disinterestedness, his broad views of + life, his faith in good in spite of evil, his belief in poetry in spite of + prose, his unspoiled capacity for receiving new impressions and illusions—a + capacity which, amid the crowds that grow old in mind before they are old + in body, keeps him still young and boyish. I think I might have been + devoted to his profession, or to literature, or to anything but law. + </p> + <p> + We shall see. For the present I have taken a plunge into the unknown. My + time is all my own, my freedom is absolute, and I am enjoying it. + </p> + <p> + I have hidden nothing from Lampron. As my friend he is pleased, I can see, + at a resolve which keeps me in Paris; but his prudence cries out upon it. + </p> + <p> + “It is easy enough to refuse a profession,” he said; “harder to find + another in its place. What do you intend to do?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear fellow, you seem to be trusting to luck. At sixteen that might be + permissible, at twenty-four it’s a mistake.” + </p> + <p> + “So much the worse, for I shall make the mistake. If I have to live on + little—well, you’ve tried that before now; I shall only be following + you.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s true; I have known want, and even now it attacks me sometimes; + it’s like influenza, which does not leave its victims all at once; but it + is hard, I can tell you, to do without the necessaries of life; as for its + luxuries—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, of course, no one can do without its luxuries.” + </p> + <p> + “You are incorrigible,” he answered, with a laugh. Then he said no more. + Lampron’s silence is the only argument which struggles in my heart in + favor of the Mouillard practice. Who can guess from what quarter the wind + will blow? + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI. IN THE BEATEN PATH + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + June 5th. +</pre> + <p> + The die is cast; I will not be a lawyer. + </p> + <p> + The tradition of the Mouillards is broken for good, Sylvestre is defeated + for good, and I am free for good—and quite uncertain of my future. + </p> + <p> + I have written my uncle a calm, polite, and clearly worded letter to + confirm my decision. He has not answered it, nor did I expect an answer. + </p> + <p> + I expected, however, that he would be avenged by some faint regret on my + part, by one of those light mists that so often arise and hang about our + firmest resolutions. But no such mist has arisen. + </p> + <p> + Still, Law has had her revenge. Abandoned at Bourges, she has recaptured + me at Paris, for a time. I realized that it was impossible for me to live + on an income of fourteen hundred francs. The friends whom I discreetly + questioned, in behalf of an unnamed acquaintance, as to the means of + earning money, gave me various answers. Here is a fairly complete list of + their expedients: + </p> + <p> + “If your friend is at all clever, he should write a novel.” + </p> + <p> + “If he is not, there is the catalogue of the National Library: ten hours + of indexing a day.” + </p> + <p> + “If he has ambition, let him become a wine-merchant.” + </p> + <p> + “No; ‘Old Clo,’ and get his hats gratis.” + </p> + <p> + “If he is very plain, and has no voice, he can sing in the chorus at the + opera.” + </p> + <p> + “Shorthand writer in the Senate is a peaceful occupation.” + </p> + <p> + “Teacher of Volapuk is the profession of the future.” + </p> + <p> + “Try ‘Hallo, are you there?’ in the telephones.” + </p> + <p> + “Wants to earn money? Advise him first not to lose any!” + </p> + <p> + The most sensible one, who guessed the name of the acquaintance I was + interested in, said: + </p> + <p> + “You have been a managing clerk; go back to it.” + </p> + <p> + And as the situation chanced to be vacant, I went back to my old master. I + took my old seat and den as managing clerk between the outer office and + Counsellor Boule’s glass cage. I correct the drafts of the inferior + clerks; I see the clients and instruct them how to proceed. They often + take me for the counsellor himself. I go to the courts nearly every day, + and hang about chief clerks’ and judges’ chambers; and go to the theatre + once a week with the “paper” supplied to the office. + </p> + <p> + Do I call this a profession? No, merely a stop-gap which allows me to live + and wait for something to turn up. I sometimes have forebodings that I + shall go on like this forever, waiting for something which will never turn + up; that this temporary occupation may become only too permanent. + </p> + <p> + There is an old clerk in the office who has never had any other + occupation, whose appearance is a kind of warning to me. He has a red face—the + effect of the office stove, I think—straight, white hair, the + expression when spoken to of a startled sheep-gentle, astonished, slightly + flurried. His attenuated back is rounded off with a stoop between the neck + and shoulders. He can hardly keep his hands from shaking. His signature is + a work of art. He can stick at his desk for six hours without stirring. + While we lunch at a restaurant, he consumes at the office some nondescript + provisions which he brings in the morning in a paper bag. On Sundays he + fishes, for a change; his rod takes the place of his pen, and his can of + worms serves instead of inkstand. + </p> + <p> + He and I have already one point of resemblance. The old clerk was once + crossed in love with a flowergirl, one Mademoiselle Elodie. He has told me + this one tragedy of his life. In days gone by I used to think this + thirty-year-old love-story dull and commonplace; to-day I understand M. + Jupille; I relish him even. He and I have become sympathetic. I no longer + make him move from his seat by the fire when I want to ask him a question: + I go to him. On Sundays, on the quays by the Seine, I pick him out from + the crowd intent upon the capture of tittlebats, because he is seated upon + his handkerchief. I go up to him and we have a talk. + </p> + <p> + “Fish biting, Monsieur Jupille?” + </p> + <p> + “Hardly at all.” + </p> + <p> + “Sport is not what it used to be?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! Monsieur Mouillard, if you could have seen it thirty years ago!” + </p> + <p> + This date is always cropping up with him. Have we not all our own date, a + few months, a few days, perhaps a single hour of full-hearted joy, for + which half our life has been a preparation, and of which the other half + must be a remembrance? + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + June 5th. +</pre> + <p> + “Monsieur Mouillard, here is an application for leave to sign judgment in + a fresh matter.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well, give it me.” + </p> + <p> + “To the President of the Civil Court: + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Plumet, of 27 Rue Hauteville, in the city of Paris, by + Counsellor Boule, his advocate, craves leave—” + </p> + <p> + It was a proceeding against a refractory debtor, the commonest thing in + the world. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Massinot!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Who brought these papers?” + </p> + <p> + “A very pretty little woman brought them this morning while you were out, + sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Massinot, whether she was pretty or not, it is no business of + yours to criticise the looks of the clients.” + </p> + <p> + “I did not mean to offend you, Monsieur Mouillard.” + </p> + <p> + “You have not offended me, but you have no business to talk of a ‘pretty + client.’ That epithet is not allowed in a pleading, that’s all. The lady + is coming back, I suppose?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir.” + </p> + <p> + Little Madame Plumet soon called again, tricked out from head to foot in + the latest fashion. She was a little flurried on entering a room full of + jocular clerks. Escorted by Massinot, both of them with their eyes fixed + on the ground, she reached my office. I closed the door after her. She + recognized me. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Mouillard! What a pleasant surprise!” + </p> + <p> + She held out her hand to me so frankly and gracefully that I gave her + mine, and felt sure, from the firm, expressive way in which she clasped + it, that Madame Plumet was really pleased to see me. Her ruddy cheeks and + bright eyes recalled my first impression of her, the little dressmaker + running from the workshop to the office, full of her love for M. Plumet + and her grievances against the wicked cabinetmaker. + </p> + <p> + “What, you are back again with Counsellor Boule? I am surprised!” + </p> + <p> + “So am I, Madame Plumet, very much surprised. But such is life! How is + Master Pierre progressing?” + </p> + <p> + “Not quite so well, poor darling, since I weaned him. I had to wean him, + Monsieur Mouillard, because I have gone back to my old trade.” + </p> + <p> + “Dressmaking?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, on my own account this time. I have taken the flat opposite to ours, + on the same floor. Plumet makes frames, while I make gowns. I have already + three workgirls, and enough customers to give me a start. I do not charge + them very dear to begin with. + </p> + <p> + “One of my customers was a very nice young lady—you know who! I have + not talked to her of you, but I have often wanted to. By the way, Monsieur + Mouillard, did I do my errand well?” + </p> + <p> + “What errand?” + </p> + <p> + “The important one, about the portrait at the Salon.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes; very well indeed. I must thank you.” + </p> + <p> + “She came?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, with her father.” + </p> + <p> + “She must have been pleased! The drawing was so pretty. Plumet, who is not + much of a talker, is never tired of praising it. I tell you, he and I did + not spare ourselves. He made a bit of a fuss before he would take the + order; he was in a hurry—such a hurry; but when he saw that I was + bent on it he gave in. And it is not the first time he has given in. + Plumet is a good soul, Monsieur Mouillard. When you know him better you + will see what a good soul he is. Well, while he was cutting out the frame, + I went to the porter’s wife. What a business it was! I am glad my errand + was successful!” + </p> + <p> + “It was too good of you, Madame Plumet; but it was useless, alas! she is + to marry another.” + </p> + <p> + “Marry another? Impossible!” + </p> + <p> + I thought Madame Plumet was about to faint. Had she heard that her son + Pierre had the croup, she could not have been more upset. Her bosom + heaved, she clasped her hands, and gazed at me with sorrowful compassion. + </p> + <p> + “Poor Monsieur Mouillard!” + </p> + <p> + And two tears, two real tears, coursed down Madame Plumet’s cheeks. I + should have liked to catch them. They were the only tears that had been + shed for me by a living soul since my mother died. + </p> + <p> + I had to tell her all, every word, down to my rival’s name. When she heard + that it was Baron Dufilleul, her indignation knew no bounds. She exclaimed + that the Baron was an awful man; that she knew all sorts of things about + him! Know him? she should think so! That such a union was impossible, that + it could never take place, that Plumet, she knew, would agree with her: + </p> + <p> + “Madame Plumet,” I said, “we have strayed some distance from the business + which brought you here. Let us return to your affairs; mine are hopeless, + and you can not remedy them.” + </p> + <p> + She got up trembling, her eyes red and her feelings a little hurt. + </p> + <p> + “My action? Oh, no! I can’t attend to it to-day. I’ve no heart to talk + about my business. What you’ve told me has made me too unhappy. Another + day, Monsieur Mouillard, another day.” + </p> + <p> + She left me with a look of mystery, and a pressure of the hand which + seemed to say: “Rely on me!” + </p> + <p> + Poor woman! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII. I GO TO ITALY + </h2> + <h3> + June 10th. + </h3> + <p> + In the train. We have passed the fortifications. The stuccoed houses of + the suburbs, the factories, taverns, and gloomy hovels in the debatable + land round Paris are so many points of sunshine in the far distance. The + train is going at full speed. The fields of green or gold are being + unrolled like ribbons before my eyes. Now and again a metallic sound and a + glimpse of columns and advertisements show that we are rushing through a + station in a whirlwind of dust. A flash of light across our path is a + tributary of the river. I am off, well on my way, and no one can stop me—not + Lampron, nor Counsellor Boule, nor yet Plumet. The dream of years is about + to be realized. I am going to see Italy—merely a corner of it; but + what a pleasure even that is, and what unlooked-for luck! + </p> + <p> + A few days ago, Counsellor Boule called me into his office. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Mouillard, you speak Italian fluently, don’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir.” “Would you like a trip at a client’s expense?” + </p> + <p> + “With pleasure, wherever you like.” + </p> + <p> + “To Italy?” + </p> + <p> + “With very great pleasure.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought so, and gave your name to the court without asking your + consent. It’s a commission to examine documents at Milan, to prove some + copies of deeds and other papers, put in by a supposititious Italian heir + to establish his rights to a rather large property. You remember the case + of Zampini against Veldon and others?” + </p> + <p> + “Quite well.” + </p> + <p> + “It is Zampini’s copies of the deeds on which he bases his claim which you + will have to compare with the originals, with the help of a clerk from the + Record Office and a sworn translator. You can go by Switzerland or by the + Corniche route, as you please. You will be allowed six hundred francs and + a fortnight’s holiday. Does that suit you?” + </p> + <p> + “I should think so!” + </p> + <p> + “Then pack up and be off. You must be at Milan by the morning of the + eighteenth.” + </p> + <p> + I ran to tell the news to Lampron, who was filled with surprise and not a + little emotion at the mention of Italy. And here I am flying along in the + Lyons express, without a regret for Paris. All my heart leaps forward + toward Switzerland, where I shall be to-morrow. I have chosen this green + route to take me to the land of blue skies. Up to the last moment I feared + that some obstacle would arise, that the ill-luck which dogs my footsteps + would keep me back, and I am quite surprised that it has let me off. True, + I nearly lost the train, and the horse of cab No. 7382 must have been a + retired racer to make up for the loss of time caused by M. Plumet. + </p> + <p> + Counsellor Boule sent me on a business errand an hour before I started. On + my way back, just as I was crossing the Place de l’Opera in the aforesaid + cab, a voice hailed me: + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Mouillard!” + </p> + <p> + I looked first to the right and then to the left, till, on a refuge, I + caught sight of M. Plumet struggling to attract my attention. I stopped + the cab, and a smile of satisfaction spread over M. Plumet’s countenance. + He stepped off the refuge. I opened the cab-door. But a brougham passed, + and the horse pushed me back into the cab with his nose. I opened the door + a second time; another brougham came by; then a third; finally two serried + lines of traffic cut me off from M. Plumet, who kept shouting something to + me which the noise of the wheels and the crowd prevented me from hearing. + I signalled my despair to M. Plumet. He rose on tiptoe. I could not hear + any better. + </p> + <p> + Five minutes lost! Impossible to wait any longer! Besides, who could tell + that it was not a trap to prevent my departure, though in friendly guise? + I shuddered at the thought and shouted: + </p> + <p> + “Gare de Lyon, cabby, as fast as you can drive!” + </p> + <p> + My orders were obeyed. We got to the station to find the train made up and + ready to start, and I was the last to take a ticket. + </p> + <p> + I suppose M. Plumet managed to escape from his refuge. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + GENEVA. +</pre> + <p> + On my arrival I found, keeping order on the way outside the station, the + drollest policeman that ever stepped out of a comic opera. At home we + should have had to protect him against the boys; here he protects others. + </p> + <p> + Well, it shows that I am really abroad. + </p> + <p> + I have only two hours to spare in this town. What shall I see? The + country; that is always beautiful, whereas many so-called “sights” are + not. I will make for the shores of the lake, for the spot where the Rhone + leaves it, to flow toward France. The Rhone, which is so muddy at Avignon, + is clean here; deep and clear as a creek of the sea. It rushes along in a + narrow blue torrent compressed between a quay and a line of houses. + </p> + <p> + The river draws me after it. We leave the town together, and I am soon in + the midst of those market-gardens where the infant Topffer lost himself, + and, overtaken by nightfall, fell to making his famous analysis of fear. + The big pumping wheels still overtop the willows, and cast their shadows + over the lettuce-fields. In the distance rise slopes of woodland, on + Sundays the haunt of holiday-makers. The Rhone leaps and eddies, singing + over its gravel beds. Two trout-fishers are taxing all their strength to + pull a boat up stream beneath the shelter of the bank. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps I was wrong in not waiting to hear what M. Plumet had to tell me. + He is not the kind of man to gesticulate wildly without good reason. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ON THE LAKE. +</pre> + <p> + The steamer is gaining the open water and Geneva already lies far behind. + Not a ripple on the blue water that shades into deep blue behind us. Ahead + the scene melts into a milky haze. A little boat, with idle sails + embroidered with sunlight, vanishes into it. On the right rise the + mountains of Savoy, dotted with forests, veiled in clouds which cast their + shadows on the broken slopes. The contrast is happy, and I can not help + admiring Leman’s lovely smile at the foot of these rugged mountains. + </p> + <p> + At the bend in the banks near St. Maurice-en-Valais, the wind catches us, + quite a squall. The lake becomes a sea. At the first roll an Englishwoman + becomes seasick. She casts an expiring glance upon Chillon, the ancient + towers of which are being lashed by the foam. Her husband does not think + it worth his while to cease reading his guide-book or focusing his + field-glass for so trifling a matter. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ON THE DILIGENCE +</pre> + <p> + I am crossing the Simplon at daybreak, with rosepink glaciers on every + side. We are trotting down the Italian slope. How I have longed for the + sight of Italy! Hardly had the diligence put on the brake, and begun + bowling down the mountain-side, before I discovered a change on the face + of all things. The sky turned to a brighter blue. At the very first glance + I seemed to see the dust of long summers on the leaves of the firs, six + thousand feet above the sea, in the virgin atmosphere of the + mountain-tops: and I was very near taking the creaking of my loosely fixed + seat for the southern melody of the first grasshopper. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + BAVENO +</pre> + <p> + No one could be mistaken; this shaven, obsequious, suavely jovial + innkeeper is a Neapolitan. He takes his stand in his mosaic-paved hall, + and is at the service of all who wish for information about Lago Maggiore, + the list of its sights; in a word, the programme of the piece. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ISOLA BELLA, ISOLA MADRE. +</pre> + <p> + Yes, they are scraped clean, carefully tended, pretty, all a-blowing and + a-growing; but unreal. The palm trees are unhomely, the tropical plants + seem to stand behind footlights. Restore them to their homes, or give me + back Lake Leman, so simply grand. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + MENAGGIO. +</pre> + <p> + After the sky-blue of Maggiore and the vivid green of Lugano, comes the + violet-blue of Como, with its luminous landscape, its banks covered with + olives, Roman ruins, and modern villas. Never have I felt the air so + clear. Here for the first time I said to myself: “This is the spot where I + would choose to dwell.” I have even selected my house; it peeps out from a + mass of pomegranates, evergreens, and citrons, on a peninsula around which + the water swells with gentle murmur, and whence the view is perfect across + lake, mountain, and sky. + </p> + <p> + A nightingale is singing, and I can not help reflecting that his fellows + here are put to death in thousands. Yes, the reapers, famed in poems and + lithographs, are desperate bird-catchers. At the season of migration they + capture thousands of these weary travellers with snares or limed twigs; on + Maggiore alone sixty thousand meet their end. We have but those they + choose to leave us to charm our summer nights. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps they will kill my nightingale in the Carmelite garden. The idea + fills me with indignation. + </p> + <p> + Then my thoughts run back to my rooms in the Rue de Rennes, and I see + Madame Menin, with a dejected air, dusting my slumbering furniture; + Lampron at work, his mother knitting; the old clerk growing sleepy with + the heat and lifting his pen as he fancies he has got a bite; Madame + Plumet amid her covey of workgirls, and M. Plumet blowing away with + impatient breath the gold dust which the gum has failed to fix on the + mouldings of a newly finished frame. + </p> + <p> + M. Plumet is pensive. He is burdened with a secret. I am convinced I did + wrong in not waiting longer on the Place de L’Opera. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + MILAN. +</pre> + <p> + At last I am in Milan, an ancient city, but full of ideas and energy, my + destination, and the cradle of the excellent Porfirio Zampini, suspected + forger. The examination of documents does not begin till the day after + to-morrow, so I am making the best of the time in seeing the sights. + </p> + <p> + There are four sights to see at Milan if you are a musician, and three if + you are not: the Duomo, ‘vulgo’, cathedral; “The Marriage of the Virgin,” + by Raphael; “The Last Supper,” by Leonardo; and, if it suits your tastes, + a performance at La Scala. + </p> + <p> + I began with the Duomo, and on leaving it I received the news that still + worries me. + </p> + <p> + But first of all I must make a confession. When I ascended through the + tropical heat to the marble roof of the cathedral, I expected so much that + I was disappointed. Surprise goes for so much in what we admire. Neither + this mountain of marble, nor the lacework and pinnacles which adorn the + enormous mass, nor the amazing number of statues, nor the sight of men + smaller than flies on the Piazza del Duomo, nor the vast stretch of flat + country which spreads for miles on every side of the city—none of + these sights kindled the spark of enthusiasm within me which has often + glowed for much less. No, what pleased me was something quite different, a + detail not noticed in the guide-books, I suppose. + </p> + <p> + I had come down from the roof and was wandering in the vast nave from + pillar to pillar, when I found myself beneath the lantern. I raised my + eyes, but the flood of golden light compelled me to close them. The + sunlight passing through the yellow glass of the windows overhead + encircled the mighty vault of the lantern with a fiery crown, and played + around the walls of its cage in rays which, growing fainter as they fell, + flooded the floor with their expiring flames, a mysterious dayspring, a + diffused glory, through which litany and sacred chant winged their way up + toward the Infinite. + </p> + <p> + I left the cathedral tired out, dazed with weariness and sunlight, and + fell asleep in a chair as soon as I got back to my room, on the fifth + floor of the Albergo dell’ Agnello. + </p> + <p> + I had been asleep for about an hour, perhaps, when I thought I heard a + voice near me repeating “Illustre Signore!” + </p> + <p> + I did not wake. The voice continued with a murmur of sibilants: + </p> + <p> + “Illustrissimo Signore!” + </p> + <p> + This drew me from my sleep, for the human ear is very susceptible to + superlatives. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “A letter for your lordship. As it is marked ‘Immediate,’ I thought I + might take the liberty of disturbing your lordship’s slumbers.” + </p> + <p> + “You did quite right, Tomaso.” + </p> + <p> + “You owe me eight sous, signore, which I paid for the postage.” + </p> + <p> + “There’s half a franc, keep the change.” + </p> + <p> + He retired calling me Monsieur le Comte; and all for two sous—O + fatherland of Brutus! The letter was from Lampron, who had forgotten to + put a stamp on it. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “MY DEAR FRIEND: + + “Madame Plumet, to whom I believe you have given no instructions so + to do, is at present busying herself considerably about your + affairs. I felt I ought to warn you, because she is all heart and + no brains, and I have often seen before the trouble into which an + overzealous friend may get one, especially if the friend be a woman. + + “I fear some serious indiscretion has been committed, for the + following reasons. + + “Yesterday evening Monsieur Plumet came to see me, and stood pulling + furiously at his beard, which I know from experience is his way of + showing that the world is not going around the right way for him. + By means of questions, I succeeded, after some difficulty, in + dragging from him about half what he had to tell me. The only thing + which he made quite clear was his distress on finding that Madame + Plumet was a woman whom it was hard to silence or to convince by + argument. + + “It appears that she has gone back to her old trade of dress-making, + and that one of her first customers—God knows how she got there!— + was Mademoiselle Jeanne Charnot. + + “Well, last Monday Mademoiselle Jeanne was selecting a hat. She was + blithe as dawn, while the dressmaker was gloomy as night. + + “‘Is your little boy ill, Madame Plumet?’ + + “‘No, Mademoiselle.’ + + “‘You look so sad.’ + + “Then, according to her husband’s words, Madame Plumet took her + courage in her two hands, and looking her pretty customer in the + face, said: + + “‘Mademoiselle, why are you marrying?’ + + “‘What a funny question! Why, because I am old enough; because I + have had an offer; because all young girls marry, or else they go + into convents, or become old maids. Well, Madame Plumet, I never + have felt a religious vocation, and I never expected to become an + old maid. Why do you ask such a question?’ + + “‘Because, Mademoiselle, married life may be very happy, but it may + be quite the reverse!’ + + “After giving expression to this excellent aphorism, Madame Plumet, + unable to contain herself any longer, burst into tears. + + “Mademoiselle Jeanne, who had been laughing before, was now amazed + and presently grew rather anxious. + + “Still, her pride kept her from asking any further questions, and + Madame Plumet was too much frightened to add a word to her answer. + But they will meet again the day after to-morrow, on account of the + hat, as before. + + “Here the story grew confused, and I understood no more of it. + + “Clearly there is more behind this. Monsieur Plumet never would + have gone out of his way merely to inform me that his wife had given + him a taste of her tongue, nor would he have looked so upset about + it. But you know the fellow’s way; whenever it’s important for him + to make himself clear he loses what little power of speech he has, + becomes worse than dumb-unintelligible. He sputtered inconsequent + ejaculations at me in this fashion: + + “‘To think of it, to-morrow, perhaps! And you know what a + business! Oh, damnation! Anyhow, that must not be! Ah! Monsieur + Lampron, how women do talk!’ + + “And with this Monsieur Plumet left me. + + “I must confess, old fellow, that I am not burning with desire to + get mixed up in this mess, or to go and ask Madame Plumet for the + explanation which her husband was unable to give me. I shall bide + my time. If anything turns up to-morrow, they are sure to tell me, + and I will write you word. + + “My mother sends you her love, and begs you to wrap up warmly in the + evening; she says the twilight is the winter of hot climates. + + “The dear woman has been a little out of sorts for the last two + days. Today she is keeping her bed. I trust it is nothing but a + cold. + + “Your affectionate friend, + + “SYLVESTRE LAMPRON.” + </pre> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIII. STARTLING NEWS FROM SYLVESTRE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + MILAN, June 18th. +</pre> + <p> + The examination of documents began this morning. I never thought we should + have such a heap to examine, nor papers of such a length. The first + sitting passed almost entirely in classifying, in examining signatures, in + skirmishes of all kinds around this main body. + </p> + <p> + My colleagues and I are working in a room in the municipal Palazzo del + Marino, a vast deserted building used, I believe, as a storehouse. Our + leathern armchairs and the table on which the documents are arranged + occupy the middle of the room. Along the walls are several cupboards, + nests of registers and rats; a few pictures with their faces to the wall; + some carved wood scutcheons, half a dozen flagstaffs and a triumphal arch + in cardboard, now taken to pieces and rotting—gloomy apparatus of + bygone festivals. + </p> + <p> + The persons taking part in the examination besides the three Frenchmen, + are, in the first place, a little Italian judge, with a mean face, + wrinkled like a winter apple, whose eyelids always seem heavy with sleep; + secondly, a clerk, shining with fat, his dress, hair, and countenance + expressive of restrained jollity, as he dreams voluptuous dreams of the + cool drinks he means to absorb through a straw when the hour of + deliverance shall sound from the frightful cuckoo clock, a relic of the + French occupation, which ticks at the end of the room; thirdly, a creature + whose position is difficult to determine—I think he must be employed + in some registry; he is here as a mere manual laborer. This third person + gives me the idea of being very much interested in the fortunes of Signore + Porfirio Zampini, for on each occasion, when his duties required him to + bring us documents, he whispered in my ear: + </p> + <p> + “If you only knew, my lord, what a man Zampini is! what a noble heart, + what a paladin!” + </p> + <p> + Take notice that this “paladin” is a macaroni-seller, strongly suspected + of trying to hoodwink the French courts. + </p> + <p> + Amid the awful heat which penetrated the windows, the doors, even the + sun-baked walls, we had to listen to, read, and compare documents. Gnats + of a ferocious kind, hatched by thousands in the hangings of this + hothouse, flew around our perspiring heads. Their buzzing got the upper + hand at intervals when the clerk’s voice grew weary and, diminishing in + volume, threatened to fade away into snores. + </p> + <p> + The little judge rapped on the table with his paperknife and urged the + reader afresh upon his wild career. My colleague from the Record Office + showed no sign of weariness. Motionless, attentive, classing the smallest + papers in his orderly mind, he did not even feel the’ gnats swooping upon + the veins in his hands, stinging them, sucking them, and flying off red + and distended with his blood. + </p> + <p> + I sat, both literally and metaphorically, on hot coals. Just as I came + into the room, the man from the Record Office handed me a letter which had + arrived at the hotel while I was out at lunch. It was a letter from + Lampron, in a large, bulky envelope. Clearly something important must have + happened. + </p> + <p> + My fate, perhaps, was settled, and was in the letter, while I knew it not. + I tried to get it out of my inside pocket several times, for to me it was + a far more interesting document than any that concerned Zampini’s action. + I pined to open it furtively, and read at least the first few lines. A + moment would have sufficed for me to get at the point of this long + communication. But at every attempt the judge’s eyes turned slowly upon me + between their half-closed lids, and made me desist. No—a thousand + times no! This smooth-tongued, wily Italian shall have no excuse for + proving that the French, who have already such a reputation for frivolity, + are a nation without a conscience, incapable of fulfilling the mission + with which they are charged. + </p> + <p> + And yet.... there came a moment when he turned his back and began to sort + a fresh bundle with the man of records. Here was an unlooked-for + opportunity. I cut open the envelope, unfolded the letter, and found eight + pages! Still I began: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “MY DEAR FRIEND: + + “In spite of my anxiety about my mother, and the care her illness + demands (to-day it is found to be undoubted congestion of the + lungs), I feel bound to tell you the story of what has happened in + the Rue Hautefeuille, as it is very important—” + </pre> + <p> + “Excuse me, Monsieur Mou-il-ard,” said the little judge, half turning + toward me, “does the paper you have there happen to be number + twenty-seven, which we are looking for?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, dear, no; it’s a private letter.” + </p> + <p> + “A private letter? I ask pardon for interrupting you.” + </p> + <p> + He gave a faint smile, closed his eyes to show his pity for such + frivolity, and turned away again satisfied, while the other members of the + Zampini Commission looked at me with interest. + </p> + <p> + The letter was important. So much the worse, I must finish it: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I will try to reconstruct the scene for you, from the details which + I have gathered. + + “The time is a quarter to ten in the morning. There is a knock at + Monsieur Plumet’s door. The door opposite is opened half-way and + Madame Plumet looks out. She withdraws in a hurry, ‘with her heart + in her mouth,’ as she says; the plot she has formed is about to + succeed or fail, the critical moment is at hand; the visitor is her + enemy, your rival Dufilleul. + + “He is full of self-confidence and comes in plump and flourishing, + with light gloves, and a terrier at his heels. + + “‘My portrait framed, Plumet?’ + + “‘Yes, my lord-yes, to be sure.’ + + “‘Let’s see it.’ + + “I have seen the famous portrait: a miniature of the newly created + baron, in fresh butter, I think, done cheap by some poor girl who + gains her living by coloring photographs. It is intended for + Mademoiselle Tigra of the Bouffes. A delicate attention from + Dufilleul, isn’t it? While Jeanne in her innocence is dreaming of + the words of love he has ventured to utter to her, and cherishes but + one thought, one image in her heart, he is exerting his ingenuity to + perpetuate the recollection of that image’s adventures elsewhere. + + “He is pleased with the elaborate and costly frame which Plumet has + made for him. + + “‘Very nice. How much?’ + + “‘One hundred and twenty francs.’ + + “‘Six louis? very dear.’ + + “‘That’s my price for this kind of work, my lord; I am very + busy just now, my lord.’ + + “‘Well, let it be this once. I don’t often have a picture framed; + to tell the truth, I don’t care for pictures.’ + + “Dufilleul admires and looks at himself in the vile portrait + which he holds outstretched in his right hand, while his left hand + feels in his purse. Monsieur Plumet looks very stiff, very unhappy, + and very nervous. He evidently wants to get his customer off the + premises. + + “The rustling of skirts is heard on the staircase. Plumet turns + pale, and glancing at the half-opened door, through which the + terrier is pushing its nose, steps forward to close it. It is too + late. + + “Some one has noiselessly opened it, and on the threshold stands + Mademoiselle Jeanne in walking-dress, looking, with bright eyes and + her most charming smile, at Plumet, who steps back in a fright, and + Dufilleul, who has not yet seen her. + + “‘Well, sir, and so I’ve caught you!’ + + “Dufilleul starts, and involuntarily clutches the portrait to his + waistcoat. + + “‘Mademoiselle—No, really, you have come—?’ + + “‘To see Madame Plumet. What wrong is there in that?’ + + “‘None whatever—of course not.’ + + “‘Not the least in the world, eh? Ha, ha! What a trifle flurries + you. Come now, collect yourself. There is nothing to be frightened + at. As I was coming upstairs, your dog put his muzzle out; I + guessed he was not alone, so I left my maid with Madame Plumet, and + came in at the right-hand door instead of the left. Do you think it + improper?’ + + “‘Oh, no, Mademoiselle.’ + + “‘However, I am inquisitive, and I should like to see what you are + hiding there.’ + + “‘It’s a portrait.’ + + “‘Hand it to me.’ + + “‘With pleasure; unfortunately it’s only a portrait of myself.’ + + “‘Why unfortunately? On the contrary, it flatters you—the nose is + not so long as the original; what do you say, Monsieur Plumet?’ + + “‘Do you think it good?’ + + “‘Very.’ + + “‘How do you like the frame?’ + + “‘It’s very pretty.’ + + “‘Then I make you a present of it, Mademoiselle.’ + + “‘Why! wasn’t it intended for me?’ + + “‘I mean—well! to tell the truth, it wasn’t; it’s a wedding + present, a souvenir—there’s nothing extraordinary in that, is + there?’ + + “‘Nothing whatever. You can tell me whom it’s for, I suppose?’ + + “‘Don’t you think that you are pushing your curiosity too far?’ + + “‘Well, really!’ + + “‘Yes, I mean it.’ + + “‘Since you make such a secret of it, I shall ask Monsieur Plumet to + tell me. Monsieur Plumet, for whom is this portrait?’ + + “Plumet, pale as death, fumbled at his workman’s cap, like a naughty + child. + + “‘Why, you see, Mademoiselle—I am only a poor framemaker.’ + + “‘Very well! I shall go to Madame Plumet, who is sure to know, and + will not mind telling me.’ + + “Madame Plumet, who must have been listening at the door, came in at + that moment, trembling like a leaf, and prepared to dare all. + + “I beg you won’t, Mademoiselle,’ broke in Dufilleul; ‘there is no + secret. I only wanted to tease you. The portrait is for a friend + of mine who lives at Fontainebleau.’ + + “‘His name?’ + + “‘Gonin—he’s a solicitor.’ + + “‘It was time you told me. How wretched you both looked. Another + time tell me straight out, and frankly, anything you have no reason + to conceal. Promise you won’t act like this again.’ + + “‘I promise.’ + + “‘Then, let us make peace.’ + + “She held out her hand to him. Before he could grasp it, Madame + Plumet broke in: + + “‘Excuse me, Mademoiselle, I can not have you deceived like this in + my house. Mademoiselle, it is not true!’ + + “‘What is not true, Madame?’ + + “‘That this portrait is for Monsieur Gonin, or anybody else at + Fontainebleau.’ + + “Mademoiselle Charnot drew back in surprise. + + “‘For whom, then?’ + + “‘An actress.’ + + “‘Take care what you are saying, Madame.’ + + “‘For Mademoiselle Tigra of the Bouffes.’ + + “‘Lies!’ cried Dufilleul. ‘Prove it, Madame; prove your story, + please!’ + + “‘Look at the back,’ answered Madame Plumet, quietly. + + “Mademoiselle Jeanne, who had not put down the miniature, turned it + over, read what was on the back, grew deathly pale, and handed it to + her lover. + + “‘What does it say?’ said Dufilleul, stooping over it. + + “It said: ‘From Monsieur le Baron D——-to Mademoiselle T——-, + Boulevard Haussmann. To be delivered on Thursday.’ + + “‘You can see at once, Mademoiselle, that this is not my writing. + It’s an abominable conspiracy. Monsieur Plumet, I call upon you to + give your wife the lie. She has written what is false; confess it!’ + + “The frame-maker hid his face in his hands and made no reply. + + “‘What, Plumet, have you nothing to say for me?’ + + “Mademoiselle Charnot was leaving the room. + + “‘Where are you going, Mademoiselle? Stay, you will soon see that + they lie!’ + + “She was already half-way across the landing when Dufilleul caught + her and seized her by the hand. + + “‘Stay, Jeanne, stay!’ + + “‘Let me go, sir!’ + + “‘No, hear me first; this is some horrible mistake. I swear’ + + “At this moment a high-pitched voice was heard on the staircase. + + “‘Well, George, how much longer are you going to keep me?’ + + “Dufilleul suddenly lost countenance and dropped Mademoiselle + Charnot’s hand. + + “The young girl bent over the banisters, and saw, at the bottom of + the staircase, exactly underneath her, a woman looking up, with head + thrown back and mouth still half-opened. Their eyes met. Jeanne at + once turned away her gaze. + + “Then, turning to Madame Plumet, who leaned motionless against the + wall: + + “‘Come, Madame,’ she said, ‘we must go and choose a hat.’ And she + closed the dressmaker’s door behind her. + + “This, my friend, is the true account of what happened in the Rue + Hautefeuille. I learned the details from Madame Plumet in person, + who could not contain herself for joy as she described the success + of her conspiracy, and how her little hand had guided old Dame + Fortune’s. For, as you will doubtless have guessed, the meeting + between Jeanne and her lover, so dreaded by the framemaker, had been + arranged by Madame Plumet unknown to all, and the damning + inscription was also in her handwriting. + + “I need not add that Mademoiselle Charnot, upset by the scene, had a + momentary attack of faintness. However, she soon regained her usual + firm and dignified demeanor, which seems to show that she is a woman + of energy. + + “But the interest of the story does not cease here. I think the + betrothal is definitely at an end. A betrothal is always a + difficult thing to renew, and after the publicity which attended the + rupture of this one, I do not see how they can make it up again. + One thing I feel sure of is, that Mademoiselle Jeanne Charnot will + never change her name to Madame Dufilleul. + + “Do not, however, exaggerate your own chances. They will be less + than you think for some time yet. I do not believe that a young + girl who has thus been wounded and deceived can forget all at once. + There is even the possibility of her never forgetting—of living + with her sorrow, preferring certain peace of mind, and the simple + joys of filial devotion, to all those dreams of married life by + which so many simple-hearted girls have been cruelly taken in. + + “In any case do not think of returning yet, for I know you are + capable of any imprudence. Stay where you are, examine your + documents, and wait. + + “My mother and I are passing through a bitter trial. She is ill, I + may say seriously ill. I would sooner bear the illness than my + present anxiety. + + “Your friend, + + “SYLVESTRE LAMPRON. + + “P. S.—Just as I was about to fasten up this letter, I got a note + from Madame Plumet to tell me that Monsieur and Mademoiselle Charnot + have left Paris. She does not know where they have gone.” + </pre> + <p> + I became completely absorbed over this letter. Some passages I read a + second time; and the state of agitation into which it threw me did not at + once pass away. I remained for an indefinite time without a notion of what + was going on around me, entirely wrapped up in the past or the future. + </p> + <p> + The Italian attendant brought me back to the present with a jerk of his + elbow. He was replacing the last register in the huge drawers of the + table. He and I were alone. My colleagues had left, and our first sitting + had come to an end without my assistance, though before my eyes. They + could not have gone far, so, somewhat ashamed of my want of attention, I + put on my hat, and went to find them and apologize. The little attendant + caught me by the sleeve, and gave a knowing smile at the letter which I + was slipping into my pocketbook. + </p> + <p> + “E d’una donna?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “What’s that to you?” + </p> + <p> + “I am sure of it; a letter from a man would never take so long to read; + and, ‘per Bacco’, you were a time about it! ‘Oh, le donne, illustre + signore, le downe!’” + </p> + <p> + “That’s enough, thank you.” + </p> + <p> + I made for the door, but he threw himself nimbly in my way, grimacing, + raising his eyebrows, one finger on his ribs. “Listen, my lord, I can see + you are a true scholar, a man whom fame alone can tempt. I could get your + lordship such beautiful manuscripts—Italian, Latin, German + manuscripts that never have been edited, my noble lord!” + </p> + <p> + “Stolen, too!” I replied, and pushed past him. + </p> + <p> + I went out, and in the neighboring square, amicably seated at the same + table, under the awning of a cafe, I found my French colleagues and the + Italian judge. At a table a little apart the clerk was sucking something + through a straw. And they all laughed as they saw me making my way toward + them through the still scorching glare of the sun. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + MILAN, June 25th. +</pre> + <p> + Our mission was concluded to-day. Zampini is a mere rogue. Brought face to + face with facts he could not escape from, he confessed that he had + intended to “have a lark” with the French heirs by claiming to be the + rightful heir himself, though he lacked two degrees of relationship to + establish his claim. + </p> + <p> + We explained to him that this little “lark” was a fraudulent act which + exposed him at least to the consequence of having to pay the costs of the + action. He accepted our opinion in the politest manner possible. I believe + he is hopelessly insolvent. He will pay the usher in macaroni, and the + barrister in jests. + </p> + <p> + My colleagues, the record man and the translator, leave Milan to-morrow. I + shall go with them. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIV. A SURPRISING ENCOUNTER + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + MILAN, June 26th. +</pre> + <p> + I have just had another letter from Sylvestre. My poor friend is very + miserable; his mother is dead—a saint if ever there was one. I was + very deeply touched by the news, although I knew this lovable woman very + slightly—too slightly, indeed, not having been a son, or related in + any way to her, but merely a passing stranger who found his way within the + horizon of her heart, that narrow limit within which she spread abroad the + treasures of her tenderness and wisdom. How terribly her son must feel her + loss! + </p> + <p> + He described in his letter her last moments, and the calmness with which + she met death, and added: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “One thing, which perhaps you will not understand, is the remorse + which is mingled with my sorrow. I lived with her forty years, and + have some right to be called ‘a good son.’ But, when I compare the + proofs of affection I gave her with those she gave me, the + sacrifices I made for her with those she made for me; when I think + of the egoism which found its way into our common life, on which I + founded my claims to merit, of the wealth of tenderness and sympathy + with which she repaid a few walks on my arm, a few kind words, and + of her really great forbearance in dwelling beneath the same roof + with me—I feel that I was ungrateful, and not worthy of the + happiness I enjoyed. + + “I am tortured by the thought that it is impossible for me to repair + all my neglect, to pay a debt the greatness of which I now recognize + for the first time. She is gone. All is over. My prayers alone + can reach her, can tell her that I loved her, that I worshipped her, + that I might have been capable of doing all that I have left undone + for her. + + “Oh, my friend, what pleasant duties have I lost! I mean, at least, + to fulfil her last wishes, and it is on account of one of them that + I am writing to you. + + “You know that my mother was never quite pleased at my keeping at + home the portrait of her who was my first and only love. She would + have preferred that my eyes did not recall so often to my heart the + recollection of my long-past sorrows. I withstood her. On her + death-bed she begged me to give up the picture to, those who should + have had it long ago. ‘So long as I was here to comfort you in the + sorrows which the sight of it revived in you,’ she said, ‘I did not + press this upon you; but soon you will be left alone, with no one to + raise you when your spirits fail you. They have often begged you to + give up the picture to them. The time is come for you to grant + their prayers.’ + + “I promised. + + “And now, dear friend, help me to keep my promise. I do not wish to + write to them. My hand would tremble, and they would tremble when + they saw my writing. Go and see them. + + “They live about nine miles from Milan, on the Monza road, but + beyond that town, close to the village of Desio. The villa is + called Dannegianti, after its owners. It used to be hidden among + poplars, and its groves were famous for their shade. You must send + in your card to the old lady of the house together with mine. They + will receive you. Then you must break the news to them as you think + best, that, in accordance with the dying wish of Sylvestre Lampron’s + mother, the portrait of Rafaella is to be given in perpetuity to the + Villa Dannegianti. Given, you understand. + + “You may even tell them that it is on its way. I have just arranged + with Plumet about packing it. He is a good workman, as you know. + To-morrow all will be ready, and my home an absolute void. + + “I intend to take refuge in hard work, and I count upon you to + alleviate to some extent the hardships of such a method of + consolation. + + “SYLVESTRE LAMPRON.” + </pre> + <p> + When I got Lampron’s letter, at ten in the morning, I went at once to see + the landlord of the Albergo dell’ Agnello. + </p> + <p> + “You can get me a carriage for Desio, can’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, your lordship thinks of driving to Desio? That is quite right. It is + much more picturesque than going by train. A little way beyond Monza. + Monza, sir, is one of our richest jewels; you will see there—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said I, repeating my Baedeker as accurately as he, “the Villa + Reale, and the Iron Crown of the Emperors of the West.” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly so, sir, and the cathedral built—” + </p> + <p> + “By Theodolinda, Queen of the Lombards, A.D. 595, restored in the + sixteenth century. I know; I only asked whether you could get me a decent + carriage.” + </p> + <p> + “A matchless one! At half-past three, when the heat is less intense, your + lordship will find the horses harnessed. You will have plenty of time to + get to Desio before sunset, and be back in time for supper.” + </p> + <p> + At the appointed time I received notice. My host had more than kept his + word, for the horses sped through Milan at a trot which they did not + relinquish when we got into the Como road, amid the flat and fertile + country which is called the garden of Italy. + </p> + <p> + After an hour and a half, including a brief halt at Monza, the coachman + drew up his horses before the first house in Desio—an inn. + </p> + <p> + It was a very poor inn, situated at the corner of the main street and of a + road which branched off into the country. In front of it a few + plane-trees, trained into an arbor, formed an arch of shade. A few feet of + vine clambered about their trunks. The sun was scorching the leaves and + the heavy bunches of grapes which hung here and there. The shutters were + closed, and the little house seemed to have been lulled to sleep by the + heat and light of the atmosphere and the buzzing of the gnats. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, go in; they’ll wake up at once,” said the coachman, who had divined + my thoughts. + </p> + <p> + Then, without waiting for my answer, like a man familiar with the customs + of the country, he took his horses down the road to the stable. + </p> + <p> + I went in. A swarm of bees and drones were buzzing like a whirlwind + beneath the plane-trees; a frightened white hen ran cackling from her nest + in the dust. No one appeared. I opened the door; still nobody was to be + seen. Inside I found a passage, with rooms to right and left and a wooden + staircase at the end. The house, having been kept well closed, was cool + and fresh. As I stood on the threshold striving to accustom my eyes to the + darkness of the interior, I heard the sound of voices to my right: + </p> + <p> + “Picturesque as you please, but the journey has been a failure! These + people are no better than savages; introductions, distinctions, and I may + say even fame, had no effect upon them!” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think they have even read your letters?” “That would be still + worse, to refuse to read letters addressed to them! No, I tell you, + there’s no excuse.” + </p> + <p> + “They have suffered great trouble, I hear, and that is some excuse for + them, father.” + </p> + <p> + “No, my dear, there is no possible excuse for their keeping hidden + treasures of such scientific interest. I do not consider that even an + Italian nobleman, were he orphan from his cradle, and thrice a widower, + has any right to keep locked up from the investigation of scholars an + unequalled collection of Roman coins, and a very presentable show of + medallions and medals properly so-called. Are you aware that this boorish + patrician has in his possession the eight types of medal of the gens + Attilia?” + </p> + <p> + “Really?” + </p> + <p> + “I am certain of it, and he has the thirty-seven of the gens Cassia, one + hundred and eighteen to one hundred and twenty-one of the gens Cornelia, + the eleven Farsuleia, and dozens of Numitoria, Pompeia, and Scribonia, all + in perfect condition, as if fresh from the die. Besides these, he has some + large medals of the greatest rarity; the Marcus Aurelius with his son on + the reverse side, Theodora bearing the globe, and above all the Annia + Faustina with Heliogabalus on the reverse side, an incomparable treasure, + of which there is only one other example, and that an imperfect one, in + the world—a marvel which I would give a day of my life to see; yes, + my dear, a day of my life!” + </p> + <p> + Such talk as this, in French, in such an inn as this! + </p> + <p> + I felt a presentiment, and stepped softly to the right-hand door. + </p> + <p> + In the darkened room, lighted only by a few rays filtered between the + slats of the shutters, sat a young girl. Her hat was hung upon a nail + above her head; one arm rested on a wretched white wood table; her head + was bent forward in mournful resignation. On the other side of the table, + her father was leaning back in his chair against the whitewashed wall, + with folded arms, heightened color, and every sign of extreme disgust. + Both rose as I entered—Jeanne first, M. Charnot after her. They were + astonished at seeing me. + </p> + <p> + I was no less astounded than they. + </p> + <p> + We stood and stared at each other for some time, to make sure that we were + not dreaming. + </p> + <p> + M. Charnot was the first to break the silence. He did not seem altogether + pleased at my appearance, and turned to his daughter, whose face had grown + very red and yet rather chilling: + </p> + <p> + “Jeanne, put your hat on; it is time to go to the station.” Then he + addressed me: + </p> + <p> + “We shall leave you the room to yourself, sir; and since the most + extraordinary coincidence”—he emphasized the words—“has + brought you to this damnable village, I hope you will enjoy your visit.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you been here long, Monsieur?” + </p> + <p> + “Two hours, Monsieur, two mortal hours in this inn, fried by the sun, + bored to death, murdered piecemeal by flies, and infuriated by the want of + hospitality in this out-of-the-way hole in Lombardy.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I noticed that the host was nowhere to be seen, and that is the + reason why I came in here; I had no idea that I should have the honor of + meeting you.” + </p> + <p> + “Good God! I’m not complaining of him! He’s asleep in his barn over there. + You can wake him up; he doesn’t mind showing himself; he even makes + himself agreeable when he has finished his siesta.” + </p> + <p> + “I only wish to ask him one question, which perhaps you could answer, + Monsieur; then I need not waken him. Could you tell me the way to the + Villa Dannegianti?” + </p> + <p> + M. Charnot walked up to me, looked me straight in the eyes, shrugged his + shoulders, and burst out laughing. + </p> + <p> + “The Villa Dannegianti!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Monsieur.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you going to the Villa Dannegianti?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Monsieur.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you may as well turn round and go home again.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Because there’s no admission.” + </p> + <p> + “But I have a letter of introduction.” + </p> + <p> + “I had two, Monsieur, without counting the initials after my name, which + are worth something and have opened the doors of more than one foreign + collection for me; yet they denied me admission! Think of it! The porter + of that insolent family denied me admission! Do you expect to succeed + after that?” + </p> + <p> + “I do, Monsieur.” + </p> + <p> + My words seemed to him the height of presumption. + </p> + <p> + “Come, Jeanne,” he said, “let us leave this gentleman to his youthful + illusions. They will soon be shattered—very soon.” + </p> + <p> + He gave me an ironical smile and made for the door. + </p> + <p> + At this moment Jeanne dropped her sunshade. I picked it up for her. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, Monsieur,” she said. + </p> + <p> + Of course these words were no more than ordinarily polite. She would have + said the same to the first comer. Nothing in her attitude or her look + displayed any emotion which might put a value on this common form of + speech. But it was her voice, that music I so often dream of. Had it + spoken insults, I should have found it sweet. It inspired me with the + sudden resolution of detaining this fugitive apparition, of resting, if + possible, another hour near her to whose side an unexpected stroke of + fortune had brought me. + </p> + <p> + M. Charnot had already left the room; his rotund shadow rested on the wall + of the passage. He held a travelling-bag in his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur,” said I, “I am sorry that you are obliged to return already to + Milan. I am quite certain of admission to the Villa Dannegianti, and it + would have given me pleasure to repair a mistake which is clearly due only + to the stupidity of the servants.” + </p> + <p> + He stopped; the stroke had told. + </p> + <p> + “It is certainly quite possible that they never looked at my card or my + letters. But allow me to ask, since my card did not reach the host, what + secret you possess to enable yours to get to him?” + </p> + <p> + “No secret at all, still less any merit of my own. I am the bearer of news + of great importance to the owners of the villa, news of a purely private + nature. They will be obliged to see me. My first care, when I had + fulfilled my mission, would have been to mention your name. You would have + been able to go over the house, and inspect a collection of medals which, + I have heard, is a very fine one.” + </p> + <p> + “Unique, Monsieur!” + </p> + <p> + “Unfortunately you are going away, and to-morrow I have to leave Milan + myself, for Paris.” + </p> + <p> + “You have been some time in Italy, then?” + </p> + <p> + “Nearly a fortnight.” + </p> + <p> + M. Charnot gave his daughter a meaning look, and suddenly became more + friendly. + </p> + <p> + “I thought you had just come. We have not been here so long,” he added; + “my daughter has been a little out of sorts, and the doctor advised us to + travel for change of air. Paris is not healthful in this very hot + weather.” + </p> + <p> + He looked hard at me to see whether his fib had taken me in. I replied, + with an air of the utmost conviction, “That is putting it mildly. Paris, + in July, is uninhabitable.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s it, Monsieur, uninhabitable; we were forced to leave it. We soon + made up our minds, and, in spite of the time of the year, we turned our + steps toward the home of the classics, to Italy, the museum of Europe. And + you really think, then, that by means of your good offices we should have + been admitted to the villa?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Monsieur, but owing only to the missive with which I am entrusted.” + </p> + <p> + M. Charnot hesitated. He was probably thinking of the blot of ink, and + certainly of M. Mouillard’s visit. But he doubtless reflected that Jeanne + knew nothing of the old lawyer’s proceedings, that we were far from Paris, + that the opportunity was not to be lost; and in the end his passion for + numismatics conquered at once his resentment as a bookworm and his + scruples as a father. + </p> + <p> + “There is a later train at ten minutes to eight, father,” said Jeanne. + </p> + <p> + “Well, dear, do you care to try your luck again, and return to the assault + of that Annia Faustina?” + </p> + <p> + “As you please, father.” + </p> + <p> + We left the inn together by the by-road down the hill. I could not believe + my eyes. This old man with refined features who walked on my left, leaning + on his malacca cane, was M. Charnot. The same man who received me so + discourteously the day after I made my blot was now relying on me to + introduce him to an Italian nobleman; on me, a lawyer’s clerk. I led him + on with confidence, and both of us, carried away by our divers hopes, he + dreaming of medals, I of the reopened horizon full of possibilities, + conversed on indifferent subjects with a freedom hitherto unknown between + us. + </p> + <p> + And this charming Parisienne, whose presence I divined rather than saw, + whom I dared not look in the face, who stepped along by her father’s side, + light of foot, her eyes seeking the vault of heaven, her ear attentive + though her thoughts were elsewhere, catching her Parisian sunshade in the + hawthorns of Desio, was Jeanne, Jeanne of the flower-market, Jeanne whom + Lampron had sketched in the woods of St. Germain! It did not seem + possible. + </p> + <p> + Yet it was so, for we arrived together at the gates of the Villa + Dannegianti, which is hardly a mile from the inn. + </p> + <p> + I rang the bell. The fat, idle, insolent Italian porter was beginning to + refuse me admission, with the same words and gestures which he had so + often used. But I explained, in my purest Tuscan, that I was not of the + ordinary kind of importunate tourist. I told him that he ran a serious + risk if he did not immediately hand my card and my letter—Lampron’s + card in an envelope—to the Comtesse Dannegianti. + </p> + <p> + From his stony glare I could not tell whether I had produced any + impression, nor even whether he had understood. He turned on his heel with + his keys in one hand and the letter in the other, and went on his way + through the shady avenue, rolling his broad back from side to side, + attired in a jacket which might have fitted in front, but was all too + short behind. + </p> + <p> + The shady precincts of which Lampron wrote did not seem to have been + pruned. The park was cool and green. At the end of the avenue of + plane-trees, alternating with secular hawthorns cut into pyramids, we + could see the square mass of the villa just peeping over the immense + clumps of trees. Beyond it the tops and naked trunks of a group of + umbrella pines stood silhouetted against the sky. + </p> + <p> + The porter returned, solemn and impassive. He opened the gate without a + word. We all passed through—M. Charnot somewhat uneasy at entering + under false pretenses, as I guessed from the way he suddenly drew up his + head. Jeanne seemed pleased; she smoothed down a fold which the wind had + raised in her frock, spread out a flounce, drew herself up, pushed back a + hairpin which her fair tresses had dragged out of its place, all in quick, + deft, and graceful movements, like a goldfinch preening its feathers. + </p> + <p> + We reached the terrace, and arranged that M. and Mademoiselle Charnot + should wait in an alley close at hand till I received permission to visit + the collections. + </p> + <p> + I entered the house, and following a lackey, crossed a large mosaic-paved + hall, divided by columns of rare marbles into panels filled with mediocre + frescoes on a very large scale. At the end of this hall was the Countess’s + room, which formed a striking contrast, being small, panelled with wood, + and filled with devotional knick-knacks that gave it the look of a chapel. + </p> + <p> + As I entered, an old lady half rose from an armchair, which she could have + used as a house, the chair was so large and she was so small. At first I + could distinguish only two bright, anxious eyes. She looked at me like a + prisoner awaiting a verdict. I began by telling her of the death of + Lampron’s mother. Her only answer was an attentive nod. She guessed + something else was coming and stood on guard, so to speak. I went on and + told her that the portrait of her daughter was on its way to her. Then she + forgot everything—her age, her rank, and the mournful reserve which + had hitherto hedged her about. Her motherly heart alone spoke within her; + a ray of light had come to brighten the incurable gloom which was killing + her; she rushed toward me and fell into my arms, and I felt against my + heart her poor aged body shaking with sobs. She thanked me in a flood of + words which I did not catch. Then she drew back and gazed at me, seeking + to read in my eyes some emotion responsive to her own, and her eyes, red + and swollen and feverishly bright, questioned me more clearly than her + words. + </p> + <p> + “How good are you, sir! and how generous is he! What life does he lead? + Has he ever lived down the sorrow which blasted his youth here? Men forget + more easily, happily for them. I had given up all hope of obtaining the + portrait. Every year I sent him flowers which meant, ‘Restore to us all + that is left of our dead Rafaella.’ Perhaps it was unkind. I did reproach + myself at times for it. But I was her mother, you know; the mother of that + peerless girl! And the portrait is so good, so like! He has never altered + it? tell me; never retouched it? Time has not marred the lifelike + coloring? I shall now have the mournful consolation I have so long + desired; I shall always have before me the counterpart of my lost darling, + and can gaze upon that face which none could depict save he who loved her; + for, dreadful though it be to think of, the image of the best beloved will + change and fade away even in a mother’s heart, and at times I doubt + whether my old memory is still faithful, and recalls all her grace and + beauty as clearly as it used to do when the wound was fresh in my heart + and my eyes were still filled with the loveliness of her. Oh, Monsieur, + Monsieur! to think that I shall see that face once more!” + </p> + <p> + She left me as quickly as she had come, and went to open a door on the + left, into an adjoining room, whose red hangings threw a ruddy glow upon + the polished floor. + </p> + <p> + “Cristoforo!” she cried, “Cristoforo! come and see a French gentleman who + brings us great news. The portrait of our Rafaella, Cristoforo, the + portrait we have so long desired, is at last to be given to us!” + </p> + <p> + I heard a chair move, and a slow footstep. Cristoforo appeared, with white + hair and black moustache, his tall figure buttoned up in an old-fashioned + frockcoat, the petrified, mummified remains of a once handsome man. He + walked up to me, took both my hands and shook them ceremoniously. His face + showed no traces of emotion; his eyes were dry, and he had not a word to + say. Did he understand? I really do not know. He seemed to think the + affair was an ordinary introduction. As I looked at him his wife’s words + came back to me, “Men forget sooner.” She gazed at him as if she would put + blood into his veins, where it had long ceased to flow. + </p> + <p> + “Cristoforo, I know this will be a great joy to you, and you will join + with me in thanking Monsieur Lampron for his generosity. You, sir, will + express to him all the Count’s gratitude and my own, and also the sympathy + we feel for him in his recent loss. Besides, we shall write to him. Is + Monsieur Lampron rich?” + </p> + <p> + “I had forgotten to tell you, Madame, that my friend will accept nothing + but thanks.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, that is truly noble of him, is it not, Cristoforo?” + </p> + <p> + All the answer the old Count made was to take my hands and shake them + again. + </p> + <p> + I used the opportunity to put forward my request in behalf of M. Charnot. + He listened attentively. + </p> + <p> + “I will give orders. You shall see everything—everything.” + </p> + <p> + Then, considering our interview at an end, he bowed and withdrew to his + own apartments. + </p> + <p> + I looked for the Countess Dannegianti. She had sunk into her great + armchair, and was weeping hot tears. + </p> + <p> + Ten minutes later, M. Charnot and Jeanne entered with me into the + jealously guarded museum. + </p> + <p> + Museum was the only name to give to a collection of such artistic value, + occupying, as it did, the whole of the ground floor to the right of the + hall. Two rooms ran parallel to each other, filled with pictures, medals, + and engravings, and were connected by a narrow gallery devoted to + sculpture. + </p> + <p> + Hardly was the door opened when M. Charnot sought the famous medals with + his eye. There they were in the middle of the room in two rows of cases. + He was deeply moved. I thought he was about to make a raid upon them, + attracted after his kind by the ‘auri sacra fames’, by the yellow gleam of + those ancient coins, the names, family, obverse and reverse of which he + knew by heart. But I little understood the enthusiast. + </p> + <p> + He drew out his handkerchief and spectacles, and while he was wiping the + glasses he gave a rapid and impatient glance at the works that adorned the + walls. None of them could charm the numismatist’s heart. After he had + enjoyed the pleasure of proving how feeble in comparison were the charms + of a Titian or a Veronese, then only did M. Charnot walk step by step to + the first case and bend reverently over it. + </p> + <p> + Yet the collection of paintings was unworthy of such disdain. The pictures + were few, but all were signed with great names, most of them Italian, a + few Dutch, Flemish, or German. I began to work systematically through + them, pleased at the want of a catalogue and the small number of + inscriptions on the frames. To be your own guide doubles your pleasure; + you can get your impression of a picture entirely at first hand; you are + filled with admiration without any one having told you that you are bound + to go into ecstasies. You can work out for yourself from a picture, by + induction and comparison, its subject, its school, and its author, unless + it proclaims, in every stroke of the brush, “I am a Hobbema,” “a + Perugino,” or “a Giotto.” + </p> + <p> + I was somewhat distracted, however, by the voice of the old numismatist, + as he peered into the cases, and constrained his daughter to share in the + exuberance of his learned enthusiasm. + </p> + <p> + “Jeanne, look at this; crowned head of Cleopatra, Mark Antony on the + reverse; in perfect condition, isn’t it? See, an Italian ‘as-Iguvium + Umbriae’, which my friend Pousselot has sought these thirty years! Oh, my + dear, this is important: Annius Verus on the reverse of Commodus, both as + children, a rare example—yet not as rare as—Jeanne, you must + engrave this gold medal in your heart, it is priceless: head of Augustus + with laurel, Diana walking on the reverse. You ought to take an interest + in her. Diana the fair huntress. + </p> + <p> + “This collection is heavenly! Wait a minute; we shall soon come to the + Annia Faustina.” + </p> + <p> + Jeanne made no objection, but smiled softly upon the Cleopatra, the + Umbrian ‘as’, and the fair huntress. + </p> + <p> + Little by little her father’s enthusiasm expanded over the vast collection + of treasures. He took out his pocketbook and began to make notes. Jeanne + raised her eyes to the walls, took one glance, then a second, and, not + being called back to the medals, stepped softly up to the picture at which + I had begun. + </p> + <p> + She went quickly from one to another having evidently no more than a + child’s untutored taste for pictures. As I, on the contrary, was getting + on very slowly, she was bound to overtake me. You may be sure I took no + steps to prevent it, and so in a very short time we were both standing + before the same picture, a portrait of Holbein the younger. A subject of + conversation was ready to hand. + </p> + <p> + “Mademoiselle,” said I, “do you like this Holbein?” + </p> + <p> + “You must admit, sir, that the old gentleman is exceedingly plain.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but the painting is exquisite. See how powerful is the drawing of + the head, how clear and deep the colors remain after more than three + hundred years. What a good likeness it must have been! The subject tells + his own story: he must have been a nobleman of the court of Henry VIII, a + Protestant in favor with the King, wily but illiterate, and wishing from + the bottom of his heart that he were back with the companions of his youth + at home in his country house, hunting and drinking at his ease. It is + really the study of a man’s character. Look at this Rubens beside it, a + mere mass of flesh scarcely held together by a spirit, a style that is + exuberantly material, all color and no expression. Here you have + spirituality on one side and materialism on the other, unconscious, + perhaps, but unmistakable. Compare, again, with these two pictures this + little drawing, doubtless by Perugino, just a sketch of an angel for an + Annunciation; notice the purity of outline, the ideal atmosphere in which + the painter lives and with which he impregnates his work. You see he comes + of a school of poets and mystics, gifted with a second sight which enabled + them to beautify this world and raise themselves above it.” + </p> + <p> + I was pleased with my little lecture, and so was Jeanne. I could tell it + by her surprised expression, and by the looks she cast toward her father, + who was still taking notes, to see whether she might go on with her first + lesson in art. + </p> + <p> + He smiled in a friendly way, which meant: + </p> + <p> + “I’m happy here, my dear, thank you; ‘va piano va sano’.” + </p> + <p> + This was as good as permission. We went on our way, saluting, as we + passed, Tintoretto and Titian, Veronese and Andrea Solari, old Cimabue, + and a few early paintings of angular virgins on golden backgrounds. + </p> + <p> + Jeanne was no longer bored. + </p> + <p> + “And is this,” she would say, “another Venetian, or a Lombard, or a + Florentine?” + </p> + <p> + We soon completed the round of the first room, and made our way into the + gallery beyond, devoted to sculpture. The marble gods and goddesses, the + lovely fragments of frieze or cornice from the excavations at Rome, + Pompeii, or Greece, had but a moderate interest for Mademoiselle Charnot. + She never gave more than one glance to each statue, to some none at all. + </p> + <p> + We soon came to the end of the gallery, and the door which gave access + into the second room of paintings. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly Jeanne gave an exclamation of surprise. + </p> + <p> + “What is that?” she said. + </p> + <p> + Beneath the large and lofty window, fanned on the outside by leafy + branches, a wooden panel, bearing an inscription, stood upright against + the wall. The words were painted in black on a white ground, and arranged + with considerable skill, after the style of the classic epitaphs which the + Italians still cultivate. + </p> + <p> + I drew aside the folds of a curtain: + </p> + <p> + “It is one of those memorial tablets, Mademoiselle, such as people hang up + in this part of the country upon the church doors on the day of the + funeral. It means: + </p> + <p> + “To thee, Rafaella Dannegianti—who, aged twenty years and few months—having + fully experienced the sorrows and illusions of this world—on January + 6—like an angel longing for its heavenly home—didst wing thy + way to God in peace and happiness—the clergy of Desioand the + laborers and artificers of the noble house of Dannegianti—tender + these last solemn offices.” + </p> + <p> + “This Rafaella, then, was the Count’s daughter?” + </p> + <p> + “His only child, a girl lovely and gracious beyond rivalry.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, of course, beyond rivalry. Are not all only daughters lovely and + perfect when once they are dead?” she replied with a bitter smile. “They + have their legend, their cult, and usually a flattering portrait. I am + surprised that Rafaella’s is not here. I imagine her portrait as + representing a tall girl, with long, well-arched eyebrows, and brown eyes—” + </p> + <p> + “Greenish-brown.” + </p> + <p> + “Green, if you prefer it; a small nose, cherry lips, and a mass of light + brown hair.” + </p> + <p> + “Golden brown would be more correct.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you seen it, then? Is there one?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Mademoiselle, and it lacks no perfection that you could imagine, not + even that smile of happy youth which was a falsehood ere the paint had yet + dried on the canvas. Here, before this relic, which recalls it to my + thoughts, I must confess that I am touched.” + </p> + <p> + She looked at me in astonishment. + </p> + <p> + “Where is the portrait? Not here?” + </p> + <p> + “No, it is at Paris, in my friend Lampron’s studio.” + </p> + <p> + “O—oh!” She blushed slightly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Mademoiselle, it is at once a masterpiece and a sad reminder. The + story is very simple, and I am sure my friend would not mind my telling it + to you—to you if to no other—before these relics of the past. + </p> + <p> + “When Lampron was a young man travelling in Italy he fell in love with + this young girl, whose portrait he was painting. He loved her, perhaps + without confessing it to himself, certainly without avowing it to her. + Such is the way of timid and humble men of heart, men whose love is nearly + always misconstrued when it ceases to be unnoticed. My friend risked the + happiness of his life, fearlessly, without calculation—and lost it. + A day came when Rafaella Dannegianti was carried off by her parents, who + shuddered at the thought of her stooping to a painter, even though he were + a genius.” + </p> + <p> + “So she died?” + </p> + <p> + “A year later. He never got over it. Even while I speak to you, he in his + loneliness is pondering and weeping over these very lines which you have + just read without a suspicion of the depth of their bitterness.” + </p> + <p> + “He has known bereavement,” said she; “I pity him with all my heart.” + </p> + <p> + Her eyes filled with tears. She repeated the words, whose meaning was now + clear to her, “A to Rafaella.” Then she knelt down softly before the + mournful inscription. I saw her bow her head. Jeanne was praying. + </p> + <p> + It was touching to see the young girl, whom chance had placed before this + simple testimony of a sorrow now long past, deeply moved by the sad tale + of love, filled with tender pity for the dead Rafaella, her fellow in + youth and beauty and perhaps in destiny, finding in her heart the tender + impulse to kneel without a word, as if beside the grave of a friend. The + daylight’s last rays streaming in through the window illumined her bowed + head. + </p> + <p> + I drew back, with a touch of awe. + </p> + <p> + M. Charnot appeared. + </p> + <p> + He went up to his daughter and tapped her on the shoulder. She rose with a + blush. + </p> + <p> + “What are you doing there?” he said. + </p> + <p> + Then he adjusted his glasses and read the Italian inscription. + </p> + <p> + “You really take unnecessary trouble in kneeling down to decipher a thing + like that. You can see at once that it’s a modern panel, and of no value. + Monsieur,” he added, turning to me, “I do not know what your plans are, + but unless you intend to sleep at Desio, we must be off, for the night is + falling.” + </p> + <p> + We left the villa. + </p> + <p> + Out of doors it was still light, but with the afterglow. The sun was out + of sight, but the earth was still enveloped, as it were, in a haze of + luminous dust. + </p> + <p> + M. Charnot pulled out his watch. + </p> + <p> + “Seven minutes past eight. What time does the last train start, Jeanne?” + </p> + <p> + “At ten minutes to eight.” + </p> + <p> + “Confusion! we are stranded in Desio! The mere thought of passing the + night in that inn gives me the creeps. I see no way out of it unless + Monsieur Mouillard can get us one of the Count’s state coaches. There + isn’t a carriage to be got in this infernal village!” + </p> + <p> + “There is mine, Monsieur, which luckily holds four, and is quite at your + service.” + </p> + <p> + “Upon my word, I am very much obliged to you. The drive by moonlight will + be quite romantic.” + </p> + <p> + He drew near to Jeanne and whispered in her ear: + </p> + <p> + “Are you sure you’ve wraps enough? a shawl, or a cape, or some kind of + pelisse?” + </p> + <p> + She gave a merry nod of assent. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t worry yourself, father; I am prepared for all emergencies.” + </p> + <p> + At half-past eight we left Desio together, and I silently blessed the host + of the Albergo dell’ Agnello, who had assured me that the carriage road + was “so much more picturesque.” I found it so, indeed. + </p> + <p> + M. Charnot and Jeanne faced the horses. I sat opposite to M. Charnot, who + was in the best of spirits after all the medals he had seen. Comfortably + settled in the cushions, careless of the accidents of the road, with + graphic and untiring forefinger, he undertook to describe his travels in + Greece, whither he had been sent on some learned enterprise by the + Minister of Education, and had carried an imagination already prepossessed + and dazzled with Homeric visions. He told his story well and with detail, + combining the recollections of the scholar with the impressions of an + artist. The pediment of the Parthenon, the oleanders of the Ilissus, the + stream “that runs in rain-time,” the naked peak of Parnassus, the green + slopes of Helicon, the blue gulf of Argus, the pine forest beside Alpheus, + where the ancients worshipped “Death the Gentle”—all of them passed + in recount upon his learned lips. + </p> + <p> + I must acknowledge, to my shame, that I did not listen to all he said, + but, in a favorite way I have, reserved some of my own freedom of thought, + while I gave him complete freedom of speech. And I am bound to say he did + not abuse it, but consented to pause at the frontiers of Thessaly. Then + followed silence. I gave him room to stretch. Soon, lulled by the motion + of the carriage, the stream of reminiscence ran more slowly—then ran + dry. M. Charnot slept. + </p> + <p> + We bowled at a good pace, without jolting, over the white road. A warm + mist rose around us laden with the smell of vegetation, ripe corn, and + clover from the overheated earth and the neighboring fields, which had + drunk their full of sunlight. Now and again a breath of fresh air was + blown to us from the mountains. As the darkness deepened the country grew + to look like a vast chessboard, with dark and light squares of grass and + corn land, melting at no great distance into a colorless and unbroken + horizon. But as night blotted out the earth, the heaven lighted up its + stars. Never have I seen them so lustrous nor in such number. Jeanne + reclined with her eyes upturned toward those limitless fields of prayer + and vision; and their radiance, benignly gentle, rested on her face. Was + she tired or downcast, or merely dreaming? I knew not. But there was + something so singularly poetic in her look and attitude that she seemed to + me to epitomize in herself all the beauty of the night. + </p> + <p> + I was afraid to speak. Her father’s sleep, and our consequent isolation, + made me ill at ease. She, too, seemed so careless of my presence, so far + away in dreamland, that I had to await opportunity, or rather her leave, + to recall her from it. + </p> + <p> + Finally she broke the silence herself. A little beyond Monza she drew + closer her shawl, that the night wind had ruffled, and bent over toward + me: + </p> + <p> + “You must excuse my father; he is rather tired this evening, for he has + been on his feet since five o’clock.” + </p> + <p> + “The day has been so hot, too, Mademoiselle, and the medals ‘came not in + single spies, but in battalions’; he has a right to sleep after the + battle.” + </p> + <p> + “Dear old father! You gave him a real treat, for which he will always be + obliged to you.” + </p> + <p> + “I trust the recollection of to-day will efface that of the blot of ink, + for which I am still filled with remorse.” + </p> + <p> + “Remorse is rather a serious word.” + </p> + <p> + “No, Mademoiselle, I really mean remorse, for I wounded the feelings of a + gentleman who has every claim on my respect. I never have dared to speak + of this before. But if you would be kind enough to tell Monsieur Charnot + how sorry I have been for it, you would relieve me of a burden.” + </p> + <p> + I saw her eyes fixed upon me for a moment with a look of attention not + previously granted to me. She seemed pleased. + </p> + <p> + “With all my heart,” she said. + </p> + <p> + There was a moment’s silence. + </p> + <p> + “Was this Rafaella, whose story you have told me, worthy of your friend’s + long regret?” + </p> + <p> + “I must believe so.” + </p> + <p> + “It is a very touching story. Are you fond of Monsieur Lampron?” + </p> + <p> + “Beyond expression, Mademoiselle; he is so openhearted, so true a friend, + he has the soul of the artist and the seer. I am sure you would rate him + very highly if you knew him.” + </p> + <p> + “But I do know him, at least by his works. Where am I to be seen now, by + the way? What has become of my portrait?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s at Lampron’s house, in his mother’s room, where Monsieur Charnot can + go and see it if he likes.” + </p> + <p> + “My father does not know of its existence,” she said, with a glance at the + slumbering man of learning. + </p> + <p> + “Has he not seen it?” + </p> + <p> + “No, he would have made so much ado about nothing. So Monsieur Lampron has + kept the sketch? I thought it had been sold long ago.” + </p> + <p> + “Sold! you did not think he would sell it!” + </p> + <p> + “Why not? Every artist has the right to sell his works.” + </p> + <p> + “Not work of that kind.” + </p> + <p> + “Just as much as any other kind.” + </p> + <p> + “No, he could not have done that. He would no more sell it than he would + sell the portrait of Rafaella Dannegianti. They are two similar relics, + two precious reminiscences.” + </p> + <p> + Mademoiselle Charnot turned, without a reply, to look at the country which + was flying past us in the darkness. + </p> + <p> + I could just see her profile, and the nervous movement of her eyelids. + </p> + <p> + As she made no attempt to speak, her silence emboldened me. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Mademoiselle, two similar relics, yet sometimes in my hours of + madness—as to-day, for instance, here, with you near me—I dare + to think that I might be less unfortunate than my friend—that his + dream is gone forever—but that mine might return to me—if you + were willing.” + </p> + <p> + She quickly turned toward me, and in the darkness I saw her eyes fixed on + mine. + </p> + <p> + Did the darkness deceive me as to the meaning of this mute response? Was I + the victim of a fresh delusion? I fancied that Jeanne looked sad, that + perhaps she was thinking of the oaths sworn only to be broken by her + former lover, but that she was not quite displeased. + </p> + <p> + However, it lasted only for a second. When she spoke, it was in a higher + key: + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you think the breeze is very fresh this evening?” + </p> + <p> + A long-drawn sigh came from the back part of the carriage. M. Charnot was + waking up. + </p> + <p> + He wished to prove that he had only been meditating. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my dear, it’s a charming evening,” he replied; “these Italian nights + certainly keep up their reputation.” + </p> + <p> + Ten minutes later the carriage drew up, and M. Charnot shook hands with me + before the door of his hotel. + </p> + <p> + “Many thanks, my dear young sir, for this delightful drive home! I hope we + shall meet again. We are off to Florence to-morrow; is there anything I + can do for you there?” + </p> + <p> + “No, thank you.” + </p> + <p> + Mademoiselle Charnot gave me a slight bow. I watched her mount the first + few steps of the staircase, with one hand shading her eyes from the glare + of the gaslights, and the other holding up her wraps, which had come + unfolded and were falling around her. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BOOK 3. + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XV. BACK TO PARIS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + MILAN, June 27th. Before daybreak. +</pre> + <p> + He asked me whether there was anything he could do for me at Florence. + There is something, but he would refuse to do it; for I wish him to inform + his charming daughter that my thoughts are all of her; that I have spent + the night recalling yesterday’s trip—now the roads of Desio and the + galleries of the villa, now the drive back to Milan. M. Charnot only + figured in my dreams as sleeping. I seemed to have found my tongue, and to + be pouring forth a string of well-turned speeches which I never should + have ready at real need. If I could only see her again now that all my + plans are weighed and thought out and combined! Really, it is hard that + one can not live one’s life over twice—at least certain passages in + it-this episode, for instance.... + </p> + <p> + What is her opinion of me? When her eyes fixed themselves on mine I + thought I could read in their depths a look of inquiry, a touch of + surprise, a grain of disquiet. But her answer? She is going to Florence + bearing with her the answer on which my life depends. They are leaving by + the early express. Shall I take it, too? Florence, Rome, Naples—why + not? Italy is free to all, and particularly to lovers. I will toss my cap + over the mill for the second time. I will get money from somewhere. If I + am not allowed to show myself, I will look on from a distance, hidden in + the crowd. At a pinch I will disguise myself—as a guide at Pompeii, + a lazzarone at Naples. She shall find a sonnet in the bunch of fresh + flowers offered her by a peasant at the door of her hotel. And at least I + shall bask in her smile, the sound of her voice, the glints of gold about + her temples, and the pleasure of knowing that she is near even when I do + not see her. + </p> + <p> + On second thoughts; no; I will not go to Florence. As I always distrust + first impulses, which so often run reason to a standstill, I had recourse + to a favorite device of mine. I asked myself: What would Lampron advise? + And at once I conjured up his melancholy, noble face, and heard his + answer: “Come back, my dear boy.” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + PARIS, July 2d. +</pre> + <p> + When you arrive by night, and from the windows of the flying train, as it + whirls past the streets at full speed, you see Paris enveloped in red + steam, pierced by starry lines of gas-lamps crisscrossing in every + direction, the sight is weird, and almost beautiful. You might fancy it + the closing scene of some gigantic gala, where strings upon strings of + colored lanterns brighten the night above a moving throng, passing, + repassing, and raising a cloud of dust that reddens in the glow of + expiring Bengal lights. + </p> + <p> + Moreover, the illusion is in part a reality, for the great city is in + truth lighted for its nightly revel. Till one o’clock in the morning it is + alight and riotous with the stir and swing of life. + </p> + <p> + But the dawn is bleak enough. + </p> + <p> + That, delicious hour which puts a spirit of joy into green field and + hedgerow is awful to look upon in Paris. You leave the train half-frozen, + to find the porters red-eyed from their watch. The customs officials, in a + kind of stupor, scrawl cabalistic signs upon your trunk. You get outside + the station, to find a few scattered cabs, their drivers asleep inside, + their lamps blinking in the mist. + </p> + <p> + “Cabby, are you disengaged?” + </p> + <p> + “Depends where you want to go.” + </p> + <p> + “No. 91 Rue de Rennes.” + </p> + <p> + “Jump in!” + </p> + <p> + The blank streets stretch out interminably, gray and silent; the shops on + either hand are shuttered; in the squares you will find only a dog or a + scavenger; theatre bills hang in rags around the kiosks, the wind sweeps + their tattered fragments along the asphalt in yesterday’s dust, with here + and there a bunch of faded flowers. The Seine washes around its motionless + boats; two great-coated policemen patrol the bank and wake the echoes with + their tramp. The fountains have ceased to play, and their basins are dry. + The air is chilly, and sick with evil odors. The whole drive is like a bad + dream. Such was my drive from the Gare de Lyon to my rooms. When I was + once at home, installed in my own domains, this unpleasant impression + gradually wore off. There was friendliness in my sticks of furniture. I + examined those silent witnesses, my chair, my table, and my books. What + had happened while I was away? Apparently nothing important. The furniture + had a light coating of dust, which showed that no one had touched it, not + even Madame Menin. It was funny, but I wished to see Madame Menin. A + sound, and I heard my opposite neighbor getting to work. He is a + hydrographer, and engraves maps for a neighboring publisher. I never could + get up as early as he. The willow seemed to have made great progress + during the summer. I flung up the window and said “Good-morning!” to the + wallflowers, to the old wall of the Carmelites, and the old black tower. + Then the sparrows began. What o’clock could it be? They came all together + with a rush, chirping, the hungry thieves, wheeling about, skirting the + walls in their flight, quick as lightning, borne on their pointed wings. + They had seen the sun—day had broken! + </p> + <p> + And almost immediately I heard a cart pass, and a hawker crying: + </p> + <p> + “Ground-SEL! Groundsel for your dickey-birds!” + </p> + <p> + To think that there are people who get up at that unearthly hour to buy + groundsel for their canaries! I looked to see whether any one had called + in my absence; their cards should be on my table. Two were there: + “Monsieur Lorinet, retired solicitor, town councillor, of + Bourbonnoux-les-Bourges, deputy-magistrate”; “Madame Lorinet, nee + Poupard.” + </p> + <p> + I was surprised not to find a third card: “Berthe Lorinet, of no + occupation, anxious to change her name.” Berthe will be difficult to get + rid of. I presume she didn’t dare to leave a card on a young man, it + wouldn’t have been proper. But I have no doubt she was here. I scent a + trick of my uncle’s, one of those Atlantic cables he takes for spider’s + threads and makes his snares of. The Lorinet family have been here, with + the twofold intention of taking news of me to my “dear good uncle,” and + discreetly recalling to my forgetful heart the charms of Berthe of the big + feet. + </p> + <p> + “Good-morning, Monsieur Mouillard!” + </p> + <p> + “Hallo! Madame Menin! Good-morning, Madame Menin!” + </p> + <p> + “So you are back at last, sir! How brown you have got—quite + sunburnt. You are quite well, I hope, sir?” + </p> + <p> + “Very well, thank you; has any one been here in my absence?” + </p> + <p> + “I was going to tell you, sir; the plumber has been here, because the tap + of your cistern came off in my hand. It wasn’t my fault; there had been a + heavy rain that morning. So—” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind, it’s only a tap to pay for. We won’t say any more about it. + But did any one come to see me?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, let me see—yes. A big gentleman, rather red-faced, with his + wife, a fat lady, with a small voice; a fine woman, rather in my style, + and their daughter—but perhaps you know her, sir?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Madame Menin, you need not describe her. You told them that I was + away, and they said they were very sorry.” + </p> + <p> + “Especially the lady. She puffed and panted and sighed: ‘Dear Monsieur + Mouillard! How unlucky we are, Madame Menin; we have just come to Paris as + he has gone to Italy. My husband and I would have liked so much to see + him! You may think it fanciful, but I should like above all things to look + round his rooms. A student’s rooms must be so interesting. Stay there, + Berthe, my child.’ I told them there was nothing very interesting, and + that their daughter might just as well come in too, and then I showed them + everything.” + </p> + <p> + “They didn’t stay long, I suppose?” + </p> + <p> + “Quite long enough. They were an age looking at your photograph album. I + suppose they haven’t got such things where they come from. Madame Lorinet + couldn’t tear herself away from it. ‘Nothing but men,’ she said, ‘have you + noticed that, Jules?’—‘Well, Madame,’ I said, ‘that’s just how it is + here; except for me, and I don’t count, only gentlemen come here. I’ve + kept house for bachelors where—well, there are not many—’ + </p> + <p> + “That will do, Madame Menin; that will do. I know you always think too + highly of me. Hasn’t Lampron been here?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir; the day before yesterday. He was going off for a fortnight or + three weeks into the country to paint a portrait of some priest—a + bishop, I think.” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + July 15th. +</pre> + <p> + “Midi, roi des etes.” I know by heart that poem by “Monsieur le Comte de + l’Isle,” as my Uncle Mouillard calls him. Its lines chime in my ears every + day when I return from luncheon to the office I have left an hour before. + Merciful heaven, how hot it is! I am just back from a hot climate, but it + was nothing compared to Paris in July. The asphalt melts underfoot; the + wood pavement is simmering in a viscous mess of tar; the ideal is forced + to descend again and again to iced lager beer; the walls beat back the + heat in your face; the dust in the public gardens, ground to atoms beneath + the tread of many feet, rises in clouds from under the water-cart to fall, + a little farther on, in white showers upon the passers-by. I wonder that, + as a finishing stroke, the cannon in the Palais Royal does not detonate + all day long. + </p> + <p> + To complete my misery, all my acquaintances are out of town: the Boule + family is bathing at Trouville; the second clerk has not returned from his + holiday; the fourth only waited for my arrival to get away himself; + Lampron, detained by my Lord Bishop and the forest shades, gives no sign + of his existence; even Monsieur and Madame Plumet have locked up their + flat and taken the train for Barbizon. + </p> + <p> + Thus it happens that the old clerk Jupille and I have been thrown + together. I enjoy his talk. He is a simplehearted, honorable man, with a + philosophy that I am sure can not be in the least German, because I can + understand it. I have gradually told him all my secrets. I felt the need + of a confidant, for I was stifling, metaphorically as well as literally. + Now, when he hands me a deed, instead of saying “All right,” as I used to, + I say, “Take a chair, Monsieur Jupille”; I shut the door, and we talk. The + clerks think we’re talking law, but the clerks are mistaken. + </p> + <p> + Yesterday, for instance, he whispered to me: + </p> + <p> + “I have come down the Rue de l’Universite. They will soon be back.” + </p> + <p> + “How did you learn that?” + </p> + <p> + “I saw a man carrying coals into the house, and asked for whom they were, + that’s all.” + </p> + <p> + Again, we had a talk, just now, which shows what progress I have made in + the old clerk’s heart. He had just submitted a draft to me. I had read it + through and grunted my approval, yet M. Jupille did not go. + </p> + <p> + “Anything further, Monsieur Jupille?” + </p> + <p> + “Something to ask of you—to do me a kindness, or, rather, an honor.” + </p> + <p> + “Let’s hear what it is.” + </p> + <p> + “This weather, Monsieur Mouillard, is very good for fishing, though rather + warm.” + </p> + <p> + “Rather warm, Monsieur Jupille!” + </p> + <p> + “It is not too warm. It was much hotter than this in 1844, yet the fish + bit, I can tell you! Will you join us next Sunday in a fishing expedition? + I say ‘us,’ because one of your friends is coming, a great amateur of the + rod who honors me with his friendship, too.” + </p> + <p> + “Who is he?” + </p> + <p> + “A secret, Monsieur Mouillard, a little secret. You will be surprised. It + is settled then—next Sunday?” + </p> + <p> + “Where shall I meet you?” + </p> + <p> + “Hush, the office-boy is listening. That boy is too sharp; I’ll tell you + some other time.” + </p> + <p> + “As you please, Monsieur Jupille; I accept the invitation + unconditionally.” + </p> + <p> + “I am so glad you will come, Monsieur Mouillard. I only wish we could have + a little storm between this and then.” + </p> + <p> + He spoke the truth; his satisfaction was manifest, for I never have seen + him rub the tip of his nose with the feathers of his quill pen so often as + he did that afternoon, which was with him the sign of exuberant joy, all + his gestures having subdued themselves long since to the limits of his + desk. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + July 20th. +</pre> + <p> + I have seen Lampron once more. He bears his sorrow bravely. We spoke for a + few moments of his mother. I spoke some praise of that humble soul for the + good she had done me, which led him to enlarge upon her virtues. + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” he said, “if you had only seen more of her! My dear fellow, if I am + an honest man; if I have passed without failing through the trials of my + life and my profession; if I have placed my ideal beyond worldly success; + in a word, if I am worth anything in heart or brain, it is to her I owe + it. We never had been parted before; this is our first separation, and it + is the final one. I was not prepared for it.” + </p> + <p> + Then he changed the subject brusquely: + </p> + <p> + “What about your love-affair?” + </p> + <p> + “Fresher than ever.” + </p> + <p> + “Did it survive half an hour’s conversation?” + </p> + <p> + “It grew the stronger for it.” + </p> + <p> + “Does she still detest you?” + </p> + <p> + I told him the story of our trip to Desio, and our conversation in the + carriage, without omitting a detail. + </p> + <p> + He listened in silence. At the end he said: + </p> + <p> + “My dear Fabien, there must be no delay. She must hear your proposal + within a week.” + </p> + <p> + “Within a week! Who is to make it for me?” + </p> + <p> + “Whoever you like. That’s your business. I have been making inquiries + while you were away; she seems a suitable match for you. Besides, your + present position is ridiculous; you are without a profession; you have + quarrelled, for no reason, with your only relative; you must get out of + the situation with credit, and marriage will compel you to do so.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVI. A FISHING-TRIP AND AN OLD FRIEND + </h2> + <h3> + July 21st. + </h3> + <p> + M. Jupille had written to tell me where I was to meet him on the Sunday, + giving me the most minute directions. I might take the train to Massy, or + to Bievres. However, I preferred to take the train to Sceaux and walk from + there, leaving Chatenay on my left, striking across the woods of Verrieres + toward the line of forts, coming out between Igny and Amblainvilliers, and + finally reaching a spot where the Bievre broadens out between two wooded + banks into a pool as clear as a spring and as full of fish as a + nursery-pond. + </p> + <p> + “Above all things, tell nobody where it is!” begged Jupille. “It is our + secret; I discovered it myself.” + </p> + <p> + When I left Sceaux to meet Jupille, who had started before daybreak, the + sun was already high. There was not a cloud nor a breath of wind; the sway + of summer lay over all things. But, though the heat was broiling, the walk + was lovely. All about me was alive with voice or perfume. Clouds of + linnets fluttered among the branches, golden beetles crawled upon the + grass, thousands of tiny whirring wings beat the air—flies, gnats, + gadflies, bees—all chorusing the life—giving warmth of the day + and the sunshine that bathed and penetrated all nature. I halted from time + to time in the parched glades to seek my way, and again pushed onward + through the forest paths overarched with heavy-scented leafage, onward + over the slippery moss up toward the heights, below which the Bievre stole + into view. + </p> + <p> + There it lay, at my feet, gliding between banks of verdure which seemed a + season younger than the grass I stood on. I began to descend the slope, + knowing that M. Jupille was awaiting me somewhere in the valley. I broke + into a run. I heard the murmur of water in the hollows, and caught + glimpses of forget-me-not tufts in low-lying grassy corners. Suddenly a + rod outlined itself against the sky, between two trees. It was he, the old + clerk; he nodded to me and laid down his line. + </p> + <p> + “I thought you never were coming.” + </p> + <p> + “That shows you don’t know me. Any sport?” + </p> + <p> + “Not so loud! Yes, capital sport. I’ll bait a line for you.” + </p> + <p> + “And where is your friend, Monsieur Jupille?” + </p> + <p> + “There he is.” + </p> + <p> + “Where?” + </p> + <p> + “Staring you in the face; can’t you see him?”. + </p> + <p> + Upon my word, I could see nobody, until he directed my gaze with his + fishing-rod, when I perceived, ten yards away, a large back view of white + trousers and brown, unbuckled waistcoat, a straw hat which seemed to + conceal a head, and a pair of shirt-sleeves hanging over the water. + </p> + <p> + This mass was motionless. + </p> + <p> + “He must have got a bite,” said Jupille, “else he would have been here + before now. Go and see him.” + </p> + <p> + Not knowing whom I was about to address, I gave a warning cough as I came + near him. + </p> + <p> + The unknown drew a loud breath, like a man who wakes with a start. + </p> + <p> + “That you, Jupille?” he said, turning a little way; “are you out of bait?” + </p> + <p> + “No, my dear tutor, it is I.” + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Mouillard, at last!” + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Flamaran! Jupille told the truth when he said I should be + surprised. Are you fond of fishing?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a passion with me. One must keep one or two for one’s old age, young + man.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve been having sport, I hear.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, this morning, between eight and nine, there were a few nibbles; but + since then the sport has been very poor. However, I’m very glad to see you + again, Mouillard. That essay of yours was extremely good.” + </p> + <p> + The eminent professor had risen, displaying a face still red from his + having slept with his head on his chest, but beaming with good-will. He + grasped my hand with heartiness and vigor. + </p> + <p> + “Here’s rod and line for you, Monsieur Mouillard, all ready baited,” broke + in Jupille. “If you’ll come with me I’ll show you a good place.” + </p> + <p> + “No, no, Jupille, I’m going to keep him,” answered M. Flamaran; “I haven’t + uttered a syllable for three hours. I must let myself out a little. We + will fish side by side, and chat.” + </p> + <p> + “As you please, Monsieur Flamaran; but I don’t call that fishing.” + </p> + <p> + He handed me the implement, and sadly went his way. + </p> + <p> + M. Flamaran and I sat down together on the bank, our feet resting on the + soft sand strewn with dead branches. Before us spread the little pool I + have mentioned, a slight widening of the stream of the Bievre, once a + watering-place for cattle. The sun, now at high noon, massed the trees’ + shadow close around their trunks. The unbroken surface of the water + reflected its rays back in our eyes. The current was barely indicated by + the gentle oscillation of a few water-lily leaves. Two big blue + dragonflies poised and quivered upon our floats, and not a fish seemed to + care to disturb them. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said M. Flamaran, “so you are still managing clerk to Counsellor + Boule?” + </p> + <p> + “For the time.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you like it?” + </p> + <p> + “Not particularly.” + </p> + <p> + “What are you waiting for?” + </p> + <p> + “For something to turn up.” + </p> + <p> + “And carry you back to Italy, I suppose?” + </p> + <p> + “Then you know I have just been there?” + </p> + <p> + “I know all about it. Charnot told me of your meeting, and your romantic + drive by moonlight. By the way, he’s come back with a bad cold; did you + know that?” + </p> + <p> + I assumed an air of sympathy: + </p> + <p> + “Poor man! When did he get back?” + </p> + <p> + “The day before yesterday. Of course I was the first to hear of it, and we + spent yesterday evening together. It may surprise you, Mouillard, and you + may think I exaggerate, but I think Jeanne has come back prettier than she + went.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you really think so?” + </p> + <p> + “I really do. That southern sun—look out, my dear Mouillard, your + line is half out of water—has brought back her roses (they’re + brighter than ever, I declare), and the good spirits she had lost, too, + poor girl. She is cheerful again now, as she used to be. I was very + anxious about her at one time. You know her sad story?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “The fellow was a scoundrel, my dear Mouillard, a regular scoundrel! I + never was in favor of the match, myself. Charnot let himself be drawn into + it by an old college friend. I told him over and over again, ‘It’s + Jeanne’s dowry he’s after, Charnot—I’m convinced of it. He’ll treat + Jeanne badly and make her miserable, mark my words.’ But I wasted my + breath; he wouldn’t listen to a word. Anyhow, it’s quite off now. But it + was no slight shock, I can tell you; and it gave me great pain to witness + the poor child’s sufferings.” + </p> + <p> + “You are so kind-hearted, Monsieur Flamaran!” + </p> + <p> + “It’s not that, Mouillard; but I have known Jeanne ever since she was + born. I watched her grow up, and I loved her when she was still a little + mite; she’s as good as my adoptive daughter. You understand me when I say + adoptive. I do not mean that there exists between us that legal bond in + imitation of nature which is permitted by our codes—‘adoptio + imitatur naturam’; not that, but that I love her like a daughter—Sidonie + never having presented me with a daughter, nor with a son either, for that + matter.” + </p> + <p> + A cry from Jupille interrupted M. Flamaran: + </p> + <p> + “Can’t you hear it rattle?” + </p> + <p> + The good man was tearing to us, waving his arms like a madman, the folds + of his trousers flapping about his thin legs like banners in the wind. + </p> + <p> + We leaped to our feet, and my first idea, an absurd one enough, was that a + rattlesnake was hurrying through the grass to our attack. + </p> + <p> + I was very far from the truth. The matter really was a new line, invented + by M. Jupille, cast a little further than an ordinary one, and rigged up + with a float like a raft, carrying a little clapper. The fish rang their + own knell as they took the hook. + </p> + <p> + “It’s rattling like mad!” cried Jupille, “and you don’t stir! I couldn’t + have thought it of you, Monsieur Flamaran.” + </p> + <p> + He ran past us, brandishing a landing-net as a warrior his lance; he might + have been a youth of twenty-five. We followed, less keen and also less + confident than he. He was right, though; when he drew up his line, the + float of which was disappearing in jerks, carrying the bell along with it + beneath the water, he brought out a fair-sized jack, which he declared to + be a giant. + </p> + <p> + He let it run for some time, to tire it, and to prolong the pleasure of + playing it. + </p> + <p> + “Gentlemen,” he cried, “it is cutting my finger off!” + </p> + <p> + A stroke from the landing-net laid the monster at our feet, its strength + all spent. It weighed rather under four pounds. Jupille swore to six. + </p> + <p> + My learned tutor and I sat down again side by side, but the thread of our + conversation had been broken past mending. I tried to talk of her, but M. + Flamaran insisted on talking of me, of Bourges, of his election as + professor, and of the radically distinct characteristics by which you can + tell the bite of a gudgeon from that of a stickleback. + </p> + <p> + The latter part of this lecture was, however, purely theoretical, for he + got up two hours before sunset without having hooked a fish. + </p> + <p> + “A good day, all the same,” he said. “It’s a good place, and the fish were + biting this morning. We’ll come here again some day, Jupille; with an east + wind you ought to catch any quantity of gudgeons.” He kept pace beside me + on our way home, but wearied, no doubt, with long sitting, with the heat, + and the glare from the water, fell into a reverie, from which the + incidents of the walk were unable to rouse him. + </p> + <p> + Jupille trotted before us, carrying his rod in one hand, a luncheon-basket + and a fish-bag in the other. He turned round and gave us a look at each + cross-road, smiled beneath his heavy moustache, and went on faster than + before. I felt sure that something out of the way was about to happen, and + that the silent quill-driver was tasting a quiet joke. + </p> + <p> + I had not guessed the whole truth. + </p> + <p> + At a turn of the road M. Flamaran suddenly pulled up, looked all around + him, and drew a deep breath. + </p> + <p> + “Hallo, Jupille! My good sir, where are you taking us? If I can believe my + eyes, this is the Chestnut Knoll, down yonder is Plessis Piquet, and we + are two miles from the station and the seven o’clock train!” + </p> + <p> + There was no denying it. A donkey emerged from the wood, hung with tassels + and bells, carrying in its panniers two little girls, whose parents toiled + behind, goad in hand. The woods had become shrubberies, through which + peeped the thatched roofs of rustic summerhouses, mazes, artificial + waterfalls, grottoes, and ruins; all the dread handiwork of the rustic + decorator burst, superabundant, upon our sight, with shy odors of beer and + cooking. Broken bottles strewed the paths; the bushes all looked weary, + harassed, and overworked; a confused murmur of voices and crackers floated + toward us upon the breeze. I knew full well from these signs that we were + nearing “ROBINSON CRUSOE,” the land of rustic inns. And, sure enough, here + they all were: “THE OLD ROBINSON,” “THE NEW ROBINSON,” “THE REAL ORIGINAL + ROBINSON,” “THE ONLY GENUINE ROBINSON,” “ROBINSON’s CHESTNUT GROVE,” + “ROBINSON’S PARADISE,” each unique and each authentic. All alike have + thatched porches, sanded paths, transparencies lighted with petroleum + lamps, tinsel stars, summerhouses, arrangements for open-air illumination + and highly colored advertisements, in which are set forth all the + component elements of a “ROBINSON,” such as shooting-galleries, + bowling-alleys, swings, private arbors, Munich beer, and dinner in a tree. + </p> + <p> + “Jupille!” exclaimed M. Flamaran, “you have shipwrecked us! This is + Crusoe’s land; and what the dickens do you mean by it?” + </p> + <p> + The old clerk, utterly discomfited, and wearing that hangdog look which he + always assumed at the slightest rebuke from Counsellor Boule, pulled a + face as long as his arm, went up to M. Flamaran and whispered a word in + his ear. + </p> + <p> + “Upon my word! Really, Jupille, what are you thinking of? And I a + professor, too! Thirty years ago it would have been excusable, but to-day! + Besides, Sidonie expects me home to dinner—” + </p> + <p> + He stopped for a moment, undecided, looking at his watch. + </p> + <p> + Jupille, who was eying him intently, saw his distinguished friend + gradually relax his frown and burst into a hearty laugh. + </p> + <p> + “By Jove! it’s madness at my age, but I don’t care. We’ll renew our youth + for an hour or so. My dear Mouillard, Jupille has ordered dinner for us + here. Had I been consulted I should have chosen any other place. Yet + what’s to be done? Hunger, friendship, and the fact that I can’t catch the + train, combine to silence my scruples. What do you say?” + </p> + <p> + “That we are in for it now.” + </p> + <p> + “So be it, then.” And led by Jupille, still carrying his catch, we entered + THE ONLY GENUINE ROBINSON. + </p> + <p> + M. Flamaran, somewhat ill at ease, cast inquiring glances on the clearings + in the sgrubberies. I thought I heard stifled laughter behind the trees. + </p> + <p> + “You have engaged Chestnut Number Three, gentlemen,” said the proprietor. + “Up these stairs, please.” + </p> + <p> + We ascended a staircase winding around the trunk. Chestnut Number 3 is a + fine old tree, a little bent, its sturdy lower branches supporting a + platform surrounded by a balustrade, six rotten wooden pillars, and a + thatched roof, shaped like a cocked hat, to shelter the whole. All the + neighboring trees contain similar constructions, which look from a little + distance like enormous nests. They are greatly in demand at the dinner + hour; you dine thirty feet up in the air, and your food is brought up by a + rope and pulley. + </p> + <p> + When M. Flamaran appeared on the platform he took off his hat, and leaned + with both hands on the railing to give a look around. The attitude + suggested a public speaker. His big gray head was conspicuous in the light + of the setting sun. + </p> + <p> + “He’s going to make a speech!” cried a voice. “Bet you he isn’t,” replied + another. + </p> + <p> + This was the signal. A rustling was heard among the leaves, and numbers of + inquisitive faces peeped out from all corners of the garden. A general + rattling of glasses announced that whole parties were leaving the tables + to see what was up. The waiters stopped to stare at Chestnut Number 3. The + whole population of Juan Fernandez was staring up at Flamaran without in + the least knowing the reason why. + </p> + <p> + “Gentlemen,” said a voice from an arbor, “Professor Flamaran will now + begin his lecture.” + </p> + <p> + A chorus of shouts and laughter rose around our tree. + </p> + <p> + “Hi, old boy, wait till we’re gone!” + </p> + <p> + “Ladies, he will discourse to you on the law of husband and wife!” + </p> + <p> + “No, on the foreclosure of mortgages!” + </p> + <p> + “No, on the payment of debts!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you naughty old man! You ought to be shut up!” + </p> + <p> + M. Flamaran, though somewhat put out of countenance for the moment, was + seized with a happy inspiration. He stretched out an arm to show that he + was about to speak. He opened his broad mouth with a smile of fatherly + humor, and the groves, attentive, heard him thunder forth these words: + </p> + <p> + “Boys, I promise to give you all white marks if you let me dine in peace!” + </p> + <p> + The last words were lost in a roar of applause. + </p> + <p> + “Three cheers for old Flamaran!” + </p> + <p> + Three cheers were given, followed by clapping of hands from various + quarters, then all was silence, and no one took any further notice of our + tree. + </p> + <p> + M. Flamaran left the railing and unfolded his napkin. + </p> + <p> + “You may be sure of my white marks, young men,” he said, as he sat down. + </p> + <p> + He was delighted at his success as an orator, and laughed gayly. Jupille, + on the other hand, was as pale as if he had been in a street riot, and + seemed rooted to the spot where he stood. + </p> + <p> + “It’s all right, Jupille; it’s all right, man! A little ready wit is all + you need, dash my wig!” + </p> + <p> + The old clerk gradually regained his composure, and the dinner grew very + merry. Flamaran’s spirits, raised by this little incident, never flagged. + He had a story for every glass of wine, and told them all with a quiet + humor of his own. + </p> + <p> + Toward the end of dinner, by the time the waiter came to offer us “almonds + and raisins, pears, peaches, preserves, meringues, brandy cherries,” we + had got upon the subject of Sidonie, the pearl of Forez. M. Flamaran + narrated to us, with dates, how a friend of his one day depicted to him a + young girl at Montbrison, of fresh and pleasing appearance, a good + housekeeper, and of excellent family; and how he—M. Flamaran—had + forthwith started off to find her, had recognized her before she was + pointed out to him, fell in love with her at first sight, and was not long + in obtaining her affection in return. The marriage had taken place at St. + Galmier. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my dear Mouillard,” he added, as if pointing a moral, “thirty years + ago last May I became a happy man; when do you think of following my + example?” + </p> + <p> + At this point, Jupille suddenly found himself one too many, and vanished + down the corkscrew stair. + </p> + <p> + “We once spoke of an heiress at Bourges,” M. Flamaran went on. + </p> + <p> + “Apparently that’s all off?” + </p> + <p> + “Quite off.” + </p> + <p> + “You were within your rights; but now, why not a Parisienne?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, indeed; why not?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you are prejudiced in some way against Parisiennes?” + </p> + <p> + “I? Not the least.” + </p> + <p> + “I used to be, but I’ve got over it now. They have a charm of their own, a + certain style of dressing, walking, and laughing which you don’t find + outside the fortifications. For a long time I used to think that these + qualities stood them in lieu of virtues. That was a slander; there are + plenty of Parisiennes endowed with every virtue; I even know a few who are + angels.” + </p> + <p> + At this point, M. Flamaran looked me straight in the eyes, and, as I made + no reply, he added: + </p> + <p> + “I know one, at least: Jeanne Charnot. Are you listening?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Monsieur Flamaran.” + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t she a paragon?” + </p> + <p> + “She is.” + </p> + <p> + “As sensible as she is tender-hearted?” + </p> + <p> + “So I believe.” + </p> + <p> + “And as clever as she is sensible?” + </p> + <p> + “That is my opinion.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, young man, if that’s your opinion—excuse my burning my + boats, all my boats—if that’s your opinion, I don’t understand why—Do + you suppose she has no money?” + </p> + <p> + “I know nothing about her means.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t make any mistake; she’s a rich woman. Do you think you’re too young + to marry?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you fancy, perhaps, that she is still bound by that unfortunate + engagement?” + </p> + <p> + “I trust she is not.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m quite sure she is not. She is free, I tell you, as free as you. Well, + why don’t you love her?” + </p> + <p> + “But I do love her, Monsieur Flamaran!” + </p> + <p> + “Why, then, I congratulate you, my boy!” + </p> + <p> + He leaned across the table and gave me a hearty grasp of the hand. He was + so agitated that he could not speak—choking with joyful emotion, as + if he had been Jeanne’s father, or mine. + </p> + <p> + After a minute or so, he drew himself up in his chair, reached out, put a + hand on each of my shoulders and kept it there as if he feared I might fly + away. + </p> + <p> + “So you love her, you love her! Good gracious, what a business I’ve had to + get you to say so! You are quite right to love her, of course, of course—I + could not have understood your doing otherwise; but I must say this, my + boy, that if you tarry too long, with her attractions, you know what will + happen.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I ought to ask for her at once.” + </p> + <p> + “To be sure you ought.” + </p> + <p> + “Alas! Monsieur Flamaran, who is there that I can send on such a mission + for me? You know that I am an orphan.” + </p> + <p> + “But you have an uncle.” + </p> + <p> + “We have quarrelled.” + </p> + <p> + “You might make it up again, on an occasion like this.” + </p> + <p> + “Out of the question; we quarrelled on her account; my uncle hates + Parisiennes.” + </p> + <p> + “Damn it all, then! send a friend—a friend will do under the + circumstances.” + </p> + <p> + “There’s Lampron.” + </p> + <p> + “The painter?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but he doesn’t know Monsieur Charnot. It would only be one stranger + pleading for another. My chances would be small. What I want—” + </p> + <p> + “Is a friend of both parties, isn’t it? Well, what am I?” + </p> + <p> + “The very man!” + </p> + <p> + “Very well. I undertake to ask for her hand! I shall ask for the hand of + the charming Jeanne for both of us; for you, who will make her happy; and + for myself, who will not entirely lose her if she marries one of my + pupils, one of my favorite graduates—my friend, Fabien Mouillard. + And I won’t be refused—no, damme, I won’t!” + </p> + <p> + He brought down his fist upon the table with a tremendous blow which made + the glasses ring and the decanters stagger. + </p> + <p> + “Coming!” cried a waiter from below, thinking he was summoned. + </p> + <p> + “All right, my good fellow!” shouted M. Flamaran, leaning over the + railings. “Don’t trouble. I don’t want anything.” + </p> + <p> + He turned again toward me, still filled with emotion, but somewhat calmer + than he had been. + </p> + <p> + “Now,” said he, “let us talk, and do you tell me all.” + </p> + <p> + And we began a long and altogether delightful talk. + </p> + <p> + A more genuine, a finer fellow never breathed than this professor let + loose from school and giving his heart a holiday—a simple, tender + heart, preserved beneath the science of the law like a grape in sawdust. + Now he would smile as I sang Jeanne’s praises; now he would sit and listen + to my objections with a truculent air, tightening his lips till they broke + forth in vehement denial. “What! You dare to say! Young man, what are you + afraid of?” His overflowing kindness discharged itself in the sincerest + and most solemn asseverations. + </p> + <p> + We had left Juan Fernandez far behind us; we were both far away in that + Utopia where mind penetrates mind, heart understands heart. We heard + neither the squeaking of a swing beneath us, nor the shouts of laughter + along the promenades, nor the sound of a band tuning up in a neighboring + pavilion. Our eyes, raised to heaven, failed to see the night descending + upon us, vast and silent, piercing the foliage with its first stars. Now + and again a warm breath passed over us, blown from the woods; I tasted its + strangely sweet perfume; I saw in glimpses the flying vision of a huge + dark tulip, striped with gold, unfolding its petals on the moist bank of a + dyke, and I asked myself whether a mysterious flower had really opened in + the night, or whether it was but a new feeling, slowly budding, unfolding, + blossoming within my heart. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVII. PLEASURES OF EAVESDROPPING + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + July 22d. +</pre> + <p> + At two o’clock to-day I went to see Sylvestre, to tell him all the great + events of yesterday. We sat down on the old covered sofa in the shadow of + the movable curtain which divides the studio, as it were, into two rooms, + among the lay figures, busts, varnish-bottles, and paint-boxes. Lampron + likes this chiaroscuro. It rests his eyes. + </p> + <p> + Some one knocked at the door. + </p> + <p> + “Stay where you are,” said Sylvestre; “it’s a customer come for the + background of an engraving. I’ll be with you in two minutes. Come in!” As + he was speaking he drew the curtain in front of me, and through the thin + stuff I could see him going toward the door, which had just opened. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Lampron?” + </p> + <p> + “I am he, Monsieur.” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t recognize me, Monsieur?” + </p> + <p> + “No, Monsieur.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m surprised at that.” + </p> + <p> + “Why so? I have never seen you.” + </p> + <p> + “You have taken my portrait!” + </p> + <p> + “Really!” + </p> + <p> + I was watching Lampron, who was plainly angered at this brusque + introduction. He left the chair which he had begun to push forward, let it + stand in the middle of the studio, and went and sat down on his + engraving-stool in the corner, with a somewhat haughty look, and a defiant + smile lurking behind his beard. He rested his elbow on the table and began + to drum with his fingers. + </p> + <p> + “What I have had the honor to inform you is the simple truth, Monsieur. I + am Monsieur Charnot of the Institute.” + </p> + <p> + Lampron gave a glance in my direction, and his frown melted away. + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me, Monsieur; I only know you by your back. Had you shown me that + side of you I might perhaps have recognized—” + </p> + <p> + “I have not come here to listen to jokes, Monsieur; and I should have come + sooner to demand an explanation, but that it was only this morning I heard + of what I consider a deplorable abuse of your talents. But picture-shows + are not in my line. I did not see myself there. My friend Flamaran had to + tell me that I was to be seen at the last Salon, together with my + daughter, sitting on a tree-trunk in the forest of Saint-Germain. Is it + true, Monsieur, that you drew me sitting on a trunk?” + </p> + <p> + “Quite true.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s a trifle too rustic for a man who does not go outside of Paris + three times a year. And my daughter you drew in profile—a good + likeness, I believe.” + </p> + <p> + “It was as like as I could make it.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you confess that you drew both my daughter and myself?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I do, Monsieur.” + </p> + <p> + “It may not be so easy for you to explain by what right you did so; I + await your explanation, Monsieur.” + </p> + <p> + “I might very well give you no explanation whatever,” replied Lampron, who + was beginning to lose patience. “I might also reply that I no more needed + to ask your permission to sketch you than to ask that of the beeches, + oaks, elms, and willows. I might tell you that you formed part of the + landscape, that every artist who sketches a bit of underwood has the right + to stick a figure in—” + </p> + <p> + “A figure, Monsieur! do you call me a figure?” + </p> + <p> + “A gentleman, I mean. Artists call it figure. Well, I might give you this + reason, which is quite good enough for you, but it is not the real one. I + prefer to tell you frankly what passed. You have a very beautiful + daughter, Monsieur.” + </p> + <p> + M. Charnot made his customary bow. + </p> + <p> + “One of my friends is in love with her. He is shy, and dares not tell his + love. We met you by chance in the wood, and I was seized with the idea of + making a sketch of Mademoiselle Jeanne, so like that she could not mistake + it, and then exhibiting it with the certainty of her seeing it and + guessing its meaning. I trusted she would recall to her mind, not myself, + for my youth is past, but a young friend of mine who is of the age and + build of a lover. If this was a crime, Monsieur, I am ready to take the + blame for it upon myself, for I alone committed it.” + </p> + <p> + “It certainly was criminal, Monsieur; criminal in you, at any rate—you + who are a man of weight, respected for your talent and your character—to + aid and abet in a frivolous love-affair.” + </p> + <p> + “It was the deepest and most honorable sentiment, Monsieur.” + </p> + <p> + “A blaze of straw!” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing of the sort!” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t tell me! Your friend’s a mere boy.” + </p> + <p> + “So much the better for him, and for her, too! If you want a man of middle + age for your son-in-law, just try one and see what they are worth. You may + be sorry that you ever refused this boy, who, it is true, is only + twenty-four, has little money, no decided calling, nor yet that gift of + self-confidence which does instead of merit for so many people; but who is + a brave and noble soul, whom I can answer for as for myself. Go, Monsieur, + you will find your daughter great names, fat purses, gold lace, long + beards, swelling waistbands, reputations, pretensions, justified or not, + everything, in short, in which he is poor; but him you will never find + again! That is all I have to tell you.” + </p> + <p> + Lampron had become animated and spoke with heat. There was the slightest + flash of anger in his eyes. + </p> + <p> + I saw M. Charnot get up, approach him, and hold out his hand. + </p> + <p> + “I did not wish you to say anything else, Monsieur; that is enough for me. + Flamaran asked my daughter’s hand for your friend only this morning. + Flamaran loses no time when charged with a commission. He, too, told me + much that was good of your friend. I also questioned Counsellor Boule. But + however flattering characters they might give him, I still needed another, + that of a man who had lived in complete intimacy with Monsieur Mouillard, + and I could find no one but you.” + </p> + <p> + Lampron stared astonished at this little thin-lipped man who had just + changed his tone and manner so unexpectedly. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Monsieur,” he answered, “you might have got his character from me + with less trouble; there was no need to make a scene.” + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me. You say I should have got his character; that is exactly what + I did not want; characters are always good. What I wanted was a cry from + the heart of a friend outraged and brought to bay. That is what I got, and + it satisfies me. I am much obliged to you, Monsieur, and beg you will + excuse my conduct.” + </p> + <p> + “But, since we are talking sense at present, allow me to put you a + question in my turn. I am not in the habit of going around the point. Is + my friend’s proposal likely to be accepted or not?” + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Lampron, in these delicate matters I have decided for the future + to leave my daughter entirely free. Although my happiness is at stake + almost as entirely as hers, I shall not say a word save to advise. In + accordance with this resolve I communicated Flamaran’s proposal to her.” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “I expected she would refuse it.” + </p> + <p> + “But she said ‘Yes’?” + </p> + <p> + “She did not say ‘No;’ if she had, you can guess that I should not be + here.” + </p> + <p> + At this reply I quite lost my head, and was very near tearing aside the + curtain, and bursting forth into the studio with a shout of gratitude. + </p> + <p> + But M. Charnot added: + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be too sure, though. There are certain serious, and, perhaps, + insurmountable obstacles. I must speak to my daughter again. I will let + your friend know of our final decision as soon as I can. Good-by, + Monsieur.” + </p> + <p> + Lampron saw him to the street, and I heard their steps grow distant in the + passage. A moment later Sylvestre returned and held out both hands to me, + saying: + </p> + <p> + “Well, are you happy now?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course I am, to a certain extent.” + </p> + <p> + “‘To a certain extent’! Why, she loves you.” + </p> + <p> + “But the obstacles, Sylvestre!” + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense!” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps insurmountable—those were his words.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, obstacles are the salt of all our joys. What a deal you young men + want before you can be called happy! You ask Life for certainties, as if + she had any to give you!” + </p> + <p> + And he began to discuss my fears, but could not quite disperse them, for + neither of us could guess what the obstacles could be. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + August 2d. +</pre> + <p> + After ten days of waiting, during which I have employed Lampron and M. + Flamaran to intercede for me, turn and turn about; ten days passed in + hovering between mortal anguish and extravagant hopes, during which I have + formed, destroyed, taken up again and abandoned more plans than I ever + made in all my life before, yesterday, at five o’clock, I got a note from + M. Charnot, begging me to call upon him the same evening. + </p> + <p> + I went there in a state of nervous collapse. He received me in his study, + as he had done seven months before, at our first interview, but with a + more solemn politeness; and I noticed that the paper-knife, which he had + taken up from the table as he resumed his seat, shook between his fingers. + I sat in the same chair in which I had felt so ill at ease. To tell the + truth, I felt very much the same, yesterday. M. Charnot doubtless noticed + it, and wished to reassure me. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur,” said he, “I receive you as a friend. Whatever may be the + result of our interview, you may be assured of my esteem. Therefore do not + fear to answer me frankly.” + </p> + <p> + He put several questions to me concerning my family, my tastes, and my + acquaintance in Paris. Then he requested me to tell the simple story of my + boyhood and my youth, the recollections of my home, of the college at La + Chatre, of my holidays at Bourges, and of my student life. + </p> + <p> + He listened without interruption, playing with the ivory paperknife. When + I reached the date—it was only last December—when I saw Jeanne + for the first time— + </p> + <p> + “That’s enough,” said he, “I know or guess the rest. Young man, I promised + you an answer; this is it—” + </p> + <p> + For the moment, I ceased to breathe; my very heart seemed to stop beating. + </p> + <p> + “My daughter,” went on M. Charnot, “has at this moment several proposals + of marriage to choose from. You see I hide nothing from you. I have left + her time to reflect; she has weighed and compared them all, and + communicated to me yesterday the result of her reflections. To richer and + more brilliant matches she prefers an honest man who loves her for + herself, and you, Monsieur, are that honest man.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, thank you, thank you, Monsieur!” I cried. + </p> + <p> + “Wait a moment, there are two conditions.” + </p> + <p> + “Were there ten, I would accept them without question!” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t hurry. You will see; one is my daughter’s, the other comes from + both of us.” + </p> + <p> + “You wish me to have some profession, perhaps?” + </p> + <p> + “No, that’s not it. Clearly my son-in-law will never sit idle. Besides, I + have some views on that subject, which I will tell you later if I have the + chance. No, the first condition exacted by my daughter, and dictated by a + feeling which is very pleasant to me, is that you promise never to leave + Paris.” + </p> + <p> + “That I swear to, with all the pleasure in life!” + </p> + <p> + “Really? I feared you had some ties.” + </p> + <p> + “Not one.” + </p> + <p> + “Or dislike for Paris.” + </p> + <p> + “No, Monsieur; only a preference for Paris, with freedom to indulge it. + Your second condition?” + </p> + <p> + “The second, to which my daughter and I both attach importance, is that + you should make your peace with your uncle. Flamaran tells me you have + quarrelled.” + </p> + <p> + “That is true.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope it is not a serious difference. A mere cloud, isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “Unfortunately not. My uncle is very positive—” + </p> + <p> + “But at the same time his heart is in the right place, so far as I could + judge from what I saw of him—in June, I think it was.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t mind taking the first step?” + </p> + <p> + “I will take as many as may be needed.” + </p> + <p> + “I was sure you would. You can not remain on bad terms with your father’s + brother, the only relative you have left. In our eyes this reconciliation + is a duty, a necessity. You should desire it as much as, and even more + than, we.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall use every effort, Monsieur, I promise you.” + </p> + <p> + “And in that case you will succeed, I feel sure.” + </p> + <p> + M. Charnot, who had grown very pale, held out his hand to me, and tried + hard to smile. + </p> + <p> + “I think, Monsieur Fabien, that we are quite at one, and that the hour has + come—” + </p> + <p> + He did not finish the sentence, but rose and went to open a door between + two bookcases at the end of the room. + </p> + <p> + “Jeanne,” he said, “Monsieur Fabien accepts the two conditions, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + And I saw Jeanne come smiling toward me. + </p> + <p> + And I, who had risen trembling, I, who until then had lost my head at the + mere thought of seeing her, I, who had many a time asked myself in terror + what I should say on meeting her, if ever she were mine, I felt myself + suddenly bold, and the words rushed to my lips to thank her, to express my + joy. + </p> + <p> + My happiness, however, was evident, and I might have spared my words. + </p> + <p> + For the first half-hour all three of us talked together. + </p> + <p> + Then M. Charnot pushed back his armchair, and we two were left to + ourselves. + </p> + <p> + He had taken up a newspaper, but I am pretty sure he held it upside down. + In any case he must have been reading between the lines, for he did not + turn the page the whole evening. + </p> + <p> + He often cast a glance over the top of the paper, folded in four, to the + corner where we were sitting, and from us his eyes travelled to a pretty + miniature of Jeanne as a child, which hung over the mantelpiece. + </p> + <p> + What comparisons, what memories, what regrets, what hopes were struggling + in his mind? I know not, but I know he sighed, and had not we been there I + believe he would have wept. + </p> + <p> + To me Jeanne showed herself simple as a child, wise and thoughtful as a + woman. A new feeling was growing every instant within me, of perfect rest + of heart; the certainty of happiness for all my life to come. + </p> + <p> + Yes, my happiness travelled beyond the present, as I looked into the + future and saw along series of days passed by her side; and while she + spoke to me, tranquil, confident, and happy too, I thought I saw the great + wings of my dream closing over and enfolding us. + </p> + <p> + We spoke in murmurs. The open window let in the warm evening air and the + confused roar of the city. + </p> + <p> + “I am to be your friend and counsellor?” said she. + </p> + <p> + “Always.” + </p> + <p> + “You promise that you will ask my advice in all things, and that we shall + act in concert?” + </p> + <p> + “I do.” + </p> + <p> + “If this very first evening I ask you for a proof of this, you won’t be + angry?” + </p> + <p> + “On the contrary.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, from what you have told me of your uncle, you seem to have accepted + the second condition, of making up your quarrel, rather lightly.” + </p> + <p> + “I have only promised to do my best.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but my father counts upon your success. How do you intend to act?” + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t yet considered.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s just what I foresaw, and I thought it would perhaps be a good + thing if we considered it together.” + </p> + <p> + “Mademoiselle, I am listening; compose the plan of campaign, and I will + criticise it.” + </p> + <p> + Jeanne clasped her hands over her knees and assumed a thoughtful look. + </p> + <p> + “Suppose you wrote to him.” + </p> + <p> + “There is every chance that he would not answer.” + </p> + <p> + “Reply paid?” + </p> + <p> + “Mademoiselle, you are laughing; you are no counsellor any longer.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I am. Let us be serious. Suppose you go to see him.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s a better idea. He may perhaps receive me.” + </p> + <p> + “In that case you will capture him. If you can only get a man to listen—” + </p> + <p> + “Not my uncle, Mademoiselle. He will listen, and do you know what his + answer will be?” + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “This, or something like it: ‘My worthy nephew, you have come to tell me + two things, have you not? First, that you are about to marry a Parisienne; + secondly, that you renounce forever the family practice. You merely + confirm and aggravate our difference. You have taken a step further + backward. It was not worth while your coming out of your way to tell me + this, and you may return as soon as you please.’” + </p> + <p> + “You surprise me. There must be some way of getting at him, if he is + really good-hearted, as you say. If I could see your uncle I should soon + find out a way.” + </p> + <p> + “If you could see him! Yes, that would be the best way of all; it couldn’t + help succeeding. He imagines you as a flighty Parisienne; he is afraid of + you; he is more angry with me for loving you than for refusing to carry on + his practice. If he could only see you, he would soon forgive me.” + </p> + <p> + “You think so?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m sure of it.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think that if I were to look him in the face, as I now look at + you, and to say to him: ‘Monsieur Mouillard, will you not consent to my + becoming your niece?’ do you think that then he would give in?” + </p> + <p> + “Alas! Mademoiselle, why can not it be tried?” + </p> + <p> + “It certainly is difficult, but I won’t say it can not.” + </p> + <p> + We explained, or rather Jeanne explained, the case to M. Charnot, who is + assuredly her earliest and most complete conquest. At first he cried out + against the idea. He said it was entirely my business, a family matter in + which he had no right to interfere. She insisted. She carried his scruples + by storm. She boldly proposed a trip to Bourges, and a visit to M. + Mouillard. She overflowed with reasons, some of them rather weak, but all + so prettily urged! A trip to Bourges would be delightful—something + so novel and refreshing! Had M. Charnot complained on the previous + evening, or had he not, of having to stop in Paris in the heat of August? + Yes, he had complained, and quite right too, for his colleagues did not + hesitate to leave their work and rush off to the country. Then she cited + examples: one off to the Vosges, another at Arcachon, yet another at + Deauville. And she reminded him, too, that a certain old lady, one of his + old friends of the Faubourg St. Germain, lived only a few miles out of + Bourges, and had invited him to come and see her, she didn’t know how many + times, and that he had promised and promised and never kept his word. Now + he could take the opportunity of going on from Bourges to her chateau. + Finally, as M. Charnot continued to urge the singularity of such behavior, + she replied: + </p> + <p> + “My dear father! not at all; in visiting Monsieur Mouillard you will be + only fulfilling a social duty.” + </p> + <p> + “How so, I should like to know?” + </p> + <p> + “He paid you a visit, and you will be returning it!” + </p> + <p> + M. Charnot tossed his head, like a father who, though he may not be + convinced, yet admits that he is beaten. + </p> + <p> + As for me, Jeanne, I’m beginning to believe in the fairies again. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVIII. A COOL RECEPTION + </h2> + <h3> + August 3d. + </h3> + <p> + I have made another visit to the Rue de l’Universite. They have decided to + make the trip. I leave for Bourges tomorrow, a day in advance of M. and + Mademoiselle Charnot, who will arrive on the following morning. + </p> + <p> + I am sent on first to fulfil two duties: to engage comfortable rooms at + the hotel—first floor with southern aspect—and then to see my + uncle and prepare him for his visitors. + </p> + <p> + I am to prepare him without ruffling him. Jeanne has sketched my plan of + campaign. I am to be the most affectionate of nephews, though he show + himself the crustiest of uncles; to prevent him from recurring to the + past, to speak soberly of the present, to confess that Mademoiselle + Charnot is aware of my feelings for her, and shows herself not entirely + insensible to them; but I am to avoid giving details, and must put off a + full explanation until later, when we can study the situation together. M. + Mouillard can not fail to be appeased by such deference, and to observe a + truce while I hint at the possibility of a family council. Then, if these + first advances are well received, I am to tell him that M. Charnot is + actually travelling in the neighborhood, and, without giving it as + certain, I may add that if he stops at Bourges he may like to return my + uncle’s visit. + </p> + <p> + There my role ends. Jeanne and M. Charnot will do the rest. It is with + Jeanne, by the light of her eyes and her smile, that M. Mouillard is “to + study the situation;” he will have to struggle against the redoubtable + arguments of her youth and beauty. Poor man! + </p> + <p> + Jeanne is full of confidence. Her father, who has learned his lesson from + her, feels sure that my uncle will give in. Even I, who can not entirely + share this optimism, feel that I incline to the side of hope. + </p> + <p> + When I reached home, the porter handed me two cards from Larive. On the + first I read: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + CH. LARIVE, + Managing Clerk. + P. P. C. +</pre> + <p> + The second, on glazed cardboard, announced, likewise in initials, another + piece of news: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + CH. LARIVE, + Formerly Managing Clerk. + P. F. P. M. +</pre> + <p> + So the Parisian who swore he could not exist two days in the country is + leaving Paris. That was fated. He is about to be married; I’m sure I don’t + object. The only consequence to me is that we never shall meet again, and + I shall not weep over that. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + BOURGES, August 4th. +</pre> + <p> + If you have ever been in Bourges, you may have seen the little Rue + Sous-les-Ceps, the Cours du Bat d’Argent and de la Fleur-de-lys, the Rues + de la Merede-Dieu, des Verts-Galants, Mausecret, du Moulin-le-Roi, the + Quai Messire-Jacques, and other streets whose ancient names, preserved by + a praiseworthy sentiment or instinctive conservatism, betoken an ancient + city still inhabited by old-fashioned people, by which I mean people + attached to the soil, strongly marked with the stamp of the provincial in + manners as in language; people who understand all that a name is to a + street—its honor, its spouse if you will, from which it must not be + divorced. + </p> + <p> + My Uncle Mouillard, most devoted and faithful citizen of Bourges, + naturally lives in one of these old streets, the Rue du Four, within the + shadow of the cathedral, beneath the swing of its chimes. + </p> + <p> + Within fifteen minutes after my arrival at Bourges I was pulling the + deer’s foot which hangs, depilated with long use, beside his door. It was + five o’clock, and I knew for certain that he would not be at home. When + the courts rise, one of the clerks carries back his papers to the office, + while he moves slowly off, his coat-tails flapping in the breeze, either + to visit a few friends and clients, respectable dames who were his + partners in the dance in the year 1840, or more often to take a + “constitutional” along the banks of the Berry Canal, where, in the poplar + shade, files of little gray donkeys are towing string after string of big + barges. + </p> + <p> + So I was sure not to meet him. + </p> + <p> + Madeleine opened the door to me, and started as if shot. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Fabien!” + </p> + <p> + “Myself, Madeleine. My uncle is not at home?” + </p> + <p> + “No, Monsieur. Do you really mean to come in, Monsieur?” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “The master’s so changed since his visit to Paris, Monsieur Fabien!” + </p> + <p> + Madeleine stood still, with one hand holding up her apron, the other + hanging, and gazed at me with reproachful anxiety. + </p> + <p> + “I must come in, Madeleine. I have a secret to tell you.” + </p> + <p> + She made no answer, but turned and walked before me into the house. + </p> + <p> + It was not thus that I used to be welcomed in days gone by! Then Madeleine + used to meet me at the station. She used to kiss me, and tell me how well + I looked, promising the while a myriad sweet dishes which she had invented + for me. Hardly did I set foot in the hall before my uncle, who had given + up his evening walk for my sake, would run out of his study, heart and + cravat alike out of their usual order at seeing me—me, a poor, + awkward, gaping schoolboy: Today that is ancient history. To-day I am + afraid to meet my uncle, and Madeleine is afraid to let me in. + </p> + <p> + She told me not a word of it, but I easily guessed that floods of tears + had streamed from her black eyes down her thin cheeks, now pale as wax. + Her face is quite transparent, and looks as if a tiny lamp were lighting + it from within. There are strong feelings, too, beneath that impassive + mask. Madeleine comes from Bayonne, and has Spanish blood in her. I have + heard that she was lovely as a girl of twenty. With age her features have + grown austere. She looks like a widow who is a widow indeed, and her heart + is that of a grandmother. + </p> + <p> + She glided before me in her slippers to that realm of peace and silence, + her kitchen. I followed her in. Two things that never found entrance there + are dust and noise. A lonely goldfinch hangs in a wicker cage from the + rafters, and utters from time to time a little shrill call. His note and + the metallic tick-tick of Madeleine’s clock alone enliven the silent + flight of time. She sat down in the low chair where she knits after + dinner. + </p> + <p> + “Madeleine, I am about to be married; did you know it?” + </p> + <p> + She slowly shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, in Paris, Monsieur Fabien; that’s what makes the master so unhappy.” + </p> + <p> + “You will soon see her whom I have chosen, Madeleine.” + </p> + <p> + “I do not think so, Monsieur Fabien.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes, you will; and you will see that it is my uncle who is in the + wrong.” + </p> + <p> + “I have not often known him in the wrong.” + </p> + <p> + “That has nothing to do with it. My marriage is fully decided upon, and + all I want is to get my uncle’s consent to it. Do you understand? I want + to make friends with him.” + </p> + <p> + Madeleine shook her head again. + </p> + <p> + “You won’t succeed.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear Madeleine!” + </p> + <p> + “No, Monsieur Fabien, you won’t succeed.” + </p> + <p> + “He must be very much changed, then!” + </p> + <p> + “So much that you could hardly believe it; so much that I can hardly keep + myself from changing too. He, who had such a good appetite, now has + nothing but fads. It’s no good my cooking him dainties, or buying him + early vegetables; he never notices them, but looks out of the window as I + come in at the door with a surprise for him. In the evening he often + forgets to go out in the garden, and sits at table, his elbows on his + rumpled napkin, his head between his hands, and what he thinks of he keeps + to himself. If I try to talk of you—and I have tried, Monsieur + Fabien—he gets up in a rage, and forbids me to open my mouth on the + subject. The house is not cheerful, Monsieur Fabien. Every one notices how + he has changed; Monsieur Lorinet and his lady never enter the doors; + Monsieur Hublette and Monsieur Horlet come and play dummy, looking all the + time as if they had come for a funeral, thinking it will please the + master. Even the clients say that the master treats them like dogs, and + that he ought to sell his practice.” + </p> + <p> + “Then it isn’t sold?” + </p> + <p> + “Not yet, but I think it will be before long.” + </p> + <p> + “Listen to me, Madeleine; you have always been good and devoted to me; I + am sure you still are fond of me; do me one last service. You must manage + to put me up here without my uncle knowing it.” + </p> + <p> + “Without his knowing it, Monsieur Fabien!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, say in the library; he never goes in there. From there I can study + him, and watch him, without his seeing me, since he is so irritable and so + easily upset, and as soon as you see an opportunity I shall make use of + it. A sign from you, and down I come.” + </p> + <p> + “Really, Monsieur Fabien—” + </p> + <p> + “It must be done, Madeleine; I must manage to speak to him before ten + o’clock to-morrow morning, for my bride is coming.” + </p> + <p> + “The Parisienne? She coming here!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, with her father, by the train which gets in at six minutes past nine + to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “Good God! is it possible?” + </p> + <p> + “To see you, Madeleine; to see my uncle, to make my peace with him. Isn’t + it kind of her?” + </p> + <p> + “Kind? Monsieur Fabien! I tremble to think of what will happen. All the + same, I shall be glad to have a sight of your young lady, of course.” + </p> + <p> + And so we settled that Madeleine was not to say a word to my uncle about + my being in Bourges, within a few feet of him. If she perceived any break + in the gloom which enveloped M. Mouillard, she was to let me know; if I + were obliged to put off my interview to the morrow, and to pass the night + on the sofa-bed in the library, she was to bring me something to eat, a + rug, and “the pillow you used in your holidays when you were a boy.” + </p> + <p> + I was installed then in the big library on the first-floor, adjoining the + drawing-room, its other door opening on the passage opposite M. + Mouillard’s door, and its two large windows on the garden. What a look of + good antique middle-class comfort there was about it, from the floor of + bees’-waxed oak, with its inequalities of level, to the four bookcases + with glass doors, surmounted by four bronzed busts of Herodotus, Homer, + Socrates, and Marmontel! Nothing had been moved; the books were still in + the places where I had known them for twenty years; Voltaire beside + Rousseau, the Dictionary of Useful Knowledge, and Rollin’s Ancient + History, the slim, well bound octavos of the Meditations of St. Ignatius, + side by side with an enormous quarto on veterinary surgery. + </p> + <p> + The savage arrows, said to be poisoned, which always used to frighten me + so much, were still arranged like a peacock’s tail over the mantel-shelf, + each end of which was adorned by the same familiar lumps of white coral. + The musical-box, which I was not allowed to touch till I was eighteen, + still stood in the left-hand corner, and on the writing-table, near the + little blotting-book that held the note-paper, rose, still majestic, still + turning obedient to the touch within its graduated belts, the terrestrial + globe “on which are marked the three voyages of Captain Cook, both outward + and homeward.” Ah, captain, how often have we sailed those voyages + together! What grand headway we made as we scoured the tropics in the heel + of the trade-wind, our ship threading archipelagoes whose virgin forests + stared at us in wonder, all their strange flowers opening toward us, + seeking to allure us and put us to sleep with their dangerous perfumes. + But we always guessed the snare, we saw the points of the assegais + gleaming amid the tall grasses; you gave the word in your full, deep + voice, and our way lay infinite before us; we followed it, always on the + track of new lands, new discoveries, until we reached the fatal isle of + Owhyhee, the spot where this terrestrial globe is spotted with a tear—for + I wept over you, my captain, at the age when tears unlock themselves and + flow easily from a heart filled with enchantment! + </p> + <p> + Seven o’clock sounded from the cathedral; the garden door slammed to; my + uncle was returning. + </p> + <p> + I saw him coming down the winding path, hat in hand, with bowed head. He + did not stop before his graftings; he passed the clump of petunias without + giving them that all-embracing glance I know so well, the glance of the + rewarded gardener. He gave no word of encouragement to the Chinese duck + which waddled down the path in front of him. + </p> + <p> + Madeleine was right. The time was not ripe for reconciliation; and more, + it would need a great deal of sun to ripen it. O Jeanne, if only you were + here! + </p> + <p> + “Any one called while I’ve been out?” + </p> + <p> + This, by the way, is the old formula to which my uncle has always been + faithful. I heard Madeleine answer, with a quaver in her voice: + </p> + <p> + “No, nobody for you, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Someone for you, then? A lover, perhaps, my faithful Madeleine? The world + is so foolish nowadays that even you might take it into your head to marry + and leave me. Come, serve my dinner quickly, and if the gentleman with the + decoration calls—you know whom I mean?” + </p> + <p> + “The tall, thin gentleman?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Show him into the drawing-room.” + </p> + <p> + “A gentleman by himself into the drawing-room? + </p> + <p> + “No, sir, no. The floor was waxed only yesterday, and the furniture’s not + yet in order.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well! I’ll see him in here.” + </p> + <p> + My uncle went into the dining-room underneath me, and for twenty minutes I + heard nothing more of him, save the ring of his wineglass as he struck on + it to summon Madeleine. + </p> + <p> + He had hardly finished dinner when there came a ring at the street door. + Some one asked for M. Mouillard, the gentleman with the decoration, I + suppose, for Madeleine showed him in, and I could tell by the noise of his + chair that my uncle had risen to receive his visitor. + </p> + <p> + They sat down and entered into conversation. An indistinct murmur reached + me through the ceiling. Occasionally a clearer sound struck my ear, and I + thought I knew that high, resonant voice. It was no doubt delusion, still + it beset me there in the silence of the library, haunting my thoughts as + they wandered restlessly in search of occupation. I tried to recollect all + the men with fluty voices that I had ever met in Bourges: a corn-factor + from the Place St. Jean; Rollet, the sacristan; a fat manufacturer, who + used to get my uncle to draw up petitions for him claiming relief from + taxation. I hunted feverishly in my memory as the light died away from the + windows, and the towers of St. Stephen’s gradually lost the glowing + aureole conferred on them by the setting sun. + </p> + <p> + After about an hour the conversation grew heated. + </p> + <p> + My uncle coughed, the flute became shrill. I caught these fragments of + their dialogue. + </p> + <p> + “No, Monsieur!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Monsieur!” + </p> + <p> + “But the law?” + </p> + <p> + “Is as I tell you.” + </p> + <p> + “But this is tyranny!” + </p> + <p> + “Then our business is at an end.” + </p> + <p> + Apparently it was not, though; for the conversation gradually sank down + the scale to a monotonous murmur. A second hour passed, and yet a third. + What could this interminable visit portend? + </p> + <p> + It was near eleven o’clock. A ray from the rising moon shone between the + trees in the garden. A big black cat crept across the lawn, shaking its + wet paws. In the darkness it looked like a tiger. In my mind’s eye I saw + Madeleine sitting with her eyes fixed on her dead hearth, telling her + beads, her thoughts running with mine: “It is years since Monsieur + Mouillard was up at such an hour.” Still she waited, for never had any + hand but hers shot the bolt of the street door; the house would not be + shut if shut by any other than herself. + </p> + <p> + At last the dining-room door opened. “Let me show you a light; take care + of the stairs.” + </p> + <p> + Then followed the “Good-nights” of two weary voices, the squeaking of the + big key turning in the lock, a light footstep dying away in the distance, + and my uncle’s heavy tread as he went up to his bedroom. The business was + over. + </p> + <p> + How slowly my uncle went upstairs! The burden of sorrow was no metaphor in + his case. He, who used to be as active as a boy, could now hardly-support + his own weight. + </p> + <p> + He crossed the landing and went into his room. I thought of following, + him; only a few feet lay between us. No doubt it was late, but his excited + state might have predisposed him in my favor. Suddenly I heard a sigh—then + a sob. He was weeping; I determined to risk all and rush to his + assistance. + </p> + <p> + But just as I was about to leave the library a skirt rustled against the + wall, though I had heard no sound of footsteps preceding it. At the same + instant a little bit of paper was slipped in under the door—a letter + from the silent Madeleine. I unfolded the paper and saw the following + words written across from one corner to the other, with a contempt for + French spelling, which was thoroughly Spanish: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Ni allais pat ceux soire.” + </pre> + <p> + Very well, Madeleine, since that’s your advice, I’ll refrain. + </p> + <p> + I lay down to sleep on the sofa. Yet I was very sorry for the delay. I + hated to let the night go by without being reconciled to the poor old man, + or without having attempted it at least. He was evidently very wretched to + be affected to tears, for I had never known him to weep, even on occasions + when my own tears had flowed freely. Yet I followed my old and faithful + friend’s advice, for I knew that she had the peace of the household as + much at heart as I; but I felt that I should seek long and vainly before I + could discover what this latest trouble was, and what part I had in it. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIX. JEANNE THE ENCHANTRESS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + BOURGES, August 5th. +</pre> + <p> + I woke up at seven; my first thought was for M. Mouillard. Where could he + be? I listened, but could hear no sound. I went to the window; the + office-boy was lying flat on the lawn, feeding the goldfish in the + fountain. This proved beyond a doubt that my uncle was not in. + </p> + <p> + I went downstairs to the kitchen. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Madeleine, has he gone out?” + </p> + <p> + “He went at six o’clock, Monsieur Fabien.” + </p> + <p> + “Why didn’t you wake me?” + </p> + <p> + “How could I guess? Never, never does he go out before breakfast. I never + have seen him like this before, not even when his wife died.” + </p> + <p> + “What can be the matter with him?” + </p> + <p> + “I think it’s the sale of the practice. He said to me last night, at the + fool of the staircase: ‘I am a brokenhearted man, Madeleine, a + broken-hearted man. I might have got over it, but that monster of + ingratitude, that cannibal’—saving your presence, Monsieur Fabien—‘would + not have it so. If I had him here I don’t know what I should do to him.’” + </p> + <p> + “Didn’t he tell you what he would do to the cannibal?” + </p> + <p> + “No. So I slipped a little note under your door when I went upstairs.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I am much obliged to you for it. Is he any calmer this morning?” + </p> + <p> + “He doesn’t look angry any longer, only I noticed that he had been + weeping.” + </p> + <p> + “Where is he?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know at all. Besides, you might as well try to catch up with a + deer as with him.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s true. I’d better wait for him. When will he be in?” + </p> + <p> + “Not before ten. I can tell you that it’s not once a year that he goes out + like this in the morning.” + </p> + <p> + “But, Madeleine, Jeanne will be here by ten!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, is Jeanne her name?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Monsieur Charnot will be here, too. And my uncle, whom I was to have + prepared for their visit, will know nothing about it, nor even that I + slept last night beneath his roof.” + </p> + <p> + “To tell the truth, Monsieur Fabien, I don’t think you’ve managed well. + Still, there is Dame Fortune, who often doesn’t put in her word till the + last moment.” + </p> + <p> + “Entreat her for me, Madeleine, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + But Dame Fortune was deaf to prayers. My uncle did not return, and I could + find no fresh expedient. As I made my way, vexed and unhappy, to the + station, I kept asking myself the question that I had been turning over in + vain for the last hour: + </p> + <p> + “I have said nothing to Monsieur Mouillard. Had I better say anything now + to Monsieur Charnot?” + </p> + <p> + My fears redoubled when I saw Jeanne and M. Charnot at the windows of the + train, as it swept past me into the station. + </p> + <p> + A minute later she stepped on to the platform, dressed all in gray, with + roses in her cheeks, and a pair of gull’s wings in her hat. + </p> + <p> + M. Charnot shook me by the hand, thoroughly delighted at having escaped + from the train and being able to shake himself and tread once more the + solid earth. He asked after my uncle, and when I replied that he was in + excellent health, he went to get his luggage. + </p> + <p> + “Well!” said Jeanne. “Is all arranged?” + </p> + <p> + “On the contrary, nothing is.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you seen him?” + </p> + <p> + “Not even that. I have been watching for a favorable opportunity without + finding one. Yesterday evening he was busy with a visitor; this morning he + went out at six. He doesn’t even know that I am in Bourges.” + </p> + <p> + “And yet you were in his house?” + </p> + <p> + “I slept on a sofa in his library.” + </p> + <p> + She gave me a look which was as much as to say, “My poor boy, how very + unpractical you are!” + </p> + <p> + “Go on doing nothing,” she said; “that’s the best you can do. If my father + didn’t think he was expected he would beat a retreat at once.” + </p> + <p> + At this instant, M. Charnot came back to us, having seen his two trunks + and a hatbox placed on top of the omnibus of the Hotel de France. + </p> + <p> + “That is where you have found rooms for us?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “It is now twelve minutes past nine; tell Monsieur Mouillard that we shall + call upon him at ten o’clock precisely.” + </p> + <p> + I went a few steps with them, and saw them into the omnibus, which was + whirled off at a fast trot by its two steeds. + </p> + <p> + When I had lost them from my sight I cast a look around me, and noticed + three people standing in line beneath the awning, and gazing upon me with + interest. I recognized Monsieur, Madame, and Mademoiselle Lorinet. They + were all smiling with the same look of contemptuous mockery. I bowed. The + man alone returned my salute, raising his hat. By some strange freak of + fate, Berthe was again wearing a blue dress. + </p> + <p> + I went back in the direction of the Rue du Four, happy, though at my wits’ + end, forming projects that were mutually destructive; now expatiating in + the seventh heaven, now loading myself with the most appalling curses. I + slipped along the streets, concealed beneath my umbrella, for the rain was + falling; a great storm-cloud had burst over Bourges, and I blessed the + rain which gave me a chance to hide my face. + </p> + <p> + From the banks of the Voizelle to the old quarter around the cathedral is + a rather long walk. When I turned from the Rue Moyenne, the Boulevard des + Italiens of Bourges, into the Rue du Four, a blazing sun was drying the + rain on the roofs, and the cuckoo clock at M. Festuquet’s—a neighbor + of my uncle—was striking the hour of meeting. + </p> + <p> + I had not been three minutes at the garden door, a key to which had been + given me by Madeleine, when M. Charnot appeared with Jeanne on his arm. + </p> + <p> + “To think that I’ve forgotten my overshoes, which I never fail to take + with me to the country!” + </p> + <p> + “The country, father?” said Jeanne, “why, Bourges is a city!—” + </p> + <p> + “To be sure—to be sure,” answered M. Charnot, who feared he had hurt + my feelings. + </p> + <p> + He put on his spectacles and began to study the old houses around him. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, a city; really quite a city.” + </p> + <p> + I do not remember what commonplace I stammered. + </p> + <p> + Little did I care for M. Charnot’s overshoes or the honor of Bourges at + that moment! On the other side of the wall, a few feet off, I felt the + presence of M. Mouillard. I reflected that I should have to open the door + and launch the Academician, without preface, into the presence of the + lawyer, stake my life’s happiness, perhaps, on my uncle’s first + impressions, play at any rate the decisive move in the game which had been + so disastrously opened. + </p> + <p> + Jeanne, though she did her best to hide it, was extremely nervous. I felt + her hand tremble in mine as I took it. + </p> + <p> + “Trust in God!” she whispered, and aloud: “Open the door.” + </p> + <p> + I turned the key in the lock. I had arranged that Madeleine should go at + once to M. Mouillard and tell him that there were some strangers waiting + in the garden. But either she was not on the lookout, or she did not at + once perceive us, and we had to wait a few minutes at the bottom of the + lawn before any one came. + </p> + <p> + I hid myself behind the trees whose leafage concealed the wall. + </p> + <p> + M. Charnot was evidently pleased with the view before him, and turned from + side to side, gently smacking his lips like an epicure. And, in truth, my + uncle’s garden was perfection; the leaves, washed by the rain, were + glistening in the fulness of their verdure, great drops were falling from + the trees with a silvery tinkle, the petunias in the beds were opening all + their petals and wrapping us in their scent; the birds, who had been mute + while the shower lasted, were now fluttering, twittering, and singing + beneath the branches. I was like one bewitched, and thought these very + birds were discussing us. The greenfinch said: + </p> + <p> + “Old Mouillard, look! Here’s Princess Goldenlocks at your garden gate.” + </p> + <p> + The tomtit said: + </p> + <p> + “Look out, old man, or she’ll outwit you.” + </p> + <p> + The blackbird said: + </p> + <p> + “I have heard of her from my grandfather, who lived in the Champs Elysees. + She was much admired there.” + </p> + <p> + The swallow said: + </p> + <p> + “Jeanne will have your heart in the time it takes me to fly round the + lawn.” + </p> + <p> + The rook, who was a bit of a lawyer, came swooping down from the cathedral + tower, crying: + </p> + <p> + “Caw, caw, caw! Let her show cause—cause!” + </p> + <p> + And all took up the chorus: + </p> + <p> + “If you had our eyes, Monsieur Mouillard, you would see her looking at + your study; if you had our ears, you would hear her sigh; if you had our + wings, you would fly to Jeanne.” + </p> + <p> + No doubt it was this unwonted concert which attracted Madeleine’s + attention. We saw her making her way, stiffly and slowly, toward the + study, which stood in the corner of the garden. + </p> + <p> + M. Mouillard’s tall figure appeared on the threshold, filling up the + entire doorway. + </p> + <p> + “In the garden, did you say? Whatever is your idea in showing clients into + the garden? Why did you let them in?” + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t let them in; they came in of themselves.” + </p> + <p> + “Then the door can’t have been shut. Nothing is shut here. I’ll have them + coming in next by the drawing-room chimney. What sort of people are they?” + </p> + <p> + “There’s a gentleman and a young lady whom I don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + “A young lady whom you don’t know—a judicial separation, I’ll + warrant—it’s indecent, upon my word it is. To think that there are + people who come to me about judicial separations and bring their young + ladies with them!” + </p> + <p> + As Madeleine fled before the storm and found shelter in her kitchen, my + uncle smoothed back his white hair with both his hands—a surviving + touch of personal vanity—and started down the walk around the + grass-plot. + </p> + <p> + I effaced myself behind the trees. M. Charnot, thinking I was just behind + him, stepped forward with airy freedom. + </p> + <p> + My uncle came down the path with a distracted air, like a man overwhelmed + with business, only too pleased to snatch a moment’s leisure between the + parting and the coming client. He always loved to pass for being + overwhelmed with work. + </p> + <p> + On his way he flipped a rosebud covered with blight, kicked off a snail + which was crawling on the path; then, halfway down the path, he suddenly + raised his head and gave a look at his disturber. + </p> + <p> + His bent brows grew smooth, his eyes round with the stress of surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Is it possible? Monsieur Charnot of the Institute!” + </p> + <p> + “The same, Monsieur Mouillard.” + </p> + <p> + “And this is Mademoiselle Jeanne?” + </p> + <p> + “Just so; she has come with me to repay your kind visit.” + </p> + <p> + “Really, that’s too good of you, much too good, to come such a way to see + me!” + </p> + <p> + “On the contrary, the most natural thing in the world, considering what + the young people are about.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! is your daughter about to be married?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly, that’s the idea,” said M. Charnot, with a laugh. + </p> + <p> + “I congratulate you, Mademoiselle!” + </p> + <p> + “I have brought her here to introduce her to you, Monsieur Mouillard, as + is only right.” + </p> + <p> + “Right! Excuse me, no.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed it is.” + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me, sir. Politeness is all very well in its way, but frankness is + better. I went to Paris chiefly to get certain information which you were + good enough to give me. But, really, it was not worth your while to come + from Paris to Bourges to thank me, and to bring your daughter too.” + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me in my turn! There are limits to modesty, Monsieur Mouillard, + and as my daughter is to marry your nephew, and as my daughter was in + Bourges, it was only natural that I should introduce her to you.” + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur, I have no longer a nephew.” + </p> + <p> + “He is here.” + </p> + <p> + “And I never asked for your daughter.” + </p> + <p> + “No, but you have received your nephew beneath your roof, and consequently—” + </p> + <p> + “Never!” + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Fabien has been in your house since yesterday; he told you we + were coming.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I have not seen him; I never should have received him! I tell you I + no longer have a nephew! I am a broken man, a—a—a—” + </p> + <p> + His speech failed him, his face became purple, he staggered and fell + heavily, first in a sitting posture, then on his back, and lay motionless + on the sanded path. + </p> + <p> + I rushed to the rescue. + </p> + <p> + When I got up to him Jeanne had already returned from the little fountain + with her handkerchief dripping, and was bathing his temples with fresh + water. She was the only one who kept her wits about her. Madeleine had + raised her master’s head and was wailing aloud. + </p> + <p> + “Alas!” she said, “it’s that dreadful colic he had ten years ago which has + got him again. Dear heart! how ill he was! I remember how it came on, just + like this, in the garden.” + </p> + <p> + I interrupted her lamentations by saying: + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Charnot, I think we had better take Monsieur Mouillard up to + bed.” + </p> + <p> + “Then why don’t you do it?” shouted the numismatist, who had completely + lost his temper. “I didn’t come here to act at an ambulance; but, since I + must, do you take his head.” + </p> + <p> + I took his head, Madeleine walked in front, Jeanne behind. My uncle’s vast + proportions swayed between M. Charnot and myself. M. Charnot, who had + skilfully gathered up the legs, looked like a hired pallbearer. + </p> + <p> + As we met with some difficulty in getting upstairs, M. Charnot said, with + clenched teeth: + </p> + <p> + “You’ve managed this trip nicely, Monsieur Fabien; I congratulate you + sincerely!” + </p> + <p> + I saw that he intended to treat me to several variations on this theme. + </p> + <p> + But there was no time for talk. A moment later my uncle was laid, still + unconscious, upon his bed, and Jeanne and Madeleine were preparing a + mustard-plaster together, in perfect harmony. M. Charnot and I waited in + silence for the doctor whom we had sent the office-boy to fetch. M. + Charnot studied alternately my deceased aunt’s wreath of orange-blossoms, + preserved under a glass in the centre of the chimney-piece, and a painting + of fruit and flowers for which it would have been hard to find a buyer at + an auction. Our wait for the doctor lasted ten long minutes. We were very + anxious, for M. Mouillard showed no sign of returning consciousness. + Gradually, however, the remedies began to act upon him. The eyelids + fluttered feebly; and just as the doctor opened the door, my uncle opened + his eyes. + </p> + <p> + We rushed to his bedside. + </p> + <p> + “My old friend,” said the doctor, “you have had plenty of people to look + after you. Let me feel your pulse—rather weak; your tongue? Say a + word or two.” + </p> + <p> + “A shock—rather sudden—” said my uncle. + </p> + <p> + The doctor, following the direction of the invalid’s eyes, which were + fixed on Jeanne, upright at the foot of the bed, bowed to the young girl, + whom he had not at first noticed; turned to me, who blushed like an idiot; + then looked again at my uncle, only to see two big tears running down his + cheeks. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I understand; a pretty stiff shock, eh? At our age we should only be + stirred by our recollections, emotions of bygone days, something we’re + used to; but our children take care to provide us with fresh ones, eh?” + </p> + <p> + M. Mouillard’s breast heaved. + </p> + <p> + “Come, my dear fellow,” proceeded the doctor; “I give you leave to give + your future niece one kiss, and that in my presence, that I may be quite + sure you don’t abuse the license. After that you must be left quite alone; + no more excitement, perfect rest.” + </p> + <p> + Jeanne came forward and raised the invalid’s head. + </p> + <p> + “Will you give me a kiss, uncle?” + </p> + <p> + She offered him her rosy cheek. + </p> + <p> + “With all my heart,” said my uncle as he kissed her; “good girl—dear + girl.” + </p> + <p> + Then he melted into tears, and hid his face in his pillow. + </p> + <p> + “And now we must be left alone,” said the doctor. + </p> + <p> + He came down himself in a moment, and gave us an encouraging account of + the patient. + </p> + <p> + Hardly had the street door closed behind him when we heard the lawyer’s + powerful voice thundering down the stairs. + </p> + <p> + “Charnot!” + </p> + <p> + The old numismatist flew up the flight of stairs. + </p> + <p> + “Did you call me, Monsieur?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, to invite you to dinner. I couldn’t say the words just now, but it + was in my mind.” + </p> + <p> + “It is very kind of you, but we leave at nine o’clock.” + </p> + <p> + “I dine at seven; that’s plenty of time.” + </p> + <p> + “It will tire you too much.” + </p> + <p> + “Tire me? Why, don’t you think I dine everyday?” + </p> + <p> + “I promise to come and inquire after you before leaving.” + </p> + <p> + “I can tell you at once that I am all right again. No, no, it shall never + be said that you came all the way from Paris to Bourges only to see me + faint. I count upon you and Mademoiselle Jeanne.” + </p> + <p> + “On all three of us?” + </p> + <p> + “That makes three, with me; yes, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me, four.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope the fourth will have the sense to go and dine elsewhere.” + </p> + <p> + “Come, come, Monsieur Mouillard; your nephew, your ward—” + </p> + <p> + “I ceased to be his guardian four years ago, and his uncle three weeks + ago.” + </p> + <p> + “He longs to put an end to this ill feeling—” + </p> + <p> + “Allow me to rest a little,” said M. Mouillard, “in order that I may be in + a better condition to receive my guests.” + </p> + <p> + He lay down again, and showed clearly his intention of saying not another + word on the subject. + </p> + <p> + During the conversation between M. Charnot and my uncle, to which we had + listened from the foot of the staircase, Jeanne, who had a moment before + been rejoicing over the completeness of the victory which she thought she + had achieved, grew quite downhearted. + </p> + <p> + “I thought he had forgiven you when he kissed me,” she said. “What can we + do now? Can’t you help us, Madeleine?” + </p> + <p> + Madeleine, whose heart was beginning to warm to Jeanne, sought vainly for + an expedient, and shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “Ought he to go and see his uncle?” asked Jeanne. + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Madeleine. + </p> + <p> + “Well, suppose you write to him, Fabien?” + </p> + <p> + Madeleine nodded approval, and drew from the depths of her cupboard a + little glass inkstand, a rusty penholder, and a sheet of paper, at the top + of which was a dove with a twig in its beak. + </p> + <p> + “My cousin at Romorantin died just before last New Year’s Day,” she + explained; “so I had one sheet more than I needed.” + </p> + <p> + I sat down at the kitchen table with Jeanne leaning over me, reading as I + wrote. Madeleine stood upright and attentive beside the clock, forgetting + all about her kitchen fire as she watched us with her black eyes. + </p> + <p> + This is what I wrote beneath the dove: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “MY DEAR UNCLE: + + “I left Paris with the intention of putting an end to the + misunderstanding between us, which has lasted only too long, and + which has given me more pain than you can guess. I had no possible + opportunity of speaking to you between five o’clock yesterday + afternoon, when I arrived here, and ten o’clock this morning. If I + had been able to speak with you, you would not have refused to + restore me to your affection, which, I confess, I ought to have + respected more than I have. You would have given your consent to + my, union, on which depends your own happiness, my dear uncle, and + that of your nephew, + + “FABIEN.” + </pre> + <p> + “Rather too formal,” said Jeanne. “Now, let me try.” + </p> + <p> + And the enchantress added, with ready pen: + </p> + <p> + “It is I, Monsieur Mouillard, who am chiefly in need of forgiveness. Mine + is the greater fault by far. You forbade Monsieur Fabien to love me, and I + took no steps to prevent his doing so. Even yesterday, when he came to + your house, it was my doing. I had assured him that your kind heart would + not be proof against his loving confession. + </p> + <p> + “Was I really wrong in that? + </p> + <p> + “The words that you spoke just now have led me to hope that I was not. + </p> + <p> + “But if I was wrong, visit your anger on me alone. Forgive your nephew, + invite him to dinner instead of us, and let me depart, regretting only + that I was not judged worthy of calling you uncle, which would have been + so pleasant and easy a name to speak. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “JEANNE.” + </pre> + <p> + I read the two letters over aloud. Madeleine broke into sobs as she + listened. + </p> + <p> + A smile flickered about the corners of Jeanne’s mouth. + </p> + <p> + We left the house, committing to Madeleine the task of choosing a + favorable moment to hand M. Mouillard our joint entreaty. + </p> + <p> + And here I may as well confess that from the instant we got out of the + house, all through breakfast at the hotel, and for a quarter of an hour + after it, M. Charnot treated me, in his best style, to the very hottest + “talking-to” that I had experienced since my earliest youth. He ended with + these words: “If you have not made your peace with your uncle by nine + o’clock this evening, Monsieur, I withdraw my consent, and we shall return + to Paris.” + </p> + <p> + I strove in vain to shake his decision. Jeanne made a little face at me, + which warned me I was on the wrong track. + </p> + <p> + “Very well,” I said to her, “I leave the matter in your hands.” + </p> + <p> + “And I leave it in the hands of God,” she answered. “Be a man. If trouble + awaits us, hope will at any rate steal us a happy hour or two.” + </p> + <p> + We were just then in front of the gardens of the Archbishop’s palace, so + M. Charnot walked in. The current of his reflections was soon changed by + the freshness of the air, the groups of children playing around their + mothers—whom he studied ethnologically and with reference to the + racial divisions of ancient Gaul—by the beauty of the landscape—its + foreground of flowers, the Place St. Michel beyond, and further yet, above + the barrack-roofs, the line of poplars lining the Auron. He ceased to be a + father-in-law, and became a tourist again. + </p> + <p> + Jeanne stepped with airy grace among the groups of strollers, and the + murmurs which followed her path, though often envious, sounded none the + less sweetly in my ears for that. I hoped to meet Mademoiselle Lorinet. + </p> + <p> + After we had seen the gardens, we had to visit the Place Seraucourt, the + Cours Chanzy, the cathedral, Saint-Pierrele-Guillard, and the house of + Jacques-Coeur. It was six o’clock by the time we got back to the Hotel de + France. + </p> + <p> + A letter was waiting for us in the small and badly furnished entrance—hall. + It was addressed to Mademoiselle Jeanne Charnot. + </p> + <p> + I recognized at once the ornate hand of M. Mouillard, and grew as white as + the envelope. + </p> + <p> + M. Charnot cried, excitedly: + </p> + <p> + “Read it, Jeanne. Read it, can’t you!” + </p> + <p> + Jeanne alone of us three kept a brave face. + </p> + <p> + She read: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “MY DEAR CHILD: + + “I treated you perhaps with undue familiarity this morning, at a + moment when I was not quite myself. Nevertheless, now that I have + regained my senses, I do not withdraw the expressions of which I + made use—I love you with all my heart; you are a dear girl. + + “You will not get an old stager like me to give up his prejudices + against the capital. Let it suffice that I have surrendered to a + Parisienne. My niece, I forgive him for your sake. + + “Come this evening, all three of you. + + “I have several things to tell you, and several questions to ask + you. My news is not all good. But I trust that all regrets will be + overwhelmed in the gladness you will bring to my old heart. + + “BRUTUS MOUILLARD.” + </pre> + <p> + When we rang at M. Mouillard’s door, it was opened to us by Baptiste, the + office-boy, who waits at table on grand occasions. + </p> + <p> + My uncle received us in the large drawing-room, in full dress, with his + whitest cravat and his most camphorous frock-coat: “not a moth in ten + years,” is Madeleine’s boast concerning this garment. + </p> + <p> + He saluted us all solemnly, without his usual effusiveness; bearing + himself with simple and touching dignity. Strong emotion, which excites + most natures, only served to restrain his. He said not a word of the past, + nor of our marriage. This, the decisive engagement, opened with polite + formalities. + </p> + <p> + I have often noticed this phenomenon; people meeting to “have it out” + usually begin by saying nothing at all. + </p> + <p> + M. Mouillard offered his arm to Jeanne, to escort her to the dining-room. + Jeanne was in high spirits. She asked him question after question about + Bourges, its dances, fashions, manufactures, even about the procedure of + its courts. + </p> + <p> + “I am sure you know that well, uncle,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Uncle” smiled at each question, his face illumined with a glow like that + upon a chimney-piece when someone is blowing the fire. He answered her + questions, but presently fell into a state of dejection, which even his + desire to do honor to his guests could not entirely conceal. His thoughts + betrayed themselves in the looks he kept casting upon me, no longer of + anger, but of suffering, almost pleading, affection. + </p> + <p> + M. Charnot, who was rather tired, and also absorbed in Madeleine’s feats + of cookery, cast disjointed remarks and ejaculations into the gaps in the + conversation. + </p> + <p> + I knew my uncle well enough to feel sure that the end of the dinner would + be quite unlike the beginning. + </p> + <p> + I was right. During dessert, just as the Academician was singing the + praises of a native delicacy, ‘la forestine’, my uncle, who had been + revolving a few drops of some notable growth of Medoc in his glass for the + last minute or two, stopped suddenly, and put down his glass on the table. + </p> + <p> + “My dear Monsieur Charnot,” said he, “I have a painful confession to make + to you.” + </p> + <p> + “Eh? What? My dear friend, if it’s painful to you, don’t make it.” + </p> + <p> + “Fabien,” my uncle went on, “has behaved badly to me on certain occasions. + But I say no more of it. His faults are forgotten. But I have not behaved + to him altogether as I should.” + </p> + <p> + “You, uncle?” + </p> + <p> + “Alas! It is so, my dear child. My practice, the family practice, which I + faithfully promised your father to keep for you—” + </p> + <p> + “You have sold it?” + </p> + <p> + My uncle buried his face in his hands. + </p> + <p> + “Last night, my poor child, only last night!” + </p> + <p> + “I thought so.” + </p> + <p> + “I was weak I listened to the prompting of anger; I have compromised your + future. Fabien, forgive me in your turn.” + </p> + <p> + He rose from the table, and came and put a trembling hand on my shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “No, uncle, you’ve not compromised anything, and I’ve nothing to forgive + you.” + </p> + <p> + “You wouldn’t take the practice if I could still offer it to you?” + </p> + <p> + “No, uncle.” + </p> + <p> + “Upon your word?” + </p> + <p> + “Upon my word!” + </p> + <p> + M. Mouillard drew himself up, beaming: + </p> + <p> + “Ah! Thank you for that speech, Fabien; you have relieved me of a great + weight.” + </p> + <p> + With one corner of his napkin he wiped away two tears, which, having + arisen in time of war, continued to flow in time of peace. + </p> + <p> + “If Mademoiselle Jeanne, in addition to all her other perfections, brings + you fortune, Fabien, if your future is assured—” + </p> + <p> + “My dear Monsieur Mouillard,” broke in the Academician with ill-concealed + satisfaction. “My colleagues call me rich. They slander me. Works on + numismatics do not make a man rich. Monsieur Fabien, who made some + investigations into the subject, can prove it to you. No; I possess no + more than an honorable competence, which does not give me everything, but + lets me lack nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “Aurea mediocritas,” exclaimed my uncle, delighted with his quotation. + “Oh, that Horace! What a fellow he was!” + </p> + <p> + “He was indeed. Well, as I was saying, our daily bread is assured; but + that’s no reason why my son-in-law should vegetate in idleness which I do + not consider my due, even at my age.” + </p> + <p> + “Quite right.” + </p> + <p> + “So he must work.” + </p> + <p> + “But what is he to work at?” + </p> + <p> + “There are other professions besides the law, Monsieur Mouillard. I have + studied Fabien. His temperament is somewhat wayward. With special training + he might have become an artist. Lacking that early moulding into shape, he + never will be anything more than a dreamer.” + </p> + <p> + “I should not have expressed it so well, but I have often thought the + same.” + </p> + <p> + “With a temperament like your nephew’s,” continued M. Charnot, “the best + he can do is to enter upon a career in which the ideal has some part; not + a predominant, but a sufficient part, something between prose and poetry.” + </p> + <p> + “Let him be a notary, then.” + </p> + <p> + “No, that’s wholly prose; he shall be a librarian.” + </p> + <p> + “A librarian?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Monsieur Mouillard; there are a few little libraries in Paris, which + are as quiet as groves, and in which places are to be got that are as snug + as nests. I have some influence in official circles, and that can do no + harm, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Quite so.” + </p> + <p> + “We will put our Fabien into one of those nests, where he will be + protected against idleness by the little he will do, and against + revolutions by the little he will be. It’s a charming profession; the very + smell of books is improving; merely by breathing it you live an + intellectual life.” + </p> + <p> + “An intellectual life!” exclaimed my uncle with enthusiasm. “Yes, an + intellectual life!” + </p> + <p> + “And cataloguing books, Monsieur Mouillard, looking through them, + preserving them as far as possible from worms and readers. Don’t you think + that’s an enviable lot?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, more so than mine has been, or my successor’s will be.” + </p> + <p> + “By the way, uncle, you haven’t told us who your successor is to be.” + </p> + <p> + “Haven’t I, really? Why, you know him; it’s your friend Larive.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! That explains a great deal.” + </p> + <p> + “He is a young man who takes life seriously.” + </p> + <p> + “Very seriously, uncle. Isn’t he about to be married?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, yes; to a rich wife.” + </p> + <p> + “To whom?” + </p> + <p> + “My dear boy, he is picking up all your leavings; he is going to marry + Mademoiselle Lorinet.” + </p> + <p> + “He was always enterprising! But, uncle, it wasn’t with him you were + engaged yesterday evening?” + </p> + <p> + “Why not, pray?” + </p> + <p> + “You told Madeleine to admit a gentleman with a decoration.” + </p> + <p> + “He has one.” + </p> + <p> + “Good heavens! What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “The Nicham Iftikar, if it please you.” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [A Tunisian order, which can be obtained for a very moderate sum.] +</pre> + <p> + “It doesn’t displease me, uncle, and surprises me still less. Larive will + die with his breast more thickly plastered with decorations than an Odd + Fellow’s; he will be a member of all the learned societies in the + department, respected and respectable, the more thoroughly provincial for + having been outrageously Parisian. Mothers will confide their anxieties to + him, and fathers their interests; but when his old acquaintances pass this + way they will take the liberty of smiling in his face.” + </p> + <p> + “What, jealous? Are you jealous of his bit of ribbon?” + </p> + <p> + “No, uncle, I regret nothing; not even Larive’s good fortune.” + </p> + <p> + M. Mouillard fixed his eyes on the cloth, and began again, after a + moment’s silence: + </p> + <p> + “I, Fabien, do regret some things. It will be mournful at times, growing + old alone here. Yet, after all, it will be some consolation to me to think + that you others are satisfied with life, to welcome you here for your + holidays.” + </p> + <p> + “You can do better than that,” said M. Charnot. “Come and grow old among + us. Your years will be the lighter to bear, Monsieur Mouillard. Doubtless + we must always bear them, and they weigh upon us and bend our backs. But + youth, which carries its own burden so lightly, can always give us a + little help in bearing ours.” + </p> + <p> + I looked to hear my uncle break out with loud objections. + </p> + <p> + “It is a fine night,” he said, simply; “let us go into the garden, and do + you decide whether I can leave roses like mine.” + </p> + <p> + M. Mouillard took us into the garden, pleased with himself, with me, with + Jeanne, with everybody, and with the weather. + </p> + <p> + It was too dark to see the roses, but we could smell them as we passed. I + had taken Jeanne’s arm in mine, and we went on in front, in the cool dusk, + choosing all the little winding paths. + </p> + <p> + The birds were all asleep. But the grasshoppers, crickets, and all manner + of creeping things hidden in the grass, or in the moss on the trees, were + singing and chattering in their stead. + </p> + <p> + Behind us, at some distance—in fact, as far off as we could manage—the + gravel crackled beneath the equal tread of the two elders, and in a murmur + we could catch occasional scraps of sentences: + </p> + <p> + “A granddaughter like Jeanne, Monsieur Charnot....” + </p> + <p> + “A grandson like Fabien, Monsieur Mouillard....” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XX. A HAPPY FAMILY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + PARIS, September 18th. +</pre> + <p> + We are married. We are just back from the church. We have said good-by to + all our friends, not without a quick touch or two of sadness, as quickly + swallowed up in the joy which for the first time in the history of my + heart is surging there at full tide, and widening to a limitless horizon. + In the two hours I have to spare before starting for Italy, I am writing + the last words in this brown diary, which I do not intend to take with me. + </p> + <p> + Jeanne, my own Jeanne, is leaning upon me and reading over my shoulder, + which distracts the flow of my recollections. + </p> + <p> + There were crowds at the church. The papers had put us down among the + fashionable marriages of the week. The Institute, the army, men of + letters, public officials, had come out of respect for M. Charnot; lawyers + of Bourges and Paris had come out of respect for my uncle. But the + happiest, the most radiant, next to ourselves, were the people who came + only for Jeanne’s sake and mine; Sylvestre Lampron, painter-in-ordinary to + Mademoiselle Charnot, bringing his pretty sketch as a wedding-present; M. + Flamaran and Sidonie; Jupille, who wept as he used to “thirty years ago;” + and M. and Madame Plumet, who took it in turns to carry their white-robed + infant. + </p> + <p> + Jeanne and I certainly shook hands with a good many persons, but not with + nearly as many as M. Mouillard. Clean-shaven, his cravat tied with + exquisite care, he spun round in the crowd like a top, always dragging + with him some one who was to introduce him to some one else. “One should + make acquaintances immediately on arrival,” he kept saying. + </p> + <p> + Yes, Uncle Mouillard has just arrived in Paris; he has settled down near + us on the Quai Malaquais, in a pretty set of rooms which Jeanne chose for + him. He thinks them perfect because she thought they would do. The tastes + and interests of old student days have suddenly reawakened within him, and + will not be put to sleep again. He already knows the omnibus and tramway + lines better than I; he talks of Bourges as if it were twenty years since + he left it: “When I used to live in the country, Fabien—” + </p> + <p> + My father-in-law has found in him a whole-hearted admirer, perhaps even a + future pupil in numismatics. Their friendship makes me think of that— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [“You don’t mind, Jeanne?” + + “Of course not, my dear; the brown diary is for our two selves + alone.” J.] +—of that of the town mouse and the country mouse. Just now, on their +way back to the house, they had a conversation, by turns pathetic and +jovial, in which their different temperaments met in the same feeling, +but at opposite ends of the scale of its shades. +</pre> + <p> + I caught this fragment of their talk: + </p> + <p> + “My dear Charnot, can you guess what I’m thinking about?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I haven’t the least idea.” + </p> + <p> + “I think it is very queer.” + </p> + <p> + “What is queer?” + </p> + <p> + “To see a librarian begin his career with a blot of ink. For you can not + deny that Fabien’s marriage and situation, and my return to the capital, + are all due to that. It must have been sympathetic ink—eh?” + </p> + <p> + “‘Felix culpa’, as you say, Monsieur Mouillard. There are some blunders + that are lucky; but you can’t tell which they are, and that’s never any + excuse for committing them.” + </p> + <p> + I could hardly get hold of Lampron for a moment in the crowd he so + dislikes. He was more uncouth and more devoted than ever. + </p> + <p> + “Well, are you happy?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Quite.” + </p> + <p> + “When you’re less happy, come and see me.” + </p> + <p> + “We shall always be just as happy as we are now,” said Jeanne. + </p> + <p> + And I think she is right. + </p> + <p> + Lampron smiled. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I am quite happy, Sylvestre, and I owe my happiness to you, to her, + and to others. I have done nothing myself to deserve happiness beyond + letting myself drift on the current of life. Whenever I tried to row a + stroke the boat nearly upset. Everything that others tried to do for me + succeeded. I can’t get over it. Just think of it yourself. I owed my + introduction to Jeanne to Monsieur Flamaran, who drove me to call on her + father; his friend; you courted her for me by painting her portrait; + Madame Plumet told her you had done so, and also removed the obstacle in + my path. I met her in Italy, thanks entirely to you; and you clinched the + proposal which had been begun by Flamaran. To crown all, the very + situation I desired has been obtained for me by my father-in-law. What + have I had to do? I have loved, sorrowed, and suffered, nothing more; and + now I tremble at the thought that I owe my happiness to every one I know + except myself.” + </p> + <p> + “Cease to tremble, my friend; don’t be surprised at it, and don’t alter + your system in the least. Your happiness is your due; what matter how God + chooses to grant it? Suppose it is an income for life paid to you by your + relatives, your friends, the world in general, and the natural order of + things? Well, draw your dividends, and don’t bother about where they come + from.” + </p> + <p> + Since Lampron said so, and he is a philosopher, I think I had better + follow his advice. If you don’t mind, Jeanne, I will cherish no ambition + beyond your love, and refrain from running after any increase in wealth or + reputation which might prove a decrease in happiness. If you agree, + Jeanne, we shall see little of society, and much of our friends; we shall + not open our windows wide enough for Love, who is winged, to fly out of + them. If such is your pleasure, Jeanne, you shall direct the household of + your own sweet will—I should say, of your sweet wisdom; you shall be + queen in all matters of domestic economy, you shall rule our goings-out + and our comings-in, our visits, our travels. I shall leave you to guide + me, as a child, along the joyous path in which I follow your footsteps. I + am looking up at Jeanne. She has not said “No.” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ETEXT EDITOR’S BOOKMARKS: + + All that a name is to a street—its honor, its spouse + Came not in single spies, but in battalions + Distrust first impulse + Felix culpa + Happy men don’t need company + Hard that one can not live one’s life over twice + He always loved to pass for being overwhelmed with work + I don’t call that fishing + If trouble awaits us, hope will steal us a happy hour or two + Lends—I should say gives + Men forget sooner + Natural only when alone, and talk well only to themselves + Obstacles are the salt of all our joys + One doesn’t offer apologies to a man in his wrath + People meeting to “have it out” usually say nothing at first + Silence, alas! is not the reproof of kings alone + Skilful actor, who apes all the emotions while feeling none + Sorrows shrink into insignificance as the horizon broadens + Surprise goes for so much in what we admire + The very smell of books is improving + The looks of the young are always full of the future + There are some blunders that are lucky; but you can’t tell + To be your own guide doubles your pleasure + You a law student, while our farmers are in want of hands + You must always first get the tobacco to burn evenly + You ask Life for certainties, as if she had any to give you +</pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Ink-Stain, Complete, by Rene Bazin + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE INK-STAIN, COMPLETE *** + +***** This file should be named 3975-h.htm or 3975-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/9/7/3975/ + +Produced by David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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