BACK TO PARIS
MILAN, June 27th. Before daybreak.
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 . . . .
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.
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."
PARIS, July 2d.
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.
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.
But the dawn is bleak enough.
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.
"Cabby, are you disengaged?"
"Depends where you want to go."
"No. 91 Rue de Rennes."
"Jump in!"
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!
And almost immediately I heard a cart pass, and a hawker crying:
"Ground-SEL! Groundsel for your dickey-birds!"
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."
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.
"Good-morning, Monsieur Mouillard!"
"Hallo! Madame Menin! Good-morning, Madame Menin!"
"So you are back at last, sir! How brown you have got--quite sunburnt.
You are quite well, I hope, sir?"
"Very well, thank you; has any one been here in my absence?"
"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--"
"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?"
"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?"
"Yes, Madame Menin, you need not describe her. You told them that I was
away, and they said they were very sorry."
"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."
"They didn't stay long, I suppose?"
"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--'
"That will do, Madame Menin; that will do. I know you always think too
highly of me. Hasn't Lampron been here?"
"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."
July 15th.
"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.
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.
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.
Yesterday, for instance, he whispered to me:
"I have come down the Rue de l'Universite. They will soon be back."
"How did you learn that?"
"I saw a man carrying coals into the house, and asked for whom they were,
that's all."
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.
"Anything further, Monsieur Jupille?"
"Something to ask of you--to do me a kindness, or, rather, an honor."
"Let's hear what it is."
"This weather, Monsieur Mouillard, is very good for fishing, though
rather warm."
"Rather warm, Monsieur Jupille!"
"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."
"Who is he?"
"A secret, Monsieur Mouillard, a little secret. You will be surprised.
It is settled then--next Sunday?"
"Where shall I meet you?"
"Hush, the office-boy is listening. That boy is too sharp; I'll tell you
some other time."
"As you please, Monsieur Jupille; I accept the invitation
unconditionally."
"I am so glad you will come, Monsieur Mouillard. I only wish we could
have a little storm between this and then."
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.
July 20th.
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.
"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."
Then he changed the subject brusquely:
"What about your love-affair?"
"Fresher than ever."
"Did it survive half an hour's conversation?"
"It grew the stronger for it."
"Does she still detest you?"
I told him the story of our trip to Desio, and our conversation in the
carriage, without omitting a detail.
He listened in silence. At the end he said:
"My dear Fabien, there must be no delay. She must hear your proposal
within a week."
"Within a week! Who is to make it for me?"
"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."