poet, should not be sorry to visit a picturesque region--a country where
there are cliffs and precipices. He will procure material for ten plays!
Snow, mountains, torrents--there’s nothing like them to inspire genius.
I am sure that Edouard will write a poem about my château, or a tragedy
which he will call _La Roche-Noire_.--Urge him to come, Alfred, I
beseech you."
"I promise to suggest it to him, and if he agrees, it’s a bargain; we
will go with you and install you in your château."
Robineau left Alfred, in order to attend to the preparations for his
departure. Alfred, as he reflected on the proposal that had been made to
him, concluded that the trip to Auvergne might furnish him with frequent
opportunities for amusement; indeed the bare idea of seeing the Château
de la Roche-Noire and Robineau playing the grand seigneur was most
diverting; and as he and Edouard had formed the plan of going to
Switzerland solely to obtain a brief respite from the fatiguing life and
dissipations of Paris, he thought that his friend, like himself, would
be inclined to accept Robineau’s invitation.
It rarely happened that Edouard and Alfred passed more than two days
without meeting. Although they had not precisely the same tastes and the
same temperament, they were fond of each other and suited each other.
The sympathy that draws two persons together is not always born of
similarity of temper and mental characteristics. We see gayety attached
to melancholy; and the gravest and most sedate persons seek the company
of the most inveterate jokers and find enjoyment with the greatest
buffoons. The sluggish nature requires something to rouse it; the mind
needs contrasts. How many people there are who are contented only with
those with whom they are forever disputing! Two persons may be congenial
without loving each other; to inspire the latter sentiment, there must
be in the bottom of the heart, despite external differences, that secret
sympathy which we feel but cannot define.
Alfred was more frivolous, more heedless, more hilarious perhaps, than
Edouard; the latter, however, was hardly more virtuous than most young
men of his age; but, as he was not rich, like young De Marcey, he did
not carry his follies so far, and he was sensible enough to be
determined not to run into debt. His habit of careful expenditure, of
reflecting before agreeing to join a party of pleasure, had led his
friend to dub him Monsieur le Prudent; but Edouard was no more prudent
than Alfred when his heart was engaged. Both were pleasant fellows:
Alfred because he said whatever came into his mind, and his natural
merriment often suggested some most amusing conceits; Edouard because he
said only what he felt, and his thoughts were generally judicious.
However, Edouard laughed at the follies that Alfred uttered, and Alfred
applauded his friend’s sage reflections.
On the evening of the day when Robineau roused them both from their
slumbers, Edouard and Alfred were together, and the latter informed his
friend of the proposal of the new purchaser of La Roche-Noire.
Edouard reflected for several minutes; whereupon Alfred lost patience
and urged him to decide.
"Go to visit Monsieur Jules Robineau!" said Edouard at last; "why, don’t
you know that your friend Robineau is an awful ass?"
"Certainly I know it; but what does it matter? Don’t we visit asinine
people every day?"
"If he were only that, it would be nothing; but he is full of absurd
pretensions."
"So much the better! that’s the most amusing part of it. Think of the
airs he will put on in his château! and the commotion it will make in
the neighborhood! and the amusing scenes that will result! You, being a
dramatic author, will find innumerable tableaux of manners there, and
comical incidents----"
"That is all very well; but we cannot go with the poor fellow for the
sole purpose of amusing ourselves at his expense."
"What harm would there be in that? But don’t you see that, while amusing
ourselves, we shall be rendering a genuine service to Robineau? He will
need our advice in a thousand matters. He means to give fêtes, balls,
and he is already thinking of asking you to write verses for marriages
and baptisms."
"Indeed! much obliged!"
"However, if we should be bored at his château, we could go away. I
don’t expect to pass my life at La Roche-Noire."
"How shall we make the journey?"
"Mon Dieu! just as you choose. By post, I presume; and divide the
expense,--that goes without saying. I do not propose that Monsieur
Robineau shall pay our travelling expenses; but we shall spend no more
than we should in Switzerland.--Well! you are still reflecting. Does
your prudence descry some obstacle? With your four thousand francs a
year and your savings, you will end by being richer than I am!"
"I do not desire great wealth, I ask for nothing but happiness."
"You are not exacting! you want nothing but the best.--Well, what is
your decision?"
"Whatever you wish; let us go to Auvergne, and visit Monsieur Robineau’s
château."
"That is settled then. Poor Robineau! he will be in raptures when he
knows that we are going with him. He is a good enough fellow at heart; I
greatly fear that he will ruin himself with his château, and we will try
to prevent him, unless he is really obstinate about it.--We will go and
have a look at Auvergne and the little Auvergnates! I am not sure, but I
have an idea that we shall find some pretty faces there."
"Ah! thinking of the women already!"
"You are an excellent one to preach! Why, my dear fellow, a country
where there were no women, and consequently no hope of a love-affair,
though it were as beautiful as Eden, as rich as Eldorado, and of as mild
a climate as Araby the Blest, would be in my eyes a dreary solitude.
That is why I have always pitied poor Crusoe, who, instead of a woman,
had only his man Friday for company."
Robineau did not fail to come the next day to learn the decision of the
two friends; and when he heard that they proposed to accompany him to
his château, he was in raptures. He bought a post-chaise for the journey
and wanted to buy horses as well. Alfred had much difficulty in making
him understand that it would be much better to use post-horses as far as
Clermont-Ferrand.
"Why not all the way to my château?" asked Robineau.
"Did you not tell me that your château was only a league or two from
that town?"
"Yes."
"Very well! as we are going to Auvergne to see something of the country,
I opine that we may very well do a couple of leagues on foot."
"But----"
"But, if you continue to oppose our wishes, we shall leave you to go
alone."
Robineau yielded, although it would have seemed to him much more noble
to drive in a post-chaise into the very courtyard of his château; but he
reflected that he would easily find other horses at Clermont to carry
him the rest of the way and to transport his baggage; for he had laid in
an ample stock of clothes and toilet articles, desiring to introduce in
Auvergne the latest Parisian styles.
By dint of pestering his notary, Robineau succeeded in having his
purchase completed promptly; and at the end of six days he was ready to
leave Paris, attended by his new servant, named François, who had driven
his cabriolet, and whom he had promoted to be his valet, because he had
instantly detected his master’s weakness; and never spoke to him except
with downcast eyes and hat in hand.
Alfred did not consider it necessary to take any servant with him; but
as the Baron de Marcey had not returned to Paris at the time of their
departure, he left with Germain, his valet, a letter for his father, in
which he said simply:
"I am going for a little journey with Edouard and Robineau; I am sorry
not to have had an opportunity to embrace you before starting, but I
will make up for it when we return. Keep well and enjoy yourself. I am
going to try to get some diversion."
The careless fellow did not even mention the part of the country to
which he was going; he thought that it made no difference to his father,
and moreover he intended to write to him if he should stay with Robineau
for any length of time.
On the day fixed for their departure, Robineau took his seat in the
post-chaise before the horses were harnessed; he sent François thrice to
meet Alfred and Edouard. At last his two companions arrived; the valises
were stored away, the trunks strapped on behind, the horses saddled, and
the postilion cracked his whip. They were off for Auvergne, and Robineau
said to himself:
"Here I am _en route_ for my château!"
VI
THE MAN OF CLERMONT-FERRAND
The sun had just risen over the pretty town of Clermont-Ferrand, and the
toiling portion of its people had already betaken themselves to their
work. In front of the post-house servants were plucking chickens,
farm-hands threshing grain, children leading horses to drink, some
travellers drinking the stirrup-cup, dealers, who made regular visits to
Clermont, clinking glasses with the inn-keeper, and postilions kissing
the maid-servants, who struggled and submitted as the custom is in all
lands.
About two hundred paces from the inn, a man was carelessly reclining on
a stone bench, surveying with cold indifference the scene before him;
and, as he turned his eyes this way and that, his mind seemed rather
engrossed by memories of the past than awake to impressions of the
present. This man, whose costume denoted poverty, aye, vagabondage,
seemed to be from forty-five to fifty years old; but the disorder of
his costume, a beard of more than a month’s growth, and unkempt black
hair, some of which fell over his face, made it difficult to divine his
age. However, despite his disordered hair, and beneath the dilapidated
hat that covered his head, one could distinguish features that must once
have been handsome: a well-shaped nose, a mouth of medium size, but
almost entirely toothless, gracefully arched black eyebrows, and large
brown eyes, the usual expression of which was ironical and harmonized
with the mocking smile which, from time to time, played about his lips.
His figure was tall and shapely. In short, although clad in a pair of
shabby gray trousers, a red waistcoat covered with stains, and a full
nut-colored redingote, patched in several places with a different
material; with worn-out boots, full of holes, on his feet, and a blue
kerchief twisted carelessly about his neck for a cravat, there was
something in the man’s aspect which indicated that he was not of vulgar
birth, and in his whole manner, a suggestion of ease, almost of pride,
which formed a striking contrast to his costume.
After remaining for some minutes stretched out on the stone bench, the
stranger rose, pushed his hair back under his hat, and, taking up a huge
knotted stick which stood by his side, walked with a decided step toward
the inn, which he entered with head erect, like a man travelling for
pleasure. He turned into the common room, seated himself at an
oilcloth-covered table, and knocked loudly thereon with his stick.
A maid answered his call. Although inn-keepers are accustomed to
entertain all sorts and conditions of men, the traveller’s costume was
not prepossessing, and as it is not customary to stand on ceremony with
guests who appear to be unfortunate, the girl began by asking sharply
why he made so much noise banging the table with his stick.
"Because I choose to, my dear," replied the newcomer in a loud voice,
with a threatening glance at the servant. "You should come more quickly
to wait on me, and then I should not need to knock so loud. You saw me
come in, as you were in the doorway. Why didn’t you come at once to ask
me what I wanted?"
The servant, not expecting to be taken to task thus by a man so shabbily
dressed, was covered with confusion, and replied, twisting her apron:
"Why! because--because----"
"Parbleu! because I didn’t arrive in a carriage, and because I am not
dressed with great care! But what does that matter! So long as I pay for
what I order, there is nothing for you to say. Come, bring me some bread
and cheese, and a jug of wine--quickly, for I am hungry."
The girl turned away, muttering:
"What a fuss he makes for bread and cheese!"
However, she made haste to serve the stranger, who breakfasted with a
hearty appetite and demeaned himself before his bit of cheese as if he
were feasting on truffled turkey. But the other travellers in the common
room, who were breakfasting more sumptuously, did not venture to turn
their eyes too often in the direction of the latest arrival, for there
was something in his expression which seemed to indicate that he would
not take malicious jests in too good part. There is a species of poverty
which is able to impose respect, just as there is a sort of opulence
which is never respectable.
Meanwhile the servant had told her master about their latest guest, and
the host, who was a very inquisitive and very loquacious individual, and
gave himself a great many airs, although he was not so tall as his
wife, even with his nightcap, came trotting into the room with a smiling
face. He spoke a word with several of the travellers, eying the stranger
askance all the while; then, after walking around him three times,
decided to accost him, and said, leaning against the table at which he
was taking his repast:
"Well! you don’t find my light wine very bad, I fancy?"
The stranger, without looking at his host, replied after a moment, with
the mocking smile familiar to him:
"Whether I find it good or bad, I must drink it, I suppose?"
"Oh! to be sure! Still, if you wanted something better, I might----"
"If I wanted other wine, I shouldn’t have waited for your permission to
order it."
"True; but----"
"But I am not so particular now!"
"Not so particular now?--Ah! I understand: that means that you used to
be--eh?"
The stranger looked up at the inn-keeper, and after gazing fixedly at
him for several seconds, observed:
"There is something that you used to be, still are, and probably always
will be!"
Thereupon the inn-keeper fastened his little red eyes on the strange
guest’s, as if trying to understand him; but, after cudgelling his
brains in vain, he said:
"I don’t catch your meaning at all. Are you a fortune teller?"
The stranger shrugged his shoulders and returned to his bread and
cheese, making no further reply.
"Do you expect to stay for some time in our town?" continued the
inn-keeper after a moment. "I have no idea; if it amuses me to stay
here, I shall stay."
"To be sure!--Oh! you will see some pretty things here: a magnificent
botanical garden, a fine college, and our bridge, formed by the
calcareous deposits from the water of a spring!--I say nothing of our
apricot pies; you don’t seem to care for sweetmeats. But you will be
surprised, amazed, by the beauty of the neighborhood!"
"Nothing surprises or amazes me now."
"Oh! that makes a difference.--By the way, do you intend to sleep here?"
The stranger did not answer this question; he passed his hand across his
brow and seemed to reflect; at last he asked the landlord:
"Are there none of the Granval family left in this town?"
"The Granval family!" rejoined the astonished host; "what! did you ever
know them? They were very rich people, the Granvals! very highly
esteemed and----"
"I know what they were; I ask you if there are any of the family still
here?"
"No, not one. Monsieur Granval the elder died about five years ago,
leaving a son and a daughter. The son enjoyed very poor health; it
didn’t do him any good to take the waters at Mont d’Or--they didn’t make
him any stouter. He took it into his head to marry, and that finished
him; he died two years ago. As for the daughter, she married a merchant
and went to Italy with him."
The stranger listened with his elbows on the table and his head resting
on his hands. When the inn-keeper had ceased to speak, he uttered a
fierce oath, then muttered:
"Some are dead, the others have left the country! How everything changes
in a few years, how everybody disappears!"
"Did you have a commission for the Granval family?" inquired the
landlord, seating himself opposite the traveller, who, without heeding
the question, said a moment later:
"After all, even if I had found him, he would have been no better than
the rest. Everyone for himself--that’s the natural order. So much the
worse for those who make fools of themselves, who allow themselves to be
fleeced! It is no more than right to laugh at them.--But I defy them
now! I am above them, I despise them all! And I shall be able to do
without them."
"You will do without them?" said the inn-keeper, thinking that his guest
was addressing him. "Oh! that’s all right, if you can. But I didn’t
quite understand who you said that----"
"How much do I owe you?" demanded the stranger, rising abruptly.
"How much do you owe? Oh! it won’t take long to reckon: bread, cheese,
wine--that makes twelve sous in all."
The stranger took twelve sous from a pocket of his jacket, and tossed
them on the table; then, producing a pipe and tobacco from a coat
pocket, he filled his pipe and said to the inn-keeper:
"Where is there a light?"
"A light--to light your pipe?"
"Apparently."
"Parbleu! there’s fire in the kitchen; it’s never cold here.--But you
haven’t told me whether----"
The stranger was not listening. He went into the kitchen, lighted his
pipe and placed it in his mouth; then he walked slowly from the inn and
resumed his seat on the stone bench, where he smoked as placidly as a
Mussulman seated luxuriously on soft cushions.
"That’s a devil of a fellow!" said the inn-keeper as he watched him walk
away. "He smokes--I should say that he’s an old soldier. What the devil
did he want of the Granvals? He ended by saying that he despised
them!--Never mind; I did well to sit down with him; if he comes back,
I’ll make him talk some more."
The stranger, having passed the whole morning on the stone bench, did in
fact return to the inn about two o’clock. He ordered bread and cheese
once more, but drank only water. The inn-keeper hovered about him and
asked him several questions, trying to enter into conversation; but the
stranger seemed indisposed to talk. He ate his bread and cheese without
answering the questions, paid for his meagre repast, filled his pipe,
lighted it, and left the inn; but this time he went down the street
instead of returning to the stone bench.
"He’s a wretched customer!" said the inn-keeper when he had gone.
"And for all that," said the servant, "he puts on as many airs as a
marquis! He gives his orders and talks as if he owned the place! He’d do
well to shave, instead of stuffing himself with cheese!"
"Is he still sitting on the stone bench opposite, Marie?"
"No, monsieur, he went down the street."
"Then we probably shan’t see him again."
"Good riddance!"
The inn-keeper was mistaken; about eight in the evening he saw the
poorly dressed stranger reënter the common room, with his knotted stick.
"Hallo! here’s the cheese-man again!" muttered the servant. But her
master motioned to her to hold her peace, for he feared to offend the
traveller. The latter seated himself at a table, and ordered bread,
cheese and a small glass of eau-de-vie. He was served promptly and ate
his bread and cheese without speaking; but when he asked how much he
owed, the landlord, who was burning to question him, stepped forward and
said, courteously removing his cap:
"Do you not intend to sleep here?"
"Sleep here!" echoed the stranger; "no, that isn’t necessary; I can
sleep quite as well in the fields, and it costs nothing; whereas, if I
slept in your house, I should have to pay, should I not?"
"Why, that’s the custom; you understand of course that we can’t supply
our----"
"Very good! very good! Have I asked you to give me anything for
nothing?"
"No, monsieur, I didn’t say that; but----"
"But keep your tongue still then, and let me rest in peace."
The inn-keeper angrily replaced his cap, and the stranger took his
leave, after paying his bill.
"I begin to believe that this eater of cheese is nothing but a vagrant,"
said the host, when he was certain that the stranger was at a safe
distance. "A man who sleeps in the fields--that’s rather suspicious. I
am sorry he didn’t take a room here, because then he would have had to
tell me his name."
"Oh! he’s all right," said a little man who had entered the common room
just as the traveller went out. "When he arrived in town he went at once
to monsieur le maire, to show his papers."
"Ah! so you know that man, do you, Monsieur Benoît?" asked the
inn-keeper, walking toward the newcomer.
Monsieur Benoît caressed his chin, shook his head to give himself
importance, and replied:
"Yes, I have met him several times about the town; he has been here at
least a week."
"What’s his name?"
"I don’t know that; but I think that he’s a man who has been rich, who
has squandered everything and has nothing left."
"And what does he do now?"
"Why, you have seen: he walks about, rests and smokes; but he talks very
little."
"Oh! I have no questions to ask him; he has paid for everything he has
had here; but he’s very shabbily dressed.--I say, Monsieur Benoît, you
must agree that that isn’t the costume of a man who owns consols."
"I didn’t say that he was rich now; I said that I believed that he had
been rich, which is a very different matter."
They discussed the stranger for some time longer; but the arrival of new
guests caused them to forget the man of meagre repasts.
The next morning, at daybreak, the stranger was stretched out on the
stone bench once more, opposite the inn. He seemed less engrossed by his
own thoughts and watched the travellers who arrived from time to time;
more than once, indeed, he started up, as if he would accost one of
them; but he soon fell back on the bench, and his features assumed an
expression of distress.
About noon he entered the inn and ate as sparingly as on the previous
day. Then he took his head in his hands, and remained at the table as if
buried in thought. He had been a long while in that posture, even the
host himself not daring to disturb him, when there was a great uproar in
front of the inn. A post-chaise had arrived. Three young men and a
servant alighted, and the servants of the inn, as well as the host, ran
out to welcome Robineau and his two travelling companions; for they were
the new arrivals.
"Ah! Bless my soul! but I am stiff!" said Robineau; "it’s quite right to
talk about travelling fast by post. How we did go, messieurs! The towns
and villages fled behind us!"
"It would be more accurate to say that we fled before them."
"It’s fine, it’s great fun to travel fast.--Oh! my legs!--Take good care
of my trunks and parcels, François!"
"Well, monsieur l’aubergiste, give us something good to eat--the best
you have. I am as hungry as a hawk! What do you say, Edouard?"
"So am I. The air in this part of the country seems most invigorating."
"And you, Robineau--aren’t you in appetite?"
Robineau pulled Alfred’s coat-tail and said in an undertone:
"Pray don’t call me Robineau again, my friend; you know very well that
it is no longer my name. I am Jules de la Roche-Noire."
"The devil! as if I could remember that! Well, Monsieur Jules Robineau
de la Roche-Noire, do you not feel disposed to adjourn to the table?"
"I shall have no appetite, my dear fellow, until I reach my château."
"This château of yours will end by making you ill, my poor boy."
The three young men having entered the common room, their loud
conversation caused the stranger to raise his eyes, and he examined them
without changing his position.
"Messieurs, messieurs, don’t sit down here, for heaven’s sake!" said
Robineau, who had just discovered the stranger; "we can’t stay in this
room--people like us! Don’t you see? Pretty company, isn’t it?"
"Faith!" said Alfred, taking a seat, "when I travel, I am philosophical;
and so long as the dinner is good----"
But Robineau shouted, called, made an uproar, and the host appeared, cap
in hand.
"Give us a private room," said Robineau; "it seems to me, monsieur
l’aubergiste, that you should be more careful and not put us with--with
everybody."
"Your table is being laid on the first floor, messieurs; and if you will
walk upstairs----"
"Yes, to be sure."
"Will the gentlemen sleep here?"
"No! no, indeed! we sleep at my estate of La Roche-Noire."
At that name the stranger raised his head and looked closely at
Robineau, who continued:
"You must know that château, monsieur l’aubergiste?"
"La Roche-Noire? no, monsieur. I know the village of La Roche-Blanche,
which is about two leagues from here."
"I say, Robineau," laughed Alfred, "perhaps you are mistaken; maybe
you’re lord of La Roche-Blanche."