upon him should have their eyes opened, and see how little the
brilliant and idolized Alphonse was really fit for. He wanted to see
him humbled, abandoned by his friends, lonely and poor; and then--!
Beyond that he really did not like to speculate; for at this point
feelings stirred within him which he would not acknowledge.
He WOULD hate his former friend; he WOULD have revenge for all the
coldness and neglect which had been his own lot in life; and every time
the least thought in defence of Alphonse arose in his mind he pushed it
aside, and said, like the old banker, "Sentiment won't do for a
business man."
One day he went to his tailor's; he bought more clothes in these days
than he absolutely needed.
The nimble little man at once ran to meet turn with a roll of cloth:
"See, here is the very stuff for you. Monsieur Alphonse has had a whole
suit made of it, and Monsieur Alphonse is a gentleman who knows how to
dress."
"I did not think that Monsieur Alphonse was one of your favorite
customers," said Charles, rather taken by surprise.
"Oh, mon Dieu!" exclaimed the little tailor, "you mean because I have
once or twice mentioned that Monsieur Alphonse owed me a few thousand
francs. It was very stupid of me to speak so. Monsieur Alphonse has not
only paid me the trifle he was owing, but I know that he has also
satisfied a number of other creditors. I have done ce cher beau
monsieur great injustice, and I beg you never to give him a hint of my
stupidity."
Charles was no longer listening to the chatter of the garrulous tailor.
He soon left the shop, and went up the street, quite absorbed in the
one thought that Alphonse had paid.
He thought how foolish it really was of him to wait and wait for the
other's ruin. How easily might not the adroit and lucky Alphonse come
across many a brilliant business opening, and make plenty of money
without a word of it reaching Charles's ears. Perhaps, after all, he
was getting on well. Perhaps it would end in people saying, "See, at
last Monsieur Alphonse shows what he is fit for, now that he is quit of
his dull and crabbed partner!"
Charles went slowly up the street with his head bent. Many people
jostled him, but he heeded not. His life seemed to him so meaningless,
as if he had lost all that he had ever possessed--or had he himself
cast it from him? Just then some one ran against him with more than
usual violence. He looked up. It was an acquaintance from the time when
he and Alphonse had been in the Credit Lyonnais.
"Ah, good-day, Monsieur Charles!" cried he, "It is long since we met.
Odd, too, that I should meet you to-day. I was just thinking of you
this morning."
"Why, may I ask?" said Charles, half absently.
"Well, you see, only to-day I saw up at the bank a paper--a bill for
thirty or forty thousand francs--bearing both your name and that of
Monsieur Alphonse. It astonished me, for I thought that you
two--hm!--had done with each other."
"No, we have not quite done with each other yet," said Charles slowly.
He struggled with all his might to keep his face calm, and asked, in as
natural a tone as he could command, "When does the bill fall due? I
don't quite recollect."
"To-morrow or the day after, I think," answered the other, who was a
hard-worked business man, and was already in a hurry to be off. "It was
accepted by Monsieur Alphonse."
"I know that," said Charles; "but could you not manage to let ME redeem
the bill to-morrow? It is a courtesy--a favor I am anxious to do."
"With pleasure. Tell your messenger to ask for me personally at the
bank to-morrow afternoon. I will arrange it; nothing easier. Excuse me;
I'm in a hurry. Good-bye!" and with that he ran on.
Next day Charles sat in his counting-house waiting for the messenger
who had gone up to the bank to redeem Alphonse's bill.
At last a clerk entered, laid a folded blue paper by his principal's
side, and went out again.
Not until the door was closed did Charles seize the draft, look swiftly
round the room, and open it. He stared for a second or two at his name,
then lay back in his chair and drew a deep breath. It was as he had
expected--the signature was a forgery.
He bent over it again. For long he sat, gazing at his own name, and
observing how badly it was counterfeited.
While his sharp eyes followed every line in the letters of his name, he
scarcely thought. His mind was so disturbed, and his feelings so
strangely conflicting, that it was some time before he became conscious
how much they betrayed--these bungling strokes on the blue paper.
He felt a strange lump in his throat, his nose began to tickle a
little, and, before he was aware of it, a big tear fell on the paper.
He looked hastily around, took out his pocket-handkerchief, and
carefully wiped the wet place on the bill. He thought again of the old
banker in the Rue Bergere.
What did it matter to him that Alphonse's weak character had at last
led him to crime, and what had he lost? Nothing, for did he not hate
his former friend? No one could say it was his fault that Alphonse was
ruined--he had shared with him honestly, and never harmed him.
Then his thoughts tamed to Alphonse. He knew him well enough to be sure
that when the refined, delicate Alphonse had sunk so low, he must have
come to a jutting headland in life, and he prepared to leap out of it
rather than let disgrace reach him.
At this thought Charles sprang up. That must not be. Alphonse should
not have time to send a bullet through his bead and hide his shame in
the mixture of compassion and mysterious horror which follows the
suicide. Thus Charles would lose his revenge, and it would be all to no
purpose that he had gone and nursed his hatred until he himself had
become evil through it. Since he had forever lost his friend, he would
at least expose his enemy, so that all should see what a miserable,
despicable being was this charming Alphonse.
He looked at his watch; it was half-past four. Charles knew the cafe in
which he would find Alphonse at this hour; he pocketed the bill and
buttoned his coat.
But on the way he would call at a police-station, and hand over the
bill to a detective, who at a sign from Charles should suddenly advance
into the middle of the cafe where Alphonse was always surrounded by his
friends and admirers, and say loudly and distinctly so that all should
hear it:
"Monsieur Alphonse, you are charged with forgery."
It was raining in Paris. The day had been foggy, raw, and cold; and
well on in the afternoon it had begun to rain. It was not a
downpour--the water did not fall from the clouds in regular drops--but
the clouds themselves had, as it were, laid themselves down in the
streets of Paris and there slowly condensed into water.
No matter how people might seek to shelter themselves, they got wet on
all sides. The moisture slid down the back of your neck, laid itself
like a wet towel about your knees, penetrated into your boots and far
up your trousers.
A few sanguine ladies were standing in the portes cocheres, with their
skirts tucked up, expecting it to clear; others waited by the hour in
the omnibus stations. But most of the stronger sex hurried along under
their umbrellas; only a few had been sensible enough to give up the
battle, and had turned up their collars, stuck their umbrellas under
their arms, and their hands in their pockets.
Although it was early in the autumn it was already dusk at five
o'clock. A few gas-jets lighted in the narrowest streets, and in a shop
here and there strove to shine out in the thick wet air.
People swarmed as usual in the streets, jostled one another off the
pavement, and ruined one another's umbrellas. All the cabs were taken
up; they splashed along and bespattered the foot passengers to the best
of their ability, while the asphalt glistened in the dim light with a
dense coating of mud.
The cafes were crowded to excess; regular customers went round and
scolded, and the waiters ran against each other in their hurry. Ever
and anon, amid the confusion, could be heard the sharp little ting of
the bell on the buffet; it was la dame du comptoir summoning a waiter,
while her calm eyes kept a watch upon the whole cafe.
A lady sat at the buffet of a large restaurant on the Boulevard
Sebastopol. She was widely known for her cleverness and her amiable
manners.
She had glossy black hair, which, in spite of the fashion, she wore
parted in the middle of her forehead in natural curls. Her eyes were
almost black and her mouth full, with a little shadow of a moustache.
Her figure was still very pretty, although, if the truth were known,
she had probably passed her thirtieth year; and she had a soft little
hand, with which she wrote elegant figures in her cashbook, and now and
then a little note. Madame Virginie could converse with the young
dandies who were always hanging about the buffet, and parry their
witticisms, while she kept account with the waiters and had her eye
upon every corner of the great room.
She was really pretty only from five till seven in the afternoon--that
being the time at which Alphonse invariably visited the cafe. Then her
eyes never left him; she got a fresher color, her mouth was always
trembling into a smile, and her movements became somewhat nervous. That
was the only time of the day when she was ever known to give a random
answer or to make a mistake in the accounts; and the waiters tittered
and nudged each other.
For it was generally thought that she had formerly had relations with
Alphonse, and some would even have it that she was still his mistress.
She herself best knew how matters stood; but it was impossible to be
angry with Monsieur Alphonse. She was well aware that he cared no more
for her than for twenty others; that she had lost him--nay, that he had
never really been hers. And yet her eyes besought a friendly look, and
when he left the cafe without sending her a confidential greeting, it
seemed as though she suddenly faded, and the waiters said to each
other: "Look at madame; she is gray tonight."
Over at the windows it was still light enough to read the papers; a
couple of young men were amusing themselves with watching the crowds
which streamed past. Seen through the great plate-glass windows, the
busy forms gliding past one another in the dense, wet, rainy air looked
like fish in an aquarium. Further back in the cafe, and over the
billiard-tables, the gas was lighted. Alphonse was playing with a
couple of friends.
He had been to the buffet and greeted Madame Virginie, and she, who had
long noticed how Alphonse was growing paler day by day, had--half in
jest, half in anxiety--reproached him with his thoughtless life.
Alphonse answered with a poor joke and asked for absinthe.
How she hated those light ladies of the ballet and the opera who
enticed Monsieur Alphonse to revel night after night at the
gaming-table, or at interminable suppers! How ill he had been looking
these last few weeks! He had grown quite thin, and the great gentle
eyes had acquired a piercing, restless look. What would she not give to
be able to rescue him out of that life that was dragging him down! She
glanced in the opposite mirror and thought she had beauty enough left.
Now and then the door opened and a new guest came in, stamped his feet,
and shut his wet umbrella. All bowed to Madame Virginie, and almost all
said, "What horrible weather!"
When Charles entered, he saluted shortly and took a seat in the corner
beside the fireplace.
Alphonse's eyes had indeed become restless. He looked towards the door
every time any one came in; and when Charles appeared, a spasm passed
over his face and he missed his stroke.
"Monsieur Alphonse is not in the vein to-day," said an onlooker.
Soon after a strange gentleman came in. Charles looked up from his
paper and nodded slightly; the stranger raised his eyebrows a little
and looked at Alphonse.
He dropped his cue on the floor.
"Excuse me, gentlemen, I'm not in the mood for billiards to-day," said
he, "permit me to leave off. Waiter, bring me a bottle of seltzer-water
and a spoon--I must take my dose of Vichy salts."
"You should not take so much Vichy salts, Monsieur Alphonse, but rather
keep to a sensible diet," said the doctor, who sat a little way off
playing chess.
Alphonse laughed, and seated himself at the newspaper-table. He seized
the JOURNAL AMUSANT, and began to make merry remarks upon the
illustrations. A little circle quickly gathered round him, and he was
inexhaustible in racy stories and whimsicalities.
While he rattled on under cover of the others' laughter, he poured out
a glass of seltzer-water and took from his pocket a little box on which
was written, in large letters, "Vichy Salts."
He shook the powder out into the glass and stirred it round with a
spoon. There was a little cigar-ash on the floor in front of his chair;
he whipped it off with his pocket-handkerchief, and then stretched out
his hand for the glass.
At that moment he felt a hand on his arm. Charles had risen and hurried
across the room he now bent down over Alphonse.
Alphonse turned his head towards him so that none but Charles could see
his face. At first he let his eyes travel furtively over his old
friend's figure; then he looked up, and, gazing straight at Charles, he
said, half aloud, "Charlie!"
It was long since Charles had heard that old pet name. He gazed into
the well-known face and now for the first time saw how it had altered
of late. It seemed to him as though he were reading a tragic story
about himself.
They remained thus far a second or two and there glided over Alphonse's
features that expression of imploring helplessness which Charles knew
so well from the old school-days, when Alphonse came bounding in at the
last moment and wanted his composition written.
"Have you done with the JOURNAL AMUSANT?" asked Charles, with a thick
utterance.
"Yes; pray take it," answered Alphonse, hurriedly. He reached him the
paper, and at the same time got hold of Charles's thumb. He pressed it
and whispered, "Thanks," then--drained the glass.
Charles went over to the stranger who sat by the door: "Give me the
bill."
"You don't need our assistance, then?"
"No, thanks."
"So much the better," said the stranger, handing Charles a folded blue
paper. Then he paid for his coffee and went.
Madame Virginie rose with a little shriek: "Alphonse! Oh, my God!
Monsieur Alphonse is ill."
He slipped off his chair; his shoulders went up and his head fell on
one side. He remained sitting on the floor, with his back against the
chair.
There was a movement among those nearest; the doctor sprang over and
knelt beside him. When he looked in Alphonse's face he started a
little. He took his hand as if to feel his pulse, and at the same time
bent down over the glass which stood on the edge of the table.
With a movement of the arm he gave it a slight push, so that it fell on
the floor and was smashed. Then he laid down the dead man's hand and
bound a handkerchief round his chin.
Not till then did the others understand what had happened. "Dead? Is he
dead, doctor? Monsieur Alphonse dead?"
"Heart disease," answered the doctor.
One came running with water, another with vinegar. Amid laughter and
noise, the balls could be heard cannoning on the inner billiard-table.
"Hush!" some one whispered. "Hush!" was repeated; and the silence
spread in wider and wider circles round the corpse, until all was quite
still.
"Come and lend a hand," said the doctor.
The dead man was lifted up; they laid him on a sofa in a corner of the
room, and the nearest gas-jets were put out.
Madame Virginie was still standing up; her face was chalk-white, and
she held her little soft hand pressed against her breast. They carried
him right past the buffet. The doctor had seized him under the back, so
that his waistcoat slipped up and a piece of his fine white shirt
appeared.
She followed with her eyes the slender, supple limbs she knew so well,
and continued to stare towards the dark corner.
Most of the guests went away in silence. A couple of young men entered
noisily from the street; a waiter ran towards them and said a few
words. They glanced towards the corner, buttoned their coats, and
plunged out again into the fog.
The half-darkened cafe was soon empty; only some of Alphonse's nearest
friends stood in a group and whispered. The doctor was talking with the
proprietor, who had now appeared on the scene.
The waiters stole to and fro, making great circuits to avoid the dark
corner. One of them knelt and gathered up the fragments of the glass on
a tray. He did his work as quietly as he could; but for all that it
made too much noise.
"Let that alone until by and by," said the host, softly.
Leaning against the chimney-piece, Charles looked at the dead man. He
slowly tore the folded paper to pieces, while he thought of his friend.
HOPES
BY
FREDERIKA BREMER
The Translation by Mary Howitt.
HOPES
BY
FREDERIKA BREMER
I had a peculiar method of wandering without very much pain along the
stormy path of life. Although, in a physical as well as in a moral
sense, I wandered almost barefoot,-I HOPED, hoped from day to day; in
the morning my hopes rested on evening, in the evening on the morning;
in the autumn; upon the spring, in spring upon the autumn; from this
year to the next, and this amid mere hopes, I had passed through nearly
thirty years of my life, without, of all my privations, painfully
perceiving the want of anything but whole boots. Nevertheless, I
consoled myself easily for this out of doors in the open air but in a
drawing-room it always gave me an uneasy manner to have to turn the
heels, as being the part least torn, to the front. Much more oppressive
was it to me, truly, that I could in the abodes of misery only console
with kind words.
I comforted myself, like a thousand others, by a hopeful glance upon
the rolling wheel of fortune, and with the philosophical remark, "When
the time comes, comes the counsel."
As a poor assistant to a country clergyman with a narrow income and
meagre table, morally becoming mouldy in the company of the scolding
housekeeper, of the willingly fuddled clergyman, of a foolish young
gentleman and the daughters of the house, who, with high shoulders and
turned-in toes, went from morning to night paying visits, I felt a
peculiarly strange emotion of tenderness and joy as one of my
acquaintance informed me by writing, that my uncle, the Merchant P---in
Stockholm, to me personally unknown, now lay dying, and in a paroxysm
of kindred affection had inquired after his good-for-nothing nephew.
With a flat, meagre little bundle, and a million of rich hopes, the
grateful nephew now allowed himself to be shaken up hill and down hill,
upon an uncommonly uncomfortable and stiff-necked peasant cart, and
arrived, head-over-heels, in the capital.
In the inn where I alighted, I ordered for myself a little--only a very
little breakfast,--a trifle--a bit of bread-and-butter--a few eggs.
The landlord and a fat gentleman walked up and down the saloon and
chatted. "Nay, that I must say," said the fat gentleman, "this Merchant
P--, who died the day before yesterday, he was a fine fellow."
"Yes, yes," thought I; "aha, aha, a fellow, who had heaps of money!
Hear you, my friend" (to the waiter), "could not you get me a bit of
venison, or some other solid dish? Hear you, a cup of bouillon would
not be amiss. Look after it, but quick!"
"Yes," said mine host now, "it is strong! Thirty thousand dollars, and
they banko! Nobody in the whole world could have dreamed of it--thirty
thousand!"
"Thirty thousand!" repeated I, in my exultant soul, "thirty thousand!
Hear you, waiter! Make haste, give me here thirty then--; and give me
here banko--no give me here a glass of wine, I mean;" and from head to
heart there sang in me, amid the trumpet-beat of every pulse in
alternating echoes, "Thirty thousand! Thirty thousand!"
"Yes," continued the fat gentlemen, "and would you believe that in the
mass of debts there are nine hundred dollars for credit and five
thousand dollars for champagne. And now all his creditors stand there
prettily and open their mouths; all the thing in the house are hardly
worth two farthings; and out of the house they find, as the only
indemnification--a calash!"
"Aha, that is something quite different! Hear you, youth, waiter! Eh,
come you here! take that meat, and the bouillon, and the wine away
again; and hear you, observe well, that I have not eaten a morsel of
all this. How could I, indeed; I, that ever since I opened my eyes this
morning have done nothing else but eat (a horrible untruth!), and it
just now occurs to me that it would therefore be unnecessary to pay
money for such a superfluous feast."
"But you have actually ordered it," replied the waiter, in a state of
excitement.
"My friend," I replied, and seized myself behind the ear, a place
whence people, who are in embarrassment, are accustomed in some sort of
way to obtain the necessary help--"my friend, it was a mistake for
which I must not be punished; for it was not my fault that a rich heir,
for whom I ordered the breakfast, is all at once become poor,--yes,
poorer than many a poor devil, because he has lost more than the half
of his present means upon the future. If he, under these circumstances,
as you may well imagine, cannot pay for a dear breakfast, yet it does
not prevent my paying for the eggs which I have devoured, and giving
you over and above something handsome for your trouble, as business
compels me to move off from here immediately."
By my excellent logic, and the "something handsome," I removed from my
throat, with a bleeding heart and a watering mouth, that dear
breakfast, and wandered forth into the city, with my little bundle
under my arm, to seek for a cheap room, while I considered where I w as
to get the money for it.
In consequence of the violent coming in contact of hope and reality I
had a little headache. But when I saw upon my ramble a gentleman,
ornamented with ribbons and stars, alight from a magnificent carriage,
who had a pale yellow complexion, a deeply-wrinkled brow, and above his
eyebrows an intelligible trace of ill-humour; when I saw a young count,
with whom I had become acquainted in the University of Upsala, walking
along as if he were about to fall on his nose from age and weariness of
life, I held up my head, inhaled the air, which accidentally
(unfortunately) at this place was filled with the smell of smoked
sausage, and extolled poverty, and a pure heart.
I found at length, in a remote street, a little room, which was more
suited to my gloomy prospects than to the bright hopes which I
cherished two hours before.
I had obtained permission to spend the winter in Stockholm, and had
thought of spending it in quite a different way to what now was to be
expected. But what was to be done? To let the courage sink was the
worst of all; to lay the hands in the lap and look up to heaven, not
much better. "The sun breaks forth when one least expects it," thought
I, as heavy autumn clouds descended upon the city. I determined to use
all the means I could to obtain for myself a decent substance with a
somewhat pleasanter prospect for the future, than was opened to me
under the miserable protection of Pastor G., and, in the meantime, to
earn my daily bread by copying,--a sorrowful expedient in a sorrowful
condition.
Thus I passed my days amid fruitless endeavors to find ears which might
not be deaf, amid the heart-wearing occupation of writing out fairly
the empty productions of empty heads, with my dinners becoming more and
more scanty, and with ascending hopes, until that evening against whose
date I afterwards made a cross in my calendar.
My host had just left me with the friendly admonition to pay the first
quarter's rent on the following day, if I did not prefer (the
politeness is French) to march forth again with bag and baggage on a
voyage of discovery through the streets of the city.
It was just eight o'clock, on an indescribably cold November evening,
when I was revived with this affectionate salutation on my return from
a visit to a sick person, for whom I, perhaps--really somewhat
inconsiderately, had emptied my purse.
I snuffed my sleepy, thin candle with my fingers, and glanced around
the little dark chamber, for the further use of which I must soon see
myself compelled to gold-making.