Back in the little room I now occupy, under the roof of the _hotel_,
which is mine no longer, I wished to convince myself that the full
knowledge of my misery had not depressed me to a degree unworthy of a
man. So I have sat down to write an account of this decisive day of my
life, endeavouring to preserve exactly the phraseology of the old
notary, a mixture of stiffness and courtesy, of mistrust and kind
feeling, which more than once made me smile, though my heart was
bleeding.
I am face to face with poverty. Not the haughty, hidden, and poetic
poverty that among forests and deserts and savannas fired my
imagination, but actual misery, need, dependence, humiliation, and
something worse even--the poverty of the rich man who has fallen;
poverty in a decent coat; the poverty that hides its ungloved hands from
the former friends it passes in the street. Come, brother, courage,
courage...!
_Monday, April 27th_.
For five days I have been waiting in vain for news of M. Laubepin. I
had counted considerably on the interest that he had appeared to feel in
me. His experience, his business connections, and the number of people
he knows, would enable him to be of service to me. I was ready to take
all necessary steps under his direction, but, left to myself, I do not
know which way to turn. I thought he was one of the men who promise
little and do much. I am afraid that I have been mistaken. This
morning I determined to go to his house on the pretext of returning the
papers he had given me, after verifying their dreary exactitude. I was
told that he had gone to enjoy a taste of country life at some chateau
in the heart of Brittany. He would be away two or three days longer. I
was completely taken aback. I had not only the pain of finding
indifference and desertion where I had looked for the readiness of
devoted friendship, I had, in addition, the bitter disappointment of
returning, as I went, with an empty purse. I had, in fact, intended to
ask M. Laubepin to advance me some money from the three or four thousand
francs due to us after full payment of our debts. In vain have I lived
like an anchorite since came to Paris. The small sum I had reserved for
my journey is completely exhausted--so completely that, after making a
truly pastoral breakfast this morning--_castanceae molles et pressi
copia lactis_--I was obliged to have recourse to a kind of trickery for
my dinner to-night. I will make melancholy record of it here.
The less one has had for breakfast, the more one wants for dinner. I
had felt all the force of this axiom long before the sun had finished
its course. Among the strollers whom the mild air had attracted to the
Tuileries this afternoon to watch the first smiles of spring playing on
the faces of the marble fauns, the observant might have noted a young
man of irreproachable appearance who seemed to study the awakening of
nature with extraordinary interest. Not satisfied with devouring the
fresh verdure with his eyes, he would furtively detach the young,
appetizing shoots and the half-opened leaves from their stems, and put
them to his lips with the curiosity of a botanist. I convinced myself
in this way that this form of nourishment, suggested by accounts of
shipwrecks, is of very little value. Still, I enriched my experience
with some interesting discoveries: for instance, I know now that the
foliage of the chestnut has an exceedingly bitter taste; that the rose
is not unpleasant; that the lime is oily and rather agreeable; the lilac
pungent--and I believe unwholesome.
Meditating on these discoveries, I walked towards Helene's convent. I
found the parlour as crowded as a hive, and I was more than usually
bewildered by the tumultuous confidences of the young bees. Helene
arrived, her hair in disorder, her cheeks flushed, her eyes red and
sparkling. In her hand she had a piece of bread as long as her arm. As
she embraced me in an absent way, I asked:
"Well, little girl, what is the matter? You've been crying."
"No, Maxime, no, it's nothing."
"Well, what is it? Now tell me...."
In a lower tone she said:
"Oh, I am very miserable, dear Maxime!"
"Really? Tell me all about it while you eat your bread."
"Oh, I shall certainly not eat my bread. I am too miserable to eat.
You know Lucy--Lucy Campbell, my dearest friend. Well, we've quarrelled
completely."
"Oh, _mon Dieu_! Don't worry, darling, you'll make it up. It will be
all right, dear."
"Oh, Maxime, that's impossible. It was such a serious quarrel. It was
nothing at first, but you know one gets excited and loses one's head.
Listen, Maxime! We were playing battledore, and Lucy made a mistake
about the score. I was six hundred and eighty, and she was only six
hundred and fifteen, and she declared she was six hundred and
sixty-five! You must say that was a little too bad. Of course I said
my figure was right, and she said hers was. 'Well, mademoiselle,' I
said to her, 'let us ask these young ladies. I appeal to them.' 'No,
mademoiselle,' she replied, 'I am sure I am right, and you don't play
fair.' 'And--and you, mademoiselle,' I said to her--'you are a liar!'
'Very well, mademoiselle,' she said then, 'I despise you too much to
answer you.' Just at that moment Sister Sainte-Felix came up, which was
a good thing, for I am sure I should have hit her. Now, you know what
happened. Can we possibly make it up? No, it is impossible; it would be
cowardly. But I can't tell you how I suffer. I don't believe there's
any one in the world so miserable as I am."
"Yes, dear, it's difficult to imagine anything more distressing; but it
seems to me that you partly brought it on yourself, for it was you who
used the most offensive word. Tell me, is Lucy in the parlour?"
"Yes, there she is, in the corner."
With a dignified and careful movement of her head she indicated a very
fair little girl. Her cheeks, too, were flushed, and her eyes were red.
Apparently she was giving an account of the drama, which Sister
Sainte-Felix had so fortunately interrupted, to an old lady who was
listening attentively.
Mlle. Lucy, while she talked with an earnestness appropriate to the
subject, kept looking furtively at Helene and me.
"Dear child," I said to Helene, "do you trust me?"
"Yes, Maxime, I trust you very much."
"In that case I will tell you what to do. Go very gently behind Mlle.
Lucy's chair; take her head in your hands--like this, when she is not
looking--and kiss her on both cheeks--like this, with all your
might--and then you will see what she will do in her turn."
For a second or two Helene seemed to hesitate; then she set off at a
great rate, fell like a thunder-clap on Mlle. Campbell, but nevertheless
gave her the sweetest of surprises. The two young sufferers, at last
eternally united, mingled their tears in a touching group, while the
respectable old Mrs. Campbell blew her nose with a noise as of a
bagpipe.
Helene came back to me radiant.
"Well, dear," I said, "I hope you're going to eat your bread now."
"Oh, no! I can't, Maxime. I am too much excited, and--besides, I must
tell you--to-day a new pupil came and gave us quite a feast of
meringues, eclairs, and chocolate-creams, and I am not a bit hungry.
And I am in a great difficulty about it, because when we're not hungry
we have to put our bread back in the basket, and in my trouble I forgot,
and I shall be punished. But, Maxime, as we're crossing the court when
you go, I shall try to drop it down the cellar without any one seeing.
"What, little sister!" I said, colouring a little, "you are going to
waste that large piece of bread?"
"It isn't good of me I know, because, perhaps, there are poor people who
would be very glad of it, aren't there, Maxime?"
"There certainly are, dear."
"But what do you want me to do? The poor people don't come in here."
"Look here, Helene, give me the bread, and I'll give it in your name to
the first poor man I meet. Will you?"
"Oh, yes!"
The bell rang for school. I broke the bread in two and hid the pieces
shamefacedly in my great coat pockets.
"Dear Maxime," said my sister, "you'll come again soon, won't you? Then
you'll tell me whether you met a poor man and gave him my bread, and
whether he liked it? Good-bye, Maxime."
"Yes, Helene, I met a poor man and gave him your bread, which he seized
and carried off to his solitary garret, and he liked it. But this poor
man had not courage, for he wept as he ate the food that had come from
your dear little hands. I will tell you all this, Helene, because it is
good for you to know that there are sufferings more serious than your
childish woes. I will tell you everything, except the name of the poor
man."
_Tuesday, April 28th_.
At nine o'clock this morning I called at M. Laubepin's in the vague hope
that he might have returned earlier than he intended, but he is not
expected until to-morrow. I thought at once of seeing Mme. Laubepin and
explaining the awkward position I was placed in through her husband's
absence. While I hesitated in a conflict of shame and necessity, the
old servant, alarmed, perhaps, by my hungry gaze, settled the question
by suddenly shutting the door. I made up my mind hereupon to fast until
the next day. After all, I said to myself, a day's abstinence does not
kill one. If this showed an excessive pride, at all events I was the
only one to suffer, and consequently it concerned no one but myself. I
accordingly made my way to the Sorbonne, where I attended several
lectures, trying to fill up my corporeal vacuum by spiritual sustenance.
But when this resource came to an end I found it had been quite
inadequate. And I had an attack of nervous irritation which I tried to
calm by walking. It was a cold, misty day. As I crossed the Pont des
Saints-Peres I stopped for a minute in spite of myself. Leaning on the
parapet, I watched the troubled water rushing under the arches. I know
not what unholy thoughts shot through my worn and weakened brain. I saw
in the gloomiest colours a future of ceaseless struggle, of dependence,
and of humiliation, which I was approaching by the dark gate of hunger;
I felt a profound and utter disgust of life; it seemed impossible to me
under such conditions. At the same time a flame of fierce and brutal
anger leaped up in me. Dazed and reeling, I hung over the void, and saw
all the river glittering with sparks of fire.
I will not say, as is usual, God would not have it so. I hate these
cant phrases, and I dare to say _I_ would not. God has made us free,
and if ever before I had doubted it, this supreme moment--when soul and
body, courage and cowardice, good and evil, held mortal combat within
me--would have swept my doubts away forever.
Master of myself again, those terrible waves only suggested an innocent,
and rather absurd longing to quench the thirst that tortured me. I soon
remembered that I should find much purer water in my room at home. I
went quickly towards the _hotel_, imagining that the most delicious
pleasures awaited me there. With pathetic childishness I delighted in
this glorious device, and wondered I had not thought of it sooner. On
the boulevard I suddenly came face to face with Gaston de Vaux, whom I
had not seen for two years. After a moment's hesitation he stopped,
grasped my hand cordially, said a word or two about my travels, and left
me hurriedly. But he turned back.
"My friend," he said to me, "you must allow me to let you share a piece
of good luck I've just had. I have put my hand on a treasure; I have
got some cigars which cost me two francs each, but really they are
beyond price. Here's one; you must tell me how you like it. _An
revoir_, old man!"
Wearily I mounted the six flights to my room, and trembling with
emotion, I seized my friendly water-bottle and swallowed the contents in
small mouthfuls. Afterward I lighted my friend's cigar, and smiled
encouragement at myself in the glass. Feeling that movement and the
distraction of the streets were good for me, I went out again directly.
Opening my door, I was surprised and annoyed to see the wife of the
concierge of the _hotel_ standing in the narrow corridor. My sudden
appearance seemed to disconcert her. This woman had formerly been in my
mother's service, and had become a favourite with her, and when she
married, my mother had given her the profitable post she still held.
For some days I had an idea that she was watching me, and now, having
nearly caught her in the act, I asked her roughly what she wanted.
"Oh, nothing, M. Maxime, nothing," she replied, much confused. "I was
seeing to the gas."