has kindly offered to make himself useful to us; he spoke of taking
preparation in the lower school; but I’m afraid he’s rather young
himself and perhaps he might not be able to keep order. I talked to him
for a long time and found him most attractive. He is the metal out of
which the best Christians are forged. It is assuredly to be regretted
that an unfortunate early education has turned aside his soul from the
true path. He confessed that he was without faith; but the tone in
which he said so filled me with hope. I replied that I trusted I should
find in him all the qualities that go to the making of a good little
Christian soldier, and that he ought to devote himself to the increase
of those talents which God had vouchsafed to grant him. We read the
parable together and I think the seed has not fallen on bad ground. He
seemed moved by my words and promised to reflect on them.”
Bernard had already given me an account of this interview; I knew what
he thought of it, so that I felt the conversation becoming a little
painful. I had already got up to go, but old Azaïs, keeping the hand I
held out to him in both his, went on:
“Oh! by the bye. I have seen our Laura. I know the dear child passed a
whole delightful month with you in the mountains; it seems to have done
her a great deal of good. I am happy to think she is with her husband
once more; he must have been beginning to suffer from her long absence.
It is regrettable that his work would not allow of his joining you.”
I was pulling away my hand to leave, more and more embarrassed, for I
didn’t know what Laura might have said, but with a sudden commanding
gesture he drew me towards him, and bending forward, whispered in my
ear:
“Laura confided her hopes to me; but hush!... She prefers it not to
be known yet. I mention it to you because I know that you are in the
secret and because we are both discreet. The poor child was quite
abashed when she told me and blushed deeply; she is so reserved. As
she had gone down on her knees before me, we thanked God together for
having, in His goodness, blessed their union.”
I think that Laura might have put off this confidence, which her
condition doesn’t as yet necessitate. Had she consulted me, I should
have told her to wait until she had seen Douviers before saying
anything. Azaïs can’t see an inch in front of his nose, but the rest of
the family will not be taken in so easily.
The old fellow went on to execute a few further variations on diverse
pastoral themes; then he told me his daughter would be happy to see me
and I went downstairs to the Vedels’ floor.
Just re-read the above. In speaking so of Azaïs, it is myself that I
render odious. I am fully aware of it, and add these few lines for
Bernard’s sake, in case his charming indiscretion leads him to poke
his nose again into this note-book. He has only to go on frequenting
him a little longer in order to understand what I mean. I like the old
fellow very much, and “moreover,” as he says, I respect him; but when I
am with him I have the greatest difficulty in containing myself; this
doesn’t tend to make me enjoy his society.
I like his daughter, the pastoress, very much. Madame Vedel is like
Lamartine’s Elvire--an elderly Elvire. Her conversation is not without
charm. She has a frequent habit of leaving her sentences unfinished,
which gives her reflections a kind of poetic vagueness. She reaches
the infinite by way of the indeterminate and the indefinite. She
expects from a future life all that is lacking to her in this one; this
enables her to enlarge her hopes boundlessly. The very narrowness of
her taking-off ground adds strength to her impetus. Seeing Vedel so
rarely enables her to imagine that she loves him. The worthy man is
incessantly on the go, in request on all sides, taken up by a hundred
and one different ploys--sermons, congresses, visits to the sick,
visits to the poor. He can only shake your hand in passing, but it is
with all the greater cordiality.
“Too busy to talk to-day.”
“Never mind; we shall meet again in Heaven,” say I; but he hasn’t had
time to hear me.
“Not a moment to himself,” sighs Madame Vedel. “If you only knew the
things he gets put on his shoulders now that.... As people know that he
never refuses anything, everyone.... When he comes home at night, he is
sometimes so tired that I hardly dare speak to him for fear of.... He
gives so much of himself to others that there’s nothing left for his
own family.”
And while she was speaking I remembered some of Vedel’s home-comings
at the time I was staying at the pension. I sometimes saw him take his
head between his hands and pant aloud for a little respite. But even
then I used to think he feared a respite even more than he longed for
it, and that nothing more painful could have been accorded him than a
little time in which to reflect.
“You’ll take a cup of tea, won’t you?” asked Madame Vedel, as a little
maid brought in a loaded tray.
“There’s not enough sugar, Ma’am.”
“Haven’t I said that you must tell Miss Rachel about it? Quick!... Have
you let the young gentlemen know tea’s ready?”
“Mr. Bernard and Mr. Boris have gone out.”
“Oh! And Mr. Armand?... Make haste.”
Then, without waiting for the maid to leave the room:
“The poor girl has just arrived from Strasburg. She has no.... She has
to be told everything.... Well! What are you waiting for now?”
The maid-servant turned round like a serpent whose tail has been
trodden on:
“The tutor’s downstairs; he wanted to come up. He says he won’t go till
he’s been paid.”
Madame Vedel’s features assumed an air of tragic boredom:
“How many times must I repeat that I have nothing to do with settling
accounts. Tell him to go to Miss Rachel. Go along.... Not a moment’s
peace! What can Rachel be thinking of?”
“Aren’t we going to wait tea for her?”
“She never takes tea.... Oh! the beginning of term is a troublesome
time for us. The tutors who apply ask exorbitant fees, or when their
fees are possible, they themselves aren’t. Papa was not at all pleased
with the last; he was a great deal too weak with him; and now he comes
threatening. You heard what the maid said. All these people think of
nothing but money.... As if there were nothing more important than that
in the world.... In the mean time we don’t know how to replace him.
Prosper always thinks one has nothing to do but to pray to God for
everything to go right....”
The maid came back with the sugar.
“Have you told Mr. Armand?”
“Yes, Ma’am; he’s coming directly.”
“And Sarah?” I asked.
“She won’t be back for another two days. She’s staying with friends in
England; with the parents of the girl you saw here before the holidays.
They have been very kind, and I’m glad that Sarah was able to.... And
Laura. I thought she was looking much better. The stay in Switzerland
coming after the South has done her a great deal of good, and it was
very kind of you to persuade her to it. It’s only poor Armand who
hasn’t left Paris all the holidays.”
“And Rachel?”
“Yes, of course; Rachel too. She had a great many invitations, but she
preferred to stop in Paris. And then Grandfather needed her. Besides
one doesn’t always do what one wants in this life--as I am obliged to
repeat to the children now and then. One must think of other people.
Do you suppose I shouldn’t have enjoyed going away for a change to
Switzerland too? And Prosper? When he travels, do you suppose it’s for
his pleasure?... Armand, you know I don’t like you to come in here
without a collar on,” she added, as she saw her son enter the room.
“My dear mother, you religiously taught me to attach no importance
to my personal appearance,” said he, offering me his hand; “and with
eminent _à propos_ too, as the wash doesn’t come home till Tuesday
and all the rest of my collars are in rags.”
I remembered what Olivier had told me about his schoolfellow, and it
seemed to me that he was right and that an expression of profound
anxiety lay hidden beneath the spiteful irony he affected. Armand’s
face had fined down; his nose was pinched; it curved hawk-like over
lips which had grown thin and colourless. He went on:
“Have you informed your noble visitor that we have made several
additions to our usual company of performers and engaged a few
sensational stars for the opening of the winter season? The son of
a distinguished senator and the Vicomte de Passavant, brother to
the illustrious writer--without counting two recruits whom you know
already, but who are all the more honourable on that account--Prince
Boris and the Marquis de Profitendieu--besides some others whose titles
and virtues remain to be discovered.”
“You see he hasn’t changed,” said the poor mother, smiling at these
witticisms.
I was so terribly afraid that he would begin to talk about Laura that
I cut short my visit and went downstairs as fast as I could to find
Rachel.
She had turned up her sleeves to help in the arrangement of the
class-room; but she hastily pulled them down again as she saw me come
up.
“It is extremely painful to me to have recourse to you,” she began,
drawing me into a small room adjoining, which is used for private
lessons. “I meant to apply to Felix Douviers--he asked me to; but now
that I have seen Laura, I understand it’s impossible....”
She was very pale, and as she said these last words, her chin and lips
quivered so convulsively that for some moments she was unable to speak.
I looked away from her, in the fear of adding to her discomfort. She
had shut the door and was leaning against it. I tried to take her hand,
but she tore it away from between mine. At last she went on again in a
voice that seemed strangled by the immensity of her effort:
“Can you lend me ten thousand francs? The term promises to be fairly
good and I hope to be able to pay you back soon.”
“When do you want it?”
She made no answer.
“I happen to have a little over a thousand francs on me,” I went on. “I
can complete the sum to-morrow morning--this evening, if necessary.”
“No; to-morrow will do. But if you can let me have a thousand francs at
once without inconvenience....”
I took out my pocket-book and handed them to her.
“Would you like fourteen hundred?”
She lowered her head and uttered a “yes” so faint that I could hardly
hear it, then she tottered to a school bench, dropped down on it, and
with her elbows leaning on the desk in front of her, stayed for a few
moments, her face hidden in her hands. I thought she was crying, but
when I put my hand on her shoulder, she raised her head and I saw that
her eyes were dry.
“Rachel,” I said, “don’t mind having had to ask me this; I am glad to
be able to oblige you.”
She looked at me gravely:
“What is painful to me is to have to ask you not to mention it either
to Grandfather or to Mamma. Since they gave the accounts of the school
over to me, I have let them think that ... well, they don’t know. Don’t
say anything, I beg you. Grandfather is old and Mamma takes so much
trouble.”
“Rachel, it’s not your mother who takes trouble.... It’s you.”
“She _has_ taken trouble. She’s tired now. It’s my turn. I have
nothing else to do.”
It was quite simply that she said these simple words. I felt no
bitterness in her resignation--on the contrary, a kind of serenity.
“But don’t imagine that things are worse than they are. It’s just
a difficult moment to tide over, because some of the creditors are
getting impatient.”
“I heard the maid just now mention a tutor who was asking to be paid.”
“Yes; he came and had a very painful scene with Grandfather, which
unfortunately I was unable to prevent. He’s a brutal, vulgar man. I
must go and pay him.”
“Would you like me to do it for you?”
She hesitated a moment, trying in vain to force a smile.
“Thank you. No; I had better do it myself.... But come with me, will
you? I’m rather frightened of him. If he sees you, he won’t dare say
anything.”
The school courtyard is separated from the garden by two or three steps
and a balustrade, against which the tutor was leaning with his elbows
thrust behind him. He had on an enormous soft felt hat and was smoking
a pipe. While Rachel was engaging him, Armand came up to me.
“Rachel has been bleeding you,” he said cynically. “You have come in
the nick of time to save her from a horrid anxiety. It’s Alexander--my
beast of a brother, who has been getting into debt again in the
colonies. She wants to hide it from my parents. She has already given
up half her ‘dot’ to make Laura’s a little larger; but this time all
the rest of it has gone. She didn’t tell you anything about that, I
bet. Her modesty exasperates me. It’s one of the most sinister jokes in
this world below that every time anyone sacrifices himself for others,
one may be perfectly certain he is worth more than they.... Just look
at all she has done for Laura! And how she has rewarded her! The
slut!...”
“Armand!” I cried indignantly. “You have no right to judge your sister.”
But he continued in a jerky, hissing voice:
“On the contrary, it’s because I am no better than she that I am able
to judge her. I know all about it. Rachel doesn’t judge us. Rachel
never judges anyone.... Yes, the slut! the slut!... I didn’t beat
about the bush to tell her what I thought of her, I promise you. And
you! To have covered it all up, to have protected it! You who knew!...
Grandfather is as blind as a bat. Mamma tries all she can to understand
nothing. As for Papa, he trusts in the Lord; it’s the most convenient
thing to do. Whenever there’s a difficulty, he falls to praying and
leaves Rachel to get out of it. All he asks is to remain in the dark.
He rushes about like a lunatic; he’s hardly ever at home. I’m not
surprised he finds it stifling here. As for me, it’s smothering me to
death. He tries to stupefy himself, by Jove. In the mean time Mamma
writes verses. Oh! I’m not blaming her; I write them myself. But at any
rate, I know I’m nothing but a blackguard; and I’ve never pretended to
be anything else. But, I say, isn’t it disgusting--Grandfather setting
up to do the charitable by La Pérouse, because he’s in need of a
tutor?...” Then, suddenly: “What’s that beast there daring to say to my
sister? If he doesn’t take his hat off to her when he goes, I’ll black
his bloody eyes for him....”
He darted towards the Bohemian, and I thought for a moment he was going
to hit him. But at Armand’s approach, the man made a theatrical and
ironical flourish with his hat and disappeared under the archway. At
that moment the door into the street opened to let in the pastor. He
was dressed in a frock coat, chimney-pot hat and black gloves, like a
person on his way back from a christening or a wedding. The ex-tutor
and he exchanged a ceremonious bow.
Rachel and Armand came towards me; when Vedel joined them:
“It’s all arranged,” said Rachel to her father.
He kissed her on the forehead.
“Didn’t I tell you so, my child? God never abandons those who put their
trust in Him.”
Then, holding out his hand to me:
“Going already?... Well, we shall see you again one of these days,
shan’t we?”
III
EDOUARD’S JOURNAL: THIRD VISIT TO LA PÉROUSE
_Sept. 29th._--Visit to La Pérouse. The maid hesitated before
letting me in. “Monsieur won’t see anyone.” I insisted so much that at
last she showed me into the drawing-room. The shutters were shut; in
the semi-obscurity I could hardly make out my old master, as he sat
huddled up in a straight-backed arm-chair. He did not rise. He held out
a limp hand, without looking at me, and let it fall again as soon as
I had pressed it. I sat down beside him, so that I could see him only
in profile. His features were hard and unbending. By moments his lips
moved, but he said nothing. I actually doubted whether he recognized
me. The clock struck four; then, as though he too were moved by
clock-work, he slowly turned his head.
“Why,” he asked, and his voice was solemn and loud, but as toneless as
though it came from beyond the grave, “why did they let you in? I told
the maid to say if anyone came, that Monsieur de La Pérouse was dead.”
I was greatly distressed, not so much by these absurd words, as by
their tone--a declamatory tone, unspeakably affected, to which I was
unaccustomed in my old master--so natural with me, as a rule--so
confiding.
“The girl didn’t want to tell a falsehood,” I said at last. “Don’t
scold her for having let me in. I am happy to see you.”
He repeated stolidly: “Monsieur de La Pérouse is dead,” and then
plunged back into silence. I had a moment’s ill temper and got up,
meaning to leave, and put off till another day the task of finding a
clue to this melancholy piece of acting. But at that moment the maid
came back; she was carrying a cup of smoking chocolate:
“Make a little effort, sir; you haven’t tasted anything all day.”
La Pérouse made an impatient gesture, like an actor whose effect has
been spoilt by a clumsy super.
“Later. When the gentleman has gone.”
But the maid had no sooner shut the door, when:
“Be kind, my dear friend. Get me a glass of water--plain water. I’m
dying of thirst.”
I found a water bottle and a glass in the dining-room. He filled the
glass, emptied it at a draught and wiped his lips on the sleeve of his
old alpaca coat.
“Are you feverish?” I asked.
The words brought him back to the remembrance of the part he was
playing.
“Monsieur de La Pérouse is not feverish. He is not anything. On
Wednesday evening Monsieur de La Pérouse ceased to live.” I wondered
whether it would not be best to humour him.
“Wasn’t Wednesday the very day little Boris came to see you?”
He turned his head towards me; a smile, the ghost of the one he used to
have at Boris’s name, lighted up his features, and at last consenting
to abandon his rôle:
“My friend,” he said, “I can at any rate talk to you about it. That
Wednesday was the last day I had left.” Then he went on in a lower
voice: “The very last day, in fact, which I had allowed myself before
... putting an end to everything.”
It was with extreme pain that I heard La Pérouse revert to this
sinister topic. I realized that I had never taken seriously what he had
said about it before, for I had allowed it to slip from my memory; and
now I reproached myself. Now I remembered everything clearly, but I was
astonished, for he had at first mentioned a more distant date, and as I
reminded him of this, he confessed, in a voice that had become natural
again, and even a little ironical, that he had deceived me as to the
date, in the fear that I should try and prevent him, or hasten my
return from abroad; but that he had gone on his knees several nights
running to pray God to allow him to see Boris before dying.
“And I had even agreed with Him,” added he, “that if needs were, I
should delay my departure for a few days ... because of the assurance
you had given me that you would bring him back with you, do you
remember?”
I had taken his hand; it was icy and I chafed it between mine. He
continued in a monotonous voice:
“Then when I saw that you weren’t going to wait till the end of the
holidays before coming back, and that I should be able to see the boy
without putting off my departure, I thought ... it seemed to me that
God had heard my prayer. I thought that He approved me. Yes, I thought
that. I didn’t understand at first that He was laughing at me, as
usual.”
He took his hand from between mine and went on in a more animated voice:
“So it was on Wednesday evening that I had resolved to put an end to
myself; and it was on Wednesday afternoon that you brought me Boris.
I must admit that I did not feel the joy I had looked forward to on
seeing him. I thought it over afterwards. Evidently I had no right to
expect that the child would be glad to see me. His mother has never
talked to him about me.
He stopped; his lips trembled and I thought he was going to cry.
“Boris asks no better than to love you,” I ventured, “but give him time
to know you.”
“After the boy had left me,” went on La Pérouse, without having heard
me, “when I found myself alone again in the evening (for you know
that Madame de La Pérouse is no longer here), I said to myself: ‘The
moment has come! Now for it!’ You must know that my brother--the one I
lost--left me a pair of pistols, which I always keep beside me, in a
case, by my bedside. I went then to fetch the case. I sat down in an
arm-chair; there, just as I am now. I loaded one of the pistols....”
He turned towards me and abruptly, brutally, repeated, as if I had
doubted his word:
“Yes, I did load it. You can see for yourself. It still is loaded.
What happened? I can’t succeed in understanding. I put the pistol to
my forehead. I held it for a long time against my temple. And I didn’t
fire. I couldn’t.... At the last moment--it’s shameful ... I hadn’t the
courage to fire.”
He had grown animated while speaking. His eye was livelier and his
cheeks faintly flushed. He looked at me, nodding his head.
“How do you explain that? A thing I had resolved on; a thing I hadn’t
ceased thinking of for months.... Perhaps that’s the very reason.
Perhaps I had exhausted all my courage in thought beforehand.”
“As before Boris’s arrival, you had exhausted the joy of seeing him,”
said I; but he continued:
“I stayed a long time with the pistol to my temple. My finger was
on the trigger. I pressed it a little; but not hard enough. I said
to myself: ‘In another moment I shall press harder and it will go
off.’ I felt the cold of the metal and I said to myself: ‘In another
moment I shall not feel anything. But before that I shall hear a
terrible noise.’... Just think! So near to one’s ear!... That’s the
chief thing that prevented me--the fear of the noise.... It’s absurd,
for as soon as one’s dead.... Yes, but I hope for death as a sleep;
and a detonation doesn’t send one to sleep--it wakes one up.... Yes;
certainly that was what I was afraid of. I was afraid that instead of
going to sleep I should suddenly wake up.”
He seemed to be collecting himself, and for some moments his lips again
moved without making a sound.
“I only said all that to myself,” he went on, “afterwards. In reality,
the reason I didn’t kill myself is that I wasn’t free. I say now that
I was afraid; but no; it wasn’t that. Something completely foreign to
my will held me back. As if God didn’t want to let me go. Imagine a
marionette who should want to leave the stage before the end of the
play.... Halt! You’re wanted for the _finale_. Ah! Ah! you thought
you would be able to go off whenever you liked!... I understood that
what we call our will is merely the threads which work the marionette,
and which God pulls. Don’t you see? Well, I’ll explain. For instance,
I say to myself: ‘Now I’m going to raise my right arm’; and I raise
it.” (And he did raise it.) “But it’s because the string had already
been pulled which made me think and say: ‘I’m going to raise my right
arm.’... And the proof that I’m not free is that if it had been my left
arm that I had had to raise, I should have said to you: ‘Now I’m going
to raise my left arm.’... No; I see you don’t understand.... You are
not free to understand.... Oh! I realize now that God is playing with
us. It amuses him to let us think that what he makes us do is what
we wanted to do. That’s his horrible game.... Do you think I’m going
mad? A propos--Madame de La Pérouse ... you know she has gone into a
home?... Well, what do you think? She is convinced that it’s a lunatic
asylum and that I have had her shut up to get rid of her--that I am
passing her off for mad.... You must grant that it’s rather a curious
thing that the first passer-by in the street would understand one
better than the woman one has given one’s life to.... At first I went
to see her every day. But as soon as she caught sight of me, she used
to call out: ‘Ah! there you are again! come to spy on me!...’ I had to
give up my visits, as they only irritated her. How can you expect one
to care about life, when one’s of no good to anyone?”
His voice was stifled by sobs. He dropped his head and I thought he was
going to relapse again into his dejection. But with a sudden start:
“Do you know what she did before she left? She broke open my drawer
and burnt all my late brother’s letters. She has always been jealous
of my brother; especially since he died. She used to make scenes when
she found me reading his letters at night. She used to cry out: ‘Ah!
you wanted me to go to bed! You do things on the sly!’ Or else: ‘You
had far better go to bed and sleep. You’re tiring your eyes.’ One would
have said she was full of attentions; but I know her; it was jealousy.
She didn’t want to leave me alone with him.”
“Because she loved you. There’s no jealousy without love.”
“Well, you must allow it’s a melancholy business when love, instead of
making the happiness of life, becomes its calamity.... That’s no doubt
the way God loves us.”
He had become excited while he was speaking and all of a sudden he
exclaimed:
“I’m hungry. When I want to eat, that servant always brings me
chocolate. I suppose Madame de La Pérouse must have told her that I
never took anything else. It would be very kind of you to go to the
kitchen ... the second door on the right in the passage ... and see
whether there aren’t any eggs. I think she told me there were some....”
“Would you like her to get you a poached egg?”
“I think I could eat two. Will you be so kind? I can’t make myself
understood.”