A GRAVEYARD IN PARIS.
Paris, in the middle of August.
At about five in the afternoon, an old gentleman in a greenish-black
overcoat that flutters about his thickset figure almost like a soutane,
trousers that are too short, low shoes with steel buckles, and an
old-fashioned high hat beneath which can be seen a rusty brown wig,
issues from a quiet hotel much frequented by strangers of rank.
His features are marked and strong. His brown skin reminds one of
walnut-shells or crumpled parchment. Beneath his bushy eyebrows his
prominent eyes glance suspiciously about him. It would be difficult to
guess at this man's social position from his exterior. To the
superficial observer he might suggest the peasant class. The ease,
however, with which he bears himself among the fashionably-dressed men
in the street, the despotic abruptness of his manner, the irritability
with which he disputes some petty item in his hotel bill, while he is
not at all dismayed by the large sum total, give the kellner, who
stands in the door-way looking after him, occasion for reflection.
"He's another of those miserly old aristocrats who suppress their title
for fear of being plundered," he decides, with a shrug, as he turns
back into the hotel, stopping on his way to inform the _concierge_
that, in his opinion, the old man is some half-barbaric Russian prince
who has come to Europe to have a look at civilization.
The name in the strangers' book is simply Franz Leskjewitsch.
Meanwhile, the stranger has walked on through the Rue de Rivoli to the
corner of the Rue Castiglione, where he pauses, beckons to a fiacre,
and, as he puts his foot heavily and awkwardly upon its step, calls to
the driver, "_Cimetiere Montmartre!_"
The vehicle starts. The old man's eyes peer about sharply from the
window. How changed it all is since he was last in this Babylon,
twenty-two years ago, while the Imperial court was in its splendour,
and Fritz was still alive!
"Yes, yes, it is all different,--radically different," he murmurs,
angrily. "The noise is the same, but the splendour has vanished. Paris
without the Empire is like Baden-Baden without the gaming-tables. Ah,
how fine it was twenty-two years ago, when Fritz was living!"
Yes, he was not only living, but until then he had never been anything
but a source of pleasure to his father; the same Fritz who had
afterwards so embittered life for him that the same father had stricken
him from his heart and had refused him even a place in his memory. But
it is dangerous to try to rid ourselves of the remembrance of one whom
we have once loved idolatrously. We may, for fear of succumbing to the
old affection, close our hearts and lock them fast against all feeling
of any kind. But if they do not actually die in our breasts, there
will, sooner or later, come a day when memory will reach them in spite
of our locks, and will demand for the dead that tribute of tears which
we have refused to grant.
There are few things more ghastly in life than tears shed for the dead
twenty years too late.
"Yes, a frivolous fellow, Fritz was,--frivolous and obstinate," the old
man says to himself, staring at the brilliant shop-windows in the Rue
de la Paix and at the gilded youths sauntering past them; "but when was
there ever a man his equal? What a handsome, elegant, charming fellow,
bubbling over with merriment and good humour and chivalric generosity!
And the fellow insisted on marrying a shop-girl!" he mutters, between
his teeth. The thought even now throws him into a fury. He had been so
proud of the lad, and then--in one moment it was all over; no future to
look to, the young diplomat's career cut short, the family pride
levelled in the dust.
The old rage had well-nigh filled his soul, when a lovely, pallid face
rises upon his memory. Could Manette Duval have really been as charming
as that golden-haired girl he had met awhile ago in the woods? The
little witch looked as like Fritz as a delicate girl can look like a
bearded man, and she had, withal, a foreign grace, the like of which
had never hitherto characterized any Leskjewitsch child, and which
might perhaps be an inheritance from her Parisian mother.
And suddenly the father's conscience, silenced through all these long
years, asserts itself. Yes, the marriage had been a folly, and Fritz
had ruined his career by it. But suppose Fritz had, through his own
fault, broken both his arms, or put out his eyes, or done anything else
that would have destroyed his future, would it have been for his father
to turn from him, reproaching him angrily for his folly, saying, "You
have annihilated your happiness by your own fault; you have blasted the
hopes I had for you; henceforth be as wretched as you deserve to be; I
will have none of you, since I can no longer be proud of you!"
The old man bites his lip and hangs his head.
The carriage rolls on. The weather is excessively warm. In front of the
shabby cafes on the Boulevard Clichy some people are sitting, brown and
languid. Behind the dusty windows of the shops the shop-girls stand
gazing drearily out upon their weary world, as if longing for somewhat
of which they have read or dreamed,--something fresh and green; long
shadows upon moist, fragrant lawns; gurgling brooks mirroring the sun.
An emotion of compassion stirs in the old man's breast at sight of
these "prisoners," and if one by chance seems to him prettier, paler,
sadder than the rest, he asks himself, "Did she perhaps look so? No
wonder Fritz pitied the poor creature! he had such a warm, tender
heart!"
The fiacre stops; the old man rubs his eyes. "How much?" he asks the
driver.
The man scans his fare from head to foot with a knowing glance:
"Five francs."
Baron Leskjewitsch takes four francs from the left pocket of his
waistcoat, and from the right pocket of his trousers, where he keeps
his small change, one sou, as a gratuity. These he gives to the driver,
and sternly dismisses him. The man drives off with a grin.
"The old miser thinks he has made a good bargain," he mutters.
The 'miser' meanwhile paces slowly along the broad, straight path of
the cemetery, between the tall chestnuts planted on either side.
How dreary, how desolate a church-yard this is, upon which the
noise and bustle of the swarming city outside its gates clamorously
intrude!--a church-yard where the dead are thrust away as troublesome
rubbish, only to put them where they can be forgotten. It is all so
bare and prosaic; the flat stones lie upon the graves as if there was a
fear lest, if not held down in such brutal fashion, the wretched dead
would rise and return to a world where there is no longer any place for
them, and where interests hold sway in which they have no part. Urns
and other pagan decorations are abundant; there are but few crosses.
The tops of the chestnut-trees are growing yellow, and here and there a
pale leaf falls upon the baked earth.
A gardener with a harshly-creaking rake is rooting out the sprouting
grass from the paths; some gossiping women are seated upon the stone
seats, brown, ugly, in starched and crimped white muslin caps, the gaps
made by missing teeth in their jaws repulsively apparent as they
chatter. A labouring man passes with a nosegay half concealed in the
breast of his coat, and in his whole bearing that dull shamefacedness
which would fain bar all sympathy, and which is characteristic of
masculine grief. The old Baron looks about him restlessly, and finally
goes up to the raking gardener and addresses him, asking for the
superintendent of the place. After much circumlocution, gesticulation,
and shouting on both sides, the two at last understand each other.
"_Monsieur cherche une tombe, la tombe d'un etranger decede a Paris?_
When? Fifteen years ago. That is a very long time. And no one has ever
asked after the grave before? Had the dead man no relatives, then? Ah,
such a forgotten grave is very sad; it will be difficult to identify
it. Maybe--who knows?--some other bodies have been buried there. Here
is the guard."
"For what is Monsieur looking?"
"A grave."
"The name?"
"Baron Frederic Leskjewitsch." The old man's voice trembles: perhaps it
is too late; perhaps he has again delayed too long.
But no: the guard's face immediately takes on an intelligent
expression.
"_Tres bien, monsieur; par id, monsieur_. I know the grave well. Some
one from the Austrian embassy comes every year to look after it on the
part of the relatives, and this year, not long ago,--oh, only a short
time ago,--two ladies came and brought flowers; an elderly lady, and
one quite young--oh, but very lovely, monsieur. _Par ici, par ici_."
Following the attendant, the old man turns aside from the broad,
principal path into a labyrinth of narrow foot-ways winding irregularly
in and out among the graves. Here the church-yard loses its formal
aspect and becomes pathetic. All kinds of shrubbery overgrow the
graves. Some flowers--crimson carnations, pale purple gillyflowers, and
yellow asters--are blooming at the feet of strangely-gnarled old
juniper-trees. The old man's breath comes short, a sort of greed
possesses him, a wild burning longing for the bit of earth where lies
buried the joy of his life.
The labouring man with hanging head has reached his goal the first. He
is already kneeling beside a grave,--tiny little grave, hardly three
feet long, and as yet unprovided with a stone. The man passes his hard
hand over the rough earth tenderly, gently, as if he were touching
something living. Then he cowers down as if he would fain creep into it
himself, and lays his head beside the poor little nosegay on the fresh
soil.
"_Par ici_, monsieur,--here is the grave," calls the attendant.
The old Baron shivers from head to foot.
"Where?"
"Here."
A narrow headstone at the end of another stone lying flat upon the
ground and enclosed by an iron palisade fence,--this is all--all! A
terrible despair takes possession of the father. He envies the
labourer, who can at least stroke the earth that covers his treasure,
while he cannot even throw himself upon the grave from which a rusty
iron grating separates him.
Nothing which he can press to his heart,--nothing in which he can take
a melancholy delight. All gone,--all! A cold tombstone enclosed in a
rusty iron grating,--nothing more--nothing!