vegetation, and there in a corner was the plot I had tended as a child.
A shudder came over me as I entered the study, which still contained the
little library of choice books, familiar friends of him who was no more,
and where upon his desk lay antique relics, vases and Roman medals found
in the garden,--a local collection, the source of much pleasure to him.
"Let us go to see the parrot," I said to the farmer. The parrot
clamoured for his breakfast, as in his best days, and gave me a knowing
look from his round eye peering out from the wrinkled skin, like the
wise glances of the old.
Full of sad thoughts awakened by my return to this cherished spot, I
felt that I must again see Sylvie, the only living tie which bound me to
that region, and once more I took the road to Loisy. It was the middle
of the day, and I found them all asleep, worn out by the night of
merry-making. It occurred to me that it might divert my thoughts to
stroll to Hermenonville, a league distant, by the forest road. It was
fine summer weather, and on setting out I was delighted by the freshness
and verdure of the path which seemed like the avenue of a park. The
green branches of the great oaks were relieved by the white trunks and
rustling leaves of the birches. The birds were silent, and I heard no
sound but the woodpecker tapping the trees to find a hollow for her
nest. At one time I was in danger of losing my way, the characters being
wholly effaced on the guide-posts which served to distinguish the roads.
Passing the Desert on the left, I came to the dancing-ring where I found
the benches of the old men still in place. All the associations of
ancient philosophy, revived by the former owner of the demesne, crowded
upon me, at the sight of this picturesque realisation of "Anacharsis"
and "Emile."
When I caught sight of the waters of the lake sparkling through the
branches of willows and hazels, I recognised a spot which I had often
visited with my uncle. Here stands to this day, sheltered by a group of
pines, the Temple of Philosophy which its founder had not the good
fortune to complete. It is built in the form of the temple of the
Tiburtine Sibyl, and displays with pride the names of all the great
thinkers from Montaigne and Descartes to Rousseau. This unfinished
structure is now but a ruin around which the ivy twines its graceful
tendrils, while brambles force their way between its disjointed steps.
When but a child, I witnessed the celebrations here, where young girls,
dressed in white, came to receive prizes for scholarship and good
conduct. Where are the roses that girdled the hillside? Hidden by brier
and eglantine, they are fast losing all traces of cultivation. As for
the laurels, have they been cut down, according to the old song of the
maidens who no longer care to roam the forest? No! these shrubs from
sweet Italy have withered beneath our unfriendly skies. Happily, the
privet of Virgil still thrives as if to emphasize the words of the
Master, inscribed above the door, _Rerum cognoscere causas._ Yes! like
so many others, this temple crumbles, and man, weary or thoughtless,
passes it by, while indifferent nature reclaims the soil for which art
contended, but the thirst for knowledge is eternal, the mainspring of
all power and activity.
Here are the poplars of the island and the empty tomb of Rousseau. O
Sage! thou gavest us the milk of the strong and we were too weak to
receive it! We have forgotten thy lessons which our fathers knew, and we
have lost the meaning of thy words, the last faint echoes of ancient
wisdom! Still, let us not despair, and like thee, in thy last moments,
let us turn our eyes to the sun!
I revisited the castle, the quiet waters about it, the cascade which
complains among the rocks, the causeway that unites the two parts of
the village with the four dove-cotes that mark the corners, and the
green that stretches beyond like a prairie, above which rise wooded
slopes; the tower of Gabrielle is reflected from afar in the waters of
an artificial lake studded with ephemeral blossoms; the scum is
seething, the insects hum. It is best to escape the noxious vapours and
seek the rocks and sand of the desert and the waste lands where the pink
heath blooms beside green ferns. How sad and lonely it all seems! In
by-gone days, Sylvie's enchanting smile, her merry pranks and glad cries
enlivened every spot! She was then a wild little creature with bare feet
and sun-burned skin, in spite of the straw hat whose long strings
floated loosely amid her dark locks. We used to go to the Swiss farm to
drink milk, and they said: "How pretty your sweetheart is, little
Parisian!" Ah! no peasant lad could have danced with her in those days!
She would have none but me for her partner, at the yearly Feast of the
Bow.
X.
BIG CURLY-HEAD
I went back to Loisy and they were all awake. Sylvie was dressed like a
young lady, almost in the fashion of the city. She led me up to her room
with all her old simplicity. Her bright eyes smiled as charmingly as
ever, but the decided arch of her brows made her at times look serious.
The room was simply decorated, but the furniture was modern: a mirror in
a gilt frame had replaced the old-fashioned looking-glass where an
idyllic shepherd was depicted offering a nest to a blue and pink
shepherdess; the four-post bed, modestly hung with flowered chintz, was
succeeded by a little walnut couch with net curtains; canaries occupied
the cage at the window where once there were linnets. I was impatient to
leave this room, where nothing spoke to me of the past. "Shall you make
lace to-day?" I asked Sylvie. "Oh, I do not make lace now; there is no
demand for it here, and even at Chantilly the factory is closed." "What
is your work then?" She brought forward, from the corner of the room, an
iron tool which resembled a long pair of pincers.
"What is that?"
"It is called the machine and is used to hold the leather in place while
the gloves are sewed."
"Then you are a glove-maker, Sylvie?"
"Yes, we work here for Dammartin; it pays well now, but I shall not work
to-day; let us go wherever you like." I glanced towards Othys, but she
shook her head, and I understood that the old aunt was no more. Sylvie
called a little boy and bade him saddle an ass. "I am still tired from
yesterday," she said, "but the ride will do me good; let us go to
Chaâlis."
We set out through the forest, followed by the boy armed with a branch.
Sylvie soon wished to stop, and I kissed her as I led her to a seat. Our
conversation could no longer be very intimate. I had to talk of my life
in Paris, my travels.... "How can anyone go so far?" she demanded. "It
seems strange to me, when I look at you."
"Oh! of course,"
"Well, admit that you were not so pretty in the old days."
"I cannot tell."
"Do you remember when we were children and you the tallest?"
"And you the wisest?"
"Oh! Sylvie!"
"They put us on an ass, one in each pannier."
"And we said thee and thou to each other? Do you remember how you taught
me to catch crawfish under the bridges over the Nonette and the Thève?"
"Do you remember your foster-brother who pulled you out of the water one
day?"
"Big Curly-head? It was he who told me to go in."
I made haste to change the subject, because this recollection had
brought vividly to mind the time when I used to go into the country,
wearing a little English coat which made the peasants laugh. Sylvie was
the only one who liked it, but I did not venture to remind her of such a
juvenile opinion. For some reason, my mind turned to the old aunt's
wedding clothes in which we had arrayed ourselves, and I asked what had
become of them.
"Oh! poor aunt," cried Sylvie; "she lent me her gown to wear to the
carnival at Dammartin, two years ago, and the next year she died, dear,
old aunt!" She sighed and the tears came, so I could not inquire how it
chanced that she went to a masquerade, but I perceived that, thanks to
her skill, Sylvie was no longer a peasant girl. Her parents had not
risen above their former station, and she lived with them, scattering
plenty around her like an industrious fairy.
XI.
RETURN.
The outlook widened when we left the forest and we found ourselves near
the lake of Chaâlis. The galleries of the cloister, the chapel with its
pointed arches, the feudal tower and the little castle which had
sheltered the loves of Henry IV. and Gabrielle, were bathed in the
crimson glow of evening against the dark background of the forest.
"Like one of Walter Scott's landscapes, is it not?" said Sylvie. "And
who has told you of Walter Scott?" I inquired. "You must have read much
in the past three years! As for me, I try to forget books, and what
delights me, is to revisit with you this old abbey where, as little
children, we played hide and seek among the ruins. Do you remember,
Sylvie, how afraid you were when the keeper told us the story of the Red
Monks?"
"Oh, do not speak of it!"
"Well then, sing me the song of the fair maid under the white
rose-bush, who was stolen from her father's garden."
"Nobody sings that now."
"Is it possible that you have become a musician?"
"Perhaps."
"Sylvie, Sylvie, I am positive that you sing airs from operas!"
"Why should you complain?"
"Because I loved the old songs and you have forgotten them."
Sylvie warbled a few notes of a grand air from a modern opera.... She
_phrased!_
We turned away from the lakeside and approached the green bordered with
lime-trees and elms, where we had so often danced. I had the conceit to
describe the old Carlovingian walls and to decipher the armorial
bearings of the House of Este.
"And you! How much more you have read than I, and how learned you have
become!" said Sylvie. I was vexed by her tone of reproach, as I had all
the way been seeking a favourable opportunity to resume the tender
confidences of the morning, but what could I say, accompanied by a
donkey and a very wide-awake lad who pressed nearer and nearer for the
pleasure of hearing a Parisian talk? Then I displayed my lack of tact,
by relating the vision of Chaâlis which I recalled so vividly. I led
Sylvie into the very hall of the castle where I had heard Adrienne sing.
"Oh, let me hear you!" I besought her; "let your loved voice ring out
beneath these arches and put to flight the spirit that torments me, be
it angel or demon!" She repeated the words and sang after me:
"_Anges, descendez promptement_
_au fond du purgatoire...._"
Angels descend without delay
To dread abyss of purgatory.
"It is very sad!" she cried.
"It is sublime! An air from Porpora, I think, with words translated in
the present century."
"I do not know," she replied.
We came home through the valley, following the Charlepont road which the
peasants, without regard to etymology, persistently called Châllepont.
The way was deserted, and Sylvie, weary of riding, leaned upon my arm,
while I tried to speak of what was in my heart, but, I know not why,
could find only trivial words or stilted phrases from some romance that
Sylvie might have read. I stopped suddenly then, in true classic style,
and she was occasionally amazed by these disjointed rhapsodies. Having
reached the walls of Saint S---- we had to look well to our steps, on
account of the numerous stream-lets winding through the damp marshes.
"What has become of the nun?" I asked suddenly.
"You give me no peace with your nun! Ah, well! it is a sad story!" Not a
word more would Sylvie say.
Do women really feel that certain words come from the lips rather than
the heart? It does not seem probable, to see how readily they are
deceived, and what an inexplicable choice they usually make--there are
men who play the comedy of love so well! I never could accustom myself
to it, although I know some women lend themselves wittingly to the
deception. A love that dates from childhood is, however, sacred, and
Sylvie, whom I had seen grow up, was like a sister to me; I could not
betray her. Suddenly, a new thought came to me. "At this very hour, I
might be at the theatre. What is Aurélie (that was the name of the
actress) playing to-night? No doubt the part of the Princess in the new
play. How touching she is in the third act! And in the love scene of the
second with that wrinkled actor who plays the lover!"
"Lost in thought?" said Sylvie; and she began to sing:
_"A Dammartin l'y a trots belles filles:_
_L'y en a z'une plus belle que le jour...."_
_At Dammartin there are three fair maids,_
_And one of them is fairer than day._
"Little tease!" I cried, "you know you remember the old songs."
"If you would come here oftener, I would try to remember more of them,"
she said; "but we must think of realities; you have your affairs at
Paris, I have my work here; let us go in early, for I must rise with the
sun to-morrow."
XII.
FATHER DODU.
I was about to reply, to fall at her feet and offer her my uncle's house
which I could purchase, as the little estate had not been apportioned
among the numerous heirs, but just then we reached Loisy, where supper
awaited us and the onion-soup was diffusing its patriarchal odour.
Neighbours had been invited to celebrate the day after the feast, and I
recognised at a glance Father Dodu, an old wood-cutter who used to amuse
or frighten us, in the evenings by his stories. Shepherd, carrier,
gamekeeper, fisherman and even poacher, by turns, Father Dodu made
clocks and turnspits in his leisure moments. For a long time he acted as
guide to the English tourists at Hermenonville, and while he recounted
the last moments of the philosopher, would lead them to Rousseau's
favourite spots for meditation. He was the little boy employed to
classify the herbs and gather the hemlock twigs from which the sage
pressed the juice into his cup of coffee. The landlord of the Golden
Cross contested this point and a lasting feud resulted. Father Dodu had
once borne the reproach of possessing some very innocent secrets, such
as how to cure cows by saying a rhyme backwards and making the sign of
the cross with the left foot, but he had renounced these
superstitions--thanks, he declared, to his conversations with Jean
Jacques.
"That you, little Parisian?" said Father Dodu; "have you come to carry
off our pretty girls?"
"I, Father Dodu?"
"You take them into the woods when the wolf is away!"
"Father Dodu, you are the wolf."
"I was as long as I could find sheep, but at present I meet only goats,
and they know how to take care of themselves! As for you, why, you are
all rascals in Paris. Jean Jacques was right when he said, 'Man grows
corrupt in the poisonous air of cities.'"
"Father Dodu, you know very well that men become corrupt everywhere."
"Father Dodu began to roar out a drinking song, and it was impossible to
stop him at a questionable couplet that everyone knew by heart. Sylvie
would not sing, in spite of our entreaties, on the plea that it was no
longer customary to sing at table. I bad already noticed the lover of
the ball, seated at her left, and his round face and tumbled hair seemed
familiar. He rose and stood behind me, saying, "Have you forgotten me,
Parisian?" A good woman who came back to dessert after serving us,
whispered in my ear: "Do you not recognize your foster-brother?" Without
this warning, I should have made myself ridiculous. "Ah, it is _Big
Curly-head_!" I cried; "the very same who pulled me out of the water."
Sylvie burst out laughing at the recollection.
"Without considering," said the youth em-bracing me, "that you had a
fine silver watch and on the way home you were more concerned about it
than yourself, because it had stopped. You said, 'the _creature is
drowned_ does not go tick-tack; what will Uncle say?'" "A watch is a
creature," said Father Dodu; "that is what they tell children in Paris!"
Sylvie was sleepy, and I fancied there was no hope for me. She went
upstairs, and as I kissed her, said: "Come again to-morrow." Father Dodu
remained at table with Sylvain and my foster-brother, and we talked a
long time over a bottle of Louvres ratafia.
"All men are equal," said Father Dodu between glasses; "I drink with a
pastry-cook as readily as with a prince."
"Where is the pastry-cook?" I asked.
"By your side! There you see a young man who is ambitious to get on in
life."
My foster-brother appeared embarrassed and I understood the situation.
Fate had reserved for me a foster-brother in the very country made
famous by Rousseau, who opposed putting children out to nurse! I learned
from Father Dodu that there was much talk of a marriage between Sylvie
and Big Curly-head, who wished to open a pastry-shop at Dammartin. I
asked no more. Next morning the coach from Nanteuil-le-Haudouin took me
back to Paris.
XIII
AURÉLIE.
To Paris, a journey of five hours! I was impatient for evening, and
eight o'clock found me in my accustomed seat Aurélie infused her own
spirit and grace into the lines of the play, the work of a contemporary
author evidently inspired by Schiller. In the garden scene she was
sublime. During the fourth act, when she did not appear, I went out to
purchase a bouquet of Madame Prevost, slipping into it a tender effusion
signed _An Unknown_, "There," thought I, "is something definite for the
future," but on the morrow I was on my way to Germany.
Why did I go there? In the hope of com-posing my disordered fancy. If I
were to write a book, I could never gain credence for the story of a
heart torn by these two conflicting loves. I had lost Sylvie through my
own fault, but to see her for a day, sufficed to restore my soul. A
glance from her had arrested me on the verge of the abyss, and
henceforth I enshrined her as a smiling goddess in the Temple of Wisdom.
I felt more than ever reluctant to present myself before Aurélie among
the throng of vulgar suitors who shone in the light of her favour for an
instant only to fall blinded.
"Some day," said I, "we shall see whether this woman has a heart."
One morning I learned from a newspaper that Aurélie was ill, and I wrote
to her from the mountains of Salzburg, a letter so filled with German
mysticism that I could hardly hope for a reply, indeed I expected none.
I left it to chance or ... the _unknown._
Months passed, and in the leisure intervals of travel I undertook to
embody in poetic action the life-long devotion of the painter Colonna to
the fair Laura who was constrained by her relatives to take the veil.
Something in the subject lent itself to my habitual train of thought,
and as soon as the last verse of the drama was written, I hastened back
to France.
Can I avoid repeating in my own history, that of many others? I passed
through all the ordeals of the theatre. I "ate the drum and drank the
cymbal," according to the apparently meaningless phrase of the initiates
at Eleusis, which probably signifies that upon occasion we must stand
ready to pass the bounds of reason and absurdity; for me it meant to
win and possess my ideal.
Aurélie accepted the leading part in the play which I brought back from
Germany. I shall never forget the day she allowed me to read it to her.
The love scenes had been arranged expressly for her, and I am positive
that I rendered them with feeling. In the conversation that followed I
revealed myself as the "Unknown" of the two letters. She said: "You are
mad, but come again; I have never found anyone who knew how to love me."
Oh, woman! you seek for love ... but what of me?
In the days which followed I wrote probably the most eloquent and
touching letters that she ever received. Her answers were full of good
sense. Once she was moved, sent for me and confessed that it was hard
for her to break an attachment of long standing. "If you love me for
myself alone, then you will understand that I can belong to but one."
Two months later, I received an effusive letter which brought me to her
feet--in the meantime, someone volunteered an important piece of
information. The handsome young man whom I had met one night at the club
had just enlisted in the Turkish cavalry.
Races were held at Chantilly the next season, and the theatre troupe to
which Aurélie belonged gave a performance. Once in the country, the
company was for three days subject to the orders of the director. I had
made friends with this worthy man, formerly the Dorante of the comedies
of Marivaux and for a long time successful in lovers' parts. His latest
triumph was achieved in the play imitated from Schiller, when my
opera-glass had discovered all his wrinkles. He had fire, however, and
being thin, produced a good effect in the provinces. I accompanied the
troupe in the quality of poet, and persuaded the manager to give
performances at Senlis and Dammartin. He inclined to Compiègne at first,
but Aurélie was of my opinion. Next day, while arrangements with the
local authorities were in progress, I ordered horses and we set out on
the road to Commelle to breakfast at the castle of Queen Blanche.
Aurélie, on horseback, with her blonde hair floating in the wind, rode
through the forest like some queen of olden times, and the peasants were
dazzled by her appearance. Madame de _F_-----was the only woman they had
ever seen so imposing and so graceful. After breakfast we rode down to
the villages like Swiss hamlets where the waters of the Nonette turn the
busy saw-mills. These scenes, which my remembrance cherished, interested
Aurélie, but did not move her to delay. I had planned to conduct her to
the castle near Orry, where I had first seen Adrienne on the green. She
manifested no emotion. Then I told her all; I revealed the hidden spring
of that love which haunted my dreams by night and was realized in her.
She listened with attention and said: "You do not love me! You expect me
to say 'the actress and the nun are the same'; you are merely arranging
a drama and the issue of the plot is lacking. Go! I no longer believe in
you."
Her words were an illumination. The unnatural enthusiasm which had
possessed me for so long, my dreams, my tears, my despair and my
tenderness,--could they mean aught but love? What then is love?
Aurélie played that night at Senlis, and I thought she displayed a
weakness for the director, the wrinkled "young lover" of the stage. His
character was exemplary, and he had already shown her much kindness.
One day, Aurélie said to me: "There is the man who loves me!"
XIV.
THE LAST LEAF.
Such are the fancies that charm and beguile us in the morning of life! I
have tried to set them down here, in a disconnected fashion, but many
hearts will understand me. One by one our illusions fall like husks, and
the kernel thus laid bare is experience. Its taste is bitter, but it
yields an acrid flavour that invigorates,--to use an old-fashioned
simile. Rousseau says that the aspect of nature is a universal
consolation. Sometimes I seek again my groves of Clarens lost in the fog
to the north of Paris, but now, all is changed! Hermenonville, the spot
where the ancient idyl blossomed again, transplanted by Gessner, thy
star has set, the star that glowed for me with two-fold lustre. Blue and
rose by turns, like the changeful Aldebaran, it was formed by Adrienne
and Sylvie, the two halves of my love. One was the sublime ideal, the
other, the sweet reality. What are thy groves and lakes and thy desert
to me now? Othys, Montagny, Loiseaux, poor neighbouring hamlets, and
Chaâlis now to be restored, you guard for me no treasures of the past.
Occasionally, I feel a desire to return to those scenes of lonely
musing, where I sadly mark the fleeting traces of a period when
affectation invaded nature; sometimes I smile as I read upon the granite
rocks certain lines from Boucher, which I once thought sublime, or
virtuous maxims inscribed above a fountain or a grotto dedicated to Pan.
The swans disdain the stagnant waters of the little lakes excavated at
such an expense. The time is no more when the hunt of Condé swept by
with its proud riders, and the forest-echoes rang with answering horns!
There is to-day no direct route to Hermenonville, and sometimes I go by
Creil and Senlis, sometimes by Dammartin.