we enter the Petit-Nesle, this is what we shall see there. In the first
place, Colombe, in her chamber, dreaming like Ascanio. We beg leave to
pause here for the moment; all that we can say is, that, while Ascanio's
dreams were rose-colored, poor Colombe's were black as night. And then
here is Dame Perrine just setting out to market, and we must, if you
please, follow her for an instant.
For a long time--so at least it seems to us--we have lost sight of the
good dame; indeed, it must be said that courage was not her
predominating virtue, and amid the perilous encounters we have described
she had purposely kept herself out of sight. But when peace began to
bloom once more, the roses reappeared in her cheeks, and as Benvenuto
resumed his artistic labors she peaceably resumed her joyous humor, her
chattering, her gossip's inquisitiveness,--in a word, the practice of
all the excellent housewifely qualities.
Dame Perrine on her way to market was obliged to pass across the common
courtyard, for the new door for the Petit-Nesle was not yet made. Now it
happened, by the merest chance, that Ruperta, Benvenuto's old
maid-servant, was setting out at precisely the same moment to purchase
her master's dinner. These two estimable individuals were much too well
suited to each other to share the antipathies of their masters; so they
walked along together on the best possible terms, and, as talking
shortens the longest road by half, they talked.
Ruperta began by inquiring of Dame Perrine the price of various
articles, and the names of the dealers in the quarter: from that they
passed to more interesting subjects.
"Is your master such a terrible man?" queried Dame Perrine.
"Terrible! when you don't offend him he is as gentle as a Jesus; but,
dame! when one doesn't do as he wishes, I must say that he's not very
agreeable. He is fond, oh! very fond, of having his own way. That's his
mania; and when he once gets a thing in his head, all the five hundred
thousand devils in hell can't drive if out. But you can lead him like a
child by pretending to obey him, and it's very pleasant to hear him
talk. You should hear him say to me, 'Dame Ruperta,' (he calls me
Ruperta in his strange pronunciation, although my real name is Ruperte,
at your service,) 'Dame Ruperta, this is an excellent leg of mutton, and
done to a turn; Dame Ruperta, your beans are seasoned most triumphantly;
Dame Ruperta, I look upon you as the queen of governesses,'--and all
this so winningly that it touches one to the heart."
"_À la bonne heure!_ But he kills people, they say."
"Oh yes! when he's crossed, he kills very handily. It's a custom of his
country; but it's only when he's attacked, and then only in
self-defence. Otherwise he is very light-hearted and prepossessing."
"I haven't seen him myself. He has red hair, hasn't he?"
"No indeed! His hair is as black as yours and mine,--as mine was, that
is. All! you have never seen him? Well, just come in casually some time
to borrow something, and I'll show him to you. He's a handsome man, and
would make a superb archer."
"Apropos of handsome men, how is our comely youth to-day? The wounded
man, I mean, the attractive young apprentice who received such a
terrible wound in saving the provost's life."
"Ascanio? Pray do you know him?"
"Do I know him! He promised my young mistress Colombe and myself to show
us his jewels. Remind him of it, if you please, my dear madame. But all
this doesn't answer my question, and Colombe will be very glad to know
that her father's savior is out of danger."
"Oh! you can tell her that he is doing very well. He got up just now.
But the surgeon has forbidden his leaving his room, although I think a
breath of fresh air would do him a world of good. It's out of the
question, though, in this burning sun. Your Grand-Nesle garden is a
veritable desert. Not a shaded spot anywhere; no vegetation but nettles
and briers, and four or five leafless trees. It's enormous, but very
unpleasant to walk in. Our master consoles himself with tennis, but poor
Ascanio isn't well enough yet to hold a racket, and must be bored to
death. He's so active, the dear boy,--I speak of him in that way because
he's my favorite, and is always courteous to his ciders. He's not like
that bear of a Pagolo, or Catherine the giddy-pate."
"And you say that the poor fellow--"
"Must be eating his heart out with having to pass whole days on a couch
in his bedroom."
"Mon Dieu!" exclaimed kind-hearted Dame Perrine, "pray tell the poor boy
to come over to the Petit-Nesle, where there is such beautiful shade. I
will gladly admit him, although Messire le Prévôt has expressly
forbidden it. Why, it would be most virtuous in me to disobey him, in
order to benefit the man who saved his life. And you talk of ennui! We
are the ones who are drying up with it. The comely apprentice will
divert us; he will tell us tales of his Italy, and show us his necklaces
and bracelets, and chatter with Colombe. Young folks like to be together
and prattle, and they languish in solitude. So it's agreed, isn't it?
Just tell your Benjamin that he's at liberty to come and walk in our
garden whenever he pleases, provided he comes alone, or with you, Dame
Ruperte, to give him your arm. Knock four times, the first three gently
and the last louder: I shall know what it means, and I will come and
open the door."
"Thanks for Ascanio and myself; I will not fail to tell him of your
amiable offer, and he will not fail to avail himself of it."
"I am delighted to think so, Dame Ruperte."
"_Au revoir_, Dame Perrine! Charmed to have made the acquaintance of
such an estimable person."
"The same to you, Dame Ruperte."
The two gossips bowed low to each other, and parted with mutual
satisfaction.
The gardens of the Séjour de Nesle were in truth, as Ruperta said, dry
and scorched on one side of the wall, cool and shady as a forest on the
other. The provost's miserly instinct led him to leave the garden of the
Grand-Nesle uncared for, as the cost of keeping it in condition would
have been considerable, and he was not sufficiently sure of his title to
renew, perhaps for the benefit of his successor, the trees which he had
lost no time in cutting down as soon as he took possession. His
daughter's presence at the Petit-Nesle accounted for his leaving the
shady thickets there untouched, as the poor child had no other
recreation than to sit beneath them. Raimbault and his two assistants
sufficed to keep Colombe's garden in order, and even to embellish it
somewhat.
It was laid out and planted in extremely good taste. At the back was the
kitchen garden, Dame Perrine's kingdom; along the wall dividing it from
the Grand-Nesle Colombe had her flower garden, called by Dame Perrine
the Morning Avenue, because the sun's early rays fell full upon it, and
sunrise was the time ordinarily selected by Colombe to water her
marguerites and roses. Let us note, in passing, that from the room over
the foundry in the Grand-Nesle one could see every movement of the
lovely gardener without being seen. Following out Dame Perrine's
geographical nomenclature, there was the Noonday Avenue, terminated by a
thicket where Colombe loved to sit, and read or embroider, during the
beat of the day. At the other end of the garden was the Evening Avenue,
planted with a triple row of lindens, which made it delightfully cool
and fresh: it was here that Colombe was accustomed to walk after supper.
This last named avenue Dame Perrine had in mind as a spot well adapted
to hasten the convalescence of the wounded Ascanio. She was very
careful, however, to say nothing to Colombe of her charitable
intentions. It was possible that she would be too obedient to her
father's commands, and would refuse to concur in her governess's open
defiance of them. And in that case what would Dame Ruperta think of her
neighbor's authority and influence? No; since she had gone so far,
perhaps a little recklessly, she must go on to the end. Indeed, the good
woman's offence was excusable when we reflect that she had no one but
Colombe to whom she could speak from morning till night, and more often
than not Colombe was so deeply absorbed in her own thoughts that she did
not reply.
The reader will readily understand Ascanio's ecstasy when he learned
that paradise was open to him, and how fervently he blessed Ruperta. He
insisted upon availing himself of his good fortune on the instant, and
Ruperta had all the difficulty in the world in persuading him that he
ought at least to wait until evening. He had every reason to believe
that Dame Perrine's suggestion was made with Colombe's sanction, and
that thought made him mad with joy. With how great impatience,
therefore, mingled with vague alarm, did he count the dragging hours! At
last, at last, the clock struck five. The apprentices left the studio.
Benvenuto had been away since noon, and was believed to have gone to the
Louvre.
Thereupon Ruperta said solemnly to the apprentice, who gazed at her as
she had not been gazed at for many a year:--
"Now that the time has come, follow me, young man."
They crossed the courtyard together, and she knocked four times at the
door leading into the precincts of the Petit-Nesle.
"Say nothing of this to the master, good Ruperta," said Ascanio, who
knew that Cellini was a good deal of a scoffer and sceptic in the matter
of love, and did not choose to have his pure flame profaned by his
witticisms.
Ruperta was on the point of making inquiries as to the reason for this
injunction, which it would be hard for her to obey, when the door opened
and Dame Perrine appeared.
"Come in, my fine fellow," she said. "How are you to-day? Pallor becomes
you, do you know: it's a pleasure to look at you. Come in also, Dame
Ruperta: take the path to the left, young man, Colombe is just coming
down to the garden; it's the time when she always walks. Do you try and
persuade her not to scold me too severely for admitting you."
"What!" cried Ascanio,--"Mademoiselle Colombe doesn't know--"
"No indeed! Do you think she would have consented to disobey her father?
I have brought her up on correct principles. I disobeyed for both,
myself. Faith! I don't care! we can't always live like hermits.
Raimbault won't see anything, or, if he does, I have a way to make him
hold his tongue; if worse comes to worst, it won't be the first time I
have held my own against Monsieur le Prévôt!"
Dame Perrine was very loquacious concerning her master, but Ruperta
alone followed her in what she said. Ascanio was standing still,
listening to nothing save the beating of Ids heart. He did, however,
hear these words, let fall by Dame Perrine as they moved away:--
"This is the path where Colombe walks every evening, and she will soon
be here without doubt. You see that the sun won't reach you here, my
gallant invalid."
Ascanio expressed his thanks with a gesture, and walked forward a few
steps, once more immersed in his reverie, and anticipating what was to
come with mingled anxiety and impatience. He heard Dame Perrine say to
Ruperta as they walked along,--
"This is Colombe's favorite bench."
And upon that he left the two gossips to continue their walk and their
conversation, and sat softly down without a word upon the sacred seat.
What was his purpose? whither was he going? He had no idea. He sought
Colombe because she was young and fair, and he was young and fair. No
ambitious thought had ever entered his head in connection with her. To
be near her was his only desire: for the rest he put his trust in God,
or, rather, he did not look so far into the future. There is no
to-morrow in love.
Colombe, for her part, had thought more than once, and in spite of
herself, of the young stranger who had appeared to her in her loneliness
as Gabriel appeared to Mary. To see him once more had been from the
first the secret desire of this child, who had hitherto had no desire.
But, being abandoned by an inconsiderate father to the guardianship of
her own virtue, she was too high-minded not to deal with herself with
the severity which noble souls never think themselves free to dispense
with unless their will is fettered. She therefore bravely put aside her
thoughts of Ascanio, and yet those thoughts persisted in forcing a way
through the triple ramparts Colombe had built around her heart, more
easily than Ascanio made his way through the wall of the Grand-Nesle. So
it was that Colombe had passed the three or four days since the
engagement, alternating between the fear of not seeing Ascanio again,
and alarm at the thought of being in his presence. Her only consolation
was to dream of him as she sat at her work or walked in the garden.
During the day she shut herself up in her own room, to the despair of
Dame Perrine, who was thereby doomed to carry on a perpetual monologue
in the abyss of her own thoughts. As soon as the intense heat of the day
had gone by, she would go down to the cool, shady path, poetically
christened by Dame Perrine the Evening Avenue, and there, sitting on the
bench where Ascanio now sat, she would allow the sun to set and the
stars to rise, listening and replying to her thoughts, until Dame
Perrine came to tell her that it was time to retire.
At the usual hour, then, the young man saw Colombe suddenly appear, book
in hand, at the end of the path where he was sitting. She was reading
the "Lives of the Saints," a dangerous romance of faith and love, well
adapted, perhaps, to prepare one for the cruel sufferings of life, but
not, surely, for the cold realities of the world. Colombe did not see
Ascanio at first, but started back in surprise when she saw a strange
woman with Dame Perrine. At that decisive moment, Dame Perrine, like a
determined general, plunged boldly to the heart of the question.
"Dear Colombe," she said, "I know your kind heart so well that I didn't
think I needed your express sanction to allow a poor wounded youth, who
received his wound in your father's cause, to come and take the air
under these trees. You know there is no shade at the Grand-Nesle, and
the surgeon won't answer for his life unless he can walk an hour every
day."
While she was uttering this well intentioned but barefaced falsehood,
Colombe suddenly spied Ascanio, and a vivid flush suffused her cheeks.
The apprentice, meanwhile, in the presence of Colombe, could hardly
summon strength to rise to his feet.
"It wasn't my sanction that was necessary, Dame Perrine," said the
maiden at last, "but my father's."
As she said these words, sadly but firmly, Colombe reached the stone
bench upon which Ascanio had been sitting.
He overheard her, and said, with clasped hands:--
"Forgive me, Madame. I thought--I hoped that your kindness had ratified
Dame Perrine's courteous offer; but if it is not so," he continued, in a
tone of great gentleness, not unmixed with pride, "I beg you to excuse
my involuntary boldness, and I will withdraw at once."
"But it is not for me to decide," replied Colombe hastily, deeply moved.
"I am not mistress here. Remain to-day at all events, even if my
father's prohibition was meant to extend to him who saved his life:
remain, Monsieur, if for nothing else than to receive my thanks."
"O Madame!" murmured Ascanio, "it is for me to thank you, and I do so
from the bottom of my heart. But by remaining shall I not interfere with
your walk? The place I have taken, too, is ill chosen."
"Not at all," rejoined Colombe mechanically, without apparently paying
attention, so embarrassed was she, to the other end of the stone bench.
At that moment Dame Perrine, who had not stirred since Colombe's
mortifying reprimand, growing weary of her own immobility and her young
mistress's silence, took Dame Ruperta's arm and walked softly away.
The young people were left alone.
Colombe, whose eyes were fixed upon her book, did not at first observe
the departure of her governess, and yet she was not reading, for there
was a mist before her eyes. She was still excited and dizzy. All that
she was capable of doing, and that she did instinctively, was to conceal
her agitation, and repress the violent beating of her heart. Ascanio,
too, was beside himself; he was excessively pained when he thought that
Colombe desired to send him away, and insanely happy when he fancied
that he could detect signs of emotion in his inamorata; and these sudden
alternations of emotion in his enfeebled state transported and unnerved
him at the same time. He was like one in a swoon, and yet his thoughts
followed upon one another's heels with astounding rapidity and force.
"She despises me! she loves me!" he said to himself almost in the same
breath. He glanced at Colombe, silent and still, and the tears rolled
down his cheeks, although he felt them not. Meanwhile a bird was singing
in the branches overhead; the leaves were scarcely stirring in the
gentle breeze. From the Augustine church the evening Angelus came
floating softly downward through the air. Never was July evening more
calm and peaceful. It was one of Nature's solemn moments, when the soul
enters a new sphere,--one of those moments which seem twenty years, and
which one remembers all his life.
The two lovely children, so well suited to each other, had but to move
their hands to join them, and yet it seemed as if there were a yawning
gulf between them.
After a moment or two Colombe raised her head:--
"You are weeping!" she cried, obeying an impulse stronger than her will.
"I am not weeping," said Ascanio, falling back upon the bench; but his
hands were wet with tears when he took them from his face.
"It is true," he said, "I am weeping."
"Why, what is the matter? I will call some one. Are you in pain?"
"Only from my thoughts."
"What thoughts, pray?"
"I was thinking that perhaps it would have been better for me to die the
other day."
"Die! How old are you, pray, that you should talk thus of dying?"
"Nineteen: but the age of unhappiness is a fit age for death."
"And what of your kindred, who would weep for you?" said Colombe,
unconsciously eager for a glimpse into the past of this life, of which
she had a confused feeling that the future would be involved with her
own.
"I have no father or mother, and there is no one to weep for me save my
master, Benvenuto."
"Poor orphan!"
"Yes, an orphan indeed! My father never loved me, and I lost my mother
at ten years, just when I was beginning to understand her love and
return it. My father--But what am I saying, and what are my father and
my mother to you?"
"Oh, yes! Go on, Ascanio."
"Saints in heaven! you remember my name!"
"Go on, go on," whispered Colombe, putting her hands before her face to
hide her blushes.
"My father was a goldsmith, and my dear mother was herself the daughter
of a Florentine goldsmith, named Raphael del Moro, of a noble Italian
family; for in our Italian republics, to work implies no dishonor, and
you will see more than one ancient and illustrious name on the sign of a
shop. My master, Cellini, for example, is as noble as the King of
France, if not even more so. Raphael del Moro, who was poor, compelled
his daughter Stefana to marry, against her will, a fellow goldsmith
almost of his own age, but very wealthy. Alas! my mother and Benvenuto
Cellini loved each other, but were both fortuneless. Benvenuto was
travelling everywhere to make a name for himself and earn money. He was
far away, and could not interfere to prevent the marriage. Gismondo
Gaddi (that was my father's name) soon began to detest his wife because
she did not love him, although he never knew that she loved somebody
else. My father was a man of a violent and jealous disposition. May he
forgive me if I accuse him wrongfully, but children have a relentless
memory for their wrongs. Very often my mother sought shelter by my
cradle from his brutal treatment, but he did not always respect that
sanctuary. Sometimes he struck her, may God forgive him! while she held
me in her arms: and at every blow my mother would give me a kiss to help
deaden the pain. Ah! I remember well both the blows my mother received
and the kisses she gave me.
"The Lord, who is just, dealt a blow at my father where he would feel it
most keenly,--in his wealth, which was dearer to him than anything else
in the world. Disaster after disaster overwhelmed him. He died of grief
because his money was all gone, and my mother died a few days after,
because she thought that she was no longer beloved.
"I was left alone in the world. My father's creditors laid hands upon
all that he left, and, in all their ferreting to make sure that they had
forgotten nothing, they failed to discover a little weeping child. An
old maid-servant who was fond of me kept me two days from charity, but
she was living on charity herself, and had none too much bread for her
own needs.
"She was uncertain what to do with me, when a man covered with dust
entered the room, took me in his arms, embraced me, weeping, and, having
given the good old woman some money, took me away with him. It was
Benvenuto Cellini, who had come from Rome to Florence expressly to find
me. He cherished me, instructed me in his art, and kept me always with
him, and, as I say he is the only one who would weep for my death."
Colombe listened with lowered eyes and oppressed heart to the orphan's
story, which in the matter of loneliness was her own, and to the story
of the poor mother's life, which would perhaps be hers some day; for she
too was doomed to marry against her will a man who would hate her
because she would not love him.
"You are unjust to God," she said to Ascanio; "there is some one, your
kind master at least, who loves you, and you knew your mother. I cannot
remember my mother's kisses, for she died in giving birth to me. I was
brought up by my father's sister, a crabbed, ill-tempered woman, and yet
I mourned her bitterly when I lost her two years ago, for in the absence
of any other affection my heart clung to her as ivy clings to a cliff.
For two years I have been living in this place with Dame Perrine, and
notwithstanding my loneliness, and although my father comes very rarely
to see me, these two years have been and will be the happiest of my
whole life."
"You have indeed suffered much," said Ascanio, "but though the past has
been so painful, why do you dread the future? Yours, alas! is full of
glorious promise. You are nobly born, rich, and beautiful, and the
shadow of your early years will only bring out in bolder relief the
splendor of the rest of your life."
Colombe sadly shook her head.
"Oh mother! mother!" she murmured.
When, rising in thought above the paltry present, one loses sight of the
trivial necessities of the moment in the brilliant flashes which
illuminate and epitomize a whole life, past and future, the heart is
sometimes affected with a dangerous vertigo; and when one's memory is
laden with a thousand sorrows, when one dreads bitter anguish to come,
the same heart is often a prey to terrible emotion and fatal weakness.
One must be very strong not to fall when the weight of destiny is
pressing down upon one's heart. These two children, who had already
suffered so much, who had been always alone, had but to pronounce a
single word to make a single future for their twofold past; but one was
too dutiful, the other too respectful, to pronounce that word.
Ascanio gazed at Colombe, however, with infinite tenderness in his eyes,
and Colombe permitted his scrutiny with divine trust. With clasped
hands, and in the tone in which he might have prayed, the apprentice
said to the maiden:--
"Colombe, if you have any desire which I can gratify by pouring out all
my blood to gratify it, if any disaster threatens you, and nothing more
than a life is needed to avert it, say one word to me, Colombe, as you
might say it to your brother, and I shall be very happy."
"Thanks, thanks!" said Colombe; "I know that you have already nobly
risked your life once at a word from me; but God alone can save me this
time."
She had no time to say more, for Dame Perrine and Dame Ruperta stopped
in front of them at that moment.
The gossips had made the most of their time, as well as the two lovers,
and had formed a close alliance, based upon mutual sympathy. Dame
Perrine had confided to Dame Ruperta an infallible cure for chilblains,
and Dame Ruperta, not to be outdone, had imparted to Dame Perrine the
secret of preserving plums. After such an exchange of confidence, it is
easy to understand that they were thenceforth united for life and death,
and they had agreed to meet frequently, whatever the cost.