THE COTTAGE
Seen from the hilltop, the little village was beautiful to behold. Its
few houses, all half-way up the hill, were built of a yellowish stone,
over which grape-vines were climbing. Some of the houses were roofed
with red tiles; others had thatched roofs, on which were growing every
sort of beautiful green and velvety moss, mingled with tufts of
wall-flowers in bloom; while all this rustic picture was framed in great
groups of plantains, live-oaks, and Lombardy poplars, from the midst of
which rose the modest church tower of gray stone.
I descended by a steep, winding path, and very soon arrived in the
little village square. On the left, I saw the gate of the cemetery; on
the right was the church porch, and noticing very near the latter a
house rather larger than the rest, and which only differed from them by
its remarkable cleanliness, I decided that it must be the presbytery. I
got off my horse and knocked. I had not been mistaken.
A woman, clothed in black, still young, but horribly misshapen, and very
ugly, whose face, however, appeared to have an expression of extreme
goodness, came to open the door for me. She asked, in a very pronounced
Southern accent, what I wished.
"I have come, madame," said I, "to see the country place that is for
sale in the village. M. V----, the notary, sent me to see M. le curé,
who, he tells me, has the property for sale."
"My brother will be back in an instant," replied the woman, with a sigh,
"and if you would like to rest while waiting for his return, be pleased
to follow me into the presbytery."
I accepted her offer, and, leaving my guide and his horses, I entered
the house.
Nothing could have been more simple, more cleanly, more barren, than the
interior of this humble home; notwithstanding which one could not help
noticing traces of thoughtful solicitude for the comfort of the master.
I accompanied the curé's sister into a low hall, whose two
white-curtained windows opened on a pretty little green garden.
The simple furniture of this room shone with cleanliness; a single
armchair, covered with old embroidery, placed near a little table, on
which stood a book-rack made of black wood, and an ivory crucifix,
seemed to be the habitual seat of the priest. His sister's chair and her
spinning-wheel stood near the other window. She seated herself, and
began to spin, without vouchsafing a word. Believing her to be silent
out of reserve, or from shyness, and wishing, besides, to satisfy my
curiosity which the guide had so roused, I asked the woman if the place
had been for sale a long time. The priest's sister answered me, with
another sigh:
"It has been for sale for the last three months, monsieur."
"But, madame, do not the owners live in it any longer?"
"The owners," replied she, with a look of intense sadness, "_non_,
monsieur, they do not live there any more." And, seeing that I was about
to continue my questions, she added, with tears in her eyes: "Excuse me,
monsieur, my brother will tell you all about it."
More and more astonished, but not daring to insist, I fell back on
ordinary topics of conversation, the view, the beautiful situation, etc.
In about half an hour some one knocked; it was the curé. His sister
went to open the door for him, and informed him of the reason of my
visit.
The priest, who was about thirty years old, wore the severe costume of
his class. He was not misshapen, but in other respects was extremely
like his sister. There was the same ugliness joined to the look of
excessive goodness and sweetness, added to which was a frail and
suffering appearance, for he was small, delicate, and pale. His Southern
accent was less pronounced than that of his sister, and his manner,
though reserved, was more polite than hers.
The abbé received me with a coldness which I attributed to his fear of
finding me only another troublesome person come out of idle curiosity to
inspect the place; for from the few words that his sister had let fall,
I believed that some fatal event had taken place in this house, and that
the curé might think that I, having heard some vague rumour, had come
to find out some more circumstantial details.
Wishing to put him at ease, I told him frankly, and at once, that I was
looking for a little country home, very isolated, very quiet, very
lonely; that I had heard of this one as fulfilling all these
requirements, and that I had been sent to him for full information on
the subject. The glacial coolness of the abbé did not melt at my
advances. After exchanging some insignificant remarks, he simply asked
me if I would like to see the house.
I told him that I was absolutely at his orders, and we then rose to go
out.
Then his sister took a bunch of keys from out of a closet, and gave them
to him, saying, with tears in her eyes, "_Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!_ Joseph,
this will be a great trial to you, for you have not been there since--"
The young priest pressed her hand tenderly, and replied, with
resignation, "It can't be helped, Jeanne. It had to come sooner or
later."
So we went out.
The stubborn silence in which the curé persisted, as to the events
which had excited my curiosity, was very distasteful to me; but, feeling
that the least question on a subject which affected so profoundly these
simple people would be unkind, and most probably useless, I decided to
remain strictly in my rôle of a visitor and a prospective purchaser. We
went out of the presbytery, and, climbing up a steep little street,
arrived before a small door, on each side of which extended a long and
very high wall.
The appearance of everything was quite primitive. This wall of undressed
stone, joined together by firm cement, seemed half ruined; the door was
worm-eaten, but when the abbé had once got it open, I entered upon a
perfect paradise hidden by this same high wall, and I began truly to
understand and admire more than ever the wise though selfish taste of
the Orientals, who strive to make the outside of their habitations the
most insignificant, and even dilapidated, in the world, while, on the
contrary, they adorn the interior with the most dazzling and refined
luxury.
This custom has always seemed to me charming, as a contrast firstly,
and, secondly, because I admit that I have never understood this lavish
decoration with painting and sculpture of the outside of homes, where it
simply is done for the gratification of the passer-by, who usually
returns his thanks by covering with filth these architectural and
monumental beauties. This, too, is a contrast, but one that displeases
me. In a word, does it not seem to be better taste to hide some
delightful retreat, and there enjoy happiness in secret, than to make a
vulgar display and pompous parade before the eyes of all the world, and
only excite the envy and hatred of every one?
But to return to the paradise of which I was speaking. As soon as the
little door was opened, I entered with the curé; he closed it
carefully, and said, "This, monsieur, is the house."
Then, doubtless overcome by some sad remembrances, and wishing to give
me leisure to examine everything, he crossed his arms on his breast, and
remained silent.
As I have said, I was overcome with astonishment, and the sight was so
charming that I forgot all my curiosity in gazing on so lovely a scene.
Of the high wall of which I have spoken not a stone was to be seen, so
entirely was it hidden by a long clipped arbour of linden-trees and a
high row of immense oaks.
And there in the centre of a vast velvety lawn stood a middle-sized
house of the most irregular construction.
The main body of the building was of but one story in height; on the
right was a rustic gallery which formed a greenhouse, and ended in a
sort of pavilion which only seemed to be lighted from the roof; on the
left, at right angles to the main house, and much higher than it, was a
long gallery with four Gothic windows of stained glass. This gallery
ended at a very high tower which overlooked the rest of the house.
Nothing could be more simple in appearance than the arrangement of this
cottage; but these buildings were, so to speak, simply the framework,
for all the elegance and beauty of the building came from an innumerable
quantity of brilliant climbing plants, which--except the openings of the
windows, where great branches of jasmine and honeysuckle waved before
the tracery of the woodwork--had taken possession of the house, and
covered it with a mantle of gay flowers of every colour, from the ground
floor to the summit of the tower, which seemed like the trunk of some
immense tree covered with vines. Then a large flower bed of red
geraniums, tender lilac heliotropes, and oleanders ran all around the
base of the walls, hiding with its thick leaves and brilliant blossoms
the thin stalks of the climbing plants, which only display their
variegated treasures at some height from the ground.
Scotch ivy, climbing roses, the Virginia creeper, gobeas with their blue
bells, clematis with its white, starry flower, entwined themselves
thickly around the rustic pillars of the greenhouse and the supports of
the front porch, which was also of wood, and was reached by ten steps,
carpeted with fine Lima matting. On each step was an immense vase of
Japanese porcelain, white, red, and gold, each one containing a large
purple flowering cactus, and, as the stems of these plants are always
rough and straggling, the charming little Smyrna convolvulus with its
orange-coloured bells hid in a yellow and green tracery the barrenness
of the cactus plants. The porch led up to an oaken door of very simple
design, on each side of which stood a large Chinese settee made of reeds
and bamboo.
Such, then, was the aspect of this truly enchanting cottage, this fresh
and sweet-smelling oasis, which bloomed like an unknown and magnificent
flower in this provincial solitude. It is impossible to express in words
all the splendour of the picture which drew from nature alone all its
dazzling richness of colour. Who can describe the thousand caprices of
the Southern sun, glittering on the bright enamel of so many shades of
colouring? What can give an idea of the murmuring of the breeze, which
seemed to caress with its kisses the undulating, expanding corollas? And
this nameless perfume made up of all these different odours, and the
sweet smell of moss and verdure, added to the penetrating aroma of the
laurel, the thyme, and the green trees, who can express it in words?
But what would be harder still to describe, would be the thousand
different and overpowering thoughts which came into my mind, as I
contemplated this most adorable retreat that a man tired of the world's
pleasures could have imagined; for I was witness to the fact that this
enchanting spot was sad, deserted, abandoned, in spite of so much
sunshine, verdure, and flowers; that some frightful misfortune had
without a doubt surprised and crushed those who had cherished such sweet
dreams of happiness. The choice of such a solitary spot, so far from any
great city, the luxury and good taste of everything, showed plainly that
the resident of this lovely home expected to spend many long and happy
years in serene meditation in this beautiful solitude, so dear to
thoughtful or unhappy minds.
These ideas saddened and absorbed me for some time. Awakening from my
reverie I looked at the curé; he seemed paler than ever, and quite lost
in thought.
"Nothing could be more charming than this house, monsieur," said I.
He trembled suddenly, and replied politely but still coldly, "In truth
it is charming, monsieur." And with a heart-breaking sigh, he added,
"Would you like to see the interior of the house?"
"Is the house furnished, monsieur?"
"Yes, monsieur, it is to be sold just as it is, that is, all but some
family portraits, which will be withdrawn." And he sighed again.
We entered by the vine-covered porch of which I have spoken.
The first room was an entrance-hall, lighted from above, and filled with
pictures which appeared to be excellent copies from the best Italian
masters. Some bas-reliefs and a few marble statues, antiques of a pure
style, stood in the corners of the hall, and four admirable Greek vases
were filled with flowers, now withered, alas! for there were flowers
everywhere, and in this hall they must have marvellously suited the
treasures of art.
"This is the antechamber, monsieur," said the curé.
We passed through it, and entered a room furnished with the beautiful
carvings of the Renaissance; four large paintings of the Spanish school
hid the tapestries on the walls, and flowers had once filled the great
jardinières which stood before the windows.
All of the rooms were comparatively small, but the accessories were of
the greatest elegance and in the best taste.
"This is the dining-room," said the curé, continuing his glacial
nomenclature. Then we passed by an open door, only closed by portières,
into a salon, whose three windows opened on to that part of the park
that I had not yet seen.
The salon had a gilded frieze, and was hung with cherry-coloured satin
damask. The furniture was of the best epoch of the reign of Louis XIV.,
and was also gilded, and several consoles of marquetry, covered with
every kind of splendid porcelain, completed the ornamentation of the
room.
But what pleased me above all was that this luxuriousness, which one
might expect to find in a city residence, was in such a delightful
contrast to the almost wild solitude of the place, especially
contrasting with the grand, though pleasing, landscape which could be
seen from the windows of the salon.
It was an immense prairie of the beautiful fresh green grass that I had
already so much admired. Across this field meandered a clear and swiftly
running river, doubtless the one I had crossed so many times before
arriving at ----. On each side of the meadow extended a great curtain of
oaks and of lindens, leafy and green to the very ground, while two or
three groups of silvery-barked birch-trees were studded here and there
over the field, where several fine Swiss cattle were peacefully grazing;
finally, on the horizon overlooking several ranges of hills, one could
see the cloudy and bluish crests of the mountains which form the last of
the chain of the Eastern Pyrenees. The view was truly magnificent, and,
as I have said, this grandiose nature, framed as it was in the satin and
gold of this pretty salon, had a most singular effect on me.
"This is the salon," said the curé, and then we entered the greenhouse,
which was built of rustic wood. There we saw a great number of exotic
plants planted deeply in the ground, so that in winter this conservatory
must have looked like a beautiful alley in a garden. There was a door at
the far end of the alley, before which the curé stopped.
Instead of opening the door he retraced his steps. But I said to him,
pointing to the door, which was beautifully carved in a Gothic
design,--Flemish work no doubt, for it was as delicate as lace,--"Where
does that door lead to, monsieur? Can one not see that apartment?"
"You can see it, monsieur, if--you absolutely desire to do so," said the
curé, with a sort of grieved impatience.
"I certainly wish to see it, monsieur," I replied; for the more closely
I examined the house the more interested I was becoming. All that I had
so far seen had revealed to me not only the greatest elegance and
refinement, but noble habits of art and of poetry. I felt sure that no
vulgar mind could have so selected and so ornamented his residence.
"Be so kind then, monsieur, as to enter without me," said the abbé, as
he handed me a key. "It was her--" Then with an effort controlling
himself, he said, "It is the morning-room, the living-room."
I entered.
The room, which had evidently been ordinarily used by a woman, had
remained in absolutely the same condition in which its occupant had left
it. On a tapestry frame was a half finished piece of embroidery; further
on stood a harp before a music-stand still laden with music; on a table
were a vinaigrette and an unfolded handkerchief; an open book was lying
on the workbasket. I looked at it: it was the second volume of
"Obermann."
Profoundly touched by the thought that some frightful and sudden
misfortune should have ended an existence which seemed to have been so
poetic and so happily occupied, I continued to observe with the most
minute attention everything that surrounded me. I saw a tolerably large
bookcase filled with the works of the best poets of France, Germany, and
Italy. Near by stood an easel, on which was the most delicious sketch of
a child's head that one could imagine,--the adorable little face of a
child of about three or four years old, with blue eyes and long brown
hair.
I know not why it should have occurred to me that only a mother could
have made such a picture, and that she only could have thus painted her
own child.
All these discoveries, while they saddened me exceedingly, only excited
more and more my interest and my curiosity. I therefore determined to
use every possible means of finding out the secret so obstinately kept
by the curé.
This portrait of a child, of which I speak, was placed near one of the
windows that lighted the room. Without thinking of what I was doing, I
drew the curtain to one side. What did I behold? At about a league's
distance, certainly not more, there was the sea, the Mediterranean!
which sparkled like a great azure mirror, and reflected the glowing
sunshine,--the sea that one beheld between the slopes of the two hills.
The view was magnificent, and I thought how it must have revealed all
its splendours to the poetic soul which had left in this home so many
touching traces of its noble and elevated nature.
I turned away my head for a moment from this majestic spectacle to rest
my eyes, in order to enjoy the more a second view of the scene. I then
perceived an object that I had not at first noticed. It was the portrait
of a man. It was placed on an easel, which was draped with blue velvet.
In the sort of oval formed at the top of the easel, where the two
branches met in a curve, I saw a monogram composed of an A and an R,
surmounted by a count's crown.
This portrait was drawn in pastel. As I have some knowledge of painting,
I easily recognised the same hand that had sketched the child's head.
The head, set on its long and slender neck, stood out pale and clearly
from a background of a dark, reddish brown, while the costume was
entirely black, fancifully cut after the manner of the Van Dyck
portraits. This young and bold face had such a striking expression of
great intelligence, resolution, and grace, that I shall never be able to
forget it.
The face was of a long oval, the forehead high, prominent, and
uncovered, smooth, except a very decided line which separated the
eyebrows, whose arch was almost imperceptible, so straight were they.
The hair was light chestnut brown, fine and silky, thrown back, and
slightly waving at the temples. The large, very beautiful velvety brown
eyes, with their iris of orange, looked almost too round, but their
proud, deep, meditative expression seemed to denote a mind of the
highest order; finally, an aquiline nose, and a square, prominent, and
dimpled chin, would have given to the physiognomy a haughty and almost
hard look, if around the thin and scarlet lips a subtle and almost
imperceptible smile, very charming to see, had not softened, lighted up,
so to speak, those features which were too energetic and too decided.
For some moments I stood lost in contemplation before this expressive
and beautiful face, wondering if this could be the hero of the
mysterious adventure that I was trying to discover. Then I noticed that,
with the exception of the eyes, which in the child were blue and long,
there were many traits of resemblance between this unknown man and the
delicious sketch of the angelic child which stood near by. But very soon
I heard the trembling voice of the abbé, who, still standing outside,
wished to know if I had seen everything sufficiently. I rejoined him, he
closed the door, and we once more traversed the gallery.
It was childish, no doubt; but as we passed the door of the salon, I
noticed something which oppressed me cruelly. It was a gilded cage, in
which I saw, lying dead, several poor little bengalis and love birds.
Sadly depressed, and more and more interested, I longed to take the
priest into my confidence, by expressing to him how much I was touched
by all I had seen, I, who knew not even the names of those who had lived
here; but whether he could not control his emotion, or whether, he
thought it a profanation to speak of his grief before a stranger, he
evaded all my efforts to open the subject, and said to me, with a great
effort:
"All that remains to be seen now, monsieur, is the other gallery, which
leads to the tower, where there is another study."
We went back through the entrance-hall, then through a library, through
the long Gothic-windowed gallery, which was filled with pictures,
sculptures, and curiosities of every sort, and thus arrived at the
tower, which communicated with the gallery by a short flight of steps.
I entered. This time the abbé accompanied me resolutely, though I could
see that from time to time he wiped with his hand his eyes, which were
moist with tears. In this vast circular hall, everything revealed
studious and reflective tastes.
It was furnished in a severe style; there were many valuable arms, and
four large family portraits, which seemed to include five centuries,
with an interval of a hundred and fifty years; for the oldest portrait
recalled the costume of a warrior of the end of the fourteenth century,
whereas the costumes of the others belonged to the seventeenth,
eighteenth, and nineteenth centuries, the most recent representing a man
who wore the dress of a general of the Empire, with the _cordon rouge_
across his breast.
I noticed, also, many maps and topographical plans, all marked with
abridged and hieroglyphical notes; but what I saw first of all was a
woman's portrait, placed on an easel, exactly like the one I had already
seen, only it had no crown carved on its summit, there being simply the
interlaced initials M and V. By a happy idea of the painter, this
portrait, painted on a gold ground, recalled, by its naïve expression,
one of the adorable heads of the Virgin, which belong to the Italian
school of the end of the sixteenth century. All that Raphaël had ever
dreamed of candour and purity in the expression of his Madonnas, beamed
from this divine face.
The smooth and shining brown hair was parted simply over a charming
forehead, where it was encircled by a little golden chain; then
following the line of the temples, which were so dazzlingly clear one
could almost see the blue veins, it fell in soft masses below the
delicately rosy cheeks.
Her large blue eyes, which were serenely pensive and almost melancholy,
seemed to follow me with a gaze that was calm, noble, and good. Her rosy
lips were not smiling, but they had an expression of serious
graciousness impossible to describe, while their form, as well as that
of the straight and thin nose, was exquisitely beautiful and of an
antique purity of line.
A tunic of very pale blue, which barely showed the snowy whiteness of
the shoulders, and was fastened around the well-shaped form by a circlet
of dull gold, completed this portrait, which was a model of elevated
simplicity, charm, and poesy.
After examining a long time this ideally perfect face, I found in the
eyes an expression which reminded me of the child's face, for the eyes
of that angel were also of a deep and clear blue, but the lower part of
its face and the broad forehead recalled the man's portrait which had so
much interested me.
I know not why I should have imagined that the child belonged to these
parents. But where was he? Where were now the father and mother? The
father with his proud and resolute beauty; the mother so sweet and pure?
Had he, had she, had both, or all three, perhaps, been overtaken by a
frightful misfortune?
"Ah," said I, "if looks are not deceptive, in what an Eden these noble
beings must have lived!" What could one desire more than to live thus
with a beloved child in the midst of this delicious and profound
solitude, embellished by all the treasures of nature and art?
To have enough appreciation of happiness and goodness, to be able to
live alone among geniuses of every kind; to be able, when the heart
longs for silence, to sit rapt in silent ecstasy, to pass from one
delight to another; to speak to one another of love, through the sublime
voices of the divine poets of all the ages, or through the celestial
harmonies of the great masters whose melodies enchant us when called
forth by a loving hand; to compare the exquisite beauty of the idolised
being, the expression of her features, with all the wonders of art, and
to be able to say with pride, "She is still more beautiful!" to be able
to draw forth from this threefold source of inspiration, and to behold
our love, fecundated by the divine dew, become each day more radiant and
more expansive; to glorify the Creator in everything, in the felicity we
enjoy, in the woman we love, in the magnificent nature which delights
our eyes and charms our soul,--oh, what a glorious existence it must
have been, that led by these two beings!
But the sad voice of the abbé recalled me from these imaginings.
I sighed and followed him, quite determined to penetrate his secret.
Very soon the sky became overcast. The morning, which had been
beautiful, became sombre; great clouds swept over the sky and some drops
of rain began to fall.
"There is no inn here," said the curé, "you are on horseback, monsieur,
there is a mountain storm gathering, and, if a hurricane comes on, the
little river, which you found fordable, will become in a few hours a
rapid torrent. Allow me to offer you such poor hospitality as I can in
the presbytery until the violence of the storm is over. Your guide and
his horses will find a shelter in the barn."
I accepted his offer, delighted by the hope that I might have an
opportunity of satisfying my curiosity. We entered the house.
"_Eh bien_, Joseph?" said Jeanne to the curé, overcome with emotion.
"_Hélas!_ Jeanne, may God's will be done! But it was a great trial to
me, and I had not the courage to enter her room."
Jeanne wiped away her tears, and began to busy herself about receiving
me as well as possible in their modest home.
Very soon the storm broke with the greatest violence, and I finally
decided to spend the night at the presbytery of ----.