on a note at once extremely clear and extremely soft. He paused,
watched awhile, recommenced. The note became more rapid, more
sonorous. What an astounding man he was, this Justin Lebasset!
Upright, his red beard forward, his forehead thrown back, his eyes on
the thick foliage of the cherry-trees, his hands on his haunches, in an
attitude of repose, easy, superb, he was like some youthful pagan god,
gilded with red gold, on his way across the country--like Pan, if he
chose to amuse himself by charming birds. You should have seen the
enthusiastic glances with which Norine watched him. Upright--she too,
slim, at full height, inclining from [130] time to time towards Justin
with a movement of irresistible fascination, she followed the notes of
her mate; and sometimes, her, lips half opening, added thereto a
sigh--something of a sigh, an aspiration, a prayer, towards the
goldfinch, withdrawn into the shadows.
"The leaves were shaken in the clear, burning green; and, on a sudden,
a multitude of goldfinches, the heads red in the wind, the wings half
spread, were fluttering from branch to branch. I could have fancied,
amid the quivering of the great bunches of fruit, that they were
cherries on the wing. Justin suffered his pipe to die away: the birds
were come at his invitation, and performed their prelude."
It is forty years afterwards that the narrator, now a man of letters in
Paris, writes to his old friend, with tidings of Justin and Norine:--
"In 1842 (he observes) you were close on fifteen; I scarcely twelve. In
my eyes your age made you my superior. And then, you were so strong,
so tender, so amiteux, to use a word from up there--a charming word.
And so God, Who had His designs for you, whereas I, in spite of my
pious childhood, wandered on [131] my way as chance bade me, led you by
the hand, attached, ended by keeping you for Himself. He did well
truly when He chose you and rejected me!"
His finding the pair in the wilds of Paris is an adventure, in which,
in fact, a goldfinch again takes an important part--a goldfinch who is
found to understand the Cevenol dialect:--
"The goldfinch (escaped from its cage somewhere, into the dreary court
of the Institute) has seen me: is looking at me. If he chose to make
his way into my apartment, he would be very welcome. I feel a strong
impulse to try him with that unique patois word, which, whistled after
a peculiar manner, when I was a boy never failed to succeed in the
mountains of Orb--Béni! Béni! Viens! Viens! I dare not! He might
take fright and fly away altogether."
In effect, the Cevenol bird, true to call, introduces Norine, his
rightful owner, whose husband Justin is slowly dying. Towards the end
of a hard life, faithful to their mountain ideal, they have not lost
their dignity, though in a comparatively sordid medium: [132]
"As for me, my dear Arribas, I remained in deep agitation, an attentive
spectator of the scene; and while Justin and Norine, set both alike in
the winepress of sorrow, le pressoir de la douleur, as your good books
express it, murmured to each other their broken consoling words, I saw
them again, in thought, young, handsome, in the full flower of life,
under the cherry-trees, the swarming goldfinches, of blind Barthélemy
Jalaguier. Ah me! It was thus that, five-and-forty years after, in
this dark street of Paris, that festive day was finishing, blessed, in
the plenitude of nature, by that august old man, celebrated by the
alternate song of all the birds of Rocaillet."
Justin's one remaining hope is to go home to those native mountains, if
it may be, with the dead body of his boy, dead "the very morning on
which he should have received the tonsure from the hands of Mgr.
l'Archevêque," and buried now temporarily at the cemetery of
Montparnasse:--
Theodore calls me. I saw him distinctly to-night. He gave me a sign.
After all said, life is heavy, sans le fillot, and but [133] for you it
were well to be released from it....'
"I have seen Justin Lebasset die, dear Arribas, and was touched,
edified, to the bottom of my soul. God grant, when my hour comes, I
may find that calm, that force, in the last struggle with life. Not a
complaint! not a sigh! Once only he gave Norine a sorrowful,
heartrending look; then, from lips already cold, breathed that one
word, 'Theodore!' Marcus Aurelius used to say: 'A man should leave the
world as a ripe olive falls from the tree that bore it, and with a kiss
for the earth that nourished it.' Well! the peasant of Rocaillet had
the beautiful, noble, simple death of the fruit of the earth, going to
the common receptacle of all mortal beings, with no sense that he was
torn away. Pardon, I pray, my quotation from Marcus Aurelius, who
persecuted the Christians. I give it with the same respect with which
you would quote some holy writer. Ah! my dear Arribas! not all the
saints have received canonization."
It is to the priestly character, in truth, that M. Fabre always comes
back for tranquillizing [134] effect; and if his peasants have
something akin to Wordsworth's, his priests may remind one of those
solemn ecclesiastical heads familiar in the paintings and etchings of
M. Alphonse Legros. The reader travelling in Italy, or Belgium
perhaps, has doubtless visited one or more of those spacious
sacristies, introduced to which for the inspection of some more than
usually recherché work of art, one is presently dominated by their
reverend quiet: simple people coming and going there, devout, or at
least on devout business, with half-pitched voices, not without touches
of kindly humour, in what seems to express like a picture the most
genial side, midway between the altar and the home, of the
ecclesiastical life. Just such interiors we seem to visit under the
magic of M. Fabre's well-trained pen. He has a real power of taking
one from Paris, or from London, to places and people certainly very
different from either, to the satisfaction of those who seek in fiction
an escape.
12th June 1889
IX. THE "CONTES" OF M. AUGUSTIN FILON
TALES OF A HUNDRED YEARS SINCE ["CONTES DU CENTENAIRE." PAR AUGUSTIN
FILON. PARIS: HACHETTE ET CIE. ]
[137] IT was a happy thought of M. Filon to put into the mouth of an
imaginary centenarian a series of delightfully picturesque studies
which aim at the minute presentment of life in France under the old
régime, and end for the most part with the Revolution. A genial
centenarian, whose years have told happily on him, he appreciates not
only those humanities of feeling and habit which were peculiar to the
last century and passed away with it, but also that permanent humanity
which has but undergone a change of surface in the new world of our
own, wholly different though it may look. With a sympathetic sense of
life as it is always, [138] M. Filon has transplanted the creations of
his fancy into an age certainly at a greater distance from ourselves
than can be estimated by mere lapse of time, and where a fully detailed
antiquarian knowledge, used with admirable tact and economy, is indeed
serviceable in giving reality of effect to scene and character. In
truth, M. Filon's very lively antiquarianism carries with it a genuine
air of personal memory. With him, as happens so rarely, an intimate
knowledge of historic detail is the secret of life, of the impression
of life; puts his own imagination on the wing; secures the imaginative
cooperation of the reader. A stately age--to us, perhaps, in the
company of the historic muse, seeming even more stately than it
actually was--it is pleasant to find it, as we do now and again on
these pages, in graceful déshabille. With perfect lightness of touch,
M. Filon seems to have a complete command of all the physiognomic
details of old France, of old Paris and its people--how they made a
holiday; how they got at the news; the fashions. Did the English
reader ever hear before of the beautifully dressed doll which came once
a month [139] from Paris to Soho to teach an expectant world of fashion
how to dress itself? Old Paris! For young lovers at their windows; for
every one fortunate enough to have seen it: "Qu'il est joli ce paysage
du Paris nocturne d'il y a cent ans!" We think we shall best do
justice to an unusually pretty book by taking one of M. Filon's stories
(not because we are quite sure it is the cleverest of them) with a view
to the more definite illustration of his method, therein.
Christopher Marteau was a warden of the corporation of Luthiers. He
dealt in musical instruments, as his father and grandfather had done
before him, at the sign of Saint Cecilia. With his wife, his only
child Phlipote, and Claude his apprentice, who was to marry Phlipote,
he occupied a good house of his own. Of course the disposition of the
young people, bred together from their childhood, does not at first
entirely concur with the parental arrangements. But the story tells,
reassuringly, how--to some extent how sadly--they came heartily to do
so. M. Marteau was no ordinary shopkeeper. The various distinguished
people who had fingered his clavecins, and turned over the [140] folios
of music, for half a century past, had left their memories behind them;
M. de Voltaire, for instance, who had caressed the head of Phlipote
with an aged, skeleton hand, leaving, apparently, no very agreeable
impression on the child, though her father delighted to recall the
incident, being himself a demi-philosophe. He went to church, that is
to say, only twice a year, on the Feast of St. Cecilia and on the
Sunday when the Luthiers offered the pain bénit. It was his opinion
that everything in the State needed reform except the Corporations.
The relations of the husband to his affectionate, satiric,
pleasure-seeking wife, who knew so well all the eighteen theatres which
then existed in Paris, are treated with much quiet humour. On Sundays
the four set forth together for a country holiday. At such times
Phlipote would walk half-a-dozen paces in advance of her father and
mother, side by side with her intended. But they never talked to each
other: the hands, the eyes, never met. Of what was Phlipote dreaming?
and what was in the thoughts of Claude?
It happened one day that, like sister and brother, the lovers exchanged
confidences. "It [141] is not always," observes Phlipote, whom every
one excepting Claude on those occasions sought with admiring eyes--
"'It is not always one loves those one is told to love.'
"'What, have you, too, a secret, my little Phlipote?'
"'I too, Claude! Then what may be yours?'
"'Listen, Phlipote!' he answered. 'We don't wish to be husband and
wife, but we can be friends--good and faithful friends, helping each
other to change the decision of our parents.'
"'Were I but sure you would not betray me--'
"'Would you like me to confess first? The woman I love--Ah! but you
will laugh at my folly!'
"'No, Claude! I shall not laugh. I know too well what one suffers.'
"'Especially when love is hopeless.'
"'Hopeless?'
"'Alas! I have never spoken to her. Perhaps never shall!'
[142] "'Well! as for me, I don't even know the name of him to whom my
heart is given!'
"'Ah! poor Phlipote!'
"'Poor Claude!'
"They had approached each other. The young man took the tiny hand of
his friend, pressing it in his own.
"'The woman I adore is Mademoiselle Guimard!'
"'What! Guimard of the Opera?--the fiancée of Despréaux?'"
Claude still held the hands of Phlipote, who was trembling now, and
almost on fire at the story of this ambitious love. In return she
reveals her own. It was Good Friday. She had come with her mother to
the Sainte Chapelle to hear Mademoiselle Coupain play the organ and
witness the extraordinary spectacle of the convulsionnaires, brought
thither to be touched by the relic of the True Cross. In the press of
the crowd at this exciting scene Phlipote faints, or nearly faints,
when a young man comes kindly to their aid. "She is so young!" he
explains to the mother, "she seems so delicate!" "He looked at me,"
she tells Claude--"he looked at [143] me, through his half-closed
eyelids; and his words were like a caress."--
"'And have you seen him no More?' asks Claude, full of sympathy.
"'Yes! once again. He pretended to be looking at the window of the
Little Dunkirk, over the way, but with cautious glances towards our
house. Only, as he did not know what storey we live on, he failed to
discover me behind my curtain, where I was but half visible.'
"'You should have shown yourself.'
"'Oh, Claude!' she cried, with a delicious gesture of timidity, of
shame.
"So they prattled for a long time; he talking of the great Guimard, she
of her unknown lover, scarce listening to, but completely understanding
each other.
"'Holloa!'cries the loud voice of Christopher Marteau. 'What are you
doing out there?'
"The young people arose. Phlipote linked her arm gaily in that of
Claude. 'How contented I feel!' she says; 'how good it is to have a
friend--to have you whom I used to detest, because I thought you were
in love with me. Now, when I know you can't bear me, I [144] shall be
nicely in love with you.' The soft warmth of her arm seemed to pass
through Claude, and gave him strange sensations. He resumed naïvely,
'Yes! and how odd it is after all that I am not in love with you. You
are so pretty!' Phlipote raised her finger coquettishly, 'No
compliments, monsieur. Since we are not to marry each other, it is
forbidden to pay court to me!'"
From that day a close intimacy established itself between the formerly
affianced pair, now become accomplices in defeating the good intentions
of their elders. In long conversations, they talked in turn, or both
together, of their respective loves. Phlipote allows Claude entrance
to her chamber, full of admiration for its graceful arrangements, its
virgin cleanliness. He inspects slowly all the familiar objects daily
touched by her, her books, her girlish ornaments. One day she cried
with an air of mischief, "If she were here in my place, what would you
do?" and no sooner were the words uttered than his arms were round her
neck. "'Tis but to teach you what I would do were she here." They
were a little troubled by this adventure.
[145] And the next day was a memorable one. By the kind contrivance of
Phlipote herself, Claude gains the much-desired access to the object of
his affections, but to his immense disillusion. If he could but speak
to her, he fancies he should find the courage, the skill, to bend her.
Breathless, Phlipote comes in secret with the good news. The great
actress desires some one to tune her clavecin:--
"'Papa would have gone; but I begged him so earnestly to take me to the
Théâtre Français that he could not refuse; and it is yourself will go
this evening to tune the clavecin of your beloved.'
"'Phlipote, you've a better heart than I! This morning I saw a
gentleman, who resembled point by point your description of the unknown
at the Sainte Chapelle, prowling about our shop.'
"'And you didn't tell me!'
"Claude hung his head.
"'But why not?' the young girl asks imperiously. 'Why not?'
"'In truth I could hardly say, hardly understand, myself. Do you
forgive me, Phlipote?'
"'I suppose I must. So make yourself as smart as you can, to please
your goddess.'"
[146] Next day she hears the story of Claude's grievous disappointment
on seeing the great actress at home--plain, five-and-forty,
ill-tempered. He had tuned the clavecin and taken flight.
And now for Phlipote's idol! It was agreed that Whitsunday should be
spent at Versailles. On that day the royal apartments were open to the
public, and at the hour of High Mass the crowd flowed back towards the
vestibule of the chapel to witness what was called the procession of
the Cordons Bleus. The "Blue Ribbons" were the knights of the Order Du
Saint-Esprit in their robes of ceremony, who came to range themselves
in the choir according to the date of their creation. The press was so
great that the parents were separated from the young people. Claude,
however, at the side of Phlipote, realized the ideal of a faithful and
jealous guardian. The hallebardes of the Suisses rang on the marble
pavement of the gallery. Royalty, now unconsciously presenting its
ceremonies for the last time, advanced through a cloud of splendour;
but before the Queen appeared it was necessary that all the knights of
the order down to the youngest should pass by, slow, solemn, majestic.
[147] They wore, besides their ribbons of blue moiré, the silver dove
on the shoulder, and the long mantle of sombre blue velvet lined with
yellow satin. Phlipote watched mechanically the double file of haughty
figures passing before them: then, on a sudden, with a feeble cry,
falls fainting into the arms of Claude.
Recovered after a while, under shelter of the great staircase, she wept
as those weep whose heart is broken by a great blow. Claude, without a
word, sustained, soothed her. A sentiment of gratitude mingled itself
with her distress. "How good he is!" she thought.
"It was a pity," says her mother a little later "a pity you did not see
the Cordons Bleus. Fancy! You will laugh at me! But in one of the
handsomest of the Chevaliers I felt sure I recognized the stranger who
helped us at the Sainte Chapelle, and was so gallant with you."
Phlipote did not laugh. "You are deceived, mother!" she said in a
faint voice. "Pardi!" cries the father. "'Tis what I always say. Your
stranger was some young fellow from a shop."
Two months later the young people receive [148] the nuptial
benediction, and continue the musical business when the elders retire
to the country. At first a passionate lover, Claude was afterwards a
good and devoted husband. Phlipote never again opened her lips
regarding the vague love which for a moment had flowered in her heart:
only sometimes, a cloud of reverie veiled her eyes, which seemed to
seek sadly, beyond the circle of her slow, calm life, a brilliant but
chimeric image visible for her alone.
And once again she saw him. It was in the terrible year 1794. She
knew the hour at which the tumbril with those condemned to die passed
the windows; and at the first signal would close them and draw the
curtain. But on this day some invincible fascination nailed her to her
place. There were ten faces; but she had eyes for one alone. She had
not forgotten, could not mistake, him--that pale head, so proud and
fine, but now thin with suffering; the beautiful mobile eyes, now
encircled with the signs of sorrow and watching. The convict's shirt,
open in large, broad folds, left bare the neck, delicate as a woman's,
and made for that youthful face an aureole, of innocence, of martyrdom.
His looks [149] met hers. Did he recognize her? She could not have
said. She remained there, paralyzed with emotion, till the moment when
the vision disappeared.
Then she flung herself into her chamber, fell on her knees, lost
herself in prayer. There was a distant roll of drums. The man to whom
she had given her maiden soul was gone.
"Cursed be their anger, for it was cruel!" says the reader. But
Monsieur Filon's stories sometimes end as merrily as they begin; and
always he is all delicacy--a delicacy which keeps his large yet minute
antiquarian knowledge of that vanished time ever in service to a direct
interest in humanity as it is permanently, alike before and after '93.
His book is certainly one well worth possessing.
THE END
16th July 1890
End of Project Gutenberg's Essays from 'The Guardian', by Walter Horatio Pater