May 1st.
These four days have seemed as if they never would end--especially the
last. But now it wants only two minutes of noon. In two minutes, if
Lampron is not late--
Rat-a-tat-tat!
“Come in.”
“It is twelve o’clock, my friend; are you coming?”
It was Lampron.
For the last hour I had had my hat on my head, my stick between my legs,
and had been turning over my essay with gloved hands. He laughed at me.
I don’t care. We walked, for the day was clear and warm. All the world
was out and about. Who can stay indoors on May Day? As we neared the
Chamber of Deputies, perambulators full of babies in white capes came
pouring from all the neighboring streets, and made their resplendent way
toward the Tuileries. Lampron was in a talkative mood. He was pleased
with the hanging of his pictures, and his plan of campaign against
Mademoiselle Jeanne.
“She is sure to have heard of it, Fabien, and perhaps is there already.
Who can tell?”
“Oh, cease your humbug! Yes, very possibly she is there before us. I
have had a feeling that she would be for these last four days.”
“You don’t say so!”
“I have pictured her a score of times ascending the staircase on
her father’s arm. We are at the foot, lost in the crowd. Her noble,
clear-cut profile stands out against the Gobelin tapestries which frame
it with their embroidered flowers; one would say some maiden of bygone
days had come to life, and stepped down from her tapestried panel.”
“Gentlemen!” said Lampron, with a sweep of his arm which took in the
whole of the Place de la Concorde, “allow me to present to you the
intending successor of Counsellor Mouillard, lawyer, of Bourges. Every
inch of him a man of business!”
We were getting near. Crowds were on their way to the exhibition from
all sides, women in spring frocks, many of the men in white waistcoats,
one hand in pocket, gayly flourishing their canes with the other,
as much as to say, “Look at me-well-to-do, jaunty, and out in fine
weather.” The turnstiles were crowded, but at last we got through. We
made but one step across the gravel court, the realm of sculpture where
antique gods in every posture formed a mythological circle round the
modern busts in the central walk. There was no loitering here, for my
heart was elsewhere. We cast a look at an old wounded Gaul, an ancestor
unhonored by the crowd, and started up the staircase--no Jeanne to lead
the way. We came to the first room of paintings. Sylvestre beamed like a
man who feels at home.
“Quick, Sylvestre, where is the sketch? Let’s hurry to it.”
But he dragged me with him around several rooms.
Have you ever experienced the intoxication of color which seizes the
uninitiated at the door of a picture-gallery? So many staring hues
impinge upon the eyes, so many ideas take confused shape and struggle
together in the brain, that the eyes grow weary and the brain harassed.
It hovers undecided like an insect in a meadow full of flowers. The
buzzing remarks of the crowd add to the feeling of intoxication. They
distract one’s attention before it can settle anywhere, and carry it off
to where some group is gathered before a great name, a costly frame, an
enormous canvas, or an outrage on taste; twenty men on a gallows
against a yellow sky, with twenty crows hovering over them, or an aged
antediluvian, some mighty hunter, completely nude and with no property
beyond a loaded club. One turns away, and the struggle begins again
between the eye, attracted by a hundred subjects, and the brain, which
would prefer to study one.
With Lampron this danger has no existence; he takes in a room at a
glance. He has the sportsman’s eye which, in a covey of partridges,
marks its bird at a glance. He never hesitates. “That is the thing to
make for,” he says, “come along”--and we make for it. He plants himself
right in front of the picture, with both hands in his overcoat pockets,
and his chin sunk in his collar; says nothing, but is quite happy
developing an idea which has occurred to him on his way to it; comparing
the picture before him with some former work by the same artist which
he remembers. His whole soul is concentrated on the picture. And when he
considers that I have understood and penetrated the meaning of the work,
he gives his opinion in few words, but always the right ones, summing up
a long sequence of ideas which I must have shared with him, since I see
exactly as he does.
In this way we halted before the “Martyrdom of Saint Denis,” by Bonnat,
the two “Adorations,” by Bouguereau, a landscape of Bernier’s, some
other landscapes, sea pieces, and portraits.
At last we left the oil paintings.
In the open gallery, which runs around the inside of the huge oblong and
looks on the court, the watercolors, engravings, and drawings slumbered,
neglected. Lampron went straight to his works. I should have awarded
them the medaille d’honneur; an etching of a man’s head, a large
engraving of the Virgin and Infant Jesus from the Salon Carre at the
Louvre, and the drawing which represents--
“Great Heavens! Sylvestre, she’s perfectly lovely; she will make a great
mistake if she does not come and see herself!”
“She will come, my dear sir; but I shall not be there to see her.”
“Are you going?”
“I leave you to stalk your game; be patient, and do not forget to come
and tell me the news this evening.”
“I promise.”
And Lampron vanished.
The drawing was hung about midway between two doorways draped with
curtains, that opened into the big galleries. I leaned against the
woodwork of one of them, and waited. On my left stretched a solitude
seldom troubled by the few visitors who risk themselves in the realms of
pen and pencil. These, too, only came to get fresh air, or to look down
on the many-colored crowd moving among the white statues below.
At my right, on the contrary, the battling currents of the crowd kept
passing and repassing, the provincial element easily distinguished by
its jaded demeanor. Stout, exhausted matrons, breathless fathers of
families, crowded the sofas, raising discouraged glances to the walls,
while around them turned and tripped, untiring as at a dance, legions
of Parisiennes, at ease, on their high heels, equally attentive to the
pictures, their own carriage, and their neighbors’ gowns.
O peaceful functionaries, you whose business it is to keep an eye upon
this ferment! unless the ceaseless flux of these human phenomena lull
you to a trance, what a quantity of silly speeches you must hear! I
picked up twenty in as many minutes.
Suddenly there came a sound of little footsteps in the gallery. Two
little girls had just come in, two sisters, doubtless, for both had
the same black eyes, pink dresses, and white feathers in their hats.
Hesitating, with outstretched necks, like fawns on the border of a
glade, they seemed disappointed at the unexpected length of the gallery.
They looked at each other and whispered. Then both smiled, and turning
their backs on each other, they set off, one to the right, the other to
the left, to examine the drawings which covered the walls. They made a
rapid examination, with which art had obviously little to do; they were
looking for something, and I thought it might be for Jeanne’s portrait.
And so it turned out; the one on my side soon came to a stop, pointed
a finger to the wall, and gave a little cry. The other ran up; they
clapped their hands.
“Bravo, bravo!”
Then off they went again through the farther door.
I guessed what they were about to do.
I trembled from head to foot, and hid myself farther behind the
curtains.
Not a minute elapsed before they were back, not two this time, but
three, and the third was Jeanne, whom they were pulling along between
them.
They brought her up to Lampron’s sketch, and curtsied neatly to her.
Jeanne bent down, smiled, and seemed pleased. Then, a doubt seizing her,
she turned her head and saw me. The smile died away; she blushed, a tear
seemed ready to start to her eyes. Oh, rapture! Jeanne, you are touched;
Jeanne, you understand!
A deep joy surged across my soul, so deep that I never have felt its
like.
Alas! at that instant some one called, “Jeanne!”
She stood up, took the two little girls by the hand, and was gone.
Far better had it been had I too fled, carrying with me that dream of
delight!
But no, I leaned forward to look after them. In the doorway beyond I saw
M. Charnot. A young man was with him, who spoke to Jeanne. She answered
him. Three words reached me:
“It’s nothing, George.”
The devil! She loves another!
May 2d.
In what a state of mind did I set out this morning to face my examiners!
Downhearted, worn out by a night of misery, indifferent to all that
might befall me, whether for good or for evil.
I considered myself, and indeed I was, very wretched, but I never
thought that I should return more wretched than I went.
It was lovely weather when at half past eleven I started for the Law
School with an annotated copy of my essay under my arm, thinking more
of the regrets for the past and plans for the future with which I had
wrestled all night, than of the ordeal I was about to undergo. I met in
the Luxembourg the little girl whom I had kissed the week before. She
stopped her hoop and stood in my way, staring with wideopen eyes and
a coaxing, cunning look, which meant, “I know you, I do!” I passed by
without noticing. She pouted her lip, and I saw that she was thinking,
“What’s the matter with him?”
What was the matter? My poor little golden-locks, when you are grown a
fair woman I trust you may know as little of it as you do to-day.
I went up the Rue Soufliot, and entered the stuffy courtyard on the
stroke of noon.
The morning lectures were over. Beneath the arcades a few scattered
students were walking up and down. I avoided them for fear of meeting
a friend and having to talk. Several professors came running from their
lunch, rather red in the face, at the summons of the secretary. These
were my examiners.
It was time to get into costume, for the candidate, like the criminal,
has his costume. The old usher, who has dressed me up I don’t know how
many times in his hired gowns, saw that I was downcast, and thought I
must be suffering from examination fever, a peculiar malady, which is
like what a young soldier feels the first time he is under fire.
We were alone in the dark robing-room; he walked round me, brushing and
encouraging me; doctors of law have a moral right to this touch of the
brush.
“It will be all right, Monsieur Mouillard, never fear. No one has been
refused a degree this morning.”
“I am not afraid, Michu.”
“When I say ‘no one,’ there was one refused--you never heard the
like. Just imagine--a little to the right, please, Monsieur
Mouillard--imagine, I say, a candidate who knew absolutely nothing. That
is nothing extraordinary. But this fellow, after the examination was
over, recommended himself to mercy. ‘Have compassion on me, gentlemen,’
he said, ‘I only wish to be a magistrate!’ Capital, isn’t it?”
“Yes, yes.”
“You don’t seem to think so. You don’t look like laughing this morning.”
“No, Michu, every one has his bothers, you know.”
“I said to myself as I looked at you just now, Monsieur Mouillard has
some bother. Button up all the way, if you please, for a doctor’s essay;
if-you-please. It’s a heartache, then?”
“Something of the kind.”
He shrugged his shoulders and went before me, struggling with an
asthmatic chuckle, until we came to the room set apart for the
examination.
It was the smallest and darkest of all, and borrowed its light from
a street which had little enough to spare, and spared as little as it
could. On the left against the wall is a raised desk for the candidate.
At the end, on a platform before a bookcase, sit the six examiners
in red robes, capes with three bands of ermine, and gold-laced caps.
Between the candidate’s desk and the door is a little enclosure for
spectators, of whom there were about thirty when I entered.
My performance, which had a chance of being brilliant, was only fair.
The three first examiners had read my essay, especially M. Flamaran, who
knew it well and had enjoyed its novel and audacious propositions. He
pursed up his mouth preparatory to putting the first question, like an
epicure sucking a ripe fruit. And when at length he opened it, amid
the general silence, it was to carry the discussion at once up to
such heights of abstraction that a good number of the audience, not
understanding a word of it, stealthily made for the door.
Each successive answer put fresh spirit into him.
“Very good,” he murmured, “very good; let us carry it a step farther.
Now supposing--”
And, the demon of logic at his heels, we both went off like inspired
lunatics into a world of hypotheses where never man had set foot. He
was examining no longer, he was inventing and intoxicating himself with
deductions. No one was right or wrong. We were reasoning about chimeras,
he radiant, I cool, before his gently tickled colleagues. I never
realized till then what imagination a jurist’s head could contain.
Perspiring freely, he set down a white mark, having exceeded by ten
minutes the recognized time for examination.
The second examiner was less enthusiastic. He made very few
suppositions, and devoted all his art to convicting me of a
contradiction between page seventeen and page seventy-nine. He
kept repeating, “It’s a serious matter, sir, very serious.” But,
nevertheless, he bestowed a second white mark on me. I only got half
white from the third. The rest of the examination was taken up in
matters extraneous to the subject of my essay, a commonplace trial
of strength, in which I replied with threadbare arguments to outworn
objections.
And then it ended. Two hours had passed.
I left the room while the examiners made up their minds.
A few friends came up to me.
“Congratulations, old man, I bet on six whites.”
“Hallo, Larive! I never noticed you.”
“I quite believe you; you didn’t notice anybody, you still look
bewildered. Is it the emotion inseparable from--”
“I dare say.”
“The candidate is requested to return to the examination room!” said the
usher.
And old Michu added, in a whisper, “You have passed. I told you so. You
won’t forget old Michu, sir.”
M. Flamaran conferred my degree with a paternal smile, and a few kind
words for “this conscientious study, full of fresh ideas on a difficult
subject.”
I bowed to the examiners. Larive was waiting for me in the courtyard,
and seized me by the arm.
“Uncle Mouillard will be pleased.”
“I suppose so.”
“Better pleased than you.”
“That’s very likely.”
“He might easily be that. Upon my word I can’t understand you. These two
years you have been working like a gang of niggers for your degree, and
now you have got it you don’t seem to care a bit. You have won a smile
from Flamaran and do not consider yourself a spoiled child of Fortune!
What more did you want? Did you expect that Mademoiselle Charnot would
come in person--”
“Look here, Larive--”
“To look on at your examination, and applaud your answers with her
neatly gloved hands? Surely you know, my dear fellow, that that is no
longer possible, and that she is going to be married.”
“Going to be married?”
“Don’t pretend you didn’t know it.”
“I have suspected as much since yesterday; I met her at the Salon, and
saw a young man with her.”
“Fair?”
“Yes.”
“Tall?”
“Rather.”
“Good-looking?”
“H’m--well”
“Dufilleul, old chap, friend Dufilleul. Don’t you know Dufilleul?”
“No.”
“Oh, yes you do--a bit of a stockjobber, great at ecarte, studied law in
our year, and is always to be seen at the Opera with little Tigra of the
Bouffes.”
“Poor girl!”
“You pity her?”
“It’s too awful.”
“What is?”
“To see an unhappy child married to a rake who--”
“She will not be the first.”
“A gambler!”
“Yes, there is that, to be sure.”
“A fool, as it seems, who, in exchange for her beauty, grace, and youth,
can offer only an assortment of damaged goods! Yes, I do pity girls
duped thus, deceived and sacrificed by the very purity that makes them
believe in that of others.”
“You’ve some queer notions! It’s the way of the world. If the innocent
victims were only to marry males of equal innocence, under the
guardianship of virtuous parents, the days of this world would be
numbered, my boy. I assure you that Dufilleul is a good match, handsome
for one thing--”
“That’s worth a deal!”
“Rich.”
“The deuce he is!”
“And then a name which can be divided.”
“Divided?”
“With all the ease in the world. A very rare quality. At his marriage
he describes himself as Monsieur du Filleul. A year later he is Baron
du Filleul. At the death of his father, an old cad, he becomes Comte
du Filleul. If the young wife is pretty and knows how to cajole her
husband, she may even become a marquise.”
“Ugh!”
“You are out of spirits, my poor fellow; I will stand you an absinthe,
the only beverage that will suit the bitterness of your heart.”
“No, I shall go home.”
“Good-by, then. You don’t take your degree cheerfully.”
“Good-by.”
He spun round on his heels and went down the Boulevard St. Michel.
So all is over forever between her and me, and, saddest of all, she is
even more to be pitied than I. Poor girl! I loved her deeply, but I did
it awkwardly, as I do everything, and missed my chance of speaking. The
mute declaration which I risked, or rather which a friend risked for me,
found her already engaged to this beast who has brought more skill to
the task, who has made no blots at the National Library, who has dared
all when he had everything to fear--
I have allowed myself to be taken by her maiden witchery. All the fault,
all the folly is mine. She has given me no encouragement, no sign of
liking me. If she smiled at St. Germain it was because she was surprised
and flattered. If she came near to tears at the Salon it was because she
pitied me. I have not the shadow of a reproach to make her.
That is all I shall ever get from her--a tear, a smile. That’s all;
never mind, I shall contrive to live on it. She has been my first love,
and I shall keep her a place in my heart from which no other shall drive
her. I shall now set to work to shut this poor heart which did so wrong
to open.... I thought to be happy to-night, and I am full of sorrow.
Henceforward I think I shall understand Sylvestre better. Our sorrows
will bring us nearer. I will go to see him at once, and will tell him
so.
But first I must write to my uncle to tell him that his nephew is a
Doctor of Law. All the rest, my plans, my whole future can be put off
till to-morrow, or the day after, unless I get disgusted at the very
thought of a future and decide to conjugate my life in the present
indicative only. That is what I feel inclined to do.
May 4th.
Lampron has gone to the country to pass a fortnight in an out-of-the-way
place with an old relative, where he goes into hiding when he wishes to
finish an engraving.
But Madame Lampron was at home. After a little hesitation I told her
all, and I am glad I did so. She found in her simple, womanly heart
just the counsel that I needed. One feels that she is used to giving
consolation. She possesses the secret of that feminine deftness which
is the great set-off to feminine weakness. Weak? Yes, women perhaps are
weak, yet less weak than we, the strong sex, for they can raise us to
our feet. She called me, “My dear Monsieur Fabien,” and there was
balm in the very way she said the words. I used to think she wanted
refinement; she does not, she only lacks reading, and lack of reading
may go with the most delicate and lofty feelings. No one ever taught her
certain turns of expression which she used. “If your mother was alive,”
said she, “this is what she would say.” And then she spoke to me of God,
who alone can determinate man’s trials, either by the end He ordains,
or the resignation He inspires. I felt myself carried with her into
the regions where our sorrows shrink into insignificance as the horizon
broadens around them. And I remember she uttered this fine thought, “See
how my son has suffered! It makes one believe, Monsieur Fabien, that the
elect of the earth are the hardest tried, just as the stones that crown
the building are more deeply cut than their fellows.”
I returned from Madame Lampron’s, softened, calmer, wiser.