May 5th.
A letter from M. Mouillard breathing fire and fury. Were I not so low
spirited I could laugh at it.
He would have liked me, after taking my degree at two in the afternoon,
to take the train for Bourges the same evening, where my uncle, his
practice, and provincial bliss awaited me. M. Mouillard’s friends had
had due notice, and would have come to meet me at the station. In short,
I am an ungrateful wretch. At least I might have fixed the hour of my
imminent arrival, for I can not want to stop in Paris with nothing there
to detain me. But no, not a sign, not a word of returning; simply the
announcement that I have passed. This goes beyond the bounds of mere
folly and carelessness. M. Mouillard, his most elementary notions of
life shaken to their foundations, concludes in these words:
“Fabien, I have long suspected it; some creature has you in bondage.
I am coming to break the bonds!
“BRUTUS MOUILLARD.”
I know him well; he will be here tomorrow.
May 6th.
No uncle as yet.
May 7th.
No more uncle than yesterday.
May 8th.
Total eclipse continues. No news of M. Mouillard. This is very strange.
May 9th.
This evening at seven o’clock, just as I was going out to dine, I saw,
a few yards away, a tall, broad-brimmed hat surmounting a head of lank
white hair, a long neck throttled in a white neckcloth, a frock-coat
flapping about a pair of attenuated legs. I lifted up my voice:
“Uncle!”
He opened his arms to me and I fell into them. His first remark was:
“I trust at least that you have not yet dined.”
“No, uncle.”
“To Foyot’s, then!”
When you expect to meet a man in his wrath and get an invitation to
dinner, you feel almost as if you had been taken in. You are heated,
your arguments are at your fingers’ ends, your stock of petulance is
ready for immediate use; and all have to be stored in bond.
When I had recovered from my surprise, I said:
“I expected you sooner, from your letter.”
“Your suppositions were correct. I have been two days here, at the
Grand Hotel. I went there on account of the dining-room, for my friend
Hublette (you remember Hublette at Bourges) told me: ‘Mouillard, you
must see that room before you retire from business.’”
“I should have gone to see you there, uncle, if I had known it.”
“You would not have found me. Business before pleasure, Fabien. I had to
see three barristers and five solicitors. You know that business of that
kind can not wait. I saw them. Business over, I can indulge my feelings.
Here I am. Does Foyot suit you?”
“Certainly, uncle.”
“Come on, then nephew, quick, march! Paris, makes one feel quite young
again!”
And really Uncle Mouillard did look quite young, almost as young as he
looked provincial. His tall figure, and the countrified cut of his coat,
made all who passed him turn to stare, accustomed as Parisians are to
curiosities. He tapped the wood pavement with his stick, admired
the effects of Wallace’s philanthropy, stopped before the enamelled
street-signs, and grew enthusiastic over the traffic in the Rue de
Vaugirard.
The dinner was capital--just the kind a generous uncle will give to a
blameless nephew. M. Mouillard, who has a long standing affection for
chambertin, ordered two bottles to begin with. He drank the whole of one
and half of the other, eating in proportion, and talked unceasingly
and positively at the top of his voice, as his wont was. He told me the
story of two of his best actions this year, a judicial separation--my
uncle is very strong in judicial separations--and the abduction of a
minor. At first I looked out for personal allusions. But no, he told
the story from pure love of his art, without omitting an interlocutory
judgment, or a judgment reserved, just as he would have told the story
of Helen and Paris, if he had been employed in that well-known case. Not
a word about myself. I waited, yet nothing came but the successive steps
in the action.
After the ice, M. Mouillard called for a cigar.
“Waiter, what cigars have you got?”
“Londres, conchas, regalias, cacadores, partagas, esceptionales. Which
would you like, sir?”
“Damn the name! a big one that will take some time to smoke.”
Emile displayed at the bottom of a box an object closely resembling a
distaff with a straw through the middle, doubtless some relic of the
last International Exhibition, abandoned by all, like the Great Eastern,
on account of its dimensions. My uncle seized it, stuck it in the amber
mouthpiece that is so familiar to me, lighted it, and under the pretext
that you must always first get the tobacco to burn evenly, went out
trailing behind him a cloud of smoke, like a gunboat at full speed.
We “did” the arcades round the Odeon, where my uncle spent an eternity
thumbing the books for sale. He took them all up one after another, from
the poetry of the decedents to the Veterinary Manual, gave a glance at
the author’s name, shrugged his shoulders, and always ended by turning
to me with:
“You know that writer?”
“Why, yes, uncle.”
“He must be quite a new author; I can’t recall that name.”
M. Mouillard forgot that it was forty-five years since he had last
visited the bookstalls under the Odeon.
He thought he was a student again, loafing along the arcades after
dinner, eager for novelty, careless of draughts. Little by little he
lost himself in dim reveries. His cigar never left his lips. The ash
grew longer and longer yet, a lovely white ash, slightly swollen at the
tip, dotted with little black specks, and connected with the cigar by a
thin red band which alternately glowed and faded as he drew his breath.
M. Mouillard was so lost in thought, and the ash was getting so long,
that a young student--of the age that knows no mercy-was struck by these
twin phenomena. I saw him nudge a friend, hastily roll a cigarette, and,
doffing his hat, accost my uncle.
“Might I trouble you for a light, sir!”
M. Mouillard emitted a sigh, turned slowly round, and bent two terrible
eyes upon the intruder, knocked off the ash with an angry gesture, and
held out the ignited end at arm’s length.
“With pleasure, sir!”
Then he replaced the last book he had taken up--a copy of Musset--and
called me.
“Come, Fabien.”
Arm in arm we strolled up the Rue de Medicis along the railings of the
Luxembourg.
I felt the crisis approaching. My uncle has a pet saying: “When a thing
is not clear to me, I go straight to the heart of it like a ferret.”
The ferret began to work.
“Now, Fabien, about these bonds I mentioned? Did I guess right?”
“Yes, uncle, I have been in bondage.”
“Quite right to make a clean breast of it, my boy; but we must break
your bonds.”
“They are broken.”
“How long ago?”
“Some days ago.”
“On your honor?”
“Yes.”
“That’s quite right. You’d have done better to keep out of bondage. But
there, you took your uncle’s advice; you saw the abyss, and drew back
from it. Quite right of you.”
“Uncle, I will not deceive you. Your letter arrived after the event. The
cause of the rupture was quite apart from that.”
“And the cause was?”
“The sudden shattering of my illusions.”
“Men still have illusions about these creatures?”
“She was a perfect creature, and worthy of all respect.”
“Come, come!”
“I must ask you to believe me. I thought her affections free.”
“And she was--”
“Betrothed.”
“Really now, that’s very funny!”
“I did not find it funny, uncle. I suffered bitterly, I assure you.”
“I dare say, I dare say. The illusions you spoke of anyhow, it’s all
over now?”
“Quite over.”
“Well, that being the case, Fabien, I am ready to help you. Confess
frankly to me. How much is required?”
“How much?”
“Yes, you want something, I dare say, to close the incident. You know
what I mean, eh? to purchase what I might call the veil of oblivion. How
much?”
“Why, nothing at all, uncle.”
“Don’t be afraid, Fabien; I’ve got the money with me.”
“You have quite mistaken the case, uncle; there is no question of
money. I must tell you again that the young lady is of the highest
respectability.”
My uncle stared.
“I assure you, uncle. I am speaking of Mademoiselle Jeanne Charnot.”
“I dare say.”
“The daughter of a member of the Institute.”
“What!”
My uncle gave a jump and stood still.
“Yes, of Mademoiselle Charnot, whom I was in love with and wished to
marry. Do you understand?”
He leaned against the railing and folded his arms.
“Marry! Well, I never! A woman you wanted to marry?”
“Why, yes; what’s the matter?”
“To marry! How could I have imagined such a thing? Here were matters of
the utmost importance going on, and I knew nothing about them.
Marry! You might be announcing your betrothal to me at this moment if
you’d-Still you are quite sure she is betrothed?”
“Larive told me so.”
“Who’s Larive?”
“A friend of mine.”
“Oh, so you have only heard it through a friend?”
“Yes, uncle. Do you really think there may still be hope, that I still
have a chance?”
“No, no; not the slightest. She is sure to be betrothed, very much
betrothed. I tell you I am glad she is. The Mouillards do not come to
Paris for their wives, Fabien--we do not want a Parisienne to carry on
the traditions of the family, and the practice. A Parisienne! I shudder
at the thought of it. Fabien, you will leave Paris with me to-morrow.
That’s understood.”
“Certainly not, uncle.”
“Your reasons?”
“Because I can not leave my friends without saying goodby, and because
I have need to reflect before definitely binding myself to the legal
profession.”
“To reflect! You want to reflect before taking over a family practice,
which has been destined for you since you were an infant, in view of
which you have been working for five years, and which I have nursed for
you, I, your uncle, as if you had been my son?”
“Yes, uncle.”
“Don’t be a fool! You can reflect at Bourges quite as well as here. Your
object in staying here is to see her again.”
“It is not.”
“To wander like a troubled spirit up and down her street. By the way,
which is her street?”
“Rue de l’Universite.”
My uncle took out his pocketbook and made a note, “Charnot, Rue de
l’Universite.” Then all his features expanded. He gave a snort, which
I understood, for I had often heard it in court at Bourges, where it
meant, “There is no escape now. Old Mouillard has cornered his man.”
My uncle replaced his pencil in its case, and his notebook in his
pocket, and merely added:
“Fabien, you’re not yourself to-night. We’ll talk of the matter another
time. Five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.” He was counting on his
fingers. “These return tickets are very convenient; I need not leave
before to-morrow evening. And, what’s more, you’ll go with me, my boy.”
M. Mouillard talked only on indifferent subjects during our brief walk
from the Rue Soufflot to catch the omnibus at the Odeon. There he shook
me by the hand and sprang nimbly into the first bus. A lady in black,
with veil tightly drawn over a little turned up nose, seeing my uncle
burst in like a bomb, and make for the seat beside her, hurriedly drew
in the folds of her dress, which were spread over the seat. My uncle
noticed her action, and, fearing he had been rude, bent over toward her
with an affable expression. “Do not disturb yourself, Madame. I am
not going all the way to Batignolles; no farther, indeed, than the
Boulevards. I shall inconvenience you for a few moments only, a very few
moments, Madame.” I had time to remark that the lady, after giving her
neighbor a glance of Juno-like disdain, turned her back upon him, and
proceeded to study the straps hanging from the roof.
The brake was taken off, the conductor whistled, the three horses, their
hoofs hammering the pavement, strained for an instant amid showers of
sparks, and the long vehicle vanished down the Rue de Vaugirard, bearing
with it Brutus and his fortunes.