MILAN, June 26th.
I have just had another letter from Sylvestre. My poor friend is very
miserable; his mother is dead--a saint if ever there was one. I was
very deeply touched by the news, although I knew this lovable woman very
slightly--too slightly, indeed, not having been a son, or related in any
way to her, but merely a passing stranger who found his way within the
horizon of her heart, that narrow limit within which she spread abroad
the treasures of her tenderness and wisdom. How terribly her son must
feel her loss!
He described in his letter her last moments, and the calmness with which
she met death, and added:
“One thing, which perhaps you will not understand, is the remorse
which is mingled with my sorrow. I lived with her forty years, and
have some right to be called ‘a good son.’ But, when I compare the
proofs of affection I gave her with those she gave me, the
sacrifices I made for her with those she made for me; when I think
of the egoism which found its way into our common life, on which I
founded my claims to merit, of the wealth of tenderness and sympathy
with which she repaid a few walks on my arm, a few kind words, and
of her really great forbearance in dwelling beneath the same roof
with me--I feel that I was ungrateful, and not worthy of the
happiness I enjoyed.
“I am tortured by the thought that it is impossible for me to repair
all my neglect, to pay a debt the greatness of which I now recognize
for the first time. She is gone. All is over. My prayers alone
can reach her, can tell her that I loved her, that I worshipped her,
that I might have been capable of doing all that I have left undone
for her.
“Oh, my friend, what pleasant duties have I lost! I mean, at least,
to fulfil her last wishes, and it is on account of one of them that
I am writing to you.
“You know that my mother was never quite pleased at my keeping at
home the portrait of her who was my first and only love. She would
have preferred that my eyes did not recall so often to my heart the
recollection of my long-past sorrows. I withstood her. On her
death-bed she begged me to give up the picture to, those who should
have had it long ago. ‘So long as I was here to comfort you in the
sorrows which the sight of it revived in you,’ she said, ‘I did not
press this upon you; but soon you will be left alone, with no one to
raise you when your spirits fail you. They have often begged you to
give up the picture to them. The time is come for you to grant
their prayers.’
“I promised.
“And now, dear friend, help me to keep my promise. I do not wish to
write to them. My hand would tremble, and they would tremble when
they saw my writing. Go and see them.
“They live about nine miles from Milan, on the Monza road, but
beyond that town, close to the village of Desio. The villa is
called Dannegianti, after its owners. It used to be hidden among
poplars, and its groves were famous for their shade. You must send
in your card to the old lady of the house together with mine. They
will receive you. Then you must break the news to them as you think
best, that, in accordance with the dying wish of Sylvestre Lampron’s
mother, the portrait of Rafaella is to be given in perpetuity to the
Villa Dannegianti. Given, you understand.
“You may even tell them that it is on its way. I have just arranged
with Plumet about packing it. He is a good workman, as you know.
To-morrow all will be ready, and my home an absolute void.
“I intend to take refuge in hard work, and I count upon you to
alleviate to some extent the hardships of such a method of
consolation.
“SYLVESTRE LAMPRON.”
When I got Lampron’s letter, at ten in the morning, I went at once to
see the landlord of the Albergo dell’ Agnello.
“You can get me a carriage for Desio, can’t you?”
“Oh, your lordship thinks of driving to Desio? That is quite right. It
is much more picturesque than going by train. A little way beyond Monza.
Monza, sir, is one of our richest jewels; you will see there--”
“Yes,” said I, repeating my Baedeker as accurately as he, “the Villa
Reale, and the Iron Crown of the Emperors of the West.”
“Exactly so, sir, and the cathedral built--”
“By Theodolinda, Queen of the Lombards, A.D. 595, restored in the
sixteenth century. I know; I only asked whether you could get me a
decent carriage.”
“A matchless one! At half-past three, when the heat is less intense,
your lordship will find the horses harnessed. You will have plenty of
time to get to Desio before sunset, and be back in time for supper.”
At the appointed time I received notice. My host had more than kept his
word, for the horses sped through Milan at a trot which they did not
relinquish when we got into the Como road, amid the flat and fertile
country which is called the garden of Italy.
After an hour and a half, including a brief halt at Monza, the coachman
drew up his horses before the first house in Desio--an inn.
It was a very poor inn, situated at the corner of the main street and
of a road which branched off into the country. In front of it a few
plane-trees, trained into an arbor, formed an arch of shade. A few feet
of vine clambered about their trunks. The sun was scorching the leaves
and the heavy bunches of grapes which hung here and there. The shutters
were closed, and the little house seemed to have been lulled to sleep by
the heat and light of the atmosphere and the buzzing of the gnats.
“Oh, go in; they’ll wake up at once,” said the coachman, who had divined
my thoughts.
Then, without waiting for my answer, like a man familiar with the
customs of the country, he took his horses down the road to the stable.
I went in. A swarm of bees and drones were buzzing like a whirlwind
beneath the plane-trees; a frightened white hen ran cackling from her
nest in the dust. No one appeared. I opened the door; still nobody was
to be seen. Inside I found a passage, with rooms to right and left and
a wooden staircase at the end. The house, having been kept well closed,
was cool and fresh. As I stood on the threshold striving to accustom my
eyes to the darkness of the interior, I heard the sound of voices to my
right:
“Picturesque as you please, but the journey has been a failure! These
people are no better than savages; introductions, distinctions, and I
may say even fame, had no effect upon them!”
“Do you think they have even read your letters?” “That would be still
worse, to refuse to read letters addressed to them! No, I tell you,
there’s no excuse.”
“They have suffered great trouble, I hear, and that is some excuse for
them, father.”
“No, my dear, there is no possible excuse for their keeping hidden
treasures of such scientific interest. I do not consider that even an
Italian nobleman, were he orphan from his cradle, and thrice a widower,
has any right to keep locked up from the investigation of scholars an
unequalled collection of Roman coins, and a very presentable show
of medallions and medals properly so-called. Are you aware that this
boorish patrician has in his possession the eight types of medal of the
gens Attilia?”
“Really?”
“I am certain of it, and he has the thirty-seven of the gens Cassia, one
hundred and eighteen to one hundred and twenty-one of the gens Cornelia,
the eleven Farsuleia, and dozens of Numitoria, Pompeia, and Scribonia,
all in perfect condition, as if fresh from the die. Besides these, he
has some large medals of the greatest rarity; the Marcus Aurelius with
his son on the reverse side, Theodora bearing the globe, and above
all the Annia Faustina with Heliogabalus on the reverse side, an
incomparable treasure, of which there is only one other example, and
that an imperfect one, in the world--a marvel which I would give a day
of my life to see; yes, my dear, a day of my life!”
Such talk as this, in French, in such an inn as this!
I felt a presentiment, and stepped softly to the right-hand door.
In the darkened room, lighted only by a few rays filtered between the
slats of the shutters, sat a young girl. Her hat was hung upon a nail
above her head; one arm rested on a wretched white wood table; her
head was bent forward in mournful resignation. On the other side of the
table, her father was leaning back in his chair against the whitewashed
wall, with folded arms, heightened color, and every sign of extreme
disgust. Both rose as I entered--Jeanne first, M. Charnot after her.
They were astonished at seeing me.
I was no less astounded than they.
We stood and stared at each other for some time, to make sure that we
were not dreaming.
M. Charnot was the first to break the silence. He did not seem
altogether pleased at my appearance, and turned to his daughter, whose
face had grown very red and yet rather chilling:
“Jeanne, put your hat on; it is time to go to the station.” Then he
addressed me:
“We shall leave you the room to yourself, sir; and since the most
extraordinary coincidence”--he emphasized the words--“has brought you to
this damnable village, I hope you will enjoy your visit.”
“Have you been here long, Monsieur?”
“Two hours, Monsieur, two mortal hours in this inn, fried by the sun,
bored to death, murdered piecemeal by flies, and infuriated by the want
of hospitality in this out-of-the-way hole in Lombardy.”
“Yes, I noticed that the host was nowhere to be seen, and that is the
reason why I came in here; I had no idea that I should have the honor of
meeting you.”
“Good God! I’m not complaining of him! He’s asleep in his barn over
there. You can wake him up; he doesn’t mind showing himself; he even
makes himself agreeable when he has finished his siesta.”
“I only wish to ask him one question, which perhaps you could answer,
Monsieur; then I need not waken him. Could you tell me the way to the
Villa Dannegianti?”
M. Charnot walked up to me, looked me straight in the eyes, shrugged his
shoulders, and burst out laughing.
“The Villa Dannegianti!”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“Are you going to the Villa Dannegianti?”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“Then you may as well turn round and go home again.”
“Why?”
“Because there’s no admission.”
“But I have a letter of introduction.”
“I had two, Monsieur, without counting the initials after my name, which
are worth something and have opened the doors of more than one foreign
collection for me; yet they denied me admission! Think of it! The porter
of that insolent family denied me admission! Do you expect to succeed
after that?”
“I do, Monsieur.”
My words seemed to him the height of presumption.
“Come, Jeanne,” he said, “let us leave this gentleman to his youthful
illusions. They will soon be shattered--very soon.”
He gave me an ironical smile and made for the door.
At this moment Jeanne dropped her sunshade. I picked it up for her.
“Thank you, Monsieur,” she said.
Of course these words were no more than ordinarily polite. She would
have said the same to the first comer. Nothing in her attitude or her
look displayed any emotion which might put a value on this common form
of speech. But it was her voice, that music I so often dream of. Had it
spoken insults, I should have found it sweet. It inspired me with the
sudden resolution of detaining this fugitive apparition, of resting, if
possible, another hour near her to whose side an unexpected stroke of
fortune had brought me.
M. Charnot had already left the room; his rotund shadow rested on the
wall of the passage. He held a travelling-bag in his hand.
“Monsieur,” said I, “I am sorry that you are obliged to return already
to Milan. I am quite certain of admission to the Villa Dannegianti, and
it would have given me pleasure to repair a mistake which is clearly due
only to the stupidity of the servants.”
He stopped; the stroke had told.
“It is certainly quite possible that they never looked at my card or my
letters. But allow me to ask, since my card did not reach the host, what
secret you possess to enable yours to get to him?”
“No secret at all, still less any merit of my own. I am the bearer of
news of great importance to the owners of the villa, news of a purely
private nature. They will be obliged to see me. My first care, when
I had fulfilled my mission, would have been to mention your name. You
would have been able to go over the house, and inspect a collection of
medals which, I have heard, is a very fine one.”
“Unique, Monsieur!”
“Unfortunately you are going away, and to-morrow I have to leave Milan
myself, for Paris.”
“You have been some time in Italy, then?”
“Nearly a fortnight.”
M. Charnot gave his daughter a meaning look, and suddenly became more
friendly.
“I thought you had just come. We have not been here so long,” he added;
“my daughter has been a little out of sorts, and the doctor advised us
to travel for change of air. Paris is not healthful in this very hot
weather.”
He looked hard at me to see whether his fib had taken me in. I replied,
with an air of the utmost conviction, “That is putting it mildly. Paris,
in July, is uninhabitable.”
“That’s it, Monsieur, uninhabitable; we were forced to leave it. We soon
made up our minds, and, in spite of the time of the year, we turned our
steps toward the home of the classics, to Italy, the museum of Europe.
And you really think, then, that by means of your good offices we should
have been admitted to the villa?”
“Yes, Monsieur, but owing only to the missive with which I am
entrusted.”
M. Charnot hesitated. He was probably thinking of the blot of ink,
and certainly of M. Mouillard’s visit. But he doubtless reflected that
Jeanne knew nothing of the old lawyer’s proceedings, that we were far
from Paris, that the opportunity was not to be lost; and in the end his
passion for numismatics conquered at once his resentment as a bookworm
and his scruples as a father.
“There is a later train at ten minutes to eight, father,” said Jeanne.
“Well, dear, do you care to try your luck again, and return to the
assault of that Annia Faustina?”
“As you please, father.”
We left the inn together by the by-road down the hill. I could not
believe my eyes. This old man with refined features who walked on my
left, leaning on his malacca cane, was M. Charnot. The same man who
received me so discourteously the day after I made my blot was now
relying on me to introduce him to an Italian nobleman; on me, a lawyer’s
clerk. I led him on with confidence, and both of us, carried away by our
divers hopes, he dreaming of medals, I of the reopened horizon full of
possibilities, conversed on indifferent subjects with a freedom hitherto
unknown between us.
And this charming Parisienne, whose presence I divined rather than saw,
whom I dared not look in the face, who stepped along by her father’s
side, light of foot, her eyes seeking the vault of heaven, her ear
attentive though her thoughts were elsewhere, catching her Parisian
sunshade in the hawthorns of Desio, was Jeanne, Jeanne of the
flower-market, Jeanne whom Lampron had sketched in the woods of St.
Germain! It did not seem possible.
Yet it was so, for we arrived together at the gates of the Villa
Dannegianti, which is hardly a mile from the inn.
I rang the bell. The fat, idle, insolent Italian porter was beginning
to refuse me admission, with the same words and gestures which he had so
often used. But I explained, in my purest Tuscan, that I was not of the
ordinary kind of importunate tourist. I told him that he ran a serious
risk if he did not immediately hand my card and my letter--Lampron’s
card in an envelope--to the Comtesse Dannegianti.
From his stony glare I could not tell whether I had produced any
impression, nor even whether he had understood. He turned on his heel
with his keys in one hand and the letter in the other, and went on his
way through the shady avenue, rolling his broad back from side to side,
attired in a jacket which might have fitted in front, but was all too
short behind.
The shady precincts of which Lampron wrote did not seem to have been
pruned. The park was cool and green. At the end of the avenue of
plane-trees, alternating with secular hawthorns cut into pyramids, we
could see the square mass of the villa just peeping over the immense
clumps of trees. Beyond it the tops and naked trunks of a group of
umbrella pines stood silhouetted against the sky.
The porter returned, solemn and impassive. He opened the gate without
a word. We all passed through--M. Charnot somewhat uneasy at entering
under false pretenses, as I guessed from the way he suddenly drew up his
head. Jeanne seemed pleased; she smoothed down a fold which the wind had
raised in her frock, spread out a flounce, drew herself up, pushed back
a hairpin which her fair tresses had dragged out of its place, all
in quick, deft, and graceful movements, like a goldfinch preening its
feathers.
We reached the terrace, and arranged that M. and Mademoiselle Charnot
should wait in an alley close at hand till I received permission to
visit the collections.
I entered the house, and following a lackey, crossed a large
mosaic-paved hall, divided by columns of rare marbles into panels filled
with mediocre frescoes on a very large scale. At the end of this hall
was the Countess’s room, which formed a striking contrast, being small,
panelled with wood, and filled with devotional knick-knacks that gave it
the look of a chapel.
As I entered, an old lady half rose from an armchair, which she could
have used as a house, the chair was so large and she was so small. At
first I could distinguish only two bright, anxious eyes. She looked at
me like a prisoner awaiting a verdict. I began by telling her of the
death of Lampron’s mother. Her only answer was an attentive nod. She
guessed something else was coming and stood on guard, so to speak. I
went on and told her that the portrait of her daughter was on its way
to her. Then she forgot everything--her age, her rank, and the mournful
reserve which had hitherto hedged her about. Her motherly heart alone
spoke within her; a ray of light had come to brighten the incurable
gloom which was killing her; she rushed toward me and fell into my arms,
and I felt against my heart her poor aged body shaking with sobs. She
thanked me in a flood of words which I did not catch. Then she drew back
and gazed at me, seeking to read in my eyes some emotion responsive to
her own, and her eyes, red and swollen and feverishly bright, questioned
me more clearly than her words.
“How good are you, sir! and how generous is he! What life does he lead?
Has he ever lived down the sorrow which blasted his youth here? Men
forget more easily, happily for them. I had given up all hope of
obtaining the portrait. Every year I sent him flowers which meant,
‘Restore to us all that is left of our dead Rafaella.’ Perhaps it was
unkind. I did reproach myself at times for it. But I was her mother, you
know; the mother of that peerless girl! And the portrait is so good, so
like! He has never altered it? tell me; never retouched it? Time has not
marred the lifelike coloring? I shall now have the mournful consolation
I have so long desired; I shall always have before me the counterpart
of my lost darling, and can gaze upon that face which none could depict
save he who loved her; for, dreadful though it be to think of, the image
of the best beloved will change and fade away even in a mother’s heart,
and at times I doubt whether my old memory is still faithful, and
recalls all her grace and beauty as clearly as it used to do when the
wound was fresh in my heart and my eyes were still filled with the
loveliness of her. Oh, Monsieur, Monsieur! to think that I shall see
that face once more!”
She left me as quickly as she had come, and went to open a door on the
left, into an adjoining room, whose red hangings threw a ruddy glow upon
the polished floor.
“Cristoforo!” she cried, “Cristoforo! come and see a French gentleman
who brings us great news. The portrait of our Rafaella, Cristoforo, the
portrait we have so long desired, is at last to be given to us!”
I heard a chair move, and a slow footstep. Cristoforo appeared, with
white hair and black moustache, his tall figure buttoned up in an
old-fashioned frockcoat, the petrified, mummified remains of a once
handsome man. He walked up to me, took both my hands and shook them
ceremoniously. His face showed no traces of emotion; his eyes were dry,
and he had not a word to say. Did he understand? I really do not know.
He seemed to think the affair was an ordinary introduction. As I looked
at him his wife’s words came back to me, “Men forget sooner.” She gazed
at him as if she would put blood into his veins, where it had long
ceased to flow.
“Cristoforo, I know this will be a great joy to you, and you will join
with me in thanking Monsieur Lampron for his generosity. You, sir,
will express to him all the Count’s gratitude and my own, and also the
sympathy we feel for him in his recent loss. Besides, we shall write to
him. Is Monsieur Lampron rich?”
“I had forgotten to tell you, Madame, that my friend will accept nothing
but thanks.”
“Ah, that is truly noble of him, is it not, Cristoforo?”
All the answer the old Count made was to take my hands and shake them
again.
I used the opportunity to put forward my request in behalf of M.
Charnot. He listened attentively.
“I will give orders. You shall see everything--everything.”
Then, considering our interview at an end, he bowed and withdrew to his
own apartments.
I looked for the Countess Dannegianti. She had sunk into her great
armchair, and was weeping hot tears.
Ten minutes later, M. Charnot and Jeanne entered with me into the
jealously guarded museum.
Museum was the only name to give to a collection of such artistic value,
occupying, as it did, the whole of the ground floor to the right of
the hall. Two rooms ran parallel to each other, filled with pictures,
medals, and engravings, and were connected by a narrow gallery devoted
to sculpture.
Hardly was the door opened when M. Charnot sought the famous medals with
his eye. There they were in the middle of the room in two rows of cases.
He was deeply moved. I thought he was about to make a raid upon them,
attracted after his kind by the ‘auri sacra fames’, by the yellow gleam
of those ancient coins, the names, family, obverse and reverse of which
he knew by heart. But I little understood the enthusiast.
He drew out his handkerchief and spectacles, and while he was wiping the
glasses he gave a rapid and impatient glance at the works that adorned
the walls. None of them could charm the numismatist’s heart. After he
had enjoyed the pleasure of proving how feeble in comparison were the
charms of a Titian or a Veronese, then only did M. Charnot walk step by
step to the first case and bend reverently over it.
Yet the collection of paintings was unworthy of such disdain. The
pictures were few, but all were signed with great names, most of them
Italian, a few Dutch, Flemish, or German. I began to work systematically
through them, pleased at the want of a catalogue and the small number of
inscriptions on the frames. To be your own guide doubles your pleasure;
you can get your impression of a picture entirely at first hand; you
are filled with admiration without any one having told you that you
are bound to go into ecstasies. You can work out for yourself from a
picture, by induction and comparison, its subject, its school, and
its author, unless it proclaims, in every stroke of the brush, “I am a
Hobbema,” “a Perugino,” or “a Giotto.”
I was somewhat distracted, however, by the voice of the old numismatist,
as he peered into the cases, and constrained his daughter to share in
the exuberance of his learned enthusiasm.
“Jeanne, look at this; crowned head of Cleopatra, Mark Antony on the
reverse; in perfect condition, isn’t it? See, an Italian ‘as-Iguvium
Umbriae’, which my friend Pousselot has sought these thirty years! Oh,
my dear, this is important: Annius Verus on the reverse of Commodus,
both as children, a rare example--yet not as rare as--Jeanne, you must
engrave this gold medal in your heart, it is priceless: head of Augustus
with laurel, Diana walking on the reverse. You ought to take an interest
in her. Diana the fair huntress.
“This collection is heavenly! Wait a minute; we shall soon come to the
Annia Faustina.”
Jeanne made no objection, but smiled softly upon the Cleopatra, the
Umbrian ‘as’, and the fair huntress.
Little by little her father’s enthusiasm expanded over the vast
collection of treasures. He took out his pocketbook and began to make
notes. Jeanne raised her eyes to the walls, took one glance, then a
second, and, not being called back to the medals, stepped softly up to
the picture at which I had begun.
She went quickly from one to another having evidently no more than a
child’s untutored taste for pictures. As I, on the contrary, was getting
on very slowly, she was bound to overtake me. You may be sure I took no
steps to prevent it, and so in a very short time we were both standing
before the same picture, a portrait of Holbein the younger. A subject of
conversation was ready to hand.
“Mademoiselle,” said I, “do you like this Holbein?”
“You must admit, sir, that the old gentleman is exceedingly plain.”
“Yes, but the painting is exquisite. See how powerful is the drawing
of the head, how clear and deep the colors remain after more than three
hundred years. What a good likeness it must have been! The subject tells
his own story: he must have been a nobleman of the court of Henry VIII,
a Protestant in favor with the King, wily but illiterate, and wishing
from the bottom of his heart that he were back with the companions of
his youth at home in his country house, hunting and drinking at his
ease. It is really the study of a man’s character. Look at this Rubens
beside it, a mere mass of flesh scarcely held together by a spirit, a
style that is exuberantly material, all color and no expression.
Here you have spirituality on one side and materialism on the other,
unconscious, perhaps, but unmistakable. Compare, again, with these two
pictures this little drawing, doubtless by Perugino, just a sketch of
an angel for an Annunciation; notice the purity of outline, the ideal
atmosphere in which the painter lives and with which he impregnates his
work. You see he comes of a school of poets and mystics, gifted with
a second sight which enabled them to beautify this world and raise
themselves above it.”
I was pleased with my little lecture, and so was Jeanne. I could tell
it by her surprised expression, and by the looks she cast toward her
father, who was still taking notes, to see whether she might go on with
her first lesson in art.
He smiled in a friendly way, which meant:
“I’m happy here, my dear, thank you; ‘va piano va sano’.”
This was as good as permission. We went on our way, saluting, as we
passed, Tintoretto and Titian, Veronese and Andrea Solari, old Cimabue,
and a few early paintings of angular virgins on golden backgrounds.
Jeanne was no longer bored.
“And is this,” she would say, “another Venetian, or a Lombard, or a
Florentine?”
We soon completed the round of the first room, and made our way into the
gallery beyond, devoted to sculpture. The marble gods and goddesses,
the lovely fragments of frieze or cornice from the excavations at
Rome, Pompeii, or Greece, had but a moderate interest for Mademoiselle
Charnot. She never gave more than one glance to each statue, to some
none at all.
We soon came to the end of the gallery, and the door which gave access
into the second room of paintings.
Suddenly Jeanne gave an exclamation of surprise.
“What is that?” she said.
Beneath the large and lofty window, fanned on the outside by leafy
branches, a wooden panel, bearing an inscription, stood upright against
the wall. The words were painted in black on a white ground, and
arranged with considerable skill, after the style of the classic
epitaphs which the Italians still cultivate.
I drew aside the folds of a curtain:
“It is one of those memorial tablets, Mademoiselle, such as people hang
up in this part of the country upon the church doors on the day of the
funeral. It means:
“To thee, Rafaella Dannegianti--who, aged twenty years and few
months--having fully experienced the sorrows and illusions of this
world--on January 6--like an angel longing for its heavenly home--didst
wing thy way to God in peace and happiness--the clergy of Desioand the
laborers and artificers of the noble house of Dannegianti--tender these
last solemn offices.”
“This Rafaella, then, was the Count’s daughter?”
“His only child, a girl lovely and gracious beyond rivalry.”
“Oh, of course, beyond rivalry. Are not all only daughters lovely and
perfect when once they are dead?” she replied with a bitter smile. “They
have their legend, their cult, and usually a flattering portrait. I
am surprised that Rafaella’s is not here. I imagine her portrait as
representing a tall girl, with long, well-arched eyebrows, and brown
eyes--”
“Greenish-brown.”
“Green, if you prefer it; a small nose, cherry lips, and a mass of light
brown hair.”
“Golden brown would be more correct.”
“Have you seen it, then? Is there one?”
“Yes, Mademoiselle, and it lacks no perfection that you could imagine,
not even that smile of happy youth which was a falsehood ere the paint
had yet dried on the canvas. Here, before this relic, which recalls it
to my thoughts, I must confess that I am touched.”
She looked at me in astonishment.
“Where is the portrait? Not here?”
“No, it is at Paris, in my friend Lampron’s studio.”
“O--oh!” She blushed slightly.
“Yes, Mademoiselle, it is at once a masterpiece and a sad reminder. The
story is very simple, and I am sure my friend would not mind my telling
it to you--to you if to no other--before these relics of the past.
“When Lampron was a young man travelling in Italy he fell in love with
this young girl, whose portrait he was painting. He loved her, perhaps
without confessing it to himself, certainly without avowing it to her.
Such is the way of timid and humble men of heart, men whose love is
nearly always misconstrued when it ceases to be unnoticed. My friend
risked the happiness of his life, fearlessly, without calculation--and
lost it. A day came when Rafaella Dannegianti was carried off by her
parents, who shuddered at the thought of her stooping to a painter, even
though he were a genius.”
“So she died?”
“A year later. He never got over it. Even while I speak to you, he in
his loneliness is pondering and weeping over these very lines which you
have just read without a suspicion of the depth of their bitterness.”
“He has known bereavement,” said she; “I pity him with all my heart.”
Her eyes filled with tears. She repeated the words, whose meaning was
now clear to her, “A to Rafaella.” Then she knelt down softly before the
mournful inscription. I saw her bow her head. Jeanne was praying.
It was touching to see the young girl, whom chance had placed before
this simple testimony of a sorrow now long past, deeply moved by the sad
tale of love, filled with tender pity for the dead Rafaella, her fellow
in youth and beauty and perhaps in destiny, finding in her heart the
tender impulse to kneel without a word, as if beside the grave of
a friend. The daylight’s last rays streaming in through the window
illumined her bowed head.
I drew back, with a touch of awe.
M. Charnot appeared.
He went up to his daughter and tapped her on the shoulder. She rose with
a blush.
“What are you doing there?” he said.
Then he adjusted his glasses and read the Italian inscription.
“You really take unnecessary trouble in kneeling down to decipher a
thing like that. You can see at once that it’s a modern panel, and of
no value. Monsieur,” he added, turning to me, “I do not know what your
plans are, but unless you intend to sleep at Desio, we must be off, for
the night is falling.”
We left the villa.
Out of doors it was still light, but with the afterglow. The sun was out
of sight, but the earth was still enveloped, as it were, in a haze of
luminous dust.
M. Charnot pulled out his watch.
“Seven minutes past eight. What time does the last train start, Jeanne?”
“At ten minutes to eight.”
“Confusion! we are stranded in Desio! The mere thought of passing the
night in that inn gives me the creeps. I see no way out of it unless
Monsieur Mouillard can get us one of the Count’s state coaches. There
isn’t a carriage to be got in this infernal village!”
“There is mine, Monsieur, which luckily holds four, and is quite at your
service.”
“Upon my word, I am very much obliged to you. The drive by moonlight
will be quite romantic.”
He drew near to Jeanne and whispered in her ear:
“Are you sure you’ve wraps enough? a shawl, or a cape, or some kind of
pelisse?”
She gave a merry nod of assent.
“Don’t worry yourself, father; I am prepared for all emergencies.”
At half-past eight we left Desio together, and I silently blessed the
host of the Albergo dell’ Agnello, who had assured me that the carriage
road was “so much more picturesque.” I found it so, indeed.
M. Charnot and Jeanne faced the horses. I sat opposite to M. Charnot,
who was in the best of spirits after all the medals he had seen.
Comfortably settled in the cushions, careless of the accidents of the
road, with graphic and untiring forefinger, he undertook to describe his
travels in Greece, whither he had been sent on some learned enterprise
by the Minister of Education, and had carried an imagination already
prepossessed and dazzled with Homeric visions. He told his story well
and with detail, combining the recollections of the scholar with the
impressions of an artist. The pediment of the Parthenon, the oleanders
of the Ilissus, the stream “that runs in rain-time,” the naked peak of
Parnassus, the green slopes of Helicon, the blue gulf of Argus, the
pine forest beside Alpheus, where the ancients worshipped “Death the
Gentle”--all of them passed in recount upon his learned lips.
I must acknowledge, to my shame, that I did not listen to all he said,
but, in a favorite way I have, reserved some of my own freedom of
thought, while I gave him complete freedom of speech. And I am bound
to say he did not abuse it, but consented to pause at the frontiers
of Thessaly. Then followed silence. I gave him room to stretch. Soon,
lulled by the motion of the carriage, the stream of reminiscence ran
more slowly--then ran dry. M. Charnot slept.
We bowled at a good pace, without jolting, over the white road. A warm
mist rose around us laden with the smell of vegetation, ripe corn, and
clover from the overheated earth and the neighboring fields, which had
drunk their full of sunlight. Now and again a breath of fresh air was
blown to us from the mountains. As the darkness deepened the country
grew to look like a vast chessboard, with dark and light squares of
grass and corn land, melting at no great distance into a colorless and
unbroken horizon. But as night blotted out the earth, the heaven lighted
up its stars. Never have I seen them so lustrous nor in such number.
Jeanne reclined with her eyes upturned toward those limitless fields of
prayer and vision; and their radiance, benignly gentle, rested on her
face. Was she tired or downcast, or merely dreaming? I knew not. But
there was something so singularly poetic in her look and attitude that
she seemed to me to epitomize in herself all the beauty of the night.
I was afraid to speak. Her father’s sleep, and our consequent isolation,
made me ill at ease. She, too, seemed so careless of my presence, so far
away in dreamland, that I had to await opportunity, or rather her leave,
to recall her from it.
Finally she broke the silence herself. A little beyond Monza she drew
closer her shawl, that the night wind had ruffled, and bent over toward
me:
“You must excuse my father; he is rather tired this evening, for he has
been on his feet since five o’clock.”
“The day has been so hot, too, Mademoiselle, and the medals ‘came not
in single spies, but in battalions’; he has a right to sleep after the
battle.”
“Dear old father! You gave him a real treat, for which he will always be
obliged to you.”
“I trust the recollection of to-day will efface that of the blot of ink,
for which I am still filled with remorse.”
“Remorse is rather a serious word.”
“No, Mademoiselle, I really mean remorse, for I wounded the feelings
of a gentleman who has every claim on my respect. I never have dared to
speak of this before. But if you would be kind enough to tell Monsieur
Charnot how sorry I have been for it, you would relieve me of a burden.”
I saw her eyes fixed upon me for a moment with a look of attention not
previously granted to me. She seemed pleased.
“With all my heart,” she said.
There was a moment’s silence.
“Was this Rafaella, whose story you have told me, worthy of your
friend’s long regret?”
“I must believe so.”
“It is a very touching story. Are you fond of Monsieur Lampron?”
“Beyond expression, Mademoiselle; he is so openhearted, so true a
friend, he has the soul of the artist and the seer. I am sure you would
rate him very highly if you knew him.”
“But I do know him, at least by his works. Where am I to be seen now, by
the way? What has become of my portrait?”
“It’s at Lampron’s house, in his mother’s room, where Monsieur Charnot
can go and see it if he likes.”
“My father does not know of its existence,” she said, with a glance at
the slumbering man of learning.
“Has he not seen it?”
“No, he would have made so much ado about nothing. So Monsieur Lampron
has kept the sketch? I thought it had been sold long ago.”
“Sold! you did not think he would sell it!”
“Why not? Every artist has the right to sell his works.”
“Not work of that kind.”
“Just as much as any other kind.”
“No, he could not have done that. He would no more sell it than he would
sell the portrait of Rafaella Dannegianti. They are two similar relics,
two precious reminiscences.”
Mademoiselle Charnot turned, without a reply, to look at the country
which was flying past us in the darkness.
I could just see her profile, and the nervous movement of her eyelids.
As she made no attempt to speak, her silence emboldened me.
“Yes, Mademoiselle, two similar relics, yet sometimes in my hours of
madness--as to-day, for instance, here, with you near me--I dare to
think that I might be less unfortunate than my friend--that his dream is
gone forever--but that mine might return to me--if you were willing.”
She quickly turned toward me, and in the darkness I saw her eyes fixed
on mine.
Did the darkness deceive me as to the meaning of this mute response? Was
I the victim of a fresh delusion? I fancied that Jeanne looked sad, that
perhaps she was thinking of the oaths sworn only to be broken by her
former lover, but that she was not quite displeased.
However, it lasted only for a second. When she spoke, it was in a higher
key:
“Don’t you think the breeze is very fresh this evening?”
A long-drawn sigh came from the back part of the carriage. M. Charnot
was waking up.
He wished to prove that he had only been meditating.
“Yes, my dear, it’s a charming evening,” he replied; “these Italian
nights certainly keep up their reputation.”
Ten minutes later the carriage drew up, and M. Charnot shook hands with
me before the door of his hotel.
“Many thanks, my dear young sir, for this delightful drive home! I hope
we shall meet again. We are off to Florence to-morrow; is there anything
I can do for you there?”
“No, thank you.”
Mademoiselle Charnot gave me a slight bow. I watched her mount the first
few steps of the staircase, with one hand shading her eyes from the
glare of the gaslights, and the other holding up her wraps, which had
come unfolded and were falling around her.
BOOK 3.
CHAPTER XV. BACK TO PARIS
MILAN, June 27th. Before daybreak.
He asked me whether there was anything he could do for me at Florence.
There is something, but he would refuse to do it; for I wish him to
inform his charming daughter that my thoughts are all of her; that I
have spent the night recalling yesterday’s trip--now the roads of Desio
and the galleries of the villa, now the drive back to Milan. M. Charnot
only figured in my dreams as sleeping. I seemed to have found my tongue,
and to be pouring forth a string of well-turned speeches which I never
should have ready at real need. If I could only see her again now that
all my plans are weighed and thought out and combined! Really, it is
hard that one can not live one’s life over twice--at least certain
passages in it-this episode, for instance....
What is her opinion of me? When her eyes fixed themselves on mine I
thought I could read in their depths a look of inquiry, a touch of
surprise, a grain of disquiet. But her answer? She is going to Florence
bearing with her the answer on which my life depends. They are leaving
by the early express. Shall I take it, too? Florence, Rome, Naples--why
not? Italy is free to all, and particularly to lovers. I will toss my
cap over the mill for the second time. I will get money from somewhere.
If I am not allowed to show myself, I will look on from a distance,
hidden in the crowd. At a pinch I will disguise myself--as a guide at
Pompeii, a lazzarone at Naples. She shall find a sonnet in the bunch of
fresh flowers offered her by a peasant at the door of her hotel. And at
least I shall bask in her smile, the sound of her voice, the glints of
gold about her temples, and the pleasure of knowing that she is near
even when I do not see her.
On second thoughts; no; I will not go to Florence. As I always distrust
first impulses, which so often run reason to a standstill, I had
recourse to a favorite device of mine. I asked myself: What would
Lampron advise? And at once I conjured up his melancholy, noble face,
and heard his answer: “Come back, my dear boy.”
PARIS, July 2d.
When you arrive by night, and from the windows of the flying train, as
it whirls past the streets at full speed, you see Paris enveloped in
red steam, pierced by starry lines of gas-lamps crisscrossing in every
direction, the sight is weird, and almost beautiful. You might fancy it
the closing scene of some gigantic gala, where strings upon strings
of colored lanterns brighten the night above a moving throng, passing,
repassing, and raising a cloud of dust that reddens in the glow of
expiring Bengal lights.
Moreover, the illusion is in part a reality, for the great city is in
truth lighted for its nightly revel. Till one o’clock in the morning it
is alight and riotous with the stir and swing of life.
But the dawn is bleak enough.
That, delicious hour which puts a spirit of joy into green field
and hedgerow is awful to look upon in Paris. You leave the train
half-frozen, to find the porters red-eyed from their watch. The customs
officials, in a kind of stupor, scrawl cabalistic signs upon your trunk.
You get outside the station, to find a few scattered cabs, their drivers
asleep inside, their lamps blinking in the mist.
“Cabby, are you disengaged?”
“Depends where you want to go.”
“No. 91 Rue de Rennes.”
“Jump in!”
The blank streets stretch out interminably, gray and silent; the shops
on either hand are shuttered; in the squares you will find only a dog
or a scavenger; theatre bills hang in rags around the kiosks, the wind
sweeps their tattered fragments along the asphalt in yesterday’s dust,
with here and there a bunch of faded flowers. The Seine washes around
its motionless boats; two great-coated policemen patrol the bank and
wake the echoes with their tramp. The fountains have ceased to play, and
their basins are dry. The air is chilly, and sick with evil odors. The
whole drive is like a bad dream. Such was my drive from the Gare de Lyon
to my rooms. When I was once at home, installed in my own domains, this
unpleasant impression gradually wore off. There was friendliness in my
sticks of furniture. I examined those silent witnesses, my chair, my
table, and my books. What had happened while I was away? Apparently
nothing important. The furniture had a light coating of dust, which
showed that no one had touched it, not even Madame Menin. It was funny,
but I wished to see Madame Menin. A sound, and I heard my opposite
neighbor getting to work. He is a hydrographer, and engraves maps for a
neighboring publisher. I never could get up as early as he. The willow
seemed to have made great progress during the summer. I flung up the
window and said “Good-morning!” to the wallflowers, to the old wall of
the Carmelites, and the old black tower. Then the sparrows began. What
o’clock could it be? They came all together with a rush, chirping, the
hungry thieves, wheeling about, skirting the walls in their flight,
quick as lightning, borne on their pointed wings. They had seen the
sun--day had broken!
And almost immediately I heard a cart pass, and a hawker crying:
“Ground-SEL! Groundsel for your dickey-birds!”
To think that there are people who get up at that unearthly hour to buy
groundsel for their canaries! I looked to see whether any one had
called in my absence; their cards should be on my table. Two were
there: “Monsieur Lorinet, retired solicitor, town councillor, of
Bourbonnoux-les-Bourges, deputy-magistrate”; “Madame Lorinet, nee
Poupard.”
I was surprised not to find a third card: “Berthe Lorinet, of no
occupation, anxious to change her name.” Berthe will be difficult to
get rid of. I presume she didn’t dare to leave a card on a young man, it
wouldn’t have been proper. But I have no doubt she was here. I scent a
trick of my uncle’s, one of those Atlantic cables he takes for spider’s
threads and makes his snares of. The Lorinet family have been here, with
the twofold intention of taking news of me to my “dear good uncle,” and
discreetly recalling to my forgetful heart the charms of Berthe of the
big feet.
“Good-morning, Monsieur Mouillard!”
“Hallo! Madame Menin! Good-morning, Madame Menin!”
“So you are back at last, sir! How brown you have got--quite sunburnt.
You are quite well, I hope, sir?”
“Very well, thank you; has any one been here in my absence?”
“I was going to tell you, sir; the plumber has been here, because the
tap of your cistern came off in my hand. It wasn’t my fault; there had
been a heavy rain that morning. So--”
“Never mind, it’s only a tap to pay for. We won’t say any more about it.
But did any one come to see me?”
“Ah, let me see--yes. A big gentleman, rather red-faced, with his wife,
a fat lady, with a small voice; a fine woman, rather in my style, and
their daughter--but perhaps you know her, sir?”
“Yes, Madame Menin, you need not describe her. You told them that I was
away, and they said they were very sorry.”
“Especially the lady. She puffed and panted and sighed: ‘Dear Monsieur
Mouillard! How unlucky we are, Madame Menin; we have just come to Paris
as he has gone to Italy. My husband and I would have liked so much to
see him! You may think it fanciful, but I should like above all things
to look round his rooms. A student’s rooms must be so interesting.
Stay there, Berthe, my child.’ I told them there was nothing very
interesting, and that their daughter might just as well come in too, and
then I showed them everything.”
“They didn’t stay long, I suppose?”
“Quite long enough. They were an age looking at your photograph album.
I suppose they haven’t got such things where they come from. Madame
Lorinet couldn’t tear herself away from it. ‘Nothing but men,’ she said,
‘have you noticed that, Jules?’--‘Well, Madame,’ I said, ‘that’s just
how it is here; except for me, and I don’t count, only gentlemen come
here. I’ve kept house for bachelors where--well, there are not many--’
“That will do, Madame Menin; that will do. I know you always think too
highly of me. Hasn’t Lampron been here?”
“Yes, sir; the day before yesterday. He was going off for a fortnight
or three weeks into the country to paint a portrait of some priest--a
bishop, I think.”
July 15th.
“Midi, roi des etes.” I know by heart that poem by “Monsieur le Comte
de l’Isle,” as my Uncle Mouillard calls him. Its lines chime in my ears
every day when I return from luncheon to the office I have left an
hour before. Merciful heaven, how hot it is! I am just back from a hot
climate, but it was nothing compared to Paris in July. The asphalt melts
underfoot; the wood pavement is simmering in a viscous mess of tar; the
ideal is forced to descend again and again to iced lager beer; the walls
beat back the heat in your face; the dust in the public gardens, ground
to atoms beneath the tread of many feet, rises in clouds from under
the water-cart to fall, a little farther on, in white showers upon the
passers-by. I wonder that, as a finishing stroke, the cannon in the
Palais Royal does not detonate all day long.
To complete my misery, all my acquaintances are out of town: the Boule
family is bathing at Trouville; the second clerk has not returned from
his holiday; the fourth only waited for my arrival to get away himself;
Lampron, detained by my Lord Bishop and the forest shades, gives no sign
of his existence; even Monsieur and Madame Plumet have locked up their
flat and taken the train for Barbizon.
Thus it happens that the old clerk Jupille and I have been thrown
together. I enjoy his talk. He is a simplehearted, honorable man, with a
philosophy that I am sure can not be in the least German, because I can
understand it. I have gradually told him all my secrets. I felt the need
of a confidant, for I was stifling, metaphorically as well as literally.
Now, when he hands me a deed, instead of saying “All right,” as I used
to, I say, “Take a chair, Monsieur Jupille”; I shut the door, and we
talk. The clerks think we’re talking law, but the clerks are mistaken.
Yesterday, for instance, he whispered to me:
“I have come down the Rue de l’Universite. They will soon be back.”
“How did you learn that?”
“I saw a man carrying coals into the house, and asked for whom they
were, that’s all.”
Again, we had a talk, just now, which shows what progress I have made in
the old clerk’s heart. He had just submitted a draft to me. I had read
it through and grunted my approval, yet M. Jupille did not go.
“Anything further, Monsieur Jupille?”
“Something to ask of you--to do me a kindness, or, rather, an honor.”
“Let’s hear what it is.”
“This weather, Monsieur Mouillard, is very good for fishing, though
rather warm.”
“Rather warm, Monsieur Jupille!”
“It is not too warm. It was much hotter than this in 1844, yet the
fish bit, I can tell you! Will you join us next Sunday in a fishing
expedition? I say ‘us,’ because one of your friends is coming, a great
amateur of the rod who honors me with his friendship, too.”
“Who is he?”
“A secret, Monsieur Mouillard, a little secret. You will be surprised.
It is settled then--next Sunday?”
“Where shall I meet you?”
“Hush, the office-boy is listening. That boy is too sharp; I’ll tell you
some other time.”
“As you please, Monsieur Jupille; I accept the invitation
unconditionally.”
“I am so glad you will come, Monsieur Mouillard. I only wish we could
have a little storm between this and then.”
He spoke the truth; his satisfaction was manifest, for I never have seen
him rub the tip of his nose with the feathers of his quill pen so often
as he did that afternoon, which was with him the sign of exuberant joy,
all his gestures having subdued themselves long since to the limits of
his desk.
July 20th.
I have seen Lampron once more. He bears his sorrow bravely. We spoke for
a few moments of his mother. I spoke some praise of that humble soul for
the good she had done me, which led him to enlarge upon her virtues.
“Ah,” he said, “if you had only seen more of her! My dear fellow, if I
am an honest man; if I have passed without failing through the trials
of my life and my profession; if I have placed my ideal beyond worldly
success; in a word, if I am worth anything in heart or brain, it is
to her I owe it. We never had been parted before; this is our first
separation, and it is the final one. I was not prepared for it.”
Then he changed the subject brusquely:
“What about your love-affair?”
“Fresher than ever.”
“Did it survive half an hour’s conversation?”
“It grew the stronger for it.”
“Does she still detest you?”
I told him the story of our trip to Desio, and our conversation in the
carriage, without omitting a detail.
He listened in silence. At the end he said:
“My dear Fabien, there must be no delay. She must hear your proposal
within a week.”
“Within a week! Who is to make it for me?”
“Whoever you like. That’s your business. I have been making inquiries
while you were away; she seems a suitable match for you. Besides, your
present position is ridiculous; you are without a profession; you have
quarrelled, for no reason, with your only relative; you must get out of
the situation with credit, and marriage will compel you to do so.”
CHAPTER XVI. A FISHING-TRIP AND AN OLD FRIEND
July 21st.
M. Jupille had written to tell me where I was to meet him on the Sunday,
giving me the most minute directions. I might take the train to Massy,
or to Bievres. However, I preferred to take the train to Sceaux and walk
from there, leaving Chatenay on my left, striking across the woods
of Verrieres toward the line of forts, coming out between Igny and
Amblainvilliers, and finally reaching a spot where the Bievre broadens
out between two wooded banks into a pool as clear as a spring and as
full of fish as a nursery-pond.
“Above all things, tell nobody where it is!” begged Jupille. “It is our
secret; I discovered it myself.”
When I left Sceaux to meet Jupille, who had started before daybreak, the
sun was already high. There was not a cloud nor a breath of wind; the
sway of summer lay over all things. But, though the heat was broiling,
the walk was lovely. All about me was alive with voice or perfume.
Clouds of linnets fluttered among the branches, golden beetles crawled
upon the grass, thousands of tiny whirring wings beat the air--flies,
gnats, gadflies, bees--all chorusing the life--giving warmth of the day
and the sunshine that bathed and penetrated all nature. I halted from
time to time in the parched glades to seek my way, and again pushed
onward through the forest paths overarched with heavy-scented leafage,
onward over the slippery moss up toward the heights, below which the
Bievre stole into view.
There it lay, at my feet, gliding between banks of verdure which seemed
a season younger than the grass I stood on. I began to descend the
slope, knowing that M. Jupille was awaiting me somewhere in the valley.
I broke into a run. I heard the murmur of water in the hollows, and
caught glimpses of forget-me-not tufts in low-lying grassy corners.
Suddenly a rod outlined itself against the sky, between two trees. It
was he, the old clerk; he nodded to me and laid down his line.
“I thought you never were coming.”
“That shows you don’t know me. Any sport?”
“Not so loud! Yes, capital sport. I’ll bait a line for you.”
“And where is your friend, Monsieur Jupille?”
“There he is.”
“Where?”
“Staring you in the face; can’t you see him?”.
Upon my word, I could see nobody, until he directed my gaze with his
fishing-rod, when I perceived, ten yards away, a large back view of
white trousers and brown, unbuckled waistcoat, a straw hat which seemed
to conceal a head, and a pair of shirt-sleeves hanging over the water.
This mass was motionless.
“He must have got a bite,” said Jupille, “else he would have been here
before now. Go and see him.”
Not knowing whom I was about to address, I gave a warning cough as I
came near him.
The unknown drew a loud breath, like a man who wakes with a start.
“That you, Jupille?” he said, turning a little way; “are you out of
bait?”
“No, my dear tutor, it is I.”
“Monsieur Mouillard, at last!”
“Monsieur Flamaran! Jupille told the truth when he said I should be
surprised. Are you fond of fishing?”
“It’s a passion with me. One must keep one or two for one’s old age,
young man.”
“You’ve been having sport, I hear.”
“Well, this morning, between eight and nine, there were a few nibbles;
but since then the sport has been very poor. However, I’m very glad to
see you again, Mouillard. That essay of yours was extremely good.”
The eminent professor had risen, displaying a face still red from his
having slept with his head on his chest, but beaming with good-will. He
grasped my hand with heartiness and vigor.
“Here’s rod and line for you, Monsieur Mouillard, all ready baited,”
broke in Jupille. “If you’ll come with me I’ll show you a good place.”
“No, no, Jupille, I’m going to keep him,” answered M. Flamaran; “I
haven’t uttered a syllable for three hours. I must let myself out a
little. We will fish side by side, and chat.”
“As you please, Monsieur Flamaran; but I don’t call that fishing.”
He handed me the implement, and sadly went his way.
M. Flamaran and I sat down together on the bank, our feet resting on the
soft sand strewn with dead branches. Before us spread the little pool
I have mentioned, a slight widening of the stream of the Bievre, once a
watering-place for cattle. The sun, now at high noon, massed the trees’
shadow close around their trunks. The unbroken surface of the water
reflected its rays back in our eyes. The current was barely indicated
by the gentle oscillation of a few water-lily leaves. Two big blue
dragonflies poised and quivered upon our floats, and not a fish seemed
to care to disturb them.
“Well,” said M. Flamaran, “so you are still managing clerk to Counsellor
Boule?”
“For the time.”
“Do you like it?”
“Not particularly.”
“What are you waiting for?”
“For something to turn up.”
“And carry you back to Italy, I suppose?”
“Then you know I have just been there?”
“I know all about it. Charnot told me of your meeting, and your romantic
drive by moonlight. By the way, he’s come back with a bad cold; did you
know that?”
I assumed an air of sympathy:
“Poor man! When did he get back?”
“The day before yesterday. Of course I was the first to hear of it, and
we spent yesterday evening together. It may surprise you, Mouillard, and
you may think I exaggerate, but I think Jeanne has come back prettier
than she went.”
“Do you really think so?”
“I really do. That southern sun--look out, my dear Mouillard, your line
is half out of water--has brought back her roses (they’re brighter than
ever, I declare), and the good spirits she had lost, too, poor girl. She
is cheerful again now, as she used to be. I was very anxious about her
at one time. You know her sad story?”
“Yes.”
“The fellow was a scoundrel, my dear Mouillard, a regular scoundrel! I
never was in favor of the match, myself. Charnot let himself be drawn
into it by an old college friend. I told him over and over again, ‘It’s
Jeanne’s dowry he’s after, Charnot--I’m convinced of it. He’ll treat
Jeanne badly and make her miserable, mark my words.’ But I wasted my
breath; he wouldn’t listen to a word. Anyhow, it’s quite off now. But
it was no slight shock, I can tell you; and it gave me great pain to
witness the poor child’s sufferings.”
“You are so kind-hearted, Monsieur Flamaran!”
“It’s not that, Mouillard; but I have known Jeanne ever since she was
born. I watched her grow up, and I loved her when she was still a little
mite; she’s as good as my adoptive daughter. You understand me when I
say adoptive. I do not mean that there exists between us that legal
bond in imitation of nature which is permitted by our codes--‘adoptio
imitatur naturam’; not that, but that I love her like a
daughter--Sidonie never having presented me with a daughter, nor with a
son either, for that matter.”
A cry from Jupille interrupted M. Flamaran:
“Can’t you hear it rattle?”
The good man was tearing to us, waving his arms like a madman, the folds
of his trousers flapping about his thin legs like banners in the wind.
We leaped to our feet, and my first idea, an absurd one enough, was that
a rattlesnake was hurrying through the grass to our attack.
I was very far from the truth. The matter really was a new line,
invented by M. Jupille, cast a little further than an ordinary one, and
rigged up with a float like a raft, carrying a little clapper. The fish
rang their own knell as they took the hook.
“It’s rattling like mad!” cried Jupille, “and you don’t stir! I couldn’t
have thought it of you, Monsieur Flamaran.”
He ran past us, brandishing a landing-net as a warrior his lance; he
might have been a youth of twenty-five. We followed, less keen and also
less confident than he. He was right, though; when he drew up his line,
the float of which was disappearing in jerks, carrying the bell along
with it beneath the water, he brought out a fair-sized jack, which he
declared to be a giant.
He let it run for some time, to tire it, and to prolong the pleasure of
playing it.
“Gentlemen,” he cried, “it is cutting my finger off!”
A stroke from the landing-net laid the monster at our feet, its strength
all spent. It weighed rather under four pounds. Jupille swore to six.
My learned tutor and I sat down again side by side, but the thread of
our conversation had been broken past mending. I tried to talk of her,
but M. Flamaran insisted on talking of me, of Bourges, of his election
as professor, and of the radically distinct characteristics by which you
can tell the bite of a gudgeon from that of a stickleback.
The latter part of this lecture was, however, purely theoretical, for he
got up two hours before sunset without having hooked a fish.
“A good day, all the same,” he said. “It’s a good place, and the fish
were biting this morning. We’ll come here again some day, Jupille; with
an east wind you ought to catch any quantity of gudgeons.” He kept pace
beside me on our way home, but wearied, no doubt, with long sitting,
with the heat, and the glare from the water, fell into a reverie, from
which the incidents of the walk were unable to rouse him.
Jupille trotted before us, carrying his rod in one hand, a
luncheon-basket and a fish-bag in the other. He turned round and gave us
a look at each cross-road, smiled beneath his heavy moustache, and went
on faster than before. I felt sure that something out of the way was
about to happen, and that the silent quill-driver was tasting a quiet
joke.
I had not guessed the whole truth.
At a turn of the road M. Flamaran suddenly pulled up, looked all around
him, and drew a deep breath.
“Hallo, Jupille! My good sir, where are you taking us? If I can believe
my eyes, this is the Chestnut Knoll, down yonder is Plessis Piquet, and
we are two miles from the station and the seven o’clock train!”
There was no denying it. A donkey emerged from the wood, hung with
tassels and bells, carrying in its panniers two little girls, whose
parents toiled behind, goad in hand. The woods had become shrubberies,
through which peeped the thatched roofs of rustic summerhouses, mazes,
artificial waterfalls, grottoes, and ruins; all the dread handiwork
of the rustic decorator burst, superabundant, upon our sight, with shy
odors of beer and cooking. Broken bottles strewed the paths; the bushes
all looked weary, harassed, and overworked; a confused murmur of voices
and crackers floated toward us upon the breeze. I knew full well from
these signs that we were nearing “ROBINSON CRUSOE,” the land of rustic
inns. And, sure enough, here they all were: “THE OLD ROBINSON,” “THE NEW
ROBINSON,” “THE REAL ORIGINAL ROBINSON,” “THE ONLY GENUINE ROBINSON,”
“ROBINSON’s CHESTNUT GROVE,” “ROBINSON’S PARADISE,” each unique and each
authentic. All alike have thatched porches, sanded paths, transparencies
lighted with petroleum lamps, tinsel stars, summerhouses, arrangements
for open-air illumination and highly colored advertisements, in which
are set forth all the component elements of a “ROBINSON,” such as
shooting-galleries, bowling-alleys, swings, private arbors, Munich beer,
and dinner in a tree.
“Jupille!” exclaimed M. Flamaran, “you have shipwrecked us! This is
Crusoe’s land; and what the dickens do you mean by it?”
The old clerk, utterly discomfited, and wearing that hangdog look which
he always assumed at the slightest rebuke from Counsellor Boule, pulled
a face as long as his arm, went up to M. Flamaran and whispered a word
in his ear.
“Upon my word! Really, Jupille, what are you thinking of? And I a
professor, too! Thirty years ago it would have been excusable, but
to-day! Besides, Sidonie expects me home to dinner--”
He stopped for a moment, undecided, looking at his watch.
Jupille, who was eying him intently, saw his distinguished friend
gradually relax his frown and burst into a hearty laugh.
“By Jove! it’s madness at my age, but I don’t care. We’ll renew our
youth for an hour or so. My dear Mouillard, Jupille has ordered dinner
for us here. Had I been consulted I should have chosen any other place.
Yet what’s to be done? Hunger, friendship, and the fact that I can’t
catch the train, combine to silence my scruples. What do you say?”
“That we are in for it now.”
“So be it, then.” And led by Jupille, still carrying his catch, we
entered THE ONLY GENUINE ROBINSON.
M. Flamaran, somewhat ill at ease, cast inquiring glances on the
clearings in the sgrubberies. I thought I heard stifled laughter behind
the trees.
“You have engaged Chestnut Number Three, gentlemen,” said the
proprietor. “Up these stairs, please.”
We ascended a staircase winding around the trunk. Chestnut Number 3 is
a fine old tree, a little bent, its sturdy lower branches supporting a
platform surrounded by a balustrade, six rotten wooden pillars, and a
thatched roof, shaped like a cocked hat, to shelter the whole. All
the neighboring trees contain similar constructions, which look from a
little distance like enormous nests. They are greatly in demand at
the dinner hour; you dine thirty feet up in the air, and your food is
brought up by a rope and pulley.
When M. Flamaran appeared on the platform he took off his hat, and
leaned with both hands on the railing to give a look around. The
attitude suggested a public speaker. His big gray head was conspicuous
in the light of the setting sun.
“He’s going to make a speech!” cried a voice. “Bet you he isn’t,”
replied another.
This was the signal. A rustling was heard among the leaves, and numbers
of inquisitive faces peeped out from all corners of the garden. A
general rattling of glasses announced that whole parties were leaving
the tables to see what was up. The waiters stopped to stare at Chestnut
Number 3. The whole population of Juan Fernandez was staring up at
Flamaran without in the least knowing the reason why.
“Gentlemen,” said a voice from an arbor, “Professor Flamaran will now
begin his lecture.”
A chorus of shouts and laughter rose around our tree.
“Hi, old boy, wait till we’re gone!”
“Ladies, he will discourse to you on the law of husband and wife!”
“No, on the foreclosure of mortgages!”
“No, on the payment of debts!”
“Oh, you naughty old man! You ought to be shut up!”
M. Flamaran, though somewhat put out of countenance for the moment, was
seized with a happy inspiration. He stretched out an arm to show that he
was about to speak. He opened his broad mouth with a smile of fatherly
humor, and the groves, attentive, heard him thunder forth these words:
“Boys, I promise to give you all white marks if you let me dine in
peace!”
The last words were lost in a roar of applause.
“Three cheers for old Flamaran!”
Three cheers were given, followed by clapping of hands from various
quarters, then all was silence, and no one took any further notice of
our tree.
M. Flamaran left the railing and unfolded his napkin.
“You may be sure of my white marks, young men,” he said, as he sat down.
He was delighted at his success as an orator, and laughed gayly.
Jupille, on the other hand, was as pale as if he had been in a street
riot, and seemed rooted to the spot where he stood.
“It’s all right, Jupille; it’s all right, man! A little ready wit is all
you need, dash my wig!”
The old clerk gradually regained his composure, and the dinner grew
very merry. Flamaran’s spirits, raised by this little incident, never
flagged. He had a story for every glass of wine, and told them all with
a quiet humor of his own.
Toward the end of dinner, by the time the waiter came to offer us
“almonds and raisins, pears, peaches, preserves, meringues, brandy
cherries,” we had got upon the subject of Sidonie, the pearl of Forez.
M. Flamaran narrated to us, with dates, how a friend of his one day
depicted to him a young girl at Montbrison, of fresh and pleasing
appearance, a good housekeeper, and of excellent family; and how he--M.
Flamaran--had forthwith started off to find her, had recognized her
before she was pointed out to him, fell in love with her at first sight,
and was not long in obtaining her affection in return. The marriage had
taken place at St. Galmier.
“Yes, my dear Mouillard,” he added, as if pointing a moral, “thirty
years ago last May I became a happy man; when do you think of following
my example?”
At this point, Jupille suddenly found himself one too many, and vanished
down the corkscrew stair.
“We once spoke of an heiress at Bourges,” M. Flamaran went on.
“Apparently that’s all off?”
“Quite off.”
“You were within your rights; but now, why not a Parisienne?”
“Yes, indeed; why not?”
“Perhaps you are prejudiced in some way against Parisiennes?”
“I? Not the least.”
“I used to be, but I’ve got over it now. They have a charm of their own,
a certain style of dressing, walking, and laughing which you don’t find
outside the fortifications. For a long time I used to think that these
qualities stood them in lieu of virtues. That was a slander; there are
plenty of Parisiennes endowed with every virtue; I even know a few who
are angels.”
At this point, M. Flamaran looked me straight in the eyes, and, as I
made no reply, he added:
“I know one, at least: Jeanne Charnot. Are you listening?”
“Yes, Monsieur Flamaran.”
“Isn’t she a paragon?”
“She is.”
“As sensible as she is tender-hearted?”
“So I believe.”
“And as clever as she is sensible?”
“That is my opinion.”
“Well, then, young man, if that’s your opinion--excuse my burning my
boats, all my boats--if that’s your opinion, I don’t understand why--Do
you suppose she has no money?”
“I know nothing about her means.”
“Don’t make any mistake; she’s a rich woman. Do you think you’re too
young to marry?”
“No.”
“Do you fancy, perhaps, that she is still bound by that unfortunate
engagement?”
“I trust she is not.”
“I’m quite sure she is not. She is free, I tell you, as free as you.
Well, why don’t you love her?”
“But I do love her, Monsieur Flamaran!”
“Why, then, I congratulate you, my boy!”
He leaned across the table and gave me a hearty grasp of the hand. He
was so agitated that he could not speak--choking with joyful emotion, as
if he had been Jeanne’s father, or mine.
After a minute or so, he drew himself up in his chair, reached out, put
a hand on each of my shoulders and kept it there as if he feared I might
fly away.
“So you love her, you love her! Good gracious, what a business I’ve had
to get you to say so! You are quite right to love her, of course, of
course--I could not have understood your doing otherwise; but I must say
this, my boy, that if you tarry too long, with her attractions, you know
what will happen.”
“Yes, I ought to ask for her at once.”
“To be sure you ought.”
“Alas! Monsieur Flamaran, who is there that I can send on such a mission
for me? You know that I am an orphan.”
“But you have an uncle.”
“We have quarrelled.”
“You might make it up again, on an occasion like this.”
“Out of the question; we quarrelled on her account; my uncle hates
Parisiennes.”
“Damn it all, then! send a friend--a friend will do under the
circumstances.”
“There’s Lampron.”
“The painter?”
“Yes, but he doesn’t know Monsieur Charnot. It would only be one
stranger pleading for another. My chances would be small. What I want--”
“Is a friend of both parties, isn’t it? Well, what am I?”
“The very man!”
“Very well. I undertake to ask for her hand! I shall ask for the hand
of the charming Jeanne for both of us; for you, who will make her happy;
and for myself, who will not entirely lose her if she marries one of my
pupils, one of my favorite graduates--my friend, Fabien Mouillard. And I
won’t be refused--no, damme, I won’t!”
He brought down his fist upon the table with a tremendous blow which
made the glasses ring and the decanters stagger.
“Coming!” cried a waiter from below, thinking he was summoned.
“All right, my good fellow!” shouted M. Flamaran, leaning over the
railings. “Don’t trouble. I don’t want anything.”
He turned again toward me, still filled with emotion, but somewhat
calmer than he had been.
“Now,” said he, “let us talk, and do you tell me all.”
And we began a long and altogether delightful talk.
A more genuine, a finer fellow never breathed than this professor let
loose from school and giving his heart a holiday--a simple, tender
heart, preserved beneath the science of the law like a grape in sawdust.
Now he would smile as I sang Jeanne’s praises; now he would sit and
listen to my objections with a truculent air, tightening his lips till
they broke forth in vehement denial. “What! You dare to say! Young man,
what are you afraid of?” His overflowing kindness discharged itself in
the sincerest and most solemn asseverations.
We had left Juan Fernandez far behind us; we were both far away in that
Utopia where mind penetrates mind, heart understands heart. We heard
neither the squeaking of a swing beneath us, nor the shouts of laughter
along the promenades, nor the sound of a band tuning up in a neighboring
pavilion. Our eyes, raised to heaven, failed to see the night descending
upon us, vast and silent, piercing the foliage with its first stars. Now
and again a warm breath passed over us, blown from the woods; I tasted
its strangely sweet perfume; I saw in glimpses the flying vision of a
huge dark tulip, striped with gold, unfolding its petals on the moist
bank of a dyke, and I asked myself whether a mysterious flower had
really opened in the night, or whether it was but a new feeling, slowly
budding, unfolding, blossoming within my heart.
CHAPTER XVII. PLEASURES OF EAVESDROPPING
July 22d.
At two o’clock to-day I went to see Sylvestre, to tell him all the great
events of yesterday. We sat down on the old covered sofa in the shadow
of the movable curtain which divides the studio, as it were, into two
rooms, among the lay figures, busts, varnish-bottles, and paint-boxes.
Lampron likes this chiaroscuro. It rests his eyes.
Some one knocked at the door.
“Stay where you are,” said Sylvestre; “it’s a customer come for the
background of an engraving. I’ll be with you in two minutes. Come in!”
As he was speaking he drew the curtain in front of me, and through the
thin stuff I could see him going toward the door, which had just opened.
“Monsieur Lampron?”
“I am he, Monsieur.”
“You don’t recognize me, Monsieur?”
“No, Monsieur.”
“I’m surprised at that.”
“Why so? I have never seen you.”
“You have taken my portrait!”
“Really!”
I was watching Lampron, who was plainly angered at this brusque
introduction. He left the chair which he had begun to push forward,
let it stand in the middle of the studio, and went and sat down on
his engraving-stool in the corner, with a somewhat haughty look, and a
defiant smile lurking behind his beard. He rested his elbow on the table
and began to drum with his fingers.
“What I have had the honor to inform you is the simple truth, Monsieur.
I am Monsieur Charnot of the Institute.”
Lampron gave a glance in my direction, and his frown melted away.
“Excuse me, Monsieur; I only know you by your back. Had you shown me
that side of you I might perhaps have recognized--”
“I have not come here to listen to jokes, Monsieur; and I should have
come sooner to demand an explanation, but that it was only this morning
I heard of what I consider a deplorable abuse of your talents. But
picture-shows are not in my line. I did not see myself there. My
friend Flamaran had to tell me that I was to be seen at the last Salon,
together with my daughter, sitting on a tree-trunk in the forest of
Saint-Germain. Is it true, Monsieur, that you drew me sitting on a
trunk?”