M. Villenave's house--The master's despotic rule--The savant's
coquetry--Description of the sanctuary of the man of science--I am
admitted, thanks to an autograph of _Buonaparte_--The crevice in the
wall--The eight thousand folios--The pastel by Latour--Voyages of
discovery for an Elzevir or a _Faust_--The fall of the portrait and the
death of the original
I meant to talk of M. Villenave, and behold I have been talking about
Cathelineau, Stofflet, Sauveur and Carrier. What a strange thing
imagination is! the wayward inhabitant of one's house, thought to be a
slave therein, but in reality its queen!
I left off saying that we were going to take tea at M. Villenave's
house.
Every bird makes its own nest, whether of twigs or of different kinds
of feathers; and each man makes his own home--when he possesses one at
all--indicative of his character, his temperament and his idiosyncrasy.
And so M. Villenave's house had its own characteristics, reflecting
the taste of its occupant. It was built of stones which had once been
white, but which time had coloured grey, and which were fast turning
into black. It did not open out on the road; it was a severe and
gloomy-looking house which did not lend itself to any such frivolous
doings; a wall, ten feet high, faced the street, like a kind of
outwork, ornamented at the top by a formidable fringe of jagged glass.
This wall had in it two gates, a large one and a small one. Unless
carriages wanted to enter, the large one was always kept shut, its
hinges rusty, its lock broken; the small door, next to the porter's
lodge, opened upon and gave access to the garden--a garden trodden
hard into paths without flower-borders, possessing vines without
grapes, and leafless trees that did not afford any shade. If, by any
chance, a flower pushed its way up in some corner, it was a wild flower
that had mistaken that damp enclosure for waste ground and had sprung
up there unawares--a bindweed, a daisy or a buttercup. One day the poor
flower would hear a cry of surprise and see a pretty, rosy-cheeked
child, with curly golden hair, running to it in breathless haste and
with eager feet, her eyes fixed on it, and then furtively grasp it as
carefully as though it were a butterfly; when she had picked it, she
would run with joyful surprise to her mother, crying--
"See, mamma! a flower!..."
The garden, which may have been fifteen mètres square, was bounded
on the side of the house by a pathway of paving-stones, leading to
a corridor tiled with square red bricks, a staircase at the end
completing the vista. But before you reached this staircase, you first
passed four doors. The one on the left belonged to the dining-room,
the window of which looked out upon the tidiest part of the garden; on
the right, opposite it, was a small room, not much used, where a table
and three or four old arm-chairs were left to grow damp. In several
places the wall paper was bulging out and falling off, without anybody
taking any notice of it, and was becoming pitted with green and white
damp spots. Then, on the left again, came the kitchen door, and, on
the right, the larder and pantry. This dark and damp ground-floor
was like a catacomb, and was only descended into at meal-times. The
real dwelling-rooms, where we were entertained, were on the first
floor. This floor contained a small and a large drawing-room, and the
bedrooms belonging to Madame Villenave and Madame Waldor. We will
leave the small drawing-room and the two bedrooms and give our whole
attention to the large salon, which, after the attics (let us hasten
to mention these here, before we have the right of entering them),
was the strangest room in the house. Its shape was a long rectangle,
having, at each of its angles, a console table supporting a bust.
One of these busts was that of the master of the house. Between the
two busts, at the bottom end, on a marble-topped table opposite the
fireplace, was the most important piece of art and archæology in the
room: this was the bronze urn that had once contained the heart of
Bayard. A little bas-relief encircled the urn depicting the "chevalier
_sans peur et sans reproche_" leaning against a tree and kissing his
sword handle. Next came four large pictures--three of them portraits
and the fourth a landscape. Let us begin with the landscape--honour to
whom honour is due--the landscape was by Claude Lorraine. One of the
portraits represented Anne Boleyn and was signed by Holbein. I forget
by whom the two other paintings were: one was of Madame de Montespan
and the other either Madame de Sévigné or de Grignan, I am not sure
which. The walls were covered with one of those indefinite papers that
leave no impression on the memory; the furniture was upholstered in
Utrecht velvet; large couches with thin white arms, like the arms of
a hunchback, invited friends of the family to be comfortable; while
there were chairs and arm-chairs for more formal visitors. That storey
had both its king and its vice-queen: the king was M. Villenave, the
vice-queen was Madame Waldor. We purposely say "vice-queen," because
immediately M. Villenave entered his salon he became the master of it,
the king--more than king, the despot! M. Villenave was inclined to be
tyrannical in character, and exercised this tyranny over strangers as
well as over his own family. Like those petty princes of Italy whose
principles people are obliged to adopt as soon as they have crossed the
borders of their limited territories, so with M. Villenave, when you
had stepped across the threshold of his salon, he would not allow you
to hold a different opinion from his own on any subject. You became
part of the being of the man, who had seen everything and studied
everything, and, in fact, knew everything. Although this tyrannical
spirit was tempered by the courtesy appertaining to the master of
the house, it none the less had a depressing effect on the company
generally. Although in the presence of M. Villenave the conversation
was, as they used to express it, _bien menée_--i.e. skilfully
managed--yet it was always less amusing, more fettered and less
brilliant than when he was not present. It was just like the difference
between a minuet and the game of puss-in-the-corner. It was exactly
the reverse at Nodier's social evenings: Nodier liked people to make
themselves as much at home as he was.
This recalls to my mind that I have not mentioned Nodier since I
described him as helping me to gain entrance to the Théâtre-Français.
Excellent and beloved Nodier!--one of my dearest friends! He shall not
lose, you may be sure, by the postponement.
Happily, M. Villenave very rarely appeared in the salon, except on the
Athénée nights. He spent the rest of his time on the second floor,
only appearing among his family for dinner; then, after a few minutes'
chat, after lecturing his son and scolding his wife, he would stretch
himself out in an armchair, have his curls attended to by his daughter
and return to his own apartments. The quarter of an hour during which
the teeth of the comb gently scratched his head was the happiest time
of the day to M. Villenave, the only rest he allowed himself from his
unending absorption in scribbling.
"But why did he curl his hair?" someone asks.
That was the question I myself put.
Madame Waldor declared that it was purely an excuse for having his
head scratched. M. Villenave must have been a parrot in one of
the metamorphoses that preceded his life as a human being. Madame
Villenave, who had known her husband longer than her daughter had,
and who therefore could claim to know him better, averred that it was
from vanity. And, indeed, M. Villenave, who was a good-looking old
man, must have been splendidly handsome as a young man. His strongly
marked features were wonderfully set off in their frame of flowing
white hair, which showed up the fiery light of his fine black eyes.
In fact, although M. Villenave was a learned man, he was also vain--a
combination of virtue and fault rarely found together--but he was
only vain about his head. As for the rest of his appearance, with the
exception of his cravat, which was invariably white, he left it to
his tailor and his bootmaker, or rather, to his daughter's care, who
looked after these matters for her father. Whether his coat were blue
or black, his trousers wide or narrow, the toes of his boots round or
square, so long as M. Villenave's hair was well dressed, it was all
he cared about. We have mentioned that when his daughter had combed
and curled his locks, M. Villenave went upstairs to his own rooms--or
_home>_ as the English say. Good gracious! what a curious place it was,
too!
Follow me, reader, if these minute details after the fashion of Balzac
amuse you, and if you believe nature takes as much pains over the
making of a hyssop as over the making of a cedar-tree. Besides, we may
perhaps be able to unearth some curious anecdote from out the medley,
concerning a charming pastel by Latour. But we have not got there yet;
we shall come to it in the end, just as at last we have come to M.
Villenave's sanctum.
We have divided up the ground floor into dining-room, kitchen, pantry;
and on the first floor into the small and large salons and the
bedrooms; there was nothing like that on the second floor. The second
floor had five rooms, five rooms full of nothing else but books and
boxes. These five rooms must have contained forty thousand volumes and
four thousand boxes, piled up on the floor and on tables. The anteroom
alone was a vast library. It had two entrances: that on the right led
to M. Villenave's bedroom--a chamber to which we shall return. That on
the left opened into a large room, which, in its turn, led into a much
smaller one. These two rooms, be it understood, were nothing but two
libraries. The four walls of them were tapestried with books upheld on
a substratum of boxes. This was odd enough in itself, as will readily
be imagined, but it was not the most original thing that caught one's
notice. The most ingenious arrangement was a square construction which
stood in the middle of the room like an enormous block and formed a
second library within the first, leaving only space for a pathway
round the room, bordered with books on left and right, just wide
enough to allow a single person to move freely; a second person would
have blocked the traffic. Moreover, only M. Villenave's most intimate
friends ever presumed to be allowed the privilege of admission to this
_sanctum sanctorum._ The substratum of boxes contained autographs.
The age of Louis XIV. alone needed five hundred boxes! Herein were
contained the result of fifty years of daily labour, concentrated on
this one object; hour after hour taken up by this one passion. It was,
in a word, the gentle and ardent passion of a born collector, into
which he put his mind and happiness and joy and life!
There were to be found a portion of the papers of Louis XVI.,
discovered in the iron chest; there was the correspondence of
Malesherbes, two hundred autographs of Rousseau, and four hundred of
Voltaire together with autographs of all the kings of France, from
Charlemagne down to our own time; there were drawings by Raphael and
Jules Romain, by Leonardo da Vinci, Andrea del Sarto, Lebrun, Lesueur,
Greuze, Vanloo, Watteau, Boucher, Vien, David, Girodet, etc.
M. Villenave would not have parted with the contents of those two rooms
for a hundred thousand crowns.
I There now only remain the bedroom and the black cabinet behind M.
Villenave's alcove, which was reached by a corridor, about which
we shall have occasion to say a few words. Only those who saw that
bedroom, wherein the bed was the least conspicuous piece of furniture,
can conceive any idea of what the bedroom of a bibliomaniac is like.
It was in this room that M. Villenave received his friends. After
four or five months' intimacy in the household, I had the honour of
being received in it. An old servant, called, I believe, Françoise,
conducted me to it. I had promised M. Villenave an autograph--not that
of Napoleon, of which he possessed five or six, or that of Bonaparte,
of which he had three or four--but one of _Buonaparte._
He had given orders that I was to be shown upstairs as soon as I
arrived.
Françoise half opened the door.
"M. Dumas is here," she said.
Generally, when anyone was announced, even were he an intimate friend
who had come unexpectedly, M. Villenave would utter a loud cry, scold
Françoise and fling up his arms in despair; then, finally, when he had
indulged his fit of despair, and moaned and sighed his fill, he would
say--
"Very well, Françoise, as he is there, show him in."
Then the intruder would be let in.
My reception was quite otherwise. M. Villenave had hardly caught my
name before he exclaimed--
"Show him in! show him in!"
In I went.
"Ah! here you are," he said. "Well, I wager you have not been able to
find it!"
"What?"
"That famous autograph you promised me yesterday."
"Yes, indeed ... I have found it."
"And have you brought it?"
"To be sure I have!..."
"Really?"
"Here it is!"
"Quick, let me see it!"
I handed it to him. M. Villenave rushed up to the window.
"Yes, it is genuine," he said; "there is the _u_!... Oh! there is his
very own _u_, there is no doubt about it. Let us see: '29 vendémiaire,
year IV,' that is it!... Stop, stop!" He went to a box. "See, here is
one of _frimaire_ in the same year, signed 'Bonaparte, 12 frimaire';
so it must have been between 29 vendémiaire and 12 frimaire that he
dropped his _u_; this determines a great historic question!"
While this monologue was being carried on, I had been glancing round
the bedchamber thoroughly, and I had noticed that the only piece of
furniture that was not encumbered with books was the arm-chair from
which he had just risen. After M. Villenave had carefully examined the
autograph, he put it into a white wrapper, wrote on the wrapper, placed
it in a box, put the box in its place and flung himself back into his
arm-chair, with a sigh of joy.
"Ah! now, sit down," he said.
"I should like nothing better," I replied; "but what do you mean me to
sit on?"
"Why, on the couch."
"Oh yes, on the couch!"
"What about it?"
"Well, just look at the couch for yourself."
"Upon my word, you are right; it is full of books. Never mind, pull up
an arm-chair."
"With great pleasure. But the arm-chairs ...?"
"The arm-chairs?"
"Are littered just like the couch."
"Ah! I have so many books.... Have you noticed the great crack in the
walls of the house?"
"No."
"It is visible enough, nevertheless.... Well, my dear monsieur, it is
the books! The books are pulling down the house."
"The books? How?"
"Yes, twelve hundred folios, monsieur, twelve hundred splendid and rare
folios; I even believe there are quite unknown ones among them, so rare
are they! I put all those in the garret and I was intending to put more
there, for there was room for another twelve hundred; when, suddenly,
the house trembled, uttered a groan and cracked."
"Why, you must have thought it was an earthquake?"
"Exactly!... but when we found the damage was limited we sent for an
architect. The architect examined the house from the cellar to the
second floor and declared that the accident could only have been caused
by too heavy a weight. And, consequently, he asked to be allowed to
look at the attics. Alas! this was what I dreaded. Oh! if it had only
been a question of myself, I would never have given him the key; but
one has to sacrifice oneself for the general good.... He visited the
attics, discovered the folios, reckoned that the weight must come to
eight thousand pounds, and declared that they must be sold or he would
not answer for the consequences.... And they were sold, monsieur!"
"At a loss?"
"No.... Alas! I made a profit of five or six thousand francs on
them, because, you know, books increase in value from having been in
the possession of a bibliophile; but the poor folios were lost to
me--hounded from beneath the roof that had sheltered them.... I shall
never come across such a collection again. But pray take a chair."
The chairs were in a similar condition to the easy-chairs and
couches--not one was unoccupied. I decided to change the conversation.
"Oh!" I said to M. Villenave, approaching towards his recess, at the
back of which an open door leading to the corridor permitted me to see
what was there. "Oh! monsieur, what a beautiful pastel you have down
there!"
"Yes, yes," replied M. Villenave, with that old-fashioned courtly air
that I have only met with in two or three old men who were as vain as
he. "Yes, that is the portrait of an old friend of mine--I say old,
because I am no longer young, and she, if I remember correctly, was
five or six years older than I. We became acquainted in the year 1784;
you see that is not yesterday. We have not seen each other again since
1802, but that has not prevented us from writing to one another every
week, or from looking forward to the weekly letters with exactly the
same pleasure.... Yes, you are right, the pastel is charming, but
if you had known the original you would have thought her still more
charming!"
And a sweet reflection of youth, like a ray of sunlight, passed over
the handsome face of the old man, making it look forty years younger.
Alas! I only entered that sacred tabernacle of the intellect twice: I
have described what happened on my first visit, and I will immediately
tell what happened at the second. But I ought previously to answer the
question as to how M. Villenave managed to collect all these valuable
treasures since he had not a large fortune. It was by patience and
perseverance, as la Fontaine would say. This collection had been
the work of his whole life. Just as Ghiberti began the gates of the
Baptistery at Florence when he was a young man and finished them as
an old one, so M. Villenave had given up fifty years to this task.
He never burnt a single paper or destroyed a letter. I wrote two or
three times to M. Villenave to ask for information; well, my unworthy
epistles were put into their wrappers, classified and labelled. Why
was I thus honoured? Who can tell? Perhaps he thought even I might
some day become a great celebrity. It will readily be imagined that,
if he preserved such letters as mine, he would religiously preserve
other things. Notices of meetings of learned societies, invitations to
marriage ceremonies, funeral cards, all were kept, classified and put
in their place. I cannot say what M. Villenave's collection did _not_
contain; I saw amongst it a collection of half-burnt volumes which had
been snatched out of the fire of the Bastille on 14 July.
M. Villenave employed two aides-de-camp, or, rather, bloodhounds: one
named Fontaine, himself the author of a book called the _Manuel des
Autographes_; the other an employé in the War Office. Twice a week they
went a hunting; they rummaged the shops of the grocers, who, accustomed
to these visits, would put aside all the papers that they thought might
be rare or curiosities. From amongst these papers the two visitors
would make a selection, paying the grocers fifteen sous a pound, M.
Villenave paying them at the rate of thirty sous. There also were what
might be described as royal hunting-days; on these days M. Villenave
hunted in person; every grocer in Paris knew him, and came up to him
with his hands full of papers, far more precious to him than roses and
lilies.
The reader should have seen M. Villenave when he sallied forth to take
his leisure, or, rather, when he went out to accomplish the principal
work of his life. He was no vain, becurled dandy on these days, neither
did he wear the white cravat or the blue coat with gold buttons; no,
he did not wish to look too well-to-do in the presence of the old
second-hand booksellers amongst whom he was going to glean; on these
days he wore a rather dirty old hat, a black cravat cut away by his
beard and an unbrushed coat. Then the indefatigable bibliomaniac
proceeded along the quays. Here, with both hands in his trousers'
pockets, his big body bent down, his fine intelligent head lit up with
desire, he would send his piercing glances right into the depths of the
assemblage of wares, looking incessantly for some unknown treasure, a
text of _Faust_ or an Elzevir. Sometimes the hunter would return home
empty-handed; then he would be sullen, and silent at dinner, and would
grumble that his daughter was pulling his hair while she was curling
it; after this he would pick up his candlestick and go upstairs to
his room without wishing anyone good-night. On the other hand, if a
hunting-day proved to be productive, and M. Villenave returned with
a precious volume or a scarce edition, then he would come in with
his face radiant with smiles; he would toss Élisa up and down in his
arms; he would joke with his son, kiss his daughter, pay his wife
compliments on the dinner; and, when dinner was over, he would thank
his hairdresser, purring like a contented cat. M. Villenave had but
one cause for disquiet: where was the fresh acquisition to be put? The
books were squeezed into their shelves so tightly that you could not
get a paper knife in between. He would walk from one side to another,
turning round, tacking, complaining, lifting up his long arms to the
heavens in despair, finally deciding to put the book on a couch or on
one of the arm-chairs or chairs, saying with a sigh--
"We must find a place for it later."
That place would never be found, and the book would remain on the
couch, the arm-chair or the chair, where it had been placed, a fresh
obstacle in the way of any visitor who had to find a seat.
I was too well aware of M. Villenave's dislike to be disturbed, to
have ventured on a second visit to his sanctum, until, when recasting
_Christine_ afresh, I wished to consult the autograph writing of the
daughter of Gustavus-Adolphus; I wanted to acquaint myself with
certain oddities in her character that might possibly, I thought, be
reflected in her writing. So I made up my mind to venture to disturb
M. Villenave in those intellectual regions wherein he soared far above
common humanity. It was in the month of March 1829, about five o'clock
in the afternoon, when I rang the bell and the gate was opened. I asked
for M. Villenave and was shown in. I had not gone many steps towards
the house before Françoise called me back.
"Monsieur!" she said, "monsieur!"
"What is it, Françoise?"
"Does Monsieur want to go up to M. Villenave's rooms?"
"Yes, Françoise."
"I thought Monsieur was visiting the ladies as usual."
"You are wrong, Françoise."
"Then Monsieur will be good enough to spare my poor legs going up two
flights of stairs and give M. Villenave this letter for him that has
just come."
"Willingly, Françoise."
Françoise gave me the letter, and I took it and went upstairs. I
knocked when I reached the door, but there was no answer. I knocked a
little louder. Again no answer. I began to feel uncomfortable; the key
was in the door, and the presence of that key invariably indicated the
presence of M. Villenave in his room. Surely some accident must have
happened to him. I knocked a third time, meaning to enter if I was
not answered. There was no response, and I entered. M. Villenave was
asleep in his arm-chair. The noise I made in entering and, perhaps,
the draught that I caused, disturbed some magnetic influences, and M.
Villenave uttered a cry, awoke and jumped up.
"Ah! pardon me," I exclaimed. "I beg a thousand pardons! I have
disturbed you."
"Who are you? What is your business?" asked M. Villenave quickly.
"Why, upon my word, do you not recognise me?... Alexandre Dumas."
"Oh!" said M. Villenave, with a gasp.
"Really, monsieur," I said, "I am very sorry. I will withdraw."
"No, no; on the contrary, come in," said M. Villenave, as he passed his
hand across his forehead; "you will render me a service."
I went in.
"Take a seat," he said, from customary habit.
Eight or ten folios lay tossed about on the floor; I formed a pile of
them and sat down on the top.
"Yes," continued M. Villenave, "it was a very singular thing.... I fell
asleep, the dusk came on and, in the meantime, my fire went out. You
awoke me and found me in the dark, so I could not account for the noise
inside my room; it was, no doubt, the draught from the passage that
touched my face, but, in waking, I seemed to see something white, like
a shroud, dancing before my eyes.... Curious, was it not?" went on M.
Villenave, with a shiver, as though he felt cold through and through.
"But here you are, so much the better!" And he held out his hand to me.
I responded to his courtesy, transferring to my left hand the letter I
had brought him in my right.
"What have you there?" asked M. Villenave.
"Ah! pardon, I was forgetting ... it is a letter which Françoise gave
me for you and that is the reason I disturbed you."
"Thanks ... Stop a minute, would you please feel about for a match? I
am really quite bewildered still, and if I were superstitious I should
believe I had had a presentiment."
He took the match I held out to him and lit it in the red embers on the
hearth. Directly the match caught fire, we could distinguish objects in
the room by its flickering light, faint though it was.
"Oh! good gracious!" I exclaimed suddenly, "what has happened to your
beautiful pastel?"
"As you see, the glass and the frame are broken; I am waiting to
send it to the glazier's and picture-framer's ... it was a most
incomprehensible thing!"
"What was?"
"The way it fell."
"Did the nail come out, or the ring break?"
"Neither the one nor the other. The day before yesterday I was working
all evening; when it reached a quarter to twelve, I was tired, but I
still had to correct a proof of a handy little edition of my _Ovid._
I decided to combine rest and work by going to bed and correcting the
proofs when I was in bed. So I lay down: I put my candle on the table
by the bedside, and the light from it shone on the portrait of my poor
friend; my glance followed the candlelight and I said good-night to the
picture as usual.... A half-open window let in a little breeze which
blew the flame of my candle about so that it seemed to me as though
the portrait returned my good-night by bending its head as I had done!
You will understand that I looked upon this movement as visionary and
foolish; but, whether folly or a vision, my mind persisted in dwelling
upon the movement, and the more I pondered over it, the more real the
incident seemed; my eyes would stray from my _Ovid_, and fix themselves
on that one point, the picture; my wandering thoughts would fly back,
in spite of myself, to the days of my youth; and these early days
passed before me one by one.... Ah me! I think I have told you that the
original of that pastel occupied a good deal of my attention in those
early days! So there I was, going at full tilt over old recollections
of twenty-five years back; I addressed the copy as though the original
could hear me, and my memory answered for her; it seemed as though
the lips in the pastel moved; I thought the colours of the painting
began to fade, and the expression on the face grew sad and unhappy....
Something like a smile of farewell passed over her lips; a tear came
into her eyes ready to moisten the glass. Midnight began to strike;
and, in spite of myself, I shivered--why, I could not tell! The wind
blew, and, at the last stroke of midnight, while the clock was still
vibrating, the half-open window opened wide violently, I heard a sigh
like a groan, the eyes of the portrait closed, and the picture fell
without either the nail that held it or the cord being broken; and my
candle went out. I tried to light it again, but there was no fire in
the grate, there were no matches on the chimneypiece; it was midnight,
everybody in the house was asleep; so there was no way of obtaining a
light. I shut my window again and I went back to bed.... Although I
was not afraid, I felt much moved, I was sad, I had a great desire to
weep; I thought I heard something pass through my room like the rustle
of a silk dress.... I heard this noise three times so distinctly that I
asked, 'Is there anyone there?' Finally, I fell asleep, very late, and
the first thing I looked at when I woke again was my poor pastel, which
I found in the state in which you now see it."
"That is indeed a strange story!" I said. "And have you received your
weekly letter as usual?"
"No, and that is what makes me uneasy; that is why I gave Françoise
orders to bring or send up any letters that might come for me the
moment they arrive."
"Well," said I, "perhaps the one I have just brought you...."
"That is not her style of folding:--still, never mind, as it comes from
Angers...."
Then, turning it over to break the envelope he exclaimed, "Ah! my God!
it is sealed in black! Poor soul, some misfortune has befallen her!"
And M. Villenave grew pale as he unsealed the letter; it enclosed a
second one.
His eyes filled with tears as he read the first lines of the first
letter.
"Look," he said, and he held it out to me, "read it"; and, while he
silently and sadly opened the second letter, I took the first and
read:--
"MONSIEUR,--It is with personal grief, increased by
realising what you too will feel, that I have to inform you
that Madame---died on Sunday last, at the last stroke of
midnight. The day before, while she was writing to you, she
was seized by an indisposition which we thought at first
was only slight, but it grew worse, until she died. I have
the sad duty of sending to you the letter she had begun to
write to you, unfinished as it is. This letter will assure
you that her affection for you remained unchanged to the end.
"I remain, Monsieur, in great grief, as you will readily
believe, your very humble and very obedient servant,
"THÉRÈSE MIRAUD"
"So you see," resumed M. Villenave, "it was at the last stroke of
midnight that the portrait fell, and it was at the last stroke of
midnight that she died."
I felt that his grief needed a solitude peopled only by past
recollections and uninterrupted by any poor attempts I could offer at
consolation. I picked up my hat, pressed his hand and left.
This incident recalled to me the apparition of my father, on the very
night of his death, which woke me up when I was a little child, and I
put to myself the question that is so often asked and never answered,
"What are the mysterious bonds which bind the dead to the living?"
Later, when I lost my mother, whom I loved more than anyone else in the
world, and who, on her side, loved me beyond all telling, I remembered
these two visions and, kneeling down by the bed on which she had just
expired, with my lips on her hand, I implored her, if anything of
her had survived, to appear to me just once again; then, when night
came, I lay down in a lonely room and waited with a beating heart,
hoping to see the beloved vision. I counted in vain nearly all the
hours of that night, and not the slightest sound or apparition came to
solace my sorrowful watch. After that, I doubted all such experiences,
whether my own or others'; for my mother's love for me, and mine for
her, were so great that I knew if she had been able to rise once more
from her resting-place to bid me a last farewell she would surely
have done it. But perhaps it is only children and old people who are
privileged--children because they are nearer the cradle, old people
because they are nearer the grave.