M. Bergeret was not unhappy, for he rejoiced in that true independence
which comes from within, and his soul was unfettered. Since the
departure of his wife he was also enjoying the sweets of solitude,
while awaiting the arrival of his daughter Pauline, who was shortly
expected from Arcachon with his sister, Mademoiselle Bergeret.
He looked forward to a happy life with his daughter, who resembled him
in certain turns of mind and speech, so that it flattered his vanity
when people praised her.
He was pleased at the idea of seeing his sister Zoe, an old maid,
who, having never had any pretensions to good looks, had not lost her
natural frankness of disposition, to which was added a secret delight
in making herself unpleasant, but who lacked neither wit nor kindliness.
For the time being, however, M. Bergeret was busy settling down in
his new quarters. He hung his views of Naples and Vesuvius, legacies
both, on the walls of his study. Now of all the delights permitted to a
respectable man, there is perhaps none which procures him such tranquil
enjoyment as that of knocking nails into a wall. The keenest pleasure
of that experienced voluptuary, Comte de Caylus, was unpacking cases
of Etruscan pottery. Thus M. Bergeret proceeded to hang up on his wall
an old water-colour representing Vesuvius, adorned with an aigrette of
flame and smoke, standing out against the dark blue sky of midnight.
This picture reminded him of the days of his wondering and enchanted
childhood.
He was not sad, neither was he glad. He had money worries, he knew the
unloveliness of poverty. “Money makes the man,” as Pindar says (_Isth._
II).
He did not get on with his colleagues or his pupils. He did not get on
with the townspeople; incapable as he was of comprehending either their
thoughts or their feelings, he had been obliged to withdraw from human
fellowship, and his peculiar way of thinking had deprived him of the
enjoyment of that genial feeling of comradeship which even high walls
and closed doors cannot exclude.
The mere fact that he was a thinker made him a strange and disturbing
element suspected by all. He was even a source of worry to Paillot,
the bookseller, and his asylum and refuge, the corner where the
old books were kept, was no longer to be counted on. In spite of all
this he was not unhappy. He set about arranging his books on the deal
shelves put up by the carpenter, and took pleasure in handling these
little memorials of his humble contemplative life. He worked with zeal
at his task of getting things straight, and when he tired of hanging
pictures or arranging furniture, he buried himself deep in some book,
with a lurking feeling, however, that he ought not to enjoy it because
it was a human product, yet enjoying it notwithstanding. He read a few
pages on “the progress realized by modern society,” and his reflections
ran as follows:
“Let us be humble and believe ourselves in no way excellent, for we
are not excellent. As we examine ourselves, let us uncover our true
countenance, which is rough and violent like that of our forefathers,
and, as we have the advantage over them of a longer tradition, let us
at least recognize the sequence and continuity of our ignorance.”
Thus pondered M. Bergeret, as he settled himself in his new abode. He
was not sad, neither was he glad, as he reflected that he would always
yearn in vain for Madame de Gromance, not realizing the fact that she
was only precious to him by virtue of the craving which she inspired.
But the very derangement of his feelings prevented him from clearly
grasping this philosophical truth. He was not handsome, he was not
young, he was not rich; he was not sad, because his wisdom approached
the happy state of ataraxy, without, however, finally attaining it, and
he was not glad, because he was somewhat of a sensualist, and his soul
was not free from illusions and desires.
The servant Marie, who had fulfilled her task of bringing terror
and misery into the house, had been dismissed, and in her place he
had engaged a decent woman from the town, whom he called Angélique,
but who was spoken of as Madame Borniche by the shopkeepers and the
country-people in the market-place.
Her husband, Nicolas Borniche, a good coachman, but a bad man, had
deserted her when she was still young and ugly. She had been in service
with various families. Her status as a married woman still filled her
with a certain pride not always concealed, and with a great fondness
for managing. Finally, she was by way of being a herbalist and a
healer, something of a sorceress, and filled the house with a pleasant
odour of herbs. Full of genuine zeal, she was obsessed by an eternal
longing for affection and approval. From the very first she had taken
to M. Bergeret, on account of the distinction of his mind and the
gentleness of his manner, but she awaited the arrival of Mademoiselle
Bergeret with foreboding, for a secret presentiment told her that she
would not get on well with the sister from Arcachon. On the other hand,
she pleased M. Bergeret, who was at last enjoying peace in his house
and deliverance from all his troubles.
His books, which heretofore had been despised and thrown about, were
now displayed upon long shelves in the big sunny room. There he could
work in quiet at his _Virgilius nauticus_, and indulge freely in silent
orgies of meditation. Before the window a young plane tree gently waved
its pointed leaves, and, farther away, a dark buttress of Saint-Exupère
reared its jagged pinnacle, in which grew a cherry tree, doubtless
planted there by a bird.
Seated at his table one morning in front of the window, against which
the leaves of the plane tree quivered, M. Bergeret, who was trying to
discover how the ships of Æneas had been changed into nymphs, heard a
tap at the door, and forthwith his servant entered, carrying in front
of her, opossum-like, a tiny creature whose black head peeped out from
the folds of her apron, which she had turned up to form a pocket. With
a look of anxiety and hope upon her face, she remained motionless for
a moment, then she placed the little thing upon the carpet at her
master’s feet.
“What’s that?” asked M. Bergeret.
It was a little dog of doubtful breed, having something of the terrier
in him, and a well-set head, a short, smooth coat of a dark tan colour,
and a tiny little stump of a tail. His body retained its puppy-like
softness and he went sniffing at the carpet.
“Angélique,” said M. Bergeret, “take this animal back to its owner.”
“It has no owner, Monsieur.”
M. Bergeret looked silently at the little creature who had come to
examine his slippers, and was giving little sniffs of approval. M.
Bergeret was a philologist, which perhaps explains why at this juncture
he asked a vain question.
“What is he called?”
“Monsieur,” replied Angélique, “he has no name.”
M. Bergeret seemed put out at this answer: he looked at the dog sadly,
with a disheartened air.
Then the little animal placed its two front paws on M. Bergeret’s
slipper, and, holding it thus, began innocently to nibble at it. With a
sudden access of compassion M. Bergeret took the tiny nameless creature
upon his knees. The dog looked at him intently, and M. Bergeret was
pleased at his confiding expression.
“What beautiful eyes!” he cried.
The dog’s eyes were indeed beautiful, the pupils of a golden-flecked
chestnut set in warm white. And his gaze spoke of simple, mysterious
thoughts, common alike to the thoughtful beasts and simple men of the
earth.
Tired, perhaps, with the intellectual effort he had made for the
purpose of entering into communication with a human being, he closed
his beautiful eyes, and, yawning widely, revealed his pink mouth, his
curled-up tongue, and his array of dazzling teeth.
M. Bergeret put his hand into the dog’s mouth, and allowed him to lick
it, at which old Angélique gave a smile of relief.
“A more affectionate little creature doesn’t breathe,” she said.
“The dog,” said M. Bergeret, “is a religious animal. In his savage
state he worships the moon and the lights that float upon the waters.
These are his gods, to whom he appeals at night with long-drawn howls.
In the domesticated state he seeks by his caresses to conciliate those
powerful genii who dispense the good things of this world--to wit, men.
He worships and honours men by the accomplishment of the rites passed
down to him by his ancestors; he licks their hand, jumps against their
legs, and when they show signs of anger towards him he approaches them
crawling on his belly as a sign of humility, to appease their wrath.”
“All dogs are not the friends of man,” remarked Angélique. “Some of
them bite the hand that feeds them.”
“Those are the ungodly, blasphemous dogs,” returned M. Bergeret,
“insensate creatures like Ajax, the son of Telamon, who wounded the
hand of the golden Aphrodite. These sacrilegious creatures die a
dreadful death or lead wandering and miserable lives. They are not to
be confounded with those dogs who, espousing the quarrel of their own
particular god, wage war upon his enemy, the neighbouring god. They
are heroes. Such, for example, is the dog of Lafolie, the butcher, who
fixed his sharp teeth into the leg of the tramp Pied-d’Alouette. For it
is a fact that dogs fight among themselves like men, and Turk, with his
snub nose, serves his god Lafolie against the robber gods, in the same
way that Israel helped Jehovah to destroy Chamos and Moloch.”
The puppy, however, having decided that M. Bergeret’s remarks were the
reverse of interesting, curled up his feet and stretched out his head,
ready to go to sleep upon the knees that harboured him.
“Where did you find him?” asked M. Bergeret.
“Well, Monsieur, it was M. Dellion’s _chef_ gave him to me.”
“With the result,” continued M. Bergeret, “that we now have this soul
to care for.”
“What soul?” asked Angélique.
“This canine soul. An animal is, properly speaking, a soul; I do not
say an immortal soul. And yet, when I come to consider the positions
this poor little beast and I myself occupy in the scheme of things, I
recognize in both exactly the same right to immortality.”
After considerable hesitation, old Angélique, with a painful effort
that made her upper lip curl up and reveal her two remaining teeth,
said:
“If Monsieur does not want a dog, I will return him to M. Dellion’s
_chef_; but you may safely keep him, I assure you. You won’t see or
hear him.”
She had hardly finished her sentence when the puppy, hearing a heavy
van rolling down the street, sat bolt upright on M. Bergeret’s knees,
and began to bark both loud and long, so that the window-panes
resounded with the noise.
M. Bergeret smiled.
“He is a watch-dog,” said Angélique, by way of excuse. “They are by far
the most faithful.”
“Have you given him anything to eat?” asked M. Bergeret.
“Of course,” returned Angélique.
“What does he eat?”
“Monsieur must be aware that dogs eat bread and meat.”
Somewhat piqued, M. Bergeret retorted that in her eagerness she might
very likely have taken him away from his mother before he was old
enough to leave her, upon which he was lifted up again and re-examined,
only to make sure of the fact that he was at least six months old.
M. Bergeret put him down on the carpet, and regarded him with interest.
“Isn’t he pretty?” said the servant.
“No, he is not pretty,” replied M. Bergeret. “But he is engaging,
and has beautiful eyes. That is what people used to say about me,”
added the professor, “when I was three times as old, and not half
as intelligent. Since then I have no doubt acquired an outlook upon
the universe which he will never attain. But, in comparison with the
Absolute, I may say that my knowledge equals his in the smallness of
its extent. Like his, it is a geometrical point in the infinite.” Then,
addressing the little creature who was sniffing the waste-paper basket,
he went on: “Smell it out, sniff it well, take from the outside world
all the knowledge that can reach your simple brain through the medium
of that black truffle-like nose of yours. And what though I at the same
time observe, and compare, and study? We shall never know, neither the
one nor the other of us, why we have been put into this world, and what
we are doing in it. What are we here for, eh?”
As he had spoken rather loudly, the puppy looked at him anxiously, and
M. Bergeret, returning to the thought which had first filled his mind,
said to the servant:
“We must give him a name.”
With her hands folded in front of her she replied laughingly that that
would not be a difficult matter.
Upon which M. Bergeret made the private reflection that to the simple
all things are simple, but that clear-sighted souls, who look upon
things from many and divers aspects, invisible to the vulgar mind,
experience the greatest difficulty in coming to a decision about even
the most trivial matters. And he cudgelled his brains, trying to hit
upon a name for the little living thing who was busily engaged in
nibbling the fringe of the carpet.
“All the names of dogs,” thought he, “preserved in the ancient
treatises of the huntsmen of old, such as Fouilloux, and in the verses
of our sylvan poets such as La Fontaine--Finaud, Miraut, Briffaut,
Ravaud, and such-like names, are given to sporting dogs, who are the
aristocracy of the kennel, the chivalry of the canine race. The dog
of Ulysses was called Argos, and he was a hunter too, so Homer tells
us. ‘In his youth he hunted the little hares of Ithaca, but now he was
old and hunted no more.’ What we require is something quite different.
The names given by old maids to their lap-dogs would be more suitable
were they not usually pretentious and absurd. Azor, for instance, is
ridiculous!”
So M. Bergeret ruminated, calling to memory many a dog name, without
being able to decide, however, on one that pleased him. He would have
liked to invent a name, but lacked the imagination.
“What day is it?” he asked at last.
“The ninth,” replied Angélique, “Thursday, the ninth.”
“Well, then!” said M. Bergeret, “can’t we call the dog Thursday, like
Robinson Crusoe who called his man Friday, for the same reason?”
“As Monsieur pleases,” said Angélique. “But it isn’t very pretty.”
“Very well,” said M. Bergeret, “find a name for the creature yourself,
for, after all, you brought him here.”
“Oh, no,” said the servant. “I couldn’t find a name for him, I’m not
clever enough. When I saw him lying on the straw in the kitchen, I
called him Riquet, and he came up and played about under my skirts.”
“You called him Riquet, did you?” cried M. Bergeret. “Why didn’t you
say so before? Riquet he is and Riquet he shall remain, that’s settled.
Now be off with you, and take Riquet with you. I want to work.”
“Monsieur,” returned Angélique, “I am going to leave the puppy with
you; I will come for him when I get back from market.”
“You could quite well take him to market with you,” retorted M.
Bergeret.
“Monsieur, I am going to church as well.”
It was quite true that she really was going to church at Saint-Exupère,
to ask for a Mass to be said for the repose of her husband’s soul. She
did that regularly once a year, not that she had ever been informed
of the decease of Borniche, who had never communicated with her since
his desertion, but it was a settled thing in the good woman’s mind
that Borniche was dead. She had therefore no fear of his coming to rob
her of the little she had, and did her best to fix things up to his
advantage in the other world, so long as he left her in peace in this
one.
“Eh!” ejaculated M. Bergeret. “Shut him up in the kitchen or some other
convenient place, and do not wor----”
He did not finish his sentence, for Angélique had vanished, purposely
pretending not to hear, that she might leave Riquet with his master.
She wanted them to grow used to one another, and she also wanted to
give poor, friendless M. Bergeret a companion. Having closed the door
behind her, she went along the corridor and down the steps.
M. Bergeret set to work again and plunged head foremost into his
_Virgilius nauticus_. He loved the work; it rested his thoughts, and
became a kind of game that suited him, for he played it all by himself.
On the table beside him were several boxes filled with pegs, which
he fixed into little squares of cardboard to represent the fleet of
Æneas. Now while he was thus occupied he felt something like tiny fists
tapping at his legs. Riquet, whom he had quite forgotten, was standing
on his hind legs patting his master’s knees, and wagging his little
stump of a tail. When he tired of this, he let his paws slide down
the trouser leg, then got up and began his coaxing over again. And M.
Bergeret, turning away from the printed lore before him, saw two brown
eyes gazing up at him lovingly.
“What gives a human beauty to the gaze of this dog,” he thought,
“is probably that it varies unceasingly, being by turns bright and
vivacious or serious and sorrowful; because through these eyes his
little dumb soul finds expression for thought that lacks nothing in
depth nor sequence. My father was very fond of cats, and, consequently,
I liked them too. He used to declare that cats are the wise man’s
best companions, for they respect his studious hours. Bajazet, his
Persian cat, would sit at night for hours at a stretch, motionless and
majestic, perched on a corner of his table. I still remember the agate
eyes of Bajazet, but those jewel-like orbs concealed all thought, that
owl-like stare was cold, and hard, and wicked. How much do I prefer the
melting gaze of the dog!”
Riquet, however, was agitating his paws in frantic fashion, and M.
Bergeret, who was anxious to return to his philological amusements,
said kindly, but shortly:
“Lie down, Riquet!”
Upon which Riquet went and thrust his nose against the door through
which Angélique had passed out. And there he remained, uttering from
time to time plaintive, meek little cries. After a while he began to
scratch, making a gentle rasping noise on the polished floor with
his nails. Then the whining began again followed by more scratching.
Disturbed by these sounds, M. Bergeret sternly bade him keep still.
Riquet peered at him sorrowfully with his brown eyes, then, sitting
down, he looked at M. Bergeret again, rose, returned to the door,
sniffed underneath it, and wailed afresh.
“Do you want to go out?” asked M. Bergeret.
Putting down his pen, he went to the door, which he held a few inches
open. After making sure that he was running no risk of hurting himself
on the way out, Riquet slipped through the doorway and marched off with
a composure that was scarcely polite. On returning to his table, M.
Bergeret, sensitive man that he was, pondered over the dog’s action. He
said to himself:
“I was on the point of reproaching the animal for going without saying
either good-bye or thank you, and expecting him to apologize for
leaving me. It was the beautiful human expression of his eyes that made
me so foolish. I was beginning to look upon him as one of my own kind.”
After making this reflection M. Bergeret applied himself anew to the
metamorphosis of the ships of Æneas, a legend both pretty and popular,
but perhaps a trifle too simple in itself for expression in such noble
language. M. Bergeret, however, saw nothing incongruous in it. He
knew that the nursery tales have furnished material for nearly all
epics, and that Virgil had carefully collected together in his poem
the riddles, the puns, the uncouth stories, and the puerile imaginings
of his forefathers; that Homer, his master and the master of all the
bards, had done little more than tell over again what the good wives of
Ionia and the fishermen of the islands had been narrating for more than
a thousand years before him. Besides, for the time being this was the
least of his worries; he had another far more important preoccupation.
An expression, met with in the course of the charming story of the
metamorphosis, did not appear sufficiently plain to him. That was what
was worrying him.
“Bergeret, my friend,” he said to himself, “this is where you must open
your eyes and show your sense. Remember that Virgil always expresses
himself with extreme precision when writing on the technique of the
arts; remember that he went yachting at Baïae, that he was an expert in
naval construction, and that therefore his language, in this passage,
must have a precise and definite signification.”
And M. Bergeret carefully consulted a great number of texts, in order
to throw a light upon the word which he could not understand, and
which he had to explain. He was almost on the point of grasping the
solution, or, at any rate, he had caught a glimpse of it, when he
heard a noise like the rattling of chains at his door, a noise which,
although not alarming, struck him as curious. The disturbance was
presently accompanied by a shrill whining, and M. Bergeret, interrupted
in his philological investigations, immediately concluded that these
importunate wails must emanate from Riquet.
As a matter of fact, after having looked vainly all over the house for
Angélique, Riquet had been seized with a desire to see M. Bergeret
again. Solitude was as painful to him as human society was dear. In
order to put an end to the noise, and also because he had a secret
desire to see Riquet again, M. Bergeret got up from his arm-chair and
opened the door, and Riquet re-entered the study with the same coolness
with which he had quitted it, but as soon as he saw the door close
behind him he assumed a melancholy expression, and began to wander up
and down the room like a soul in torment.
He had a sudden way of appearing to find something of interest beneath
the chairs and tables, and would sniff long and noisily; then he would
walk aimlessly about or sit down in a corner with an air of great
humility, like the beggars who are to be seen in church porches.
Finally he began to bark at a cast of Hermes which stood upon the
mantelshelf, whereupon M. Bergeret addressed him in words full of just
reproach.
“Riquet! such vain agitation, such sniffing and barking were better
suited to a stable than to the study of a professor, and they lead one
to suppose that your ancestors lived with horses whose straw litters
they shared. I do not reproach you with that. It is only natural you
should have inherited their habits, manners, and tendencies as well
as their close-cropped coat, their sausage-like body, and their long,
thin nose. I do not speak of your beautiful eyes, for there are few
men, few dogs even, who can open such beauties to the light of day.
But, leaving all that aside, you are a mongrel, my friend, a mongrel
from your short, bandy legs to your head. Again I am far from despising
you for that. What I want you to understand is that if you desire to
live with me, you will have to drop your mongrel manners and behave
like a _scolar_, in other words, to remain silent and quiet, to respect
work, after the manner of Bajazet, who of a night would sit for four
hours without stirring, and watch my father’s pen skimming over the
paper. He was a silent and tactful creature. How different is your own
character, my friend! Since you came into this chamber of study your
hoarse voice, your unseemly snufflings and your whines, that sound like
steam whistles, have constantly confused my thoughts and interrupted my
reflections. And now you have made me lose the drift of an important
passage in Servius, referring to the construction of one of the ships
of Æneas. Know then, Riquet, my friend, that this is the house of
silence and the abode of meditation, and that if you are anxious to
stay here you must become literary. Be quiet!”
Thus spoke M. Bergeret. Riquet, who had listened to him with mute
astonishment, approached his master, and with suppliant gesture placed
a timid paw upon the knee, which he seemed to revere in a fashion that
savoured of long ago. Then a kind thought struck M. Bergeret. He picked
him up by the scruff of his neck, and put him upon the cushions of the
ample easy chair in which he was sitting. Turning himself round three
times, Riquet lay down, and then remained perfectly still and silent.
He was quite happy. M. Bergeret was grateful to him, and as he ran
through Servius he occasionally stroked the close-cropped coat, which,
without being soft, was smooth and very pleasant to the touch. Riquet
fell into a gentle doze, and communicated to his master the generous
warmth of his body, the subtle, gentle heat of a living, breathing
thing. And from that moment M. Bergeret found more pleasure in his
_Virgilius nauticus_.
From floor to ceiling his study was lined with deal shelves, bearing
books arranged in methodical order. One glance, and all that remains
to us of Latin thought was ready to his hand. The Greeks lay half-way
up. In a quiet corner, easy of access, were Rabelais, the excellent
story-tellers of the _Cent nouvelles nouvelles_, Bonaventure des
Périers, Guillaume Bouchet, and all the old French “conteurs” whom
M. Bergeret considered better adapted to humanity than writings in
the more heroic style, and who were the favourite reading of his
leisure. He only possessed them in cheap modern editions, but he had
discovered a poor bookbinder in the town who covered his volumes with
leaves from a book of anthems, and it gave M. Bergeret the keenest
pleasure to see these free-spoken gentlemen thus clad in Requiems and
Misereres. This was the sole luxury and the only peculiarity of his
austere library. The other books were paper-backed or bound in poor
and worn-out bindings. The gentle friendly manner in which they were
handled by their owner gave them the look of tools set out in a busy
man’s workshop. The books on archæology and art found a resting-place
on the highest shelves, not by any means out of contempt, but because
they were not so often used.
Now while M. Bergeret worked at his _Virgilius nauticus_ and shared
his chair with Riquet, he found, as chance would have it, that it was
necessary to consult Ottfried Müller’s little _Manual_, which happened
to be on one of the topmost shelves.
There was no need of one of those tall ladders on wheels topped by
railings and a shelf, to enable him to reach the book; there were
ladders of this description in the town library, and they had been
used by all the great book-lovers of the eighteenth and nineteenth
centuries; indeed, several of the latter had fallen from them, and
thus died honourable deaths, in the manner spoken of in the pamphlet
entitled: _Des bibliophiles qui moururent en tombant de leur échelle_.
No, indeed! M. Bergeret had no need of anything of the sort. A small
pair of folding steps would have served his purpose excellently well,
and he had once seen some in the shop of Clérambaut, the cabinet-maker,
in the Rue de Josde. They folded up, and looked just the thing with
their bevelled uprights each pierced with a trefoil as a grip for the
hand. M. Bergeret would have given anything to possess them, but the
state of his finances, which were somewhat involved, forced him to
abandon the idea. No one knew better than he did that financial ills
are not mortal, but, for all that, he had no steps in his study.
In place of such a pair of steps he used an old cane-bottomed chair,
the back of which had been broken, leaving only two horns or antennæ,
which had shewn themselves to be more dangerous than useful. So they
had been cut to the level of the seat, and the chair had become a
stool. There were two reasons why this stool was ill-fitted to the
use to which M. Bergeret was wont to put it. In the first place the
woven-cane seat had grown slack with long use, and now contained a
large hollow, making one’s foothold precarious. In the second place
the stool was too low, and it was hardly possible when standing upon
it to reach the books on the highest shelf, even with the finger-tips.
What generally happened was that in the endeavour to grasp one book
several others fell out, and it depended upon their being bound or
paper-covered whether they lay with broken corners or sprawled with
leaves spread like a fan or a concertina.
Now with the intention of getting down the _Manual_ of Ottfried Müller,
M. Bergeret quitted the chair he was sharing with Riquet, who, rolled
into a ball with his head tight pressed to his body, lay in warm
comfort, opening one voluptuous eye, which he reclosed as quickly. Then
M. Bergeret drew the stool from the dark corner where it was hidden and
placed it where it was required, hoisted himself upon it, and managed
by making his arm as long as possible, and straining upon tiptoe to
touch, first with one then with two fingers, the back of a book which
he judged to be the one he was needing. As for the thumb it remained
below the shelf and rendered no assistance whatever. M. Bergeret, who
found it therefore exceedingly difficult to draw out the book, made the
reflection that the reason why the hand is a precious implement is on
account of the position of the thumb, and that no being could rise to
be an artist who had four feet and no hands.
“It is to the hand,” he reflected, “that men owe their power of
becoming engineers, painters, writers, and manipulators of all kinds of
things. If they had not a thumb as well as their other fingers, they
would be as incapable as I am at this moment, and they could never have
changed the face of the earth as they have done. Beyond a doubt it
is the shape of the hand that has assured to man the conquest of the
world.”
Then, almost simultaneously, M. Bergeret remembered that monkeys, who
possess four hands, have not, for all that, created the arts, nor
disposed the earth to their use, and he erased from his mind the theory
upon which he had just embarked. However, he did the best he could with
his four fingers. It must be known that Ottfried Müller’s _Manual_ is
composed of three volumes and an atlas. M. Bergeret wanted Volume I. He
pulled out first the second volume, then the atlas, then volume three,
and finally the book that he required. At last he held it in his hands.
All that now remained for him to do was to descend, and this he was
about to do when the cane seat gave way beneath his foot, which passed
through it. He lost his balance and fell to the ground, not as heavily
as might have been feared, for he broke his fall by grasping at one of
the uprights of the bookshelf.
He was on the ground, however, full of astonishment, and wearing on
one leg the broken chair; his whole body was permeated and as though
constricted by a pain that spread all over it, and that presently
settled itself more particularly in the region of the left elbow and
hip upon which he had fallen. But, as his anatomy was not seriously
damaged, he gathered his wits together; he had got so far as to
realize that he must draw his right leg out of the stool in which it
had so unfortunately become entangled, and that he must be careful
to raise himself up on his right side, which was unhurt. He was even
trying to put this into execution when he felt a warm breath upon his
cheek, and, turning his eyes, which fright and pain had for the moment
fixed, he saw close to his cheek Riquet’s little face.
At the sound of the fall Riquet had jumped down from the chair and run
to his unfortunate master; he was now standing near him in a state of
great excitement; then he commenced to run round him. First he came
near out of sympathy, then he retreated out of fear of some mysterious
danger. He understood perfectly well that a misfortune had taken place,
but he was neither thoughtful nor clever enough to discover what it
was; hence his anxiety. His fidelity drew him to his suffering friend,
and his prudence stopped him on the very brink of the fatal spot.
Encouraged at length by the calm and silence which eventually reigned,
he licked M. Bergeret’s neck and looked at him with eyes of fear and of
love. The fallen master smiled, and the dog licked the end of his nose.
It was a great comfort to M. Bergeret, who freed his right leg, stood
erect, and limped good-humouredly back to his chair.
Riquet was there before him. All that could be seen of his eyes was a
gleam between the narrow slit of the half-closed lids. He seemed to
have forgotten all about the adventure that a moment before had so
stirred them both. The little creature lived in the present, with no
thought of time that had run its course; not that he was wanting in
memory, inasmuch as he could remember, not his own past alone, but
the far-away past of his ancestors, and his little head was a rich
storehouse of useful knowledge; but he took no pleasure in remembrance,
and memory was not for him, as it was for M. Bergeret, a divine muse.
Gently stroking the short, smooth coat of his companion, M. Bergeret
addressed him in the following affectionate terms:
“Dog! at the price of the repose which is dear to your heart, you
came to me when I was dismayed and brought low. You did not laugh, as
any young person of my own species would have done. It is true that
however joyous or terrible nature may appear to you at times, she
never inspires you with a sense of the ridiculous. And it is for that
very reason, because of your innocent gravity, that you are the surest
friend a man can have. In the first instance I inspired confidence and
admiration in you, and now you show me pity.
“Dog! when we first met on the highway of life, we came from the two
poles of creation; we belong to different species. I refer to this with
no desire to take advantage of it, but rather with a strong sense of
universal brotherhood. We have hardly been acquainted two hours, and my
hand has never yet fed you. What can be the meaning of the obscure love
for me that has sprung up in your little heart? The sympathy you bestow
on me is a charming mystery, and I accept it. Sleep, friend, in the
place that you have chosen!”
Having thus spoken, M. Bergeret turned over the leaves of Ottfried
Müller’s _Manual_, which with marvellous instinct he had kept in his
hand both during and after his fall. He turned over the pages, and
could not find what he sought.
Every movement, however, seemed to increase the pain he was feeling.
“I believe,” he thought, “that the whole of my left side is bruised and
my hip swollen. I have a suspicion that my right leg is grazed all over
and my left elbow aches and burns, but shall I cavil at pain that has
led me to the discovery of a friend?”
His reflexions were running thus when old Angélique, breathless and
perspiring, entered the study. She first opened the door, and then she
knocked, for she never permitted herself to enter without knocking. If
she had not done so before she opened the door, she did it after, for
she had good manners, and knew what was expected of her. She went in
therefore, knocked, and said:
“Monsieur, I have come to relieve you of the dog.”
M. Bergeret heard these words with decided annoyance. He had not as
yet inquired into his claims to Riquet, and now realized that he had
none. The thought that Madame Borniche might take the animal away from
him filled him with sadness, yet, after all, Riquet did belong to her.
Affecting indifference, he replied:
“He’s asleep; let him sleep!”
“Where is he? I don’t see him,” remarked old Angélique.
“Here he is,” answered M. Bergeret. “In my chair.”
With her two hands clasped over her portly figure, old Angélique
smiled, and, in a tone of gentle mockery, ventured:
“I wonder what pleasure the creature can find in sleeping there behind
Monsieur!”
“That,” retorted M. Bergeret, “is his business.”
Then, as he was of an inquiring mind, he immediately sought of Riquet
his reasons for the selection of his resting-place, and lighting on
them, replied with his accustomed candour:
“I keep him warm, and my presence affords a sense of security; my
comrade is a chilly and homely little animal.” Then he added: “Do you
know, Angélique? I will go out presently and buy him a collar.”