PROVIDENCE SENDS A LODGER.
To begin: my father, a worthy man and a sincere Christian, was a _Chef
de Division_ at the Préfecture. A sudden illness bereft me of his care
when I was barely fifteen years old. My mother, my young sister, and
myself were left in quite limited circumstances, being wholly dependent
on the rent of this small house, which had belonged to the family many
years. Some time after, a pension of five hundred francs was added to
our income by the government which my father had faithfully served.
Our position was very sad, and the more so because, during my father’s
life, we had everything in abundance. But our misfortunes offered us
a thousand inducements to draw nearer to God. It is only ill-balanced
souls—at once proud and weak—that disregard him who chastises them.
Poor souls! they are doubly to be pitied, for they suffer and do not
have recourse to him who alone can console them! As for us, God granted
us the grace to recognize his agency. He sustained us, and we humbly
submitted to his divine decrees. Misfortune only rendered us the more
pious.
I had had a special taste for painting from my childhood, but still
lacked proficiency, notwithstanding the lessons I had taken. I now set
to work with ardor, though I had no master. At the end of a year I
had made so much progress that an old teacher of mine, the principal
of a boarding-school—an excellent person, who took an interest in
our affairs—received me as teacher of drawing in her establishment.
She also made me give English lessons to beginners. This additional
resource restored ease in a measure to our household. Nevertheless, we
were obliged to practise the strictest economy. To enable us to get on
swimmingly, as my mother said with a smile, we at last resolved to rent
the spacious ready-furnished apartments on the ground floor. The first
story was occupied by a lodger, who was, at the same time, a friend of
ours. As for us, we lived in the second story.
Things went on thus for some years. I was nearly twenty, when one day a
young man, whom neither my mother nor myself knew, called to say he had
heard our furnished rooms were vacant, and that he would like to occupy
them. My mother was greatly pleased with his frank, open manner. She
is very social, you know, and made the stranger sit down. They entered
into conversation, and I sat listening to them.
“Am I mistaken, monsieur?” said my mother, after a while; “it seems as
if I have already met you somewhere.”
“Yes, madame,” replied the young man, “I have had the honor of seeing
you more than once.”
“But where?”
“At M. Comte, the apothecary’s. I was the head clerk there.”
“That is it!... I remember now.... And you have left him?”
“Under the most singular circumstances. It seems I am a writer without
being aware of it.”
“How so?”
“You know the Philopolis _Catholic Journal_?”
“Certainly: an excellent paper. It is a great pity it is not so
successful as it deserves to be. But between us, it is partly its
own fault: it lacks interest and ability. It has only one able
contributor—Victor Barnier, but he does not write often enough.”
“The poor fellow cannot help it. His duties at the apothecary’s shop
have naturally superseded his taste for journalism.” ...
“What! are you Victor Barnier?”
“Yes, madame.”
“Ah! well, young man, you do not lack talent.”
“Others have said the same, madame. I hope you are not all mistaken,
especially for the sake of the _Catholic Journal_, of which I have
been appointed the principal editor. I refused the post at first,
the responsibility seemed so great. They insisted. The position
surpassed my wishes. Without any one’s knowing it, I had for many
years ardently longed to be a writer. But like so many others, the
limited circumstances of my family prevented it. Now, thanks to this
unexpected offer, the opportunity of following my natural inclinations
is so tempting that I cannot resist it. My good mother tells me it is a
perilous career, and that I shall meet with more trouble than success.
No matter! I am so fond of literary pursuits that, were they to afford
me only one day of happiness in my life, I should still cling to them.
And then, I say it without boasting, I love above all things the cause
I am to defend, and hope through divine assistance to become its able
champion. I have, therefore, left M. Comte’s, though not without some
regret. I enter upon my duties to-morrow, and—am in want of lodgings.”
“Oh! well, that is all settled. You shall come here and be well taken
care of.”
After this, Victor left us. I have only given you the substance of the
conversation in which I more than once took part. I must confess Victor
won my esteem and good-will at this first interview. He merited them.
He was at once an excellent and a talented man—that was to be seen at
the first glance. The better he was known, the more evident it became
that his outward appearance, pleasing as it was, was not deceptive.
He was then twenty-five years old, but, though young, he had had many
trials, I assure you—trials similar to yours, my young friend, but
much more severe.