Two days later, of a Monday evening, having dined for the last time
at the Cafe Anglais, and seen the two first pieces at the Varietes,
he went, at ten o’clock, to sleep for the first time in the rue
Chanoinesse, where Manon conducted him to his room.
Solitude has charms comparable only to those of savage life, which no
European has ever really abandoned after once tasting them. This may
seem strange at an epoch when every one lives so much to be seen
of others that all the world concern themselves in their neighbors’
affairs, and when private life will soon be a thing of the past, so
bold and so intrusive are the eyes of the press,--that modern Argus.
Nevertheless, it is a truth which rests on the authority of the first
six Christian centuries, during which no recluse ever returned to social
life. Few are the moral wounds that solitude will not heal.
So, at first, Godefroid was soothed by the deep peace and absolute
stillness of his new abode, as a weary traveller is relaxed by a bath.
The very day after his arrival at Madame de la Chanterie’s he was forced
to examine himself, under the sense that he was separated from all,
even from Paris, though he still lived in the shadow of its cathedral.
Stripped of his social vanities, he was about to have no other witnesses
of his acts than his own conscience and the inmates of that house. He
had quitted the great high-road of the world to enter an unknown path.
Where was that path to lead him to? to what occupation should he now be
drawn?
He had been for two hours absorbed in such reflections when Manon, the
only servant of the house, knocked at his door to tell him that the
second breakfast was served and the family were waiting for him. Twelve
o’clock was striking. The new lodger went down at once, stirred by a
wish to see and judge the five persons among whom his life was in future
to be spent.
When he entered the room he found all the inmates of the house standing;
they were dressed precisely as they were on the day when he came to make
his first inquiries.
“Did you sleep well?” asked Madame de la Chanterie.
“So well that I did not wake up till ten o’clock,” replied Godefroid,
bowing to the four men, who returned the bow with gravity.
“We thought so,” said an old man named Alain, smiling.
“Manon spoke of a second breakfast,” said Godefroid; “but I fear that I
have already broken some rule. At what hour do you rise?”
“Not quite so early as the old monks,” said Madame de la Chanterie,
courteously, “but as early as the working-men,--six in winter, half-past
three in summer. Our bed-time is ruled by that of the sun. We are always
asleep by nine in winter and eleven in summer. On rising, we all take a
little milk, which comes from our farm, after saying our prayers, except
the Abbe de Veze, who says the first mass, at six o’clock in summer
and seven o’clock in winter, at Notre-Dame, where these gentlemen are
present daily, as well as your humble servant.”
Madame de la Chanterie ended her explanation as the five lodgers took
their seats at table.
The dining-room, painted throughout in gray, the design of the woodwork
being in the style of Louis XIV., adjoined the sort of antechamber in
which Manon was usually stationed, and it seemed to be parallel with
Madame de la Chanterie’s bedroom, which also opened into the salon. This
room had no other ornament than a tall clock. The furniture consisted of
six chairs with oval backs covered with worsted-work, done probably
by Madame de la Chanterie’s own hand, two buffets and a table, all
of mahogany, on which Manon did not lay a cloth for breakfast. The
breakfast, of monastic frugality, was composed of a small turbot with
a white sauce, potatoes, a salad, and four dishes of fruit,--peaches,
grapes, strawberries, and fresh almonds; also, for relishes, honey
in the comb (as in Switzerland), radishes, cucumbers, sardines, and
butter,--the whole served in the well-known china with tiny blue flowers
and green leaves on a white ground, which was no doubt a luxury in the
days of Louis XIV., but had now, under the growing demands of luxury,
come to be regarded as common.
“We keep the fasts,” said Monsieur Alain. “As we go to mass every
morning, you will not be surprised to find us blindly following all the
customs of the Church, even the severest.”
“And you shall begin by imitating us,” said Madame de la Chanterie, with
a glance at Godefroid, whom she had placed beside her.
Of the five persons present Godefroid knew the names of three,--Madame
de la Chanterie, the Abbe de Veze, and Monsieur Alain. He wished to know
those of the other two; but they kept silence and ate their food with
the attention which recluses appear to give to every detail of a meal.
“Does this fine fruit come also from your farm, madame?” asked
Godefroid.
“Yes, monsieur,” she replied. “We have a little model farm, like the
government itself; we call it our country house; it is twelve miles from
here, on the road to Italy, near Villeneuve-Saint-Georges.”
“It is a property that belongs to us all, and is to go to the survivor,”
said the goodman Alain.
“Oh, it is not very considerable!” added Madame de la Chanterie, rather
hastily, as if she feared that Godefroid might think these remarks a
bait.
“There are thirty acres of tilled land,” said one of the two personages
still unknown to Godefroid, “six of meadow, and an enclosure containing
four acres, in which our house, which adjoins the farmhouse, stands.”
“But such a property as that,” said Godefroid, “must be worth a hundred
thousand francs.”
“Oh, we don’t get anything out of it but our provisions!” said the same
personage.
He was a tall, grave, spare man, with all the appearance of having
served in the army. His white hair showed him to be past sixty, and his
face betrayed some violent grief controlled by religion.
The second unnamed person, who seemed to be something between a master
of rhetoric and a business agent, was of ordinary height, plump, but
active withal. His face had the jovial expression which characterizes
those of lawyers and notaries in Paris.
The dress of these four personages revealed a neatness due to the most
scrupulous personal care. The same hand, and it was that of Manon, could
be seen in every detail. Their coats were perhaps ten years old, but
they were preserved, like the coats of vicars, by the occult power of
the servant-woman, and the constant care with which they were worn.
These men seemed to wear on their backs the livery of a system of life;
they belonged to one thought, their looks said the same word, their
faces breathed a gentle resignation, a provoking quietude.
“Is it an indiscretion, madame,” said Godefroid, “to ask the names of
these gentlemen? I am ready to explain my life; can I know as much of
theirs as custom will allow?”
“That gentleman,” said Madame de la Chanterie, motioning to the tall,
thin man, “is Monsieur Nicolas; he is a colonel of gendarmerie, retired
with the rank of brigadier-general. And this,” she added, looking
towards the stout little man, “is a former councillor of the royal
courts of Paris, who retired from the magistracy in 1830. His name is
Monsieur Joseph. Though you have only been with us one day, I will tell
you that in the world Monsieur Nicolas once bore the name of the Marquis
de Montauran, and Monsieur Joseph that of Lecamus, Baron de Tresnes; but
for us, as for the world, those names no longer exist. These gentlemen
are without heirs; they only advance by a little the oblivion which
awaits their names; they are simply Monsieur Nicolas and Monsieur
Joseph, as you will be Monsieur Godefroid.”
As he heard those names,--one so celebrated in the annals of royalism
by the catastrophe which put an end to the uprising of the Chouans; the
other so revered in the halls of the old parliament of Paris,--Godefroid
could not repress a quiver. He looked at these relics of the grandest
things of the fallen monarchy,--the _noblesse_ and the law,--and he
could see no movement of the features, no change in the countenance,
that revealed the presence of a worldly thought. Those men no longer
remembered, or did not choose to remember, what they had been. This was
Godefroid’s first lesson.
“Each of your names, gentlemen, is a whole history in itself,” he said
respectfully.
“Yes, the history of my time,--ruins,” replied Monsieur Joseph.
“You are in good company,” said Monsieur Alain.
The latter can be described in a word: he was the small bourgeois of
Paris, the worthy middle-class being with a kindly face, relieved by
pure white hair, but made insipid by an eternal smile.
As for the priest, the Abbe de Veze, his presence said all. The priest
who fulfils his mission is known by the first glance he gives you, and
by the glance that others who know him give to him.
That which struck Godefroid most forcibly at first was the profound
respect which the four lodgers manifested for Madame de la Chanterie.
They all seemed, even the priest, in spite of the sacred character his
functions gave him, to regard her as a queen. Godefroid also noticed
their sobriety. Each seemed to eat only for nourishment. Madame de la
Chanterie took, as did the rest, a single peach and half a bunch of
grapes; but she told her new lodger, as she offered him the various
dishes, not to imitate such temperance.
Godefroid’s curiosity was excited to the highest degree by this
first entrance on his new life. When they returned to the salon after
breakfast, he was left alone; Madame de la Chanterie retired to the
embrasure of a window and held a little private council with her four
friends. This conference, entirely devoid of animation, lasted half an
hour. They spoke together in a low voice, exchanging words which each of
them appeared to have thought over. From time to time Monsieur Alain and
Monsieur Joseph consulted a note-book, turning over its leaves.
“See the faubourg,” said Madame de la Chanterie to Monsieur Joseph, who
left the house.
That was the only word Godefroid distinguished.
“And you the Saint-Marceau quarter,” she continued, addressing Monsieur
Nicolas. “Hunt through the faubourg Saint-Germain and see if you can
find what we want;” this to the Abbe de Veze, who went away immediately.
“And you, my dear Alain,” she added, smiling at the latter, “make an
examination. There, those important matters are all settled,” she said,
returning to Godefroid.
She seated herself in her armchair, took a little piece of linen from
the table before her, and began to sew as if she were employed to do so.
Godefroid, lost in conjecture, and still thinking of a royalist
conspiracy, took his landlady’s remark as an opening, and he began to
study her as he seated himself beside her. He was struck by the singular
dexterity with which she worked. Although everything about her bespoke
the great lady, she showed the dexterity of a workwoman; for every one
can see at a glance, by certain manipulations, the work of a workman or
an amateur.
“You do that,” said Godefroid, “as if you knew the trade.”
“Alas!” she answered, without raising her head, “I did know it once out
of necessity.”
Two large tears came into her eyes, and rolled down her cheeks to the
linen in her hand.
“Forgive me, madame!” cried Godefroid.
Madame de Chanterie looked at her new lodger, and saw such an expression
of genuine regret upon his face, that she made him a friendly sign.
After drying her eyes, she immediately recovered the calmness that
characterized her face, which was less cold than chastened.
“You are here, Monsieur Godefroid,--for you know already that we shall
call you by your baptized name,--you are here in the midst of ruins
caused by a great tempest. We have each been struck and wounded in our
hearts, our family interests, or our fortunes, by that whirlwind of
forty years, which overthrew religion and royalty, and dispersed the
elements of all that made old France. Words that seem quite harmless
do sometimes wound us all, and that is why we are so silent. We speak
rarely of ourselves; we forget ourselves, and we have found a way to
substitute another life for our lives. It is because, after hearing your
confidence at Monsieur Mongenod’s, I thought there seemed a likeness
between your situation and ours, that I induced my four friends to
receive you among us; besides, we wanted another monk in our convent.
But what are you going to do? No one can face solitude without some
moral resources.”
“Madame, I should be very glad, after hearing what you have said, if you
yourself would be the guide of my destiny.”
“You speak like a man of the world,” she answered, “and are trying to
flatter me,--a woman of sixty! My dear child,” she went on, “let me tell
you that you are here among persons who believe strongly in God; who
have all felt his hand, and have yielded themselves to him almost as
though they were Trappists. Have you ever remarked the profound sense of
safety in a true priest when he has given himself to the Lord, when he
listens to his voice, and strives to make himself a docile instrument in
the hand of Providence? He has no longer vanity or self-love,--nothing
of all that which wounds continually the hearts of the world. His
quietude is equal to that of the fatalist; his resignation does truly
enable him to bear all. The true priest, such a one as the Abbe de Veze,
lives like a child with its mother; for the Church, my dear Monsieur
Godefroid, is a good mother. Well, a man can be a priest without the
tonsure; all priests are not in orders. To vow one’s self to good, that
is imitating a true priest; it is obedience to God. I am not preaching
to you; I am not trying to convert you; I am explaining our lives to
you.”
“Instruct me, madame,” said Godefroid, deeply impressed, “so that I may
not fail in any of your rules.”
“That would be hard upon you; you will learn them by degrees. Never
speak here of your misfortunes; they are slight compared to the
catastrophes by which the lives of those you are now among were
blasted.”
While speaking thus, Madame de la Chanterie drew her needle and set her
stitches with unbroken regularity; but here she paused, raised her
head, and looked at Godefroid. She saw him charmed by the penetrating
sweetness of her voice, which possessed, let us say it here, an
apostolic unction. The sick soul contemplated with admiration the truly
extraordinary phenomenon presented by this woman, whose face was now
resplendent. Rosy tints were spreading on the waxen cheeks, her eyes
shone, the youthfulness of her soul changed the light wrinkles into
gracious lines, and all about her solicited affection. Godefroid in
that one moment measured the gulf that separated this woman from common
sentiments. He saw her inaccessible on a peak to which religion had led
her; and he was still too worldly not to be keenly piqued, and to long
to plunge through the gulf and up to the summit on which she stood, and
stand beside her. Giving himself up to this desire, he related to
her all the mistakes of his life, and much that he could not tell
at Mongenod’s, where his confidences had been confined to his actual
situation.
“Poor child!”
That exclamation, falling now and then from Madame de la Chanterie’s
lips as he went on, dropped like balm upon the heart of the sufferer.
“What can I substitute for so many hopes betrayed, so much affection
wasted?” he asked, looking at his hostess, who had now grown thoughtful.
“I came here,” he resumed, “to reflect and choose a course of action. I
have lost my mother; will you replace her?”
“Will you,” she said, “show a son’s obedience?”
“Yes, if you will have the tenderness that commands it.”
“I will try,” she said.
Godefroid put out his hand to take that of his hostess, who gave it to
him, guessing his intentions. He carried it respectfully to his lips.
Madame de la Chanterie’s hand was exquisitely beautiful,--without a
wrinkle; neither fat nor thin; white enough to be the envy of all young
women, and shapely enough for the model of a sculptor. Godefroid had
already admired those hands, conscious of their harmony with the spell
of her voice, and the celestial blue of her glance.
“Wait a moment,” said Madame de la Chanterie, rising and going into her
own room.
Godefroid was keenly excited; he did not know to what class of ideas her
movement was to be attributed. His perplexity did not last long, for she
presently returned with a book in her hand.
“Here, my dear child,” she said, “are the prescriptions of a great
physician of souls. When the things of ordinary life have not given
us the happiness we expected of them, we must seek for happiness in a
higher life. Here is the key of a new world. Read night and morning a
chapter of this book; but bring your full attention to bear upon what
you read; study the words as you would a foreign language. At the end of
a month you will be another man. It is now twenty years that I have read
a chapter every day; and my three friends, Messieurs Nicolas, Alain,
and Joseph, would no more fail in that practice than they would fail in
getting up and going to bed. Do as they do for love of God, for love of
me,” she said, with a divine serenity, an august confidence.
Godefroid turned over the book and read upon its back in gilt letters,
IMITATION OF JESUS CHRIST. The simplicity of this old woman, her
youthful candor, her certainty of doing a good deed, confounded the
ex-dandy. Madame de la Chanterie’s face wore a rapturous expression,
and her attitude was that of a woman who was offering a hundred thousand
francs to a merchant on the verge of bankruptcy.
“I have used that volume,” she said, “for twenty-six years. God grant
its touch may be contagious. Go now and buy me another copy; for this is
the hour when persons come here who must not be seen.”
Godefroid bowed and went to his room, where he flung the book upon the
table, exclaiming,--
“Poor, good woman! Well, so be it!”