One evening Godefroid determined to pay a visit to his neighbor on
the floor above him, with the intention of satisfying a curiosity
more excited by the apparent impossibility of a catastrophe in such an
existence than it would have been under the expectation of discovering
some terrible episode in the life of a corsair.
At the words “Come in!” given in answer to two raps struck discreetly
on the door, Godefroid turned the key which was in the lock and found
Monsieur Alain sitting by the fire reading, before he went to bed, his
accustomed chapter in the “Imitation of Jesus Christ,” by the light
of two wax-candles, each protected by a moveable green shade, such as
whist-players use.
The goodman wore trousers _a pied_ and his gray camlet dressing-gown.
His feet were at a level with the fire, resting on a cushion done in
worsted-work, as were his slippers, by Madame de la Chanterie. The fine
head of the old man, without other covering than its crown of white
hair, almost like that of a monk, stood out in clear relief against the
brown background of an enormous armchair.
Monsieur Alain gently laid his book, which was much worn at the corners,
on a little table with twisted legs, and signed to the young man to take
another chair, removing as he did so a pair of spectacles which were
hanging on the end of his nose.
“Are you ill, that you have left your room at this hour?” he asked.
“Dear Monsieur Alain,” said Godefroid, frankly, “I am tortured with
a curiosity which one word from you will make very harmless or very
indiscreet; and that explains clearly enough the spirit in which I shall
ask my question.”
“Oh! oh! and what is your question?” said the good soul, looking at the
young man with an eye that was half mischievous.
“What was it that brought you here to lead the life that you live here?
For, surely, to accept the doctrines of such total renunciation of all
personal interests, a man must have been disgusted with the world, or
else have injured others.”
“Eh! my dear lad,” replied the old man, letting a smile flicker on his
large lips, which gave to his rosy mouth the kindliest expression that
the genius of a painter ever imagined, “can we not be moved to the
deepest pity by the spectacle of human wretchedness which Paris holds
within her walls? Did Saint Vincent de Paul need the spur of remorse or
wounded vanity to make him devote himself to outcast children?”
“You close my mouth, for if ever a soul resembled that of the Christian
hero, it is yours,” said Godefroid.
In spite of the hardness which age had given to the wrinkled yellow skin
of his face, the old man blushed, for he seemed to have provoked that
comparison; though any one who knew his modesty would have been certain
he never dreamed of it. Godefroid was aware by this time that Madame
de la Chanterie’s inmates had no taste for that sort of incense.
Nevertheless, the extreme simplicity of the good old soul was more
disturbed by this idea than a young girl would have been by an improper
thought.
“Though I am very far indeed from Saint Vincent de Paul morally,” said
Monsieur Alain, “I think I do resemble him physically.”
Godefroid was about to speak, but was stopped by a gesture of the old
man, whose nose, it must be owned, had the tuberous appearance of
that of the Saint, and whose face, a good deal like that of an old
vine-dresser, was an exact duplicate of the broad, common face of the
founder of Foundling hospitals.
“As for me, you are right enough,” he went on; “my vocation for our work
was brought about by repentance, as the result of a--folly.”
“A folly,--you!” Godefroid exclaimed softly, the word entirely putting
out of his head what he meant to say.
“Ah! dear me, what I am going to tell you will seem, I dare say, a
trifle to you,--a mere bit of nonsense; but before the tribunal of
conscience it was another thing. If you persist in wishing to share our
work after hearing what I shall tell you, you will understand that the
power of a sentiment is according to the nature of souls, and that a
matter which would not in the least trouble a strong mind may very well
torment the conscience of a weak Christian.”
After a preface of this kind, the curiosity of the disciple of course
knew no bounds. What could be the crime of the worthy soul whom
Madame de la Chanterie called her _paschal lamb_? The thought crossed
Godefroid’s mind that a book might be written on it, called “The Sins of
a Sheep.” Sheep are sometimes quite ferocious towards grass and flowers.
One of the tenderest republicans of those days was heard to assert
that the best of human beings was cruel to something. But the kindly
Alain!--he, who like my uncle Toby, wouldn’t crush a gnat till it
had stung him twenty times,--that sweet soul to have been tortured by
repentance!
This reflection in Godefroid’s mind filled the pause made by the old man
after saying, “Now listen to me!”--a pause he filled himself by pushing
his cushion under Godefroid’s feet to share it with him.
“I was then about thirty years of age,” he said. “It was the year ‘98,
if I remember right,--a period when young men were forced to have the
experience of men of sixty. One morning, a little before my breakfast
hour, which was nine o’clock, my old housekeeper ushered in one of the
few friends remaining to me after the Revolution. My first word was to
ask him to breakfast. My friend--his name was Mongenod, a fellow about
twenty-eight years of age--accepted, but he did so in an awkward manner.
I had not seen him since 1793!”
“Mongenod!” cried Godefroid; “why, that is--”
“If you want to know the end before the beginning, how am I to tell you
my history?” said the old man, smiling.
Godefroid made a sign which promised absolute silence.
“When Mongenod sat down,” continued Monsieur Alain, “I noticed that his
shoes were worn out. His stockings had been washed so often that it
was difficult to say if they were silk or not. His breeches, of
apricot-colored cassimere, were so old that the color had disappeared
in spots; and the buckles, instead of being of steel, seemed to me to be
made of common iron. His white, flowered waistcoat, now yellow from
long wearing, also his shirt, the frill of which was frayed, betrayed
a horrible yet decent poverty. A mere glance at his coat was enough to
convince me that my friend had fallen into dire distress. That coat was
nut-brown in color, threadbare at the seams, carefully brushed, though
the collar was greasy from pomade or powder, and had the white metal
buttons now copper-colored. The whole was so shabby that I tried not to
look at it. The hat--an opera hat of a kind we then carried under the
arm, and not on the head--had seen many governments. Nevertheless,
my poor friend must have spent a few sous at the barber’s, for he was
neatly shaved; and his hair, gathered behind his head with a comb and
powdered carefully, smelt of pomade. I saw two chains hanging down on
his breeches,--two rusty steel chains,--but no appearance of a watch
in his pocket. I tell you all these details, as they come to me,” said
Monsieur Alain; “I seldom think of this matter now; but when I do, all
the particulars come vividly before me.”