I wrote to my housekeeper, as I promised, that I was safe and sound. But
I took good care not to tell her that I had caught a cold from going to
sleep in the library at night with the window open; for the good woman
would have been as unsparing in her remonstrances to me as parliaments
to kings. “At your age, Monsieur,” she would have been sure to say, “one
ought to have more sense.” She is simple enough to believe that sense
grows with age. I seem to her an exception to this rule.
Not having any similar motive for concealing my experiences from Madame
de Gabry, I told her all about my vision, which she seemed to enjoy very
much.
“Why, that was a charming dream of yours,” she said; “and one must have
real genius to dream such a dream.”
“Then I am a real genius when I am asleep,” I responded.
“When you dream,” she replied; “and you are always dreaming.”
I know that Madame de Gabry, in making this remark, only wished to
please me; but that intention alone deserves my utmost gratitude; and it
is therefore in a spirit of thankfulness and kindliest remembrance that
I write down her words, which I will read over and over again until my
dying day, and which will never be read by any one save myself.
I passed the next few days in completing the inventory of the
manuscripts in the Lusance library. Certain confidential observations
dropped by Monsieur Paul de Gabry, however, caused me some painful
surprise, and made me decide to pursue the work after a different manner
from that in which I had begun it. From those few words I learned that
the fortune of Monsieur Honore de Gabry, which had been badly managed
for many years, and subsequently swept away to a large extent through
the failure of a banker whose name I do not know, had been transmitted
to the heirs of the old French nobleman only under the form of mortgaged
real estate and irrecoverable assets.
Monsieur Paul, by agreement with his joint heirs, had decided to sell
the library, and I was intrusted with the task of making arrangements to
have the sale effected upon advantageous terms. But totally ignorant as
I was of all the business methods and trade-customs, I thought it best
to get the advice of a publisher who was one of my private friends. I
wrote him at once to come and join me at Lusance; and while waiting
for his arrival I took my hat and cane and made visits to the different
churches of the diocese, in several of which I knew there were certain
mortuary inscriptions to be found which had never been correctly copied.
So I left my hosts and departed my pilgrimage. Exploring the churches
and the cemeteries every day, visiting the parish priests and the
village notaries, supping at the public inns with peddlers and
cattle-dealers, sleeping at night between sheets scented with lavender,
I passed one whole week in the quiet but profound enjoyment of observing
the living engaged in their various daily occupations even while I was
thinking of the dead. As for the purpose of my researches, I made only
a few mediocre discoveries, which caused me only a mediocre joy, and
one therefore salubrious and not at all fatiguing. I copied a few
interesting epitaphs; and I added to this little collection a few
recipes for cooking country dishes, which a certain good priest kindly
gave me.
With these riches, I returned to Lusance; and I crossed the
court-of-honour with such secret satisfaction as a bourgeois fells on
entering his own home. This was the effect of the kindness of my hosts;
and the impression I received on crossing their threshold proves, better
than any reasoning could do, the excellence of their hospitality.
I entered the great parlour without meeting anybody; and the young
chestnut-tree there spreading out its broad leaves seemed to me like an
old friend. But the next thing which I saw--on the pier-table--caused me
such a shock of surprise that I readjusted my glasses upon my nose with
both hands at once, and then felt myself over so as to get at least some
superficial proof of my own existence. In less than one second there
thronged from my mind twenty different conjectures--the most rational of
which was that I had suddenly become crazy. It seemed to me absolutely
impossible that what I was looking at could exist; yet it was equally
impossible for me not to see it as a thing actually existing. What
caused my surprise was resting on the pier-table, above which rose a
great dull speckled mirror.
I saw myself in that mirror; and I can say that I saw for once in my
life the perfect image of stupefaction. But I made proper allowance for
myself; I approved myself for being so stupefied by a really stupefying
thing.
The object I was thus examining with a degree of astonishment that all
my reasoning power failed to lessen, obtruded itself on my attention
though quite motionless. The persistence and fixity of the phenomenon
excluded any idea of hallucination. I am totally exempt from all nervous
disorders capable of influencing the sense of sight. The cause of such
visual disturbance is, I think, generally due to stomach trouble; and,
thank God! I have an excellent stomach. Moreover, visual illusions are
accompanied with special abnormal conditions which impress the victims
of hallucination themselves, and inspire them with a sort of terror.
Now, I felt nothing of this kind; the object which I saw, although
seemingly impossible in itself, appeared to me under all the natural
conditions of reality. I observed that it had three dimensions, and
colours, and that it cast a shadow. Ah! how I stared at it! The water
came into my eyes so that I had to wipe the glasses of my spectacles.
Finally I found myself obliged to yield to the evidence, and to affirm
that I had really before my eyes the Fairy, the very same Fairy I had
been dreaming of in the library a few evenings before. It was she, it
was her very self, I assure you! She had the same air of child-queen,
the same proud supple poise; she held the same hazel wand in her hand;
she still wore her double-peaked head-dress, and the train of her long
brocade robe undulated about her little feet. Same face, same figure. It
was she indeed; and to prevent any possible doubt of it, she was
seated on the back of a huge old-fashioned book strongly resembling the
“Cosmography of Munster.” Her immobility but half reassured me; I was
really afraid that she was going to take some more nuts out of her
alms-purse and throw the shells at my face.
I was standing there, waving my hands and gaping, when the musical and
laughing voice of Madame de Gabry suddenly rang in my ears.
“So you are examining your fairy, Monsieur Bonnard!” said my hostess.
“Well, do you think the resemblance good?”
It was very quickly said; but even while hearing it I had time to
perceive that my fairy was a statuette in coloured wax, modeled with
much taste and spirit by some novice hand. But the phenomenon, even thus
reduced by a rational explanation, did not cease to excite my surprise.
How, and by whom, had the Lady of the Cosmography been enabled to assume
plastic existence? That was what remained for me to learn.
Turning towards Madame de Gabry, I perceived that she was not alone.
A young girl dressed in black was standing beside her. She had large
intelligent eyes, of a grey as sweet as that of the sky of the Isle of
France, and at once artless and characteristic in their expression.
At the extremities of her rather thin arms were fidgeting uneasily two
slender hands, supple but slightly red, as it becomes the hands of young
girls to be. Sheathed in her closely fitting merino robe, she had the
slim grace of a young tree; and her large mouth bespoke frankness. I
could not describe how much the child pleased me at first sight! She was
not beautiful; but the three dimples of her cheeks and chin seemed
to laugh, and her whole person, which revealed the awkwardness of
innocence, had something in it indescribably good and sincere.
My gaze alternated from the statuette to the young girl; and I saw her
blush--so frankly and fully!--the crimson passing over her face as by
waves.
“Well,” said my hostess, who had become sufficiently accustomed to my
distracted moods to put the same question to me twice, “is that the very
same lady who came in to see you through the window that you left open?
She was very saucy, but then you were quite imprudent! Anyhow, do you
recognise her?”
“It is her very self,” I replied; “I see her now on that pier-table
precisely as I saw her on the table in the library.”
“Then, if that be so,” replied Madame de Gabry, “you have to blame for
it, in the first place, yourself, as a man who, although devoid of all
imagination, to use your own words, knew how to depict your dream in
such vivid colours; in the second place, me, who was able to remember
and repeat faithfully all your dream; and lastly, Mademoiselle Jeanne,
whom I now introduce to you, for she herself modeled that wax figure
precisely according to my instructions.”
Madame de Gabry had taken the young girl’s hand as she spoke; but
the latter had suddenly broken away from her, and was already running
through the park with the speed of a bird.
“Little crazy creature!” Madame de Gabry cried after her. “How can one
be so shy? Come back here to be scolded and kissed!”
But it was all of no avail; the frightened child disappeared among the
shrubbery. Madame de Gabry seated herself in the only chair remaining in
the dilapidated parlour.
“I should be much surprised,” she said, “If my husband had not already
spoken to you of Jeanne. She is a sweet child, and we both lover her
very much. Tell me the plain truth; what do you think of her statuette?”
I replied that the work was full of good taste and spirit, but that it
showed some want of study and practice on the author’s part; otherwise I
had been extremely touched to think that those young fingers should have
thus embroidered an old man’s rough sketch of fancy, and given form so
brilliantly to the dreams of a dotard like myself.
“The reason I ask your opinion,” replied Madame de Gabry, seriously, “is
that Jeanne is a poor orphan. Do you think she could earn her living by
modelling statuettes like this one?”
“As for that, no!” I replied; “and I think there is no reason to regret
the fact. You say the girl is affectionate and sensitive; I can
well believe you; I could believe it from her face alone. There are
excitements in artist-life which impel generous hearts to act out of all
rule and measure. This young creature is made to love; keep her for the
domestic hearth. There only is real happiness.”
“But she has no dowry!” replied Madame de Gabry.
Then, extending her hand to me, she continued:
“You are our friend; I can tell you everything. The father of this
child was a banker, and one of our friends. He went into a colossal
speculation, and it ruined him. He survived only a few months after
his failure, in which, as Paul must have told you, three-fourths of my
uncle’s fortune were lost, and more than half of our own.
“We had made his acquaintance at Manaco, during the winter we passed
there at my uncle’s house. He had an adventurous disposition, but such
an engaging manner! He deceived himself before ever he deceived others.
After all, it is in the ability to deceive oneself that the greatest
talent is shown, is it not? Well, we were captured--my husband, my
uncle, and I; and we risked much more than a reasonable amount in a very
hazardous undertaking. But, bah! as Paul says, since we have no children
we need not worry about it. Besides, we have the satisfaction of knowing
that the friend in whom we trusted was an honest man.... You must know
his name, it was so often in the papers an on public placards--Noel
Alexandre. His wife was a very sweet person. I knew her only when she
was already past her prime, with traces of having once been very
pretty, and a taste for fashionable style and display which seemed quite
becoming to her. She was naturally fond of social excitement; but
she showed a great deal of courage and dignity after the death of her
husband. She died a year after him, leaving Jeanne alone in the world.”
“Clementine!” I cried out.
And on thus learning what I had never imagined--the mere idea of which
would have set all the forces of my soul in revolt--upon hearing that
Clementine was no longer in this world, something like a great silence
came upon me; and the feeling which flooded my whole being was not a
keen, strong pain, but a quiet and solemn sorrow. Yet I was conscious of
some incomprehensible sense of alleviation, and my thought rose suddenly
to heights before unknown.
“From wheresoever thou art at this moment, Clementine,” I said to
myself, “look down upon this old heart now indeed cooled by age,
yet whose blood once boiled for thy sake, and say whether it is not
reanimated by the mere thought of being able to love all that remains
of thee on earth. Everything passes away since thou thyself hast passed
away; but Life is immortal; it is that Life we must love in its forms
eternally renewed. All the rest is child’s play; and I myself, with
all my books, am only like a child playing with marbles. The purpose of
life--it is thou, Clementine, who has revealed it to me!”...
Madame de Gabry aroused me from my thoughts by murmuring,
“The child is poor.”
“The daughter of Clementine is poor!” I exclaimed aloud; “how fortunate
that is so! I would not whish that any one by myself should proved for
her and dower her! No! the daughter of Clementine must not have her
dowry from any one but me.”
And, approaching Madame de Gabry as she rose from her chair, I took her
right hand; I kissed that hand, and placed it on my arm, and said:
“You will conduct me to the grave of the widow of Noel Alexandre.”
And I heard Madame de Gabry asking me:
“Why are you crying?”