“Light to seal a letter, for there is nothing here! not a candle on the
mantelpiece, no sealing wax on this desk--if that’s what you call it.”
“But there’s wafers in the box where the night light is. Look,
monsieur.”
“Will you be kind enough to take all that away! Do you suppose that I
would touch that filthy box? Do you suppose that I use wafers? I tell
you that I want wax, a seal and a candle. Come, make haste.”
The girl left the room grumbling. The gentleman moved his chair to the
desk and began to write, swearing at the paper, the pens and the sand.
The maid returned, bringing a copper candlestick, with a tallow candle
lighted, and a stick of wax, which she placed on the desk.
“As for a seal,” she said, “madame says that she ain’t got any, but that
a big sou will do just as well.”
“What’s this you have brought me?” cried the gentleman, pushing the
candle away in disgust. “Ah! what an outrage!”
“What’s that? an outrage! I’ve brought what you ordered.”
“You dare to bring me a tallow candle--for this certainly is tallow,
isn’t it?”
“Of course it’s a tallow candle, as you want to use sealing wax.”
“But a wax candle is what you ought to bring; as if one could use
anything else! Since when has it been permissible to offer tenants a
tallow candle? What do you take me for, my dear?”
“Your dear! Why, monsieur, I take you--I mean I don’t take you at all; I
bring you the best that I could find; there ain’t no wax candle that’s
been used, and madame said that this was good enough to light your wax.”
“And this place dares to call itself a hotel! There are furnished
lodgings for masons here, and nothing else!”
“On my word, monsieur!”
“Take that candle away, I say. Pouah! how it smells! Let’s make haste.”
He sealed his letter, using a topaz set in a ring, which he wore as a
charm on his watch chain; then he dismissed the maid, who muttered as
she left the room:
“What airs he puts on! If he was a pacha, he couldn’t put on any more.
Why don’t he have a hotel of his own?”
“Here, my boy,” said the gentleman, when he had written the address on
his letter, “take this note and this bouquet, which I stole from those
gentlemen for the pleasure of playing a trick on them, for I hadn’t the
slightest idea of buying a bouquet. But since I have it, I must make
some use of it, and I am not sorry to show myself a gallant once more.
So you will carry this bouquet and this letter to this address. Can you
read?”
“Yes, monsieur, a little--print; but as for hand-writing----”
“Why don’t you say at once that you don’t know how to read?--Well, you
are to go to Madame la Baronne de Grangeville; she lives, or at all
events she did live, twelve years ago, at 27 Rue de Provence. If by any
chance she has moved, ask the concierge for her new address and take the
things there. If you are not an idiot, you will succeed in finding the
lady. If she is visible, you will wait for a reply; if not, you will
leave both with her maid, and come back here, where I will pay you; I
forbid you to take anything elsewhere. Do you understand?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“You remember the lady’s name?”
“Baronne de Grangeville, 27 Rue de Provence.”
“That’s right; now be off, and hurry back.--By the way, if before
admitting you, they should ask you from whom you come, you will reply
that you come from Monsieur de Roncherolle.”
“Monsieur de Roncherolle; very good, monsieur.”
Chicotin took his leave. Thereupon, Monsieur de Roncherolle,--for now we
know that that was the gouty gentleman’s name,--placed his diseased foot
on one of the chairs covered with cotton, then stretched himself in the
easy-chair, rested his head against the back, and with his eyes fixed
upon the ceiling, reflected thus:
“Dear Lucienne! I am sure that she will be delighted to see me again;
and for my part it will give me pleasure to be in her company once more.
It is fully twelve years since we met! Twelve years! This infernal time
flies with terrifying rapidity, on my word! it seems to me that it was
only yesterday; and yet a good many things have happened in the
interval! Ah! I hadn’t the gout then, and my sufferings were very much
less. To grow old and to suffer--all varieties of annoyance at once! But
that is the common law, and as the inimitable Potier says in _Le
Chiffonier_: ‘When a man is not satisfied, he must be a
philosopher!’--She was very pretty, was Lucienne! Yes, she was one of
the prettiest women in Paris! and I was one of the handsomest gallants
of my time; indeed, if it weren’t for this infernal gout, I should still
be very presentable!--Ow! There was a twinge, I wonder if I am going to
have another attack? If so, it would be rather hard for me to go to
present my respects to the baroness, as I have asked permission to do in
my note. But let me see; as I think it over, it seems to me that
Lucienne and I parted on rather bad terms, yes, very bad; she became
jealous; what nonsense! she should know better than anyone that jealousy
doesn’t keep one from being deceived! But twelve years have passed since
that, and there is no better refrigerant than time. The poor baroness
must have become reasonable by now; we don’t look at those things from
the same point of view at forty as at thirty--if she isn’t forty, she
can’t be far from it.--It’s a pity! Women ought never to grow old, nor
men either; children are the only ones who ought to grow, and they
should stop when they reach maturity.--Ah! there’s a twinge; and yet I
am leading the life of an anchorite: no champagne, no truffles! To be
sure, the funds are low, very low, in fact. I expected to break the bank
at Baden-Baden: I had discovered a very ingenious _martingale_, an
infallible method of winning at roulette; I don’t understand how it
happened that it was my pocket that was broken! Ah! if I were not short
of money, how quickly I would send this dieting business to the devil!
and then if I had the gout, there would be some reason for it. They say
that it is due to my past excesses; I don’t believe a word of it, for I
should have had it sooner!--And he--what has become of him, I wonder, of
that dear friend of mine, who was absolutely determined to kill me? In
the six weeks since I came back to Paris, it is probable that I should
have come face to face with him on the street, if the gout had not kept
me in this hotel, in this barrack. But still, it is so long ago, perhaps
he is dead. On my honor, I should be very sorry to learn it! I should
feel it badly. If he is dead, the baroness must know it.--How gloomy it
is here! What a wretched neighborhood! One doesn’t even hear the noise
of carriages--I believe, God forgive me, that no carriages pass here.
Ah! I will not stay here. I would rather have a room under the eaves in
the dear old Bréda quarter! The only thing one can do here is to sleep!
and as my gout permits it, I will take a nap, while I await the return
of my messenger. He has a mighty cunning air, that fellow; he reminds me
of a little Norman whom I employed in 1830, or thereabouts, and whom I
surprised one day throwing oil on my trousers and coat, because I
usually made him a present of my clothes as soon as they had any spots
on them.”
Monsieur de Roncherolle fell asleep, dreaming of his past. It is what a
man usually does who is on the decline, whereas in youth he dreams of
the future.
Chicotin’s shrill voice woke the ex-gallant abruptly, and he opened his
eyes, muttering:
“Who is the rascal who dares to enter my room without ringing? Ten
thousand devils! I was dreaming that I was at Baden-Baden again. Alas! I
must return to the sad reality.--It’s you, is it, my boy? Well, what
reply to your message?”
“Here it is, monsieur.”
As he spoke, Chicotin held out the note and the bouquet, which he still
had in his hands.
“What! you have brought them both back? She refused my bouquet and my
letter?”
“Why, no, monsieur, the lady did not refuse anything, because I didn’t
find her; she has moved!”
“Pardieu! I thought you were cleverer than this, my boy! Because a
person has changed her lodgings, you can’t find her! There’s a sharp
messenger for you!”
“I am no more stupid than others, monsieur, and you will see if it’s my
fault. I went to Rue de Provence, to the number you gave me; a fine
house, good style. I asked the concierge, who has a lodge furnished
better than this room, for Madame la Baronne de Grangeville. He opened
his eyes, looked at his wife who was sipping coffee from a silver cup,
and said to her: ‘The Baronne de Grangeville--do you know her, wife?’
and his wife drank her coffee first and then answered: ‘We haven’t got
anybody here of that name.’--‘But,’ I said to her, ‘that lady did live
in this house; the gentleman who sent me is certain of it; if she’s
moved, she must have left her address. Give me that and I will go
away.’--‘How long ago did this baroness live here?’ asked the
concierge.--‘Twelve years,’ I said.--At that the husband and wife began
to laugh, and said to me: ‘In twelve years a lot of water has flowed
under the bridge, my boy. It’s seven years now since we took the place
of the former concierge, who died here, and we never heard the name of
your baroness. If the other concierge was alive, perhaps he might know
her address. But he’s at Montmartre, you know where; perhaps you’ll go
there and ask him.’ Faith, monsieur, I thought it wasn’t worth while to
go to Montmartre, so I came back with your letter and your bouquet. Do
you still think that it’s my fault?”
Monsieur de Roncherolle took the articles which Chicotin handed him. He
tore up the letter, muttering:
“No, so long as you didn’t find the scent. Hum! more of the ill effects
of time. I come back, and I find nobody left: some are dead; others have
disappeared. Ah! it’s foolish to travel; or if one must travel, one
should do like the Wandering Jew: keep going all the time, and never
stop. But the Wandering Jew didn’t have the gout.--Here, my boy, this is
for your commission.”
Monsieur de Roncherolle paid the messenger handsomely, because the man
who has always borne himself like a gentleman retains the habit of
making a show of generosity, even when his means allow him no longer to
be generous; and sometimes imposes great privations upon himself in
order to enjoy the pleasure of throwing money out of the window.
“Then monsieur has no further need of my services?” said Chicotin, his
appetite whetted by the fee he had received for his errand.
“Faith, my boy, I should have been very glad to find the lady to whom I
wrote the letter. It isn’t certain that she’s dead, like the concierge
of the house where she lived, for she was quite young a dozen years ago,
and she should be a woman of about forty now. If chance should make you
acquainted with her present residence, come at once and tell me, and you
shall have a good pourboire.”
“All right, master. I’ll look, I’ll ask questions, and I shall end by
finding her. I go into every corner of Paris, you know; but perhaps it
will take rather a long time. However, as soon as I find out anything,
I’ll come to tell you.”
When Chicotin had gone, Monsieur de Roncherolle, whose face had assumed
a melancholy expression, looked at the bouquet which he still held,
muttering:
“Well, I will keep the bouquet; these flowers are very pretty; it’s a
long while since anyone gave me any; I will imagine that someone has
sent them to me; I have reached the age where I must live on
illusions.”
XIV
THE MOTHER AND THE SON
Georget passed several days scouring Paris; but he made the most minute
investigations in the Chaussée-d’Antin quarter; he asked for Monsieur de
Roncherolle in all the fine hotels, and received everywhere the answer
that no person of that name had apartments there. Then the young
messenger would return in the afternoon to Boulevard du Château d’Eau,
to say good-evening to Violette, to whom he would confide the ill
success of his efforts; and before going home he would try to find work
to do in order to earn a little money. Georget no longer passed the day
loafing on the boulevard as before; he no longer passed the time with
his friend Chicotin, who, if he had known why Georget was exploring
Paris, could have put an end to his search with a word. Chicotin, on his
side, was looking for the Baronne de Grangeville, but without fatiguing
himself overmuch and without exhibiting as much zeal as his friend in
his inquiries. And when night came, instead of returning to the
neighborhood of the Château d’Eau, Monsieur Patatras, as he adored the
play, hung about in the neighborhood of the people who were on their way
to the theatres on Boulevard du Temple, and his felicity was complete
when, toward the close of the evening, he succeeded in obtaining a
check, by means of which he witnessed the last act of a melodrama or a
farce.
Every morning before starting out, Georget deemed it his duty to go to
Monsieur Malberg, to tell him what quarter and what streets he had
explored the day before. Although the result of his investigations was
not as yet satisfactory, he was desirous to prove to the man who had
assisted him so generously that his zeal had not abated. The young
messenger was rarely admitted to Monsieur Malberg’s presence, but he
always found Pongo deep in conversation with the furniture; then he
would tell the mulatto what he had done, and he never failed to report
faithfully to his master all that Georget had told him.
The perseverance which the young man displayed in demonstrating his
gratitude, ended by touching the heart of the gentleman on the third
floor, who told his servant one morning to admit Georget when he called;
and that order had scarcely been given when the young man appeared as
usual to tell what he had done the day before.
Pongo immediately suspended the toilet of a kitten which he had picked
up the night before in the street, to usher Georget into his master’s
presence; then he left the room, saying:
“Now me breakfast with my new friend Carabi, that me found yesterday
under a door, all alone and crying. Nothing to eat this long time, very
thin, very unhappy; but me bring him here, me take him to bed with me,
feed him, and this morning he all right, all happy; he purr and hump
his back at me.”
“Come in, my friend,” said Monsieur Malberg to Georget, who stood
timidly in the doorway; “come in and sit down.”
“Oh! monsieur is too kind; but I am not tired, and then I cannot presume
to sit down in monsieur’s presence.”
“I tell you that I want you to sit down; I have something to say to you.
Take this chair.”
Georget obeyed, and took his seat on the edge of a chair; then he made
haste to say:
“I went to the Palais-Royal quarter yesterday, monsieur; I went the
whole length of Rue Richelieu, Rue Neuve-des-Petits-Champs and all the
streets leading into them. There are many hotels in that quarter, and
yet I discovered nothing; no one there knows that gentleman.”
“My boy, it is eight or ten days now, I believe, that you have been
engaged in this tiresome business for me! That is quite enough! Cease
your investigations; you have more than earned the money which you
pretend that you owe me.”
“But, monsieur, it doesn’t tire me at all to go about Paris; besides,
it’s my trade, and I often do other errands while I am looking for
monsieur; so why shouldn’t I keep on? I haven’t searched all Paris yet.”
“I tell you again, my friend, that I don’t want you to look any farther.
I have reflected, and if heaven permits me to find this gentleman, whom
you have sought in vain, it will bring me face to face with him;
otherwise, it evidently means that He who governs everything does not
choose that I should carry out my plans, and I must submit.”
“Perhaps monsieur is not satisfied with me; perhaps he thinks that I do
not go about it in the right way, and----”
“On the contrary, I am entirely satisfied with you; your mother, whom I
have seen, because she absolutely insisted upon thanking me,--your
mother has no end of pleasant things to say about you.”
“Oh! you mustn’t believe it all, monsieur; mothers exaggerate a bit, you
know, when they talk about their sons!”
“That may be, but other persons too have confirmed what your mother
said.”
“Monsieur is too kind!”
“You have had some education; you know how to read and write and figure,
do you not?”
“Yes, monsieur, tolerably well.”
“Listen, this is what I have to propose. I have quite a large estate at
Nogent-sur-Marne; there are eight acres of orchard, kitchen garden and
woods; but it is wretchedly cared for and kept up by a gardener who is
very lazy, and who, having no one to watch him, fancies himself the
owner of the property and does only what he pleases; for I rarely go
there, and even in the summer I pass only a few weeks there; but if the
house were well kept up and the garden taken care of, I should enjoy it
much more. Well, I suggest that you and your mother go to live on that
estate; your duty will be, not to work in the garden, but to oversee and
direct the work, the planting, and the improvements. Oh! you will have
plenty to do! Eight acres of ground--there is room for lots of things in
that. There are also repairs to be made on the buildings. I give you
full power; you will take my place, and you will be obeyed as I should
be. As for your mother, she will look after the house, the dairy, the
poultry yard, which is well stocked; and then, when I take a fancy to
visit my estate, I shall be certain at least of finding a room in
condition to receive me and lodge me. I offer you for this a thousand
francs a year, and of course you will have your lodgings and fuel, and
as much as you want of fruit, vegetables, rabbits and all the occupants
of a poultry yard. Now if this is satisfactory to you and to your
mother, you may go down and install yourselves there to-morrow, and I
will undertake to pay what you owe the landlord here.”
While Monsieur Malberg was speaking, Georget, listening intently,
changed color several times; sometimes he enjoyed the thought of the
pleasant and happy life which was offered him; sometimes his brow became
clouded and thoughtful; and it was plain that a bitter conflict was
going on in his heart. When Monsieur Malberg ceased to speak, the poor
boy said not a word, but seemed afraid to reply.
“Well, Georget, you say nothing; does that mean that you do not
understand my proposal?”
“Oh! I beg pardon, monsieur; I understand perfectly all that you offer
to do for us; what a peaceful and happy life you offer us; to live on a
pleasant estate in the country, to have duties which are only pleasures,
and to be paid for it all! Oh! that is too much good fortune. And my
poor mother, who is so fond of the country and of gardens! Ah! how happy
she would be there!”
“Well, then, you accept, Georget?”
The young man lowered his eyes; and soon two great tears escaped from
them; he hid his face behind his handkerchief, stammering:
“No, monsieur--I--I decline.”
“You decline what would be, you say, a happy life for you, and would
give your mother so much pleasure! I can’t understand you!”
“Yes, monsieur, I decline. Oh! I know very well that what I am doing is
wrong! It is a horrible thing on my part to refuse what would certainly
give my mother rest and happiness! It is outrageous, it is a wicked
thing for me to do! But it is too much for me, monsieur! You won’t tell
mother, I implore you, monsieur--will you? You won’t tell her that you
offered me all this and I refused? It would make her unhappy and perhaps
she wouldn’t forgive me!”
And poor Georget knelt at Monsieur Malberg’s feet, repeating: “I beg
you, monsieur, don’t say anything to my mother!”
“Rise, Georget, rise; no, of course I won’t say anything to your mother.
Indeed, you must have powerful reasons for acting thus! Don’t weep, my
friend, I do not wish to cause you pain; once more I say, forget my
offer and let us not mention the subject again.”
“Forget it! Oh, no! I know very well that I shall not forget it,
monsieur! It was so kind of you! As to my reasons--my reasons for
declining, I haven’t got but one, but I don’t dare to tell you what it
is.”
“Keep your secret; I don’t ask any questions.”
“But I don’t want you to think of me as a bad son, as a fellow who
prefers the life of a vagabond in Paris to his mother’s happiness,
monsieur. No; I would rather tell you everything. I am in love,
monsieur; yes, madly in love with a young flower girl at the Château
d’Eau, on the boulevard yonder. Violette is so pretty, and a
respectable, virtuous girl, who doesn’t listen to anybody!”
“But she listens to you, doesn’t she?”
“No, monsieur, for I have never dared to tell her outright that I am in
love with her; she may have seen it, but she doesn’t act as if she had.
But, monsieur, I can see her every morning when I go out, and at night
before I come home, for I always find an excuse to pass by her stand.
But if I should go and live on your place in the country, then I should
have to give up seeing Violette, in the morning or at night or ever! and
you see, monsieur, I feel that it would be impossible for me to live
without seeing her! It would be like not living at all; and then it
seems to me that I shouldn’t be good for anything.”
“Poor boy!” murmured Monsieur Malberg; “so young, and in love already!
If he is happy, I shall be very much surprised.”
“It’s very bad of me to do as I am doing, isn’t it, monsieur? On account
of this love that turns my head, for this girl who perhaps doesn’t love
me and will never love me, I refuse to assure my mother a peaceful life
and livelihood. Ah! I feel that I am an ungrateful, wicked son! I hate
myself, I would beat myself if it would do any good; but it wouldn’t
cure me! This love has crept into my heart little by little; it’s more
than three years now that I have seen Violette almost every day; I was
very young at first, and then as I grew up I got used to loving her, and
that sentiment grew up with me, and grew much faster than I did. So now
there is no way to drive it from my heart; it can never leave it; and
indeed if it could, I wouldn’t want it to. Could I ever guess that the
day would come when it would cause me so much sorrow?”
“Don’t despair, Georget; it may be that there is still some way of
arranging matters. Suggest to your mother to go and live on my estate
and take care of my house; don’t tell her that there was a place there
for you too; in this way your mother will be able to live in the country
where you say she enjoys herself so much, and you can go to see her
whenever you please; it is not far from here to Nogent,--three leagues
at most.”
“Ah! how kind you are, monsieur! In that way, as you say, my mother will
live comfortably, and the fresh country air will cure her entirely. It
is true that it will be hard for me not to see her every day, not to
live with her; but I shall be able to endure that privation, because I
will say to myself: ‘It’s for her good, it’s for her happiness!’ but
still it isn’t kind of me to think that I could get along without seeing
mother and that I can’t make up my mind not to see Violette; is it,
monsieur?”
“It isn’t your fault, my boy; nature has decreed that a new love is
always fatal to the old ones.”
“But one’s love for one’s mother, monsieur! that ought not to grow any
less in our hearts; but it is less unreasonable than the other. Ah! if
you knew Violette, monsieur, you would understand that I cannot cease to
love her. She is so pretty! She has her stand on the boulevard, near the
Château d’Eau; would you like me to tell her to bring you a bouquet? She
would ask nothing better, monsieur.”
“No, it isn’t necessary; I have no need of bouquets, and I take your
word for all that you say of this girl.”
“Then, monsieur, with your permission, I will go right away and tell my
mother what you are kind enough to offer her.”
“Go, Georget, and come back and tell me her answer.”
“Happy age,” said Monsieur Malberg to himself as he watched the young
messenger walk away; “happy age, when one does not doubt constancy in
love, when one believes in the sincerity of friendship! I, too, believed
in those things, but I was most cruelly undeceived! He sacrifices
everything to his love for a woman! Poor boy! he will be deceived like
the others; but he begins that trade too early!”
And Monsieur Malberg, whose brow had darkened, relapsed into profound
meditation.
Meanwhile, his servant Pongo had a sharp altercation with the cat which
he had named Carabi, and which, in payment for the hospitality that had
been bestowed upon him, had savagely clawed his benefactor.