I am pardoned and return to Paris--Again at the _Queen Pedauque_--I go
as Assistant to M. Blaizot--Burning of the Castle of Sablons--Death of
Mosaide and of M. d’Asterac.
From now onwards my life loses the interest which events had lent it,
and my destiny, having again become in conformity with my character,
offers nothing but ordinary occurrences. If I should prolong my memoirs
my narrative would very soon become tiresome. I’ll bring it to a
close with but few words. The Vicar of Vallars gave me a letter of
introduction to a wine merchant at Macon, with whom I was employed for a
couple of months, after which my father wrote to me that he had arranged
my affair and that I was free to return to Paris.
I took coach immediately and travelled with some recruits. My heart beat
violently when I again saw the Rue Saint Jacques, the clock of Saint
Benoit le Betourne, the signboard of the _Three Virgins_ and the _Saint
Catherine_ of M. Blaizot.
My mother cried when she saw me; I also cried, and we embraced and cried
together again.
My father came in haste from the _Little Bacchus_ and said with a moving
dignity:
“Jacquot, my son, I cannot and will not deny that I Was very angry when
I saw the constables enter the _Queen Pedauque_ in search of you, or,
in default of you, arresting me. They would not listen to any sort of
remonstrance, alleging that I could easily explain myself after being
taken to jail. They looked for you on a complaint of M. de la Gueritude.
I conceived a most horrible idea of your disorders. But having been
informed by letter that it was a question only of some peccadillo I
had no other thought but to see you again. Many a time I consulted the
landlord of the _Little Bacchus_ on the means to hush up your affair. He
always replied: ‘Master Leonard, go to the judge with a big bag full of
crown pieces and he will give you back your lad as white as snow.’ But
crown pieces are scarce with us, and there is neither hen nor goose
nor duck who lays golden eggs in my house. At present I hardly get
sufficient by my poultry to pay the expenses of the roasting. By good
luck, your saintly and worthy mother had the good idea of going to the
mother of M. d’Anquetil whom we knew to be busy in favour of her son,
who was sought after at the same time as you were, and for the identical
affair. I am quite aware, my Jacquot, that you played the man about town
in company with a nobleman, and my head is too well placed not to feel
the honour which it reflects on our whole family. Mother dressed as
if she intended to go to mass; and Madame d’Anquetil received her with
kindness. Thy mother, Jacquot, is a holy woman, but she has not the best
of society manners, and at first she talked without aim or reason. She
said: ‘Madame, at our age, besides God Almighty nothing remains to us
but our children.’ That was not the right thing to say to that great
lady who still has her gallants.”
“Hold your tongue, Leonard,” exclaimed my mother. “The behaviour of
Madame d’Anquetil is unknown to you, and it appears that I spoke to her
in the right way, because she said to me: ‘Don’t be troubled, Madame
Menetrier; I will employ my influence in favour of your son; be sure of
my zeal.’ And you know, Leonard, that we received before the expiration
of two months the assurance that our Jacquot could return unmolested to
Paris.”
We supped with a good appetite. My father asked me if was my intention
to re-enter the service of M. d’Asterac. I replied that after the
lamented death of my kind master I did not wish to encounter that cruel
Mosaide in the house of a nobleman who paid his servants with fine
speeches and nothing else. My father very kindly invited me to turn the
spit as in former days.
“Latterly, Jacquot,” he said, “I gave the place to Friar Ange, but he
did not do as well as Miraut or yourself. Don’t you want to take your
old place at the corner of the fireside?”
My mother, plain and simple as she was, did not want common-sense and
said:
“M. Blaizot, the bookseller of the _Image of Saint Catherine_, is in
want of an assistant. This employment, Jacquot, ought to suit you like
a glove. Thy dispositions are sweet, thy manners are good, and that’s
what’s wanted to sell Bibles.”
I went at once to M. Blaizot, who took me into his service.
My misfortunes had made me wise. I did not feel discouraged by the
humbleness of my employment, and I fulfilled my duties with exactitude,
handling the duster and broom to the satisfaction of my employer.
One of my duties was to pay a visit to M. d’Asterac. I went to the great
alchemist on the last Sunday of November, after the midday dinner. It’s
a long way from the Rue Saint Jacques to the Croix-des-Sablons, and the
almanac does not lie when it announces that in November the days are
short. “When I arrived at the Roule it was quite dark, and a black
haze covered the deserted road. And sorrowful were my thoughts in the
darkness.
“Alas,” I said to myself, “it will soon be a full year since I first
walked on this road, in the snow, in company with my dear master, who
now rests in a small village in Burgundy encircled by vineyards. He
sleeps in the hope of eternal life. And it is but right to have the same
hope as a man as wise as he. God preserve me from ever doubting of the
immortality of the soul! But, one must confess to oneself, all that is
connected with a future existence and another world is of those verities
in which one believes without being moved and which have neither taste
nor savour of any kind, so that one swallows them without perceiving it.
As for me I find no consolation in the idea of meeting again the Abbe
Coignard in Paradise. Surely I could not recognise him, and his
speeches would not contain the agreeableness which he derived from
circumstances.”
Occupied with these reflections, I saw before me a fierce light
covering one-half of the sky; the fog was reddened by it, and the light
palpitated in the centre. A heavy smoke mixed with the vapours of
the air. I at once became afraid that the fire had broken out at the
d’Asterac castle. I quickened my steps, and very soon ascertained that
my fears were but too well founded. I discovered the calvary of the
Sablons, an opaque black on a background of flame, and I saw nearly all
the windows of the castle flaring as for a sinister feast. The little
green door was broken in. Shadows gesticulated in the park and murmured
the horror they felt. They were the inhabitants of the borough of
Neuilly, who had come for curiosity’s sake and to bring help. Some threw
water from a fire engine on the burning edifice, making a fiery rain of
sparks arise. A thick volume of smoke rose over the castle. A shower
of sparks and of cinders fell round me, and I soon became aware that my
garments and my hands were blackened. With much mortification I thought
that all that burning dust in the air was the end of so many fine books
and precious manuscripts, which were the joy of my dear master, the
remains, perhaps, of Zosimus the Panopolitan, on which we had worked
together during the noblest hours of my life.
I had seen the Abbe Jerome Coignard die. Now, it was his soul, his
sparkling and sweet soul, which I fancied reduced to ashes together with
the queen of libraries. The wind strengthened the fire and the flames
roared like voracious beasts.
Questioning a man of Neuilly still blacker than myself, and wearing only
his vest, I asked him if M. d’Asterac and his people had been saved.
“Nobody,” he said, “has left the castle except an old Jew, who was seen
running laden with packages in the direction of the swamps. He lived in
the keeper’s cottage on the river, and was hated for his origin and
for the crimes of which he was suspected. Children pursued him. And
in running away he fell into the Seine. He was fished out when dead,
pressing on his heart a cup and six golden plates. You can see him on
the river bank in his yellow gown. With his eyes open he is horrible.”
“Ah!” I replied, “his end is due to his crimes. But his death does not
give me back the best of masters whom he slew. Tell me again; has nobody
seen M. d’Asterac?”
At the very moment when I put the question I heard near me one of the
moving shadows cry out:
“Thereof is falling in!”
And now I recognised with unspeakable horror the great black form of
M. d’Asterac running along the gutters. The alchemist shouted with a
sounding voice:
“I rise on wings of flame up to the seat of life divine!”
So he said, and suddenly the roof fell in with a tremendous crash, and
the flames as high as mountains enveloped the friend of the Salamanders.