A CHRONICLE ABOUT FROISSART.
See, Lucius, here's the book I sought for so!
JULIUS CAESAR.
But all be that he was a philosophre,
Yet hadde he but litel gold in cofre,
But all that he might of his frends hente,
On bokes and on lerning he is spente.
CHAUCER.
&/
"LOVE-IN-IDLENESS" has passed into a proverb, and lovers,
somehow, are not generally supposed to be industrious. I,
however, worked none the less zealously for being in love. I
applied only the more closely to my studies, both medical and
literary, and made better progress in both than I had made
before. I was not ambitious; but I had many incentives to
work. I was anxious to satisfy my father. I earnestly desired
to efface every unfavorable impression from the mind of Dr.
Chéron, and to gain, if possible, his esteem. I was proud of
the friendship of Madame de Courcelles, and wished to prove
the value that I placed upon her good opinion. Above all, I
had a true and passionate love of learning--not that love which
leadeth on to fame; but rather that self-abandoning devotion
which exchangeth willingly the world of action for the world of
books, and, for an uninterrupted communion with the "souls
of all that men held wise," bartereth away the society of the
living.
Little gregarious by nature, Paris had already ceased to
delight me in the same way that it had delighted me at first. A
"retired leisure," and the society of the woman whom I loved,
grew to be the day-dream of my solitary life. And still, ever
more and more plainly, it became evident to me that for the
career of the student I was designed by nature. Bayle, Magliabecchi
of Florence, Isaac Reed, Sir Thomas Brown, Montaigne--those
were the men whose lot in life I envied--those the literary
anchorites in whose steps I would fain have followed.
But this was not to be; so I worked on, rose early, studied
late, gained experience, took out my second inscription with
credit, and had the satisfaction of knowing that I was fast
acquiring the good opinion of Dr. Chéron. Thus Christmas
passed by, and January with its bitter winds; and February set
in, bright but frosty. And still, without encouragement or
nope, I went on loving Hortense Dufresnoy.
My opportunities of seeing her were few and brief. A passing bow in the
hall, or a distant "good-evening" as we passed upon the stairs, for some
time made up the sum of our intercourse. Gradually, however, a kind of
formal acquaintance sprang up between us; an acquaintance fostered by
trifles and dependent on the idlest, or what seemed the idlest,
casualties. I say "seemed," for often that which to her appeared the
work of chance was the result of elaborate contrivance on my part. She
little knew, when I met her on the staircase, how I had been listening
for the last hour to catch the echo of her step. She little dreamed when
I encountered her at the corner of the street, how I had been concealed,
till that moment, in the _café_ over the way, ready to dart out as soon
as she appeared in sight. I would then affect either a polite unconcern,
or an air of judicious surprise, or pretend not to lift my eyes at all
till she was nearly past; and I think I must have been a very fair
actor, for it all succeeded capitally, and I am not aware that she ever
had the least suspicion of the truth. Let me, however, recall one
incident over which I had no control, and which did more towards
promoting our intercourse than all the rest.
It is a cold, bright morning in February. There is a brisk
exhilaration in the air. The windows and gilded balconies
sparkle in the sun, and it is pleasant to hear the frosty ring of
one's boots upon the pavement. It is a fête to-day. Nothing
is doing in the lecture-rooms, and I have the whole day before
me. Meaning, therefore, to enjoy it over the fire and a book,
I wisely begin it by a walk.
From the Cité Bergère, out along the right-hand side of the Boulevards,
down past the front of the Madeleine, across the Place de la Concorde,
and up the Champs Elysées as far as the Arc de Triomphe; this is the
route I take in going. Arrived at the arch, I cross over, and come back
by the same roads, but on the other side of the way. I have a motive in
this. There is a certain second-hand book-shop on the opposite side of
the Boulevard des Italiens, which draws me by a wholly irresistible
attraction. Had I started on that side, I should have gone no further. I
should have looked, lingered, purchased, and gone home to read. But I
know my weakness. I have reserved the book-shop for my return journey,
and now, rewarded and triumphant, compose myself for a quiet study of
its treasures.
And what a book-shop it is! Not only are its windows filled--not only
are its walls a very perspective of learning--but square pillars of
volumes are built up on either side of the door, and an immense
supplementary library is erected in the open air, down all the length of
a dead-wall adjoining the house.
Here then I pause, turning over the leaves of one volume, reading the
title of another, studying the personal appearance of a third, and
weighing the merits of their authors against the contents of my purse.
And when I say "personal appearance," I say it advisedly; for
book-hunters, are skilled Lavaters in their way, and books, like men,
attract or repel at first sight. Thus it happens that I love a portly
book, in a sober coat of calf, but hate a thin, smart volume, in a gaudy
binding. The one promises to be philosophic, learnedly witty, or solidly
instructive; the other is tolerably certain to be pert and shallow, and
reminds me of a coxcombical lacquey in bullion and red plush. On the
same principle, I respect leaves soiled and dog's-eared, but mistrust
gilt edges; love an old volume better than a new; prefer a spacious
book-stall to all the unpurchased stores of Paternoster Row; and buy
every book that I possess at second-hand. Nay, that it is second-hand is
in itself a pass port to my favor. Somebody has read it before;
therefore it is readable. Somebody has derived pleasure from it before;
therefore I open it with a student's sympathy, and am disposed to be
indulgent ere I have perused a single line. There are cases, however,
in which I incline to luxury of binding. Just as I had rather have my
historians in old calf and my chroniclers in black letter, so do I
delight to see my modern poets, the Benjamins of my affections, clothed
in coats of many colors. For them no moroccos are too rich, and no
"toolings" too elaborate. I love to see them smiling on me from the
shelves of my book-cases, as glowing and varied as the sunset through a
painted oriel.
Standing here, then, to-day, dipping first into this work and
then into that, I light upon a very curious and interesting
edition of _Froissart_--an edition full of quaint engravings, and
printed in the obsolete spelling of two hundred years ago. The
book is both a treasure and a bargain, being marked up at five
and twenty francs. Only those who haunt book-stalls and
luxuriate in old editions can appreciate the satisfaction with
which I survey
"That weight of wood, with leathern coat overlaid,
Those ample clasps of solid metal made,
The close pressed leaves unclosed for many an age,
The dull red edging of the well-filled page,
And the broad back, with stubborn ridges roll'd,
Where yet the title stands in tarnished gold!"
They only can sympathize in the eagerness with which I snatch up the
precious volume, the haste with which I count out the five and twenty
francs, the delight with which I see the dealer's hand close on the sum,
and know that the book is legally and indisputably mine! Then how
lovingly I embrace it under my arm, and taking advantage of my position
as a purchaser, stroll leisurely round the inner warehouse, still
courting that literary world which (in a library at least) always turns
its back upon its worshipper!
"Pray, Monsieur," says a gentle voice at the door, "where is that old
_Froissart_ that I saw outside about a quarter of an hour ago?"
"Just sold, Madame," replies the bookseller, promptly.
"Oh, how unfortunate!--and I only went home for the money" exclaims the
lady in a tone of real disappointment.
Selfishly exultant, I hug the book more closely, turn to steal a glance
at my defeated rival, and recognise--Mademoiselle Dufresnoy.
She does not see me. I am standing in the inner gloom of the shop, and
she is already turning away. I follow her at a little distance; keep her
in sight all the way home; let her go into the house some few seconds in
advance; and then, scaling three stairs at a time, overtake her at the
door of her apartment.
Flushed and breathless, I stand beside her with _Froissart_ in my hand.
"Pardon, Mademoiselle," I say, hurriedly, "for having involuntarily
forestalled you just now. I had just bought the book you wished to
purchase,"
She looks at me with evident surprise and some coldness; but says
nothing.
"And I am rejoiced to have this opportunity of transferring it to you."
Mademoiselle Dufresnoy makes a slight but decided gesture of refusal.
"I would not deprive you of it, Monsieur," she says promptly, "upon any
consideration."
"But, Mademoiselle, unless you allow me to relinquish it in your favor,
I beg to assure you that I shall take the book back to the bookseller
and exchange it for some other."
"I cannot conceive why you should do that, Monsieur."
"In order, Mademoiselle, that you may still have it in your power to
become the purchaser."
"And yet you wished to possess the book, or you would not have bought
it."
"I would not have bought it, Mademoiselle, if I had known that I should
disappoint a--a lady by doing so,"
I was on the point of saying, "if I had known that I should disappoint
you by so doing," but hesitated, and checked myself in time.
A half-mocking smile flitted across her lips.
"Monsieur is too self-sacrificing," she said. "Had I first bought the
book, I should have kept it--being a woman. Reverse the case as you
will, and show me any just reason why you should not do the
same--being a man?"
"Nay, the merest by-law of courtesy..." I began, hesitatingly.
"Do not think me ungracious, Monsieur," she interrupted, "if I hold that
these so-called laws of courtesy are in truth but concessions, for the
most part, from the strength of your sex to the weakness of ours."
"_Eh bien_, Mademoiselle--what then?"
"Then, Monsieur, may there not be some women---myself, for instance--who
do not care to be treated like children?"
"Pardon, Mademoiselle, but are you stating the case quite fairly? Is it
not rather that we desire not to efface the last lingering tradition of
the age of chivalry--not to reduce to prose the last faint echoes of
that poetry which tempered the sword of the Crusader and inspired the
song of the Trouvère?"
"Were it not better that the new age created a new code and a new
poetry?" said Mademoiselle Dufresnoy.
"Perhaps; but I confess I love old forms and usages, and cling to creeds
outworn. Above all, to that creed which in the age of powder and
compliment, no less than in the age of chivalry, enjoined absolute
devotion and courtesy towards women."
"Against mere courtesy reasonably exercised and in due season, I have
nothing to say," replied Mademoiselle Dufresnoy; "but the half-barbarous
homage of the Middle Ages is as little to my taste as the scarcely less
barbarous refinement of the Addison and Georgian periods. Both are alike
unsound, because both have a basis of insincerity. Just as there is a
mock refinement more vulgar than simple vulgarity, so are there
courtesies which humiliate and compliments that offend."
"Mademoiselle is pleased to talk in paradoxes," said I.
Mademoiselle unlocked her door, and turning towards me with the same
half-mocking smile and the same air of raillery, said:--
"Monsieur, it is written in your English histories that when John le Bon
was taken captive after the battle of Cressy, the Black Prince rode
bareheaded before him through the streets of London, and served him at
table as the humblest of his attendants. But for all that, was John any
the less a prisoner, or the Black Prince any the less a conqueror?"
"You mean, perhaps, that you reject all courtesy based on mere
ceremonial. Let me then put the case of this _Froissart_ more
plainly--as I would have done from the first, had I dared to speak the
simple truth."
"And that is...?"
"That it will give me more pleasure to resign the book to you,
Mademoiselle, than to possess it myself."
Mademoiselle Dufresnoy colors up, looks both haughty and amused, and
ends by laughing.
"In truth, Monsieur," she says merrily, "if your politeness threatened
at first to be too universal, it ends by becoming unnecessarily
particular."
"Say rather, Mademoiselle, that you will not have the book on any
terms!" I exclaim impatiently.
"Because you have not yet offered it to me upon any just or reasonable
grounds."
"Well, then, bluntly and frankly, as student to student, I beg you to
spare me the trouble of carrying this book back to the Boulevard. Yours,
Mademoiselle, was the first intention. You saw the book before I saw it.
You would have bought it on the spot, but had to go home for the money.
In common equity, it is yours. In common civility, as student to
student, I offer it to you. Say, is it yes or no?"
"Since you put it so simply and so generously, and since I believe you
really wish me to accept your offer," replies Mademoiselle Dufresnoy,
taking out her purse, "I suppose I must say--yes."
And with this, she puts out her hand for the hook, and offers me in
return the sum of five and twenty francs.
Pained at having to accept the money, pained at being offered it, seeing
no way of refusing it, and feel altogether more distress than is
reasonable in a man brought up to the taking of fees; I affect not to
see the coin, and, bowing, move away in the direction of my own door.
"Pardon, Monsieur," she says, "but you forget that I am in your debt."
"And--and do you really insist..."
She looks at me, half surprised and half offended.
"If you do not take the money, Monsieur, how can I take the book?"
Bowing, I receive the unwelcome francs in my unwilling palm.
Still she lingers.
"I--I have not thanked you as I ought for your generosity," she says,
hesitatingly.
"Generosity!" I repeat, glancing with some bitterness at the five and
twenty francs.
"True kindness, Monsieur, is neither bought nor sold," says the lady,
with the loveliest smile in the world, and closes her door.