IN THE LOFT.
To tell the truth, the loft where Jacques stowed his guest was not fit
for habitation. The mattress was on the floor and the chief article of
furniture. Rats had pulled about and gnawed a heap of yellowed papers.
On clotheslines across the attic were paper bags in which were drying
beans, herbs and household linen.
"It is not nice to look upon," apologized the host, "but sleep and
darkness make the sumptuous palace and the meanest cottage much alike.
Sleep as youth can do, and nothing will prevent you thinking you slept
in the royal palace. But mind you do not set the house afire. We will
talk over matters in the morning."
"Good-night and hearty thanks," said Gilbert, left alone in the garret.
With all the precaution recommended, he took up the light and made the
rounds of the room. As the newspapers and pamphlets were tied in bales
he did not open them; but the bean bags were made of printed pages of
a book, which caught his eye with the lines. One sack, knocked off the
line by his head, burst on the floor, and in trying to replace the
beans, he fell to reading the wrappers. It was a page from the love
of a poor youth for a lovely and fashionable lady named Lady Warrens.
Gilbert was congratulating himself on having the whole night to read
this love story on the wrappers when the candle went out and left him
in gloom. He was ready to weep with rage. He dropped the papers on the
heap of beans and flung himself on his couch where he slept deeply in
spite of his disappointment.
He was roused only by the grating of the lock. It was bright day;
Gilbert saw his host gently enter.
"Good-morning," he muttered, with the red of shame on his cheeks as he
saw Jacques staring at the beans and emptied bags.
"Did you sleep soundly?"
"Ye-es."
"Nay, are you not a sleep-walker?"
"Alas, I see why you say that. I sat up reading till the candle was
burnt out, from the first sheet on which my eyes fell so greatly
interesting me. Do you, who know so much, know to what lovely novel
those pages belong?"
"I do not know, but as I notice the word 'Confessions' on the headline,
I should think it was Memoirs."
"Oh, no, the man so speaking is not doing so of himself; the avowals
are too frank--the opinions too impartial."
"I think you are wrong," said the old gentleman quickly. "The author
wanted to set an example of showing himself to his fellows as heaven
created him."
"Do you know the author?"
"The writer is Jean Jacques Rousseau. These are stray pages out of his
'Confessions.'"
"So this unknown, poor, obscure youth, almost begging his way afoot
on the highroads, was the man who was to write 'Emile' and the 'Social
Contract?'"
"Yes--or, rather no!" said the other with unspeakable sadness. "This
author is the man disenchanted with life, glory, society and almost
with heaven; but the other Rousseau, Lady Warrens', was the youth
entering life by the same door as Aurora comes into the world; youth
with his joys and hopes. An abyss divides the two Rousseaus thirty
years wide."
The old gentleman shook his head, let his arms sadly droop, and
appeared to sink into deep musing.
"So," went on Gilbert, "it is possible for the meanly born like
Rousseau to win the love of a mighty and beautiful lady? This is
calculated to drive those mad who have lifted their eyes to those above
their sphere."
"Are you in love and do you see some likeness between your case and
Rousseau's?" asked the old gentleman.
Gilbert blushed without answering the question.
"But he won, because he was Rousseau," he observed. "Yet, were I to
feel a spark of his flame of genius, I should aspire to the star, and
seek to wear it even though----"
"You had to commit a crime?"
Jacques started and cut short the interview by saying:
"I think my wife must be up. We will go down stairs. Besides, a working
day never begins too soon. Come, young man, come."
On going forth, Jacques secured the garret door with a padlock.
This time he guided his ward into what Therese called the study.
The furniture of this little room was composed of glazed cases of
butterflies, herbs and minerals, framed in ebonized wood; books in a
walnut case, a long, narrow table, covered with a worn and blackened
cloth; with manuscripts orderly arranged on it, and four wooden chairs
covered in horsehair. All was glossy, lustrous, irreproachable in order
and cleanness, but cold to sight and heart, from the light through the
gauze curtains being gray and weak, and luxury, or comfort itself,
being far from this cold, ashy and black fireside.
A small rosewood piano stood on four legs, and a clock on the
mantel-piece alone showed any life in this domestic tomb.
Gilbert walked in respectfully, for it was grand in his eyes; almost as
rich as Taverney, and the waxed floor imposed on him.
"I am going to show you the nature of your work," said the old
gentleman. "This is music paper. When I copy a page I earn ten cents,
the price I myself fix. Do you know music?"
"I know the names of the notes but not their value, as well as these
signs. In the house where I lived was a young lady who played the
harpsichord----" and Gilbert hung his head, coloring.
"Oh, the same who studied botany," queried Jacques.
"Precisely; and she played very well."
"This does not account for your learning music."
"Rousseau says that the man is incomplete who enjoys a result without
seeking the cause."
"Yes; but, also, that man in perfecting himself by the discovery, loses
his happiness, freshness and instincts."
"What matter if what he gains compensates him for the losses?"
"Gad! you are not only a botanist and a musician, but a logician. At
present we only require a copyist. While copying, you will train your
hand to write more easily when you compose for yourself. Meanwhile,
with a couple of hours' copy work at night, you may earn the
wherewithal to follow the courses in the colleges of medicine, surgery
and botany."
"I understand you," exclaimed Gilbert, "and I thank you from the bottom
of my heart."
He settled himself to begin work on the sheet of paper held out by the
kind gentleman.