THE REUNION.
Children are like grown people,—the experiences of others are never of
any use to them.
Jack had been terrified by Mâdou’s story, but he thought of it only as
a frightful tale, or a bloody battle seen at the theatre. The first
months were so happy at the academy, every one was so kind, that he
forgot that Mâdou for a time had been equally happy.
At table he occupied the next seat to Moronval, drank his wine, shared
his dessert; while the other children, as soon as the cakes and fruit
appeared, rose abruptly from the table. Opposite Jack sat Dr. Hirsch,
whose finances, to judge from his appearance, were in a most deplorable
condition. He enlivened the repast by all sorts of scientific jokes, by
descriptions of surgical operations, by accounts of infectious
diseases, and, in fact, kept his hearers _au courant_ with all the
ailments of the day; and, if he heard of a case of leprosy, of
elephantiasis, or of the plague, in any quarter of the globe, he would
nod his head with delight, and say, “It will be here before long—before
long!”
As a neighbor at the table he was not altogether satisfactory: first,
his near-sightedness made him very awkward; and, next, he had a way of
dropping into your plate, or glass, a pinch of powder, or a few drops
from a vial in his pocket. The contents of this vial were never the
same, for the doctor made new scientific discoveries each week, but in
general bicarbonate, alkalies, and arsenic (in infinitesimal doses
fortunately) made the base of these medicaments. Jack submitted to
these preventives, and did not venture to say that he thought they
tasted very badly. Occasionally the other professors were invited, and
everybody drank the health of the little De Barancy, every one was
enthusiastic over his sweetness and cleverness. The singing teacher,
Labassandre, at the least joke made by the child, threw himself back in
his chair with a loud laugh, pounded the table with his fist, and wiped
his eyes with a corner of his napkin.
Even D’Argenton, the handsome D’Argenton, relaxed, a pale smile crossed
his big moustache, and his cold blue eyes were turned on the child with
haughty approval. Jack was delighted. He did not understand, nor did he
wish to understand, the signs made to him by Mâdou, as he waited upon
the table, with a napkin in one hand and a plate in the other. Mâdou
knew better than any one else the real value of these exaggerated
praises and the vanity of human greatness.
He too had occupied the seat of honor, had drunk of his master’s wine,
flavored by the powder from the doctor’s bottle; and the tunic, with
its silver chevrons, was it not too large for Jack only because it had
been made for Mâdou? The story of the little negro should have been a
warning to the small De Barancy against the sin of pride, for the
installation of both boys in the Moronval Academy had been precisely of
the same character.
The holiday instituted in honor of Jack was insensibly prolonged into
weeks. Lessons were few and far between, except from Madame Moronval,
who snatched every opportunity of testing her method.
As to Moronval himself, he professed a great weakness for his new
pupil. He had made inquiries in regard to the little hotel on the
Boulevard Hauss-mann, and had fully acquainted himself with the
resources of the lady there. When, therefore, Madame de Barancy came to
see Jack, which was very often, she met with a warm reception, and had
an attentive audience for all the vain and foolish stories she saw fit
to tell. At first Madame Moronval wished to preserve a certain
dignified coolness toward such a person, but her husband soon changed
that idea, and she saw herself obliged to lay aside her womanly
scruples in favor of her interests.
“Jack! Jack! here comes your mother,” some one would cry as the door
opened, and Ida would sail in beautifully dressed, with packages of
cakes and bonbons in her hands and her muff. It was a festival for
every one; they all shared the delicacies, and Madame de Barancy
ungloved her hand, the one on which were the most rings, and
condescended to take a portion. The poor creature was so generous, and
money slipped so easily through her fingers, that she generally brought
with her cakes all sorts of presents, playthings, &c., which she
distributed as the fancy struck her. It is easy to imagine the
enthusiastic praises lavished upon this inconsiderate, reckless
generosity. Moronval alone had a smile of pity and of envy at seeing
money so wasted, which should have gone to the assistance of some
brave, generous soul like himself, for example. This was his fixed
idea. And as he sat looking at Ida and gnawing his finger-nails, he had
an absent, anxious air like that of a man who comes to ask a loan, and
has his petition on the end of his lips. Moronval’s dream for some time
had been to establish a Review consecrated to colonial interests, in
this way hoping to satisfy his political aspirations by recalling
himself regularly to his compatriots; and, finally, who knows he might
be elected deputy. But, as a commencement, the journal seemed
indispensable, and he had a vague notion that the mother of his new
pupil might be induced to defray the expenses of this Review, but he
did not wish to move too rapidly lest he should frighten the lady away;
he intended to prepare the way gently. Unfortunately, Madame de
Barancy, on account of her very fickleness of nature, was difficult to
reach. She would continually change the conversation just at the
important point, because she found it very uninteresting.
“If she could be inspired with an idea of writing!” said Moronval to
himself, and immediately insinuated to her that between Madame de
Sévigné and George Sand there was a vacant niche to fill; but he might
as well have attempted to carry on a conversation with a bird that was
fluttering about his head.
“I am not strong-minded nor literary,” said Ida, with a half yawn, one
day when he had been speaking with feverish impatience for a long time.
Moronval finally concluded that a creature so inconsequent must be
dazzled, not led.
One day, when Ida was holding audience in the parlor, telling wonderful
tales of her various acquaintances to whose often plebeian names she
added the _de_ as she pleased, Madame Moronval said, timidly,—
“M. Moronval would like to ask you something, but he dares not.”
“O, tell me, tell me!” said the silly little woman, with a sincere wish
to oblige.
The principal was sorely tempted to ask her at once for funds for the
Review, but being himself very distrustful, he thought it wiser to act
with great prudence; so he contented himself with asking Madame de
Barancy to be present at one of their literary reunions on the
following Saturday. Formerly these little fêtes took place every week,
but since Mâdou’s fall they had been very infrequent. It was in vain
that Moronval had extinguished a candle with every guest that left, in
vain had he dried the tea-leaves from the teapot in the sun on the
window-sill, and served it again the following week, the expense still
was too great. But now he determined to hazard another attempt in that
direction. Madame de Barancy accepted the invitation with eagerness.
The idea of making her appearance in the salon as a married woman of
position was very attractive to her, for it was one round of the ladder
conquered, on which she hoped to ascend from her irregular and
unsatisfactory life.
This was a most splendid fête at which she assisted. In the memory of
all beholders no such entertainment had taken place. Two colored
lanterns hung on the acacias at the entrance, the vestibule was
lighted, and at least thirty candles were burning in the salon, the
floor of which Mâdou had so waxed and rubbed for the occasion that it
was as brilliant and as dangerous as ice. The negro boy had surpassed
himself; and here let me say that Moronval was in a great state of
perplexity as to the part that the prince should take at the soirée.
Should he be withdrawn from his domestic duties and restored for one
day only to his title and ancient splendor? This idea was very
tempting; but, then, who would hand the plates and announce the guests?
Who could replace him? No one of the other scholars, for each had some
one in Paris who might not be pleased with this system of education;
and finally it was decided that the soirée must be deprived of the
presence and prestige of his royal Highness. At eight o’clock, “the
children of the sun” took their seats on the benches, and among them
the blonde head of little De Barancy glittered like a star on the dark
background.
Moronval had issued numerous invitations among the artistic and
literary world—the one at least which he frequented—and the
representatives of art, literature, and architecture appeared in large
delegations. They arrived in squads, cold and shivering, coming from
the depths of _Montparnasse_ on the tops of omnibuses, ill dressed and
poor, unknown, but full of genius, drawn from their obscurity by the
longing to be seen, to sing or to recite something, to prove to
themselves that they were still alive. Then, after this breath of pure
air, this glimpse of the heavens above, comforted by a semblance of
glory and success, they returned to their squalid apartments, having
gained a little strength to vegetate. There were philosophers wiser
than Leibnitz; there were painters longing for fame, but whose pictures
looked as if an earthquake had shaken everything from its
perpendicular; musicians—inventors of new instruments; savans in the
style of Dr. Hirsch, whose brains contained a little of everything, but
where nothing could be found by reason of the disorder and the dust. It
was sad to see them; and if their insatiate pretensions, as obtrusive
as their bushy heads, their offensive pride and pompous manners, had
not given one an inclination to laugh, their half-starved air and the
feverish glitter of eyes that had wept over so many lost illusions and
disappointed hopes, would have awakened profound compassion in the
hearts of lookers-on.
Besides these there were others, who, finding art too hard a
taskmistress and too niggardly in her rewards, sought other
employment.. For example, a lyric poet kept an intelligence office, a
sculptor was an agent for a wine merchant, and a violinist was in a
gas-office.
Others less worthy allowed themselves to be supported by their wives.
These couples came together, and the poor women bore on their brave,
worn faces the stamp of the penalty they paid for the companionship of
men of genius. Proud of being allowed to accompany their husbands, they
smiled upon them with an air of gratified maternal vanity. Then there
were the habitués of the house, the three professors; Labassandre in
gala costume, exercising his lungs at intervals by tremendous
inspirations; and D’Argenton, the handsome D’Argenton, curled and
pomaded, wearing light gloves, and his manners a charming mixture of
authority, geniality, and condescension.
Standing near the door of the salon, Moronval received every one,
shaking hands with all, but growing very anxious as the hour grew later
and the countess did not appear; for Ida de Barancy was called the
countess under that roof. Every one was uncomfortable. Little Madame de
Moronval went from group to group, saying, with an amiable air, “We
will wait a few moments, the countess has not yet arrived!”
The piano was open, the pupils were ranged against the wall; a small
green table, on which stood a glass of _eau-sucré_ and a reading-lamp,
was in readiness. M. Moronval, imposing in his white vest; Madame, red
and oppressed by all the worry of the evening; and Mâdotu, shivering in
the wind from the door,—all are waiting for the countess. Meanwhile, as
she came not, D’Argenton consented to recite a poem that all his
assistants knew, for they had heard it a dozen times before. Standing
in front of the chimney, with his hair thrown back from his wide
forehead, the poet declaimed, in a coarse, vulgar voice, what he called
his poem.
His friends were not sparing in their praises.
“Magnificent!” said one. “Sublime!” exclaimed another; and the most
amazing criticism came from yet another,—“Goethe with a heart?”
Here Ida entered. The poet did not see her, for his eyes were lifted to
the ceiling. But she saw him, poor woman; and from that moment her
heart was gone. She had never seen him, save in the street wearing his
hat: now she beheld him in the mellow light which softened still more
his pale face, wearing a dress-coat and evening gloves, reciting a love
poem, and, believing in love as he did in God, he produced an
extraordinary effect upon her.
He was the hero of her dreams, and corresponded with all the foolish
sentimental ideas that lie hidden very often in the hearts of such
women.
From that very moment she was his, and he took exclusive possession of
her heart. She paid no attention to her little Jack, who made frantic
signs to her as he threw her kiss after kiss; nor had she eyes for
Moronval, who bowed to the ground; nor for the curious glances that
examined her from head to foot, as she stood before them in her black
velvet dress and her little white opera hat, trimmed with black roses
and ornamented with tulle strings which wrapped about her like a scarf.
Years after she recalled the profound impression of that evening, and
saw as in a dream her poet as she saw him first in that salon, which
seemed to her, seen through the vista of years, immense and superb. The
future might heap misery upon her; her past could humiliate and wound
her, crush her life, and something more precious than life itself; but
the recollection of that brief moment of ecstasy could never be
effaced.
“You see, madame,” said Moronval, with his most insinuating smile,
“that we made a beginning before your arrival. M. le Vicomte Amaury
d’Argenton was reciting his magnificent poem.”
“Vicomte!” He was noble, then!
She turned toward him, timid and blushing as a young girl.
“Continue, sir, I beg of you,” she said.
But D’Argenton did not care to do so. The arrival of the countess had
injured the effect of his poem—destroyed its point; and such things are
not easily pardoned. He bowed, and answered with cold haughtiness that
he had finished. Then he turned away without troubling himself more
about her. The poor woman felt a strange pang at her heart. She had
displeased him, and the very thought was unendurable. It needed all
little Jack’s tender caresses and outspoken joy—all his delight at the
admiration expressed for her, the attentions of everybody, the idea
that she was queen of the fete—to efface the sorrow she felt, and which
she showed by a silence of at least five minutes, which silence for a
nature like hers was something as extraordinary as restful. The
disturbance of her entrance being at last over, every one seated
himself to await the next recitation.
Mademoiselle Constant, who had accompanied her mistress, took her seat
majestically on the front bench next the pupils. Jack swung himself on
the arm of his mother’s chair, between her and M. Moronval, who
smoothed the lad’s hair in the most paternal way.
The assemblage was really quite imposing, and Madame Moronval took
dignified possession of the little table and the shaded lamp, and
proceeded to read an ethnographic composition of her husband’s on the
Mongolian races. It was long and tedious—one of those lucubrations that
are delivered before certain scientific societies, and succeed in
lulling the members to sleep. Madame Moronval took this opportunity of
demonstrating the peculiarities of her method, which had the merit—if
merit it were—of holding the attention as in a vice, and the words and
syllables seemed to reverberate through your own brain. To see Madame
Moronval open her mouth to sound her o’s, to hear the r’s rattle in her
throat, was more edifying than agreeable. The mouths of the eight
children opposite mechanically followed each one of her gestures,
producing a most extraordinary effect; one absolutely fascinating to
Mademoiselle Constant.
But the countess saw nothing of all this; she had eyes but for her poet
leaning against the door of the drawing-room, with arms folded and eyes
moodily cast down. In vain did Ida seek to attract his attention; he
glanced occasionally about the salon, but her arm-chair might as well
have been vacant; he did not appear to see her, and the poor woman was
rendered so utterly miserable by this neglect and indifference, that
she forgot to congratulate Moronval on the brilliant success of his
essay, which concluded amid great applause and universal relief.
Then followed another brief poem by Argenton, to which Ida listened
breathlessly.
“Ah, how beautiful!” she cried; “how beautiful!” and she turned to
Moronval, who sat with a forced smile on his lips. “Present me to M.
d’Argenton, if you please.”
She spoke to the poet in a low voice and with great courtesy. He,
however, bowed very coldly, apparently careless of her implied
admiration.
“How happy you are,” she said, “in the possession of such a talent!”
Then she asked where she could obtain his poems.
“They are not to be procured, madame,” answered D’Argenton, gravely.
Without knowing it, she had again wounded his sensitive pride, and he
turned away without vouchsafing another syllable.
But Moronval profited by this opening. “Think of it!” he said; “think
that such verses as those cannot find a publisher! That such genius as
that is buried in obscurity! If we only could publish a magazine!”
“And why can you not?” asked Ida, quickly.
“Because we have not the funds.”
“But they can easily be procured. Such talent should not be allowed to
languish!”
She spoke with great earnestness; and Moronval saw at once that he had
played his cards well, and proceeded to take advantage of the lady’s
weakness by talking to her of D’Argenton, whom he painted in glowing
colors.
He spoke of him as Lara, or Manifred, a proud and independent nature,
one which could not be conquered by the hardships of his lot.
Here Ida interrupted him to ask if the poet was not of noble birth.
“Most assuredly, madame. He is a viscount, and descended from one of
the noblest families in Auvergne. His father was ruined by the
dishonesty of an agent.”
This was his text, which he proceeded to enlarge upon, and illustrate
by many romantic incidents. Ida drank in the whole story; and while
these two were absorbed in earnest conversation, Jack grew jealous, and
made various efforts to attract his mother’s attention. “Jack, do be
quiet!” and “Jack, you are insufferable!” finally sent him off, with
tearful eyes and swollen lips, to sulk in the corner of the salon.
Meanwhile the literary entertainments of the evening went on, and
finally Labassandre, after numerous entreaties, was induced to sing.
His voice was so powerful, and so pervaded the house, that Mâdou, who
was in the kitchen preparing tea, replied by a frightful war-cry. The
poor fellow worshipped noise of all kinds and at all times.
Moronval and the comtesse continued their conversation; and D’Argenton,
who by this time understood that he was the subject, stood in front of
them, apparently absorbed in conversation with one of the professors.
He appeared to be out of temper—and with whom? With the whole world;
for he was one of that very large class who are at war against society,
and against the manners and customs of their day.
At this very moment he was declaiming violently, “You have all the
vices of the last century, and none of its amenities. Honor is a mere
name. Love is a farce. You have accomplished nothing intellectually.”
“Pardon me, sir,” interrupted his hearer. But the other went on more
vehemently and more aggressively. He wished, he said, that all France
could hear what he thought. The nation was abased, crushed beyond all
hope of recuperation. As for himself, he had determined to emigrate to
America.
All this time the poet was vaguely conscious of the admiring gaze that
was bent upon him. He experienced something of the same sensation that
one has in the fields in the early evening, when the moon suddenly
rises behind you and compels you to turn toward its silent presence.
The eyes of this woman magnetized him in the same way. The words she
caught in regard to leaving France struck a chill to her heart. A
funereal gloom settled over the room. Additional dismay overwhelmed her
as D’Argenton wound up with a vigorous tirade against French
women,—their lightness and coquetry, the insincerity of their smiles,
and the venality of their love.
The poet no longer conversed; he declaimed, leaning against the
chimney, and careless who heard either his voice or his words.
Poor Ida, intensely absorbed as she was in him, could not realize that
he was indifferent, and fancied that his invectives were addressed to
herself.
“He knows who I am,” she said, and bowed her head in shame.
Moronval said aloud, “What a genius!” and in a lower voice to himself,
“What a boaster!” But Ida needed nothing more; her heart was gone. Had
Dr. Hirsch, who was always so interested in pathological singularities,
been then at leisure, he might have made a curious study of this case
of instantaneous combustion.
An hour before, Madame Moronval had dispatched Jack to bed, with two or
three of the younger children; the others were gaping in silent
wretchedness, stupefied by all they saw and heard. The Chinese lanterns
swung in the wind each side of the garden-gate; the lane was unlighted,
and not even a policeman enlivened its muddy sidewalk; but the
disputative little group that left the Moronval Academy cared little
for the gloom, the cold, or the dampness.
When they reached the avenue they found that the hour for the omnibus
had passed. They accepted this as they did the other disagreeables of
life—in the same brave spirit.
Art is a great magician. It creates a sunshine from which its devotees,
as well as the poor and the ugly, the sick and the sorry, can each
borrow a little, and with it gain a grace to suffer, and a calm
serenity that may well be envied.