A MELANCHOLY SPECTACLE.
That evening there was a great literary entertainment at the editors of
the Review; a fête had been arranged to celebrate Charlotte’s return,
at which it was proposed that D’Argenton should read his new poem.
But was there not something rather ridiculous in deploring the absence
of a person who was then present? And how could he describe the
sufferings of a deserted lover, he who was supposed at the moment to be
at the summit of bliss, by reason of the return of the beloved object?
Never had the apartments been so luxuriously arranged; flowers were
there in profusion. The toilet of Charlotte was in exquisite taste,
white with clusters of violets, and all the surroundings breathed an
atmosphere of riches. Yet nothing could have been more deceptive. The
Review was in a dying condition; the numbers appearing at longer
intervals, and growing small by degrees and beautifully less.
D’Argenton had swallowed up in it the half of his fortune, and now
wished to sell it. It was this unfortunate situation, added to an
attack skilfully managed, that had induced the foolish Charlotte to
return to him. He had only to assume before her the air of a great man
crushed by unmerited misfortune, for her to reply that she would serve
him always.
D’Argenton was foolish and conceited, but he understood the nature of
this woman in a most wonderful degree. She thought him handsomer and
more fascinating than he was twelve years before, when she saw him for
the first time, under the chandeliers of the Moronval salon. Many of
the same persons were there also: Labassandre in bottle-green velvet,
with the high boots of Faust; and Dr. Hirsch with his coat-sleeves
spotted by various chemicals; and Moronval in a black coat very white
in the seams, and a white cravat very black in the folds; several
“children of the sun,”—the everlasting Japanese prince, and the
Egyptian from the banks of the Nile. What a strange set of people they
were! They might have been a band of pilgrims on the march toward some
unknown Mecca, whose golden lamps retreat before them. During the
twelve years that we have known them, many have fallen from the ranks,
but others have risen to take their places; nothing discourages them,
neither cold nor heat, nor even hunger. They hurry on, but they never
arrive. Among them D’Argenton, better clothed and better fed, resembled
a rich Hadji with his harem, his pipes, and his riches; on this evening
he was especially radiant, for he had triumphed.
During the reading of the poem Charlotte sat in an attitude of feigned
indifference, blushing occasionally at veiled allusions to herself.
Near her was Madame Moronval, who, small as she was, seemed quite tall
because of the extraordinary height of her forehead and the length of
her chin. The poem went on and on, the fire crackled on the hearth, and
the wind rattled against the glass doors of the balcony, as it did on a
certain night of which Charlotte apparently had but little remembrance.
Suddenly, during a most pathetic passage, the door opened suddenly; the
servant appeared, and with a terrified air summoned her mistress.
“Madame, madame!” she cried.
Charlotte went to her. “What is it?” she asked.
“A man insists on seeing you. I told him that it was impossible; but he
said he would wait for you, and he seated himself on the stairs.”
“I will see him,” said Charlotte, much moved; for she guessed at the
purport of the message.
But D’Argenton objected, and turning toward Labassandre, he said, “Will
you have the goodness to see who this intruder is?” and the poet turned
back to the table to resume his reading. But the door opened again wide
enough to admit the head and arm of Labassandre, who beckoned
earnestly.
“What is it?” said D’Argenton, impatiently, when he reached the
ante-room.
“Jack is very ill,” said the tenor.
“I don’t believe it,” answered the poet.
“This man swears that it is so.”
D’Argenton looked at the man, whose face was not absolutely unknown to
him.
“Did you come from the gentleman,—that is to say, did he send you?”
“No; he is too sick to send any one. It is three weeks since he has
been in his bed, and very, very ill.”
“What is his disease?”
“Something on the lungs, and the doctors say that he cannot live; so I
thought I had better come and tell his mother.”
“What is your name?”
“Bélisaire, sir; but the lady knows me.”
“Very well, then,” said the poet, “you will say to the one who sent
you, that the game is a good one, though rather old, and he had better
try something else.”
“Sir?” said the pedler, interrogatively, for he did not comprehend
these sarcastic words.
But D’Argenton had left the room, and Bélisaire stood in silent
amazement, having caught a glimpse of the lighted salon and its crowd
of people.
“It is nothing, only a mistake,” said the poet on his entrance; and
while he majestically resumed his reading, the pedler hurried home
through the dark streets, through the sharp hail and fierce wind, eager
to reach Jack, who lay in a high fever, on the narrow iron bed in the
attic-room.
He had been taken ill on his return from Etiolles; he lay there, almost
without speaking, a victim to fever and a severe cold, so serious, that
the physicians warned his friends that they had everything to fear.
Bélisaire wished to summon M. Rivals, but to this Jack refused to
consent. This was the only energy he had shown since his illness, and
the only time he had spoken voluntarily, save when he told his friend
to take his watch, and a ring he owned, and sell them.
All Jack’s savings had been absorbed in furnishing the rooms at
Charonne, and the Bélisaire household was equally impoverished through
their recent marriage. But it mattered very little; the pedler and his
wife were capable of every sacrifice for their friend; they carried to
the Mont de Piété the greater part of their furniture, piece by
piece—for medicines were so dear. They were advised to send Jack to the
hospital. “He would be better off; and, besides, he would then cost you
nothing,” was the argument employed. The good people were now at the
end of their resources, and decided to inform Charlotte of her son’s
danger.
“Bring her back with you,” said Madame Bélisaire to her husband. “To
see his mother would be such a comfort to the lad. He never speaks of
her because he is so proud.”
But Bélisaire did not bring her. He returned in a very unhappy frame of
mind, from the reception he had received. His wife, with her child
asleep on her lap, talked in a low voice to a neighbor, in front of a
poor little fire—such a one as is called a widow’s fire by the people.
The two women listened to Jack’s painful breathing, and to the horrible
cough that choked him. One would never have recognized this
unfurnished, dismal room as the bright attic where cheerful voices had
resounded such a short time before. There was no sign of books or
studies. A pot of tisane was simmering on the hearth, filling the air
with that peculiar odor which tells of a sickroom. Bélisaire came in.
“Alone?” said his wife.
He told in a low voice that he had not been permitted to see Jack’s
mother.
“But had you no blood in your veins? You should have entered by force
and called aloud, ‘Madame, your son is dying!’ Ah, my poor Bélisaire,
you will never be anything but a weak chicken!”
“But, had I undertaken such a thing, I should simply have been
arrested,” said the poor man, in a distressed tone.
“But what are we going to do?” resumed Madame Bélisaire. “This poor boy
must have better care than we can give him.”
A neighbor spoke. “He must go to the hospital, as the physician said.”
“Hush, hush! not so loud!” said Bélisaire, pointing to the bed; “I’m
afraid he heard you.”
“What of that? He is not your brother, nor your son; and it would be
better for you in every respect.”
“But he is my friend,” answered Bélisaire, proudly; and in his tone was
so much honest devotion that his wife’s eyes filled with tears.
The neighbors shrugged their shoulders and went away. After their
departure, the room looked less cold and less bare.
Jack had heard all that was said. In spite of his weakness he slept
little, and lay with his face turned to the wall, with eyes wide open.
If that blank surface, wrinkled and tarnished like the face of a very
old woman, could have spoken, it would have said that in those pitiful
eyes but one expression could have been seen, that of utter and
overwhelming despair. He never complained, however; he even tried, at
times, to smile at his stout nurse, when she brought him his tisanes.
The long and solitary days passed away in this inaction and
helplessness. Why was he not strong in health and body like the people
about him, and yet for whom did he wish to labor? His mother had left
him, Cécile had deserted him. The faces of these two women haunted him
day and night. When Charlotte’s gay and indifferent smile faded away,
the delicate features of Cécile appeared before him, veiled in the
mystery of her strange refusal; and the youth lay there incapable of a
word or a gesture, while his pulses beat with accelerated force, and
his hollow cough shook him from head to foot.
The day after this conversation at Jack’s bedside, Madame Bélisaire was
much startled, on entering the room, to find him, tall and gaunt,
sitting in front of the fire. “Why are you out of your bed?” she asked
with severity.
“I am going to the hospital, my kind friend; it is impossible for me to
stay here any longer. Do not attempt to detain me, for go I will.”
“But, Mr. Jack, you cannot walk there, weak as you are.”
“Yes, I can, if your husband will give me the help of his arm.”
It was useless to resist such determination, and Jack said farewell to
Madame Bélisaire, and descended the stairs with one sad look of
farewell at the humble home which had been illuminated by so many fair
dreams and hopes. How long the walk was! They stopped occasionally, but
dared not linger long, for the air was sharp. Under the lowering
December skies the sick youth looked worse even than when he lay in his
bed. His hair was wet with perspiration, the hurrying crowds made him
dizzy and faint. Paris is like a huge battlefield where mere existence
demands a struggle; and Jack seemed like a wounded soldier borne from
the field by a comrade.
It was still early when they reached the hospital. Early as it was,
however, they found the huge waiting-room filled with persons. An
enormous stove made the air of the room almost intolerable, with its
smell of hot iron. When Jack entered, assisted by Bélisaire/all eyes
were turned upon him. They were awaiting the arrival of the physician,
who would give, or refuse, a card of admittance. Each one was
describing his symptoms to some indifferent hearer, and endeavoring to
show that he was more ill than any one else. Jack listened to these
dismal conversations, seated between a stout man who coughed violently,
and a slender young girl whose thin shawl was so tightly drawn over her
head that only her wild and affrighted eyes were to be seen. Then the
door opened, and a small, wiry man appeared; it was the physician. A
profound silence followed all along the benches. The doctor warmed his
hands at the stove, while he cast a scrutinizing glance about the room.
Then he began his rounds, followed by a boy carrying the cards of
admission to the different hospitals. What joy for the poor wretches
when they were pronounced sick enough to receive a ticket. What
disappointment, what entreaties from those who were told that they must
struggle on yet a little longer! The examination was brief, and if it
seemed somewhat brutal at times, it must be remembered that the number
of applicants was very large, and that the poor creatures loved to
linger over the recital of their woes.
Finally the physician reached the stout man next to Jack. “And what is
the matter with you, sir?” he asked.
“My chest burns like fire,” was the answer.
“Ah, your chest burns like fire, does it! Do you not sometimes drink
too much brandy?”
“Never, sir,” answered the patient indignantly.
“Well, then, if you do not drink brandy, how about wine?”
“I drink what I want of that, of course.”
“Ah, yes, I understand! You drink with your friends.”
“On pay-days I do, certainly.”
“That is, you get drunk once in the week. Let me see your tongue.”
When the physician reached Jack, he examined him attentively, asked his
age and how long he had been ill. Jack answered with much difficulty,
and while he spoke, Bélisaire stood behind him with a face full of
anxiety.
“Stand up, my man,” and the doctor applied his ear to the damp clothing
of the invalid. “Did you walk here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It is most extraordinary that you were able to do so, in the state in
which you are; but you must not try it again;” and he handed him a
ticket and passed on to continue his inspection.
Of all the thousand rapid and confused impressions that one receives in
the streets of Paris, do you remember any one more painful than the
sight of one of those litters, sheltered from the sun’s rays by a
striped cover, and borne by two men, one behind and the other in
front,—the form of a human being vaguely defined under the linen
sheets? Women cross themselves when these litters pass them, as they do
when a crow flies over their heads.
Sometimes, a mother, a daughter, or a sister, walks at the side of the
sick man, their eyes swimming in tears at this last indignity to which
the poor are subjected. Jack thus lay, consoled by the sound of the
familiar tread of his faithful Bélisaire, who occasionally took his
hand to prove to him that he was not completely deserted.
The sick man at last reached the hospital to which he had been ordered.
It was a dreary structure, looking out on one side upon a damp garden,
on the other on a dark court. Twenty beds, two arm-chairs, and a stove,
were the furniture of the large room to which Jack was carried. Five or
six phantoms in cotton nightcaps looked up from a game of dominos to
inspect him, and two or three more started from the stove as if
frightened.
The corner of the room was brightened by an altar to the Virgin,
decorated with flowers, candles, and lace; and near by was the desk of
the matron, who came forward, and in a soft voice, the tones of which
seemed half lost among the folds of her veil, said:
“Poor fellow, how sick he looks! he must go to bed at once. We have no
bed yet, but the one at the end there will soon be empty. While we are
waiting, we will put him on a couch.”
This couch was placed close to the bed “that would soon be empty,” from
whence were heard long sighs, dreary enough in themselves, but made a
thousand times more melancholy by the utter indifference with which
they were heard by the others in the room. The man was dying, but Jack
was himself too ill to notice this. He hardly heard Bélisaire’s “_au
revoir_” nor the rattling of dishes as the soup was distributed, nor a
whispering at his side; he was not asleep, but exhausted by fatigue.
Suddenly a woman’s voice, calm and clear, said, “Let us pray.”
He saw the dim outline of a woman kneeling near the altar, but in vain
did he attempt to follow the words that fell rapidly from her lips. The
concluding sentence reached him, however.
“Protect, O God, my friends and my enemies, all prisoners and
travellers, the sick and the dying.”
Jack slept a feverish sleep, and his dreams were a confused mixture of
prisoners rattling their chains, and of travellers wandering over
endless roads. He was one of these travellers: he was on a highway,
like that of Etiolles; Cécile and his mother were before him refusing
to wait until he could reach them; this he was prevented from doing by
a row of enormous machines, the pistons of which were moving with dizzy
haste, and from whose chimneys were pouring out dark volumes of smoke.
Jack determined to pass between them; he is seized by their iron arms,
torn and mangled, and scalded with the hot steam; but he got through
and took refuge in the Foret de Sénart, amid the freshness of which
Jack became once more a child and was on his way to the forester’s; but
there at the cross-road stood mother Salé; he turned to run, and ran
for miles, with the old woman close behind him; he heard her nearer and
nearer, he felt her hot breath on his shoulder; she seized him at last,
and with all her weight crushed in his chest. Jack awoke with a start;
he recognized the large room, the beds in a line, and heard the sighs
and coughs. He dreamed no more, and yet he still felt the same weight
across his body, something so cold and heavy that he called aloud in
terror. The nurses ran, and lifted something, placed it in the next
bed, and drew the curtains round it closely.