JEAN BUVAT.
Our readers must now make a better acquaintance with one of the
principal personages in the history which we have undertaken to relate,
of whom we have scarcely spoken. We would refer to the good bourgeois,
whom we have seen quitting the group in the Rue de Valois, and making
for the Barriere des Sergents at the moment when the street-singer began
his collection, and who, it will be remembered, we have since seen at so
inopportune a moment in the Rue des Bons-Enfants.
Heaven preserve us from questioning the intelligence of our readers, so
as to doubt for a moment that they had recognized in the poor devil to
whom the Chevalier d'Harmental had rendered such timely assistance the
good man of the terrace in the Rue du Temps-Perdu. But they cannot know,
unless we tell them in detail, what he was physically, morally, and
socially. If the reader has not forgotten the little we have already
told him, it will be remembered that he was from forty to forty-five
years of age. Now as every one knows, after forty years of age the
bourgeois of Paris entirely forgets the care of his person, with which
he is not generally much occupied, a negligence from which his corporeal
graces suffer considerably, particularly when, as in the present
instance, his appearance is not to be admired.
Our bourgeois was a little man of five feet four, short and fat,
disposed to become obese as he advanced in age; and with one of those
placid faces where all--hair, eyebrows, eyes, and skin--seem of the same
color; in fact, one of those faces of which, at ten paces, one does not
distinguish a feature. The most enthusiastic physiognomist, if he had
sought to read on this countenance some high and curious destiny, would
have been stopped in his examination as he mounted from his great blue
eyes to his depressed forehead, or descended from his half-open mouth
to the fold of his double chin. There he would have understood that he
had under his eyes one of those heads to which all fermentation is
unknown, whose freshness is respected by the passions, good or bad, and
who turn nothing in the empty corners of their brain but the burden of
some old nursery song. Let us add that Providence, who does nothing by
halves, had signed the original, of which we have just offered a copy to
our readers, by the characteristic name of Jean Buvat.
It is true that the persons who ought to have appreciated the profound
nullity of spirit, and excellent qualities of heart of this good man,
suppressed his patronymic, and ordinarily called him Le Bonhomme Buvat.
From his earliest youth the little Buvat, who had a marked repugnance
for all other kinds of study, manifested a particular inclination for
caligraphy: thus he arrived every morning at the College des Oratoriens,
where his mother sent him gratis, with his exercises and translations
full of faults, but written with a neatness, a regularity, and a beauty
which it was charming to see. The little Buvat was whipped every day for
the idleness of his mind, and received the writing prize every year for
the skill of his hand. At fifteen years of age he passed from the
Epitome Sacrae, which he had recommenced five times, to the Epitome
Graecae; but the professor soon perceived that this was too much for him,
and put him back for the sixth time in the Epitome Sacrae. Passive as he
appeared, young Buvat was not wanting in a certain pride. He came home
in the evening crying to his mother, and complaining of the injustice
which had been done him, declaring, in his grief, a thing which till
then he had been careful not to confess, namely, that there were in the
school children of ten years old more advanced than he was.
Widow Buvat, who saw her son start every morning with his exercises
perfectly neat (which led her to believe that there could be no fault to
be found with them), went the next day to abuse the good fathers. They
replied that her son was a good boy, incapable of an evil thought
toward God, or a bad action toward his neighbor; but that, at the same
time, he was so awfully stupid that they advised her to develop, by
making him a writing-master, the only talent with which nature had
blessed him. This counsel was a ray of light for Madame Buvat; she
understood that, in this manner, the benefit she should derive from her
son would be immediate. She came back to her house, and communicated to
her son the new plans she had formed for him. Young Buvat saw in this
only a means of escaping the castigation which he received every
morning, for which the prize, bound in calf, that he received every year
was not a compensation.
He received the propositions of his mother with great joy; promised her
that, before six months were over, he would be the first writing-master
in the capital; and the same day, after having, from his little savings,
bought a knife with four blades, a packet of quills, and two copy-books,
set himself to the work. The good Oratoriens were not deceived as to the
true vocation of young Buvat. Caligraphy was with him an art which
almost became drawing. At the end of six months, like the ape in the
Arabian Nights, he wrote six kinds of writing; and imitated men's faces,
trees, and animals. At the end of a year he had made such progress that
he thought he might now give out his prospectus. He worked at it for
three months, day and night; and almost lost his sight over it. At the
end of that time he had accomplished a chef-d'oeuvre.
It was not a simple writing, but a real picture representing the
creation of the world, and divided almost like the Transfiguration of
Raphael. In the upper part, consecrated to Eden, was the Eternal Father
drawing Eve from the side of the sleeping Adam, and surrounded by those
animals which the nobility of their nature brings near to man, such as
the lion, the horse, and the dog. At the bottom was the sea, in the
depths of which were to be seen swimming the most fantastic fishes, and
on the surface a superb three-decked vessel. On the two sides, trees
full of birds put the heavens, which they touched with their topmost
branches, in communication with the earth, which they grasped with their
roots; and in the space left in the middle of all this, in the most
perfectly horizontal line, and reproduced in six different writings, was
the adverb "pitilessly." This time the artist was not deceived; the
picture produced the effect which he expected. A week afterward young
Buvat had five male and two female scholars. His reputation increased;
and Madame Buvat, after some time passed in greater ease than she had
known even in her husband's lifetime, had the satisfaction of dying
perfectly secure about her son's future.
As to him, after having sufficiently mourned his mother, he pursued the
course of his life, one day exactly like the other. He arrived thus at
the age of twenty-six or twenty-seven, having passed the stormy part of
existence in the eternal calm of his innocent and virtuous good nature.
It was about this time that the good man found an opportunity of doing a
sublime action, which he did instinctively and simply, as he did
everything; but perhaps a man of mind might have passed it over without
seeing it, or turned away from it if he had seen it. There was in the
house No. 6, in the Rue des Orties, of which Buvat occupied the attic, a
young couple who were the admiration of the whole quarter for the
harmony in which they lived. They appeared made for each other. The
husband was a man of from thirty-four to thirty-five years of age, of a
southern origin, with black eyes, beard and hair, sunburned complexion,
and teeth like pearls. He was called Albert du Rocher, and was the son
of an ancient Cevenol chief, who had been forced to turn Catholic, with
all his family, at the persecutions of Monsieur Baville; and half from
opposition, half because youth seeks youth, he had entered the household
of M. le Duc de Chartres, which was being reformed just at that time,
having suffered much in the campaign preceding the battle of Steinkirk,
where the prince had made his debut in arms. Du Rocher had obtained the
place of La Neuville, who had been killed in that charge which,
conducted by the Duc de Chartres, had decided the victory.
The winter had interrupted the campaign, but in the spring M. de
Luxembourg had recalled all those officers who shared their life between
war and pleasure. The Duc de Chartres, always eager to draw a sword
which the jealousy of Louis XIV. had so often replaced in the scabbard,
was one of the first to answer this appeal. Du Rocher followed him with
all his military household. The great day of Nerwinden arrived. The Duc
de Chartres had, as usual, the command of the guards; as usual he
charged at their head, but so furiously that five times he found himself
almost alone in the midst of the enemy. At the fifth time he had near
him only a young man whom he scarcely knew; but in the rapid glance
which he cast on him he recognized one of those spirits on whom one may
rely, and instead of yielding, as a brigadier of the enemy's army, who
had recognized him, proposed to him, he blew the proposer's brains out
with his pistol. At the same instant two shots were fired, one of which
took off the prince's hat, and the other turned from the handle of his
sword. Scarcely had these two shots been fired when those who had
discharged them fell simultaneously, thrown down by the prince's
companion--one by a saber-stroke, the other by a bullet. A general
attack took place on these two men, who were miraculously saved from any
ball. The prince's horse, however, fell under him. The young man who was
with him jumped from his, and offered it to him.
The prince hesitated to accept this service, which might cost him who
rendered it so dear; but the young man, who was tall and powerful,
thinking that this was not a moment to exchange politenesses, took the
prince in his arms and forced him into the saddle. At this moment, M.
d'Arcy, who had lost his pupil in the melee, and who was seeking for him
with a detachment of light horse, came up, just as, in spite of their
courage, the prince and his companion were about to be killed or taken.
Both were without wound, although the prince had received four bullets
in his clothes. The Duc de Chartres held out his hand to his companion,
and asked him his name; for, although his face was known to him, he had
been so short a time in his service that he did not remember his name.
The young man replied that he was called Albert du Rocher, and that he
had taken the place of La Neuville, who was killed at Steinkirk.
Then, turning toward those who had just arrived--
"Gentlemen," said the prince, "you have prevented me from being taken,
but this gentleman," pointing to Du Rocher, "has saved me from being
killed."
At the end of the campaign, the Duc de Chartres named Du Rocher his
first equerry, and three years afterward, having retained the grateful
affection which he had vowed to him, he married him to a young person
whom he loved, and gave her a dowry.
As M. le Duc de Chartres was still but a young man, this dowry was not
large, but he promised to take charge of the advancement of his
protegee. This young person was of English origin; her mother had
accompanied Madame Henriette when she came to France to marry Monsieur;
and after that princess had been poisoned by the Chevalier d'Effiat, she
had passed, as lady-in-waiting, into the service of the Grand Dauphine;
but, in 1690, the Grand Dauphine died, and the Englishwoman, in her
insular pride, refused to stay with Mademoiselle Choin, and retired to a
little country house which she hired near St. Cloud, where she gave
herself up entirely to the education of her little Clarice. It was in
the journeys of the Duc de Chartres to St. Cloud that Du Rocher made
acquaintance with this young girl, whom, as we have said, he married in
1697. It was, then, these young people who occupied the first floor of
the house of which Buvat had the attic. The young couple had first a
son, whose caligraphic education was confided to Buvat from the age of
four years. The young pupil was making the most satisfactory progress
when he was carried off by the measles. The despair of the parents was
great; Buvat shared it, the more sincerely that his pupil had shown such
aptitude. This sympathy for their grief, on the part of a stranger,
attached them to him; and one day, when the young man was complaining of
the precarious future of artists, Albert du Rocher proposed to him to
use his influence to procure him a place at the government library.
Buvat jumped with joy at the idea of becoming a public functionary; and,
a month afterward, Buvat received his brevet as employe at the library,
in the manuscript department, with a salary of nine hundred livres a
year. From this day, Buvat, in the pride natural to his new position,
neglected his scholars, and gave himself up entirely to the preparation
of forms. Nine hundred livres, secured to the end of his life, was quite
a fortune, and the worthy writer, thanks to the royal munificence, began
to lead a life of ease and comfort, promising his good neighbors that if
they had a second child no one but himself should teach him to write. On
their parts, the poor parents wished much to give this increase of
occupation to the worthy writer. God heard their desire. Toward the
termination of 1702, Clarice was delivered of a daughter.
Great was the joy through the whole house. Buvat did not feel at all at
his ease; he ran up and down stairs, beating his thighs with his hands,
and singing below his breath the burden of his favorite song, "Then let
me go, and let me play," etc. That day, for the first time since he had
been appointed, that is to say, during two years, he arrived at his
office at a quarter past ten, instead of ten o'clock exactly. A
supernumerary, who thought that he must be dead, had asked for his
place.
The little Bathilde was not a week old before Buvat wished to begin
teaching her her strokes and pot-hooks, saying, that to learn a thing
well, it is necessary to commence young. It was with the greatest
difficulty that he was made to understand that he must wait till she was
two or three years old. He resigned himself; but, in expectation of
that time, he set about preparing copies. At the end of three years
Clarice kept her word, and Buvat had the satisfaction of solemnly
putting her first pen into the hands of Bathilde.
[Illustration: HE THEN RETURNED TO HIS WORK WITH ALL THE EAGERNESS OF AN
ARTIST.--Page 325.]
It was the beginning of the year 1707, and the Duc de Chartres had
become Duc d'Orleans, by the death of Monsieur, and had at last obtained
a command in Spain, where he was to conduct the troops to the Marechal
de Berwick. Orders were directly given to all his military household to
hold themselves in readiness for the 5th of March. As first equerry, it
was necessary that Albert should accompany the prince. This news, which
would have formerly given him the highest joy, made him now almost sad,
for the health of Clarice began to fill him with the greatest
uneasiness; and the doctor had allowed the word consumption to escape
him. Whether Clarice felt herself seriously attacked, or whether, more
natural still, she feared only for her husband, her burst of grief was
so wild that Albert himself could not help crying with her, and little
Bathilde and Buvat cried because they saw the others cry.
The 5th of March arrived; it was the day fixed for the departure. In
spite of her grief, Clarice had busied herself with her husband's
outfit, and had wished that it was worthy of the prince whom he
accompanied. Moreover, in the midst of her tears a ray of proud joy lit
up her face when she saw Albert in his elegant uniform, and on his noble
war-horse. As to Albert, he was full of hope and pride; the poor wife
smiled sadly at his dreams for the future; but in order not to dispirit
him at this moment, she shut her grief up in her own heart, and
silencing her fears which she had for him, and, perhaps, also those
which she experienced for herself, she was the first to say to him,
"Think not of me, but of your honor."
The Duc d'Orleans and his corps d'armee entered Catalonia in the first
days of April, and advanced directly, by forced marches, across Arragon.
On arriving at Segorbe, the duke learned that the Marechal de Berwick
held himself in readiness for a decisive battle; and in his eagerness
to arrive in time to take part in the action he sent Albert on at full
speed, charging him to tell the marshal that the Duc d'Orleans was
coming to his aid with ten thousand men, and to pray that if it did not
interfere with his arrangements, he would wait for him before joining
battle.
Albert left, but bewildered in the mountains, and misled by ignorant
guides, he was only a day before the army, and he arrived at the
marshal's camp at the very moment when the engagement was going to
commence. Albert asked where the marshal was; they showed his position,
on the left of the army, on a little hill, from which he overlooked the
whole plain. The Duc de Berwick was there surrounded by his staff;
Albert put his horse to the gallop and made straight toward him.
The messenger introduced himself to the marshal and told him the cause
of his coming. The marshal's only answer was to point to the field of
battle, and tell him to return to the prince, and inform him what he had
seen. But Albert had smelled powder, and was not willing to leave thus.
He asked permission to wait till he could at least give him the news of
a victory. At that moment a charge of dragoons seemed necessary to the
marshal; he told one of his aides-de-camp to carry the order to charge
to the colonel. The young man started at a gallop, but he had scarcely
gone a third of the distance which separated the hill from the position
of the regiment, when his head was carried off by a cannon-ball.
Scarcely had he fallen from his stirrups when Albert, seizing this
occasion to take part in the battle, set spurs to his horse, transmitted
the order to the colonel, and instead of returning to the marshal, drew
his sword, and charged at the head of the regiment.
This charge was one of the most brilliant of the day, and penetrated so
completely to the heart of the imperial guard that they began to give
way. The marshal had involuntarily watched the young officer throughout
the melee, recognizing him by his uniform. He saw him arrive at the
enemy's standard, engage in a personal contest with him who carried it;
then, when the regiment had taken flight, he saw him returning with his
conquest in his arms. On reaching the marshal he threw the colors at his
feet; opening his mouth to speak, instead of words, it was blood that
came to his lips. The marshal saw him totter in his saddle, and advanced
to support him, but before he had time to do so Albert had fallen; a
ball had pierced his breast. The marshal sprung from his horse, but the
brave young man lay dead on the standard he had just taken. The Duc
d'Orleans arrived the day after the battle. He regretted Albert as one
regrets a gallant gentleman; but, after all, he had died the death of
the brave, in the midst of victory, and on the colors he himself had
taken. What more could be desired by a Frenchman, a soldier, and a
gentleman?
The duke wrote with his own hand to the poor widow. If anything could
console a wife for the death of her husband, it would doubtless be such
a letter; but poor Clarice thought but of one thing, that she had no
longer a husband, and that her child had no longer a father. At four
o'clock Buvat came in from the library; they told him that Clarice
wanted him, and he went down directly. The poor woman did not cry, she
did not complain; she stood tearless and speechless, her eyes fixed and
hollow as those of a maniac. When Buvat entered, she did not even turn
her head toward him, but merely holding out her hand, she presented him
the letter. Buvat looked right and left to endeavor to find out what was
the matter, but seeing nothing to direct his conjectures, he looked at
the paper and read aloud:
"MADAME--Your husband has died for France and for me.
Neither France nor I can give you back your husband,
but remember that if ever you are in want of anything,
we are both your debtors.
"Your affectionate,
"PHILIPPE D'ORLEANS."
"What!" cried Buvat, fixing his great eyes on Clarice, "M. du Rocher--it
is not possible!"
"Papa is dead," said little Bathilde, leaving the corner where she was
playing with her doll, and running to her mother; "is it true that papa
is dead?"
"Alas! yes, my dear child!" said Clarice, finding at once words and
tears. "Oh yes, it is true; it is but too true, unhappy that we are!"
"Madame," said Buvat, who had been seeking for some consolation to
offer, "you must not grieve thus; perhaps it is a false report."
"Do you not see that the letter is from the Duc d'Orleans himself?"
cried the poor widow. "Yes, my child, your father is dead. Weep, my
child; perhaps in seeing your tears God will have pity on me;" and
saying these things, the poor widow coughed so painfully that Buvat felt
his own breast torn by it, but his fright was still greater when he saw
that the handkerchief which she drew from her mouth was covered with
blood. Then he understood that a greater misfortune threatened Bathilde
than that which had just befallen her.
The apartments which Clarice occupied were now too large for her. No one
was astonished when she left them for smaller ones on the second floor.
Besides her grief, which annihilated all her other faculties, Clarice
felt, in common with all other noble hearts, a certain unwillingness to
ask, even from her county, a reward for the blood which had been spilled
for it, particularly when that blood is still warm, as was that of
Albert. The poor widow hesitated to present herself to the
minister-at-war to ask for her due. At the end of three months, when she
took courage to make the first steps, the taking of Requena and that of
Saragossa had already thrown into the shade the battle of Almanza.
Clarice showed the prince's letter. The secretary replied that with such
a letter she could not fail in obtaining what she wanted, but that she
must wait for his highness's return. Clarice looked in a glass at her
emaciated face, and smiled sadly.
"Wait!" said she; "yes, it would be better, but God knows if I shall
have the time."
The result of this repulse was, that Clarice left her lodging on the
second floor for two little rooms on the third. The poor widow had no
other fortune than her husband's savings. The little dowry which the
duke had given her had disappeared in the purchase of furniture and her
husband's outfit. As the new lodging which she took was much smaller
than the other, no one was astonished that Clarice sold part of her
furniture.
The return of the Duc d'Orleans was expected in the autumn, and Clarice
counted on this to ameliorate her situation; but, contrary to the usual
custom, the army, instead of taking winter quarters, continued the
campaign, and news arrived that, instead of returning, the duke was
about to lay siege to Lerida. Now, in 1647, the great Conde himself had
failed before Lerida, and the new siege, even supposing that it ever
came to a successful issue, threatened to be of a terrible length.
Clarice risked some new advances. This time they had forgotten even her
husband's name. She had again recourse to the prince's letter, which had
its ordinary effect; but they told her that after the siege of Lerida
the duke could not fail to return, and the poor widow was again obliged
to wait.
She left her two rooms for a little attic opposite that of Buvat, and
she sold the rest of her furniture, only keeping a table, some chairs,
Bathilde's little cot, and a bed for herself.
Buvat had seen, without taking much notice, these frequent removals, but
it was not very difficult to understand his neighbor's situation. Buvat,
who was a careful man, had some savings which he had a great wish to put
at his neighbor's service; but Clarice's pride increased with her
poverty, and poor Buvat had never yet dared to make the offer. Twenty
times he had gone to her with a little rouleau, which contained his
whole fortune of fifty or sixty louis, but every time he left without
having dared to take it out of his pocket; but one day it happened that
Buvat, descending to go to business, having met the landlord who was
making his quarterly round, and guessing that his neighbor might be
embarrassed, even for so small a sum, took the proprietor into his own
room, saying that the day before Madame du Rocher had given him the
money, that he might get both receipts at once. The landlord, who had
feared a delay on the part of his tenant, did not care from whence the
money came, and willingly gave the two receipts.
Buvat, in the naivete of his soul, was tormented by this good action as
by a crime. He was three or four days without daring to present himself
to his neighbor, so that when he returned, he found her quite affected
by what she thought an act of indifference on his part. Buvat found
Clarice so much changed during these few days, that he left her wiping
his eyes, and for the first time he went to bed without having sung,
during the fifteen turns he generally took in his bedroom--
"Then let me go," etc.
which was a proof of melancholy preoccupation.
The last days of winter passed, and brought, in passing, the news that
Lerida had surrendered, and that the young and indefatigable general was
about to besiege Tortosa. This was the last blow for poor Clarice. She
understood that spring was coming, and with it a new campaign, which
would retain the duke with the army. Strength failed her, and she was
obliged to take to her bed.
The position of Clarice was frightful. She did not deceive herself as to
her illness. She felt that it was mortal, and she had no one in the
world to whom she could recommend her child. The poor woman feared
death, not on her own account, but on her daughter's, who would not have
even the stone of her mother's tomb to rest her head on, for the
unfortunate have no tomb. Her husband had only distant relations, from
whom she could not solicit aid; as to her own family, born in France,
where her mother died, she had not even known them; besides, she
understood that if there were any hope from that quarter, there was no
longer the time to seek it. Death was approaching.
One night Buvat, who the evening before had left Clarice devoured by
fever, heard her groaning so deeply, that he jumped from his bed and
dressed himself to go and offer her help; but on arriving at the door,
he did not dare to enter or to knock--Clarice was sobbing and praying
aloud. At this moment Bathilde woke and called her mother. Clarice drove
back her tears, took her child from the cradle, and placing her on her
knees on her own bed, made her repeat what prayers she knew, and between
each of them Buvat heard her cry in a sad voice--
"Oh, my God! listen to my poor child!"
There was in this nocturnal scene--the child scarcely out of the cradle,
and a mother half way to the grave, both addressing the Lord as their
only support in the silence of night--something so deeply sad that good
Buvat fell on his knees, and inwardly swore, what he had not dared to
offer aloud, that though Bathilde might be an orphan, yet she should not
be abandoned. God had heard the double prayers which had ascended to
Him, and He had granted them.
The next day Buvat did what he had never dared to do before. He took
Bathilde in his arms, leaned his good-natured round face against the
charming little face of the child, and said softly--
"Be easy, poor little innocent, there are yet good people on the earth."
The little girl threw her arms round his neck and kissed him. Buvat felt
that the tears stood in his eyes, and as he had often heard that you
must not cry before sick people, for fear of agitating them, he drew out
his watch, and assuming a gruff voice to conceal his emotion--
"Hum, it is a quarter to ten, I must go. Good-day, Madame du Rocher."
On the staircase he met the doctor, and asked him what he thought of the
patient. As he was a doctor who came through charity, and did not
consider himself at all bound to be considerate when he was not paid, he
replied that in three days she would be dead.
Coming back at four o'clock, Buvat found the whole house in commotion.
The doctor had said that they must send for the viaticum. They had sent
for the cure, and he had arrived, and, preceded by the sacristan and his
little bell, he had without any preparation entered the sick room.
Clarice received it with her hands joined, and her eyes turned toward
heaven; but the impression produced on her was not the less terrible.
Buvat heard singing, and thought what must have happened. He went up
directly, and found the landing and the door of the sick room surrounded
by all the gossips of the neighborhood, who had, as was the custom at
that time, followed the holy sacrament. Round the bed where the dying
woman was extended, already so pale and motionless that if it had not
been for the two great tears that ran down her cheeks, she might have
been taken for a marble statue lying on a tomb, the priests were singing
the prayers for the dying, and in a corner of the room the little
Bathilde, whom they had separated from her mother, that she might not
distract her attention during her last act of religion, was seated on
the ground, not daring to cry, frightened at seeing so many people she
did not know, and hearing so much she did not understand.
As soon as she saw Buvat, the child ran to him as the only person she
knew in this grave assembly. Buvat took her in his arms, and knelt with
her near the bed of the dying woman. At this moment Clarice lowered her
eyes from the heavens toward the earth. Without doubt she had been
addressing a prayer to Heaven to send a protector to her daughter. She
saw Bathilde in the arms of the only friend she had in the world. With
the penetrating glance of the dying she read this pure and devoted
heart, and saw what he had not dared to tell her; and as she sat up in
bed she held out her hand to him, uttering a cry of gratitude and joy,
such as the angels only can understand; and, as if she had exhausted her
remaining strength in this maternal outburst, she sank back fainting on
the bed.
The religious ceremony was finished. The priests retired first, then
the pious followed; the indifferent and curious remained till the last.
Among this number were several women. Buvat asked if there was none
among them who knew a good sick-nurse. One of them presented herself
directly, declared, in the midst of a chorus of her companions, that she
had all the necessary virtues for this honorable situation, but that,
just on account of these good qualities, she was accustomed to be paid a
week in advance, as she was much sought after in the neighborhood. Buvat
asked the price of this week. She replied that to any other it would be
sixteen livres, but as the poor lady did not seem rich, she would be
contented with twelve. Buvat, who had just received his month's pay,
took two crowns from his pocket and gave them to her without bargaining.
He would have given double if she had asked it.
Clarice was still fainting. The nurse entered on her duty by giving her
some vinegar instead of salts. Buvat retired. As to Bathilde, she had
been told that her mother was asleep. The poor child did not know the
difference between sleep and death, and returned to her corner to play
with her doll.
At the end of an hour Buvat returned to ask news of Clarice. She had
recovered from her fainting, but though her eyes were open she did not
speak. However, she recognized him, for as soon as he entered she joined
her hands as if to pray, and then she appeared to seek for something
under her bolster. The nurse shook her head, and approaching the
patient:
"Your pillow is very well," said she, "you must not disarrange it." Then
turning to Buvat, "Ah! these sick people!" added she, shrugging her
shoulders, "they are always fancying that there is something making them
uncomfortable: it is death, only they do not know it."
Clarice sighed deeply, but remained motionless. The nurse approached
her, and passed over her lips the feather of a quill dipped in a cordial
of her own invention, which she had just been to fetch at the
chemist's. Buvat could not support this spectacle; he recommended the
mother and child to the care of the nurse, and left.
The next day Clarice was still worse, for though her eyes were open, she
did not seem to recognize any one but her daughter, who was lying near
her on the bed, and whose little hand she held. On her part the child,
as if she felt that this was the last maternal embrace, remained quiet
and silent. On seeing her kind friend she only said, "Mamma sleeps."
It appeared to Buvat that Clarice moved as if she heard and recognized
her child's voice, but it might have been only a nervous trembling. He
asked the nurse if the sick woman had wanted anything. She shook her
head, saying, "What would be the use? It would be money thrown away.
These apothecaries make quite enough already." Buvat would have liked to
stay with Clarice, for he saw that she had not long to live, but he
never would have thought of absenting himself for a day from business
unless he were dying himself. He arrived there, then, as usual, but so
sad and melancholy that the king did not gain much by his presence. They
remarked with astonishment that that day Buvat did not wait till four
o'clock had struck to take off the false blue sleeves which he wore to
protect his coat; but that at the first stroke of the clock he got up,
took his hat, and went out. The supernumerary, who had already asked for
his place, watched him as he went, then, when he had closed the door,
"Well!" said he, loud enough to be heard by the chief, "there is one who
takes it easy."
Buvat's presentiments were confirmed. On arriving at the house he asked
the porter's wife how Clarice was.
"Ah, God be thanked!" replied she; "the poor woman is happy; she suffers
no more."
"She is dead!" cried Buvat, with that shudder always produced by this
terrible word.
"About three-quarters of an hour ago," replied she; and she went on
darning her stocking, and singing a merry song which she had
interrupted to reply to Buvat.
Buvat ascended the steps of the staircase one by one, stopping
frequently to wipe his forehead; then, on arriving on the landing, where
was his room and that of Clarice, he was obliged to lean his head
against the wall, for he felt his legs fail him. He stood silent and
hesitating, when he thought he heard Bathilde's voice crying. He
remembered the poor child, and this gave him courage. At the door,
however, he stopped again; then he heard the groans of the little girl
more distinctly.
"Mamma!" cried the child, in a little voice broken by sobs, "will you
not wake? Mamma, why are you so cold?" Then, running to the door and
striking with her hand, "Come, my kind friend, come," said she; "I am
alone, and I am afraid."
Buvat was astonished that they had not removed the child from her
mother's room; and the profound pity which the poor little creature
inspired made him forget the painful feeling which had stopped him for a
moment. He then raised his hand to open the door. The door was locked.
At this moment he heard the porter's wife calling him. He ran to the
stairs and asked her where the key was.
"Ah!" replied she, "how stupid I am; I forgot to give it you as you
passed."
Buvat ran down as quickly as he could.
"And why is the key here?" he asked.
"The landlord placed it here after he had taken away the furniture,"
answered she.
"What! taken away the furniture?" cried Buvat.
"Of course, he has taken away the furniture. Your neighbor was not rich,
M. Buvat, and no doubt she owes money on all sides. Ah! the landlord
will not stand tricks; the rent first. That is but fair. Besides, she
does not want furniture any more, poor dear!"
"But the nurse, where is she?"
"When she saw that her patient was dead, she went away. Her business was
finished, but she will come back to shroud her for a crown, if you like.
It is generally the portress who does this: but I cannot; I am too
sensitive."
Buvat understood, shuddering at all that had passed. He went up quickly.
His hand shook so that he could scarcely find the lock; but at length
the key turned, and the door opened. Clarice was extended on the ground
on the mattress out of her bed, in the middle of the dismantled room. An
old sheet was thrown over her, and ought to have hidden her entirely,
but little Bathilde had moved it to seek for her mother's face, which
she was kissing when he entered.
"Ah, my friend," cried she, "wake my mamma, who sleeps still. Wake her,
I beg!" And the child ran to Buvat, who was watching from the door this
pitiable spectacle. Buvat took Bathilde back to the corpse.
"Kiss your mother for the last time, my poor child," said he.
The child obeyed.
"And now," said he, "let her sleep. One day God will wake her;" and he
took the child in his arms and carried her away. The child made no
resistance. She seemed to understand her weakness and her isolation.
He put her in his own bed, for they had carried away even the child's
cot; and when she was asleep, he went out to give information of the
death to the commissary of the quarter, and to make arrangements for the
funeral.
When he returned, the portress gave him a paper, which the nurse had
found in Clarice's hand. Buvat opened and recognized the letter from the
Duc d'Orleans. This was the sole inheritance which the poor mother had
left to her daughter.