We should be seriously grieved if the expression _sage_ of which we made
use at the end of the preceding chapter should lead the too credulous
reader into a dangerous error.
The tendency of this edifying history is to prove, on the contrary, in
the most simple and incontrovertible manner, that however man may subdue
his passions and limit his enjoyments to the rigorous circle traced by
fortune, it is sufficient that these passions exist, and that he is
their slave, to disturb the most philosophical mind, and to excite
tempests that are the more violent because concentrated in a narrow
space. Of what import are the dimensions of the scene? A perturbation in
a glass of water is a tempest full of horror to the fly who ventures to
brave its dangers. Well, the worthy Major Anspach was this imprudent
insect.
One fine day in April, when the air was soft and balmy, the descendant
by the female line of the last Dukes of Lorraine, having brushed with
the greatest care his long brown overcoat and his black plush
pantaloons, sought, at his usual stately pace, his favorite
resting-place, and its perfumes. The frequenters of “Provence in
Miniature,” as that end of the garden is called. Children, nurses, young
men and girls, were so well acquainted with the “man of the bench,” that
no one was permitted to usurp the seat which so long possession had
consecrated to his use; what, then, was the painful surprise of the
major on approaching his domain to find it occupied!
His first impulse was to take the affair in the simplest form of view,
to go up and explain to the audacious invader of his privileges by what
a continuous occupation he, Major Anspach, Baron of Phalsbourg,
descended in the female line from the last Dukes of Lorraine, had
acquired the exclusive right to sit in that angle of the wall, between
the jasmine and the flowering roses.
But the necessity he would be under of divulging his birth was repugnant
to his pride; and as the individual occupying the bench—_his_
bench—was an old man like himself; long like himself, thin and unhappy
like himself, and who appeared, like himself, not to enjoy many of the
luxuries of life, and whose face, like his own, bore traces of long
suffering, and painful struggles with adversity; our worthy major
contented himself by throwing upon the unknown the glance of an old
lion—who on returning to his den and finding it occupied by another old
lion dying, passes on—so our major. “It assuredly is only a temporary
occupant,” said he mentally—“a walk to the end of the avenue and he
will have departed.”
But he deceived himself—he wandered from walk to walk, from avenue to
avenue, passing and repassing his “Paradise Lost,” shooting fiery
glances from his eyes upon the indiscreet possessor of the coveted seat;
but this last, took no notice of the menacing looks of our unhappy and
irritated old friend, and continued peacefully to sun himself whilst
gazing with melancholy eye upon the joyous circle of young girls who
danced up almost to his feet.
The sun neared the horizon—the shadows began to lengthen—and, at last,
twilight overspread the landscape; then the unknown arose, and making a
turn or two to relieve his limbs, slowly disappeared by the Rue St.
Honoré.
M. Anspach returned home in feverish exasperation.
On the following morning the sun again shone out beautifully, and our
friend the major proceeded to finish elaborately his toilet. He had
grown calm, and reason suggested that yesterday’s intruder could have no
motive, for two days in succession, to make him miserable; nevertheless
the old gentleman was unhappy—for at his age a day lost is something!
On arriving at the Tuileries, the first object to which he directed his
longing eyes was his bench, and there again was seated his perverse old
substitute. The major was astounded! He made a move as if to go and tear
the invader from a place of happiness of which he was so unjustly
deprived; but old age controls impulse, and the major felt that he could
not depart from those rules of politeness which belonged to his rank and
former position in society. It was a flagrant imposition it was true:
there was even a kind of impertinence in the conduct of the intruder,
who must have observed how much the major was chagrined by his adverse
possession the day before.
All this was plausible, but it would not justify a quarrel: and,
whatever the right of the major to the estate shaded with roses and
jasmine, its assertion at first view offered something so absurd, and
even ridiculous, that it hardly consorted with the dignity of the
descendant by the female side of the last Dukes of Lorraine.
These reflections, which presented themselves confusedly to the mind of
the major, as he wended his tedious way among the walks, did not however
calm his irritation. He wandered without object among the cross-alleys
of the garden, running against passengers, and even the trees and
benches, and chairs, like a dismasted ship at the mercy of winds and
waves.
It was really painful to see that long overcoat trotting about, going,
turning, and returning, its owner given up to a thousand diverse
emotions, in which were intermixed chagrin, unhappiness and regret.
As often as this changeful temper brought the old man opposite to his
lost Eden—that is to say, the bench and bower of roses where
imperturbably sat his rival, the major raised his eyes upward and heaved
so lamentable a sigh that the passers by, not knowing the cause, were
struck with wonder.
The next day Major Anspach returned, timid, nervous, breathless, and
filled with inquietude—there again was the _executioner of his
happiness_!
Once again in the morning M. Anspach dragged himself to the spot,
without strength and without hope—he could scarcely raise his longing
eyes from afar toward his terrestrial paradise, where, as usual, sat his
tormentor, like the implacable angel of destruction; that impassive
face, that form, as long, as thin, as venerable as the major’s own, but
infinitely more enduring in its cruelty—than the patience of its
victim!
This excitement could not last without seriously affecting the major’s
health; he took to his bed; a burning fever raged in his blood; weeks of
unconsciousness passed by, and a long convalescence only permitted him
to walk slowly along the Boulevard, with cane, and umbrella to shade him
from the influence of the raging Dog Star; he sighed deeply and
constantly. When his thoughts rested upon his past happiness, the wounds
opened afresh, and he would stand for a long time plunged in melancholy
reverie, interrupted only by nervous tremblings and audible groans.
When, at last, he was entirely able to resume his walks, instead of
revisiting the Tuileries, he studiously avoided them, and turning his
course by the Rue du Bac, passed on to the Luxembourg; he wished to
cheat his heart. But the effort was unsuccessful notwithstanding his
heroism—the habits of old age are tenacious because they are egotistic.
The Luxembourg presented no object that he loved, neither the people he
was accustomed to see, nor the palace of his kings, which at times he
had worshiped with stolen glances; neither the kindly memories of the
past, suggested by the sight of objects on the other side of the river.
At the end of some days, the major felt that he would infallibly return
to his bed if he continued to quarrel with his inclinations; but in the
apprehension of again meeting his adversary—whom he had come to regard
with a mixture of hatred and fear—he conceived a most extravagant
project. It is necessary, in order to admit for a moment that such an
idea could enter the mind of one with head as gray as that of the major,
to reflect that the infatuation of the old man, instead of relaxing
during the paroxysms of fever, and passing away with its weakness, only
became concentrated and fixed as an incurable mania.
Whatever it was, he resolved to put it in execution the very day of its
conception, if necessity forced him.