In the court, which was enlivened by a parterre of roses, Jean,
carrying a letter in his hand, was trying to find his bearings
according to the directions given him in a low voice, as if it
were a secret, by the lay-brother who acted as doorkeeper. He
was wandering uncertainly from door to door along the walls of
the old silent buildings when a little boy noticed his plight
and accosted him:
"Do you want to see the Director? He is in his study with mamma.
Go and wait in the parlour."
This was a large hall with bare walls, a noble enough apartment
in its unadorned simplicity, in spite of the mean horsehair chairs
that stood round it. Above the fire-place, instead of a mirror,
was a _Mater dolorosa_ that caught the eye by its dazzling
whiteness. Big marble tears stood arrested in mid-career down
the cheeks, while the features expressed the pious absorption
of the Divine Mother's grief. Jean Servien read the inscription
cut in red letters on the pedestal, which ran thus:
PRESENTED TO THE REVEREND ABBE BORDIER,
IN MEMORY OF
PHILIPPE-GUY DE THIERERCHE,
WHO DIED AT PAU,
NOVEMBER 11, 1867, IN THE SEVENTEENTH
YEAR OF HIS AGE,
BY THE COUNTESS VALENTINE DE THIERERCHE,
NÉE DE BRUILLE DE SAINT-AMAND.
_LAUDATE PUERI DOMINUM_
Then he forgot his anxieties, forgot he was there to beg for
employment, shook off the instinctive dread that had seized him
on the threshold of the great silent house. He forgot his fears
and hopes--hopes of being promoted usher! He was absorbed by
this cruel domestic drama revealed to him in the inscription.
A scion of one of the greatest families of France, a pupil of
the Abbé Bordier, attacked by phthisis in the midst of his now
profitless studies and leaving school, not to enjoy life and
taste the glorious pleasures only those contemn who have drained
them to the dregs, but to die at a southern town in the arms of
his mother whose overwhelming, but still self-conscious grief
was symbolized by this pompous memorial of her sorrow. He could
feel, he could see it all. The three Latin words that represent
the stricken mother saying: "Children, praise ye the Lord who
hath taken away my child," astonished him by their austere piety,
while at the same time he admired the aristocratic bearing that
was preserved even in the presence of death.
He was still lost in these day-dreams when an old priest beckoned
him to walk into an inner room. The worthy man took the letter
of recommendation which Jean handed him, set on his big nose a
pair of spectacles with round glasses for all the world like
the two wheels of a miniature silver chariot, and proceeded to
read the letter, holding it out at the full stretch of his arm.
The windows giving on the garden stood open, and a tendril of
wild vine hung down on to the desk at the foot of a crucifix of
old ivory, while a light breeze set the papers on it fluttering
like white wings.
The Abbé Bordier, his reading concluded, turned to the young man,
showing a deeply lined countenance and a forehead beautifully
polished by age. He took off his spectacles and rubbed his eyes.
Then the worn eyelids lifted slowly and discovered a pair of grey
eyes of a shade that somehow reminded you of an autumn morning.
He lay back in his armchair, his legs stretched out in front of
him, displaying his silver-buckled shoes and black stockings.
"It seems then, my dear boy," he began, "you wish, so my venerable
friend the Abbé Marguerite informs me, to devote yourself to
teaching; and your idea would be to prepare for your degree while
at the same time performing the duties of an assistant master
to supervise the boys at their work. It is a humble office; but
it will depend entirely on yourself, my dear young friend, to
dignify it by a heartfelt zeal and a determination to succeed.
I shall entrust the studies of the _Remove_ to your care. Our
bursar will inform you of the conditions attaching to the post."
Jean bowed and made to leave the room; but suddenly the Abbé Bordier
beckoned him to stop and asked abruptly:
"You understand the rules of verse?"
"Latin verse?" queried Jean.
"No, no! French verse. Now, would you rhyme _trône_ with _couronne_?
The rhyme is not, it must be allowed, quite satisfactory to the
ear, yet the usage of the great writers authorizes it."
So saying, the old fellow laid hold of a bulky manuscript book.
"Listen," he cried, "listen. It is St. Fabricius addressing the
Proconsul Flavius:
_Achève, fais dresser l'appareil souhaité
De ma mort, ou plutôt de ma félicité.
Le Roi des Rois, du haut de son céleste trône,
Déjà me tend la palme et tresse ma couronne._
"Do you think it would be better if he said:
_Achève, fais dresser l'appareil souhaité
De ma mort, ou plutôt de ma félicité.
Je vois le Roi des Rois me tendre la couronne,
Quel n'en est le prix quand c'est Dieu qui la donne!_
"Doubtless these latter lines are more correct than the others,
but they are less vigorous, and a poet should never sacrifice
meaning to metre.
_Le Roi des Rois, du haut de son céleste trône,
Déjà me tend la palme et tresse ma couronne."_
This time, as he declaimed the verses, he went through the
corresponding gestures of tendering a gift and plaiting a garland.
"It is better so," he added, "better so!"
Jean, in some surprise, said yes, it was certainly better.
"Certainly better, yes," cried the old poet, smiling with the
happy innocence of a little child.
Then he confided in Jean that it was a very difficult thing indeed
to write poetry. You must get the cæsura in the right place,
bring in the rhyme naturally, make your rhythm run in divers
cadences, now strong, now sweet, sometimes onomatopoetic, use
only words either elevated in themselves or dignified by the
circumstances.
He read one passage of his Tragedy because he had his doubts
about the number of feet in the line, another because he thought
it contained some bold strokes happily conceived, then a third
to elucidate the two first, eventually the whole five acts from
start to finish. He acted the words as he read, modulating his
voice to suit the various characters, stamping and storming,
and to adjust his black skullcap--it _would_ tumble off at the
pathetic parts--dealing himself a succession of sounding slaps
on the crown of his head.
This sacred drama, in which no woman appeared, was to be played
by the pupils of the Institution at a forthcoming function. The
previous year he had staged his first tragedy, _le Baptême
de Clovis_, in the same approved style. A regular, Monsieur
Schuver, had arranged garlands of paper roses to represent the
battlefield of Tolbiac and the basilica at Rheims. To give a
wild, barbaric look to the boys who represented Clovis' henchmen,
the sister superintendent of the wardrobe had tacked up their
white trousers to the knee. But the Abbé Bordier hoped greater
things still for his new piece.
Jean applauded and improved upon these ambitious projects. His
suggestions for scenery and costumes were admirable. He would
have the ruthless Flavius seated on a curule chair of ivory,
draped with purple, erected before a portico painted on the back
cloth. The costumes of the Roman soldiers, he insisted, must
be copied from those on Trajan's Column.
His words opened superb vistas before the old priest's eyes;
he was enchanted, ravished, yet full of doubts and fears. Alas!
Monsieur Schuver was quite helpless if it came to designing anything
more ambitious than his paper roses. Then Jean must needs take
a look round in the shed where the properties were stored, and
the two discussed together how the stage must be set and the
side-scenes worked. Jean took measurements, drew up a plan, worked
out an estimate. He manifested a passionate eagerness that was
surprising, albeit the old priest took it all as a matter of
course. A batten would come here, a practicable door there. The
actor would enter there...
But the worthy priest checked him:
"Say the reciter, my dear boy; _actor_ is not a word for
self-respecting people."
Barring this trifling misunderstanding, they were in perfect
accord. The sun was setting by this time and the Abbé Bordier's
shadow, grotesquely elongated, danced up and down the sandy floor
of the shed, while the old, broken voice declaimed tags of verse
that echoed to the furthest recesses of the court. But Jean Servien
was smiling at the vision only _his_ eyes could see of Gabrielle,
the inspirer of all his enthusiasm.