CHAPTER XV.
JEAN BUVAT.
Our readers must now make a better acquaintance with one of theprincipal 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 makingfor the Barriere des Sergents at the moment when the street-singer beganhis collection, and who, it will be remembered, we have since seen at soinopportune a moment in the Rue des Bons-Enfants.
Heaven preserve us from questioning the intelligence of our readers, soas to doubt for a moment that they had recognized in the poor devil towhom the Chevalier d'Harmental had rendered such timely assistance thegood 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, andsocially. If the reader has not forgotten the little we have alreadytold him, it will be remembered that he was from forty to forty-fiveyears of age. Now as every one knows, after forty years of age thebourgeois of Paris entirely forgets the care of his person, with whichhe is not generally much occupied, a negligence from which his corporealgraces suffer considerably, particularly when, as in the presentinstance, 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 thoseplacid faces where all--hair, eyebrows, eyes, and skin--seem of the samecolor; in fact, one of those faces of which, at ten paces, one does notdistinguish a feature. The most enthusiastic physiognomist, if he hadsought to read on this countenance some high and curious destiny, wouldhave been stopped in his examination as he mounted from his great blueeyes to his depressed forehead, or descended from his half-open mouthto the fold of his double chin. There he would have understood that hehad under his eyes one of those heads to which all fermentation isunknown, whose freshness is respected by the passions, good or bad, andwho turn nothing in the empty corners of their brain but the burden ofsome old nursery song. Let us add that Providence, who does nothing byhalves, had signed the original, of which we have just offered a copy toour readers, by the characteristic name of Jean Buvat.
It is true that the persons who ought to have appreciated the profoundnullity 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 repugnancefor all other kinds of study, manifested a particular inclination forcaligraphy: thus he arrived every morning at the College des Oratoriens,where his mother sent him gratis, with his exercises and translationsfull of faults, but written with a neatness, a regularity, and a beautywhich it was charming to see. The little Buvat was whipped every day forthe idleness of his mind, and received the writing prize every year forthe skill of his hand. At fifteen years of age he passed from theEpitome Sacrae, which he had recommenced five times, to the EpitomeGraecae; 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 heappeared, young Buvat was not wanting in a certain pride. He came homein the evening crying to his mother, and complaining of the injusticewhich had been done him, declaring, in his grief, a thing which tillthen he had been careful not to confess, namely, that there were in theschool children of ten years old more advanced than he was.
Widow Buvat, who saw her son start every morning with his exercisesperfectly neat (which led her to believe that there could be no fault tobe found with them), went the next day to abuse the good fathers. Theyreplied that her son was a good boy, incapable of an evil thoughttoward God, or a bad action toward his neighbor; but that, at the sametime, he was so awfully stupid that they advised her to develop, bymaking him a writing-master, the only talent with which nature hadblessed him. This counsel was a ray of light for Madame Buvat; sheunderstood that, in this manner, the benefit she should derive from herson would be immediate. She came back to her house, and communicated toher son the new plans she had formed for him. Young Buvat saw in thisonly a means of escaping the castigation which he received everymorning, for which the prize, bound in calf, that he received every yearwas not a compensation.
He received the propositions of his mother with great joy; promised herthat, before six months were over, he would be the first writing-masterin 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 thetrue vocation of young Buvat. Caligraphy was with him an art whichalmost became drawing. At the end of six months, like the ape in theArabian 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 thathe thought he might now give out his prospectus. He worked at it forthree months, day and night; and almost lost his sight over it. At theend of that time he had accomplished a chef-d'oeuvre.
It was not a simple writing, but a real picture representing thecreation of the world, and divided almost like the Transfiguration ofRaphael. In the upper part, consecrated to Eden, was the Eternal Fatherdrawing Eve from the side of the sleeping Adam, and surrounded by thoseanimals which the nobility of their nature brings near to man, such asthe lion, the horse, and the dog. At the bottom was the sea, in thedepths of which were to be seen swimming the most fantastic fishes, andon the surface a superb three-decked vessel. On the two sides, treesfull of birds put the heavens, which they touched with their topmostbranches, in communication with the earth, which they grasped with theirroots; and in the space left in the middle of all this, in the mostperfectly horizontal line, and reproduced in six different writings, wasthe adverb "pitilessly." This time the artist was not deceived; thepicture produced the effect which he expected. A week afterward youngBuvat had five male and two female scholars. His reputation increased;and Madame Buvat, after some time passed in greater ease than she hadknown even in her husband's lifetime, had the satisfaction of dyingperfectly secure about her son's future.
As to him, after having sufficiently mourned his mother, he pursued thecourse of his life, one day exactly like the other. He arrived thus atthe age of twenty-six or twenty-seven, having passed the stormy part ofexistence 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 asublime action, which he did instinctively and simply, as he dideverything; but perhaps a man of mind might have passed it over withoutseeing it, or turned away from it if he had seen it. There was in thehouse No. 6, in the Rue des Orties, of which Buvat occupied the attic, ayoung couple who were the admiration of the whole quarter for theharmony in which they lived. They appeared made for each other. Thehusband was a man of from thirty-four to thirty-five years of age, of asouthern origin, with black eyes, beard and hair, sunburned complexion,and teeth like pearls. He was called Albert du Rocher, and was the sonof an ancient Cevenol chief, who had been forced to turn Catholic, withall his family, at the persecutions of Monsieur Baville; and half fromopposition, half because youth seeks youth, he had entered the householdof 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 theplace 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. deLuxembourg had recalled all those officers who shared their life betweenwar and pleasure. The Duc de Chartres, always eager to draw a swordwhich 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 withall his military household. The great day of Nerwinden arrived. The Ducde Chartres had, as usual, the command of the guards; as usual hecharged at their head, but so furiously that five times he found himselfalmost alone in the midst of the enemy. At the fifth time he had nearhim only a young man whom he s
carcely knew; but in the rapid glancewhich he cast on him he recognized one of those spirits on whom one mayrely, and instead of yielding, as a brigadier of the enemy's army, whohad recognized him, proposed to him, he blew the proposer's brains outwith his pistol. At the same instant two shots were fired, one of whichtook off the prince's hat, and the other turned from the handle of hissword. Scarcely had these two shots been fired when those who haddischarged them fell simultaneously, thrown down by the prince'scompanion--one by a saber-stroke, the other by a bullet. A generalattack took place on these two men, who were miraculously saved from anyball. The prince's horse, however, fell under him. The young man who waswith him jumped from his, and offered it to him.
The prince hesitated to accept this service, which might cost him whorendered it so dear; but the young man, who was tall and powerful,thinking that this was not a moment to exchange politenesses, took theprince 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 himwith a detachment of light horse, came up, just as, in spite of theircourage, the prince and his companion were about to be killed or taken.Both were without wound, although the prince had received four bulletsin 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 hadbeen 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 hehad 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 beingkilled."
At the end of the campaign, the Duc de Chartres named Du Rocher hisfirst equerry, and three years afterward, having retained the gratefulaffection which he had vowed to him, he married him to a young personwhom he loved, and gave her a dowry.
As M. le Duc de Chartres was still but a young man, this dowry was notlarge, but he promised to take charge of the advancement of hisprotegee. This young person was of English origin; her mother hadaccompanied Madame Henriette when she came to France to marry Monsieur;and after that princess had been poisoned by the Chevalier d'Effiat, shehad passed, as lady-in-waiting, into the service of the Grand Dauphine;but, in 1690, the Grand Dauphine died, and the Englishwoman, in herinsular pride, refused to stay with Mademoiselle Choin, and retired to alittle country house which she hired near St. Cloud, where she gaveherself up entirely to the education of her little Clarice. It was inthe journeys of the Duc de Chartres to St. Cloud that Du Rocher madeacquaintance with this young girl, whom, as we have said, he married in1697. It was, then, these young people who occupied the first floor ofthe house of which Buvat had the attic. The young couple had first ason, whose caligraphic education was confided to Buvat from the age offour years. The young pupil was making the most satisfactory progresswhen he was carried off by the measles. The despair of the parents wasgreat; Buvat shared it, the more sincerely that his pupil had shown suchaptitude. This sympathy for their grief, on the part of a stranger,attached them to him; and one day, when the young man was complaining ofthe precarious future of artists, Albert du Rocher proposed to him touse 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 ayear. From this day, Buvat, in the pride natural to his new position,neglected his scholars, and gave himself up entirely to the preparationof forms. Nine hundred livres, secured to the end of his life, was quitea fortune, and the worthy writer, thanks to the royal munificence, beganto lead a life of ease and comfort, promising his good neighbors that ifthey had a second child no one but himself should teach him to write. Ontheir parts, the poor parents wished much to give this increase ofoccupation to the worthy writer. God heard their desire. Toward thetermination of 1702, Clarice was delivered of a daughter.
Great was the joy through the whole house. Buvat did not feel at all athis 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 letme go, and let me play," etc. That day, for the first time since he hadbeen appointed, that is to say, during two years, he arrived at hisoffice at a quarter past ten, instead of ten o'clock exactly. Asupernumerary, who thought that he must be dead, had asked for hisplace.
The little Bathilde was not a week old before Buvat wished to beginteaching her her strokes and pot-hooks, saying, that to learn a thingwell, it is necessary to commence young. It was with the greatestdifficulty that he was made to understand that he must wait till she wastwo or three years old. He resigned himself; but, in expectation ofthat time, he set about preparing copies. At the end of three yearsClarice kept her word, and Buvat had the satisfaction of solemnlyputting her first pen into the hands of Bathilde.
HE THEN RETURNED TO HIS WORK WITH ALL THE EAGERNESS OF ANARTIST.--Page 325.]
It was the beginning of the year 1707, and the Duc de Chartres hadbecome Duc d'Orleans, by the death of Monsieur, and had at last obtaineda command in Spain, where he was to conduct the troops to the Marechalde Berwick. Orders were directly given to all his military household tohold themselves in readiness for the 5th of March. As first equerry, itwas necessary that Albert should accompany the prince. This news, whichwould have formerly given him the highest joy, made him now almost sad,for the health of Clarice began to fill him with the greatestuneasiness; and the doctor had allowed the word consumption to escapehim. Whether Clarice felt herself seriously attacked, or whether, morenatural still, she feared only for her husband, her burst of grief wasso wild that Albert himself could not help crying with her, and littleBathilde and Buvat cried because they saw the others cry.
The 5th of March arrived; it was the day fixed for the departure. Inspite of her grief, Clarice had busied herself with her husband'soutfit, and had wished that it was worthy of the prince whom heaccompanied. Moreover, in the midst of her tears a ray of proud joy litup her face when she saw Albert in his elegant uniform, and on his noblewar-horse. As to Albert, he was full of hope and pride; the poor wifesmiled sadly at his dreams for the future; but in order not to dispirithim at this moment, she shut her grief up in her own heart, andsilencing her fears which she had for him, and, perhaps, also thosewhich 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 firstdays of April, and advanced directly, by forced marches, across Arragon.On arriving at Segorbe, the duke learned that the Marechal de Berwickheld himself in readiness for a decisive battle; and in his eagernessto arrive in time to take part in the action he sent Albert on at fullspeed, charging him to tell the marshal that the Duc d'Orleans wascoming to his aid with ten thousand men, and to pray that if it did notinterfere with his arrangements, he would wait for him before joiningbattle.
Albert left, but bewildered in the mountains, and misled by ignorantguides, he was only a day before the army, and he arrived at themarshal's camp at the very moment when the engagement was going tocommence. Albert asked where the marshal was; they showed his position,on the left of the army, on a little hill, from which he overlooked thewhole 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 causeof his coming. The marshal's only answer was to point to the field ofbattle, and tell him to return to the prince, and inform him what he hadseen. 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 ofa victory. At that moment a charge of dragoons seemed necessary to themarshal; he told one of his aides-de-camp to carry the order to chargeto the colonel. The young man started at a gallop, but he had sc
arcelygone a third of the distance which separated the hill from the positionof the regiment, when his head was carried off by a cannon-ball.Scarcely had he fallen from his stirrups when Albert, seizing thisoccasion to take part in the battle, set spurs to his horse, transmittedthe order to the colonel, and instead of returning to the marshal, drewhis sword, and charged at the head of the regiment.
This charge was one of the most brilliant of the day, and penetrated socompletely to the heart of the imperial guard that they began to giveway. The marshal had involuntarily watched the young officer throughoutthe melee, recognizing him by his uniform. He saw him arrive at theenemy's standard, engage in a personal contest with him who carried it;then, when the regiment had taken flight, he saw him returning with hisconquest in his arms. On reaching the marshal he threw the colors at hisfeet; opening his mouth to speak, instead of words, it was blood thatcame to his lips. The marshal saw him totter in his saddle, and advancedto support him, but before he had time to do so Albert had fallen; aball had pierced his breast. The marshal sprung from his horse, but thebrave young man lay dead on the standard he had just taken. The Ducd'Orleans arrived the day after the battle. He regretted Albert as oneregrets a gallant gentleman; but, after all, he had died the death ofthe brave, in the midst of victory, and on the colors he himself hadtaken. What more could be desired by a Frenchman, a soldier, and agentleman?
The duke wrote with his own hand to the poor widow. If anything couldconsole a wife for the death of her husband, it would doubtless be sucha letter; but poor Clarice thought but of one thing, that she had nolonger a husband, and that her child had no longer a father. At fouro'clock Buvat came in from the library; they told him that Claricewanted him, and he went down directly. The poor woman did not cry, shedid not complain; she stood tearless and speechless, her eyes fixed andhollow as those of a maniac. When Buvat entered, she did not even turnher head toward him, but merely holding out her hand, she presented himthe letter. Buvat looked right and left to endeavor to find out what wasthe matter, but seeing nothing to direct his conjectures, he looked atthe 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--itis not possible!"
"Papa is dead," said little Bathilde, leaving the corner where she wasplaying with her doll, and running to her mother; "is it true that papais dead?"
"Alas! yes, my dear child!" said Clarice, finding at once words andtears. "Oh yes, it is true; it is but too true, unhappy that we are!"
"Madame," said Buvat, who had been seeking for some consolation tooffer, "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, mychild; perhaps in seeing your tears God will have pity on me;" andsaying these things, the poor widow coughed so painfully that Buvat felthis own breast torn by it, but his fright was still greater when he sawthat the handkerchief which she drew from her mouth was covered withblood. Then he understood that a greater misfortune threatened Bathildethan that which had just befallen her.
The apartments which Clarice occupied were now too large for her. No onewas astonished when she left them for smaller ones on the second floor.Besides her grief, which annihilated all her other faculties, Claricefelt, in common with all other noble hearts, a certain unwillingness toask, even from her county, a reward for the blood which had been spilledfor it, particularly when that blood is still warm, as was that ofAlbert. The poor widow hesitated to present herself to theminister-at-war to ask for her due. At the end of three months, when shetook courage to make the first steps, the taking of Requena and that ofSaragossa had already thrown into the shade the battle of Almanza.Clarice showed the prince's letter. The secretary replied that with sucha letter she could not fail in obtaining what she wanted, but that shemust wait for his highness's return. Clarice looked in a glass at heremaciated face, and smiled sadly.
"Wait!" said she; "yes, it would be better, but God knows if I shallhave the time."
The result of this repulse was, that Clarice left her lodging on thesecond floor for two little rooms on the third. The poor widow had noother fortune than her husband's savings. The little dowry which theduke had given her had disappeared in the purchase of furniture and herhusband's outfit. As the new lodging which she took was much smallerthan the other, no one was astonished that Clarice sold part of herfurniture.
The return of the Duc d'Orleans was expected in the autumn, and Claricecounted on this to ameliorate her situation; but, contrary to the usualcustom, the army, instead of taking winter quarters, continued thecampaign, and news arrived that, instead of returning, the duke wasabout to lay siege to Lerida. Now, in 1647, the great Conde himself hadfailed before Lerida, and the new siege, even supposing that it evercame to a successful issue, threatened to be of a terrible length.
Clarice risked some new advances. This time they had forgotten even herhusband's name. She had again recourse to the prince's letter, which hadits ordinary effect; but they told her that after the siege of Leridathe duke could not fail to return, and the poor widow was again obligedto wait.
She left her two rooms for a little attic opposite that of Buvat, andshe 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, butit 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 putat his neighbor's service; but Clarice's pride increased with herpoverty, and poor Buvat had never yet dared to make the offer. Twentytimes he had gone to her with a little rouleau, which contained hiswhole fortune of fifty or sixty louis, but every time he left withouthaving dared to take it out of his pocket; but one day it happened thatBuvat, descending to go to business, having met the landlord who wasmaking his quarterly round, and guessing that his neighbor might beembarrassed, even for so small a sum, took the proprietor into his ownroom, saying that the day before Madame du Rocher had given him themoney, that he might get both receipts at once. The landlord, who hadfeared a delay on the part of his tenant, did not care from whence themoney came, and willingly gave the two receipts.
Buvat, in the naivete of his soul, was tormented by this good action asby a crime. He was three or four days without daring to present himselfto his neighbor, so that when he returned, he found her quite affectedby what she thought an act of indifference on his part. Buvat foundClarice so much changed during these few days, that he left her wipinghis 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 thatLerida had surrendered, and that the young and indefatigable general wasabout to besiege Tortosa. This was the last blow for poor Clarice. Sheunderstood that spring was coming, and with it a new campaign, whichwould retain the duke with the army. Strength failed her, and she wasobliged to take to her bed.
The position of Clarice was frightful. She did not deceive herself as toher illness. She felt that it was mortal, and she had no one in theworld to whom she could recommend her child. The poor woman feareddeath, not on her own account, but on her daughter's, who would not haveeven the stone of her mother's tomb to rest her head on, for theunfortunate have no tomb. Her husband had only distant relations, fromwhom she could not solicit aid; as to her own family, born in France,where her mother died, she had not even known them; besides, sheunderstood that if there were any hope from that quarter, there was nolonger the time to see
k it. Death was approaching.
One night Buvat, who the evening before had left Clarice devoured byfever, heard her groaning so deeply, that he jumped from his bed anddressed 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 prayingaloud. At this moment Bathilde woke and called her mother. Clarice droveback her tears, took her child from the cradle, and placing her on herknees on her own bed, made her repeat what prayers she knew, and betweeneach 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 theironly support in the silence of night--something so deeply sad that goodBuvat fell on his knees, and inwardly swore, what he had not dared tooffer aloud, that though Bathilde might be an orphan, yet she should notbe abandoned. God had heard the double prayers which had ascended toHim, and He had granted them.
The next day Buvat did what he had never dared to do before. He tookBathilde in his arms, leaned his good-natured round face against thecharming 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 feltthat the tears stood in his eyes, and as he had often heard that youmust not cry before sick people, for fear of agitating them, he drew outhis 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 thepatient. As he was a doctor who came through charity, and did notconsider himself at all bound to be considerate when he was not paid, hereplied 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 sentfor the cure, and he had arrived, and, preceded by the sacristan and hislittle bell, he had without any preparation entered the sick room.Clarice received it with her hands joined, and her eyes turned towardheaven; but the impression produced on her was not the less terrible.Buvat heard singing, and thought what must have happened. He went updirectly, and found the landing and the door of the sick room surroundedby all the gossips of the neighborhood, who had, as was the custom atthat time, followed the holy sacrament. Round the bed where the dyingwoman was extended, already so pale and motionless that if it had notbeen for the two great tears that ran down her cheeks, she might havebeen taken for a marble statue lying on a tomb, the priests were singingthe prayers for the dying, and in a corner of the room the littleBathilde, whom they had separated from her mother, that she might notdistract her attention during her last act of religion, was seated onthe ground, not daring to cry, frightened at seeing so many people shedid 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 sheknew in this grave assembly. Buvat took her in his arms, and knelt withher near the bed of the dying woman. At this moment Clarice lowered hereyes from the heavens toward the earth. Without doubt she had beenaddressing a prayer to Heaven to send a protector to her daughter. Shesaw Bathilde in the arms of the only friend she had in the world. Withthe penetrating glance of the dying she read this pure and devotedheart, and saw what he had not dared to tell her; and as she sat up inbed 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 herremaining strength in this maternal outburst, she sank back fainting onthe bed.
The religious ceremony was finished. The priests retired first, thenthe pious followed; the indifferent and curious remained till the last.Among this number were several women. Buvat asked if there was noneamong them who knew a good sick-nurse. One of them presented herselfdirectly, declared, in the midst of a chorus of her companions, that shehad all the necessary virtues for this honorable situation, but that,just on account of these good qualities, she was accustomed to be paid aweek in advance, as she was much sought after in the neighborhood. Buvatasked the price of this week. She replied that to any other it would besixteen livres, but as the poor lady did not seem rich, she would becontented 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 hersome vinegar instead of salts. Buvat retired. As to Bathilde, she hadbeen told that her mother was asleep. The poor child did not know thedifference between sleep and death, and returned to her corner to playwith her doll.
At the end of an hour Buvat returned to ask news of Clarice. She hadrecovered from her fainting, but though her eyes were open she did notspeak. However, she recognized him, for as soon as he entered she joinedher hands as if to pray, and then she appeared to seek for somethingunder her bolster. The nurse shook her head, and approaching thepatient:
"Your pillow is very well," said she, "you must not disarrange it." Thenturning to Buvat, "Ah! these sick people!" added she, shrugging hershoulders, "they are always fancying that there is something making themuncomfortable: it is death, only they do not know it."
Clarice sighed deeply, but remained motionless. The nurse approachedher, and passed over her lips the feather of a quill dipped in a cordialof her own invention, which she had just been to fetch at thechemist's. Buvat could not support this spectacle; he recommended themother and child to the care of the nurse, and left.
The next day Clarice was still worse, for though her eyes were open, shedid not seem to recognize any one but her daughter, who was lying nearher 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 quietand silent. On seeing her kind friend she only said, "Mamma sleeps."
It appeared to Buvat that Clarice moved as if she heard and recognizedher child's voice, but it might have been only a nervous trembling. Heasked the nurse if the sick woman had wanted anything. She shook herhead, saying, "What would be the use? It would be money thrown away.These apothecaries make quite enough already." Buvat would have liked tostay with Clarice, for he saw that she had not long to live, but henever would have thought of absenting himself for a day from businessunless he were dying himself. He arrived there, then, as usual, but sosad and melancholy that the king did not gain much by his presence. Theyremarked with astonishment that that day Buvat did not wait till fouro'clock had struck to take off the false blue sleeves which he wore toprotect 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 forhis 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 whotakes it easy."
Buvat's presentiments were confirmed. On arriving at the house he askedthe porter's wife how Clarice was.
"Ah, God be thanked!" replied she; "the poor woman is happy; she suffersno more."
"She is dead!" cried Buvat, with that shudder always produced by thisterrible word.
"About three-quarters of an hour ago," replied she; and she went ondarning her stocking, and singing a merry song which she hadinterrupted to reply to Buvat.
Buvat ascended the steps of the staircase one by one, stoppingfrequently to wipe his forehead; then, on arriving on the landing, wherewas his room and that of Clarice, he was obliged to lean his headagainst the wall, for he felt his legs fail him. He stood silent andhesitating, when he thought he heard Bathilde's voice crying. Heremembered the poor child, and this gave him courage. At the door,however, he stopped again; then he heard the groans of the little girlmore distinctly.
"Mamma!" cried the child, in a little voice broken by sobs, "will younot wake? Mamma, why are you so cold?" Then, running to the door andstriking with her hand, "Come, my kind friend,
come," said she; "I amalone, and I am afraid."
Buvat was astonished that they had not removed the child from hermother's room; and the profound pity which the poor little creatureinspired made him forget the painful feeling which had stopped him for amoment. 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 thestairs and asked her where the key was.
"Ah!" replied she, "how stupid I am; I forgot to give it you as youpassed."
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 landlordwill not stand tricks; the rent first. That is but fair. Besides, shedoes 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 wasfinished, 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 toosensitive."
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 lengththe key turned, and the door opened. Clarice was extended on the groundon the mattress out of her bed, in the middle of the dismantled room. Anold 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, whichshe 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 thispitiable 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 hetook the child in his arms and carried her away. The child made noresistance. She seemed to understand her weakness and her isolation.
He put her in his own bed, for they had carried away even the child'scot; and when she was asleep, he went out to give information of thedeath to the commissary of the quarter, and to make arrangements for thefuneral.
When he returned, the portress gave him a paper, which the nurse hadfound in Clarice's hand. Buvat opened and recognized the letter from theDuc d'Orleans. This was the sole inheritance which the poor mother hadleft to her daughter.