April 17.
"Therese, give me my new hat, my best frock-coat, and my silver-headedcane."
But Therese is deaf as a sack of charcoal and slow as Justice. Yearshave made her so. The worst is that she thinks she can hear well andmove about well; and, proud of her sixty years of upright domesticity,she serves her old master with the most vigilant despotism.
"What did I tell you?"...And now she will not give me my silver-headedcane, for fear that I might lose it! It is true that I often forgetumbrellas and walking-sticks in the omnibuses and booksellers' shops.But I have a special reason for wanting to take out with me to-day myold cane with the engraved silver head representing Don Quixote charginga windmill, lance in rest, while Sancho Panza, with uplifted arms,vainly conjures him to a stop. That cane is all that came to me from theheritage of my uncle, Captain Victor, who in his lifetime resembled DonQuixote much more than Sancho Panza, and who loved blows quite as muchas most people fear them.
For thirty years I have been in the habit of carrying this cane upon allmemorable or solemn visits which I make; and those two figures of knightand squire give me inspiration and counsel. I imagine I can hear themspeak. Don Quixote says,
"Think well about great things; and know that thought is the onlyreality in this world. Lift up Nature to thine own stature; and letthe whole universe be for thee no more than the reflection of thine ownheroic soul. Combat for honour's sake: that alone is worthy of a man!and if it should fall thee to receive wounds, shed thy blood as abeneficent dew, and smile."
And Sancho Panza says to me in his turn,
"Remain just what heaven made thee, comrade! Prefer the bread-crustwhich has become dry in thy wallet to all the partridges that roast inthe kitchen of lords. Obey thy master, whether he by a wise man or afool, and do not cumber thy brain with too many useless things. Fearblows; 'tis verily tempting God to seek after danger!"
But if the incomparable knight and his matchless squire are imaginedonly upon this cane of mine, they are realities to my inner conscience.Within every one of us there lives both a Don Quixote and a Sancho Panzato whom we hearken by turns; and though Sancho most persuades us, it isDon Quixote that we find ourselves obliged to admire.... But a truce tothis dotage!--and let us go to see Madame de Gabry about some mattersmore important than the everyday details of life....
Same day.
I found Madame de Gabry dressed in black, just buttoning her gloves.
"I am ready," she said.
Ready!--so I have always found her upon any occasion of doing akindness.
After some compliments about the good health of her husband, who wastaking a walk at the time, we descended the stairs and got into thecarriage.
I do not know what secret influence I feared to dissipate by breakingsilence, but we followed the great deserted drives without speaking,looking at the crosses, the monumental columns, and the mortuary wreathsawaiting sad purchasers.
The vehicle at last halted at the extreme verge of the land of theliving, before the gate upon which words of hope are graven.
"Follow me," said Madame de Gabry, whose tall stature I noticed then forthe first time. She first walked down an alley of cypresses, and thentook a very narrow path contrived between the tombs. Finally, haltingbefore a plain slab, she said to me,
"It is here."
And she knelt down. I could not help noticing the beautiful and easymanner in which this Christian woman fell upon her knees, leaving thefolds of her robe to spread themselves at random about her. I hadnever before seen any lady kneel down with such frankness and suchforgetfulness of self, except two fair Polish exiles, one evening longago, in a deserted church in Paris.
This image passed like a flash; and I saw only the sloping stone onwhich was graven the name of Clementine. What I then felt was somethingso deep and vague that only the sound of some rich music could conveythe idea of it. I seemed to hear instruments of celestial sweetnessmake harmony in my old heart. With the solemn accords of a funeral chantthere seemed to mingle the subdued melody of a song of love; for mysoul blended into one feeling the grave sadness of the present with thefamiliar graces of the past.
I cannot tell whether we had remained a long time at the tomb ofClementine before Madame de Gabry arose. We passed through the cemeteryagain without speaking to each other. Only when we found ourselves amongthe living once more did I feel able to speak.
"While following you there," I said to Madame de Gabry, "I could nothelp thinking of those angels with whom we are said to meet on themysterious confines of life and death. That tomb you led me to, of whichI knew nothing--as I know nothing, or scarcely anything, concerningher whom it covers--brought back to me emotions which were unique inmy life, and which seem in the dullness of that life like some lightgleaming upon a dark road. The light recedes farther and farther away asthe journey lengthens; I have now almost reached the bottom of the lastslope; and, nevertheless, each time I turn to look back I see the glowas bright as ever.
"You, Madame, who knew Clementine as a young wife and mother after herhair had become grey, you cannot imagine her as I see her still; a youngfair girl, all pink and white. Since you have been so kind as to be myguide, dear Madame, I ought to tell you what feelings were awakened inme by the sight of that grave to which you led me. Memories throng backupon me. I feel myself like some old gnarled and mossy oak which awakensa nestling world of birds by shaking its branches. Unfortunatelythe song my birds sing is old as the world, and can amuse no one butmyself."
"Tell me your souvenirs," said Madame de Gabry. "I cannot read yourbooks, because they are written only for scholars; but I like very muchto have you talk to me, because you know how to give interest to themost ordinary things in life. And talk to me just as you would talk toan old woman. This morning I found three grey threads in my hair."
"Let them come without regret, Madame," I replied. "Time deals gentlyonly with those who take it gently. And when in some years more you willhave a silvery fringe under your black fillet, you will be reclothedwith a new beauty, less vivid but more touching than the first; and youwill find your husband admiring your grey tresses as much as he did thatblack curl which you gave him when about to be married, and which hepreserves in a locket as a thing sacred.... These boulevards are broadand very quiet. We can talk at our ease as we walk along. I will tellyou, to begin with, how I first made the acquaintance of Clementine'sfather. But you must not expect anything extraordinary, or anything evenremarkable; you would be greatly deceived.
"Monsieur de Lessay used to live in the second storey of an old house inthe Avenue de l'Observatoire, having a stuccoed front, ornamented withantique busts, and a large unkept garden attached to it. That facade andthat garden were the first images my child-eyes perceived; and they willbe the last, no doubt, which I still see through my closed eyelids whenthe Inevitable Day comes. For it was in that house that I was born; itwas in that garden I first learned, while playing, to feel and know someparticles of this old universe. Magical hours!--sacred hours!--when thesoul, all fresh from the making, first discoveries the world, whichfor its sake seems to assume such caressing brightness, such mysteriouscharm! And that, Madame, is indeed because the universe itself is onlythe reflection of our soul.
"My mother was being very happily constituted. She rose with the sun,like the birds; and she herself resembled the birds by her domesticindustry, by her maternal instinct, by her perpetual desire to sing, andby a sort of brusque grace, which I could feel the of very well evenas a child. She was the soul of the house, which she filled with hersystematic and joyous activity. My father was just as slow as she wasbrisk. I can recall very well that placid face of his, over which attimes an ironical smile used to flit. He was fatigued with active life;and he loved his fatigue. Seated beside the fire in his big arm-chair,he used to read from morning till night; and it is from him that Iinherit my love of books. I have in my library a Mably and a Raynal,which he annotated with his own hand from beginning to end. But itwas utterly useless attemptin
g to interest him in anything practicalwhatever. When my mother would try, by all kinds of gracious littleruses, to lure him out of his retirement, he would simply shake his headwith that inexorable gentleness which is the force of weak characters.He used in this way greatly to worry the poor woman, who could not enterat all into his own sphere of meditative wisdom, and could understandnothing of life except its daily duties and the merry labour of eachhour. She thought him sick, and feared he was going to become still moreso. But his apathy had a different cause.
"My father, entering the Naval office under Monsieur Decres, in 1801,gave early proof of high administrative talent. There was a great dealof activity in the marine department in those times; and in 1805 myfather was appointed chief of the Second Administrative Division. Thatsame year, the Emperor, whose attention had been called to him by theMinister, ordered him to make a report upon the organisation of theEnglish navy. This work, which reflected a profoundly liberal andphilosophic spirit, of which the editor himself was unconscious, wasonly finished in 1807--about eighteen months after the defeat of AdmiralVilleneuve at Trafalgar. Napoleon, who, from that disastrous day, neverwanted to hear the word ship mentioned in his presence, angrilyglanced over a few pages of the memoir, and then threw it in thefire, vociferating, 'Words!--words! I said once before that I hatedideologists.' My father was told afterwards that the Emperor's anger wasso intense at the moment that he stamped the manuscript down into thefire with his boot-heels. At all events, it was his habit, when verymuch irritated, to poke down the fire with his boot-soles. My fathernever fully recovered from this disgrace; and the fruitlessness of allhis efforts towards reform was certainly the cause of the apathy whichcame upon him at a later day. Nevertheless, Napoleon, after his returnfrom Elba, sent for him, and ordered him to prepare some liberal andpatriotic bulletins and proclamations for the fleet. After Waterloo, myfather, whom the event had rather saddened than surprised, retired intoprivate life, and was not interfered with--except that it was generallyaverred of him that he was a Jacobin, a buveur-de-sang--one of thosemen with whom no one could afford to be on intimate terms. My mother'seldest brother, Victor Maldent, and infantry captain--retired onhalf-pay in 1814, and disbanded in 1815--aggravated by his bad attitudethe situation in which the fall of the Empire had placed my father.Captain Victor used to shout in the cafes and the public balls that theBourbons had sold France to the Cossacks. He used to show everybody atricoloured cockade hidden in the lining of his hat; and carried withmuch ostentation a walking-stick, the handle of which had been so carvedthat the shadow thrown by it made the silhouette of the Emperor.
"Unless you have seen certain lithographs by Charlet, Madame, you couldform no idea of the physiognomy of my Uncle Victor, when he used tostride about the garden of the Tuileries with a fiercely elegant mannerof his own--buttoned up in his frogged coat, with his cross-of-honourupon his breast, and a bouquet of violets in his button-hole.
"Idleness and intemperance greatly intensified the vulgar recklessnessof his political passions. He used to insult people whom he happened tosee reading the 'Quotidienne,' or the 'Drapeau Blanc,' and compel themto fight with him. In this way he had the pain and the shame of woundinga boy of sixteen in a duel. In short, my Uncle Victor was the veryreverse of a well-behaved person; and as he came to lunch and dineat our house every blessed day in the year, his bad reputation becameattached to our family. My poor father suffered cruelly from some of hisguest's pranks; but being very good-natured, he never made any remarks,and continued to give the freedom of his house to the captain, who onlydespised him for it.
"All this which I have told you, Madame, was explained to me afterwards.But at the time in question, my uncle the captain filled me with thevery enthusiasm of admiration, and I promised myself to try to becomesome day as like him as possible. So one fine morning, in order tobegin the likeness, I put my arms akimbo, and swore like a trooper. Myexcellent mother at once gave me such a box on the ear that I remainedhalf stupefied for some little while before I could even burst outcrying. I can still see the old arm-chair, covered with yellow Utrechtvelvet, behind which I wept innumerable tears that day.
"I was a very little fellow then. One morning my father, lifting meupon his knees, as he was in the habit of doing, smiled at me with thatslightly ironical smile which gave a certain piquancy to his perpetualgentleness of manner. As I sat on his knee, playing with his long whitehair, he told me something which I did not understand very well,but which interested me very much, for the simple reason that it wasmysterious to me. I think but am not quite sure, that he related to methat morning the story of the little King of Yvetot, according to thesong. All of a sudden we heard a great report; and the windows rattled.My father slipped me down gently on the floor at his feet; he threw uphis trembling arms, with a strange gesture; his face became all inertand white, and his eyes seemed enormous. He tried to speak, but histeeth were chattering. At last he murmured, 'They have shot him!' I didnot know what he meant, and felt only a vague terror. I knew afterwards,however, that hew was speaking of Marshal Ney, who fell on the 7th ofDecember, 1815, under the wall enclosing some waste ground beside ourhouse.
"About that time I used often to meet on the stairway an old man (or,perhaps, not exactly an old man) with little black eyes which flashedwith extraordinary vivacity, and an impassive, swarthy face. He did notseem to me alive--or at least he did not seem to me alive in the sameway that other men are alive. I had once seen, at the residence ofMonsieur Denon, where my father had taken me with him on a visit, amummy brought from Egypt; and I believed in good faith that MonsieurDenon's mummy used to get up when no one was looking, leave its gildedcase, put on a brown coat and powdered wig, and become transformed intoMonsieur de Lessay. And even to-day, dear Madame, while I reject thatopinion as being without foundation, I must confess that Monsieur deLessay bore a very strong resemblance to Monsieur Denon's mummy. Thefact is enough to explain why this person inspired me with fantasticterror.
"In reality, Monsieur de Lessay was a small gentleman and a greatphilosopher. As a disciple of Mably and Rousseau, he flattered himselfon being a man without any prejudices; and this pretension itself is avery great prejudice.
"He professed to hate fanaticism, yet was himself a fanatic on the topicof toleration. I am telling you, Madame, about a character belonging toan age that is past. I fear I may not be able to make you understand,and I am sure I shall not be able to interest you. It was so long ago!But I will abridge as much as possible: besides, I did not promiseyou anything interesting; and you could not have expected to hear ofremarkable adventures in the life of Sylvestre Bonnard."
Madame de Gabry encouraged me to proceed, and I resumed:
"Monsieur de Lessay was brusque with men and courteous to ladies. Heused to kiss the hand of my mother, whom the customs of the Republic andthe Empire had not habituated to such gallantry. In him, I touched theage of Louis XVI. Monsieur de Lessay was a geographer; and nobody, Ibelieve, ever showed more pride then he in occupying himself with theface of the earth. Under the Old Regime he had attempted philosophicalagriculture, and thus squandered his estates to the very last acre. Whenhe had ceased to own one square foot of ground, he took possession ofthe whole globe, and prepared an extraordinary number of maps, basedupon the narratives of travellers. But as he had been mentally nourishedwith the very marrow of the "Encyclopedie," he was not satisfied withmerely parking off human beings within so many degrees, minutes, andseconds of latitude and longitude, he also occupied himself, alas! withthe question of their happiness. It is worthy of remark, Madame, thatthose who have given themselves the most concern about the happiness ofpeoples have made their neighbors very miserable. Monsieur deLessay, who was more of a geometrician than D'Alembert, and more of aphilosopher than Jean Jacques, was also more of a royalist than LouisXVIII. But his love for the King was nothing to his hate for theEmperor. He had joined the conspiracy of Georges against the FirstConsul; but in the framing of the indictment he was not included amongthe inculpated part
ies, having been either ignored or despised, andthis injury he never could forgive Bonaparte, whom he called the Ogreof Corsica, and to whom he used to say he would never have confided eventhe command of a regiment, so pitiful a soldier he judged him to be.
"In 1820, Monsieur de Lessay, who had then been a widower for manyyears, married again, at the age of sixty, a very young woman, whomhe pitilessly kept at work preparing maps for him, and who gave hima daughter some years after their marriage, and died in childbed. Mymother had nursed her during her brief illness, and had taken care ofthe child. The name of that child was Clementine.
"It was from the time of that birth and that death that the relationsbetween our family and Monsieur de Lessay began. In the meanwhile I hadbeen growing dull as I began to leave my true childhood behind me. Ihad lost the charming power of being able to see and feel; and things nolonger caused me those delicious surprises which form the enchantmentof the more tender age. For the same reason, perhaps, I have no distinctremembrance of the period following the birth of Clementine; I only knowthat a few months afterwards I had a misfortune, the mere thought ofwhich still wrings my heart. I lost my mother. A great silence, a greatcoldness, and a great darkness seemed all at once to fill the house.
"I fell into a sort of torpor. My father sent me to the lycee, but Icould only arouse myself from my lethargy with the greatest of effort.
"Still, I was not altogether a dullard, and my professors were able toteach me almost everything they wanted, namely, a little Greek and agreat deal of Latin. My acquaintances were confined to the ancients.I learned to esteem Miltiades, and to admire Themistocles. I becamefamiliar with Quintus Fabius, as far, at least, as it was possibleto become familiar with so great a Consul. Proud of these loftyacquaintances, I scarcely ever condescended to notice little Clementineand her old father, who, in any event, went away to Normandy one finemorning without my having deigned to give a moment's thought to theirpossible return.
"They came back, however, Madame, they came back! Influences of Heaven,forces of nature, all ye mysterious powers which vouchsafe to man theability to love, you know how I again beheld Clementine! They re-enteredour melancholy home. Monsieur de Lessay no longer wore a wig. Bald,with a few grey locks about his ruddy temples, he had all the aspect ofrobust old age. But that divine being whom I saw all resplendent, asshe leaned upon his arm--she whose presence illuminated the old fadedparlour--she was not an apparition! It was Clementine herself! I amspeaking the simple truth: her violet eyes seemed to me in that momentsupernatural, and even to-day I cannot imagine how those two livingjewels could have endured the fatigues of life, or become subjected tothe corruption of death.
"She betrayed a little shyness in greeting my father, whom she didnot remember. Her complexion was slightly pink, and her half-open lipssmiled with that smile which makes one think of the Infinite--perhapsbecause it betrays no particular thought, and expresses only the joyof living and the bliss of being beautiful. Under a pink hood her faceshone like a gem in an open casket; she wore a cashmere scarf over arobe of white muslin plaited at the waist, from beneath which protrudedthe tip of a little Morocco shoe.... Oh! you must not make fun of me,dear Madame, that was the fashion of the time; and I do not knowwhether our new fashions have nearly so much simplicity, brightness, anddecorous grace.
"Monsieur de Lessay informed us that, in consequence of havingundertaken the publication of a historical atlas, he had come backto live in Paris, and that he would be pleased to occupy his formerapartment, if it was still vacant. My father asked Mademoiselle deLessay whether she was pleased to visit the capital. She appeared tobe, for her smile blossomed out in reply. She smiled at the windows thatlooked out upon the green and luminous garden; she smiled at the bronzeMarius seated among the ruins of Carthage above the dial of the clock;she smiled a the old yellow-velveted arm-chairs, and at the poor studentwho was afraid to lift his eyes to look at her. From that day--how Iloved her!
"But here we are already a the Rue de Severs, and in a little while weshall be in sight of your windows. I am a very bad story-teller; and ifI were--by some impossible chance--to take it into my head to composea novel, I know I should never succeed. I have been drawing out totiresome length a narrative which I must finish briefly; for there isa certain delicacy, a certain grace of soul, which an old man could nothelp offending by an complacent expatiation upon the sentiments of eventhe purest love. Let us take a short turn on this boulevard, lined withconvents; and my recital will be easily finished within the distanceseparating us from that little spire you see over there....
"Monsieur de Lessay, on finding that I had graduated at the Ecole desChartes, judged me worthy to assist him in preparing his historicalatlas. The plan was to illustrate, by a series of maps, what the oldphilosopher termed the Vicissitudes of Empires from the time of Noahdown to that of Charlemagne. Monsieur de Lessay had stored up in hishead all the errors of the eighteenth century in regard to antiquity.I belonged, so far as my historical studies were concerned, to thenew school; and I was just at that age when one does not know how todissemble. The manner in which the old man understood, or, rather,misunderstood, the epoch of the Barbarians--his obstinate determinationto find in remote antiquity only ambitious princes, hypocritical andavaricious prelates, virtuous citizens, poet-philosophers, and otherpersonages who never existed outside of the novels of Marmontel,--mademe dreadfully unhappy, and at first used to excite me into attemptsat argument,--rational enough, but perfectly useless and sometimesdangerous, for Monsieur de Lessay was very irascible, and Clementine wasvery beautiful. Between her and him I passed many hours of torment andof delight. I was in love; I was a coward, and I granted to him all thathe demanded of me in regard to the political and historical aspect whichthe Earth--that was at a later day to bear Clementine--presented in thetime of Abraham, of Menes, and of Deucalion.
"As fast as we drew our maps, Mademoiselle de Lessay tinted them inwater-colours. Bending over the table, she held the brush lightlybetween two fingers; the shadow of her eyelashes descended upon hercheeks, and bather her half-closed eyes in a delicious penumbra.Sometimes she would lift her head, and I would see her lips pout. Therewas so much expression in her beauty that she could not breathe withoutseeming to sigh; and her most ordinary poses used to throw me into thedeepest ecstasies of admiration. Whenever I gazed at her I fully agreedwith Monsieur de Lessay that Jupiter had once reigned as a despot-kingover the mountainous regions of Thessaly, and that Orpheus had committedthe imprudence of leaving the teaching of philosophy to the clergy. I amnot now quite sure whether I was a coward or a hero when I accorded althis to the obstinate old man.
"Mademoiselle de Lessay, I must acknowledge, paid very little attentionto me. But this indifference seemed to me so just and so natural thatI never even dreamed of thinking I had a right to complain about it; itmade me unhappy, but without my knowing that I was unhappy at thetime. I was hopeful;--we had then only got as far as the First AssyrianEmpire.
"Monsieur de Lessay came every evening to take coffee with my father.I do not know how they became such friends; for it would have beendifficult to find two characters more oppositely constituted. My fatherwas a man who admired very few things, but was still capable of excusinga great many. Still, as he grew older, he evinced more and more dislikeof everything in the shape of exaggeration. He clothed his ideas with athousand delicate shades of expression, and never pronounced an opinionwithout all sorts of reservations. These conversational habits, naturalto a finely trained mind, used greatly to irritate the dry, terse oldaristocrat, who was never in the least disarmed by the moderation of anadversary--quite the contrary! I always foresaw one danger. Thatdanger was Bonaparte. My father had not himself retained an particularaffection for his memory; but, having worked under his direction, hedid not like to hear him abused, especially in favour of the Bourbons,against whom he had serious reason to feel resentment. Monsieur deLessay, more of a Voltairean and a Legitimist than ever, now traced backto Bonaparte the origin of every social, p
olitical, and religiousevil. Such being the situation, the idea of Uncle Victor made mefeel particularly uneasy. This terrible uncle had become absolutelyunsufferable now that his sister was no longer there to calm him down.The harp of David was broken, and Saul was wholly delivered over to thespirit of madness. The fall of Charles X. had increased the audacity ofthe old Napoleonic veteran, who uttered all imaginable bravadoes. He nolonger frequented our house, which had become too silent for him.But sometimes, at the dinner-hour, we would see him suddenly make hisappearance, all covered with flowers, like a mausoleum. Ordinarily hewould sit down to table with an oath, growled out from the very bottomof his chest, and brag, between every two mouthfuls, of his good fortunewith the ladies as a vieux brave. Then, when the dinner was over, hewould fold up his napkin in the shape of a bishop's mitre, gulp downhalf a decanter of brandy, and rush away with the hurried air of a manterrified at the mere idea of remaining for any length of time, withoutdrinking, in conversation with an old philosopher and a young scholar. Ifelt perfectly sure that, if ever he and Monsieur de Lessay should cometogether, all would be lost. But that day came, Madame!
"The captain was almost hidden by flowers that day, and seemed so muchlike a monument commemorating the glories of the Empire that one wouldhave liked to pass a garland of immortelles over each of his arms. Hewas in an extraordinarily good humour; and the first person to profit bythat good humour was our cook--for he put his arm around her waist whileshe was placing the roast on the table.
"After dinner he pushed away the decanter presented to him, observingthat he was going to burn some brandy in his coffee later on. I askedhim tremblingly whether he would not prefer to have his coffee at once.He was very suspicious, and not at all dull of comprehension--my UncleVictor. My precipitation seemed to him in very bad taste; for he lookedat me in a peculiar way, and said,
"'Patience! my nephew. It isn't the business of the baby of the regimentto sound the retreat! Devil take it! You must be in a great hurry,Master Pedant, to see if I've got spurs on my boots!'
"It was evident the captain had divined that I wanted him to go. And Iknew him well enough to be sure that he was going to stay. He stayed.The least circumstances of that evening remain impressed on my memory.My uncle was extremely jovial. The mere idea of being in somebody's waywas enough to keep him in good humour. He told us, in regular barrackstyle, ma foi! a certain story about a monk, a trumpet, and fivebottles of Chambertin, which must have been much enjoyed in the garrisonsociety, but which I would not venture to repeat to you, Madame, even ifI could remember it. When we passed into the parlour, the captain calledattention to the bad condition of our andirons, and learnedly discoursedon the merits of rotten-stone as a brass-polisher. Not a word on thesubject of politics. He was husbanding his forces. Eight o'clock soundedfrom the ruins of Carthage on the mantlepiece. It was Monsieur deLessay's hour. A few moments later he entered the parlour with hisdaughter. The ordinary evening chat began. Clementine sat down and beganto work on some embroidery beside the lamp, whose shade left her prettyhead in a soft shadow, and threw down upon her fingers a radiance thatmade them seem almost self-luminous. Monsieur de Lessay spoke of a cometannounced by the astronomers, and developed some theories in relationto the subject, which, however audacious, betrayed at least a certaindegree of intellectual culture. My father, who knew a good deal aboutastronomy, advanced some sound ideas of his own, which he ended up withhis eternal, 'But what do we know about it, after all?' In my turn Icited the opinion of our neighbour of the Observatory--the great Arago.My Uncle Victor declared that comets had a peculiar influence onthe quality of wines, and related in support of this view a jollytavern-story. I was so delighted with the turn the conversation hadtaken that I did all in my power to maintain it in the same groove, withthe help of my most recent studies, by a long exposition of the chemicalcomposition of those nebulous bodies which, although extending over alength of billions of leagues, could be contained in a small bottle. Myfather, a little surprised at my unusual eloquence, watched me withhis peculiar, placid, ironical smile. But one cannot always remainin heaven. I spoke, as I looked at Clementine, of a certain comete ofdiamonds, which I had been admiring in a jeweller's window the eveningbefore. It was a most unfortunate inspiration of mine.
"'Ah! my nephew,' cried Uncle Victor, that "comete" of yours was nothingto the one which the Empress Josephine wore in her hair when she came toStrasburg to distribute crosses to the army.'
"'That little Josephine was very fond of finery and display,' observedMonsieur de Lessay, between two sips of coffee. 'I do not blame her forit; she had good qualities, though rather frivolous in character. Shewas a Tascher, and she conferred a great honour on Bonaparte by marryinghim. To say a Tascher does not, of course, mean a great deal; but to saya Bonaparte simply means nothing at all.'
"'What do you mean by that, Monsieur the Marquis?' demanded CaptainVictor.
"'I am not a marquis,' dryly responded Monsieur de Lessay; 'and I meansimply that Bonaparte would have been very well suited had hemarried one of those cannibal women described by Captain Cook in hisvoyages--naked, tattooed, with a ring in her nose--devouring withdelight putrefied human flesh.'
"I had foreseen it, and in my anguish (O pitiful human heart!) my firstidea was about the remarkable exactness of my anticipations. I must saythat the captain's reply belonged to the sublime order. He put his armsakimbo, eyed Monsieur de Lessay contemptuously from head to food, andsaid,
"'Napoleon, Monsieur the Vidame, had another spouse besides Josephine,another spouse besides Marie-Louise, that companion you know nothingof; but I have seen her, close to me. She wears a mantle of azure gemmedwith stars; she is crowned with laurels; the Cross-of-Honour flames uponher breast. Her name is GLORY!'
"Monsieur de Lessay set his cup on the mantlepiece and quietly observed,
"'Your Bonaparte was a blackguard!'
"My father rose up calmly, extended his arm, and said very softly toMonsieur de Lessay,
"Whatever the man was who died at St. Helena, I worked for ten years inhis government, and my brother-in-law was three times wounded under hiseagles. I beg of you, dear sir and friend, never to forget these factsin future.'
"What the sublime and burlesque insolence of the captain could not do,the courteous remonstrance of my father effected immediately, throwingMonsieur de Lessay into a furious passion.
"'I did forget,' he exclaimed, between his set teeth, livid in his rage,and fairly foaming at the mouth; 'the herring-cask always smells ofherring and when one has been in the service of rascals---'
"As he uttered the word, the Captain sprang at his throat; I am sure hewould have strangled him upon the spot but for his daughter and me.
"My father, a little paler than his wont, stood there with his armsfolded, and watched the scene with a look of inexpressible pity. Whatfollowed was still more lamentable--but why dwell further upon the follyof two old men. Finally I succeeded in separating them. Monsieurde Lessay made a sign to his daughter and left the room. As she wasfollowing him, I ran out into the stairway after her.
"'Mademoiselle,' I said to her, wildly, taking her hand as I spoke, 'Ilove you! I love you!'
"For a moment she pressed my hand; her lips opened. What was it thatshe was going to say to me? But suddenly, lifting her eyes towardsher father ascending the stairs, she drew her hand away, and made me agesture of farewell.
"I never saw her again. Her father went to live in the neighbourhood ofthe Pantheon, in an apartment which he had rented for the sale of hishistorical atlas. He died in a few months afterward of an apoplecticstroke. His daughter, I was told, retired to Caen to live with some agedrelative. It was there that, later on, she married a bank-clerk, thesame Noel Alexandre who became so rich and died so poor.
"As for me, Madame, I have lived alone, at peace with myself; myexistence, equally exempt from great pains and great joys, has beentolerably happy. But for many years I could never see an empty chairbeside my own of a winter's evening without feeling a sud
den painfulsinking at my heart. Last year I learned from you, who had known her,the story of her old age and death. I saw her daughter at your house. Ihave seen her; but I cannot yet say like the aged mad of Scripture, 'Andnow, O Lord, let thy servant depart in peace!' For if an old fellow likeme can be of any use to anybody, I would wish, with your help, to devotemy last energies and abilities to the care of this orphan."
I had uttered these last words in Madame de Gabry's own vestibule; and Iwas about to take leave of my kind guide when she said to me,
"My dear Monsieur, I cannot help you in this matter as much as I wouldlike to do. Jeanne is an orphan and a minor. You cannot do anything forher without the authorisation of her guardian."
"Ah!" I exclaimed, "I had not the least idea in the wold that Jeanne hada guardian!"
Madame de Gabry looked at me with visible surprise. She had not expectedto find the old man quite so simple.
She resumed:
"The guardian of Jeanne Alexandre is Maitre Mouche, notary atLevallois-Perret. I am afraid you will not be able to come to anyunderstanding with him; for he is a very serious person."
"Why! good God!" I cried, "with what kind of people can you expect me tohave any sort of understanding at my age, except serious persons."
She smiled with a sweet mischievousness--just as my father used tosmile--and answered:
"With those who are like you--the innocent folks who wear their heartson their sleeves. Monsieur Mouche is not exactly that kind. He iscunning and light-fingered. But although I have very little likingfor him, we will go together and see him, if you wish, and ask hispermission to visit Jeanne, whom he has sent to a boarding-school at LesTernes, where she is very unhappy."
We agreed at once upon a day; I kissed Madame de Gabry's hands, and webade each other good-bye.