XIX.
THE OBSEQUIES.
"Don't weep, my fairy; you take away all my courage. Come, you will bemuch happier when you no longer have your horrible demon. You are goingback to Fontainebleau to tend your hens. Brahim's ten thousand francswill be enough to give you a start. And after that have no fear; when Iam once there, I'll send you money. As this bey wants some of mysculpture, I shall make him pay well for it, be sure of that. I shallreturn rich, rich. Who knows? Perhaps a sultana?"
"Yes, you will be a sultana,--but I shall be dead, and I shall never seeyou again."
And honest Crenmitz in her despair huddled in a corner of the cab, sothat her companion might not see her weep.
Felicia was leaving Paris. She was trying to escape the horriblemelancholy, the ominous heart-sickness in which Mora's death had plungedher. What a terrible blow for the haughty girl! Ennui, spite had drivenher into that man's arms; pride, modesty, she had given all to him, andnow he had carried it all away, leaving her withered for life, a widowwithout tears, without mourning, without dignity. Two or three visits toSaint-James, a few evenings in the back of a box at some small theatre,behind the grating where forbidden, shamefaced pleasure concealsitself,--those were the only memories bequeathed to her by that liaisonof two weeks, that loveless sin, wherein not even her pride hadsucceeded in satisfying itself by the notoriety of a scandal in highlife. The fruitless, ineffaceable stain, the senseless fall into thegutter of a woman who cannot walk, and upon whom the ironical pity ofthe passers-by weighs heavily when she tries to rise.
For a moment she contemplated suicide, but was deterred by the thoughtthat it might be attributed to despairing love. She saw in anticipationthe sentimental emotion of the salons, the absurd figure that hersupposed passion would cut amid the duke's innumerable conquests, andupon her grave, dug so near the other, the Parma violets, stripped oftheir petals by the dandified Moessards of journalism. There remainedthe resource of travel, one of those journeys to countries so distantthat they expatriate even the thoughts. Unluckily, she lacked money.Thereupon she remembered that, on the day following her success at theSalon, old Brahim Bey had come to see her, to make magnificent proposalsto her in his master's name for divers great works to be executed atTunis. She had said no at the moment, refusing to be tempted by Orientalprices, by a munificent hospitality, by the promise of the finestcourtyard on the Bardo for a studio, surrounded by arches carved likeexquisite lace. But now she was willing to accept. She had but to make asign, the bargain was concluded at once, and after an exchange ofdespatches, a hasty packing-up, and closing the house, she started forthe railway-station as if she were going away for a week, surprisedherself by her prompt decision, pleased in all the adventurous andartistic portions of her nature by the prospect of a new life in astrange land.
The bey's pleasure yacht was to await her at Genoa; and, closing hereyes in the cab, she saw in anticipation the white stones of an Italianharbor enclosing an iridescent sea, where the sunlight had a gleam ofthe Orient, where everything sang joyously, even to the swelling sailsupon the deep. It so happened that on that day Paris was muddy andmurky, drowned by one of those continuous downpours of rain which seemto have been made for it alone, to have ascended in clouds from itsriver, its steam, its monster breath, only to descend again in streamsfrom its roofs, its gutters, the innumerable windows of its attics.Felicia was in haste to escape from that depressing Paris, and herfeverish impatience vented itself upon the driver for not drivingfaster, upon the horses,--two genuine broken-down cab-horses,--and uponan inexplicable multitude of carriages and omnibuses jammed together atthe approaches to Pont de la Concorde.
"Go on, driver, go on."
"I can't, Madame,--it's the funeral."
She put her head out of the window and instantly withdrew it, in dismay.A double line of soldiers marching with guns reversed, a wilderness ofhelmets, of heads uncovered while an interminable procession passed. Itwas Mora's funeral procession.
"Don't stay here. Drive around some other way," she cried to the driver.
The vehicle turned painfully, tearing itself away with regret from thatsuperb spectacle for which Paris had been waiting four days, rolled backup the avenue, into Rue Montaigne, and down Boulevard Malesherbes, at anunwilling, crawling trot, to the Madeleine. There the crowd was greater,more compact. In the heavy mist, the brightly lighted windows of thechurch, the muffled strains of the funeral chants behind the blackhangings, which were in such profusion that they concealed even theshape of the Greek temple, filled the whole square with reminders of theservice then in progress, while the greater part of the huge processionstill crowded Rue Royale as far as the bridges,--a long black lineconnecting the defunct statesman with the iron fence of the CorpsLegislatif through which he had so often passed. Beyond the Madeleinethe roadway of the boulevard was entirely empty, kept clear by two linesof soldiers, who forced the spectators back to the sidewalks, black withpeople; all the stores closed, and the balconies, despite the rain,overflowing with bodies leaning far forward in the direction of thechurch, as if to watch the passage of a herd of fat cattle, or thereturn of victorious troops. Paris, greedy of spectacles, makes aspectacle of everything indifferently, of civil war or of the burial ofa statesman.
Once more the cab must retrace its steps, make another detour, and wecan fancy the ill-humor of the driver and his beasts, Parisians allthree at heart, and furious at being deprived of such a fine show.Thereupon, through the silent deserted streets, all the life of Parishaving betaken itself to the great artery of the boulevard, began acapricious, aimless journey, the senseless loitering of a cab hired bythe hour, reaching the extreme limits of Faubourg Saint-Martin, FaubourgSaint-Denis, returning toward the centre, and always finding at the endof every circuit, every stratagem, the same obstacle lying in wait, thesame crowd, some off-shoot of the black procession seen vaguely at theend of a street, defiling slowly in the rain to the sound of muffleddrums, a dull heavy sound like that made by earth falling bit by bitinto a hole.
What torture for Felicia! It was her sin, her remorse passing throughthe streets of Paris in all that solemn pomp, that funerealmagnificence, that public mourning reflected even in the clouds; and theproud girl rebelled against the affront that circumstances put upon her,fled from it to the depths of the carriage, where she remained withclosed eyes, overwhelmed, while old Crenmitz, believing that it was hergrief which so affected her nerves, strove to comfort her, wept herselfover their separation, and withdrawing into the other corner, left thecab-window in full possession of the great Algerian _slougui_, hisdelicate nostrils sniffing the air and his forepaws resting despoticallyon the sill with heraldic rigidity.
At last, after a thousand interminable detours, the cab suddenlystopped, moved slowly forward again amid shouts and insults, was thenpushed this way and that, lifted from the ground, its equilibriumthreatened by the trunks on its roof, and finally halted for good andall, as if anchored.
"_Bon Dieu!_ What a crowd!" murmured La Crenmitz in terror.
Felicia emerged from her torpor.
"Where in heaven's name are we?"
Beneath a colorless, smoky sky, with a fine network of rain drawn likegauze over the reality of things, lay a great square, filled with ahuman ocean flowing in from all the adjoining streets, immobilizedaround a lofty column which towered above that sea of heads like thegigantic mast of a sinking ship. Cavalry in troops, with drawn sabres,artillery in batteries lined the sides of an open pathway, a completewarlike host awaiting him who was soon to pass,--perhaps to try torescue him, to carry him off by force from the redoubtable foe in whosepower he was. Alas! cavalry charges, cannonades were of no avail. Theprisoner was firmly bound, protected by a threefold wall of solid wood,of metal and of velvet, inaccessible to shot and shell, and not at thehands of those soldiers could he hope for deliverance.
"Drive on. I do not wish to remain here," said Felicia frantically,pulling the driver's dripping cape, seized with a mad fear at thethought of the nightmare that
pursued her, of what she could hearapproaching with a ghastly rolling of drums, still distant but drawingnearer momentarily. But, at the first movement of the wheels, the shoutsand hooting began anew. Thinking that they would allow him to cross thesquare, the driver had with great difficulty forced his way to the frontrank of the crowd, which had closed in behind him and refused to allowhim to turn back. It was impossible to advance or retreat She mustremain there, endure those alcoholic breaths, those inquisitive glances,kindled in anticipation of an exceptionally fine spectacle, and eyeingwith interest the fair traveller who was decamping "with such a pile o'trunks as that!" and a cur of that size to protect her. La Crenmitz washorribly frightened; Felicia, for her part, had but one thought, that hewas about to pass, that she would be in the front rank to see him.
Suddenly there was a loud shout: "Here he comes!" then a great silencefell upon the square, which had shaken off the burden of three wearyhours of waiting.
He was coming!
Felicia's first impulse was to lower the curtain on her side, the sideon which the procession was to pass. But, when she heard the drumsclose at hand, seized with a nervous frenzy at her inability to escapethat obsession, or, it may be, infected by the unhealthy curiosity thatencompassed her, she raised the curtain with a jerk, and her pale,ardent little face appeared, resting on both hands, at the window.
"Very good! you will have it so; I am looking at you."
It was the most magnificent funeral one can imagine, the last honorspaid in all their vain pomp, as sonorous and as hollow as the rhythmicaccompaniment upon asses' skins draped in crape. First, the whitesurplices of the clergy indistinctly seen amid the black trappings ofthe first five carriages; then, drawn by six black horses, veritablehorses of Erebus, as black, as slow, as sluggish as its flood, came thefuneral car, all bedecked with plumes and fringe, embroidered withsilver, with heavy tears, with heraldic coronets surmounting giganticM's, a prophetic initial which seemed to be that of Death (_Mort_)itself, of the Duchess Death decorated with eight _fleurons_. Such amass of canopies and heavy draperies concealed the ignoble framework ofthe hearse that it shivered and swayed from top to bottom at every step,as if oppressed by the majesty of its dead. On the casket lay the sword,the coat, the embroidered hat, garments of state which had never beenused, resplendent with gold and pearl in the dark chapel formed by thehangings, amid the beautiful display of fresh flowers which told thatthe season was spring despite the sulkiness of the sky. Ten pacesbehind came the people of the duke's household; and then, in solitarymajesty, an official in a cloak carrying the decorations, a veritableshow-case of all the orders in the known world, crosses, ribbons of allhues, which more than covered the black velvet cushion fringed withsilver.
The master of ceremonies came next, at the head of the committee of theCorps Legislatif, a dozen or more deputies chosen by lot, in their midstthe tall figure of the Nabob, dressed for the first time in his officialcostume, as if satirical fortune had chosen to give the representativeon trial a foretaste of all the joys of parliamentary life. The friendsof the deceased, who came next in line, formed a very limitedcontingent, exceedingly well chosen to lay bare the superficiality andemptiness of the existence of that great personage, reduced to thecompanionship of a theatrical manager thrice insolvent, a picture-dealerenriched by usury, a nobleman of unsavory reputation and a fewhigh-livers and boulevard idlers unknown to fame. Thus far everybody wason foot and bareheaded; in the parliamentary committee a few black silkskull caps had been timidly donned as they approached the populousquarters. After the friends came the carriages.
At the obsequies of a great warrior, it is customary to include in thefuneral procession the hero's favorite horse, his battle-horse,compelled to adapt to the snail-like pace of the cortege the prancinggait which survives the smell of gunpowder and the waving of standards.On this occasion Mora's great coupe, the "eight-spring" affair whichcarried him to social or political gatherings, occupied the place ofthat companion in victory, its panels draped in black, its lanternsenveloped in long, light streamers of crepe, which floated to the groundwith an indescribable undulatory feminine grace. That was a new idea forfunerals, those veiled lanterns, the supreme manifestation of _chic_ inmourning; and it was most fitting for that dandy to give one last lessonin style to the Parisians who flocked to his funeral as to a Longchampsof death.
Three more masters of ceremonies, then came the impassive officialdisplay, always the same for marriages, deaths, baptisms, openings ofParliament, receptions by the sovereign,--the interminable procession ofstate carriages, with gleaming panels, great mirrors, gaudy,gold-bespangled liveries, which passed amid the dazzled throngs,reminding them of fairy tales, the equipages of Cinderella, and arousingthe same _Ohs_! of admiration that ascend and burst with the bombs atdisplays of fireworks. And in the crowd there was always an obligingpolice officer, of an erudite petty bourgeois with nothing to do, on thewatch for public ceremonials, to name aloud all the people in thecarriages as they passed with their proper escorts of dragoons,cuirassiers or _gardes de Paris_.
First the representatives of the Emperor, the Empress, all the imperialfamily; then, in hierarchical order, scientifically worked out, theslightest departure from which might have caused a serious conflictbetween the various bodies of the government, the members of the PrivyCouncil, the marshals, the admirals, the grand chancellor of the Legionof Honor, the Senate, the Corps Legislatif, the Council of State, thewhole of the judicial and educational departments, whose costumes,furred robes and wigs carried you back to the days of old Paris; theyseemed pompous, superannuated, out of place in the sceptical era of theblouse and the black coat.
* * * * *
Felicia, to avoid thought, fixed her eyes persistently on thatmonotonous procession, of exasperating length, and gradually a sort oftorpor stole over her, as if on a rainy day she were turning the leavesof an album with colored plates lying on the table of a dreary salon, ahistory of state costumes from the earliest times to our own day. Allthose people, seen in profile, sitting erect and motionless behind thewide glass panels, bore a close resemblance to the faces of people inthe colored fashion-plates displayed as near as possible to thesidewalk, so that we may lose nothing of their gold embroidery, theirpalm-leaves, their gold lace and braid; manikins intended to gratify thecuriosity of the vulgar and exposing themselves with an air of heedlessindifference.
Indifference! That was the most marked characteristic of that funeral.You felt it everywhere, on the faces and in the hearts of the mourners,not only among all those functionaries, most of whom had known the dukeby sight only, but in the ranks of those on foot between his hearse andhis coupe, his closest friends and those who were in daily attendanceupon him. Indifferent, yes, cheerful, was the corpulent minister,vice-president of the Council, who grasped the cords of the pall firmlyin his powerful hand, accustomed to pound the desk of the tribune, andseemed to be drawing it forward, in greater haste than the horses andthe hearse to consign to his six feet of earth his enemy of twentyyears' standing, his constant rival, the obstacle to all his ambitions.The other three dignitaries did not press forward with so much of thevigor of a led horse, but the long streamers were held listlessly intheir wearied or distraught hands, significantly nerveless. Indifferentthe priests by profession. Indifferent the servants, whom he nevercalled anything else than "What's-your-name,"[4] and whom he treatedlike things. Indifferent, too, was M. Louis, whose last day of servitudeit was--an enfranchised slave rich enough to pay his ransom. Even amonghis intimates that freezing coldness had made its way. And yet some ofthem were much attached to him. But Cardailhac was too much occupied insuperintending the order and progress of the ceremonial to give way tothe slightest emotion, which was quite foreign to his nature moreover.Old Monpavon, although he was struck to the heart, would have consideredthe slightest crease in his linen breastplate, the slightest bending ofhis tall figure, as lamentably bad form, altogether unworthy hisillustrious friend. His eyes remained dry, as
sparkling as ever, for theFuneral Pageant furnishes the tears for state mourning, embroidered insilver on black cloth. Some one was weeping, however, among the membersof the committee, but that some one was shedding ingenuous tears on hisown account. Poor Nabob, melted by the music and the display, it seemedto him that he was burying all his fortune, all his ambition for dignityand renown. And even that was one variety of indifference.
FOOTNOTES:
[4] _Chose_--literally _thing._
In the public the gratification of a gorgeous spectacle, the joy ofmaking a Sunday of a weekday, dominated every other feeling. As theprocession passed along the boulevards, the spectators on the balconiesalmost applauded; here, in the populous quarters, irreverence manifesteditself even more frankly. Coarse chaff, vulgar comments on the dead manand his doings, with which all Paris was familiar, laughter called forthby the broad-brimmed hats of the rabbis and the solemn "mugs" of thecouncil of wise men, filled the air between two drum-beats. With feet inthe water, dressed in blouses and cotton caps, the head uncovered fromhabit, poverty, forced labor, idleness and strikes watched with a sneerthe passing of that dweller in another sphere, that brilliant duke nowshorn of all his honors, who never in his life perhaps had visited thatextremity of the city. But here he is! To reach the spot to whicheverybody goes, one must follow the road that everybody follows:Faubourg Saint-Antoine, Rue de la Roquette, to that mammoth toll-gateopen so wide into the infinite. And _dame_! it is pleasant to see thatnoblemen like Mora, dukes and ministers, all take the same road to thesame destination. That equality in death consoles one for many unjustthings in life. To-morrow the bread will seem not so dear, the winebetter, the tools less heavy, when one can say to oneself on rising:"Well, that old Mora had to come to it like everybody else."
The procession dragged along, even more tiresome than lugubrious. Now itwas the choral societies, deputations from the Army and Navy, officersof all arms of the service, herded together in front of a long line ofempty carriages, mourning carriages, gentlemen's carriages, parading incompliance with etiquette; then came the troops in their turn, and Ruede la Roquette, that long street running through the filthy faubourg,already swarming with people as far as the eye could see, swallowed up awhole army, infantry, dragoons, lancers, carabineers, heavy guns withmuzzles in the air, all ready to bark, shaking pavements andwindow-panes, but unable to drown the rolling of the drums, a sinister,barbarous sound, which transported Felicia's imagination to theobsequies of African monarchs, where thousands of immolated victimsattend the soul of a prince so that it may not enter the kingdom ofspirits alone, and made her think that perhaps that ostentatious,interminable procession was about to descend and disappear in asupernatural grave vast enough to hold it all.
"Now, and in the hour of our death. Amen!" murmured La Crenmitz, whilethe cab rattled across the empty square, where Liberty, in solid gold,seemed to be taking a magic flight in space; and the old dancer's prayerwas perhaps the only sincere note of true emotion uttered throughout thevast space covered by the funeral.
* * * * *
All the discourses are at an end, three long discourses as cold as thecavern into which the dead man has descended, three official harangueswhich have afforded the orators an opportunity to proclaim in very loudtones their devotion to the interests of the dynasty. Fifteen times thecannon have awakened the numerous echoes of the cemetery, shaken thewreaths of jet and immortelles, the light _ex-votos_ hanging at thecorners of burial lots, and while a reddish cloud floats upward andrevolves amid the odor of powder across the city of the dead, minglinggradually with the smoke from the factories of the plebeian quarter, thecountless multitude also disperses, scattering through the slopingstreets, the long stairways gleaming white among the verdure, with aconfused murmur as of waves beating against the rocks. Purple robes,black robes, blue and green coats, gold ornaments, slender swords whichtheir wearers adjust while marching, return hastily to the carriages.Dignified salutations, meaning smiles are exchanged, while the mourningequipages rumble along the paths at a gallop, displaying lines ofblack-coated drivers, with rounded backs, hats _en bataille_, capesfloating in the wind caused by their swift pace.
The general feeling is one of relief at the close of a long andfatiguing exhibition, a legitimate eagerness to lay aside theadministrative harness, the ceremonious costumes, to loosen the belts,the high collars and the stocks, to relax the features which, no lessthan the bodies, have been wearing fetters.
Short and stout, dragging his bloated legs with difficulty, Hemerlinguehurried toward the exit, declining the offers that were made him of aseat in various carriages, knowing well that only his own was adapted tothe weight of his dropsical body.
"Baron, baron, this way. There's a seat for you."
"No, thanks. I am walking the numbness out of my legs."
And, in order to avoid these proposals, which at length annoyed him, hetook a cross-path that was almost deserted, too deserted in fact, for hehad hardly entered it when he regretted having done so. Ever since hehad entered the cemetery, he had had but one absorbing thought, the fearof coming face to face with Jansoulet, whose violent temper he knewwell, and who might forget the majesty of the spot and repeat thescandalous scene of Rue Royale in Pere-Lachaise. Two or three timesduring the ceremony he had seen his former partner's great head emergefrom the mass of colorless types of which the attendant throng waslargely composed, and move toward him, evidently seeking him, actuatedby a desire for a meeting. In the main avenue yonder there would bepeople at hand in case of accident, while here--_Brr!_ It was thatanxiety which caused him to force his short steps, his panting breath;but in vain. As he turned in his fear of being followed, the Nabob'stall form and broad shoulders appeared at the entrance of the path. Itwas impossible for the bulky creature to walk in the narrow spacebetween the tombs, which were packed so closely that there was hardlyroom to kneel. The rich, rain-soaked earth slipped and gave way underhis feet. He adopted the plan of walking on with an indifferent air,hoping that the other would not recognize him. But a hoarse, powerfulvoice behind him called:
"Lazare!"
The capitalist's name was Lazare. He made no reply but tried to overtakea group of officers who were walking a long way in front of him.
"Lazare! O Lazare!"
Just as in the old days on the quay at Marseille. He was tempted tohalt, under the influence of an old habit, but the thought of hisinfamous conduct, of all the injury he had inflicted on the Nabob andwas still attempting to inflict on him, suddenly came to his mind with ahorrible fear, amounting to frenzy, when a hand of iron brought himabruptly to a standstill. The sweat of cowardice drenched his limp andnerveless limbs, his face turned still yellower, his eyes winked inanticipation of the terrible blow he expected to receive, while hisgreat arms were raised instinctively to ward it off.
"Oh! don't be afraid. I have no evil designs on you," said Jansouletsadly. "I come simply to ask you to cease your designs on me."
"'_Don't be afraid. I have no evil designs on you._'"]
He paused to take breath. The banker, stupefied and dismayed, opened hisround owl's eyes to their fullest extent in face of that suffocatingemotion.
"Listen, Lazare, you are the stronger in this war we have been carryingon so long. I am on the ground at your feet. My shoulders have touched.Now be generous, spare your old chum. Have mercy on me, I say, havemercy on me."
That Southerner, subdued and softened by the pomp of the funeralceremony, trembled in every limb. Hemerlingue, facing him, was hardlymore courageous. The dismal music, the open tomb, the orations, thecannonading, and the lofty philosophy of inevitable death, all hadcombined to move the stout baron to the depths of his being. His formercomrade's voice completed the awakening of such human qualities as stillremained in that bundle of gelatine.
His old chum! It was the first time in ten years, since their fallingout, that he had seen him at such close quarters. How many things thoseswarthy features, those powerful shoulders i
ll-suited to anembroidered coat, recalled to his mind! The thin woollen blanket, fullof holes, in which they both rolled themselves up to sleep on the deckof the _Sinai_, the rations fraternally shared, the long walks throughthe scorched country about Marseille, where they stole great onions andate them on the bank of a ditch, the dreams, the projects, the sous putinto the common purse, and, when fortune began to smile on them, theantics they played together, the dainty little suppers at which theytold each other everything, with their elbows on the table.
How can two people ever fall out when they know each other so well, whenthey have lived like twins clinging to a thin, strong nurse, poverty,sharing her soured milk and her rough caresses! Such thoughts, long toanalyze, passed through Hemerlingue's mind like a flash of lightning.Almost instinctively he let his heavy hand fall into the hand the Nabobheld out to him. Something of the animal nature stirred in them both,stronger than their antipathy, and those two men, who had been tryingfor ten years to ruin and dishonor each other, began to talk togetherheart to heart.
Generally, when friends meet after a long separation, the first effusivegreetings at an end, they remain silent as if they had nothing to telleach other, whereas it is the very abundance of things, theirprecipitate struggle for utterance that prevents their coming forth. Thetwo former partners had reached that stage; but Jansoulet held thebanker's arm very tight, fearing that he might escape him, might resistthe kindly impulses that he had aroused in him.
"You are in no hurry, are you? We might walk a moment or two if youchoose. It has stopped raining, it will do us good--we shall be twentyyears younger."
"Yes, it's a pleasant thing," said Hemerlingue; "but I can't walk long,my legs are heavy."
"True, your poor legs. See, there's a bench yonder. Let's go and sitdown. Lean on me, old fellow."
And the Nabob, with brotherly solicitude, led him to one of the benchesplaced at intervals against the tombs, for the convenience of thoseinconsolable mourners who make the cemetery their usual resort. Hearranged him comfortably, encompassed him with a protecting glance,sympathized with him in his infirmity, and, the conversation following acourse very natural in such a place, they talked of their health, of theapproach of old age. One was dropsical, the other subject to rushes ofblood to the head. Both were taking the Jenkins Pearls,--a dangerousremedy, witness Mora's sudden taking off.
"Poor duke!" said Jansoulet.
"A great loss to the country," rejoined the banker, in a grief-strickentone.
Whereupon the Nabob ingenuously exclaimed:
"To me, above all others to me, for if he had lived--Ah! you have allthe luck, you have all the luck! And then, you know, you are so strong,so very strong," he added, fearing that he had wounded him.
The baron looked at him and winked, so drolly that his little blacklashes disappeared in his yellow flesh.
"No," he said, "I'm not the strong one. It's Marie!"
"Marie?"
"Yes, the baroness. At the time of her baptism she dropped her old name,Yumina, for Marie. She's a real woman. She knows more about the bankthan I do, and about Paris and business generally. She manageseverything in the concern."
"You are very fortunate," sighed Jansoulet.
His melancholy was most eloquent touching Mademoiselle Afchin'sdeficiencies. After a pause the baron continued:
"Marie has a bitter grudge against you, you know. She won't like it whenshe knows that we have been talking together."
He contracted his heavy eyebrows as if he regretted the reconciliationat the thought of the conjugal scene it would bring upon him.
"But I have never done anything to her," stammered Jansoulet.
"Ah! but you haven't been very polite to her, you know. Think of theinsult put upon her at the time of our wedding-call. Your wife sendingword to us that she didn't receive former slaves! As if our friendshipshould not have been stronger than any prejudice. Women don't forgetsuch things."
"But I had nothing to do with it, old fellow. You know how proud thoseAfchins are."
He was not proud, poor man. His expression was so piteous, so imploringat sight of his friend's frowning brow, that the baron took pity on him.The cemetery had a decidedly softening effect on the baron!
"Listen, Bernard, there's only one thing that will do any good. If youwish that we should be friends as we used to be, that these handshakesthat we have exchanged should not be wasted, you must induce my wife tobe reconciled to you. Without that it's of no use. When MademoiselleAfchin shut her door in our faces, you let her do it, didn't you? It'sthe same with me; if Marie should say to me when I go home: 'I don'twant you to be friends,' all my protestations wouldn't prevent me fromthrowing you overboard. For there's no friendship that amounts toanything. The best thing in the world is to have peace in your ownhouse."
"But what am I to do, then?" queried the Nabob, in dismay.
"That's what I'm going to tell you. The baroness is at home everySaturday. Come with your wife and call on her day after to-morrow. Youwill find the best people in Paris at the house. Nothing will be saidabout the past. The ladies will talk dresses and bonnets, say what womensay to each other. And then it will be all settled. We shall be friendsagain as in the old days; and if you're in the hole, why, we'll pull youout."
"Do you think so? It's a fact that I am in very deep," said the other,shaking his head.
Once more Hemerlingue's cunning eyes disappeared between his cheeks,like two flies in butter.
"_Dame!_ yes, I've played pretty close. You don't lack skill. Thatstroke of loaning fifteen millions to the bey was very shrewd. Ah!you're a cool one; but you don't hold your cards right. Others can seeyour hand."
Thus far they had spoken in undertones, as if awed by the silence of thegreat necropolis; but gradually selfish interests raised their tones,even amid the proofs of their nothingness displayed upon all those flatstones covered with dates and figures, as if death were simply a matterof time and reckoning, the desired solution of a problem.
Hemerlingue enjoyed seeing his friend so humble, he gave him adviceconcerning his business affairs, with which he seemed to be thoroughlyacquainted. According to his view, the Nabob could still get out of hisdifficulties in very good shape. Everything depended on the confirmationof his election, on having another card to play. Then it must be playedjudiciously. But Jansoulet had no confidence. In losing Mora he had losteverything.
"You have lost Mora, but you have found me. One's worth as much as theother," said the baron, calmly.
"But no, you see yourself it's impossible. It's too late. Le Merquierhas finished his report. It's a terrible report, so it seems."
"Very well! if he's finished his report, he must draw another, not sounfavorable."
"How can that be?"
The baron stared at him in amazement.
"Come, come, you're losing your hold! Why, by giving him one, two, threehundred thousand francs, if necessary."
"What do you mean? Le Merquier, that upright man--'My conscience,' as heis called."
At that, Hemerlingue fairly roared with laughter, which echoed among therecesses of the neighboring mausoleums, little wonted to such lack ofrespect.
"'My conscience,' 'an upright man,' Ah! you amuse me. Can it be that youdon't know that that conscience belongs to me, and that--"
He checked himself and looked behind, a little disturbed by a noise heheard.
"Listen."
It was the echo of his laughter, tossed back from the depths of a tomb,as if that idea of Le Merquier's conscience amused even the dead.
"Suppose we walk a little," he said, "it begins to feel cold on thisbench."
Thereupon, as they walked among the tombs, he explained to him with acertain pedantic conceit that in France bribes played as important apart as in the Orient. Only more ceremony was used here. "Take LeMerquier for instance. Instead of giving him your money outright in abig purse as you would do with a _seraskier_, you beat around the bush.The fellow likes pictures. He is always trading with Schwalb
ach, whouses him as a bait to catch Catholic customers. Very good! you offer hima picture, a souvenir to hang on a panel in his cabinet. It all dependson getting your money's worth. However, you shall see. I'll take you tohim myself. I'll show you how the thing is done."
And, delighted to observe the wonderment of the Nabob, who exaggeratedhis surprise in order to flatter him, and opened his eyes admiringly,the banker elaborated his lesson, delivering a veritable lecture uponParisian and worldly philosophy.
"You see, old fellow, the thing that you must be more careful about thananything else in Paris, is keeping up appearances! You have never givenenough attention to that. You go about with your waistcoat unbuttoned,hail fellow well met, telling your business to everybody, showingyourself just as you are. You act as if you were in Tunis, among thebazaars or the _souks_. That's how you got yourself into trouble, mygood Bernard."
He stopped to take breath, unable to go any farther. He had expendedmore steps and more words in an hour than he usually did in a year. Theynoticed then that chance had led them back, while they talked, towardsthe place of sepulture of the Moras, on the summit of an open plateaufrom which they could see, above myriads of crowded roofs, Montmartreand Les Buttes Chaumont in the distance like vague white billows. These,with the hill of Pere-Lachaise, accurately represented the threeundulations, following one another at equal intervals, of which eachforward impulse of the sea consists at flood tide. In the hollowsbetween, lights were already twinkling, like ship's lanterns, throughthe ascending purple haze; chimneys towered aloft like masts or funnelsof steamers belching forth smoke; and whirling it all about in itsundulating motion, the Parisian ocean seemed to be bringing it nearer tothe dark shore in successive series of three bounds, each time lessenergetic than the last. The sky had become much brighter, as it oftendoes toward the close of rainy days, a boundless sky, tinged with thehues of dawn, against which, upon the family tomb of the Moras, fourallegorical figures stood forth, imploring, contemplative, pensive, thedying day exaggerating the sublimity of their attitudes. Naught remainedof the orations, the perfunctory official condolences. The trampledgrass all around, masons occupied in washing the spots of plaster fromthe threshold, were all that recalled the recent interment.
Suddenly the door of the ducal cavern closed in all its metallicponderosity. Thenceforth the former minister of State was alone, quitealone, in the darkness of his night, more dense than that just creepingup from the garden below, invading the winding avenues, the stairwayssurrounding the bases of columns, pyramids, crypts of every kind, whosesummits died more slowly. Gravediggers, all white with the chalkywhiteness of dried bones, passed with their tools and their baskets.Stealthy mourners, tearing themselves away regretfully from tears andprayer, crept along the hedges, brushing them in their silent flight,like the flight of night-birds, while on the outskirts of Pere-Lachaisevoices arose, melancholy voices announcing the hour for closing. Thecemetery day was done. The city of the dead, given back to nature,became an immense forest with cross-roads marked by crosses. In theheart of a valley lights shone in the windows of a keeper's house. Ashiver ran through the air and lost itself in whisperings at the end ofinterlaced paths.
"Let us go," said the two old comrades, yielding gradually to theinfluence of the twilight, which seemed colder there than elsewhere;but, before they turned away, Hemerlingue, following out his thought,pointed to the monument, with the draperies and outstretched hands ofthe carved figures like wings at the four corners:
"There was a man who understood all about keeping up appearances."
Jansoulet took his arm to assist him in the descent.
"Oh! yes, he was strong. But you are stronger than anybody else," hesaid in his fervid Gascon accent.
Hemerlingue did not protest.
"I owe it all to my wife. So I urge you to make your peace with her,because if you don't--"
"Oh! never fear--we will come Saturday; but you will go with me to LeMerquier."
And as the two silhouettes, one tall and square-shouldered, the othershort and stout, disappeared in the windings of the great labyrinth, asJansoulet's voice, guiding his friend, with a "This way, oldfellow--lean on me," gradually died away, a stray beam of the settingsun fell upon the plateau behind them, and lighted the colossal bust ofBalzac looking after them with its expressive face, its noble brow fromwhich the long hair was brushed back, its powerful and sarcastic lip.