CHAPTER XXXV
FRATERNITY.
"Oubliez les Professeurs." So said Madame Beck. Madame Beck was a wisewoman, but she should not have uttered those words. To do so was amistake. That night she should have left me calm--not excited,indifferent, not interested, isolated in my own estimation and that ofothers--not connected, even in idea, with this second person whom I wasto forget.
Forget him? Ah! they took a sage plan to make me forget him--thewiseheads! They showed me how good he was; they made of my dear littleman a stainless little hero. And then they had prated about his mannerof loving. What means had I, before this day, of being certain whetherhe could love at all or not?
I had known him jealous, suspicious; I had seen about him certaintendernesses, fitfulnesses--a softness which came like a warm air, anda ruth which passed like early dew, dried in the heat of hisirritabilities: _this_ was all I had seen. And they, Pere Silas andModeste Maria Beck (that these two wrought in concert I could notdoubt) opened up the adytum of his heart--showed me one grand love, thechild of this southern nature's youth, born so strong and perfect, thatit had laughed at Death himself, despised his mean rape of matter,clung to immortal spirit, and in victory and faith, had watched besidea tomb twenty years.
This had been done--not idly: this was not a mere hollow indulgence ofsentiment; he had proven his fidelity by the consecration of his bestenergies to an unselfish purpose, and attested it by limitless personalsacrifices: for those once dear to her he prized--he had laid downvengeance, and taken up a cross.
Now, as for Justine Marie, I knew what she was as well as if I had seenher. I knew she was well enough; there were girls like her in MadameBeck's school--phlegmatics--pale, slow, inert, but kind-natured,neutral of evil, undistinguished for good.
If she wore angels' wings, I knew whose poet-fancy conferred them. Ifher forehead shone luminous with the reflex of a halo, I knew in thefire of whose irids that circlet of holy flame had generation.
Was I, then, to be frightened by Justine Marie? Was the picture of apale dead nun to rise, an eternal barrier? And what of the charitieswhich absorbed his worldly goods? What of his heart sworn to virginity?
Madame Beck--Pere Silas--you should not have suggested these questions.They were at once the deepest puzzle, the strongest obstruction, andthe keenest stimulus, I had ever felt. For a week of nights and days Ifell asleep--I dreamt, and I woke upon these two questions. In thewhole world there was no answer to them, except where one dark littleman stood, sat, walked, lectured, under the head-piece of a banditbonnet-grec, and within the girth of a sorry paletot, much be-inked,and no little adust.
After that visit to the Rue des Mages, I _did_ want to see him again. Ifelt as if--knowing what I now knew--his countenance would offer a pagemore lucid, more interesting than ever; I felt a longing to trace in itthe imprint of that primitive devotedness, the signs of thathalf-knightly, half-saintly chivalry which the priest's narrativeimputed to his nature. He had become my Christian hero: under thatcharacter I wanted to view him.
Nor was opportunity slow to favour; my new impressions underwent hertest the next day. Yes: I was granted an interview with my "Christianhero"--an interview not very heroic, or sentimental, or biblical, butlively enough in its way.
About three o'clock of the afternoon, the peace of the firstclasse--safely established, as it seemed, under the serene sway ofMadame Beck, who, _in propria persona_ was giving one of her orderlyand useful lessons--this peace, I say, suffered a sudden fracture bythe wild inburst of a paletot.
Nobody at the moment was quieter than myself. Eased of responsibilityby Madame Beck's presence, soothed by her uniform tones, pleased andedified with her clear exposition of the subject in hand (for shetaught well), I sat bent over my desk, drawing--that is, copying anelaborate line engraving, tediously working up my copy to the finish ofthe original, for that was my practical notion of art; and, strange tosay, I took extreme pleasure in the labour, and could even producecuriously finical Chinese facsimiles of steel or mezzotintplates--things about as valuable as so many achievements inworsted-work, but I thought pretty well of them in those days.
What was the matter? My drawing, my pencils, my precious copy, gatheredinto one crushed-up handful, perished from before my sight; I myselfappeared to be shaken or emptied out of my chair, as a solitary andwithered nutmeg might be emptied out of a spice-box by an excited cook.That chair and my desk, seized by the wild paletot, one under eachsleeve, were borne afar; in a second, I followed the furniture; in twominutes they and I were fixed in the centre of the grand salle--a vastadjoining room, seldom used save for dancing and choralsinging-lessons--fixed with an emphasis which seemed to prohibit theremotest hope of our ever being permitted to stir thence again.
Having partially collected my scared wits, I found myself in thepresence of two men, gentlemen, I suppose I should say--one dark, theother light--one having a stiff, half-military air, and wearing abraided surtout; the other partaking, in garb and bearing, more of thecareless aspect of the student or artist class: both flourishing infull magnificence of moustaches, whiskers, and imperial. M. Emanuelstood a little apart from these; his countenance and eyes expressedstrong choler; he held forth his hand with his tribune gesture.
"Mademoiselle," said he, "your business is to prove to these gentlementhat I am no liar. You will answer, to the best of your ability, suchquestions as they shall put. You will also write on such theme as theyshall select. In their eyes, it appears, I hold the position of anunprincipled impostor. I write essays; and, with deliberate forgery,sign to them my pupils' names, and boast of them as their work. Youwill disprove this charge."
Grand ciel! Here was the show-trial, so long evaded, come on me like athunder-clap. These two fine, braided, mustachioed, sneeringpersonages, were none other than dandy professors of thecollege--Messieurs Boissec and Rochemorte--a pair of cold-blooded fopsand pedants, sceptics, and scoffers. It seems that M. Paul had beenrashly exhibiting something I had written--something, he had never oncepraised, or even mentioned, in my hearing, and which I deemedforgotten. The essay was not remarkable at all; it only _seemed_remarkable, compared with the average productions of foreignschool-girls; in an English establishment it would have passed scarcenoticed. Messieurs Boissec and Rochemorte had thought proper toquestion its genuineness, and insinuate a cheat; I was now to bear mytestimony to the truth, and to be put to the torture of theirexamination.
A memorable scene ensued.
They began with classics. A dead blank. They went on to French history.I hardly knew Merovee from Pharamond. They tried me in various'ologies, and still only got a shake of the head, and an unchanging "Jen'en sais rien."
After an expressive pause, they proceeded to matters of generalinformation, broaching one or two subjects which I knew pretty well,and on which I had often reflected. M. Emanuel, who had hitherto stoodlooking on, dark as the winter-solstice, brightened up somewhat; hethought I should now show myself at least no fool.
He learned his error. Though answers to the questions surged up fast,my mind filling like a rising well, ideas were there, but not words. Ieither _could_ not, or _would_ not speak--I am not sure which: partly,I think, my nerves had got wrong, and partly my humour was crossed.
I heard one of my examiners--he of the braided surtout--whisper to hisco-professor, "Est-elle donc idiote?"
"Yes," I thought, "an idiot she is, and always will be, for such asyou."
But I suffered--suffered cruelly; I saw the damps gather on M. Paul'sbrow, and his eye spoke a passionate yet sad reproach. He would notbelieve in my total lack of popular cleverness; he thought I _could_ beprompt if I _would_.
At last, to relieve him, the professors, and myself, I stammered out:
"Gentlemen, you had better let me go; you will get no good of me; asyou say, I am an idiot."
I wish I could have spoken with calm and dignity, or I wish my sensehad sufficed to make me hold my tongue; that traitor tongue tripped,faltered. Beholding the judges cast on
M. Emanuel a hard look oftriumph, and hearing the distressed tremor of my own voice, out I burstin a fit of choking tears. The emotion was far more of anger thangrief; had I been a man and strong, I could have challenged that pairon the spot--but it _was_ emotion, and I would rather have beenscourged than betrayed it.
The incapables! Could they not see at once the crude hand of a novicein that composition they called a forgery? The subject was classical.When M. Paul dictated the trait on which the essay was to turn, I heardit for the first time; the matter was new to me, and I had no materialfor its treatment. But I got books, read up the facts, laboriouslyconstructed a skeleton out of the dry bones of the real, and thenclothed them, and tried to breathe into them life, and in this last aimI had pleasure. With me it was a difficult and anxious time till myfacts were found, selected, and properly jointed; nor could I rest fromresearch and effort till I was satisfied of correct anatomy; thestrength of my inward repugnance to the idea of flaw or falsitysometimes enabled me to shun egregious blunders; but the knowledge wasnot there in my head, ready and mellow; it had not been sown in Spring,grown in Summer, harvested in Autumn, and garnered through Winter;whatever I wanted I must go out and gather fresh; glean of wild herbsmy lapful, and shred them green into the pot. Messieurs Boissec andRochemorte did not perceive this. They mistook my work for the work ofa ripe scholar.
They would not yet let me go: I must sit down and write before them. AsI dipped my pen in the ink with a shaking hand, and surveyed the whitepaper with eyes half-blinded and overflowing, one of my judges beganmincingly to apologize for the pain he caused.
"Nous agissons dans l'interet de la verite. Nous ne voulons pas vousblesser," said he.
Scorn gave me nerve. I only answered,--
"Dictate, Monsieur."
Rochemorte named this theme: "Human Justice."
Human Justice! What was I to make of it? Blank, cold abstraction,unsuggestive to me of one inspiring idea; and there stood M. Emanuel,sad as Saul, and stern as Joab, and there triumphed his accusers.
At these two I looked. I was gathering my courage to tell them that Iwould neither write nor speak another word for their satisfaction, thattheir theme did not suit, nor their presence inspire me, and that,notwithstanding, whoever threw the shadow of a doubt on M. Emanuel'shonour, outraged that truth of which they had announced themselvesthe--champions: I _meant_ to utter all this, I say, when suddenly, alight darted on memory.
Those two faces looking out of the forest of long hair, moustache, andwhisker--those two cold yet bold, trustless yet presumptuousvisages--were the same faces, the very same that, projected in fullgaslight from behind the pillars of a portico, had half frightened meto death on the night of my desolate arrival in Villette. These, I feltmorally certain, were the very heroes who had driven a friendlessforeigner beyond her reckoning and her strength, chased her breathlessover a whole quarter of the town.
"Pious mentors!" thought I. "Pure guides for youth! If Human Justice'were what she ought to be, you two would scarce hold your present post,or enjoy your present credit."
An idea once seized, I fell to work. "Human Justice" rushed before mein novel guise, a red, random beldame, with arms akimbo. I saw her inher house, the den of confusion: servants called to her for orders orhelp which she did not give; beggars stood at her door waiting andstarving unnoticed; a swarm of children, sick and quarrelsome, crawledround her feet, and yelled in her ears appeals for notice, sympathy,cure, redress. The honest woman cared for none of these things. She hada warm seat of her own by the fire, she had her own solace in a shortblack pipe, and a bottle of Mrs. Sweeny's soothing syrup; she smokedand she sipped, and she enjoyed her paradise; and whenever a cry of thesuffering souls about her pierced her ears too keenly--my jolly dameseized the poker or the hearth-brush: if the offender was weak,wronged, and sickly, she effectually settled him: if he was strong,lively, and violent, she only menaced, then plunged her hand in herdeep pouch, and flung a liberal shower of sugar-plums.
Such was the sketch of "Human Justice," scratched hurriedly on paper,and placed at the service of Messrs. Boissec and Rochemorte. M. Emanuelread it over my shoulder. Waiting no comment, I curtsied to the trio,and withdrew.
After school that day, M. Paul and I again met. Of course the meetingdid not at first run smooth; there was a crow to pluck with him; thatforced examination could not be immediately digested. A crabbeddialogue terminated in my being called "une petite moqueuse etsans-coeur," and in Monsieur's temporary departure.
Not wishing him to go quite away, only desiring he should feel thatsuch a transport as he had that day given way to, could not be indulgedwith perfect impunity, I was not sorry to see him, soon after,gardening in the berceau. He approached the glass door; I drew nearalso. We spoke of some flowers growing round it. By-and-by Monsieurlaid down his spade; by-and-by he recommenced conversation, passed toother subjects, and at last touched a point of interest.
Conscious that his proceeding of that day was specially open to acharge of extravagance, M. Paul half apologized; he half regretted,too, the fitfulness of his moods at all times, yet he hinted that someallowance ought to be made for him. "But," said he, "I can hardlyexpect it at your hands, Miss Lucy; you know neither me, nor myposition, nor my history."
His history. I took up the word at once; I pursued the idea.
"No, Monsieur," I rejoined. "Of course, as you say, I know neither yourhistory, nor your position, nor your sacrifices, nor any of yoursorrows, or trials, or affections, or fidelities. Oh, no! I knownothing about you; you are for me altogether a stranger."
"Hein?" he murmured, arching his brows in surprise.
"You know, Monsieur, I only see you in classe--stern, dogmatic, hasty,imperious. I only hear of you in town as active and wilful, quick tooriginate, hasty to lead, but slow to persuade, and hard to bend. A manlike you, without ties, can have no attachments; without dependants, noduties. All we, with whom you come in contact, are machines, which youthrust here and there, inconsiderate of their feelings. You seek yourrecreations in public, by the light of the evening chandelier: thisschool and yonder college are your workshops, where you fabricate theware called pupils. I don't so much as know where you live; it isnatural to take it for granted that you have no home, and need none."
"I am judged," said he. "Your opinion of me is just what I thought itwas. For you I am neither a man nor a Christian. You see me void ofaffection and religion, unattached by friend or family, unpiloted byprinciple or faith. It is well, Mademoiselle; such is our reward inthis life."
"You are a philosopher, Monsieur; a cynic philosopher" (and I looked athis paletot, of which he straightway brushed the dim sleeve with hishand), "despising the foibles of humanity--above itsluxuries--independent of its comforts."
"Et vous, Mademoiselle? vous etes proprette et douillette, etaffreusement insensible, par-dessus le marche."
"But, in short, Monsieur, now I think of it, you _must_ live somewhere?Do tell me where; and what establishment of servants do you keep?"
With a fearful projection of the under-lip, implying an impetus ofscorn the most decided, he broke out--
"Je vis dans un trou! I inhabit a den, Miss--a cavern, where you wouldnot put your dainty nose. Once, with base shame of speaking the wholetruth, I talked about my 'study' in that college: know now that this'study' is my whole abode; my chamber is there and my drawing-room. Asfor my 'establishment of servants'" (mimicking my voice) "they numberten; les voila."
And he grimly spread, close under my eyes, his ten fingers.
"I black my boots," pursued he savagely. "I brush my paletot."
"No, Monsieur, it is too plain; you never do that," was my parenthesis.
"Je fais mon lit et mon menage; I seek my dinner in a restaurant; mysupper takes care, of itself; I pass days laborious and loveless;nights long and lonely; I am ferocious, and bearded and monkish; andnothing now living in this world loves me, except some old hearts wornlike my own, and some few beings, impoverished, suffering, poor inpurse an
d in spirit, whom the kingdoms of this world own not, but towhom a will and testament not to be disputed has bequeathed the kingdomof heaven."
"Ah, Monsieur; but I know!"
"What do you know? many things, I verily believe; yet not me, Lucy!"
"I know that you have a pleasant old house in a pleasant old square ofthe Basse-Ville--why don't you go and live there?"
"Hein?" muttered he again.
"I liked it much, Monsieur; with the steps ascending to the door, thegrey flags in front, the nodding trees behind--real trees, notshrubs--trees dark, high, and of old growth. And theboudoir-oratoire--you should make that room your study; it is so quietand solemn."
He eyed me closely; he half-smiled, half-coloured. "Where did you pickup all that? Who told you?" he asked.
"Nobody told me. Did I dream it, Monsieur, do you think?"
"Can I enter into your visions? Can I guess a woman's waking thoughts,much less her sleeping fantasies?"
"If I dreamt it, I saw in my dream human beings as well as a house. Isaw a priest, old, bent, and grey, and a domestic--old, too, andpicturesque; and a lady, splendid but strange; her head would scarcereach to my elbow--her magnificence might ransom a duke. She wore agown bright as lapis-lazuli--a shawl worth a thousand francs: she wasdecked with ornaments so brilliant, I never saw any with such abeautiful sparkle; but her figure looked as if it had been broken intwo and bent double; she seemed also to have outlived the common yearsof humanity, and to have attained those which are only labour andsorrow. She was become morose--almost malevolent; yet _somebody_, itappears, cared for her in her infirmities--somebody forgave hertrespasses, hoping to have his trespasses forgiven. They livedtogether, these three people--the mistress, the chaplain, theservant--all old, all feeble, all sheltered under one kind wing."
He covered with his hand the upper part of his face, but did notconceal his mouth, where I saw hovering an expression I liked.
"I see you have entered into my secrets," said he, "but how was itdone?"
So I told him how--the commission on which I had been sent, the stormwhich had detained me, the abruptness of the lady, the kindness of thepriest.
"As I sat waiting for the rain to cease, Pere Silas whiled away thetime with a story," I said.
"A story! What story? Pere Silas is no romancist."
"Shall I tell Monsieur the tale?"
"Yes: begin at the beginning. Let me hear some of Miss Lucy'sFrench--her best or her worst--I don't much care which: let us have agood poignee of barbarisms, and a bounteous dose of the insular accent."
"Monsieur is not going to be gratified by a tale of ambitiousproportions, and the spectacle of the narrator sticking fast in themidst. But I will tell him the title--the 'Priest's Pupil.'"
"Bah!" said he, the swarthy flush again dyeing his dark cheek. "Thegood old father could not have chosen a worse subject; it is his weakpoint. But what of the 'Priest's Pupil?'"
"Oh! many things."
"You may as well define _what_ things. I mean to know."
"There was the pupil's youth, the pupil's manhood;--his avarice, hisingratitude, his implacability, his inconstancy. Such a bad pupil,Monsieur!--so thankless, cold-hearted, unchivalrous, unforgiving!
"Et puis?" said he, taking a cigar.
"Et puis," I pursued, "he underwent calamities which one did notpity--bore them in a spirit one did not admire--endured wrongs forwhich one felt no sympathy; finally took the unchristian revenge ofheaping coals of fire on his adversary's head."
"You have not told me all," said he.
"Nearly all, I think: I have indicated the heads of Pere Silas'schapters."
"You have forgotten one--that which touched on the pupil's lack ofaffection--on his hard, cold, monkish heart."
"True; I remember now. Pere Silas _did_ say that his vocation wasalmost that of a priest--that his life was considered consecrated."
"By what bonds or duties?"
"By the ties of the past and the charities of the present."
"You have, then, the whole situation?"
"I have now told Monsieur all that was told me."
Some meditative minutes passed.
"Now, Mademoiselle Lucy, look at me, and with that truth which Ibelieve you never knowingly violate, answer me one question. Raise youreyes; rest them on mine; have no hesitation; fear not to trust me--I ama man to be trusted."
I raised my eyes.
"Knowing me thoroughly now--all my antecedents, all myresponsibilities--having long known my faults, can you and I still befriends?"
"If Monsieur wants a friend in me, I shall be glad to have a friend inhim."
"But a close friend I mean--intimate and real--kindred in all butblood. Will Miss Lucy be the sister of a very poor, fettered, burdened,encumbered man?"
I could not answer him in words, yet I suppose I _did_ answer him; hetook my hand, which found comfort, in the shelter of his. _His_friendship was not a doubtful, wavering benefit--a cold, distanthope--a sentiment so brittle as not to bear the weight of a finger: Iat once felt (or _thought_ I felt) its support like that of some rock.
"When I talk of friendship, I mean _true_ friendship," he repeatedemphatically; and I could hardly believe that words so earnest hadblessed my ear; I hardly could credit the reality of that kind, anxiouslook he gave. If he _really_ wished for my confidence and regard, and_really_ would give me his--why, it seemed to me that life could offernothing more or better. In that case, I was become strong and rich: ina moment I was made substantially happy. To ascertain the fact, to fixand seal it, I asked--
"Is Monsieur quite serious? Does he really think he needs me, and cantake an interest in me as a sister?"
"Surely, surely," said he; "a lonely man like me, who has no sister,must be but too glad to find in some woman's heart a sister's pureaffection."
"And dare I rely on Monsieur's regard? Dare I speak to him when I am soinclined?"
"My little sister must make her own experiments," said he; "I will giveno promises. She must tease and try her wayward brother till she hasdrilled him into what she wishes. After all, he is no inductilematerial in some hands."
While he spoke, the tone of his voice, the light of his nowaffectionate eye, gave me such a pleasure as, certainly, I had neverfelt. I envied no girl her lover, no bride her bridegroom, no wife herhusband; I was content with this my voluntary, self-offering friend. Ifhe would but prove reliable, and he _looked_ reliable, what, beyond hisfriendship, could I ever covet? But, if all melted like a dream, asonce before had happened--?
"Qu'est-ce donc? What is it?" said he, as this thought threw its weighton my heart, its shadow on my countenance. I told him; and after amoment's pause, and a thoughtful smile, he showed me how an equalfear--lest I should weary of him, a man of moods so difficult andfitful--had haunted his mind for more than one day, or one month.
On hearing this, a quiet courage cheered me. I ventured a word ofre-assurance. That word was not only tolerated; its repetition wascourted. I grew quite happy--strangely happy--in making him secure,content, tranquil. Yesterday, I could not have believed that earthheld, or life afforded, moments like the few I was now passing.Countless times it had been my lot to watch apprehended sorrow closedarkly in; but to see unhoped-for happiness take form, find place, andgrow more real as the seconds sped, was indeed a new experience.
"Lucy," said M. Paul, speaking low, and still holding my hand, "did yousee a picture in the boudoir of the old house?"
"I did; a picture painted on a panel."
"The portrait of a nun?"
"Yes."
"You heard her history?"
"Yes."
"You remember what we saw that night in the berceau?"
"I shall never forget it."
"You did not connect the two ideas; that would be folly?"
"I thought of the apparition when I saw the portrait," said I; whichwas true enough.
"You did not, nor will you fancy," pursued he, "that a saint in heavenperturbs herself with rivalri
es of earth? Protestants are rarelysuperstitious; these morbid fancies will not beset _you?_"
"I know not what to think of this matter; but I believe a perfectlynatural solution of this seeming mystery will one day be arrived at."
"Doubtless, doubtless. Besides, no good-living woman--much less a pure,happy spirit--would trouble amity like ours n'est-il pas vrai?"
Ere I could answer, Fifine Beck burst in, rosy and abrupt, calling outthat I was wanted. Her mother was going into town to call on someEnglish family, who had applied for a prospectus: my services wereneeded as interpreter. The interruption was not unseasonable:sufficient for the day is always the evil; for this hour, its goodsufficed. Yet I should have liked to ask M. Paul whether the "morbidfancies," against which he warned me, wrought in his own brain.