Kitabı oku: «The Parisians — Complete», sayfa 47
CHAPTER XIII
It is now the middle of November-a Sunday. The day has been mild, and is drawing towards its close. The Parisians have been enjoying the sunshine. Under the leafless trees in the public gardens and the Champs Elysees children have been at play. On the Boulevards the old elegance of gaiety is succeeded by a livelier animation. Itinerant musicians gather round them ragged groups. Fortune-tellers are in great request, especially among the once brilliant Laises and Thaises, now looking more shabby, to whom they predict the speedy restoration of Nabobs and Russians, and golden joys. Yonder Punch is achieving a victory over the Evil One, who wears the Prussian spiked helmet, and whose face has been recently beautified into a resemblance to Bismarck. Punch draws to his show a laughing audience of Moblots and recruits to the new companies of the National Guard. Members of the once formidable police, now threadbare and hunger-pinched, stand side by side with unfortunate beggars and sinister-looking patriots who have served their time in the jails or galleys.
Uniforms of all variety are conspicuous—the only evidence visible of an enemy at the walls. But the aspects of the wearers of warlike accoutrements are debonnaire and smiling, as of revellers on a holiday of peace. Among these defenders of their country, at the door of a crowded cafe, stands Frederic Lemercier, superb in the costume, bran-new, of a National Guard,—his dog Fox tranquilly reposing on its haunches, with eyes fixed upon its fellow-dog philosophically musing on the edge of Punch’s show, whose master is engaged in the conquest of the Bismarck fiend.
“Lemercier,” cried the Vicomte de Breze, approaching the cafe, “I scarcely recognise you in that martial guise. You look magnifique—the galons become you. Peste! an officer already?”
“The National Guards and Mobiles are permitted to choose their own officers, as you are aware. I have been elected, but to subaltern grade, by the warlike patriots of my department. Enguerrand de Vandemar is elected a captain of the Mobiles in his, and Victor de Mauleon is appointed to the command of a battalion of the National Guards. But I soar above jealousy at such a moment,—
“‘Rome a choisi mon bras; je n’examine rien.’”
“You have no right to be jealous. De Mauldon has had experience and won distinction in actual service, and from all I hear is doing wonders with his men—has got them not only to keep but to love drill. I heard no less an authority than General V—— say that if all the officers of the National Guard were like De Mauleon, that body would give an example of discipline to the line.”
“I say nothing as to the promotion of a real soldier like the Vicomte—but a Parisian dandy like Euguerrand de Vande—”
“You forget that Enguerrand received a military education—an advantage denied to you.”
“What does that matter? Who cares for education nowadays? Besides, have I not been training ever since the 4th of September, to say nothing of the hard work on the ramparts?”
“Parlez moi de cela it is indeed hard work on the ramparts. Infandum dolorem quorum pars magna fui. Take the day duty. What with rising at seven o’clock, and being drilled between a middle-aged and corpulent grocer on one side and a meagre beardless barber’s apprentice on the other; what with going to the bastions at eleven, and seeing half one’s companions drunk before twelve; what with trying to keep their fists off one’s face when one politely asks them not to call one’s general a traitor or a poltroon,—the work of the ramparts would be insupportable, if I did not take a pack of cards with me, and enjoy a quiet rubber with three other heroes in some sequestered corner. As for night work, nothing short of the indomitable fortitude of a Parisian could sustain it; the tents made expressly not to be waterproof, like the groves of the Muses,
“’ per
Quos et aquea subeant et aurae.’
A fellow-companion of mine tucks himself up on my rug, and pillows his head on my knapsack. I remonstrate—he swears—the other heroes wake up and threaten to thrash us both; and just when peace is made, and one hopes for a wink of sleep, a detachment of spectators, chiefly gamins, coming to see that all is safe in the camp, strike up the Marseillaise. Ah, the world will ring to the end of time with the sublime attitude of Paris in the face of the Vandal invaders, especially when it learns that the very shoes we stand in are made of cardboard. In vain we complain. The contractor for shoes is a staunch Republican, and jobs by right divine. May I ask if you have dined yet?”
“Heavens! no, it is too early. But I am excessively hungry. I had only a quarter of jugged cat for breakfast, and the brute was tough. In reply to your question, may I put another—Did you lay in plenty of stores?”
“Stores? no; I am a bachelor, and rely on the stores of my married friends.”
“Poor De Breze! I sympathise with you, for I am in the same boat, and dinner invitations have become monstrous rare.”
“Oh, but you are so confoundedly rich! What to you are forty francs for a rabbit, or eighty francs for a turkey?”
“Well, I suppose I am rich, but I have no money, and the ungrateful restaurants will not give me credit. They don’t believe in better days.”
“How can you want money?”
“Very naturally. I had invested my capital famously-the best speculations—partly in house rents, partly in company shares; and houses pay no rents, and nobody will buy company shares. I had 1,000 napoleons on hand, it is true, when Duplessis left Paris—much more, I thought, than I could possibly need, for I never believed in the siege. But during the first few weeks I played at whist with bad luck, and since then so many old friends have borrowed of me that I doubt if I have 200 francs left. I have despatched four letters to Duplessis by pigeon and balloon, entreating him to send me 25,000 francs by some trusty fellow who will pierce the Prussian lines. I have had two answers: 1st, that he will find a man; 2nd, that the man is found and on his way. Trust to that man, my dear friend, and meanwhile lend me 200 francs.”
“Mon cher, desole to refuse; but I was about to ask you to share your 200 francs with me who live chiefly by my pen; and that resource is cut off. Still, il faut vivre—one must dine.”
“That is a fact, and we will dine together to-day at my expense; limited liability, though—eight francs a head.”
“Generous Monsieur, I accept. Meanwhile let us take a turn towards the Madeleine.”
The two Parisians quit the cafe, and proceed up the Boulevard. On their way they encounter Savarin. “Why,” said De Breze, “I thought you had left Paris with Madame.”
“So I did, and deposited her safely with the Morleys at Boulogne. These kind Americans were going to England, and they took her with them. But I quit Paris! No: I am old; I am growing obese. I have always been short-sighted. I can neither wield a sword nor handle a musket. But Paris needs defenders; and every moment I was away from her I sighed to myself, ‘il faut etre la!’ I returned before the Vandals had possessed themselves of our railways, the convoi overcrowded with men like myself, who had removed wives and families; and when we asked each other why we went back, every answer was the same, ‘il faut etre la.’ No, poor child, no—I have nothing to give you.”
These last words were addressed to a woman young and handsome, with a dress that a few weeks ago might have been admired for taste and elegance by the lady leaders of the ton, but was now darned, and dirty, and draggled.
“Monsieur, I did not stop you to ask for alms. You do not seem to remember me, M. Savarin.”
“But I do,” said Lemercier, “surely I address Mademoiselle Julie Caumartin.”
“Ah, excuse me, le petit Frederic,” said Julie with a sickly attempt at coquettish sprightliness; “I had no eyes except for M. Savarin.”
“And why only for me, my poor child?” asked the kindhearted author.
“Hush!” She drew him aside. “Because you can give me news of that monster Gustave. It is not true, it cannot be true, that he is going to be married?”
“Nay, surely, Mademoiselle, all connection between you and young Rameau has ceased for months—ceased from the date of that illness in July which nearly carried him off.”
“I resigned him to the care of his mother,” said the girl; “but when he no longer needs a mother, he belongs to me. Oh, consider, M. Savarin, for his sake I refused the most splendid offers! When he sought me, I had my coupe, my opera-box, my cachemires, my jewels. The Russians—the English—vied for my smiles. But I loved the man. I never loved before: I shall never love again; and after the sacrifices I have made for him, nothing shall induce me to give him up. Tell me, I entreat, my dear M. Savarin, where he is hiding. He has left the parental roof, and they refused there to give me his address.”
“My poor girl, don’t be mechante. It is quite true that Gustave Rameau is engaged to be married; and any attempt of yours to create scandal—”
“Monsieur,” interrupted Julie, vehemently, “don’t talk to me about scandal! The man is mine, and no one else shall have him. His address?”
“Mademoiselle,” cried Savarin, angrily, “find it out for yourself.” Then—repentant of rudeness to one so young and so desolate—he added, in mild expostulatory accents: “Come, come, ma belle enfant, be reasonable: Gustave is no loss. He is reduced to poverty.”
“So much the better. When he was well off I never cost him more than a supper at the Maison Doree; and if he is poor he shall marry me, and I will support him!”
“You!—and how?”
“By my profession when peace comes; and meanwhile I have offers from a cafe to recite warlike songs. Ah! you shake your head incredulously. The ballet-dancer recite verses? Yes! he taught me to recite his own Soyez bon pour moi. M. Savarin! do say where I can find mon homme.”
“No.”
“That is your last word?”
“It is.”
The girl drew her thin shawl round her and hurried off. Savarin rejoined his friends. “Is that the way you console yourself for the absence of Madame?” asked De Breze, drily.
“Fie!” cried Savarin, indignantly; “such bad jokes are ill-timed. What strange mixtures of good and bad, of noble and base, every stratum of Paris life contains! There is that poor girl, in one way contemptible, no doubt, and yet in another way she has an element of grandeur. On the whole, at Paris, the women, with all their faults, are of finer mould than the men.”
“French gallantry has always admitted that truth,” said Lemercier. “Fox, Fox, Fox.” Uttering this cry, he darted forward after the dog, who had strayed a few yards to salute another dog led by a string, and caught the animal in his arms. “Pardon me,” he exclaimed, returning to his friends, “but there are so many snares for dogs at present. They are just coming into fashion for roasts, and Fox is so plump.”
“I thought,” said Savarin, “that it was resolved at all the sporting clubs that, be the pinch of famine ever so keen, the friend of man should not be eaten.”
“That was while the beef lasted; but since we have come to cats, who shall predict immunity to dogs? Quid intactum nefasti linquimus? Nothing is sacred from the hand of rapine.”
The church of the Madeleine now stood before them. Moblots were playing pitch-and-toss on its steps.
“I don’t wish you to accompany me, Messieurs,” said Lemercier, apologetically, “but I am going to enter the church.”
“To pray?” asked De Breze, in profound astonishment. “Not exactly; but I want to speak to my friend Rochebriant, and I know I shall find him there.”
“Praying?” again asked De Breze.
“Yes.”
“That is curious—a young Parisian exquisite at prayer—that is worth seeing. Let us enter, too, Savarin.”
They enter the church. It is filled, and even the sceptical De Breze is impressed and awed by the sight. An intense fervour pervades the congregation. The majority, it is true, are women, many of them in deep mourning, and many of their faces mourning deeper than the dress. Everywhere may be seen gushing tears, and everywhere faintly heard the sound of stifled sighs. Besides the women are men of all ages—young, middle-aged, old, with heads bowed and hands clasped, pale, grave, and earnest. Most of them were evidently of the superior grade of life—nobles, and the higher bourgeoisie: few of the ouvrier class, very few, and these were of an earlier generation. I except soldiers, of whom there were many, from the provincial Mobiles, chiefly Bretons; you know the Breton soldiers by the little cross worn on their kepis.
Among them Lemercier at once distinguished the noble countenance of Alain de Rochebriant. De Breze and Savarin looked at each other with solemn eyes. I know not when either had last been within a church; perhaps both were startled to find that religion still existed in Paris—and largely exist it does, though little seen on the surface of society, little to be estimated by the articles of journals and the reports of foreigners. Unhappily, those among whom it exists are not the ruling class—are of the classes that are dominated over and obscured in every country the moment the populace becomes master. And at that moment the journals chiefly read were warring more against the Deity than the Prussians—were denouncing soldiers who attended mass. “The Gospel certainly makes a bad soldier,” writes the patriot Pyat.
Lemercier knelt down quietly. The other two men crept noiselessly out, and stood waiting for him on the steps, watching the Moblots (Parisian Moblots) at play.
“I should not wait for the roturier if he had not promised me a roti,” said the Vicomte de Breze, with a pitiful attempt at the patrician wit of the ancien regime.
Savarin shrugged his shoulders. “I am not included in the invitation,” said he, “and therefore free to depart. I must go and look up a former confrere who was an enthusiastic Red Republican, and I fear does not get so much to eat since he has no longer an Emperor to abuse.”
So Savarin went away. A few minutes afterwards Lemercier emerged from the church with Alain.
CHAPTER XIV
“I knew I should find you in the Madeleine,” said Lemercier, “and I wished much to know when you had news from Duplessis. He and your fair fiancee are with your aunt still staying at Rochebriant?”
“Certainly. A pigeon arrived this morning with a few lines. All well there.”
“And Duplessis thinks, despite the war, that he shall be able, when the time comes, to pay Louvier the mortgage-sum?”
“He never doubts that. His credit in London is so good. But of course all works of improvement are stopped.”
“Pray did he mention me?—anything about the messenger who was to pierce the Prussian lines?”
“What! has the man not arrived? It is two weeks since he left.”
“The Uhlans have no doubt shot him—the assassins, and drunk up my 25,000 francs—the thieves.”
“I hope not. But in case of delay, Duplessis tells me I am to remit to you 2,000 francs for your present wants. I will send them to you this evening.”
“How the deuce do you possess such a sum?”
“I came from Brittany with a purse well filled. Of course I could have no scruples in accepting money from my destined father-in-law.”
“And you can spare this sum?”
“Certainly—the State now provides for me; I am in command of a Breton company.”
“True. Come and dine with me and De Breze.”
“Alas! I cannot. I have to see both the Vandemars before I return to the camp for the night. And now-hush—come this way (drawing Frederic further from De Breze), I have famous news for you. A sortie on a grand scale is imminent; in a few days we may hope for it.”
“I have heard that so often that I am incredulous.”
“Take it as a fact now.”
“What! Trochu has at last matured his plan?”
“He has changed its original design, which was to cut through the Prussian lines to Rouen, occupying there the richest country for supplies, guarding the left bank of the Seine and a watercourse to convoy them to Paris. The incidents of war prevented that: he has a better plan now. The victory of the army of the Loire at Orleans opens a new enterprise. We shall cut our way through the Prussians, join that army, and with united forces fall on the enemy at the rear. Keep this a secret as yet, but rejoice with me that we shall prove to the invaders what men who fight for their native soil can do under the protection of Heaven.”
“Fox, Fox, mon cheri,” said Lemercier, as he walked towards the cafe Riche with De Breze; “thou shalt have a festin de Balthazar under the protection of Heaven.”
CHAPTER XV
On leaving Lemercier and De Breze, Savarin regained the Boulevard, and pausing every now and then to exchange a few words with acquaintances—the acquaintances of the genial author were numerous—turned into the quartier Chaussee d’Antin, and gaining a small neat house, with a richly-ornamented facade, mounted very clean, well-kept stairs to a third story. On one of the doors on the landing-place was nailed a card, inscribed, “Gustave Rameau, homme de lettres.” Certainly it is not usual in Paris thus to afficher one’s self as a “man of letters”? But Genius scorns what is usual. Had not Victor Hugo left in the hotel-books on the Rhine his designation “homme de lettres”? Did not the heir to one of the loftiest houses in the peerage of England, and who was also a first-rate amateur in painting, inscribe on his studio when in Italy, “—artiste”? Such examples, no doubt, were familiar to Gustave Rameau, and “homme de lettres” was on the scrap of pasteboard nailed to his door.
Savarin rang; the door opened, and Gustave appeared. The poet was, of course, picturesquely attired. In his day of fashion he had worn within doors a very pretty fanciful costume, designed after portraits of the young Raffaelle; that costume he had preserved—he wore it now. It looked very threadbare, and the pourpoint very soiled. But the beauty of the poet’s face had survived the lustre of the garments. True, thanks to absinthe, the cheeks had become somewhat puffy and bloated. Grey was distinctly visible in the long ebon tresses. But still the beauty of the face was of that rare type which a Thorwaldsen or a Gibson seeking a model for a Narcissus would have longed to fix into marble.
Gustave received his former chief with a certain air of reserved dignity; led him into his chamber, only divided by a curtain from his accommodation for washing and slumber, and placed him in an arm-chair beside a drowsy fire—fuel had already become very dear.
“Gustave,” said Savarin, “are you in a mood favourable to a little serious talk?”
“Serious talk from M. Savarin is a novelty too great not to command my profoundest interest.”
“Thank you,—and to begin: I who know the world and mankind advise you, who do not, never to meet a man who wishes to do you a kindness with an ungracious sarcasm. Irony is a weapon I ought to be skilled in, but weapons are used against enemies, and it is only a tyro who flourishes his rapier in the face of his friends.”
“I was not aware that M. Savarin still permitted me to regard him as a friend.”
“Because I discharged the duties of friend—remonstrated, advised, and warned. However, let bygones be bygones. I entreated you not to quit the safe shelter of the paternal roof. You insisted on doing so. I entreated you not to send to one of the most ferocious of the Red, or rather, the Communistic, journals, articles, very eloquent, no doubt, but which would most seriously injure you in the eyes of quiet, orderly people, and compromise your future literary career for the sake of a temporary flash in the pan during a very evanescent period of revolutionary excitement. You scorned my adjurations, but at all events you had the grace not to append your true name to those truculent effusions. In literature, if literature revive in France, we two are henceforth separated. But I do not forego the friendly interest I took in you in the days when you were so continually in my house. My wife, who liked you so cordially, implored me to look after you during her absence from Paris, and, enfin, mon pauvre garcon, it would grieve me very much if, when she comes back, I had to say to her, ‘Gustave Rameau has thrown away the chance of redemption and of happiness which you deemed was secure to him.’ A l’oeil malade, la lumiere nuit.”
So saying, he held out his hand kindly.
Gustave, who was far from deficient in affectionate or tender impulses, took the hand respectfully, and pressed it warmly.
“Forgive me if I have been ungracious, M. Savarin, and vouchsafe to hear my explanation.”
“Willingly, mon garcon.”
“When I became convalescent, well enough to leave my father’s house, there were circumstances which compelled me to do so. A young man accustomed to the life of a garcon can’t be always tied to his mother’s apron-strings.”
“Especially if the apron-pocket does not contain a bottle of absinthe,” said Savarin, drily. “You may well colour and try to look angry; but I know that the doctor strictly forbade the use of that deadly liqueur, and enjoined your mother to keep strict watch on your liability to its temptations. And hence one cause of your ennui under the paternal roof. But if there you could not imbibe absinthe, you were privileged to enjoy a much diviner intoxication. There you could have the foretaste of domestic bliss,—the society of the girl you loved, and who was pledged to become your wife. Speak frankly. Did not that society itself begin to be wearisome?”
“No,” cried Gustave, eagerly, “it was not wearisome—”
“Yes, but—”
“But it could not be all-sufficing to a soul of fire like mine.”
“Hem,” murmured Savarin—“a soul of fire! This is very interesting; pray go on.”
“The calm, cold, sister-like affection of a childish undeveloped nature, which knew no passion except for art, and was really so little emancipated from the nursery as to take for serious truth all the old myths of religion—such companionship may be very soothing and pleasant when one is lying on one’s sofa, and must live by rule, but when one regains the vigour of youth and health—”
“Do not pause,” said Savarin, gazing with more compassion than envy on that melancholy impersonation of youth and health. “When one regains that vigour of which I myself have no recollection, what happens?”
“The thirst for excitement, the goads of ambition, the irresistible claims which the world urges upon genius, return.”
“And that genius, finding itself at the North Pole amid Cimmerian darkness in the atmosphere of a childish intellect—in other words, the society of a pure-minded virgin, who, though a good romance-writer, writes nothing but what a virgin may read, and, though a bel esprit, says her prayers and goes to church—then genius—well, pardon my ignorance, what does genius do?”
“Oh, M. Savarin, M. Savarin! don’t let us talk any more. There is no sympathy between us. I cannot bear that bloodless, mocking, cynical mode of dealing with grand emotions, which belongs to the generation of the Doctrinaires. I am not a Thiers or a Guizot.”
“Good heavens! who ever accused you of being either? I did not mean to be cynical. Mademoiselle Cicogna has often said I am, but I did not think you would. Pardon me. I quite agree with the philosopher who asserted that the wisdom of the past was an imposture, that the meanest intellect now living is wiser than the greatest intellect which is buried in Pere la Chaise; because the dwarf who follows the giant, when perched on the shoulders of the giant, sees farther than the giant ever could. Allez. I go in for your generation. I abandon Guizot and Thiers. Do condescend and explain to my dull understanding, as the inferior mortal of a former age, what are the grand emotions which impel a soul of fire in your wiser generation. The thirst of excitement—what excitement? The goads of ambition—what ambition?”
“A new social system is struggling from the dissolving elements of the old one, as, in the fables of priestcraft, the soul frees itself from the body which has become ripe for the grave. Of that new system I aspire to be a champion—a leader. Behold the excitement that allures me, the ambition that goads.”
“Thank you,” said Savarin, meekly; “I am answered. I recognise the dwarf perched on the back of the giant. Quitting these lofty themes, I venture to address to you now one simple matter-of-fact question: How about Mademoiselle Cicogna? Do you think you can induce her to transplant herself to the new social system, which I presume will abolish, among other obsolete myths, the institution of marriage?”
“M. Savarin, your question offends me. Theoretically I am opposed to the existing superstitions that encumber the very simple principle by which may be united two persons so long as they desire the union, and separated so soon as the union becomes distasteful to either. But I am perfectly aware that such theories would revolt a young lady like Mademoiselle Cicogna. I have never even named them to her, and our engagement holds good.”
“Engagement of marriage? No period for the ceremony fixed?”
“That is not my fault. I urged it on Isaura with all earnestness before I left my father’s house.”
“That was long after the siege had begun. Listen to me, Gustave. No persuasion of mine or my wife’s, nor Mrs. Morley’s, could induce Isaura to quit Paris while it was yet time. She said very simply that, having pledged her truth and hand to you, it would be treason to honour and duty if she should allow any considerations for herself to be even discussed so long as you needed her presence. You were then still suffering, and, though convalescent, not without danger of a relapse. And your mother said to her—I heard the words: ‘‘Tis not for his bodily health I could dare to ask you to stay, when every man who can afford it is sending away his wife, sisters, daughters. As for that, I should suffice to tend him; but if you go, I resign all hope for the health of his mind and his soul.’ I think at Paris there may be female poets and artists whom that sort of argument would not have much influenced. But it so happens that Isaura is not a Parisienne. She believes in those old myths which you think fatal to sympathies with yourself; and those old myths also lead her to believe that where a woman has promised she will devote her life to a man, she cannot forsake him when told by his mother that she is necessary to the health of his mind and his soul. Stay. Before you interrupt me, let me finish what I have to say. It appears that, so soon as your bodily health was improved, you felt that your mind and your soul could take care of themselves; and certainly it seems to me that Isaura Cicogna is no longer of the smallest use to either.”
Rameau was evidently much disconcerted by this speech. He saw what Savarin was driving at—the renunciation of all bond between Isaura and himself. He was not prepared for such renunciation. He still felt for the Italian as much of love as he could feel for any woman who did not kneel at his feet, as at those of Apollo condescending to the homage of Arcadian maids. But on the one hand, he felt that many circumstances had occurred since the disaster at Sedan to render Isaura a very much less desirable partie than she had been when he had first wrung from her the pledge of betrothal. In the palmy times of a Government in which literature and art commanded station and insured fortune, Isaura, whether as authoress or singer, was a brilliant marriage for Gustave Rameau. She had also then an assured and competent, if modest, income. But when times change, people change with them. As the income for the moment (and Heaven only can say how long that moment might last), Isaura’s income had disappeared. It will be recollected that Louvier had invested her whole fortune in the houses to be built in the street called after his name. No houses, even when built, paid any rent now. Louvier had quitted Paris; and Isaura could only be subsisting upon such small sum as she might have had in hand before the siege commenced. All career in such literature and art as Isaura adorned was at a dead stop. Now, to do Rameau justice, he was by no means an avaricious or mercenary man. But he yearned for modes of life to which money was essential. He liked his “comforts;” and his comforts included the luxuries of elegance and show-comforts not to be attained by marriage with Isaura under existing circumstances.
Nevertheless it is quite true that he had urged her to marry him at once, before he had quitted his father’s house; and her modest shrinking from such proposal, however excellent the reasons for delay in the national calamities of the time, as well as the poverty which the calamity threatened, had greatly wounded his amour propre. He had always felt that her affection for him was not love; and though he could reconcile himself to that conviction when many solid advantages were attached to the prize of her love, and when he was ill, and penitent, and maudlin, and the calm affection of a saint seemed to him infinitely preferable to the vehement passion of a sinner,—yet when Isaura was only Isaura by herself—Isaura minus all the et cetera which had previously been taken into account—the want of adoration for himself very much lessened her value.
