September-December.
The regularity with which visit succeeded visit to the old man's housethereafter made me feel very grateful to Mademoiselle Prefere, whosucceeded at last in winning her right to occupy a special corner inthe City of Books. She now says "MY chair," "MY footstool," "MY pigeonhole." Her pigeon hole is really a small shelf properly belonging to thepoets of La Champagne, whom she expelled therefrom in order to obtaina lodging for her work-bag. She is very amiable, and I must really bea monster not to like her. I can only endure her--in the severestsignification of the word. But what would one not endure for Jeanne'ssake? Her presence lends to the City of Books a charm which seems tohover about it even after she has gone. She is very ignorant; but sheis so finely gifted that whenever I show her anything beautiful I amastounded to find that I had never really seen it before, and that it isshe who makes me see it. I have found it impossible so far to make herfollow some of my ideas, but I have often found pleasure in followingthe whimsical and delicate course of her own.
A more practical man than I would attempt to teach her to make herselfuseful; but is not the capacity of being amiable a useful think in life?Without being pretty, she charms; and the power to charm is perhaps,after all, worth quite as much as the ability to darn stockings.Furthermore, I am not immortal; and I doubt whether she will have becomevery old when my notary (who is not Maitre Mouche) shall read to her acertain paper which I signed a little while ago.
I do not wish that any one except myself should provide for her, andgive her her dowry. I am not, however, very rich, and the paternalinheritance did not gain bulk in my hands. One does not accumulate moneyby poring over old texts. But my books--at the price which such noblemerchandise fetches to-day--are worth something. Why, on that shelfthere are some poets of the sixteenth century for which bankers wouldbid against princes! And I think that those "Heures" of Simon Vostrewould not be readily overlooked at the Hotel Sylvestre any more thanwould those Preces Piae compiled for the use of Queen Claude. I havetaken great pains to collect and to preserve all those rare and curiouseditions which people the City of Books; and for a long time I used tobelieve that they were as necessary to my life as air and light. I haveloved them well, and even now I cannot prevent myself from smiling atthem and caressing them. Those morocco bindings are so delightful to theeye! These old vellums are so soft to the touch! There is not a singleone among those books which is not worthy, by reason of some specialmerit, to command the respect of an honourable man. What other ownerwould ever know how to dip into hem in the proper way? Can I be evensure that another owner would not leave them to decay in neglect, ormutilate them at the prompting of some ignorant whim? Into whosehands will fall that incomparable copy of the "Histoire de l'Abbaye deSaint-Germain-des-Pres," on the margins of which the author himself, inthe person of Jacques Bouillard, made such substantial notes in hisown handwriting?... Master Bonnard, you are an old fool! Yourhousekeeper--poor soul!--is nailed down upon her bed with a mercilessattack of rheumatism. Jeanne is to come with her chaperon, and, insteadof thinking how you are going to receive them, you are thinking abouta thousand stupidities. Sylvestre Bonnard, you will never succeed atanything in this world, and it is I myself who tell you so!
And at this very moment I catch sight of them from my window, as theyget out of the omnibus. Jeanne leaps down lie a kitten; but MademoisellePrefere intrusts herself to the strong arm of the conductor, with theshy grace of a Virginia recovering after the shipwreck, and this timequite resigned to being saved. Jeanne looks up, sees me, laughs, andMademoiselle Prefere has to prevent her from waving her umbrella at meas a friendly signal. There is a certain stage of civilisation to whichMademoiselle Jeanne never can be brought. You can teach her all the artsif you like (it is not exactly to Mademoiselle Prefere that I am nowspeaking); but you will never be able to teach her perfect manners. Asa charming child she makes the mistake of being charming only in her ownway. Only an old fool like myself could forgive her pranks. As for youngfools--and there are several of them still to be found--I do not knowwhat they would think about it; and what they might think is none of mybusiness. Just look at her running along the pavement, wrapped in hercloak, with her hat tilted back on her head, and her feather flutteringin the wind, like a schooner in full rig! And really she has a graceof poise and motion which suggests a fine sailing-vessel--so muchso, indeed, that she makes me remember seeing one day, when I was atHavre.... But, Bonnard, my friend, how many times is it necessary totell you that your housekeeper is in bed, and that you must go and openthe door yourself?
Open, Old Man Winter! 'tis Spring who rings the bell.
It is Jeanne herself--Jeanne is all flushed like a rose. MademoisellePrefere, indignant and out of breath, has still another whole flight toclimb before reaching our lobby.
I explained the condition of my housekeeper, and proposed that we shoulddine at a restaurant. But Therese--all-powerful still, even upon hersick-bed--decided that we should dine at home, whether we wanted toor no. Respectable people, in her opinion, never dined at restaurants.Moreover, she had made all necessary arrangements--the dinner had beenbought; the concierge would cook it.
The audacious Jeanne insisted upon going to see whether the old womanwanted anything. As you might suppose, she was sent back to the parlourwith short shrift, but not so harshly as I had feared.
"If I want anybody to do anything for me, which, thank God, I do not,"Therese had replied, "I would get somebody less delicate and dainty thanyou are. What I want is rest. That is a merchandise which is not soldat fairs under the sign of 'Motus with finger on lip.' Go and have yourfun, and don't stay here--for old age might be catching."
Jeanne, after telling us what she had said, added that she liked verymuch to hear old Therese talk. Whereupon Mademoiselle Prefere reproachedher for expressing such unladylike tastes.
I tried to excuse her by citing the example of Moliere. Just at thatmoment it came to pass that, while climbing the ladder to get a book,she upset a whole shelf-row. There was a heavy crash; and MademoisellePrefere, being, of course, a very delicate person, almost fainted.Jeanne quickly followed the books to the foot of the ladder. She madeone think of a kitten suddenly transformed into a woman, catching micewhich had been transformed into old books. While picking them up, shefound one which happened to interest her, and she began to read it,squatting down upon her heels. It was the "Prince Grenouille," she toldus. Mademoiselle Prefere took occasion to complain that Jeanne had solittle taste for poetry. It was impossible to get her to recite CasimirDelavigne's poem on the death of Joan of Arc without mistakes. Itwas the very most she could do to learn "Le Petit Savoyard." Theschoolmistress did not think that any one should read the "PrinceGrenouille" before learning by heart the stanzas to Duperrier; and,carried away by her enthusiasm, she began to recite them in a voicesweeter than the bleating of a sheep:
"Ta douleur, Duperrier, sera donc eternelle, Et les tristes discours Que te met en l'esprit l'amitie paternelle L'augmenteront toujours;
. . . . . . . . .
"Je sais de quels appas son enfance etait pleine, Et n'ai pas entrepris, Injurieux ami, de consoler ta peine Avecque son mepris."
Then in ecstacy, she exclaimed,
"How beautiful that is! What harmony! How is it possible for any onenot to admire such exquisite, such touching verses! But why did Malherbecall that poor Monsieur Duperrier his injurieux ami at a time whenhe had been so severely tied by the death of his daughter? Injurieuxami--you must acknowledge that the term is very harsh."
I explained to this poetical person that the phrase "Injurieux ami,"which shocked her so much, was in apposition, etc. etc. What I said,however, had so little effect towards clearing her head that she wasseized with a severe and prolonged fit of sneezing. Meanwhile it wasevident that the history of "Prince Grenouille" had proved extremelyfunny; for it was all that Jeanne could do, as she crouched downthere on the carpet, to keep herself from bursting into a wild fit oflaughter. But w
hen she had finished with the prince and princess of thestory, and the multitude of their children, she assumed a very suppliantexpression, and begged me as a great favour to allow her to put on awhite apron and go to the kitchen to help in getting the dinner ready.
"Jeanne," I replied, with the gravity of a master, "I think that ifit is a question of breaking plates, knocking off the edges of dishes,denting all the pans, and smashing all the skimmers, the person whomTherese has set to work in the kitchen already will be able to performher task without assistance; for it seems to me at this very moment Ican hear disastrous noises in that kitchen. But anyhow, Jeanne, I willcharge you with the duty of preparing the dessert. So go and get yourwhite apron; I will tie it on for you."
Accordingly, I solemnly knotted the linen apron about her waist; and sherushed into the kitchen, where she proceeded at once--as we discoveredlater on--to prepare various dishes unknown to Vatel, unknown even tothat great Careme who began his treatise upon pieces montees with thesewords: "The Fine Arts are five in number: Painting, Music, Poetry,Sculpture, and Architecture--whereof the principal branch isConfectionery." But I had no reason to be pleased with this littlearrangement--for Mademoiselle Prefere, on finding herself alone with me,began to act after a fashion which filled me with frightful anxiety. Shegazed upon me with eyes full of tears and flames, and uttered enormoussighs.
"Oh, how I pity you!" she said. "A man like you--a man so superioras you are--having to live alone with a coarse servant (for she iscertainly coarse, that is incontestable)! How cruel such a life mustbe! You have need of repose--you have need of comfort, of care, of everykind of attention; you might fall sick. And yet there is no womanwho would not deem it an honour to bear your name, and to share yourexistence. No, there is none; my own heart tells me so."
And she squeezed both hands over that heart of hers--always so ready tofly away.
I was driven almost to distraction. I tried to make Mademoiselle Preferecomprehend that I had no intention whatever of changing my habits at soadvanced an age, and that I found just as much happiness in life as mycharacter and my circumstances rendered possible.
"No, you are not happy!" she cried. "You need to have always beside youa mind capable of comprehending your own. Shake off your lethargy, andcast your eyes about you. Your professional connections are of the mostextended character, and you must have charming acquaintances. One cannotbe a Member of the Institute without going into society. See, judge,compare. No sensible woman would refuse you her hand. I am a woman,Monsieur; my instinct never deceives me--there is something within mewhich assures me that you would find happiness in marriage. Women are sodevoted, so loving (not all, of course, but some)! And, then, they areso sensitive to glory. Remember that at your age one has need, likeOedipus, of an Egeria! Your cook is no longer able--she is deaf, sheis infirm. If anything should happen to you at night! Oh! it makes meshudder even to think of it!"
And she really shuddered--she closed her eyes, clenched her hands,stamped on the floor. Great was my dismay. With awful intensity sheresumed,
"Your health--your dear health! The health of a Member of the Institute!How joyfully I would shed the very last drop of my blood to preserve thelife of a scholar, of a litterateur, of a man of worth. And any womanwho would not do as much, I should despise her! Let me tell you,Monsieur--I used to know the wife of a great mathematician, a man whoused to fill whole note-books with calculations--so many note-books thatthey filled all the cupboards in the house. He had heart-disease, andhe was visibly pining away. And I saw that wife of his, sitting therebeside him, perfectly calm! I could not endure it. I said to her oneday, 'My dear, you have no heart! If I were in your place I should...Ishould...I do not know what I should do!'"
She paused for want of breath. My situation was terrible. As for tellingMademoiselle Prefere what I really thought about her advice--that wassomething which I could not even dream of daring to do. For to fall outwith her was to lose the chance of seeing Jeanne. So I resolved to takethe matter quietly. In any case, she was in my house: that considerationhelped me to treat her with something of courtesy.
"I am very old, Mademoiselle," I answered her, "and I am very muchafraid that your advice comes to me rather late in life. Still, I willthink about it. In the meanwhile let me beg of you to be calm. I think aglass of eau sucree would do you good!"
To my great surprise, these words calmed her at once; and I saw hersit down very quietly in HER corner, close to HER pigeon-hole, upon HERchair, with her feet upon HER footstool.
The dinner was a complete failure. Mademoiselle Prefere, who seemed lostin a brown study, never noticed the fact. As a rule I am very sensitiveabout such misfortunes; but this one caused Jeanne so much delight thatat last I could not help enjoying it myself. Even at my age I had notbeen able to learn before that a chicken, raw on one side and burned onthe other, was a funny thing; but Jeanne's bursts of laughter taught methat it was. That chicken caused us to say a thousand very wittythings, which I have forgotten; and I was enchanted that it had not beenproperly cooked. Jeanne put it back to roast again; then she broiled it;then she stewed it with butter. And every time it came back to the tableit was much less appetising and much more mirth-provoking than before.When we did eat it, at last, it had become a thing for which there is noname in any cuisine.
The almond cake was much more extraordinary. It was brought to the tablein the pan, because it never could have got out of it. I invited Jeanneto help us all to a piece thinking that I was going to embarrass her;but she broke the pan and gave each of us a fragment. To think thatanybody at my age could eat such things was an idea possible only tothe very artless mind. Mademoiselle Prefere, suddenly awakened from herdream, indignantly pushed away the sugary splinter of earthenware,and deemed it opportune to inform me that she herself was exceedinglyskilful in making confectionery.
"Ah!" exclaimed Jeanne, with an air of surprise not altogether withoutmalice. Then she wrapped all the fragments of the pan in a pieceof paper, for the purpose of giving them to her littleplaymates--especially to the three little Mouton girls, who arenaturally inclined to gluttony.
Secretly, however, I was beginning to feel very uneasy. It did notnow seem in any way possible to keep much longer upon good terms withMademoiselle Prefere since her matrimonial fury had this burst forth.And that lady affronted, good-bye to Jeanne! I took advantage of amoment while the sweet soul was busy putting on her cloak, in order toask Jeanne to tell me exactly what her own age was. She was eighteenyears and one month old. I counted on my fingers, and found she wouldnot come of age for another two years and eleven months. And how shouldwe be able to manage during all that time?
At the door Mademoiselle Prefere squeezed my hand with so much meaningthat I fairly shook from head to foot.
"Good-bye," I said very gravely to the young girl. "But listen to mea moment: your friend is very old, and might perhaps fail you when youneed him most. Promise me never to fail in your duty to yourself, andthen I shall have no fear. God keep you, my child!"
After closing the door behind them, I opened the window to get a lastlook at her as she was going away. But the night was dark, and I couldsee only two vague shadows flitting across the quay. I heard the vastdeep hom of the city rising up about me; and I suddenly felt a greatsinking at my heart.
Poor child!
The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard Page 27