December 15.
The King of Thule kept a goblet of gold which his dying mistress hadbequeathed him as a souvenir. When about to die himself, after havingdrunk from it for the last time, he threw the goblet into the sea. And Ikeep this diary of memories even as that old prince of the mist-hauntedseas kept his carven goblet; and even as he flung away at last hislove-pledge, so will I burn this book of souvenirs. Assuredly it is notthrough any arrogant avarice nor through any egotistical pride, that Ishall destroy this record of a humble life--it is only because I fearlest those things which are dear and sacred to me might appearbefore others, because of my inartistic manner of expression, eithercommonplace or absurd.
I do not say this in view of what is going to follow. Absurd I certainlymust have been when, having been invited to dinner by MademoisellePrefere, I took my seat in a bergere (it was really a bergere) at theright hand of that alarming person. The table had been set in a littleparlour; and I could observe from the poor way in which it was set outthat the schoolmistress was one of those ethereal souls who soar aboveterrestrial things. Chipped plates, unmatched glasses, knives with loosehandles, forks with yellow prongs--there was absolutely nothing wantingto spoil the appetite of an honest man.
I was assured that the dinner had been cooked for me--for mealone--although Maitre Mouche had also been invited. MademoisellePrefere must have imagined that I had Sarmatian tastes on the subjectof butter; for that which she offered me, served up in little thin pats,was excessively rancid.
The roast very nearly poisoned me. But I had the pleasure of hearingMaitre Mouche and Mademoiselle Prefere discourse upon virtue. I said thepleasure--I ought to have said the shame; for the sentiments to whichthey gave expression soared far beyond the range of my vulgar nature.
What they said proved to me as clear as day that devotedness was theirdaily bread, and that self-sacrifice was not less necessary totheir existence than air and water. Observing that I was not eating,Mademoiselle Prefere made a thousand efforts to overcome that which shewas good enough to term my "discretion." Jeanne was not of the party,because, I was told, her presence at it would have been contrary to therules, and would have wounded the feelings of the other school-children,among whom it was necessary to maintain a certain equality. I secretlycongratulated her upon having escaped from the Merovingian butter; fromthe huge radishes, empty as funeral-urns; form the leathery roast, andfrom various other curiosities of diet to which I had exposed myself forthe love of her.
The extremely disconsolate-looking servant served up some liquid towhich they gave the name of cream--I do not know why--and vanished awaylike a ghost.
Then Mademoiselle Prefere related to Maitre Mouche, with extraordinarytransports of emotion, all that she had said to me in the City of Books,during the time that my housekeeper was sick in bed. Her admiration fora Member of the Institute, her terror lest I should be taken ill whileunattended, and the certainty she felt that any intelligent woman wouldbe proud and happy to share my existence--she concealed nothing, but,on the contrary, added many fresh follies to the recital. Maitre Mouchekept nodding his head in approval while cracking nuts. Then, after allthis verbiage, he demanded, with an agreeable smile, what my answer hadbeen.
Mademoiselle Prefere, pressing her hand upon her heart and extending theother towards me, cried out,
"He is so affectionate, so superior, so good, and so great! Heanswered... But I could never, because I am only a humble woman--I couldnever repeat the words of a Member of the Institute. I can only utterthe substance of them. He answered, 'Yes, I understand you--yes.'"
And with these words she reached out and seized one of my hands. ThenMaitre Mouche, also overwhelmed with emotion, arose and seized my otherhand.
"Monsieur," he said, "permit me to offer my congratulations."
Several times in my life I have known fear; but never before had Iexperienced any fright of so nauseating a character. A sickening terrorcame upon me.
I disengaged by two hands, and, rising to my feet, so as to give allpossible seriousness to my words, I said,
"Madame, either I explained myself very badly when you were at my house,or I have totally misunderstood you here in your own. In either case, apositive declaration is absolutely necessary. Permit me, Madame, tomake it now, very plainly. No--I never did understand you; I am totallyignorant of the nature of this marriage project that you have beenplanning for me--if you really have been planning one. In any event, Ishould not think of marrying. It would be unpardonable folly at my age,and even now, at this moment, I cannot conceive how a sensible personlike you could ever have advised me to marry. Indeed, I am stronglyinclined to believe that I must have been mistaken, and that you neversaid anything of the kind before. In the latter case, please excuse anold man totally unfamiliar with the usages of society, unaccustomed tothe conversation of ladies, and very contrite for his mistake."
Maitre Mouche went back very softly to his place, where, not finding anymore nuts to crack, he began to whittle a cork.
Mademoiselle Prefere, after staring at me for a few moments with anexpression in her little round dry eyes which I had never seen therebefore, suddenly resumed her customary sweetness and graciousness. Thenshe cried out in honeyed tones,
"Oh! these learned men!--these studious men! They are like children.Yes, Monsieur Bonnard, you are a real child!"
Then, turning to the notary, who still sat very quietly in his corner,with his nose over his cork, she exclaimed, in beseeching tones,
"Oh, do not accuse him! Do not accuse him! Do not think any evil of him,I beg of you! Do not think it at all! Must I ask you upon my knees?"
Maitre Mouche continued to examine all the various aspects and surfacesof his cork without making any further manifestation.
I was very indignant; and I know that my cheeks must have been extremelyred, if I could judge by the flush of heat which I felt rise to myface. This would enable me to explain the words I heard through all thebuzzing in my ears:
"I am frightened about him! our poor friend!... Monsieur Mouche, be kindenough to open a window! It seems to me that a compress of arnica woulddo him some good."
I rushed out into the street with an unspeakable feeling of shame.
"My poor Jeanne!"
The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard Page 28