Catherine felt such a benevolence in her soul that she ran at times to Jacques Bontems’ side, teased him, laughed with him—and the poor cuirassier was content with that reflected happiness, so much grace and gentility did Catherine put into it. In sum, she appeared so charming that all the young women and young men, the women and the old men—the entire village—admired her and looked at her, not with envy, but the sentiment that is suspended between admiration and jealousy.
That fête was her triumph, the most beautiful day of her life, and all that celestial brightness came from the presence of the man she loved; she was unconscious of the future, and enjoyed the present that she was embracing with ardor.
In the middle of the celebration someone brought the sergeant a package stamped with the seal of the Ministry of Finance. Catherine was next to Jacques when the man who had gone to collect the letters brought that important dispatch.
“Ah!” said Catherine. “You’re always telling us about your correspondence with Ministers—I want to know how they talk and write. Give me that, Jacques.”
“No, Catherine, no,” the cuirassier replied, seeing that the tax-collector was coming, fearing that the document might announce the appointment of his rival.
“When one loves someone,” Catherine replied, “one does not hide anything from them...” And the impertinent young woman ran to Abel’s side, holding the package and making as if to open it.
“Well, swear that you’ll marry me if that letter contains my appointment, or if it gives me the hope of being appointed.”
“Marry!” repeated Catherine, looking in turn at the cuirassier, the letter and Abel. Everyone formed a circle around them and waited impatiently.
Jacques was not tranquil, for they were about to discover the truth regarding his pretended credit, and Catherine was holding his fate in her hands.
Catherine, looking at the lamp, judged that she was not promising anything much, for she said to herself: The djinni, being all-powerful, will disengage me from my promise if Abel comes to love me. She promised before all the village to marry the cuirassier if the letter gave him the hope of being tax-collector, and Père Grandvani pledged his word with that of his daughter.
The cuirassier changed color when he saw the envelope fall, and silence reigned.
Abel watched the scene curiously, without understanding any of it. During the entire fête he had had the insouciance that melancholy gives, and he had not thought about anything except his fay; he was there without being there.
Scarcely had Catherine read the first lines than she folded up the letter and handed it back to Jacques Bontems, who believed, with the entire village, that Catherine would become his wife.
The tax-collector frowned, but had reason to be joyful, because Bontems’ face did not announce pleasure. In fact, this is what the letter contained:
Monsieur,
His Excellency was indignant at the fashion in which you have requested his protection, and only the memory of the obligation that Monseigneur has to you has preserved you from the effects of his anger. Calumny, when one has been a soldier, is a poor means of reaching one’s goal; the employee whose dismissal you seek is an honest man, and has always fulfilled his duties well; he has not yet acquired the length of service necessary for his retirement, and the style of your petition has not engaged His Excellency to find other employment for you.
Etc.
Devastated, Jacques Bontems admired Catherine’s delicacy, but when Grandvani came to him to ask what news he had received, he had no other resource but to summon all his audacity, and replied that he would be appointed to the position of tax-collector, and that His Excellency had just promised it to him, as soon as another position could be found for the present tax-collector.
“Well, that won’t take long, Monsieur Bontems,” replied the tax-collector. “The postmaster of L*** has just died; if I’m given that post, I’ll gladly cede this one to you...”
“We’ll see!” replied Bontems, with the air of a minister in favor. “We’ll see…in due time.”
The pensive cuirassier contemplated Abel and Catherine, and quivered with rage. Suddenly, on seeing the ribbon that held the marvelous Lamp, he conceived the idea of rendering himself master of it. If that lamp, he said to himself, has given thirty thousand francs, dresses and jewels, if it’s as powerful as people say, the djinni that I’ll have at my orders will get me the position.
So, when the fête was on the point of ending, when night had fallen and Abel talked about going home, Jacques Bontems slipped behind the barrels, equipped himself with a pair of scissors, cut the ribbon, seized the precious talisman, and, before Abel had perceived it, was already far away, the possessor of the miraculous jewel and prey to the most vivid joy.
Juliette and Catherine escorted Abel back to the cottage. Caliban was waiting for him impatiently. When he separated from the two young women he embraced them with an entirely virginal candor, and Catherine went back to her modest room, fell to her knees and sent a fervent prayer of thanks to heaven for the happiness of that day; Abel’s kiss, chaste as it was, was still burning her lips.
Chapter XII
Abel in the Empire of the Fays
The wily cuirassier could not contain the joy of having the lamp. He took one of his former comrades into his confidence, and for half the night they were with regard to the talisman like La Fontaine’s shoemaker with his hundred écus; they did not know where to put it. The cuirassier, ignorant of the formalities that it was necessary to fulfill in order to make the djinni of the lamp appear, had rubbed and appealed, but nothing came. They were forced to wait for daylight, and Jacques Bontems promised himself to learn from Catherine the manner in which one made use of the talisman.
The soldier therefore went to see Catherine, and after a thousand detours, he got round to asking for information about the chemist’s son, pretending to refuse to believe in the power of the lamp. He made Catherine spell out everything that was done to evoke the djinni. Then, at nightfall, the sergeant went to the hill with his comrade, and after having searched for and found the stone, they made the little djinni appear, who sang them the song of obedience.
The cuirassier and the hussar stood there open-mouthed in admiration before the group that was offered to their eyes: the beauty of the pretty girl who was looking at them with surprise, while bowing before the lamp, caused them to forget what they wanted.
“I’d gladly give that implement,” said the hussar, “to marry that little djinni.”
“What do you wish?” repeated the pretty soft voice.
“I want you,” said the cuirassier, “to obtain immediately for Jacques Bontems, former sergeant of the cuirassiers of the guard, the post of tax-collector of the commune of V***, and, if possible, the post of postmaster of L*** for the man who is the present tax-collector, for it’s necessary not to injure anyone’s interests.”
The negro and the djinni looked at one another. The African disappeared and came back promptly to write, under Jacques’ dictation, what he wanted. When that was done, the djinni cried, waving the golden scarf:
“Before your eyes have tasted sleep three times, breathed six thousand times and seen three dawns and three evening dews, you will have been satisfied. I shall race through the air, traverse the skies, and my master will be content.”
A blue-tinted flame escaped from beneath their throne, and they disappeared, leaving the two soldiers prey to the strangest surprise.
“Jacques,” said the hussar, “it’s not good to have only thought of yourself; could you not have asked for something for me? I could marry Antoine’s sister if I had money. The Duchesse de Sommerset’s farm is up for lease—ask for the lease for me. Fat Thomas wants to give fifteen thousand francs, try to get the Duchess to cede it to me for twelve thousand; I’ll marry Antoine’s sister, and I’ll become rich.
Jacques rubbed the lamp, and summoned the djinni, which appeared with the same submission.
“Go find the Duchess
e de Sommerset,” he said to her. “Make her lease her farm to Jean Leblanc, former hussar of the guard, for twelve thousand francs, and bring the lease to be signed as soon as possible, with fifty bottles of champagne that we’ll drink in honor of the duchesse, the prettiest woman in the world. And I also want the lawsuit that is troubling the Maire of the commune so much to be terminated. Go.”
“Before you have bought what is necessary to exploit the farm Des Granges, you shall have the least duly signed,” said the djinni, and disappeared.
“It’s a true miracle!” exclaimed the cuirassier. “Provided that we’re not being led a dance.”
They tried to lift the stone, making every effort to discover, in the moonlight, the mechanism that fitted it to the ground; they could not do it, and they went away making a thousand plans, the cuirassier for the time when he would be the tax-collector and Catherine’s husband, the hussar for when he would be a farmer and Suzette’s husband.
They went away singing with joy, the new tax-collector already sending out his notifications, and the farmer counting his cattle and sheep.
While they were building their castles in Spain, Abel was plunged into the greatest chagrin. He had lost is dear lamp; he had searched everywhere and had not found it. Aided by Caliban, he set out for the village, suspecting that they might find it on the way if it had fallen, and expecting—the good souls!—that if someone had picked it up, they would return it. Never had the plaints of a lover who has lost his mistress or a child his mother approached the dolor that burst forth in Abel’s regrets.
Half way down, they met the lovely Catherine, whose pure and light voice was murmuring a love song.
“What’s wrong, my Abel?” she said, fearfully, stopping and taking his hand. “You’re sad—oh, tell me why you’re suffering! Tears that one sheds together are not bitter, and I sense that I would be happy if you spread pain in my heart.”
“Catherine,” he said, “I’ve lost my lamp...”
At that point, the Maire’s daughter stopped him; she was utterly nonplussed, and the state of her soul can only be compared to that of a dark room into which a ray of sunlight had been introduced. In fact, Jacques’ curious interrogations came to mind like a flash of light.
“Abel,” she said, “it’s me who is the cause of your trouble, because it was at my plea that you came down to the village; it’s up to me to do everything possible to recover the lamp that has been stolen from you. Wait for me, hope, and you’ll see me again shortly.”
She leapt through the brambles and thorn-bushes, and, taking the shortest and most difficult route, she was reminiscent of a bird skimming the hill, and felt a thousand times lighter in running for her dear Abel.
Caliban watched her, fearing that she might fall down at any moment, but a God sustained her: the lively, light, mutinous God of infancy, the God of life.
She traverses the meadow, arrives in the village and runs to Bontems’ house, opens the door violently and falls into his cottage like a bomb. She sees the cuirassier and his comrade in contemplation before the lamp.
Before Jacques has made a movement, she has seized it and, launching a thunderous glare at Jacques, says to him: “How have you been able to deprive Juliette’s benefactor of his talisman? It will be the death of the poor child!”
Jacques and Jean are stupefied. Catherine escapes, and runs with even more ardor toward the fill. The people of the village who see her flying thus with the lamp, think that the magical talisman is enabling her to walk on air, and someone goes to tell Grandvani that his daughter, astride the lamp, has been borne away who knows where...
She arrives breathless, and shouts to Abel from the bottom of the hill: “Abel, Abel, here it is! Don’t worry...”
She climbs the mountain, reaches him, gives him the lamp, and he yields to joy on seeing that present from his little fay.
“Abel,” she said, emotionally, “Catherine can die if, once in her life, she has been able to cause you a moment of pleasure...”
“Pleasure…,” said Abel. “That word isn’t strong enough...”
“I can die, then,” she replied, confounding her soul with Abel’s with her gaze. “I can die, Abel!”
“Is it not my fay who gave it to me?” he said, kissing his lamp.
“That remark caused Catherine to become as still as a marble statue. That remark had resounded in her diaphragm, striking her like a dagger-thrust.
“Abel, she said, finally, “permit your little Catherine to ask one thing of you...” She stopped, looked at him dolorously, and then continued: “I’d like you to promise me to do what I desire without knowing yet what it is.”
“I promise,” he said.
“Well,” the pretty peasant girl continued, “I’d like to see the fay without being seen by her. I want to know whether she’s so pretty, so very pretty, that nothing in the world can efface her...”
“I’ll try,” said Abel. “One night, you can try to hide in the laboratory.”
“She loves you very much, then, that fay?”
“I’m content to love her,” Abel replied, “and I dare not hope that she has any love for me...”
“You’d be happy, then,” Catherine continued, “cherishing a supernatural being who doesn’t love you!”
Abel said nothing. That silence was equivalent to hope for the poor peasant girl, who after having contemplated her beloved, went slowly back to her house, sat down beside her father, told him about the theft of the lamp, and, dreaming and sighing, felt tears brimming in her eyes a thousand times over during the day, gazing at the wall, and thinking that she could see Abel.
A few days later, a courier traversed the village rapidly, stopped at Jacques Bontems’ door, handed him a packet bearing the seal of the Minister of Finance, and the cuirassier, when he opened it, found his appointment to the position of tax-collector, that of the tax-collector to the position of postmaster, a royal edict terminating the lawsuit, and a promise of a lease signed by the Duchesse de Sommerset, just as Jacques Bontems had wished; and, in a letter, a notary indicated that Jean Leblanc was awaited any day to sign the document.”
“What about the bottles of champagne?” Jacques asked.
“They’ve been in your cellar for some time,” replied the messenger, who remounted his horse and disappeared at a fast gallop.
The stupefied cuirassier went down into his cellar, and did indeed find the bottles carefully laid out on laths, so well arranged that he could not doubt that it had not been done recently. Then he was at the peak of his joy. He went triumphantly to Grandvani’s house, followed by the tax-collector and Jean Leblanc, handed the Maire the king’s edict, and requested Catherine’s hand.
At that request, the poor child went pale, blush, trembled, and could not find any other expedient, for the moment, than to ask for a brief delay, which was accorded to her.
Let us leave Jean Leblanc and Jacques Bontems regretting that they had not asked the djinni of the lamp for an income of a hundred thousand livres, Catherine weeping, and the village prey to surprise and admiration, regretting that the curé was absent, in order that they might discover whether one was committing a sin in believing in the omnipotence of fays, and let us return to the chemist’s cottage, his son and the charming Pearl Fay.
For several days, Abel had been deprived of the divine apparitions of the tender genius that he adored. His melancholy was beginning to become extreme, and Caliban was already anxious in seeing his master’s cheeks pale and a kind of folly presiding over his thoughts and movements.
“I can’t live without her,” he said to the old servant. “Everything is insupportable to me; I’m experiencing difficulty living, and if life is a feast, I’m not hungry, my poor Caliban.”
One night, he was profoundly asleep; he sensed himself, in his slumber, being rapidly drawn away; it seemed to him that he had wings and that he was flying; he put out his hands in front of him, thinking that he might spare himself a fall, and he woke up at that painful mome
nt...
He was beside her, in an airborne chariot; she was watching him sleep, and when he woke up, his gaze still embarrassed by the swathes of slumber, was confounded in the sparkling eyes of the Pearl Fay. The infernal horses were drawing them like a cloud driven by a tempestuous wind.
Abel was almost in the fay’s arms; he could savor her breath, and he was afraid of having profaned her breast, for he had the vague thought that his head had rested upon that throne of amour.
She was still looking at him without saying a word, and her eyes seemed to be emitting a moist flame, on which Abel nourished himself avidly.
“Where am I?” he asked, finally.
“Next to your fay,” she replied, in a celestial voice, which made Abel’s heart beat faster.
“Where are we going?”
“To the Empire of the Fays. Haven’t you desired to witness the magical scenes in which djinni, enchanters and fays are present? My chariot is taking you to one of their most brilliant assemblies.”
“What!” he exclaimed. “I’m going to see them face to face?”
“Yes, the fay replied, “but on one condition, which is that when I tell you to, you close your eyes, for you’d risk losing your sight if the light struck you at certain moments.”
Abel promised what the fay had asked of him with as simple nod of the head, for he was plunged in a divine admiration in contemplating the rare beauty of the Pearl Fay. She was dressed with a sumptuous elegance, which doubled her charms, without that glamour harming the tenderness of her character, which was painted on her pretty face in love and generosity.
Her head was crowned with flowers and fruits, artistically placed, the black curls of her hair hanging over her forehead and coming to play near her eyes, in such a fashion as to further increase the delicacy of her gaze and double the gleam of her satined skin and its vivid colors.
She fell silent, but her gaze, alternately aimed at Abel and immediately lowered, seemed to speak, and told Abel to speak in his turn, and that, whatever discourse emerged from his mouth, it would be welcomed with gratitude. Their thoughts, during that charming silence, were doubtless voyaging in the same region, for their hands came together, squeezing ne another involuntarily, and Abel cried, with gracious naivety:
The Last Fay Page 12