Complete Works of Anatole France

by Anatole France

  “Yes,” said Zoe, “she showed us some lace that had belonged to Marie Antoinette.”

  “Mademoiselle Lalouette’s manners were excellent,” continued Monsieur Bergeret. “She spoke the purest French and adhered to the old pronunciation. She used to say ‘un segret, un fil, une do’; she made me feel as though I were living in the reign of Louis XVI. Mother used to send for us also to speak to Monsieur Mathalène who was not so old as Mademoiselle Lalouette; but he had a hideous face. Never did a gentler soul reveal itself in a more frightful shape. He was an inhibited priest whom my father had met in the clubs in 1848 and whom he esteemed for his Republican opinions. Poorer than Mademoiselle Lalouette, Monsieur Mathalène would go without food in order, like her, to print his pamphlets; but his went to prove that the sun and the moon move round the earth and are in reality no bigger than cheeses. That, by the way, was the opinion of Pierrot, but Monsieur Mathalène arrived at his conclusion only after thirty years of meditation and calculation. One still comes upon one of his pamphlets occasionally on the old bookstalls. Monsieur Mathalène was full of zeal for the happiness of mankind, whom he terrified by his dreadful ugliness. The only exceptions to his universal love were the astronomers, whom he suspected of the blackest designs on himself. He imagined that they wanted to poison him, and insisted on preparing his own food as much out of prudence as on account of his poverty.”

  Thus in the empty rooms, like Ulysses in the land of the Cimmerii, did Monsieur Bergeret evoke the shades. For a moment he remained sunk in thought; then he said:

  “Zoe, it must be one of two things; either in the days of our childhood there were more maniacs about than there are now, or our father befriended more than his fair share. I think he must have liked them. Pity probably drew him to them, or maybe he found them less tedious than other people; anyhow, he had a great following of them.”

  Mademoiselle Bergeret shook her head.

  “Our parents used to receive very sensible and deserving people. I should say rather that the harmless peculiarities of some old people impressed you, and that you have retained a vivid memory of them.”

  “Zoe, make no mistake; we were both brought up among people who did not think in a common or usual fashion. Mademoiselle Lalouette, Abbé Mathalène and Monsieur Grille were wanting in ordinary common sense, that is certain. Do you remember Monsieur Grille? He was tall and stout, with a red face and a close-clipped white beard. He had lost both his sons in an Alpine accident in Switzerland, and ever since, summer and winter alike, he had worn garments made of bed-ticking. Our father considered him an exquisite Hellenist. He had a delicate feeling for the poetry of the Greek lyrics. He touched with a light and sure hand the hackneyed text of Theocritus. It was his happy mania never to believe in the certain death of his two sons, and while with crazy confidence he awaited their return he lived, clad in the raiment of a carnival clown, in loving intimacy with Alcaeus and Sappho.”

  “He used to give us caramels,” said Mademoiselle Bergeret.

  “His remarks were always wise, well-expressed and beautiful,” went on Monsieur Bergeret, “and that used to frighten us. Logic is what alarms us most in a madman.”

  “On Sunday nights the drawing room was ours,” said Mademoiselle Bergeret.

  “Yes,” said Monsieur Bergeret. “It was there we used to play games after dinner. We used to write verses and draw pictures, and mother would play forfeits with us. Oh, the candour and simplicity of those bygone days! The simple pleasures, the charm of the old-world manners! We used to play charades; we ransacked your wardrobes, Zoe, in search of things to dress up in.”

  “One day you pulled the white curtains off my bed.”

  “That was to make robes for the Druids in the mistletoe scene, Zoe. The word we chose was guimauve. We were very good at charades, and Father was such a splendid audience. He did not listen to a word, but he smiled at us. I think I should have been quite a good actor, but the grownups never gave me a chance; they always wanted to do all the talking.”

  “Don’t labour under any delusions, Lucien; you were incapable of playing your part in a charade. You are too absent-minded. I am the first to recognise your intellect and your talents, but you never had the gift of improvisation. You must not try to go outside your books and manuscripts.”

  “I am just to myself, Zoe, and I know I am not eloquent; but when Jules Guinaut and Uncle Maurice played with us one could not get a word in.”

  “Jules Guinaut had a real talent for comedy,” said Mademoiselle Bergeret, “and an unquenchable spirit.”

  “He was studying medicine,” said Monsieur Bergeret. “A good-looking fellow!”

  “So people used to say.”

  “I think he was in love with you.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “He paid you a great deal of attention.”

  “That’s quite a different matter.”

  “Then, quite suddenly, he disappeared.”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t you know what became of him?”

  “No. Come, Lucien, let us go.”

  “Yes, let us go, Zoe; here we are the prey of the shades.”

  And, without turning their heads, the brother and sister stepped over the threshold of their childhood’s old home and went silently down the stone staircase. When they found themselves again in the Rue des Grands-Augustins, amid the cabs and drays, the housewives and the artisans, the noise and movement of the outer world bewildered them as though they had just emerged from a long period of solitude.

  CHAPTER V

  MONSIEUR PANNETON DE LA BARGE had prominent eyes and a shallow mind. But his skin was so shiny that you could not help thinking that his mind must of necessity be of a fatty nature. His whole being was eloquent of arrogance, brusqueness and a pride that apparently had no fear of being importunate. Monsieur Bergeret guessed that the man had come to ask a favour of him.

  They had known one another in the country. The professor, taking a walk beside the sluggish river, had often noted, on a green hillside, the slated roof of the chateau inhabited by Monsieur de La Barge and his family. Monsieur de La Barge himself he saw less frequently, for the latter was on visiting terms with the aristocracy of the countryside, without being sufficiently grand himself to receive the humbler folk. In the country he knew Monsieur Bergeret only on those critical days when one or another of his sons was going in for some examination; but now, in Paris, he wished to be friendly, and he made an effort to be so.

  “Dear Monsieur Bergeret, I must first of all congratulate you.”

  “Please do not trouble,” replied Monsieur Bergeret, with a little gesture of refusal that Monsieur de La Barge quite wrongly interpreted as inspired by modesty.

  “I beg your pardon, Monsieur Bergeret, a professorship at the Sorbonne is a much-coveted position, and one that you well deserve.”

  “How is your son Adhémar?” inquired Monsieur Bergeret, remembering the name as that of a candidate for the bachelor’s degree who had interested in his incompetence the authorities of civil, military and ecclesiastical society.

  “Adhémar? He is doing well, very well; a little wild perhaps, but what would you have? He has nothing to do. In some ways it might be better for him to have some settled occupation. However, he is very young; there is plenty of time; he takes after me; he will settle down once he has found his vocation.”

  “Didn’t he do a little demonstrating at Auteuil?” asked Monsieur Bergeret gently.

  “For the army, for the army,” answered Monsieur de La Barge, “and I must confess that I could not find it in my heart to blame him. It can’t be helped. I am connected with the army through my father-in-law, the general, my brothers-in-law, and my cousin, the commandant.”

  He was too modest to mention his father, the eldest of the Panneton brothers, who was also connected with the army through the supply department, and who, in 1872, as the result of an annoying charge in the police courts, was given a light sentence, for having supplied to t
he Army of the East, which was marching through the snow, shoes with cardboard soles.

  He died ten years later, in his chateau of La Barge, rich and honoured.

  “I was brought up to venerate the army,” continued Monsieur Panneton de La Barge. “When quite a child I worshipped a uniform. It is a family tradition. I do not attempt to hide the fact that I hold by the old style of things. I can’t help it, it is in my blood. I am a Monarchist and authoritarian by temperament. I am a Royalist. Now the army is all that is left us of the Monarchy; all that is left of a glorious past. It consoles us for the present and fills us with hope for the future.”

  Monsieur Bergeret might have interposed with some observations of historical interest; but he did not do so, and Monsieur de La Barge continued:

  “That is why I regard those who attack the army as criminals, and those who would dare to interfere with it as fools.”

  “When Napoleon wished to praise one of the plays of Luce de Lancival,” replied the professor, “he called it a headquarters tragedy. May I say that your philosophy is that of a General Staff? However, seeing that we live under the rule of liberty, it may perhaps be as well to conform to its customs. When one lives with men who have the habit of speech one must accustom oneself to hear anything. Do not hope that the right to discuss any subject will ever again be denied in France. Consider, too, that the army is by no means immutable; nothing in the world is that. Institutions can exist only by ceaseless modifications. The army has undergone such transformations in the course of its existence that it will probably undergo even greater changes in the future, and it is conceivable that in twenty years’ time it will be quite another thing than what it is to-day.”

  “I prefer to tell you at once,” replied Monsieur Panneton de La Barge, “that where the army is concerned I admit of no discussion. I repeat, it must not be interfered with. It represents, as it were, the battle-axe, and as such it must not be touched. During the last session of the Conseil Général of which I have the honour to be president, the Radical-Socialist minority put forward a vote in favour of two years’ service. I protested against so unpatriotic a suggestion. I had no difficulty in proving a two years’ service would mean the end of the army. You cannot make an infantryman in two years, much less a cavalryman. Perhaps you will style those who clamour for the two years’ service reformers. I call them wreckers. And it is the same with all other reforms. They are machinations directed against the army. If only the Socialists would say that their desire is to replace the army by a vast national guard, they would at least be honest.”

  “The Socialists,” replied Monsieur Bergeret, “are against all attempts at territorial conquest; they propose to organize militia solely for purposes of home defence. They do not hide their views, they spread them broadcast. And possibly their views are worth some examination. You need not fear that their desires will be too quickly realized. All progress is slow and uncertain, and is followed, more often than not, by retrograde movements. The advance toward a better order of things is vague and indeterminate. The profound and innumerable forces which chain man to the past cause him to cherish its errors, superstitions, prejudices and cruelties as precious symbols of his security. Salutary innovation terrifies him. Prudence makes him imitative, and he dare not quit the tumble-down shelter that protected his fathers and which is about to fall in upon him. Do you not agree with me, Monsieur Panneton?” inquired Monsieur Bergeret, with a charming smile.

  Monsieur Panneton de La Barge’s reply was that he defended the army. He represented it as misunderstood, persecuted and menaced, and in rising tones he continued:

  “This campaign in favour of the Traitor, obstinate and enthusiastic as it is, whatever may be the intentions of its leaders, has a certain visible and undeniable effect. It weakens the army and injures its chiefs.”

  “I am going to tell you some very simple facts,” replied Monsieur Bergeret. “If the army is attacked in the person of certain of its chiefs, that is not the fault of those who have asked for justice; it is the fault of those who have so long refused it. It is not the fault of those who demanded an explanation, but of those who have obstinately avoided one with extraordinary stupidity and abominable wickedness. After all, if crimes have been committed the evil is not that they have been made known but that they have been committed. They have concealed themselves in all their enormity and in all their deformity. They were not recognisable; they passed over the crowds like dark clouds. Did you imagine they would never burst? Did you think the sun would never shine again upon the classic land of Justice, upon the country that taught the Law to Europe and the world?”

  “Don’t let us speak of the Affair,” replied Monsieur de La Barge. “I know nothing of it. I wish to know nothing. I did not read a word of the Inquiry. Commandant de La Barge, my cousin, assured me that Dreyfus was guilty. That affirmation was enough for me. I came, dear Monsieur Bergeret, to ask your advice about my son Adhémar, whose prospects in life are now engaging my attention. A year of military service is a long time for a young fellow of good family. Three years would be nothing short of disaster. It is essential to find a means of exemption. I had thought of letting him take his degree in literature, but I’m afraid it is too difficult. Adhémar is intelligent, but he has no taste for literature.”

  “Well,” said Monsieur Bergeret, “try the School of Higher Commercial Studies; or the Commercial Institute, or the School of Commerce. I do not know if the Watchmakers’ College at Cluses would still furnish means of exemption. It used not to be difficult, I’ve been told, to obtain the certificate.”

  “But Adhémar cannot very well make watches,” replied Monsieur de La Barge with a certain modesty.

  “Then try the School of Oriental Languages,” said Monsieur Bergeret obligingly. “It was an excellent institution to begin with.”

  “It has gone down since,” sighed Monsieur de La Barge.

  “It still has its good points. What about Tamil, for instance?”

  “Tamil, do you think?”

  “Or Malagasy.”

  “Malagasy, perhaps.”

  “There is also a certain Polynesian language which was spoken, at the beginning of this century, by only one old yellow woman. She died, leaving behind her a parrot. A German scholar collected a few words of the language from the parrot, and from these he compiled a dictionary. Perhaps this language is still taught at the School of Oriental Languages. I should advise your son to find out.”

  Upon this advice, Monsieur Panneton de La Barge made his adieux and thoughtfully took his departure.

  CHAPTER VI

  EVENTS followed their due course. Monsieur Bergeret continued to look for a flat; it was his sister who found one. Thus the positive mind has the advantage over the speculative mind. It must be admitted that Mademoiselle Bergeret made an excellent choice. She was lacking neither in experience of life nor in common sense. Having been a governess, she had lived in Russia, and had travelled about Europe. She had observed the manners and customs of the different nations. She knew the world, and that helped her to know Paris.

  “That’s it,” she said to her brother, stopping before a new house overlooking the Luxembourg garden.

  “The stairs look decent enough,” said Monsieur Bergeret, “but it’s rather a stiff climb.”

  “Nonsense, Lucien. You are quite young enough to go up five short flights of stairs without getting exhausted.”

  “Do you really think so?” said Lucien, flattered.

  She was careful to point out that the stair-carpet ran right to the top of the house, and he smilingly accused her of being susceptible to trifling vanities.

  “But it is possible,” he added, “that I myself should feel slightly offended were the carpet to stop short at the floor below ours. We profess to be wise, but we still have our weak points. That reminds me of what I noticed yesterday, after lunch, as I was passing a church. The outer steps were covered with a red carpet which had been trodden, after the ceremony, by the guests
at some great wedding. A working-class couple with their party were waiting for the last of the wealthy company to leave so that they might enter the church. They were laughing at the idea of climbing the steps upon this unexpected splendour. The little bride’s white feet were already on the edge of the carpet when the beadle waved her away. The men in charge of the trappings of the wealthy wedding slowly rolled up the carpet of honour, and only when it formed a huge cylinder did they allow the humble wedding party to mount the bare steps. I stood for a moment and watched the worthy folk, who seemed greatly amused by the incident. Humble folk surrender with admirable equanimity to social inequality, and Lamennais was quite right to say ‘that the whole social order rests on the resignation of the poor.’”

  “Here we are,” said Mademoiselle Bergeret.

  “I’m out of breath,” remarked Monsieur Bergeret.

  “Because you would talk,” replied Mademoiselle Bergeret. “You shouldn’t tell anecdotes while you are going upstairs.”

  “After all,” said Monsieur Bergeret, “it is the common destiny of men of learning to live close under the roof. Science and meditation are often hidden away in garrets, and when we come to think of it, no marble hall is worth an attic filled with beautiful thoughts.”