CHAPTER XLI.
A CHRONICLE ABOUT FROISSART.
See, Lucius, here's the book I sought for so! JULIUS CAESAR.
But all be that he was a philosophre, Yet hadde he but litel gold in cofre, But all that he might of his frends hente, On bokes and on lerning he is spente.
CHAUCER.&/
"LOVE-IN-IDLENESS" has passed into a proverb, and lovers,somehow, are not generally supposed to be industrious. I,however, worked none the less zealously for being in love. Iapplied only the more closely to my studies, both medical andliterary, and made better progress in both than I had madebefore. I was not ambitious; but I had many incentives towork. I was anxious to satisfy my father. I earnestly desiredto efface every unfavorable impression from the mind of Dr.Cheron, and to gain, if possible, his esteem. I was proud ofthe friendship of Madame de Courcelles, and wished to provethe value that I placed upon her good opinion. Above all, Ihad a true and passionate love of learning--not that love whichleadeth on to fame; but rather that self-abandoning devotionwhich exchangeth willingly the world of action for the world ofbooks, and, for an uninterrupted communion with the "soulsof all that men held wise," bartereth away the society of theliving.
Little gregarious by nature, Paris had already ceased todelight me in the same way that it had delighted me at first. A"retired leisure," and the society of the woman whom I loved,grew to be the day-dream of my solitary life. And still, evermore and more plainly, it became evident to me that for thecareer of the student I was designed by nature. Bayle, Magliabecchiof Florence, Isaac Reed, Sir Thomas Brown, Montaigne--thosewere the men whose lot in life I envied--those the literaryanchorites in whose steps I would fain have followed.
But this was not to be; so I worked on, rose early, studiedlate, gained experience, took out my second inscription withcredit, and had the satisfaction of knowing that I was fastacquiring the good opinion of Dr. Cheron. Thus Christmaspassed by, and January with its bitter winds; and February setin, bright but frosty. And still, without encouragement ornope, I went on loving Hortense Dufresnoy.
My opportunities of seeing her were few and brief. A passing bow in thehall, or a distant "good-evening" as we passed upon the stairs, for sometime made up the sum of our intercourse. Gradually, however, a kind offormal acquaintance sprang up between us; an acquaintance fostered bytrifles and dependent on the idlest, or what seemed the idlest,casualties. I say "seemed," for often that which to her appeared thework of chance was the result of elaborate contrivance on my part. Shelittle knew, when I met her on the staircase, how I had been listeningfor the last hour to catch the echo of her step. She little dreamed whenI encountered her at the corner of the street, how I had been concealed,till that moment, in the _cafe_ over the way, ready to dart out as soonas she appeared in sight. I would then affect either a polite unconcern,or an air of judicious surprise, or pretend not to lift my eyes at alltill she was nearly past; and I think I must have been a very fairactor, for it all succeeded capitally, and I am not aware that she everhad the least suspicion of the truth. Let me, however, recall oneincident over which I had no control, and which did more towardspromoting our intercourse than all the rest.
It is a cold, bright morning in February. There is a briskexhilaration in the air. The windows and gilded balconiessparkle in the sun, and it is pleasant to hear the frosty ring ofone's boots upon the pavement. It is a fete to-day. Nothingis doing in the lecture-rooms, and I have the whole day beforeme. Meaning, therefore, to enjoy it over the fire and a book,I wisely begin it by a walk.
From the Cite Bergere, out along the right-hand side of the Boulevards,down past the front of the Madeleine, across the Place de la Concorde,and up the Champs Elysees as far as the Arc de Triomphe; this is theroute I take in going. Arrived at the arch, I cross over, and come backby the same roads, but on the other side of the way. I have a motive inthis. There is a certain second-hand book-shop on the opposite side ofthe Boulevard des Italiens, which draws me by a wholly irresistibleattraction. Had I started on that side, I should have gone no further. Ishould have looked, lingered, purchased, and gone home to read. But Iknow my weakness. I have reserved the book-shop for my return journey,and now, rewarded and triumphant, compose myself for a quiet study ofits treasures.
And what a book-shop it is! Not only are its windows filled--not onlyare its walls a very perspective of learning--but square pillars ofvolumes are built up on either side of the door, and an immensesupplementary library is erected in the open air, down all the length ofa dead-wall adjoining the house.
Here then I pause, turning over the leaves of one volume, reading thetitle of another, studying the personal appearance of a third, andweighing the merits of their authors against the contents of my purse.And when I say "personal appearance," I say it advisedly; forbook-hunters, are skilled Lavaters in their way, and books, like men,attract or repel at first sight. Thus it happens that I love a portlybook, in a sober coat of calf, but hate a thin, smart volume, in a gaudybinding. The one promises to be philosophic, learnedly witty, or solidlyinstructive; the other is tolerably certain to be pert and shallow, andreminds me of a coxcombical lacquey in bullion and red plush. On thesame principle, I respect leaves soiled and dog's-eared, but mistrustgilt edges; love an old volume better than a new; prefer a spaciousbook-stall to all the unpurchased stores of Paternoster Row; and buyevery book that I possess at second-hand. Nay, that it is second-hand isin itself a pass port to my favor. Somebody has read it before;therefore it is readable. Somebody has derived pleasure from it before;therefore I open it with a student's sympathy, and am disposed to beindulgent ere I have perused a single line. There are cases, however,in which I incline to luxury of binding. Just as I had rather have myhistorians in old calf and my chroniclers in black letter, so do Idelight to see my modern poets, the Benjamins of my affections, clothedin coats of many colors. For them no moroccos are too rich, and no"toolings" too elaborate. I love to see them smiling on me from theshelves of my book-cases, as glowing and varied as the sunset through apainted oriel.
Standing here, then, to-day, dipping first into this work andthen into that, I light upon a very curious and interestingedition of _Froissart_--an edition full of quaint engravings, andprinted in the obsolete spelling of two hundred years ago. Thebook is both a treasure and a bargain, being marked up at fiveand twenty francs. Only those who haunt book-stalls andluxuriate in old editions can appreciate the satisfaction withwhich I survey
"That weight of wood, with leathern coat overlaid, Those ample clasps of solid metal made, The close pressed leaves unclosed for many an age, The dull red edging of the well-filled page, And the broad back, with stubborn ridges roll'd, Where yet the title stands in tarnished gold!"
They only can sympathize in the eagerness with which I snatch up theprecious volume, the haste with which I count out the five and twentyfrancs, the delight with which I see the dealer's hand close on the sum,and know that the book is legally and indisputably mine! Then howlovingly I embrace it under my arm, and taking advantage of my positionas a purchaser, stroll leisurely round the inner warehouse, stillcourting that literary world which (in a library at least) always turnsits back upon its worshipper!
"Pray, Monsieur," says a gentle voice at the door, "where is that old_Froissart_ that I saw outside about a quarter of an hour ago?"
"Just sold, Madame," replies the bookseller, promptly.
"Oh, how unfortunate!--and I only went home for the money" exclaims thelady in a tone of real disappointment.
Selfishly exultant, I hug the book more closely, turn to steal a glanceat my defeated rival, and recognise--Mademoiselle Dufresnoy.
She does not see me. I am standing in the inner gloom of the shop, andshe is already turning away. I follow her at a little distance; keep herin sight all the way home; let her go into the house some few seconds inadvance; and then, scaling three stairs at a time, overtake her at thedoor of her apartment.
Flushed and breathless, I s
tand beside her with _Froissart_ in my hand.
"Pardon, Mademoiselle," I say, hurriedly, "for having involuntarilyforestalled you just now. I had just bought the book you wished topurchase,"
She looks at me with evident surprise and some coldness; but saysnothing.
"And I am rejoiced to have this opportunity of transferring it to you."
Mademoiselle Dufresnoy makes a slight but decided gesture of refusal.
"I would not deprive you of it, Monsieur," she says promptly, "upon anyconsideration."
"But, Mademoiselle, unless you allow me to relinquish it in your favor,I beg to assure you that I shall take the book back to the booksellerand exchange it for some other."
"I cannot conceive why you should do that, Monsieur."
"In order, Mademoiselle, that you may still have it in your power tobecome the purchaser."
"And yet you wished to possess the book, or you would not have boughtit."
"I would not have bought it, Mademoiselle, if I had known that I shoulddisappoint a--a lady by doing so,"
I was on the point of saying, "if I had known that I should disappointyou by so doing," but hesitated, and checked myself in time.
A half-mocking smile flitted across her lips.
"Monsieur is too self-sacrificing," she said. "Had I first bought thebook, I should have kept it--being a woman. Reverse the case as youwill, and show me any just reason why you should not do thesame--being a man?"
"Nay, the merest by-law of courtesy..." I began, hesitatingly.
"Do not think me ungracious, Monsieur," she interrupted, "if I hold thatthese so-called laws of courtesy are in truth but concessions, for themost part, from the strength of your sex to the weakness of ours."
"_Eh bien_, Mademoiselle--what then?"
"Then, Monsieur, may there not be some women---myself, for instance--whodo not care to be treated like children?"
"Pardon, Mademoiselle, but are you stating the case quite fairly? Is itnot rather that we desire not to efface the last lingering tradition ofthe age of chivalry--not to reduce to prose the last faint echoes ofthat poetry which tempered the sword of the Crusader and inspired thesong of the Trouvere?"
"Were it not better that the new age created a new code and a newpoetry?" said Mademoiselle Dufresnoy.
"Perhaps; but I confess I love old forms and usages, and cling to creedsoutworn. Above all, to that creed which in the age of powder andcompliment, no less than in the age of chivalry, enjoined absolutedevotion and courtesy towards women."
"Against mere courtesy reasonably exercised and in due season, I havenothing to say," replied Mademoiselle Dufresnoy; "but the half-barbaroushomage of the Middle Ages is as little to my taste as the scarcely lessbarbarous refinement of the Addison and Georgian periods. Both are alikeunsound, because both have a basis of insincerity. Just as there is amock refinement more vulgar than simple vulgarity, so are therecourtesies which humiliate and compliments that offend."
"Mademoiselle is pleased to talk in paradoxes," said I.
Mademoiselle unlocked her door, and turning towards me with the samehalf-mocking smile and the same air of raillery, said:--
"Monsieur, it is written in your English histories that when John le Bonwas taken captive after the battle of Cressy, the Black Prince rodebareheaded before him through the streets of London, and served him attable as the humblest of his attendants. But for all that, was John anythe less a prisoner, or the Black Prince any the less a conqueror?"
"You mean, perhaps, that you reject all courtesy based on mereceremonial. Let me then put the case of this _Froissart_ moreplainly--as I would have done from the first, had I dared to speak thesimple truth."
"And that is...?"
"That it will give me more pleasure to resign the book to you,Mademoiselle, than to possess it myself."
Mademoiselle Dufresnoy colors up, looks both haughty and amused, andends by laughing.
"In truth, Monsieur," she says merrily, "if your politeness threatenedat first to be too universal, it ends by becoming unnecessarilyparticular."
"Say rather, Mademoiselle, that you will not have the book on anyterms!" I exclaim impatiently.
"Because you have not yet offered it to me upon any just or reasonablegrounds."
"Well, then, bluntly and frankly, as student to student, I beg you tospare me the trouble of carrying this book back to the Boulevard. Yours,Mademoiselle, was the first intention. You saw the book before I saw it.You would have bought it on the spot, but had to go home for the money.In common equity, it is yours. In common civility, as student tostudent, I offer it to you. Say, is it yes or no?"
"Since you put it so simply and so generously, and since I believe youreally wish me to accept your offer," replies Mademoiselle Dufresnoy,taking out her purse, "I suppose I must say--yes."
And with this, she puts out her hand for the hook, and offers me inreturn the sum of five and twenty francs.
Pained at having to accept the money, pained at being offered it, seeingno way of refusing it, and feel altogether more distress than isreasonable in a man brought up to the taking of fees; I affect not tosee the coin, and, bowing, move away in the direction of my own door.
"Pardon, Monsieur," she says, "but you forget that I am in your debt."
"And--and do you really insist..."
She looks at me, half surprised and half offended.
"If you do not take the money, Monsieur, how can I take the book?"
Bowing, I receive the unwelcome francs in my unwilling palm.
Still she lingers.
"I--I have not thanked you as I ought for your generosity," she says,hesitatingly.
"Generosity!" I repeat, glancing with some bitterness at the five andtwenty francs.
"True kindness, Monsieur, is neither bought nor sold," says the lady,with the loveliest smile in the world, and closes her door.
In the Days of My Youth: A Novel Page 35
