CHAPTER XLIII.
ON A WINTER'S EVENING.
After a more than usually severe winter, the early spring came, crownedwith rime instead of primroses. Paris was intensely cold. In March theSeine was still frozen, and snow lay thickly on the house-tops. Quiet atall times, the little nook in which I lived became monastically still,and at night, when the great gates were closed, and the footsteps of thepassers-by fell noiselessly upon the trodden snow, you might have hearda whisper from one side of the street to the other. There was to mesomething indescribably delightful about this silent solitude in theheart of a great city.
Sitting beside the fire one evening, enjoying the profound calm of theplace, attending from time to time to my little coffee-pot on the hob,and slowly turning the pages of a favorite author, I luxuriate in astate of mind half idle, half studious. Leaving off presently to listento some sound which I hear, or fancy I hear, in the adjoining room, Iwonder for the twentieth time whether Hortense has yet returned from herlong day's teaching; and so rise--open my window--and look out. Yes; thelight from her reading-lamp streams out at last across the snow-ladenbalcony. Heigho! it is something even to know that she is there so nearme--divided only by a thin partition!
Trying to comfort myself with this thought, I close the window again andreturn to my book, more restless and absent than before. Sitting thus,with the unturned leaf lingering between my thumb and forefinger, I heara rapid footfall on the stairs, and a musical whistle which, growinglouder as it draws nearer, breaks off at my door, and is followed by aprolonged assault and battery of the outer panels.
"Welcome, noisiest of visitors!" I exclaim, knowing it to be Muellerbefore I even open the door. "You are quite a stranger. You have notbeen near me for a fortnight."
"It will not be your fault, Signor Book-worm, if I don't become astranger _au pied de la lettre_" replies he, cheerily. "Why, man, it isclose upon three weeks since you have crossed the threshold of my door.The Quartier Latin is aggrieved by your neglect, and the fine artst'other side of the water languish and are forlorn."
So saying, he shakes the snow from his coat like a St. Bernard mastiff,perches his cap on the head of the plaster Niobe that adorns mychimney-piece, and lays aside the folio which he had been carrying underhis arm. I, in the meanwhile, have wheeled an easy-chair to the fire,brought out a bottle of Chambertin, and piled on more wood in honorof my guest.
"You can't think," said I, shaking hands with him for the second time,"how glad I am that you have come round to-night."
"I quite believe it," replied he. "You must be bored to death, if theseold busts are all the society you keep. _Sacre nom d'une pipe_! how cana fellow keep up his conviviality by the perpetual contemplation ofNiobe and Jupiter Tonans? What do you mean by living such a life asthis? Have you turned Trappist? Shall I head a subscription to presentyou with a skull and an hour-glass?"
"I'll have the skull made into a drinking-cup, if you do. Take somewine."
Mueller filled his glass, tasted with the air of a connoisseur, andnodded approvingly.
"Chambertin, by the god Bacchus!" said he. "Napoleon's favorite wine,and mine--evidence of the sympathy that exists between the truly great."
And, draining the glass, he burst into a song in praise of French wines,beginning--
"Le Chambertin rend joyeux, Le Nuits rend infatigable, Le Volnay rend amoureux, Le Champagne rend amiable. Grisons-nous, mes chers amis, L'ivresse Vaut la richesse; Pour moi, des que le suis gris, Je possede tout Paris!"
"Oh hush!" said I, uneasily; "not so loud, pray!"
"Why not?"
"The--the neighbors, you know. We cannot do as we would in the QuartierLatin."
"Nonsense, my dear fellow. You don't swear yourself to silence when youtake apartments in a _hotel meuble_! You might as well live in apenitentiary!--
'De bouchons faisons un tas, Et s'il faut avoir la goutte, Au moins que ce ne soit pas Pour n'avoir bu qu'une goutte!'"
"Nay, I implore you!" I interposed again. "The landlord ..."
"Hang the landlord!
'Grisons-nous--'"
"Well, but--but there is a lady in the next room ..."
Mueller laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks.
"_Allons done_!" said he, "why not have told the truth at first? Oh, yously rogue! You _gaillard_! This is your seclusion, is it? This is yourlove of learning--this the secret of your researches into science andart! What art, pray? Ovid's 'Art of Love,' I'll be sworn!"
"Laugh on, pray," I said, feeling my face and my temper growing hot;"but that lady, who is a stranger to me"....
"Oh--oh--oh!" cried Mueller.
"Who is a stranger to me," I repeated, "and who passes her evenings instudy, must not be annoyed by noises in my room. Surely, my dear fellow,you know me well enough to understand whether I am in jest orin earnest."
Mueller laid his hand upon my sleeve.
"Enough--enough," he said, smiling good-naturedly. "You are right, and Iwill be as dumb as Plato. What is the lady's name."
"Dufresnoy," I answered, somewhat reluctantly. "Mademoiselle Dufresnoy."
"Ay, but her Christian name!"
"Her Christian name," I faltered, more reluctant still. "I--I--"
"Don't say you don't know," said Mueller, maliciously. "It isn't worthwhile. After all, what does it matter? Here's to her health, all thesame--_a votre sante_, Mademoiselle Dufresnoy! What! not drink herhealth, though I have filled your glass on purpose?"
There was no help for it, so I took the glass and drank the toast withthe best grace I could.
"And now, tell me," continued my companion, drawing nearer to the fireand settling himself with a confidential air that was peculiarlyprovoking, "what is she like? Young or old? Dark or fair? Plainor pretty?"
"Old," said I, desperately. "Old and ugly. Fifty at the least. Squintshorribly."
Then, thinking that I had been a little too emphatic, I added:--
"But a very ladylike person, and exceedingly well-informed,"
Mueller looked at me gravely, and filled his glass again.
"I think I know the lady," said he.
"Indeed?"
"Yes--by your description. You forgot to add, however, that she isgray."
"To be sure--as a badger."
"To say nothing of a club foot, an impediment in her speech, a voicelike a raven's, and a hump like a dromedary's! Ah! my dear friend, whatan amazingly comic fellow you are!"
And the student burst again into a peal of laughter so hearty andinfectious that I could not have helped joining in it to save my life.
"And now," said he, when we had laughed ourselves out of breath, "now tothe object of my visit. Do you remember asking me, months ago, to makeyou a copy of an old portrait that you had taken a fancy to in sometumble-down chateau near Montlhery!"
"To be sure; and I have intended, over and over again, to remind you ofit. Did you ever take the trouble to go over there and look at it?"
"Look at it, indeed! I should rather think so--and here is the proof.What does your connoisseurship say to it?"
Say to it! Good heavens! what could I say, what could I do, but flush upall suddenly with pleasure, and stare at it without power at first toutter a single word?
For it was like _her_--so like that it might have been her veryportrait. The features were cast in the same mould--the brow, perhaps,was a little less lofty--the smile a little less cold; but the eyes,the beautiful, lustrous, soul-lighted eyes were the same--thevery same!
If she were to wear an old-fashioned dress, and deck her fair neck andarms with pearls, and put powder on her hair, and stand just so, withher hand upon one of the old stone urns in the garden of that desertedchateau, she would seem to be standing for the portrait.
Well might I feel, when I first saw her, that the beauty of her face wasnot wholly unfamiliar to me! Well might I fancy I had seen her in somedream of long ago!
So this was the secret of
it--and this picture was mine. Mine to hangbefore my desk when I was at work--mine to place at my bed's foot, whereI might see it on first waking--mine to worship and adore, to weavefancies and build hopes upon, and "burn out the day in idle phantasies"of passionate devotion!
"Well," said Mueller impatiently, "what do you think of it?"
I looked up, like one dreaming.
"Think of it!" I repeated.
"Yes--do you think it like?"
"So like that it might be her por ... I mean that it might be theoriginal."
"Oh, that's satisfactory. I was afraid you were disappointed."
"I was only silent from surprise and pleasure."
"Well, however faithful the copy maybe, you know, in these things onealways misses the tone of age."
"I would not have it look a day older!" I exclaimed, never lifting myeyes from the canvas.
Mueller came and looked down at it over my shoulder.
"It is an interesting head," said he. "I have a great mind to introduceit into my next year's competition picture."
I started as if he had struck me. The thought was sacrilege!
"For Heaven's sake do no such thing!" I ejaculated.
"Why not?" said he, opening his eyes in astonishment.
"I cannot tell you why--at least not yet; but to--to confer a veryparticular obligation upon me, will you waive this point?" Mueller rubbedhis head all over with both hands, and sat down in the utmostperplexity.
"Upon my soul and conscience," said he, "you are the mostincomprehensible fellow I ever knew in my life!"
"I am. I grant it. What then? Let us see, I am to give you a hundred andfifty francs for this copy ..."
"I won't take it," said Mueller. "I mean you to accept it as a pledge offriendship and good-will."
"Nay, I insist on paying for it. I shall be proud to pay for it; but ahundred and fifty are not enough. Let me give you three hundred, andpromise me that you will not put the head into your picture!"
Mueller laughed, and shook his own head resolutely. "I will give you boththe portrait and the promise," said he; "but I won't take your money, ifI know it."
"But ..."
"But I won't--and so, if you don't like me well enough to accept such atrifle from me, I'll e'en carry the thing home again!"
And, snatching up his cap and cloak, he made a feint of putting theportrait back into the folio.
"Not for the world!" I exclaimed, taking possession of it withoutfurther remonstrance. "I would sooner part from all I possess. How can Iever thank you enough?"
"By never thanking me at all! What little time the thing has cost me isoverpaid, not only by the sight of your pleasure, but by my ownsatisfaction in copying it. To copy a good work is to have a lesson fromthe painter, though he were dead a hundred years before; and the man whopainted that portrait, be he who he might, has taught me a trick or twothat I never knew before. _Sapristi_! see if I don't dazzle you some daywith an effect of white satin and pearls against a fair skin!"
"An ingenious argument; but it leaves me unconvinced, all the same. How!you are not going to run away already? Here's another bottle ofChambertin waiting to be opened; and it is yet quite early."
"Impossible! I have promised to meet a couple of men up at the Prado,and have, besides, invited them afterwards to supper."
"What is the Prado?"
"The Prado! Why, is it possible that I have never yet introduced you tothe Prado? It's one of the joiliest places in all the QuartierLatin--it's close to the Palais de Justice. You can dance there, orpractise pistol-shooting, or play billiards, or sup--or anything youplease. Everybody smokes--ladies not excepted."
"How very delightful!"
"Oh, magnificent! Won't you come with me? I know a dozen pretty girlswho will be delighted to be introduced to you."
"Not to-night, thank you," said I, laughing.
"Well, another time?"
"Yes, to be sure--another time."
"Well, good-night."
"Good-night, and thank you again, a thousand times over."
But he would not stay to hear me thank him, and was half way down thefirst flight before my sentence was finished. Just as I was going backinto my room, and about to close the door, he called after me fromthe landing.
"_Hola, amigo_! When my picture is done, I mean to give a bachelor'ssupper-party--chiefly students and _chicards_. Will you come?"
"Gladly."
"Adieu, then. I will let you know in time."
And with this, he broke out into a fragment of Beranger, gave a cheerfulgood-night to Madame Bouisse in the hall, and was gone.
And now to enjoy my picture. Now to lock the door, and trim the lamp,and place it up against a pile of books, and sit down before it insilent rapture, like a devotee before the portrait of his patron saint.Now I can gaze, unreproved, into those eyes, and fancy they are hers.Now press my lips, unforbidden, upon that exquisite mouth, and believeit warm. Ah, will her eyes ever so give back the look of love in mine?Will her lips ever suffer mine to come so near? Would she, if she knewthe treasure I possessed, be displeased that I so worshipped it?
Hanging over it thus, and suffering my thoughts to stray on at their ownwill and pleasure, I am startled by the fall of some heavy object in theadjoining chamber. The fall is followed by a stifled cry, and then allis again silent.
To unlock my door and rush to hers--to try vainly to open it--to cry"Hortense! Hortense! what has happened? For Heaven's sake, what hashappened?" is the work of but an instant.
The antechamber lay between, and I remembered that she could not hearme. I ran back, knocked against the wall, and repeated:--
"What has happened? Tell me what has happened?"
Again I listened, and in that interval of suspense heard her garmentsrustle along the ground, then a deep sigh, and then the words:--
"Nothing serious. I have hurt my hand."
"Can you open the door?"
There was another long silence.
"I cannot," she said at length, but more faintly.
"In God's name, try!"
No answer.
"Shall I get over the balcony?"
I waited another instant, heard nothing, and then, without, furtherhesitation, opened my own window and climbed the iron rail thatseparated her balcony from mine, leaving my footsteps trampled inthe snow.
I found her sitting on the floor, with her body bent forward and herhead resting against the corner of a fallen bookcase. The scatteredvolumes lay all about. A half-filled portmanteau stood close by on achair. A travelling-cloak and a passport-case lay on the table.
Seeing, yet scarcely noting all this, I flung myself on my knees besideher, and found that one hand and arm lay imprisoned under the bookcase.She was not insensible, but pain had deprived her of the power ofspeech. I raised her head tenderly, and supported it against a chair;then lifted the heavy bookcase, and, one by one, removed the volumesthat had fallen upon her.
Alas! the white little hand all crushed and bleeding--the powerlessarm--the brave mouth striving to be firm!
I took the poor maimed arm, made a temporary sling for it with mycravat, and, taking her up in my arms as if she had been an infant,carried her to the sofa. Then I closed the window; ran back to my ownroom for hot water; tore up some old handkerchiefs for bandages; and sodressed and bound her wounds--blessing (for the first time in my life)the destiny that had made me a surgeon.
"Are you in much pain?" I asked, when all was done.
"Not now--but I feel very faint,"
I remembered my coffee in the next room, and brought it to her. I liftedher head, and supported her with my arm while she drank it.
"You are much better now," I said, when she had again lain down. "Tellme how it happened."
She smiled languidly.
"It was not my fault," she said, "but Froissart's. Do you remember thatFroissart?"
Remember it! I should think so.
"Froissart!" I exclaimed. "Why, what had he to do with it?"
<
br /> "Only this. I usually kept him on the top of the bookcase that fell downthis evening. Just now, while preparing for a journey upon which I muststart to-morrow morning, I thought to remove the book to a safer place;and so, instead of standing on a chair, I tried to reach up, and,reaching up, disturbed the balance of the bookcase, and broughtit down."
"Could you not have got out of the way when you saw it falling?"
"Yes--but I tried to prevent it, and so was knocked down and imprisonedas you found me."
"Merciful Heaven! it might have killed you."
"That was what flashed across my mind when I saw it coming," shereplied, with a faint smile.
"You spoke of a journey," I said presently, turning my face away lestshe should read its story too plainly; "but now, of course, you must notmove for a few days."
"I must travel to-morrow," she said, with quiet decision.
"Impossible!"
"I have no alternative."
"But think of the danger--the imprudence--the suffering."
"Danger there cannot be," she replied, with a touch of impatience in hervoice. "Imprudent it may possibly be; but of that I have no time tothink. And as for the suffering, that concerns myself alone. There aremental pains harder to bear than the pains of the body, and theconsciousness of a duty unfulfilled is one of the keenest of them. Youurge in vain; I must go. And now, since it is time you bade megood-night, let me thank you for your ready help and say good-bye."
"But may I do no more for you?"
"Nothing--unless you will have the goodness to bid Madame Bouisse tocome up-stairs, and finish packing my portmanteau for me."
"At what hour do you start?"
"At eight."
"May I not go with you to the station, and see that you get acomfortable seat?"
"Many thanks," she replied, coldly; "but I do not go by rail, and myseat in the diligence is already taken."
"You will want some one to see to your luggage--to carry your cloaks."
"Madame Bouisse has promised to go with me to the Messageries."
Silenced, and perhaps a little hurt, I rose to take my leave.
"I wish you a safe journey, mademoiselle," I said, "and a safe return,"
"And think me, at the same time, an ungrateful patient."
"I did not say that."
"No--but you thought so. After all, it is possible that I seem so. I amundemonstrative--unused to the amenities of life--in short, I am onlyhalf-civilized. Pray, forgive me."
"Mademoiselle," I said, "your apology pains me. I have nothing toforgive. I will send Madame Bouisse to you immediately."
And with this I had almost left the room, but paused upon the threshold.
"Shall you be long away?" I asked, with assumed indifference.
"Shall I be long away?" she repeated, dreamily. "How can I tell?" Then,correcting herself, "Oh, not long," she added. "Not long. Perhaps afortnight--perhaps a week."
"Once more, then, good-night."
"Good-night," she answered, absently; and I withdrew.
I then went down, sent Madame Bouisse to wait upon her, and sat upanxiously listening more than half the night. Next morning, at seven, Iheard Madame Bouisse go in again. I dared not even go to her door toinquire how she had slept, lest I should seem too persistent; but whenthey left the room and went downstairs together, I flew to my window.
I saw her cross the street in the gray morning. She walked feebly, andwore a large cloak, that hid the disabled arm and covered her to thefeet. Madame Bouisse trotted beside her with a bundle of cloaks andumbrellas; a porter followed with her little portmanteau onhis shoulder.
And so they passed under the archway across the trampled snow, andvanished out of sight.
In the Days of My Youth: A Novel Page 37
