Delphi complete works of.., p.240
Delphi Complete Works of Alphonse Daudet (Illustrated), page 240
Sometimes Mme. Ebsen interposed:
“But, my good Henriette, why do you continue in your occupation of bringing up children, if it is so distasteful to you? Why do you not return to your parents? You say they are old, and alone, your mother is infirm, and you could assist her with her household cares — aid her in the washing, and do a little cooking.’’
“As well marry, then,” interrupted Henriette quickly. “No thanks! I am no housekeeper; and I have a horror of all those menial tasks that occupy only the hands.”
“One can, however, always think,” commented Eline. But the other, paying no attention, went on:
“Besides, my people are poor, and I should be a burden to them... then, they are peasants, and are incapable of understanding me.”
At this Mme. Ebsen was indignant:
“That is just like those Papists, with their convents. It is not enough that they shall tear daughters and sons away from their parents, of whose old age they are the natural supports, but they must kill even every remembrance, every sentiment of affection for their family. I must say they are pretty places, your prisons of the good God!”
Henriette Briss was not angry, but by all kinds of arguments and quotations defended her beloved convent. She had passed eleven delightful years in one, with no realization of the passage of time, with no responsibility, absorbed in God, in an unconsciousness whose awakening had been hard and bitter: “Come, Madame Ebsen, in this age of materialism, there is no other refuge for high-minded souls.”
The good woman was choked with anger:
“The very idea! The very idea! But why don’t you return to your convent? — a lot of idle, silly creatures!”
At this moment, a deluge of notes and arpeggios drowned, swept away the discussion. The wallflowers became discreetly animated, and approached the piano, while in her limpid, tender voice Éline began a romance of Chopin. Then it was Grandmother’s turn. They wanted an old Scandinavian song, which Éline translated line by line for Lorie. The aged Grandmother sat up proudly in her chair and in tremulous tones quavered the heroic air of King Christian, standing near the main-mast all wrapped in smoke; or sometimes there was a melancholy invocation to the distant fatherland:
“Denmark, with fair fields and meadows
Bounded by the azure sea.”
There is now no more singing at the Ebsens’. The piano is silent, the candles extinguished. The old Danish woman has gone to a country bounded by no azure sea; a land of fair fields and meadows, but so distant and so vast, that from it no one has ever returned.
IV. MORNING HOURS.
A FEW DAYS after the death of Grandmother, the little Lories were at home alone, father at the office, nurse at market, door locked with a double turn of the key, according to Sylvanire’s custom when she left the house. She had lost none of her terror and distrust since her arrival, believing, for example, in an immense traffic in stolen children, organized in Paris to furnish the great city with tricksters who performed in the streets, and with harpists who played before the cafés, and even — horrible to think of — material with which to make nice little warm pies. Therefore, when she left Fanny and Maurice at home, they invariably heard the same command of the mother goat to her kids:
“Above all things, keep the door locked... and open to no one but Romain.”
Romain, the man with the basket, who was such a puzzle to poor Grandmother, had arrived from Algeria a few days after the Lories, at the exact time of the installation of his successor over there, for he, also, had been a functionary. To his duties of door-keeper and gardener at the Sub-Prefecture, he added the offices of coachman, steward, and husband of Sylvanire, but the latter was such a trifling one, that it is not worth mentioning. La Berrichonne had found it difficult to decide on this marriage. Since her affair at Bourges, the handsomest man in the world would not have caused her a moment’s thought; still less this little, puny, stammering Romain, a head shorter than herself, with a complexion the color of an omelet cooked in oil, brought back from Sénégal, where, on leaving the navy, he had worked as gardener at the governor’s mansion.
But her employers liked him so well, and then the fellow was so kind and obliging, so skilful in all occupations, he knew how to arrange such beautiful bouquets — they were as big as trees — he could amuse the children in such ingenious ways, he stole such tender glances at her, that after a long time, when she had done her best to discourage him, even telling him of her misfortune with the artillery student, Sylvanire had finally consented.
“It shall be as you like, my poor Romain, but truly...” and the mimicry of her broad shoulders seemed to say:
“Funny idea you have there!”
Romain’s response was an unintelligible but ardent sputtering, in which were mingled oaths of eternal affection, and wild projects of vengeance against the whole Artillery Corps. “Bless’ pig!” That was his pet expression, “Blessed pig!” a habit which he had never been able to overcome. All the unexpressed sentiments of the heart were summed up in that word. The day on which the Admiral of Genouilly had saved him miraculously from court-martial, the day when Sylvanire’s mistress had advised her to marry him, Romain had thanked them both with: “Bless’ pig, Admiral! Bless’ pig, Madame Lorie!” and those words stood for the most beautiful and eloquent protestations of gratitude.
Married, their life remained the same as before, she in the house with her employers, he at his door and in the garden — but never together. At night, Sylvanire watched over her invalid mistress, and after Madame went away she continued to sleep upstairs on the children’s account, while her husband cooled his toes all alone in the big bed furnished him by the government. After months of this severe régime, scarcely relieved by a few gleams of tenderness, had come the overthrow of his patron, and the order for Sylvanire to bring Maurice and Fanny to Paris.
“All right, but what about me?” asked Romain, as he tied up the boxes.
“You may do as you like, my poor man.... But, at any rate, I am going.”
What he would like to do, parbleu, was to be with her, to have a home together; and from the moment when she promised him that in Paris Monsieur would take them both, that they would be really keeping house, Romain resigned his place without regret.
When he arrived in the Rue du Val-de-Grâce, and Sylvanire, with a gesture that spoke volumes, showed him the little ones, the boxes piled in heaps, the evident poverty, the poor man could say nothing but “Bless’ pig, wife!” It was plain to see that, for the present, they could not live together. No need of a coachman there, nor of a gardener or steward either.
“Sylvanire is sufficient for the present,” declared M. Lorie, in his lordly manner, and he advised Romain to look for something to do elsewhere, the present arrangement being, of course, only temporary. Besides, as Sylvanire said, many married people in Paris are out at service, and are compelled to live apart; they see each other from time to time, and love each other all the more, perhaps, on this account. A broad grin, so engaging, so amiable, lit up the face beneath the white three-cornered cap.
“Avast, then. I am off to search for something to do,” said Romain; and it must be admitted that he succeeded in finding work in less time than his Prefect.
He had only to go down to the banks of the Seine, and mingle with that crowd of rag-pickers which the good river supports, to have a choice of several professions. He could be a wharf-porter, a stevedore, he could work at one of the locks, or in a wash-house. He decided finally on a place at the dam de la Monnaie because it was something of a government employment, and he had, like Lorie, the administrative fever. His work was hard, and kept him closely confined; but as soon as he could get off, he ran to the Rue du Val-de-Grâce, always having some surprise in his big basket, the perquisites of the assistant lock-keeper.
Sometimes, by the breaking up of a raft, there were three or four splendid logs still wet from their long journey down the Seine, or, again, it might be some apples, or a package of coffee. Whatever he brought was given to Sylvanire, but the whole family profited by the gift; and often he came with a fry, a side of beef, or some other thing entirely foreign to the river.
For some time Romain’s visits had been at longer intervals. He had just been promoted to the station of head lock-keeper at the dam of Petit-Port, three miles from Paris: one hundred francs a month, with heating, lights, and a tiny cottage on the water’s edge, with a garden on one side where he could cultivate flowers and vegetables. What a fortune! Nevertheless, he would never have consented to go so far away from Sylvanire, if she had not absolutely insisted upon it. Now that it would soon be summer, she would bring the children to see him, and they could stay several days. It would be equal to a visit to the country to the little dears. And who knows if they might not even be able to settle there soon, just the two of them! She would not explain further; and the lock-keeper, mad with joy, had gone to take possession of his new post, after which there were only very short visits, at long intervals and between trains.
Romain having left the city, there was to be no exception; when the maid went out, they were absolutely forbidden to open the door. But, with charming ingenuity, these little Algerians, accustomed to living in the open air, and who for so long a time had lived behind their shutters, closed in order to conceal their poverty, now opened wide their windows, on a level with the street, without reflecting that a single stride would bring one inside the house. But, what was there to be feared in such a peaceable street, where the cats dozed in the sunshine, and the pink claws of the pigeons scratched between the paving-stones? Besides, they were proud to be seen, now that they had beds, chairs, a wardrobe, and shelves for their portfolios and books.
Of their former furniture, utilized by Sylvanire for kindling wood, there remained only one or two packing-boxes, from which the pupil of the Borda carved sail-boats and row-boats. It was in this way that the young man was preparing for Navale. He had acquired from Romain this taste for nautical constructions; and Lorie, who at once thought this an indication of his vocation, had early formed the habit of presenting his son, — on reception evenings at the Sub-Prefecture, when the children were brought in, with:
“Here is our sailor boy,” or, of calling out in a proud voice:
“Hey! Maurice, the Borda!”
The little fellow, was at first enchanted with the respect shown by his companions for that glorious profession, but especially for his midshipman’s cap — his mother’s idea — but when it meant serious business, when, staring him in the face, he saw mathematics and trigonometry, both as little to his taste as the ocean and its adventures, his dream was over. Everywhere he was addressed as the sailor, and he dared no longer protest. From that time, his life was embittered, and his face assumed a dull, lamentable expression. He was depressed by the very mention of the Borda, with which every one bombarded him. His nose lengthened over equations, drawings and diagrams, geographical and geometrical figures, in big books, far too advanced for his understanding. He remained perpetually the future pupil at Navale, terrified by all he was obliged to learn to be admitted, more frightened still at the idea that perhaps he would not be received there.
In spite of all, the taste of his childhood persisted; and he was never happier than when Fanny asked him to make her a boat. At that very moment he was engaged in the construction of a splendid one, a sloop the equal of which had never been seen in the lake of the Luxembourg. He was working eagerly, all his tools on the window-sill, — hammer, saw, jointing-plane, which his little sister handed him as he needed them, while all the ragamuffins of the neighborhood, pantaloons in tatters, suspenders falling over torn sleeves, watched him admiringly from the street.
Suddenly there is a shout.
“Look out there! Look out!”
There is a great noise in the street; dogs bark, children and pigeons scatter to make way for a handsome carriage, with piebald horses, and chestnut-colored livery, which has just drawn up exactly before the Lories’ door. A tall, lean, old woman, dressed in a black gown with cape to match, descends from the carriage, and flashes on the two children a sharp glance from wicked eyes, ambuscaded behind a pair of heavy eyebrows, thick as moustaches.
“Does Madame Ebsen live here?”
With compressed jaws, and clenched fists, the Borda pupil, to his sister’s great admiration, answers courageously:
“No, on the floor above,” and quickly closes the window on this vision of the black lady, just like the one in all of Sylvanire’s stories.
Fanny whispers, breathless:
“That’s one for sure.”
“I think so too.”
Then, after a moment, when the footsteps ascending the stairs become fainter:
“Did you see how she looked at us? I thought she was coming in through the window.”
“I should like to have seen that,” replies the sailor, but without conviction. And, so long as they know that woman is upstairs, just over their heads, and that carriage is at the door, right in front of them, shutting out the street from view, they stay still as mice, not daring so much as to speak or breathe, or even drive a nail. At last, they hear Mme. Ebsen’s voice as she accompanies some one to the landing. A dress brushes against their door. She is going out. The pupil of the Borda, to be sure, lifts a corner of the curtain, but drops it again quickly. The woman is there, looking at him behind the casement with devouring eyes, as if she would carry him away. Then the carriage door slams, the horses stamp, they start, and the shadow that the carriage made before the window vanishes like an ugly dream.
“Well, really!” says little Fanny, with a sigh of relief.
That evening, when Lorie went upstairs with Fanny for her lesson, he found Mme. Ebsen still proud and excited from her fine visitor.
“Yes, but who was it? I heard about a carriage...”
With pride she gave him a large, heavy visiting-card.
JEANNE AUTHEMAN
Founder and President of the Work of the Evangelist Dames.
Paris. Port-Sauveur.
“Madame Autheman? The wife of the banker?”
“Not she, herself, but some one whom she sent to ask Lina to translate a collection of prayers and meditations.”
And she showed him a small gilt-edged book, lying on the table. It had this title: Morning Hours, by Mme. — with the emblem: “A woman lost the world, a woman shall save it.” They needed two translations, one in English, and one in German, for which they would pay three sous a prayer, in each language.
“A singular traffic, is it not?” asked Lina, without raising her head from Fanny’s exercise that she was correcting.
“Why no, Linette, I assure you. At this price, one can manage to do it,” replied Mme. Ebsen, in her most matter-of-fact tone. The good woman was no mystic; then, lowering her voice, so as not to disturb the lesson, she spoke to her neighbor about the strange person who had been sent, Mile. — , the name was on the card, Anne de Deuil, Hôtel Autheman. Yes indeed! de Deuil in two words; nevertheless she seemed more like a peasant, or a housekeeper, than a lady of quality. Entirely unembarrassed and making herself at home, she inquired if the ladies saw many people, and whom they received. She also examined Lina’s photograph on the mantelpiece, and found it too gay.
“Too gay!” exclaimed Loric, indignantly, who suffered to see the fair young face clouded by sorrow since the death of Grandmother.
“Ah! and she said many other things.... That we were frivolous creatures, and did not live enough in God. She gave me a sermon — a regular sermon, with gestures and quotations. It is a pity that Henriette was not here. They would have made a pretty pair of preachers.”
“Has Mademoiselle Briss gone away?” inquired Lorie, who was interested in that flighty girl, doubtless because she considered him so practical.
“Yes, a week ago, with the Princess Souvorine, who engages her as companion. It is a splendid position for her, and no children.”
“She must be satisfied, then?”
“Quite the contrary. She is in despair. We received a letter written from Vienna, and she longs for her cell in the Rue du Cherche-Midi. Ah! poor Henriette!”
And, returning to the subject of her morning visitor, and to her reproach that they did not live enough in God, she continued:
“In the first place, so far as Lina is concerned, that is not true. She plays the organ every Sunday in the Rue Chauchat, and never misses a service. As for me, have I ever had the time to be pious? I should like to have seen that Mademoiselle de Beuil with an old mother to take care of, and a child in arms. I had to run about giving private lessons from early morning in all kinds of weather, from one end of Paris to another. In the evening I would fall on my bed like a stone, too tired to pray, or even to think. But wasn’t it piety also, to make Mamma happy to the end of her life, and to give Lina a good education, from which she is now profiting? Ah! dear little Lina, she will never have to undergo the harsh experiences that I have suffered.”
And, becoming animated at the recollection of her trials, she told Lorie how she used to give lessons in the back part of shops to persons as needy as herself, the exchange she sometimes made of an hour of German for one of French, and the exactions of some of the parents. There was one stout young girl with whom she had to walk while teaching her languages, having her recite irregular verbs as they trudged through the wind and rain from the Arc de l’Étoile to the Bastille. This sort of thing continued for years, with all the privations and humiliations that must be endured by a poor woman — the shabby clothes, the breakfasts sacrificed to save six sous for omnibus fare — until the day she had entered Mme. de Bourlon’s school as instructor. It was a very swell school for none but the daughters of bankers and rich merchants. There was Léonie Rougier, now the Countess d’Arlot, and Deborah Becker, who has become Baroness Gerspach. It was there, also, that she knew a pretty, singular girl named Jeanne Châtelus, a fanatical Protestant who always kept a little Bible in her pocket and held actual religious meetings for her companions in the corner of the playground during recreation hour. It was rumored that she was soon to be married to a young missionary, and go out with him to convert the Basutos. In fact, she left the school suddenly and three weeks later became — Mme. Autheman.
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