Delphi complete works of.., p.243
Delphi Complete Works of Alphonse Daudet (Illustrated), page 243
As soon as she was married, Jeanne began her work of evangelization in the very heart of Paris, much as if she had been among the Kaffirs. She was aided by all the resources of an immense fortune, for the Autheman coffers were open to her: and the tall chimneys of Petit-Port smoked night and day; gold was melted in the crucibles, and wagons, heavy with ingots, rolled by with the means of redeeming the souls of the whole world, She had prayer-meetings in her salon in the Rue Pavée, and preached sermons — at first moderate in tone. And the widow Autheman, going upstairs to her room in the evening, used to hear their hymns, sung to the accompaniment of a melodion; and she sometimes met on the stairs, the weird, starved faces of those monomaniacs, in threadbare clothes and waterproofs dripping with mud — a dismal, faithful troup of necessitous catechumens.
She was, indeed, a little astonished at this life of austerity, at this renunciation of society by a young and pretty woman, but her son was happy, and she may have seen, perhaps, in all this mummery a safeguard for the poor invalid, so that, far from placing any obstacle in the way of her daughter-in-law, she facilitated her mission work in every way. Ah! if she had but known that one of the first and most ardent converts was Jeanne’s husband himself, and that he was only waiting for his mother’s death to be received, and make a public renunciation!
This reception of the Israelite Autheman into the Temple of the Oratory, was one of the great events of the close of the Empire. Every Sunday thereafter, could be seen on the seat of the deacons and elders, facing the pulpit, the knife-blade face, the disfigured and concealed cheek, of the celebrated gold merchant. His conversion gave Jeanne great weight among her followers: she became the “Madame Guyon” of Protestantism. Upright in her life, persevering in her work, she won the esteem even of those who considered her enthusiasm as rank madness. To spread the good news into every corner of Paris, she hired large rooms in its most crowded districts, where she preached on certain days every week. She had, at first, as acolyte, no one but an old maid, formerly nurse and seamstress at Mme. de Bourlon’s, a rabid Calvinist. She was descended from a family of noblemen of Charente who had been ruined by persecutions, and returned to their peasant origins.
The religion of Anne du Beuil retained all the narrow, fierce fanaticism of the Reformation prevalent at the time of the wars. The woman had eyes watchful and suspicious, a soul as ready for martyrdom as for battle, holding in contempt both ridicule and death — a coarse creature, with a strong provincial accent. On preaching days she would push herself into workshops and laundries, and even into the barracks, bestowing money, when necessary, to bring people to the gospel.
Meanwhile, the hôtel in the Rue Pavée was changed in appearance. Jeanne, while retaining the banking-house, suppressed the traffic of gold as savoring too strongly of jewry. Uncle Becker went elsewhere to carry on his business; the refineries of Petit-Port, or rather of Port-Sauveur, were torn down, and in their place erected a church and Evangelical schools. Soon of the old Autheman house, nothing remained but the ancient parrot that had belonged to the mother, and to which the banker was, on that account, much attached, but which Anne de Beuil detested, jostling and chasing it from room to room, as the last débris of that reprobate family. It was the living image of the old gold-broker, Mother Autheman, the bird even reproducing her harsh voice, and hooked, Jewish nose.
VI. THE LOCK.
“ROMAIN! THERE IS Romain!”
This joyous cry from little Fanny, the moment the train stopped at the Ablon station, was the signal for a row of heads to appear at the car windows, the merry, noisy heads of Parisians escaping from the city to spend this Easter Monday, their first holiday of the season, in the fresh air, and bright sunshine of the country; and the droll appearance of the little man, and his laugh that spread from ear to ear, giving him the expression of a monkey, responded to the general good humor, and from one end of the train to the other was heard the same call, in every tone and accent. “There is Romain! Good-morning, Romain! Hello, Romain, hello!” which for a moment gave the lock-keeper, standing on the platform in a blaze of excitement, the paralyzing intoxication of popularity.
“Eh! bon Dieu! What do they mean, my poor man?” exclaimed Sylvanire in terror, jumping from the car before any of the others, little Fanny in her arms.
“They are happy, and are amusing themselves, — but, bless’ pig! I have more reason than they to be happy.”
And, hoisting himself to his wife’s rosy cheeks, he made them smack with a loud kiss that redoubled the shouts of laughter inside the curtains; then darted off to the assistance of Mme. Ebsen and her daughter. But Lorie, who was in the coach, had already anticipated him, and had helped the ladies from the car, with the respectfully humble manner with which he had formerly received the Empress Eugénie when she had landed at the quay at Cherchell.
“And Maurice?” asked Fanny, looking for her brother beside Romain.
“Monsieur Maurice is at the lock, Mamzelle. I left him with Baraquin to help work it. This way out, monsieur, mesdames....”
Laden with everybody’s coats and umbrellas, the lock-keeper, in a brisk little trot, in which he was evidently restraining his desire to run and jump, hurried toward the gateway, while the train, to the cry of a thousand mischievous voices calling: “Romain! Hello, Romain!” moved away, tossing behind it as it went great puffs of smoke.
It had been Sylvanire’s idea, seeing the dull, mournful countenance of the Borda pupil always poring over his books, to send him for a little diversion into the pure air of the country. Lorie had consented all the more readily to this plan, because with his utilitarian views of life, he saw in this an opportunity for the young man to continue his studies from the practical side. Maurice had been at the lock three weeks, when his friends, profiting by a holiday, when there would be neither lessons nor work at the Department, had made up a party to come and see him. How proud was Romain to receive his former Prefect, and these two handsome ladies! What joy to extend to Sylvanire the honors of that conjugal dwelling where soon, perhaps — but hush! This was a secret between the two.
From Ablon to Petit-Port was scarcely more than three kilometers, an omnibus running between the two for every train; but the lock-keeper, thinking it would be more pleasant, had brought his boat, a large green one, freshly repainted. Here all the guests were soon installed, the little girl in the stern between Éline and Mme. Ebsen, and Lorie on the seat in front of them. Sylvanire sat in the bow, which she completely filled with her dress — of that shade of blue worn by nurses, and which, with her white fluted cap, seemed like a livery. Romain, active as a rat, was the last to jump in, shoving off the boat with his foot, and taking up the oars. The boat was heavy, and the current strong.
“You will fatigue yourself, my good man.”
“No fear of that, Monsieur Lorie.” And the little man, bracing himself firmly against the footrest, gurgled and grimaced in the sunshine, bending his curly head backward until it almost touched his wife’s knees; then, by a singular manœuvre, pushing out into the middle of the river where the current was very swift.
“Petit-Port is then on the other side, Romain?”
“Beg pardon, Monsieur Loric, but it is only to connect with the Chain.”
No one understood what he meant until they saw him suddenly lay down his oars, and with the end of his boat-hook grasp the last of a long train of tows that passed every morning at that hour. Certainly a delicious mode of navigation, no fatigue, no jar. The throbbing of the engine, and the grating of the tow-chain on the bridge were distinguished only in the distance, as a monotonous, soothing murmur, that seemed to spread to the two river banks with the foam in their wake. Under the bright sky, glorified by the youth of the day and the season, the country deserted, pretty white houses, on both sides of the river, in their gardens of budding vegetation, with their halfblown lilacs nodding in the fresh breeze, unfolded themselves to view.
“How comfortable we are!” said Fanny, her arm around Eline; and that little childish voice expressed the sentiments of the whole party. They were comfortable. For the first time since their sorrow, the young girl’s cheek glowed with the tinge of health, and her sweet smile, like a half-opened flower, expressed delight in the presence of nature — of nature, always soothing, always comforting. Mme. Ebsen, like all persons who have lived long and suffered much, enjoyed more quietly her day of relaxation. Lorie watched the blond hair on Éline’s brow and neck flutter gently in the breeze, and fancied that, somehow, it was his own heart that his little girl’s arm drew close to the young girl’s heart. But the happiest of them all was Romain, as he sat in the bow near his wife, speaking to her in low tones, and from time to time stealing sly glances behind him.
“There’s Petit-Port,” he suddenly exclaimed, pointing to a village, with its uniform red roofs scattered over the slopes, as yet somewhat bare, on which were planted the market gardens, vegetable patches, and flower beds, that border the left bank of the Seine above Ablon.
“In a quarter of an hour we shall be at the lock.”
Along the bank an estate of ancient and manorial appearance spread for a considerable distance its balustraded roofs, its rows of gray shutters, its thick well-pruned hedges and lawn, in the form of a half-moon, inclosed with huge stones, connected by chains in front of the entrance door. Beyond, extended over the hill an immense park, with its great trees of many different species, through which could be discovered, detached and overgrown with moss, an old stone stairway, its double balustrade meeting overhead in an arch. As the foliage was yet scant, they also saw overlooking a white building, a massive, evidently new, marble cross, which they took for a great family tomb, or a chapel.
“The Autheman Château,” responded Romain, in answer to their questioning glances.
“Why, then, this is Port-Sauveur,” exclaimed Éline quickly.
“Precisely, Mamzelle. That’s what they call the Château here in the country. And a queer place it is too, and their village as well! You would have to search far through Seine-et-Oise, and even through all France to find its like.”
An inexplicable feeling of uneasiness suddenly seized the young girl, dimming the beautiful spring sunshine, and the pure atmosphere, full of the perfume of violets. It was the memory of her visit to the Rue Pavée, and the reproaches of Mme. Autheman on her Grandmother’s impenitent death. She could not turn her eyes from those rows of closed shutters, from that dark, mysterious park, dominated by the funereal cross. What chance was leading her here? Was it indeed chance, or was it, perhaps, a higher will, a warning from God?
But, already, a turn in the bank, a cluster of trees, the progress of the boat, bringing into view all that part of the estate that lay on and beyond the hill, had removed the ghostly spell. They could now perceive the lock intersecting the river, with its silver foam. They heard its dull roar, becoming louder as they approached the flood-gates of the weir. At a signal from the tug, the little white jetty of the mill-race was slowly opening its gates. Romain showed Sylvanire a tiny house on the tow-path, a mere die of a house, the black spots well represented by the doors and windows.
“At home!” he exclaimed in a whisper, with tears in his eyes, as he detached his boat from the tow, and guided it to the landing. Maurice, busy on the jetty with the boy, had seen them from a distance, and came running toward them, shouting like a Caribbean savage, waving in the air his cap, the gilt cords of which were sadly tarnished by the water and sun. He himself, tanned, sunburnt, his nose red and swollen, a real sailor, as Romain said, had been wonderfully benefited by his out-of-door exercise.
“Eh Maurice! the Borda!” cried the father cheerily, without seeing the poor child’s terrified expression at this sudden mention of his vocation. Fortunately for him, they now arrived at the lock-keeper’s dwelling, a one-storied cottage raised a few feet above the ground as a protection from high tides, and surrounded by a vegetable garden, its green furrows in perfect order. Inside the house was a large room containing two single beds for the lock-keeper and his boy. In one corner were a wooden dial, needle, manipulator, and the telegraphic apparatus connecting the lock with all the others along the Seine. On one side, was the kitchen, full of shining utensils that had never been used.
“You see,” explained Romain, “that as long as I am a bachelor,” and he went on to tell that he ate his meals at the Affameur, kept by Damour, a boatman’s tavern near by, celebrated tor its vegetable soup and fried tench. It was there that he had ordered breakfast for the party.
He then opened the door of a room facing the kitchen, into which he proudly and mysteriously introduced his guests. The shutters were closed, but when Romain opened the windows, and the light came streaming in, there were exclamations of surprise. There was a beautiful mahogany bed, a pretty carpet covered with large roses, a bureau surmounted by a mirror which reflected a variety of trinkets gotten at the Fair. The buff wall-paper was decorated with pictures that he had cut from magazines. It was a surprise, this room! Sylvanire’s room, furnished entirely from the lock-keeper’s savings, and without saying a word to his wife. He was keeping it as a gift for her until the time when...
“It is very nice,” exclaimed Sylvanire, fearing that he was saying too much; and she drew him outside, leaving the ladies before the new mirror to rearrange their hats, slightly disordered by the fresh breeze of the river. Alone with Eline and her mother, little Fanny, in a mysterious tone, said:
“I know very well why Romain is so happy. It is because they are going to live together soon, as soon as we have a new Mamma.”
Eline started:
“A new Mamma! Who has spoken to you of such a thing?”
“Sylvanire did, this morning, as she was dressing me. But hush! It is a great secret.”
And she ran away to join her brother, who was calling her.
The two women looked at each other.
“A great mystery,” said Mme. Ebsen, smiling.
Eline was indignant:
“How ridiculous! To marry at his age.” And her hand trembled nervously as she adjusted the long jet pin in her hair.
“Why, Linette, M. Lorie is not old at all. Hardly forty, and he does not even seem so old as that. And so fine-looking, so distinguished.”
Forty years old. Éline would have supposed him much older. It was doubtless his serious look, his solemn manner, that made him appear so old to her eyes. The sudden announcement of his marriage was of no interest to her except so far as Fanny was concerned, for she had grown accustomed to treat the child as her own, and, of course, that woman would take her away. But, what woman? Lorie had never spoken of any one. He did not go out, he saw no one.
“We must get him to talk,” said the mother. “We have the whole day for it.”
When they joined the others on the little jetty, Romain was explaining to M. Lorie the system of the locks, the flood-gates raised or lowered, by the aid of a lever, the iron braces in the stonework, by which he descended into the water, dressed in a diving costume, to repair the gates of the dam. A famous invention, bless’ pig, these locks! Formerly, during three months of summer, the poor boatmen were compelled to be idle, and, in river language, this lost time, when the women and children cried with hunger, and the men solaced their empty stomachs at the tavern, was called the affameur; hence the name of the neighboring inn. But now, the water flowed all the year, and work with...
Lorie followed the explanation in the grave, understanding manner of a Sub-Prefect inspecting the works of his department. Éline was not listening, for she was thinking of the child who had come into her life just at the right time to fill its emptiness and satisfy that maternal instinct which was beginning to stir within her. For Fanny she had all the feelings of a mother, the indefatigable patience, the anxieties, the concern for her comfort, occupied not only in her studies, but in the cut of her little frocks, the color of her hat, and the shade of the ribbon with which her hair was tied. She had entire charge of these details, Sylvanire having abdicated in favor of her taste and grace. And now...
The whistle on the Chain sounded loud and shrill. Their meal finished, the boatmen hurried back to the river, and soon the tug, with smoke puffing from its black and white smoke-stack, its red sides almost touching the two boats or the mill-pond, filed slowly out, followed by all its train of boats. The gates of the lock slowly closed, driving back an immense mass of water, and the grating and creaking of the Chain grew more and more indistinct as it glided away, with its wave-like motion, becoming smaller and smaller to the last little boat, like the tail of a kite. Before leaving the jetty, the lock-keeper introduced Baraquin, the one whom he called his boy, a somewhat youthful name for the tanned, chapped face of this wrinkled old Seine-et-Oise boatman, twisted from rheumatism, and walking sideways, like a crab.
The old fellow grunted a few words of welcome which seemed to come from the bottom of his boots. Nobody paid much attention to him.
Romain — and it was the distinguishing feature of the old sailor — never drank a drop of wine or brandy. As a young man, he had been, however, as he proudly said, “the greatest toper in the fleet,” but, having struck the captain one day when he was tipsy, and risked a court-martial, with all its consequences, he took an oath never to drink another drop, and kept his word, in spite of the jokes and wagers of his crew, and the temptations laid for him. Now, the mere sight of a glass of wine turned his stomach; on the other hand, he had taken a fancy for sweet things, such as café au lait, milk-posset, and almond syrup. It was certainly not a piece of luck for him to have fallen on a companion who was always half seas over.
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