Delphi complete works of.., p.419
Delphi Complete Works of Alphonse Daudet (Illustrated), page 419
Their affairs are going from bad to worse.
The boat grows older and older.
Victor knows this through Clara’s letters, which reach him from time to time, marked with an enormous and furious “examined,” scratched with a red pencil by the principal, who detests “this intrusive correspondence.”
“Ah, when you were here!” said Clara’s letters, always equally tender, but more and more depressed—” Ah, if you were with us!”
Might it not indeed be said that all went well in those old times, and that all would be set right if Victor returned?
Very well! Victor will make everything right.
He will buy a new boat.
He will comfort Clara.
He will restore the business to its old footing.
He will show them that they have neither loved an ingrate nor adopted a ne’er-do-weel.
But for that he must become a man.
He must make money.
He must learn.
And Victor opens his book at the right page.
Now, the arrows may fly, the master may rap with all his might on the rostrum, and shout in his parrot-like way:
“Keep quiet, gentlemen!”
Victor does not raise his head.
He draws no more boats.
He despises the paper pellets that flatten themselves against his face.
He drudges and drudges.
“A letter for young Maugendre.”
The memory of Clara is a blessing, coming to take him by surprise in the middle of the study-hour, to encourage him and bring him the perfume of freedom and affection.
Victor hides his head in his desk to kiss the shaky address, painfully traced in zigzag, as if a perpetual pitching of the boat had swayed the table where Clara wrote.
Alas! it is not the pitching of the boat, it is emotion that has made Clara’s hand tremble.
“It is all over, dear Victor, the Belle-Nivernaise will sail no more.
“She is quite dead, and her death is ruin to us.
“They have hung a dismal placard up behind:
“WOOD FOR SALE.
“THIS BOAT TO BE BROKEN UP.
“Some men have come, who have made an estimate of everything, and numbered everything, from the hook of the Crew down to the cradle where the little sister slept. It seems they are going to sell everything, and we shall have nothing left.
“What is to become of us?
“Mamma is like to die of sorrow, and Papa is so changed—”
Victor did not finish the letter.
The words danced before his eyes; it was as if something had exploded in his face, and his ears rang.
Ah, now, he was far away from the class!
Exhausted by work, grief and fever, he went out of his head.
He thought he was floating in the middle of the Seine, on the beautiful fresh stream.
He wanted to dip his forehead in the river.
Then he heard the ringing of a bell.
No doubt it was a tug passing in the fog; then he heard a sound of rising waters, and cried:
“The flood! The flood!”
He felt a chill at the mere thought of the shadow accumulated under the arch of the bridge; and, in the midst of these visions, the under-master’s face appeared to him very near, under the lamp-screen, hirsute and scared:
“Are you ill, Maugendre?”
Young Maugendre is very ill.
It is useless for the doctor to shake his head, when the poor father, who accompanies him to the door of the school, asks him in a voice choking with anguish:
“He won’t die, will he?”
It is easy to see the doctor is not confident.
His gray hairs are not confident either.
They say “No,” flimsily, as if they were afraid of compromising themselves.
There is no more talk of the green coat and cocked hat.
It is only a question of keeping young Maugendre from dying.
The doctor has said plainly that it will be well to give the boy his liberty, if he should recover —
If he should recover!
The thought of losing the child he has just found kills all the ambitious desires of the prosperous father.
It is all over; he renounces his dream.
He is quite ready to bury the student of Forestry with his own hands.
He will nail down the coffin-lid, if necessary.
He will not wear mourning for him.
But, at least, let the other boy consent to live.
Let him speak to him, get up and throw his arms round his neck, saying:
“Cheer up, father. I am well again.”
The carpenter leaned over Victor’s bed.
It is finished. The old tree is pierced to the core. Maugendre’s heart has grown tender.
“I will let you go, my boy. You shall return to them, and shall sail with them again. And it will be too much joy for me to see you sometimes, by the way.”
At present, the bell no longer rings the hours of recreation, of the refectory and study.
It is vacation, and the great college is deserted.
No other noise than that of a jet of water in the court of honour, and the chattering of sparrows in the yards.
The rumbling of the rare carriages comes distant and dulled, for they have put straw in the street.
It is in the midst of this silence and solitude that young Maugendre comes to himself.
He is much surprised to find himself in a very white bed, surrounded by ample cotton curtains that spread about an isolation of twilight and peace.
He would like to raise himself on the pillow, and push aside the curtains to see where he is; but, although he feels a delicious sense of repose, he has not the strength, and waits.
But there are voices whispering round him.
On the floor, there is a sound as of steps taken on tiptoe, and even a well-known thumping, something like a broom-handle walking over the boards.
Victor has already heard this before.
Where could it have been?
Oh, on the deck of the Belle-Nivernaise!
That’s it! That must be it!
And the patient, summoning all his strength, calls in a weak voice, that he thinks is very loud:
“Hulloa! Crew! Hulloa!”
The curtains are pulled open, and in the dazzling daylight, he sees all the beloved beings he has so often called in his delirium.
All, yes, all!
They are all there, Clara, Maugendre, Father Louveau, Mother Louveau, the little sister, and the old scalded heron, thin as his boat-hook, smiling immoderately in his silent way.
Then, all arms are stretched out to him, all heads are bent over him, and there are kisses for everybody, smiles, hand-shakes, and questions.
“Where am I? How are you here?”
But the doctor’s orders are explicit. The gray hairs do not joke when they give orders.
He must keep his arms under the coverlet, be quiet, and not get excited.
So, to prevent his boy from talking, Maugendre talks all the time.
“Only think that it is precisely ten days ago — the very day that you fell ill — I came to see the principal to speak with him about you. He told me you were making progress, that you ‘worked like a slave. You may imagine how pleased I was! I asked to see you. They sent for you, and just then your master rushed into the principal’s study much bewildered. You had that moment had a violent attack of fever. I ran to the infirmary; you did not recognize me. Eyes like candles, and such a delirium! Ah, my poor little boy, how ill you have been! I have never left you for a minute. You were out of your head — you talked of the Belle-Nivemaise, of Clara, of a new boat, and what not. Then I recollected the letter, Clara’s letter; they had found it in your hands, and had given it to me. And I had forgotten it, do you see? I drew it out of my pocket, beat my brains, and said to myself: ‘Maugendre, you must not let your own trouble make you forget the pain of others.’ I wrote to all these people to come to us. No answer came. I took advantage of a day when you were better, and went after them; I brought them to my house, where they are living now, and where they are going to live until some way has been found of putting their affairs straight for them. Isn’t it so, Louveau?”
There are tears in everybody’s eyes, and, dear me! so much the worse for the doctor’s gray hairs, both Victor’s arms come out from under the coverlet, and Maugendre receives an embrace such as he has never had before — the true kiss of an affectionate child.
Then, as it is not possible to move Victor home, they plan a way of living.
Clara is to remain with the patient, to sweeten his draughts, and amuse him.
Mother Louveau will go to keep house, and François will superintend a building that the carpenter has undertaken in the Grande-Rue.
As to Maugendre, he is leaving for Clamecy.
He means to see some acquaintances who have a large contract in wood-floats.
These people will be delighted to employ an able sailor like Louveau.
No, no! no objections, no resistance. It is all settled; a very simple thing.
It certainly is not Victor who objects.
They take him out of bed now, and roll his big armchair up to the window.
He is all alone with Clara, in the silent infirmary.
Victor is delighted.
He blesses his illness. He blesses the sale of the Belle-Nivernaise. He blesses all the sales and all the illnesses in the world.
“Do you remember, Clara, how I used to hold the tiller, and you came to sit beside me with your knitting?”
Clara remembers so well that she blushes, and they are both embarrassed.
For now he is no longer the little fellow in a red cap whose feet did not touch the deck when he climbed astride the rudder.
And, as for her, when she comes in the morning and takes off her little shawl to throw it on the bed, she looks like a real grown girl, her arms are so round in her sleeves and her waist is so slender.
“Come early, Clara, and stay as late as possible.”
It is so pleasant to breakfast and dine opposite each other, very near the window, sheltered by the white curtains.
They recall their earliest childhood, and the porridge eaten on the edge of the bed, with the same spoon.
Ah, those memories of childhood! They flutter about the infirmary of the school, like birds in an aviary. They must make their nests in all the corners of the curtains, for there are fresh ones, newly hatched, taking flight every morning.
And certainly, to hear these conversations of the past, the pair might be supposed to be octogenarians, only looking back over the distance behind them.
Cannot it be that there is a future, which may prove very interesting, too?
Yes, there is a future, and they often think of it, — so often that they never speak of it.
Besides, it is not indispensable to make phrases in order to talk. They have a certain way of holding each other’s hands and flushing on every occasion that speaks plainer than words.
Victor and Clara talk in this language all day long.
It is probably for this that they are so often silent.
And it is for this, too, that the days pass so quickly, and the month slips noiselessly away without their observing it.
It is on this account also that the doctor’s gray hairs bristle, and that he is obliged to turn his patient out of the infirmary.
Just at this time, Father Maugendre returns from his journey.
He finds everybody at home, and when poor Louveau asks him very anxiously: “Well, do they want me over there?” Maugendre cannot keep from laughing.
“Do they want you, old fellow? They need a captain for a new craft, and thanked me for the present I was making them.”
“Who are they?”
Father Louveau is so enchanted that he asks no more questions.
Everybody sets out on the way to Clamecy, without knowing anything more about it.
What joy, when they reach the bank of the canal!
There, at the wharf, decked with flags from top to bottom, a magnificent, brand-new boat lifts its polished mast among the foliage.
They are adding the finishing touches, and the stern-post, where the name of the boat is inscribed, remains covered with a gray cloth.
A cry bursts from the mouths of all:
“Oh what a beautiful boat!”
Louveau cannot believe his eyes.
He feels a deucedly strong emotion, that makes his eyes tingle, opens his mouth a foot wide, and shakes his earrings like two salad-baskets:
“It is too beautiful! I shall never dare to run a boat like that. It is not made to sail with. It ought to be put under a glass case.”
Maugendre is obliged to push him by force on the foot-bridge, from which the Crew is making signs to them.
What?
The Crew himself is restored.
Restored, repaired and caulked afresh.
He has an entirely new boat-hook and wooden leg. It is a kindness of the builder, a clever man who knows how to do things well.
Only see:
The deck is of waxed wood, surrounded with a balustrade. There is a bench to sit upon, and an awning for shelter.
The hold is shaped so as to carry a double cargo. And the cabin — oh, the cabin!
Three rooms!
A kitchen!
Mirrors!
Louveau drags Maugendre on deck.
He is moved and shaken with emotion, — like his earrings.
He stammers:
“My dear Maugendre—”
“What is it?”
“You have forgotten but one thing—”
“Well?”
“You have not told me for whom I am to run the boat?”
“You want to know?”
“I should think I did.”
“Very well — for yourself.”
“What? But then — the boat—”
“Is yours!”
What a shock, my children! It takes one’s breath away!
Fortunately the builder — who is a clever man — has had the bright idea of putting a bench on deck.
Louveau sinks upon it, as if stunned.
“It is not possible, — I cannot accept—”
But Maugendre has an answer for everything: “Why not? You forget our old debt, — the money you spent for Victor! Don’t worry, François; I still owe you the most.”
And the two comrades embrace like brothers.
This time it has even come to crying.
Surely Maugendre has arranged everything to make the surprise complete, for while they are hugging each other on the deck, the curé is seen emerging from the wood, a banner streaming in the wind, and a band going ahead.
What more is this?
The blessing of the boat, of course!
All Clamecy has come in a procession to assist at the festival.
The banner floats on the breeze. And the music plays:
“Zim — boom — boom!”
The faces of all are radiant. And over all there is a bright sun that makes the silver cross and the brass instruments of the band sparkle.
What a charming festival!
The cloth that concealed the stern-post is taken off; the name of the boat stands out in beautiful gold letters on a light blue ground:
The Nouvelle-Nivernaise. Hurrah! for the Nouvelle-Nivernaise! May she have a life as long as the old one, and a happier old age!
The priest has approached the boat.
Behind him, the singers and musicians are drawn up in a single line.
The banner is in the background.
“Benedicat Deus—”
Victor is the godfather and Clara is the godmother.
The curé has made them advance to the edge of the wharf, very near him.
They take hold of hands, and are shy and trembling.
They stammer awkwardly the phrases the choir boy prompts, while the curé shakes his holy-water sprinkler over them:
“Benedicat Deus—”
Do not they look like a young couple at the altar?
This thought occurs to all. Perhaps it comes to them, too, for they dare not look at each other, and become more and more agitated as the ceremony proceeds.
It is over.
The crowd retires, and the Nouvelle-Nivernaise is blessed. But the musicians cannot be allowed to leave like this, without refreshment.
And, while Louveau pours a bumper for the band, Maugendre winks at Mother Louveau, takes the godfather and godmother by the hand, and turning to the priest, says: —
“Now the baptism is over, sir, when shall we have the wedding?”
Victor and Clara blush red as poppies.
Mimile and the little sister clap their hands.
And, in the midst of the general enthusiasm, Father Louveau, much excited, leans over his daughter’s shoulder.
The honest sailor laughs from ear to ear, and, enjoying his joke beforehand, says in a bantering tone:
“Tell me, Clara, now’s the time — suppose we take him back to the commissary?”
The Siege of Berlin (1891)
Anonymous translation, 1899
Original French Title: ‘Le Siège de Berlin’
First published in ‘Trois Contes Choisis’
THE SIEGE OF BERLIN
WE WERE GOING up the Champs Elysées with Doctor V —— , gathering from the walls pierced by shell, the pavement ploughed by grapeshot, the history of the besieged Paris, when just before reaching the Place de l’Etoile, the doctor stopped and pointed out to me one of those large corner houses, so pompously grouped around the Arc de Triomphe.
“Do you see,” said he, “those four closed windows on the balcony up there? In the beginning of August, that terrible month of August of ‘70, so laden with storm and disaster, I was summoned there to attend a case of apoplexy. The sufferer was Colonel Jouve, an old Cuirassier of the First Empire, full of enthusiasm for glory and patriotism, who, at the commencement of the war, had taken an apartment with a balcony in the Champs Elysées — for what do you think? To assist at the triumphal entry of our troops! Poor old man! The news of Wissembourg arrived as he was rising from table. On reading the name of Napoleon at the foot of that bulletin of defeat he fell senseless.
“I found the old Cuirassier stretched upon the floor, his face bleeding and inert as from the blow of a club. Standing, he would have been very tall; lying, he looked immense; with fine features, beautiful teeth, and white curling hair, carrying his eighty years as though they had been sixty. Beside him knelt his granddaughter in tears. She resembled him. Seeing them side by side, they reminded me of two Greek medallions stamped with the same impress, only the one was antique, earth-stained, its outlines somewhat worn; the other beautiful and clear, in all the lustre of freshness.
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