Delphi complete works of.., p.50
Delphi Complete Works of Alphonse Daudet (Illustrated), page 50
Impelled by a painful curiosity, and feeling sure that I was about to learn something extraordinary, I drew back, and without being heard by anybody, thanks to the snow, which, like a carpet, deadened the sound of my steps, I slipped into one of the arbors, that was conveniently situated, right underneath the windows.
I shall see that arbor all my life long; I shall see all my life the green mould that lined it, its untidy, muddy floor, its little green-painted table, and its wooden benches dripping with water. The light hardly penetrated through the snow that was piled upon the roof and, slowly melting, fell drop by drop on my head.
It was there, there in that arbor, dark and cold as a tomb, that I learned how wicked and base men can be; it was there I learned to doubt, scorn and hate. You that read, God forbid that you should ever enter that arbor! I stood upright, holding my breath, and, red with anger and shame, listened to what they were saying at the Espéron.
My good friend the fencing-master, was addressing the others. He related the adventure of Cecilia, the story of the love-letters, the visit of the sub-prefect to the school, with embellishments and gestures, to judge from the transports of his audience.
“You understand, my little loves,” said he in his jeering tone, “it was not for nothing that I acted comedy for three years at the Zouave theatre. As true as I tell you, I believed for one moment that the game was lost, and I thought I should never come again to drink old Espéron’s good wine with you. Little Eyssette had told nothing, it is true; but there was still time for him to speak; and, between ourselves, I believe he wanted only to leave me the honor of denouncing myself. So I said: ‘Look sharp, Roger, and bring on the grand scene.’”
Thereupon my good friend the fencing-master, began to act what he called the grand scene, that is to say what had passed between him and me in my room in the morning. Ah, the wretch! He forgot nothing. He cried: “My mother, my poor mother!” with a theatrical intonation, and then imitated my voice: “No, Roger, no, you shall not go!” The grand scene was really comic in the highest degree, and all the audience rolled in their chairs with laughing. As to me, I felt the big tears running down my cheeks; I shivered and my ears rang. I divined all the odious comedy of the morning, and vaguely understood that Roger had purposely sent my letters so as to protect himself against any mishap; that his mother, his poor mother, had been dead for twenty years; and that I had taken his pipe-case for the butt-end of a pistol.
“And how about the lovely Cecilia?” asked one of the noble fellows.
“Cecilia told no tales; she packed her trunks, for she is a good girl.”
“And little Daniel? What will become of him?”
“Bah!” answered Roger.
Here there was a gesture that made everybody laugh.
This burst of laughter put me beside myself. I wanted to come out of the arbor and appear suddenly in the midst of them like a spectre. But I contained myself: I had already been ridiculous enough.
The roast was brought in, and they clinked glasses.
“Here’s to Roger! To Roger!” they cried.
I could stand it no longer, I was too miserable. Without troubling myself lest I should be seen, I rushed through the garden, cleared the latticed gate at a bound, and began to run straight ahead like a madman.
Night was silently falling, and in the dusk of the twilight, the immense field of snow took on an indescribable aspect of profound melancholy.
I ran thus for some time like a wounded deer; and if hearts that break and bleed were anything except expressions used by poets, I swear that a long trail of blood might have been found behind me on the white plain.
I knew I was ruined. How should I get money? How should I go away? How should I reach my brother Jacques? It would not help me to denounce Roger; he could deny everything, now that Cecilia was gone.
At last, exhausted and overpowered by fatigue and grief, I let myself fall down in the snow at the foot of a chestnut tree. I might have stayed there till next day, perhaps, crying, and without power to think, when all at once, very, very far away, in Sarlande, I heard a bell ring. It was the school bell. I had forgotten everything, but this bell called me back to life: I had to return and superintend the boy’s play-hour in the hall. In thinking of the hall, a sudden idea struck me. My tears stopped immediately, and I felt stronger and calmer. I rose, and, with the deliberate step of a man who has just made an irrevocable decision, continued my way to Sarlande.
If you care to know the irrevocable decision Little What’s-His-Name had made, follow him to Sarlande across the great white plain; follow him through the sombre, muddy streets of the town; follow him into the vestibule of the school; follow him into the hall during the play-hour, and remark with what singular persistence he stares at the big iron ring suspended in the middle of the room; and when the play-hour is over, follow him to the school-room, go up the steps to his seat with him, and read over his shoulder this painful letter that he is engaged in writing, in the midst of the hubbub raised by the noisy children:
MONSIEUR JACQUES EYSSETTE, RUE BONAPARTE, PARIS:
Forgive me, my beloved Jacques, the sorrow I cause you. You, who no longer weep, I am about to make weep again; but it will be the last time, I promise you. When you receive this letter your poor Daniel will be dead.
Here the uproar in the school-room is redoubled; Little What’s-His-Name stops to distribute a few penalties right and left, gravely and without anger. Then he continues:
Do you see, Jacques, I was too miserable. I could not do otherwise than kill myself. My future is ruined; I am driven away from the school, — it is a story about a woman, too long to tell you; then I am in debt; I no longer know how to work; I am ashamed, I am weary, disgusted, and life terrifies me. I should rather go.
Little What’s-His-Name is obliged to stop again. “Five hundred lines for Soubeyrol! Fouque and Loupi will be kept in on Sunday.” After this, he finishes his letter:
Good-bye, Jacques. There is much more that I want to say to you, but I feel that I shall cry, and the boys are watching me. Tell Mamma that I slipped from the top of a cliff, on a walk, or that I was drowned skating. Invent any story you choose, but never let the poor woman know the truth. Kiss my dear mother many times for me; kiss my father, too, and try soon to rebuild a beautiful hearth for them. Good-bye; I love you. Remember Daniel.
The letter ended, Little What’s-His-Name begins another conceived thus:
MONSIEUR L’ABBE, — I beg you to see that the letter I leave for my brother Jacques be sent to him. At the same time please cut off my hair and make a little package of it for my mother.
I beg your pardon for the pain I give you. I killed myself because I was too unhappy here. You alone, Monsieur l’Abbé, have always shown kindness to me. I thank you for it.
DANIEL.
After this, Little What’s-His-Name puts this letter and the one for Jacques into one large envelope, with this superscription: “The person who first finds my body is requested to give this letter into the Abbé Germane’s hands.” Then, having attended to all his affairs, he waits quietly for the end of the study-hour.
The study-hour is over. First, they have supper, then prayers, and all go up to the dormitory.
The boys go to bed; Little What’s-His-Name walks up and down, waiting for them to fall asleep. Here is M. Viot, making his rounds; the mysterious clank of his keys is to be heard, and the muffled sound of his slippers on the floor. “Goodnight, M. Viot,” murmurs Little What’s-His-Name. “Good-night, sir,” answers the inspector, in a low voice; then he goes away, and his steps are lost in the corridor.
Little What’s-His-Name is alone. He opens the door softly, and stops a moment on the landing to see if the boys are not going to wake up; but all is quiet in the dormitory.
Then he goes downstairs, and slips along on tiptoe in the shadow of the walls. The north wind blows drearily through the cracks underneath the doors. At the foot of the staircase, passing in front of the peristyle, he sees the court-yard white with snow, lying within the four big dark school-buildings.
Up there, near the roof, a lamp is burning; it is the Abbé Germane at work upon his great book. From the bottom of his heart, Little What’s-His-Name sends a last and most sincere farewell to the good Abbé; then he enters the hall.
The old gymnasium of the naval academy is filled with cold and sinister shadow. A little moonlight falls through the grated window, and strikes full upon the big iron ring, — oh, that ring! Little What’s-His-Name has done nothing but think of it for hours, — upon the big iron ring that shines like silver. In a corner of the hall, an old stool had long been lying about unnoticed. Little What’s-His-Name goes and gets it, carries it under the ring, and mounts upon it; he was not mistaken, it is just the proper height. Then he undoes his cravat, a long cravat of violet silk that he wears tied round his neck like a ribbon. He attaches the cravat to the ring, and makes a slip-noose. One o’clock strikes. Come, it is time to die. With trembling hands Little What’s-His-Name pulls open the slip-noose; a sort of delirium carries him away. Good-bye, Jacques; good-bye, Mme. Eyssette.
Suddenly an iron hand grasps him. He feels himself seized round the middle, lifted from the stool, and set down on his feet upon the ground. At the same time a harsh, satirical voice that he knows well, says:
“This is an idea, to try the trapeze at such time of night!”
Little What’s-His-Name turns in amazement.
It is the Abbé Germane, the Abbé Germane, without his cassock, in short trousers, his neckband floating down over his waistcoat. A single hand has sufficed him to lift the suicide from the stool; with the other hand he still holds his decanter, which he has just filled at the fountain in the court.
The Abbé Germane stops smiling as he sees Little What’s-His-Name’s wild face and tearful eyes, and repeats, only this time in a gentle and almost tender voice:
“What an odd idea, my dear Daniel, to try the trapeze at this hour!”
Little What’s-His-Name is quite red and abashed.
“I am not trying the trapeze, sir; I want to die.”
“What! You want to die? Are you very unhappy?”
“Oh!” answers Little What’s-His-Name, with big burning tears rolling down his cheeks.
“Daniel, you must come with me,” says the Abbé.
Little What’s-His-Name makes a gesture that he cannot, and points to the iron ring with the cravat. The Abbé Germane takes him by the hand. “Here, come up to my room; if you want to kill yourself, very well, you may do it up there; there is a fire, and it is comfortable.”
But Little What’s-His-Name resists. “Let me die, sir. You have no right to prevent me from dying.”
A flash of anger gleams in the priest’s eyes.
“Ah, that’s it, is it?” said he. And taking hold of Little What’s-His-Name roughly by the waist, he carries him off under his arm like a bundle, in spite of his resistance and prayers.
Here we are now in the Abbé Germane’s room; a large fire burns in the fireplace; near the fire there is a table with a lighted lamp, some pipes, and piles of papers covered with a scrawling hand.
Little What’s-His-Name is seated in the chimney-corner. He is much excited and talks a great deal; he tells the story of his life, his misfortunes, and why he wanted to put an end to everything. The Abbé listens with a smile; then, when the boy has talked and cried his fill, and has relieved his poor sick heart, the kind man takes his hands and says to him very quietly:
“All this is nothing, my boy, and you would have been a great fool to put yourself to death for so little. Your story is very simple; they have discharged you from the school, which, by the way, is great luck for you. Well, you must go, and go at once without waiting out your week.
You are not a cook, the deuce take it! Don’t bother about your journey and your debts; I will attend to all that. I will lend you the money you wanted to borrow from that scoundrel. We shall arrange all that to-morrow. Not a word more now! I need to work, and you need to sleep. Only, I do not want you to return to your dreadful dormitory, for you would be cold and frightened there; you must lie down in my bed; there were nice clean sheets put on this morning. I shall write all night, and if I grow sleepy I shall stretch myself on the sofa. Good-night; don’t speak any more.”
Little What’s-His-Name goes to bed, and makes no further opposition. All that is happening makes the effect of a dream upon him. How many events in one day! After having been so near death, how strange to find himself in a soft bed, in a warm, quiet room!
How comfortable Little What’s-His-Name is! From time to time as he opens his eyes, he sees, in the dim light of the shaded lamp, the good Abbé Germane, smoking, and plying his pen quickly and noiselessly from top to bottom of the blank sheets of paper.
I was wakened the next morning by the Abbé, who tapped me on the shoulder. I had forgotten everything in my sleep, and this made my rescuer laugh a great deal.
“Come, my boy,” said he, “the bell is ringing; make haste. Nobody will have noticed anything; go and take charge of the boys as usual, and at the recess at lunch-time I shall expect you here for a talk.”
My memory suddenly returned. I tried to thank him, but the good Abbé positively put me out of the door.
I need not say whether the study-hour seemed long to me. The boys were not yet in the court before I was already knocking at the Abbe’s door. I found him before his desk, the drawers of which were wide open, occupied in counting gold pieces that he was carefully laying down in little piles.
He turned his head at the noise I made in entering, and then set to work again, without speaking; when he had finished he shut his drawers, and beckoned to me with a kind smile.
“All this is for you,” said he. “I have counted up your expenses. This is for your journey, this is for the porter, this is for the Café Barbette, and this is for the boy who lent you ten francs. I had put this money aside to provide a substitute for my younger brother, but he will not be drawn for six years, and we shall see each other again before then.”
I wanted to speak, but this singular man would not allow me time for it.
“Now, my boy, say good-bye to everybody; there is the bell ringing for my class, and when I come back from it I don’t want to find you here any longer. The air of this Bastille is not good for you. Go straight to Paris, work hard, pray to God, smoke a pipe, and try to be a man. Do you hear? try to be a man. For, you see, my little Daniel, you are but a child yet, and I am even afraid lest you may be a child all your life.”
Thereupon he opened his arms to me with a divine smile; but I threw myself at his feet, sobbing. He lifted me up, and kissed me on both cheeks.
The bell rang for the last time.
“There now, I am late,” said he, getting together his books and copy books in haste. As he was about to leave the room he turned again toward me.
“I, too, have a brother in Paris, a very good fellow who is a priest, and you might go and see him. But, in the crazy state you are in, you would only forget his address.” And without saying anything further, he began to stride down the stairs. His cassock floated behind him; in his right hand he carried his cap, and, under his left arm a big bundle of books and papers. Kind Abbé Germane! Before going, I cast a last look about the room; I surveyed for the last time the large library, the little table, the half-extinguished fire, the armchair where I had cried so long, the bed where I had slept so well; and thinking of that mysterious existence in which I could divine so much courage and hidden kindness, so much devotion and resignation, I could not help blushing at my own baseness, and took an oath that I should always remember the Abbé Germane.
Meanwhile the time was passing: I had my trunk to pack, my debts to pay, and my place to engage in the stage.
Just as I was leaving I caught sight of several old black pipes on a corner of the mantelpiece. I took the oldest, blackest, and shortest, and put it in my pocket as a relic; then I went downstairs. Below, the door of the old gymnasium was still half open. I could not help looking in as I passed, and what I saw made me shudder.
I saw the great, gloomy, cold hall, the polished iron ring, and my violet cravat tied in a slip-noose, waving in the draught of air above the overturned stool.
CHAPTER XIII.
M. VIOT’S KEYS.
AS I WAS hurrying out of the schoolhouse, still moved by the horrible sight I had just seen, the porter’s lodge opened abruptly, and I heard some one calling me:
“Monsieur Eyssette! Monsieur Eyssette!”
It was the proprietor of the Café Barbette and his worthy friend M. Cassagne, looking scared and almost insolent.
The owner of the café spoke first.
“Is it true that you are going away, Monsieur Eyssette?”
“Yes, Monsieur Barbette,” I answered calmly; “I am going to-day.”
M. Barbette gave a bound, and M. Cassagne another; but M. Barbette’s bound was much greater than M. Cassagne’s, because I owed him much more money.
“What! to-day?”
“To-day; and I am going out in haste to engage my seat in the stage.”
I thought they were going to spring at my throat.
“And my money?” said M. Barbette.
“And mine?” shrieked M. Cassagne.
Without answering, I entered the lodge, and gravely drawing out by handfuls the Abbé Germane’s beautiful gold pieces, I began to count out on the end of the table what I owed them both.
This was most unforeseen. The two scowling faces smoothed themselves out as if by magic. When they had pocketed their money, being a little ashamed of the fears they had shown me, and very happy to be paid, they overflowed in compliments, condolences, and protestations of friendship.
“Are you really leaving us, Monsieur Eyssette? Oh! What a pity! What a loss to the school!”
Then followed ohs! and ahs! regrets, sighs, handshakes, and suppressed tears.
The evening before, I might have been taken in by this semblance of affection; but now I was rough-shod in matters of sentiment.
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