CHAPTER III.
FATHER MAB?'UF HAS AN APPARITION.
Marius no longer called on any one, but at times he came across FatherMabœuf. While Marius was slowly descending the mournful stepswhich might be called the cellar stairs, and lead to places withoutlight, on which you hear the footsteps of the prosperous above yourhead, M. Mabœuf was also descending. The Flora of Cauteretz did notsell at all now, and the indigo experiments had not been successfulin the little garden of Austerlitz, which was badly situated. M.Mabœuf could only cultivate in it a few rare plants which are fondof moisture and shade. For all that, though, he was not discouraged;he had obtained a strip of ground at the Jardin des Plantes in a goodsituation, for making "at his own charge" experiments on indigo. To dothis he pledged the plates of his _Flora_, and he reduced his breakfastto two eggs, of which he left one for his old servant, whose wages hehad not paid for fifteen months past. And very frequently his breakfastwas his sole meal. He no longer laughed with his childish laugh, he hadgrown morose, and declined to receive visitors, and Marius did well notto call on him. At times, at the hour when M. Mabœuf proceeded tothe Jardin des Plantes, the old man and the young man passed each otheron the Boulevard de l'Hôpital; they did not speak, and merely shooktheir heads sorrowfully. It is a sad thing that there comes a momentwhen misery unknots friendships. There were two friends: there are twopassers-by!
Royol the publisher was dead, and now M. Mabœuf knew nothing buthis books, his garden, and his indigo; these were the three shapeswhich happiness, pleasure, and hope had assumed for him. They weresufficient to live for, and he would say to himself: "When I have mademy blue-balls, I shall be rich; I will redeem my plates from the Montde Piété, bring my _Flora_ into fashion again with charlatanism, thebig drum, and advertisements in the papers, and buy, I know where, acopy of Pierre de Medine's "Art of Navigation," with woodcuts, edition1539." In the mean while, he toiled all day at his indigo patch, and atnight went home to water his garden and read his books. M. Mabœuf atthis period was close on eighty years of age.
One evening he had a strange apparition. He had returned home while itwas still daylight, and found that Mother Plutarch, whose health wasnot so good as it might be, had gone to bed. He dined upon a bone onwhich a little meat remained and a lump of bread which he had foundon the kitchen table, and was seated on a stone post which acted asa bench in his garden. Near this bench there was, after the fashionof old kitchen-gardens, a sort of tall building of planks in a veryrickety condition, a hutch on the ground-floor, and a store-room onthe first floor. There were no rabbits in the hutch, but there werea few apples, the remnant of the winter stock, in the store-room. M.Mabœuf was reading, with the help of his spectacles, two books whichinterested him greatly, and also, a thing more serious at his age,preoccupied him. His natural timidity rendered him prone to acceptsuperstitions. The first of these books was the celebrated treatise ofPresident Delancre, "On the Inconstancy of Spirits," and the other wasthe quarto work of Mutor de la Rubaudière, "On the Devils of Vauvertand the Goblins of la Bièvre." The latter book interested him the more,because his garden had been in olden times one of the places haunted bythe goblins. Twilight was beginning to whiten what is above and blackenwhat is below. While reading, M. Mabœuf looked over the book whichhe held in his hand at his plants, and among others at a magnificentrhododendron which was one of his consolations. Four days of wind andsun had passed without a drop of rain, the stems were bending, the budsdrooping, the leaves falling, and they all required watering; thisrhododendron especially looked in a very sad way. M. Mabœuf was oneof those men for whom plants have souls; he had been at work all dayin his indigo patch, and was worn out with fatigue, but for all thathe rose, laid his books on the bench, and walked in a bent posture andwith tottering steps, up to the well. But when he seized the chainhe had not sufficient strength to unhook it; he then turned and tooka glance of agony at the sky, which was glittering with stars. Theevening had that serenity which crushes human sorrow under a lugubriousand eternal joy. The night promised to be as dry as the day had been.
"Stars everywhere!" the old man thought, "not the smallest cloud! not adrop of water!"
And his head, which had been raised a moment before, fell again on hischest, then he looked once more at the sky, murmuring,--
"A little dew! a little pity!"
He tried once again to unhook the well-chain, but could not succeed; atthis moment he heard a voice, saying,--
"Father Mabœuf, shall I water the garden for you?" At the sametime a sound like that of a wild beast breaking through was heardin the hedge, and he saw a tall thin girl emerge, who stood beforehim, looking at him boldly. She looked less like a human being thansome form engendered of the darkness. Before Father Mabœuf, whom,as we said, a trifle terrified, found time to answer a syllable,this creature, whose movements had in the gloom a sort of strangesuddenness, had unhooked the chain, let down and drawn up the bucket,and filled the watering-pot; and the old gentleman saw this apparition,which was barefooted and wore a ragged skirt, running along theflower-beds and distributing life around her. The sound of the waterpattering on the leaves filled M. Mabœuf's soul with ravishment,and the rhododendron now seemed to him to be happy. The first bucketemptied, the girl drew a second, then a third, and watered the wholegarden. To see her moving thus along the walks in which her outlineappeared quite black, and waving on her long thin arms her raggedshawl, she bore a striking resemblance to a bat. When she had finished,Father Mabœuf went up to her with tears in his eyes, and laid hishand on her forehead.
"God will bless you," he said, "you are an angel, since you take careof flowers."
"No," she replied, "I am the Devil, but I don't care."
The old man continued, without waiting for or hearing the reply,--
"What a pity that I am so unhappy and so poor, and can do nothing foryou!"
"You can do something," she said.
"What is it!"
"Tell me where M. Marius lives."
The old man did not understand.
"What Monsieur Marius?"
He raised his glassy eyes and seemed seeking something which hadvanished.
"A young man who used to come here."
"Ah, yes!" he exclaimed, "I know whom you mean. Wait a minute! MonsieurMarius, Baron Marius Pontmercy, pardieu! lives, or rather he does notlive--well, I do not know."
While speaking, he had stooped to straighten a rhododendron branch, andcontinued,--
"Ah yes, I remember now. He passes very frequently along the boulevard,and goes in the direction of the Lark's field in the Rue Croulebarbe.Look for him there, he will not be difficult to find."
When M. Mabœuf raised his head again, he was alone, and the girl haddisappeared. He was decidedly a little frightened.
"Really," he thought, "if my garden were not watered, I should fancythat it was a ghost."
An hour after, when he was in bed, this idea returned to him, and whilefalling asleep, he said to himself confusedly at the disturbed momentwhen thought gradually assumes the form of dream in order to passthrough sleep, like the fabulous bird which metamorphoses itself into afish to cross the sea,--
"Really now, this affair greatly resembles what La Rubaudière recordsabout the goblins. Could it have been a ghost?"