IX.
GRANDMAMMA.
Three times a week, in the evening, Paul de Gery appeared to take hislesson in bookkeeping in the Joyeuse dining-room, not far from thesmall salon where the little family had burst upon him at his firstvisit; so that, while he was being initiated into all the mysteries of"debit and credit," with his eyes fixed on his white-cravatedinstructor, he listened in spite of himself to the faint sounds of thetoilsome evening on the other side of the door, longing for the visionof all those pretty heads bending over around the lamp. M. Joyeusenever mentioned his daughters. As jealous of their charms as a dragonstanding guard over lovely princesses in a tower, aroused to vigilanceby the fanciful imaginings of his doting affection, he replied drylyenough to his pupil's questions concerning "the young ladies," so thatthe young man ceased to mention them to him. He was surprised, however,that he never happened to see this "Grandmamma" whose name recurredconstantly in M. Joyeuse's conversation upon every subject, in the mosttrivial details of his existence, hovering over the house like thesymbol of its perfect orderliness and tranquillity.
Such extreme reserve, on the part of a venerable lady, who in allprobability had passed the age at which the adventurous spirit of ayoung man is to be feared, seemed to him exaggerated. But the lessonswere very practical, given in very clear language, and the professorhad an excellent method of demonstration, marred by a single fault, ahabit of relapsing into fits of silence, broken by starts andinterjections that went off like bombs. Outside of that he was the bestof masters, intelligent, patient and faithful. Paul learned to find hisway through the complicated labyrinth of books of account and resignedhimself to the necessity of asking nothing further.
One evening, about nine o'clock, as the young man rose to go, M.Joyeuse asked him if he would do him the honor to take a cup of tea_en famille_, a custom of the time of Madame Joyeuse, born Saint-Amand,who used to receive her friends on Thursdays. Since her death, and thechange in their financial position, their friends had scattered; butthey had retained that little "weekly extra." Paul having accepted, thegood man opened the door and called:
"Grandmamma."
A light step in the hall and a face of twenty years, surrounded by animbus of abundant, fluffy brown hair, abruptly made its appearance. DeGery looked at M. Joyeuse with an air of stupefaction:
"Grandmamma?"
"Yes, it's a name we gave her when she was a little girl. With herfrilled cap, and her authoritative older-sister expression, she had afunny little face, so wise-looking. We thought that she looked like hergrandmother. The name has clung to her."
From the worthy man's tone, it was evident that to him it was the mostnatural thing in the world, that grandmotherly title bestowed upon suchattractive youth. Every one in the household thought as he did, and theother Joyeuse girls, who ran to their father and grouped themselvesabout him somewhat as in the show-case on the ground-floor, and the oldservant, who brought and placed upon the table in the salon, whitherthey had adjourned, a magnificent tea-service, a relic of the formersplendor of the establishment, all called the girl "Grandmamma," nordid she once seem to be annoyed by it, for the influence of thatblessed name imparted to the affection of them all a touch of deferencethat flattered her and gave to her imaginary authority a singularattractiveness, as of a protecting hand.
It may have been because of that title, which he had learned to cherishin his infancy, but de Gery found an indescribable fascination in thegirl. It did not resemble the sudden blow he had received from another,full in the heart, the perturbation mingled with a longing to fly, toescape an obsession, and the persistent melancholy peculiar to the dayafter a fete, extinguished candles, refrains that have died away,perfumes vanished in the darkness. No, in the presence of that younggirl, as she stood looking over the family table, making sure thatnothing was lacking, letting her loving, sparkling eyes rest upon herchildren, her little children, he was assailed by a temptation to knowher, to be to her as an old friend, to confide to her things that heconfessed to none but himself; and when she offered him his cup, withno worldly airs, no society affectations, he would have liked to saylike the others a "Thanks, Grandmamma," in which he might put his wholeheart.
Suddenly a cheery, vigorous knock made everybody jump.
"Ah! there's Monsieur Andre. Quick, Elise, a cup. Yaia, the littlecakes." Meanwhile, Mademoiselle Henriette, the third of the Joyeusegirls,--who had inherited from her mother, born Saint-Amand, a certainworldly side,--in view of the crowded condition of the salons thatevening, rushed to light the two candles on the piano.
"My fifth act is done," cried the newcomer, as he entered the room; thenhe stopped short. "Ah! excuse me," and his face took on a discomfitedexpression at sight of the stranger. M. Joyeuse introduced them toeach other: "Monsieur Paul de Gery--Monsieur Andre Maranne,"--notwithout a certain solemnity of manner. He remembered his wife'sreceptions long ago; and the vases on the mantel, the two great lamps,the work-table, the armchairs arranged in a circle, seemed to sharethe illusion, to shine brighter as if rejuvenated by that unusualthrong.
"So your play is finished?"
"Finished, Monsieur Joyeuse, and I mean to read it to you one of thesedays."
"Oh! yes, Monsieur Andre. Oh! yes," said all the girls in chorus.
Their neighbor wrote for the stage and no one of them entertained adoubt of his success. Photography held out less promise of profit, youknow. Customers were very rare, the passers-by disinclined to patronizehim. To keep his hand in and get his new apparatus into working order,Monsieur Andre was taking his friends again every Sunday, the familylending themselves for his experiments with unequalled good-humor, forthe prosperity of that inchoate, suburban industry was a matter ofpride to them all, arousing, even in the girls, that touching sentimentof fraternity which presses the humblest destinies together as closelyas sparrows on the edge of a roof. But Andre Maranne, with theinexhaustible resources of his high forehead, stored with illusions,explained without bitterness the indifference of the public. Either theweather was unfavorable or else every one complained of the wretchedcondition of business, and he ended always with the same consolingrefrain: "Wait until _Revolte_ has been acted!" _Revolte_ was the titleof his play.
"It's a surprising thing," said the fourth of the Joyeuse girls, achild of twelve with her hair in a pigtail, "it's a surprising thingthat you do so little business with such a splendid balcony!"
"And then there's a great deal of passing through the quarter," addedElise confidently. Grandmamma smilingly reminded her that there waseven more on Boulevard des Italiens.
"Ah! if it were Boulevard des Italiens--" said M. Joyeuse dreamily,and away he went on his chimera, which was suddenly brought to astand-still by a gesture and these words, uttered in a piteous tone:"closed because of failure." In an instant the terrible _Imaginaire_had installed his friend in a splendid apartment on the boulevard,where he earned an enormous amount of money, increasing his expensesat the same time so disproportionately, that a loud "_pouf_" swallowedup photographer and photography in a few months. They laughed heartilywhen he gave that explanation; but they all agreed that RueSaint-Ferdinand, although less showy, was much more reliable thanBoulevard des Italiens. Moreover, it was very near the Bois deBoulogne, and if the fashionable world should once begin to pass thatway--That fashionable society which her mother so affected wasMademoiselle Henriette's fixed idea; and she was amazed that thethought of receiving _high-life_ in his little fifth-floor studio,about as large as a diving-bell, should make their neighbor laugh. Why,only a week or two before, a carriage came there with servants inlivery. Sometimes, too, he had had a "very swell" visitor.
"Oh! a real great lady," Grandmamma chimed in. "We were at the windowwaiting for father. We saw her leave the carriage and look at theframe; we thought surely she came to see you."
"She did come to see me," said Andre, a little embarrassed.
"For a moment we were afraid she would go on as so many others do, onaccount of your five flights. So we all
four did our best to stop her,to magnetize her with our four pairs of wide-open eyes. We pulled hervery gently by the feathers in her hat and the lace on her cape. 'Comeupstairs, pray, madame, pray come upstairs,' and finally she came.There is so much magnetism in eyes that want a thing very much!"
Surely she had magnetism enough, the dear creature, not only in hereyes, which were of uncertain hue, veiled or laughing like the sky ofher Paris, but in her voice, in the folds of her dress, in everything,even to the long curl that shaded her straight, graceful statue-likeneck and attracted you by its tapering shaded point, deftly curled overa supple finger.
The tea being duly served, while the gentlemen continued their talkingand drinking--Pere Joyeuse was always very slow in everything that hedid, because of his abrupt excursions into the moon--the girls resumedtheir work, the table was covered with wicker baskets, embroidery,pretty wools whose brilliant coloring brightened the faded flowers inthe old carpet, and the group of the other evening was formed anew inthe luminous circle of the lamp shade, to the great satisfaction ofPaul de Gery. It was the first evening of that sort he had passed inParis; it reminded him of other far-away evenings, cradled by the sameinnocent mirth, the pleasant sound of scissors laid upon the table, ofthe needle piercing the cotton, or the rustling of the leaves of a bookas they are turned, and dear faces, vanished forever, clustered in thesame way around the family lamp, alas! so suddenly extinguished.
Once admitted into that charming domestic circle, he was not excludedfrom it again, but took his lessons among the girls, and made bold totalk with them when the good man closed his ledger. There everythingtended to give him grateful repose from the seething life in which theNabob's luxurious worldliness involved him; he bathed in thatatmosphere of honesty and simplicity, and strove to cure there thewounds with which a hand more indifferent than cruel was mercilesslyriddling his heart.
* * *
"Women have hated me, other women have loved me. She who did me themost harm never had either love or hate for me." Paul had fallen in,with the woman of whom Heinrich Heine speaks. Felicia was veryhospitable and cordial to him. There was no one whom she welcomed moregraciously. She reserved for him a special smile, in which there wasthe pleased expression of an artist's eye resting upon a type whichattracts it, and the satisfaction of a _blase_ mind which is amused byanything new, however simple it may seem to be. She liked that reserve,most alluring in a Southerner, the straightforwardness of thatjudgment, entirely free from artistic or worldly formulas and enlivenedby a touch of local accent. It was a change for her from the zigzagmovement of the thumb, drawing flattery in outline with the gestures ofa studio fag, from the congratulations of comrades on the way in whichshe silenced some poor fellow, and from the affected admiration, the"chawming--veay pretty," with which the young dandies honored her asthey sucked the handles of their canes. He, at all events, said nothingof that sort to her. She had nicknamed him Minerva, because of hisapparent tranquillity and the regularity of his profile; and as soon ashe appeared, she would say: "Ah! there's Minerva. Hail, lovely Minerva.Take off your helmet and let us have a talk."
But that familiar, almost fraternal, tone convinced the young man ofthe hopelessness of his love. He realized that he could not hope tomake any further progress in that feminine good-fellowship in whichaffection was lacking, and that he should lose something every day ofhis charm as an unfamiliar type in the eyes of that creature who wasborn bored, and who seemed to have lived her life already and to findthe insipidity of repetition in everything that she heard or saw.Felicia was suffering from ennui. Only her art had the power to diverther, to take her out of herself, to transport her to a fairyland ofdazzling beauty from which she returned all bruised and sore, alwayssurprised at the awakening, which resembled a fall. She comparedherself to the jelly-fish, whose transparent brilliancy in the coolnessand constant movement of the waves, vanishes on the shore in littlegelatinous pools. During those intervals of idleness, when the absenceof thought leaves the hand inert upon the modelling tool, Felicia,deprived of the sole moral nerve of her intellect, became savage,unapproachable, sullen beyond endurance,--the revenge of paltry humanqualities upon great tired brains. After she had brought tears to theeyes of all those whom she loved, had striven to evoke painful memoriesor paralyzing anxieties, and had reached the brutal, murderous climaxof her fatigue,--as it was always necessary, where she was concerned,that something ridiculous should be mingled even with the saddestthings, she would blow away the remains of her ennui with a cry likethat of a dazed wild beast, a sort of yawning roar which she called"the cry of the jackal in the desert," and which would drive the bloodfrom the excellent Crenmitz's cheeks, taking her by surprise in hertorpid placidity.
Poor Felicia! Her life was in very truth a ghastly desert when her artdid not enliven it with its visions, a dismal, unrelieved desert, whereeverything was crushed and flattened beneath the same monotonousimmensity, the ingenuous love of a boy of twenty and the caprice of anamorous duke, where everything was covered with dry sand blown about bythe scorching winds of destiny. Paul was conscious of that void, hetried to escape from it; but something detained him, like a weightwhich unwinds a chain, and, notwithstanding the evil things he heard,notwithstanding the strange creature's peculiarities, he hovered abouther with a delicious sense of enjoyment, under pain of carrying naughtaway from that long amorous contemplation save the despair of abeliever reduced to the adoration of images.
The place of refuge was in yonder out-of-the-way quarter, where thewind blew so hard without preventing the flame from burning white andstraight,--it was in the domestic circle presided over by Grandmamma.Oh! she did not suffer from ennui, she never uttered "the cry of thejackal in the desert." Her life was too well filled: the father tocomfort and encourage, the children to teach, all the material cares ofa household in which the mother was lacking, the engrossing thoughtswhich wake with the dawn and which the night puts to sleep, unless itrenews them in dreams--one of those instances of indefatigable butapparently effortless devotion, very convenient for poor humanselfishness, because it dispenses with all gratitude and hardly makesitself felt, its touch is so light. She was not one of the courageousgirls who work to support their parents, give lessons from morning tonight and forget the annoyances of the household in the excitement ofan engrossing occupation. No, she had formed a different conception ofher duty, she was a sedentary bee confining her labors to the hive,with no buzzing around outside in the fresh air and among the flowers.A thousand and one functions to perform: tailor, milliner, mender,keeper of accounts as well,--for M. Joyeuse, being incapable of anysort of responsibility, left the disposition of the family fundsabsolutely in her hands,--teacher and music mistress.
As is often the case in families which were originally in comfortablecircumstances, Aline, being the eldest, had been educated in one of thebest boarding-schools in Paris, Elise had remained there two years withher; but the two younger ones, having come too late, had been sent tolittle day-schools in the quarter and had all their studies tocomplete; and it was no easy matter, for the youngest laughed on everypretext, an exuberant, healthy, youthful laugh, like the warbling of alark drunken on green wheat, and flew away out of sight of desk andsymbols, while Mademoiselle Henriette, always haunted by her ideas ofgrandeur, her love of "the substantial," was none too eager for study.That young person of fifteen, to whom her father had bequeathedsomething of his imaginative faculty, was already arranging her life inanticipation, and declared formally that she should marry some one ofbirth and should never have more than three children: "A boy for thename, and two little girls--so that I can dress them alike."
"Yes, that's right," Grandmamma would say, "you shall dress them alike.Meanwhile, let us see about our participles."
But the most troublesome of all was Elise with her thrice unsuccessfulexamination in history, always rejected and preparing herself anew,subject to attacks of profound terror and self-distrust which led herto carry that unfortun
ate handbook of French history with her wherevershe went, and to open it at every instant, in the omnibus, in thestreet, even at the breakfast table; but, being already a young womanand very pretty, she no longer had the mechanical memory of childhoodin which dates and events are incrusted forever. Amid her otherpreoccupations the lesson would fly away in a moment, despite thepupil's apparent application, her long lashes concealing her eyes, hercurls sweeping the page, and her rosy mouth twitching slightly at thecorners as she repeated again and again: "Louis le Hutin, 1314-1316.Philippe V, le Long, 1316-1322--1322.--Oh! Grandmamma, I am lost. Ishall never learn them." Thereupon Grandmamma would take a hand, helpher to fix her attention, to store away some of those barbarous datesin the Middle Ages, as sharp-pointed as the helmets of the warriors ofthose days. And in the intervals of those manifold tasks, of thatgeneral and constant superintendence, she found time to make prettythings, to take from her work-basket some piece of knitting orembroidery, which clung to her as steadfastly as young Elise to herhistory of France. Even when she was talking, her fingers were neverunemployed for one moment.
"Do you never rest?" de Gery asked her while she counted in a whisperthe stitches of her embroidery, "three, four, five," in order to varythe shades.
"Why, this work is rest," she replied. "You men have no idea how usefulneedlework is to a woman's mind. It regularizes the thought, fixes witha stitch the passing moment and what it carries with it. And think ofthe sorrows that are soothed, the anxieties forgotten by the help ofthis purely physical attention, this constant repetition of the samemovement, in which you find--and find very quickly, whether you will orno--that your equilibrium is entirely restored. It does not prevent mefrom hearing all that is said in my neighborhood, from listening to youeven more attentively than I should if I were idle--three, four, five."
Oh! yes, she listened. That was plain from the animation of her face,from the way in which she would suddenly straighten herself up, withher needle in the air and the thread stretched over her raised littlefinger. Then she would suddenly resume her work, sometimes interjectinga shrewd, thoughtful word, which as a general rule agreed with whatfriend Paul thought. A similarity in their natures and in theirresponsibilities and duties brought those two young people together,made them mutually interested each in those things that the other hadmost at heart. She knew the names of his two brothers, Pierre andLouis, and his plans for their future when they should leave school.Pierre wanted to be a sailor. "Oh! no, not a sailor," said Grandmamma,"it would be much better for him to come to Paris with you." And whenhe admitted that he was afraid of Paris for them, she laughed at hisfears, called him a provincial, for she was full of affection for thecity where she was born, where she had grown chastely to womanhood, andwhich gave her in return the vivacity, the natural refinement, thesprightly good-humor which make one think that Paris, with its rains,its fogs, its sky which is no sky, is the true fatherland of woman,whose nerves it spares and whose patient and intelligent qualities itdevelops.
Each day Paul de Gery appreciated Mademoiselle Aline morethoroughly--he was the only one in the house who called her by thatname--and, strangely enough, it was Felicia who finally cemented theirintimacy. What connection could there be between that artist'sdaughter, fairly launched in the most exalted spheres, and thatbourgeois maiden lost to sight in the depths of a suburb? Connectionsof childhood and friendship, common memories, the great courtyard ofthe Belin establishment, where they had played together for threeyears. Such meetings are very common in Paris. A name mentioned atrandom in conversation suddenly calls forth the amazed question:
"What! do you know her?"
"Do I know Felicia? Why we sat at adjoining desks in the first class.We had the same garden. Such a dear, lovely, clever girl!"
And, noticing how pleased he was to listen to her, Aline recalled thedays, still so near, which already formed part of the past to her,fascinating and melancholy like all pasts. She was quite alone in life,was little Felicia. On Thursday, when they called out the names in theparlor, there was never any one for her; except now and then an oldwoman, a nice old woman, if she was a little ridiculous, a formerballet-dancer it was said, whom Felicia called the Fairy. She had petnames like that for everybody of whom she was fond, and she transformedthem all in her imagination. They used to see each other during thevacations. Madame Joyeuse, although she refused to send Aline to M.Ruys's studio, invited Felicia for whole days,--very short days, madeup of work and music, of joint dreams and unrestrained youthfulchatter. "Oh! when she talked to me about her art, with the ardor whichshe put into everything, how delighted I was to hear her! How manythings she enabled me to understand of which I never should have hadthe slightest idea! Even now, when we go to the Louvre with papa, or tothe Exhibition of the first of May, the peculiar emotion that one feelsat the sight of a beautiful bit of sculpture or a fine painting, makesme think instantly of Felicia. In my young days she represented art,and it went well with her beauty, her somewhat reckless but so kindlynature, in which I was conscious of something superior to myself, whichcarried me away to a great height without frightening me. Suddenly weceased to see each other. I wrote to her--no reply. Then fame came toher, great sorrow and engrossing duties to me. And of all thatfriendship, and very deep-rooted it must have been, for I cannot speakof it without--three, four, five--nothing is left but old memories tobe poked over like dead ashes."
Leaning over her work, the brave girl hastily counted her stitches,concealing her grief in the fanciful designs of her embroidery, whilede Gery, deeply moved to hear the testimony of those pure lips incontradiction of the calumnies of a few disappointed dandies or jealousrivals, felt relieved of a weight and once more proud of his love. Thesensation was so sweet to him that he came very often to seek to renewit, not only on lesson evenings, but on other evenings as well, andalmost forgot to go and see Felicia for the pleasure of hearing Alinespeak of her.
One evening, when he left the Joyeuse apartment, he found waiting forhim on the landing M. Andre, the neighbor, who took his arm feverishly.
"Monsieur de Gery," he said, in a trembling voice, his eyes flashingfire behind their spectacles, the only part of his face one could seeat night, "I have an explanation to demand at your hands. Will you comeup to my room a moment?"
Between that young man and himself there had been only the usualrelations of two frequent visitors at the same house, who are attachedby no bond, who seem indeed to be separated by a certain antipathybetween their natures and their modes of life. What could there be forthem to explain? Sorely puzzled, he followed Andre.
The sight of the little studio, cold and cheerless under its glassceiling, the empty fireplace, the wind blowing as it blows outside, andmaking the candle flicker, the only light that shone upon that vigil ofa penniless recluse, reflected upon scattered sheets all covered withwriting,--in a word, that atmosphere of inhabited cells wherein thevery soul of the inhabitants exhales,--enabled de Gery to comprehend atonce the impassioned Andre Maranne, his long hair thrown back andflying in the wind, his somewhat eccentric appearance, very excusablewhen one pays for it with a life of suffering and privations; and hissympathy instantly went out to the courageous youth, whose militantpride he fully divined at a single glance. But the other was tooexcited to notice this transition. As soon as the door was closed, hesaid, with the accent of a stage hero addressing the perjured seducer:
"Monsieur de Gery, I am not a Cassandra yet." And, as he observed hisinterlocutor's unbounded amazement, he added: "Yes, yes, we understandeach other. I see perfectly clearly what attracts you to M. Joyeuse's,nor has the warm welcome you receive there escaped me. You are rich,you are of noble birth, no one can hesitate between you and the poorpoet who carries on an absurd trade in order to gain time to attainsuccess, which will never come perhaps. But I won't allow my happinessto be stolen from me. We will fight, monsieur, we will fight," herepeated, excited by his rival's unruffled tranquillity. "I have lovedMademoiselle Joyeuse a long while. That love is the aim, the joy, andth
e strength of a very hard life, painful in many respects. I havenothing but that in the world, and I should prefer to die rather thanto renounce it."
What a strange combination is the human heart! Paul was not in lovewith the charming Aline. His whole heart belonged to another. Hethought of her simply as a friend, the most adorable of friends. Andyet the idea that Maranne was thinking of her, that she undoubtedlyresponded to his lover-like attentions, caused him a thrill of jealousanger, and his tone was very sharp when he asked if MademoiselleJoyeuse were aware of this feeling of Andre's and had in any wayauthorized him to proclaim his rights.
"Yes, monsieur, Mademoiselle Elise knows that I love her, and beforeyour frequent visits--"
"Elise--is it Elise you're talking about?"
"Why, who should it be, pray? The other two are too young."
He entered thoroughly into the traditions of the family. In his eyesGrandmamma's twenty years, her triumphant charm, were concealed by arespectful _sobriquet_ and by her providential qualities.
A very brief explanation having allayed Andre Maranne's excitement, heoffered his apologies to de Gery, invited him to take a seat in thecarved wooden armchair in which his customers posed, and theirconversation speedily assumed an intimate and confidential character,attributable to the earnest avowal with which it began. Paul confessedthat he too was in love, and that his only purpose in coming so oftento M. Joyeuse's was to talk about his beloved with Grandmamma, who hadknown her long before.
"It's the same with me," said Andre. "Grandmamma knows all my secrets;but we have not dared say anything to her father yet. My position istoo uncertain. Ah! when _Revolte_ has been brought out!"
Thereupon they talked about _Revolte_! the famous drama on which he hadbeen at work day and night for six months, which had kept him warm allthrough the winter, a very hard winter, whose rigor was tempered,however, by the magic power of composition in the little garret, whichit completely transformed. There, in that confined space, all theheroes of his play had appeared to the poet, like familiar spritesfalling through the roof or riding on the moonbeams, and with them thehigh-warp tapestries, the gleaming chandeliers, the vast parks withgateways flooded with light, all the usual magnificence of stage-setting,as well as the glorious uproar of the first performance, the applausebeing represented by the rain beating on the windows and the signsflapping against the door, while the wind, whistling through themelancholy lumber-yard below with a vague murmur of voices brought fromafar and carried far, resembled the murmur from the boxes opening intothe lobby, allowing his triumph to circulate amid the chattering andconfusion of the audience. It was not simply the renown and the moneythat that blessed play were to bring to him, but something far moreprecious. How carefully, therefore, did he turn the pages of themanuscript contained in five great books in blue covers, such books asthe Levantine spread out upon the divan on which she took her siestas,and marked with her managerial pencil.
Paul having drawn near the table in his turn, in order to examine themasterpiece, his eyes were attracted by a portrait of a woman in ahandsome frame, which seemed, being so near the artist's work, to havebeen stationed there to stand guard over it. Elise, of course? Oh! no,Andre had no right as yet to take his young friend's photograph awayfrom its protecting environment. It was a woman of about forty, fair,with a sweet expression, and dressed in the height of fashion. When hesaw the face, de Gery could not restrain an exclamation.
"Do you know her?" said Andre Maranne.
"Why, yes--Madame Jenkins, the Irish doctor's wife. I took supper withthem last winter."
"She is my mother." And the young man added in a lower tone:
"Madame Maranne married Dr. Jenkins for her second husband. You aresurprised, are you not, to find me in such destitution when my parentsare living in luxury? But, as you know, chance sometimes brings veryantipathetic natures together in the same family. My father-in-law andI could not agree. He wanted to make a doctor of me, whereas I had notaste for anything but writing. At last, in order to avoid the constantdisputes, which were a source of pain to my mother, I preferred toleave the house and dig my furrow all alone, without assistance fromany one. It was a hard task! money was lacking. All the property is inthe hands of that--of M. Jenkins. It was a question of earning myliving, and you know what a difficult matter that is for persons likeourselves, well brought up as it is termed. To think that, with all theknowledge included in what it is fashionable to call a thorougheducation, I could find nothing but this child's play which gave me anyhope of being able to earn my bread! Some little savings from myallowance as a young man sufficed to buy my first outfit, and I openeda studio far away, at the very end of Paris, in order not to annoy myparents. Between ourselves, I fancy that I shall never make my fortunein photography. The first weeks especially were very hard. No one came,or if by any chance some poor devil did toil up the stairs, I missedhim, I spread him out on my plate in a faint, blurred mixture like aghost. One day, very early in my experience, there came a weddingparty, the bride all in white, the husband with a waistcoat--oh! such awaistcoat! And all the guests in white gloves which they insisted uponhaving included in the photograph, because of the rarity of thesensation. Really, I thought I should go mad. Those black faces, thegreat white daubs for the dress, the gloves and the orange flowers, theunfortunate bride in the guise of a Zulu queen, under her wreath whichmelted into her hair! And all so overflowing with good-nature, withencouragement for the artist. I tried them at least twenty times, keptthem until five o'clock at night. They left me only when it was dark,to go and dine! Fancy that wedding-day passed in a photograph gallery!"
While Andre thus jocosely narrated the melancholy incidents of hislife, Paul recalled Felicia's outburst on the subject of Bohemians, andall that she said to Jenkins concerning their exalted courage, theirthirst for privations and trials. He thought also of Aline's passionatefondness for her dear Paris, of which he knew nothing but the unhealthyeccentricities, whereas the great city concealed so much unknownheroism, so many noble illusions in its folds. The sensation he hadpreviously felt in the circle of the Joyeuses' great lamp, he was evenmore keenly conscious of in that less warm, less peaceful spot, whitherart brought its desperate or glorious uncertainty; and it was with amelting heart that he listened while Andre Maranne talked to him ofElise, of the examination she was so long in passing, of the difficulttrade of photography, of all the unforeseen hardships of his life,which would surely come to an end "when _Revolte_ should have beenbrought out," a fascinating smile playing about the poet's lips as theygave utterance to that hope, so often expressed, which he made haste toridicule himself, as if to deprive others of the right to ridicule it.