THE JOYEUSE FAMILY
Every morning of the year, at exactly eight o'clock, a new and almosttenantless house in a remote quarter of Paris, echoed to cries, calls,merry laughter, ringing clear in the desert of the staircase:
"Father, don't forget my music."
"Father, my crochet wool."
"Father, bring us some rolls."
And the voice of the father calling from below:
"Yaia, bring me down my portfolio, please."
"There you are, you see! He has forgotten his portfolio."
And there would be a glad scurry from top to bottom of the house, arunning of all those pretty faces confused by sleep, of all those headswith disordered hair which the owners made tidy as they ran, until themoment when, leaning over the baluster, half a dozen girls bade loudgood-bye to a little, old gentleman, neat and well-groomed, whosereddish face and short profile disappeared at length in the spiralperspective of the stairs. M. Joyeuse had departed for his office.At once the whole band, escaped from their cage, would rush quicklyupstairs again to the fourth floor, and, the door having been opened,group themselves at an open casement to gain one last glimpse of theirfather. The little man used to turn round, kisses were exchanged acrossthe distance, then the windows were closed, the new and tenantless housebecame quiet again, except for the posters dancing their wild sarabandin the wind of the unfinished street, as if made gay, they also, by allthese proceedings. A moment later the photographer on the fifth floorwould descend to hang at the door his showcase, always the same, inwhich was to be seen the old gentleman in a white tie surrounded by hisdaughters in various groups; he went upstairs again in his turn, and thecalm which succeeded immediately upon this little morning uproar leftone to imagine that the "father" and his young ladies had re-entered thecase of photographs, where they remained smiling and motionless untilevening.
From the Rue Saint-Ferdinand to the establishment of Hemerlingue &Son, his employers, M. Joyeuse had a good three-quarters of an hour'sjourney. He walked with head erect and straight, as though he had fearedto disarrange the smart knot of the cravat tied by his daughters, or hishat put on by them, and when the eldest, ever anxious and prudent, justas he went out raised his coat-collar to protect him against theharsh gusts of the wind that blew round the street corner, even if thetemperature were that of a hothouse M. Joyeuse would not lower it againuntil he reached the office, like the lover who, quitting his mistress'sarms, dares not to move for fear of losing the intoxicating perfume.
A widower for some years, this worthy man lived only for his children,thought only of them, went through life surrounded by those fair littleheads that fluttered around him confusedly as in a picture of theAssumption. All his desires, all his projects, bore reference to "thoseyoung ladies," returned to them without ceasing, sometimes after longcircuits, for M. Joyeuse--this was connected no doubt with the fact thathe possessed a short neck and a small figure whereof his turbulentblood made the circuit in a moment--was a man of fecund and astonishingimagination. In his brain the ideas performed their evolutions with therapidity of hollow straws around a sieve. At the office, figures kepthis steady attention by reason of their positive quality; but, outside,his mind took its revenge upon that inexorable occupation. The activityof the walk, the habit that led him by a route where he was familiarwith the least incidents, allowed full liberty to his imaginativefaculties. He invented at these times extraordinary adventures, enoughof them to crank out a score of the serial stories that appear in thenewspapers.
If, for example, M. Joyeuse, as he went up the Faubourg Saint-Honore,on the right-hand footwalk--he always took that one--noticed a heavylaundry-cart going along at a quick pace, driven by a woman from thecountry with a child perched on a bundle of linen and leaning oversomewhat:
"The child!" the terrified old fellow would cry. "Have a care of thechild!"
His voice would be lost in the noise of the wheels and his warning amongthe secrets of Providence. The cart passed. He would follow it for amoment with his eye, then resume his walk; but the drama begun inhis mind would continue to unfold itself there, with a thousandcatastrophes. The child had fallen. The wheels were about to pass overhim. M. Joyeuse dashed forward, saved the little creature on the verybrink of destruction; the pole of the cart, however, struck himselffull in the chest and he fell bathed in blood. Then he would see himselfborne to some chemists' shop through the crowd that had collected. Hewas placed in an ambulance, carried to his own house, and then suddenlyhe would hear the piercing cry of his daughters, his well-beloveddaughters, when they beheld him in this condition. And that agonizedcry touched his heart so deeply, he would hear it so distinctly, sorealistically: "Papa, my dear papa," that he would himself utter italoud in the street, to the great astonishment of the passers-by, in ahoarse voice which would wake him from his fictitious nightmare.
Will you have another sample of this prodigious imagination? It israining, freezing; wretched weather. M. Joyeuse has taken the omnibusto go to his office. Finding himself seated opposite a sort of colossus,with the head of a brute and formidable biceps, M. Joyeuse, himself verysmall, very puny, with his portfolio on his knees, draws in his legs inorder to make room for the enormous columns which support the monumentalbody of his neighbour. As the vehicle moves on and as the rain beats onthe windows, M. Joyeuse falls into reverie. And suddenly the colossusopposite, whose face is kind after all, is very much surprised to seethe little man change colour, look at him and grind his teeth, look athim with ferocious eyes, an assassin's eyes. Yes, with the eyes of averitable assassin, for at that moment M. Joyeuse is dreaming a terribledream. He sees one of his daughters sitting there opposite him, by theside of this giant brute, and the wretch has put his arm round her waistunder her cape.
"Remove your hand, sir!" M. Joyeuse has already said twice over. Theother has only sneered. Now he wishes to kiss Elise.
"Ah, rascal!"
Too feeble to defend his daughter, M. Joyeuse, foaming with rage, drawshis knife from his pocket, stabs the insolent fellow full in the breast,and with head high goes off, strong in the right of an outraged father,to make his declaration at the nearest police-station.
"I have just killed a man in an omnibus!" At the sound of his own voiceactually uttering these sinister words, but not in the police-station,the poor fellow wakes us, guesses from the bewildered mannerof the passengers that he must have spoken the words aloud,and very quickly takes advantage of the conductor's call,"Saint-Philippe--Pantheon--Bastille--" to alight, feeling greatlyconfused, amid general stupefaction.
This imagination constantly on the stretch, gave to M. Joyeuse asingular physiognomy, feverish and worn, in strong contrast with thegeneral correct appearance of a subordinate clerk which he presented.In one day he lived so many passionate existences. The race is morenumerous than one thinks of these waking dreamers, in whom a toorestricted fate compresses forces unemployed and heroic faculties.Dreaming is the safety-valve through which all those expend themselveswith terrible ebullitions, as of the vapour of a furnace and floatingimages that are forthwith dissipated into air. From these visionssome return radiant, others exhausted and discouraged, as they findthemselves once more on the every-day level. M. Joyeuse was of theselatter, rising without ceasing to heights whence a man cannot butre-descend, somewhat bruised by the velocity of the transit.
Now, one morning that our "visionary" had left his house at his habitualhour, and under the usual circumstances, he began at the turning of theRue Saint-Ferdinand one of his little private romances. As the end ofthe year was at hand, perhaps it was the hammer-strokes on a wooden hutwhich was being erected in the neighbouring timber-yard that caused histhoughts to turn to "presents--New Year's Day." And immediately the wordbounty implanted itself in his mind as the first landmark of a marvelousstory. In the month of December all persons in Hemerlingue's servicereceived double pay, and you know that in small households there arefounded on windfalls of this kind a thousand projects, ambitious orkind, presents to be made, a p
iece of furniture to be replaced, a littlesum of money to be saved in a drawer against the unforeseen.
In simple fact, M. Joyeuse was not rich. His wife, a Mlle. deSaint-Armand, tormented with ideas of greatness and society, had setthis little clerk's household on a ruinous footing, and though since herdeath three years had passed during which Bonne Maman had managed thehousekeeping with so much wisdom, they had not yet been able to saveanything, so heavy had proved the burden of the past. Suddenly itoccurred to the good fellow that this year the bounty would be largerby reason of the increase of work which had been caused by the Tunisianloan. The loan constituted a very fine stroke of business for the firm,too fine even, for M. Joyeuse had permitted himself to remark in theoffice that this time "Hemerlingue & Son had shaved the Turk a littletoo close."
"Certainly, yes, the bounty will be doubled," reflected the visionary,as he walked; and already he saw himself, a month thence, mounting withhis comrades, for the New Year's visit, the little staircase that ledto Hemerlingue's apartment. He announced the good news to them; then hedetained M. Joyeuse for a few words in private. And, behold, that masterhabitually so cold in his manner, sheathed in his yellow fat as ina bale of raw silk, became affectionate, paternal, communicative. Hedesired to know how many daughters Joyeuse had.
"I have three; no, I should say, four, M. le Baron. I always confusethem. The eldest is such a sensible girl."
Further he wished to know their ages.
"Aline is twenty, M. le Baron. She is the eldest. Then we have Elise,who is preparing for the examination which she must pass when she iseighteen. Henriette, who is fourteen, and Zara or Yaia who is onlytwelve."
That pet name of Yaia intensely amused M. le Baron, who inquired nextwhat were the resources of this interesting family.
"My salary, M. le Baron; nothing else. I had a little money put aside,but my poor wife's illness, the education of the girls--"
"What you are earning is not sufficient, my dear Joyeuse. I raise yoursalary to a thousand francs a month."
"Oh, M. le Baron, it is too much."
But although he had uttered this last sentence aloud, in the ear ofa policeman who watched with a mistrustful eye the little man pass,gesticulating and nodding his head, the poor visionary awoke not. Withadmiration he saw himself returning home, announcing the news to hisdaughters, taking them to the theatre in the evening in celebration ofthe happy day. _Dieu!_ how pretty they looked in the front of their box,the Demoiselles Joyeuse, what a bouquet of rosy faces! And then, thenext day, the two eldest asked in marriage by--Impossible to determineby whom, for M. Joyeuse had just suddenly found himself once morebeneath the arch of the Hemerlingue establishment, before the swing-doorsurmounted by a "counting-house" in letters of gold.
"I shall always be the same, it seems," said he to himself, laughing alittle and passing his hand over his forehead, on which the perspirationstood in drops.
In a good humour as the result of this pleasant fancy and at the sightof the fire crackling in the suite of parquet-floored offices, withtheir screens of iron trellis-work and their air of secrecy in the coldlight of the ground floor, where one could count the pieces of goldwithout dazzling his eyes, M. Joyeuse gave a gay greeting to theother clerks and slipped on his working coat and his black velvet cap.Suddenly, some one whistled from upstairs, and the cashier, applying hisear to the tube, heard the oily and gelatinous voice of Hemerlingue,the sole and veritable Hemerlingue--the other, the son, was alwaysabsent--asking for M. Joyeuse.
What! Could the dream be continuing?
He was conscious of a great agitation; took the little inside staircasewhich he had seen himself ascending just before so bravely, and foundhimself in the banker's private room, a narrow apartment, with a veryhigh ceiling, furnished only with green curtains and enormous leathereasy chairs of a size proportioned to the terrific bulk of the head ofthe house. He was there, seated at his desk which his belly preventedhim from approaching very closely, obese, ill-shaped, and so yellow thathis round face with its hooked nose, the head of a fat and sick owl,suggested as it were a light at the end of the solemn and gloomy room. Arich Moorish merchant grown mouldy in the damp of his little court-yard.Beneath his heavy eyelids, raised with an effort, his glance glitteredfor a second when the accountant entered; he signed to him to approach,and slowly, coldly, pausing to take breath between his sentences,instead of "M. Joyeuse, how many daughters have you?" he said this:
"Joyeuse, you have allowed yourself to criticise in the office our lastoperations in the Tunis market. Useless to defend yourself. Your remarkshave been reported to me word for word. And as I am unable to admit themfrom the mouth of one in my service, I give you notice that dating fromthe end of this month you cease to be a member of my establishment."
A wave of blood mounted to the accountant's face, fell back, returnedagain, bringing each time a confused whizzing into his ears, into hisbrain a tumult of thoughts and images.
His daughters!
What was to become of them?
Employment is so hard to find at that period of the year.
Poverty appeared before his eyes and also the vision of an unfortunateman falling at Hemerlingue's feet, supplicating him, threatening him,springing at his throat in an access of despairing rage. All thisagitation passed over his features like a gust of wind which throws thesurface of a lake into ripples, fashioning there all manner of mobilewhirlpools; but he remained mute, standing in the same place, and uponthe master's intimation that he could withdraw, went down with totteringstep to resume his work in the counting-house.
In the evening when he went home to the Rue Saint-Ferdinand, M. Joyeusetold his daughters nothing. He did not dare. The idea of darkening thatradiant gaiety which was the life of the house, of making dull withheavy tears those pretty bright eyes, was insupportable to him.Timorous, too, and weak, he was of those who always say, "Let us waittill to-morrow." He waited therefore before speaking, at first until themonth of November should be ended, deluding himself with the vague hopethat Hemerlingue might change his mind, as though he did not know thatwill as of some mollusk flabby and tenacious upon its ingot of gold.Then when his salary had been paid up and another accountant had takenhis place before the high desk at which he had stood for so long, hehoped to find something else quickly and repair his misfortune beforebeing obliged to confess it.
Every morning he feigned to start for the office, allowed himself tobe equipped and accompanied to the door as usual, his huge leatherportfolio all ready for the evening's numerous commissions. Although hewould forget some of them on purpose because of the approaching andso problematical end of the month, he did not lack time now to executethem. He had his day to himself, the whole of an interminable day whichhe spent in rushing about Paris in search for an employment. People gavehim addresses, excellent recommendations. But in that terrible month ofDecember, so cold and with such short hours of daylight, bringing withit so many expenses and preoccupations, employees need to take patienceand employers also. Each man tries to end the year in peace, postponingto the month of January, to that great leap of time towards a freshhalting-place, any changes, ameliorations, attempts at a new life.
In every house where M. Joyeuse presented himself, he beheld facessuddenly grow cold as soon as he explained the object of his visit.
"What! You are no longer with Hemerlingue & Son? How is that?"
He would explain the matter as best he could through a caprice of thehead of the firm, the ferocious Hemerlingue whom Paris knew; but hewas conscious of a coldness, a mistrust in the uniform reply which hereceived: "Call on us again after the holidays." And, timid as he was tobegin with, he reached a point at which he could no longer bring himselfto call on any one, a point at which he could walk past the same doora score of times and never have crossed its threshold at all had it notbeen for the thought of his daughters. This alone pushed him along bythe shoulders, put heart in his legs, despatched him in the courseof the same day to the opposite extremities of Paris, to very vagu
eaddresses given to him by comrades, to a great manufactory of animalblack at Aubervilliers, where he was made to return for nothing threedays in succession.
Oh, the journeys in the rain, in the frost, the closed doors, the masterwho is out or engaged, the promises given and immediately withdrawn,the hopes deceived, the enervation of hours of waiting, the humiliationsreserved for every man who asks for work, as though it were a shamefulthing to lack it. M. Joyeuse knew all these melancholy things and, too,the good will that tires and grows discouraged before the persistence ofevil fortune. And you may imagine how the hard martyrdom of "the man whoseeks a place" was rendered tenfold more bitter by the mirages of hisimagination, by those chimeras which rose before him from the Parispavements as over them he journeyed along on foot in every direction.
For a month he was one of those woeful puppets, talking in monologue,gesticulating on the footways, from whom every chance collision with thecrowd wrests an exclamation as of one walking in his sleep. "I told youso," or "I have no doubt of it, sir." One passes by, almost one wouldlaugh, but one is seized with pity before the unconsciousness of thoseunhappy men possessed by a fixed idea, blind whom the dream leads, drawnalong by an invisible leash. The terrible thing was that after thoselong, cruel days of inaction and fatigue, when M. Joyeuse returned home,he had perforce to play the comedy of the man returning from his work,to recount the incidents of the day, the things he had heard, the gossipof the office with which he had been always wont to entertain his girls.
In humble homes there is always a name which comes up more often thanall others, which is invoked in days of stress, which is mingled withevery wish, with every hope, even with the games of the children,penetrated as they are with its importance, a name which sustains inthe dwelling the part of a sub-Providence, or rather of a householddivinity, familiar and supernatural. In the Joyeuse family, it wasHemerlingue, always Hemerlingue, returning ten times, twenty times aday in the conversation of the girls, who associated it with all theirplans, with the most intimate details of their feminine ambitions."If Hemerlingue would only----" "All that depends on Hemerlingue." Andnothing could be more charming than the familiarity with which theseyoung people spoke of that enormously wealthy man whom they had neverseen.
They would ask for news of him. Had their father spoken to him? Was hein a good temper? And to think that we all of us, whatever our position,however humble we be, however weighed down by fate, we have alwaysbeneath us unfortunate beings more humble, yet more weighed down, forwhom we are great, for whom we are as gods, and in our quality of gods,indifferent, disdainful, or cruel.
One imagines the torture of M. Joyeuse, obliged to invent stories andanecdotes about the wretch who had so ruthlessly discharged him afterten years of good service. He played his little comedy, however, so wellas completely to deceive everybody. Only one thing had been remarked,and that was that father when he came home in the evening always satdown to table with a great appetite. I believe it! Since he lost hisplace the poor man had gone without his luncheon.
The days passed. M. Joyeuse found nothing. Yes, one place as accountantin the Territorial Bank, which he refused, however, knowing too muchabout banking operations, about all the corners and innermost recessesof the financial Bohemia in general, and of the Territorial bank inparticular, to set foot in that den.
"But," said Passajon to him--for it was Passajon who, meeting the honestfellow and hearing that he was out of employment, had suggested tohim that he should come to Paganetti's--"but since I repeat that it isserious. We have lots of money. They pay one. I have been paid. See howprosperous I look."
In effect, the old office porter had a new livery, and beneath his tunicwith its buttons of silver-gilt his paunch protruded, majestic. Allthe same M. Joyeuse had not allowed himself to be tempted, even afterPassajon, opening wide his shallow-set blue eyes, had whispered into hisear with emphasis these words rich in promises:
"The Nabob is in the concern."
Even after that, M. Joyeuse had had the courage to say No. Was it notbetter to die of hunger than to enter a fraudulent house of whichhe might perhaps one day be summoned to report upon the books in thecourts?
So he continued to wander; but, discouraged, he no longer sought employ.As it was necessary that he should absent himself from home, he usedto linger over the stalls on the quays, lean for hours on the parapets,watch the water flow and the unladening of the vessels. He became one ofthose idlers whom one sees in the first rank whenever a crowd collectsin the street, taking shelter from the rain under the porches, warminghimself at the stoves where, in the open air, the tar of the asphaltersreeks, sinking on a bench of some boulevard when his legs could nolonger carry him.
To do nothing! What a fine way of making life seem longer!
On certain days, however, when M. Joyeuse was too weary or the skytoo unkind, he would wait at the end of the street until his daughtersshould have closed their window again and, returning to the house,keeping close to the walls, would mount the staircase very quickly, passbefore his own door holding his breath, and take refuge in the apartmentof the photographer Andre Maranne, who, aware of his ill-fortune, alwaysgave him that kindly welcome which the poor have for each other. Clientsare rare so near the outskirts of the town. He used to remain long hoursin the studio, talking in a very low voice, reading at his friend'sside, listening to the rain on the window-panes or the wind that blewas it does on the open sea, shaking the old doors and the window-sashesbelow in the wood-sheds. Beneath him he could hear sounds well knownand full of charm, songs that escaped in the satisfaction of workaccomplished, assembled laughter, the pianoforte lesson being given byBonne Maman, the tic-tac of the metronome, all the delicious householdstir that pleased his heart. He lived with his darlings, who certainlynever could have guessed that they had him so near them.
Once, when Maranne was out, M. Joyeuse keeping faithful watch over thestudio and its new apparatus, heard two little strokes given on theceiling of the apartment below, two separate, very distinct strokes,then a cautious pattering of fingers, like the scamper of mice. Thefriendliness of the photographer with his neighbours sufficientlyauthorized these communications like those of prisoners. But what didthey mean? How reply to what seemed a call? Quite at hazard, he repeatedthe two strokes, the light tapping, and the conversation ended there. Onthe return of Andre Maranne he learned the explanation of the incident.It was very simple. Sometimes, in the course of the day, the youngladies below, who only saw their neighbour in the evening, would inquirehow things were going with him, whether any clients were coming in. Thesignal he had heard meant, "Is business good to-day?" And M. Joyeuse hadreplied, obeying only an instinct without any knowledge, "Fairly wellfor the season." Although young Maranne was very red as he made thisaffirmation, M. Joyeuse accepted his word at once. Only this idea offrequent communications between the two households made him afraid forthe secrecy of his position, and from that time forward he cut himselfoff from what he used to call his "artistic days." Moreover, themoment was approaching when he would no longer be able to conceal hismisfortune, the end of the month arriving, complicated by the ending ofthe year.
Paris was already assuming the holiday appearance which it wears duringthe last weeks of December. In the way of national or popular rejoicingit had little left but that. The follies of the Carnival died withGavarni, the religious festivals with their peals of bells which onescarcely hears amid the noise of the streets confine themselves withintheir heavy church-doors, the 15th of August has never been anything butthe Saint Charles-the-Great of the barracks; but Paris has maintainedits observance of New Year's Day.
From the beginning of December an immense childishness begins topermeate the town. You see hand-carts pass laden with gilded drums,wooden horses, playthings by the dozen. In the industrial quarters, fromtop to bottom of the five-storied houses, the old private residencesstill standing in that low-lying district, where the warehouses havesuch lofty ceilings and majestic double doors, the nights are passed inthe makin
g up of gauze flowers and spangles, in the gumming of labelsupon satin-lined boxes, in sorting, marking, packing, the thousanddetails of the toy, that great branch of commerce on which Paris placesthe seal of its elegance. There is a smell about of new wood, of freshpaint, glossy varnish, and, in the dust of garrets, on the wretchedstairways where the poor leave behind them all the dirt through whichthey have passed, there lie shavings of rosewood, scraps of satin andvelvet, bits of tinsel, all the _debris_ of the luxury whose end is todazzle the eyes of children. Then the shop-windows are decorated. Behindthe panes of clear glass the gilt of presentation-books rises like aglittering wave under the gaslight, the stuffs of various and temptingcolours display their brittle and heavy folds, while the young ladiesbehind the counter, with their hair dressed tapering to a point and witha ribbon beneath their collar, tie up the article, little finger in theair, or fill bags of moire into which the sweets fall like a rain ofpearls.
But, over against this kind of well-to-do business, established inits own house, warmed, withdrawn behind its rich shop-front, there isinstalled the improvised commerce of those wooden huts, open to thewind of the streets, of which the double row gives to the boulevardsthe aspect of some foreign mall. It is in these that you find the trueinterest and the poetry of New Year's gifts. Sumptuous in the districtof the Madeleine, well-to-do towards the Boulevard Saint-Denis, of more"popular" order as you ascend to the Bastille, these little sheds adaptthemselves according to their public, calculate their chances of successby the more or less well-lined purses of the passers-by. Among these,there are set up portable tables, laden with trifling objects, miraclesof the Parisian trade that deals in such small things, constructed outof nothing, frail and delicate, and which the wind of fashion sometimessweeps forward in its great rush by reason of their very triviality.Finally, along the curbs of the footways, lost in the defile of thecarriage traffic which grazes their wandering path, the orange-girlscomplete this peripatetic commerce, heaping up the sun-coloured fruitbeneath their lanterns of red paper, crying "La Valence" amid the fog,the tumult, the excessive haste which Paris displays at the ending ofits year.
Ordinarily, M. Joyeuse was accustomed to make one of the busy crowdwhich goes and comes with the jingle of money in its pocket and parcelsin every hand. He would wander about with Bonne Maman at his side on thelookout for New Year's presents for his girls, stop before the booths ofthe small dealers, who are accustomed to do much business and excitedby the appearance of the least important customer, have based uponthis short season hopes of extraordinary profits. And there would becolloquies, reflections, an interminable perplexity to know what toselect in that little complex brain of his, always ahead of the presentinstant and of the occupation of the moment.
This year, alas! nothing of that kind. He wandered sadly through thetown in its rejoicing, time seeming to hang all the heavier for theactivity around him, jostled, hustled, as all are who stand obstructingthe way of active folk, his heart beating with a perpetual fear, forBonne Maman for some days past, in conversation with him at table,had been making significant allusions with regard to the New Year'spresents. Consequently he avoided finding himself alone with her and hadforbidden her to come to meet him at the office at closing-time. Butin spite of all his efforts he knew the moment was drawing near whenconcealment would be impossible and his grievous secret be unveiled.Was, then, a very formidable person, Bonne Maman, that M. Joyeuse shouldstand in such fear of her? By no means. A little stern, that was all,with a pretty smile that instantly forgave one. But M. Joyeuse wasa coward, timid from his birth; twenty years of housekeeping with amasterful wife, "a member of the nobility," having made him a slave forever, like those convicts who, after their imprisonment is over, have toundergo a period of surveillance. And for him this meant all his life.
One evening the Joyeuse family was gathered in the little drawing-room,last relic of its splendour, still containing two upholstered chairs,many crochet decorations, a piano, two lamps crowned with little greenshades, and a what-not covered with bric-a-brac.
True family life exists in humble homes.
For the sake of economy, there was lighted for the whole household butone fire and a single lamp, around which the occupations and amusementsof all were grouped. A fine big family lamp, whose old paintedshade--night scenes pierced with shining dots--had been the astonishmentand the joy of every one of those young girls in her early childhood.Issuing softly from the shadow of the room, four young heads were bentforward, fair or dark, smiling or intent, into that intimate and warmcircle of light which illumined them as far as the eyes, seemed to feedthe fire of their glance, to shelter them, protect them, preserve themfrom the black cold blowing outside, from phantoms, from snares, frommiseries and terrors, from all the sinister things that a winter nightin Paris brings forth in the remoteness of its quiet suburbs.
Thus, drawn close together in a small room at the top of the lonelyhouse, in the warmth, the security of their comfortable home, theJoyeuse household seems like a nest right at the top of a loftytree. The girls sew, read, chat a little. A leap of the lamp-flame,a crackling of fire, is what you may hear, with from time to time anexclamation from M. Joyeuse, a little removed from his small circle,lost in the shadow where he hides his anxious brow and all theextravagance of his imagination. Just now he is imagining that inthe distress into which he finds himself driven beyond possibilityof escape, in that absolute necessity of confessing everything to hischildren, this evening, at latest to-morrow, an unhoped-for succour maycome to him. Hemerlingue, seized with remorse, sends to him, as toall those who took part in the work connected with the Tunis loan, hisDecember gratuity. A tall footman brings it: "On behalf of M. le Baron."The visionary says those words aloud. The pretty faces turn towards him;the girls laugh, move their chairs, and the poor fellow awakes suddenlyto reality.
Oh, how angry he is with himself now for his delay in confessing all,for that false security which he has maintained around him and which hewill have to destroy at a blow. What need had he, too, to criticise thatTunis loan? At this moment he even reproaches himself for not havingaccepted a place in the Territorial Bank. Had he the right to refuse?Ah, the sorry head of a family, without strength to keep or to defendthe happiness of his own! And, glancing at the pretty group withinthe circle of the lamp-shade, whose reposeful aspect forms so great acontrast with his own internal agitation, he is seized by a remorse soviolent for the weakness of his soul that his secret rises to his lips,is about to escape him in a burst of sobs, when the ring of a bell--nochimera, that--gives them all a start and arrests him at the very momentwhen he was about to speak.
Whoever could it be, coming at this hour? They had lived in retirementsince the mother's death and saw almost nobody. Andre Maranne, whenhe came down to spend a few minutes with them, tapped like a familiarfriend. Profound silence in the drawing-room, long colloquy on thelanding. Finally, the old servant--she had been in the family as long asthe lamp--showed in a young man, complete stranger, who stopped, struckwith admiration at the charming picture of the four darlings gatheredround the table. This made his entrance timid, rather awkward. However,he explained clearly the object of his visit. He had been referred to M.Joyeuse by an honest fellow of his acquaintance, old Passajon, to takelessons in bookkeeping. One of his friends happened to be engaged inlarge financial transactions in connection with an important joint-stockcompany. He wished to be of service to him in keeping an eye on theemployment of the capital, the straightforwardness of the operations;but he was a lawyer, little familiar with financial methods, with theterms employed in banking. Could not M. Joyeuse in the course of a fewmonths, with three or four lessons a week--
"Yes, indeed, sir, yes, indeed," stammered the father, quite overcome bythis unlooked-for piece of good luck. "Assuredly I can undertake, in afew months, to qualify you for such auditing work. Where shall we haveour lessons?"
"Here, at your own house, if you are agreeable," said the young man,"for I am anxious that no one should know that I am w
orking at thesubject. But I shall be grieved if I always frighten everybody away as Ihave this evening."
For, at the first words of the visitor, the four curly heads haddisappeared, with little whisperings, and with rustlings of skirts, andthe drawing-room looked very bare now that the big circle of white lightwas empty.
Always quick to take offence, where his daughters were concerned, M.Joyeuse replied that "the young girls were accustomed to retire earlyevery evening," and the words were spoken in a brief, dry tone whichvery clearly signified: "Let us talk of our lessons, young man, if youplease." Days were then fixed, free hours in the evening.
As for the terms, they would be whatever monsieur desired.
Monsieur mentioned a sum.
The accountant became quite red. It was the amount he used to earn atHemerlingue's.
"Oh, no, that is too much."
But the other was no longer listening. He was seeking for words, asthough he had something very difficult to say, and suddenly, making uphis mind to it:
"Here is your first month's salary."
"But, monsieur--"
The young man insisted. He was a stranger. It was only fair that heshould pay in advance. Evidently, Passajon has told his secret.
M. Joyeuse understood, and in a low voice said, "Thank you, oh, thankyou," so deeply moved that words failed him. Life! it meant life,several months of life, the time to turn round, to find another place.His darlings would want for nothing. They would have their New Year'spresents. Oh, the mercy of Providence!
"Till Wednesday, then, M. Joyeuse."
"Till Wednesday, monsieur--"
"De Gery--Paul de Gery."
And they separated, both delighted, fascinated, the one by theapparition of this unexpected saviour, the other by the adorable pictureof which he had only a glimpse, all those young girls grouped round thetable covered with books, exercise-books, and skeins of wool, with anair of purity, of industrious honesty. This was a new Paris for Paul deGery, a courageous, home-like Paris, very different from that which healready knew, a Paris of which the writers of stories in the newspapersand the reporters never speak, and which recalled to him his own countryhome, with an additional charm, that charm which the struggle and tumultaround lend to the tranquil, secured refuge.