The novels, romances, and memoirs of Alphonse Daudet (20 page)

It was near nine o'clock when we entered the shop that had formerly belonged to the Lalou-ettes. They were shutting it up. Bolts, shutters, and bars of iron, a formidable apparatus for closing, were lying about in heaps on the pavement, in front of the half-open door; the gas was extinguished, and all the shop was in shadow, except the desk, on which a porcelain lamp stood, lighting up piles of coin, and a large, red, laughing face. In the room behind the shop, some one was playing the flute.

" Good-evening, Pierrotte," cried Jacques, taking up his position before the desk. (I stood beside him in the lampHght.) " Good-evening, Pierrotte."

Pierrotte, who was doing his accounts, Hfted his eyes at Jacques' voice; then, catching sight of me, he uttered a cry, clasped his hands, and stayed there stupidly gaping at me with his mouth open.

"Well?" said Jacques, triumphantly, " what did I tell you? "

" Oh, my God ! my God ! " murmured Pierrotte, " it seems to me — if I may be allowed to say so — it seems to me that I see her."

"Especially the eyes," resumed Jacques; " look at the eyes, Pierrotte."

" And the chin, Monsieur Jacques, the chin with a dimple in it," replied Pierrotte, who had removed the screen from the lamp, in order to see me better.

I could understand nothing of all this. They were both looking at me, winking and making signs to each other. Suddenly Pierrotte rose, came out from behind the desk, and approached me with open arms.

" With your permission, Monsieur Daniel, I must kiss you. If I may be allowed to say so, I think I am kissing Mademoiselle."

This last word explained everything. At that time, I was much like my mother, and this resemblance was still more striking to Pierrotte who had not seen Mademoiselle for some twenty-five years. The good man could not tire of shak-

ing my hands and embracing me, looking at me all the time with his large eyes full of tears; afterwards, he began to talk to us of our mother, of the two thousand francs, of his Roberte, his Cam-ille, his Anastagille, and all this at such length, and with so many periods, that we should still be — if I may be allowed to say so — standing up in the shop, listening to him, if Jacques had not said to him in an impatient tone:

" How about your accounts, Pierrotte? "

Pierrotte stopped short. He was a little confused at having talked so long.

" You are right. Monsieur Jacques, I am talking on and on, and the little girl — if I may be allowed to say so, — the little girl will scold me for coming up so late."

"Is Camille up there?" asked Jacques, with a little air of indifference.

" Yes, yes, Monsieur Jacques, the little girl is up there. She is pining—if I may be allowed to say so — really pining to make M. Daniel's acquaintance. Go up and see her; I will do my accounts and join you there — if I may be allowed to say so."

Without listening to any more, Jacques took me by the arm, and drew me toward the back room where some one was playing the flute. Pierrotte's shop was large and well-furnished. In the shadow, I could see glittering the swelling sides of decanters, the opalescent globes, and the pale gold of Bohemian glass, the great crystal cups, the round soup-tureens, and to right and left, high piles of

plates reaching to the ceihng. It was the palace of the Porcelain fairy seen at night. In the room at the back, a gas jet, half turned on, was still burning, letting a little languid tongue of flame escape. We passed through the room, and there, seated on the edge of a divan, was a tall fair-haired youth, playing in a melancholy manner upon the flute. As Jacques went by, he gave a very short " Good-evening," and the fair-haired youth replied with two very short notes from the flute, which must be the way flutes have of greeting one another when they are angry.

" He is the clerk," said Jacques, when we were on the stairs. " That tall yellow-haired fellow bores us to death by always playing on the flute. Do you care for the flute, Daniel?"

I wanted to ask: " Does the little girl care for it?" But I was afraid of hurting his feelings, and answered very seriously: "No, Jacques, I don't care for the flute."

Pierrette's apartment was on the fourth floor, in the same house as the shop. Mdlle. Camille, too aristocratic to show herself in the shop, remained above, and saw her father only at meal-times. " Oh, you will see ! " said Jacques as we went up, " it is quite on the footing of a fine house. Camille has a companion, a widow, Mme. Tribou, who never leaves her. I don't quite know where this Mme. Tribou comes from, but Pierrotte knows her, and insists that she is a very deserving person. Ring, Daniel, for here we are! " I rang; a woman from the Cevennes in a large cap came to the door,

and, smiling at Jacques as at an old acquaintance, showed us into the drawing-room.

When we entered, Mdlle. Pierrotte was at the piano. Two old and rather stout ladies, Mme. Lalouette and the widow-lady, Mme. Tribou, the very deserving person, were playing cards in a corner. They all rose when they saw us. There was a moment of bustle and confusion ; then, after greetings were exchanged, and introductions made, Jacques asked Camille — he called her Camille without ceremony — to sit down again at the piano, and the very deserving person profited by his request to continue her game with Mme. Lalouette. Jacques and I sat down on each side of Mdlle. Pierrotte, who talked and laughed with us, while her little fingers were flying over the piano. I watched her as she was speaking. She was not pretty. Her complexion was pink and white, her ears small, and her hair fine, but her cheeks were too plump, and her health too blooming; moreover, she had red hands, and the somewhat frigid graces of a boarding-school miss at home on a holiday. She was the true daughter of Pierrotte, a wild flower of the mountains that had grown up behind a shop window in the Passage du Saumon.

Such, at least was my first impression; but all at once, at a word of mine, Mdlle. Pierrotte, who had been looking down until then, raised her eyes slowly upon me, and, as if by magic, the little bourgeoise disappeared; I could see nothing but her eyes, two great, black, dazzling eyes that I recognized immediately.

O miracle ! They were the same eyes that had shone so sweetly for me, far away, within the chill walls of the old school; the black eyes of the fairy in spectacles ; in short, the black eyes. — I thought I was dreaming, I wanted to cry to them, " Is it you, beautiful black eyes? Do I meet you again in the face of another?" If I could but express how surely they were the same ! It was impossible to make a mistake. The same lashes, the same splendor, the same black and smothered fire. What folly to believe there could be two such pairs of eyes in the world ! And the proof that they were really the black eyes themselves and not other black eyes like them, is that they too had recognized me, and we were, no doubt, about to resume one of our pretty mute dialogues of the old time, when I heard, near me, almost in my ear, a noise of little teeth, like those of a mouse, nibbling. I turned my head at this, and saw in an armchair, at the angle of the piano, a person whom I had not noticed before. It was a tall, thin, pale old man, with a bird-like head, retreating forehead, pointed nose, and round, lifeless eyes, set too far from the nose, almost on the temples. Except for the bit of sugar the old fellow was holding and pecking from time to time, I might have thought him asleep. A little troubled by this apparition, I made the old phantom a deep bow, which he did not return. " He does not see you," said Jacques; "he is blind. It is old La-louette."

" He is well-named," I thought, and to avoid

seeing that horrible old bird-headed man, I turned quickly toward the black eyes; but alas! the charm was broken, and the black eyes had vanished. There was nothing in their stead, save a little bourgeoise sitting stiffly on the piano-stool.

Just then, the door of the drawing-room opened and Pierrotte made a noisy entrance. The man with the flute came behind him with his flute under his arm. When Jacques saw him, he let fly at him a deadly look that was fit to fell a buffalo ; but it must have missed him, for the flute-player did not blench.

"Well, little girl," said Pierrotte, kissing his daughter on both cheeks, "are you pleased? They have brought you your Daniel; and what do you think of him? He is very nice, is n't he? If I may be allowed to say so, he is the perfect picture of Mademoiselle."

Thereupon, the good Pierrotte began again the scene in the shop, and drew me by force into the middle of the room, so that everybody could see Mademoiselle's eyes. Mademoiselle's nose, and Mademoiselle's dimpled chin. This exhibition embarrassed me very much. Mme. Lalouette and the very deserving person interrupted their game, and leaning back in their armchairs, examined me with the greatest coolness, criticising or praising aloud this or that portion of my person exactly as if I were a little plump chicken offered for sale at the market of la Valine. Between ourselves, the very deserving person appeared to understand such young fowl very well.

Happily, Jacques put a stop to my misery, by asking Mdlle. Pierrotte to play us something. " That's it, let us play something," said the flute-player with alacrity, advancing, holding out his flute. Jacques cried: "No, no; no duet; we don't want the flute! " Whereupon the flute-player darted at him a little light-blue glance, poisoned like the arrow of a savage, but Jacques never winced, and kept on saying: " We don't want the flute 1 " Jacques carried the day in the end, and without an accompaniment from the flute, Mdlle. Pierrotte played one of those well-known pieces full of tremolo, called Reveries of Rosellen. While she played, Pierrotte wept with admiration, and Jacques was in an ecstasy; silently, but with his flute between his teeth, the flute-player beat time with his shoulders, and played internally.

When the Rosellen was over, Mdlle. Pierrotte turned toward me; "And you. Monsieur Daniel," said she, lowering her eyes, " are not we going to hear you? You are a poet, I know."

" And a good poet, too," said Jacques, that indiscreet Jacques. You may imagine I was not tempted to recite verses before all those Amale-kites. If the black eyes had only been there ; but no, for an hour the black eyes had been extinguished, and I sought for them about me in vain. You ought to have heard the easy tone in which I answered the young girl:

"Excuse me this evening, Mademoiselle; I have not brought my lyre with me."

" Don't forget to bring it with you next time,"

said kind old Pierrotte, who took my metaphor seriously. The poor man really believed I had a lyre, and played on it as his clerk played on the flute. Ah, Jacques was right in warning me that he was going to introduce me to an odd society!

Toward eleven o'clock, tea was served, and Mdlle. Pierrotte walked to and fro through the drawing-room, offering the sugar, pouring out the milk, with a smile on her lips and her little finger in the air. It was in this part of the evening that I again saw the black eyes. They suddenly appeared before me, luminous and sympathetic; then they suffered a new eclipse before I had time to speak with them. Then only I observed something, and that was that in Mdlle. Pierrotte there were two entirely distinct beings: first, Mdlle. Pierrotte, a little bourgeoise, with her hair brushed smooth, well fitted to rule over the house of Lalouette's successor; and then, the black eyes, those great, poetic eyes that opened like two velvet flowers, and had only to appear in order to transfigure that company of burlesque shopkeepers. I should not have cared to have Mdlle. Pierrotte for anything in the world; but the black eyes, oh, the black eyes!

Finally the hour came to break up. Mme. Lalouette made the move. She wrapped her husband in a great plaid, and carried him off under her arm like an old mummy done up in bands. After they had gone, Pierrotte kept us a long time on the landing, making interminable speeches.

" Ah, Monsieur Daniel! Now that you know 14

the house, I hope we shall see you here. We never have many people, but very select people, if I may be allowed to say so. First, M. and Mme. Lalouette, my old employers; then Mme. Tribou, a very deserving person, with whom you can talk; also my clerk, a good fellow who sometimes plays to us on the flute. If I may be allowed to say so, you can play duets together, and that will be delightful."

I objected shyly that I was very busy, and perhaps could not come as often as I might like.

This made him laugh.

** Come now, busy, Monsieur Daniel! I know what kind of business you fellows have in the Latin Quarter. If I may be allowed to say so, there must be some grisette about there,"

" The truth is," said Jacques, laughing too, " that the White-Cuckoo has her share of attractions."

The name of White-Cuckoo filled the measure of Pierrotte's mirth.

"What do you say, Monsieur Jacques? The White-Cuckoo? She is called the White-Cuckoo? Ha! ha! ha! Look at that boy, and at his age too !" He stopped short as he noticed his daughter was listening to him ; but even when we reached the bottom of the stairs, we still heard his loud laugh that shook the banisters.

"Well, what do you think of them?" asked Jacques, as soon as we were in the street.

" My dear fellow, M. Lalouette is very unattractive, but Mdlle. Pierrotte is charming."

" Is n't she? " said the poor lover, with so much vivacity that I could not help laughing.

" Come, Jacques, you have betrayed yourself," said I, taking his hand.

That evening, we walked till very late along the quays. At our feet, the silent black river rolled along thousands of little stars like pearls. The chains of the big boats clashed. It was pleasant to walk quietly in the shadow and hear Jacques talk of love. He loved with his whole soul, but he was not loved in return; he knew he was not loved in return.

" Then Jacques, she must love another, you think?"

" No, Daniel, I think that until this evening, she has never loved anybody."

" Until this evening, Jacques; what do you mean? "

" Oh ! Everybody loves you, Daniel, and perhaps she may love you, too."

Poor dear Jacques ! With what a sad resigned air he said that! To reassure him, I began to laugh aloud, louder than I cared to do.

" The deuce, my dear fellow, how you are going on ! I must be very irresistible or Mdlle. Pierrette very inflammable. But no; cheer up, Mother Jacques. Mdlle. Pierrotte is as far from my heart as I am from hers; and you need have no fears of me, that's sure."

I spoke sincerely, as I said this. Mdlle. Pierrotte did not exist for me. The black eyes, however, were quite a different thing.

CHAPTER VII.

THE RED ROSE AND THE BLACK EYES.

After this first visit to Pierrette's house, some time elapsed without my going over there again. Jacques' continued faithful to his Sunday pilgrimages, and every time he invented a new way of tying his cravat that was full of allurement. Jacques' cravat was a poem, a poem of ardent but restrained love ; something like a mystical bouquet of the East, one of those nosegays of emblematic flowers which the Pashas offer their lady loves, and which they know how to make express every shade of passion.

If I had been a woman, Jacques' cravat, with its many, infinitely varied knots, would have touched me more than a declaration. But, must I say it? Women do not understand such things. Every Sunday, before setting out, the poor lover never failed to say: " I am going over there, Daniel; are you coming too?" And I answered invariably: " No, Jacques, I am working." Then he went off very quickly, and I was left alone, bending over my rhyming-table.

On my part, I had made a resolution, a very serious resolution, not to go to Pierrette's any more. I was afraid of the black eyes. I had

said to myself: " If you see them again, you are lost; " but though I held good in my determination not to see them again, they never left my mind, those great wonderful black eyes. I encountered them on every side, I thought of them always, working and sleeping, and on all my blank-books you might have seen large eyes drawn in ink, with tremendously long lashes. It was an obsession.

Ah! when my Mother Jacques, his eyes bright with pleasure, went skipping off to the "Passage du Saumon, with a new knot in his cravat, God knows how many mad longings I had to race downstairs after him, crying to him to wait for me. But I did not, for something within me warned me that it would be wrong for me to go over there, and I had the courage withal to stay at my table and say: " No, thank you, Jacques, I must work."

This lasted for some time. In the long run, with the help of the Muse, I should no doubt have succeeded in banishing the black eyes from my brain, but I am sorry to say I had the imprudence to see them once again. It was all over with me then ; my head and heart, and everything else were carried away. I give the circumstances.

Since his confidences beside the river, my Mother Jacques had not spoken again of his love, but I could see very well by his manner that all was not going as he wished. On Sunday, when he came back from Pierrotte's, he was always sad, and, at night, I heard him sigh and sigh. If I asked: "What is the matter, Jacques?" he answered shortly: " Nothing is the matter." But I

knew that something was wrong, if it were only by the tone in which he spoke. He, so good, so patient, now was sometimes cross with me. Sometimes he looked at me as if we had quarrelled. I suspected, as you may well believe, that there was some serious lover's sorrow at the bottom; but as Jacques persisted in not speaking of it to me, I dared not speak of it either. Nevertheless, on a certain Sunday that he came home more sombre than usual, I wanted to make a clean breast of it.

"Come, Jacques, what is it?" said I, taking his hands. *' Are n't things all right over there?"

" No, they are not all right," answered the poor boy, in a discouraged tone.

"But what is happening then? Has Pierrotte noticed anything? Does he want to prevent your loving each other? "

" Oh, no, Daniel! Pierrotte does not prevent us. The trouble is that she does not love me and will never love me."

" How foolish, Jacques! How can you know that she will never love you? Have you ever even told her that you loved her? You haven't, have you? Well, then — "

" The man she loves has not spoken; he did not need to speak to be loved."

" Do you really think, Jacques, that the flute-player— "

Jacques seemed not to hear my question.

" The man she loves has not spoken," said he iot the second time.

And I could get nothing more out of him.

We could not sleep that night in the tower of Saint-Germain.

Jacques spent most of the time at the window, looking up at the stars and sighing. I was thinking : " Suppose I should go over there to see things for myself—for, after all, Jacques may make a mistake. Mdlle. Pierrette has probably not understood all the love that is lurking in the folds of his cravat. Since Jacques does not dare tell her he loves her, I might do well to tell her for him. Yes, that's it; I will go ; I will speak with this little Philistine, and we shall see."

The next day, without informing my Mother Jacques, I put my fine project into execution, and certainly God is my witness that in going over there, I had no secret design of my own. I went for Jacques, and for Jacques alone. Nevertheless, when I saw, at the corner of the Passage du Sau-mon, Lalouette's old shop painted green, with the sign of Chi?ia and Glass in front, I felt a slight beating of the heart that might have forewarned me. I entered ; the shop was empty; at the back the man with the flute was taking his dinner: even while eating he kept his instrument beside him on the tablecloth. " It is not possible that Camille should hesitate between that walking-flute and my Mother Jacques," said I to myself as I went upstairs. "At any rate, we shall see."

I found Pierrotte at table, with his daughter and the very deserving person. Luckily for me, the black eyes were not there. When I entered, there was an exclamation of surprise. " Here he is at

last! " cried the good Pierrotte in his voice of thunder. " If I may be allowed to say so, he is going to take his coffee with us." They made room for me; the very deserving person went to get me a beautiful gold-flowered cup, and I sat down beside Mdlle. Pierrotte.

Mdlle. Pierrotte looked very attractive on that day. In her hair, just above her ear, — they don't put them there any more nowadays, — she had stuck a little red rose that was very, very red. Between ourselves, I think that little red rose was a fairy, because it made the little Philistine so much prettier. "Ah, then! Monsieur Daniel," said Pierrotte, with a hearty, affectionate laugh, " it is all over, and you won't come and see us any more." I tried to excuse myself, and spoke of my literary labors. " Oh, yes, I know all about the Latin Quarter! " said Pierrotte, and he began to laugh all the louder, looking at the very deserving person who coughed knowingly, and kicked me under the table. For these good people, the Latin Quarter meant orgies, violins, masquerades, firecrackers, broken dishes, uproarious nights and all the rest. Ah, if I had told them of my monkish life in the tower of Saint-Germain, they would have been much astounded ! But you know that when a fellow is young, he is not sorry to pass as a bad case, so, in face of Pierrotte's accusations, I merely assumed a little modest air, and defended myself but feebly. " No, no, I assure you; it is not as you think." Jacques would have laughed to see me.

As we were finishing our cofifee, we heard a few notes on the flute in the court-yard. It was a call for Pierrotte to come to the shop. Scarcely had he turned his back when the very deserving person went off, in her turn, to the kitchen for a game of cards with the cook. Between you and me, I think the lady's most deserving quality was being extremely clever at shuffling cards.

Finding myself alone with the little red rose, I thought: " Now is the time," and Jacques' name was already on my lips; but Mdlle. Pierrotte did not give me time to speak. She said suddenly, in a low voice, without looking at me: "Is it the White-Cuckoo who keeps you from coming to see your friends? " At first I thought she was joking; but no, she was not joking. She seemed even much moved, to judge from the flush on her cheek and the rapid flutterings of her chemisette. They must have spoken of the White-Cuckoo before her, and she imagined vaguely things that were not. I might have undeceived her with a word, but some foolish vanity restrained me. Then, as I did not answer, Mdlle. Pierrotte turned toward me, and lifting those long lashes that had till then been cast down, she looked at me. I He; it was not she who looked at me, but the black eyes all moist with tears and laden with tender reproaches. Ah, dear black eyes, delight of my soul!

It was but a vision. The long lashes sank almost immediately, and I had only Mdlle. Pierrotte, beside me. Quick, quick, without waiting for another apparition, I spoke of Jacques — I began

by saying how good he was, how loyal, brave, and generous. I told the story of his untiring devotion, of his love, watchful as a mother's, that might make a real mother jealous. It was Jacques who fed me, clothed me, earned my living for me, God knows at the price of what work and privations! Without him, I should still be far away, in that black prison of Sarlande, where I had suffered so much, so very much.

At this part of my speech, Mdlle. Pierrotte appeared touched, and I saw a big tear rolling down her cheek. Honestly, I thought it was for Jacques, and I said to myself: " It is all going on very well." Thereupon I redoubled my eloquence. I spoke of Jacques' melancholy and the deep mysterious love that was consuming his heart. Ah ! thrice blessed the woman who —

Here the little red rose that Mdlle. Pierrotte wore in her hair, slipped, I know not how, and fell at my feet. Just at that moment I was seeking for some delicate means of making young Camille understand that she was the thrice blessed woman with whom Jacques was in love. The little red rose falling furnished me with this means. — I told you the little red rose was a fairy. — I picked it up quickly, but took care not to return it. " It will be for Jacques, from you," said I to Mdlle. Pierrotte with my most subtle smile. " For Jacques, if you like," answered Mdlle. Pierrotte, with a sigh; but at the same instant, the black eyes appeared and looked at me tenderly, as if to say: " No, not for Jacques, for you!" And if you