The novels, romances, and memoirs of Alphonse Daudet (10 page)

" Then where am I ? "

" In the infirmary for a week; now you are well again, but you have been very ill."

" But how is it that you are here, father? Really, as I look at you I seem to be still dreaming."

M. Eyssette kisses him.

" Come, let me cover you up, and be a good boy. The doctor does not want you to talk."

And, to prevent his son from talking, the good man talks incessantly himself

" Only think, a week ago, the company of wine-merchants sent me to make a circuit in the C^-vennes. You may fancy how pleased I was to have an opportunity of seeing you! I arrive at the school; they call you, and look for you — but no Daniel is to be found. I make them take me up to your room; the key is on the inside. I knock; but nobody answers. Then I kick the door open, and find you there on the floor, in a burning fever. Oh, poor child, how ill you have been! Five days of delirium! I have not left you a moment. You were always wandering in your mind, and kept talking of rebuilding the hearth. What hearth did you mean? You cried: 'No keys! Take the keys out of the locks! ' You are laughing?

The Black Eyes. %*]

I can assure you that I did not laugh. My God! what nights I went through with you ! And can you believe, M. Viot — his name is M. Viot, is n't it? — wanted to prevent my sleeping in the school. He referred to the rules. Oh, yes, the rules, indeed! Did I know anything about his rules? That pedantic fellow thought he could frighten me by jingling his keys under my nose, I put him in his proper place, I can tell you ! "

Little What 's-His-Name shuddered at M. Eys-sette's audacity; and then, quickly forgetting M. Viot's keys: "Where is my mother?" he asked, stretching out his arms, as if his mother were there, within reach of his caress.

" If you throw off the bedclothes, I shan't tell you anything," answered M. Eyssette in a grieved tone. " There, pull up the blanket again. Your mother is well; she is with your uncle Baptiste."

"And Jacques?"

"Jacques? He is an ass. When I say an ass, you understand, it is only my way of speaking. On the contrary, Jacques is a very good boy. Don't uncover yourself, confound it! He has an excellent position; he is always crying, of course, but he is really extremely contented. His employer has taken him as a secretary, and he has nothing to do except write under dictation. It is a very nice place."

" Then poor Jacques will be condemned to write under somebody's dictation all his life? "

As he says this, Little What 's-His-Name begins to laugh with all his heart, and M. Eyssette laughs

to see him laugh, scolding him all the time, because of that wretched blanket that keeps being pulled out of place.

Oh, blessed infirmary! How many happy hours Little What 's-His-Name spends inside the blue curtains of his bed! M. Eyssette never leaves him; he stays there all day, sitting at the bedside and Little What 's-His-Name would like M. Eyssette never to go away. Alas! that is impossible. The company of wine-merchants needs its commercial traveller. He must leave, and resume his circuit in the Cevennes.

After his father's departure, the boy is alone, quite alone in the silent infirmary. He spends his days in reading, curled up in a big armchair that is rolled near the window. In the morning and evening, the yellow Mme. Cassagne brings him his meals. Little What's-His-Name drinks the bowl of broth, sucks the wing of a chicken, and says: " Thank you, Madame." Nothing farther. The woman is too suggestive of the fever, and is unpleasing to him; he does not even look at her.

Now, one morning that he has just said his: " Thank you, Madame," as curtly as usual, without lifting his eyes from his book, he is much surprised to hear a very sweet voice say to him: "How are you to-day, Monsieur Daniel?"

Little What's-His-Name raises his head, and gupss what he sees! — the black eyes, the black eyes in person, motionless and smiling in front of him!

The black eyes inform their friend that the yellow woman is ill, and that they are charged to wait upon him. They look down as they say it is a joy to them to see M. Daniel well again; then they retire with a profound bow, adding that they will return the same evening. The same evening, in fact, they return, and the next morning, too, and again the next evening. Little What's-His-Name is enchanted. He blesses his own illness, the yellow woman's illness, and all the illnesses in the world ; if nobody had been ill, he could never have been alone with the black eyes.

Oh, that blessed infirmary! What delightful hours Little What's-His-Name passes in his armchair, rolled up to the window ! In the morning, under their lashes, the black eyes are filled with clusters of golden sparks glittering in the sun, and in the evening they shine softly and make a starry light in the darkness round them. Little What 's-His-Name dreams of the black eyes every night; he can no longer sleep for doing so. At dawn he is already alert, preparing to receive them; he has so many confidences to make them! Then when the black eyes come he says nothing to them.

The black eyes appear to be much astonished by this silence. They come and go in the infirmary, and find a thousand pretexts to stay with the patient, always hoping he will make up his mind to speak; but this ridiculous Little What's-His-Name cannot make up his mind.

Sometimes, however, he arms himself with all

his courage and begins bravely : " Mademoiselle ! "

Then the black eyes kindle and look at him smiling. But as he sees them smile thus, the poor fellow loses his head, and adds in a trembling voice: " I thank you for your kindness to me," or again: "The broth was excellent this morning."

Then the black eyes make a pretty little face that means: " What — is that all you have to say?" And they go off with a sigh.

After they have gone, Little What's-His-Name is in despair,

" Oh! To-morrow, to-morrow I shall speak to them without fail."

And then to-morrow the whole thing is repeated.

Finally, weary of the struggle, and sure that he will never have courage to say what he thinks to the black eyes. Little What's-His-Name decides to write to them. One evening, he asks for ink and paper for an important letter, oh, very important! The black eyes have doubtless guessed what letter he means, for they are so mischievous, those black eyes. Quick, quick, they run to get ink and paper, place them before the patient, and go off, laughing to themselves.

Little What 's-His-Name begins to write; he writes all night; then, when morning comes, he perceives that this interminable letter contains only three words, you understand; but these three words are the most eloquent in the world, and he is certain of their producing a very great effect.

Look out now! The black eyes are coming.

The Black Eyes. gj

Little What's-His-Name is much agitated, he has prepared his letter beforehand, and swears that he will present it at the first opportunity. This is the way ,t will come to pass. The black eyes will enter, and will put down the broth and chicken on the table. - Good-morning, Monsieur Daniel " Then he will say to her at once, very courageously: "Sweet black eyes, here is a letter for you.

But hush ! There is a light step in the corridor. Ihe black eyes are approaching; Little What's-His-Name holds his letter in his hand. His heart beats ; he is going to die.

The door opens — oh, horror! In the place of the black eyes, appears the old lairy, the terrible fairy in spectacles.

Little What's-His-Name dares not ask an explanation, but he is in consternation. Why did n't they come? He waits for evening, with impatience Alas! In the evening, too, the black eyes do not come, nor the next day, nor the day after that, nor ever again.

The black eyes have been dismissed. They have been sent back to the foundling asylum where they will remain shut up for four years until they come of age. The black eyes stole

Farewell, happy days of the infirmary! The black eyes have gone, and to cap the climax of misfortune, the boys are about to return. What IS It already time for the school to be reopened? Oh, how short the holidays have been!

For the first time in six weeks, Little What 's-His-Name goes down to the courtyard, pale, thin, and more of a Little What 's-His-Name than ever. The whole schoolhouse is waking up. They are washing it from garret to cellar, and the corridors are running with water. M. Viot's keys are clashing fiercely as ever, and the terrible M. Viot himself has profited by the vacation to add a few clauses to his list of regulations, and a few keys to his bunch. Little What 's-His-Name must mind his behavior.

Everyday more boys are arriving; the whips snap, and the same carriages and wagons that came on the prize day are again seen before the door. A few old boys are missing at the roll-call, but new ones take their places. The divisions are formed anew, and this year, like last. Little What's-His-Name will have charge of the intermediates. The poor under-master is trembling already, but after all, who knows? the children may not be so bad this year.

The day of the reopening, there is fine music in the chapel. It is the mass of the Holy Spirit; Vejii, creator Spiritus! Here is the principal, with his handsome black coat and the little silver palm in his button-hole. Behind him is the staff of professors in robes of ceremony; the sciences wear the yellow ermine; the classics, the white ermine. The professor of the second class, who is a dandy, has allowed himself light colored gloves and a fancy hat; M. Viot does not look pleased. Veni, creator Spiritus! At the back of the church.

pell-mell among the boys, Little What 's-His-Name gazes enviously at the majestic gowns and silver palms. When will he be a professor too, and when will he be able to rebuild the hearth? Alas, before that, how much time and labor still! Veni, creator Spiritus ! Little What's-His-Name is sad at heart; the organ makes him want to cry. Suddenly, far off, in a corner of the choir, he sees a scarred yet handsome face smiling at him. The smile does Little What's-His-Name good, and after seeing the Abbe Germane again, he is comforted and full of courage. Veniy creator Spiritus !

Two days after the mass of the Holy Spirit, there were new solemnities. It was the principal's birthday, and on that day, from time immemorial, the school has celebrated the festival of Saint Theophile by a picnic, with a large supply of cold meats and the wines of Limoux. This time, as usual, the principal spared nothing to add lustre to the little family anniversary that satisfied the generous instincts of his heart without injuring the interests of his school. At dawn, everybody, boys and masters, pile into large wagons, decorated with the municipal colors, and the procession sets out at a gallop, two large vans packed with baskets of food and cases of foaming wine, bringing up the rear. In front, on the first wagon, are the big hats of the band, and the order has been given to play very loud on the wind-instruments. The whips c-ack, the bells ring, the piles of plates clash against the tin platters. All the people of

Sarlande look out of the window in nightcaps to to see the principal's picnic pass.

The banquet is to take place at the Meadow. As soon as they reach there, the table-cloths are spread on the grass, and the children split their sides laughing, to see the professors sitting on the ground among the violets like little boys. Slices of pasty circulate, corks pop, eyes sparkle. Everybody is talking a great deal, but alone in the midst of the general animation, Little What 's-His-Name appears preoccupied. Suddenly he is seen to blush ; the principal has just risen, with a paper in his hand, " Gentlemen, I have this instant received some verses addressed to me by an anonymous poet. It seems that our ordinary Pindar, M. Viot, has a rival this year. Although these verses are rather too flattering to me, I ask permission to read them,"

" Yes, yes, read them, read them! " And in his fine prize-day voice, the principal begins to read.

It is a tolerably well-turned compliment, full of pretty rhymes, addressed to the principal and the other gentlemen. There is a posy for each; even the fairy in spectacles is not forgotten. The poet calls her " the angel of the refectory," which is charming.

There is much applause, and a few voices demand the author. Little What 's-His-Name rises, red as a poppy, and bows modestly, amid the general acclamations. Little What's-His-Name becomes the hero of the occasion; the principal wants to embrace him, and old professors press

his hand with an air of understanding. The teacher of the second class asks for the verses to put them in the newspaper. Little What's-His-Name is very happy; all this incense mounts to his brain with the fumes of the wine of Limoux. Only, and this helps to sober him, he thinks he hears the Abb6 Germane muttering the word " Idiot! " and the keys of his rival jingling ferociously.

When the first enthusiasm has abated, the principal claps his hands to enjoin silence.

"Now, Viot, it is your turn; after the playful Muse, the serious Muse."

M. Viot draws gravely from his pocket a bound copybook, big with promise, and begins to read, with a look askance at Little What's-His-Name.

M. Viot's work is an idyl, a Virgilian idyl, in honour of discipline. Two schoolboys, Menalcas and Dorilas answer each other in alternate strophes. Menalcas belongs to a school in which discipline flourishes, and Dorilas to another school from which discipline is banished. Menalcas sings the austere pleasures of severe rules: Dorilas the barren joys of wild liberty.

Dorilas is overthrown in the end, and places the prize of the contest in the hands of the victor, and both boys, joining their voices, intone a joyful song to the glory of discipline.

The poem is finished, and there is the silence of death. During the reading, the children have carried oft" their plates to the other end of the meadow, and are eating the pasty quietly, very

far away from Menalcas and Dorilas. M. Viot looks at them from where he is, with a bitter smile. The professors have held firm, but not one of them has the courage to applaud. Poor M. Viot! It is a real defeat. The principal tries to console him: " The subject is dry, gentlemen, but the poet has treated it successfully."