The novels, romances, and memoirs of Alphonse Daudet (21 page)

could have seen how well they said it, with what fiery candor, with what modest and irresistible passion ! I still hesitated, however, and they were obliged to repeat two or three times over: "Yes, for you, for you." Then I kissed the little red rose and put it in my bosom.

When Jacques came home that evening, he found me bending over my rhyming-table as usual, and I allowed him to think I had not been out all day. As ill-luck would have it, when I undressed, the little red rose I had kept in my bosom dropped on the ground at the foot of the bed: all fairies are malicious. Jacques saw it, took it up, and looked at it a long time. I know not which was redder, the red rose or I.

" I know this," he said; " it is a rose from the bush over there, that stands by the drawing-room window."

Then he added, returning it to me:

" She has never given me one."

He spoke so sadly that the tears came to my eyes.

" Jacques, dear Jacques, I swear that till tonight—"

He interrupted me gently: "Don't excuse yourself, Daniel. I am sure you have done nothing to betray me. I knew it, I knew all along it was you she loved. Remember how I said to you : ' The man she loves has not spoken; he has not needed to speak to be loved.'" Thereupon, the poor fellow began to stride up and down the room. I looked at him, motionless, my red rose in my

hand. " What has happened was bound to come," he resumed, after a moment's pause. " I have foreseen all this a long time. I knew that if she saw you, she would never care about me. That is why I delayed taking you over there for so long. I was jealous of you in advance. Forgive me, for I loved her so much ! At last one day, I resolved to put it to the trial, and I let you go with me. On that day, dear boy, I knew it was all over; at the end of five minutes, she looked at you as she had never looked at anybody before. You noticed it yourself. Oh ! Don't say no, for you did notice it. The proof is that you let more than a month pass without going back there, but, good Heavens ! that did me no good. For such souls as hers, the absent are never in the wrong; on the contrary, every time I went there, she did nothing but talk to me of you, and so artlessly, with so much confidence and love. It was genuine torture to me. Now, it is all over, and I like it better so."

Jacques spoke thus for a long time, with the same gentleness, and the same resigned smile. All he said gave me both pain and pleasure; pain, because I knew he was unhappy, and pleasure, because through all his words, I could see the black eyes shining upon me, all full of me. When he had done, I went up to him, rather shamefaced, but still holding the little red rose :

"Jacques, shan't you love me any more now?" He smiled, and, pressing me to his heart, said: " How silly you are ! I shall love you all the more."

This was true. The story of the red rose changed none of my Mother Jacques's tenderness for me, not even his temper. I believe he suffered a great deal, but he never let me see it. He never sighed nor complained. As in the past, he continued to go over there on Sunday, and to meet everything bravely. He omitted nothing except the manifold ways of tying his cravat. Moreover, he was always calm and noble, worked himself to death, and walked courageously through life, his eyes fixed on a single aim, that of rebuilding the hearth.

O Jacques ! My Mother Jacques !

As to me, from the day when I could love the black eyes freely, without remorse, I threw myself madly into my passion. I never left the Pierrotte household. I had won all hearts there — at the price of what meannesses, good God ! Of bringing sugar to M. Lalouette, of playing cards with the very deserving person— I stopped at nothing. My name in that house was Desire-of-pleasing. Generally, Desire-of-pleasing went there toward the middle of the day. At that hour Pierrotte was in the shop, and Mdlle. Camille alone up-stairs, in the drawing-room, with the very deserving person. As soon as I arrived, the black eyes appeared at once, and the very deserving person left us to ourselves. This noble lady whom Pierrotte had engaged as companion to his daughter, thought herself absolved from her duties when she saw me there. It was quick, quick to the kitchen with the cook and out with the cards. I did not

complain; just think of it! I was all alone with the black eyes.

O God ! what happy hours I passed in that little yellow drawing-room! Almost always I carried with me a book, one of my favorite poets, and read passages from it to the black eyes, which filled with sweet tears or flashed lightnings, according to the selections. During this time, Mdlle. Pierrotte sat near us, embroidering slippers for her father or playing her eternal Reveries of Rose/leji; but we left her quite to herself, I assure you. Sometimes, however, at the most pathetic part of the reading, the little bourgeoise made some ridiculous reflection aloud, as: "I must send for the tuner," or again, " I have put two stitches too many in my slipper." Then I would close my book in vexation, not wishing to read any farther; but the black eyes had a certain way of looking at me that appeased me at once, and I continued.

It was, doubtless, very imprudent to leave us thus always alone in the yellow drawing-room. You must remember that both of us together, the black eyes and Desire-of-pleasing, did not make up the sum of thirty-four years. Fortunately, Mdlle. Pierrotte never left us, and she was a very wise, prudent, and watchful guardian, just the one needed to mount guard over gunpowder. One day, I recollect, we were seated, the black eyes and I, on a sofa in the drawing-room, on a mild May afternoon. The window was half-open, the long curtains drawn, and falling to the ground. We were reading Faust that day. When we had

finished, the book slipped from my hands; we stayed a moment, one close against the other, without speaking, in the silence and dim light. Her head was leaning on my shoulder; through her partly opened chemisette, I could see some little silver medals glittering below her tucker. All at once, Mdlle. Pierrotte appeared before us. You should have seen how quickly she sent me to the other side of the sofa, and what a sermon ! " What you are doing is very wrong, my dear children," said she to us. " You abuse the confidence shown you. You must tell her father of your intentions. Come, Daniel, when shall you speak?" I promised to speak to Pierrotte very shortly, as soon as I should finish my great poem. This promise pacified our guardian; but, all the same, from that day, the black eyes were forbidden to sit on the sofa by the side of Desire-of-pleasing.

Ah, Mdlle. Pierrotte was a very rigid young person ! Only fancy that at first she would not allow the black eyes to write to me; in the end, however, she consented, on the express condition that all the letters should be shown to her. Unhappily, Mdlle. Pierrotte was not content with reading over those adorable, passionate letters the black eyes wrote me; she often inserted some phrases on her own account, like this, for example:

" I am very sad this morning. I found a spider in my wardrobe. A spider in the morning, take warning."

Or again:

" One can't go to housekeeping with chairs that have no cushions."

Then the eternal refrain:

"You must tell your intentions to her father."

To which I answered invariably:

" When I have finished my poem."

CHAPTER VIII.

A READING AT THE PASSAGE DU SAUMON.

At last I finished my famous poem. I brought it to an end after four months' work, and I remember that when I came to the last verses, I could not write any more, as my hands were trembling so much with agitation, pride, pleasure, and impatience.

It was a great event in the tower of Saint-Germain. On this occasion, Jacques became for the time the Jacques of old — Jacques of the cardboard and little glue-pots. He bound for me a magnificent book in which he wished to recopy my poem with his own hand; and at every verse, there were cries of admiration and transports of enthusiasm. But I had less confidence in my work; Jacques was too fond of me, and I mistrusted him. I should have liked to have my poem read by some impartial and trustworthy person. The trouble was that I knew nobody.

Nevertheless, at the creamery, opportunities had not been wanting for me to make acquaintances.

Since we had been better off, I had eaten at the table-d'hote in the back room. There were some twenty young men there, writers, painters, architects, or, rather, the seed from which these were to grow. To-day the seed has borne fruit; some of these young men have become famous, and when I see their names in the newspapers, it breaks my heart, for I myself am nobody. At my appearance at their table, all these young fellows received me with open arms; but as I was too shy to take part in their discussions, they soon forgot me, and I was as much alone in the midst of all of them as at my little table in the public room. I listened, but I did not talk.

Once a week, we had at dinner with us a very famous poet whose name I can no longer recollect, but whom the young men called Baghavat, after the title of one of his poems. On those days we drank Bordeaux at eighteen sous a bottle; and at dessert, the great Baghavat recited an Indian poem. Indian poems were his specialty. He had one entitled Lakcamana, another DaqaratJia, another Kalatqala, another Bhagiratha, and then Cudra, Cunocepa, Vigvamitra, etc.; but the finest of all was Baghavat. Ah, when the poet recited Baghavat, it brought down the house in the back room ! They shouted, stamped, and got up on tables. I had at my right a little architect with a red nose, who sobbed at the very first verse, and kept wiping his eyes all the time with my napkin.

I, too, carried away by the general enthusiasm, shouted louder than the others; but, at the bot-

torn, I was not crazy about Baghavat. In fact these Indian poems were all alike. There was always a lotus-flower, a condor, an elephant and a buffalo; sometimes, for a change, the lotus was called lotos; but, apart from these variations, all these rhapsodies were one as poor as the other; they had neither passion, truth nor imagination. Rhymes upon rhymes, and mystification. That is what I really thought of the great Baghavat: I might perhaps have judged it less severely if they had asked me for some verses in my turn; but they never asked for them, and that made me pitiless. Besides, I was not the only one of this opinion on Hindoo poetry. There was my neighbor on the left who liked it no more than I. My neighbor on the left was a singular person: oily, threadbare and shiny, with a great high forehead and a long beard on which some bits of vermicelli were always straying. He was the oldest at the table and also by far the most intelligent. Like all great spirits, he spoke little, and was not lavish of him-. self. Every one respected him. They said of him : " He is very clever; he is a thinker." From seeing the ironical grimace that twisted his mouth when he listened to the verses of the great Baghavat, I had conceived the highest opinion of my left-hand neighbor. I thought: "There is a man of taste; suppose I should recite my poem to him! "

One evening, as we were getting up from table, I ordered a bottle of brandy and invited the thinker to take a glass with me. He accepted,— I knew his weakness. As we drank, I led the conversation to the great Baghavat, and began by

saying a great deal against the lotus, condors, elephants and buffaloes. It was audacious of me, for elephants are very vindictive. While I was speaking, the thinker poured out the brandy for himself, in silence. From time to time he smiled, and nodded his head approvingly, with an " Ah! Ah! " Emboldened by this first success, I confessed that I, too, had composed a great poem and desired to submit it to him. " Ah! Ah! " murmured the thinker again, without blinking. Seeing my man so well disposed, I said to myself: " Now's the time! " and I drew my poem from my pocket. The thinker, quite unconcerned, poured out a fifth glass, and serenely watched me unroll my manuscript; but at the supreme moment, he laid his hand, evidently that of an old drunkard, on my sleeve. " One word, before we begin, young man," said he. " What is your standard? "

I looked at him anxiously.

" Your standard.-'" said the terrible thinker, raising his voice.

Alas! My standard? I had none, I had never thought of having one; and, moreover, this was easy to make out from my astonishment, flushed face and confusion.

The thinker rose indignantly. " What, you wretched young man, you have no standard ! It is useless then to read me your poem; I know its worth beforehand." Thereupon, he poured out, one after another, the two or three glasses still remaining in the bottom of the bottle, took his hat, and went off, rolling his eyes furiously.

That evening, when I related my adventure to

dear Jacques, he became very angry. " Your thinker is a fool," said he. " What good is it to have a standard? Have the Bengalese one? A standard ! What sort of a thing is it? Has anybody ever seen one? Standard-monger, get out! " Good Jacques, he had tears in his eyes for the insult my masterpiece and I had just received. " Listen to me, Daniel," he resumed, after a minute, " I have an idea. Since you want to read your poem, suppose you should read it at Pier-rotte's house, on a Sunday? "

" At Pierrotte's? Oh, Jacques."

" Why not? Of course, Pierrotte is not a genius, but neither is he an idiot. He has very good, plain, common sense. Camille, too, would be an excellent judge, although a little partial. The very deserving person has read a great deal. The old bird Lalouette himself is not so limited as he seems to be. Besides, Pierrotte knows some very distinguished people in Paris who could be invited for that evening. What do you say? Shall I speak to him about it?"

I did not smile upon the idea of looking for judges in the Passage du Saumon; still I had so great a longing to read my verses, that after sulking for a bit, I accepted Jacques' proposal. The very next day, he spoke to Pierrotte. It is exceedingly doubtful whether the good Pierrotte exactly understood what was in question, but as he saw it was an opportunity for him to do a kindness to the children of Mademoiselle, he said " yes," without hesitation, and the invitations were immediately issued.

The little yellow drawing-room had never known such festivities before. Pierrotte, to do me honor, had invited all the best people in the china world. On the evening of the reading, there were, in addition to the usual company, M. and Mme, Passajon, with their son the veterinary, one of the most brilliant students at the School of Alfort; Fer-rouillat, junior, a freemason and fine speaker, who had just had unparalleled success at the Great Orient lodge ; also the Fougeroux, with their six girls in rows like organ pipes; and finally, Fer-rouillat senior, a member of the music-hall, the man of the occasion. When I found myself face to face with this important tribunal, you may fancy how agitated I was. As all these good people had been told they were there to decide upon the merits of a poetical work, they thought it their duty to assume expressions suitable to the occasion, cold, lifeless and unsmiling. They whispered gravely to one another, shaking their heads like magistrates. Pierrotte, who made no such mystery of it, looked at them in surprise. When all had arrived, they were assigned places. I was seated, with my back to the piano; and the audience in a half circle about me, with the exception of old Lalouette, who nibbled his sugar in his habitual seat. After a moment's bustle, there was silence, and I began my poem in a voice of emotion.