The novels, romances, and memoirs of Alphonse Daudet (4 page)

He did not call me by name; he always said: " You, over there, Little What 's-His-Name ! " And yet I had told him more than twenty times that my name was Daniel Ey-sset-te, In the end my companions nicknamed me " Little What 's-His-Name," and the nickname stuck.

It was not only my blouse that distinguished me from the other children. The others had handsome portfolios of yellow leather, fragrant boxwood inkstands, copy-books bound in boards, and new books with many notes at the bottom of the pages; my books were shabby old volumes bought on the quays, worn, faded and musty; the covers were always in tatters, and sometimes there were pages missing. It is true that Jacques did his best to rebind them for me with thick cardboard and strong glue; but he invariably put on too much glue, and it smelt badly. He had also made me a portfolio with an infinite number of pockets, very convenient, but plastered with too much glue. The need of using glue and cardboard had become a mania with Jacques, like the need of crying. He kept a quantity of little glue-pots constantly before the fire, and whenever he could escape a moment from the shop, he glued and bound with cardboard. The rest of the time he carried packages about

the city, wrote under dictation, went for provisions — in short it was business.

As to me, I found out that when a boy has a scholarship, wears a blouse, and is called " Little What's-His-Name," he must work twice as hard as others in order to equal them, and upon my word. Little What's-His-Name set to work with all his might.

Brave Little What's-His-Name ! I see him, in winter, in his fireless room, seated at his work-table, his legs wrapped up in a rug. Outside, the sleet lashed the window-panes. In the shop M. Eyssette could be heard dictating: "I have received your favor of the 8th instant."

And Jacques's mournful voice repeating:

" I have received your favor of the 8th instant."

Now and then the door of the room opened softly, and Mme. Eyssette came in. She walked on tiptoe to Little What's-His-Name. Hush !

"Are you working? " said she to him very low.

" Yes, mother."

" You are not cold?"

" Oh, no ! "

Little What 's-His-Name lied; he was really very cold.

Then Mme. Eyssette would sit down beside him, with her knitting, counting the stitches in a low voice, and sighing deeply from time to time.

Poor Mme. Eyssette ! She was always thinking of her dear country that she had no hope of seeing again. Alas! to her sorrow, to the sorrow of all of us, she was soon to see it again.

CHAPTER III.

HE IS DEAD: PRAY FOR HIM !

It was a Monday in the month of July. Coming out of school on that day, I had allowed myself to be persuaded to take part in a game of prisoner's bar, and when I decided to go home, it was much later than I could have wished. From the Place des Terreaux to the Rue Lanterne I ran without stopping, my books in my belt, and my cap between my teeth. Still, as I was terribly afraid of my father, I stopped to get my breath a moment, on the staircase, just long enough to invent a story to explain my delay. Thereupon I rang courageously.

M. Eyssette himself came to open the door for me. " How late you are!" he said. I began, trembling, to bring out my story; but the dear man did not let me finish, and, drawing me to his breast, kissed me long and silently.

As I expected a sound rating, at the very least, this reception surprised me. My first idea was that we had the Cur6 of Saint Nizier at dinner, and I knew that on the days he came, we were never scolded; but, on entering the dining-room, I saw at once that I was mistaken. There were

but two places set at table, my father's and mine.

" Where are my mother and Jacques? " I asked, in amazement.

M. Eyssette answered in a gentle voice that was not customary with him:

" Your mother and Jacques have gone away, Daniel; your brother the Abbe is very ill." Then, seeing that I had turned quite pale, he added almost gayly, to reassure me:

" When I say very ill, that is a mere way of speaking; they wrote us that the Abbe was sick in bed; you know your mother, she wanted to go, and I let her take Jacques with her. After all, it will not be anything. Now, sit down and let us eat; I am dying of hunger."

I sat down to table without speaking, but my heart sank and I had all the trouble in the world to keep back my tears, thinking that my eldest brother the Abbe was very ill. We dined sadly, face to face, in silence. M. Eyssette ate quickly, and drank deep draughts; then he stopped suddenly and relapsed into thought. As to me, I sat motionless at the foot of the table, recalling the charming stories the Abb6 used to tell me when he came to the factory. I could see him gallantly tucking up his cassock to step across the pools. I remembered, too, the day of his first mass, when all the family were present, how handsome he looked as he turned toward us, with outstretched arms, saying " Dominus vobiscuni " in such a sweet voice that Mme. Eyssette cried for joy. Now I imagined

him far away, ill in bed (oh, very ill, for something told me so); and what doubled my pain in knowing this was that I heard a voice crying to me from the depths of my heart: " God is punishing you; it is all your own fault! You should have come straight in, without lying." And, full of the fearful thought that God was going to make his brother die, in order to punish him, Little What's-His-Name fell into despair, saying: " Never, no never again shall I play prisoner's bar after coming out of school."

When the meal was over, the lamp was lighted, and the evening began. M. Eyssette had laid his big ledgers on the tablecloth, in the middle of the fragments of our dessert, and began doing his accounts aloud. Finet, the cockroach cat, was mewing sadly as she prowled round the table ; and I had opened the window and stood leaning my elbows on the sill.

It was dark, and the air was heavy. I heard the people below laughing and talking in front of their doors, and the drums of Fort Loyasse beating in the distance. I had been there for a few minutes, thinking of melancholy things and looking out vaguely into the night, when a violent ring at the bell sent me abruptly away from the window. I glanced at my father in alarm, and thought I could see on his face the same quiver of agony and terror that had just passed through me. The ring at the bell had frightened him too.

" Somebody is ringing," said he to me, almost in a whisper.

"Wait, father; let me go," and I rushed toward the door.

A man was standing on the threshold; I saw him indistinctly in the gloom, holding out to me something that I hesitated to take.

" It is a telegram," said he.

"A telegram, O my God! What is it for?" I took it shuddering, and was already closing the door, but the man held it open with his foot, and said coldly:

" You must sign."

I was to sign; but I had not known it, for it was the first despatch I had ever received.

" Who is there, Daniel? " called M. Eyssette in an unsteady voice.

I answered:

"Nothing; it is only a beggar." Making a gesture to the man to wait for me, I ran to my room, and groping my way to the ink, dipped my pen in it, and then returned.

The man said:

" Sign there."

Little What's-His-Name signed with a trembling hand, by the light of the lamps on the stairs; then he shut the door and went back, keeping the despatch hidden under his blouse.

Oh, yes! I kept you well hidden under my blouse, despatch of evil tidings ! I did not want M. Eyssette to see you, for I knew beforehand that you came to announce something terrible, and when I opened you, you told me nothing new, do you hear, despatch? You told me nothing that my own heart had not already guessed.

" Was it a beggar? " said my father looking at me.

I answered, unblushingly: " It was a beggar; " and to avert his suspicions, I took up my place again at the window,

I stayed there some time longer, without stirring or speaking, pressing to my breast the paper that was burning me.

Occasionally I tried to reason with myself, and to take courage. I said to myself: " How can you tell? It may be good news. They may have sent word that he is well again." But, at the bottom, I was sure that it was not true, that I was lying to myself, and that the telegram would not say he was well again.

Finally, I decided to go to my room, so as to find out once for all what the truth was. I went out of the dining-room, slowly, so as not to attract attention; but as soon as I reached my room, with what feverish haste I lighted my lamp, and how my hand trembled as I opened that despatch of death ! I read it over twenty times, always hoping that I was mistaken, but alas! it was in vain that I read it and re-read it, turning it over, in all senses. I could not make it say anything else than what it had said at first, than what I knew very well it would say:

" He is dead: pray for him ! " I cannot tell how long I stood there, crying before that open telegram, I remember only that my eyes smarted a great deal, and that I bathed my face for a long time before leaving my room. Then I went back

to the dining-room holding that horrible telegram in my little clenched hand.

And now, what was I to do? How was I to set about announcing the awful news to my father, and what absurd childishness had induced me to keep it to myself? Must not he have known it, at any rate, either a little earlier, or a little later? What folly! At least, if I had gone straight to him when the telegram arrived, we should have opened it together; but now, there was nothing more to say.

While I was thinking, I drew near the table, and sat down close by the side of M. Eyssette. The poor man had shut his books, and was occupied in tickling Finet's white nose with the end of his pen. It made my heart ache to see him amusing himself thus. I saw his good face, half lighted by the lamp, brighten and smile from time to time, and I longed to say to him: "Oh, no! Don't smile, please don't smile."

Then, as I was looking at him thus, sadly, with the telegram in my hand, M. Eyssette raised his head. Our eyes met, and I do not know what he saw in mine, but I know that his face suddenly changed, and uttering a deep cry, he said to me in a heartbreaking voice: "He is dead, isn't he?" Then, letting the telegram slip from my fingers, I fell sobbing into his arms, and we wept long and wildly, wrapt in each other's embrace, while at our feet Finet played with the despatch, that terrible despatch of death, the cause of all our tears.

Listen to me, for I am telling the truth; these things are long passed; it is long since the dear Abbe whom I loved so much has been lying in the ground; and yet even to-day, whenever I receive a telegram, I cannot open it without a thrill of fear. It seems to me I am going to read that he is dead and that I mxxst. pmj for him.

CHAPTER IV.

THE RED COPYBOOK.

In the old missals we find artless illuminations, in which Our Lady of the Seven Sorrows is represented with a long and deep furrow on both cheeks, a divine mark placed there by the artist, as if to say: "Look how she has wept! " I swear I saw that furrow — the furrow of tears — on Mme. Eyssette's wasted face, when she came back from Lyons after her son's funeral.

From that day my poor mother would smile no more. Her gowns were always black, her face always unhappy. She went into deep mourning in her garments as well as in her heart, and she never put it off. Otherwise, nothing was changed in the Eyssette household; it was more melancholy, that is all. The cure of Saint Nizier said a few masses for the repose of the Abbe's soul; two black suits were cut for the children from an old blouse that had belonged to their father, and our sad, sad life began again.

It was some time after our dear Abbe's death, when, one evening at bedtime, I was much surprised to see Jacques double-locking the door of our room, and stopping up the cracks carefully; after that he came toward me with a great air of solemnity and mystery.

I must tell you that since Jacques's return from the South, a remarkable change had taken place in his habits. In the first place, as few will be able to believe, Jacques cried no more, or hardly any more; then, his mad love for using cardboard had all but passed away. Some little pots of glue were still occasionally placed before the fire, but there was no longer the same charm about them; now, if you needed a portfolio, you had to go down on your knees to get it. Incredible to relate, a hat-box that Mme. Eyssette had ordered from him remained for a week unfinished. My parents observed nothing, but I saw very well that something was the matter with Jacques. Several times I had come upon him in the shop, talking and gesticulating to himself. He did not sleep at night; I heard him mutter between his teeth, and then suddenly jump out of bed and go striding up and down the room. This was all unnatural and alarmed me when I thought of it. It seemed to me that Jacques was going mad.

That evening, when I saw him double-locking the door of our room, the idea of his madness rushed into my head, and for a moment I was frightened. Poor Jacques did not notice this, and gravely taking one of my hands in his, he said:

" Daniel, I am going to tell you something, but you must swear to me that you will never speak of it."

I saw at once that Jacques was not crazy, and answered, without hesitation:

" I swear, Jacques."

"Well! Don't you know? Hush! I am writing a poem, a great poem."

" A poem, Jacques ? Are yon writing a poem ? "

In answer, Jacques pulled from underneath his

jacket an enormous red copybook that he had

made himself, at the top of which he had written

in his finest hand:

RELIGION! RELIGION!

A Poem in Twelve Cantos.

By Eyssette (Jacques).

It was so splendid that I felt dizzy.

Do you understand? Jacques, my brother Jacques, a child of thirteen, Jacques of the sobs and little glue-pots, was writing Religion ! Religion ! A Poem in Twelve Cantos.

And nobody suspected it! He was still sent to the greengrocer's, with a basket on his arm, and his father shouted to him oftener than ever:

" Jacques, you are an ass! "