Books: Conscience, v1
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Hector Malot >> Conscience, v1
What would he say, what would he do, when the time for action came?
He reached his house without having decided anything, and as he passed
before the concierge's lodge absorbed in thought, he heard some one call
him.
"Doctor, come in a moment, I beg of you."
He thought some one wished to consult him, some countryman who had waited
for his return; and, although he did not feel like listening patiently to
idle complainings, he turned back and entered the lodge.
"Some one brought this," the concierge said, handing him a paper that was
stamped and covered with a running handwriting. "This" was the beginning
of the fire of which Caffie had spoken. Without reading it, Saniel put
it in his pocket and turned to go; but the concierge detained him.
"I would like to say two words to 'monchieur le docteur' about this
paper."
"Have you read it?"
"No, but I talked with the officer who gave it to me, and he told me what
it meant. It is unfortunate, doctor."
To be pitied by his concierge! This was too much.
"It is not as he told you," he replied, haughtily.
"So much the better. I am glad for you and for me. You can pay my
little bill."
"Give it to me."
"I have given it to you twice already, but I have a copy. Here it is."
To be sued by a creditor paralyzed Saniel; he was stunned, crushed,
humiliated, and could only answer stupidly. Taking the bill that the
concierge handed him, he put it in his pocket and stammered a few words.
"You see, doctor, I must say what has been in my heart a long time. You
are my countryman, and I esteem you too much not to speak. In taking
your apartment and engaging your upholsterer, you did too much. You ruin
yourself. Give up your apartment, and take the one opposite that costs
less than half, and you will get on. You will not be obliged to leave
this quarter. What will become of our neighbors if you leave us? You
are a good doctor; everybody knows it and says so. And now, as for my
bill, it is understood that I shall be paid first, shall I not?"
"As soon as I have the money I will pay you."
"It is a promise?"
"I promise you."
"Thank you very much."
"If it could be to-morrow, it would suit me. I am not rich, you know, but
I have always paid the gas-bill for your experiments."
With the paper in his pocket, Saniel returned to Caffie, who was just
going out, and to whom he gave it.
"I will see about it this, evening," said the man of business. "Just now
I am going to dinner. Do not worry. To-morrow I will do what is
necessary. Good-evening. I am dying of hunger."
But three days before, Saniel emptied his purse to soothe his upholsterer
by an instalment as large as he was able to make it, keeping only five
francs for himself, and with the few sous left he could not go to a
resttaurant, not even the lowest and cheapest. He could only buy some
bread for his supper, and eat it while working, as he had often done
before.
But when he returned to his rooms he was not in a state of mind to write
an article that must be delivered that evening. Among other things that
he had undertaken was one, and not the least fastidious, which consisted
in giving, by correspondence, advice to the subscribers of a fashion
magazine, or, more exactly speaking, to recommend, in the form of medical
advice, all the cosmetics, depilatories, elixirs, dyes, essences, oils,
creams, soaps, pomades, toothpowders, rouges, and also all the chemists'
specialties, to which their inventors wished to give an authority that
the public, which believes itself acute, refused to the simple
advertisement on the last page. With his ambition and the career before
him, he would never have consented to carry on this correspondence under
his own name. He did it for a neighboring doctor, a simple man, who was
not so cautious, and who signed his name to these letters, glad to get
clients from any quarter. For his trouble, Saniel took this doctor's
place during Sunday in summer, and from time to time received a box of
perfumery or quack medicines, which he sold at a low price when occasion
offered.
Every week he received the list of cosmetics and specialties that he must
make use of in his correspondence, no matter how he recommended them,
whether in answer to letters that were really addressed to him, or by
inventing questions that gave him the opportunity to introduce them.
He began to consult this list and the pile of letters from subscribers
that the magazine had sent him, when the doorbell rang. Perhaps it was a
patient, the good patient whom he had expected for four years. He left
his desk to open the door.
It was his coal man, who came with his bill.
"I will stop some day when I am near you," Saniel said. "I am in a hurry
this evening."
"And I am in a hurry, too; I must pay a large bill tomorrow, and I count
upon having some money from you."
"I have no money here."
After a long talk he got rid of the man and returned to his desk. He had
answered but a few of the many letters when his bell rang again. This
time he would not open the door; it was a creditor, without doubt. And
he continued his correspondence.
But for four years he had waited for chance to draw him a good ticket in
the lottery of life--a rich patient afflicted with a cyst or a tumor that
he would take to a fashionable surgeon, who would divide with him the ten
or fifteen thousand francs that he would receive for the operation. In
that case he would be saved.
He ran to the door. The patient with the cyst presented himself in the
form of a small bearded man with a red face, wearing over his vest the
wine-merchant's apron of coarse black cloth. In fact, it was the wine
merchant from the corner, who, having heard of the officer's visit, came
to ask for the payment of his bill for furnishing wine for three months.
A scene similar to that which he had had with the coal merchant, but more
violent, took place, and it was only by threatening to put him out of the
door that Saniel got rid of the man, who went away declaring that he
would come the next morning with an officer.
Saniel returned to his work.
His pen flew over the paper, when a noise made him raise his head.
Either he had not closed the door tightly, or his servant was entering
with his key. What did he want? He did not employ him all day, but only
during his office hours, to put his rooms in order and to open the door
for his clients.
As Saniel rose to go and see who it was, there was a knock at the door.
It was his servant, with a blank and embarrassed air.
"What is the matter, Joseph?"
"I thought I should find you, sir, so I came."
"Why?"
Joseph hesitated; then, taking courage, he said volubly, while lowering
his eyes:
"I came to ask, sir, if you will pay me my month, which expired on the
fifteenth, because there is need of money at my house; if there was not
need of money I would not have come. If you wish, sir, I will release
you--"
"How?"
"I will take the coat that you made me order a month ago; I am quite sure
it is not worth what is due me, but it is always so."
"Take the coat."
Joseph took the coat from the wardrobe in the hall, and rolled it in a
newspaper.
"Of course you will not expect me in the morning," he said, as he put his
key on the table. "I must look out for another place."
"Very well, I shall not expect you."
"Good-evening, sir."
And Joseph hurried away as quickly as possible.
Left alone, Saniel did not return to his work immediately, but throwing
himself in an armchair he cast a melancholy glance around his office and
through the open door into the parlor. In the faint light of the candle
he saw the large armchairs methodically placed each side of the chimney,
the curtains at the windows lost in shadow, and all the furniture which
for four years had cost him so many efforts. He had long been the
prisoner of this Louis XIV camlet, and he was now going to be executed.
A beautiful affair, truly, brilliant and able! All this had been used
only by the poor Auvergnats, without Saniel enjoying it at all, for he
had neither the bourgeois taste for ornaments nor the desire for
elegance. A movement of anger and revolt against himself made him strike
his desk with his fist. What a fool he had been!
The bell rang again. This time, not expecting a rich patient, he would
not open it. After a moment a slight tap was heard on the panel. He
rose quickly and ran to open the door.
A woman threw herself into his arms.
"O my dearest! I am so glad to find you at home!"
CHAPTER VI
A SWEET CONSOLER
She passed her arm about him and pressed him to her, and with arms
entwined they entered the study.
"How glad I am!" she said. "What a good idea I had!"
With a quick movement she took off her long gray cloak that enveloped her
from head to foot.
"And are you glad?" she asked, as she stood looking at him.
"Can you ask that?"
"Only to hear you say that you are."
"Are you not my only joy, the sweet lamp that gives me light in the
cavern where I work day and night?"
"Dear Victor!"
She was a tall, slender young woman with chestnut hair, whose thick curls
clustering about her forehead almost touched her eyebrows. Her beautiful
eyes were dark, her nose short, while her superb teeth and rich, ruby-
colored lips gave her the effect of a pretty doll; and she had gayety,
playful vivacity, gracious effrontery, and a passionate caressing glance.
Dressed extravagantly, like the Parisian woman who has not a sou, but who
adorns everything she wears, she had an ease, a freedom, a natural
elegance that was charming. With this she had the voice of a child, a
joyous laugh, and an expression of sensibility on her fresh face.
"I have come to dine with you," she said, gayly, "and I am so hungry."
He made a gesture that was not lost upon her.
"Do I disturb you?" she asked, uneasily.
"Not at all."
"Must you go out?"
"No."
"Then why did you make a gesture that showed indifference, or, at least,
embarrassment?"
"You are mistaken, my little Phillis."
"With any one else I might be mistaken, but with you it is impossible.
You know that between us words are not necessary; that I read in your
eyes what you would say, in your face what you think and feel. Is it not
always so when one loves--as I love you?"
He took her in his arms and kissed her long and tenderly. Then going to
a chair on which he had thrown his coat, he drew from the pocket the
bread that he had bought.
"This is my dinner," he said, showing the bread.
"Oh! I must scold you. Work is making you lose your head. Can you not
take time to eat?"
He smiled sadly.
"It is not time that I want."
He fumbled in his pocket and brought out three big sous.
"I cannot dine at a restaurant with six sous."
She threw herself in his arms.
"O dearest, forgive me!" she cried. "Poor, dear martyr! Dear, great
man! It is I who accuse you, when I ought to embrace your knees. And
you do not scold me; a sad smile is your only reply. And it is really so
bad as that! Nothing to eat!"
"Bread is very good eating. If I might be assured that I shall always
have some!"
"Well, to-day you shall have something more and better. This morning,
seeing the storm, an idea came to me associated with you. It is quite
natural, since you are always in my heart and in my thoughts. I told
mamma that if the storm continued I would dine at the pension. You can
imagine with what joy I listened to the wind all day, and watched the
rain and leaves falling, arid the dead branches waving in the whirlwind.
Thank God, the weather was bad enough for mamma to believe me safe at the
pension; and here I am. But we must not fast. I shall go and buy
something to eat, and we will play at making dinner by the fire, which
will be far more amusing than going to a restaurant."
She put on her cloak quickly.
"Set the table while I make my purchases."
"I have my article to finish that will be sent for at eight o'clock.
Just think, I have three tonics to recommend, four preparations of iron,
a dye, two capillary lotions, an opiate, and I don't know how many soaps
and powders. What a business!"
"Very well, then, do not trouble yourself about the table; we will set it
together when you have finished, and that will be much more amusing."
"You take everything in good part."
"Is it better to look on the dark side? I shall soon return."
She went to the door.
"Do not be extravagant," he said.
"There is no danger," she replied, striking her pocket.
Then, returning to him, she embraced him passionately.
"Work!"
And she ran out.
They had loved each other for two years. At the time they met, Saniel
was giving a course of lectures on anatomy at a young ladies' school just
outside of Paris, and every time he went out there he saw a young woman
whom he could not help noticing. She came and went on the same trains
that he did, and gave lessons in a rival school. As she frequently
carried under her arm a large cartoon, and sometimes a plaster cast, he
concluded that she gave lessons in drawing. At first he paid no
attention to her. What was she to him? He had more important things in
his head than women. But little by little, and because she was reserved
and discreet, he was struck by the vivacity and gayety of her expression.
He really enjoyed looking at this pretty and pleasing young woman.
However, his looks said nothing; if their eyes smiled when they met, that
was all; they did not make each other's acquaintance. When they left the
train they did not notice each other; if he took the left side of the
street, she took the other, and vice versa. This state of things lasted
several months without a word having been exchanged between them; in due
time they learned each other's names and professions. She was a
professor of drawing, as he supposed, the daughter of an artist who had
been dead several years, and was called Mademoiselle Phillis Cormier.
He was a physician for whom a brilliant future was prophesied, a man of
power, who would some day be famous; and, very naturally, their attitude
remained the same. There was no particular reason why it should change.
But accident made a reason. One summer day, at the hour when they
ordinarily took the train back to Paris, the sky suddenly became
overcast, and it was evident that a violent storm was approaching.
Saniel saw Phillis hurrying to the station without an umbrella, and, as
some friend had lent him one, he decided to speak to her for the first
time.
"It seems as if the storm would overtake us before we reach the station.
As you have no umbrella, will you permit me to walk beside you, and to
shelter you with mine?"
She replied with a smile, and they walked side by side until the rain
began to fall, when she drew nearer to him, and they entered the station
talking gayly.
"Your umbrella is better than Virginia's skirt," she said.
"And what is Virginia's skirt?"
"Have you not read Paul and Virginia?"
"No."
She looked at him with a mocking smile, wondering what superior men read.
Not only had he not read Bernardin de Saint-Pierre's romance, nor any
others, but he had never been in love. He knew nothing of the affairs of
the heart nor of the imagination. Leisure must be had for light reading,
and even more for love, for they require a liberty of mind and an
independence of life that he had not. Where could he find time to read
novels? When and how could he pay attention to a woman? Those that he
had known since his arrival in Paris had not had the slightest influence
over him, and he retained only faint memories of them. On the contrary,
thinking of this walk in the rain, he remembered this young girl with a
vividness entirely new to him. She made a strong impression on him, and
it remained. He saw her again, with her smile that showed her brilliant
teeth, he heard the music of her voice, and the bare plain that he had
walked so many times now seemed the most beautiful country in the world
to him. Evidently there was a change in him; something was awakened in
his soul; for the first time he discovered that the hollow and muscular
conoid organ called the heart had a use besides for the circulation of
blood.
What a surprise and what a disappointment! Was he going to be simpleton
enough to love this young girl and entangle his life, already so hard and
heavily weighted, with a woman? A fine thing, truly, and nature had
built him to play the lover! It is true that only those who wish it fall
in love, and he knew the power of will by experience.
But he soon lost confidence in himself. Away from Phillis he could do as
he wished, but with her it was as she wished. With one look she mastered
him. He met her, furious at the influence she exercised over him, and
against which he had struggled since their last meeting; he left her,
ravished at feeling how profoundly he loved her.
To a man whose life had been ruled by reason and logic until this moment,
these contradictions were exasperating; and he only excused himself for
submitting to them by saying that they could in no way modify the line of
conduct that he had traced out for himself, nor make him deviate from the
road that he followed.
Rich, or even with a small fortune, he might--when he was with her and in
her power--let himself be carried away; but when he was dying of hunger
he was not going to commit the folly of taking a wife. What would he
have to give her? Misery, nothing but misery; and shame, in default of
any other reason, would forever prevent him from offering himself to her.
She was the daughter of an artist who, after years of struggle, died at
the moment when fortune was beginning to smile upon him. Ten years more
of work, and he would have left his family, if not rich, at least in
comfortable circumstances. In reality, he left nothing but ruin. The
hotel he built was sold, and, after the debts were paid, nothing remained
but some furniture. His widow, son, and daughter must work. The widow,
having no trade, took in sewing; the son left college to become the clerk
of a money-lender named Caffie; the daughter, who, happily for her, had
learned to draw and paint under her father's direction, obtained pupils,
and designed menacs for the stationers, and painted silk fans and boxes.
They lived with great economy, submitting to many privations. The
brother, weary of his monotonous existence and of the exactions of his
master, left them to try his fortunes in America.
If Saniel ever married, which he doubted, certainly he would not marry a
woman situated as Phillis was.
This reflection was reassuring, and he was more devoted to her. Why
should he not enjoy the delicious pleasure of seeing her and listening to
her? His life was neither gay nor happy; he felt perfectly sure of
himself, and, as he knew her now, he was also sure of her--a brave and
honest girl. Otherwise, how had she divined that he loved her?
They continued to see each other with a pleasure that seemed equal on
both sides, meeting in the station, arranging to take the same trains,
and talking freely and gayly.
Things went on this way until the approach of vacation, when they decided
to take a walk after their last lesson, instead of returning immediately
to Paris.
When the day came the sun was very hot; they had walked some distance,
when Phillis expressed a wish to rest for a few minutes. They seated
themselves in a shady copse, and soon found themselves in each other's
arms.
Since then Saniel had never spoken of marriage, and neither had Phillis.
They loved each other.
CHAPTER VII
A LITTLE DINNER FOR TWO
Saniel was still at work when Phillis returned.
"You have not yet finished, dear?"
"Give me time to cure, by correspondence, a malady that has not yielded
to the care of ten physicians, and I am yours."
In three lines he finished the letter, and left his desk.
"I am ready. What shall I do?"
"Help me to take things out of my pockets."
"Don't press too hard," she said as he took each parcel.
At last the pockets were empty.
"Where shall we dine?" she asked.
"Here, as the dining-room is transformed into a laboratory."
"Then let us begin by making a good fire. I wet my feet coming from the
station."
"I do not know whether there is any wood."
"Let us see."
She took the candle and they passed into the kitchen, which, like the
dining-room, was a laboratory, a stable where Saniel kept in cages pigs
from India and rabbits for his experiments, and where Joseph heaped pell-
mell the things that were in his way, without paying any attention to the
stove in which there never had been a fire. But their search was vain;
there was everything in this kitchen except fire-wood.
"Do you value these boxes?" she asked, caressing a little pig that she
had taken in her arms.
"Not at all; they enclosed the perfumes and tonics, but they are useless
now."
They returned to the office, Saniel carrying the boxes.
"We will set the table here," she said, gayly, for Saniel told her that
the dining-room was uninviting, as it was a small bacteriological
laboratory.
The table was set by Phillis, who went and came, walking about with a
gracefulness that Saniel admired.
"You are doing nothing," she said.
"I am watching you and thinking."
"And the result of these thoughts?"
"It is that you have a fund of good-humor and gayety, an exuberance of
life, that would enliven a man condemned to death."
"And what would have become of us, I should like to know, if I had been
melancholy and discouraged when we lost my poor papa? He was joy itself,
singing all day long, laughing and joking. He brought me up, and I am
like him. Mamma, as you know, is melancholy and nervous, looking on the
dark side, and Florentin is like her. I obtained a place for Florentin,
I found work for mamma and for myself. We all took courage, and
gradually we became calm."
She looked at him with a smile that said:
"Will you let me do for you what I have done for others?"
But she did not speak these words. On the contrary, she immediately
endeavored to destroy the impression which she believed her words had
made upon him.
"Go and bring some water," she said, "and I will light the fire."
When he returned, carrying a carafe, the fire blazed brightly, lighting
the whole room. Phillis was seated at the desk, writing.
"What are you doing?" he asked in surprise.
"I am writing our menu, for you know we are not going to sit down at the
table like the bourgeois. How do you like it?"
She read it to him.
"Sardines de Nantes."
"Cuisse de dinde rotie."
"Terrine de pate de foie gras aux truffes du Perigord."
"But this is a feast."
"Did you think that I would offer you a fricandeau au jus?"
She continued:
"Fromage de Brie."
"Choux a la creme vanillge."
"Pomme de Normandie."
"Wine."
"Ah! Voila! What wine? I do not wish to deceive you. Let us put,
'Wine from the wine-seller at the corner.' And now we will sit down."
As he was about to seat himself, she said:
"You do not give me your arm to conduct me to the table. If we do not do
things seriously and methodically we shall not believe in them, and
perhaps the Perigord truffles will change into little black pieces of
anything else."
When they were seated opposite to each other, she continued, jesting:
"My dear doctor, did you go to the representation of Don Juan, on
Monday?"
And Saniel, who, in spite of all, had kept a sober face, now laughed
loudly.
"Charming!" she cried, clapping her hands. "No more preoccupation; no
more cares. Look into my eyes, dear Victor, and think only of the
present hour, of the joy of being together, of our love."
She reached her hand over the table, and he pressed it in his.
"Very well." The dinner continued gayly, Saniel replying to Phillis's
smiles, who would not permit the conversation to languish. She helped
him to each dish, poured out his wine, leaving her chair occasionally to
put a piece of wood on the fire, and such shoutings and laughter had
never been heard before in that office.
However, she noticed that, little by little, Saniel's face, that relaxed
one moment, was the next clouded by the preoccupation and bitterness that
she had tried hard to chase away. She would make a new effort.
"Does not this charming little dinner give you the wish to repeat it?"
"How? Where?"
"As I am able to come this evening without making mamma uneasy, I shall
find some excuse to come again next week."
He shook his head.
"Have you engagements for the whole of next week?" she asked with
uneasiness.
"Where shall I be next week, to-morrow, in a few days?"
"You alarm me. Explain, I beg of you. O Victor, have pity! Do not
leave me in suspense."
"You are right; I ought to tell you everything, and not let your tender
heart torment itself, trying to explain my preoccupation."
"If you have cares, do you not esteem me enough to let me share them with
you? You know that I love you; you only, to-day, to-morrow, forever!"
Saniel had not left her ignorant of the difficulties of his position, but
he had not entered into details, preferring to speak of his hopes rather
than of his present misery.