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Rene Bazin >> The Ink Stain, v1
I do not think my feelings overpass these bounds. Yet I am not quite
sure. I watch for her with a keenness and determination which surprise
me, and the disappointment which follows a fruitless search is a shade
too lively to accord with cool reason.
After all, perhaps my reason is not cool.
Let me see, I will make up the account of my ventures.
One January afternoon I walked up and down the Rue de l'Universite eight
times in succession, from No. 1 to No. 107, and from No. 107 to No. 1.
Jeanne did not come out in spite of the brilliancy of the clear winter
day.
On the nineteenth of the same month I went to see Andromache, although
the classic writers, whom I swear by, are not the writers I most care to
hear. I renewed this attempt on the twenty-seventh. Neither on the
first nor on the second occasion did I see Mademoiselle Charnot.
And yet if the Institute does not escort its daughters in shoals to
applaud Andromache, where on earth does it take them?
Perhaps nowhere.
Every time I cross the Tuileries Garden I run my eyes over the groups
scattered among the chestnut-trees. I see children playing and falling
about; nursemaids who leave them crying; mothers who pick them up again;
a vagrant guardsman. No Jeanne.
To wind up, yesterday I spent five hours at the Bon Marche.
The spring show was on, one of the great occasions of the year; and I
presumed, not without an apparent foundation of reason, that no young or
pretty Parisian could fail to be there. When I arrived, about one
o'clock, the crowd already filled the vast bazaar. It was not easy to
stand against certain currents that set toward the departments
consecrated to spring novelties. Adrift like a floating spar I was swept
away and driven ashore amid the baby-linen. There it flung me high and
dry among the shop-girls, who laughed at the spectacle of an
undergraduate shipwrecked among the necessaries of babyhood. I felt shy,
and attaching myself to the fortunes of an Englishwoman, who worked her
elbows with the vigor of her nation, I was borne around nearly twenty
counters. At last, wearied, mazed, dusty as with a long summer walk,
I took refuge in the reading-room.
Poor simpleton! I said to myself, you are too early; you might have
known that. She can not come with her father before the National Library
closes. Even supposing they take an omnibus, they will not get here
before a quarter past four.
I had to find something to fill up the somewhat long interval which
separated me from that happy moment. I wrote a letter to my Uncle
Mouillard, taking seven minutes over the address alone. I had not shown
such penmanship since I was nine years old. When the last flourish was
completed I looked for a paper; they were all engaged. The directory was
free. I took it, and opened it at Ch. I discovered that there were many
Charnots in Paris without counting mine: Charnot, grocer; Charnot,
upholsterer; Charnot, surgical bandage-maker. I built up a whole family
tree for the member of the Institute, choosing, of course, those persons
of the name who appeared most worthy to adorn its branches. Of what
followed I retain but a vague recollection. I only remember that I felt
twice as if some inquisitive individual were looking over my shoulder.
The third time I woke up with a start.
"Sir," said a shopwalker, with the utmost politeness, "a gentleman has
been waiting three quarters of an hour for the directory. Would you
kindly hand it to him if you have quite finished with it?"
It was a quarter to six. I still waited a little while, and then I left,
having wasted my day.
O Jeanne! where do you hide yourself? Must I, to meet you, attend mass
at St. Germain des Pres? Are you one of those early birds who, before
the world is up, are out in the Champs Elysees catching the first rays of
the morning, and the country breeze before it is lost in the smoke of
Paris? Are you attending lectures at the Sorbonne? Are you learning to
sing? and, if so, who is your teacher?
You sing, Jeanne, of course. You remind me of a bird. You have all the
quick and easy graces of the skylark. Why should you not have the
skylark's voice?
Fabien, you are dropping into poetry!
CHAPTER VI
THE FLOWER-SHOW
April 3d.
For a month I have written nothing in this brown notebook. But to-day
there is plenty to put down, and worth the trouble too.
Let me begin with the first shock. This morning, my head crammed with
passages from Latin authors, I leaned my brow against the pane of my
window which looks on the garden. The garden is not mine, of course,
since I live on the fourth floor; but I have a view of the big weeping-
willow in the centre, the sanded path that runs around it, and the four
walls lined with borders, one of which separates it from the huge
premises of the Carmelites. It is an almost deserted garden. The first-
floor tenant hardly ever walks there. His son, a schoolboy of seventeen,
was there this morning. He stood two feet from the street wall,
motionless, with head thrown back, whistling a monotonous air, which
seemed to me like a signal. Before him, however, was nothing but the
moss on the old wall gleaming like golden lights. People do not whistle
to amuse stones nor yet moss. Farther off, on the other side of the
street, the windows of the opposite houses stretched away in long
straight lines, most of them standing open.
I thought: "The bird is somewhere there. Some small Abigail with her
white cap will look out in a moment."
The suspicion was stupid and ill-natured. How rash are our lightest
judgments! Suddenly the school-boy took one step forward, swept his hand
quickly along the moss as if he were trying to catch a fly, and ran off
to his mother triumphant, delighted, beside himself, with an innocent
gray lizard on the tips of his fingers.
"I've got him! I've got him! He was basking in the sun and I charmed
him!"
"Basking in the sun!" This was a revelation to me. I flung up the
window. Yes, it was true. Warmth and light lay everywhere: on the roofs
still glistening with last night's showers; across the sky, whose gay
blue proclaimed that winter was done. I looked downward and saw what I
had not seen before: the willow bursting into bud; the hepatica in flower
at the foot of the camellias, which had ceased to bloom; the pear-trees
in the Carmelites' garden flushing red as the sap rose within them; and
upon the dead trunk of a fig-tree was a blackbird, escaped from the
Luxembourg, who, on tiptoe, with throat outstretched, drunk with delight,
answered some far-off call that the wind brought to him, singing, as if
in woodland depths, the rapturous song of the year's new birth. Then,
oh! then, I could contain myself no longer. I ran down the stairs four
at a time, cursing Paris and the Junian Latins who had been cheating me
of the spring. What! live there cut off from the world which was
created for me, tread an artificial earth of stone or asphalt, live with
a horizon of chimneys, see only the sky chopped into irregular strips by
roofs smirched with smoke, and allow this exquisite spring to fleet by
without drinking in her bountiful delight, without renewing in her
youthfulness our youth, always a little staled and overcast by winter!
No, that can not be; I mean to see the spring.
And I have seen it, in truth, though cut and tied into bouquets, for my
aimless steps led me to the Place St. Sulpice, where the flower-sellers
were. There were flowers in plenty, but very few people; it was already
late. None the less did I enjoy the sight of all the plants arranged by
height and kind, from the double hyacinths, dear to hall-porters, to the
first carnations, scarcely in bud, whose pink or white tips just peeped
from their green sheaths; then the bouquets, bundles of the same kinds
and same shades of flowers wrapped up in paper: lilies-of-the-valley,
lilacs, forget-me-nots, mignonette, which being grown under glass has
guarded its honey from the bees to scent the air here. Everyone had a
look of welcome for those exiles. The girls smiled at them without
knowing the reason why. The cabdrivers in line along the sidewalk seemed
to enjoy their neighborhood. I heard one of them, with a face like a
halfripened strawberry, red, with a white nose, say to a comrade, "Hallo,
Francis! that smells good, doesn't it!"
I was walking along slowly, looking into every stall, and when I came to
the end I turned right about face.
Great Heavens! Not ten feet off! M. Flamaran, M. Charnot, and
Mademoiselle Jeanne!
They had stopped before one of the stalls that I had just left.
M. Flamaran was carrying under his arm a pot of cineraria, which made his
stomach a perfect bower. M. Charnot was stooping, examining a superb
pink carnation. Jeanne was hovering undecided between twenty bunches of
flowers, bending her pretty head in its spring hat over each in turn.
"Which, father?"
"Whichever you like; but make up your mind soon; Flamaran is waiting."
A moment more, and the elective affinities carried the day.
"This bunch of mignonette," she said.
I would have wagered on it. She was sure to choose the mignonette--
a fair, well-bred, graceful plant like herself. Others choose their
camellias and their hyacinths; Jeanne must have something more refined.
She put down her money, caught up the bunch, looked at it for a moment,
and held it close to her breast as a mother might hold her child, while
all its golden locks drooped over her arm. Then off she ran after her
father, who had only changed one carnation for another. They went on
toward St. Sulpice--M. Flamaran on the right, M. Charnot in the middle,
Jeanne on the left. She brushed past without seeing me. I followed them
at a distance. All three were laughing. At what? I can guess; she
because she was eighteen, they for joy to be with her. At the end of the
marketplace they turned to the left, followed the railings of the church,
and bent their steps toward the Rue St. Sulpice, doubtless to take home
M. Flamaran, whose cineraria blazed amid the crowd. I was about to turn
in the same direction when an omnibus of the Batignolles-Clichy line
stopped my way. In an instant I was overwhelmed by the flood of
passengers which it poured on the pavements.
"Hallo, you here! How goes it? What are you staring at? My stovepipe?
Observe it well, my dear fellow--the latest invention of Leon; the patent
ventilating, anti-sudorific, and evaporating hat!"
It was Larive who had just climbed down from the knifeboard.
Every one knows Larive, head clerk in Machin's office. He is to be seen
everywhere--a tall, fair man, with little closetrimmed beard, and
moustache carefully twisted. He is always perfectly dressed, always in a
tall hat and new gloves, full of all the new stories, which he tells as
his own. If you believe him, he is at home in all the ministries,
whatever party is in power; he has cards for every ball, and tickets for
every first night. With all that he never misses a funeral, is a good
lawyer, and as solemn when in court as a dozen old mandarins.
"Come, Fabien, will you answer? What are you staring at?"
He turned his head.
"Oh, I see--pretty Mademoiselle Charnot."
"You know her?"
"Of course I do, and her father, too. A pretty little thing!"
I blushed with pleasure.
"Yes, a very pretty little thing; but wants style--dances poorly."
"An admirable defect."
"A little big, too, for her eyes."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Her eyes are a little too small, you understand me?"
"What matters that if they are bright and loving?"
"No matter at all to me; but it seems to have some effect on you. Might
you be related?"
"No."
"Or connected by marriage?"
"No."
"So much the better--eh, my boy? And how's uncle? Still going strong?"
"Yes; and longing to snatch me from this Babylon."
"You mean to succeed him?"
"As long hence as possible."
"I had heard you were not enthusiastic. A small practice, isn't it?"
"Not exactly. A matter of a thousand a year!"
"Clear profit?"
"Yes."
"That's good enough. But in the country, my poor fellow, in the
country!"
"It would be the death of you, wouldn't it?"
"In forty-eight hours."
"However did you manage to be born there, Larive? I'm surprised at you."
"So am I. I often think about it. Good-by. I must be off."
I caught him by the hand which he held out to me.
"Larive, tell me where you have met Mademoiselle Charnot?"
"Oh, come!--I see it's serious. My dear fellow, I am so sorry I did not
tell you she was perfection. If I had only known!"
"That's not what I asked you. Where have you seen her?"
"In society, of course. Where do you expect me to see young girls except
in society? My dear Fabien!"
He went off laughing. When he was about ten yards off he turned, and
making a speaking-trumpet of his hands, he shouted through them:
"She's perfection!"
Larive is decidedly an ass. His jokes strike you as funny at first; but
there's nothing in him, he's a mere hawker of stale puns; there's nothing
but selfishness under his jesting exterior. I have no belief in him.
Yet he is an old school friend; the only one of my twenty-eight
classmates whose acquaintance I have kept up. Four are dead, twenty-
three others are scattered about in obscure country places; lost for want
of news, as they say at the private inquiry offices. Larive makes up the
twenty-eight. I used to admire him, when we were low in the school,
because of his long trousers, his lofty contempt of discipline, and his
precocious intimacy with tobacco. I preferred him to the good, well-
behaved boys. Whenever we had leave out I used to buy gum-arabic at the
druggist's in La Chatre, and break it up with a small hammer at the far
end of my room, away from prying eyes. I used there to distribute it
into three bags ticketed respectively: "large pieces," "middle-sized
pieces," "small pieces." When I returned to school with the three bags
in my pocket, I would draw out one or the other to offer them to my
friends, according to the importance of the occasion, or the degrees of
friendship. Larive always had the big bits, and plenty of them. Yet he
was none the more grateful to me, and even did not mind chaffing me about
these petty attentions by which he was the gainer. He used to make fun
of everything, and I used to look up to him. He still makes fun of
everything; but for me the age of gumarabic is past and my faith in
Larive is gone.
If he believes that he will disparage this charming girl in my eyes by
telling me that she is a bad dancer, he is wrong. Of great importance it
is to have a wife who dances well! She does not dance in her own house,
nor with her husband from the wardrobe to the cradle, but at others'
houses, and with other men. Besides, a young girl who dances much has a
lot of nonsense talked to her. She may acquire a taste for Larive's
buffooneries, for a neat leg, or a sharp tongue. In that case what
welcome can she give to simple, timid affection? She will only laugh at
it. But you would not laugh, Jeanne, were I to tell you that I loved
you. No, I am quite convinced that you would not laugh. And if you
loved me, Jeanne, we should not go into society. That would just suit
me. I should protect you, yet not hide you. We should have felicity at
home instead of running after it to balls and crushes, where it is never
to be found. You could not help being aware of the fascination you
exert; but you would not squander it on a mob of dancers, and bring home
only the last remnants of your good spirits, with the last remnants of
your train. Jeanne, I am delighted to hear that you dance badly.
Whither away, Fabien, my friend, whither away? You are letting your
imagination run away with you again. A hint from it, and off you go.
Come, do use your reason a little. You have seen this young lady again,
that is true. You admired her; that was for the second time. But she,
whom you so calmly speak of as "Jeanne," as if she were something to you,
never even noticed you. You know nothing about her but what you suspect
from her maiden grace and a dozen words from her lips. You do not know
whether she is free, nor how she would welcome the notions you entertain
if you gave them utterance, yet here you are saying, "We should go here,"
"We should do this and that." Keep to the singular, my poor fellow. The
plural is far away, very far away, if not entirely beyond your reach.
CHAPTER VII
A WOODLAND SKETCH
April 27th.
The end of April. Students, pack and be off! The first warm breezes
burst the buds. Meudon is smiling; Clamart breaks into song;, the air in
the valley of Chevreuse is heavy with violets; the willows shower their
catkins on the banks of the Yvette; and farther yet, over yonder beneath
the green domes of the forest of Fontainebleau, the deer prick their ears
at the sound of the first riding-parties. Off with you! Flowers line
the pathways, the moors are pink with bloom, the undergrowth teems with
darting wings. All the town troops out to see the country in its gala
dress. The very poorest have a favorite nook, a recollection of the
bygone year to be revived and renewed; a sheltered corner that invited
sleep, a glade where the shade was grateful, a spot beside the river's
brink where the fish used to bite. Each one says, "Don't you remember?"
Each one seeks his nest like a home-coming swallow. Does it still hold
together? What havoc has been made by the winter's winds, and the rain,
and the frost? Will it welcome us, as of old?
I, too, said to Lampron, "Don't you remember?" for we, too, have our
nest, and summer days that smile to us in memory. He was in the mood for
work, and hesitated. I added in a whisper, "The blackbird's pool!" He
smiled, and off we went.
Again, as of old, our destination was St. Germain--not the town, nor the
Italian palace, nor yet the terrace whence the view spreads so wide over
the Seine, the country dotted with villas, to Montmartre blue in the
distance--not these, but the forest. "Our forest," we call it; for we
know all its young shoots, all its giant trees, all its paths where
poachers and young lovers hide. With my eyes shut I could find the
blackbird's pool, the way to which was first shown us by a deer.
Imagine at thirty paces from an avenue, a pool--no, not a pool (the word
is incorrect), nor yet a pond--but a fountain hollowed out by the removal
of a giant oak. Since the death of this monarch the birches which its
branches kept apart have never closed together, and the fountain forms
the centre of a little clearing where the moss is thick at all seasons
and starred in August with wild pinks. The water, though deep, is
deliciously clear. At a depth of more than six feet you can distinguish
the dead leaves at the bottom, the grass, the twigs, and here and there a
stone's iridescent outline. They all lie asleep there, the waste of
seasons gone by, soon to be covered by others in their turn. From time
to time out of the depths of these submerged thickets an eft darts up.
He comes circling up, quivering his yellowbanded tail, snatches a
mouthful of air, and goes down again head first. Save for these alarms
the pool is untroubled. It is guarded from the winds by a juniper, which
an eglantine has chosen for its guardian and crowns each year with a
wreath of roses. Each year, too, a blackbird makes his nest here. We
keep his secret. He knows we shall not disturb him. And when I come
back to this little nook in the woods, which custom has endeared to us,
merely by looking in the water I feel my very heart refreshed.
"What a spot to sleep in!" cried Lampron. "Keep sentry, Fabien; I am
going to take a nap."
We had walked fast. It was very hot. He took off his coat, rolled it
into a pillow, and placed it beneath his head as he lay down on the
grass. I stretched myself prone on a velvety carpet of moss, and gave
myself up to a profound investigation of the one square foot of ground
which lay beneath my eyes. The number of blades of grass was prodigious.
A few, already awned, stood above their fellows, waving like palms-
meadowgrass, fescue, foxtail, brome-grass--each slender stalk crowned
with a tuft. Others were budding, only half unfolded, amid the darker
mass of spongy moss which gave them sustenance. Amid the numberless
shafts thus raised toward heaven a thousand paths crisscrossed, each full
of obstacles-chips of bark, juniper-berries, beech-nuts, tangled roots,
hills raised by burrowing insects, ravines formed by the draining off of
the rains. Ants and beetles bustled along them, pressing up hill and
down to some mysterious goal. Above them a cunning red spider was tying
a blade of grass to an orchid leaf, the pillars it had chosen for its
future web; and. when the wind shook the leaves and the sun pierced
through to this spot, I saw the delicate roof already mapped out.
I do not know how long my contemplation lasted. The woods were still.
Save for a swarm of gnats which hummed in a minor key around the sleeping
Lampron, nothing stirred, not a leaf even. All nature was silent as it
drank in the full sunshine.
A murmur of distant voices stole on my ear. I rose, and crept through
the birches and hazels to the edge of the glade.
At the top of the slope, on the green margin of the glade, shaded by the
tall trees, two pedestrians were slowly advancing. At the distance they
still were I could distinguish very little except that the man wore a
frock-coat, and that the girl was dressed in gray, and was young, to
judge by the suppleness of her walk. Nevertheless I felt at once that it
was she!
I hid at they came near, and saw her pass on her father's arm, chatting
in low tones, full of joy to have escaped from the Rue de l'Universite.
She was looking before her with wide-open eyes. M. Charnot kept his eyes
on his daughter, more interested in her than in all the wealth of spring.
He kept well to the right of the path as the sun ate away the edge of the
shadows; and asked, from time to time:
"Are you tired?"
"Oh, no!"
"As soon as you are tired, my dear, we will sit down. I am not walking
too fast?"
She answered "No" again, and laughed, and they went on.
Soon they left the avenue and were lost in a green alley. Then a sudden
twilight seemed to have closed down on me, an infinite sadness swelled in
my heart. I closed my eyes, and--God forgive my weakness, but the tears
came.
"Hallo! What part do you intend me to play in all this?" said Lampron
behind me.
"'What part'?"
"Yes. It's an odd notion to invite me to your trysting-place."
"Trysting-place? I haven't one."
"You mean to tell me, perhaps, that you came here by chance?"
"Certainly."
"And chanced upon the very moment and the spot where she was passing?"
"Do you want a proof? That young lady is Mademoiselle Charnot."
"Well?"
"Well, I never have said another word to her since my one visit to her
father; I have only seen her once, for a moment, in the street. You see
there can be no question of trysting-places in this case. I was
wondering at her appearance when you awoke. It is luck, or a friendly
providence, that has used the beauty of the sunlight, the breeze, and all
the sweets of April to bring her, as it brought us, to the forest."
"And that is what fetched the tears?"
"Well, no."
"What, then?"
"I don't know."
"My full-grown baby, I will tell you. You are in love with her!"
"Indeed, Sylvestre, I believe you're right. I confess it frankly to you
as to my best friend. It is an old story already; as old, perhaps, as
the day I first met her. At first her figure would rise in my
imagination, and I took pleasure in contemplating it. Soon this phantom
ceased to satisfy; I longed to see her in person. I sought her in the
streets, the shops, the theatre. I still blinded myself, and pretended
that I only wanted to ask her pardon, so as to remove, before I left
Paris, the unpleasant impression I had made at our first meeting. But
now, Sylvestre, all these false reasons have disappeared, and the true
one is clear. I love her!"
"Not a doubt of it, my friend, not a doubt of it. I have been through it
myself."
He was silent, and his eyes wandered away to the faroff woods, perhaps
back to those distant memories of his. A shadow rested on his strong
face, but only for an instant. He shook off his depression, and his old
smile came back as he said:
"It's serious, then?"
"Yes, very serious."
"I'm not surprised; she is a very pretty girl."
"Isn't she lovely?"
"Better than that, my friend; she is good. What do you know about her?"
"Only that she is a bad dancer."
"That's something, to be sure."
"But it isn't all."
"Well, no. But never mind, find out the rest, speak to her, declare your
passion, ask for her hand, and marry her."
"Good heavens, Sylvestre, you are going ahead!"
"My dear fellow, that is the best and wisest plan; these vague idyls
ought to be hurried on, either to a painless separation or an honorable
end in wedlock. In your place I should begin to-morrow."