Books: The Ink Stain, v1
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Rene Bazin >> The Ink Stain, v1
"Why not to-day?"
"How so?"
"Let's catch them up, and see her again at least."
He began to laugh.
"Run after young girls at my age! Well, well, it was my advice. Come
along!"
We crossed the avenue, and plunged into the forest.
Lampron had formerly acquired a reputation for tireless agility among the
fox-hunters of the Roman Campagna. He still deserves it. In twenty
strides he left me behind. I saw him jumping over the heather, knocking
off with his cane the young shoots on the oaks, or turning his head to
look at me as I struggled after, torn by brambles and pricked by gorse.
A startled pheasant brought him to a halt. The bird rose under his feet
and soared into the full light.
"Isn't it beautiful?" said he. "Look out, we must be more careful; we
are scaring the game. We should come upon the path they took, about
sixty yards ahead."
Five minutes later he was signalling to me from behind the trunk of a
great beech.
"Here they are."
Jeanne and M. Charnot were seated on a fallen trunk beside the path,
which here was almost lost beneath the green boughs. Their backs were
toward us. The old man, with his shoulders bent and his goldknobbed cane
stuck into the ground beside him, was reading out of a book which we
could not see, while Jeanne, attentive, motionless, her face half turned
toward him, was listening. Her profile was outlined against a strip of
clear sky. The deep silence of the wood wrapped us round, and we could
hear the old scholar's voice; it just reached us.
"Straightway the godlike Odysseus spake these cunning words to the fair
Nausicaa: 'Be thou goddess or mortal, O queen, I bow myself before thee!
If thou art one of the deities who dwell in boundless heaven, by thy
loveliness and grace and height I guess thee to be Artemis, daughter of
high Zeus. If thou art a mortal dwelling upon earth, thrice blessed thy
father and thy queenly mother, thrice blessed thy dear brothers! Surely
their souls ever swell with gladness because of thee, when they see a
maiden so lovely step into the circle of the dance. But far the most
blessed of all is he who shall prevail on thee with presents and lead
thee to his home!'"
I turned to Lampron, who had stopped a few steps in front of me, a little
to the right. He had got out his sketch-book, and was drawing hurriedly.
Presently he forgot all prudence, and came forth from the shelter of a
beech to get nearer to his model. In vain I made sign upon sign, and
tried to remind him that we were not thereto paint or sketch. It was
useless; the artist within him had broken loose. Sitting down at the
required distance on a gnarled root, right in the open, he went on with
his work with no thought but for his art.
The inevitable happened. Growing impatient over some difficulty in his
sketch, Lampron shuffled his feet; a twig broke, some leaves rustled-
Jeanne turned round and saw me looking at her, Lampron sketching her.
What are the feelings of a young girl who in the middle of a forest
suddenly discovers that two pairs of eyes are busy with her? A little
fright at first; then--when the idea of robbers is dismissed, and a
second glance has shown her that it is her beauty, not her life, they
want--a touch of satisfied vanity at the compliment, not unmixed with
confusion.
This is exactly what we thought we saw. At first she slightly drew back,
with brows knitted, on the verge of an exclamation; then her brows
unbent, and the pleasure of finding herself admired, confusion at being
taken unawares, the desire of appearing at ease, all appeared at once on
her rosy cheeks and in her faintly troubled smile.
I bowed. Sylvestre pulled off his cap.
M. Charnot never stirred.
"Another squirrel?" he said.
"Two this time, I think, father," she answered, in a low voice.
He went on reading.
"'My guest,' made answer the fair Nausicaa, 'for I call thee so since
thou seemest not base nor foolish, it is Zeus himself that giveth weal to
men--'"
Jeanne was no longer listening. She was thinking. Of what? Of several
things, perhaps, but certainly of how to beat a retreat. I guessed it by
the movement of her sunshade, which was nervously tracing figures in the
turf. I signalled to Lampron. We retired backward. Yet it was in vain;
the charm was broken, the peace had been disturbed.
She gave two coughs--musical little coughs, produced at will.
M. Charnot broke off his reading.
"You are cold, Jeanne?"
"Why, no, father."
"Yes, yes, you're cold. Why did you not say so before? Lord, Lord,
these children! Always the same--think of nothing!"
He rose without delay, put his book in his pocket, buttoned up his coat,
and, leaning on his stick, glanced up a moment at the tree-tops. Then,
side by side, they disappeared down the path, Jeanne stepping briskly,
upright and supple, between the young branches which soon concealed her.
Still Lampron continued to watch the turning in the path down which she
had vanished.
"What are you thinking about?" said I.
He stroked his beard, where lurked a few gray hairs.
"I am thinking, my friend, that youth leaves us in this same way, at the
time when we love it most, with a faint smile, and without a word to tell
us whither. Mine played me this trick."
"What a good idea of yours to sketch them both. Let me see the sketch."
"No!"
"Why not?"
"It can scarcely be called a sketch; it's a mere scratch."
"Show it, all the same."
"My good Fabien, you ought to know that when I am obstinate I have my
reasons, like Balaam's ass. You will not see my sketch-book to-day, nor
to-morrow, nor the day after."
I answered with foolish warmth:
"Please yourself; I don't care."
Really I was very much annoyed, and I was rather cool with Lampron when
we parted on the platform.
What has come to the fellow? To refuse to show me a sketch he had made
before my eyes, and a sketch of Jeanne, too!
April 28th, 9 A.M.
Hide your sketches, Sylvestre; stuff them away in your portfolios, or
your pockets; I care little, for I bear Jeanne's image in my heart, and
can see it when I will, and I love her, I love her, I love her!
What is to become of her and of me I can not tell. I hope without
knowing what or why, or when, and hope alone is comforting.
9 P.M.
This afternoon, at two o'clock, I met Lampron in the Boulevard St.
Michel. He was walking fast with a portfolio under his arm. I went up
to him. He looked annoyed, and hardly seemed pleased when I offered to
accompany him. I grew red and angry.
"Oh, very well," I said; "good-by, then, since you don't care to be seen
with me."
He pondered a moment.
"Oh, come along if you like; I am going to my framemaker's."
"A picture?"
"Something of the kind."
"And that's all the mystery! Yesterday it was a sketch I mustn't look
at; to-day it's a picture. It is not nice of you, Sylvestre; no,
decidedly it is not nice."
He gave me a look of friendly compassion.
"Poor little chap!" said he.
Then, in his usual clear, strong voice:
"I am in a great hurry; but come if you like. I would rather it were
four days later; but as it is, never mind; it is never too soon to be
happy."
When Lampron chooses to hold his tongue it is useless to ask him
questions. I gave myself up to meditating on the words, "It is never too
soon to be happy."
We went down the boulevard, past the beer-houses. There is distinction
in my friend's walk; he is not to be confused with the crowd through
which he passes. You can tell, from the simple seriousness of the man,
his indifference to the noise and petty incidents of the streets, that he
is a stout and noble soul. Among the passers-by he is a somebody. I
heard from a group of students seated before a cafe the following words,
which Sylvestre did not seem to notice:
"Look, do you see the taller of those two there? That's Sylvestre
Lampron."
"Prix du Salon two years ago?"
"A great gun, you know."
"He looks it."
"To the left," said Lampron.
We turned to the left, and found ourselves in the Rue Hautefeuille,
before a shabby house, within the porch of which hung notices of
apartments to let; this was the framemaker's. The passage was dark, the
walls were chipped by the innumerable removals of furniture they had
witnessed. We went upstairs. On the fourth floor a smell of glue and
sour paste on the landing announced the tenant's profession. To make
quite certain there was a card nailed to the door with "Plumet, Frame-
Maker."
"Plumet? A newly-married couple?"
But already Madame Plumet is at the door. It is the same little woman
who came to Boule's office. She recognizes me in the dim light of the
staircase.
"What, Monsieur Lampron, do you know Monsieur Mouillard?"
"As you apparently do, too, Madame Plumet."
"Oh, yes! I know him well; he won my action, you know."
"Ah, to be sure-against the cabinet-maker. Is your husband in?"
"Yes, sir, in the workshop. Plumet!"
Through the half-opened door giving access to an inner room w e could
see-in the midst of his molders, gilders, burnishers, and framers--a
little dark man with a beard, who looked up and hurriedly undid the
strings of his working-apron.
"Coming, Marie!"
Little Madame Plumet was a trifle upset at having to receive us in
undress, before she had tidied up her rooms. I could see it by her
blushes and by the instinctive movement she made to smooth her disordered
curls.
The husband had hardly answered her call before she left us and went off
to the end of the room, into the obscure recesses of an alcove
overcrowded with furniture. There she bent over an oblong object, which
I could not quite see at first, and rocked it with her hand.
"Monsieur Mouillard," said she, looking up to me--"Monsieur Mouillard,
this is my son, Pierre!"
What tender pride in those words, and the smile which accompanied them!
With a finger she drew one of the curtains aside. Under the blue muslin,
between the pillow and the white coverlet, I discovered two little black
eyes and a tuft of golden hair.
"Isn't he a little rogue!" she went on, and began to caress the waking
baby.
Meanwhile Sylvestre had been talking to Plumet at the other end of the
room.
"Out of the question," said the frame-maker; "we are up to our knees in
arrears; twenty orders waiting."
"I ask you to oblige me as a friend."
"I wish I could oblige you, Monsieur Lampron; but if I made you a
promise, I should not be able to keep it."
"What a pity! All was so well arranged, too. The sketch was to have
been hung with my two engravings. Poor Fabien! I was saving up a
surprise for you. Come and look here."
I went across. Sylvestre opened his portfolio.
"Do you recognize it?"
At once I recognized them. M. Charnot's back; Jeanne's profile, exactly
like her; a forest nook; the parasol on the ground; the cane stuck into
the grass; a bit of genre, perfect in truth and execution.
"When did you do that?"
"Last night."
"And you want to exhibit it?"
"At the Salon."
"But, Sylvestre, it is too late to send in to the Salon. The Ides of
March are long past."
"Yes, for that very reason I have had the devil of a time, intriguing all
the morning. With a large picture I never should have succeeded; but
with a bit of a sketch, six inches by nine--"
"Bribery of officials, then?"
"Followed by substitution, which is strictly forbidden. I happened to
have hung there between two engravings a little sketch of underwoods not
unlike this; one comes down, the other is hung instead--a little bit of
jobbery of which I am still ashamed. I risked it all for you, in the
hope that she would come and recognize the subject."
"Of course she will recognize it, and understand; how on earth could she
help it? My dear Sylvestre, how can I thank you?"
I seized my friend's hand and begged his forgiveness for my foolish haste
of speech.
He, too, was a little touched and overcome by the pleasure his surprise
had given me.
"Look here, Plumet," he said to the frame-maker, who had taken the sketch
over to the light, and was studying it with a professional eye. "This
young man has even a greater interest than I in the matter. He is a
suitor for the lady's hand, and you can be very useful to him. If you do
not frame the picture his happiness is blighted."
The frame-maker shook his head.
"Let's see, Antoine," said a coaxing little voice, and Madame Plumet left
the cradle to come to our aid.
I considered our cause as won. Plumet repeated in vain, as he pulled his
beard, that it was impossible; she declared it was not. He made a move
for his workshop; she pulled him back by the sleeve, made him laugh and
give his consent.
"Antoine," she insisted, "we owe our marriage to Monsieur Mouillard; you
must at least pay what you owe."
I was delighted. Still, a doubt seized me.
"Sylvestre," I said to Lampron, who already had his hand upon the door-
handle, "do you really think she will come?"
"I hope so; but I will not answer for it. To make certain, some one must
send word to her: 'Mademoiselle Jeanne, your portrait is at the Salon.'
If you know any one who would not mind taking this message to the Rue de
l'Universite--"
"I'm afraid I don't."
"Come on, then, and trust to luck."
"Rue de l'Universite, did you say?" broke in little Madame Plumet, who
certainly took the liveliest interest in my cause.
"Yes; why?"
"Because I have a friend in the neighborhood, and perhaps--"
I risked giving her the number and name under the seal of secrecy; and it
was a good thing I did so.
In three minutes she had concocted a plan. It was like this: her friend
lived near the hotel in the Rue de l'Universite, a porter's wife of
advanced years, and quite safe; by means of her it might be possible to
hint to Mademoiselle Jeanne that her portrait, or something like it, was
to be seen at the Salon--discreetly, of course, and as if it were the
merest piece of news.
What a plucky, clever little woman it is! Surely I was inspired when I
did her that service. I never thought I should be repaid. And here I am
repaid both capital and interest.
Yet I hesitated. She snatched my consent.
"No, no," said she, "leave me to act. I promise you, Monsieur Mouillard,
that she shall hear of it, and you, Monsieur Lampron, that the picture
shall be framed."
She showed us to the top of the stairs, did little Madame Plumet, pleased
at having won over her husband, at having shown herself so cunning, and
at being employed in a conspiracy of love. In the street Lampron shook
me by the hand. "Good-by, my friend," he said; "happy men don't need
company. Four days hence, at noon, I shall come to fetch you, and we
will pay our first visit to the Salon together."
Yes, I was a happy man! I walked fast, without seeing anything, my eyes
lost in day dreams, my ears listening to celestial harmonies. I seemed
to wear a halo. It abashed me somewhat; for there is something insolent
in proclaiming on the housetops: "Look up at me, my heart is full, Jeanne
is going to love me!" Decidedly, my brain was affected.
Near the fountain in the Luxembourg, in front of the old palace where the
senate sits, two little girls were playing. One pushed the other, who
fell down crying,
"Naughty Jeanne, naughty girl!" I rushed to pick her up, and kissed her
before the eyes of her astonished nurse, saying, "No, Mademoiselle, she
is the most charming girl in the world!"
And M. Legrand! I still blush when I think of my conversation with M.
Legrand. He was standing in a dignified attitude at the door of his shop
"ITALIAN WAREHOUSE; DRESSED PROVISIONS;
SPECIALTY IN COLONIAL PRODUCE."
He and I are upon good terms; I buy oranges, licorice from him, and rum
when I want to make punch. But there are distinctions. Well, to-day I
called him "Dear Monsieur Legrand;" I addressed him, though I had nothing
to buy; I asked after his business; I remarked to him, "What a heavenly
day, Monsieur Legrand! We really have got fine weather at last!"
He looked up to the top of the street, and looked down again at me, but
refrained from differing, out of respect.
And, as a matter of fact, I noticed afterward that there was a most
unpleasant drizzle.
To wind up with, just now as I was coming home after dinner, I passed a
workman and his family in the Rue Bonaparte, and the man pointed after
me, saying:
"Look! there goes a poet."
He was right. In me the lawyer's clerk is in abeyance, the lawyer of to-
morrow has disappeared, only the poet is left--that is to say, the
essence of youth freed from the parasitic growths of everyday life. I
feel it roused and stirring. How sweet life is, and what wonderful
instruments we are, that Hope can make us thus vibrate by a touch of her
little finger!
ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:
Happy men don't need company
Lends--I should say gives
Natural only when alone, and talk well only to themselves
One doesn't offer apologies to a man in his wrath
Silence, alas! is not the reproof of kings alone
The looks of the young are always full of the future
You a law student, while our farmers are in want of hands