Books: The Ink Stain, v2
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Rene Bazin >> The Ink Stain, v2
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After the ice, M. Mouillard called for a cigar.
"Waiter, what cigars have you got?"
"Londres, conchas, regalias, cacadores, partagas, esceptionales. Which
would you like, sir?"
"Damn the name! a big one that will take some time to smoke."
Emile displayed at the bottom of a box an object closely resembling a
distaff with a straw through the middle, doubtless some relic of the last
International Exhibition, abandoned by all, like the Great Eastern, on
account of its dimensions. My uncle seized it, stuck it in the amber
mouthpiece that is so familiar to me, lighted it, and under the pretext
that you must always first get the tobacco to burn evenly, went out
trailing behind him a cloud of smoke, like a gunboat at full speed.
We "did" the arcades round the Odeon, where my uncle spent an eternity
thumbing the books for sale. He took them all up one after another, from
the poetry of the decedents to the Veterinary Manual, gave a glance at
the author's name, shrugged his shoulders, and always ended by turning to
me with:
"You know that writer?"
"Why, yes, uncle."
"He must be quite a new author; I can't recall that name."
M. Mouillard forgot that it was forty-five years since he had last
visited the bookstalls under the Odeon.
He thought he was a student again, loafing along the arcades after
dinner, eager for novelty, careless of draughts. Little by little he
lost himself in dim reveries. His cigar never left his lips. The ash
grew longer and longer yet, a lovely white ash, slightly swollen at the
tip, dotted with little black specks, and connected with the cigar by a
thin red band which alternately glowed and faded as he drew his breath.
M. Mouillard was so lost in thought, and the ash was getting so long,
that a young student--of the age that knows no mercy-was struck by these
twin phenomena. I saw him nudge a friend, hastily roll a cigarette, and,
doffing his hat, accost my uncle.
"Might I trouble you for a light, sir!"
M. Mouillard emitted a sigh, turned slowly round, and bent two terrible
eyes upon the intruder, knocked off the ash with an angry gesture, and
held out the ignited end at arm's length.
"With pleasure, sir!"
Then he replaced the last book he had taken up--a copy of Musset--and
called me.
"Come, Fabien."
Arm in arm we strolled up the Rue de Medicis along the railings of the
Luxembourg.
I felt the crisis approaching. My uncle has a pet saying: "When a thing
is not clear to me, I go straight to the heart of it like a ferret."
The ferret began to work.
"Now, Fabien, about these bonds I mentioned? Did I guess right?"
"Yes, uncle, I have been in bondage."
"Quite right to make a clean breast of it, my boy; but we must break your
bonds."
"They are broken."
"How long ago?"
"Some days ago."
"On your honor?"
"Yes."
"That's quite right. You'd have done better to keep out of bondage. But
there, you took your uncle's advice; you saw the abyss, and drew back
from it. Quite right of you."
"Uncle, I will not deceive you. Your letter arrived after the event.
The cause of the rupture was quite apart from that."
"And the cause was?"
"The sudden shattering of my illusions."
"Men still have illusions about these creatures?"
"She was a perfect creature, and worthy of all respect."
"Come, come!"
"I must ask you to believe me. I thought her affections free."
"And she was--"
"Betrothed."
"Really now, that's very funny!"
"I did not find it funny, uncle. I suffered bitterly, I assure you."
"I dare say, I dare say. The illusions you spoke of anyhow, it's all
over now?"
"Quite over."
"Well, that being the case, Fabien, I am ready to help you. Confess
frankly to me. How much is required?"
"How much?"
"Yes, you want something, I dare say, to close the incident. You know
what I mean, eh? to purchase what I might call the veil of oblivion.
How much?"
"Why, nothing at all, uncle."
"Don't be afraid, Fabien; I've got the money with me."
"You have quite mistaken the case, uncle; there is no question of money.
I must tell you again that the young lady is of the highest
respectability."
My uncle stared.
"I assure you, uncle. I am speaking of Mademoiselle Jeanne Charnot."
"I dare say."
"The daughter of a member of the Institute."
"What!"
My uncle gave a jump and stood still.
"Yes, of Mademoiselle Charnot, whom I was in love with and wished to
marry. Do you understand?"
He leaned against the railing and folded his arms.
"Marry! Well, I never! A woman you wanted to marry?"
"Why, yes; what's the matter?"
"To marry! How could I have imagined such a thing? Here were matters of
the utmost importance going on, and I knew nothing about them. Marry!
You might be announcing your betrothal to me at this moment if you'd-
Still you are quite sure she is betrothed?"
"Larive told me so."
"Who's Larive?"
"A friend of mine."
"Oh, so you have only heard it through a friend?"
"Yes, uncle. Do you really think there may still be hope, that I still
have a chance?"
"No, no; not the slightest. She is sure to be betrothed, very much
betrothed. I tell you I am glad she is. The Mouillards do not come to
Paris for their wives, Fabien--we do not want a Parisienne to carry on
the traditions of the family, and the practice. A Parisienne! I shudder
at the thought of it. Fabien, you will leave Paris with me to-morrow.
That's understood."
"Certainly not, uncle."
"Your reasons?"
"Because I can not leave my friends without saying goodby, and because I
have need to reflect before definitely binding myself to the legal
profession."
"To reflect! You want to reflect before taking over a family practice,
which has been destined for you since you were an infant, in view of
which you have been working for five years, and which I have nursed for
you, I, your uncle, as if you had been my son?"
"Yes, uncle."
"Don't be a fool! You can reflect at Bourges quite as well as here.
Your object in staying here is to see her again."
"It is not."
"To wander like a troubled spirit up and down her street. By the way,
which is her street?"
"Rue de l'Universite."
My uncle took out his pocketbook and made a note, "Charnot, Rue de
l'Universite." Then all his features expanded. He gave a snort, which I
understood, for I had often heard it in court at Bourges, where it meant,
"There is no escape now. Old Mouillard has cornered his man."
My uncle replaced his pencil in its case, and his notebook in his pocket,
and merely added:
"Fabien, you're not yourself to-night. We'll talk of the matter another
time. Five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten." He was counting on his
fingers. "These return tickets are very convenient; I need not leave
before to-morrow evening. And, what's more, you'll go with me, my boy."
M. Mouillard talked only on indifferent subjects during our brief walk
from the Rue Soufflot to catch the omnibus at the Odeon. There he shook
me by the hand and sprang nimbly into the first bus. A lady in black,
with veil tightly drawn over a little turned up nose, seeing my uncle
burst in like a bomb, and make for the seat beside her, hurriedly drew in
the folds of her dress, which were spread over the seat. My uncle
noticed her action, and, fearing he had been rude, bent over toward her
with an affable expression. "Do not disturb yourself, Madame. I am not
going all the way to Batignolles; no farther, indeed, than the
Boulevards. I shall inconvenience you for a few moments only, a very few
moments, Madame." I had time to remark that the lady, after giving her
neighbor a glance of Juno-like disdain, turned her back upon him, and
proceeded to study the straps hanging from the roof.
The brake was taken off, the conductor whistled, the three horses, their
hoofs hammering the pavement, strained for an instant amid showers of
sparks, and the long vehicle vanished down the Rue de Vaugirard, bearing
with it Brutus and his fortunes.
CHAPTER X
A FAMILY BREACH
May 10th.
It is an awful fate to be the nephew of M. Mouillard! I always knew he
was obstinate, capable alike of guile and daring, but I little imagined
what his intentions were when he left me!
My refusal to start, and my prayer for a respite before embarking in his
practice, drove him wild. He lost his head, and swore to drag me off,
'per fas et nefas'. He has mentally begun a new action--Mouillard v.
Mouillard, and is already tackling the brief; which is as much as to say
that he is fierce, unbridled, heartless, and without remorse.
Some might have bent. I preferred to break.
We are strangers for life. I have just seen him to the landing of my
staircase.
He came here about a quarter of an hour ago, proud, and, I may say,
swaggering, as he does over his learned friends when he has found a flaw
in one of their pleadings.
"Well, nephew?"
"Well, uncle?"
"I've got some news for you."
"Indeed?"
M. Mouillard banged his hat down furiously upon my table.
"Yes, you know my maxim: when anything does not seem quite clear to me--"
"You ferret it out."
"Quite so; I have always found it answer. Your business did not seem
clear to me. Was Mademoiselle Charnot betrothed, or was she not? To
what extent had she encouraged your attentions? You never would have
told me the story correctly, and I never should have known. That being
so, I put my maxim into practice, and went to see her father."
"You did that?"
"Certainly I did."
"You have been to see Monsieur Charnot?"
"In the Rue de l'Universite. Wasn't it the simplest thing to do?
Besides, I was not sorry to make the acquaintance of a member of the
Institute. And I must admit that he behaved very nicely to me--not a bit
stuck up."
"And you told him?"
"My name to begin with: Brutus Mouillard. He reflected a bit, just a
moment, and recalled your appearance: a shy youth, a bachelor of arts,
wearing an eyeglass."
"Was that all his description?"
"Yes, he remembered seeing you at the National Library, and once at his
house. I said to him, 'That is my nephew, Monsieur Charnot.' He replied,
'I congratulate you, sir; he seems a youth of parts.'--'That he is, but
his heart is very inflammable.'--'At his age, sir, who is not liable to
take fire?' That was how we began. Your friend Monsieur Charnot has a
pretty wit. I did not want to be behindhand with him, so I answered,
'Well, sir, it caught fire in your house.' He started with fright and
looked all round the room. I was vastly amused. Then we came to
explanations. I put the case before him, that you were in love with his
daughter, without my consent, but with perfectly honorable intentions;
that I had guessed it from your letters, from your unpardonable neglect
of your duties to your family, and that I hurried hither from Bourges to
take in the situation. With that I concluded, and waited for him to
develop. There are occasions when you must let people develop. I could
not jump down his throat with, 'Sir, would you kindly tell me whether
your daughter is betrothed or not?' You follow me? He thought, no
doubt, I had come to ask for his daughter's hand, and passing one hand
over his forehead, he replied, 'Sir, I feel greatly flattered by your
proposal, and I should certainly give it my serious attention, were it
not that my daughter's hand is already sought by the son of an old
schoolfellow of mine, which circumstance, as you will readily understand,
does not permit of my entertaining an offer which otherwise should have
received the most mature consideration.' I had learned what I came for
without risking anything. Well, I didn't conceal from him that, so far
as I was concerned, I would rather you took your wife from the country
than that you brought home the most charming Parisienne; and that the
Mouillards from father to son had always taken their wives from Bourges.
He entered perfectly into my sentiments, and we parted the best of
friends. Now, my boy, the facts are ascertained: Mademoiselle Charnot is
another's; you must get your mourning over and start with me to-night.
To-morrow morning we shall be in Bourges, and you'll soon be laughing
over your Parisian delusions, I warrant you!"
I had heard my uncle out without interrupting him, though wrath,
astonishment, and my habitual respect for M. Mouillard were struggling
for the mastery within me. I needed all my strength of mind to answer,
with apparent calm.
"Yesterday, uncle, I had not made up my mind; today I have."
"You are coming?"
"I am not. Your action in this matter, uncle--I do not know if you are
aware of it--has been perfectly unheard-of. I can not acknowledge your
right to act thus. It puts between you and me two hundred miles of rail,
and that forever. Do you understand me? You have taken the liberty of
disclosing a secret which was not yours to tell; you have revealed a
passion which, as it was hopeless, should not have been further
mentioned, and certainly not exposed to such humiliation. You went to
see Monsieur Charnot without reflecting whether you were not bringing
trouble into his household; without reflecting, further, whether such
conduct as yours, which may perhaps be usual among your business
acquaintances, was likely to succeed with me. Perhaps you thought it
would. You have merely completed an experiment, begun long ago, which
proves that we do not understand life in the same way, and that it will
be better for both of us if I continue to live in Paris, and you continue
to live at Bourges."
"Ha! that's how you take it, young man, is it? You refuse to come? you
try to bully me?"
"Yes."
"Consider carefully before you let me leave here alone. You know the
amount of your fortune--fourteen hundred francs a year, which means
poverty in Paris."
"Yes, I do."
"Well, then, attend to what I am about to say. For years past I have
been saving my practice for you--that is, an honorable and lucrative
position all ready for you to step into. But I am tired at length of
your fads and your fancies. If you do not take up your quarters at
Bourges within a fortnight from now, the Mouillard practice will change
its name within three weeks!" My uncle sniffed with emotion as he looked
at me, expecting to see me totter beneath his threats. I made no answer
for a moment; but a thought which had been harassing me from the
beginning of our interview compelled me to say:
"I have only one thing to ask you, Monsieur Mouillard."
"Further respite, I suppose? Time to reflect and fool me again? No, a
hundred times no! I've had enough of you; a fortnight, not a day more!"
"No, sir; I do not ask for respite."
"So much the better, for I should refuse it. What do you want?"
"Monsieur Mouillard, I trust that Jeanne was not present at the
interview, that she heard none of it, that she was not forced to blush--"
My uncle sprang to his feet, seized his gloves, which lay spread out on
the table, bundled them up, flung them passionately into his hat, clapped
the whole on his head, and made for the door with angry strides.
I followed him; he never looked back, never made answer to my "Good-by,
uncle." But, at the sixth step, just before turning the corner, he
raised his stick, gave the banisters a blow fit to break them, and went
on his way downstairs exclaiming:
"Damnation!"
May 20th.
And so we have parted with an oath, my uncle and I! That is how I have
broken with the only relative I possess. It is now ten days since then.
I now have five left in which to mend the broken thread of the family
tradition, and become a lawyer. But nothing points to such conversion.
On the contrary, I feel relieved of a heavy weight, pleased to be free,
to have no profession. I feel the thrill of pleasure that a fugitive
from justice feels on clearing the frontier. Perhaps I was meant for a
different course of life than the one I was forced to follow. As a child
I was brought up to worship the Mouillard practice, with the fixed idea
that this profession alone could suit me; heir apparent to a lawyer's
stool--born to it, brought up to it, without any idea, at any rate for a
long time, that I could possibly free myself from the traditions of the
law's sacred jargon.
I have quite got over that now. The courts, where I have been a frequent
spectator, seem to me full of talented men who fine down and belittle
their talents in the practice of law. Nothing uses up the nobler virtues
more quickly than a practice at the bar. Generosity, enthusiasm,
sensibility, true and ready sympathy--all are taken, leaving the man, in
many instances nothing but a skilful actor, who apes all the emotions
while feeling none. And the comedy is none the less repugnant to me
because it is played through with a solemn face, and the actors are
richly recompensed.
Lampron is not like this. He has given play to all the noble qualities
of his nature. I envy him. I admire his disinterestedness, his broad
views of life, his faith in good in spite of evil, his belief in poetry
in spite of prose, his unspoiled capacity for receiving new impressions
and illusions--a capacity which, amid the crowds that grow old in mind
before they are old in body, keeps him still young and boyish. I think
I might have been devoted to his profession, or to literature, or to
anything but law.
We shall see. For the present I have taken a plunge into the unknown.
My time is all my own, my freedom is absolute, and I am enjoying it.
I have hidden nothing from Lampron. As my friend he is pleased, I can
see, at a resolve which keeps me in Paris; but his prudence cries out
upon it.
"It is easy enough to refuse a profession," he said; "harder to find
another in its place. What do you intend to do?"
"I don't know."
"My dear fellow, you seem to be trusting to luck. At sixteen that might
be permissible, at twenty-four it's a mistake."
"So much the worse, for I shall make the mistake. If I have to live on
little--well, you've tried that before now; I shall only be following
you."
"That's true; I have known want, and even now it attacks me sometimes;
it's like influenza, which does not leave its victims all at once; but it
is hard, I can tell you, to do without the necessaries of life; as for
its luxuries--"
"Oh, of course, no one can do without its luxuries."
"You are incorrigible," he answered, with a laugh. Then he said no more.
Lampron's silence is the only argument which struggles in my heart in
favor of the Mouillard practice. Who can guess from what quarter the
wind will blow?
CHAPTER XI
IN THE BEATEN PATH
June 5th.
The die is cast; I will not be a lawyer.
The tradition of the Mouillards is broken for good, Sylvestre is defeated
for good, and I am free for good--and quite uncertain of my future.
I have written my uncle a calm, polite, and clearly worded letter to
confirm my decision. He has not answered it, nor did I expect an answer.
I expected, however, that he would be avenged by some faint regret on my
part, by one of those light mists that so often arise and hang about our
firmest resolutions. But no such mist has arisen.
Still, Law has had her revenge. Abandoned at Bourges, she has recaptured
me at Paris, for a time. I realized that it was impossible for me to
live on an income of fourteen hundred francs. The friends whom I
discreetly questioned, in behalf of an unnamed acquaintance, as to the
means of earning money, gave me various answers. Here is a fairly
complete list of their expedients:
"If your friend is at all clever, he should write a novel."
"If he is not, there is the catalogue of the National Library: ten hours
of indexing a day."
"If he has ambition, let him become a wine-merchant."
"No; 'Old Clo,' and get his hats gratis."
"If he is very plain, and has no voice, he can sing in the chorus at the
opera."
"Shorthand writer in the Senate is a peaceful occupation."
"Teacher of Volapuk is the profession of the future."
"Try 'Hallo, are you there?' in the telephones."
"Wants to earn money? Advise him first not to lose any!"
The most sensible one, who guessed the name of the acquaintance I was
interested in, said:
"You have been a managing clerk; go back to it."
And as the situation chanced to be vacant, I went back to my old master.
I took my old seat and den as managing clerk between the outer office and
Counsellor Boule's glass cage. I correct the drafts of the inferior
clerks; I see the clients and instruct them how to proceed. They often
take me for the counsellor himself. I go to the courts nearly every day,
and hang about chief clerks' and judges' chambers; and go to the theatre
once a week with the "paper" supplied to the office.
Do I call this a profession? No, merely a stop-gap which allows me to
live and wait for something to turn up. I sometimes have forebodings
that I shall go on like this forever, waiting for something which will
never turn up; that this temporary occupation may become only too
permanent.
There is an old clerk in the office who has never had any other
occupation, whose appearance is a kind of warning to me. He has a red
face--the effect of the office stove, I think--straight, white hair,
the expression when spoken to of a startled sheep-gentle, astonished,
slightly flurried. His attenuated back is rounded off with a stoop
between the neck and shoulders. He can hardly keep his hands from
shaking. His signature is a work of art. He can stick at his desk for
six hours without stirring. While we lunch at a restaurant, he consumes
at the office some nondescript provisions which he brings in the morning
in a paper bag. On Sundays he fishes, for a change; his rod takes the
place of his pen, and his can of worms serves instead of inkstand.
He and I have already one point of resemblance. The old clerk was once
crossed in love with a flowergirl, one Mademoiselle Elodie. He has told
me this one tragedy of his life. In days gone by I used to think this
thirty-year-old love-story dull and commonplace; to-day I understand
M. Jupille; I relish him even. He and I have become sympathetic. I no
longer make him move from his seat by the fire when I want to ask him a
question: I go to him. On Sundays, on the quays by the Seine, I pick him
out from the crowd intent upon the capture of tittlebats, because he is
seated upon his handkerchief. I go up to him and we have a talk.
"Fish biting, Monsieur Jupille?"
"Hardly at all."
"Sport is not what it used to be?"
"Ah! Monsieur Mouillard, if you could have seen it thirty years ago!"
This date is always cropping up with him. Have we not all our own date,
a few months, a few days, perhaps a single hour of full-hearted joy, for
which half our life has been a preparation, and of which the other half
must be a remembrance?
June 5th.
"Monsieur Mouillard, here is an application for leave to sign judgment in
a fresh matter."
"Very well, give it me."
"To the President of the Civil Court:
"Monsieur Plumet, of 27 Rue Hauteville, in the city of Paris, by
Counsellor Boule, his advocate, craves leave--"
It was a proceeding against a refractory debtor, the commonest thing in
the world.
"Monsieur Massinot!"
"Yes, sir."
"Who brought these papers?"
"A very pretty little woman brought them this morning while you were out,
sir."
"Monsieur Massinot, whether she was pretty or not, it is no business of
yours to criticise the looks of the clients."
"I did not mean to offend you, Monsieur Mouillard."
"You have not offended me, but you have no business to talk of a 'pretty
client.' That epithet is not allowed in a pleading, that's all. The lady
is coming back, I suppose?"
"Yes, sir."
Little Madame Plumet soon called again, tricked out from head to foot in
the latest fashion. She was a little flurried on entering a room full of
jocular clerks. Escorted by Massinot, both of them with their eyes fixed
on the ground, she reached my office. I closed the door after her. She
recognized me.
"Monsieur Mouillard! What a pleasant surprise!"
She held out her hand to me so frankly and gracefully that I gave her
mine, and felt sure, from the firm, expressive way in which she clasped
it, that Madame Plumet was really pleased to see me. Her ruddy cheeks
and bright eyes recalled my first impression of her, the little
dressmaker running from the workshop to the office, full of her love for
M. Plumet and her grievances against the wicked cabinetmaker.
"What, you are back again with Counsellor Boule? I am surprised!"
"So am I, Madame Plumet, very much surprised. But such is life! How is
Master Pierre progressing?"
"Not quite so well, poor darling, since I weaned him. I had to wean him,
Monsieur Mouillard, because I have gone back to my old trade."
"Dressmaking?"
"Yes, on my own account this time. I have taken the flat opposite to
ours, on the same floor. Plumet makes frames, while I make gowns.
I have already three workgirls, and enough customers to give me a start.
I do not charge them very dear to begin with.
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