Books: The Ink Stain, v3
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Rene Bazin >> The Ink Stain, v3
The old clerk, utterly discomfited, and wearing that hangdog look which
he always assumed at the slightest rebuke from Counsellor Boule, pulled a
face as long as his arm, went up to M. Flamaran and whispered a word in
his ear.
"Upon my word! Really, Jupille, what are you thinking of? And I a
professor, too! Thirty years ago it would have been excusable, but to-
day! Besides, Sidonie expects me home to dinner--"
He stopped for a moment, undecided, looking at his watch.
Jupille, who was eying him intently, saw his distinguished friend
gradually relax his frown and burst into a hearty laugh.
"By Jove! it's madness at my age, but I don't care. We'll renew our
youth for an hour or so. My dear Mouillard, Jupille has ordered dinner
for us here. Had I been consulted I should have chosen any other place.
Yet what's to be done? Hunger, friendship, and the fact that I can't
catch the train, combine to silence my scruples. What do you say?"
"That we are in for it now."
"So be it, then." And led by Jupille, still carrying his catch, we
entered THE ONLY GENUINE ROBINSON.
M. Flamaran, somewhat ill at ease, cast inquiring glances on the
clearings in the sgrubberies. I thought I heard stifled laughter behind
the trees.
"You have engaged Chestnut Number Three, gentlemen," said the proprietor.
"Up these stairs, please."
We ascended a staircase winding around the trunk. Chestnut Number 3 is a
fine old tree, a little bent, its sturdy lower branches supporting a
platform surrounded by a balustrade, six rotten wooden pillars, and a
thatched roof, shaped like a cocked hat, to shelter the whole. All the
neighboring trees contain similar constructions, which look from a little
distance like enormous nests. They are greatly in demand at the dinner
hour; you dine thirty feet up in the air, and your food is brought up by
a rope and pulley.
When M. Flamaran appeared on the platform he took off his hat, and leaned
with both hands on the railing to give a look around. The attitude
suggested a public speaker. His big gray head was conspicuous in the
light of the setting sun.
"He's going to make a speech!" cried a voice. "Bet you he isn't,"
replied another.
This was the signal. A rustling was heard among the leaves, and numbers
of inquisitive faces peeped out from all corners of the garden. A
general rattling of glasses announced that whole parties were leaving the
tables to see what was up. The waiters stopped to stare at Chestnut
Number 3. The whole population of Juan Fernandez was staring up at
Flamaran without in the least knowing the reason why.
"Gentlemen," said a voice from an arbor, "Professor Flamaran will now
begin his lecture."
A chorus of shouts and laughter rose around our tree.
"Hi, old boy, wait till we're gone!"
"Ladies, he will discourse to you on the law of husband and wife!"
"No, on the foreclosure of mortgages!"
"No, on the payment of debts!"
"Oh, you naughty old man! You ought to be shut up!"
M. Flamaran, though somewhat put out of countenance for the moment, was
seized with a happy inspiration. He stretched out an arm to show that he
was about to speak. He opened his broad mouth with a smile of fatherly
humor, and the groves, attentive, heard him thunder forth these words:
"Boys, I promise to give you all white marks if you let me dine in
peace!"
The last words were lost in a roar of applause.
"Three cheers for old Flamaran!"
Three cheers were given, followed by clapping of hands from various
quarters, then all was silence, and no one took any further notice of our
tree.
M. Flamaran left the railing and unfolded his napkin.
"You may be sure of my white marks, young men," he said, as he sat down.
He was delighted at his success as an orator, and laughed gayly.
Jupille, on the other hand, was as pale as if he had been in a street
riot, and seemed rooted to the spot where he stood.
"It's all right, Jupille; it's all right, man! A little ready wit is all
you need, dash my wig!"
The old clerk gradually regained his composure, and the dinner grew very
merry. Flamaran's spirits, raised by this little incident, never
flagged. He had a story for every glass of wine, and told them all with
a quiet humor of his own.
Toward the end of dinner, by the time the waiter came to offer us
"almonds and raisins, pears, peaches, preserves, meringues, brandy
cherries," we had got upon the subject of Sidonie, the pearl of Forez.
M. Flamaran narrated to us, with dates, how a friend of his one day
depicted to him a young girl at Montbrison, of fresh and pleasing
appearance, a good housekeeper, and of excellent family; and how he--
M. Flamaran--had forthwith started off to find her, had recognized her
before she was pointed out to him, fell in love with her at first sight,
and was not long in obtaining her affection in return. The marriage had
taken place at St. Galmier.
"Yes, my dear Mouillard," he added, as if pointing a moral, "thirty years
ago last May I became a happy man; when do you think of following my
example?"
At this point, Jupille suddenly found himself one too many, and vanished
down the corkscrew stair.
"We once spoke of an heiress at Bourges," M. Flamaran went on.
"Apparently that's all off?"
"Quite off."
"You were within your rights; but now, why not a Parisienne?"
"Yes, indeed; why not?"
"Perhaps you are prejudiced in some way against Parisiennes?"
"I? Not the least."
"I used to be, but I've got over it now. They have a charm of their own,
a certain style of dressing, walking, and laughing which you don't find
outside the fortifications. For a long time I used to think that these
qualities stood them in lieu of virtues. That was a slander; there are
plenty of Parisiennes endowed with every virtue; I even know a few who
are angels."
At this point, M. Flamaran looked me straight in the eyes, and, as I made
no reply, he added:
"I know one, at least: Jeanne Charnot. Are you listening?"
"Yes, Monsieur Flamaran."
"Isn't she a paragon?"
"She is."
"As sensible as she is tender-hearted?"
"So I believe."
"And as clever as she is sensible?"
"That is my opinion."
"Well, then, young man, if that's your opinion--excuse my burning my
boats, all my boats--if that's your opinion, I don't understand why--
Do you suppose she has no money?"
"I know nothing about her means."
"Don't make any mistake; she's a rich woman. Do you think you're too
young to marry?"
"No."
"Do you fancy, perhaps, that she is still bound by that unfortunate
engagement?"
"I trust she is not."
"I'm quite sure she is not. She is free, I tell you, as free as you.
Well, why don't you love her?"
"But I do love her, Monsieur Flamaran!"
"Why, then, I congratulate you, my boy!"
He leaned across the table and gave me a hearty grasp of the hand. He
was so agitated that he could not speak--choking with joyful emotion, as
if he had been Jeanne's father, or mine.
After a minute or so, he drew himself up in his chair, reached out, put a
hand on each of my shoulders and kept it there as if he feared I might
fly away.
"So you love her, you love her! Good gracious, what a business I've had
to get you to say so! You are quite right to love her, of course, of
course--I could not have understood your doing otherwise; but I must say
this, my boy, that if you tarry too long, with her attractions, you know
what will happen."
"Yes, I ought to ask for her at once."
"To be sure you ought."
"Alas! Monsieur Flamaran, who is there that I can send on such a mission
for me? You know that I am an orphan."
"But you have an uncle."
"We have quarrelled."
"You might make it up again, on an occasion like this."
"Out of the question; we quarrelled on her account; my uncle hates
Parisiennes."
"Damn it all, then! send a friend--a friend will do under the
circumstances."
"There's Lampron."
"The painter?"
"Yes, but he doesn't know Monsieur Charnot. It would only be one
stranger pleading for another. My chances would be small.
What I want--"
"Is a friend of both parties, isn't it? Well, what am I?"
"The very man!"
"Very well. I undertake to ask for her hand! I shall ask for the hand
of the charming Jeanne for both of us; for you, who will make her happy;
and for myself, who will not entirely lose her if she marries one of my
pupils, one of my favorite graduates--my friend, Fabien Mouillard.
And I won't be refused--no, damme, I won't!"
He brought down his fist upon the table with a tremendous blow which made
the glasses ring and the decanters stagger.
"Coming!" cried a waiter from below, thinking he was summoned.
"All right, my good fellow!" shouted M. Flamaran, leaning over the
railings. "Don't trouble. I don't want anything."
He turned again toward me, still filled with emotion, but somewhat calmer
than he had been.
"Now," said he, "let us talk, and do you tell me all."
And we began a long and altogether delightful talk.
A more genuine, a finer fellow never breathed than this professor let
loose from school and giving his heart a holiday--a simple, tender heart,
preserved beneath the science of the law like a grape in sawdust. Now he
would smile as I sang Jeanne's praises; now he would sit and listen to my
objections with a truculent air, tightening his lips till they broke
forth in vehement denial. "What! You dare to say! Young man, what are
you afraid of?" His overflowing kindness discharged itself in the
sincerest and most solemn asseverations.
We had left Juan Fernandez far behind us; we were both far away in that
Utopia where mind penetrates mind, heart understands heart. We heard
neither the squeaking of a swing beneath us, nor the shouts of laughter
along the promenades, nor the sound of a band tuning up in a neighboring
pavilion. Our eyes, raised to heaven, failed to see the night descending
upon us, vast and silent, piercing the foliage with its first stars. Now
and again a warm breath passed over us, blown from the woods; I tasted
its strangely sweet perfume; I saw in glimpses the flying vision of a
huge dark tulip, striped with gold, unfolding its petals on the moist
bank of a dyke, and I asked myself whether a mysterious flower had really
opened in the night, or whether it was but a new feeling, slowly budding,
unfolding, blossoming within my heart.
CHAPTER XVII
PLEASURES OF EAVESDROPPING
July 22d.
At two o'clock to-day I went to see Sylvestre, to tell him all the great
events of yesterday. We sat down on the old covered sofa in the shadow
of the movable curtain which divides the studio, as it were, into two
rooms, among the lay figures, busts, varnish-bottles, and paint-boxes.
Lampron likes this chiaroscuro. It rests his eyes.
Some one knocked at the door.
"Stay where you are," said Sylvestre; "it's a customer come for the
background of an engraving. I'll be with you in two minutes. Come in!"
As he was speaking he drew the curtain in front of me, and through the
thin stuff I could see him going toward the door, which had just opened.
"Monsieur Lampron?"
"I am he, Monsieur."
"You don't recognize me, Monsieur?"
"No, Monsieur."
"I'm surprised at that."
"Why so? I have never seen you."
"You have taken my portrait!"
"Really!"
I was watching Lampron, who was plainly angered at this brusque
introduction. He left the chair which he had begun to push forward,
let it stand in the middle of the studio, and went and sat down on his
engraving-stool in the corner, with a somewhat haughty look, and a
defiant smile lurking behind his beard. He rested his elbow on the table
and began to drum with his fingers.
"What I have had the honor to inform you is the simple truth, Monsieur.
I am Monsieur Charnot of the Institute."
Lampron gave a glance in my direction, and his frown melted away.
"Excuse me, Monsieur; I only know you by your back. Had you shown me
that side of you I might perhaps have recognized--"
"I have not come here to listen to jokes, Monsieur; and I should have
come sooner to demand an explanation, but that it was only this morning
I heard of what I consider a deplorable abuse of your talents. But
picture-shows are not in my line. I did not see myself there. My friend
Flamaran had to tell me that I was to be seen at the last Salon, together
with my daughter, sitting on a tree-trunk in the forest of Saint-Germain.
Is it true, Monsieur, that you drew me sitting on a trunk?"
"Quite true."
"That's a trifle too rustic for a man who does not go outside of Paris
three times a year. And my daughter you drew in profile--a good
likeness, I believe."
"It was as like as I could make it."
"Then you confess that you drew both my daughter and myself?"
"Yes, I do, Monsieur."
"It may not be so easy for you to explain by what right you did so; I
await your explanation, Monsieur."
"I might very well give you no explanation whatever," replied Lampron,
who was beginning to lose patience. "I might also reply that I no more
needed to ask your permission to sketch you than to ask that of the
beeches, oaks, elms, and willows. I might tell you that you formed part
of the landscape, that every artist who sketches a bit of underwood has
the right to stick a figure in--"
"A figure, Monsieur! do you call me a figure?"
"A gentleman, I mean. Artists call it figure. Well, I might give you
this reason, which is quite good enough for you, but it is not the real
one. I prefer to tell you frankly what passed. You have a very
beautiful daughter, Monsieur."
M. Charnot made his customary bow.
"One of my friends is in love with her. He is shy, and dares not tell
his love. We met you by chance in the wood, and I was seized with the
idea of making a sketch of Mademoiselle Jeanne, so like that she could
not mistake it, and then exhibiting it with the certainty of her seeing
it and guessing its meaning. I trusted she would recall to her mind, not
myself, for my youth is past, but a young friend of mine who is of the
age and build of a lover. If this was a crime, Monsieur, I am ready to
take the blame for it upon myself, for I alone committed it."
"It certainly was criminal, Monsieur; criminal in you, at any rate--you
who are a man of weight, respected for your talent and your character--
to aid and abet in a frivolous love-affair."
"It was the deepest and most honorable sentiment, Monsieur."
"A blaze of straw!"
"Nothing of the sort!"
"Don't tell me! Your friend's a mere boy."
"So much the better for him, and for her, too! If you want a man of
middle age for your son-in-law, just try one and see what they are worth.
You may be sorry that you ever refused this boy, who, it is true, is only
twenty-four, has little money, no decided calling, nor yet that gift of
self-confidence which does instead of merit for so many people; but who
is a brave and noble soul, whom I can answer for as for myself. Go,
Monsieur, you will find your daughter great names, fat purses, gold lace,
long beards, swelling waistbands, reputations, pretensions, justified or
not, everything, in short, in which he is poor; but him you will never
find again! That is all I have to tell you."
Lampron had become animated and spoke with heat. There was the slightest
flash of anger in his eyes.
I saw M. Charnot get up, approach him, and hold out his hand.
"I did not wish you to say anything else, Monsieur; that is enough for
me. Flamaran asked my daughter's hand for your friend only this morning.
Flamaran loses no time when charged with a commission. He, too, told me
much that was good of your friend. I also questioned Counsellor Boule.
But however flattering characters they might give him, I still needed
another, that of a man who had lived in complete intimacy with Monsieur
Mouillard, and I could find no one but you."
Lampron stared astonished at this little thin-lipped man who had just
changed his tone and manner so unexpectedly.
"Well, Monsieur," he answered, "you might have got his character from me
with less trouble; there was no need to make a scene."
"Excuse me. You say I should have got his character; that is exactly
what I did not want; characters are always good. What I wanted was a cry
from the heart of a friend outraged and brought to bay. That is what I
got, and it satisfies me. I am much obliged to you, Monsieur, and beg
you will excuse my conduct."
"But, since we are talking sense at present, allow me to put you a
question in my turn. I am not in the habit of going around the point.
Is my friend's proposal likely to be accepted or not?"
"Monsieur Lampron, in these delicate matters I have decided for the
future to leave my daughter entirely free. Although my happiness is at
stake almost as entirely as hers, I shall not say a word save to advise.
In accordance with this resolve I communicated Flamaran's proposal to
her."
"Well?"
"I expected she would refuse it."
"But she said 'Yes'?"
"She did not say 'No;' if she had, you can guess that I should not be
here."
At this reply I quite lost my head, and was very near tearing aside the
curtain, and bursting forth into the studio with a shout of gratitude.
But M. Charnot added:
"Don't be too sure, though. There are certain serious, and, perhaps,
insurmountable obstacles. I must speak to my daughter again. I will let
your friend know of our final decision as soon as I can. Good-by,
Monsieur."
Lampron saw him to the street, and I heard their steps grow distant in
the passage. A moment later Sylvestre returned and held out both hands
to me, saying:
"Well, are you happy now?"
"Of course I am, to a certain extent."
"'To a certain extent'! Why, she loves you."
"But the obstacles, Sylvestre!"
"Nonsense!"
"Perhaps insurmountable--those were his words."
"Why, obstacles are the salt of all our joys. What a deal you young men
want before you can be called happy! You ask Life for certainties, as if
she had any to give you!"
And he began to discuss my fears, but could not quite disperse them, for
neither of us could guess what the obstacles could be.
August 2d.
After ten days of waiting, during which I have employed Lampron and M.
Flamaran to intercede for me, turn and turn about; ten days passed in
hovering between mortal anguish and extravagant hopes, during which I
have formed, destroyed, taken up again and abandoned more plans than I
ever made in all my life before, yesterday, at five o'clock, I got a note
from M. Charnot, begging me to call upon him the same evening.
I went there in a state of nervous collapse. He received me in his
study, as he had done seven months before, at our first interview, but
with a more solemn politeness; and I noticed that the paper-knife, which
he had taken up from the table as he resumed his seat, shook between his
fingers. I sat in the same chair in which I had felt so ill at ease.
To tell the truth, I felt very much the same, yesterday. M. Charnot
doubtless noticed it, and wished to reassure me.
"Monsieur," said he, "I receive you as a friend. Whatever may be the
result of our interview, you may be assured of my esteem. Therefore do
not fear to answer me frankly."
He put several questions to me concerning my family, my tastes, and my
acquaintance in Paris. Then he requested me to tell the simple story of
my boyhood and my youth, the recollections of my home, of the college at
La Chatre, of my holidays at Bourges, and of my student life.
He listened without interruption, playing with the ivory paperknife.
When I reached the date--it was only last December--when I saw Jeanne for
the first time
"That's enough," said he, "I know or guess the rest. Young man, I
promised you an answer; this is it--"
For the moment, I ceased to breathe; my very heart seemed to stop
beating.
"My daughter," went on M. Charnot, "has at this moment several proposals
of marriage to choose from. You see I hide nothing from you. I have
left her time to reflect; she has weighed and compared them all, and
communicated to me yesterday the result of her reflections. To richer
and more brilliant matches she prefers an honest man who loves her for
herself, and you, Monsieur, are that honest man."
"Oh, thank you, thank you, Monsieur!" I cried.
"Wait a moment, there are two conditions."
"Were there ten, I would accept them without question!"
"Don't hurry. You will see; one is my daughter's, the other comes from
both of us."
"You wish me to have some profession, perhaps?"
"No, that's not it. Clearly my son-in-law will never sit idle. Besides,
I have some views on that subject, which I will tell you later if I have
the chance. No, the first condition exacted by my daughter, and dictated
by a feeling which is very pleasant to me, is that you promise never to
leave Paris."
"That I swear to, with all the pleasure in life!"
"Really? I feared you had some ties."
"Not one."
"Or dislike for Paris."
"No, Monsieur; only a preference for Paris, with freedom to indulge it.
Your second condition?"
"The second, to which my daughter and I both attach importance, is that
you should make your peace with your uncle. Flamaran tells me you have
quarrelled."
"That is true."
"I hope it is not a serious difference. A mere cloud, isn't it?"
"Unfortunately not. My uncle is very positive--"
"But at the same time his heart is in the right place, so far as I could
judge from what I saw of him--in June, I think it was."
"Yes."
"You don't mind taking the first step?"
"I will take as many as may be needed."
"I was sure you would. You can not remain on bad terms with your
father's brother, the only relative you have left. In our eyes this
reconciliation is a duty, a necessity. You should desire it as much as,
and even more than, we."
"I shall use every effort, Monsieur, I promise you."
"And in that case you will succeed, I feel sure."
M. Charnot, who had grown very pale, held out his hand to me, and tried
hard to smile.
"I think, Monsieur Fabien, that we are quite at one, and that the hour
has come--"
He did not finish the sentence, but rose and went to open a door between
two bookcases at the end of the room.
" Jeanne," he said, "Monsieur Fabien accepts the two conditions, my
dear."
And I saw Jeanne come smiling toward me.
And I, who had risen trembling, I, who until then had lost my head at the
mere thought of seeing her, I, who had many a time asked myself in terror
what I should say on meeting her, if ever she were mine, I felt myself
suddenly bold, and the words rushed to my lips to thank her, to express
my joy.
My happiness, however, was evident, and I might have spared my words.
For the first half-hour all three of us talked together.
Then M. Charnot pushed back his armchair, and we two were left to
ourselves.
He had taken up a newspaper, but I am pretty sure he held it upside down.
In any case he must have been reading between the lines, for he did not
turn the page the whole evening.
He often cast a glance over the top of the paper, folded in four, to the
corner where we were sitting, and from us his eyes travelled to a pretty
miniature of Jeanne as a child, which hung over the mantelpiece.
What comparisons, what memories, what regrets, what hopes were struggling
in his mind? I know not, but I know he sighed, and had not we been there
I believe he would have wept.
To me Jeanne showed herself simple as a child, wise and thoughtful as a
woman. A new feeling was growing every instant within me, of perfect
rest of heart; the certainty of happiness for all my life to come.
Yes, my happiness travelled beyond the present, as I looked into the
future and saw along series of days passed by her side; and while she
spoke to me, tranquil, confident, and happy too, I thought I saw the
great wings of my dream closing over and enfolding us.
We spoke in murmurs. The open window let in the warm evening air and the
confused roar of the city.
"I am to be your friend and counsellor?" said she.
"Always."
"You promise that you will ask my advice in all things, and that we shall
act in concert?"
"I do."
"If this very first evening I ask you for a proof of this, you won't be
angry?"
"On the contrary."
"Well, from what you have told me of your uncle, you seem to have
accepted the second condition, of making up your quarrel, rather
lightly."
"I have only promised to do my best."
"Yes, but my father counts upon your success. How do you intend to act?"
"I haven't yet considered."
"That's just what I foresaw, and I thought it would perhaps be a good
thing if we considered it together."
"Mademoiselle, I am listening; compose the plan of campaign, and I will
criticise it."
Jeanne clasped her hands over her knees and assumed a thoughtful look.
"Suppose you wrote to him."
"There is every chance that he would not answer."
"Reply paid?"
"Mademoiselle, you are laughing; you are no counsellor any longer."
"Yes, I am. Let us be serious. Suppose you go to see him."
"That's a better idea. He may perhaps receive me."