The Cross of Berny Part 10

Misery has its grandeur, and every sorrow has its poetry; but when the humility of life is voluntary and privations mere caprices, misery loses all its prestige, and the romantic sufferings we needlessly impose on ourselves, are intolerable, because there is no courage or merit in enduring them.

This sentiment I feel must be natural, for my old companion in misfortune, my good and faithful Blanchard, holds the same views that I do. You know how devoted she was to me during my long weary days of trouble!

She faithfully served me three years with no reward other than the approval of her own conscience. She, who was so proud of keeping my mother's house, resembling a stewardess of the olden time; when misfortune came, converted herself for my sake into maid of all work!

Inspired by love for me, she patiently endured the hards.h.i.+ps and dreariness of our sad situation; not a complaint, not a murmur, not a reproach. To see her so quietly resigned, you would have supposed that she had been both chamber-maid and cook all her life, that is if you never tasted her dishes! I shall always remember her first dinner. O, the Spartan broth of that day! She must have gotten the receipt from "The Good Lacedemonian Cook Book."

I confidently swallowed all she put before me. Strange and mysterious ragout! I dared not ask what was in it, but I vainly sought for the relics of any animal I had ever seen; what did she make it of? It is a secret that I fear I shall die without discovering.

Well, this woman, so devoted, so resigned in the days of adversity; this feminine Caleb, whose generous care a.s.suaged my misery; who, when I suffered, deemed it her duty to suffer with me; when I worked day and night, considered it an honor to labor day and night with me--now that she knows we are restored to our fortune, cannot endure the least privation.

All day long she complains. Every order is received with imprecatory mutterings, such as "What an idiotic idea! What folly! to be as rich as Croesus and find amus.e.m.e.nt in poverty! To come and live in a little hole with common people and refuse to visit d.u.c.h.esses in their castles!

People must not be surprised if I don't obey orders that I don't understand."

She is stubborn and refractory. She will drive me to despair, so determined does she seem to thwart all my plans. I tell her to call me Madame; she persists in calling me Mademoiselle. I told her to bring simple dresses and country shoes; she has brought nothing but embroidered muslins, cobweb handkerchiefs and gray silk boots. I entreated her to put on a simple dress, when she came with me. This made her desperate, and through vengeance and maliciously exaggerated zeal she bundled herself up like an old witch. I tried to make her comprehend that her frightfulness far exceeded my wildest wishes; she thereupon disarmed me with this sublime reply:

"I had nothing but new hats and new shawls, and so had to _borrow_ these clothes to obey Mademoiselle's orders."

Would you believe it? The proud old woman has destroyed or hidden all the old clothes that were witnesses of our past misery. I am more humble, and have kept everything. When I returned to my little garret, I was delighted to see again my modest furniture, my pretty pink chintz curtains, my thin blue carpet, my little ebony shelves, and then all the precious objects I had saved from the wreck; my father's old easy-chair, my mother's work-table, and all of our family portraits, concealed, like proud intruders, in one corner of the room, where haughty marshals, worthy prelates, coquettish marquises, venerable abbesses, sprightly pages and gloomy cavaliers all jostled together, and much astonished to find themselves in such a wretched little room, and what is worse, shamefully disowned by their unworthy descendant. I love my garret, and remained there three days before coming here; and there I left my fine princess dresses and put on my modest travelling suit; there the elegant Irene once more became the interesting widow of the imaginary Albert Guerin. We started at nine in the morning. I had the greatest difficulty in getting ready for the early train, so soon have I forgotten my old habit of early rising. When I look back and recall how for three years I arose at dawn, it looks like a wretched dream. I suppose it is because I have become so lazy.

It is distressing to think that only six months have pa.s.sed since I was raised from the depths of poverty, and here I am already spoiled by good fortune!

Misfortune is a great master, but like all masters he only is obeyed when present; we work with him, but when his back is turned forget his admonitions.

We reached the depot as the train was starting, obtaining comfortable seats. I met with a most interesting adventure, that is, interesting to me; how small the world is! I had for a companion an old friend of Roger, but who fortunately did not know me; it was M. Edgar de Meilhan, the poet, whose talents I admire, and whose acquaintance I had long desired; judging from his conversation he must be quite an original character. But he was accompanied by one of those explanatory gossips who seem born to serve as cicerones to the entire world, and render useless all penetrating perspicacity.

These sort of bores are amusing to meet on a journey; rather well informed, they quote their favorite authors very neatly in order to display the extent of their information; they also have a happy way of imposing on the ignorant people, who sit around with wide-stretched mouths, listening to the string of celebrated names so familiarly repeated as to indicate a personal intimacy with each and all of them; in a word, it is a way of making the most of your acquaintance, as your witty friend M.L. would say. Now I must give you a portrait of this gentleman; it shall be briefly done.

He was an angular man, with a square forehead, a square nose, a square mouth, a square chin, a square smile, a square hand, square shoulders, square gayety, square jokes; that is to say, he is coa.r.s.e, heavy and rugged. A coa.r.s.e mind cultivated often appears smooth and moves easily in conversation, but a square mind is always awkward and threatening.

Well, this square man evidently "made the most of his acquaintances" for my benefit, for poor little me, an humble violet met by chance on the road! He spoke of M. Guizot having mentioned this to him; of M. Thiers, who dined with him lately, having said that to him; of Prince Max de Beauvau, whom he bet with at the last Versailles races; of the beautiful Madame de Magnoncourt, with whom he danced at the English amba.s.sador's ball; of twenty other distinguished personages with whom he was intimate, and finally he mentioned Prince Roger de Monbert, the eccentric tiger-hunter, who for the last two months had been the lion of Paris. At the name of Roger I became all attention; the square man continued:

"But you, my dear Edgar, were brought up with him, were you not?"

"Yes," said the poet.

"Have you seen him since his return?"

"Not yet, but I hear from him constantly; I had a letter yesterday."

"They say he is engaged to the beautiful heiress, Irene de Chateaudun, and will be married very soon."

"'Tis an idle rumor," said M. de Meilhan, in a dry tone that forced his dreadful friend to select another topic of conversation.

Oh, how curious I was to find out what Roger had written to M. de Meilhan! Roger had a confidant! He had told him about me! What could he have said? Oh, this dreadful letter! What would I not give to see it! My sole thought is, how can I obtain it; unconsciously I gazed at M. de Meilhan, with an uneasy perplexity that must have astonished him and given him a queer idea of my character.

I was unable to conceal my joy, when I heard him say he lived at Richeport, and that he intended stopping at Pont de l'Arche, which is but a short distance from his estate; my satisfaction must have appeared very strange.

A dreadful storm detained us two hours in the neighborhood of the depot.

We remained in company under the shed, and watched the falling rain. My situation was embarra.s.sing; I wished to be agreeable and polite to M. de Meilhan that I might encourage him to call at Madama Taverneau's, Pont de l'Arche, and then again I did not wish to be so very gracious and attentive as to inspire him with too much a.s.surance. It was a difficult game to play. I must boldly risk making a bad impression, and at the same time keep him at a respectful distance. Well, I succeeded in solving the problem within the pale of legitimate curiosity, offering to share with my companion in misfortune a box of bon-bons, intended for Madame Taverneau.

But what attentions he showered on me before meriting this great sacrifice! What ingenious umbrellas he improvised for me under this inhospitable shed, that grudgingly lent us a perfidious and capricious shelter! What charming seats, skilfully made of sticks and logs driven into the wet ground!

When the storm was over M. de Meilhan offered to escort us to Pont de l'Arche; I accepted, much to the astonishment of the severe Blanchard, who cannot understand the sudden change in my conduct, and begins to suspect me of being in search of adventures.

When we reached our destination, and Madam Taverneau heard that M. de Meilhan had been my escort, she was in such a state of excitement that she could talk of nothing else. M. de Meilhan is highly thought of here, where his family have resided many years; his mother is venerated, and he himself beloved by all that know him. He has a moderate fortune; with it he quietly dispenses charity and daily confers benefits with an unknown hand. He seems to be very agreeable and witty. I have never met so brilliant a man, except M. de Monbert. How charming it would be to hear them talk together!

But that letter! What would I not give for that letter! If I could only read the first four lines! I would find out what I want to know. These first lines would tell me if Roger is really sad; if he is to be pitied, and if it is time for me to console him. I rely a little upon the indiscretion of M. de Meilhan to enlighten me. Poets are like doctors; all artists are kindred spirits; they cannot refrain from telling a romantic love affair any more than a physician can from citing his last remarkable case; the former never name their friends, the latter never betray their patients. But when we know beforehand, as I do, the name of the hero or patient, we soon complete the semi-indiscretion.

So I mercilessly slander all heiresses and capricious women of fas.h.i.+on that I may incite Roger's confidant to relate me my own history. I forgot to mention that since my arrival here M. de Meilhan has been every day to call on Madame Taverneau. She evidently imagines herself the object of his visits. I am of a different opinion. Indeed, I fear I have made a conquest of this dark-eyed young poet, which is not at all flattering to me. This sudden adoration shows that he has not a very elevated opinion of me. How he will laugh when he recognises this adventurous widow in the proud wife of his friend!

You reproach me bitterly for having sacrificed you to Madame Taverneau.

Cruel Prefect that you are, go and accuse the government and your consul-general of this unjust preference.

Can I reach Gren.o.ble in three hours, as I do Rouen? Can I return from Gren.o.ble to Paris in three hours; fly when I wish, reappear when 'tis necessary? In a word have you a railway? No! Well, then, trust to my experience and believe that where locomotion is concerned there is an end to friends.h.i.+p, grat.i.tude, sympathy and devotion. Nothing is to be considered but railways, roads, wagons that jolt you to death, but carry you to your destination, and stages that upset and never arrive.

We cannot visit the friends we love best, but those we can get away from with the greatest facility.

Besides, for a heroine wis.h.i.+ng to hide herself, the asylum you offer has nothing mysterious, it is merely a Thebais of a prefecture; and there I am afraid of compromising you.

A Parisian in a provincial town is always standing on a volcano, one unlucky word may cause destruction.

How difficult it is to be a Prefect! You have commenced very properly--four children! All that is necessary to begin with. They are such convenient excuses. To be a good Prefect one must have four children. They are inexhaustible pretexts for escaping social horrors; if you wish to decline a compromising invitation, your dear little girl has got the whooping cough; when you wish to avoid dining a friend _in transitu_, your eldest son has a dreadful fever; you desire to escape a banquet unadorned by the presence of the big-wigs--brilliant idea! all four children have the measles.

Now confess you did well to have the four lovely children! Without them you would be conquered in spite of your wisdom; it requires so much skill for a Parisian to live officially in a province!

There all the women are clever; the most insignificant citizen's wife can outwit an old diplomat. What science they display under the most trying and peculiar circ.u.mstances! What profound combination in their plans of vengeance! What prudence in their malice! What patience in their cruelty! It is dreadful! I will visit you when you reside in the country, but while you reign over a prefecture, I have for you the respectful horror that a democratic mind has for all authorities.

Who is this poor convalescent whose wound caused you so much anxiety?

You don't tell me his name! I understand you, Madame! Even to an old friend you must show your administrative discretion!

Is this wounded hero young? I suppose he is, as you do not say he is old. He is "about to leave, and return to his home;" "his home" is rather vague, as you don't tell me his name! Now, I am different from you; I name and fully describe every one I meet, you respond with enigmas.

I well know that your destiny is fulfilled, and that mine has all the attractiveness of a new romance. Nevertheless, you must be more communicative if you expect to be continued in office as my confidant.

Embrace for me your dear little ones, whom I insist upon regarding as your best counsellors at the prefecture, and tell my G.o.ddaughter, Irene, to kiss you for me.

IRENE DE CHATEAUDUN.

VIII.

EDGAR DE MEILHAN _to the_ PRINCE DE MONBERT, Saint Dominique street, Paris.

RICHEPORT, May 31st, 18--.

Now that you are a sort of Amadis de Gaul, striking att.i.tudes upon a barren rock, as a sign of your lovelorn condition, you have probably forgotten, my dear Roger, my encounter upon the cars with an ideal grisette, who saved me from the horrors of starvation by generously dividing with me a bag of sugar-plums. But for this unlooked-for aid, I should have been reduced, like a famous handful of s.h.i.+pwrecked mariners, to feed upon my watch-chain and vest-b.u.t.tons. To a man so absorbed in his grief, as you are, the news of the death from starvation of a friend upon the desert island of a railway station, would make very little impression; but I not being in love with any Irene de Chateaudun, have preserved a pleasant recollection of this touching scene, translated from the aeneid in modern and familiar prose.