Part 3

The doctor did not appear to hear the question, his eyes were fixed on my unfortunate nose. At last he uttered the words “_Remarkably_ strange!”

“What is strange?” enquired my father. The doctor did not at once reply: lifting up his right hand, he held it before him, moving it first further and then nearer to him, as if he was trying to get an exact point of sight to suit him. When he held it still, the back was towards me, and it hid half his face. His eyes peeped over it as if he was looking over a wall or as if he was plunged in water to the tip of his nose.

We all gazed at him in great surprise and some consternation. As for him, he quietly continued his operations, figuratively pulling me to pieces: his eyes became quite small, and puckers and wrinkles appeared at the corners.

“Not the least affinity,” said he, in a few seconds, “between the different features in that face. I take the nose” (here he made a sort of telescope with his closed fist), “a warlike nose! I hide it” (he hid himself again behind his wall until I saw only his two eyes), “and I see a meek forehead, and a timid eye. I look at them altogether again” (here the wall disappeared), “and what a strange contrast is before me! That martial nose and that timid physiognomy! that poor face! which is quite ashamed to have such a nose attached to it, a nose almost.... What was I going to say? however, no matter. It is just as if you saw a gentle, peaceable, good-natured shop-keeper giving his arm in the street to some violent, insolent blusterer. Absurd contrast! a caricaturist would be delighted to meet with that boy!”

“But,” said my father impatiently, “do tell us something about phrenology!”

XVIII.

I DISCOVER THAT I DO NOT POSSESS THE BUMP OF COMBATIVENESS.

THE doctor looked grave as he answered: “My dear Bicquerot, if you ask that question seriously, I will reply. But if you are only joking, pray don’t do so any more. It is too serious a subject to laugh at.”

My father having declared that he was not joking at all, the doctor looked round him in a suspicious manner and lowered his voice as he said, “I have discovered things that would make your hair stand on end if I disclosed them to you. I have discovered a real science, an infallible science——”

“Then,” said my father, “do you seriously believe that our character and destiny in the world depend upon the form and size of the bumps on our skulls?”

“Yes; I do believe it,” answered the doctor with the air of a resigned and misunderstood genius, as he folded his hands in front of him. “Yes, I do believe it: O Bicquerot!” he repeated.

“Well, I confess,” began my father.

“Thirty years’ experiences, thirty years of study and researches, have I spent!” cried the doctor, “and have at last found the truth! Here, read this,”—he felt in the side pocket of his coat and pulled out a yellow pamphlet—“read this, I say, and the scales will drop from your eyes.”

“However, doctor, look here,” my father again tried to begin.

It was the doctor’s turn to become impatient. “It is not a question of _However!_ it is not a question of _Doctor!_ It is not a question of _Look here!_ at all,” he exclaimed. “Truth is truth. Let me feel the head of the first comer, I will tell him: ‘Sir, you have such and such a bump. Very well, you will do such and such a thing; you will not be able to help it. You who have the bump of _murder_, you will be a _murderer_. Science declares _that you must become a murderer_!’ But he answers me: ‘I have always been a quiet, peaceable man; I have lived for fifty years in the world and have never hurt anyone yet, not even a fly!’ ‘Never mind, my friend,’ I say; ‘in two years, in ten years, you will be a _murderer_! and if you die without being one, remember that you would have been one, only you had no opportunity.’”

“Oh, come! that’s too much!” cried my mother, scandalized and shocked.

“Well, madame, perhaps I exaggerate a little, but it is in order that you may understand me better,” and the doctor proceeded to tell us many extraordinary things which I did not in the least understand, and which made my mother very indignant and my father discontented. He went on laying down the law, without attending to any remarks or objections made by his listeners; at last he finished up a long confused rigmarole with the following words:—

“Now, madame, be good enough to look at your husband’s head. If you look, you will see on each side of the head, just above the ear, a large protuberance. This is the bump of combativeness, of _courage_, or, if you like it better, heroism. Very well, madame, that same bump is to be found on all the old Roman heads. When you next go to Paris, go to the Louvre, and notice the Roman busts and statues there, and you will see I am right. Whoever has that bump, if he was hatched by a chicken, brought up amongst hares, and nourished all his life upon nothing but pap, would yet be a brave man, everywhere, and always. Let who may say the reverse.”

I instinctively put up my hand to my head to feel in the place indicated by the doctor. Alas! in place of a bump I discovered a deep hollow! I felt quite ill! the doctor’s words sounded like a distant and indistinct rumble. I felt the sort of despair that a sick man experiences when, thinking he is recovering, having been buoyed up by the hopeful words of friends, all his hopes are dashed to the ground by some brutal doctor who tells him, without any preparation, that his case is hopeless and he must die.

XIX.

THE BANTAM CEASES TO TROUBLE ME.

I WENT out of the room as soon as I could do so without being remarked. My mother soon came after me.

“Isn’t Doctor Lombalot a real original?” said she, trying to smile, “but one must not believe all he says, you know. You see, neither your Papa nor I believe him, dear; and he was very wrong and very rude to say those things about you, which could only annoy you. But do not trouble about it, my darling boy.”

I could not say I did not trouble about the doctor’s unkind remarks, for in truth I troubled greatly about them. That shows how careful grown-up people should be in the things they say before children, who cannot as yet distinguish what is false or exaggerated, from what is just and true.

The next morning, I felt so upset that I was really unequal to undertake my famous expedition against the little cock. It was again a deferred project, a battle put off until the following day.

On that following day, I went down stairs with my mother, and, going to the door which led into the yard where the chickens were kept, I opened it wide and looked out. I saw only the hens and chickens, which were clucking and scratching away on the ground. I gathered courage, and walked outside with a firm step: I walked through the yard into the garden where the roses grew and the apricot tree stood.

There a great surprise awaited me! For there in a corner lay the little bantam-cock on his back with his two little legs straight up in the air. He was quite dead: he had probably been seized with apoplexy, caused by his violent temper and excessive gluttony. The other fowls, with culpable indifference, were pecking about quite as usual, apparently not wasting a single thought or sigh on the memory of the defunct.

“A good riddance!” said I with a sigh of relief. And that was the only funeral speech that was made at the demise of the impertinent little bantam.

From that day I took possession of garden and yard. My mother remarked that I had taken a sudden fancy for building little cottages with pieces of slate and tile, and that I was always outside at work, in the yard. My enemy was replaced by a large rooster; very tall, sullen of aspect, and also extremely cowardly. He never ventured to trouble me in my architectural studies.

Thus ended the great trial which was to have decided which was the better warrior, the bantam or myself, and which trial was to put my courage to the test. Things were now really left as they were, for the trial of strength never came off, by reason of the little cock’s untimely death. But, to tell the truth, in my heart of hearts, I was not sorry that the intended passage of arms with my fierce little antagonist did not take place.

XX.

MISS PORQUET’S SCHOOL.

IN the following October I became one of Miss Porquet’s pupils. Nothing remarkable occurred on my entrance into the school except that my cheeks became crimson and my nose very white while Miss Porquet put me through a sort of preparatory examination.

All the other scholars stared at me, as was only natural; and I could not help thinking, as they eagerly listened to the answers I made to Miss Porquet’s questions, that they were laughing at me, which indeed I believe to have been the case.

Miss Porquet declared herself satisfied with my replies, and told me that I should at once go into the first class, which, as well as the second, was under her own tuition. The third class was composed of children of various ages, from boys of seven to babies of three.

The third class was taken care of, petted, scolded, and taught and amused by two of Miss Porquet’s sisters. Now those babies in the third class were the very children that I dreaded most, their astonishment at my unfortunate nose was so unfeigned that it seemed like impudence.

The first class consisted of five pupils including myself. There was, first of all, a great boy of eleven, rather a stupid fellow; he had the figure of a young man, and the knowledge of a mere baby. For three years he had been struggling with the rudiments of Latin; and he might, indeed, as well have struggled a little with the rudiments of his own language, for he could scarcely spell a single word correctly. His parents, who were rich, and very fond of travelling, did not know what to do with their stupid boy, so they left him to the care of Miss Porquet.

He had the greatest aversion to books of all kinds, but he took the greatest pride in fine clothes, bright coloured neckties, etc.; and he wore straps to his trousers. This boy used to hide himself in corners to eat chocolate. He was given the nickname of _The Count_ by the other boys.

He came up to me just as we were going into the playground, and said point blank, “My name is Arthur de la Croulle!” (he evidently thought this a very fine name) “and what is your name?”

“My name is Paul Bicquerot,” I replied. He made a face of disgust, and gave me to understand that he thought Bicquerot a vulgar name. I never doubted but that he must be right; but I felt very sad, both on account of my parents and myself!

“My father is very rich” (here he rattled the money in his pocket), “and yours?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I answered.

Another face of disgust, more disdainful than the first, followed my reply. He then placed the point of his first finger on the sleeve of my jacket, which was clean but not new, and he said, with a rude laugh, “Your parents are poor, or you would wear better clothes. I dislike poor people, and so does my mamma.”

He then turned on his heel and went off to walk by himself at the other end of the playground. One would have thought that there was not one amongst us rich enough to be admitted to the honour of walking with him.

As for me, I remained stupefied at what he had told me. I had never thought about whether my father and mother were rich or poor. I was rather inclined to think them rich, because they did not go about with a stick and wallet, asking for alms like old Father Chaumont, who came every Friday to beg at our door.

The young Mr. de la Croulle put strange ideas into my head.

XXI.

A FRIEND.—PRISONER’S BASE.

“SO _The Count_ asked you if you were rich?” said a pretty little boy of about my own age, as he came up to where I was standing; “don’t mind what he says, he is a little cracked. Did what he said distress you? Don’t cry, there is nothing to cry about; _The Count_ doesn’t know _what_ he says half his time. He always goes off by himself in that grand way, when we first come out to play; but when once we have settled upon a game, and are going to begin, he forgets his straps and other toggery, and plays harder than any of us. Will you play at Prisoner’s Base?”

“I don’t know the game,” I answered.

“No?” said he, in a surprised tone. “Well, I will teach it to you; it’s not difficult, you shall be on my side.”

I did not dare to refuse the offer which was so kindly made, and yet I scarcely dared to accept it. My new friend, however, who was full of spirit and fun, cut short my excuses, and, taking me by the hand, led me off. As we walked across the playground he informed me that his name was Marc Sublaine, and that his father was the president of the local tribunal.

In enlisting me on his side he had made but a sorry recruit; and in the beginning his comrades did not scruple to tell him so. I utterly ignored all the rules of the game: I rushed blindly about, without the least method. I allowed myself to be made prisoner like a goose; and, once prisoner, I began to think of something else, instead of trying to escape, and holding out my hand to my comrades to help me. Once, when I was near making a prisoner—just on the point, in fact, of catching him—the boy, who felt he would be caught directly, turned and ran after me; when I, stupidly afraid of him, ran off as fast as I could amid shouts of laughter from both sides.

Once I forgot which side I belonged to. Each cried out, “Here, here! this way!” and I ran first to one, and then the other, bewildered and in such a state of agitation that I nearly gave up the game. If I had done so I should have lost the good opinion of my playfellows for ever.

Fortunately just about this time the clock struck, and the two sides mingled together to go into school. I feared that I should be reproached for being so stupid and playing so badly; but the boys had laughed merrily at me and felt no ill-will towards me. Marc put his arm through mine; he smiled at me, it was with good nature and no desire to tease me. I felt I loved this kind boy with all my heart; and at the same time I felt very sorry that I had behaved so ridiculously while playing; for I feared he must despise me.

“I am afraid you must think me very silly?” I said timidly.

“Very silly? why should I?” he answered kindly. “Not at all. You didn’t know the game and you made mistakes; that was all. One can’t do things all at once: one must learn how to do them. But I will tell you what I noticed when we were playing, and that was that you are a very good tempered boy.”

I reddened with pleasure, and without thinking that my request might appear sudden and strange, I said to him, “Will you be my friend?” and I held out my hand to him.

He took it, and looking in my face, smiled again, and simply said:—“I should like it very much.”

I cast a look of triumph in _The Count’s_ direction; but unfortunately his back was turned towards me.

XXII.

STUDIES.—SCHOOLBOY TALK.

WITH what ardour I attacked my Latin! How anxious I was to show the boys, and Marc above all, that although I might be stupid at playing Prisoner’s Base, I was not stupid at my lessons.

Marc recited the best in the class, and I felt as much pleasure at his doing so as if I had been the first in the class myself. I came out second, to my great joy. The others stammered through their lessons somehow; as for _The Count_ he could scarcely decline a noun correctly. But after all, what could be expected, when all study time was spent by him in making paper boxes for chocolate, and writing on them his names in full, the place and date of his birth, and his present address; or else in making little scales with cotton and pieces of paper, in which he weighed flies, wafers and little bits of feather cut from the quill pens,—while the rest of us were busy humming over our lessons to ourselves, with our thumbs pressed into our ears.

When I returned home in the evening I spoke of nothing but my new friend, and the pleasure I had had in playing at Prisoner’s Base. I kept to myself the unpleasant and disparaging remarks made by _The Count_. I was happy, animated and chatty. My father looked at me with an expression of good-natured curiosity and my mother smiled. I explained to them, at great length, but without the least clearness, the rules of Prisoner’s Base, talking exactly as if it was a new game just invented; as if no one had ever heard of it before, and as if my father had never been a schoolboy. It is one of the peculiarities of childhood to think that the world begins with themselves, and to wish to explain everything from beginning to end to grown-up people. My excitement seemed quite to change my nature, habits and disposition. I kept interrupting the conversation by saying in a loud tone, “_He_ told me this,” or “_he_ did that,” the _he_ being in each instance my new friend Marc.

My father was most kind and considerate that evening in making allowance for my excitement and enthusiasm, and never once said that children should not bore grown-up people with their foolish chatter. On the contrary he rather encouraged me and exchanged glances of satisfaction with my mother. Ah, that was a happy evening!

XXIII.

A DREADFUL ADVENTURE.

THE more I saw of Marc the better I liked him. Every day I respected and admired him more. I secretly made him the model which I did all I could to copy. In every situation which troubled and puzzled me in my character of schoolboy, I would ask myself the question, “Now in my place what would Marc do?” and that decided me.

One night when my father was reading his newspaper in the dining-room, I sat beside my mother talking quietly to her, and, as was my wont, extolling my hero Marc: for the hundredth time did I draw his picture in vivid word-painting for my mother’s edification. She listened as usual and smiled. Presently I noticed that she began looking about her as if she had lost something. She searched in her work-basket, on the floor, in the table drawers, and at last she tapped her forehead and said: “To be sure! I remember now, I must have left them in the garden.”

“What is it, mamma?” I asked.

“My scissors; I went into the garden this afternoon and was working there. I must have left them on the bench, or perhaps they fell under it.”

She turned to go out of the room; as she did so I followed softly, and without her seeing me I opened the door which led from the corridor into the garden and went out. It was very dark. I saw little squares of light thrown through the kitchen window on the gravel; and that seemed to be the only light I could see anywhere. There was no moon, and no stars. I hesitated for a moment, one moment only, and then I said to myself, “What would Marc do? He would go and find his mother’s scissors, I am sure; _I_ will go then: yes, I will certainly go.” But as I made an uncertain and trembling step forward, my courage almost forsook me: it seemed as if it was not I walking there in the dark. I heard the loud beating of my heart, each throb was painful! I heard a surging in my ears and I held my breath involuntarily. All sorts of vague forms floated before my eyes. Something, surely, moved amongst the dead leaves to the right, I thought. I passed by quickly. But something is surely stealing along at the top of the wall to the left? Here I stopped, and waited a moment. What could it be? Something, I felt certain, was watching me, following every movement! However, on I went, and arrived at last, more dead than alive, at the wooden seat under the large cherry-tree. I passed my hand rapidly over the seat—no! the scissors were not there. “They must, then, be upon the ground,” said I to myself, and I said again, in a whisper, “What is easier than to pick them up? I must of course feel for them under the seat. Of course I must pick them up.”

It was very easy to talk of picking them up; but _how_ was I to do it? If I stooped, surely that _mysterious something_ that had certainly been stealthily following me, would pounce out upon my back. And if it should be hidden behind the seat! If it should jump into my face! Horrible! Then, too, what a dreadful feeling it would be to pass one’s hand over the earth without being able to see what one touched! who could tell what dirty, horrible, slimy and cold creature I might not come in contact with? Without trying to invent any new monster to terrify myself with, supposing a toad should touch my hand!

But I now remembered Marc, and I determined I would be worthy of his friendship. In desperation I stooped suddenly and placed my hand on the gravel under the seat. I uttered a piercing cry and lost consciousness.

XXIV.

DON’T LET MARC KNOW.

WHEN I recovered my senses I found myself lying in my bed; my father and mother were standing at the side of it, and our doctor was holding my hand.

“The serpent! the serpent!” were my first words.

Dr. Brissaud looked at my father, who said a few words to him in a low tone. My head felt so weak that I seemed to hear his voice from a long distance; I succeeded, however, in distinguishing these words: “He went into the garden without a light to look for his mother’s scissors, and in feeling for them he must have put his hand on a coil of rope used for hanging up the linen to dry, and which was left under the garden seat.” Upon that I went off to sleep.

I kept my bed for a long time after this, for I was very ill. I was continually having dreams and fancies, in which all the fantastic and horrid creatures conjured up by Montézuma were perpetually playing a part. Always the same: Croquemitaine, the Colonel’s horse, the monkey in the Jardin des Plantes, the little boy who lived opposite who put out his tongue at me, Montézuma himself and Dr. Lombalot, who both made faces at me, and, at last, that dreadful serpent that I had, in fancy, touched with my hand. As the creatures of my imagination would torment me more and more, I would fall to shaking and shivering all over, my poor father standing pale by my bedside, and my mother crying. Then, as they caressed me, I would implore them “not to tell Marc; not let Marc know that I was a coward!”

In saying this, I was not just to myself, I can see that now. I had really displayed great courage; and, under the influence of the best feeling, I had obliged my poor little trembling body to obey my will. Only, in a moment of great excitement, I had trusted too much to my strength and it had failed me. I had attempted too much. If I had not been so determined, if I had only asked advice, I should not have imposed upon myself a task so terribly severe to me. To brave unknown dangers in the dark was too great a trial for my nature to attempt all at once. I should have begun more gradually to overcome my fears, and then I should not have failed so sadly.

Indeed, after this adventure, I was, for a long time, in a worse state of mind than I had ever been before.

XXV.

“THE BOY WHO HAS BEEN SO ILL.”

THE snow was on the ground and the ponds all frozen when I was well enough to return to school. I was warmly welcomed by my schoolfellows, above all by Marc, who had called to ask after me every day during my illness, although he lived quite at the other end of the town. He looked upon me now with the profoundest interest, blended with affection: that respectful sort of interest which one child feels for another who has been brought near to death.