Chapter 6
In the quiet, and half-light of the small room, there was an old man with flushed cheeks, and wrinkled to the end of his finger tips. He was fast asleep, slumped in an armchair, with his mouth open and his hands on his knees. At his feet was a very young girl dressed all in blue--a large cape and a small bonnet--the orphanage's uniform. She was reading the life of St. Irenaeus from a book larger than herself.... This wonderful reading had a soporific effect on the whole household; the old man sleeping in his armchair, the flies on the ceiling, and even the caged canaries in the window. The big clock was quietly grinding away. Nothing moved in the room, except from within a large band of white light, which fell from between the closed shutters, which was full of sparkling movement and microscopic waltzes.... In the midst of all this general stupor, the child continued her solemn reading: S ... oon ... two ... lions ... jum ... ped ... on ... him ... and ... de ... vour ... ed ... him.... Then I appeared.... The actual arrival of the lions in the room could not have caused more panic. It was a moment of pure theatre! The tot screamed, the book fell, the canaries and flies bestirred themselves, the clock chimed, and the old man sat up, startled. I was a little flustered myself, and froze at the doorsill, shouting as loud as I could:
--Hello, folks! I'm Maurice's friend.
Well! You should have seen the poor old soul come with open-arms to hug me, and shake my hand, and pace wildly round the room, going:
--My God! My God!...
His wrinkled face broke into deep creases of laughter. He flushed and stuttered:
--Oh, monsieur... Oh, monsieur!...
Then he went to the back of the room and called out for:
--Mamette!
A door opened; a mouse-like scurrying was heard in the passage ... and there she stood, Mamette, as pretty as a picture in her shell-like bonnet, her nun-like habit, and her embroidered hanky, which she held in the respectful, old-fashioned way.... It was so touching; they looked completely alike. With his hair done up and yellow shells, he could have been another Mamette, except that the real one must have cried a lot in her life, as she was even more wrinkled than he. She, too, had a girl carer from the orphanage, a little nurse, dressed in a blue cape, who never left her side. To see these old folks, cared for by the orphans, was unimaginably moving.
Mamette began by addressing me rather too formerly, but the old fellow cut her off mid-stream:
--He's Maurice's friend....
The effect was immediate; she stood there, trembling, crying, and blushing even more than he was. That's old people for you! Only a drop of blood in their veins, but at the least emotion, it leaps to their faces....
--Quick, get a chair, said the old woman to her little companion.
--Open the blinds, cried the old man to his.
The couple took a hand each, and trotted me over to the window, which they opened wide to get a better look at me. Once they got back into their armchairs, I sat down between them on a folding stool, and with the little blues stationed behind us, the grand interrogation began:
--How is he? What is he doing with himself? Why doesn't he come? Is he settled in?...
And so on and so forth--for hours on end.
I was answering all their questions as best I could, filling in the details that I knew, shamelessly inventing those I didn't, without ever admitting that I hadn't noticed if his windows were well-fitting, or the colour of his bedroom wallpaper.
--The bedroom wallpaper!... It's blue, madame, pale blue, with a floral pattern on it....
--Really? went the old lady fondly, and added turning to her husband: "He's such a fine boy!"
--Oh yes, he's such a fine boy! he echoed enthusiastically.
All the time I was speaking, they shook their heads at one another, and chuckled, and gave knowing winks and nods to each other, then the old fellow drew close to me:
--Speak louder!... She's a bit hard of hearing.
And she said:
--Speak up, please!... He can't hear very well....
So, I raised my voice, which evinced a grateful smile, and as these smiles faded I could just make out a faint image of Maurice. I was overwhelmed to see it; a vague, veiled, yet evasive, vision, as if I had seen my friend himself smile back at me, but in the misty distance.
* * * * *
Suddenly, the old man sat up in his armchair:
--I'm wondering, Mamette, if perhaps he hasn't had any lunch.
Mamette, shocked, threw her hands in the air:
--Not eaten!... Good Lord!
I thought they were still on about Maurice, and I was about to reassure them that their dear grandson always ate before midday, but it turned out it was actually me they were concerned about. There was some consternation when I admitted that nothing had passed my lips:
--Quick, lay the table, little blues! Put it in the middle of the room, use the Sunday-best table cloth, and the decorated plates. And do please stop giggling so much and make haste....
Certainly, they did hurry, and the dinner was soon served up--three broken plates later.
--There you are, a fine breakfast for you! said Mamette, urging me to the table; "You will be dining alone, though, the rest of us have already eaten this morning."
The poor old things! Whatever the hour, they would have always claimed they'd already eaten.
All Mamette would have had for a breakfast, was a little bit of milk, some dates, and a tartlet--and that had to keep herself and her canaries going for a least a week. And to think that it was I who finished off their supplies!... Also, what indignation there was around at the table! The little blues, propped up on their elbows whispered to each other. From inside their cage, the canaries seemed to be saying, "What sort of man would eat all our tartlet!"
In fact, I did finish it off--almost unconsciously--I was busy looking around the light and peaceful room, where the scent of antiques seemed to drift in the air.... There were two small beds in particular, that I couldn't take my eyes off. I pictured the beds, almost as small as two cots, early in the morning when they are hidden under their great fringed curtains. Three o'clock chimes; the time when all old people wake up:
--Are you asleep, Mamette?
--No, my dear.
--Isn't Maurice a fine boy?
--Oh, yes, a fine boy?
And I imagined a whole conversation in that vein, inspired by just looking at the old folks' two little beds, laying side by side....
Meanwhile, quite a drama was taking place in front of the wardrobe at the other side of the room. There was a jar of cherries in brandy in the top drawer--waiting for Maurice for ten years--and which they now wanted me to have. Despite Mamette's pleas, the old fellow had insisted on getting the cherries down himself, and stood on a chair to try to reach them, to his wife's great horror.... Picture the scene: the old man trembling and hoisting himself up, the little blues clinging to his chair, Mamette puffing and blowing behind him, her arms outstretched. I caught a light scent of bergamot wafting from the open wardrobe with its large piles of discoloured linen.... It was a charming sight.
At last, after much struggling, the much vaunted jar was fetched from the drawer together with a dented old silver tumbler, which belonged to Maurice as a child. It was filled to the brim for me; although it was Maurice who loved cherries so much! While serving me, the old chap spoke into my ear with the air of someone who knew about gourmet things:
--You are very lucky, to be able to have these!... My wife made them herself ... you are about to taste something very good.
Unfortunately, while making them she had forgotten to add any sugar. What do you expect, you get absent-minded when you get old? The cherries were truly awful, my poor Mamette.... But it didn't stop me from eating them to very the last one, without batting an eyelid.
* * * * *
The meal finished, I stood up ready to take my leave. They really would have liked me to stay longer to chat about their precious grandson, but the day was drawing to a close, I was a long way from home, and it was time to go.
The old man stood up with me:
--Mamette, my coat!... I want to accompany him to the square.
Naturally, Mamette was quietly worried that it was a bit too cold now for him to go out, but she didn't let on; except, as she was helping him into his Spanish smoking jacket with mother of pearl buttons, I heard the dear old soul gently saying:
--You won't be out too long, will you?
--Ah, ha! I don't know, you'll have to wait and see ... he answered, a touch mischievously.
With that, they exchanged looks and laughed, and the little blues joined in, a mood caught even by the canaries--in their chirping way.... Between ourselves, I think they had all been a bit intoxicated by the smell of the cherries.
... Night fell as the grandfather and I went out. His little blue followed us at a distance to help him home, but he never noticed her, and he was proud fit to burst, to walk on my arm like a man. Mamette, beaming, saw it from her doorstep and nodded her head as she looked in a way that seemed to say: "Well, well, he's my very own, dear, little man!... and he still has some go in him."
PROSE BALLADS
When I opened my door this morning, I was surprised by a great carpet of hoar-frost around the windmill. Grass sparkled and crackled like shattered glass; the whole hillside tinkled and twinkled.... For a day, my beloved Provence was dressed up as a northern land. It was here, amongst these ice-fringed pines, and clumps of lavender in crystal bouquets, that I wrote both these Germanic-style fantasies, prompted by the white frost gleaming at me and great _V_'s of storks from Heinrich Heine's land made their way in a clear sky to the Camargue screaming, "It's cold ... it's cold ... it's cold."
I
DEATH OF THE DAUPHIN
The little Dauphin is sick; the truth is he's dying.... In every church in the Kingdom, the blessèd Sacrament is displayed night and day, and huge candles burn all the time for the recovery of the royal Child. The roads around the old residence are miserable and silent, the clocks don't chime, and the coaches go at walking pace.... Around the palace, through the railings, the curious bourgeoisie are watching some gold-draped, potbellied Swiss who are talking, self-importantly, in the courtyards.
The whole castle is troubled.... Chamberlains, and major-domos, scurry up and down the marble stairways.... The galleries are filled with silk-clad pages, and courtesans flitting from group to group seeking some whisper of news.... On the grand stairs, the weeping ladies-in-waiting hold themselves respectfully, and delicately wipe their eyes with finely embroidered handkerchiefs.
In the orangery, there were numerous gatherings of enrobed doctors. They can be seen through the windows adjusting their long, black sleeves and carefully rearranging their wigs.... The Dauphin's governor and his equerry are pacing about in front of the door, awaiting the doctors' prognostications. Some kitchen boys walk past them, without bowing. The equerry swears like a trooper; while the governor recites some verses by Horace.... Meanwhile, a long, plaintive whinny was heard from down in the stables. It was the young Dauphin's chestnut, now forgotten by its grooms, calling mournfully over its empty manger.
And the King? Where is His Majesty the King?... The King is all alone in a room, at the far side of the castle.... Royal Highnesses don't like to be seen crying.... It is another thing altogether with the Queen.... Sitting by the bedside of the little Dauphin, her beautiful face is bathed in tears, as she sobs out loud, in front of everybody, just as any commoner would.
In his lace-covered sick-bed, the little Dauphin, whiter than the cushions he lies on, has his eyes closed and looks fast asleep. But he is not. The little Dauphin turns towards his mother and seeing her in tears, says:
--Madame, why are you crying? Do you really think that I am dying?
The queen tries to answer, but the sobbing chokes her words.
--Don't upset yourself, madame. You are forgetting that I am the Dauphin and Dauphins can't die just like that....
The Queen's sobs intensify and the little Dauphin begins to feel afraid.
--Hang on, he says, I don't want death to come and take me, and I know just how to stop him from getting to me.... Have forty very strong soldiers mount guard around my bed!... Have a hundred big cannons ready under our window, tapers lit and fuses primed, day and night! And it's hard luck death if he dares to come near me!...
To please the Royal child, the Queen gives the order. Soon, big cannons are heard rolling in the courtyard, and forty tall German mercenaries, halberds at the ready, come and position themselves around the bed chamber. The little Dauphin claps his hands when he sees the old soldiers and their grey moustaches. He recognises one of them and calls out:
--Lorrain! Lorrain!
The soldier steps forward towards the bed:
--I really do like you, my dear Lorrain.... Have you brought your big sword.... If death comes for me, you will be sure to kill him, won't you?
Lorrain replied:
--Yes, Sire....
And two big tears run slowly down his tanned cheeks.
Just then, the Chaplain comes towards the young Dauphin and whispers to him for some time, showing him a crucifix. The little Dauphin listens, and looks astounded, and then, suddenly stops him:
--I can understand what you are telling me, Monsieur priest, but couldn't my little friend, Beppo die in my place, for which service we could give him a lot of money?...
The Chaplain continues the whispering and the little Dauphin looks more and more astonished.
As soon as the Chaplain finishes, the little Dauphin gives a huge sigh and says:
--Everything you tell me is so sad, Monsieur Priest, but if there's one thing that consoles me, it's that up there amongst the stars in paradise, I will still be the Dauphin.... I am sure that the Good Lord is my cousin and won't forget to treat me according to my rank.
Then, turning towards his mother, he adds:
--Have my best clothes brought to me; my white ermine doublet and my velvet court shoes. I want to make myself nice for the angels and enter paradise dressed as a Dauphin should.
For a third time, the Chaplain leans towards the little Dauphin and whispers to him for some time.... In the middle of his discourse, the Royal child interrupts him angrily:
--Well then, he cries, it's completely pointless being the Dauphin!
The little Dauphin has heard enough, and he turns towards the wall sobbing bitterly.
II
THE SUB-PREFECT TAKES A DAY OFF.
The Sub-Prefect was on his rounds. He was being carried majestically in the official barouche, complete with coachman and lackey, to the Combe-aux-Fée's Regional selection meeting. The Sub-Prefect had put on his best embroidered clothes; his opera hat, his skin-tight silver striped breeches, and his dress-sword with mother of pearl handle for this important day.... He was looking ruefully down at his knees, on which lies a large, embossed-leather, briefcase.
The Sub-Prefect was thinking about the speech which he must soon give before the residents of Combe-aux-Fées:
--Gentlemen and constituents....
But he might just as well have twiddled with his blond whiskers and repeated it twenty times for all the good it did:
--Gentlemen and constituents.... But nothing more of the speech would come.
Nothing more of the speech would come.... It was getting really warm in the barouche!... Under the Midi sun, the road to Combe-aux-Fées shimmers until it fades into the distance.... The very air burns you ... and, at the roadside, thousands of cicadas are calling to each other, from one white, dust-covered elm to another.... Suddenly, the Sub-Prefect started. Down at the foot of a hill, he noticed a small wood of green oaks which seemed to beckon him.
The small wood of green oaks which seemed to beckon him:
--Come over here, Sub-Prefect, you will find composing your speech much easier in the shade of my trees....
The Sub-Prefect was captivated; he jumped down from the barouche and told his men to wait there for him, as he was going to compose his speech over in the small wood of green oaks.
In the small wood of green oaks, there were birds, violets, and springs hidden in the delicate grass.... When the birds noticed the Sub-Prefect with his gorgeous breeches and his large, leather-embossed briefcase, they became alarmed and stop singing, the springs are scared and stop their babbling, and the violets hid themselves in the grass.... This whole world in miniature had never seen a Sub-Prefect before, and they quietly wondered who this dignitary was, walking around in silver breeches.
Meanwhile, the Sub-Prefect, delighted by the silence and the coolness of the wood, lifted his coat-tails, put his hat on the grass, and sat down in the moss at the foot of a young oak. He then put the large, leather-embossed briefcase on his knees, opened it, and took out a long sheet of official paper.
--He's an artist, said the warbler.
--No, said the bullfinch, he's not an artist; with his silver breeches, he's more of a prince.
--He's more of a prince, said the bullfinch.
--He's neither an artist nor a prince, interrupted an old nightingale, who had sang all season in the district's gardens.... I know what he is; he's a Sub-Prefect!
And the whole woodland came alive with the rumour:
--He's a Sub-Prefect! He's a Sub-Prefect!
--He's bald! remarked a crested lark.
The violets asked:
--Is he a bad man?
--Is he a bad man? asked the violets.
The old nightingale replied:
--Not at all! And with that reassurance, the birds started to sing again, the streams to flow, and the violets to perfume the air, just as though the gentleman wasn't there.... Ignoring all this pretty clamour, the Sub-Prefect invoked the spirit of the country fêtes, and, pencil at the ready, began to declaim in his ceremonial voice:
--Gentlemen and constituents....
--Gentlemen and constituents.... said the Sub-Prefect in his ceremonial voice....
A cackle of laughter broke his concentration; he turned round and saw a lone fat woodpecker, perched on his opera hat, looking at him and laughing. The Sub-Prefect shrugged his shoulders and readied himself to continue, but the woodpecker interrupted him again:
--What is the point?
--I beg your pardon! What is the point? said the Sub-Prefect, who was flushing all over, and shooing the cheeky animal away, he resumed even more pompously:
--Gentlemen and constituents....
--Gentlemen and constituents.... once again resumed the Sub-Prefect even more pompously.
Then, the little violets stretched their stems out towards him and kindly asked him:
--Sub-Prefect, can you smell our lovely perfume?
And the streams were making divine music for him from beneath the moss, and over his head in the branches, a band of warblers sang their finest songs; indeed, the whole wood conspired to stop him composing his speech.
As he composed his speech, the Sub-Prefect was intoxicated by the perfume, and delighted by the music. He tried again to resist the charm, but in vain, and became completely overcome. He propped himself up on the grass with his elbows, loosened his fine tails, and stammers, yet again, two or three times:
--Gentlemen and constituents.... Gentlemen and const.... Gent....
Finally, he sent his constituents to the devil, and the muse of the country fêtes could only cover her face.
Cover your face, O Muse of the country fêtes!... When, after an hour, his assistants, worried about their master, followed him into the wood, they saw something that made them recoil in horror.... The Sub-Prefect was lying on his stomach in the grass, all dishevelled like a Bohemian. He had taken off his tails;... and the Sub-Prefect was composing poetry, as he chewed ruminatively on a violet.
BIXIOU'S WALLET
One October morning, a few days before I left Paris, a man in shabby clothes turned up at my home--while I was having lunch.
He was bent over, muddied, and stooped and shivered on his long legs like a plucked wading bird. It was Bixiou. Yes, Parisians, your very own Bixiou, the ferociously charming Bixiou, the fanatical satirist who has so delighted you for fifteen years with his writings and caricatures.... Oh, poor man, and how painful to see him like that. Without the familiar grimace when he came in, I would not have recognised him.
His head was bent over to one side, and his cane was pushed into his mouth like a clarinet. The illustrious and gloomy jester then moved to the centre of the room and staggered against my table as he said despondently: "Have pity on a blind man!..."
It was such a good take-off that I couldn't stop myself laughing. The Arctic-cold response came immediately: "If you think I'm joking ... just look into my eyes."
He then turned two large, white, sightless eyes towards me: "I've gone blind, my dear, blind for life.... That's what comes from writing with vitriol. I have burned out the candle of my eyes out doing the damned job ... to the stub!" he added showing me his desiccated eyelids with no trace of an eyelash.
I was so overcome, I couldn't find anything to say. My silence troubled him:
"Are you working?"
“--No, Bixiou, I'm having lunch. Would you like to join me?"
He didn't reply, but I could see clearly from his quivering nostrils that he was dying to say yes. I took his hand and sat him down beside me.
While I served him, the poor devil sniffed at the food and chuckled:
"Oh, it smells good, this. I'm really going to enjoy it; and it will be an age before I eat again! A sou's worth of bread every morning, as I traipse through the ministries, is all I get.... I tell you, I'm really badgering the ministries now--it's the only work I do--I am trying to get permission to run a tobacconist's shop.... What else can I do; I've got to eat. I can't draw; I can't write... Dictation?... But dictate what?... I haven't a clue, me; I can't think of a thing to write. My trade was to look at the lunacies of Paris and hold a mirror up to them; but I haven't got what it takes now.... Then I thought about a tobacconist's shop; not in the boulevards of course, I can't expect those kind of favours, being neither a show girl's mother, nor a field officer's widow. No. I'm just looking for a small shop in the provinces, somewhere far away, say a spot in the Vosges. I will sell a hell of a clay pipe, and console myself by wrapping tobacco in my contemporaries' writings.
"That's all I want. Not too much to ask, is it? But, do you know what, its hell on earth to get it... Yet, I shouldn't be short of patronage. I have soared high in my time. I used to dine with the Marshal, the prince, and ministers, all those people wanted me then because I amused them--or frightened them. Now, no one does. Oh, my eyes! my poor, poor eyes! I'm not welcome anywhere, now. It's unbearable being blind at meal times.... Do pass me the bread, please.... Oh, those thieves! They will make me pay through the nose for this damned tobacconist's shop. I've been wandering through all the ministries clutching my petition, for the last six months. I go in the morning at the time they light the stoves and take His Excellence's horse around the sanded courtyard, and I don't leave until night when they bring in the big lights and the kitchens begin to smell really good....