CHAPTER IX

I pass from the Secretarial Department to the Record Office--M. Bichet--Wherein I resemble Piron--My spare time--M. Pieyre and M. Parseval de Grandmaison--A scene missing in _Distrait_--_La Peyrouse_--A success all to myself

It was in the Luxembourg Gardens that I first made the acquaintance of Méry. I was introduced to him there. We drew together like iron and magnet; and, although I really could not say which of us was iron and which magnet, we became inseparable. I was already well forward with my drama _Christine._ I repeated about two or three hundred lines to him, and he encouraged me greatly. I stood in much need of this encouragement.

I had just undergone a change of position. When Oudard saw that I was incorrigible, and found out that I was working at a drama, he moved me from the Secretarial Department to the Record Offices. And this was equivalent to disgracing me. I was put there with a tiny old man of eighty years, called M. Bichet, who since 1788 had always dressed in a pair of satin breeches, variegated stockings, a black cloth coat and a waistcoat of flowered silk. This costume was finished off with ruffles and frills. His face, which was surrounded by a halo of snow-white hair ending in a little queue, was ruddy and honest and kindly in expression. He tried to receive me rudely, but did not manage to succeed. My extreme politeness to him disarmed him. He showed me my place, and loaded my table with all the accumulated arrears of work that lack of a clerk for a month had brought about. I finished the work by the end of three days. I carried it to him in his office, and asked him for something else.

"What! something else already?" he exclaimed.

"Certainly."

"Why?"

"Because I have done what you gave me."

"Completely finished it?"

"Completely."

"Oh! oh! oh!" gasped M. Bichet.

And he picked up my work with the air of a man who says to himself, "It must have been pretty badly scamped!"

M. Bichet was mistaken: my mettle had been roused. Each report, each despatch, each copy drew from him an exclamation of delight.

"Really," he said, "really this is very good! Excellent, monsieur, excellent!... Your writing is the same style as Piron's, monsieur."

"The deuce! That is a fine compliment for me."

"You know Piron's handwriting? He was a copying clerk for five years in this Record Office, monsieur."

"Oh, indeed!... So my handwriting is like his?"

"You have another point in common with him, I hear."

"What is that, monsieur?"

"You write poetry."

"Alas!..."

He came up to me and said roguishly--

"Are the poems you compose the same style of thing as his?"

"No, monsieur."

"Ah! I thought not. Piron was a gay young dog!... I saw him at Madame de Montesson's.... I suppose you never knew Madame de Montesson, did you?"

"Yes, I did, monsieur; my father took me to her house when I was quite a child."

"She was a charming woman, monsieur, a charming woman, and she entertained the best society of Paris."

"Now, monsieur," I asked, "will you please give me some fresh work?"

"What work?"

"Why! any work."

"But there is no more to do!"

"What! nothing else to do?"

"No, since you have finished everything."

"But what, then, am I to do?"

"Whatever you like, monsieur."

"Do you mean I am to do what I like?"

"Yes ... until fresh work comes, when I will put it on your desk, and you can then set to work on it."

"And in my spare moments?..."

"Young man, young man! at your age you ought not to waste a single moment."

"I am quite of your opinion, monsieur, and you will be convinced of my industry if you will let me finish...."

"Ah! ah!"

"I want to know if I may work at my tragedy in my spare time?"

Notice that I said _tragedy_ instead of _drama_; I did not wish to frighten M. Bichet.

"Are you composing a tragedy, then?" he said.

"Hum!... I do not know whether I ought to tell you."

"Why not? I see no harm in it. My old friend Pieyre has written a comedy."

"Yes, monsieur, and a very striking one it is: _l'École des Pères._"

"You know it?"

"I have read it."

"Good.... Then, too, another old friend of mine, Parseval de Grandmaison, writes epic poetry."

"Yes--_Philippe-Auguste_, for instance."

"You have read it?"

"No, I confess I have not."

"Well then, let me say that although the one writes comedies and the other epic poems, they are none the less worthy men for all that."

"On the contrary, monsieur, they are both excellent fellows."

"Have you met them?"

"Never."

"Hum ... Hum...."

And M. Bichet seemed to be thinking over something to himself.

"Good!..." he said, after a moment's silence.

"Then, monsieur, you have nothing more to say to me at present?"

"Nothing."

"Of course I shall be at my desk, and if you want me...."

"Certainly; you can go."

I resumed my seat with delight. Except for losing Lassagne and Ernest, my disgrace resolved itself into a privilege. The office-boy warned me that if I arrived before eleven o'clock, I should not find him there, and if I stayed past four he would lock me in when he went. So, no more portfolios to make up, all my evenings to myself, and a chief who did not prevent me from writing tragedies! And, forthwith, I set to work on _Christine._ I cannot say how long I had been working when the office-boy came to tell me that M. Bichet wanted me in his office. I went in at once. M. Bichet was not alone this time; on his right stood a short old man, and on his left a tall old man. As they stood there, the three judges, before whom I seemed about to be arraigned, looked not unlike Minis, Æacus and Rhadamanthus. I bowed, feeling considerably surprised.

"See, there he is," said M. Bichet. "Upon my word, his handwriting is beautiful, it is exactly like Piron's, and he has done fifteen days' work in three."

"What did you tell me monsieur did besides?" asked the tall old man.

"Why, he writes poetry!"

"Ah! yes, quite so, poetry...."

A light dawned on me.

"Have I the honour of addressing M. Parseval de Grandmaison?" I asked.

"Yes, monsieur," he replied.

Then, turning to the other old gentleman, he said--

"Only think, my dear Pieyre, I am so absent-minded, that the most extraordinary thing happened to me the other day."

"What was it?"

"Just imagine! I forgot my own name."

"Bah!" exclaimed M. Bichet.

"Your own name? Not your own name?" queried M. Pieyre.

"Yes, my name, my very own name! It was at the marriage contract of ... what's his name ... you know, who married the daughter of so and so ...?"

"How can I assist you on such slight information as that?"

"Oh! dear, dear! the daughter of so and so ... who is my colleague at the Academy?... who writes comedies ... who wrote ... I cannot remember what it was.... A play that Mercier had already done; you know well enough?"

"Alexandre Duval?..."

"Yes, yes; it was at the signing of the contract of what's his name ... who married his daughter ... an architect ... who wrote a work on something ... that was burned ... in the eruption of Vesuvius, where somebody or other died...."

"Oh, yes! Marois, who wrote a work on _Pompeii_, where Pliny died?" I hazarded timidly.

"That is exactly it!... Thanks, monsieur."

And he quietly stretched himself back in his arm-chair, after having first made me a gracious bow.

"Well then," said M. Bichet, "come, now finish your story, my dear friend."

"What story?"

"Why, the story you were telling."

"Was I telling a story?"

"Of course," said M. Pieyre; "you were relating, my dear friend, that at the signing of the marriage contract of Marois, who has married the daughter of Alexandre Duval, you had forgotten your name."

"Oh yes, true.... Well then, this was it. Everybody signed: then I said to myself, 'Now comes my turn to sign,' and I prepared to do so. I began to think what my name was and--the deuce! I couldn't remember it any longer! I thought I should be obliged to ask my neighbour what I was called, and how humiliating that would be to me. It was on the ground floor, and the door opened out on the garden. I hurried into the garden, striking my forehead and saying to myself, 'You rascal! you rascal! what is your name?' Yes, indeed, if I had but had to remember my name to save myself from being hanged I should have been hanged, right enough. Meanwhile my turn to sign had come, and people were searching for me. Alexandre Duval caught sight of me in the garden. 'Well, this is fine,' he said; 'there is that devil of a Parseval de Grandmaison overcome by a poetic seizure, just when he ought to be signing.... Here! Parseval de Grandmaison!' 'That is it,' I exclaimed, 'that is it: Parseval de Grandmaison! Parseval de Grandmaison! Parseval de Grandmaison!' and I went up to the table and signed."

"That is just the scene needed in the _Distrait_," I said, smiling.

"Yes, monsieur, you are quite right, it does need it; and if you wrote poetry I should say to you 'Add it.'"

"But," M. Bichet interpolated, "he does write poetry, that was the very reason why you had him called in."

"Ah, true, true!... Well then, young man, come, recite some of your lines to us."

"Something out of your tragedy."

"Ah! you are writing a tragedy?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"What is your subject?" asked M. Parseval de Grandmaison.

"Christine...."

"A good subject! Somebody has written one on the same theme.... Very poor! ah! very poor!"

"Pardon me, messieurs, I would much rather recite you something other than lines out of my tragedy." The lines of my tragedy were dramatic lines, which would probably not be very much to the taste of these gentlemen. "I would far rather," I added, "recite you an ode."

"Oh! oh! an ode!" said M. Parseval de Grandmaison."

"Oh! oh! an ode!" said M. Pieyre.

"Oh! oh! an ode!" said M. Bichet.

"Well, then, now for the ode," said M. Parseval. "What is it on, young man?"

"You may remember that, for some time past, people have been much taken up with la Peyrouse? The papers have even lately been announcing that traces of the shipwreck have been found...."

"Is that so?" asked M. Bichet.

"Yes, it is," said M. Pieyre.

"I knew la Peyrouse well," said M. Parseval de Grandmaison.

"I, too," said M. Pieyre.

"I did not know her," said M. Bichet, "but I knew Piron."

"That is not the same thing," said M. Parseval.

"Let us have your ode, young man," said M. Pieyre.

"This is it, monsieur, since you would like to hear it."

"Come, come, don't be afraid," said old Bichet.

I rallied all my powers, and in fairly confident tones I repeated the following lines, which I think may indicate that I had made some progress:--

LA PEYROUSE

Le ciel est pur, la mer est belle! Un vaisseau, près de fuir le port, Tourmente son ancre rebelle, Fixée au sable, qu'elle mord. Il est impatient d'une onde Plus agitée et plus profonde; Le géant voudrait respirer! Il lui faut pour air les tempêtes; Il lui faut les combats pour fêtes, Et l'Océan pour s'égarer.

Silencieux et solitaire, Un homme est debout sur le pont, Son regard, fixé vers la terre, Trouve un regard qui lui répond. Sur le rivage en vain la foule, Comme un torrent, s'amasse et roule, Il y suit des yeux de l'amour Celle qui, du monde exilée, Doit désormais, triste et voilée, Attendre l'heure du retour.[1]

Son œil se trouble sous ses larmes, Et, pourtant, ce fils des dangers A vu de lointaines alarmes, A vu des mondes étrangers: Deux fois le cercle de la terre, Découvrant pour lui son mystère, Des bords glacés aux bords brûlants, Sentit, comme un fer qui déchire, La carène de son navire Sillonner ses robustes flancs.

Et la fortune enchanteresse Ne l'entraînait pas sur les flots; L'espoir de la douce paresse Ne berçait pas ses matelots. Dédaigneux des biens des deux mondes, Il ne fatiguait pas les ondes Pour aller ravir, tour à tour, L'or que voit germer le Potose L'émeraude à Golconde éclose, Et les perles de Visapour.

C'est une plus noble espérance Qui soutient ses travaux divers. Sa parole, au nom de la France, Court interroger l'univers. Il faut que l'univers réponde! Dans son immensité féconde, Peut-être cherche-t-il encor Quelque désert âpre et sauvage, Quelque délicieux rivage, Que garde un autre Adamastor.

Il le trouvera! Mais silence! Du canon le bruit a roulé; Au haut du mât, qui se balance, Un pavillon s'est déroulé. Comme un coursier dans la carrière Traîne un nuage de poussière Que double sa rapidité, Le vaisseau s'élance avec grâce, A sa suite laissant pour trace Un large sillon argenté.

Bientôt ses mâtures puissantes Ne sont plus qu'un léger roseau; Ses voiles flottent, blanchissantes, Comme les ailes d'un oiseau. Puis, sur la mouvante surface, C'est un nuage qui s'efface, Un point que devinent les yeux, Qui s'éloigne, s'éloigne encore, Ainsi qu'une ombre s'évapore ... Et la mer se confond aux cieux.

Alors, lentement dans la foule, Meurt le dernier cri du départ; Silencieuse, elle s'écoule En s'interrogeant du regard. Puis l'ombre, à son tour descendue, Occupe seule l'étendue. Rien sur la mer, rien sur le port; Au bruit monotone de l'onde, Pas un bruit humain qui réponde: L'univers fatigué s'endort!

Les ans passent, et leur silence N'est interrompu quelquefois Que par un long cri qui s'élance, Proféré par cent mille voix. On a, sur un lointain rivage, Trouvé les débris d'un naufrage ... Vaisseaux, volez sur cet écueil! Les vaisseaux ont revu la France Mais les signes de l'espérance Sont changés en signes de deuil!

Hélas!... combien de fois, trompée, La France reprit son espoir! Tantôt, c'est un tronçon d'épée Qu'aux mains d'un sauvage on crut voir; Tantôt, c'est un vieil insulaire Séduit par l'appât du salaire, Qui se souvient, avec effort, Que d'étrangers d'une autre race Jadis il aperçut la trace Dans une île ... là-bas ... au nord.

Que fais-tu loin de ta patrie, Qui t'aimait entre ses enfants, Lorsque, pour ta tête chérie, Elle a des lauriers triomphants? Pour toi, la mer s'est-elle ouverte? Dors-tu sur un lit d'algues vertes? Ou, par un destin plus fatal, Sens-tu tes pesantes journées Rouler sur ton front des années Qu'ignore le pays natal?

Et, pourtant, te dictant ta route, Un roi t'a tracé ton chemin; Mais du ciel le pouvoir, sans doute, A heurté le pouvoir humain. Et, tandis qu'à leur ignorance Du retour sourit l'espérance, Dieu, sur les tables de la loi, A deux différentes tempêtes A déjà voué les deux têtes Du navigateur et du roi!..."

I had followed with the closest attention the effect produced upon my hearers. M. Parseval blinked his eyelids and simply twirled his thumbs one round the other; M. Pieyre opened his eyes very wide and smiled, his mouth also wide open. Old Bichet, as curious as I was as to the impression I was making on his two friends, seeing that this impression was favourable, shook his head delightedly, saying under his breath--

"Just like Piron! Just like Piron!

When I had finished, they burst out into applause, which was followed by all sorts of encouraging advice.

I did not know whether I stood on my head or my heels. Imagine the feelings of Ovid, exiled among the Thracians, when he found a sun more radiant than that at Rome, and on carpets of flowers more fragrant than those of Pæstum, under trees that lent a cooler shade than those by the Tiber, listened to the applause given his _Tristia_ and his _Metamorphoses._ I gave thanks to the gods who, unsolicited, had granted me this moment of peace. We shall see that it was to be of but short duration.

[Footnote 1: Madame de le Peyrouse avait promis à son mari de rester voilée jusqu'à son retour; madame de la Peyrouse a tenu parole, et a gardé son voile jusqu'à la mort.]