Part 4

The less one has had for breakfast, the more one wants for dinner. I had felt all the force of this axiom long before the sun had finished its course. Among the strollers whom the mild air had attracted to the Tuileries this afternoon to watch the first smiles of spring playing on the faces of the marble fauns, the observant might have noted a young man of irreproachable appearance who seemed to study the awakening of nature with extraordinary interest. Not satisfied with devouring the fresh verdure with his eyes, he would furtively detach the young, appetizing shoots and the half-opened leaves from their stems, and put them to his lips with the curiosity of a botanist. I convinced myself in this way that this form of nourishment, suggested by accounts of shipwrecks, is of very little value. Still, I enriched my experience with some interesting discoveries: for instance, I know now that the foliage of the chestnut has an exceedingly bitter taste; that the rose is not unpleasant; that the lime is oily and rather agreeable; the lilac pungent--and I believe unwholesome.

Meditating on these discoveries, I walked towards Helene's convent. I found the parlour as crowded as a hive, and I was more than usually bewildered by the tumultuous confidences of the young bees. Helene arrived, her hair in disorder, her cheeks flushed, her eyes red and sparkling. In her hand she had a piece of bread as long as her arm. As she embraced me in an absent way, I asked:

"Well, little girl, what is the matter? You've been crying."

"No, Maxime, no, it's nothing."

"Well, what is it? Now tell me...."

In a lower tone she said:

"Oh, I am very miserable, dear Maxime!"

"Really? Tell me all about it while you eat your bread."

"Oh, I shall certainly not eat my bread. I am too miserable to eat. You know Lucy--Lucy Campbell, my dearest friend. Well, we've quarrelled completely."

"Oh, _mon Dieu_! Don't worry, darling, you'll make it up. It will be all right, dear."

"Oh, Maxime, that's impossible. It was such a serious quarrel. It was nothing at first, but you know one gets excited and loses one's head. Listen, Maxime! We were playing battledore, and Lucy made a mistake about the score. I was six hundred and eighty, and she was only six hundred and fifteen, and she declared she was six hundred and sixty-five! You must say that was a little too bad. Of course I said my figure was right, and she said hers was. 'Well, mademoiselle,' I said to her, 'let us ask these young ladies. I appeal to them.' 'No, mademoiselle,' she replied, 'I am sure I am right, and you don't play fair.' 'And--and you, mademoiselle,' I said to her--'you are a liar!' 'Very well, mademoiselle,' she said then, 'I despise you too much to answer you.' Just at that moment Sister Sainte-Felix came up, which was a good thing, for I am sure I should have hit her. Now, you know what happened. Can we possibly make it up? No, it is impossible; it would be cowardly. But I can't tell you how I suffer. I don't believe there's any one in the world so miserable as I am."

"Yes, dear, it's difficult to imagine anything more distressing; but it seems to me that you partly brought it on yourself, for it was you who used the most offensive word. Tell me, is Lucy in the parlour?"

"Yes, there she is, in the corner."

With a dignified and careful movement of her head she indicated a very fair little girl. Her cheeks, too, were flushed, and her eyes were red. Apparently she was giving an account of the drama, which Sister Sainte-Felix had so fortunately interrupted, to an old lady who was listening attentively.

Mlle. Lucy, while she talked with an earnestness appropriate to the subject, kept looking furtively at Helene and me.

"Dear child," I said to Helene, "do you trust me?"

"Yes, Maxime, I trust you very much."

"In that case I will tell you what to do. Go very gently behind Mlle. Lucy's chair; take her head in your hands--like this, when she is not looking--and kiss her on both cheeks--like this, with all your might--and then you will see what she will do in her turn."

For a second or two Helene seemed to hesitate; then she set off at a great rate, fell like a thunder-clap on Mlle. Campbell, but nevertheless gave her the sweetest of surprises. The two young sufferers, at last eternally united, mingled their tears in a touching group, while the respectable old Mrs. Campbell blew her nose with a noise as of a bagpipe.

Helene came back to me radiant.

"Well, dear," I said, "I hope you're going to eat your bread now."

"Oh, no! I can't, Maxime. I am too much excited, and--besides, I must tell you--to-day a new pupil came and gave us quite a feast of meringues, eclairs, and chocolate-creams, and I am not a bit hungry. And I am in a great difficulty about it, because when we're not hungry we have to put our bread back in the basket, and in my trouble I forgot, and I shall be punished. But, Maxime, as we're crossing the court when you go, I shall try to drop it down the cellar without any one seeing.

"What, little sister!" I said, colouring a little, "you are going to waste that large piece of bread?"

"It isn't good of me I know, because, perhaps, there are poor people who would be very glad of it, aren't there, Maxime?"

"There certainly are, dear."

"But what do you want me to do? The poor people don't come in here."

"Look here, Helene, give me the bread, and I'll give it in your name to the first poor man I meet. Will you?"

"Oh, yes!"

The bell rang for school. I broke the bread in two and hid the pieces shamefacedly in my great coat pockets.

"Dear Maxime," said my sister, "you'll come again soon, won't you? Then you'll tell me whether you met a poor man and gave him my bread, and whether he liked it? Good-bye, Maxime."

"Yes, Helene, I met a poor man and gave him your bread, which he seized and carried off to his solitary garret, and he liked it. But this poor man had not courage, for he wept as he ate the food that had come from your dear little hands. I will tell you all this, Helene, because it is good for you to know that there are sufferings more serious than your childish woes. I will tell you everything, except the name of the poor man."

_Tuesday, April 28th_.

At nine o'clock this morning I called at M. Laubepin's in the vague hope that he might have returned earlier than he intended, but he is not expected until to-morrow. I thought at once of seeing Mme. Laubepin and explaining the awkward position I was placed in through her husband's absence. While I hesitated in a conflict of shame and necessity, the old servant, alarmed, perhaps, by my hungry gaze, settled the question by suddenly shutting the door. I made up my mind hereupon to fast until the next day. After all, I said to myself, a day's abstinence does not kill one. If this showed an excessive pride, at all events I was the only one to suffer, and consequently it concerned no one but myself. I accordingly made my way to the Sorbonne, where I attended several lectures, trying to fill up my corporeal vacuum by spiritual sustenance. But when this resource came to an end I found it had been quite inadequate. And I had an attack of nervous irritation which I tried to calm by walking. It was a cold, misty day. As I crossed the Pont des Saints-Peres I stopped for a minute in spite of myself. Leaning on the parapet, I watched the troubled water rushing under the arches. I know not what unholy thoughts shot through my worn and weakened brain. I saw in the gloomiest colours a future of ceaseless struggle, of dependence, and of humiliation, which I was approaching by the dark gate of hunger; I felt a profound and utter disgust of life; it seemed impossible to me under such conditions. At the same time a flame of fierce and brutal anger leaped up in me. Dazed and reeling, I hung over the void, and saw all the river glittering with sparks of fire.

I will not say, as is usual, God would not have it so. I hate these cant phrases, and I dare to say _I_ would not. God has made us free, and if ever before I had doubted it, this supreme moment--when soul and body, courage and cowardice, good and evil, held mortal combat within me--would have swept my doubts away forever.

Master of myself again, those terrible waves only suggested an innocent, and rather absurd longing to quench the thirst that tortured me. I soon remembered that I should find much purer water in my room at home. I went quickly towards the _hotel_, imagining that the most delicious pleasures awaited me there. With pathetic childishness I delighted in this glorious device, and wondered I had not thought of it sooner. On the boulevard I suddenly came face to face with Gaston de Vaux, whom I had not seen for two years. After a moment's hesitation he stopped, grasped my hand cordially, said a word or two about my travels, and left me hurriedly. But he turned back.

"My friend," he said to me, "you must allow me to let you share a piece of good luck I've just had. I have put my hand on a treasure; I have got some cigars which cost me two francs each, but really they are beyond price. Here's one; you must tell me how you like it. _An revoir_, old man!"

Wearily I mounted the six flights to my room, and trembling with emotion, I seized my friendly water-bottle and swallowed the contents in small mouthfuls. Afterward I lighted my friend's cigar, and smiled encouragement at myself in the glass. Feeling that movement and the distraction of the streets were good for me, I went out again directly. Opening my door, I was surprised and annoyed to see the wife of the concierge of the _hotel_ standing in the narrow corridor. My sudden appearance seemed to disconcert her. This woman had formerly been in my mother's service, and had become a favourite with her, and when she married, my mother had given her the profitable post she still held. For some days I had an idea that she was watching me, and now, having nearly caught her in the act, I asked her roughly what she wanted.

"Oh, nothing, M. Maxime, nothing," she replied, much confused. "I was seeing to the gas."

I shrugged my shoulders and went away.

Night was falling, so I could walk about in the more frequented places without being fearful of awkward recognitions. I was obliged to throw away my cigar--it made me feel sick. My promenade lasted two or three hours, and painful hours they were. There is something peculiarly poignant in feeling oneself attacked, in the midst of the brilliance and plenty of civilization, by the scourge of savage life--hunger. It brings you near to madness. It's a tiger springing at your throat in the middle of the boulevards.

I made some original reflections. Hunger, after all, is not an empty word. There actually is a complaint of that name, and there are human beings who endure nearly every day what through a mere accident I am suffering for once in my life. And how many have their misery embittered by troubles which I am spared! I know that the one being in the world whom I love is sheltered from such sufferings as mine. But how many cannot suffer alone; how many must hear the heart-rending cry of nature repeated on beloved lips that ask for food; how many for whom pale women and unsmiling children are waiting in bare cold rooms! Poor creatures! Blessed be holy charity!

After these thoughts I dared not complain; they gave me courage to bear my trial to the end. As a matter of fact I could have shortened it. There are two or three restaurants where I am known, and where, when I was rich, I had often gone in without hesitation, though I had forgotten to bring my purse. I might have made some such pretext. Nor would it have been difficult for me to borrow a franc or two in Paris. But I recoiled from such expedients. They suggested poverty too plainly, and they came too near to trickery. That descent is swift and slippery for the poor, and I believe I would rather lose honesty itself than the delicacy which gives distinction to the commonplace virtue. I have seen too often with what facility this exquisite sentiment of honesty loses its bloom, even in the finest natures, not merely under the breath of misery, but at the slightest contact with privation. So I shall keep strict watch over myself. I shall be on my guard henceforth against even the most innocent compromise with conscience. When bad times come, do not accustom your soul to suppleness; it is only too prone to yield.

Fatigue and cold drove me back about nine o'clock. The door of the _hotel_ was open. Treading as lightly as a ghost, I had reached the staircase when the sound of a lively conversation came from the concierge's room. They were talking about me, for at this very moment the tyrant of the house pronounced my name with unmistakable contempt.

"Be good enough, Mme. Vauberger," said the concierge, "not to trouble me with your Maxime. Did I ruin your Maxime? Then what are you talking to me about? If he kills himself, they'll bury him, won't they?"

"I tell you, Vauberger," his wife answered, "it would have made your heart bleed to see him drain his water-bottle. And if I believed you meant what you say in that offhand manner--just like an actor--'If he kills himself, they'll bury him!' I would---- But I know you don't, because you're a good sort, although you don't like being upset. Fancy being without fire or bread! And that after being fed on dainties all your life, and wrapped up in furs like a little pet cat. It's a shame and a disgrace. A nice sort of government yours is to allow such things!"

"But it has nothing to do with the government," said M. Vauberger, reasonably enough. "And I'm sure you're wrong; it's not so bad as all that. He can't be wanting bread; it's impossible."

"All right, Vauberger. I've more to tell you. I've followed him. I've watched him, and made Edouard watch him, too. Yes, I have. I'm certain he had no dinner yesterday, and no breakfast to-day; and as I've searched his pockets and all the drawers, and not found so much as a red cent, you may be sure he hasn't had any dinner to-day, for he's much too high and mighty to go and beg one."

"Oh, is he? So much the worse for him. Poor people shouldn't be proud," said the worthy concierge, true to the sentiments of his calling.

I had had enough of this dialogue, and put an end to it abruptly by opening the door and asking M. Vauberger for a light. I could not have astounded him more if I had asked for his head. Though I particularly wished not to give way before these people, I could not help stumbling once or twice as I went up the stairs. My head was swimming. Usually my room was as cold as ice. Imagine my surprise at finding a bright, cheerful fire, which sent a pleasant warmth through the room. I wasn't stoic enough to put it out, and I blessed the kind hearts there are in the world. I stretched myself out in an old arm-chair of Utrecht velvet, which, like myself, had been brought by reverses from the first floor to the garret. I tried to sleep. For half an hour I had been dreaming in a kind of torpor of sumptuous banquets and merry junketings, when the noise of the door opening made me jump up with a start. I thought I was dreaming still when Mme. Vauberger came in, carrying a big tray with two or three savoury dishes steaming on it. Before I could shake off my lethargy she had put the tray down and had begun to lay the cloth. At last I started up hastily.

"Well," I said, "what does this mean? What are you doing?"

Mme. Vauberger pretended to be greatly surprised.

"I thought you ordered dinner, sir?"

"Oh, no."

"Edouard told me that----"

"Edouard made a mistake; it's for one of the other tenants; you had better see."

"But there's no other tenant on this floor, sir ... I can't make out..."

"Well, it was not for me. What does all this mean? Oh, you annoy me! Take it away."

The poor woman began to fold the cloth, looking at me reproachfully, like a favourite dog who has been beaten.

"I suppose you've had dinner already, sir," she said, timidly.

"No doubt."

"That is a pity, because this dinner is quite ready, and now it will be wasted, and the boy'll get a scolding from his father. If you hadn't had your dinner already, sir, you would have very much obliged me if----"

I stamped my foot violently.

"Leave the room, I tell you," I said, and as she was going out I went up to her. "My good Louison," I said, "I understand, and I thank you; but I am not very well to-night, and I have no appetite."

"Ah, M. Maxime," she exclaimed, in tears, "you don't know how you hurt my feelings. Well, you can pay me for the dinner; you shall if you like; you can give me the money as soon as you get some ... but if you gave me a hundred thousand francs, it wouldn't make me so happy as seeing you eat my poor dinner. You would do me a great kindness, M. Maxime. You, who are so clever, you ought to understand how I feel. Oh, I know you will, M. Maxime!"

"Well, my dear Louison, what am I to do? I can't give you a hundred thousand francs ... but ... I am going to eat your dinner. All by myself, too, if you don't mind."

"Certainly, sir. Oh, thank you, sir; I thank you very much indeed. You have a kind heart, sir."

"And a good appetite, Louison. Give me your hand--oh, not to put money in, you may be sure. There! _Au revoir_, Louison."

The good woman went out sobbing.

I did justice to Louison's dinner, and had just finished writing these lines when a grave and heavy footstep sounded on the stairs, and at the same time I thought I heard the voice of my humble providence whispering confidences in hurried, nervous tones. A moment or two later there was a knock. Louison slipped away in the darkness, and the solemn outline of the old notary appeared in the doorway.

M. Laubepin cast a keen glance at the tray where I had left the fragments of my dinner. Then coming towards me and opening his arms, at once confused and reproachful, he said:

"In Heaven's name, marquis, why did you not----"

He broke off, strode quickly about the room, and then coming to a sudden halt, exclaimed:

"Young man, you had no right to do this; you have given pain to a friend, and you have made an old man blush."

He was much moved. I looked at him, a little moved myself and not knowing what to say, when he suddenly clasped me in his arms and murmured in my ear, "My poor child...!"

For a moment we said nothing. When we had sat down, M. Laubepin continued.

"Maxime," he said, "are you in the same mind as when I left you? Have you the courage to accept the humblest work, the least important occupation, provided it is honourable, and that it gives you a livelihood and preserves your sister from the sufferings and dangers of poverty?"

"Most certainly I am; it's my duty, and I am ready to do it."

"Very well, my friend. Now listen to me. I have just returned from Brittany. In that ancient province there is a family called Laroque, who have for many years past honoured me with their entire confidence. This family is now represented by an old man and two ladies whom age or disposition render incapable of business. The Laroques have a substantial income derived from their large estates in land, which have latterly been managed by an agent whom I took the liberty to regard as a rogue. The day following our last interview, Maxime, I received intelligence of the death of this man. I immediately set out for the Chateau Laroque and asked for the appointment for you. I laid stress on your having been called to the bar, and dwelt particularly on your moral qualities. Respecting your wishes, I did not allude to your birth; you are not, and will not, be known in that house under any name but that of Maxime Odiot. A pavilion at some distance from the house will be allotted to you, and you will be able to have your meals there when, for any reason, you do not care to join the family at table. Your salary will be six thousand francs a year. How will that suit you?"

"It will suit me perfectly. You must let me acknowledge at once how much I feel the consideration and delicacy of your friendship. But to tell you the truth, I am afraid I am rather a strange kind of business man--rather a novice, you know."

"You need have no anxiety on that score, my friend. I anticipated your scruples, and concealed nothing from the parties concerned. 'Madame,' I said to my excellent friend, Mme. Laroque, 'you require an agent and an administrator of your income. I offer you one. He is far from possessing the talents of his predecessor; he is by no means versed in the mysteries of leases and farm-freeholds; he does not know the alphabet of the affairs you are so good as to intrust to him; he has had no experience, no practice, and no opportunity of learning; but he has something which his predecessor lacked, which sixty years of experience had not given him, and which he would not have acquired in ten thousand years--and that is honesty, madame. I have seen him under fire, and I will answer for him. Engage him; he will be indebted to you, and so shall I.' Young man, Mme. Laroque laughed very much at my way of recommending people, but in the end it turned out to be a good way, for it has succeeded."

The worthy old gentleman then offered to impart to me some elementary general notions on the kind of administration I was about to undertake, and to these he added, in connection with the interests of the Laroque family, the results of some inquiries which he had made and put into shape for me.

"And when am I to go, my dear sir?"

"To say the truth, my boy" (he had entirely dropped the "marquis"), "the sooner the better, for those good people could not make out a receipt unaided. My excellent friend, Mme. Laroque, more especially, though an admirable woman in many respects, is beyond conception careless, indiscreet, and childish in business matters. She is a Creole."

"Ah! she is a Creole," I repeated with some vivacity.

"Yes, young man, an old Creole lady," M. Laubepin said dryly. "Her husband was a Breton; but these details will come in good time.... Good-bye till to-morrow, Maxime, and be of good cheer. Ah! I had forgotten. On Thursday morning, before my departure, I did something which will be of service to you. Among your creditors there are some rogues, whose relations with your father were obviously usurious. Armed with the thunders of the law, I reduced their claims on my own responsibility, and made them give me receipts in full. So now your capital amounts to twenty thousand francs. Add to this reserve what you are able to save each year from your salary, and in ten years' time we shall have a good dowry for Helene. Well, well, come and lunch with Maitre Laubepin to-morrow, and we will settle all the rest. Good-bye, Maxime; good-night, my dear child!"

"God bless you, sir!"

CHATEAU DE LAROQUE (D'ARZ), _May 1st_.

I left Paris yesterday. My last interview with M. Laubepin was painful. I feel the affection of a son for the old man. Then I had to bid Helene farewell. It was necessary to tell her something of the truth, to make her understand why I was compelled to accept an appointment. I talked vaguely of temporary business difficulties. The poor child understood, I think, more than I had said; her large, wondering eyes filled with tears as she fell upon my neck.