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The Ink-Stain (Tache D'encre: A Spot of Ink), a novel by Rene Bazin |
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BOOK III - CHAPTER XVII. PLEASURES OF EAVESDROPPING |
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_ July 22d. At two o'clock to-day I went to see Sylvestre, to tell him all the great events of yesterday. We sat down on the old covered sofa in the shadow of the movable curtain which divides the studio, as it were, into two rooms, among the lay figures, busts, varnish-bottles, and paint-boxes. Lampron likes this chiaroscuro. It rests his eyes. Some one knocked at the door. "Stay where you are," said Sylvestre; "it's a customer come for the background of an engraving. I'll be with you in two minutes. Come in!" As he was speaking he drew the curtain in front of me, and through the thin stuff I could see him going toward the door, which had just opened. "Monsieur Lampron?" "I am he, Monsieur." "You don't recognize me, Monsieur?" "No, Monsieur." "I'm surprised at that." "Why so? I have never seen you." "You have taken my portrait!" "Really!" I was watching Lampron, who was plainly angered at this brusque introduction. He left the chair which he had begun to push forward, let it stand in the middle of the studio, and went and sat down on his engraving-stool in the corner, with a somewhat haughty look, and a defiant smile lurking behind his beard. He rested his elbow on the table and began to drum with his fingers. "What I have had the honor to inform you is the simple truth, Monsieur. I am Monsieur Charnot of the Institute." Lampron gave a glance in my direction, and his frown melted away. "Excuse me, Monsieur; I only know you by your back. Had you shown me that side of you I might perhaps have recognized--" "I have not come here to listen to jokes, Monsieur; and I should have come sooner to demand an explanation, but that it was only this morning I heard of what I consider a deplorable abuse of your talents. But picture-shows are not in my line. I did not see myself there. My friend Flamaran had to tell me that I was to be seen at the last Salon, together with my daughter, sitting on a tree-trunk in the forest of Saint-Germain. Is it true, Monsieur, that you drew me sitting on a trunk?" "Quite true." "That's a trifle too rustic for a man who does not go outside of Paris three times a year. And my daughter you drew in profile--a good likeness, I believe." "It was as like as I could make it." "Then you confess that you drew both my daughter and myself?" "Yes, I do, Monsieur." "It may not be so easy for you to explain by what right you did so; I await your explanation, Monsieur." "I might very well give you no explanation whatever," replied Lampron, who was beginning to lose patience. "I might also reply that I no more needed to ask your permission to sketch you than to ask that of the beeches, oaks, elms, and willows. I might tell you that you formed part of the landscape, that every artist who sketches a bit of underwood has the right to stick a figure in--" "A figure, Monsieur! do you call me a figure?" "A gentleman, I mean. Artists call it figure. Well, I might give you this reason, which is quite good enough for you, but it is not the real one. I prefer to tell you frankly what passed. You have a very beautiful daughter, Monsieur." M. Charnot made his customary bow. "One of my friends is in love with her. He is shy, and dares not tell his love. We met you by chance in the wood, and I was seized with the idea of making a sketch of Mademoiselle Jeanne, so like that she could not mistake it, and then exhibiting it with the certainty of her seeing it and guessing its meaning. I trusted she would recall to her mind, not myself, for my youth is past, but a young friend of mine who is of the age and build of a lover. If this was a crime, Monsieur, I am ready to take the blame for it upon myself, for I alone committed it." "It certainly was criminal, Monsieur; criminal in you, at any rate--you who are a man of weight, respected for your talent and your character--to aid and abet in a frivolous love-affair." "It was the deepest and most honorable sentiment, Monsieur." "A blaze of straw!" "Nothing of the sort!" "Don't tell me! Your friend's a mere boy." "So much the better for him, and for her, too! If you want a man of middle age for your son-in-law, just try one and see what they are worth. You may be sorry that you ever refused this boy, who, it is true, is only twenty-four, has little money, no decided calling, nor yet that gift of self-confidence which does instead of merit for so many people; but who is a brave and noble soul, whom I can answer for as for myself. Go, Monsieur, you will find your daughter great names, fat purses, gold lace, long beards, swelling waistbands, reputations, pretensions, justified or not, everything, in short, in which he is poor; but him you will never find again! That is all I have to tell you." Lampron had become animated and spoke with heat. There was the slightest flash of anger in his eyes. I saw M. Charnot get up, approach him, and hold out his hand. "I did not wish you to say anything else, Monsieur; that is enough for me. Flamaran asked my daughter's hand for your friend only this morning. Flamaran loses no time when charged with a commission. He, too, told me much that was good of your friend. I also questioned Counsellor Boule. But however flattering characters they might give him, I still needed another, that of a man who had lived in complete intimacy with Monsieur Mouillard, and I could find no one but you." Lampron stared astonished at this little thin-lipped man who had just changed his tone and manner so unexpectedly. "Well, Monsieur," he answered, "you might have got his character from me with less trouble; there was no need to make a scene." "Excuse me. You say I should have got his character; that is exactly what I did not want; characters are always good. What I wanted was a cry from the heart of a friend outraged and brought to bay. That is what I got, and it satisfies me. I am much obliged to you, Monsieur, and beg you will excuse my conduct." "But, since we are talking sense at present, allow me to put you a question in my turn. I am not in the habit of going around the point. Is my friend's proposal likely to be accepted or not?" "Monsieur Lampron, in these delicate matters I have decided for the future to leave my daughter entirely free. Although my happiness is at stake almost as entirely as hers, I shall not say a word save to advise. In accordance with this resolve I communicated Flamaran's proposal to her." "Well?" "I expected she would refuse it." "But she said 'Yes'?" "She did not say 'No;' if she had, you can guess that I should not be here." At this reply I quite lost my head, and was very near tearing aside the curtain, and bursting forth into the studio with a shout of gratitude. But M. Charnot added: "Don't be too sure, though. There are certain serious, and, perhaps, insurmountable obstacles. I must speak to my daughter again. I will let your friend know of our final decision as soon as I can. Good-by, Monsieur." Lampron saw him to the street, and I heard their steps grow distant in the passage. A moment later Sylvestre returned and held out both hands to me, saying: "Well, are you happy now?" "Of course I am, to a certain extent." "'To a certain extent'! Why, she loves you." "But the obstacles, Sylvestre!" "Nonsense!" "Perhaps insurmountable--those were his words." "Why, obstacles are the salt of all our joys. What a deal you young men want before you can be called happy! You ask Life for certainties, as if she had any to give you!" And he began to discuss my fears, but could not quite disperse them, for neither of us could guess what the obstacles could be. August 2d. After ten days of waiting, during which I have employed Lampron and M. Flamaran to intercede for me, turn and turn about; ten days passed in hovering between mortal anguish and extravagant hopes, during which I have formed, destroyed, taken up again and abandoned more plans than I ever made in all my life before, yesterday, at five o'clock, I got a note from M. Charnot, begging me to call upon him the same evening. I went there in a state of nervous collapse. He received me in his study, as he had done seven months before, at our first interview, but with a more solemn politeness; and I noticed that the paper-knife, which he had taken up from the table as he resumed his seat, shook between his fingers. I sat in the same chair in which I had felt so ill at ease. To tell the truth, I felt very much the same, yesterday. M. Charnot doubtless noticed it, and wished to reassure me. "Monsieur," said he, "I receive you as a friend. Whatever may be the result of our interview, you may be assured of my esteem. Therefore do not fear to answer me frankly." He put several questions to me concerning my family, my tastes, and my acquaintance in Paris. Then he requested me to tell the simple story of my boyhood and my youth, the recollections of my home, of the college at La Chatre, of my holidays at Bourges, and of my student life. He listened without interruption, playing with the ivory paperknife. When I reached the date--it was only last December--when I saw Jeanne for the first time-- "That's enough," said he, "I know or guess the rest. Young man, I promised you an answer; this is it--" For the moment, I ceased to breathe; my very heart seemed to stop beating. "My daughter," went on M. Charnot, "has at this moment several proposals of marriage to choose from. You see I hide nothing from you. I have left her time to reflect; she has weighed and compared them all, and communicated to me yesterday the result of her reflections. To richer and more brilliant matches she prefers an honest man who loves her for herself, and you, Monsieur, are that honest man." "Oh, thank you, thank you, Monsieur!" I cried. "Wait a moment, there are two conditions." "Were there ten, I would accept them without question!" "Don't hurry. You will see; one is my daughter's, the other comes from both of us." "You wish me to have some profession, perhaps?" "No, that's not it. Clearly my son-in-law will never sit idle. Besides, I have some views on that subject, which I will tell you later if I have the chance. No, the first condition exacted by my daughter, and dictated by a feeling which is very pleasant to me, is that you promise never to leave Paris." "That I swear to, with all the pleasure in life!" "Really? I feared you had some ties." "Not one." "Or dislike for Paris." "No, Monsieur; only a preference for Paris, with freedom to indulge it. Your second condition?" "The second, to which my daughter and I both attach importance, is that you should make your peace with your uncle. Flamaran tells me you have quarrelled." "That is true." "I hope it is not a serious difference. A mere cloud, isn't it?" "Unfortunately not. My uncle is very positive--" "But at the same time his heart is in the right place, so far as I could judge from what I saw of him--in June, I think it was." "Yes." "You don't mind taking the first step?" "I will take as many as may be needed." "I was sure you would. You can not remain on bad terms with your father's brother, the only relative you have left. In our eyes this reconciliation is a duty, a necessity. You should desire it as much as, and even more than, we." "I shall use every effort, Monsieur, I promise you." "And in that case you will succeed, I feel sure." M. Charnot, who had grown very pale, held out his hand to me, and tried hard to smile. "I think, Monsieur Fabien, that we are quite at one, and that the hour has come--" He did not finish the sentence, but rose and went to open a door between two bookcases at the end of the room. "Jeanne," he said, "Monsieur Fabien accepts the two conditions, my dear." And I saw Jeanne come smiling toward me. And I, who had risen trembling, I, who until then had lost my head at the mere thought of seeing her, I, who had many a time asked myself in terror what I should say on meeting her, if ever she were mine, I felt myself suddenly bold, and the words rushed to my lips to thank her, to express my joy. My happiness, however, was evident, and I might have spared my words. For the first half-hour all three of us talked together. Then M. Charnot pushed back his armchair, and we two were left to ourselves. He had taken up a newspaper, but I am pretty sure he held it upside down. In any case he must have been reading between the lines, for he did not turn the page the whole evening. He often cast a glance over the top of the paper, folded in four, to the corner where we were sitting, and from us his eyes travelled to a pretty miniature of Jeanne as a child, which hung over the mantelpiece. What comparisons, what memories, what regrets, what hopes were struggling in his mind? I know not, but I know he sighed, and had not we been there I believe he would have wept. To me Jeanne showed herself simple as a child, wise and thoughtful as a woman. A new feeling was growing every instant within me, of perfect rest of heart; the certainty of happiness for all my life to come. Yes, my happiness travelled beyond the present, as I looked into the future and saw along series of days passed by her side; and while she spoke to me, tranquil, confident, and happy too, I thought I saw the great wings of my dream closing over and enfolding us. We spoke in murmurs. The open window let in the warm evening air and the confused roar of the city. "I am to be your friend and counsellor?" said she. "Always." "You promise that you will ask my advice in all things, and that we shall act in concert?" "I do." "If this very first evening I ask you for a proof of this, you won't be angry?" "On the contrary." "Well, from what you have told me of your uncle, you seem to have accepted the second condition, of making up your quarrel, rather lightly." "I have only promised to do my best." "Yes, but my father counts upon your success. How do you intend to act?" "I haven't yet considered." "That's just what I foresaw, and I thought it would perhaps be a good thing if we considered it together." "Mademoiselle, I am listening; compose the plan of campaign, and I will criticise it." Jeanne clasped her hands over her knees and assumed a thoughtful look. "Suppose you wrote to him." "There is every chance that he would not answer." "Reply paid?" "Mademoiselle, you are laughing; you are no counsellor any longer." "Yes, I am. Let us be serious. Suppose you go to see him." "That's a better idea. He may perhaps receive me." "In that case you will capture him. If you can only get a man to listen--" "Not my uncle, Mademoiselle. He will listen, and do you know what his answer will be?" "What?" "This, or something like it: 'My worthy nephew, you have come to tell me two things, have you not? First, that you are about to marry a Parisienne; secondly, that you renounce forever the family practice. You merely confirm and aggravate our difference. You have taken a step further backward. It was not worth while your coming out of your way to tell me this, and you may return as soon as you please.'" "You surprise me. There must be some way of getting at him, if he is really good-hearted, as you say. If I could see your uncle I should soon find out a way." "If you could see him! Yes, that would be the best way of all; it couldn't help succeeding. He imagines you as a flighty Parisienne; he is afraid of you; he is more angry with me for loving you than for refusing to carry on his practice. If he could only see you, he would soon forgive me." "You think so?" "I'm sure of it." "Do you think that if I were to look him in the face, as I now look at you, and to say to him: 'Monsieur Mouillard, will you not consent to my becoming your niece?' do you think that then he would give in?" "Alas! Mademoiselle, why can not it be tried?" "It certainly is difficult, but I won't say it can not." We explained, or rather Jeanne explained, the case to M. Charnot, who is assuredly her earliest and most complete conquest. At first he cried out against the idea. He said it was entirely my business, a family matter in which he had no right to interfere. She insisted. She carried his scruples by storm. She boldly proposed a trip to Bourges, and a visit to M. Mouillard. She overflowed with reasons, some of them rather weak, but all so prettily urged! A trip to Bourges would be delightful--something so novel and refreshing! Had M. Charnot complained on the previous evening, or had he not, of having to stop in Paris in the heat of August? Yes, he had complained, and quite right too, for his colleagues did not hesitate to leave their work and rush off to the country. Then she cited examples: one off to the Vosges, another at Arcachon, yet another at Deauville. And she reminded him, too, that a certain old lady, one of his old friends of the Faubourg St. Germain, lived only a few miles out of Bourges, and had invited him to come and see her, she didn't know how many times, and that he had promised and promised and never kept his word. Now he could take the opportunity of going on from Bourges to her chateau. Finally, as M. Charnot continued to urge the singularity of such behavior, she replied: "My dear father! not at all; in visiting Monsieur Mouillard you will be only fulfilling a social duty." "How so, I should like to know?" "He paid you a visit, and you will be returning it!" M. Charnot tossed his head, like a father who, though he may not be convinced, yet admits that he is beaten. As for me, Jeanne, I'm beginning to believe in the fairies again. _ |
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