Le Petit Chose Part 1

Le Pet.i.t Chose.

by Alphonse Daudet.

PREFATORY NOTE

In this volume appear two new appendices, which will also be added to all others of our Series: (1) _Questionnaires_, which are not meant to usurp the teacher's freedom in _viva voce_ practice of the language, but to select for attention certain questions, so that their answers may be carefully prepared by the pupils after the portions of the text to which they refer have been read through. If this is done the _viva voce_ practice will gain in definiteness and precision without in the least preventing spontaneous questions being asked _ad libitum_.

(2) _Sujets de Redaction_, which are intended to offer something better than the usual subjects set for "Free Composition," and have the supreme advantage of being connected with the work in hand. Sufficient guidance is given to enable every pupil to deal with the topic in a sensible manner; but at the same time there remains ample scope for the exercise of ingenuity and imagination, and the effort of composition cannot fail to test and to cultivate a faculty for giving expression to whatever knowledge the pupil has gathered in his reading. Whether these subjects are to be handled _viva voce_ or in writing must be left to the decision of the teacher.

INTRODUCTION

Alphonse Daudet was born at Nimes on May 13, 1840. The Daudets were of lowly origin. Alphonse's grandfather, a simple peasant, had in 1789 settled at Nimes as a weaver. His business prospered so much that he died leaving a small fortune; Vincent Daudet, his fourth son, and a young man of great ambition, was determined to rise out of the cla.s.s in which he was born and acquire for himself and family a high social status.

In 1830 he married, greatly against the wishes of her parents, Adeline Reynaud, whose father owned the largest silk manufactory in the town.

His affairs were fairly flourishing when he was suddenly ruined by the Revolution of 1848. Unable to meet his liabilities, he sold his business and removed to Lyons with his wife and children. He was, however, anxious that his sons, of whom Alphonse was the third, should have the best education his scanty means would allow, and Alphonse and his elder brother Ernest-the "mere Jacques" of _Le Pet.i.t Chose_ and his lifelong companion-were first sent to the monastic school of St. Pierre, and then to the Lyons Lycee.

Young Alphonse, who from his birth had been rather delicate, was not a model boy. He loved to play truant, and it was only through his brother Ernest, who, to get him out of many a sc.r.a.pe, wrote notes to his teacher signed in his father's name, that he escaped punishment. But he showed signs of great promise. He learned his lessons in half the time that his school-fellows did, was always at the top of his cla.s.s, and was gifted with a marvellous power of observation. He composed several poems- amongst others _La Vierge a la Creche_ and _Les Pet.i.ts Enfants_,- also a novel, all of which were declared by his master to have been amazing productions for a boy of his age.

But Fortune did not smile on the Daudet family at Lyons any more than at Nimes. After ten years of hard and bitter struggles, the home was broken up. M. Daudet became traveller for a firm of wine-merchants in the North, his wife and daughter remained in the South. Ernest-who had on leaving school acted as bookkeeper to his father, then as a receiver of pledges in a p.a.w.nbroker's shop, and lastly as a clerk in a forwarding office-went to Paris to try his fortune in the world of letters, whilst Alphonse was sent as an usher to a college at Alais, for his father was unable to pay the fees for his final school examination.

The year that he spent at Alais was the unhappiest in his life.

His small stature, his youth-he was now only fifteen years old-his "gauche" appearance, were not calculated to inspire the boys with any respect for him. They played him all sorts of tricks, and the masters refused to uphold his authority. Often, in order to escape his tormentors, he would rush up to his bed-room and there give vent to his despair by shedding floods of tears, lying awake at night and biting the bedclothes to choke his sobs. Yet, brave philosopher that he was, Le Pet.i.t Chose never lost heart. The dream of his life was to retrieve the family fortunes, a dream which one day was to be fully realized. At last, however, at the end of his tether, he wrote to Ernest telling him all his troubles, and great was his joy when he received a letter back, asking him to come at once to Paris.

On a cold, grey, foggy November morning Alphonse Daudet arrived in Paris, with only two francs in his pocket. His railway fare had been lent him by one of the masters at Alais, and he had had nothing to eat or drink on the journey, which had taken forty-eight hours, except a little brandy and water kindly offered by some sailors who travelled with him.

He had not dared to spend the little he had left after buying his ticket, for he thought it better to go without food than reach Paris penniless.

His brother met him and took him to his lodgings in the "Quartier Latin."

Ernest, who had come to Paris with introductions, had obtained a post on the staff of an Orleanist newspaper, _Le Spectateur_, at a salary of 2 a week. In his Trente ans de Paris and _Souvenirs d'un homme de lettres_, Le Pet.i.t Chose graphically tells us how, when his brother was at work, he wandered through the second-hand bookshops, where he was allowed to look through the new books on condition that he did not cut the leaves, and how one day, after fruitless interviews with publishers, when loitering along the banks of the Seine, he made the acquaintance of an editor, who became interested in him and agreed to publish his first little volume of charming poems, _Les Amoureuses_ (1858). Thus at the age of eighteen did Daudet make his debut in the literary world. The first rung was reached in the ladder of fame, and success was not long in coming.

He became a regular contributor to the _Figaro_. One of his poems, _Les Frunes_, was recited at the Tuileries before the Empress Eugenie.

She liked it so much that she was led to inquire who the author was.

On being told he was a poor man starving in a garret, she at once requested the Duc de Moray, President of the Corps Legislatif, to offer him a post as secretary in his department, a sinecure, with a handsome salary attached.

This gave him plenty of time to devote to literature, but hard work soon told on so delicate a frame. In 1861 he broke down owing to overwork, and went to Algeria and Corsica to recruit, collecting materials for future novels. In 1866, seized with a keen desire to visit once more his native town, he went South, where he wrote part of his autobiography, _Le Pet.i.t Chose_. In the following year (1867) he married Mlle. Julia Allard, whom he met at his parents' home. It was a case of love at first sight.

The marriage was an ideally happy one, and Daudet owed much of his future success to his wife, who corrected his proofs, criticized his characters, and encouraged him in every way she could.

For thirty years Daudet, now famous, continued to work, though only intermittently. He published, with increasing success, _Le Pet.i.t Chose_ (1868), _Tartarin de Tarascon_ (1872), _Fromont jeune et Risler aine_ (1874), _Jack_ (1876), _Le Nabab_ (1877), _Les Rois en exil_ (1879), _Numa Roumestan_ (1881), _L'evangeliste_ (1883), _Sapho_ (1884), _Tartarin sur les Alpes_ (1885), _La Belle Nivernaise_ (1886), _L'Immortel_ (1888), _Port-Tarascon_ (1890), _Rose et Ninette_ (1892), _La Pet.i.te Paroisse (1895)_, and _Le Tresor d'Arlatan_ (1897).

His last novel, _Soutien de famille_, appeared after his death.

The best known works of his earlier years, besides _Les Amoureuses_, are his _Lettres de mon moulin_ (1869) and _Les Contes du lundi_ (1873).

Daudet remained all his life the delicate, fragile Pet.i.t Chose.

Ten years before his death-which was tragic in its suddenness when it did come-a severe illness overtook him, and slowly but surely his iron will broke down under the physical and mental strain which its ravages had brought on him. One evening, sitting at supper with his family, he had scarcely begun to eat when he fell from his chair. His wife and son ran to his a.s.sistance, but saw at once that the end had come.

He died in Paris on December 18, 1897.

Daudet was a thorough _Meridional_. Born a Provencal, he never lost his early affection for the South. Impulsive, fiery in temper, and rather given to exaggeration, he possessed beneath a cheerful and handsome exterior a kind, sympathetic heart, and was generous to a fault.

Having known what it was to suffer extreme poverty and feel the pangs of hunger, he was full of pity for those who had to face the stern realities of life. He was a close and accurate observer of humanity.

He describes not only what he _felt_ but what he _saw_. When a youth he always carried a notebook in which he would write down any little object of interest that came across his path. His characters, however, are not mere photographs, but pictures of real men and women painted with the infinite care of a skilled artist. His personality permeates all he wrote, and in this lies his charm.

In presenting this delightful story of a writer who is probably the most widely read in France to-day, the Editor has felt reluctantly compelled to abridge the original text by about fifty pages, so as to bring it within easy scope of the cla.s.s-room; but in spite of these omissions he confidently hopes that the book will not fail to charm all the students who read it.

S. T.

LE PEt.i.t CHOSE

I

LA FABRIQUE

Je suis ne le 13 mai 18.., dans une ville du Languedoc, ou l'on trouve, comme dans toutes les villes du Midi, beaucoup de soleil, pas mal de poussiere, un couvent de Carmelites et deux ou trois monuments romains.

Mon pere, M. Eyssette, qui faisait a cette epoque le commerce des foulards, avait, aux portes de la ville, une grande fabrique dans un pan de laquelle il s'etait taille une habitation commode, tout ombragee de platanes, et separee des ateliers par un vaste jardin. C'est la que je suis venu au monde et que j'ai pa.s.se les premieres, les seules bonnes annees de ma vie. Aussi ma memoire reconnaissante a-t-elle garde du jardin, de la fabrique et des platanes un imperissable souvenir, et lorsqu'a la ruine de mes parents il m'a fallu me separer de ces choses, je les ai positivement regrettees comme des etres.

[2]

Je dois dire, pour commencer, que ma naissance ne porta pas bonheur a la maison Eyssette. La vieille Annou, notre cuisiniere, m'a souvent conte depuis comme quoi mon pere, en voyage a ce moment, recut en meme temps la nouvelle de mon apparition dans le monde et celle de la disparition d'un de ses clients de Ma.r.s.eille, qui lui emportait plus de quarante mille francs.

C'est une verite, je fus la mauvaise etoile de mes parents. Du jour de ma naissance, d'incroyables malheurs les a.s.saillirent par vingt endroits. D'abord nous eumes donc le client de Ma.r.s.eille, puis deux fois le feu dans la meme annee, puis la greve des ourdisseuses, puis notre brouille avec l'oncle Baptiste, puis un proces tres couteux avec nos marchands de couleurs, puis, enfin, la Revolution de 18.., qui nous donna le coup de grace.

A partir de ce moment la fabrique ne batt.i.t plus que d'une aile; pet.i.t a pet.i.t, les ateliers se viderent: chaque semaine un metier a bas, chaque mois une table d'impression de moins. C'etait pitie de voir la vie s'en aller de notre maison comme d'un corps malade, lentement, tous les jours un peu. Une fois, on n'entra plus dans les salles du second.

Une autre fois, la cour du fond fut cond.a.m.nee. Cela dura ainsi pendant deux ans; pendant deux ans la fabrique agonisa. Enfin, un jour, les ouvriers ne vinrent plus, la cloche des ateliers ne sonna pas, le puits a roue cessa de grincer, l'eau des grands ba.s.sins, dans lesquels on lavait les tissus, demeura immobile, et bientot, dans toute la fabrique, il ne resta plus que [3] M. et Mme Eyssette, la vieille Annou, mon frere Jacques et moi; puis, la-bas, dans le fond, pour garder les ateliers, le concierge Colombe et son fils le pet.i.t Rouget.

C'etait fini, nous etions ruines.

J'avais alors six ou sept ans. Comme j'etais tres frele et maladif, mes parents n'avaient pas voulu m'envoyer a l'ecole. Ma mere m'avait seulement appris a lire et a ecrire, plus quelques mots d'espagnol et deux ou trois airs de guitare a l'aide desquels on m'avait fait, dans la famille, une reputation de pet.i.t prodige. Grace a ce systeme d'education, je ne bougeais jamais de chez nous, et je pus a.s.sister dans tous ses details a l'agonie de la maison Eyssette. Ce spectacle me laissa froid, je l'avoue; meme je trouvai a notre ruine ce cote tres agreable que je pouvais gambader a ma guise par toute la fabrique, ce qui, du temps des ouvriers, ne m'etait permis que le dimanche.

Je disais gravement au pet.i.t Rouget: "Maintenant, la fabrique est a moi; on me l'a donnee pour jouer." Et le pet.i.t Rouget me croyait.

Il croyait tout ce que je lui disais, cet imbecile.

A la maison, par exemple, tout le monde ne prit pas notre debacle aussi gaiement. Tout a coup M. Eyssette devint terrible; c'etait dans l'habitude une nature enflammee, violente, exageree, aimant les cris, la ca.s.se et les tonnerres; au fond, un tres excellent homme, ayant seulement la main leste, le verbe haut et l'imperieux besoin de donner le tremblement a tout ce qui l'entourait. La mauvaise fortune, au lieu de l'abattre, l'exaspera. Du soir au matin, ce fut une colere formidable qui, ne sachant a qui s'en prendre, [4] s'attaquait a tout, au soleil, au mistral, a Jacques, a la vieille Annou, a la Revolution, oh! surtout a la Revolution!... A entendre mon pere, vous auriez jure que cette Revolution de 18.., qui nous avait mis a mal, etait specialement dirigee contre nous. Aussi je vous prie de croire que les revolutionnaires n'etaient pas en odeur de saintete dans la maison Eyssette. Dieu sait ce que nous avons dit de ces messieurs dans ce temps-la.... Encore aujourd'hui, quand le vieux papa Eyssette (que Dieu me le conserve!) sent venir son acces de goutte, il s'etend peniblement sur sa chaise longue, et nous l'entendons dire: "Oh! ces revolutionnaires!..."

A l'epoque dont je vous parle, M. Eyssette n'avait pas la goutte, et la douleur de se voir ruine en avait fait un homme terrible que personne ne pouvait approcher. Il fallut le saigner deux fois en quinze jours. Autour de lui, chacun se taisait; on avait peur. A table, nous demandions du pain a voix ba.s.se. On n'osait pas meme pleurer devant lui.

Aussi, des qu'il avait tourne les talons, ce n'etait qu'un sanglot, d'un bout de la maison a l'autre; ma mere, la vieille Annou, mon frere Jacques et aussi mon grand frere l'abbe, lorsqu'il venait nous voir, tout le monde s'y mettait. Ma mere, cela se concoit, pleurait de voir M. Eyssette malheureux; l'abbe et la vieille Annou pleuraient de voir pleurer Mme Eyssette; quant a Jacques, trop jeune encore pour comprendre nos malheurs,-il avait a peine deux ans de plus que moi,-il pleurait par besoin, pour le plaisir.

Un singulier enfant que mon frere Jacques! En [5] voila un qui avait le don des larmes! D'aussi loin qu'il me souvienne, je le vois, les yeux rouges et la joue ruisselante. Le soir, le matin, de jour, de nuit, en cla.s.se, a la maison, en promenade, il pleurait sans cesse, il pleurait partout. Quand on lui disait: "Qu'as-tu?" il repondait en sanglotant: "Je n'ai rien." Et, le plus curieux, c'est qu'il n'avait rien.

Il pleurait comme on se mouche, plus souvent, voila tout. Quelquefois M. Eyssette, exaspere, disait a ma mere: "Cet enfant est ridicule, regardez-le!... c'est un fleuve." A quoi Mme Eyssette repondait de sa voix douce: "Que veux-tu, mon ami? cela pa.s.sera en grandissant; a son age, j'etais comme lui." En attendant, Jacques grandissait; il grandissait beaucoup meme, et _cela_ ne lui pa.s.sait pas. Tout au contraire, la singuliere apt.i.tude qu'avait cet etrange garcon a repandre sans raison des averses de larmes allait chaque jour en augmentant. Aussi la desolation de nos parents lui fut une grande fortune.... C'est pour le coup qu'il s'en donna de sangloter a son aise des journees entieres, sans que personne vint lui dire: "Qu'as-tu?"

En somme, pour Jacques comme pour moi, notre ruine avait son joli cote.

Pour ma part, j'etais tres heureux. On ne s'occupait plus de moi.

J'en profitais pour jouer tout le jour avec Rouget parmi les ateliers deserts, ou nos pas sonnaient comme dans une eglise, et les grandes cours abandonnees, que l'herbe envahissait deja. Ce jeune Rouget, fils du concierge Colombe, etait un gros garcon d'une douzaine d'annees, fort comme un buf, devoue [6] comme un chien, bete comme une oie et remarquable surtout par une chevelure rouge, a laquelle il devait son surnom de Rouget. Seulement, je vais vous dire: Rouget, pour moi, n'etait pas Rouget. Il etait tour a tour mon fidele Vendredi, une tribu de sauvages, un equipage revolte, tout ce qu'on voulait. Moi-meme, en ce temps-la, je ne m'appelais pas Daniel Eyssette: j'etais cet homme singulier, vetu de peaux de betes, dont on venait de me donner les aventures, master Crusoe lui-meme. Douce folie! Le soir, apres souper, je relisais mon _Robinson_, je l'apprenais par cur; le jour, je le jouais, je le jouais avec rage, et tout ce qui m'entourait, je l'enrolais dans ma comedie. La fabrique n'etait plus la fabrique; c'etait mon ile deserte, oh! bien deserte. Les ba.s.sins jouaient le role d'Ocean, le jardin faisait une foret vierge. Il y avait dans les platanes un tas de cigales qui etaient de la piece et qui ne le savaient pas. Rouget, lui non plus, ne se doutait guere de l'importance de son role. Si on lui avait demande ce que c'etait que Robinson, on l'aurait bien embarra.s.se; pourtant je dois dire qu'il tenait son emploi avec la plus grande conviction, et que, pour imiter le rugiss.e.m.e.nt des sauvages, il n'y en avait pas comme lui.

Ou avait-il appris? Je l'ignore. Toujours est-il que ces grands rugiss.e.m.e.nts de sauvage qu'il allait chercher dans le fond de sa gorge, en agitant sa forte criniere rouge, auraient fait fremir les plus braves.

Moi-meme, Robinson, j'en avais quelquefois le cur bouleverse, et j'etais oblige de lui dire a voix ba.s.se: "Pas si fort, Rouget, tu me fais peur."

Malheureus.e.m.e.nt, si Rouget imitait le cri des [7] sauvages tres bien, il savait encore mieux dire les gros mots d'enfants de la rue.

Tout en jouant, j'appris a faire comme lui, et un jour, en pleine table, un formidable juron m'echappa je ne sais comment. Consternation generale!

"Qui t'as appris cela? Ou l'as-tu entendu?" Ce fut un evenement. M. Eyssette parla tout de suite de me mettre dans une maison de correction....