The Immortal Part 8

'There is a good deal in that,' said Paul gravely, and he threw his friend Vedrine overboard with as little concern as a litter of kittens.

'After all, if you do not like the figure, we can put another, or none at all. It would have a more striking effect. The tent empty; the bed ready, and no one to lie on it!'

The Princess, whose chief satisfaction was that the shirtless ruffian would not be seen there, exclaimed, 'Oh, how glad I am! how nice of you!

I don't mind telling you now, that I cried over it all night!'

As usual, when they stopped at the entrance gate, the footman took the wreaths and followed some way behind, while Colette and Paul climbed in the heat a path made soft by the recent showers. She leaned upon his arm, and from time to time 'hoped that she did not tire him.' He shook his head with a sad smile. There were few people in the cemetery. A gardener and a keeper recognised the familiar figure of the Princess with a respectful bow. But when they had left the avenue and pa.s.sed the upper terraces, it was all solitude and shade. Besides the birds in the trees they heard only the grinding of the saw and the metallic clink of the chisel, sounds perpetual in Pere-la-Chaise, as in some city always in building and never finished.

Two or three times Madame de Rosen had seen her companion glance with displeasure at the tall lacquey in his long black overcoat and c.o.c.kade, whose funereal figure now as ever formed part of the love-scene. Eager on this occasion to please him, she stopped, saying, 'Wait a minute,'

took the flowers herself, dismissed the servant, and they went on all alone along the winding walk. But in spite of this kindness, Paul's brow did not relax; and, as he had hung upon his free arm three or four rings of violets, _immortelles_, and lilac, he felt more angry with the deceased than ever. 'You shall pay me for this,' was his savage reflection. She, on the contrary, felt singularly happy, in that vivid consciousness of life and health which comes upon us in places of death.

Perhaps it was the warmth of the day, the perfume of the flowers, mixing their fragrance with the stronger scent of the yews and the box trees and the moist earth steaming in the sun, and with another yet, an acrid, faint, and penetrating scent, which she knew well, but which, to-day, instead of revolting her senses, as usual, seemed rather to intoxicate them.

Suddenly a shiver pa.s.sed over her. The hand which lay on the young man's arm was suddenly grasped in his, grasped with force and held tight, held as it were in an embrace, and the little hand dared not take itself away. The fingers of his hand were trying to get between the delicate fingers of hers and take possession of it altogether. Hers resisted, trying to clench itself in the glove by way of refusal. All the time they went on walking, arm in arm, neither speaking nor looking, but much moved, resistance, according to the natural law, exciting the relative desire. At last came the surrender; the little hand opened, and their fingers joined in a clasp which parted their gloves, for one exquisite moment of full avowal and complete possession. The next minute the woman's pride awoke. She wanted to speak, to show that she was mistress of herself, that she had no part in what was done, nor knowledge of it at all. Finding nothing to say, she read aloud the epitaph on a tomb lying flat among the weeds, 'Augusta, 1847,' and he continued, under his breath, 'A love-story, no doubt.' Overhead the thrushes and finches uttered their strident notes, not unlike the sounds of the stone-cutting, which were heard uninterruptedly in the distance.

They were now entering the Twentieth Division, the part of the cemetery which may be called its 'old town,' where the paths are narrower, the trees higher, the tombs closer together, a confused ma.s.s of ironwork, pillars, Greek temples, pyramids, angels, genii, busts, wings open and wings folded. The tombs were various as the lives now hidden beneath--commonplace, odd, original, simple, forced, pretentious, modest. In some the floor-stones were freshly cleaned and loaded with flowers, memorials, and miniature gardens of a Chinese elegance in littleness. In others the mossy slabs were mouldering or parting, and were covered with brambles and high weeds. But all bore well-known names, names distinctly Parisian, names of lawyers, judges, merchants of eminence, ranged here in rows as in the haunts of business and trade. There were even double names, standing for family partnerships in capital and connection, substantial signatures, known no more to the directory or the bank ledger, but united for ever upon the tomb. And Madame de Rosen remarked them with the same tone of surprise, almost of pleasure, with which she would have bowed to a carriage in the Park, 'Ah! the So-and-So's! Mario? was that the singer?' and so forth, all by way of seeming not to know that their hands were clasped.

But presently the door of a tomb near them creaked, and there appeared a large lady in black, with a round fresh face. She carried a little watering-pot, and was putting to rights the flower-beds, oratory, and tomb generally, as calmly as if she had been in a summer-house. She nodded to them across the Enclosure with a kindly smile of unselfish good will, which seemed to say, 'Use your time, happy lovers; life is short, and nothing good but love.' A feeling of embarra.s.sment unloosed their hands. The spell was broken, and the Princess, with a sort of shame, led the way across the tombs, taking the quickest and shortest line to reach the mausoleum of the Prince.

It stood on the highest ground in 'Division 20,' upon a large level of lawn and flowers, inclosed by a low rich rail of wrought iron in the style of the Scaliger tombs at Verona. Its general appearance was designedly rough, and fairly realised the conception of an antique tent with its coa.r.s.e folds, the red of the Dalmatian granite giving the colour of the bark in which the canvas had been steeped. At the top of three broad steps of granite was the entrance, flanked with pedestals and high funereal tripods of bronze blackened with a sort of lacquer.

Above were the Rosen arms upon a large scutcheon, also of bronze, the shield of the good knight who slept within the tent.

Entering the inclosure, they laid the wreaths here and there, on the pedestals and on the slanted projections, representing huge tent-pegs, at the edge of the base. The Princess went to the far end of the interior, where in the darkness before the altar shone the silver fringes of two kneeling-desks, and the old gold of a Gothic cross and ma.s.sive candlesticks, and there fell upon her knees--a good place to pray in, among the cool slabs, the panels of black marble glittering with the name and full t.i.tles of the dead, and the inscriptions from Ecclesiastes or the Song of Songs. But the Princess could find only a few indistinct words, confused with profane thoughts, which made her ashamed. She rose and busied herself with the flower-stands, retiring gradually far enough to judge the effect of the sarcophagus or bed. The cushion of black bronze, with silver monogram, was already in its place, and she thought the hard couch with nothing upon it had a fine and simple effect. But she wanted the opinion of Paul, who could be heard pacing the gravel as he waited without. Mentally approving his delicacy, she was on the point of calling him in, when the interior grew dark, and on the trefoil lights of the lantern was heard the patter of another shower. Twice she called him, but he did not move from the pedestal, where he sat exposed to the rain, and without speaking declined her invitation.

'Come in,' she said, 'come in.'

Still he stayed, saying rapidly and low, 'I do not want to come. You love him so.'

'Come,' she still said, 'come/ and taking his hand drew him to the entrance. Step by step the splashing of the rain made them draw back as far as the sarcophagus, and there, half sitting, half standing, they remained side by side, contemplating beneath the low clouds the 'old town' of the dead, which sloped away at their feet with its crowding throng of pinnacles and grey figures and humbler stones, rising like Druid architecture from the bright green. No birds were audible, no sound of tools, nothing but the water running away on all sides, and from the canvas cover of a half-finished monument the monotonous voices of two artisans discussing their worries. The rain without made it all the warmer within, and with the strong aroma of the flowers mingled still that other inseparable scent The Princess had raised her veil, feeling the same oppression and dryness of the mouth that she had felt on the way up. Speechless and motionless, the pair seemed so much a part of the tomb, that a little brown, bird came hopping in to shake its feathers and pick a worm between the slabs. 'It's a nightingale,'

murmured Paul in the sweet overpowering stillness. She tried to say, 'Do they sing still in this month?' But he had taken her in his arms, he had set her between his knees at the edge of the granite couch, and putting her head back, pressed upon her half-open lips a long, long kiss, pa.s.sionately returned.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Pressed upon her half-open lips a long, long kiss 146]

'Because love is more strong than death,' said the inscription from the Canticle, written above them upon the marble wall.

When the Princess reached her house, where Madame Astier was awaiting her return, she had a long cry in the arms of her friend, a refuge unhappily not more trustworthy than those of her friend's son. It was a burst of lamentation and broken words. 'Oh, my dear, oh, my dear, how miserable I am! If you knew,' she said, 'if you only knew!' She felt with despair the hopeless difficulty of the situation, her hand solemnly promised to the Prince d'Athis, and her affections just plighted to the enchanter of the tombs, whom she cursed from the depths of her soul.

And, most distressing of all, she could not confide her weakness to her affectionate friend, being sure that, the moment she opened her lips, the mother would side with her son against 'Sammy,' with love against prudence, and perhaps even compel her to the intolerable degradation of marrying a commoner.

'There then, there then,' said Madame Astier, unaffected by the torrent of grief. 'You are come from the cemetery, I suppose, where you have been working up your feelings again. But you know, dear, there must be an end to _Artemisia!_' She understood the woman's weak vanity, and insisted on the absurdity of this interminable mourning, ridiculous in the eyes of the world, and at all events injurious to her beauty And after all, it was not a question of a second love-match! What was proposed was no more than an alliance between two names and t.i.tles equally n.o.ble. Herbert himself, if he saw her from heaven, must be content.

'He did understand things, certainly, poor dear,' sighed Colette de Rosen, whose maiden name was Sauvadon. She was set on becoming 'Madame l'Amba.s.sadrice,' and still more on remaining 'Madame la Princesse.'

'Look, dear, will you have a piece of good advice? You just run away.

Sammy will start in a week. Do not wait for him. Take Lavaux. He knows St. Petersburg, and will settle you there meanwhile. And there will be this advantage, that you will escape a painful scene with the d.u.c.h.ess. A Corsican, you know, is capable of anything.'

'Ye-es, perhaps I had better go,' said Madame de Rosen, to whom the chief merit of the plan was that she would avoid any fresh attack, and put distance between her and the folly of the afternoon.

'Is it the tomb?' asked Madame Astier, seeing her hesitate. 'Is that it? Why, Paul will finish it very well without you. Come, pet, no more tears. You may water your beauty, but you must not over-water it.' As she went away in the fading light to wait for her omnibus, the good lady said to herself, 'Oh dear, D'Athis will never know what his marriage is costing me!' And here her feeling of weariness, her longing for a good rest after so many trials, reminded her suddenly that the most trying of all was to come, the discovery and confession at home. She had not yet had time to think about it, and now she was going fast towards it, nearer and nearer with every turn of the heavy wheels. The very antic.i.p.ation made her shudder: it was not fear; but the frantic outcries of Astier-Rehu, his big rough voice, the answer that must be given, and then the inevitable reappearance of his trunk--oh, what a weariness it would be! Could it not be put off till to-morrow? She was tempted not to confess at once, but to turn suspicion upon some one else, upon Teyssedre for instance, till the next morning. She would at least get a quiet night.

'Ah, here is Madame! Something has happened/ cried Corentine, as she ran to the door in a fl.u.s.ter, excitement making more conspicuous than usual the marks of her smallpox. Madame Astier made straight for her own room; but the door of the study opened, and a peremptory 'Adelaide!' compelled her to go in. The rays of the lamp-globe showed her that the face of her husband had a strange expression. He took her by the two hands and drew her into the light. Then in a quivering voice he said, 'Loi-sillon is dead,' and he kissed her on both cheeks.

Not found out! No, not yet. He had not even gone up to his papers; but had been pacing his study for two hours, eager to see her and tell her this great news, these three words which meant a change in their whole life, 'Loisillon is dead!'

CHAPTER VII.

Mlle. Germaine de Freydet,

Clos Jallanges.

My DEAREST SISTER,--Your letters distress me much. I know you are lonely and ill, and feel my absence; but what am I to do? Remember my master's advice to show myself and be seen. It is not, as you may suppose, at Clos Jallanges, in my tweed suit and leggings, that I could get on with my candidature. I cannot but see that the time is near. Loisillon is sinking visibly, dying by inches; and I am using the time to make friendships among the Academicians, which may mean votes hereafter.

Astier has already introduced me to several of them. I often go to fetch him after the meetings. It is charming to see them come out of the Inst.i.tute, almost all laden with years as with honours, and walk away arm-in-arm in groups of three or four, bright and happy, talking loud and filling the pavement, their eyes still wet after the hearty laughs they have had within. 'Paille-ron is very smart,' says one; 'But Danjou gave it him back,' says another. As for me, I fasten on to the arm of Astier-Rehu and, ranked with the deities, seem almost a deity myself.

One by one at this or that bridge the groups break up. 'See you next Thursday,' is the last word. And I go back to the Rue de Beaune with my master, who gives me encouragement and advice, and in the confidence of success says, with his frank laugh, 'Look at me, Freydet; I am twenty years younger after a meeting!'

I really believe the dome does keep them fresh. Where is there another old man as l.u.s.ty as Jean Rehu, whose ninety-eighth birthday we celebrated yesterday evening by a dinner at Voisin's? Lavaux suggested it, and if it cost me 40L., it gave me the opportunity of counting my men. We were twenty-five at table, all Academicians, except Picheral, Lavaux, and myself. I have the votes of seventeen or eighteen; the rest are uncertain, but well disposed. Dinner very well served, and very chatty.

By the way, I have asked Lavaux to come to Clos Jallanges for his holiday. He is librarian of the Bibliotheque Mazarine. He shall have the large room in the wing, looking out on the pheasants. I don't think highly of his character, but I must have him; he is the d.u.c.h.ess's 'zebra'! Did I tell you that a zebra in ladies' language is a bachelor friend, unoccupied, discreet, and quick, kept always at hand for errands and missions too delicate to be trusted to a servant? In the intervals of his diplomacy a young zebra may sometimes get particular gratifications, but as a rule the animal is tame and wants little, content with small promotion, a place at the bottom of the table, and the honour of showing his paces before the lady and her friends. Lavaux, I fancy, has made his place profitable in other ways. He is so clever and, in spite of his easy manner, so much dreaded. He knows, as he says, 'the servants' hall' of two establishments, literature and politics, and he shows me the holes and traps of which the road to the Inst.i.tute is full. Astier, my master, does not know them to this day. In his grand simplicity he has climbed straight up, unaware of danger, with his eyes upon the dome, confident in his strength and his labour. A hundred times he would have broken his neck, if his wife, the cleverest of clever women, had not guided him unperceived.

It was Lavaux who dissuaded me from publishing between this and the next vacancy my 'Thoughts of a Rustic.' 'No, no,' said he to me, 'you have done enough. You might well even let it be understood that you will not write any more. Your work is over, and you are a mere gentleman at large. The Academie loves that.' I put that with the valuable hint from Picheral: 'Do not take them your books.'

The fewer your works, I see, the better your claim. Picheral has much influence; he too must come to us this summer. Put him on the second floor, in what was the box-room, or somewhere. Poor Germaine, it is a great bother for you, and ill as you are! But where's the help? It is bad enough not to have a house in town for the winter and give parties, like Dalzon, Moser, and all my compet.i.tors. Do, do take care of yourself and get well.

To go back to my dinner party. There was naturally much talk of the Academie, its elections and duties, its merits and demerits in public estimation. The 'deities' hold that those who run down the inst.i.tution are all, without exception, poor creatures who cannot get in. For the strong apparent instances to the contrary, there was a reason in each case. I ventured to mention the great name of Balzac, a man from our country. But the playwright Desminieres, who used to manage the amateur theatricals at Compiegne, burst out with 'Balzac! But did you know him?

Do you know, sir, the sort of man he was? An utter Bohemian! A man, sir, who never had a guinea in his pocket! I had it from his friend Frederic Lemaitre. Never one guinea! And you would have had the Academie----'

Here old Jean Rehu, having his trumpet to his ear, got the notion that we were talking of 'tallies,' and told us the fine story of his friend Suard coming to the Academie on January 21, 1793, the day the king was executed, and availing himself of the absence of his colleagues to sweep off the whole fees for the meeting.

He tells a story well, does the old gentleman, and but for his deafness would be a brilliant talker. When I gave his health, with a few complimentary verses on his marvellous youth, the old fellow in a gracious reply called me his dear colleague. My master Astier corrected him--'future colleague.' Laughter and applause. 'Future colleague' was the t.i.tle which they all gave me as they said goodbye, shaking my hand with a significant pressure, and adding, 'We shall meet before long,' or 'See you soon,' in reference to my expected call. It is not a pleasant process, paying these calls, but everyone goes through it. Astier-Rehu told me, as we came away from the dinner, that when he was elected old Dufaure let him come ten times without seeing him. Well, he would not give up, and the eleventh time the door was thrown open. Nothing like persistence.

In truth, if Ripault-Babin or Loisillon died (they are both in danger, but even now I have most hopes of Ripault-Babin), my only serious compet.i.tor would be Dalzon. He has talent and wealth, stands well with the 'dukes,' and his cellar is capital; the only thing against him is a youthful peccadillo lately discovered, 'Without the Veil,' a poem of 600 lines printed 'at Eropolis,' anonymously, and utterly outrageous. They say that he has bought up and suppressed the whole, but there are still some copies in circulation with signature and dedication. Poor Dalzon contradicts the story and makes a desperate fight. The Academie reserves judgment pending the inquiry. That is why my respected master said to me gravely one evening without giving reasons, 'I shall not vote again for M. Dalzon.' The Academie is a club, that is the important thing to remember. You cannot go in without proper dress and clean hands. For all that I have too much gallantry and too much respect for my opponent to make use of such concealed weapons; and f.a.ge, the bookbinder in the Cour des Comptes, the strange little humpback whom I sometimes meet in Vedrine's studio--f.a.ge, I say, who has much acquaintance with the curiosities of bibliography, got a good snub when he offered me one of the signed copies of 'Without the Veil.' 'Then it will go to M. Moser,'

was his calm reply.

Talking of Vedrine, I am in an awkward position. In the warmth of our first few meetings I made him promise to bring his family to stay with us in the country. But how can we have him along with people like Astier and Lavaux, who detest him? He is so uncivilised, such an oddity! Just imagine! He is by descent Marquis de Vedrine, but even at school he suppressed the t.i.tle and the 'de,' additions coveted by most people in this democratic age, when everything else may be got. And what is his reason? Because, do you see, he wants to be liked for his own sake! The latest of him is that the Princess de Rosen will not take the knight, which he has done for the Prince's tomb. It was mentioned every minute in the family, where money is not plenty. 'When we have sold the knight, I am to have a clockwork horse,' said the boy. The poor mother too counted upon the knight for refurnishing her empty presses, and to Vedrine himself the price of the master-piece meant just three months'

holiday in a Nile-boat. Well! the knight not sold, or to be paid for heaven knows when, after a lawsuit and a valuation, if you fancy they are thrown out by that, you are much mistaken. When I got to the Cour des Comptes the day after the disappointment, I found friend Vedrine planted before an easel, absorbed in pleasure, sketching upon a large canvas the curious wild vegetation on the burnt building. Behind him were his wife and son in ecstasy, and Madame Vedrine, with the little girl in her arms, said to me in a serious undertone, 'We are so happy; Monsieur Vedrine has at last got to oils.' Is it not laughable? Is it not touching?

This piecemeal letter, dear, will show you in what a bustle and fever I live since I have been working at my candidature. I go here and go there, to 'at homes,' to dinner parties, to evening parties. I am even supposed to be 'zebra' to good Madame Ancelin, because I am constant at her drawing-room on Fridays, and on Tuesday evenings in her box at the Francais. A very countrified 'zebra,' I am sure, in spite of the changes I have had made to give myself a graver and more fashionable appearance.

You must look for a surprise when I come back. Last Monday there was a select party at the d.u.c.h.ess Padovani's, where I had the honour to be presented to the Grand-Duke Leopold. His Highness complimented me on my last book, and all my books, which he knows as well as I do. It is marvellous what foreigners do know. But it is at the Astiers' that I am most comfortable. It is such a primitive, simple, united family. One day, after breakfast, there arrived a new Academic coat for the master, and we tried it on together. I say 'we,' for he wanted to see how the palm leaves looked upon me. I put on the coat, hat, and sword, a real sword, my dear, which comes out, and has a groove in the middle for the blood to run away, and I a.s.sure you I was struck with my appearance; but this I tell you only to show the intimacy of this invaluable friendship.

When I come back to my peaceful, if narrow, quarters, if it is too late to write to you, I always do a little counting. On the full list of the Academie I tick those of whom I am sure, and those who stand by Dalzon.

Then I do various sums in subtraction and addition. It is an excellent amus.e.m.e.nt, as you will see when I show you. As I was telling you, Dalzon has the 'dukes,' but the writer of the 'House of Orleans,' who is received at Chantilly, is to introduce me there before long. If I get on there--and with this object I am diligently studying a certain engagement at Rocroy; so you see your brother is becoming deep--well, if I get on, the author of 'Without the Veil, printed at Eropolis,' loses his strongest support. As for my opinions, I do not disavow them. I am a Republican, but not extreme, and more particularly I am a Candidate!

Immediately after this little expedition I quite expect to come back to my darling Germaine, who will, I do hope, bear up and think of the happiness of the triumph! We will do it, dear! We will get into the 'goose's garden,' as it is called by that Bohemian Vedrine; but we shall need endurance.

Your loving brother,

Abel de Freydet.

I have opened my letter again to say that the morning papers announce the death of Loisillon. The stroke of fate is always affecting, even when fully expected. What a sad event! What a loss to French literature!

And unhappily, dear, it will keep me here still longer. Please pay the labourers. More news soon.