Abbe Mourion greeted the newcomer with tender exclamations of pleasure, and brought him to Arsène’s bedside. “Here, Monsieur,” he said, beaming, “is another of your nurses, my nephew, Henri.”
Wearied by the new exertion of gratitude, Arsène smiled politely, as the stranger bowed diffidently, with a confused smirk. The vehement Arsène, given always to impatient extremes, decided instantly that he did not like Henri Chalon. The proud dignity of François, the gentle heroism of the abbé, the chill independence and gravity of the young Cecile, were all absent in this young man. His manner was sensitive, nervous, ingratiating, and overwhelmed, and almost servile.
There was something, also, in the pale clear pallor of his thin face that reminded Arsène of his brother, Louis. Henri was tall and slender, with bent rounded shoulders, and futile and uncertain gestures. His clothing, poor though it was, had a faintly dandified air. There was a flutter of poor lace at his throat and thin wrists, and he wore boots obviously cast-offs, though lacquered to a shining brilliance. His hair, dark and long, curled on his shoulders with an artificial grace. However, he had a kind of attenuated beauty, which Arsène vaguely remembered. His features were fine, even delicate, and there was a high-bred flare to the sensitive nostrils of his thin long nose. His eyes were extraordinarily large for a man, and were soft and deep, like brown velvet. His mouth was pretty, small and weak. It was his expression, however, which most annoyed Arsène, for it was too eager, too timid, too placating, and yet, given at moments, to a suspicious hauteur. In his hand he deferentially held a plumed hat. This, then, was the poet, the betrothed of the stern young Cecile, the aspirant to the position of footman in the household of Madame de Tremblant.
Arsène felt ridicule for this poor artificial gentleman. He disliked his manner towards the adoring abbé, for it was petulant, imperious and arrogant, like the manner of a spoiled woman. But towards Arsène himself, he was all self-consciousness, all graceful attitudes, all deference.
“I trust, Monsieur, that you are recovering after our labors?” he said, in a high, too consciously musical voice.
“I am well,” replied Arsène, with a curtness he could not restrain. “And I thank you.”
“Oh, it was nothing, nothing at all,” said Henri, with an eager gesture. He glanced haughtily and contemptuously about the miserable room. “Our only regret was that such a gentleman must be bedded in such a hovel. Had we known your identity—”
“I am Arsène de Richepin,” said Arsène. He glanced at the abbé, who was gazing at Henri with fatuous adoration and pride. He felt angered at this, as though the abbé had degraded himself.
Henri bowed again, his long curled hair falling almost to his knees. He made a flourish with his plumed hat. Arsène bit his lip.
“And I, Monsieur de Richepin, am Henri Chalon, at your service.” He turned imperiously to the abbé. “Uncle, has Monsieur de Richepin all that he desires tonight?”
“Yes, Henri. It will not be necessary for you to spend the night here any longer.” One of the abbé’s wrinkled hands touched his nephew’s sleeve.
Henri Chalon seemed deeply disappointed. Then he said, pontifically: “I do not agree, my uncle. A night or two more will be necessary.”
“On the contrary,” said Arsène. “I am almost recovered. I shall not deprive you of your sleep another night.”
“It will be no deprivation, Monsieur, I assure you,” said Henri, with another bow. “It will be a pleasure to keep Monsieur company.”
He became aware of the delicious odors coming from the kitchen, and looked at the abbé inquiringly.
“Yes, we feast tonight,” said the abbé, with simple pleasure. Henri Chalon’s pale and narrow face lit up with an extraordinary elation. A vague restlessness seized Arsène, and he turned his head and closed his eyes. His old fierceness and egotism returned, as the strength of his body returned. His sharp black brows drew together, knotted, over his shut eyelids, and his aquiline profile tightened. Reared in a tradition which regarded the people as less than vermin, and less potent, he could not restrain himself from a qualm of contempt for these creatures who found joy in the simple anticipation of a meal. Then he felt contempt for himself that he could descend so low as to honor this vermin with his disdain.
Thinking that he was drowsing in his weakness, the abbé and his nephew sat quietly in the candlelight near the bed and conversed in low voices. Arsène listened, his eyebrows twitching with impatience. He forgot everything, his new gratitude, new wonder, new gentleness, which he had experienced with François Grandjean and the Abbé Mourion. The old man and the young prattled of childish things. They discussed the people who lived about them, the weather, and other inconsequential things. The abbé’s voice was low and soft, and Henri’s pompous and querulous, filled with vanity and conceit. If they knew anything of the great world beyond their miserable borders, they did not speak of it. All at once, Arsène, who had despised the labyrinthine intrigues, the scandal and the debauchery of the nobles and the Court, found these things suddenly of importance, and amusing, exciting and significant. He amused himself by thinking of Clarisse, his betrothed, and he felt a deep yearning for her which he had never experienced before.
He forgot his strange dream of fury and liberation, and was conscious only of his straw bed, the fetid dusty odors of the room, the sickening smell of cooking rabbit and fowl. He moved restlessly on the bed, sighed deeply. He felt the abbé rising, bending over him, and he winced.
“He sleeps,” said the abbé, softly. “He is young. He can still sleep.”
Henri spoke, and his voice was patronizing, as though he felt indulgence for the simplicity of his uncle: “Why should he not sleep? He has been very ill, and is now recovering. What an extraordinary thing this is! I was despairing of any good thing coming to us, until Monsieur de Richepin entered this house so strangely. Now, it is a light in the darkness.”
“I do not understand, Henri,” said the abbé, anxiously, returning to his stool. “Of what significance is it, this coming, to us?”
Henri was silent a moment, then spoke with embarrassed impatience: “Surely he cannot be ungrateful!” He paused, then continued with a kind of anger in his impatience: “Only the powerful can patronize the arts. I have my hopes—”
The abbé was silent a moment, then in a tone of ashamed but deep distress, he said: “Henri, you have not considered annoying him?” He stopped abruptly, as though his shame had become too intense for speech.
Henri burst out, with wild and effeminate vehemence: “Why not? Do you think I can be content forever with this miserable existence of ours, this degradation of mind and body? My uncle, if you are content, I am not. I would rather die than to live out my life like this! If you believe I must be content, why did you teach me? Why did you open my eyes? Why did you inspire me?”
The abbé interrupted in a trembling voice: “I gave you what I could, Henri, so that you might be wise, and understanding, and humble before God. Wisdom is its own glory. Must one desire to acquire wisdom in order to be rewarded with the things of this world?”
He was silent a moment, then continued with great sadness: “It is enough for a man to know God through learning of His glory, of His being. This is the beginning, the end, the purpose, of wisdom.”
“I do not understand!” cried Henri, with febrile scorn. “But this life I can endure no longer. I must escape. I must escape!”
It was evident that this was an old subject between these two, for the abbé only sighed wearily, and was silent. Then, after a long silence, the abbé said:
“If you must concern yourself with the world, my nephew, then concern yourself with its miseries, its torments, its sufferings. Dedicate your life to the alleviation of grief and pain. Sing the songs of the people, so that the deaf ear of power may be touched, and the hard heart of majesty be moved. Sing of pity and justice and mercy. The artificial and dainty songs intended to please the decadent ears of the idle, the soft and the rich, die like tinkling notes in a hurricane.” He added, with terrible solemnity: “For the hurricane is approaching, and only a strong and fearless voice shall ride upon it.”
Arsène listened, and in spite of himself, he was stirred and amazed. Strange words in this wretched hovel, in the gutters of Paris! The dream came back to him again, and he felt a mysterious excitement. How many voices like this of the abbé’s were there abroad in the world? How many were speaking of strange and revolutionary things in the vast sewers beneath the great screaming cities? Arsène seemed to hear again the rush of feet through the storm, but now they rushed up from the sewers into the thoroughfares of the world, and now they were the feet of an army.
He must have slept in the sudden exhaustion of illness, for when he awoke again there were two candles upon the table, and there, were laughing voices. Cecile had placed bowls, plates and pewter spoons upon the table, also, and there was a great savory dish of fowl and rabbit, seasoned with wine sauces and herbs. There was also a bottle of wine, and a plate of crusty white bread. Arsène became conscious that in the laughter there was some exclaiming, and François was demurring.
“But tobacco!” said François. “It is long since I have had a pipeful. My child, you ought not to have bought tobacco for me with Monsieur de Richepin’s money.”
“Why not?” demanded Cecile, coolly. “I have also bought you a new pipe, grandfather. Were you not saving for it, until you had to spend your money for unguents for Monsieur?”
She stood in the candlelight, and Arsène, as he awakened, saw her only. She was very pale, this tired child, and even her lips had no color in their soft fullness. But she held her head erect, and the light broke in golden shadows on her braids, which were coiled about her small head. The nobility which Arsène had first marked was stern and high upon her beautiful features, and her blue eyes, though ringed with mauve shadows, were deep, wide, and set nobly in patrician sockets. Her breasts were young and pointed under the tight black bodice, and he noticed the slender strength of her shoulders and her arms, the sure quiet movements of her calloused fingers, and the flexibility of her wrists. She was only fifteen years old, but a stern maturity was already upon her, a coldness and firmness, and, in the quick flash of her eyes, a peculiar recklessness. Arsène’s interest quickened as it always did at the sight of a beautiful or unusual woman, and he felt a sudden compassion for this child.
She felt his regard, and paused abruptly in the midst of cutting bread to glance down at him. She had been smiling a little, but now, as her eyes met his the smile disappeared, and her fair brows drew together.
“You are awake, Monsieur,” she said, and her voice was reserved and indifferent, for all its rich sweetness.
François came to him from around the table, and stood, smiling down at him. “We waited for you to awaken, Monsieur, so you could join in the feast. Bought with your money,” he added, with a tilt of an eyebrow.
“Bought with the money we earned, grandfather,” said Cecile, tartly, resuming the cutting of the bread.
“I thank you for the tobacco, and the consideration which prompted it,” said François, gravely.
Arsène laughed. His teeth glittered white and youthful in the candlelight. His dark eyes danced, and he raised himself upon his elbow. Henri Chalon, murmuring with solicitous reproach, and glancing reprovingly at Cecile, rose from his stool and thrust the musty pillows behind Arsène, to support him. Cecile watched this, and a flicker of amusement sparkled deeply in her eyes. The abbé, on his stool, beamed sweetly. All at once, Arsène remembered the peasants on his father’s estates, and the seething mobs in the streets of Paris, and he wondered at his simplicity. These people in this wretched room were no more a part of the peasants and the viperfaced mobs than he, himself, was. For some reason which he did not care to examine too minutely, his spirits lifted, his manner became genial and courteous, and he regarded even that vain poor creature, Henri Chalon, with interested and sympathetic eyes.
He looked at François, and said with mock gravity: “I specifically charged Mademoiselle this morning to purchase for you, Monsieur, the finest in tobacco and pipes. I hope you will accept both as a very small token of my regard and gratitude.”
François smiled deeply, Cecile’s lips curved irrepressibly, and Henri Chalon was bewildered. He stared from one face to another. When he encountered his uncle’s face, he was more perplexed than ever. For the abbé was regarding Arsène with sudden consternation and somber distress. Smiling about the board at his elbow, Arsène, too, saw this peculiar long look, so grave, and so wise, and a blush seemed to start irritably at his heart and rise to his face. Damn the old priest! Was it possible he could actually read the thoughts of men?
“We are poor and miserable people,” said the abbé, slowly. “We are grateful for small gifts, and the condescension of those who have power to oppress us.”
François thought this a very odd remark, and Cecile tossed her head, her eyes flashing, and Henri gaped. But Arsène looked away, and the flush was deeper on his cheeks. His lower lip thrust out sullenly, and with hauteur.
Henri recovered himself, and he bent towards Arsène with a revolting mixture of eager servility, grovelling respect, and conciliation.
“It is true, Monsieur,” he said, in his quick light voice which seemed to have no resonance. “You must not think us ungrateful—”
“Ungrateful!” exclaimed Cecile, outraged. She held the long shining knife in her hand. She appeared genuinely shocked. “It is Monsieur who must not be ungrateful to us, he who is so indebted to us!”
Arsène smiled again. He inclined his head in Cecile’s direction, but he looked at Henri with a disdainful twitch of his lips.
“I am indeed indebted to all of you,” he said, graciously. “And do not think that I shall forget it.” He added: “Mademoiselle is entirely right. A young lady of discernment.” And now he flashed his dark laughing glance at her.
Henri’s pale narrow cheek brightened with sudden hope. He looked about at his friends in delicate jubilation. But Cecile, frowning darkly, filled her betrothed’s plate, and thrust it towards him with a gesture containing some viciousness. She filled the other plates, and Arsène observed that the best morsels were for the abbé and her grandfather. Then, casting Arsène a glance under her long lashes, she hesitated, and unwillingly removed some of the whitest meat from the others’ plates, and put it upon his own. He watched her closely. He was delighted with her beauty, and his eye roved over her face and figure with open speculation and pleasure.
To his surprise, he discovered that Cecile was an excellent and subtle cook. Even his father’s beloved Anton could do no better than this with the finest wine and most fastidious herbs. The wine was not too bad. The bread was sweet and fresh. His returning strength and health and youth took sustenance from the food. He felt an unfamiliar twinge at the sight of the ravenous appetites of the others. Even the abbé ate enormously. François drank copiously. The grave majesty of his expression lightened. His head was no longer the head of a weary and beaten old man, but a Roman Senator’s head. He needed only a toga. Only Cecile preserved some aloofness, and ate with critical care, smiling just a little at the praises of her friends. Henri, soothed and flushed, regarded her with an open if diffident amorousness, which seemed hardly less to surprise Cecile than it did himself, for the girl flashed her eyes at him as if puzzled and vaguely affronted.
A heavy spring rain had begun to fall outside. It drummed on the roof, on the shuttered windows. The candlelight wavered, brightened, cast long shadows on the cracked wet walls. But there was warmth here, kindness, smiles and laughter about the board heaped with its food, and Arsène forgot that he was in a hovel. He felt that he was in the midst of old and delightful friends, and his heart was filled with good will towards them for the pleasure of their company.