Monsieur Jacques.
GILBERT, DELIGHTED AT his good fortune, which had hitherto befriended him in his utmost need, walked on, turning from time to time toward the stranger who had by a few words made him at once so submissive and docile. In this manner he led him to the spot where the mosses grew; they were really splendid specimens, and when the old man had made a collection of them, they went in search of other plants.
Gilbert was a much better botanist than he thought himself. Accustomed to the woods from his infancy, he was familiar with all the plants that grew in them; but he knew them only by their vulgar names. When he named them in that manner, his companion told him the corresponding scientific term, which Gilbert, on finding another plant of the same family, would endeavor to repeat. If he miscalled the Greek or Latin term, the stranger repeated it in syllables, and gave him its derivation. Then he explained how it was adapted to the nature of the plant; and thus Gilbert learned not only its botanical name, but the Greek or Latin one by which Pliny, Linnaeus, or Jussieu had distinguished it.
From time to time he said, “What a pity, sir, that I cannot gain my six sous by botanizing every day with you! Oh, I should never rest a moment, and indeed I should not want even the six sous; a piece of bread such as you gave me this morning would be sufficient for a whole day. I have just drunk from a spring of excellent water, as good as that at Taverney, and last night I slept under a tree here, and I am sure I slept better than I should have done under the roof of a chateau.”
“My friend,” replied the stranger, with a smile, “winter will come; the plants will be withered and the spring frozen; the north wind will whistle through the naked trees instead of this gentle breeze which agitates their leaves. You will then require a shelter, clothes, and fire, and you must be economical with your six sous that you may obtain them.”
Gilbert sighed, gathered more plants, and asked more questions.
They spent thus the greater part of the day in the woods of Alnay, Plessis-Piquet, and Clamart-sous-Meudon.
Gilbert, according to his usual custom, soon became familiar with his companion, who questioned him with admirable address; but there was in the young man something distrustful and circumspect, and he revealed as little as possible of his past life.
At Chatillon the stranger bought some bread and milk, but it was with difficulty he prevailed upon Gilbert to take the half of his purchase. Then, refreshed, they set out for Paris, that they might enter it while it was yet daylight.
The young man’s heart beat high at the mere thought of being in Paris, and he could not conceal his emotion when, from the hill of Vanvres, he perceived St. Genevieve, the Invalides, Notre-Dame, and that vast sea of houses whose rolling billows seemed to lave the declivities of Montmartres, Belleville, and Menil Montant.
“O, Paris! Paris!” murmured he.
“Yes, Paris, a mass of houses, an abyss of ills!” said the old man. “If the griefs and crimes which those houses inclose were to appear on their exteriors, from every stone would ooze a tear or a drop of blood!”
Gilbert heard, and repressed his enthusiasm, and thus checked, it soon died away of itself.
The suburb by which they entered the city was filthy and squalid; sick persons on litters were carried past him to the hospitals; children, half-naked, were playing in the dirt among dogs, cows, and pigs. His brow grew dark.
“You think all this hideous,” said the stranger; “well, in a short time you will not even see these things! People are rich who have a pig or a cow; they will soon have neither one nor other. Their children give them pleasure; soon they will bring them only sorrow. As to filth, you will always find that everywhere.”
Gilbert had been inclined to look on Paris with a gloomy eye; the picture of it which his companion drew did not, therefore, displease him. The old man, at first prolix in his declamation, gradually sunk into abstraction and silence as they approached the center of the city. He seemed so full of anxious thoughts, that Gilbert had not courage to ask him the name of a large garden which he saw through a railing, nor of a bridge by which the Seine was crossed. The garden was the Luxembourg — the bridge the Pont Neuf. At last, however, as they still proceeded onward, and as the stranger’s meditation appeared to have changed into uneasiness, he ventured to say, “Do you live far from this, sir?”
“Not very far,” answered the stranger, whom this question evidently made more morose.
They proceeded along the Rue du Four, passing the magnificent Hotel de Soissons, the windows and the principal entrance of which look on the street, but whose splendid gardens extend to the streets of Grenelle and Deux-Ecus.
They passed by a church which Gilbert thought very beautiful — he stopped a moment to gaze at it.
“That is a beautiful building,” said he.
“It is Saint Eustache,” replied the old man; then, looking up, “Eight o’clock! Good heavens! make haste, young man, make haste!”
The stranger strode on faster; Gilbert followed him.
“By-the-by,” said he, after some minutes of a silence so ungenial that Gilbert began to feel uneasy, “I forgot to tell you that I am married.”
“Oh!” said Gilbert.
“Yes; and my wife, like a true Parisian housekeeper, will scold us, I dare say, for coming in so late. Besides, I must tell you, she is very suspicious of strangers.”
“Do you wish me to leave you, sir?” said Gilbert, whose heart was chilled by these words.
“Not at all, not at all! I invited you to come home with me, and you shall come.”
“I follow you, then,” answered the young man.
“Now, here we are! — down this street — to the right!”
Gilbert raised his eyes, and, by the last gleams of expiring day, he read at the corner of the street, above a grocer’s shop, the words—”Rue Plastriere.”
The old man continued to hurry on faster, and as he approached nearer his house, his feverish agitation seemed to increase. Gilbert feared to lose sight of him, and, in his haste, knocked against the passers-by, the burdens of the porters, and the poles of carriages and litters. His companion seemed to have completely forgotten him in his hurried progress, absorbed as he was by one disagreeable thought.
At last he stopped before a door, in the upper part of which was a grating. A little string hung out through a hole — the stranger pulled it, and the door opened. He then turned, and seeing Gilbert standing undecided whether to enter or not, he said, “Come on!” Gilbert obeyed, and the old man shut the door.
After a few steps forward in the dark, Gilbert’s foot struck against a narrow, steep staircase; but the old man, accustomed to the place, had already mounted half the flight. Gilbert overtook him, ascended with him, and stopped when he stopped. This was on an old half worn-out mat, in a lobby with two doors in it.
The stranger pulled a cord near one of these doors, and a sharp tinkling bell rang; then, from the interior of one of the rooms was heard the shuffling of slipshod feet dragging along the floor. The door opened, and a woman of from fifty to fifty-five years of age appeared.
Two voices immediately arose together — one, that of the stranger; the other, that of the woman who opened the door.
“Am I too late, dear Therese?” he murmured, timidly.
“A pretty hour, Jacques, to sup at!” she replied, rudely.
“Come, come, we shall soon make all that right!” replied the stranger, affectionately, shutting the door, and then turning to receive the tin box from Gilbert’s hands.
“Oh, a porter to carry your box!” cried the old woman; “it only wanted that! So you could not carry all that nasty stuff of grass and herbs yourself. Indeed! a porter for Monsieur Jacques! I beg pardon, he is becoming quite a great gentleman!”
“Well, well, be calm, Therese,” quietly replied he whom she addressed so insolently by the name of Jacques, arranging his plants on the mantelpiece.
“Pay him, then, and send him away; we don’t want a spy here.”
Gilbert, turned as pale as death, and sprang to the door. Jacques stopped him.
“This gentleman,” said he, with less timidity than he had shown at first, “is not a porter, still less a spy. He is a guest whom I have brought.”
The old woman’s arms fell powerless by her side.
“A guest?” said she. “Certainly we are in great need of guests.”
“Come, Therese,” said the stranger, in a tone still affectionate, but in which a shade of derision might be detected; “light a candle — I am heated, and we are thirsty.”
The old woman still grumbled, loudly at first, but gradually subsiding. Then she proceeded to strike a light.
While the dialogue lasted, and the murmurs succeeding it, Gilbert remained silent and immovable, nailed to the floor within a step or two of the door, which he deeply regretted having entered.
Jacques perceived what the young man was suffering.
“Come forward. Monsieur Gilbert,” said he; “come forward, I beg of you.”
The old woman turned to see the person to whom her husband spoke with this affected politeness, and Gilbert had thus an opportunity of seeing her yellow, morose face, by the first light of the miserable candle which she had placed in a copper candlestick.
That face awoke in him, at the first glance, a violent antipathy. It vas wrinkled, pimpled, and filled, as it were, with gall; the eyes were sharp but meaningless; there was also a pretended softness spread over those vulgar features at that moment, which the old woman’s voice and manner so completely contradicted, that Gilbert’s dislike was if possible increased.
The old woman, on her side, found the thin pale face, circumspect silence, and stiff demeanor of the young man little to her taste.
“I see, gentlemen,” said she, “that you are hot, and I am sure you must be thirsty. Indeed, passing a day in the shade of the woods is so fatiguing, and stooping from time to time to gather a plant so laborious an occupation! — for this gentleman is a botanist also, no doubt — that is the trade of people who have no trade!”
“The gentleman,” replied Jacques, in a voice becoming every moment firmer, “is a kind, good young man, who did me the honor to bear me company all the day, and whom my Therese will, I am sure, receive like a friend.”
“There is enough of supper for two, but not for three,” grumbled she.
“He is easily satisfied, and so am I.”
“Oh, yes — all very fine! — I know what that means. I tell you plainly, there is not bread enough for your double moderation, and I am not going down three flight s of stairs to get any more, I assure you. Besides, at this hour the baker’s would be shut.”
“Then I shall go down myself,” replied Jacques, frowning; “open the door Therese.”
“Oh, but—”
“I will go down, I tell you!”
“Well, well,” said the old woman, in a discontented voice, but at the same time yielding to the absolute tone which her opposition had called forth from Jacques; “am I not always ready to satisfy your whims? I think we can do with what we have. Come to supper.”
“Sit by me,” said Jacques, leading Gilbert into the next room, where a little table was prepared for the master and mistress of the house. On it were laid two plates, beside one of which a napkin folded and tied with a red ribbon, and beside the other, one tied with white, pointed out where each took his seat.
The walls of the room, which was small and of a square shape, were covered with a pale blue paper, with a white pattern, and its only ornaments were two large maps. The rest of the furniture consisted of six straw-seated chairs, the aforesaid table, and a kind of cabinet filled with stockings to be mended.
Gilbert sat down. The old woman placed a plate before him, then she brought a spoon, worn thin by use, a knife and fork, and a brightly polished pewter goblet.
“Are you not going down?” asked Jacques.
“It is not necessary,” she replied, in a sharp tone, showing the spite which filled her heart at his having gained a victory over her. “It is not necessary. I found half a loaf in the pantry. That makes a pound and a half of bread for us all — we must make it do.”
So saying, she put the soup on the table.
Jacques was helped first, then Gilbert, and the old woman ate out of the tureen. All three were very hungry. Gilbert, intimidated by the discussion on domestic economy to which he had given rise, kept his appetite as much within bounds as possible; but, notwithstanding, he had finished his soup first. The old woman cast a wrathful look on his plate, so prematurely empty.
“Who called to-day?” asked Jacques, in order to change the current of her thoughts.
“Oh, everybody, as usual!” replied she. “You promised Madame de Boufflers her four pieces, Madame d’Escars two airs, Madame de Penthievre a quartet with an accompaniment — some persons came themselves, others sent for what they wanted. But what of that? Monsieur was botanizing; and as people cannot amuse themselves and do their work at the same time, the ladies had to go without their music!”
Jacques did not say a word, to the great astonishment of Gilbert, who expected to see him get angry; but as it only concerned himself, it did not disturb him.
To the soup succeeded a morsel of boiled beef, served on a common earthenware dish, scraped and cracked by the edge of the knife. Jacques helped Gilbert moderately enough, for Therese had her eye upon him; then he took a piece about the same size for himself, and handed the dish to her.
The old woman seized on the loaf and cut a slice for Gilbert — so small a slice that Jacques blushed. He waited until she had helped him and herself — then he took the loaf into his own hands.
“You shall cut your own bread, my young friend,” said he; “and cut it according to your appetite, I beg of you. Bread ought to be doled out only to those who waste it.”
A moment afterward appeared a dish of kidney-beans stewed in butter.
“Look how green they are!” said Jacques. “They are of our own keeping — we have an excellent method for that.” And he passed the dish to Gilbert.
“Thank you, sir,” said the latter, “but I have eaten quite enough — I am not hungry.”
“The young gentleman is not of your opinion about my kidney-beans,” said Therese, angrily. “He prefers, no doubt, fresh gathered ones; but they are early vegetables, and rather above our means.”
“No, madame. On the contrary, I think these appear very nice indeed, and I am sure I should like them; but I never eat of more than one dish.”
“And you drink water?” said Jacques, handing him the jug.
“Always, sir.”
Jacques poured out a small glass of wine for himself.
“And now, wife,” said he, “you will begin and get this young man’s bed ready — he must be tired, I am sure.”
Therese let her knife and fork fall from her hands, and fixed her angry eyes on her husband.
“Bed? Are you mad? If you bring any one to sleep here, he must sleep in your own bed, I can tell you. You are really becoming deranged! Or perhaps you are going to take up a boarding house? If you are, you may get a cook and waiting maid; it is quite enough for me to be your servant, without being servant to other people!”
“Therese,” replied Jacques, resuming his serious and firm tone; “Therese, pray listen to me. It is only for one night. This young man has never set foot in Paris before. He came under my protection, and I will not permit him to sleep in an inn; I will not, though I should, as you say, have to resign to him my own bed.” After this second exhibition of firmness and resolution, the old man awaited the result.
Therese, who had watched him while he spoke, appearing to study every muscle of his face, seemed now to understand that she must give up the contest — and she suddenly changed her tactics. She was certain of being beaten if she continued Gilbert’s enemy; she therefore began to fight for him, but certainly like an ally who intended treachery.
“Well, well,” said she; “since the young gentleman has come home with you, he must be a friend of yours; and it is better, as you say, that he should remain under our roof. I shall make him a bed as well as I can in your study, near the bundles of papers.”
“No, no,” said Jacques, quickly. “A study is not a fit place to sleep in — he might set fire to the papers.”
“A great misfortune, truly!” muttered Therese to herself. Then she added aloud; “In that case, I can put him in front of the cupboard in the anteroom.”
“No, no!”
“Well, you see, however much I wish it, I can’t manage it, unless he take your bed or mine.”
“I do not think, Therese, you are looking in the right quarter.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why, we have the garret, you know.”
“The garret? The loft, you mean.”
“No, it is not a loft. It is a room, a little garret-like I confess, but wholesome, and with a splendid view of the neighboring gardens — a thing very unusual in Paris.”
“Oh, what matters it, sir,” exclaimed Gilbert, “whether it be a loft or not? Even if it were, I should be but too glad of it, I assure you.”
“But stay — that cannot be,” cried Therese; “it is there that I dry our linen.”
“The young man will not disturb it, Therese. You will take care, will you not, my young friend, that no accident happens to my good housekeeper’s linen? We are poor, and any loss is serious to us.”
“Oh, do not be afraid, sir.”
Jacques rose and approached Therese. “I do not wish, my dear Therese,” said he, “that this young man should be ruined. Paris is a dangerous place for a stranger; while here, we can watch over his conduct.”
“Then you have taken him to educate? He will pay for his board, this pupil of yours?”
“No; but I answer for it he shall cost you nothing. From to-morrow he will provide for himself. As for lodging, since the garret is almost useless to us, let us do him this slight service.”
“How well idle people understand each other!” muttered Therese, shrugging her shoulders.
“Sir,” said Gilbert, more wearied even than his host of this struggle for a hospitality which was so humbling to him, and which was only gained by fighting for every inch of ground—” Sir, I have never yet given trouble to any one, and I shall certainly not begin with you, who have been so good to me. Permit me, therefore, to leave you, if you please. I saw, near the bridge which we crossed, some trees with benches under them. I shall sleep very well, I assure you, on one of those benches.”
“Yes,” said Jacques, “to be taken up by the watch as a vagabond.”
“Which he is,” muttered Therese to herself, as she removed the supper things.
“Come, come, young man,” Jacques added, “there is, as well as I can remember, a very good straw mattress upstairs, and that is surely better than a bench?”
“Oh, sir, I have never slept on anything but a straw mattress,” said Gilbert; then correcting this truth by a slight fib, “a feather bed always overheated me,” added he.
Jacques smiled. “Straw is certainly cool and refreshing,” said he. “Take that bit, of candle which is on the table, and follow me.”
Therese did not even look at them. She sighed — she was defeated.
Gilbert rose gravely and followed his protector. Passing through the anteroom he saw a cistern of water. “Sir,” asked he, “is water dear in Paris?”
“No, my friend; but were it dear, water and bread are two things which no man has a right to refuse his fellowman who begs for them.”
“Oh, the reason I asked is, that at Taverney water cost nothing, and cleanliness is the luxury of, the poor.”
“Take some, my friend,” said Jacques, pointing to a large earthenware pitcher; and he preceded the young man to his sleeping apartment, surprised to find united in a youth of his age all the strength of mind of the lower classes with all the refined tastes of the higher.