Who Monsieur Jacques Was.
GILBERT SET TO work with the greatest ardor, and his paper was soon covered with careful copies of what was placed before him. The old man looked at him for some time, and then sat down at the other table to correct printed sheets like those of which the bags containing the kidney-beans had been made.
They had passed three hours in this way, and the timepiece had just struck nine, when Therese entered hurriedly. Jacques raised his head.
“Quick, quick!” said she, “come into the other room! Here is another prince come to visit you. When will this procession of grandees be over? I only hope he will not take it into his head to breakfast with us, as the Duke de Chartres did the other day.”
“Who is this prince?” asked Jacques, in a low voice.
“Monseigneur the Prince de Conde.”
At this name Gilbert let fall on his paper a sol which looked much more like a dinner plate than a note.
“A prince! A grandee!” he muttered to himself.
Jacques left the study smiling; Therese followed, and closed the door behind her.
Then Gilbert looked around, and finding that he was alone, sat bolt upright with astonishment.
“But where am I then?” exclaimed he. “Princes, highnesses, calling on Monsieur Jacques. The Duke de Chartres, the Prince de Conde, calling on a copier of music!”
He approached the door to listen; his heart beat strangely.
The first greetings were over between Jacques and the prince, and the latter was speaking.
“I should have liked,” he said, “to take you with me.”
“Why so, monseigneur?” said Jacques.
“To introduce you to the dauphiness. A new era is opening for philosophy, my dear philosopher.”
“A thousand thanks for your kindness, my lord, but it is impossible for me to accompany you.”
“Yet, six years ago, you accompanied Madame de Pompadour to Fontainebleau?”
“I was six years younger then. Now I am chained to my armchair by infirmities.”
“And by misanthropy.”
“And if it were so, my lord, you must allow that the world is not worth the trouble of putting one’s self out of the way for it.”
“Well, I shall let you off for St. Denis, and the grand ceremonial; but I must take you to Muette, where her royal highness will sleep the night after tomorrow.”
“Then her royal highness arrives at Saint Denis the day after to-morrow?”
“Yes, with all her retinue. Come, two leagues are easily traveled. Report bespeaks her highness an excellent musician; a pupil of Gluck’s.”
Gilbert heard no more.
The day after to-morrow the dauphiness and all her retinue would be at St. Denis; these words suggested only one idea to him, that the next day but one Andree would be two leagues distant from him.
Of the two feelings which he experienced, the stronger overcame the weaker. Love put an end to curiosity. For a moment it seemed to him as if he had not room to breathe. He ran to a window to open it, but it was fastened inside with a padlock, no doubt to pi-event those on the opposite side of the street from ever having an opportunity of seeing what passed in the study.
He sank on his chair.
“Oh, I will never listen at doors again,” said he; “I must not try to penetrate the secrets of this man, apparently so humble, whom a prince calls his friend and wishes to present to the future queen of France — to the daughter of emperors — whom Mademoiselle Andree addressed almost kneeling at her feet. And yet perhaps I might hear something of Mademoiselle Andree. No, no! I should seem like a lackey; La Brie used to listen at doors.”
And he courageously retired from the door. But his hands trembled so much that he could not write, and indeed he required some more exciting pursuit to divert his thoughts; he therefore seized a book on the other table.
“‘The Confessions!’” he read with joyful surprise, “‘embellished with a likeness of the author, Jean Jacques Rousseau,’ and I have never yet seen a likeness of Rousseau!” and he hastily turned the silk paper which covered the engraving.
No sooner did it meet his eye than he uttered a cry of amazement. At that moment Jacques opened the doors.
Gilbert compared his face with the likeness in the book, which he held in his hand, then, pale and trembling, he let the volume fall, exclaiming, “I am in the house of Jean Jacques Rousseau!”
“Let me see, my child, how you have copied your music,” said Rousseau, smiling, and inwardly better pleased with this involuntary homage than with many of the thousand triumphs of his glorious life. And passing by the trembling Gilbert, he approached the table and commenced to examine his work.
“Your notes are not badly formed,” said he, “but they are carelessly joined together. Here, there should be a rest to make the time complete. Then, see, the bars which divide it are not quite straight. Make the semi-breves by two semi-circles; it is not important that they should join. The note made perfectly round is ungraceful, and the stalk does not join with it so well. Yes, my friend, you are indeed in the house of Jean Jacques Rousseau.”
“Oh, pardon me, sir, for all the foolish words which I have uttered!” exclaimed Gilbert, clasping his hands and ready to fall on his knees.
“Was it necessary that a prince should come to visit me,” said Rousseau, shrugging his shoulders, “to enable you to discover in me the unhappy persecuted philosopher of Geneva? Poor child! Happy in your ignorance of persecution?”
“Oh, yes. I am happy, very happy! But it is in seeing you, in knowing you, in being near you!”
“Thanks, my child, thanks. But it is not enough to be happy, you must work. Now that you have made a trial, take this rondeau and copy it on some proper music-paper; it is short and easy — above all things observe neatness. But how did you discover — ?”
Gilbert, with a swelling heart, took up the volume and pointed to the portrait.
“Oh yes, my likeness burned in effigy on the first page of the ‘Emile!’ However, the auto-da-fe diffuses light as well as the rays of the sun.”
“Ah! sir, my wildest dreams never exceeded this! To live with you! My highest ambition never hoped for more!”
“You cannot live with me, my friend,” said Jean Jacques, “for I do not take pupils; as for guests, you perceive that I am not rich enough to entertain them, certainly not to receive them as regular inmates.”
A cold perspiration stood on Gilbert’s forehead. Rousseau took his hand.
“However,” said he, “do not despair. From the moment I first saw you, I have been studying your character. In it there is much which requires to be corrected, but there is also much to esteem. Learn to subdue your inclinations. Distrust your pride, that gnawing worm, which is the bane of philosophy. Copy music, and wait patiently for better times.’”
“Oh, heavens!” said Gilbert, “I feel bewildered when I think of what has happened to me.”
““What has happened to you is very simple and very natural, my child; you were flying I know not whence, for I did not seek to know your secret, and in your flight you met a man gathering plants in a wood. He had bread, you had none; he shared his with you. You did not know where to seek an asylum for the night, he offered you the shelter of his roof. The man might have been called by any name, he happened to be called Rousseau. That is the whole affair. This man said to you, the first precept of philosophy is — man, suffice for thyself. Now, my friend, when you have copied your rondeau, you will have gained your bread for this day. Copy your rondeau, therefore.”
“Oh, sir, what kindness!”
“As for your lodging, that is yours into the bargain; only, no reading at night, or if you must have a candle, let it be your own; otherwise, Therese will scold. In the meantime, are you hungry?”
“Oh, no, sir,” replied Gilbert, in a choking voice.
“There is enough left from our supper of last night to serve for this morning’s breakfast. Do not stand on ceremony; this repast is the last you will get at my table, unless by invitation, if we remain friends.”
Gilbert made a movement as if to speak, but Rousseau interrupted him.
“There is in the Rue Plastriere,” continued he, “a modest eating-house for mechanics; you can dine there on moderate terms, for I shall recommend you to the proprietor. In the meantime, come and breakfast.”
Gilbert followed Rousseau without daring to reply. He was completely subdued; but at least it was by a man superior to most other men.
After a few mouthfuls he left the table and returned to his task. He spoke truly; his emotion was so great that it had taken away his appetite. During the whole day he never raised his eyes from the paper, and at eight in the evening, after having torn three sheets, he had succeeded in copying legibly and neatly a rondeau of four pages.
“I will not flatter you,” said Rousseau, “it is not yet well done, but it is legible; what you have done is worth ten sous; here is the money.”
Gilbert took it with a low bow.
“There is some bread in the cupboard, M. Gilbert,” said Therese, on whom the young man’s modest demeanor, mildness, and industry, had produced a favorable impression.
“Thank you, ma’am,” replied Gilbert, “believe me, I shall never forget your kindness.”
“Here,” said she, holding the bread out to him.
He was about to refuse, but looking at Rousseau he saw, by the slight frown which contracted his piercing eye, and the curl which hovered on his delicately formed lips, that the refusal would wound him.
“I accept your kind offer,” said he.
He then withdrew to his little chamber, holding in his hand the six silver sous and the four copper ones which he had just received.
“At last,” said he, on entering his garret, “I am my own master. But stay — not yet, since I hold in my hand the bread of charity.”
And although he felt hungry, he laid down the piece of bread on the sill of the skylight, and did not eat it. Then, fancying that sleep would enable him to forget his hunger, he blew out his candle and stretched himself on his straw pallet.
He was awake before daybreak on the following morning, for in truth he had slept very little during the night. Recollecting what Rousseau had said about the gardens, he leaned out of the skylight, and saw below him the trees and shrubs of a very beautiful garden, and beyond the trees the hotel to which the garden belonged, the entrance to which was from the Rue Jussienne.
In one corner of the garden, quite surrounded by shrubs and flowers, there stood a little summer-house, the windows of which were closed. Gilbert at first thought that the windows were closed on account of the earliness of the hour; but observing that the foliage of the trees had grown up against the shutters, he was convinced that the summer-house must have been unoccupied since the preceding winter at least. He returned, therefore, to his admiring contemplation of the noble lime-trees, which partially concealed from view the main body of the hotel.
Two or three times, during his survey, Gilbert’s eyes had turned toward the piece of bread which Therese had cut for him the evening before; but although hunger pleaded loudly, he was so much the master of himself that he refrained from touching it.
Five o’clock struck. Gilbert was persuaded that the door of the passage must now be open; and washed, brushed and combed, for Rousseau had furnished his garret with all that was necessary for his modest toilet, he descended the stairs, with his piece of bread under his arm.
Rousseau, who this time was not the first a-foot, and who from a lingering suspicion perhaps, and the better to watch his guest, had left his door open, heard him descend, and narrowly observed his movements. He saw Gilbert leave the house with ‘the bread under his arm; a poor man came up to him, and he saw Gilbert give him the bread, and then enter a baker’s shop which was just opened and buy some more.
“Now,” said Rousseau, “he will go to a tavern and his poor ten sous will soon vanish.”
But he was mistaken. Gilbert ate his bread as he walked along; then, stopping at a fountain at the corner of the street, he took a long draught; ate the rest of his bread; drank again, rinsed his mouth, washed his hands, and returned toward the house.
“Ha!” said Rousseau, “I fancy that I am luckier than Diogenes, and have found a man!” And hearing Gilbert’s footsteps on the stairs, he hastened to open the door.
The entire day was spent in uninterrupted labor Gilbert brought to his monotonous task activity, intelligence, and unshrinking assiduity. What he did not perfectly comprehend he guessed, and his hand, the slave of his iron will, traced the notes without hesitation and without mistake. By evening he had copied seven pages, if not elegantly, at least with scrupulous correctness.
Rousseau examined his work with the eye both of a critical judge and a philosopher. As a critical judge he criticised the forms of the notes, the fineness of the joinings, the spaces for the rests and dots; but he acknowledged that there was a decided improvement since the day before, and he gave Gilbert twenty-five sous.
As a philosopher he admired the strength of resolution which could bend the ardent temperament and active and athletic frame of a young man of eighteen to such constant and unceasing labor.
For Rousseau had discovered that in that young heart there lurked an ardent passion; but whether ambition or love he had not yet ascertained.
Gilbert gazed thoughtfully at the money which he had received, it was a piece of twenty-four sous and a single sou. He put the sou in his waistcoat pocket, probably with the other sous which were remaining from the little sum of the day before, and grasping the silver with evident satisfaction in his right hand, he said:
“Sir, you are my master, since you give me work and also lodge me in your house gratis. I think it only right, therefore, that I should communicate to you all my intentions, otherwise I might lose your regard.”
Rousseau looked at him with a lowering eye. “What are you going to do?” said he. “Have you any other intention than that of working to-morrow?”
“Sir — for to-morrow, yes. With your permission, I should like to be at liberty to-morrow.”
“What to do?” said Rousseau, “to idle?”
“Sir,” said Gilbert, “I wish to go to St. Denis.”
“To St. Denis?”
“Yes; her highness the dauphiness is to arrive there to-morrow.”
“Ah! — true; there are to be festivities in honor of her arrival.”
“That is it, sir.”
“I thought you less of a sight-seer, my young friend,” said Rousseau. “I gave you credit, at first, on the contrary, for despising the pomps of absolute power.”
“Sir—”
“Look at me — me, whom you pretend to take for a model. Yesterday one of the royal princes came to invite me to court. Well, observe, citizen as I am, I refused his invitation; not to go as you would go, my poor lad, on foot, and standing on tiptoe to catch a glimpse, over the shoulder of a guardsman, of the king’s carriage as it passes, but to appear before princes — to be honored by a smile from princesses.”
Gilbert nodded his approbation.
“And why did I refuse?” continued Rousseau, with vehemence. “Because a man ought not to have two faces; because the man who has written that royalty is an abuse ought not to be seen bending before a king. Because I — who know that every festivity of the great robs the people of some portion of that comfort which is now scarcely sufficient to keep them from revolt — I protest by my absence against all such festivities.”
“Sir,” said Gilbert, “believe me, I comprehend all the sublimity of your philosophy.”
“Doubtless; and yet, since you do not practice it, permit me to tell you—’
“Sir,” said Gilbert, “I am not a philosopher.”
“Tell me, at least, what you are going to do at St. Denis.”
“Sir. I am discreet.”
Rousseau was struck by these words; he saw that there was some mystery concealed under this obstinate desire, and he looked at this young man with a sort of admiration which his character inspired.
“Oh, very well!” said he, “I see you have a motive; I like that better.”
“Yes, sir. I have a motive; one, I assure you, in no way connected with an idle love for pomp or show.”
“So much the better. — Or, perhaps, I should say, so much the worse. There is something unfathomable in your look, young man, and I seek in vain in its expression for the frankness and calm of youth.”
“I told you, sir, that I have been unhappy,” replied Gilbert, sorrowfully, “and for the unhappy there is no youth. Then, you consent to give me to-morrow to myself.”
“Yes.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Remember, however,” said Rousseau, “that while you are gazing at the vain pomps of the world defiling in procession before you, I shall, in one of my herbals, be passing in review the splendor and variety of nature.”
“Sir,” said Gilbert, “would you not have left all the herbals in the world the day when you went to visit Mademoiselle Galley after having presented her with the bouquet?”
“Good!” said Rousseau. “True, you are young. Go to St. Denis, my child.”
Then, when Gilbert, with a joyful countenance, had left the room:
“It is not ambition,” said he, “it is love.”