The Botanists.
THE EVENTS which we have just related happened on Friday evening; so that it was the second day after that the excursion which Rousseau looked forward to with so much pleasure was to take place.
Gilbert, indifferent to everything since he had heard that Andree was so soon to depart for Trianon, had spent the entire day leaning on his window-sill. During this day the window of Andrew’s room remained open, and once or twice the young girl had approached it as if to breathe the fresh air. She was pale and weak; but it seemed to Gilbert as if he would wish for nothing more than that Andree should always inhabit that pavilion, that he should always have his attic, and that, once or twice every day, Andree should come to the window as he had seen her that day.
The long-looked-for Sunday at last arrived. Rousseau had already made his preparations the day before; his shoes were carefully blackened, and his gray coat, at once light and warm, was taken from the chest, to the great annoyance of Therese, who thought a blouse or a linen frock quite good enough for such a purpose. But Rousseau had completed his toilet without replying. Not only his own clothes, but Gilbert’s also had been passed in review with the greatest care, and the latter’s had even been augmented by a pair of irreproachable stockings and new shoes, which Rousseau had presented with him as an agreeable surprise.
The herbal also was put in the nicest trim. Rousseau had not forgotten his collection of mosses, which was to play a part in the proceedings of the day. Impatient as<i child, he hastened more than twenty times to the window to see if the carriage that was passing was not M. de Jussieu’s. At last he perceived a highly varnished chariot, a pair of splendid horses with rich harness, and an immense powdered footman standing at his door. He ran instantly to Therese, exclaiming:
“Here it is! here it is!”
And crying to Gilbert:
“Quick, quick, the carnage is waiting.”
“Well,” said Therese, sharply, “if you are so fond of riding in a coach, why did you not work in order to have one of your own, like M. de Voltaire?”
“Be quiet!” grumbled Rousseau.
“Dame! you always say you have as much talent as he.”
“I do not say so, hark you!” cried Rousseau, in a rage; “I say — I say nothing!”
And all his joy fled, as it invariably did, at the mention of that hated name. Luckily M. de Jussieu entered.
He was pomatumed, powdered, fresh as the spring. His dress consisted of a splendid coat of ribbed Indian satin, of a light gray color, a vest of pale lilac silk, white silk stockings of extraordinary fineness, and bright gold buckles.
On entering Rousseau’s apartment he filled the room with a delightful perfume, which Therese inhaled without concealing her admiration.
“How handsome you are!” said Rousseau, looking askance at Therese, and comparing his modest dress and clumsy equipment with the elegant toilet of M. de Jussieu.
“Oh, I am afraid of the heat,” said the elegant botanist.
“But the wood is damp. If we botanize in the marshes, your silken stockings —
“Oh, we can choose the driest places.”
“And the aquatic mosses? Must we give them up for to-day?”
“Do not be uneasy about that, my dear colleague.”
“One would think you were going to a ball, or to pay your respects to ladies.”
“Why should we not honor Dame Nature with a pair of silk stockings?” replied M. do Jussieu, rather embarrassed; “does she not deserve that we should dress ourselves for her?”
Rousseau said no more; from the moment that M. de Jussieu invoked Nature, he agreed with him that it was impossible to honor her too highly.
As for Gilbert, notwithstanding his stoicism, he gazed at M. do Jussieu with envious eyes. Since he had observed so many young exquisites enhance their natural advantages with dress, he had seen the utility, in a frivolous point of view, of elegance, and whispered to himself that this silk, this lace, this linen, would add a charm to his youth; and that if Andree saw him dressed like M. de Jussieu instead of as he was, she would then deign to look at him.
The carriage rolled off at the utmost speed of two fine Danish horses, and an hour after their departure the botanists alighted at Bougival, and turned to the left by the chestnut walk.
This walk, which at present is so surpassingly beautiful, was then at least quite as much so; for the portion of the rising ground which our explorers had to traverse, already planted by Louis XIV., had been the object of constant care since the king had taken a fancy to Marly.
The chestnut-trees, with their ruddy bark, their gigantic branches, and their fantastic forms — sometimes presenting in their knotty circumvolutions the appearance of a huge boa twining itself round the trunk — sometimes that of a bull prostrate upon the butcher’s block and vomiting a stream of black and clotted blood — the moss-covered apple-trees and the colossal walnuts, whose foliage was already assuming the dark-blue shade of summer — the solitude, the picturesque simplicity and grandeur of the landscape, which, with its old shadowy trees, stood out in bold relief against the clear blue sky; — all this, clothed with that simple and touching charm which Nature ever lends to her productions, plunged Rousseau into a state of ecstasy impossible to be described.
Gilbert was calm, but moody; his whole being was absorbed in this one thought:
“Andree leaves the garden pavilion and goes to Trianon.”
Upon the summit of the little hill, which the three botanists were climbing on foot, was seen the square tower of Luciennes.
The sight of this building, from which he had fled, changed the current of Gilbert’s thoughts, and recalled rather unpleasant recollections, unmingled, however, with fear. From his position in the rear of the party he saw two protectors before him; and, feeling himself in safety, he gazed at Luciennes as a shipwrecked sailor from the shore looks upon the sandbank upon which his vessel has struck.
Rousseau, spade in hand, began to fix his looks on the ground; M. de Jussieu did the same, but with this difference, that the former was searching for plants, while the latter was only endeavoring to keep his stockings from the damp.
“What a splendid Lepopodium!” exclaimed Rousseau.
“Charming,” replied M. de Jussieu; “but let us pass on, if you have no objection.”
“Ah! the Lysimachia Fenella! it is ready for culling; look!’
“Pluck it, then, if it gives you pleasure.”
“Oh! just as you please. But are we not botanizing, then?”
“Yes, yes; but I think we shall find better upon that height, yonder.”
“As you please — let us go, then.”
“What hour is it?” asked M. de Jussieu; “in my hurry I forgot my watch.”
Rousseau pulled a very large silver watch from his pocket.
“Nine o’clock,” said he.
“Have you any objection that we should rest a little?” continued M. de Jussieu.
“Oh! what a wretched walker you are,” said Rousseau. “You see what it is to botanize in fine shoes and silk stockings.”
“Perhaps I am hungry.”
“Well, then, let us breakfast; the village is about a quarter of a mile from this.”
“Oh, no; we need not go so far.”
“How so? Have you our breakfast in your carriage?”
“Look yonder — into that «thicket?” said M. de Jussieu, pointing with his hand toward the part of the horizon he indicated.
Rousseau stood upon tiptoe, and shaded his eyes with his hand.
“I can see nothing,” said he.
“What! Do you not see that little rustic roof?”
“No.”
“Surmounted by a weather-cock, and the walls thatched with red and white straw — a sort of rustic cottage, in short?”
“Yes, I see it now; a little building seemingly newly erected.”
“A kiosk, that is it.”
“Well?”
“Well! we shall find there the little luncheon I promised you.”
“Very good,” said Rousseau. “Are you hungry, Gilbert?”
Gilbert, who had not paid any attention to this debate, and was employed in mechanically knocking off the heads of the wild flowers, replied:
“Whatever you please, sir.”
“Come, then, if you please,” said M. de Jussieu; “besides, nothing need prevent our gathering simples on the way.”
“Oh,” said Rousseau, “your nephew is a more ardent botanist than you. I spent a day with him botanizing in the woods of Montmorency, along with a select party. He finds well, he gathers well, he explains well.”
“Oh! he is young; he has his name to make yet.”
“Has he not yours already made? Oh! comrade, comrade, you botanize like an amateur.”
“Come, do not be angry, my dear philosopher; hold! here is the beautiful Planlago Monanthos. Did you find anything like that at your Montmorency?”
“No, indeed,” said Rousseau, quite delighted; “I have often searched for it in vain. Upon the faith of a naturalist it is magnificent!”
“Oh, the beautiful pavilion!” said Gilbert, who had passed from the rear-guard of the party into the van.
“Gilbert is hungry,” replied M. de Jussieu.
“Oh, sir, I beg your pardon; I can wait patiently until you are ready.”
“Let us continue our task a little longer,” said Rousseau, “inasmuch as botanizing after a meal is bad for digestion; and besides, the eye is then heavy, and the back stiff. But what is this pavilion called?”
“The House-trap,” answered M. de Jussieu, remembering the name invented by M. de Sartines.
“What a singular name!”
“Oh! the country, you know, is the place for indulging all sorts of caprices.”
“To whom do those beautiful grounds belong?”
“I do not exactly know.”
“You must know the proprietor, however, since you are going to breakfast there,” said Rousseau, pricking up his ears with a slight shade of suspicion.
“Not at all — or rather, I know every one here, including the game-keepers, who have often seen me in their inclosures, and who always touch their hats, and sometimes offer me a hare or a string of woodcocks as a present from their masters. The people on this and the neighboring estates let me do here just as if I were on my own grounds. I do not know exactly whether this summer-house belongs to Madame de Mirepoiz or Madame d’Egmont, or — in short, I do not know to whom it belongs. But the most important point, my dear philosopher, I am sure you will agree with me, is, that we shall find there bread, fruit, and pastry.”
The good-natured tone in which M. de Jussieu spoke dispelled the cloud of suspicion which had already begun to darken Rousseau’s brow. The philosopher wiped his feet on the grass, rubbed the mould off his hands, and, preceded by M. de Jussieu, entered the mossy walk which wound gracefully beneath the chestnut trees leading up to the hermitage.
Gilbert, who had again taken up his position in the rear, closed the march, dreaming of Andree, and of the means of seeing her when she should be at Trianon.