 | II. Seven stories, with basement and attic |  |
2. II.
TEN months passed before I came to Paris again;
and it was not until three days after my return,
that I found my way to the familiar old corridor that
led to the Abbe's room, and caught myself scanning once
more the aspect of the dingy court. The yellow placard
was gone; the little window was, if possible, still more
dilapidated, and an adventurous spider had hung his
filmy web across all the broken panes. The Abbé was
in his soutane, and had just returned from attendance
upon the funeral service at the grave of a friend. A
few stout gentlemen from the provinces were present
in the Abbé's rooms, who were near relatives of the
dead man; and though the good old priest's look was all
it should have been, I cannot say as much for the buxom
family mourners; grief never appears to me to mate well
itself, with any cutting appeal, in a rubicund visage,
and a rotund figure. I fear that I do a great many
heavy people injustice; for there are brave, good hearts
hid under great weight of flesh; yet I think the reflection
finds justification in a certain poetic law of proprieties,
and a fat undertaker or a fat hearse-man would
be a very odious thing.
When I left the Abbé's rooms, I walked down the
street, thinking I would call upon my old friend the
concierge of the third door below, and inquire after
Monsieur Verier: but I had no sooner reached the open
court, than I turned at once upon my heel, and strolled
away.
I was fairly afraid to inquire; I would toy with my
little romance a while longer; perhaps, on the very
afternoon I might meet the old gentleman rejuvenated,
or sharing the carriage of the charming St. Agnes upon
the Boulevards. At farthest, I knew that to-morrow
the Abbé would have something to tell me of his
life.
And this proved true. We dined together next
day at Vefour's in the Palais Royal—a quiet dinner, in
a little cabinet above stairs.
The soup was gone, and an appetizing dish of eperlans
was before us—the Abbé in his old fashioned way
had murmured—“vôtre santé”—over a delectable glass
about Monsieur Verier.
“Ah, mon cher,” said the Abbé, at the same time
laying down his fork—“he is dead!”
“And mademoiselle?”
“Attendez,” said the Abbé, “and you shall hear it
all.”
I refilled the glasses; and as we went on leisurely
with the dinner, he leisurely went on with his narrative.
“You will remember, mon ami, having described
to me the person of the tall gentleman who was my
neighbor. The description was a good one, for I recognized
him the moment I saw him.
“It was a week or more after you had left for the
South, and I had half forgotten—excuse me, mon enfant,—the
curiosity you had felt about the little foot-print
in the court, when I happened to be a half hour
later than usual in returning from morning mass, and
as I passed the hotel of which you had spoken, I saw
coming out, a gentleman wrapped in a military cloak,
and with an air so unlike that of most lodgers of the
quarter, that I knew him in a moment for your friend
Monsieur Verier.”
“The very same,” said I.
“Indeed,” continued the Abbé, “I was so struck
with his appearance—added to your interest in him—
to follow him a short way down the street.
We kept through the Rue de Seine, and passing under
the colonnade of the Institute, crossed the Pont de Fer,
continued along the Quay, as far as the gates of the
garden, crossed the garden into the Rue de Rivoli, and
though I thought he would have stopped at some of the
cafés in the neighborhood, he did not, but kept steadily
on, nor did I give up pursuit, until he had taken his
place in one of the omnibuses which pass the head of
the Rue de la Paix.
“A week after, happening to see him again, as I
came from Martin's under the Odeon, I followed him a
second time. At the head of the Rue de la Paix I
took a place in the same omnibus. He left the stage
opposite the Rue de Lancry. I stopped a short distance
above, and stepping back, soon came up with the
poor gentleman picking his feeble way along the dirty
trottoir.
“You remember, my friend, wandering with me
in the Rue de Lancry; you remember that it is crooked
and long. The poor gentleman found it so; and
before he had reached the end, I saw that he was
taking breath, and such rest as he might, upon the
ledge of a baker's window. Oddly enough, too,
whether from over fatigue or carelessness, the old gentleman
had the misfortune to break one of the baker's
rummaging his pockets, and it seemed vainly; for
when I had come up, the tradesman was insisting that
the card which the old gentleman offered with a courtly
air, was a poor equivalent for his broken glass.”
“And you paid it,” said I, knowing the Abbé's
generous way.
“Une bagatelle; a matter of a franc or two; but
it touched the old gentleman, and he gave me his address,
at the same time asking mine.”
“Bravo!” said I, and filled the Abbé's glass.
“I remarked that we were comparatively near neighbors,
and offered him my assistance. I should observe
that I was wearing my soutane upon that day: and
this, I think, as much as my loan of the franc, made
him accept the offer. He was going, he said, to the
Hôpital St. Louis, to visit a sick friend: I told him I
was going the same way; and we walked together to
the gates. The poor gentleman seemed unwilling or
unable to talk very freely; and pulling a slip of paper
from his pocket to show the concierge, he passed in. I
attended him as far as the middle hall in the court, when
he kindly thanked me again, and turned into one of the
male wards.
“I took occasion presently to look in, and saw my
companion half way down the ward, at the bedside of a
feeble-looking patient of perhaps seven or eight and
them which showed long acquaintance, and I thought,
common interest.
“I noticed, too, that the attendants treated the old
gentleman with marked respect; this was owing, however,
I suspect, to the stranger's manner,—for not one
of them could tell me anything of him. I left him in
the hospital, more puzzled than ever as to who could be
the mysterious occupants of your little chamber.
“The next day two francs in an envelope, with the
card of M. Verier were left at the conciergerie. As for
the daughter—if he had one—I began to count her a
myth—”
“You saw her at last, then,” said I.
“Attendez! One evening at dusk, I caught a
glimpse of the old gentleman entering his court with a
slight figure of a woman clinging to his arm.”
—“And the foot?”
“Ah, mon enfant, it was too dark to see.”
“And did you never see her again?”
“Attendez (the Abbé sipped his wine). For a
month, I saw neither Monsieur nor Mademoiselle: I
passed the court early and late: I even went as far
as the St. Louis; but the sick man had left. The
whole matter had nearly dropped from my mind, when
one night—it was very late—the little bell at the
wicket rung and my concierge came in to say, that a
card) begged a visit from the Abbé. It was Monsieur
Verier. I put on my soutane and hurried over; the
wife of the concierge showed me up, I know not how
many flights of stairs; at the door, she said only, `The
poor man will die, I think: he will see no physician;
only Monsieur l'Abbé.' Then she opened upon a
miserable chamber, scantily furnished, and the faded
yellow placard your eye had detected served as curtain.”
I filled the Abbé's glass and my own.
“Monsieur Verier lay stretched on the couch before
me, breathing with some difficulty, but giving me a gesture
of recognition and of welcome. To the woman
who had followed me in, he beckoned—to leave: but
in an instant again—`stay!' He motioned to have his
watch brought him (a richly jewelled one I observed),
consulted it a moment: `My daughter should be here
at ten,' he said, addressing the woman who still waited.
If she come before, keep her a moment below; après—
qu'elle monte.' And the woman went below. `We have
ten minutes to ourselves,' said the sick man; `you have
a kind heart. There is no one I have to care for but
Marie: I think she will marry one who will treat her
kindly. I think I have arranged that. All I can give
her is in the box yonder,' and he pointed to a travelling
case upon the table. `It is very little. Should she not
“`Parfaitement, monsieur.'
“`Only one thing more,' said he; `have the goodness
to give me the portfolio yonder.'
He took from it a sheet half written over, folded it
narrowly, placed it in an envelope which was already
addressed, and begged me to seal it. I did so. He
placed the letter, as well as his trembling fingers would
allow, in a second envelope, and returned it to me.
`Keep this,' said he; `if ever,—and may God forbid
it—if ever you should know that my child is suffering
from want, send this letter to its address, and she will
have money; Oui, mon Dieu—money—that is all!'
And the old gentleman said this in a fearful state
of agitation; there was a step on the stair, and he
seized my arm. `Monsieur l'Abbé—to you only I say
this—that letter is addressed to my poor child's mother!
She has never known her. I pray God she never may.
Entendez vous?'—he fairly hissed this in my ear.
“The door opened, and that little figure I had seen
one day in the court sprang in. `Mon père!' and with
that cry, she was on her knees beside the old gentleman's
cot. Ah, mon ami, how his old hands toyed
with those locks, and wandered nervously over that
dear head! We who are priests meet such scenes
often, but they never grow old; nothing is so young as
sickness and death.”
For ten minutes past, I do not think we had touched
the wine; nor did we now. We waited for the
dishes to be removed. A French attendant sees by
instinct when his presence is a burden, and in a moment
more he was gone.
“Eh, bien? Monsieur l'Abbé!”
“Ah, mon ami, the concierge was right when he told
you it was the face of St. Agnes.
“`Little one,—cherie,' said the old gentleman feebly,
`this good Abbé has been kind to me, and will be kind
to you.' I think I looked kindly at the poor girl.”
“I know you did,” said I.
“`I shall be gone soon,' says the old gentleman.
And the poor girl gathered up his palsied hands into
hers, as if those little fingers could keep him. `You
will want a friend,' said he; and she answered only by
a sob.
“`I have seen Remy,' said the old gentleman ad
dressing her (who seemed startled by the name, even
in the midst of her grief);—`he has suffered like us; he
has been ill too—very ill; I think you may trust him
now, Marie; he has promised to be kind.' There was a
pause. He was taking breath. `Will you trust him,
my child?'
“`Dear papa, I will do what you wish.'
“`Thank you Marie,' said he; and with that he
tried to convey one of the white hands to his lips. But
bring him a packet that lay on the table. I saw that
he would say very little more in this world. She gave it
him. There seemed to be a few old trinkets in it, and
he fingered them blindly, with his eyes half closed. `A
light, Marie,' said he. The poor girl looked about the
wretched chamber for another candle: a hundred would
not have lighted it now. I told her as much with only
a warning finger. Then she fell upon his bosom, with
a great burst of sobs. `God keep you!' said he.
“Ah, mon enfant, how she lifted those great eyes
again and looked at him, and looked at me, and screamed—
il est mort!'—I can't forget.”
The garçon had served the coffee.
“He was buried,” resumed the Abbé, “just within
the gates of the cemetery Mont Parnasse, a little to the
right of the carriage way as you enter. At the head of
the grave there is a small marble tablet, very plain, inscribed
simply `A mon père; 1845.' I was at the burial,
but there were very few to mourn.”
“And the daughter?” said I.
“My friend, you are impatient: I went to offer my
services after the death; a little chapelle ardente was
arranged in the court-entrance. I begged mademoiselle
to command me; but she pointed to a friend—he was
the patient I had seen in the hospital—who had kindly
relieved her of all care. I could not doubt that he was
that the poor girl's future was secure. Indeed, under all
her grief I thought I perceived an exhilaration of spirits
and a buoyant gratitude to the friend—who tendered a
hundred little delicate attentions—which promised hopefully.”
“It was Remy, I suppose.”
“I do not know,” said the Abbé; “nor could any
one at the Hotel tell me anything of him. I gave her
my address, begging her in any trouble to find me: she
thanked me with a pressure of the little hand, that you,
mon enfant, would have been glad to feel.”
“And when did you see her again?”
“Not for months,” said the Abbé; and he sipped at
his demi-tasse.
“Shall I go on, mon cher? It is a sad story.”
I nodded affirmatively, and took a nut or two from
the dish before us.
“I called at the hotel where Monsieur Verier had
died; no one there could tell me where Mademoiselle
had gone, or where she now lived. I went to the Hospital,
and made special inquiries after Monsieur Remy:
no such name had been entered on the books for three
years past. I sometimes threw a glance up at the little
window in the court; it was bare and desolate as you
see it now. Once I went to the grave of the old gentleman:
it was after the tablet had been raised: a rose
bloom. I gave up all hopes of seeing the beautiful
Marie again.” And the Abbé paused artfully, as if he
had done.
I urged upon him a little glass of Chartreuse.
“Nothing.”
—“You remember, mon ami, the pretty houses
along the Rue de Paris, at Passy, with the linden trees
in front of them, and the clean doorsteps?”
“Perfectly, mon cher Abbé.”
“It is not two months since I was passing by them
one autumn afternoon, and saw at a window half opened,
the same sad face which I had last seen in the chapelle
ardente of the Rue de Seine. I went in, my friend:
I made myself known as the attendant at her father's
death: she recalled me at this mention, and shook my
hand gratefully: ah—the soft, white hand!”
The Abbé finished his coffee, and moved a pace
back from the table.
“There were luxuries about her—bois de rose—
bijouterie; but she was dressed very simply—in full
black still; it became her charmingly: her hair twisted
back and fastened in one great coil; an embroidered
kerchief tied carelessly about her neck—for the air was
fresh—it had in its fastening a bit of rose geranium and
a half-opened white rose bud: amid all the luxury this
was the only ornament she wore.
“I told her how I had made numerous inquiries
for her. She smiled her thanks; she was toying nervously
with a little crystal flacon upon the table beside
her.
“I told her how I had ventured to inquire too, for
the friend, Monsieur Remy, of whom her father had
spoken: at this, she put both hands to her face and
burst into tears.
“`I begged pardon; I feared she had not found her
friend?'
“`Mon Dieu,' said she, looking at me with a wild
earnestness, `il est—c' était mon mari!'
“`Was it possible! He is dead too, then?'
“`Ah, no, no, Monsieur—worse: mon Dieu, quel
mariage!' and again she buried her face in her hands.
“What could I say, mon enfant? The friend had
betrayed her. They told me as much at Passy. I am
afraid that I showed too little delicacy, but I was anxious
to know if she had any apprehension of approaching
want.
“She saw my drift in an instant, mon ami—(the Abbé's
voice fell). I thought she clutched the little flacon
with a dreary smile: but she lighted from it into passion;—`
Monsieur l'Abbé,' said she rising, `you are
good!'—and from an open drawer she clutched a handful
of napoleons.—`Voyez donc ça, Monsieur l'Abbé—je
suis riche!' and with a passionate gesture, she dashed
`Pardonnez moi!' and sunk into her chair again—so sad
—so beautiful—” The Abbé stopped abruptly.
I pretended to be busy with a nut: but it tried my
eyes. The Abbé recovered presently;—“She talked
with a strange smile of her father: she sometimes
visited his grave. I saw her fingers were seeking the
rose, which when she had found she kissed passionately,
then crushed it, and cast it from her—`Oh, God, what
should I do now with flowers?'
“I never saw her again.
“She went to her father's grave—but not to pick
roses.
“She is there now;” said the Abbé—and in a tone
in which he might have ended a sermon, if he had been
preaching.
There was a long pause after this.
At length I asked him if he knew anything of Remy.
“You may see him any day, said the Abbé, up the
Champs Elysées, driving a tilbury—a charming equipage.
But there is a time coming, mon ami—it is coming,
when he will go where God judges, and not man.”
I had never seen the Abbé so solemn.
Our dinner was ended. The Abbé and myself took
a carriage to cross over to Mont Parnasse. Within
the gateway, and a short distance to the right of the
main drive, were two tablets: one was older than the
and was inscribed simply “Marie, 1846.”
Before I left Paris I went down into the old corridor
again, of the Rue de Seine. The chamber with the little
window had undergone a change. I saw a neat
curtain hanging within and a workman's blouse. I had
rather have found it empty.
I half wished I had never seen the print upon the
snow of Le Petit Soulier.
| II. Seven stories, with basement and attic | |