 | Seven stories, with basement and attic |  |
THIRD STORY:
THE PETIT SOULIER.
1. I.
MY old friend the Abbé G—, who on my earliest
visit to Paris, not only taught me French, but
put me in the way of a great deal of familiar talk-practice
with his pleasant bourgeois friends, lived in a
certain dark corner of a hotel in the Rue de Seine, or
in the Rue de la Harpe; which of the two it was I
really forget. At any rate, the hotel was very old, and
the street out of which I used to step into its ill-paved
triangular court was very narrow, and very dirty.
At the end of the court, farthest from the entranceway,
was the box of the concierge, who was a brisk
little shoe-maker, forever bethwacking his lap-stone.
If I remember rightly, the hammer of this little cordonnier
made the only sound that broke the stillness within;
for though the hotel was full of lodgers, I think I
never saw two of them together; and it is quite certain,
be heard talking across the court.
At this distance of time, I do not think it would be
possible for me to describe accurately all the windings
of the corridor which led to the Abbé's door. I remember
that the first part was damp and low—that after it,
came a sweaty old stairway of stone; and once arrived
at the top of this, I used to traverse an open-sided gallery
which looked down upon a quiet interior court;
then came a little wooden wicket, dank with long handling—which
when it opened tinkled a bell. Sometimes
the Abbé would hear the bell, and open his door, down
at the end of some farther passage; and sometimes a
lodger, occupying a room that looked upon the last
mentioned court, would draw slyly a corner of his curtain,
and peep out to see who might be passing. Occasionally
I would amuse myself by giving to the little
warning bell an unnecessary tinkle, in order that I might
study some of the faces which should peer out from the
lodgments upon the court; yet I saw very little to
gratify me; and upon the damp flagging which covered
the area of the court, I rarely saw any one moving; at
most, only a decrepit old woman shuffling along with
broom in hand; or a boy, in paper cap, from some
neighboring shop, whistling an air he may have caught
from the orchestra at the Odeon, and disappearing
through a dilapidated door way—the only one to be
seen.
It appeared to me a quarter, that with its quaint,
old fashioned windows, piling story above story, and its
oppressive quietude, ought to show some face or figure
that should pique curiosity, and so relieve the dulness
of my lessons with the good Abbé. But all the faces
that met my eye were the most matter of fact in the
world.
From time to time, as we passed out through the
open-sided corridor, I would draw the Abbé's attention
to the silent court, and ask—who lived in the little
room at the top?
“Ah, mon cher, I do not know.”
Or, “who lives in the corner, with the narrow loop-hole,
and the striped curtain?”
“I can not tell you, mon cher.”
“And whose is the little window with so many
broken panes, and an old placard pinned against the
sash?”
“Ah, who knows? perhaps a rag-picker, or a shop-man
or perhaps”—and the Abbé lifted his finger,
shaking his head expressively—“It is a strange world
we live in, mon ami.”
What could the Abbé mean? I looked up at the
window again: it was small, and the glass was set in
rough metal casing: it must have been upon the fourth
or the fifth floor; but there was nothing to be seen
within, save the dirty yellow placard.
“Is it in the same hotel with you?” said I.
“Ma foi, I do not know.”
The Abbé had unconsciously given a little foot-hold,
by aid of which my imagination might climb into a
good romance. The chamber must be small; indeed,
there were few, even upon the first floor, in that neighborhood,
which were large. Comfortless, too, no doubt;
the yellow placard told me how that must be.
I cannot undertake to describe all that fancy painted
to me, in connection with that window of the dreary,
silent hotel. Did some miserly old scoundrel live in the
chamber, who counted his hoardings night after night?
Was it some apprentice boy from the provinces who had
pinned up the yellow placard—more to shut out the intruding
air, than the light? I even lingered very late
at the Abbé's rooms, to see if I could detect by the glow
of any lamp within the chamber, the figure of its occupant.
But either the light was too feeble or the occupants
were too quiet. Week after week, as I threaded
every day the corridor, I looked out at the brooding,
gloomy windows, and upon the mouldy pavement of the
court, hoping for a change of aspect, that would stimulate
curiosity, or give some hint of the character of the
lodgers. But no such change appeared: day after day,
there remained the same provoking quietude; nor could
I with all my art seduce the good-natured Abbé into
any appetizing conjectures in regard to the character of
his neighbors.
My observation at last grew very careless, and I
suspect would have been abandoned altogether, if I had
not one day in my casual glances about the dim court,
noticed a fragment of lace hanging within the little
window where we had seen the yellow placard. Rich
lace it was too. My occasional study of the shop windows
enabled me to give competent judgment on this
score. It may have been a bridal veil;—but whose?
I could hardly have believed that a bit of dainty feminine
attire should on a sudden have lent such new interest
to the court of this dingy old lodging house of
Paris. And yet it was as if a little wood-bird straying
in, had filled the whole court with a blithe song.
There are some of us who never get over listening
to those songs.
I wanted to share my enthusiasm with the good
Abbé,—so told him what I had seen.
“And you think there is a bride quartered there,
mon ami?” And he shook his head: “It is more
likely a broidery girl who is drudging at a bit of
finery for some magasin de luxe, which will pay the
poor girl only half the value of her work.”
I could not gainsay this: “And have you seen
her?” said I.
“Mon ami, (very seriously) I do not know if there
is any such; and—tenez—mon enfant—gardez vous bien
d'en savoir plus que moi!”
A few weeks later—it was on a winter's morning,
after a light snow had fallen—I chanced to glance over
into the court, upon which the window that had so
piqued my curiosity looked down, and saw there the
print of a lady's slipper. It was scarce larger than my
hand—too delicately formed to have been left by a
child's foot—least of all by the foot of such children as
I saw from time to time in the neighboring hotels. I
could not but associate it with the lace veil I had seen
above. I felt sure that no broidery girl could leave
such delicate foot-print on the snow. Even the shop-girls
of the Rue de la Paix, or the tidiest Lorettes,
would be crazed with envy, at sight of so dainty a
slipper.
Through all the morning lesson—I was then reading
La Grammaire des Grammaires—I could think of
nothing but the pretty foot-track in the snow.
After lesson, the Abbé took his usual stroll with
me; and as we traversed the corridor, I threw my eye
over carelessly—as if it had been my first observation
—saying, “My dear Abbé, the snow tells tales this
morning.”
The Abbé looked curiously down, ran his eye rapidly
over the adjoining windows, shook his head expressively,
and said, as he glanced down again, “C'était un
fort joli petit soulier, mon ami.”
“Whose was it?” said I.
“Ah, mon enfant, I do not know.”
“Can any broidery girl boast such a foot?”
“Mon enfant,” (with a despairing manner) “how
could I know?”
Such little, unimportant circumstances as I have
noted, would never have occasioned remark in a court
of the Rue de Rivoli: but in this mouldy quarter,
which by common consent was given over to lodging-house
keepers, grisettes, shop-men, sub-officials, medical
students, and occasional priests, any evidences of feminine
delicacy or refinement—and as such I could not
forbear counting both foot-print, and veil—were harshly
out of place. Great misfortune, or great crime could
alone drift them into so dreary a corner of the old city.
I hinted as much to the Abbé.
“Possibly,” said he; “ah, mon enfant—if the world
were only better! Great misfortunes and great crime
are all around us.”
I seized a sly occasion to consult the concierge;
—were there any female lodgers in the house? The
little shoe-maker—with his hammer suspended, and a
merry twinkle in his eye—says, “Oui, monsieur—the
aunt of the tobacconist at the corner—belle femme!”
“No others?”
“Personne.”
And do the little windows looking upon the inner
court belong to the hotel? he doubts it; if monsieur
and comes upon the corridor—“no; he knows nothing
of them; the entrance must be two, perhaps three
doors below.”
From morning to morning, before my lessons begin,
I loiter about the entrance to the adjoining courts;
but I saw nothing to quicken my curiosity or to throw
any light upon the little waifs of story which I had
seen in the veil and the foot-prints. Stolid, commonplace
people only, plodded in and out of the entrance
gates, to which my observation was now extended; haggard
old women clattering over the pavement in sabots,
or possibly a tidily dressed shop-girl, whose figure alone
would forbid any association with the delicate foot-print
in the snow. I remarked indeed an elderly man in a
faded military cloak muffled closely about him, passing
out on one or two occasions from the third court below
the hotel of the Abbé: his figure and gait were certainly
totally unlike the habitués of the quarter; but his
presence there, even though connected with the little
window of the dreary court, would only add to the
mystery of the foot-print and of the lace.
It happened upon a certain morning, not long after,
as I paced through the open corridor, and threw a
glance up at the loop-hole upon which I had chosen
to fasten my freak of observation that I saw a slight
change: a muslin handkerchief was stretched across
embroidered border,) and while I stood regarding it, a
delicate pair of hands (the taper fingers I saw plainly)
removed the fastenings, and presently this other token
of feminine presence was gone.
I told the Abbé of my observation.
He closed his book “La Grammaire des Grammaires”—(keeping
his thumb at the place of our lesson)
and gave me, I dare say, an admirable little lecture,—
which certainly was not in the grammar. I know the
French was good; I believe the sentiment was good;
but all the while of its delivery, my imagination was
busy in conjuring into form some charming neighbor
of whom I had only seen the delicate, frail fingers, and
the wonderful foot-print on the snow.
When he had finished the lecture, we accomplished
the lesson.
My next adventure in way of discovery was with
the little concierge, who presided over the court where I
had seen the tall gentleman of the military cloak, pass
in. He was quietly dipping his roll in a bowl of coffee,
when I commenced my inquiries.
“Were there any rooms in the hotel to be let?”
Not that I desired a change from my comfortable quarters
over the river; but it seemed to me the happiest
method of conciliating a communicative temper.
“Oui, monsieur,” responds the brisk concierge, as
bowl, and with a cheering, heavy bite—takes down a
key here, and a key there, until he is provided for all
the rooms at his disposition. We mount together damp
stone stair-ways and enter upon apartments with glazed
tile floors; we mount higher to waxed, oaken parqueterie;
but I like the full glow of the sun; we must go
higher. Upon the fourth floor, there is a vacant room;
its solitary window has a striped red curtain, and it
looks out—as I suspected—upon the court of the open
corridor, where I had so long carried on my furtive observations.
The window which had particularly arrested
my attention, must be just above.
“Was there no room still higher?”
“Parbleu, il y en a une; monsieur ne se fâche pas
de monter, donc?”
No, I love the air and the sunshine. But the little
room into which he shows me looks into a strange
court I do not know; I bustle out, and toward the opposite
door.
“Pardon, monsieur; it is occupied.”
And even as he speaks, the door opens; an old
white haired gentleman, the very one I have seen in the
military cloak looks out, disturbed; and (I think it is
not a fancy) there is the whisk of a silk dress moving
within.
The conclerge makes his apologies, and we go below.
“Will the chamber occupied by the old gentleman
be vacant soon?”
“It is possible,” but he cannot truly say.
Farther down the stairs we encounter the wife of
the concierge, at her work. He appeals to her: “Does
Monsieur Verier leave soon?”
She cannot say. The marriage is off; and he may
stay.
It gives me a hint for further inquiry.
“Est-ce que ce vieux va se marier, donc?”
“Pardon, monsieur; but he has a daughter. Ah,
qu'elle est gentille! (and the concierge looks upward
reverently.) There was a marriage arranged, and the
old gentleman was to live with the daughter. But as
my wife says—it's off now: the old man has his
humors.”
So at last the bridal veil was explained.
“But does the daughter lodge here with the father?”
said I.
“Ah, no, monsieur; impossible: a chamber at fifty
francs too! It's very droll; and the daughter drives
in a grand coach to the door; but it's not often; and
my wife who showed her the chamber tells me that
their first meeting—and it was after the old gentleman
had been here a month or more—was as if they had
not met in years. She comes mostly of an evening or
early morning, when few are stirring, as if she were
shawl too—cependant elle est gentille. Tenez,” said he,
pointing to a charming little lithographic head of St.
Agnes, in his conciergerie (which we had now reached)
“voici sa tête!”
“And has she no attendant upon her visits?”
“Ma foi, I cannot tell you: once or twice a gentleman
has descended from the carriage into the court, as
if to watch for her—but who it may have been I know
no more than you. To tell you the truth, monsieur, I
have my doubts of the old gentleman's story about the
coming marriage: he has a feeble head, and talks
wildly of his daughter. I can make nothing of it. I
can make nothing of her either,—except that she has
the face of an angel.”
“Not a fallen one, I hope.” And I said it more for
the sake of giving a turn to a French phrase, than with
any seriousness. (In this light way we banter with
character!)
“Parbleu!” says the concierge indignantly, “on
ne peut pas s'y tromper: she is as pure as the snow.”
I had now a full budget of information to lay before
the Abbé, and trusted to his good nature to give me
some interpretation of this bit of history which was
evolving under his very wing. Yet the Abbé was lost;
as much lost as I. But I was glad to perceive that I
had succeeded in kindling in him a little interest in regard
strolled through the corridor, I think he looked up at
the window, where the yellow placard was hanging,
with as much curiosity as ever I had done.
A few days after, I was compelled to leave suddenly
for the South; but I counselled the good Abbé to be
constant at my old watch, and to have a story to tell
me on my return.
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.
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