The Romance of a Poor Young Man. Harland Henry
together with a noise like the crackling of parchment.
"You are a difficult man to place, M. Maxime," he added, smiling. "Oh, very difficult! It is remarkable that I should not have already noticed your striking likeness to your mother, particularly your eyes and your smile … but we must not digress; and, since you are resolved to maintain yourself by honest work, may I ask what are your talents and qualifications?"
"My education, monsieur, was naturally that of a man destined for a life of wealth and case. However, I have studied law, and am nominally a barrister."
"A barrister! The devil you are! But the name is not enough. At the bar, more than in any other career, everything depends on personal effort; and now – let us see – do you speak well, marquis?"
"So badly that I believe I am incapable of putting two sentences together in public."
"H'm! Scarcely what one could call a heaven-born orator. You must try something else; but the matter requires more careful consideration. I see you are tired, marquis. Here are your papers, which you can examine at your leisure. I have the honour to wish you farewell. Allow me to light you down. A moment – am I to await your further instructions before applying the value of those jewels to the payment of your creditors?"
"Oh, by no means. But I should wish you rather to deduct a just remuneration for your kind exertions."
We had reached the landing of the staircase; M. Laubépin, who stooped a little as he walked, sharply straightened himself.
"So far as your creditors are concerned," he said, "you may count upon my obedience, marquis. As to me, I was your mother's friend, and I beg humbly but earnestly that her son will treat me as a friend."
I gave my hand to the old gentleman; he shook it warmly and we parted.
Back in the little room I now occupy, under the roof of the hôtel, which is mine no longer, I wished to convince myself that the full knowledge of my misery had not depressed me to a degree unworthy of a man. So I have sat down to write an account of this decisive day of my life, endeavouring to preserve exactly the phraseology of the old notary, a mixture of stiffness and courtesy, of mistrust and kind feeling, which more than once made me smile, though my heart was bleeding.
I am face to face with poverty. Not the haughty, hidden, and poetic poverty that among forests and deserts and savannas fired my imagination, but actual misery, need, dependence, humiliation, and something worse even – the poverty of the rich man who has fallen; poverty in a decent coat; the poverty that hides its ungloved hands from the former friends it passes in the street. Come, brother, courage, courage…!
For five days I have been waiting in vain for news of M. Laubépin. I had counted considerably on the interest that he had appeared to feel in me. His experience, his business connections, and the number of people he knows, would enable him to be of service to me. I was ready to take all necessary steps under his direction, but, left to myself, I do not know which way to turn. I thought he was one of the men who promise little and do much. I am afraid that I have been mistaken. This morning I determined to go to his house on the pretext of returning the papers he had given me, after verifying their dreary exactitude. I was told that he had gone to enjoy a taste of country life at some château in the heart of Brittany. He would be away two or three days longer. I was completely taken aback. I had not only the pain of finding indifference and desertion where I had looked for the readiness of devoted friendship, I had, in addition, the bitter disappointment of returning, as I went, with an empty purse. I had, in fact, intended to ask M. Laubépin to advance me some money from the three or four thousand francs due to us after full payment of our debts. In vain have I lived like an anchorite since came to Paris. The small sum I had reserved for my journey is completely exhausted – so completely that, after making a truly pastoral breakfast this morning —castanceæ molles et pressi copia lactis– I was obliged to have recourse to a kind of trickery for my dinner to-night. I will make melancholy record of it here.
The less one has had for breakfast, the more one wants for dinner. I had felt all the force of this axiom long before the sun had finished its course. Among the strollers whom the mild air had attracted to the Tuileries this afternoon to watch the first smiles of spring playing on the faces of the marble fauns, the observant might have noted a young man of irreproachable appearance who seemed to study the awakening of nature with extraordinary interest. Not satisfied with devouring the fresh verdure with his eyes, he would furtively detach the young, appetizing shoots and the half-opened leaves from their stems, and put them to his lips with the curiosity of a botanist. I convinced myself in this way that this form of nourishment, suggested by accounts of shipwrecks, is of very little value. Still, I enriched my experience with some interesting discoveries: for instance, I know now that the foliage of the chestnut has an exceedingly bitter taste; that the rose is not unpleasant; that the lime is oily and rather agreeable; the lilac pungent – and I believe unwholesome.
Meditating on these discoveries, I walked towards Hélène's convent. I found the parlour as crowded as a hive, and I was more than usually bewildered by the tumultuous confidences of the young bees. Hélène arrived, her hair in disorder, her cheeks flushed, her eyes red and sparkling. In her hand she had a piece of bread as long as her arm. As she embraced me in an absent way, I asked:
"Well, little girl, what is the matter? You've been crying."
"No, Maxime, no, it's nothing."
"Well, what is it? Now tell me…"
In a lower tone she said:
"Oh, I am very miserable, dear Maxime!"
"Really? Tell me all about it while you eat your bread."
"Oh, I shall certainly not eat my bread. I am too miserable to eat. You know Lucy – Lucy Campbell, my dearest friend. Well, we've quarrelled completely."
"Oh, mon Dieu! Don't worry, darling, you'll make it up. It will be all right, dear."
"Oh, Maxime, that's impossible. It was such a serious quarrel. It was nothing at first, but you know one gets excited and loses one's head. Listen, Maxime! We were playing battledore, and Lucy made a mistake about the score. I was six hundred and eighty, and she was only six hundred and fifteen, and she declared she was six hundred and sixty-five! You must say that was a little too bad. Of course I said my figure was right, and she said hers was. 'Well, mademoiselle,' I said to her, 'let us ask these young ladies. I appeal to them.' 'No, mademoiselle,' she replied, 'I am sure I am right, and you don't play fair.' 'And – and you, mademoiselle,' I said to her – 'you are a liar!' 'Very well, mademoiselle,' she said then, 'I despise you too much to answer you.' Just at that moment Sister Sainte-Félix came up, which was a good thing, for I am sure I should have hit her. Now, you know what happened. Can we possibly make it up? No, it is impossible; it would be cowardly. But I can't tell you how I suffer. I don't believe there's any one in the world so miserable as I am."
"Yes, dear, it's difficult to imagine anything more distressing; but it seems to me that you partly brought it on yourself, for it was you who used the most offensive word. Tell me, is Lucy in the parlour?"
"Yes, there she is, in the corner."
With a dignified and careful movement of her head she indicated a very fair little girl. Her cheeks, too, were flushed, and her eyes were red. Apparently she was giving an account of the drama, which Sister Sainte-Félix had so fortunately interrupted, to an old lady who was listening attentively.
Mlle. Lucy, while she talked with an earnestness appropriate to the subject, kept looking furtively at Hélène and me.
"Dear child," I said to Hélène, "do you trust me?"
"Yes, Maxime, I trust you very much."
"In that case I will tell you what to do. Go very gently behind Mlle. Lucy's chair; take her head in your hands – like this, when she is not looking – and kiss her on both cheeks – like this, with all your might – and then you will see what she will do in her turn."
For a second or two Hélène seemed to hesitate; then she set off at a great rate, fell like a thunder-clap on Mlle. Campbell, but nevertheless gave her the sweetest of surprises. The two young sufferers, at last