Part 12 (2/2)

CHAPTER V

I WENT to call upon her the next morning. I found her at the piano, her old aunt at the window sewing, the little room filled with flowers, the sunlight streaming through the blinds, a large bird-cage at her side.

I expected to find her somewhat religious, at least one of those women of the provinces who know nothing of what happens two leagues away, and who live in a certain narrow circle from which they never escape. I confess that such isolated life, which is found here and there in small towns, under a thousand unknown roofs, had always produced on me the effect of stagnant pools of water; the air does not seem respirable: in everything on earth that is forgotten, there is something of death.

On Madame Pierson's table were some papers and new books; they looked as though they had not been more than touched. In spite of the simplicity of everything around her, of furniture and dress, it was easy to recognize mode, that is to say, life; she did not live for this alone, but that goes without saying. What struck me in her taste was, that there was nothing bizarre, everything breathed of youth and pleasantness. Her conversation indicated a finished education; there was no subject on which she could not speak well and with ease. While admitting that she was naive, it was evident that she was at the same time profound in thought and fertile in resource; an intelligence, at once broad and free, soared gently over a simple heart and over the habits of a retired life.

The sea-swallow, whirling through the azure heavens, soars thus over the blade of gra.s.s that marks its nest.

We talked of literature, music, and even politics. She had visited Paris during the winter; from time to time, she dipped into the world; what she saw there served as a basis for what she divined.

But her distinguis.h.i.+ng trait was gaiety, a cheerfulness that, while not exactly joy itself, was constant and unalterable; it might be said that she was born a flower, and that her perfume was gaiety.

Her pallor, her large dark eyes, her manner at certain moments, all led me to believe that she had suffered. I know not what it was that seemed to say that the sweet serenity of her brow was not of this world, but had come from G.o.d, and that she would return it to him spotless in spite of man; and there were times when she reminded one of the careful housewife, who, when the wind blows, holds her hand before the candle.

When I had been in the house half an hour, I could not help saying what was in my heart. I thought of my past life, of my disappointment and my ennui; I walked to and fro, breathing the fragrance of the flowers, and looking at the sun. I asked her to sing, and she did so with good grace.

In the meantime, I leaned on the window sill and watched the birds flitting about the garden. A saying of Montaigne's came into my head: ”I neither love nor esteem sadness although the world has invested it, at a given price, with the honor of its particular favor. They dress up in it wisdom, virtue, conscience. Stupid and absurd adornment.”

”What happiness!” I cried in spite of myself. ”What repose! What joy!

What forgetfulness of self!”

The good aunt raised her head and looked at me with an air of astonishment; Madame Pierson stopped short. I became red as fire when conscious of my folly, and sat down without a word.

We went out into the garden. The white goat I had seen the evening before was lying in the gra.s.s; it came up to her and followed us about the garden.

When we reached the end of the garden walk, a large young man with a pale face, clad in a kind of black ca.s.sock, suddenly appeared at the railing.

He entered without knocking, and bowed to Madame Pierson; it seemed to me that his face, which I considered a bad omen, darkened a little when he saw me. He was a priest I had often seen in the village, and his name was Mercanson; he came from St. Sulpice and was related to the cure of the parish.

He was large and at the same time pale, a thing which always displeased me and which is, in fact, unpleasant; it impresses one as a sort of diseased healthfulness. Moreover, he had the slow yet jerky way of speaking that characterizes the pedant. Even his manner of walking, which was not that of youth and health, repelled me; as for his glance, it might be said that he had none. I do not know what to think of a man whose eyes have nothing to say. These are the signs which led to an unfavorable opinion of Mercanson, an opinion which was unfortunately correct.

He sat down on a bench and began to talk about Paris, which he called the modern Babylon. He had been there, he knew every one; he knew Madame de B-----, who was an angel; he had preached sermons in her salon and was listened to on bended knee. (The worst of this was, that it was true.) One of his friends, who had introduced him there, had been expelled from school for having seduced a girl; a terrible thing to do, very sad. He paid Madame Pierson a thousand compliments for her charitable deeds throughout the country; he had heard of her benefactions, her care for the sick, her vigils at the bed of suffering and of death. It was very beautiful and n.o.ble; he would not fail to speak of it at St. Sulpice. Did he not seem to say that he would not fail to speak of it to G.o.d?

Wearied by this harangue, in order to conceal my rising disgust, I sat down on the gra.s.s and began to play with the goat. Mercanson turned on me his dull and lifeless eye:

”The celebrated Vergniand,” said he, ”was afflicted with that mania of sitting on the ground and playing with animals.”

”It is a mania,” I replied, very innocently. ”If there were none others, the world would get along without so much meddling on the part of others.”

My reply did not please him; he frowned and changed the subject. He was charged with a commission; his uncle, the cure, had spoken to him of a poor devil who was unable to earn his daily bread. He lived in such and such a place; he had been there himself and was interested in him; he hoped that Madame Pierson--

I was looking at her while he was speaking, wondering what reply she would make and hoping she would say something in order to drown out the memory of the priest's voice with her gentle tones. She merely bowed, and he retired.

When he had gone our gaiety returned. We entered a greenhouse in the rear of the garden.

Madame Pierson treated her flowers as she did her birds and her peasants, everything about her must be well cared for, each flower must have its drop of water and ray of sunlight in order that she might be gay and happy as an angel; so nothing could be in better condition than her little greenhouse. When we had made the round of the building she said:

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