Part 5 (1/2)
”Father Dodu, you know very well that men become corrupt everywhere.”
”Father Dodu began to roar out a drinking song, and it was impossible to stop him at a questionable couplet that everyone knew by heart. Sylvie would not sing, in spite of our entreaties, on the plea that it was no longer customary to sing at table. I bad already noticed the lover of the ball, seated at her left, and his round face and tumbled hair seemed familiar. He rose and stood behind me, saying, ”Have you forgotten me, Parisian?” A good woman who came back to dessert after serving us, whispered in my ear: ”Do you not recognize your foster-brother?” Without this warning, I should have made myself ridiculous. ”Ah, it is _Big Curly-head_!” I cried; ”the very same who pulled me out of the water.”
Sylvie burst out laughing at the recollection.
”Without considering,” said the youth em-bracing me, ”that you had a fine silver watch and on the way home you were more concerned about it than yourself, because it had stopped. You said, 'the _creature is drowned_ does not go tick-tack; what will Uncle say?'” ”A watch is a creature,” said Father Dodu; ”that is what they tell children in Paris!”
Sylvie was sleepy, and I fancied there was no hope for me. She went upstairs, and as I kissed her, said: ”Come again to-morrow.” Father Dodu remained at table with Sylvain and my foster-brother, and we talked a long time over a bottle of Louvres ratafia.
”All men are equal,” said Father Dodu between gla.s.ses; ”I drink with a pastry-cook as readily as with a prince.”
”Where is the pastry-cook?” I asked.
”By your side! There you see a young man who is ambitious to get on in life.”
My foster-brother appeared embarra.s.sed and I understood the situation.
Fate had reserved for me a foster-brother in the very country made famous by Rousseau, who opposed putting children out to nurse! I learned from Father Dodu that there was much talk of a marriage between Sylvie and Big Curly-head, who wished to open a pastry-shop at Dammartin. I asked no more. Next morning the coach from Nanteuil-le-Haudouin took me back to Paris.
XIII
AUReLIE.
To Paris, a journey of five hours! I was impatient for evening, and eight o'clock found me in my accustomed seat Aurelie infused her own spirit and grace into the lines of the play, the work of a contemporary author evidently inspired by Schiller. In the garden scene she was sublime. During the fourth act, when she did not appear, I went out to purchase a bouquet of Madame Prevost, slipping into it a tender effusion signed _An Unknown_, ”There,” thought I, ”is something definite for the future,” but on the morrow I was on my way to Germany.
Why did I go there? In the hope of com-posing my disordered fancy. If I were to write a book, I could never gain credence for the story of a heart torn by these two conflicting loves. I had lost Sylvie through my own fault, but to see her for a day, sufficed to restore my soul. A glance from her had arrested me on the verge of the abyss, and henceforth I enshrined her as a smiling G.o.ddess in the Temple of Wisdom.
I felt more than ever reluctant to present myself before Aurelie among the throng of vulgar suitors who shone in the light of her favour for an instant only to fall blinded.
”Some day,” said I, ”we shall see whether this woman has a heart.”
One morning I learned from a newspaper that Aurelie was ill, and I wrote to her from the mountains of Salzburg, a letter so filled with German mysticism that I could hardly hope for a reply, indeed I expected none.
I left it to chance or ... the _unknown._
Months pa.s.sed, and in the leisure intervals of travel I undertook to embody in poetic action the life-long devotion of the painter Colonna to the fair Laura who was constrained by her relatives to take the veil.
Something in the subject lent itself to my habitual train of thought, and as soon as the last verse of the drama was written, I hastened back to France.
Can I avoid repeating in my own history, that of many others? I pa.s.sed through all the ordeals of the theatre. I ”ate the drum and drank the cymbal,” according to the apparently meaningless phrase of the initiates at Eleusis, which probably signifies that upon occasion we must stand ready to pa.s.s the bounds of reason and absurdity; for me it meant to win and possess my ideal.
Aurelie accepted the leading part in the play which I brought back from Germany. I shall never forget the day she allowed me to read it to her.
The love scenes had been arranged expressly for her, and I am positive that I rendered them with feeling. In the conversation that followed I revealed myself as the ”Unknown” of the two letters. She said: ”You are mad, but come again; I have never found anyone who knew how to love me.”
Oh, woman! you seek for love ... but what of me?
In the days which followed I wrote probably the most eloquent and touching letters that she ever received. Her answers were full of good sense. Once she was moved, sent for me and confessed that it was hard for her to break an attachment of long standing. ”If you love me for myself alone, then you will understand that I can belong to but one.”
Two months later, I received an effusive letter which brought me to her feet--in the meantime, someone volunteered an important piece of information. The handsome young man whom I had met one night at the club had just enlisted in the Turkish cavalry.