Part 22 (1/2)

Mademoiselle Angela was the daughter of Monsieur Monetti, the chimney doctor, of whom we have already had occasion to speak. She was eighteen years old, and had just come from Burgundy, where she lived five years with a relative who was to leave her all her property. This relative was an old lady who had never been young apparently--certainly never handsome, but had always been very ill-natured, although--or perhaps because--very superst.i.tious. Angela, who at her departure was a charming child, and promised to be a charming girl, came back at the end of the five years a pretty enough young lady, but cold, dry, and uninteresting.

Her secluded provincial life, and the narrow and bigoted education she had received, had filled her mind with vulgar prejudices, shrunk her imagination, and converted her heart into a sort of organ, limited to fulfilling its function of physical balance wheel. You might say that she had holy water in her veins instead of blood. She received her cousin with an icy reserve; and he lost his time whenever he attempted to touch the chord of her recollections--recollections of the time when they had sketched out that flirtation in the Paul-and-Virginia style which is traditional between cousins of different s.e.xes. Still Rodolphe was very much in love with his cousin Angela, who couldn't bear him; and learning one day that the young lady was going shortly to the wedding ball of one of her friends, he made bold to promise Angela a bouquet of violets for the ball. And after asking permission of her father, Angela accepted her cousin's gallant offer--always on condition that the violets should be white.

Overjoyed at his cousin's amiability, Rodolphe danced and sang his way back to Mount St. Bernard, as he called his lodging--why will be seen presently. As he pa.s.sed by a florist's in crossing the Palais Royal, he saw some white violets in the showcase, and was curious enough to ask their price. A presentable bouquet could not be had for less than ten francs; there were some that cost more.

”The deuce!” exclaimed Rodolphe, ”ten francs! and only eight days to find this fortune! It will be a hard pull, but never mind, my cousin shall have her flowers.”

This happened in the time of Rodolphe's literary genesis, as the transcendentalists would say. His only income at that period was an allowance of fifteen francs a month, made him by a friend, who, after living a long while in Paris as a poet, had, by the help of influential acquaintances, gained the masters.h.i.+p of a provincial school. Rodolphe, who was the child of prodigality, always spent his allowance in four days; and, not choosing to abandon his holy but not very profitable profession of elegiac poet, lived for the rest of the month on the rare droppings from the basket of Providence. This long Lent had no terrors for him; he pa.s.sed through it gaily, thanks to his stoical temperament and to the imaginary treasures which he expended every day while waiting for the first of the month, that Easter which terminated his fast. He lived at this time at the very top of one of the loftiest houses in Paris. His room was shaped like a belvidere, and was a delicious habitation in summer, but from October to April a perfect little Kamschatka. The four cardinal winds which penetrated by the four windows,--there was one on each of the four sides--made fearful music in it throughout the cold seasons. Then in irony as it were, there was a huge fireplace, the immense chimney of which seemed a gate of honor reserved for Boreas and his retinue. On the first attack of cold, Rodolphe had recourse to an original system of warming; he cut up successively what little furniture he had, and at the end of a week his stock was considerably abridged; in fact, he had only a bed and two chairs left; it should be remarked that these items were insured against fire by their nature, being of iron. This manner of heating himself he called _moving up the chimney_.

It was January, and the thermometer, which indicated twelve degrees below freezing point on the Spectacle Quay, would have stood two or three lower if moved to the belvidere, which Rodolphe called indifferently Mount St. Bernard, Spitzenberg, and Siberia.

The night when he promised his cousin the white violets, he was seized with a great rage on returning home; the four cardinal winds, in playing puss-in-the-corner round his chamber, had broken a pane of gla.s.s--the third time in a fortnight. After exploding in a volley of frantic imprecations upon Eolus and all his family, and plugging up the breach with a friend's portrait, Rodolphe lay down, dressed as he was, between his two mattresses, and dreamed of white violets all night.

At the end of five days, Rodolphe had found nothing to help him toward realizing his dreams. He must have the bouquet the day after tomorrow.

Meanwhile, the thermometer fell still lower, and the luckless poet was ready to despair as he thought the violets might have risen higher.

Finally his good angel had pity on him, and came to his relief as follows.

One morning, Rodolphe went to take his chance of getting a breakfast from his friend Marcel the painter, and found him conversing with a woman in mourning. It was a widow who had just lost her husband, and who wanted to know how much it would cost to paint on the tomb which she had erected, a man's hand, with this inscription beneath:

”I WAIT FOR HER TO WHOM MY FAITH WAS PLIGHTED.”

To get the work at a cheaper rate, she observed to the artist that when she was called to rejoin her husband, he would have another hand to paint--her hand with a bracelet on the wrist and the supplementary line beneath:

”AT LENGTH, BEHOLD US THUS ONCE MORE UNITED.”

”I shall put this clause in my will,” she said, ”and require that the task be intrusted to you.”

”In that case, madame,” replied the artist, ”I will do it at the price you offer--but only in the hope of seeing your hand. Don't go and forget me in your will.”

”I should like to have this as soon as possible,” said the disconsolate one, ”nevertheless, take your time to do it well and don't forget the scar on the thumb. I want a living hand.”

”Don't be afraid, madame, it shall be a speaking one,” said Marcel, as he bowed the widow out. But hardly had she crossed the threshold when she returned, saying, ”I have one more thing to ask you, sir: I should like to have inscribed on my husband's tomb something in verse which would tell of his good conduct and his last words. Is that good style?”

”Very good style--they call that an epitaph--the very best style.”

”You don't know anyone who would do that for me cheap? There is my neighbor Monsieur Guerin, the public writer, but he asks the clothes off my back.”

Here Rodolphe looked at Marcel, who understood him at once.

”Madame,” said the artist, pointing to Rodolphe, ”a happy fortune has conducted hither the very person who can be of service to you in this mournful juncture. This gentleman is a renowned poet; you couldn't find a better one.”

”I want something very melancholy,” said the widow, ”and the spelling all right.”

”Madame,” replied Marcel, ”my friend spells like a book. He had all the prizes at school.”

”Indeed!” said the widow, ”my grand-nephew had just had a prize too; he is only seven years old.”

”A very forward child, madame.”

”But are you sure that the gentleman can make very melancholy verses?”

”No one better, madame, for he has undergone much sorrow in his life.