Part 29 (1/2)

Carolus agreed to everything. The three friends soon arrived with their friends of the other s.e.x. Rodolphe was polite to Carolus, Schaunard familiar with him, while Marcel remained cold. Carolus forced himself to be gay and amiable with the men and indifferent to the women. When they broke up for the night, he asked Rodolphe to dine with him the next day, and to come as early as noon. The poet accepted, saying to himself, ”Good! I am to begin the inquiry, then.”

Next morning at the hour appointed, he called on Carolus, who did indeed live in a very handsome private house, where he occupied a sufficiently comfortable room. But Rodolphe was surprised to find at that time of day the shutters closed, the curtains drawn, and two lighted candles on the table. He asked Barbemuche the reason.

”Study,” replied the other, ”is the child of mystery and silence.”

They sat down and talked. At the end of an hour, Carolus, with infinite oratorial address, brought in a phrase which, despite its humble form, was neither more nor less than a summons made to Rodolphe to hear a little work, the fruit of Barbemuche's vigils.

The poet saw himself caught. Curious, however, to learn the color of the other's style, he bowed politely, a.s.sured him that he was enchanted, that Carolus did not wait for him to finish the sentence. He ran to bolt the door, and then took up a small memorandum book, the thinness of which brought a smile of satisfaction to the poet's face.

”Is that the ma.n.u.script of your work?” he asked.

”No,” replied Carolus. ”It is the catalog of my ma.n.u.scripts and I am looking for the one which you will allow me to read you. Here it is: 'Don Lopez or Fatality No. 14.' It's on the third shelf,” and he proceeded to open a small closet in which Rodolphe perceived, with terror, a great quant.i.ty of ma.n.u.scripts. Carolus took out one of these, shut the closet, and seated himself in front of the poet.

Rodolphe cast a glance at one of the four piles of elephant paper of which the work was composed. ”Come,” said he to himself, ”it's not in verse, but it's called 'Don Lopez.'”

Carolus began to read:

”On a cold winter night, two cavaliers, enveloped in large cloaks, and mounted on sluggish mules, were making their way side by side over one of the roads which traverse the frightful solitudes of the Sierra Morena.”

”May the Lord have mercy on me!” e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Rodolphe mentally.

Carolus continued to read his first chapter, written in the style above throughout. Rodolphe listened vaguely, and tried to devise some means of escape.

”There is the window, but it's fastened; and beside, we are in the fourth story. Ah, now I understand all these precautions.”

”What do you think of my first chapter?” asked Carolus. ”Do not spare any criticism, I beg of you.”

Rodolphe thought he remembered having heard some sc.r.a.ps of philosophical declamation upon suicide, put forth by the hero of the romance, Don Lopez, to wit; so he replied at hazard:

”The grand figure of Don Lopez is conscientiously studied; it reminds me of 'Savoyard Vicar's Confession of Faith;' the description of Don Alvar's mule pleases me exceedingly; it is like a sketch of Gericault's.

There are good lines in the landscape; as to the thoughts, they are seeds of Rousseau planted in the soil of Lesage. Only allow me to make one observation: you use too many stops, and you work the word henceforward too hard. It is a good word, and gives color, but should not be abused.”

Carolus took up a second pile of paper, and repeated the t.i.tle ”Don Lopez or, Fatality.”

”I knew a Don Lopez once,” said Rodolphe. ”He used to sell cigarettes and Bayonne chocolate. Perhaps he was a relative of your man. Go on.”

At the conclusion of the second chapter, the poet interrupted his host:

”Don't you feel your throat a little dry?” he inquired.

”Not at all,” replied Carolus. ”We are coming to the history of Inesilla.”

”I am very curious to hear it, nevertheless, if you are tired--”

”Chapter third!” enunciated Carolus in a voice that gave no signs of fatigue.

Rodolphe took a careful survey of Barbemuche and perceived that he had a short neck and a ruddy complexion. ”I have one hope left,” thought the poet on making this discovery. ”He may have an attack of apoplexy.”

”Will you be so good as to tell me what you think of the love scene?”