"Well! well!" I said to myself as I got up."Let this prattling fledgling write his thesis and sustain it! He will find my colleague, Quicherat, or some other professor at the school, to show him what an ignoramus he is.I consider him neither more nor less than a rascal; and really, now that I come to think of it, what he said about Michelet awhile ago was quite insufferable, outrageous! To talk in that way about an old master replete with genius! It was simply abominable!"April 17.
"Therese, give me my new hat, my best frock-coat, and my silver-headed cane."
But Therese is deaf as a sack of charcoal and slow as Justice.
Years have made her so.The worst is that she thinks she can hear well and move about well; and, proud of her sixty years of upright domesticity, she serves her old master with the most vigilant despotism.
"What did I tell you?"...And now she will not give me my silver-headed cane, for fear that I might lose it! It is true that I often forget umbrellas and walking-sticks in the omnibuses and booksellers'
shops.But I have a special reason for wanting to take out with me to-day my old cane with the engraved silver head representing Don Quixote charging a windmill, lance in rest, while Sancho Panza, with uplifted arms, vainly conjures him to a stop.That cane is all that came to me from the heritage of my uncle, Captain Victor, who in his lifetime resembled Don Quixote much more than Sancho Panza, and who loved blows quite as much as most people fear them.
For thirty years I have been in the habit of carrying this cane upon all memorable or solemn visits which I make; and those two figures of knight and squire give me inspiration and counsel.Iimagine I can hear them speak.Don Quixote says, "Think well about great things; and know that thought is the only reality in this world.Lift up Nature to thine own stature; and let the whole universe be for thee no more than the reflection of thine own heroic soul.Combat for honour's sake: that alone is worthy of a man! and if it should fall thee to receive wounds, shed thy blood as a beneficent dew, and smile."And Sancho Panza says to me in his turn, "Remain just what heaven made thee, comrade! Prefer the bread-crust which has become dry in thy wallet to all the partridges that roast in the kitchen of lords.Obey thy master, whether he by a wise man or a fool, and do not cumber thy brain with too many useless things.
Fear blows; 'tis verily tempting God to seek after danger!"But if the incomparable knight and his matchless squire are imagined only upon this cane of mine, they are realities to my inner conscience.Within every one of us there lives both a Don Quixote and a Sancho Panza to whom we hearken by turns; and though Sancho most persuades us, it is Don Quixote that we find ourselves obliged to admire....But a truce to this dotage!--and let us go to see Madame de Gabry about some matters more important than the everyday details of life....
Same day.
I found Madame de Gabry dressed in black, just buttoning her gloves.
"I am ready," she said.
Ready!--so I have always found her upon any occasion of doing a kindness.
After some compliments about the good health of her husband, who was taking a walk at the time, we descended the stairs and got into the carriage.
I do not know what secret influence I feared to dissipate by breaking silence, but we followed the great deserted drives without speaking, looking at the crosses, the monumental columns, and the mortuary wreaths awaiting sad purchasers.
The vehicle at last halted at the extreme verge of the land of the living, before the gate upon which words of hope are graven.
"Follow me," said Madame de Gabry, whose tall stature I noticed then for the first time.She first walked down an alley of cypresses, and then took a very narrow path contrived between the tombs.
Finally, halting before a plain slab, she said to me, "It is here."And she knelt down.I could not help noticing the beautiful and easy manner in which this Christian woman fell upon her knees, leaving the folds of her robe to spread themselves at random about her.I had never before seen any lady kneel down with such frankness and such forgetfulness of self, except two fair Polish exiles, one evening long ago, in a deserted church in Paris.
This image passed like a flash; and I saw only the sloping stone on which was graven the name of Clementine.What I then felt was something so deep and vague that only the sound of some rich music could convey the idea of it.I seemed to hear instruments of celestial sweetness make harmony in my old heart.With the solemn accords of a funeral chant there seemed to mingle the subdued melody of a song of love; for my soul blended into one feeling the grave sadness of the present with the familiar graces of the past.
I cannot tell whether we had remained a long time at the tomb of Clementine before Madame de Gabry arose.We passed through the cemetery again without speaking to each other.Only when we found ourselves among the living once more did I feel able to speak.
"While following you there," I said to Madame de Gabry, "I could not help thinking of those angels with whom we are said to meet on the mysterious confines of life and death.That tomb you led me to, of which I knew nothing--as I know nothing, or scarcely anything, concerning her whom it covers--brought back to me emotions which were unique in my life, and which seem in the dullness of that life like some light gleaming upon a dark road.The light recedes farther and farther away as the journey lengthens; I have now almost reached the bottom of the last slope; and, nevertheless, each time I turn to look back I see the glow as bright as ever.
"You, Madame, who knew Clementine as a young wife and mother after her hair had become grey, you cannot imagine her as I see her still;a young fair girl, all pink and white.Since you have been so kind as to be my guide, dear Madame, I ought to tell you what feelings were awakened in me by the sight of that grave to which you led me.
