"Aha!" I thought to myself....And then we went to Saint-Cloud.
September-December.
The regularity with which visit succeeded visit to the old man's house thereafter made me feel very grateful to Mademoiselle Prefere, who succeeded at last in winning her right to occupy a special corner in the City of Books.She now says "MY chair," "MY footstool,""MY pigeon hole." Her pigeon hole is really a small shelf properly belonging to the poets of La Champagne, whom she expelled therefrom in order to obtain a lodging for her work-bag.She is very amiable, and I must really be a monster not to like her.I can only endure her--in the severest signification of the word.But what would one not endure for Jeanne's sake? Her presence lends to the City of Books a charm which seems to hover about it even after she has gone.
She is very ignorant; but she is so finely gifted that whenever Ishow her anything beautiful I am astounded to find that I had never really seen it before, and that it is she who makes me see it.Ihave found it impossible so far to make her follow some of my ideas, but I have often found pleasure in following the whimsical and delicate course of her own.
A more practical man than I would attempt to teach her to make herself useful; but is not the capacity of being amiable a useful think in life? Without being pretty, she charms; and the power to charm is perhaps, after all, worth quite as much as the ability to darn stockings.Furthermore, I am not immortal; and I doubt whether she will have become very old when my notary (who is not Maitre Mouche)shall read to her a certain paper which I signed a little while ago.
I do not wish that any one except myself should provide for her, and give her her dowry.I am not, however, very rich, and the paternal inheritance did not gain bulk in my hands.One does not accumulate money by poring over old texts.But my books--at the price which such noble merchandise fetches to-day--are worth something.Why, on that shelf there are some poets of the sixteenth century for which bankers would bid against princes! And I think that those "Heures" of Simon Vostre would not be readily overlooked at the Hotel Sylvestre any more than would those Preces Piae compiled for the use of Queen Claude.I have taken great pains to collect and to preserve all those rare and curious editions which people the City of Books; and for a long time I used to believe that they were as necessary to my life as air and light.I have loved them well, and even now I cannot prevent myself from smiling at them and caressing them.Those morocco bindings are so delightful to the eye! These old vellums are so soft to the touch! There is not a single one among those books which is not worthy, by reason of some special merit, to command the respect of an honourable man.What other owner would ever know how to dip into hem in the proper way?
Can I be even sure that another owner would not leave them to decay in neglect, or mutilate them at the prompting of some ignorant whim?
Into whose hands will fall that incomparable copy of the "Histoire de l'Abbaye de Saint-Germain-des-Pres," on the margins of which the author himself, in the person of Jacques Bouillard, made such substantial notes in his own handwriting?...Master Bonnard, you are an old fool! Your housekeeper--poor soul!--is nailed down upon her bed with a merciless attack of rheumatism.Jeanne is to come with her chaperon, and, instead of thinking how you are going to receive them, you are thinking about a thousand stupidities.
Sylvestre Bonnard, you will never succeed at anything in this world, and it is I myself who tell you so!
And at this very moment I catch sight of them from my window, as they get out of the omnibus.Jeanne leaps down lie a kitten; but Mademoiselle Prefere intrusts herself to the strong arm of the conductor, with the shy grace of a Virginia recovering after the shipwreck, and this time quite resigned to being saved.Jeanne looks up, sees me, laughs, and Mademoiselle Prefere has to prevent her from waving her umbrella at me as a friendly signal.There is a certain stage of cvilisation to which Mademoiselle Jeanne never can be brought.You can teach her all the arts if you like (it is not exactly to Mademoiselle Prefere that I am now speaking); but you will never be able to teach her perfect manners.As a charming child she makes the mistake of being charming only in her own way.Only an old fool like myself could forgive her pranks.As for young fools--and there are several of them still to be found--I do not know what they would think about it; and what they might think is none of my business.Just look at her running along the pavement, wrapped in her cloak, with her hat tilted back on her head, and her feather fluttering in the wind, like a schooner in full rig! And really she has a grace of poise and motion which suggests a fine sailing-vessel--so much so, indeed, that she makes me remember seeing one day, when I was at Havre....But, Bonnard, my friend, how many times is it necessary to tell you that your housekeeper is in bed, and that you must go and open the door yourself?
Open, Old Man Winter! 'tis Spring who rings the bell.
It is Jeanne herself--Jeanne is all flushed like a rose.Mademoiselle Prefere, indignant and out of breath, has still another whole flight to climb before reaching our lobby.
I explained the condition of my housekeeper, and proposed that we should dine at a restaurant.But Therese--all-powerful still, even upon her sick-bed--decided that we should dine at home, whether we wanted to or no.Respectable people, in her opinion, never dined at restaurants.Moreover, she had made all necessary arrangements--the dinner had been bought; the concierge would cook it.
The audacious Jeanne insisted upon going to see whether the old woman wanted anything.As you might suppose, she was sent back to the parlour with short shrift, but not so harshly as I had feared.
