Chapter Nine.
“A stirring of the heart, a quickening keen
Of sight and hearing to the delicate
Beauty and music of an altered world;
...That mysterious light,
Which doth reveal and yet transform; which give
Destiny, sorrow, youth, and death, and life,
Intenser meaning; in disquieting
Lifts up; a shining light: men call it love.”
Jean Ingelow.
M. Deshoulières went slowly away from the Roulleaus towards his own house. The café at the corner of the little Place was brilliantly lit; outside, between great tubs of evergreens and climbing daturas, men were sitting, smoking, drinking coffee, or mixing horrible little decoctions of absinthe. Instead of joining the group, and reading his evening budget of the Patrie, the Gaulois, or the Organe du Département, M. Deshoulières strolled away to one of the deserted seats under the trees, where there was not sufficient cheerful light or sound for the attraction of idlers, and he was not likely to be recognised. There was his own house opposite, dark and dreary-looking. Some of the windows round were open, light streamed out, figures sat in the balconies; one woman he noticed particularly in a white shining dress, with a child clambering on her knee; he could hear happy voices, laughter and singing. His own house looked like a dark patch in the middle of it all: presently, one little feeble light passed a window, disappeared, shone out again in the story above. “Veuve Angelin is going upstairs,” commented M. Deshoulières. For the first time a feeling of dissatisfaction took shape in his mind. Why had he no one better than Veuve Angelin to welcome him? Why should his house be unlike those others? It had a balcony,—he had hardly noticed it before,—why might not a lady, in a white shining dress, sit there in a little glow of warm light? He half closed his eyes, and fancied her: a slight figure, dark brown hair, lying lightly on her forehead; grey eyes, with the beseeching look he had more than once remarked. “Every place must be a little sad to me, for I belong to no one.” His shining lady would say no such pathetic words. Ah, M. Deshoulières, you opened your heart to Pity, and another visitant slipped in unawares!
It seemed but a little while to himself that he sat there under the trees, yet, when at last he roused himself to move, half the lights had vanished, only two or three excited politicians remained before the café: there was a September chill in the air in spite of the day’s heat. Max was thoroughly ashamed, on glancing round, to realise the time he had wasted. It was too late to light another cigar; he got up, shook himself, and walked across to his house. A little primitive light—just a wick in a glass of oil—burnt feebly within the entrance; at the head of the stairs stood Veuve Angelin, in an injured frame of mind.
“So monsieur has come at last,” she said sharply, “and all the world has been seeking him for the last two hours. There has been a message from the Evêché: they are all in commotion: Monseigneur may be dead by this time, or recovered, which would be almost as bad, considering that that miserable little Monsieur Pinot would have the credit of it.”
“What was the message?” asked M. Deshoulières, calmly.
“Monseigneur felt himself more feeble this evening, and desired monsieur to come without delay. If they found you absent, M. Jean was to fetch M. Pinot at once. I got him to talk about that affair at Minguard, which kept him a little; but it is too horrible to think of that other creature’s triumph. If monsieur were to walk very fast?”
“There is no occasion for such an exertion, Marie, since M. Pinot is there. Monseigneur is quite safe with him.”
“Monsieur will not go?”
“Oh, yes, I shall go. Only I should like my coffee first. And, stay, have there been no other messages?”
“Only one from that old André. The boy is worse—or so they said.”
“Why did you not say so?” demanded M. Deshoulières, sternly. “Give me my coat at once.”
“But, monsieur, the coffee—”
“Give me my coat.”
“Monseigneur—”
But the doctor was clattering down the stairs.
“What a man!” muttered Veuve Angelin, throwing up her hands. “He is no more fit to manage his affairs than a child—an idiot! I do what I can, but he overthrows every thing. Monseigneur sending for him, that wretched little Pinot longing to jump into his shoes, and in the face of it all he first orders coffee, and then rushes off to that old misery André, from whom he will never get a sou. It upsets my nerves to think of it. Monseigneur at the Evêché, and that boy of old André’s in a hole of a place, both wanting him, and he must choose to go to the boy! And M. Jean was so agreeable! It is true, as he says, that I have a great deal of solitude to endure here, but one could bear a great deal if those one lived with were only reasonable. And there will be that cook of M. Pinot’s giving herself airs at the market to-morrow! I will take care to let them know whom M. Jean came to first—but monsieur never arrives at taking his position, do what I will.”
It was midnight before M. Deshoulières reached the Evêché; the Bishop’s nephew received him freezingly.
“It is some hours since we sent to request your services, monsieur.”
“When I reached my house, Monsieur l’Abbé, I understood that your servant had wisely gone on to M. Pinot, and knowing Monseigneur to be in good hands I obeyed a pressing summons to a poor boy whose state gives me great uneasiness.” M. l’Abbé stared. Here was the chief pastor of the flock lying upstairs, sick and weary, and this doctor—occupying himself with attendance upon one of the very poorest of the sheep. He answered stiffly:—
“M. Pinot is at this moment with the Bishop.” The doctor bowed.
“He appears to understand the case, and I do not think we need deprive your other patients of your time.”
“Under those circumstances, as I am very sleepy, M. l’Abbé,” said M. Deshoulières cheerfully, “I shall go and indulge myself with great satisfaction. With Monseigneur’s symptoms, you may have perfect confidence in Monsieur Pinot.”
He left the Abbé speechless, ran down the broad oaken stairs, and through a yard and a garden out into the Place Notre Dame. It was a calm, beautiful night, overhead the stars were shining, before him rose the Cathedral in silent, grave repose. “This night’s work will be the making of Pinot,” he thought to himself, as he walked under the dark houses. “All Charville will know of it to-morrow. He is a painstaking little man, without originality of conception, but able to benefit by what he sees practised, which is more than one can say of all one’s trade. I am glad he should have this lift, though I shall miss the old Bishop’s good-natured face.”
The next morning, when M. Deshoulières went out early, Veuve Angelin devoutly hoped he was going to the Evêché. At his déjeûner, however, she waited upon him with so lugubrious a face, that he felt himself obliged to inquire into the cause.
“It cannot be true. Monsieur would not look so unconcerned. Otherwise it is reported that monsieur was refused permission to see Monseigneur last evening.”
“It is quite true, Marie. A terrible fact.”
“And that creature, Victoire, was boasting through the market that her master was in attendance all night.”
“I am sorry to hear that Monseigneur required it.”
“But, monsieur—”
“Well?”
“You are ruined!”
“I? Not at all.”
“Monsieur Pinot at the Evêché!”
“We will get him an introduction to the Préfecture.”
“Monsieur should not jest. I shall never be able to hold up my head at the market again.”
“That is a very lamentable consequence. At all events, Marie, you will have the comfort of reflecting that a Bishop is at the bottom of your misfortunes.”
M. Deshoulières sat smiling and unimpressed; Veuve Angelin was almost crying over the mortifications she foresaw to be in store for her, when a step sounded on the stairs. She went out and came running in again, radiant.
“From the Evêché,” she said, giving him a note.
M. Deshoulières, who was human, could not himself resist a little twinkle of satisfaction as he read. The Abbé, after making his compliments to M. Deshoulières, begged him to call at the Evêché as soon as his other engagements would admit. The note was pointedly civil.
“Poor man!” thought the doctor, folding it up with a smile. “Such a concession ought to serve for penance.”
“Monsieur is sent for?” asked Veuve Angelin, eagerly.
“I am going to assist M. Pinot,” answered the doctor, gravely. “Don’t you know, Marie, that a great man has generally a second in command? After this, if Madame Victoire usurps the honours of the market, you may decidedly claim the privilege of following close behind.”
Veuve Angelin, who could not understand a joke, was left not altogether at ease. “If monsieur loses his standing in the place, I shall quit,” she said to herself. “To have that woman setting herself before us would be unbearable. To assist M. Pinot! The Bishop would have more proper feeling than to allow such a thing to be named. M. Pinot!”
M. Deshoulières meanwhile reached the iron gates, passed under the trees, from which brown leaves were dropping, and rang the bell of the Evêché. M. Jean himself opened the door, the Abbé was not to be seen. The doctor went upstairs into a large lofty apartment, wainscoted with dark wood. Logs were burning in an open fireplace; in a great cushioned chair drawn close to it, sat an old kindly-faced man, with a little black skull-cap covering his white locks, and his withered hands stretched out on the arms of his chair.
“So you are come this time, Monsieur Deshoulières,” he said, with a little nod of welcome.
“Monseigneur,” said the doctor, respectfully, “it was no intentional neglect on my part. I consider it my duty to attend first to the most pressing cases, and I was well aware that Monsieur Pinot would prove efficient.”
“Oh, I know all about it. It was my nephew. Monsieur l’Abbé does not infrequently make a—hem—he makes mistakes,” said the Bishop, pulling himself up. “And now, my good M. Deshoulières, before we say any thing more, be kind enough to tell me how is the boy, and what is his name?”
“He is a little better,” said the doctor, smiling, “and he is the grandson of old André Triquet, the wood-cutter.”
“What does he most want?”
“Every thing.”
“Except a good doctor,” said Monseigneur, with a kind smile. “There he has the advantage of us all. Well, I must see to my rival’s comforts. And now for my next question. I do not receive much definite information: is it your opinion that the town is in a healthy condition?”
M. Deshoulières shook his head. “There have been fever cases clinging to it all the summer.”
“But they say that the cold weather will cure them.”
“The cold weather may undoubtedly check the results, but if the cause remains, I venture, Monseigneur, to predict a fierce epidemic for next year.”
“And the cause is—?”
“The blindness or the wickedness of our authorities.”
“You speak strongly, Monsieur Deshoulières.”
“You would do the same, Monseigneur, if your work lay where mine does.”
There was a little silence: the doctor became aware of the unintentional irony of his words; the Bishop also had recognised it, for he moved his head restlessly upon the cushion. Presently he stretched out his hand to the doctor and said with simple dignity,—
“I am an old man. I cannot give the personal help this great town requires at my hands. Strength and opportunity are no longer mine, but at least I can pronounce the blessing of God upon those who, like you, are using them for His poor.” There was something of grandeur in his face and attitude; M. Deshoulières, much moved, rose up and stood silent. He had never before realised in the Bishop’s character the force which lay hidden behind an easy good-nature. At this moment a bell rang.
“That is Monsieur Pinot,” said the Bishop, relapsing into a smile. “I shall not see him.”
“Monseigneur, all this time we have not spoken of yourself.”
“I did not send to you for that purpose. I believe your friend is doing me no harm, and it would give him so much satisfaction to cure me that I must let him have the chance for once. But if he fails, I bargain that André Triquet’s grandson and I change doctors.”
“Nevertheless, I shall put a few questions,” said M. Deshoulières.
When these were over, the Bishop, who liked a little gossip, detained him.
“Is your strange trusteeship still going on?”
“As it was.”
“And you have received no tidings of the young man? It is peculiar, very peculiar. There was a girl, also, left under your charge, was there not?” Max flushed slightly. The last night’s thoughts, which occupation had hunted out of his mind, came back like a torrent. He caught a glimpse of himself in a great velvet-bordered mirror which stood over the chimney-piece, he looked old, grave, unlike a lover for Thérèse.
“Mademoiselle Veuillot has found a temporary home, Monseigneur, at the house of Ignace Roulleau, the notary in Rue St. Servan. The conditions of her small legacy require her to remain in Charville.”
“She might be received at our convent,” suggested the Bishop gravely.
M. Deshoulières made no answer beyond taking leave.