PART II.
Poor Clerie! but I have told his story, [1] so I will not tell it again. It made a sad greeting for me on the lips of the abbé, when I first came back to the city after a half year's absence; and it will not, I am sure, seem strange that seeing the abbé in his priest-robes, and hearing his sad tale of poor Clerie, I should forget entirely to ask about the little shoe, or the tall gentleman of the attic. Nevertheless I did, as I went out, throw a glance up to the window of the court—alas! there were more panes broken, the placard was gone, the veil was gone—there was nothing but a flimsy web which a bold spider had stretched across one of the comers. I felt sure that the last six months had brought its changes to other houses, as well as the house of Clerie.
I thought I would just step round to the conciergerie of the neighboring hotel, and ask after Monsieur Very; but before I had got fairly into the court I turned directly about, and walked away—I was afraid to ask about Monsieur Very. I felt saddened by the tale I had already heard; it had given, as such things will, a soft tinge of sadness to all my own thoughts, and fancies, and hopes. Everybody knows there are times in life when things joyful seem harsh; and there are times, too—Heaven knows!—when a saddened soul shrinks, fearful as a child, from any added sadness. God be blessed that they pass, like clouds over the bright sky of His Providence, and are gone!
I was afraid to ask that day about Monsieur Very; so I walked home—one while perplexing myself with strange conjectures; and another while the current of my thought would disengage itself from these hindering eddies, and go glowing quick, and strong, and sad—pushed along by the memory of poor Clerie's fate.
I knew the abbé would tell me all next day—and so he did.
We dined together in the Palais Royal, at a snug restaurant up-stairs, near the Theatre Français. We look a little cabinet to ourselves, and I ordered up a bottle of Chambertin.
The soup was gone, a nice dish of filet de veau, aux epinards, was before us, and we had drank each a couple of glasses, before I ventured to ask one word about Monsieur Very.
"Ah, mon cher," said the abbé—at the same time laying down his fork—"il est mort!"
"And mademoiselle—"
"Attendez," said the abbé, "and you shall hear it all."
The abbé resumed his fork; I filled up the glasses, and he commenced:
"You will remember, mon cher, having described to me the person of the tall pale gentleman who was our neighbor. The description was a very good one, for I recognized him the moment I saw him.
"It was a week or more after you had left for the south, and I had half forgotten—excuse me, mon ami—the curiosity you had felt in the little window in the court; I happened to be a half hour later than usual in returning from mass, and as I passed the hotel at the corner, I saw coming out a tall gentleman, in a cloak trimmed with a little tawny lace, and with an air so different from that of most lodgers in the neighborhood, that I was sure it must be Monsieur Very."
"The very same," said I.
"Indeed," continued the abbé, "I was so struck with his appearance—added to your interest in him—(here the abbé bowed and sipped his wine) that I determined to follow him a short way down the street. He kept through the Rue de Seine, and passing under the colonnade of the Institute, crossed the Pont de Fer, continued along the quay as far as the gates of the garden—into the Rue de Rivoli, and though I thought he would have stopped at some of the cafés in the neighborhood, he did not, but kept steadily on, nor did I give up pursuit until he had taken his place in one of the omnibuses which pass the head of the Rue de la Paix.
"A week after, happening to see him, as I came home from Martin's, under the Odeon, I followed him again: I took a place in the same omnibus at the head of the Rue de la Paix. Opposite the Rue de Lancry he stopped. I stopped a short way above, and stepping back, soon found the poor gentleman picking his feeble paces along the dirty sideway.
"You remember, mon cher, wandering with me in the Rue de Lancry; you remember that it is crooked and long. The poor gentleman found it so; for before he had reached the end he leaned against the wall, apparently overcome with fatigue. I offered him assistance; at first he declined; he told me he was going only to the Hôpital St. Louis, which was now near by. I told him I was going the same way, upon which he took my arm, and we walked together to the gates. The poor gentleman seemed unable or unwilling to talk with me, and at the gates he merely pulled a slip of paper from his pocket to show the concierge, and passed in. I attended him as far as the middle hall in the court, when he kindly thanked me, and turned into one of the male wards. I took occasion presently to look in, and saw my companion half way down the hall, at the bed-side of a very feeble-looking patient of perhaps seven or eight-and-twenty.
"There seemed a degree of familiarity between them, more than would belong to patient and physician. I noticed too that the attendants treated the old gentleman with marked respect; this was, I fancy, however, owing to the old gentleman's air, for not one of them could tell me who he was.
"I left him in the hospital, more puzzled than ever as to who could be the occupant of your little chamber. He seemed to me to have seen better days; and as for your lady of the slipper, it was so long before I saw any female with Monsieur Very, that I began to think she had no existence, save in your lively imagination."
Here the abbé sipped his wine.
"You saw her at length, then?" said I.
"Attendez. One evening I caught a glimpse of the tall gentleman going into the court of his hotel, with a lady closely muffled in black upon his arm."
"And she had a pretty foot?"
"Ah, mon ami, it was too dark to see."
"And did you see her again?"
"Attendez. (The abbé sipped his wine.) For a month I saw neither monsieur nor mademoiselle. I passed the court early and late; I even went up to St. Louis, but the sick man was gone. The whole matter had nearly dropped from my mind, when one night—it was late, and very dark—the little bell at the wicket rung, and presently there was a loud rap at my door. It was the concierge of the next court; a man he said was dying, and a priest was wanted.
"I hurried over, and followed the concierge up, I know not how many stairs, into a miserable little chamber. There was a yellow placard at the window—"
I filled the abbé's glass and my own.
"Poor Monsieur Very," continued the abbé, "was on the couch before me, dying! The concierge had left the chamber, but there was still a third person present, who scarce seemed to belong to such a place."
The abbé saw my earnestness, and provokingly sipped his wine.
"This is very good wine, monsieur," said the abbé.
"Was she pretty?" said I.
"Beautiful," said the abbé, earnestly.
I filled the abbé's glass. The garçon had taken away the fricandeau, and served us with poulet roti.
"Had she a light dress, and long, wavy ringlets?" said I.
"She was beautiful," said the abbé, "and her expression was so sweet, so gentle, so sad—ah, mon ami—ah, pauvre—pauvre fille!"
The abbé had laid down his fork; he held his napkin to his face.
"And so poor Very died?" said I.
"It was a sad sight," said the abbé.
"I was too late, mon ami; he murmured a word or two in my ear I could not understand. He confessed to God."
"And mademoiselle—"
"She sat at the foot of the couch when I went in, with her hands clasped in her lap, and her eyes fixed on the poor gentleman's face; now and then a tear rolled off her cheeks—but she did not know it.
"Presently the dying man beckoned to her. She stole softly to the head of the couch, and laid her little white hand in his withered fingers.
"'Marie,' said he, 'dear Marie, I shall be gone—soon.'
"The poor girl burst into tears, and gathered up the palsied hand of the old man in both hers, as if she would not let him go.
"'Marie,' continued he, very feebly, 'you will want a friend.'
"Again the poor girl answered by a burst of tears. She could say nothing.
"'I have seen Remy,' continued the old man, still addressing the girl, who seemed startled at the name, notwithstanding her grief. 'He has suffered like us; he has been ill, too—very ill; you may trust him now, Marie; he has promised to be kind. Marie, my child, will you trust him?'
"'Dear father, I will do what you wish,' said the girl, weeping.
"'Thank you, Marie,' said the old man, and he tried to carry the white hand to his lips, but he could not. 'And now, Marie—the little locket?'
"Marie stepped softly across the chamber, and brought a small gold locket, very richly wrought, and put it in the old man's hand; the old man raised it toward his face.
"'A little more light, dear Marie,' said he.
"Marie stepped to the window and removed the yellow placard.
"'A little more—light, Marie,' said the old man, feebly. He was getting lower and lower.
"Marie set the door ajar, and, stepping to the window, she pulled a little handkerchief from her pocket, and tried to rub some of the dust from the glass.
"'Light, Marie; dear Marie—more light!' He said it scarce above his breath, but she heard it, and looked at me. I shook my head. She saw how it was, and caught the stiffening hand of the old man.
"'Dear, dear father!' and her tears streamed over it. Her sobs roused the old man for a moment.
"'Marie,' said he, and he raised his hand with a last effort, till it rested on her head, 'Marie—God bless you!'
"I could hear nothing now but the poor girl's sobs. The hand of the old man grew heavier and heavier on her head. She sunk down till her knees touched the rough floor of the chamber, and her face rested on the couch. Gradually the hand of the old man slipped down and lay upon her white, smooth neck.
"Presently she lifted her eyes timidly till they looked on the eyes of the old man—they must have looked strangely to her.
"'Father, dear father!' said she. There was a little clock at the foot of the couch, and it ticked very—very loud.
"The poor girl gave a quick, frightened glance at me, and another hurried look into the fixed eyes of the old man. She thought how it must be; ah, mon ami, if you had heard her cry, 'Mon Dieu! il est mort!—il est mort!'"
For a moment the abbé could not go on.
"She was right," continued he, presently, "the old man was dead!"
The garçon removed the chicken, and served us with a dozen or two of oysters, in the shell. For ten minutes the abbé had not touched his wine—nor had I.
"He was buried," resumed the abbé, "just within the gates of Pere la Chaise, a little to the right of the carriage way. A cypress is growing by the grave, and there is at the head a small marble tablet, very plain, inscribed simply, 'à mon pere, 1845.'
"I was at the burial. There were very few to mourn."
"You saw mademoiselle?"
"Yes, I saw her; she was in deep black. Her face was covered with a thick black veil—not so thick, though, but I could see a white handkerchief all the time beneath; and I saw her slight figure tremble. I was not near enough to hear her sobs, when they commenced throwing down the earth upon the coffin.
"Oui, mon ami, I saw her walk away—not able to support herself, but clinging for very weakness to the arm of the man whose face I had seen at St. Louis. They passed slowly out of the gates; they entered a carriage together, and drove away."
"It was Remy, I suppose?" said I.
"I do not know," said the abbé.
"And when did you see her again?"
"Not for months," said the abbé; and he sipped his wine.
"Shall I go on, mon cher?—it is a sad story."
I nodded affirmatively, and filled the abbé's glass, and took a nut or two from the dish before us.
"I called at the hotel where monsieur had died; mademoiselle had gone, the concierge could not tell where. I went to the hospital, and made inquiries for a Monsieur Remy—no such name had been entered within a year. I sometimes threw a glance up at the little window of the court; it was bare and desolate, as you see it now. Once I went to the grave of the old man—it was after the tablet had been raised; a rose-tree had been put at the foot of the grave. I did not know, but thought who must have set it there. I gave up all hope of seeing the beautiful Marie again.
"You remember, mon ami, the pretty little houses along the Rue de Paris, at Passy, with the linden trees in front of them, and the clear marble door-steps?"
"Très bien, mon cher abbé."
"It is not many months since I was passing by them, and saw at the window of one, the same sad face which I saw last at the grave. I went in, mon ami. I made myself known as the attendant on her father's death. She took my hand at this—ah, the soft white hand."
The abbé sipped his wine.
"She seemed sadly in want of friends, though there were luxuries around her. She was dressed in white, her hair twisted back, and fastened with a simple gold pin. Her sleeves were loose, and reached but a little way below the elbow; and she wore a rose on her bosom, and about her neck, by a little gold chain, a coral crucifix.
"I told her I had made numerous inquiries for her. She smiled her thanks.
"I told her I had ventured to inquire, too, for the friend, Remy, of whom her father had spoken; at this she put both hands to her face, and burst into tears.
"I begged pardon; I feared she had not found her friend.
"'Mon Dieu!' said she, looking at me earnestly, 'il est—il etait mon mari!'
"She burst into tears. What could I say? He is dead, too, then?"
"'Ah, non, non, monsieur—worse—Mon Dieu! quel mariage!' and she buried her face in her hands.
"What could I do, mon cher? The friend had betrayed her. They told me as much at Passy."
Again the abbé stopped.
"She talked with a strange smile of her father; she wanted to visit his grave again. She took the rose from her bosom—it was from his grave—and kissed it, and then—crushed it in her hand—'Oh, God! what should I do now with flowers?' said she.
"I never saw her again. She went to her father's grave—but not to pick roses.
"She is there now," said the abbé.
There was a long pause. The abbé did not want to speak—nor did I.
At length I asked if he knew any thing of Remy.
"You may see him any day up the Champs Elysiens," said the abbé. "Ah, mon ami, there are many such. Poverty and shame may not come on him again; wealth may pamper him, and he may fatten on the world's smiles; but there is a time coming—it is coming, mon cher, when he will go away—where God judgeth, and not man."
Our dinner was ended. The abbé and myself took a voiture to go to Pere la Chaise. Just within the gateway, a little to the right of the carriage-track, were two tablets, side by side—one was older than the other. The lesser one was quite new; it was inscribed simply—"Marie, 1846." There were no flowers; even the grass was hardly yet rooted about the smaller grave—but I picked a rose-bud from the grave of the old man. I have it now.
Before I left Paris, I went down into the old corridor again, in the Rue de Seine. I looked up in the court at the little window at the top.
A new occupant had gone in; the broken glass was re-set, and a dirty printed curtain was hanging over the lower half. I had rather have seen it empty.
I half wished I had never seen Le Petit Soulier.