You no doubt wish to know what became of us after the fatal moment of our parting from you. We went on board feeling very sad, and now talking, now holding our tongues, lying down, leaning, yawning, dozing and sleeping, we reached Harlem. Those that did not sleep, heard the nightingale and the cuckoo sing.[295] I was of the number as well as Mlle Isabeau who, hearing the cuckoo sing, softly breathed quite a pretty song. She would have sung, but the glory to gain was too little with a cuckoo for a rival. As to the nightingale, she dare not try her strength against his, for fear of failure. There is risk everywhere, yet I believe that, had she had the courage to enter the lists, she would have come out victorious. As to M. Rouvière, he woke up only when compelled to leave the boat, and cross the town of Harlem. Do you know what he did to sleep so soundly? He made me promise to read him some of Madame Des Houlières'[296] poetry, paying me for my trouble, of course. He handed me an apple, on condition I should read until he fell asleep, and I won the apple very soon. I had not read six lines before I laid down the book to eat my apple, and there was no further need to take up the book.
Having crossed Harlem, we went on board once more and met in the boat a great talker, just back from England, a brother to M. Vasserot; he left us only the liberty to listen and to ask a question now and then, to compel him to change his subject. The talk was all about England....
Though I long to see you, I prefer being deprived of your presence to enjoying it, if your stay at the Hague may help Mlle Durand to recover health, which with all my heart I wish she will do.... I shall be as careful to tell you all that happens here as Mlle Durand must be to note all she feels in order to instruct M. Drelincourt. Talking of that doctor, I have had occasion to write to a famous English physician, named Locke, of whom you have heard me so often speak. Yesterday I received a book with which he was kind enough to present me. I shall thank him at the earliest opportunity. If Mlle Durand thinks it proper, I shall send him an account of her sickness, begging him to point out what remedies he thinks fit.... Coste.
III
[From England, where Coste is staying, he writes a series of letters, by way of pastime, no doubt, when not engaged in the austerer task of translating the Essay, under Locke's immediate supervision.]
To Mademoiselle Suson and to Mesdemoiselles Isabeau and Jeannette to beg them to prevail upon Mademoiselle Suson to take up a pen.
Mademoiselle,—You love me little, in spite of your fine protests; or you know little what true friendship is. 'Tis not punctilious, as you feign to think. You are not witty enough, you say, to answer my letter. 'Tis untrue, an't please you; but even if it was so, must we be witty to write to a friend? Let us only consult our hearts, and utter what they feel. As to terms, a friend never stops to criticise them. Heavens! whoever amused himself with reading a letter from a friend with a dictionary and a grammar in his hand, to find out some obsolete word or sorry turn of phrase? Friendship is not irksome, and it is one of the finest privileges a friend has when writing to a friend, to say all he chooses to say in the way he chooses without fearing anything. He ventures everything and runs no risk. That freedom is the best part of friendship; without it I should not care a button (je ne donnerois pas un clou) for that sweet union so boasted of, so rare, so seldom known.
If this is not enough to induce you to write, I shall have recourse to three or four intercessors that have more power perhaps over your mind than I.
I begin with Mlle Isabeau. The worst soldiers are always placed in front of the army, because, if they run away, all hopes are not lost. I act in the same way. I do not trust Mlle Isabeau very much. According to her temper, she will fight for or against me. Maybe she will be neither for nor against, and should I find her in that fatal frame of mind, it would be idle for me to say: "Now, Mlle Isabeau, a line or two, please. Take pity on a poor lonely man who has scarcely lived since your going away. You can make him spend some sweet moments in writing to him, send him only four lines, or at least beseech Mlle Suson to write." She does not answer. "Is it possible, Mlle Isabeau, for you to have forgotten me so? Are the promises"—She speaks to the wall. If I become more pressing, I may elicit a crushing reply. So I turn to Mlle Rouvière who will speak up for me, I am sure, and in such moving terms that Mlle Suson must surrender. "Who are you talking about?" she will say. "About that Englishman who would like perhaps to be with us here. What does he want? A letter from Mlle Suson. Well, you must write to him to-day, without fail. Give me the letter, I shall get it posted. Now, there's a merchant just stepping into the warehouse, I must go and see what he wants, I shall be back in a moment, excuse me, won't you, business above all." Oh, the fatal motto, the cursed merchant! the troublesome fellow but for whom I had carried my suit. Mlle Suson said nothing. She was half convinced by Mlle Rouvière's natural eloquence, together with that good grace inseparable from whatever she says and which it is impossible to withstand.
But let us not lose heart! I have still my reserves to bring up. What Mlle Rouvière has only tried, Mlle Durand will accomplish without so much ado. "The poor fellow," she will say, "he is right. Let us write to him without haggling." And immediately, taking a large sheet of paper, she will write this or something like: