My sleep was disturbed and agitated; it was not rest, it was simply the temporary forgetfulness of my trouble. I was looking forward to the cruel struggle with the world; I beheld myself flung amidst the crowd to dispute for a crust of bread with the rest of mankind. The days went by like centuries, for if it be true, as the Prince de Ligne said, that happiness has wings, misfortune has legs of lead. Poor misguided creatures that we are! at fifteen we fancy that we have exhausted fate; at the slightest storm we bend our heads and say, ‘There’s no longer any hope.’ And at sixty we still go on hoping.
One resolution came from all those conflicting ideas. It was high time; for I no longer saw the faintest chance of staving off the crisis, or of temporising with M. Chandeau, whose face became more sour every day. I resolved to go to Mme. Récamier, whom I knew to be at her country house at Clichy-la-Garenne. I made up my mind to go and implore her help, as one implores that of an angel from heaven when everything on earth has failed.
One fine May morning, I started from the Rue Coquillière for Clichy. On my way, I tried to screw my courage to the sticking-point by recalling the happy times of my early youth, and in the conjuring up of those pictures, the image of Mme. Récamier, who had been the companion of my liveliest joys and of my short-lived griefs, re-appeared continually. Recalling, one by one, the proofs of her genuine affection, always so lavishly bestowed, I dismissed all fear that her immense fortune, her high social position, would cause her to deny the friend of her childhood, coming to her homeless, proscribed, and unhappy.
When I had reached the barrier which majestically dominates Paris, I continued my route between some sparse and poverty-stricken sheds across the fields. I little dreamt that in a comparatively few years there would arise on the spot a pretty town of fifteen thousand inhabitants, with its cafés, its baths, and its theatre, that would dispute with Passy the advantages of being the Tibur of the literary men and artists of Paris, frightened at the hubbub of the city. At the other side of the hill which I had slowly mounted, the soft and gently sloping greensward landed me in the Avenue de Clichy. I felt as light of heart under those century-old trees as if I were returning to the paternal manor after a morning’s sport, but at the sight of the gate of the mansion, my assurance forsook me.
Will she receive me? Will she recognise me? My blood, overheated by my rapid march, froze in my veins at the question. I should probably have turned back, but for the knowledge that to advance was the only chance of finding an asylum.
When I got to the porter’s lodge I pulled the chain, producing but a faint tinkling of the bell. It had, nevertheless, been heard, for a voice from inside told Laurette to open the gate. ‘Laurette,’ I said to myself; ‘that name, no doubt, belongs to a young girl, and the sympathy between our ages will probably get me a favourable reception.’ The illusion vanished almost immediately, and I should have been the first to laugh at my blunder if at that moment my poor heart had been at all susceptible to any kind of joy. Instead of the little Laurette I expected—namely, a kind of opéra-comique shepherdess, with a beflowered and beribboned crook—I beheld an old peasant woman, wrinkled and bent down with years. Laurette was dressed in a black and white striped kirtle, and her crook was represented by the ponderous key of the gate. In answer to my inquiries, she pointed to the door of the hall; but her second reply convinced me that she was deaf, for she kept gently shaking her head and softly slapping her ears with her fore-finger.
Trembling and uncertain, I stood rooted to the spot, dreading to advance; for it is a cruel thing to come to a friend’s door in the guise of a suppliant. But the massive gate had turned on its hinges and closed once more while Laurette re-entered her pavilion, and I was thus compelled to advance.
Hence, I took my courage in both hands and slowly crossed the court, still further slackening my pace in ascending the steps of the ancient residence of the Ducs de Lévis, both fearing and dreading to reach the top. I rang the bell, and in answer a servant appeared. Doffing my tri-cornered hat, considerably too big for me, with that air of humility which renders the man down on his luck so awkward, I asked him, in a voice which I tried in vain to steady, if I might see Mme. Récamier. From the way in which he began to ‘take stock’ of me, I imagined that he was in the habit of seeing many needy creatures steer for this haven, and that, naturally, he classed me among the crowd of the wretched which each day solicited the inexhaustible charity of his mistress. ‘I’ll see if madame is at home,’ he said; ‘but what name shall I say?’ I gave him mine, and, apparently satisfied on that point, he bade me take a seat. A few moments passed, and Joseph—that was the name of the domestic—did not return. Devoured with anxiety, I rose from the seat, which offered no rest, and strode up and down the large hall, paved with marble and hung with sombre portraits, paintings of another age, worn out like the past, forgotten like the past, and on the faces of which I tried in vain to catch a favourable smile.
Every one knows with what minute attention a man coming to ask a favour scans the spot where he awaits his fate. At last Joseph came back; but it was no longer the semi-benevolent face that welcomed me on my entrance.
‘Madame is very sorry not to be able to see you to-day, monsieur. Not having the honour of your acquaintance, she would ask you to write to her about the motive of your visit.’