Now I was at the time not strong in respect of moustaches. I was extremely sensitive upon the point. My frame, though not above middle size, was yet capable of robust development, my paleness was not beyond remedy, and my eyes were of a pleasant blue, so there was little to rankle in what she said of my rival's face and body; but as to the moustaches——!
I scrambled to my feet.
"I tell you what it is, Mademoiselle. Just to show what your Brignan really amounts to, and whether I mean to be a monk, and what a reader of books can do when he likes, I have made up my mind to go to Paris; and there I will find your Brignan, and show my scorn of such an illiterate bravo, and cut off his famous moustaches, and bring them back to you for proof! So adieu, Mademoiselle, for this is the last you will see of me till what I have said is done!"
The thing had come into my head in one hot moment, indeed it formed itself as I spoke it; and so I, the quiet and studious, stood committed to an act which the most harebrained brawler in Anjou would have deemed childish folly. Truly, I did lack knowledge of the world.
I turned from Mlle. Celeste's look of incredulous wonderment, and went off through the woods, with swifter strides than I usually took, to our chateau. Of course I dared not tell my parents my reason for wishing to go to Paris. It was enough, to my mother at least, that I should desire to go on any account. The best way in which I could put my resolution to them, which I did that very afternoon, on the terrace where I found them sitting, was thus:
"I have been thinking how little I know of the world. It is true, you have taken me to Paris; but I was only a lad then, and what I saw was with a lad's eyes and under your guidance. I am now twenty-two, and many a man at that age has begun to make his own career. To be worthy of my years, of my breeding, of my name, I ought to know something of life from my own experience. So I have resolved, with your permission, my dear father and mother, to go to Paris and see what I may see."
My mother had turned pale as soon as she saw the drift of my speech, and was for putting every plea in the way. But my father, though he looked serious, seemed not displeased. We talked upon the matter—as to how long I should wish to stay in Paris, whether I had thought of aiming at any particular career there, and of such things. I said I had formed no plans nor hopes: these might or might not come after I had arrived in Paris and looked about me. But see something of the world I must, if only that I might not be at disadvantage in conversation afterward. It was a thing I could afford, for on the attainment of my majority my father had made over to me the income of a portion of our estate, a small enough revenue indeed, but one that looked great in my eyes. He could not now offer any reasonable objection to my project, and he plead my cause with my mother, without whose consent I should not have had the heart to go. Indeed, knowing what her dread had always been, and seeing the anxious love in her eyes as she now regarded me, I almost wavered. But of course she was won over, as women are, though what tears her acquiescence caused her afterwards when she was alone I did not like to think upon.
She comforted herself presently with the thought that our faithful Blaise Tripault should attend me, but here again I had to oppose her. For Blaise, by reason of his years and the service he had done my father in the old wars, was of a dictatorial way with all of us, and I knew he would rob me of all responsibility and freedom, so that I should be again a lad under the thumb of an elder and should profit nothing in self-reliance and mastership. Besides this reason, which I urged upon my parents, I had my own reason, which I did not urge, namely, that I should never dare let Blaise know the special purpose of my visit to Paris. He would laugh me out of countenance, and yet ten to one he would in the end deprive me of the credit of keeping my promise, by taking its performance upon himself. That I might be my own master, therefore, I chose as my valet the most tractable fellow at my disposal, one Nicolas, a lank, knock-kneed jack of about my own age, who had hitherto made himself of the least possible use, with the best possible intentions, between the dining-hall and the kitchen. And yet he was clever enough among horses, or anywhere outdoors. My mother, though she wondered at my choice and trembled to think how fragile a reed I should have to rely on, was yet not sorry, I fancy, at the prospect of ridding her house of poor blundering Nicolas in a kind and creditable way. I had reason to think Nicolas better suited for this new service, and, by insisting, I gained my point in this also.
I made haste about my equipment, and in a few days we set forth, myself on a good young chestnut gelding, Nicolas on a strong black mule, which carried also our baggage. Before I mounted, and while my mother, doing her best to keep back her tears, was adding some last article of comfort to the contents of my great leather bag, my father led me into the window recess of the hall, and after speaking of the letters of introduction with which he had provided me, said in his soldierly, straightforward manner:
"I know you have gathered wisdom from books, and it will serve you well, because it will make you take better heed of experience and see more meaning in it. But then it will require the experience to give your book-learned wisdom its full force. Often at first, in the face of emergency, when the call is for action, your wisdom will fly from your mind; but this will not be the case after you have seen life for yourself. Experience will teach you the full and living meaning of much that you now know but as written truth. It may teach you also some things you have never read, nor even dreamt of. What you have learned by study, and what you must learn by practice only, leave no use for any good counsel I might give you now. Only one thing I can't help saying, though you know it already and will doubtless see it proved again and again. There are many deceivers in the world. Don't trust the outward look of things or people. Be cautious; yet conceal your caution under courtesy, for nothing is more boorish than open suspicion. And remember, too, not to think bad, either, from appearances alone. You may do injustice that way. Hold your opinion till the matter is tested. When appearances are fair, be wary without showing it; when they are bad, regard your safety but don't condemn. In other words, always mingle caution with urbanity, even with kindness.—I need not speak of the name you have to keep unsullied. Honour is a thing about which you require no admonitions. You know that it consists as much in not giving affronts as in not enduring them, though many who talk loudest about it seem to think otherwise. Indeed this is an age in which honour is prated of most by those who practise it least. Well, my son, there are a thousand things I would say, but that is all I shall say. Good-bye—may the good God bless and protect you."