The novels, romances, and memoirs of Alphonse Daudet (9 page)

long strides, his head thrown back, holding up his cassock and making the heels of his buckled shoes ring as loud as a dragoon's. He was tall and strong, and for a long time, I had thought him handsome, but one day, on getting a nearer view of him, I perceived that his noble leonine countenance had been horribly disfigured by the small-pox. Not an inch of his face that was not scarred and creased and seamed; he was Mirabeau in a cassock.

The Abbe lived alone and sombrely, in a little room he occupied at the end of the house that was known as the ' Old School.' Nobody ever visited him, except his two brothers, worthless scamps, who belonged to my class and for whose education he paid. In the evening, when I crossed the courtyards to go up to the dormitory, I could see up there, in the black and ruinous buildings of the old school, a little pale light burning; it was the lamp of the Abb6 Germane. Very often, too, in the morning, as I went down to the six o'clock study-hour, I could see, through the mist, that the lamp was still burning; the Abbe Germane had not gone to bed. It was said he was engaged in writing a great philosophical work.

As for me, even before making his acquaintance, I felt a great liking for the strange Abb6. His fine and yet fearful face, beaming with intelligence, attracted me; only I had been so frightened by tales of his eccentricities and rudeness that I dared not approach him. I did go to him, however, and fortunately for me.

The circumstances were as follows:

The Under-Master. 'j'j

I must tell you that at that time, I was plunged in up to my ears in the history of philosophy. Rough work for Little What's-His-Name!

Now, on a certain day, I was possessed by the desire of reading Condillac. Between you and me, the old fellow is really not worth reading; he is a sham philosopher, and all his philosophical stock-in-trade could be packed in a nutshell; but, you know, when one is young, one has entirely wrong ideas on men and things.

So I wanted to read Condillac. I had to have a Condillac at any cost. Unfortunately, the school library was absolutely without it, and the booksellers of Sarlande did not keep the article. I resolved to apply to the Abbe Germane. His brothers had told me his room contained more than two thousand volumes, so that I had no doubt of his possessing the book of my dreams. But I was in terror of that strange man, and in order to make up my mind to go near his lodging, I needed every whit of my love for M. de Condillac.

When I reached the door, my legs were trembling with fear. I knocked twice, very softly.

" Come in," answered the voice of a Titan.

The terrible Abbe Germane was seated astride a low chair, with his legs stretched out, and his cassock tucked up, showing the large muscles that stood out vigorously, on his black silk stockings. Leaning his elbow on the back of the chair, he was reading a red-edged folio, and smoking a little cutty-pipe of the short brown order.

" It is you," said he to me, scarcely raising his

eyes from the folio. " Good-morning! How are you? What is it you want?"

His peremptory voice, the severe aspect of the room all lined with books, and the cavalier fashion in which he was seated, the little pipe, too, between his teeth, all these combined to make me feel very shy.

I managed somehow, however, to explain the object of my visit, and to ask for the famous volume of Condillac.

" Condillac! You want to read Condillac," answered the Abbe Germane, smiling. " What an odd idea! Should n't you prefer to smoke a pipe with me? Unhook that pretty little pipe that is hanging over there against the wall, and light it; you will see it is better than all the Condillacs in the world."

I blushed and made a gesture of refusal.

"You don't want to smoke? Just as you like, my boy. Your Condillac is up there, on the third shelf to the left; you can take it, I will lend it to you. Only don't hurt it, or I will cut off your ears."

I reached the Condillac on the third shelf to the left, and prepared to go, but the Abbe detained me.

" Are you studying philosophy, then? " said he, looking me in the eye. " Is it possible that you believe in it? Stuff, pure stuff, my boy! And to think they wanted to make me a teacher of philosophy! Just imagine! Teach what? Absolute nothingness. Since they were about it, they

might just as well have named me inspector-general of the stars, or controller of pipe-smoke. A plague take it, a man must sometimes try strange trades to earn his living. You, too, know something about it, don't you? Oh! you need not blush; I know that you are not happy, poor little under-master, and that the boys make your life hard for you."

Here the Abbe Germane stopped a moment. He seemed to be in a passion, and struck his pipe against his nail furiously. I was much moved when I found myself pitied by this man who was so worthy of respect, and put up the Condillac in front of my eyes, to hide the great tears that filled them.

The Abbe resumed, almost immediately:

" By the way, I forgot to ask you — Do you love God? You must love him, you see, my boy, and trust in him, and pray constantly to him; or else you will never get out of this. I know only three remedies for the great miseries of life; work, prayer, and a pipe, — a clay pipe, very short, remember that. As to the philosophers, don't count upon them ; they will never console you for anything. I have passed through that, you may believe me."

" I believe you, sir."

" Now go, you tire me. When you want books, you have but to come and get them. The key of my room is always above the door, and the philosophers always on the third shelf, to the left. Don't say anything more; good-bye."

Thereupon he took up his reading again, and let me go out, without even looking at me.

From that day I had all the philosophers of the universe at my disposal; I went into the Abb6 Germane's room, without knocking, as into my own. Generally, at the hours I went there, the Abb6 was teaching his class, and the room empty. The little pipe lay on the edge of the table, in the midst of red-leaved folios and innumerable papers covered with scrawls. Sometimes, the Abbe Germane was there. I found him reading, writing, or walking up and down at a great rate. As I entered I would say timidly:

" Good morning, sir."

More often than not, he would not answer. I took my philosopher from the third shelf to the left, and went off, without his even appearing aware of my presence. When the end of the year came, we had not exchanged two dozen words; but that did not matter; something within me told me we were great friends.

In the meantime, the vacation was approaching. I could hear, every day, the music scholars, in the drawing-class hummmg airs from the polkas and marches to be played at the distribution of the prizes. The polkas delighted everybody. At the last study-hour of the evening, rolls of little calendars were produced from all the desks, and each child struck off from his own the day that had just ended. " Another day less ! " The courtyards were full of boards for the platform : the armchairs were beaten, and the carpets shaken; no more

work, no more discipline. Only, always, to the very end, the same hatred of the under-master, and the same terrible practical jokes.

Finally, the great day came. It was time; I could hold out no longer.

The prizes were distributed in my court-yard, that of the intermediates; I can still see it with its variegated tent, its walls hung with white draperies, its tall green trees covered with flags, and underneath, a confused mass of caps of all kinds, shakoes, helmets, bonnets with flowers, fine gala hats, feathers, ribbons, top-knots and plumes. At the farther end there was a long platform on which the school faculty were seated in armchairs of garnet velvet. Oh, that platform! How little one felt before it, and what a great air of superiority and disdain it gave to those upon it! Not one of those gentlemen kept his ordinary expression.

The Abb6 Germane was on the platform too, but he did not appear conscious of it. Stretched out in his armchair, his head thrown back, he listened to his neighbors with an inattentive ear, and seemed to follow with his eyes, through the foliage, the smoke of an imaginary pipe.

Below the platform, the band, the trumpets and other wind instruments gleaming in the sun ; the three divisions crowded upon the benches with the masters bringing up the lines; then, behind, the throng of parents, and the teacher of the second class oft"ering his arm to the ladies, and crying: " Make room there ! " Finally, lost to view in the

6

crowd, M. Viot's keys could be heard ; running from one end of the court-yard to the other, cHnk, clank, clink! to the right, to the left, here, there and everj'where, at the same time.

The ceremony began, and it was very hot. There was no air under the tent: there were stout and crimson ladies, dozing under the shade of their marabou feathers, and bald-headed gentlemen mopping their heads with bright colored handkerchiefs. Everything was red: faces, carpets, flags and armchairs. We had three addresses that were much applauded, but I did not hear them. Up at the window in the first story, the black eyes were sewing, in the usual place and my soul went out toward them. Poor black eyes! Even on that occasion, the fair>' in spectacles would not allow them a holiday.

When the last name of the last boy who received honorable mention, had been called, the band struck up a triumphal march, and the people began to disperse. There was a general hubbub. The teachers came down from the platform ; the children sprang over the benches to rejoin their families.

There was kissing on all sides, and cries of: " This way, this way! " The sisters of the prize boys went off proudly with their brothers' crowns; silk gowns rustled over the chairs. Little What's-His-Xame stood motionless behind a tree, and watched the lovely ladies go by, feeling shabby and quite ashamed of his threadbare coat.

Little by little the court-yard became empty.

At the great door the principal and M. Viot stood, caressing the children as they passed, and bowing down to the ground before the parents.

" Till next year, till next year," said the principal, with a cajoling smile. M. Viot's keys jingled endearments : " Clink, clank, clink ! Come back, my little friends, come back to us next year."

The children carelessly allowed themselves to be embraced, and flew downstairs at a bound.

Some of them got into handsome carriages, emblazoned with coats of arms, where their mothers and sisters pulled in their full skirts so as to make place for them. A smack of the whip, and they were off to the castle. We are going to see again our parks, our lawns, the swing under the acacia trees, the aviaries filled with rare birds, the pond with the two swans, and the broad balustraded terrace where we take water-ices in the evening.

Others climbed into family wagons, beside pretty girls laughing merrily under their white caps. The farmer's wife, with a gold chain round her neck, was driving the horses. Whip up, Mathur-ine! They are going back to the farm, to eat bread and butter and drink muscatel ; to hunt birds all day long, and roll in the sweet-smelling hay.

Happy boys! They were going away, they were all leaving. Ah, if I had been able to leave too !

CHAPTER VIII.

THE BLACK EYES.

Now the school was deserted; everybody had gone. From one end of the dormitories to the other, squadrons of big rats make cavalry charges in broad daylight. The inkstands dry up in the desks. In the trees of the court-yard, the contingent of sparrows is having a holiday; these gentlemen have invited all their friends from town, from the bishop's palace, from the sub-prefecture, and from morning to night there is a deafening chatter.

In his room under the roof Little What 's-His-Name listens to them as he works. He has been allowed to remain at the school through the vacation, out of charity, and he profits by it to study the Greek philosophers to the death. Only the room is too hot, and the ceiling too low; it is suffocating there. There are no shutters to the windows, and the sun comes in like a torch, setting everything on fire. The plaster on the beams cracks and drops off; large flies, stupefied by the heat, sleep glued to the panes. Little What 's-His-Name himself makes great efforts not to sleep. His head is heavy as lead, and his eyelids are closing.

Work, Daniel Eyssette! You must rebuild the hearth ^— But no, he cannot The letters of his

book dance before his eyes; then the book turns round, then the table, then the room. To drive away this strange drowsiness, Little What 's-His-Name rises, and walks a few steps; as he reaches the door, he totters and falls to the ground, like a dead weight, overpowered with sleep.

Outside, the sparrows are chirping; the grasshoppers sing at the top of their voices, the bark is peeling off in the sun from the plane-trees, white with dust, that are stretching abroad their thousand branches.

Little What's-His-Name has a strange dream; it seems to him that somebody is knocking at the door of his room and that a piercing voice calls him by name: " Daniel, Daniel! " He recognizes the voice; it is pitched in the same key in which it used to cry: " Jacques, you are an ass ! "

The knocks at the door are redoubled:

" Daniel, Daniel, it is your father; open at once."

Oh, what a dreadful nightmare ! Little What's-His-Name tries to answer, and open the door. He raises himself on his elbow, but his head is too heavy; he falls back and loses consciousness.

When Little What 's-His-Name comes to himself, he is much surprised to find that he is in a very white little bed, hung with ample blue curtains, which make a shade about him. A soft light, a quiet room, and no noise except the ticking of a clock, and the tinkling of a spoon against a china cup. Little What's-His-Name does not know where he is, but he is very comfortable. The

curtains are pushed aside, and the elder M. Eyssette, holding a cup, bends over him, with a kind smile and his eyes full of tears. Little What's-His-Name thinks he is still dreaming.

" Is it you, father? Is it really you? "

" Yes, Daniel; yes, my dear child; it is I."