An Attic Philosopher in Paris — Volume 1 (2024)

This etext was produced by David Widger <widger@cecomet.net>

[NOTE: There is a short list of bookmarks, or pointers, at the end of thefile for those who may wish to sample the author's ideas before making anentire meal of them. D.W.]

AN "ATTIC" PHILOSOPHER
(Un Philosophe sous les Toits)

By EMILE SOUVESTRE

With a Preface by JOSEPH BERTRAND, of the French Academy

BOOK 1.

EMILE SOUVESTRE

No one succeeds in obtaining a prominent place in literature, or insurrounding himself with a faithful and steady circle of admirers drawnfrom the fickle masses of the public, unless he possesses originality,constant variety, and a distinct personality. It is quite possible togain for a moment a few readers by imitating some original feature inanother; but these soon vanish and the writer remains alone andforgotten. Others, again, without belonging to any distinct group ofauthors, having found their standard in themselves, moralists andeducators at the same time, have obtained undying recognition.

Of the latter class, though little known outside of France, is EmileSouvestre, who was born in Morlaix, April 15, 1806, and died at ParisJuly 5, 1854. He was the son of a civil engineer, was educated at thecollege of Pontivy, and intended to follow his father's career byentering the Polytechnic School. His father, however, died in 1823, andSouvestre matriculated as a law-student at Rennes. But the young studentsoon devoted himself entirely to literature. His first essay, a tragedy,'Le Siege de Missolonghi' (1828), was a pronounced failure. Disheartenedand disgusted he left Paris and established himself first as a lawyer inMorlaix. Then he became proprietor of a newspaper, and was afterwardappointed a professor in Brest and in Mulhouse. In 1836 he contributedto the 'Revue des Deux Mondes' some sketches of life in Brittany, whichobtained a brilliant success. Souvestre was soon made editor of La Revuede Paris, and in consequence early found a publisher for his first novel,'L'Echelle de Femmes', which, as was the case with his second work,Riche et Pauvre', met with a very favorable reception. His reputationwas now made, and between this period and his death he gave to Franceabout sixty volumes—tales, novels, essays, history, and drama.

A double purpose was always very conspicuous in his books: he aspired tothe role of a moralist and educator, and was likewise a most impressivepainter of the life, character, and morals of the inhabitants ofBrittany.

The most significant of his books are perhaps 'Les Derniers Bretons(1835-1837, 4 vols.), Pierre Landais (1843, 2 vols.), Le Foyer Breton(1844, 2 vols.), Un Philosophe sons les Toits, crowned by the Academy(1850), Confessions d'un Ouvrier (1851), Recits et Souvenirs (1853),Souvenirs d'un Vieillard (1854); also La Bretagne Pittoresque (1845),and, finally, Causeries Historiques et Litteraires (1854, 2 vols.)'. Hiscomedies deserve honorable mention: 'Henri Hamelin, L'Oncle Baptiste(1842), La Parisienne, Le Mousse, etc'. In 1848, Souvestre was appointedprofessor of the newly created school of administration, mostly devotedto popular lectures. He held this post till 1853, lecturing partly inParis, partly in Switzerland.

His death, when comparatively young, left a distinct gap in the literaryworld. A life like his could not be extinguished without general sorrow.Although he was unduly modest, and never aspired to the role of a beacon-light in literature, always seeking to remain in obscurity, the works ofEmile Souvestre must be placed in the first rank by their morality and bytheir instructive character. They will always command the entire respectand applause of mankind. And thus it happens that, like many others, hewas only fully appreciated after his death.

Even those of his 'confreres' who did not seem to esteem him, when alive,suddenly found out that they had experienced a great loss in his demise.They expressed it in emotional panegyrcs; contemporaneous literaturediscovered that virtue had flown from its bosom, and the French Academy,which had at its proper time crowned his 'Philosophe sons les Toits' as awork contributing supremely to morals, kept his memory green by bestowingon his widow the "Prix Lambert," designed for the "families of authorswho by their integrity, and by the probity of their efforts have welldeserved this token from the Republique des Lettres."

JOSEPH BERTRAND de 'Academie Francaise.

AN "ATTIC" PHILOSOPHER

CHAPTER I

NEW-YEAR'S GIFTS

January 1st

The day of the month came into my mind as soon as I awoke. Another yearis separated from the chain of ages, and drops into the gulf of the past!The crowd hasten to welcome her young sister. But while all looks areturned toward the future, mine revert to the past. Everyone smiles uponthe new queen; but, in spite of myself, I think of her whom time has justwrapped in her winding-sheet. The past year!—at least I know what shewas, and what she has given me; while this one comes surrounded by allthe forebodings of the unknown. What does she hide in the clouds thatmantle her? Is it the storm or the sunshine? Just now it rains, and Ifeel my mind as gloomy as the sky. I have a holiday today; but what canone do on a rainy day? I walk up and down my attic out of temper, and Idetermine to light my fire.

Unfortunately the matches are bad, the chimney smokes, the wood goes out!
I throw down my bellows in disgust, and sink into my old armchair.

In truth, why should I rejoice to see the birth of a new year? All thosewho are already in the streets, with holiday looks and smiling faces—dothey understand what makes them so gay? Do they even know what is themeaning of this holiday, or whence comes the custom of New-Year's gifts?

Here my mind pauses to prove to itself its superiority over that of thevulgar. I make a parenthesis in my ill-temper in favor of my vanity, andI bring together all the evidence which my knowledge can produce.

(The old Romans divided the year into ten months only; it was NumaPompilius who added January and February. The former took its name fromJanus, to whom it was dedicated. As it opened the new year, theysurrounded its beginning with good omens, and thence came the custom ofvisits between neighbors, of wishing happiness, and of New-Year's gifts.The presents given by the Romans were symbolic. They consisted of dryfigs, dates, honeycomb, as emblems of "the sweetness of the auspicesunder which the year should begin its course," and a small piece of moneycalled stips, which foreboded riches.)

Here I close the parenthesis, and return to my ill-humor. The littlespeech I have just addressed to myself has restored me my self-satisfaction, but made me more dissatisfied with others. I could nowenjoy my breakfast; but the portress has forgotten my morning's milk, andthe pot of preserves is empty! Anyone else would have been vexed: as forme, I affect the most supreme indifference. There remains a hard crust,which I break by main strength, and which I carelessly nibble, as a manfar above the vanities of the world and of fresh rolls.

However, I do not know why my thoughts should grow more gloomy by reasonof the difficulties of mastication. I once read the story of anEnglishman who hanged himself because they had brought him his teawithout sugar. There are hours in life when the most trifling crosstakes the form of a calamity. Our tempers are like an opera-glass, whichmakes the object small or great according to the end you look through.

Usually, the prospect that opens out before my window delights me. It isa mountain-range of roofs, with ridges crossing, interlacing, and piledon one another, and upon which tall chimneys raise their peaks. It wasbut yesterday that they had an Alpine aspect to me, and I waited for thefirst snowstorm to see glaciers among them; to-day, I only see tiles andstone flues. The pigeons, which assisted my rural illusions, seem nomore than miserable birds which have mistaken the roof for the back yard;the smoke, which rises in light clouds, instead of making me dream of thepanting of Vesuvius, reminds me of kitchen preparations and dishwater;and lastly, the telegraph, that I see far off on the old tower ofMontmartre, has the effect of a vile gallows stretching its arms over thecity.

My eyes, thus hurt by all they meet, fall upon the great man's housewhich faces my attic.

The influence of New-Year's Day is visible there. The servants have anair of eagerness proportioned to the value of their New-Year's gifts,received or expected. I see the master of the house crossing the courtwith the morose look of a man who is forced to be generous; and thevisitors increase, followed by shop porters who carry flowers, bandboxes,or toys. Suddenly the great gates are opened, and a new carriage, drawnby thoroughbred horses, draws up before the doorsteps. They are, withoutdoubt, the New-Year's gift presented to the mistress of the house by herhusband; for she comes herself to look at the new equipage. Very soonshe gets into it with a little girl, all streaming with laces, feathersand velvets, and loaded with parcels which she goes to distribute as New-Year's gifts. The door is shut, the windows are drawn up, the carriagesets off.

Thus all the world are exchanging good wishes and presents to-day. Ialone have nothing to give or to receive. Poor Solitary! I do not evenknow one chosen being for whom I might offer a prayer.

Then let my wishes for a happy New Year go and seek out all my unknownfriends—lost in the multitude which murmurs like the ocean at my feet!

To you first, hermits in cities, for whom death and poverty have createda solitude in the midst of the crowd! unhappy laborers, who arecondemned to toil in melancholy, and eat your daily bread in silence anddesertion, and whom God has withdrawn from the intoxicating pangs of loveand friendship!

To you, fond dreamers, who pass through life with your eyes turned towardsome polar star, while you tread with indifference over the rich harvestsof reality!

To you, honest fathers, who lengthen out the evening to maintain yourfamilies! to you, poor widows, weeping and working by a cradle! to you,young men, resolutely set to open for yourselves a path in life, largeenough to lead through it the wife of your choice! to you, all bravesoldiers of work and of self-sacrifice!

To you, lastly, whatever your title and your name, who love good, whopity the suffering; who walk through the world like the symbolical Virginof Byzantium, with both arms open to the human race!

Here I am suddenly interrupted by loud and increasing chirpings. I lookabout me: my window is surrounded with sparrows picking up the crumbs ofbread which in my brown study I had just scattered on the roof. At thissight a flash of light broke upon my saddened heart. I deceived myselfjust now, when I complained that I had nothing to give: thanks to me, thesparrows of this part of the town will have their New-Year's gifts!

Twelve o'clock.—A knock at my door; a poor girl comes in, and greets meby name. At first I do not recollect her; but she looks at me, andsmiles. Ah! it is Paulette! But it is almost a year since I have seenher, and Paulette is no longer the same: the other day she was a child,now she is almost a young woman.

Paulette is thin, pale, and miserably clad; but she has always the sameopen and straightforward look—the same mouth, smiling at every word, asif to court your sympathy—the same voice, somewhat timid, yet expressingfondness. Paulette is not pretty—she is even thought plain; as for me,I think her charming. Perhaps that is not on her account, but on my own.Paulette appears to me as one of my happiest recollections.

It was the evening of a public holiday. Our principal buildings wereilluminated with festoons of fire, a thousand flags waved in the nightwinds, and the fireworks had just shot forth their spouts of flame intothe midst of the Champ de Mars. Suddenly, one of those unaccountablealarms which strike a multitude with panic fell upon the dense crowd:they cry out, they rush on headlong; the weaker ones fall, and thefrightened crowd tramples them down in its convulsive struggles. Iescaped from the confusion by a miracle, and was hastening away, when thecries of a perishing child arrested me: I reentered that human chaos,and, after unheard-of exertions, I brought Paulette out of it at theperil of my life.

That was two years ago: since then I had not seen the child again but atlong intervals, and I had almost forgotten her; but Paulette's memory wasthat of a grateful heart, and she came at the beginning of the year tooffer me her wishes for my happiness. She brought me, besides, awallflower in full bloom; she herself had planted and reared it: it wassomething that belonged wholly to herself; for it was by her care, herperseverance, and her patience, that she had obtained it.

The wallflower had grown in a common pot; but Paulette, who is a bandbox-maker, had put it into a case of varnished paper, ornamented witharabesques. These might have been in better taste, but I did not feelthe attention and good-will the less.

This unexpected present, the little girl's modest blushes, thecompliments she stammered out, dispelled, as by a sunbeam, the kind ofmist which had gathered round my mind; my thoughts suddenly changed fromthe leaden tints of evening to the brightest colors of dawn. I madePaulette sit down, and questioned her with a light heart.

At first the little girl replied in monosyllables; but very soon thetables were turned, and it was I who interrupted with short interjectionsher long and confidential talk. The poor child leads a hard life. Shewas left an orphan long since, with a brother and sister, and lives withan old grandmother, who has "brought them up to poverty," as she alwayscalls it.

However, Paulette now helps her to make bandboxes, her little sisterPerrine begins to use the needle, and her brother Henry is apprentice toa printer. All would go well if it were not for losses and want of work—if it were not for clothes which wear out, for appetites which growlarger, and for the winter, when you cannot get sunshine for nothing.Paulette complains that her candles go too quickly, and that her woodcosts too much. The fireplace in their garret is so large that a fa*gotmakes no more show in it than a match; it is so near the roof that thewind blows the rain down it, and in winter it hails upon the hearth; sothey have left off using it. Henceforth they must be content with anearthen chafing-dish, upon which they cook their meals. The grandmotherhad often spoken of a stove that was for sale at the broker's close by;but he asked seven francs for it, and the times are too hard for such anexpense: the family, therefore, resign themselves to cold for economy!

As Paulette spoke, I felt more and more that I was losing my fretfulnessand low spirits. The first disclosures of the little bandbox-makercreated within me a wish that soon became a plan. I questioned her abouther daily occupations, and she informed me that on leaving me she mustgo, with her brother, her sister, and grandmother, to the differentpeople for whom they work. My plan was immediately settled. I told thechild that I would go to see her in the evening, and I sent her away withfresh thanks.

I placed the wallflower in the open window, where a ray of sunshine bidit welcome; the birds were singing around, the sky had cleared up, andthe day, which began so loweringly, had become bright. I sang as I movedabout my room, and, having hastily put on my hat and coat, I went out.

Three o'clock.—All is settled with my neighbor, the chimney-doctor;he will repair my old stove, and answers for its being as good as new.At five o'clock we are to set out, and put it up in Paulette'sgrandmother's room.

Midnight.—All has gone off well. At the hour agreed upon, I was at theold bandbox-maker's; she was still out. My Piedmontese

[In Paris a chimney-sweeper is named "Piedmontese" or "Savoyard,"
as they usually come from that country.]

fixed the stove, while I arranged a dozen logs in the great fireplace,taken from my winter stock. I shall make up for them by warming myselfwith walking, or by going to bed earlier.

My heart beat at every step that was heard on the staircase; I trembledlest they should interrupt me in my preparations, and should thus spoilmy intended surprise. But no!—see everything ready: the lighted stovemurmurs gently, the little lamp burns upon the table, and a bottle of oilfor it is provided on the shelf. The chimney-doctor is gone. Now myfear lest they should come is changed into impatience at their notcoming. At last I hear children's voices; here they are: they push openthe door and rush in—but they all stop in astonishment.

At the sight of the lamp, the stove, and the visitor, who stands therelike a magician in the midst of these wonders, they draw back almostfrightened. Paulette is the first to comprehend it, and the arrival ofthe grandmother, who is more slowly mounting the stairs, finishes theexplanation. Then come tears, ecstasies, thanks!

But the wonders are not yet ended. The little sister opens the oven, anddiscovers some chestnuts just roasted; the grandmother puts her hand onthe bottles of cider arranged on the dresser; and I draw forth from thebasket that I have hidden a cold tongue, a pot of butter, and some freshrolls.

Now their wonder turns into admiration; the little family have never seensuch a feast! They lay the cloth, they sit down, they eat; it is acomplete banquet for all, and each contributes his share to it. I hadbrought only the supper: and the bandbox-maker and her children suppliedthe enjoyment.

What bursts of laughter at nothing! What a hubbub of questions whichwaited for no reply, of replies which answered no question! The oldwoman herself shared in the wild merriment of the little ones! I havealways been struck at the ease with which the poor forget theirwretchedness. Being used to live only for the present, they make a gainof every pleasure as soon as it offers itself. But the surfeited richare more difficult to satisfy: they require time and everything to suitbefore they will consent to be happy.

The evening has passed like a moment. The old woman told me the historyof her life, sometimes smiling, sometimes drying her eyes. Perrine sangan old ballad with her fresh young voice. Henry told us what he knows ofthe great writers of the day, to whom he has to carry their proofs. Atlast we were obliged to separate, not without fresh thanks on the part ofthe happy family.

I have come home slowly, ruminating with a full heart, and pureenjoyment, on the simple events of my evening. It has given me muchcomfort and much instruction. Now, no New-Year's Day will come amiss tome; I know that no one is so unhappy as to have nothing to give andnothing to receive.

As I came in, I met my rich neighbor's new equipage. She, too, had justreturned from her evening's party; and, as she sprang from the carriage-step with feverish impatience, I heard her murmur "At last!"

I, when I left Paulette's family, said "So soon!"

CHAPTER II

THE CARNIVAL

February 20th

What a noise out of doors! What is the meaning of these shouts andcries? Ah! I recollect: this is the last day of the Carnival, and themaskers are passing.

Christianity has not been able to abolish the noisy bacchanalianfestivals of the pagan times, but it has changed the names. That whichit has given to these "days of liberty" announces the ending of thefeasts, and the month of fasting which should follow; carn-ival means,literally, "farewell to flesh!" It is a forty days' farewell to the"blessed pullets and fat hams," so celebrated by Pantagruel's minstrel.Man prepares for privation by satiety, and finishes his sin thoroughlybefore he begins to repent.

Why, in all ages and among every people, do we meet with some one ofthese mad festivals? Must we believe that it requires such an effort formen to be reasonable, that the weaker ones have need of rest atintervals? The monks of La Trappe, who are condemned to silence by theirrule, are allowed to speak once in a month, and on this day they all talkat once from the rising to the setting of the sun.

Perhaps it is the same in the world. As we are obliged all the year tobe decent, orderly, and reasonable, we make up for such a long restraintduring the Carnival. It is a door opened to the incongruous fancies andwishes that have hitherto been crowded back into a corner of our brain.For a moment the slaves become the masters, as in the days of theSaturnalia, and all is given up to the "fools of the family."

The shouts in the square redouble; the troops of masks increase—on foot,in carriages, and on horseback. It is now who can attract the mostattention by making a figure for a few hours, or by exciting curiosityor envy; to-morrow they will all return, dull and exhausted, to theemployments and troubles of yesterday.

Alas! thought I with vexation, each of us is like these masqueraders;our whole life is often but an unsightly Carnival! And yet man has needof holidays, to relax his mind, rest his body, and open his heart. Canhe not have them, then, with these coarse pleasures? Economists havebeen long inquiring what is the best disposal of the industry of thehuman race. Ah! if I could only discover the best disposal of itsleisure! It is easy enough to find it work; but who will find itrelaxation? Work supplies the daily bread; but it is cheerfulness thatgives it a relish. O philosophers! go in quest of pleasure! find usamusem*nts without brutality, enjoyments without selfishness; in a word,invent a Carnival that will please everybody, and bring shame to no one.

Three o'clock.—I have just shut my window, and stirred up my fire. Asthis is a holiday for everybody, I will make it one for myself, too. SoI light the little lamp over which, on grand occasions, I make a cup ofthe coffee that my portress's son brought from the Levant, and I look inmy bookcase for one of my favorite authors.

First, here is the amusing parson of Meudon; but his characters are toofond of talking slang:—Voltaire; but he disheartens men by alwaysbantering them:—Moliere; but he hinders one's laughter by making onethink:—Lesage; let us stop at him. Being profound rather than grave, hepreaches virtue while ridiculing vice; if bitterness is sometimes to befound in his writings, it is always in the garb of mirth: he sees themiseries of the world without despising it, and knows its cowardly trickswithout hating it.

Let us call up all the heroes of his book…. Gil Blas, Fabrice,Sangrado, the Archbishop of Granada, the Duke of Lerma, Aurora, Scipio!Ye gay or graceful figures, rise before my eyes, people my solitude;bring hither for my amusem*nt the world-carnival, of which you are thebrilliant maskers!

Unfortunately, at the very moment I made this invocation, I recollectedI had a letter to write which could not be put off. One of my atticneighbors came yesterday to ask me to do it. He is a cheerful old man,and has a passion for pictures and prints. He comes home almost everyday with a drawing or painting—probably of little value; for I know helives penuriously, and even the letter that I am to write for him showshis poverty. His only son, who was married in England, is just dead, andhis widow—left without any means, and with an old mother and a child—had written to beg for a home. M. Antoine asked me first to translatethe letter, and then to write a refusal. I had promised that he shouldhave this answer to-day: before everything, let us fulfil our promises.

The sheet of "Bath" paper is before me, I have dipped my pen into theink, and I rub my forehead to invite forth a sally of ideas, when Iperceive that I have not my dictionary. Now, a Parisian who would speakEnglish without a dictionary is like a child without leading-strings; theground trembles under him, and he stumbles at the first step. I run thento the bookbinder's, where I left my Johnson, who lives close by in thesquare.

The door is half open; I hear low groans; I enter without knocking,and I see the bookbinder by the bedside of his fellow-lodger. Thislatter has a violent fever and delirium. Pierre looks at him perplexedand out of humor. I learn from him that his comrade was not able to getup in the morning, and that since then he has become worse every hour.

I ask whether they have sent for a doctor.

"Oh, yes, indeed!" replied Pierre, roughly; "one must have money inone's pocket for that, and this fellow has only debts instead ofsavings."

"But you," said I, rather astonished; "are you not his friend?"

"Friend!" interrupted the bookbinder. "Yes, as much as the shaft-horseis friend to the leader—on condition that each will take his share ofthe draught, and eat his feed by himself."

"You do not intend, however, to leave him without any help?"

"Bah! he may keep in his bed till to-morrow, as I'm going to the ball."

"You mean to leave him alone?"

"Well! must I miss a party of pleasure at Courtville—[A Parisian summerresort.]—because this fellow is lightheaded?" asked Pierre, sharply."I have promised to meet some friends at old Desnoyer's. Those who aresick may take their broth; my physic is white wine."

So saying, he untied a bundle, out of which he took the fancy costume ofa waterman, and proceeded to dress himself in it.

In vain I tried to awaken some fellow-feeling for the unfortunate man wholay groaning there close by him; being entirely taken up with thethoughts of his expected pleasure, Pierre would hardly so much as hearme. At last his coarse selfishness provoked me. I began reproachinginstead of remonstrating with him, and I declared him responsible for theconsequences which such a desertion must bring upon the sick man.

At this the bookbinder, who was just going, stopped with an oath, andstamped his foot. "Am I to spend my Carnival in heating water forfootbaths, pray?"

"You must not leave your comrade to die without help!" I replied.

"Let him go to the hospital, then!"

"How can he by himself?"

Pierre seemed to make up his mind.

"Well, I'm going to take him," resumed he; "besides, I shall get rid ofhim sooner. Come, get up, comrade!" He shook his comrade, who had nottaken off his clothes. I observed that he was too weak to walk, but thebookbinder would not listen: he made him get up, and half dragged, halfsupported him to the lodge of the porter, who ran for a hackney carriage.I saw the sick man get into it, almost fainting, with the impatientwaterman; and they both set off, one perhaps to die, the other to dine atCourtville Gardens!

Six o'clock.—I have been to knock at my neighbor's door, who opened ithimself; and I have given him his letter, finished at last, and directedto his son's widow. M. Antoine thanked me gratefully, and made me sitdown.

It was the first time I had been into the attic of the old amateur.Curtains stained with damp and hanging down in rags, a cold stove, a bedof straw, two broken chairs, composed all the furniture. At the end ofthe room were a great number of prints in a heap, and paintings withoutframes turned against the wall.

At the moment I came in, the old man was making his dinner on some hardcrusts of bread, which he was soaking in a glass of 'eau sucree'. Heperceived that my eyes fell upon his hermit fare, and he looked a littleashamed.

"There is nothing to tempt you in my supper, neighbor," said he, with asmile.

I replied that at least I thought it a very philosophical one for the
Carnival.

M. Antoine shook his head, and went on again with his supper.

"Every one keeps his holidays in his own way," resumed he, beginningagain to dip a crust into his glass. "There are several sorts ofepicures, and not all feasts are meant to regale the palate; there aresome also for the ears and the eyes."

I looked involuntarily round me, as if to seek for the invisible banquetwhich could make up to him for such a supper.

Without doubt he understood me; for he got up slowly, and, with themagisterial air of a man confident in what he is about to do, he rummagedbehind several picture frames, drew forth a painting, over which hepassed his hand, and silently placed it under the light of the lamp.

It represented a fine-looking old man, seated at table with his wife, hisdaughter, and his children, and singing to the accompaniment of musicianswho appeared in the background. At first sight I recognized the subject,which I had often admired at the Louvre, and I declared it to be asplendid copy of Jordaens.

"A copy!" cried M. Antoine; "say an original, neighbor, and an originalretouched by Rubens! Look closer at the head of the old man, the dressof the young woman, and the accessories. One can count the pencil-strokes of the Hercules of painters. It is not only a masterpiece, sir;it is a treasure—a relic! The picture at the Louvre may be a pearl,this is a diamond!"

And resting it against the stove, so as to place it in the best light,he fell again to soaking his crusts, without taking his eyes off thewonderful picture. One would have said that the sight of it gave thecrusts an unexpected relish, for he chewed them slowly, and emptied hisglass by little sips. His shrivelled features became smooth, hisnostrils expanded; it was indeed, as he said himself, "a feast for theeyes."

"You see that I also have my treat," he resumed, nodding his head with anair of triumph. "Others may run after dinners and balls; as for me, thisis the pleasure I give myself for my Carnival."

"But if this painting is really so precious," replied I, "it ought to beworth a high price."

"Eh! eh!" said M. Antoine, with an air of proud indifference. "In goodtimes, a good judge might value it at somewhere about twenty thousandfrancs."

I started back.

"And you have bought it?" cried I.

"For nothing," replied he, lowering his voice. "These brokers are asses;mine mistook this for a student's copy; he let me have it for fiftylouis, ready money! This morning I took them to him, and now he wishesto be off the bargain."

"This morning!" repeated I, involuntarily casting my eyes on the lettercontaining the refusal that M. Antoine had made me write to his son'swidow, which was still on the little table.

He took no notice of my exclamation, and went on contemplating the workof Jordaens in an ecstasy.

"What a knowledge of chiaroscuro!" he murmured, biting his last crust indelight. "What relief! what fire! Where can one find such transparencyof color! such magical lights! such force! such nature!"

As I was listening to him in silence, he mistook my astonishment foradmiration, and clapped me on the shoulder.

"You are dazzled," said he merrily; "you did not expect such a treasure!
What do you say to the bargain I have made?"

"Pardon me," replied I, gravely; "but I think you might have donebetter."

M. Antoine raised his head.

"How!" cried he; "do you take me for a man likely to be deceived aboutthe merit or value of a painting?"

"I neither doubt your taste nor your skill; but I cannot help thinkingthat, for the price of this picture of a family party, you might havehad—"

"What then?"

"The family itself, sir."

The old amateur cast a look at me, not of anger, but of contempt.In his eyes I had evidently just proved myself a barbarian, incapable ofunderstanding the arts, and unworthy of enjoying them. He got up withoutanswering me, hastily took up the Jordaens, and replaced it in itshiding-place behind the prints.

It was a sort of dismissal; I took leave of him, and went away.

Seven o'clock.—When I come in again, I find my water boiling over mylamp, and I busy myself in grinding my Mocha, and setting out my coffee-things.

The getting coffee ready is the most delicate and most attractive ofdomestic operations to one who lives alone: it is the grand work of abachelor's housekeeping.

Coffee is, so to say, just the mid-point between bodily and spiritualnourishment. It acts agreeably, and at the same time, upon the sensesand the thoughts. Its very fragrance gives a sort of delightful activityto the wits; it is a genius that lends wings to our fancy, and transportsit to the land of the Arabian Nights.

When I am buried in my old easy-chair, my feet on the fender before ablazing fire, my ear soothed by the singing of the coffee-pot, whichseems to gossip with my fire-irons, the sense of smell gently excited bythe aroma of the Arabian bean, and my eyes shaded by my cap pulled downover them, it often seems as if each cloud of the fragrant steam took adistinct form. As in the mirages of the desert, in each as it rises, Isee some image of which my mind had been longing for the reality.

At first the vapor increases, and its color deepens. I see a cottage ona hillside: behind is a garden shut in by a whitethorn hedge, and throughthe garden runs a brook, on the banks of which I hear the bees humming.

Then the view opens still more. See those fields planted with apple-trees, in which I can distinguish a plough and horses waiting for theirmaster! Farther on, in a part of the wood which rings with the sound ofthe axe, I perceive the woodsman's hut, roofed with turf and branches;and, in the midst of all these rural pictures, I seem to see a figure ofmyself gliding about. It is my ghost walking in my dream!

The bubbling of the water, ready to boil over, compels me to break off mymeditations, in order to fill up the coffee-pot. I then remember that Ihave no cream; I take my tin can off the hook and go down to themilkwoman's.

Mother Denis is a hale countrywoman from Savoy, which she left when quiteyoung; and, contrary to the custom of the Savoyards, she has not goneback to it again. She has neither husband nor child, notwithstanding thetitle they give her; but her kindness, which never sleeps, makes herworthy of the name of mother.

A brave creature! Left by herself in the battle of life, she makes goodher humble place in it by working, singing, helping others, and leavingthe rest to God.

At the door of the milk-shop I hear loud bursts of laughter. In one ofthe corners of the shop three children are sitting on the ground. Theywear the sooty dress of Savoyard boys, and in their hands they hold largeslices of bread and cheese. The youngest is besmeared up to the eyeswith his, and that is the reason of their mirth.

Mother Denis points them out to me.

"Look at the little lambs, how they enjoy themselves!" said she, puttingher hand on the head of the little glutton.

"He has had no breakfast," puts in one of the others by way of excuse.

"Poor little thing," said the milkwoman; "he is left alone in the streetsof Paris, where he can find no other father than the All-good God!"

"And that is why you make yourself a mother to them?" I replied, gently.

"What I do is little enough," said Mother Denis, measuring out my milk;"but every day I get some of them together out of the street, that foronce they may have enough to eat. Dear children! their mothers will makeup for it in heaven. Not to mention that they recall my native mountainsto me: when they sing and dance, I seem to see our old father again."

Here her eyes filled with tears.

"So you are repaid by your recollections for the good you do them?"resumed I.

"Yes! yes!" said she, "and by their happiness, too! The laughter ofthese little ones, sir, is like a bird's song; it makes you gay, andgives you heart to live."

As she spoke she cut some fresh slices of bread and cheese, and addedsome apples and a handful of nuts to them.

"Come, my little dears," she cried, "put these into your pockets againstto-morrow."

Then, turning to me:

"To-day I am ruining myself," added she; "but we must all have our
Carnival."

I came away without saying a word: I was too much affected.

At last I have discovered what true pleasure is. After beholding theegotism of sensuality and of intellect, I have found the happy self-sacrifice of goodness. Pierre, M. Antoine, and Mother Denis had all kepttheir Carnival; but for the first two, it was only a feast for the sensesor the mind; while for the third, it was a feast for the heart.

CHAPTER III

WHAT WE MAY LEARN BY LOOKING OUT OF WINDOW

March 3d

A poet has said that life is the dream of a shadow: he would better havecompared it to a night of fever! What alternate fits of restlessness andsleep! what discomfort! what sudden starts! what ever-returning thirst!what a chaos of mournful and confused fancies! We can neither sleep norwake; we seek in vain for repose, and we stop short on the brink ofaction. Two thirds of human existence are wasted in hesitation, and thelast third in repenting.

When I say human existence, I mean my own! We are so made that each ofus regards himself as the mirror of the community: what passes in ourminds infallibly seems to us a history of the universe. Every man islike the drunkard who reports an earthquake, because he feels himselfstaggering.

And why am I uncertain and restless—I, a poor day-laborer in the world—who fill an obscure station in a corner of it, and whose work it availsitself of, without heeding the workman? I will tell you, my unseenfriend, for whom these lines are written; my unknown brother, on whom thesolitary call in sorrow; my imaginary confidant, to whom all monologuesare addressed and who is but the shadow of our own conscience.

A great event has happened in my life! A crossroad has suddenly openedin the middle of the monotonous way along which I was travelling quietly,and without thinking of it. Two roads present themselves, and I mustchoose between them. One is only the continuation of that I havefollowed till now; the other is wider, and exhibits wondrous prospects.On the first there is nothing to fear, but also little to hope; on theother are great dangers and great fortune. Briefly, the question is,whether I shall give up the humble office in which I thought to die, forone of those bold speculations in which chance alone is banker! Eversince yesterday I have consulted with myself; I have compared the two andI remain undecided.

Where shall I find light—who will advise me?

Sunday, 4th.—See the sun coming out from the thick fogs of winter!Spring announces its approach; a soft breeze skims over the roofs, and mywallflower begins to blow again.

We are near that sweet season of fresh green, of which the poets of thesixteenth century sang with so much feeling:

Now the gladsome month of May
All things newly doth array;
Fairest lady, let me too
In thy love my life renew.

The chirping of the sparrows calls me: they claim the crumbs I scatter tothem every morning. I open my window, and the prospect of roofs opensout before me in all its splendor.

He who has lived only on a first floor has no idea of the picturesquevariety of such a view. He has never contemplated these tile-coloredheights which intersect each other; he has not followed with his eyesthese gutter-valleys, where the fresh verdure of the attic gardens waves,the deep shadows which evening spreads over the slated slopes, and thesparkling of windows which the setting sun has kindled to a blaze offire. He has not studied the flora of these Alps of civilization,carpeted by lichens and mosses; he is not acquainted with the myriadinhabitants that people them, from the microscopic insect to the domesticcat—that reynard of the roofs who is always on the prowl, or in ambush;he has not witnessed the thousand aspects of a clear or a cloudy sky; northe thousand effects of light, that make these upper regions a theatrewith ever-changing scenes! How many times have my days of leisure passedaway in contemplating this wonderful sight; in discovering its darker orbrighter episodes; in seeking, in short, in this unknown world for theimpressions of travel that wealthy tourists look for lower!

Nine o'clock.—But why, then, have not my winged neighbors picked up thecrumbs I have scattered for them before my window? I see them fly away,come back, perch upon the ledges of the windows, and chirp at the sightof the feast they are usually so ready to devour! It is not my presencethat frightens them; I have accustomed them to eat out of my hand. Then,why this fearful suspense? In vain I look around: the roof is clear, thewindows near are closed. I crumble the bread that remains from mybreakfast to attract them by an ampler feast. Their chirpings increase,they bend down their heads, the boldest approach upon the wing, butwithout daring to alight.

Come, come, my sparrows are the victims of one of the foolish panicswhich make the funds fall at the Bourse! It is plain that birds are notmore reasonable than men!

With this reflection I was about to shut my window, when suddenly Iperceived, in a spot of sunshine on my right, the shadow of two pricked-up ears; then a paw advanced, then the head of a tabby-cat showed itselfat the corner of the gutter. The cunning fellow was lying there in wait,hoping the crumbs would bring him some game.

And I had accused my guests of cowardice! I was so sure that no dangercould menace them! I thought I had looked well everywhere! I had onlyforgotten the corner behind me!

In life, as on the roofs, how many misfortunes come from having forgottena single corner!

Ten o'clock.—I cannot leave my window; the rain and the cold have keptit shut so long that I must reconnoitre all the environs to be able totake possession of them again. My eyes search in succession all thepoints of the jumbled and confused prospect, passing on or stoppingaccording to what they light upon.

Ah! see the windows upon which they formerly loved to rest; they arethose of two unknown neighbors, whose different habits they have longremarked.

One is a poor work-woman, who rises before sunrise, and whose profile isshadowed upon her little muslin window-curtain far into the evening; theother is a young songstress, whose vocal flourishes sometimes reach myattic by snatches. When their windows are open, that of the work-womandiscovers a humble but decent abode; the other, an elegantly furnishedroom. But to-day a crowd of tradespeople throng the latter: they takedown the silk hangings and carry off the furniture, and I now rememberthat the young singer passed under my window this morning with her veildown, and walking with the hasty step of one who suffers some inwardtrouble. Ah! I guess it all. Her means are exhausted in elegantfancies, or have been taken away by some unexpected misfortune, and nowshe has fallen from luxury to indigence. While the work-woman managesnot only to keep her little room, but also to furnish it with decentcomfort by her steady toil, that of the singer is become the property ofbrokers. The one sparkled for a moment on the wave of prosperity; theother sails slowly but safely along the coast of a humble and laboriousindustry.

Alas! is there not here a lesson for us all? Is it really in hazardousexperiments, at the end of which we shall meet with wealth or ruin, thatthe wise man should employ his years of strength and freedom? Ought heto consider life as a regular employment which brings its daily wages,or as a game in which the future is determined by a few throws? Why seekthe risk of extreme chances? For what end hasten to riches by dangerousroads? Is it really certain that happiness is the prize of brilliantsuccesses, rather than of a wisely accepted poverty? Ah! if men but knewin what a small dwelling joy can live, and how little it costs to furnish*t!

Twelve o'clock.—I have been walking up and down my attic for a longtime, with my arms folded and my eyes on the ground! My doubts increase,like shadows encroaching more and more on some bright space; my fearsmultiply; and the uncertainty becomes every moment more painful to me!It is necessary for me to decide to-day, and before the evening! I holdthe dice of my future fate in my hands, and I dare not throw them.

Three o'clock.—The sky has become cloudy, and a cold wind begins to blowfrom the west; all the windows which were opened to the sunshine of abeautiful day are shut again. Only on the opposite side of the street,the lodger on the last story has not yet left his balcony.

One knows him to be a soldier by his regular walk, his gray moustaches,and the ribbon that decorates his buttonhole. Indeed, one might haveguessed as much from the care he takes of the little garden which is theornament of his balcony in mid-air; for there are two things especiallyloved by all old soldiers—flowers and children. They have been so long,obliged to look upon the earth as a field of battle, and so long cut offfrom the peaceful pleasures of a quiet lot, that they seem to begin lifeat an age when others end it. The tastes of their early years, whichwere arrested by the stern duties of war, suddenly break out again withtheir white hairs, and are like the savings of youth which they spendagain in old age. Besides, they have been condemned to be destroyers forso long that perhaps they feel a secret pleasure in creating, and seeinglife spring up again: the beauty of weakness has a grace and anattraction the more for those who have been the agents of unbendingforce; and the watching over the frail germs of life has all the charmsof novelty for these old workmen of death.

Therefore the cold wind has not driven my neighbor from his balcony.He is digging up the earth in his green boxes, and carefully sowing theseeds of the scarlet nasturtium, convolvulus, and sweet-pea. Henceforthhe will come every day to watch for their first sprouting, to protect theyoung shoots from weeds or insects, to arrange the strings for thetendrils to climb on, and carefully to regulate their supply of water andheat!

How much labor to bring in the desired harvest! For that, how many timesshall I see him brave cold or heat, wind or sun, as he does to-day! Butthen, in the hot summer days, when the blinding dust whirls in cloudsthrough our streets, when the eye, dazzled by the glare of white stucco,knows not where to rest, and the glowing roofs reflect their heat upon usto burning, the old soldier will sit in his arbor and perceive nothingbut green leaves and flowers around him, and the breeze will come cooland fresh to him through these perfumed shades. His assiduous care willbe rewarded at last.

We must sow the seeds, and tend the growth, if we would enjoy the flower.

Four o'clock.—The clouds that have been gathering in the horizon for along time are become darker; it thunders loudly, and the rain pours down!Those who are caught in it fly in every direction, some laughing and somecrying.

I always find particular amusem*nt in these helter-skelters, caused by asudden storm. It seems as if each one, when thus taken by surprise,loses the factitious character that the world or habit has given him,and appears in his true colors.

See, for example, that big man with deliberate step, who suddenly forgetshis indifference, made to order, and runs like a schoolboy! He is athrifty city gentleman, who, with all his fashionable airs, is afraid tospoil his hat.

That pretty woman yonder, on the contrary, whose looks are so modest,and whose dress is so elaborate, slackens her pace with the increasingstorm. She seems to find pleasure in braving it, and does not think ofher velvet cloak spotted by the hail! She is evidently a lioness insheep's clothing.

Here, a young man, who was passing, stops to catch some of the hailstonesin his hand, and examines them. By his quick and business-like walk justnow, you would have taken him for a tax-gatherer on his rounds, when heis a young philosopher, studying the effects of electricity. And thoseschoolboys who leave their ranks to run after the sudden gusts of a Marchwhirlwind; those girls, just now so demure, but who now fly with burstsof laughter; those national guards, who quit the martial attitude oftheir days of duty to take refuge under a porch! The storm has causedall these transformations.

See, it increases! The hardiest are obliged to seek shelter. I seeevery one rushing toward the shop in front of my window, which a billannounces is to let. It is for the fourth time within a few months.A year ago all the skill of the joiner and the art of the painter wereemployed in beautifying it, but their works are already destroyed by theleaving of so many tenants; the cornices of the front are disfigured bymud; the arabesques on the doorway are spoiled by bills posted upon themto announce the sale of the effects. The splendid shop has lost some ofits embellishments with each change of the tenant. See it now empty, andleft open to the passersby. How much does its fate resemble that of somany who, like it, only change their occupation to hasten the faster toruin!

I am struck by this last reflection: since the morning everything seemsto speak to me, and with the same warning tone. Everything says: "Takecare! be content with your happy, though humble lot; happiness can beretained only by constancy; do not forsake your old patrons for theprotection of those who are unknown!"

Are they the outward objects which speak thus, or does the warning comefrom within? Is it not I myself who give this language to all thatsurrounds me? The world is but an instrument, to which we give sound atwill. But what does it signify if it teaches us wisdom? The low voicethat speaks in our breasts is always a friendly voice, for it tells uswhat we are, that is to say, what is our capability. Bad conductresults, for the most part, from mistaking our calling. There are somany fools and knaves, because there are so few men who know themselves.The question is not to discover what will suit us, but for what we aresuited!

What should I do among these many experienced financial speculators? Iam only a poor sparrow, born among the housetops, and should always fearthe enemy crouching in the dark corner; I am a prudent workman, andshould think of the business of my neighbors who so suddenly disappeared;I am a timid observer, and should call to mind the flowers so slowlyraised by the old soldier, or the shop brought to ruin by constant changeof masters. Away from me, ye banquets, over which hangs the sword ofDamocles! I am a country mouse. Give me my nuts and hollow tree, and Iask nothing besides—except security.

And why this insatiable craving for riches? Does a man drink more whenhe drinks from a large glass? Whence comes that universal dread ofmediocrity, the fruitful mother of peace and liberty? Ah! there is theevil which, above every other, it should be the aim of both public andprivate education to anticipate! If that were got rid of, what treasonswould be spared, what baseness avoided, what a chain of excess and crimewould be forever broken! We award the palm to charity, and to self-sacrifice; but, above all, let us award it to moderation, for it is thegreat social virtue. Even when it does not create the others, it standsinstead of them.

Six o'clock.—I have written a letter of thanks to the promoters of thenew speculation, and have declined their offer! This decision hasrestored my peace of mind. I stopped singing, like the cobbler, as longas I entertained the hope of riches: it is gone, and happiness is comeback!

O beloved and gentle Poverty! pardon me for having for a moment wishedto fly from thee, as I would from Want. Stay here forever with thycharming sisters, Pity, Patience, Sobriety, and Solitude; be ye my queensand my instructors; teach me the stern duties of life; remove far from myabode the weakness of heart and giddiness of head which followprosperity. Holy Poverty! teach me to endure without complaining, toimpart without grudging, to seek the end of life higher than in pleasure,farther off than in power. Thou givest the body strength, thou makestthe mind more firm; and, thanks to thee, this life, to which the richattach themselves as to a rock, becomes a bark of which death may cut thecable without awakening all our fears. Continue to sustain me, O thouwhom Christ hath called Blessed!

CHAPTER IV

LET US LOVE ONE ANOTHER

April 9th

The fine evenings are come back; the trees begin to put forth theirshoots; hyacinths, jonquils, violets, and lilacs perfume the baskets ofthe flower-girls—all the world have begun their walks again on the quaysand boulevards. After dinner, I, too, descend from my attic to breathethe evening air.

It is the hour when Paris is seen in all its beauty. During the day theplaster fronts of the houses weary the eye by their monotonous whiteness;heavily laden carts make the streets shake under their huge wheels; theeager crowd, taken up by the one fear of losing a moment from business,cross and jostle one another; the aspect of the city altogether hassomething harsh, restless, and flurried about it. But, as soon as thestars appear, everything is changed; the glare of the white houses isquenched in the gathering shades; you hear no more any rolling but thatof the carriages on their way to some party of pleasure; you see only thelounger or the light-hearted passing by; work has given place to leisure.Now each one may breathe after the fierce race through the business ofthe day, and whatever strength remains to him he gives to pleasure! Seethe ballrooms lighted up, the theatres open, the eating-shops along thewalks set out with dainties, and the twinkling lanterns of the newspapercriers. Decidedly Paris has laid aside the pen, the ruler, and theapron; after the day spent in work, it must have the evening forenjoyment; like the masters of Thebes, it has put off all serious mattertill tomorrow.

I love to take part in this happy hour; not to mix in the general gayety,but to contemplate it. If the enjoyments of others embitter jealousminds, they strengthen the humble spirit; they are the beams of sunshine,which open the two beautiful flowers called trust and hope.

Although alone in the midst of the smiling multitude, I do not feelmyself isolated from it, for its gayety is reflected upon me: it is myown kind, my own family, who are enjoying life, and I take a brother'sshare in their happiness. We are all fellow-soldiers in this earthlybattle, and what does it matter on whom the honors of the victory fall?If Fortune passes by without seeing us, and pours her favors on others,let us console ourselves, like the friend of Parmenio, by saying, "Those,too, are Alexanders."

While making these reflections, I was going on as chance took me. Icrossed from one pavement to another, I retraced my steps, I stoppedbefore the shops or to read the handbills. How many things there are tolearn in the streets of Paris! What a museum it is! Unknown fruits,foreign arms, furniture of old times or other lands, animals of allclimates, statues of great men, costumes of distant nations! It is theworld seen in samples!

Let us then look at this people, whose knowledge is gained from the shop-windows and the tradesman's display of goods. Nothing has been taughtthem, but they have a rude notion of everything. They have seenpineapples at Chevet's, a palm-tree in the Jardin des Plantes, sugar-canes selling on the Pont-Neuf. The Redskins, exhibited in the ValentineHall, have taught them to mimic the dance of the bison, and to smoke thecalumet of peace; they have seen Carter's lions fed; they know theprincipal national costumes contained in Babin's collection; Goupil'sdisplay of prints has placed the tiger-hunts of Africa and the sittingsof the English Parliament before their eyes; they have become acquaintedwith Queen Victoria, the Emperor of Austria, and Kossuth, at the office-door of the Illustrated News. We can certainly instruct them, but notastonish them; for nothing is completely new to them. You may take theParis ragamuffin through the five quarters of the world, and at everywonder with which you think to surprise him, he will settle the matterwith that favorite and conclusive answer of his class—"I know."

But this variety of exhibitions, which makes Paris the fair of the world,does not offer merely a means of instruction to him who walks through it;it is a continual spur for rousing the imagination, a first step of theladder always set up before us in a vision. When we see them, how manyvoyages do we take in imagination, what adventures do we dream of, whatpictures do we sketch! I never look at that shop near the Chinese baths,with its tapestry hangings of Florida jessamine, and filled withmagnolias, without seeing the forest glades of the New World, describedby the author of Atala, opening themselves out before me.

Then, when this study of things and this discourse of reason begin totire you, look around you! What contrasts of figures and faces you seein the crowd! What a vast field for the exercise of meditation! A half-seen glance, or a few words caught as the speaker passes by, open athousand vistas to your imagination. You wish to comprehend what theseimperfect disclosures mean, and, as the antiquary endeavors to decipherthe mutilated inscription on some old monument, you build up a history ona gesture or on a word! These are the stirring sports of the mind, whichfinds in fiction a relief from the wearisome dullness of the actual.

Alas! as I was just now passing by the carriage-entrance of a greathouse, I noticed a sad subject for one of these histories. A man wassitting in the darkest corner, with his head bare, and holding out hishat for the charity of those who passed. His threadbare coat had thatlook of neatness which marks that destitution has been met by a longstruggle. He had carefully buttoned it up to hide the want of a shirt.His face was half hid under his gray hair, and his eyes were closed, asif he wished to escape the sight of his own humiliation, and he remainedmute and motionless. Those who passed him took no notice of the beggar,who sat in silence and darkness! They had been so lucky as to escapecomplaints and importunities, and were glad to turn away their eyes too.

Suddenly the great gate turned on its hinges; and a very low carriage,lighted with silver lamps and drawn by two black horses, came slowly out,and took the road toward the Faubourg St. Germain. I could justdistinguish, within, the sparkling diamonds and the flowers of a ball-dress; the glare of the lamps passed like a bloody streak over the paleface of the beggar, and showed his look as his eyes opened and followedthe rich man's equipage until it disappeared in the night.

I dropped a small piece of money into the hat he was holding out, andpassed on quickly.

I had just fallen unexpectedly upon the two saddest secrets of thedisease which troubles the age we live in: the envious hatred of him whosuffers want, and the selfish forgetfulness of him who lives inaffluence.

All the enjoyment of my walk was gone; I left off looking about me, andretired into my own heart. The animated and moving sight in the streetsgave place to inward meditation upon all the painful problems which havebeen written for the last four thousand years at the bottom of each humanstruggle, but which are propounded more clearly than ever in our days.

I pondered on the uselessness of so many contests, in which defeat andvictory only displace each other by turns, and on the mistaken zealotswho have repeated from generation to generation the bloody history ofCain and Abel; and, saddened with these mournful reflections, I walked onas chance took me, until the silence all around insensibly drew me outfrom my own thoughts.

I had reached one of the remote streets, in which those who would live incomfort and without ostentation, and who love serious reflection, delightto find a home. There were no shops along the dimly lighted street; oneheard no sounds but of distant carriages, and of the steps of some of theinhabitants returning quietly home.

I instantly recognized the street, though I had been there only oncebefore.

That was two years ago. I was walking at the time by the side of theSeine, to which the lights on the quays and bridges gave the aspect of alake surrounded by a garland of stars; and I had reached the Louvre, whenI was stopped by a crowd collected near the parapet they had gatheredround a child of about six, who was crying, and I asked the cause of histears.

"It seems that he was sent to walk in the Tuileries," said a mason, whowas returning from his work with his trowel in his hand; "the servant whotook care of him met with some friends there, and told the child to waitfor him while he went to get a drink; but I suppose the drink made himmore thirsty, for he has not come back, and the child cannot find his wayhome."

"Why do they not ask him his name, and where he lives?"

"They have been doing it for the last hour; but all he can say is, thathe is called Charles, and that his father is Monsieur Duval—there aretwelve hundred Duvals in Paris."

"Then he does not know in what part of the town he lives?"

"I should not think, indeed! Don't you see that he is a gentleman'schild? He has never gone out except in a carriage or with a servant; hedoes not know what to do by himself."

Here the mason was interrupted by some of the voices rising above theothers.

"We cannot leave him in the street," said some.

"The child-stealers would carry him off," continued others.

"We must take him to the overseer."

"Or to the police-office."

"That's the thing. Come, little one!"

But the child, frightened by these suggestions of danger, and at thenames of police and overseer, cried louder, and drew back toward theparapet. In vain they tried to persuade him; his fears made him resistthe more, and the most eager began to get weary, when the voice of alittle boy was heard through the confusion.

"I know him well—I do," said he, looking at the lost child; "he belongsin our part of the town."

"What part is it?"

"Yonder, on the other side of the Boulevards—Rue des Magasins."

"And you have seen him before?"

"Yes, yes! he belongs to the great house at the end of the street, wherethere is an iron gate with gilt points."

The child quickly raised his head, and stopped crying. The little boyanswered all the questions that were put to him, and gave such details asleft no room for doubt. The other child understood him, for he went upto him as if to put himself under his protection.

"Then you can take him to his parents?" asked the mason, who hadlistened with real interest to the little boy's account.

"I don't care if I do," replied he; "it's the way I'm going."

"Then you will take charge of him?"

"He has only to come with me."

And, taking up the basket he had put down on the pavement, he set offtoward the postern-gate of the Louvre.

The lost child followed him.

"I hope he will take him right," said I, when I saw them go away.

"Never fear," replied the mason; "the little one in the blouse is thesame age as the other; but, as the saying is, he knows black from white;'poverty, you see, is a famous schoolmistress!"

The crowd dispersed. For my part, I went toward the Louvre; the thoughtcame into my head to follow the two children, so as to guard against anymistake.

I was not long in overtaking them; they were walking side by side,talking, and already quite familiar with each other. The contrast intheir dress then struck me. Little Duval wore one of those fancifulchildren's dresses which are expensive as well as in good taste; his coatwas skilfully fitted to his figure, his trousers came down in plaits fromhis waist to his boots of polished leather with mother-of-pearl buttons,and his ringlets were half hid by a velvet cap. The appearance of hisguide, on the contrary, was that of the class who dwell on the extremeborders of poverty, but who there maintain their ground with nosurrender. His old blouse, patched with pieces of different shades,indicated the perseverance of an industrious mother struggling againstthe wear and tear of time; his trousers were become too short, and showedhis stockings darned over and over again; and it was evident that hisshoes were not made for him.

The countenances of the two children were not less different than theirdress. That of the first was delicate and refined; his clear blue eye,his fair skin, and his smiling mouth gave him a charming look ofinnocence and happiness. The features of the other, on the contrary, hadsomething rough in them; his eye was quick and lively, his complexiondark, his smile less merry than shrewd; all showed a mind sharpened bytoo early experience; he walked boldly through the middle of the streetsthronged by carriages, and followed their countless turnings withouthesitation.

I found, on asking him, that every day he carried dinner to his father,who was then working on the left bank of the Seine; and this responsibleduty had made him careful and prudent. He had learned those hard butforcible lessons of necessity which nothing can equal or supply the placeof. Unfortunately, the wants of his poor family had kept him fromschool, and he seemed to feel the loss; for he often stopped before theprintshops, and asked his companion to read him the names of theengravings. In this way we reached the Boulevard Bonne Nouvelle, whichthe little wanderer seemed to know again. Notwithstanding his fatigue,he hurried on; he was agitated by mixed feelings; at the sight of hishouse he uttered a cry, and ran toward the iron gate with the giltpoints; a lady who was standing at the entrance received him in her arms,and from the exclamations of joy, and the sound of kisses, I soonperceived she was his mother.

Not seeing either the servant or child return, she had sent in search ofthem in every direction, and was waiting for them in intense anxiety.

I explained to her in a few words what had happened. She thanked mewarmly, and looked round for the little boy who had recognized andbrought back her son; but while we were talking, he had disappeared.

It was for the first time since then that I had come into this part ofParis. Did the mother continue grateful? Had the children met again,and had the happy chance of their first meeting lowered between them thatbarrier which may mark the different ranks of men, but should not dividethem?

While putting these questions to myself, I slackened my pace, and fixedmy eyes on the great gate, which I just perceived. Suddenly I saw itopen, and two children appeared at the entrance. Although much grown,I recognized them at first sight; they were the child who was found nearthe parapet of the Louvre, and his young guide. But the dress of thelatter was greatly changed: his blouse of gray cloth was neat, and evenspruce, and was fastened round the waist by a polished leather belt; hewore strong shoes, but made for his feet, and had on a new cloth cap.Just at the moment I saw him, he held in his two hands an enormous bunchof lilacs, to which his companion was trying to add narcissuses andprimroses; the two children laughed, and parted with a friendly good-by.M. Duval's son did not go in till he had seen the other turn the cornerof the street.

Then I accosted the latter, and reminded him of our former meeting; helooked at me for a moment, and then seemed to recollect me.

"Forgive me if I do not make you a bow," said he, merrily, "but I wantboth my hands for the nosegay Monsieur Charles has given me."

"You are, then, become great friends?" said I.

"Oh! I should think so," said the child; "and now my father is richtoo!"

"How's that?"

"Monsieur Duval lent him some money; he has taken a shop, where he workson his own account; and, as for me, I go to school."

"Yes," replied I, remarking for the first time the cross that decoratedhis little coat; "and I see that you are head-boy!"

"Monsieur Charles helps me to learn, and so I am come to be the first inthe class."

"Are you now going to your lessons?"

"Yes, and he has given me some lilacs; for he has a garden where we playtogether, and where my mother can always have flowers."

"Then it is the same as if it were partly your own."

"So it is! Ah! they are good neighbors indeed. But here I am; good-by,sir."

He nodded to me with a smile, and disappeared.

I went on with my walk, still pensive, but with a feeling of relief.If I had elsewhere witnessed the painful contrast between affluence andwant, here I had found the true union of riches and poverty. Heartygood-will had smoothed down the more rugged inequalities on both sides,and had opened a road of true neighborhood and fellowship between thehumble workshop and the stately mansion. Instead of hearkening to thevoice of interest, they had both listened to that of self-sacrifice,and there was no place left for contempt or envy. Thus, instead of thebeggar in rags, that I had seen at the other door cursing the rich man,I had found here the happy child of the laborer loaded with flowers andblessing him! The problem, so difficult and so dangerous to examine intowith no regard but for the rights of it, I had just seen solved by love.

CHAPTER V

COMPENSATION

Sunday, May 27th

Capital cities have one thing peculiar to them: their days of rest seemto be the signal for a general dispersion and flight. Like birds thatare just restored to liberty, the people come out of their stone cages,and joyfully fly toward the country. It is who shall find a greenhillock for a seat, or the shade of a wood for a shelter; they gather Mayflowers, they run about the fields; the town is forgotten until theevening, when they return with sprigs of blooming hawthorn in their hats,and their hearts gladdened by pleasant thoughts and recollections of thepast day; the next day they return again to their harness and to work.

These rural adventures are most remarkable at Paris. When the fineweather comes, clerks, shop keepers, and workingmen look forwardimpatiently for the Sunday as the day for trying a few hours of thispastoral life; they walk through six miles of grocers' shops and public-houses in the faubourgs, in the sole hope of finding a real turnip-field.The father of a family begins the practical education of his son byshowing him wheat which has not taken the form of a loaf, and cabbage "inits wild state." Heaven only knows the encounters, the discoveries, theadventures that are met with! What Parisian has not had his Odyssey inan excursion through the suburbs, and would not be able to write acompanion to the famous Travels by Land and by Sea from Paris to St.Cloud?

We do not now speak of that floating population from all parts, for whom*our French Babylon is the caravansary of Europe: a phalanx of thinkers,artists, men of business, and travellers, who, like Homer's hero, havearrived in their intellectual country after beholding "many peoples andcities;" but of the settled Parisian, who keeps his appointed place, andlives on his own floor like the oyster on his rock, a curious vestige ofthe credulity, the slowness, and the simplicity of bygone ages.

For one of the singularities of Paris is, that it unites twentypopulations completely different in character and manners. By theside of the gypsies of commerce and of art, who wander through all theseveral stages of fortune or fancy, live a quiet race of people with anindependence, or with regular work, whose existence resembles the dialof a clock, on which the same hand points by turns to the same hours.If no other city can show more brilliant and more stirring forms of life,no other contains more obscure and more tranquil ones. Great cities arelike the sea: storms agitate only the surface; if you go to the bottom,you find a region inaccessible to the tumult and the noise.

For my part, I have settled on the verge of this region, but do notactually live in it. I am removed from the turmoil of the world, andlive in the shelter of solitude, but without being able to disconnect mythoughts from the struggle going on. I follow at a distance all itsevents of happiness or grief; I join the feasts and the funerals; for howcan he who looks on, and knows what passes, do other than take part?Ignorance alone can keep us strangers to the life around us: selfishnessitself will not suffice for that.

These reflections I made to myself in my attic, in the intervals of thevarious household works to which a bachelor is forced when he has noother servant than his own ready will. While I was pursuing mydeductions, I had blacked my boots, brushed my coat, and tied my cravat;I had at last arrived at the important moment when we pronouncecomplacently that all is finished, and that well.

A grand resolve had just decided me to depart from my usual habits.The evening before, I had seen by the advertisem*nts that the next daywas a holiday at Sevres, and that the china manufactory would be open tothe public. I was tempted by the beauty of the morning, and suddenlydecided to go there.

On my arrival at the station on the left bank, I noticed the crowdhurrying on in the fear of being late. Railroads, besides many otheradvantages, possess that of teaching the French punctuality. They willsubmit to the clock when they are convinced that it is their master;they will learn to wait when they find they will not be waited for.Social virtues, are, in a great degree, good habits. How many greatqualities are grafted into nations by their geographical position, bypolitical necessity, and by institutions! Avarice was destroyed for atime among the Lacedaemonians by the creation of an iron coinage, tooheavy and too bulky to be conveniently hoarded.

I found myself in a carriage with two middle-aged women belonging to thedomestic and retired class of Parisians I have spoken of above. A fewcivilities were sufficient to gain me their confidence, and after someminutes I was acquainted with their whole history.

They were two poor sisters, left orphans at fifteen, and had lived eversince, as those who work for their livelihood must live, by economy andprivation. For the last twenty or thirty years they had worked injewelry in the same house; they had seen ten masters succeed one another,and make their fortunes in it, without any change in their own lot. Theyhad always lived in the same room, at the end of one of the passages inthe Rue St. Denis, where the air and the sun are unknown. They begantheir work before daylight, went on with it till after nightfall, and sawyear succeed to year without their lives being marked by any other eventsthan the Sunday service, a walk, or an illness.

The younger of these worthy work-women was forty, and obeyed her sisteras she did when a child. The elder looked after her, took care of her,and scolded her with a mother's tenderness. At first it was amusing;afterward one could not help seeing something affecting in these twogray-haired children, one unable to leave off the habit of obeying, theother that of protecting.

And it was not in that alone that my two companions seemed younger thantheir years; they knew so little that their wonder never ceased. We hadhardly arrived at Clamart before they involuntarily exclaimed, like theking in the children's game, that they "did not think the world was sogreat"!

It was the first time they had trusted themselves on a railroad, and itwas amusing to see their sudden shocks, their alarms, and theircourageous determinations: everything was a marvel to them! They hadremains of youth within them, which made them sensible to things whichusually only strike us in childhood. Poor creatures! they had still thefeelings of another age, though they had lost its charms.

But was there not something holy in this simplicity, which had beenpreserved to them by abstinence from all the joys of life? Ah! accursedbe he who first had the had courage to attach ridicule to that name of"old maid," which recalls so many images of grievous deception, ofdreariness, and of abandonment! Accursed be he who can find a subjectfor sarcasm in involuntary misfortune, and who can crown gray hairs withthorns!

The two sisters were called Frances and Madeleine. This day's journeywas a feat of courage without example in their lives. The fever of thetimes had infected them unawares. Yesterday Madeleine had suddenlyproposed the idea of the expedition, and Frances had accepted itimmediately. Perhaps it would have been better not to yield to the greattemptation offered by her younger sister; but "we have our follies at allages," as the prudent Frances philosophically remarked. As forMadeleine, there are no regrets or doubts for her; she is the life-guardsman of the establishment.

"We really must amuse ourselves," said she; "we live but once."

And the elder sister smiled at this Epicurean maxim. It was evident thatthe fever of independence was at its crisis in both of them.

And in truth it would have been a great pity if any scruple hadinterfered with their happiness, it was so frank and genial! The sightof the trees, which seemed to fly on both sides of the road, caused themunceasing admiration. The meeting a train passing in the contrarydirection, with the noise and rapidity of a thunderbolt, made them shuttheir eyes and utter a cry; but it had already disappeared! They lookaround, take courage again, and express themselves full of astonishmentat the marvel.

Madeleine declares that such a sight is worth the expense of the journey,and Frances would have agreed with her if she had not recollected, withsome little alarm, the deficit which such an expense must make in theirbudget. The three francs spent upon this single expedition were thesavings of a whole week of work. Thus the joy of the elder of the twosisters was mixed with remorse; the prodigal child now and then turnedits eyes toward the back street of St. Denis.

But the motion and the succession of objects distract her. See thebridge of the Val surrounded by its lovely landscape: on the right, Pariswith its grand monuments, which rise through the fog, or sparkle in thesun; on the left, Meudon, with its villas, its woods, its vines, and itsroyal castle! The two work-women look from one window to the other withexclamations of delight. One fellow-passenger laughs at their childishwonder; but to me it is deeply touching, for I see in it the sign of along and monotonous seclusion: they are the prisoners of work, who haverecovered liberty and fresh air for a few hours.

At last the train stops, and we get out. I show the two sisters the paththat leads to Sevres, between the railway and the gardens, and they go onbefore, while I inquire about the time of returning.

I soon join them again at the next station, where they have stopped atthe little garden belonging to the gatekeeper; both are already in deepconversation with him while he digs his garden-borders, and marks out theplaces for flower-seeds. He informs them that it is the time for hoeingout weeds, for making grafts and layers, for sowing annuals, and fordestroying the insects on the rose-trees. Madeleine has on the sill ofher window two wooden boxes, in which, for want of air and sun, she hasnever been able to make anything grow but mustard and cress; but shepersuades herself that, thanks to this information, all other plants mayhenceforth thrive in them. At last the gatekeeper, who is sowing aborder with mignonette, gives her the rest of the seeds which he does notwant, and the old maid goes off delighted, and begins to act over againthe dream of Paired and her can of milk, with these flowers of herimagination.

On reaching the grove of acacias, where the fair was going on, I lostsight of the two sisters. I went alone among the sights: there werelotteries going on, mountebank shows, places for eating and drinking, andfor shooting with the cross-bow. I have always been struck by the spiritof these out-of-door festivities. In drawing-room entertainments, peopleare cold, grave, often listless, and most of those who go there arebrought together by habit or the obligations of society; in the countryassemblies, on the contrary, you only find those who are attracted by thehope of enjoyment. There, it is a forced conscription; here, they arevolunteers for gayety! Then, how easily they are pleased! How far thiscrowd of people is yet from knowing that to be pleased with nothing, andto look down on everything, is the height of fashion and good taste!Doubtless their amusem*nts are often coarse; elegance and refinement arewanting in them; but at least they have heartiness. Oh, that the heartyenjoyments of these merry-makings could be retained in union with lessvulgar feeling! Formerly religion stamped its holy character on thecelebration of country festivals, and purified the pleasures withoutdepriving them of their simplicity.

The hour arrives at which the doors of the porcelain manufactory and themuseum of pottery are open to the public. I meet Frances and Madeleineagain in the first room. Frightened at finding themselves in the midstof such regal magnificence, they hardly dare walk; they speak in a lowtone, as if they were in a church.

"We are in the king's house," said the eldest sister, forgetting thatthere is no longer a king in France.

I encourage them to go on; I walk first, and they make up their minds tofollow me.

What wonders are brought together in this collection! Here we see claymoulded into every shape, tinted with every color, and combined withevery sort of substance!

Earth and wood are the first substances worked upon by man, and seem moreparticularly meant for his use. They, like the domestic animals, are theessential accessories of his life; therefore there must be a moreintimate connection between them and us. Stone and metals require longpreparations; they resist our first efforts, and belong less to theindividual than to communities. Earth and wood are, on the contrary, theprincipal instruments of the isolated being who must feed and shelterhimself.

This, doubtless, makes me feel so much interested in the collection I amexamining. These cups, so roughly modelled by the savage, admit me to aknowledge of some of his habits; these elegant yet incorrectly formedvases of the Indian tell me of a declining intelligence,—in which stillglimmers the twilight of what was once bright sunshine; these jars,loaded with arabesques, show the fancy of the Arab rudely and ignorantlycopied by the Spaniard! We find here the stamp of every race, everycountry, and every age.

My companions seemed little interested in these historical associations;they looked at all with that credulous admiration which leaves no roomfor examination or discussion. Madeleine read the name written underevery piece of workmanship, and her sister answered with an exclamationof wonder.

In this way we reached a little courtyard, where they had thrown away thefragments of some broken china.

Frances perceived a colored saucer almost whole, of which she tookpossession as a record of the visit she was making; henceforth she wouldhave a specimen of the Sevres china, "which is only made for kings!"I would not undeceive her by telling her that the products of themanufactory are sold all over the world, and that her saucer, before itwas cracked, was the same as those that are bought at the shops forsixpence! Why should I destroy the illusions of her humble existence?Are we to break down the hedge-flowers that perfume our paths? Thingsare oftenest nothing in themselves; the thoughts we attach to them alonegive them value. To rectify innocent mistakes, in order to recover someuseless reality, is to be like those learned men who will see nothing ina plant but the chemical elements of which it is composed.

On leaving the manufactory, the two sisters, who had taken possession ofme with the freedom of artlessness, invited me to share the luncheon theyhad brought with them. I declined at first, but they insisted with somuch good-nature, that I feared to pain them, and with some awkwardnessgave way.

We had only to look for a convenient spot. I led them up the hill, andwe found a plot of grass enamelled with daisies, and shaded by twowalnut-trees.

Madeleine could not contain herself for joy. All her life she haddreamed of a dinner out on the grass! While helping her sister to takethe provisions from the basket, she tells me of all her expeditions intothe country that had been planned, and put off. Frances, on the otherhand, was brought up at Montmorency, and before she became an orphan shehad often gone back to her nurse's house. That which had the attractionof novelty for her sister, had for her the charm of recollection. Shetold of the vintage harvests to which her parents had taken her; therides on Mother Luret's donkey, that they could not make go to the rightwithout pulling him to the left; the cherry-gathering; and the sails onthe lake in the innkeeper's boat.

These recollections have all the charm and freshness of childhood.Frances recalls to herself less what she has seen than what she has felt.While she is talking the cloth is laid, and we sit down under a tree.Before us winds the valley of Sevres, its many-storied houses abuttingupon the gardens and the slopes of the hill; on the other side spreadsout the park of St. Cloud, with its magnificent clumps of treesinterspersed with meadows; above stretch the heavens like an immenseocean, in which the clouds are sailing! I look at this beautifulcountry, and I listen to these good old maids; I admire, and I aminterested; and time passes gently on without my perceiving it.

At last the sun sets, and we have to think of returning. While Madeleineand Frances clear away the dinner, I walk down to the manufactory to askthe hour. The merrymaking is at its height; the blasts of the trombonesresound from the band under the acacias. For a few moments I forgetmyself with looking about; but I have promised the two sisters to takethem back to the Bellevue station; the train cannot wait, and I makehaste to climb the path again which leads to the walnut-trees.

Just before I reached them, I heard voices on the other side of thehedge. Madeleine and Frances were speaking to a poor girl whose clotheswere burned, her hands blackened, and her face tied up with bloodstainedbandages. I saw that she was one of the girls employed at the gunpowdermills, which are built further up on the common. An explosion had takenplace a few days before; the girl's mother and elder sister were killed;she herself escaped by a miracle, and was now left without any means ofsupport. She told all this with the resigned and unhopeful manner of onewho has always been accustomed to suffer. The two sisters were muchaffected; I saw them consulting with each other in a low tone: thenFrances took thirty sous out of a little coarse silk purse, which was allthey had left, and gave them to the poor girl. I hastened on to thatside of the hedge; but, before I reached it, I met the two old sisters,who called out to me that they would not return by the railway, but onfoot!

I then understood that the money they had meant for the journey had justbeen given to the beggar! Good, like evil, is contagious: I run to thepoor wounded girl, give her the sum that was to pay for my own place, andreturn to Frances and Madeleine, and tell them I will walk with them.

……………………..

I am just come back from taking them home; and have left them delightedwith their day, the recollection of which will long make them happy.This morning I was pitying those whose lives are obscure and joyless;now, I understand that God has provided a compensation with every trial.The smallest pleasure derives from rarity a relish otherwise unknown.Enjoyment is only what we feel to be such, and the luxurious man feels nolonger: satiety has destroyed his appetite, while privation preserves tothe other that first of earthly blessings: the being easily made happy.Oh, that I could persuade every one of this! that so the rich might notabuse their riches, and that the poor might have patience. If happinessis the rarest of blessings, it is because the reception of it is therarest of virtues.

Madeleine and Frances! ye poor old maids whose courage, resignation, andgenerous hearts are your only wealth, pray for the wretched who givethemselves up to despair; for the unhappy who hate and envy; and for theunfeeling into whose enjoyments no pity enters.

ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:

Brought them up to poverty
Carn-ival means, literally, "farewell to flesh!"
Coffee is the grand work of a bachelor's housekeeping
Defeat and victory only displace each other by turns
Did not think the world was so great
Do they understand what makes them so gay?
Each of us regards himself as the mirror of the community
Ease with which the poor forget their wretchedness
Every one keeps his holidays in his own way
Favorite and conclusive answer of his class—"I know"
Fear of losing a moment from business
Finishes his sin thoroughly before he begins to repent
Her kindness, which never sleeps
Hubbub of questions which waited for no reply
Moderation is the great social virtue
No one is so unhappy as to have nothing to give
Our tempers are like an opera-glass
Poverty, you see, is a famous schoolmistress
Prisoners of work
Question is not to discover what will suit us
Ruining myself, but we must all have our Carnival
Two thirds of human existence are wasted in hesitation
What a small dwelling joy can live