I
You are a University man, he began. You must forgive me if the opening of my story is not free from a suggestion of bitterness against the University of which I was never a member. No doubt my feelings are without justification, since to the fact that I was never admitted I owe memories which, after all, I would not exchange for a chair at the Sorbonne.
I took the course marked out for those with some intelligence and no money, and went in for scholarships. That means I undertook, somehow, to get through examinations every year, to acquire a certain habit of mind and with it, as climax, a teacher’s diploma and a post in a provincial school.
At first I justified the hopes reposed in me by the Council-General of my Department. My scholarship at the Mont-de-Marsan school was succeeded by another in advanced rhetoric at the Henry IV. school. There it was that in 1912 I tried to get into the École Normale Supérieure. Thirty-five candidates were accepted. I came out thirty-seventh. By way of consolation prize I was offered a scholarship at the Faculté des Lettres of Bordeaux University.
I then did something which met with disapproval from the few friends who took any interest in me. During my year as a boarder I had glimpsed Paris as a convict sees green fields through the bars of his cell. I remember myself as a penniless schoolboy walking in the Champs-Elysées one Grand-Prix day in June. All the millionaires were returning home from the races. Each of the cars that flashed down the avenue in a brilliant stream cost ten times more than my poor self had cost since I came into the world. A wonderful lemon and mauve light flooded the scene. I was dazzled. This vision of extravagance inspired me with none of the sentiments that turns the underdog into a rebel.
If only I could have my share some day! “Balzac is an excellent realist,” my professor of rhetoric used to splutter out. And if that narrow-minded but honest old fellow said so, it vouched for the truth of those adventures of young provincial heroes who, rather than accept insignificance in an obscure corner of their native land, have come to the Great City, tamed her and made her the submissive hand-maid of their desires.
And now they were proposing to send me to the end of the earth. I had been weighed in the balance and found wanting. Well, we should see!
Accordingly I resigned my scholarship and decided to enrol myself at the Sorbonne with a view to taking my licence ès lettres. A voice within said: “Do not enter the University, but do not despise its degrees. They are only useful when you have not been there. Outside they are excellent blinds.”
In a year I had taken my licence, living on the lessons I managed to give here and there, and imbibing from these tasks an ever-keener longing for freedom. But in the end I felt myself beaten, and resigned myself to the fate I had despised. I entered for a scholarship in history, asking for Bordeaux. And I bade farewell to Paris.
The Consultative Committee of Public Education, whose duty it is to decide in these matters, usually met at the beginning of October. I spent the intervening two months at a fishing village in the Landes, at the house of an old curé (it sounds dull, but it’s true), who opened his poor house to me in memory of my parents, whom he had known.
It was there, my friend, that I passed the most peaceful days of my life. I was free to roam at will through the great woods of the district, with no other appointments beyond meal-times. For the first time my reading was confined to such things as did not figure in an examination syllabus or the annual competition, and my mind could take in undistracted the glorious miracle of the dying season.
The curé’s house was at one end of a small lake which communicated with the sea through a narrow channel choked with aquatic plants. In the morning the roar of the tide woke me in my open room. From my window I would watch the irresistible advance of the great green ocean under a pink and grey sky. Wild duck and curlew wheeled overhead with their plaintive cries. What a temptation to stay there for ever! To watch the calm passage of the seasons. To be free from social ties, official routine, or any link with life. To spend all day and every day on the long straight dunes, where the great waves roll up ceaselessly in the wind and the jelly-fish thrown up high and dry on the silvery sand look for all the world like amethyst pendants.
Then one October morning came two letters, one from the Bordeaux Academy which announced that the Consultative Committee “regretted they had been unable to give favourable consideration to my application for a post.” The other was signed by Monsieur Thierry, Professor of Germanic Language and Literature at the Sorbonne. This good man and conscientious scholar had been my tutor for a year, and he it was who had corrected the thesis I submitted in July for my licence—on “Clausewitz and France,” of all things. I had never had anything but praise for him. I knew he cherished friendly feelings for me and possibly reproached himself somewhat. He was on the Committee and his letter was an endeavour to justify the decision. Personally he had done what he could, but some of the members had expressed doubts as to my suitability for the teaching profession, and on this point even he himself had to confess he spoke without much conviction. But in any case, it was better thus. He could not imagine me a provincial student. “Return at once,” he ended up, “there is perhaps a way out which will enable you to live in Paris.”
I bade farewell to my good old curé, promising him to return in the January vacation, and next day I stepped out on the platform of the Gare d’Orsay.
It was already winter. You could easily count the statues in the leafless Luxemburg. The fire was crackling in M. Thierry’s little room in the Rue Royer-Collard.
“My dear boy,” he began—and lonely as I was, I felt extremely grateful for this preface—“you mustn’t think hardly of the Committee. It is the duty of my colleagues to keep a single eye on the interests of the University, and you yourself won’t deny that in your work you have often displayed—how shall I put it?—a spirit of fancy, yes, a spirit of fancy likely to alarm folk so... serious-minded. I, of course, know you, and it’s another matter. I know that that spirit under good guidance will become nothing more than a pleasant originality. But first let me put a question. Do you really feel a call to the teaching profession?”
What reply was to be expected from a man with exactly one hundred and seven francs and a few centimes in his pocket? I stoutly protested my conviction.
“Well,” he went on, “I have the very thing for you. That post would have given you one thousand two hundred francs at the most. I have recommended you to an old friend of mine who is director at the Ternes, a private institution. He is looking out for a history teacher. Six hours a week for one hundred and seventy-five francs a month, and the chance of some private tuition. For example, you may, if you wish, continue your own studies at the Sorbonne at the same time. I know you and will make myself responsible for you. It is now Tuesday. If you like the prospect you can start on Friday.”
I felt the harsh, cold grip of usherdom upon my neck. Oh, those Champs-Elysées! The furswathed women with their entrancing wake of perfume behind them! But how could I fail to “like the prospect”? One hundred and seven francs and a few centimes....
I overwhelmed him with my gratitude.
He rubbed his hands.
“I am seeing M. Berthomieu this evening. Come back at ten tomorrow and I will give you place and time.”
Tuesday, October 21st, 1913.—Night was falling. In the Rue August-Comte I ran into groups of schoolboys coming out of the Lycée Montaigne. Oh, schoolboys, scholars and otherwise, stick to your mathematics, enter the Arts et Métiers, keep to your counters, lest one day you, too, find yourselves this comic puppet which skirts the Luxemburg and is lost in the Rue d’Assas.
Always that “spirit of fancy” of which my kind tutor disapproved! Well, let’s give the poor thing a farewell treat and take it to dine on the right bank.
Vignerte paused at this point of his story. Then he resumed:
“A bullet whistled past a short time back—there, just above our heads. Did it occur to you that if you had happened to pop your head out at that precise moment you’d have been laid out stiff! How far do you think luck goes in life?”
“The other day,” I answered, “there was trouble in the 11th Squad. No one wanted to go on water fatigue. Each of them said it wasn’t his turn. As the squabble grew fiercer I intervened. I sent the first man I came across, the one who had been protesting loudest, as it happened. He went off grumbling that it wasn’t fair. He left his cap behind him. When he came back he couldn’t find it. It had been pulverized by a shell and his twelve comrades with it.”
“We seem to agree,” said Vignerte.
He resumed his story.
What impulse was urging me on that evening, I, who confined myself to the tawdry delights of the Latin Quarter and never crossed the bridges at night? I remember I tried a one-man orgy at the “Grand V.” Then I thought I’d like to take my coffee on the terrace of the Weber. Pretending I could refuse myself nothing, I passed before the lamps of the Olympia with the fixed intention of granting myself the joys of the promenade. Rather excited after my bottle of Barsac I walked very straight, staring brazenly at the girls.
It was cold. I went back to Weber’s and at once the lights and the throng restored my natural timidity. I sat down humbly in a corner with that lack of ease characteristic of a man who is afraid that people will notice he is not used to being there.
Opposite me a group of young people were making a good deal of noise. Enviously I studied their clothes and that air of easy assurance, the sure sign of a happiness which, perhaps, I should never attain. Truly I was not exactly made for the University, I whom learned expositions, bibliographies and works of reference left sceptical, I whose heart almost beat quicker at the sight of a well-cut waistcoat, a well-tied tie and elegant socks visualized under well-creased trousers!
They were a party of four, one a woman, pink and pretty, in her furs. Painted a little, perhaps, though I’ve never minded that. She was seated next to one of the handsome young men, and facing me. The other two had their backs to me, but in the mirror I could see their faces, slightly flushed by a good dinner, which was then approaching its end.
That evening I realized the humiliation of those who go for their coffee to a fashionable restaurant. Said I to myself: “You’d far better have stayed at home, dined anywhere, gone to bed and slept, yes, slept. Sleep is the poor man’s haven. You oughtn’t to have come here.”
And yet.... It was gradually beginning to dawn upon me that one of the men with his back to me was studying me closely in the mirror, when he got up and came over to me.
“Vignerte!”
“Ribeyre!”
I had come across this Ribeyre during my advanced rhetoric course. He had already obtained his licence, and was, like me, a candidate for Normale, though he displayed that indifference to results which comes from a private income and ambitions in other directions.
“What are you up to?”
“You can see for yourself,” I said, somewhat stung. Then I added quickly:
“What about you? Anything new since Henri IV.?”
“Don’t mention that awful hole, old boy. Talk about instructing youth! I should have made a mess of things if I’d listened to them....”
He, too, added:
“What about you?”
“I couldn’t help having to listen to them. I’m still listening to them,” I replied bitterly. “But what’s your job now? You don’t seem to be having a bad time.”
“I’ve been extraordinarily lucky, my boy. I was appointed Private Secretary to a Deputy, and six months later he became Minister for Foreign Affairs. I followed him to the Foreign Office. There we are! But come out of your corner and I’ll introduce you to the friends of Ministers.”
Ribeyre did indeed introduce me.
“My friend Vignerte—a worker if there ever was one. Got his diploma and Lord knows what else—Agrégé, perhaps? No—so much the better for you. Who knows it better than we three, not to mention Clotilde.”
Clotilde nodded stiffly and gave me an ironical glance.
I was on the rack. This panegyric was so suited to my poor, baggy trousers! It was very charming of them all the same, though perhaps this praise of my brains was more a compliment to their own tact and skill in dealing with any situation.
After a short time Ribeyre got up.
“Good-bye till tomorrow, you people. My salaams, Clotilde. You must come with me, Vignerte, and see me home.”
Outside he took my arm.
“I’m going to the office. There are some letters of the old man’s to send off. Come with me.”
The Rue Royale was a blaze of light. Women swathed in long silk cloaks stepped from cars at restaurant doors. The sight of this world of luxury intoxicated me, urged me, drove me to try and extract some material advantage from my chance meeting with Ribeyre. I felt he was only too anxious to dazzle me with his new glory. Who knows, perhaps I should end by getting something out of his desire to parade his power. What can’t be got from human vanity!
What about my own vanity, when I ascended the steps of the Foreign Office at his side? A tall lackey took us up in the lift—another received us on the first floor.
“Any telephone messages, Fabien?”
“Yes, sir, one from the Minister of Commerce. He is dining with the Minister tomorrow, and says they will meet at the Chamber. I took the message down in writing.”
A minute later we were in a charming little grey and gold room. Ribeyre tapped the desk.
“Vergennes’ table,” he said casually. “Excuse me,” he added, sitting down. He began to open letters, marking them with a red pencil as he did so. “Don’t mind about talking. This isn’t a very exacting job. Tell me what you are doing. How far have you got with the University?”
I told him the whole story from my leaving Henri IV. to my approaching appointment at M. Berthomieu’s. He looked up.
“You’ve accepted it?”
“What else could I do?” I answered sharply. “I can’t starve.”
Starve! The word sounded oddly among all the Gobelins, Boule furniture and Sèvres.
Ribeyre rose. I had an intuition that I was saved.
“You needn’t go to Berthomieu’s, old chap. You’ll do for yourself at that game. I know you, and I’m positive you’re not made for the University. What you want is this.”
With a sweep of his hand he indicated the pageant of power about us.
What a psychologist Ribeyre was!
“Listen,” he said, perching himself on the arm of my chair. “Have you any objection to leaving the country for a bit? I say for a bit, because it is only in Paris that the game is really played and won. At present you haven’t a sou. This is the sort of place where a fellow like you with enough to live on for a year and no material preoccupations could have the future at his feet.”
“Well?” said I, breathless.
He went on, relishing the pleasure of appearing such a great man. “All right, then. You will do me a good turn in exchange for mine. I lunched this morning with Marçais at the German Embassy. Do you know Marçais? He is our Minister at Lautenburg. Have you heard of Lautenburg?”
“It is one of the German States.”
“It is the Grand Duchy of Lautenburg-Detmold. Reigning Sovereign, His Highness Frederick-Augustus,” he said magisterially. “His Highness is afflicted with an heir of about fifteen, for whom he is seeking a tutor. You know that French is a sine qua non in every Court. Have you got your licence?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Do you know German?”
“Fairly well; enough for the Sorbonne.”
“Doesn’t matter. They all talk French over there. Well, the Grand Duke instructed Marçais, when he left for Paris, to find him a tutor. Marçais is a charming fellow, a man of real distinction!... Charvet makes him his exclusive ties. Afterwards he destroys the model. But this is no reproach. He’s not much good at getting out of a hole. Yesterday he casually told me of his mission. He is going to the Ministry of Education tomorrow, and as you can imagine, he will find tutors galore there, especially in view of the salary the Grand Duke offers—ten thousand marks a year.”
“Ten thousand marks!” I echoed in amazement.
“We must fix the thing up at once. I’ll write a note to Marçais.”
He read it out to me. I could only blush at the compliments he lavished on me.
“Marçais will get this tomorrow morning. He is a punctilious old fellow, and if he’s up at nine o’clock it will be to summon you. By the way, what’s your address?”
“7, Rue Cugas.”
“Don’t forget to give your Rue Cugas a call or you may miss his appointment.”
“Give me the note,” I said. “I’ll post it myself.”
My eagerness obviously flattered him. A vain smile spread over his face.
“Lucky dog! Instead of old Berthomieu’s fare you’re going to sample life at a castle, or, rather, a palace. Lautenburg is a marvellous place, I’m told. Marçais preferred remaining there to two years’ promotion. The Grand Duke is a pleasant fellow. The Grand Duchess hunts foxes better than a man. Marçais told me he killed his best horse trying to keep up with her. The only thing is, mind you make a place for yourself.”
I saw him glance at my poor clothes.
“You need not be afraid of that,” I broke in, with an assurance that surprised him. He looked at me and smiled again.
“I do believe I’m revealing you to yourself. Keep at it over there, old chap. Come back to us with a few spare thousands. My chief is well established here, but if he sinks I shall leave the ship first. We shall come up smiling. If you really want to get something useful out of people you must have passed the stage of depending on them. There’s nothing better than a Minister’s cabinet, but you must be able to sit tight and have something in reserve. Otherwise you may find yourself reduced to selling local offices for two thousand francs. You won’t find it hard to save six thousand marks over there. You’ll have no expenses, so fit yourself out well. It is money invested at a hundred per cent. You might copy Marçais in that. If he wasn’t so well-dressed he’d have been booted out long ago.”
So spake Etienne Ribeyre. Among other valuable tips, he had just proved to me that in life it may often happen that a casual acquaintance can do more for you than a friend.
Oh, lovely October moon, gazing down on Paris! The Seine flowed in a soft purple mist. I posted my note in the Rue de Bourgogne at the corner by the Chamber of Deputies. Then I felt I must have a walk to be alone with my thoughts. Ten thousand marks! Twelve thousand, five hundred francs! Money does not mean happiness! Then what on earth does? What had given me that confident step, that self-assurance, that lightness of heart?
The Rue de Varenne, the Rue Barbet-de-Jouy, the Boulevard Montparnasse, in turn witnessed my triumphal march. I took no notice of my fellowmen, for I was in my hour. I do not know how my gaze happened to fall, near the Observatory, on a figure moving furtively under a lamp. It was a slip of a girl, with a fleece of red-gold hair. My joy was too great that evening for me to bear it alone. But, standing by her, not for a moment did I think that her body was really her own. The slight form was that of the women of the Champs-Elysées, of the beauties of Maxim’s, nay, of those maidens, incomparably fairer, who were doubtless even then awaiting me in a far away German Court, on the banks of a Wagnerian river, beguiling the weary hours with the sweetest strains of the Intermezzo.
Ten o’clock, and the appointment with M. Thierry which I had almost forgotten. He was reading in a corner by the fire, and when I entered he came forward with a beatific smile.
“I have arranged everything with M. Berthomieu. You are to go to him.”
“My dear master,” I replied, “I’m afraid I have given you all the trouble for nothing.”
And I told him all that had happened the previous evening. In spite of my wish to appear unmoved, I could not manage to conceal my pleasure. I was disappointed that he did not seem to share it at once. He looked at me with astonishment, even with disapproval, I thought.
These university people are all the same, I reflected, no salvation outside the University. I abandoned the pose I found so unnatural to proclaim far and wide my pride in my new glories.
“And, after all,” I wound up, “I ask myself how many examinations I should have to pass, how many years I should have to wait to reach the position which is open to me at the start, ten thousand marks a year.”
“That’s true,” he murmured, musing. He looked into the fire for a minute, then got up and went to the bookcase, from which he returned with a large volume in one of those dull-coloured, gilded, but tasteless bindings which characterize many English and German books.
“Are you certain that the proposal has been made to you on behalf of the Grand Duke of Lautenburg-Detmold?” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied, “on behalf of the Grand Duke Frederick-Augustus.”
“That’s the man. To be tutor to his only son, Duke Joachim.”
It was thus that I learnt the name of my future pupil.
My old tutor thought a few seconds more, and then, raising his glasses towards me:
“May I ask if you are already bound by any formal contract?”
“Not yet, strictly speaking, but my mind is made up, and I shall go unless some one else is preferred to me.”
“In that case let us say no more,” said M. Thierry, putting the book back.
I was intrigued and a little annoyed.
“My dear master,” I said, “will you be really frank with me? I know you are too interested in my welfare to suggest my refusing such an attractive offer unless you had very serious reasons for doing so. Besides, I may confess that in coming to you this morning I hoped to obtain some valuable information about the Court of Lautenburg-Detmold for your unique knowledge of the men and affairs of modern Germany. I am sure you are even more familiar with these details than I suspected. I am to interview Count de Marçais, our Minister at Lautenburg, very shortly, but it will not be easy for me to question him. Besides, a diplomatist must doubtless observe a certain reticence, which you have not the same reason to consider with me. To put it shortly, may I ask you a question which sums up all this? If you had a son, Monsieur Thierry, would you let him do what I propose to do? Would you let him go to Lautenburg?”
He looked straight at me, and replied firmly, “No.”
I confess that my astonishment began to give place to a slight feeling of apprehension. I knew perfectly well that it was not childish pique at my not accepting the post he had found for me, that influenced a man of his profound judgment.
“You must have very good reasons, sir,” I said, my voice trembling a little, “to give me so categorical an answer.”
“I certainly have,” he replied.
“Would you mind telling me what it was you looked up in that book?”
“My dear boy, don’t start thinking that that year book of Reigning Houses contains any details of a kind to justify the apprehension I feel at your going to Lautenburg. I have verified a name, confirmed certain recollections—that’s all.
“It is true that I have certain private information about the House of Lautenburg-Detmold of which Count de Marçais himself might know nothing, even assuming that he were a more gifted diplomatist than he is reported to be. Besides, he has not been very long at Lautenburg, and never knew the late Grand Duke Rudolph.”
“Who was the Grand Duke Rudolph?”
“Haven’t you ever heard of him? He was the elder brother of the present Grand Duke. He died a few years ago, two, if I remember rightly.”
“So it was his death which gave the succession to the Grand Duke Frederick Augustus?”
“Not directly. The constitution of Lautenburg-Detmold is peculiar. The Salic Law does not apply, and the ducal crown, on the Grand Duke’s death, passed to his wife, the Grand Duchess Aurora Anna Eleanor.”
“So she has married her brother-in-law?”
“Quite so, and thus it happens that in the absence of children of the Grand Duke Rudolph, your future pupil, Duke Joachim, son of the Grand Duke Frederick and some German countess, is now the heir presumptive to the State of Lautenburg-Detmold. To alter the situation the marriage of his father with the Grand Duchess Aurora would have to be honoured with a bond, a thing which seems most improbable.”
“I seem to remember something about it now,” I said. “Wasn’t there a German Grand Duke who died in Africa—the Congo—while engaged in geographical research two or three years ago?”
“Precisely,” replied M. Thierry. “That was the Grand Duke Rudolph. He was always an enthusiastic geographer. His travels could not, it is true, be described as altogether unpolitical. When I remember that a few months later we had Agadir and the loss of the Congo, I can’t help thinking that the Grand Duke of Lautenburg had been sent to accomplish some mission on behalf of his august cousin, the Kaiser. It is true he hadn’t much time in which to effect his purpose as he died in the Congo shortly after his arrival. It would be interesting....”
“But what is there in all this, sir,” I broke in, “that in any way accounts for the solicitude you’ve just shown on my behalf?”
He seemed put out.
“My dear boy,” he said, with an obvious effort. “A historian’s plain duty is to accept as fact only what he has been able to verify. From that point of view I confess that my knowledge is confined to vague rumours barely susceptible of proof. Certain reports, an allusion or two, and last—but not least—certain details communicated to me some time back by a friend whose name I must withhold—that’s all. I should perhaps add the proverb that there is no smoke without fire.”
“Couldn’t you be a little more precise as to the purport of the rumours?”
“Will you promise you will keep this entirely to yourself?” he said.
“I give you my word.”
“I am told that violent deaths are not unknown at the Court of Lautenburg-Detmold.”
My curiosity reached fever-heat.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“Unfortunately, or rather, fortunately, nothing definite. Still, we can’t ignore the fact that two persons stood between Duke Frederick Augustus and the crown.”
“But the Grand Duke Rudolph died of sunstroke in the Congo,” I said. “It was reported in the press.”
“Agreed. That was a natural death all right, but apparently the same cannot be said of the death of Countess von Tepwitz—the present Duke’s first wife and the mother of Duke Joachim.”
“Do you mean that the Grand Duke was responsible for her death?”
“The Grand Duke Frederick Augustus is a very extraordinary man,” continued M. Thierry, “able, well-educated, but a master of dissembling. Is he playing for his own hand? Or for that of the King of Würtemberg, his immediate suzerain? Or, indeed, for the Kaiser? I have studied this question from the point of view of German high politics. It isn’t a simple one. Frederick Augustus is a man of ambition, and I don’t think he would stop at anything.”
“Anyhow,” I said, “his calculations have had to take account of the Grand Duchess Aurora. Her consent to marry him was an essential factor.”
M. Thierry smiled.
“They might have been in collusion. I admit I don’t know that side of the question. In fact, I know nothing of the Grand Duchess except her age,” he said, taking up the blue and gold book again, “her Christian names—Aurora—Anna—Eleanor; her Russian origin, and that she was a Tumene princess. The Tumenes are the most powerful family in the Government of Astrakhan. Has she acted in collusion with the present Grand Duke? It is possible. You know as well as I that reasons of state sometimes dictate marriages, but, as I said, I know nothing about her.”
“All this does not seem very enlightening, but in any case, I can’t see why a humble tutor should have to suffer for the intrigues of such high personages.”
“That sounds plausible, but how can you ever say what may result from these sordid affairs. You might find yourself drawn in without knowing it Do you know, in fact, exactly what your duties are? I will tell you what is really in my mind. Your salary is to be ten thousand marks, isn’t it? I can’t help thinking that figure is unduly high. Your friend Boubelet, with Normale and his agrégation behind him had only eight thousand from the King of Saxony.”
I saw clearly that the old professor had some very definite reason for speaking in this way, but that fear of compromising himself prevented him from saying more. I admit it would have made no difference in any case. My curiosity was thoroughly aroused. The lust of adventure was kindled within me, and there was no hesitation about the tone in which I answered:
“I am very much obliged, sir, for your kind warning but my mind is made up. By minding my own business and sticking to my own job, I think I can avoid any and every danger. You admit that it is by no means certain I am running any risk. Will you grant me one more favour?”
“Certainly.”
“If anything ever strikes me as suspicious, I will write to you about it and ask your advice. Then will be the time...”
“Don’t do any such thing, my young friend. You had better realize now that over there you will inevitably be surrounded by spies. Never write a letter you don’t want the Grand Duke to read for you can be quite sure that if he wants to, he won’t ask your permission. Once at Lautenburg you’ll be absolutely isolated from the world. I know the palace. Its magnificence does not prevent it being more of a fortress than a château.”
“I shall always have Count de Marçais.”
M. Thierry smiled, a smile which recalled Ribeyre’s words: “He’s not much good at getting out of a hole.”
“Well,” he said, “I see your mind is absolutely made up. After all, my apprehensions are possibly exaggerated. You are young and without dependents. You have resolution and strength of mind. I don’t know whether I have any right to blame your thirst for adventure. From that point of view I’m possibly too much the slave to my academic outlook. Give me peace and a library. For instance,” he concluded, “at Lautenburg you will have one of the finest libraries in the world at your disposal. The Grand Duke’s collection is famous. It contains the manuscripts of Erasmus and most of Luther’s. So go, my boy.
“One minute, though,” he added. “Come back after you have seen Count Marçais. I may be able to give you some practical hints on the best way of performing your tutorial functions.”
A note, with a dainty purple seal, was waiting for me at my lodgings. Count Marçais wrote that he would be delighted to see me that day at three o’clock. As I walked to the house of the French Minister at Lautenburg in the Rue Alphonse de Neuville, I reviewed the details of my conversation with M. Thierry. He knows a good deal more than he likes to say, I thought. Was I really being a fool? Well, it remained to be seen. After all, there is no greater folly than letting 12,000 a year go at twenty-five for the pleasure of leading a dull, cul-de-sac existence.
In the light of after events my opinion remains the same.
Count Mathieu de Marçais had much the same appearance and presence as those with which tradition endows Melarclus, notably the reserved, knowing air of the diplomatist. With such a mask a man can afford the luxury of an empty head. No one can ever find anything to challenge there.
A pleasant-looking woman in her forties, surrounded by elaborate implements, was engaged in manicuring the nails of the Minister Plenipotentiary when I was shown up.
“I cannot apologize enough, sir,” he said in his very best style, “for the unceremonious manner in which I have to receive you. But time, dear sir, you know what a precious gift time is in Paris. You can imagine how I, who only spend a fortnight a year in this delightful city, have to economize it.”
He poured out half a dozen commonplaces of the same species, looking at himself in the mirror, and stealing sidelong glances at me. I guessed intuitively that this preliminary survey, so important for a man of his stamp, was not altogether unfavourable. But I also gathered that I should not exactly shake his poor opinion of the way in which University men dressed.
When one of his hands had been finished, and was dangling in a bowl of warm rosewater, he decided to get to the point.
“Of course, dear sir, nothing was further from my thoughts than to ask you here to put you through a kind of entrance examination, a task for which I am totally unfitted. I know that you possess all the educational qualifications required. As to the moral and intellectual qualifications, your friend Ribeyre’s recommendation guaranteed them even before I was in a position to judge from my own observations.”
I bowed. He bowed. He seemed overwhelmed with his own eloquence.
“You will, no doubt, wish to know the nature of your duties at Lautenburg. They will not be exacting! Duke Joachim already has a science tutor. Major von Kessel is responsible for his military education. Your functions will be to teach him French and History. General History, of course. Oh, yes! There is one thing on which the Grand Duke particularly insisted....”
“Now we’re coming to it,” I thought, remembering M. Thierry’s suspicions.
“Do you read poetry well?”
I was somewhat taken aback, though the question was disarmingly simple.
“I really can’t say. It’s a little difficult....”
“It’s essential. The Grand Duke told me to insist upon it. The reason is that the Grand Duchess is passionately fond of French poetry. Probably you will be lent to her occasionally. It is a surprise that his Highness has in store for his wife, who is always complaining that Lautenburg is very lacking in this respect. ‘My dear Count,’ he said to me, ‘I know you are a man of culture and good taste, I leave it to you.’ So you will forgive me, dear sir, if I ask for proof in this matter. See,” he added, indicating a bookcase with his wet hand. “There are some excellent poets there. Pick and read what you like.”
To tell the truth, the collection in the bookcase was very much out of date. I was obliged to select a volume of Casimir Delavigne, and I did my best with his splendid poem Les Limbes:
Ils volent, mais on n’entend pas
Battre leurs ailes.
“Excellent! Excellent!” quoth Count Marçais, the connoisseur. “Isn’t it, Madame Mazerat?”
The manicurist made a sharp, clucking noise to demonstrate the pleasure my performance had given her. I’ve seen many absurd scenes in my life—but none more absurd than that.
“All is well, then,” said the Count. “I have no need to tell you that you will be treated with the deference due to your position. The Grand Duke is a man of the greatest charm. The Grand Duchess”—he raised his eyebrows—“is a Russian, and that means everything as regards beauty. Prince Joachim is very tractable, but perhaps a trifle slow-witted. After all, we don’t look for French vivacity in Germans. Lastly, the Court is full of charming men and lovely women. Do you ride?”
I indicated that I did not.
“You must learn. You will ride with Kessel, a marvellous horseman. Of course you must come to lunch at the Legation. I have a weird little sketch by Poiret, of which you must give me news. You will see it when I get back in ten days’ time. You leave before me as you are expected as soon as possible. If you catch the 10 P.M. the day after tomorrow, you will be in Lautenburg about nine on Sunday morning.”
“Very well,” I said.
“Very well. Remember me gratefully to the Grand Duke, and convey my respectful homage to Her Highness the Grand Duchess. Oh, Heavens! What am I forgetting!”
He rose, and took a sealed envelope from his wallet.
“The Grand Chamberlain, Herr von Soldau, asked me to give you this,” he said discreetly. “Travelling expenses. Good-bye and good luck. Excuse me, Madame Mazerat. I am now entirely at your service.”
I had never spent a penny on a cab in Paris, except when luggage made one necessary going on or returning from holidays. As soon as I came out, however, I took one straight to my lodgings, so great was my haste to see what was inside that envelope I dared not open in the street.
Indeed, I soon began to feel the benefits that accrue from the society of the great. “The Herr Tutor,” ran a document, with the heading of the Ducal chancery, “will please find within the first quarter’s salary and a thousand marks for travelling expenses.” Three thousand five hundred marks accompanied this pleasant invitation.
Four thousand francs and more! I, who had entered Paris only the day before without knowing what I should have to live on in a week’s time, possessed four thousand francs and more!
My call on M. Thierry was on my mind, and I decided to get it over at once, telling him I should be leaving the next day.
I found him in his room.
“I can see by your face,” he said, “that everything is going well with you. I am glad of it, as perhaps I have alarmed you unnecessarily. When do you start?”
“Tomorrow,” I said.
“So this is your last visit, dear boy. What can I say to you? I am sure you will carry out your pedagogic functions admirably. Don’t forget the great maxim of Pascal’s father: ‘Try to keep your pupil ever worthy of his task.’ That principle cannot be observed by the ordinary schoolmaster who has to address himself to the average of a class. But when you are dealing with a single pupil you can, and should, apply it.”
The splendid old man then gave me some suggestions as to the choice of books in preparing my courses of study. He insisted on my taking his History of German Literature, which I was to find extremely valuable on many occasions at Lautenburg.
“You’ve no need to thank me,” he said, as I murmured words of gratitude. “Probably it is I who will be in your debt. I told you that at Lautenburg you will have a magnificent library at your disposal. The librarian, Professor Cyrus Beck—whom I have met occasionally at various conferences—is a jealous guardian, but he is also a man of learning. I have no doubt that you will be allowed the use of the books and manuscripts which do not bear directly on the great work—the history of the theories of the transmutation of metals—on which he is engaged. You may know, perhaps, that I am myself writing a book on manners and customs at the Court of Hanover at the end of the seventeenth century. I noticed at the Nationale in the catalogue of the Ducal library at Lautenburg, that it contains material of the very highest importance. When you left me this morning I went there to make a list of the principal works I should like you to consult for me if you would be so kind. I am sure that you would find the task very absorbing. Here is my list. I attach particular importance to this work, Stattmutter der Köninglichen Häuser Hannover und Preussen, by the Grand Duchess of Ahlden, published at Leipzig in 1852. In Paris we have only an incomplete reprint. I also recommend the works of Cramer and Palmblad as well as the Roman Octavia (Die Römische Octavia) of Duke Ulrich von Wolfenbüttel.
“Unfortunately,” he continued, as I carefully folded his list, “I have only been able to note the printed books. The manuscripts at Lautenburg are not catalogued, but it is by examining them, dear boy, that you can render me the greatest service. There is not the slightest doubt that you will discover there the most precious material on German society of the seventeenth century, that society superficially so refined to the outward eye, but in reality more vicious and cruel than has ever been imagined.”
He held out his hands. His emotion told me that there was something still to come.
“I would not for anything hark back to our conversation of this morning,” he murmured at length; “but you know, my boy, the interest I take in you. I am more conscious of it than ever now you are going. I beg of you never to yield to the desire, even to the invitations you will doubtless get, to be drawn from your academic functions. Lautenburg is a rich mine of material for those like ourselves whose mission it is to write history. Let us write it and avoid the temptation to make it.”
There was nothing but sincerity in my promise to keep this parting advice ever present in my mind.
“Just one other thing. I know nothing of the Lautenburg household except Prince Joachim, the Grand Duke, the Grand Duchess and Count Marçais. At one time there was a certain Baron von Boose there. If he is still there don’t see more of him than you can help. Be on your guard against him; always be on your guard against him.”
I was curious to know the reason of this final warning, but M. Thierry was once more the historian, the discreet official.
“No, no,” he said, “these impressions are too personal. Above all, if that man is no longer at Lautenburg, never ask anything about him. Wait till his name is mentioned or some allusion is made to him. Come, dear boy, it is time to go.”
We shook hands. I have never seen him since.
The feeling of depression in which this visit left me quickly vanished when I got to the money-changers, where I converted half my German notes into French money. I spent the rest of the afternoon in visits to tailors, boot makers and hosiers. For the first time in my life I knew the exquisite, almost painful joy of spending money without reckoning. As I was stock size I had no difficulty at “Old England” in finding a suit, overcoat, and boots to fit. My shabby clothes were wrapped up and sent to my lodgings. Then, as my confidence rose, I tried my luck at a fashionable tailor’s. On the strength of my new appointment, I ordered dress clothes, a frock coat and another lounge suit I paid the eight hundred francs required in advance in return for the promise that they would be delivered during the evening of the next day.
Seven o’clock.
Oh! the wondrous beauty of the Boulevard des Capucines in October! Oh, the joy of finding oneself well dressed and with money—lord of all, absolutely lord of all!
The pale blue lamps of the Olympia presented their barbaric curtain of light. Cabs rolled by. Taxis tooted. The Madeleine, peering through the evening mist, raised on high its huge, shadowy entablature. On, on. All this would be behind me the day after tomorrow. I meant to enjoy my ephemeral royalty.
I experienced a curious sensation. I had money, but I could not make it give me acquaintances on the spot I had money, but without a friend to prove it, I might just as well have been without it.
A sudden recollection brought a bright idea to my mind. I went into Weber’s. Ribeyre and his friends of the previous evening would be just on the point of meeting. The thought of Clotilde possessed my mind. She had been wearing a long black velvet cloak above which peeped her small head with its coils of glossy fair hair.
What a treat to appear before her in my new glory!
Ribeyre had already arrived.
“Hullo, old boy! All’s well. I’ve just seen Marçais. He’s delighted. You seem to have the voice of the charmer all right. Good Lord, you haven’t wasted much time,” he said, noticing my transformation.
I thought I detected a touch of sarcasm in his tone. I thought of Gautier’s story of Baudelaire rubbing his new suit with sandpaper to take off that offensive nap so dear to philistines and bourgeois. My confidence was a little shaken. I almost expected to see my newly-won joys dissolve on the spot. Then I thought, “What does it matter? I know it’s only ready-made, but I couldn’t come here in my shabby boots and a suit two years old. Just let them wait a day or two!”
And the knowledge that I had been fitted out at one of the most expensive tailor’s restored my spirits entirely.
Clotilde arrived. She had on white fox furs which seemed to me the last word in luxury and good taste. When I had bought a poor flower-seller’s entire stock of violets for her, she condescended to notice my existence and soon made me feel I was much more to her liking.
“Clotilde,” said Ribeyre, “if you love me you will exchange Surville for my friend Vignerte this evening. He is in funds and he’s leaving the day after tomorrow, two things which women seldom fail to appreciate.”
A quarter of an hour earlier this extremely masculine joke would have jarred on me very greatly, but the terrible white port was already at work, and besides Clotilde wore an amused smile and did not say no.
Surville arrived with the other man, one Mouton-Massé. They were both in the Ministry of the Interior.
“We can’t stick in this hole,” said lanky Surville. “Twice running is too much. Charmed to see you, sir. You dine with us, of course?”
“My friend Vignerte wants you to give him the pleasure of being your host,” said Ribeyre. “He is leaving the day after tomorrow for the Court of Lautenburg and wants us to share his travelling expenses.”
Little Mouton-Massé indicated that my desire met with his approval.
“Where shall we go?”
For a good ten minutes these gentlemen discussed the point, tossing from mouth to mouth names utterly unknown to me: “Viel,” “Les Sergents,” “La Tour,” and even stranger animal names, “Le Coucou,” “L’Escargot,” “L’Ane Rouge.”
I was not listening. A third glass of port had wafted me to Paradise itself. The warm restaurant atmosphere went to my head. I thought with some disdain of my prospects of yesterday, with its poor man’s education, its fellowships, the Heads of the four Faculties and the Vice-Rector in his room in the Rue des Écoles. These fashionable women and young men of the world who flittered round me under the lights reminded me of the cold passages of the Sorbonne and Henri Martin’s fresco of Anatole France, dressed as an explorer in a landscape dotted with flowers, explaining to a dozen ill-dressed young graduates his personal conception of human destiny.
There is the true conception of life, I thought, gazing admiringly at Clotilde, who was pinning the mauve and green bouquet to her white fur.
Ribeyre and his friends being at length of one mind we took a taxi which put us down in the Place Gaillon at the door of some restaurant, the name of which I have forgotten. Within, heavy hangings shut off the dining-room from the prying eyes of passers-by. Surville knew the place and led us to a small private room where five covers were soon laid.
I sat next to Clotilde, or rather (a matter of more concern to me) the woman who bore that name. I may as well say I have completely forgotten what we had at this famous meal. Everything was unquestionably highly spiced, for we drank like fishes. “You must give me carte blanche,” said Ribeyre, with a mocking glance first at Clotilde, then at Surville. A diminutive black waiter took our orders in the grand manner. I’m not certain but I think Ribeyre had met him before. “No champagne,” he had said. I know no more. We began with a little Pouilly, dry as frost, to accompany the oysters. Then Mouton-Massé, who hailed from that region, suggested some ’92 Saint-Emilion, whereupon Clotilde insisted upon Beaune, the wine of her own country. I did not lose this opportunity of winning her favour and ventured to ask the waiter to bring the best. Then Ribeyre improved the occasion by ordering Wolscheim in one of those long-necked, narrow-mouthed bottles. I should add that the greatest triumph was mine in winding up with the suggestion of a wine from the sandy Landes. None of the others had ever tried this formidable juice of grapes which on our barren dunes drink in the pale yellow rays of an ocean sun—a drink which leaves your head clear and your body active but plays the devil with your legs.
Surville and Mouton-Massé kept me in small talk. Clotilde called me Raoul and made me promise to send her postcards. Ribeyre, stronger in the head, never stopped talking to the little black man except to signal, “Don’t you worry,” with his eyes.
I felt a god, with the extra joy of being aware of my rapid ascent. I saw again the miserable boneshaker which had borne me two days before to the God-forsaken station in the Landes. One small lamp in the darkness; and wind, real wind, wind from the sea. Within me even blacker darkness.
The Sauterne, liquid gold, sparkled in the glasses. The shades of the lights were reflected in it like little crimson tulips. I saw Clotilde’s teeth shine on the glass from which she sipped, with little laughs that made her white throat shake. Her hand on mine communicated to me the tremors of that yielding, artless creature. Ribeyre was in the highest spirits. Mouton-Massé was busy with crêpes-au-Kirsch; Surville was drinking.
There was a scene when the liqueurs came and Surville insisted on claret glasses.
Mouton-Massé vainly pointed out that liqueur glasses would do if the bottles were left on the table. He wouldn’t be satisfied, so they gave him one. The staff had gone. The cigar smoke dimmed the light. The flowers were dying on the table. Surville snored. Mouton-Massé had pulled out a note-book and was attempting some absurd calculation in which he got tied up and swore volubly. Ribeyre, who hadn’t abandoned his original notion, slipped his right arm under my left, his left under Clotilde’s right, and drew us together. Then he whispered in the ear of the girl, who laughed gaily, her lips moist and a little shiver rippling down her back.
By the evening of Friday, October 24th, 1913, everything was ready for my departure.
My clothes were packed in a big, new trunk. A smaller one held my books. I hadn’t the heart to throw away any of the poor friendly things I had accumulated in my lodgings, the relics of three years of joyless toil. I had it all properly packed in the old box which had been my mother’s, not forgetting my uniform of an officer of the Reserve, already shabby with two periods of training—poor officers are never slow to avail themselves of these extra trainings. I took it to the station myself and dispatched it addressed to the old curé with whom I stayed in my vacations.
At five o’clock I had finished a letter telling him of my new start in life. I had settled up my affairs. I had rather more than 2,300 francs left, allowing for ten louis I had been glad to lend Ribeyre. I decided to send the same amount to my old curé for his crumbling church among the dunes.
When I had posted my letter in the Rue de Tournon, I made my way to Luxemburg. I passed the white Medici Fountain, where I had so often waited for the nymphs of my dreams. The sentry was sheltering out of sight in his box. The great Royal garden had never been so deserted as on this evening when autumn felt the first touch of winter. Beneath the bare trees, under a darkening golden sky, the cold circle of queens on their marble pedestals showed strangely white in the falling light.
The clock of the Senate struck half-past five. The silence of death reigned in the heart of Paris. The fountains had ceased to play and the great octagonal basin spread its mirror, clearer—by some miracle—than the sky itself. A man, the only man beside myself in the famous garden, was standing at the edge in the curious attitude of a man sowing seeds. He was throwing bread to the birds. There were some three dozen sparrows, and fat grey pigeons, gawky, restless birds. He was an old man in a seedy black coat with the remains of a fur collar. There was a bag at his feet. I went up and the birds flew away. The old fellow cast me a reproachful glance, threw his bag over his shoulder and shambled off. When I left the garden myself it was quite dark.
Four hours later I caught the Paris-Berlin express at the Gare de l’Est.