The Deputy of Arcis

V

THE COMTESSE DE L’ESTORADE TO MADAME OCTAVE DE CAMPS

Paris, March, 1839.

About the year 1820 in the course of the same week two news (to use the schoolboy phrase of my son Armand) entered the college of Tours.  One had a charming face, the other would have been thought ugly if health, frankness, and intelligence beaming on his features had not compensated for their irregularity and inelegance.

Here you will stop me, and ask whether I have come to the end of my own adventure, that I should now be writing this feuilleton-story.  No, this tale is really a continuation of that adventure, though it seems little like it; so, give it your best attention and do not interrupt me again.

One of these lads, the handsome one, was dreamy, contemplative, and a trifle elegaic; the other, ardent, impetuous, and always in action.  They were two natures which completed each other; a priceless blessing to every friendship that is destined to last.  Both had the same bar-sinister on them at their birth.  The dreamer was the natural son of the unfortunate Lady Brandon.  His name was Marie-Gaston; which, indeed, seems hardly an actual name.  The other, born of wholly unknown parents, was named Dorlange, which is certainly no name at all.  Dorlange, Valmon, Volmar, Melcourt, are heard upon the stage and nowhere else; already they belong to a past style, and will soon rejoin Alceste, Arnolphe, Clitandre, Damis, Eraste, Philinte, and Arsinoe.

Another reason why the poor ill-born lads should cling together was the cruel abandonment to which they were consigned.  For the seven years their studies lasted there was not a day, even during the holidays, when the door of their prison opened.  Now and then Marie-Gaston received a visit from an old woman who had served his mother; through her the quarterly payment for his schooling was regularly made.  That of Dorlange was also made with great punctuality through a banker in Tours.  A point to be remarked is that the price paid for the schooling of the latter was the highest which the rules of the establishment allowed; hence the conclusion that his unknown parents were persons in easy circumstances.  Among his comrades, Dorlange attained to a certain respect which, had it been withheld, he would very well have known how to enforce with his fists.  But under their breaths, his comrades remarked that he was never sent for to see friends in the parlor, and that outside the college walls no one appeared to take an interest in him.

The two lads, who were both destined to become distinguished men, were poor scholars; though each had his own way of studying.  By the time he was fifteen Marie-Gaston had written a volume of verses, satires, elegies, meditations, not to speak of two tragedies.  The favorite studies of Dorlange led him to steal logs of wood, out of which, with his knife, he carved madonnas, grotesque figures, fencing-masters, saints, grenadiers of the Old Guard, and, but this was secretly, Napoleons.

In 1827, their school-days ended, the two friends left college together and were sent to Paris.  A place had been chosen for Dorlange in the atelier of the sculptor Bosio, and from that moment a rather fantastic course was pursued by an unseen protection that hovered over him.  When he reached the house in Paris to which the head-master of the school had sent him, he found a dainty little apartment prepared for his reception.  Under the glass shade of the clock was a large envelope addressed to him, so placed as to strike his eye the moment that he entered the room.  In that envelope was a note, written in pencil, containing these words:—­

The day after your arrival in Paris go at eight in the morning punctually to the garden of the Luxembourg, Allee de l’Observatoire, fourth bench to the right, starting from the gate.  This order is strict.  Do not fail to obey it.

Punctual to the minute, Dorlange was not long at the place of rendezvous before he was met by a very small man, whose enormous head, bearing an immense shock of hair, together with a pointed nose, chin, and crooked legs made him seem like a being escaped from one of Hoffman’s tales.  Without saying a word, for to his other physical advantages this weird messenger added that of being deaf and dumb, he placed in the young man’s hand a letter and a purse.  The letter said that the family of Dorlange were glad to see that he wished to devote himself to art.  They urged him to work bravely and to profit by the instructions of the great master under whose direction he was placed.  They hoped he would live virtuously; and, in any case, an eye would be kept upon his conduct.  There was no desire, the letter went on to say, that he should be deprived of the respectable amusements of his age.  For his needs and for his pleasures, he might count upon the sum of six hundred and fifty francs every three months, which would be given to him in the same place by the same man; but he was expressly forbidden to follow the messenger after he had fulfilled his commission; if this injunction were directly or indirectly disobeyed, the punishment would be severe; it would be nothing less than the withdrawal of the stipend and, possibly, total abandonment.

Do you remember, my dear Madame de Camps, that in 1831 you and I went together to the Beaux-Arts to see the exhibition of works which were competing for the Grand Prix in sculpture?  The subject given out for competition was Niobe weeping for her children.  Do you also remember my indignation at one of the competing works around which the crowd was so compact that we could scarcely approach it?  The insolent youth had dared to turn that sacred subject into jest!  His Niobe was infinitely touching in her beauty and grief, but to represent her children, as he did, by monkeys squirming on the ground in the most varied and grotesque attitudes, what a deplorable abuse of talent!—­

You tried in vain to make me see that the monkeys were enchantingly graceful and clever, and that a mother’s blind idolatry could not be more ingeniously ridiculed; I held to the opinion that the conception was monstrous, and the indignation of the old academicians who demanded the expulsion of this intolerable work, seemed to me most justifiable.  But the Academy, instigated by the public and by the newspapers, which talked of opening a subscription to send the young sculptor to Rome, were not of my opinion and that of their older members.  The extreme beauty of the Niobe atoned for all the rest and the defamer of mothers saw his work crowned, in spite of an admonition given to him by the venerable secretary on the day of the distribution of the prizes.  But, poor fellow!  I excuse him, for I now learn that he never knew his mother.  It was Dorlange, the poor abandoned child at Tours, the friend of Marie-Gaston.

From 1827 to 1831 the two friends were inseparable.  Dorlange, regularly supplied with means, was a sort of Marquis d’Aligre; Gaston, on the contrary, was reduced to his own resources for a living, and would have lived a life of extreme poverty had it not been for his friend.  But where friends love each other—­and the situation is more rare than people imagine—­all on one side and nothing on the other is a determining cause for association.  So, without any reckoning between them, our two pigeons held in common their purse, their earnings, their pains, pleasures, hopes, in fact, they held all things in common, and lived but one life between the two.  This state of things lasted till Dorlange had won the Grand Prix, and started for Rome.  Henceforth community of interests was no longer possible.  But Dorlange, still receiving an ample income through his mysterious dwarf, bethought himself of making over to Gaston the fifteen hundred francs paid to him by the government for the “prix de Rome.”  But a good heart in receiving is more rare than the good heart that gives.  His mind being ulcerated by constant misfortune Marie-Gaston refused, peremptorily, what pride insisted on calling alms.  Work, he said, had been provided for him by Daniel d’Arthez, one of our greatest writers, and the payment for that, added to his own small means, sufficed him.  This proud rejection, not properly understood by Dorlange, produced a slight coolness between the two friends; nevertheless, until the year 1833, their intimacy was maintained by a constant exchange of letters.  But here, on Marie-Gaston’s side, perfect confidence ceased, after a time, to exist.  He was hiding something; his proud determination to depend wholly on himself was a sad mistake.  Each day brought him nearer to penury.  At last, staking all upon one throw, he imprudently involved himself in journalism.  Assuming all the risks of an enterprise which amounted to thirty thousand francs, a stroke of ill-fortune left him nothing to look forward to but a debtor’s prison, which yawned before him.

It was at this moment that his meeting with Louise de Chaulieu took place.  During the nine months that preceded their marriage, Marie-Gaston’s letters to his friend became fewer and far-between.  Dorlange ought surely to have been the first to know of this change in the life of his friend, but not one word of it was confided to him.  This was exacted by the high and mighty lady of Gaston’s love, Louise de Chaulieu, Baronne de Macumer.

When the time for the marriage came, Madame de Macumer pushed this mania for secrecy to extremes.  I, her nearest and dearest friend, was scarcely informed of the event, and no one was admitted to the ceremony except the witnesses required by law.  Dorlange was still absent.  The correspondence between them ceased, and if Marie-Gaston had entered the convent of La Trappe, he could not have been more completely lost to his friend.

When Dorlange returned from Rome in 1836, the sequestration of Marie-Gaston’s person and affection was more than ever close and inexorable.  Dorlange had too much self-respect to endeavor to pass the barriers thus opposed to him, and the old friends not only never saw each other, but no communication passed between them.

But when the news of Madame Marie-Gaston’s death reached him Dorlange forgot all and hastened to Ville d’Avray to comfort his friend.  Useless eagerness!  Two hours after that sad funeral was over, Marie-Gaston, without a thought for his friends or for a sister-in-law and two nephews who were dependent on him, flung himself into a post-chaise and started for Italy.  Dorlange felt that this egotism of sorrow filled the measure of the wrong already done to him; and he endeavored to efface from his heart even the recollection of a friendship which sympathy under misfortune could not recall.

My husband and I loved Louise de Chaulieu too tenderly not to continue our affection for the man who had been so much to her.  Before leaving France, Marie-Gaston had requested Monsieur de l’Estorade to take charge of his affairs, and later he sent him a power-of-attorney to enable him to do so properly.

Some weeks ago his grief, still living and active, suggested to him a singular idea.  In the midst of the beautiful park at Ville d’Avray is a little lake, with an island upon it which Louise dearly loved.  To that island, a shady calm retreat, Marie-Gaston wished to remove the body of his wife, after building a mausoleum of Carrara marble to receive it.  He wrote to us to communicate this idea, and, remembering Dorlange in this connection, he requested my husband to see him and ask him to undertake the work.  At first Dorlange feigned not to remember even the name of Marie-Gaston, and he made some civil pretext to decline the commission.  But see and admire the consistency of such determinations when people love each other!  That very evening, being at the opera, he heard the Duc de Rhetore speak insultingly of his former friend, and he vehemently resented the duke’s words.  A duel followed in which he was wounded; the news of this affair has probably already reached you.  So here is a man facing death at night for a friend whose very name he pretended not to know in the morning!

You will ask, my dear Madame de Camps, what this long tale has to do with my own ridiculous adventure.  That is what I would tell you now if my letter were not so immoderately long.  I told you my tale would prove to be a feuilleton-story, and I think the moment has come to make the customary break in it.  I hope I have not sufficiently exalted your curiosity to have the right not to satisfy it.  To be concluded, therefore, whether you like it or not, in the following number.