Paris in the Twentieth Century (12 page)

"Bravo!"
cried Jacques.

"But
then, " the pianist continued, "certain ambitious natures felt the
need to follow new and unknown paths, and they have dragged music after them...
into the abyss!"

"Are
you saying, " Michel asked, "that you no longer count a single
composer after Meyerbeer and Rossini as a true musician?"

"Not
at all!" answered Quinsonnas, boldly modulating from D natural to E flat;
"I'm not talking about Berlioz, leader of that impotent troupe whose
musical ideas were packaged in envious feuilletons; but here are some of the
heirs of the great masters: listen to F
é
licien
David
[27]
,
a specialist whom our contemporary experts take for King David, first harpist
of the Hebrews! Savor those true and simple inspirations of Mass
é
[28]
,
the last musician of heart and feeling, who in his
Indienne
has
given us the masterpiece of his period! Then there's Gounod, the splendid
composer of
Faust
who died soon after having taken
orders in the Wagnerian church. And then Verdi, the man of harmonic noise, the
hero of musical racket, who made wholesale melody the way certain writers of
the period made wholesale literature—Verdi, creator of the inexhaustible
Trovatore,
who
played his singular part in distorting the century's taste...

Enfin Wagnerbe
vint... "
[29]

At
this moment, Quinsonnas let his fingers, no longer constrained by any
recognizable rhythm, wander into the incomprehensible reveries of Contemplative
Music, proceeding by abrupt intervals and disappearing into the midst of an
endless phrase.

With
incomparable talent the artist had evidenced the successive gradations of his
art; two hundred years of music had just passed beneath his fingers, and his
friends listened to him, mute and marveling. Suddenly, in the midst of a
powerful elucubration on the Wagnerian school, at the moment when thought was
vanishing, dismayed, with no hope of returning to its true path, when sounds
gradually gave way to noises whose musical value was no longer appreciable—suddenly
a simple, melodic piece, of gentle character and perfectly apt feeling, began
to sing beneath the pianist's fingers. This was the calm after the storm, the
heart's true note after so much wailing and roaring.

"Ah!"
Jacques smiled.

"My
friends, " Quinsonnas resumed, "there is still one great unknown
artist who alone epitomized the genius of all music. This piece dates from
1947, and it is the last sigh of expiring art. "

"And
it's by... ?" Michel asked.

"It's
by your father, who was my beloved master. "

"My
father!" the young man exclaimed, nearly in tears.

"Yes.
Listen. " And Quinsonnas, reproducing melodies which Beethoven or Weber
would have been proud to sign, rose to the sublime heights of interpretation.

"My
father!" Michel repeated.

"Yes!"
Quinsonnas replied, closing his piano with contained fury. "After him,
nothing! Who would understand his music now? Enough, my sons—enough of this
return to the past! Let us remember the present, our present, when
industrialism has come into its own, its empire, its triumph!" And with
these words he touched the instrument, whereupon the keyboard folded up and in
its place revealed a bed entirely made up, with a well-stocked night table
attached to one side. "Now this, " he said, "is what our epoch
was worthy of inventing! A piano-bed-dresser-commode!"

"And
night table as well, " Jacques added.

"Just
as you say, my dear fellow. That puts the lid on it!"

Since
that memorable evening, the three young men had become close friends; they
constituted a little world of their own in the vast capital of France.

Michel
spent his days on the Ledger, apparently resigned to his work, though his
happiness was spoiled by not having time to visit Uncle Huguenin, with whom he
would have felt in the bosom of a veritable family, having his uncle for father
and his two friends for elder brothers. He wrote frequently to the old librarian,
who replied almost as often.

Four
months passed in this fashion; Michel evidently gave satisfaction in the offices;
his cousin treated him a little less scornfully; Quinsonnas praised him to the
skies. The young man had apparently found his way—he was born to dictate.

Winter
passed, stoves and gas heaters mustered to combat it with success. And spring
arrived. Michel obtained a whole day's freedom, a Sunday, and resolved to
spend it with Uncle Huguenin. At eight in the morning he gaily left the bank
building, delighted to breathe more oxygen away from the central business
district. The weather was splendid. April was awakening and preparing its new
flowers, with which the florists waged advantageous combat; Michel felt very
much alive.

His
uncle lived far away, having had to transport his Penates where it did not cost
too much to shelter them. Young Dufrénoy proceeded to the Madeleine station,
took his ticket, and hoisted himself onto an upper-level seat; the signal for
departure sounded, and the train moved up the Boulevard Malesherbes, soon
leaving on its right the heavily ornamented church of Saint-Augustin and on its
left the Parc Monceau, surrounded by splendid edifices; it crossed the two Metropolitan
rings and stopped at the Porte d'Asni
é
res
station, near the old fortifications. The first part of the journey was over:
Michel leaped down and followed the Rue d'Asni
é
res
as far as the Rue de la R
é
volte,
turned left, passing under the Versailles Railway, and finally reached the
corner of the Rue du Caillou. Here stood an apartment house of modest
appearance, high and densely inhabited; he asked the concierge for Monsieur
Huguenin.

"Ninth
floor, first door to your right, " responded this important personage, a
government employee directly appointed to this confidential position. Michel
thanked him, took his place in the elevator, and in a few seconds was standing
on the ninth-floor landing. He rang. Monsieur Huguenin himself came to the
door.

"Uncle!"
exclaimed Michel.

"My
dear boy!" the old man replied, throwing wide his arms. "Here you are
at last. "

"Yes,
Uncle, and my first free day is for you!"

"Thank
you, my boy, " replied Monsieur Huguenin, leading the young man into his
apartment. "What a pleasure to see you! But sit down, let me have your
hat, make yourself comfortable—you'll stay awhile, won't you?"

"All
day, Uncle, if it's no trouble for you. "

"Trouble!
My dear boy, I've been waiting for you all this time!"

"Waiting!
But I really haven't had time to let you know in advance—I'd have got here
before my letter. "

"I
expected you each Sunday, Michel, and your place has always been set at the
table, as it is now. "

"Can
this be possible?"

"I
knew perfectly well you'd be coming to see your uncle one day or another. Till
now, it's always been another. "

"I
wasn't free, Uncle. "

"I
know you weren't, my boy, and I'm not in the least put out about that; far from
it. "

"How
happy you must be, living here, " said Michel, glancing enviously around
him.

"You're
looking at these old friends of mine, my books! All in good time, but let's
begin with some lunch; we'll talk about all this later, though I promised
myself I wouldn't discuss literature with you. "

"Oh,
Uncle, please!" Michel pleaded.

"We'll
see! There are other things to discuss! Tell me what you're doing, how you're
getting on in that bank! Are your ideas... ?"

"Still
the same, Uncle. "

"The
devil you say! Let's sit down, then! But it seems to me you haven't yet given
me a hug. "

"Not
yet, Uncle, not yet!"

"Now
let's begin all over again, Nephew! It can't do me any harm, I haven't eaten
yet; in fact, it will give me an appetite. "

Michel
embraced his uncle with all his heart, and the two took their places at the
table. Yet the young man kept staring around him, for there was every reason
to appeal to his poet's curiosity. The little salon which, along with a
bedroom, formed the whole apartment was lined with books; the walls were quite
invisible behind the shelves; old bindings attracted Michel's gaze, their warm
colors embrowned by time. And books had even invaded the next room, ranked over
doors and inside the window bays; there were books on all the furniture, around
the fireplace, even on the floors of the gaping cupboards; these precious
volumes bore little resemblance to the opulent but useless libraries of the
rich; they seemed instead to be at home, masters of the place, and quite at
ease, though often in towering piles; moreover, there was not a speck of dust
anywhere, not a corner of a page was turned down, no stain marred the fine
covers; it was apparent that a friendly hand had prepared their ablutions each
morning.

Two
old armchairs and a table dating back to the days of the Empire with gilded
sphinxes and Roman fasces constituted the salon's furnishings.

Though
the room enjoyed a southern exposure, a courtyard's high walls kept the sun
from penetrating very far—only once a year, at the summer solstice on June 21,
if the weather was fine, the highest sunbeam brushed the neighboring roof and
slid through the window, coming to rest like a bird on the corner of a shelf
or the back of a book, shimmered there a moment, its luminous projection
tingeing the tiny atoms of dust; then, after a moment, it resumed its flight
and vanished until the following year.

Uncle
Huguenin knew this shelf, always the same one, quite well; he watched it, heart
pounding, with an astronomer's attention; he bathed in its beneficent light,
set his old clock according to its passage, and thanked the sun for not having
forgotten him. This was his own version of the Palais-Royal cannon, except that
it went off only once a year, and not always then! Uncle Huguenin did not
forget to invite Michel to make a solemn visit on June 21, and Michel promised
to be there for the celebration.

Lunch
was on the table, modest but enthusiastically served. "This is my gala
day, " the uncle remarked, "today is my treat. By the way, do you
know with whom you're dining this evening?"

"No,
Uncle. "

"With
your old Professor Richelot and his granddaughter, Mademoiselle Lucy. "

"My
word, Uncle! What a pleasure it will be for me to see that good man. "

"And
Mademoiselle Lucy?"

"I
don't know her. "

"Well,
Nephew, you'll make her acquaintance, and I can tell you she's a charming
creature, and no mistake! So there's no need to tell her as much, " Uncle
Huguenin added with a laugh.

"I'll
be careful not to."

"After
dinner, if you like, the four of us can go for a stroll. "

"Just
what I'd like, Uncle! That way, our day will be complete!"

"You're
not eating any more, Michel. Won't you have something more to drink?"

"Certainly,
Uncle, " replied Michel, who was feeling full. "To your health.
"

"And
to your next visit, my boy; for when you leave here, it still seems like a long
journey to me! Now tell me something about yourself—how is life treating you
these days? You see, this is the moment for confidences. "

"I'm
glad it is, Uncle. "

Michel
described at some length all the details of his existence, his problems, his
poor performance with regard to the calculating machine, without omitting the
episode of the self-defending safe, and finally the better days spent on the
heights of the Ledger. "It was up there that I met my first friend. "

"Ah,
you have friends, " Uncle Huguenin remarked with a frown.