The novels, romances, and memoirs of Alphonse Daudet (26 page)

"This, then, is your young patrician, your pearl of an aristocratic faubourg — her name is Pierrotte and she sells china in the Passage du Saumon. Ah, I understand now why you did not want to give me the box! " And she laughed and laughed.

My dear Jacques, I do not know what possessed me, whether it was shame, spite or rage, but I could stand it no longer, and threw myself upon her to seize the letters. She was frightened, stepped backwards, and, becoming entangled in her train, fell with a shrill cry. Her horrible

negress heard her from the next room and ran in at once, half-naked, black, hideous and dishevelled. I wanted to prevent her from coming in, but with the back of her big oily hand she nailed me against the wall, and placed herself between her mistress and me.

In the meantime, her mistress had picked herself up, and was pretending to cry. \Vhile she cried, she continued to ransack the box.

"You don't know," said she to her negress, "you don't know why he wanted to beat me? Because I discovered that his noble young lady is not noble at all, and that she sells plates in the Passage du Saumon."

" Those who wear spurs are n't horse-jockeys," said the old woman, talking in proverbs.

" There, look," said the actress, " look at the love-tokens his shop-girl gave him. A few hairs from her head and a nosegay of violets bought for a sou. Bring your lamp here, White-Cuckoo !"

The negress brought her lamp; the hair and the flowers blazed and crackled. I let her go on ; I was utterly overwhelmed.

"Oh! what's this?" the actress went on as she unfolded a bit of tissue-paper. " A tooth ? No, it looks like sugar. Yes, upon my word, it's an allegorical lollipop, a little sugar heart."

Alas, one day, at the fair of Pr^s-Saint-Gervais the black eyes had bought this little sugar heart and had given it to me, saying:

" I give you my heart."

The negress looked at it with a covetous eye.

"Do you want it, Cuckoo?" cried her mistress. "Wellj catch it."

And she threw it into her mouth as if into a dog's. Perhaps it is absurd, but when I heard the sugar crack in

the negress' jaws, I shuddered from head to foot. It seemed to me that it was really the heart of the black eyes that this monster with black teeth was devouring so joyously.

You may think, poor Jacques, that after this all was over between us ? I may as well tell you that if, on the day after this scene, you had gone into Irma Borel's apartment, you would have found her reciting the part of Hermione with her hunchback; and, squatting in a corner, on a mat, beside the cockatoo, you would have seen a young Turk, with a great pipe which went three times round his body. What a characteristic head you have. Dani-Dan !

"But, at least," you will say, "for the price of your infamy you found out what you wanted to know, and what became of her every morning from eight to ten ? " Yes, Jacques, I found it out, but only this morning, after a terrible scene — and it will be the last, I promise you — that I am going to tell you of. But, hush ! Somebody is coming upstairs. If it were she, and if she came to hunt me out again? She is quite capable of it, even after what has passed. Wait! I am going to double-lock the door. She won't come in, don't be frightened-She must not come in.

Midnight.

It was not she ; it was her negress. That surprised me, too; I had not heard her carriage return. The White-Cuckoo has just gone to bed. Through the partition, I can hear the gurgling of the bottle and the horrible tune, Tolocototignafi. Now, she is snoring; it sounds like the pendulum of a great clock.

This is the way our sad love-affair ended.

About three weeks ago, the hunchback who gives her lessons declared that she was ripe for success in tragedy,

and that he wanted her, with certain others of his scholars, to give a performance.

My actress was enchanted. As there was no theatre to be had, it was agreed that the studio of one of her friends should be turned into a playhouse, and that invitations should be issued to all the managers of the Parisian theatres. As to the choice of a play for the iirst appearance, after much discussion, Athalie was decided upon. It was the one of all their stock pieces that the hunchback's scholars knew best. Nothing was needed to put it into running order, except a few rehearsals to make it a little smoother. So it was to be Athalie. As Irma Borel was too great a lady to put herself out, the rehearsals took place in her house. Every day the hunchback brought his pupils, four or five tall, thin, solemn girls, draped in French cashmere shawls at thirteen francs fifty apiece, and three or four poor devils with dirty paper costumes and heads Uke ship-wrecked men. They rehearsed all day, except from eight to ten ; for, in spite of the preparations for the performance, the mysterious expeditions had not ceased. Irma, the hunchback, the pupils, and everybody worked like mad. For two days they forgot to feed the cockatoo. As to young Dani-dan, nobody paid attention to him. In short, everything was going on well: the studio was decorated, the stage erected, the costumes were ready, and the invitations sent, when, three or four days before the performance, the young Eliacin — a little girl of ten, the hunchback's niece — fell ill. What was to be done ? Where could an Eliacin be found — a child capable of learning his part in three days ? There was general consternation. Suddenly, Irma Borel turned to me :

" By the way, Dani-Dan, suppose you should undertake it?"

" 11 You are joking. At my age !"

" He thinks himself a man, does n't he ? But, my little fellow, you look as if you were fifteen, and, on the stage, when you are dressed and painted, you won't look more than twelve. Besides, the part is quite in the character of your head."

It was useless for me to struggle, dear Jacques. I had to do as she wanted, as usual. I am such a coward.

The play took place. Ah, if I had the heart to write, how I might amuse you with the account of that day! They had counted upon the managers of the Gymnase and the The'atre-Fran^ais; but it turned out that these gentlemen were engaged elsewhere, and we had to be contented with a manager from the suburbs, brought in at the last moment. On the whole, this little family show did not go off badly. Irma Borel was warmly applauded. I thought this Cuban Athalie was too emphatic, that she lacked expression, and spoke French Hke a Spanish sparrow; but, pooh ! her friends the artists were not so critical. Her costume was authentic, her ankles slender, and her head well set on her shoulders. That was all they wanted. As for me, my characteristic head achieved a great success. Not so great, however, as that of the White-Cuckoo in her mute role of nurse. It is true that the head of the negress was still more characteristic than mine. So when, at the fifth act, she appeared, holding on her wrist the enormous cockatoo, — the actress had insisted that her Turk, her negress, and her cockatoo should all figure in the play, — and rolling her big, white, ferocious eyes with an expression of amazement, there was a tremendous explosion of bravos in the room.

" What a success ! " said the radiant AthaUe.

Jacques, Jacques ! I hear her carriage returning. Oh, the wretched woman ! Where does she come from

so late? Then she must have forgotten our horrible morning, which still makes me tremble. . The door has shut again. If she only does not come up here ! You see how dreadful it is to live so near to a woman one abhors.

One o'clock.

The play I have been telling you about took place three days ago.

During these three days, she has been gay, sweet, affectionate and charming. She has not once beaten her negress. Several times she has asked me news of you, and if you still coughed ; yet, God knows, she does not love you. I ought to have suspected something.

This morning she came into my room as it was striking nine. Nine o'clock! I had never seen her at that hour. She approached me, and said smiling:

" It is nine o'clock."

Then, becoming suddenly serious :

" My dear," said she, " I have deceived you. When we met I was not free. There was a man in my life when you came into it; a man to whom I owe my luxury, my leisure, all I have." I told you, Jacques, that the mystery covered some infamy.

" From the first day I knew you, this connection became odious to me. If I did not tell you of it, it was because I knew you were too proud to consent to share me with another. If I did not break it, it was because it was hard for me to renounce this indolent and luxurious existence, for which I was born. To-day, I can live thus no longer. The falsehood weighs upon me, the daily deceit drives me mad. And, if you still want me after the confession I have just made to you, I am ready to leave all and to live with you in a corner, wherever you like."

These last words "wherever you Uke" were said in a whisper, close to me, almost upon my lips, to intoxicate me.

I had the courage, however, to answer, even very dryly, that I was poor, that I did not earn my own living, and could not ask Jacques to support her.

At this reply, she raised her head proudly.

" Well, if I have found an honorable and sure means for both of us to earn our living without separating, what should you say?"

Thereupon, she drew from her pocket a stamped paper with some rigmarole upon it that she proceeded to read to me. It was an engagement for both of us at a theatre in one of the suburbs of Paris; for her, at the rate of a hundred francs a month, for me, at the rate of fifty. All was ready, and we had but to sign.

I looked at her in terror. I felt that she was dragging me into a hole, and I feared for a moment lest I was not strong enough to resist. When she had finished reading the jargon, without giving me time to answer, she began to speak .excitedly of the splendors of a theatrical career, and of the glorious life we should lead there, free, proud, and far from the world, all alone with art and love-She said too much, and that was a mistake. I had time to recover myself, and invoke Mother Jacques in the depths of my heart; so that when she had finished her tirade, I could say to her very coldly :

" I don't wish to be an actor."

Of course she did not let go, but began her fine speeches again.

Her trouble went for nothing, for to all she could say to me, I answered only one thing :

" I do not wish to be an actor."

She began to lose patience.

"Then," said she, turning pale, "you prefer to have me return there from eight to ten, and to have things remain as they are."

To this I rephed, somewhat less coldly :

" I prefer nothing. I think it is very honorable of you to wish to earn your living and no longer owe it to the generosity of the gentleman from eight to ten. I merely repeat to you that I do not feel I have the slightest theatrical vocation, and that I will not be an actor."

At this, she burst out:

"Ah ! you don't want to be an actor? What will you be, then? Do you think, perhaps, that you are a poet? He thinks himself a poet! But you have no qualifications for it, poor fool ! Because you have printed a miserable book that nobody wants, you think yourself a poet. You wretch! Your book is idiotic, and everybody says so. For the two months that it has been for sale, but one copy has been sold, and that is mine. You, a poet, come now ! Nobody but your brother could believe in such folly. He, too, is a nice simpleton, and has written you some verv good letters. He is enough to make one die laughing with his review by Gustave Planche. In the meanwhile he works himself to death to support you, and you, all the time, you — you — what is it, indeed, that you do ? Do you know yourself? Because your head happens to have a certain character of its own, you are satisfied ; you dress Hke a Turk, and think that is enough. In the first place, I warn you that for some time your head has been losing its character, and you are ugly, very ugly. There, look at yourself now! I am sure that if you went back to your Pierrotte girl, she would n't have you ; and yet you are made for each other. You were both born to sell china in the Passage du Saumon. That would suit you far better than going on the stage."

The Sugar Heart. , 283

She foamed at the mouth and strangled. You never saw such frenzy. I looked at her without speaking. When she finished, I approached her, — I was trembling in every fibre, ■— and said calmly :

"I don't wish to be an actor." With that, I went toward the door, opened it, and showed it to her.

"You want me to go," said she, with a sneer. "Oh, not yet! I have still much more to say."

Then I could control myself no longer. The blood rushed to my face. I seized one of the fire-irons and ran toward her. I can tell you that she decamped quickly. My dear Jacques, at that time I could understand the Spaniard Pacheco.

After she had left me, I took my hat and went downstairs. I kept on running about all day, like a drunken man. Ah, if you had been there ! Once, I thought of going to Pierrette, of falling at his feet, and asking forgiveness from the black eyes. I went as far as the shop-door, but I did not dare enter. It is two months since I have been there. They have written me, but I have not answered ; they have come after me, and I have hidden myself. How could they forgive me? Pierrotte was sitting on his counter, and looked sad. I stayed a minute watching him through the pane, then I fled, weeping.

I went home at night, and wept for a long time by the window; after this, I began to write you. I shall write thus all night. It seems to me that you are with me, that I am talking with you, and that does me good.

What a monster that woman is ! How sure she was of me ! She thought me her plaything, her chattel. Do you understand ? She thought she could carry me off to act in the suburbs. Advise me, Jacques, I am weary and miserable. She has done me much harm, you see; I no longer believe in myself; I doubt and fear. What shall

I do? Work? Alas! she is right; I am no poet; my book has not sold, and what are you to do about paying for it ?

All my life is ruined. I can see my way no farther. I know nothing more. It is all dark. There are names that are predestined. Her name is Irma Borel. In our country Borel means torturer, — Irma the torturer! How well it suits her! I should like to go away from here. This room is odious to me, and then, I am exposed to meeting her on the stairs. But don't worry, for if she ever should come up — But she will not come. She has forgotten me. She has her artists to console her.