AMAURY, page 7
“My dear Philip,” replied Amaury, “you must not bear me any ill-will for the slight delay, because it must have been evident to you, when you called two days ago, that I was nearly out of my mind; you chose an unfortunate time, that was all. But to-day, on the contrary, you come just at the right moment. I am delighted to see you this morning; so sit down, and unburden yourself of this serious business which makes you so stiff and formal.”
A forced smile appeared on Philip’s lips, and with the air of an actor who takes breath before beginning his speech, uncertain of the effect he will produce on his audience, he said:
“I must ask you to remember, my dear Amaury, that I am an advocate; therefore I pray you, give me a patient hearing, and do not interrupt nor make any comments until I have finished speaking. I, on my side, promise that my speech will not take more than a quarter of an hour.”
“Be careful,” Amaury said laughingly, “I face the clock, and at this moment it is ten minutes after nine.”
Philip looked at his watch, and compared the two time-keepers with his usual imperturbable gravity, then turning to Amaury, he said:
“That clock is five minutes fast.”
“Are you sure?” said Amaury, now laughing outright, “are you positive it is not your watch that is slow? My poor Philip, you always remind me of the man who was born one day too late, and has ever since spent his time trying to catch up with it.”
“Yes,” said Philip, “I know that is an unfortunate fault of mine, or rather the fault of my indecision of character. I can never make up my mind until long after others have come to a decision. But this time, thank God, I think I am in time.”
“Take care; if you waste your time in holding forth, perhaps some one else will take advantage of your dilatoriness, and once more you will find yourself too late.”
“If that is so,” said Philip, “it will be your fault, because I had asked you not to interrupt me, and that is the very first thing you do.”
“Well! go on, then; this time I am listening. Now what do you want to tell me?”
“A story which you know just as well as I do, but it is necessary for me to go over it again in order to lead up to the sequel.”
“Now, my dear boy,” said Amaury, “are you and I going to act over again the scene between Augustus and Cinna? Do you, by chance, suspect me of conspiracy?”
“This is the second time you have interrupted me, Amaury, in spite of your promise; then you will reproach me directly and say that my speech has lasted longer than I said it would.”
“No! old fellow, I shall bear in mind the great fact that you are an advocate.”
“Do not be frivolous, Amaury, when we are discussing things of importance which should be listened to seriously.”
“Look here, old boy,” said Amaury, leaning on his elbow in bed, and looking as grave as a judge. “Does that suit you? Yes! Well, then, I shall not move a muscle the whole time you are speaking.”
“Amaury,” replied Philip, half serious from the resolution he had taken, half laughing in spite of himself, “do you remember our first year together reading for the bar? We were fresh from college, the first bloom not yet rubbed off our philosophy, wise as Socrates, logical as Aristotle. Your heart and mine would have been the envy of Hippolytus, for if we loved an Aricia, it was but in fancy, and, at our first legal examination, three white balls, symbols of our single-hearted devotion to the Law, were the reward of our zeal, to the great joy of our respective families. As for me, flattered by the praises of my masters and the blessings of my parents, I began to think that, like Saint Anselm, I would die in my maiden gown, but I reckoned without taking into consideration the devil, the month of April, and my eighteen years. The result was that this brilliant plan soon received a sharp check. There were opposite my own windows, two other windows, at which appeared, from time to time, the frowning face of a horrid creature, a perfect type of a Spanish duenna, old, ugly, scowling; her only companion was a dog as hideous as herself, who, if by chance the window opened, would put his two paws on her shoulder, and stare at me curiously through his long, matted hair. I had taken a violent dislike to both dog and mistress, and, I may say, my brilliant start at the end of last year in the career illustrated by Cujas and Delvincourt, was in no slight degree due to my hermetically closed windows and tightly drawn curtains. One day, towards the beginning of March, I noticed with delight a board, six inches by twelve, on which figured the consoling words:
BEDROOM AND DRESSING-ROOM
TO LET
FOR THE APRIL QUARTER.
“Evidently I would soon be rid of my neighbour, and some other human being take the place of this horrid creature who, for two whole years, had marred my view. I therefore looked forward impatiently to the first of April, which is the date of removal for short leases. On the thirty- first of March I received a letter from my kind old uncle, the one who has just left me twenty thousand francs a year, inviting me to spend the next day, which was a Sunday, at his country-house at Enghien. As I was behindhand with my week’s work, I spent part of the night studying, in order to find myself even with you and my comrades on the Monday morning. So instead of waking at seven o’clock, I woke at eight; instead of leaving at eight, I left at nine; and instead of arriving at ten, I arrived at eleven. Breakfast was just about over. Of course the delay had not affected my appetite; I therefore sat down to table, promising the other guests that I would have finished as soon as they; but, though I did my best, and set my jaws to work in right good earnest, everyone had finished long before I had, and as it was a glorious morning, and plans were already made for an excursion on the lake, they said that, whilst waiting for me, they would take a turn on the little pier before embarking.
“They then gave me ten minutes’ grace, and after calculating, I felt certain this would be more than enough.
“But I was reckoning without my coffee; instead of leaving the coffee on the table, the too-officious cook, fearing it might get cold, had placed it on the stove, and now brought it to me boiling hot. I had allowed myself two minutes in which to drink it, and certainly this was a longer time than was necessary in the ordinary way; but, thanks to the extra heat, I had to waste one minute and a half blowing it, and, even then, it was still so hot, that it took me another minute and a half to drink it. I was thus one minute late.
“Unfortunately among the party was a mathematician, the sort of man who is as punctual as a sun-dial, who always reckons by his watch, and who regulates his watch by the sun.
“When the ten minutes agreed upon had elapsed, he took out his watch, remarked to the party that I was late, induced them all to embark and began to loose the boat from her moorings. Just then I appeared in the doorway, and in a moment perceived the joke which they were about to enjoy at my expense, the point of which lay in leaving me on the landing-stage.
“I at once took to my heels, and reached the pier just as the boat was putting off.
“There were scarcely four feet between me and the boat; I therefore thought that it depended only on myself, to turn the laugh with which I was greeted, into a shout of victory.
“I remembered all my gymnastic feats, took a leap, and found myself floundering in the lake.”
“Poor Philip!” cried Amaury, “luckily you can swim like a fish.”
“Yes! but I reckoned without my host again; unluckily the water was two or three degrees below zero; I reached the bank shivering, whilst the mathematician calculated by how many millimetres I had missed alighting on board instead of in the water. Now, as you know, a cold bath, taken under certain conditions is very dangerous, and soon my shiverings developed into a feverish attack, which detained me three days at Enghien. The doctor, however, pronounced me practically cured on the evening of the third day, and at a hint from my uncle that this three days’ delay might endanger my chances for my degree, I left for Paris, and at about ten o’clock at night once more found myself installed in my room in the Rue Saint-Nicolas-du-Chardonneret.
“Before turning in, I knocked at your door, but you were either out or in bed. This detail, which I did not notice at the time, came back to my mind later.”
“But what the devil are you driving at?”
“You will soon see. I then went to bed, respecting either your absence or your slumber, and slept like a man who is just recovering from illness. I woke with the song of birds in my ears, and thought myself still in the country. The goldfinch after which my street is named having died long ago, or, perhaps, who knows, having never been anything better than a myth, I opened my eyes, wondering whether I should see grass, flowers, and the ‘winged songster,’ as Monsieur Delille would say, whose melodious voice reached my ear, and to my great amazement I did see it all. There was even more than I expected, because through my windows, — I had quite forgotten the previous night to draw the curtains, — I caught sight of the prettiest little grisette imaginable, her face framed in wall-flowers and roses; she was sentimentally decorating with pimpernel a cage containing five or six different kinds of birds, — linnets, canaries, goldfinches, who, thanks probably to the mild rule under which they existed, seemed, spite of their different species, to live most happily together. It was a regular Dutch interior after Van Mieris. As you know, I am a lover of pictures. I must have been quite an hour studying this one, which appeared to me all the more attractive in that it took the place of a vision which, for two years, had been particularly distasteful to me, that of my old woman and her old dog. During my absence, my Tisiphoné had removed bag and baggage, and this charming grisette taken her place. That very day I felt that I should fall violently in love with my charming neighbour, and that I must seize the first opportunity to let her know it.”
“I see perfectly what is coming, my dear Philip,” said Amaury, laughing heartily; “but I hope you have forgotten this little episode in which I had the misfortune to be your rival, and to forestall you by three or four days.”
“Quite the reverse, my dear Amaury, I remember too well every detail; and as you have forgotten these details, it is well that I should remind you of them, so that you may realize how much you have wronged me.”
“Really do you wish to challenge me to a retrospective duel?”
“No! on the contrary, I have come to ask you to do me a favour; but first of all I wish to tell you my past history, so that, in addition to the strong friendship which exists between us, and which predisposes you to help me, you may understand that you also owe me reparation for many wrongs.”
“Well! to go back to Florence.”
“Was her name Florence? ‘cried Philip, “what a charming name; well, would you believe it? I never even knew her name. However, let us go back to Florence, as you call her. As I have told you once or twice before, I immediately resolved on two things, which was a great deal for me to do, as you know I often have trouble to make a single resolution; though true it is, that once this resolution taken, no one follows it up more perseveraciously than I. Why, I do believe I have just coined a new adverb.”
“You have a perfect right to do so,” Amaury replied gravely.
“The first resolution was to fall violently in love with my neighbour,” Philip continued; “this was much the easier of the two, and that very day I put it into execution.
“The second was to declare my passion at the first opportunity, and this was not so easy of accomplishment.
“To begin with, I had to find the opportunity, and then to take advantage of it.
“For three days I kept a watch on her, — the first day, through my curtains, for I feared to startle her by letting her see me too suddenly.
“The second day, through my window- panes, for I did not dare yet to open my window.
“The third day, with my window open, I saw with delight that my boldness did not scare her.
“At the end of the third day, I watched her throw a light shawl over her shoulders and button her boots; evidently she was preparing to go out.
“Here was the longed-for moment; I made up my mind to follow her.”
CHAPTER X.
PHILIP continued: — “I had decided on my plan of action.
“I was to accost her, if I dared, give her my arm and offer to accompany her to her destination, and on the way, tell her of the ravages which in these three days her little saucy nose, bright smile and white teeth had wrought in me.
“I took first my stick, then my hat, and lastly my overcoat, and hurried down the five flights as quickly as I could. But although I made all possible haste, she was already thirty paces ahead of me when I reached the door.
“Instantly I set out in pursuit of her. But in order not to alarm her, you will understand that I had to be discreet, and only overtake her gradually.
“At the corner of the Rue Saint- Jacques I had gained ten paces on her, at the corner of the Rue Racine, twenty, finally in the Rue Vaugirard I was just going to join her, when suddenly she darted through a porte cochère, ran across the court and up a staircase, of which only the bottom steps were visible from the road.
“For a moment I thought I would not give up the chase, and decided to wait for her in the court, but at sight of a porter engaged in sweeping it out, my courage failed me.
“He would certainly ask what I was doing there, and I should not know in the least what to reply, or to say for whom I was waiting; in fact I did not even know the name of my charmer. I therefore had to content myself with waiting outside, — and mounted sentry there, which inspired me once for all with a rooted dislike to the national guard.
“One hour, two hours, two hours and a half passed away, and still no signs of the idol of my heart. Had I scared the timid gazelle?
“Night came and still I waited; I had neither Joshua’s secret nor his power to command the sun to stand still.
“At last, by the light of the oil-lamp burning on the staircase, appeared the cotton dress of my fugitive fair, and at the same time I saw the bottom of a young man’s cloak, the ferrule of whose stick I heard resound against the stairs at each step he took.
“Was it her lover? was it her brother? Probably the former, possibly the latter. I recalled the wise man’s proverb:
“‘Forbear, when in doubt,’ and I forbore.
“The grisette and her escort passed within four paces without seeing me, it was such a dark night.
“This event decided me to change my tactics; the same thing might happen again.
“Besides, in the bottom of my heart, and although reproaching myself for such pusillanimity, I knew that when the critical moment came for accosting her, my courage, which when away from her was unassailable, might very possibly fail me; therefore my wisest plan would be to write.
“Accordingly I sat down at once to carry out my scheme.
“But to write a love letter — a letter on which would depend my fair neighbour’s opinion of me, and consequently decide what progress I made in her affections, — was no easy thing; besides, this was the first I had ever written.
“I spent the greater part of the night making a rough draft, which, on reading over next morning, seemed to me detestable.
“I wrote a second, I wrote a third, and eventually decided on the one I have here.”
Philip took the copy from his pocket- book, and read the following: — “MADEMOISELLE, “To see you is to love you; I have seen you and I love you.
“Each morning I watch you feeding your birds, lucky creatures to be tended by such lovely hands, watering your roses, less brilliant than the roses in your cheeks, and your wall-flowers, less sweetly-scented than the breath which stirs your bosom, and these few moments suffice to fill my days with fancies, my nights with dreams.
“Mademoiselle, you do not know who I am, nor do I know who you are; but one who has but caught a glimpse of you may easily guess how tender and loving a heart is hidden by so attractive an exterior. Surely your mind is as poetical as your beauty, and your thoughts as bewildering as your looks. Happy is the man in whose power it will be to realize these dreams, sacrilegious he who could be so cruel as to destroy these charming illusions.”
“I have, I think, succeeded fairly well in imitating the literature of the day,” said Philip, well pleased with himself.
“That is just what I was wishing to remark,” Amaury replied, “only you implored me not to interrupt you.”
Philip continued:
“You see, Mademoiselle, how well I love you. And you — has no secret instinct yet whispered to you that here, near you, in the opposite house, a little above the level of your windows, lives a young man, who, though possessed of a fair fortune, is alone and isolated in this world, and longs for the companionship of a heart that loves and understands him. That he will gladly give his blood, his life, his soul, to the angel who will descend from heaven to fill his lonely life, and that his love will be, not a silly, passing fancy, but an adoration for every day, every hour, every moment.
“Mademoiselle, if you have never seen me, have you never felt my presence?”
Philip stopped a second time, and looked at Amaury, as if to ask his opinion on this second part of the letter.
Amaury nodded his head approvingly, and Philip continued:
“Therefore, I beseech you, forgive the impassioned longing I cannot resist to tell you the deep and unchangeable feelings which the mere sight of you have inspired in me.
“Forgive my having dared to reveal this humble and passionate love, which is my very life.
“Do not be offended by the avowal of one who respects you truly; if you consent to believe in the sincerity of this heart’s devotion, grant me permission to express in person, and not in cold words only, all the tenderness and respect I bear you.
“Mademoiselle, grant me the boon of admitting me to my adored one’s presence.
“I do not ask you to reply to this, oh, no! I do not soar so high; but one word, one sign, one gesture, and I will fly to your feet and remain there till my life’s end.
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