The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard

  April-June

  It was a hotly contested engagement.

  "Wait, Monsieur, until I have put on my clean things," exclaimedTherese, "and I will go out with you this time also; I will carry yourfolding-stool as I have been doing these last few days, and we will goand sit down somewhere in the sun."

  Therese actually thinks me infirm. I have been sick, it is true, butthere is an end to all things! Madame Malady has taken her departurequite awhile ago, and it is now more than three months since her paleand gracious-visaged handmaid, Dame Convalescence, politely bade mefarewell. If I were to listen to my housekeeper, I should become averitable Monsieur Argant, and I should wear a nightcap with ribbons forthe rest of my life.... No more of this!--I propose to go out by myself!Therese will not hear of it. She takes my folding-stool, and wants tofollow me.

  "Therese, to-morrow, if you like, we will take our seats on the sunnyside of the wall of La Petite Provence and stay there just as long asyou please. But to-day I have some very important affairs to attend to."

  "So much the better! But your affairs are not the only affairs in thisworld."

  I beg; I scold; I make my escape.

  It is quite a pleasant day. With the aid of a cab and the help ofalmighty God, I trust to be able to fulfil my purpose.

  There is the wall on which is painted in great blue letters the words"Pensionnat de Demoiselles tenu par Mademoiselle Virginie Prefere."There is the iron gate which would give free entrance into thecourt-yard if it were ever opened. But the lock is rusty, and sheetsof zinc put up behind the bars protect the indiscreet observationthose dear little souls to whom Mademoiselle Prefere doubtless teachesmodesty, sincerity, justice, and disinterestedness. There is a window,with iron bars before it, and panes daubed over with white paint--thewindow of the domestic offices, like a glazed eye--the only apertureof the building opening upon the exterior world. As for the house-door,through which I entered so often, but which is now closed against me forever, it is just as I saw it the last time, with its little iron-gratedwicket. The single stone step in front of it is deeply worn, and,without having very good eyes behind my spectacles, I can see the littlewhite scratches on the stone which have been made by the nails in theshoes of the girls going in and out. And why cannot I also go in? Ihave a feeling that Jeanne must be suffering a great deal in this dismalhouse, and that she calls my name in secret. I cannot go away fromthe gate! A strange anxiety takes hold of me. I pull the bell. Thescared-looking servant comes to the door, even more scared-looking thanwhen I saw her the last time. Strict orders have been given; I am not tobe allowed to see Mademoiselle Jeanne. I beg the servant to be so kindas to tell me how the child is. The servant, after looking to her rightand then to her left, tells me that Mademoiselle Jeanne is well, andthen shuts the door in my face. And I am all alone in the street again.

  How many times since then have I wandered in the same way under thatwall, and passed before the little door,--full of shame and despair tofind myself even weaker than that poor child, who has no other help offriend except myself in the world!

  Finally I overcame my repugnance sufficiently to call upon MaitreMouche. The first thing I remarked was that his office is much moredusty and much more mouldy this year that it was last year. The notarymade his appearance after a moment, with his familiar stiff gestures,and his restless eyes quivering behind his eye-glasses. I made mycomplaints to him. He answered me.... But why should I write down, evenin a notebook which I am going to burn, my recollections of a downrightscoundrel? He takes sides with Mademoiselle Prefere, whose intelligentmind and irreproachable character he has long appreciated. He doesnot feel himself in a position to decide the nature of the question atissue; but he must assure me that appearances have been greatly againstme. That of course makes no difference to me. He adds--(and this doesmake some sense to me)--that the small sum which had been placed inhis hands to defray the expenses of the education of his ward has beenexpended, and that, in view of the circumstances, he cannot but gentlyadmire the disinterestedness of Mademoiselle Prefere in consenting toallow Mademoiselle Jeanne to remain with her.

  A magnificent light, the light of a perfect day, floods the sordid placewith its incorruptible torrent, and illuminates teh person of that man!

  And outside it pours down its splendour upon all the wretchedness of apopulous quarter.

  How sweet it is,--this light with which my eyes have so long beenfilled, and which ere long I must for ever cease to enjoy! I wander outwith my hands behind me, dreaming as I go, following the line of thefortifications; and I find myself after awhile, I know not how, in anout-of-the-way suburb full of miserable little gardens. By the dustyroadside I observe a plant whose flower, at once dark and splendid,seems worthy of association with the noblest and purest mourning for thedead. It is a columbine. Our fathers called it "Our Lady's Glove"--legant de Notre-Dame. Only such a "Notre-Dame" as might make herself very,very small, for the sake of appearing to little children, could everslip her dainty fingers into the narrow capsue of that flower.

  And there is a big bumble-bee who tries to force himself into theflower, brutally; but his mouth cannot reach the nectar, and the poorglutton strives and strives in vain. He has to give up the attempt, andcomes out of the flower all smeared over with pollen. He flies off inhis own heavy lumbering way; but there are not many flowers in thisportion of the suburbs, which has been defiled by the soot and smokeof factories. So he comes back to the columbine again, and this time hepierces the corolla and sucks the honey through the little hole whichhe has made; I should never have thought that a bumble-bee had so muchsense! Why, that is admirable! The more I observe, them, the more doinsects and flowers fill me with astonishment. I am like that goodRollin who went wild with delight over the flowers of his peach-trees. Iwish I could have a fine garden, and live at the verge of a wood.