Cousin Pons — Chapter 25
La Cibot’s curiosity, kindled by such words, reached an unimaginable pitch.
She went downstairs and spent the night at Cibot’s bedside, inwardly resolving that Mlle.
Remonencq should take her place towards two or three in the morning, when she would go up and have a look at the document.
Mlle.
Brisetout’s visit towards half-past ten that night seemed natural enough to La Cibot; but in her terror lest the ballet-girl should mention Gaudissart’s gift of a thousand francs, she went upstairs with her, lavishing polite speeches and flattery as if Mlle.
Heloise had been a queen.
“Ah!
my dear, you are much nicer here on your own ground than at the theatre,” Heloise remarked.
“I advise you to keep to your employment.
” Heloise was splendidly dressed.
Bixiou, her lover, had brought her in his carriage on the way to an evening party at Mariette’s. It so fell out that the first-floor lodger, M. Chapoulot, a retired braid manufacturer from the Rue Saint-Denis, returning from the Ambigu-Comique with his wife and daughter, was dazzled by a vision of such a costume and such a charming woman upon their staircase.
“Who is that, Mme.
Cibot?
” asked Mme.
Chapoulot.
“A no-better-than-she-should-be, a light-skirts that you may see half-naked any evening for a couple of francs,” La Cibot answered in an undertone for Mme.
Chapoulot’s ear.
“Victorine!
” called the braid manufacturer’s wife, “let the lady pass, child.
” The matron’s alarm signal was not lost upon Heloise.
“Your daughter must be more inflammable than tinder, madame, if you are afraid that she will catch fire by touching me,” she said.
M.
Chapoulot waited on the landing.
“She is uncommonly handsome off the stage,” he remarked.
Whereupon Mme.
Chapoulot pinched him sharply and drove him indoors.
“Here is a second-floor lodger that has a mind to set up for being on the fourth floor,” said Heloise as she continued to climb.
“But mademoiselle is accustomed to going higher and higher.
” “Well, old boy,” said Heloise, entering the bedroom and catching sight of the old musician’s white, wasted face.
“Well, old boy, so we are not very well?
Everybody at the theatre is asking after you; but though one’s heart may be in the right place, every one has his own affairs, you know, and cannot find time to go to see friends.
Gaudissart talks of coming round every day, and every morning the tiresome management gets hold of him.
Still, we are all of us fond of you--” “Mme.
Cibot,” said the patient, “be so kind as to leave us; we want to talk about the theatre and my post as conductor, with this lady.
Schmucke, will you go to the door with Mme.
Cibot?
” At a sign from Pons, Schmucke saw Mme.
Cibot out at the door, and drew the bolts.
“Ah, that blackguard of a German!
Is he spoiled, too?
” La Cibot said to herself as she heard the significant sounds.
“That is M. Pons’ doing;
he taught him those disgusting tricks....
But you shall pay for this, my dears,” she thought as she went down stairs.
“Pooh!
if that tight-rope dancer tells him about the thousand francs, I shall say that it is a farce.
” She seated herself by Cibot’s pillow.
Cibot complained of a burning sensation in the stomach.
Remonencq had called in and given him a draught while his wife was upstairs.
As soon as Schmucke had dismissed La Cibot, Pons turned to the ballet-girl.
“Dear child, I can trust no one else to find me a notary, an honest man, and send him here to make my will to-morrow morning at half-past nine precisely.
I want to leave all that I have to Schmucke.
If he is persecuted, poor German that he is, I shall reckon upon the notary;
the notary must defend him.
And for that reason I must have a wealthy notary, highly thought of, a man above the temptations to which pettifogging lawyers yield.
He must succor my poor friend.
I cannot trust Berthier, Cardot’s successor.
And you know so many people--” “Oh!
I have the very man for you,” Heloise broke in; “there is the notary that acts for Florine and the Comtesse du Bruel, Leopold Hannequin, a virtuous man that does not know what a _lorette_ is!
He is a sort of chance-come father--a good soul that will not let you play ducks and drakes with your earnings; I call him _Le Pere aux Rats_, because he instils economical notions into the minds of all my friends.
In the first place, my dear fellow, he has a private income of sixty thousand francs; and he is a notary of the real old sort, a notary while he walks or sleeps; his children must be little notaries and notaresses.
He is a heavy, pedantic creature, and that’s the truth; but on his own ground, he is not the man to flinch before any power in creation....
No woman ever got money out of him; he is a fossil pater-familias, his wife worships him, and does not deceive him, although she is a notary’s wife.
--What more do you want?
as a notary he has not his match in Paris.
He is in the patriarchal style; not queer and amusing, as Cardot used to be with Malaga; but he will never decamp like little What’s-his-name that lived with Antonia.
So I will send round my man to-morrow morning at eight o’clock....
You may sleep in peace.
And I hope, in the first place, that you will get better, and make charming music for us again;
and yet, after all, you see, life is very dreary--managers chisel you, and kings mizzle and ministers fizzle and rich fold economizzle.
--Artists have nothing left _here_” (tapping her breast)--“it is a time to die in.
Good-bye, old boy.
” “Heloise, of all things, I ask you to keep my counsel.
” “It is not a theatre affair,” she said; “it is sacred for an artist.
” “Who is your gentleman, child?
” “M. Baudoyer, the mayor of your arrondissement, a man as stupid as the late Crevel; Crevel once financed Gaudissart, you know, and a few days ago he died and left me nothing, not so much as a pot of pomatum.
That made me say just now that this age of ours is something sickening.
” “What did he die of?
” “Of his wife.
If he had stayed with me, he would be living now.
Good-bye, dear old boy, I am talking of going off, because I can see that you will be walking about the boulevards in a week or two, hunting up pretty little curiosities again.
You are not ill; I never saw your eyes look so bright.
” And she went, fully convinced that her protege Garangeot would conduct the orchestra for good.
Every door stood ajar as she went downstairs.
Every lodger, on tip-toe, watched the lady of the ballet pass on her way out.
It was quite an event in the house.
Fraisier, like the bulldog that sets his teeth and never lets go, was on the spot.
He stood beside La Cibot when Mlle.
Brisetout passed under the gateway and asked for the door to be opened.
Knowing that a will had been made, he had come to see how the land lay, for Maitre Trognon, notary, had refused to say a syllable--Fraisier’s questions were as fruitless as Mme.
Cibot’s. Naturally the ballet-girl’s visit _in extremis_ was not lost upon Fraisier; he vowed to himself that he would turn it to good account.
“My dear Mme.
Cibot,” he began, “now is the critical moment for you.
” “Ah, yes...
my poor Cibot!
” said she.
“When I think that he will not live to enjoy anything I may get--” “It is a question of finding out whether M. Pons has left you anything at all; whether your name is mentioned or left out, in fact,” he interrupted.
“I represent the next-of-kin, and to them you must look in any case.
It is a holograph will, and consequently very easy to upset.
--Do you know where our man has put it?
” “In a secret drawer in his bureau, and he has the key of it.
He tied it to a corner of his handkerchief, and put it under his pillow.
I saw it all.
” “Is the will sealed?
” “Yes, alas!
” “It is a criminal offence if you carry off a will and suppress it, but it is only a misdemeanor to look at it; and anyhow, what does it amount to?
A peccadillo, and nobody will see you.
Is your man a heavy sleeper?
” “Yes.
But when you tried to see all the things and value them, he ought to have slept like a top, and yet he woke up.
Still, I will see about it.
I will take M. Schmucke’s place about four o’clock this morning;
and if you care to come, you shall have the will in your hands for ten minutes.
” “Good.
I will come up about four o’clock, and I will knock very softly--” “Mlle Remonencq will take my place with Cibot.
She will know, and open the door; but tap on the window, so as to rouse nobody in the house.
” “Right,” said Fraisier.
“You will have a light, will you not.
A candle will do.
” At midnight poor Schmucke sat in his easy-chair, watching with a breaking heart that shrinking of the features that comes with death;
Pons looked so worn out with the day’s exertions, that death seemed very near.
Presently Pons spoke.
“I have just enough strength, I think, to last till to-morrow night,” he said philosophically.
“To-morrow night the death agony will begin; poor Schmucke!
As soon as the notary and your two friends are gone, go for our good Abbe Duplanty, the curate of Saint-Francois.
Good man, he does not know that I am ill, and I wish to take the holy sacrament to-morrow at noon.
” There was a long pause.
“God so willed it that life has not been as I dreamed,” Pons resumed.
“I should so have loved wife and children and home....
To be loved by a very few in some corner--that was my whole ambition!
Life is hard for every one; I have seen people who had all that I wanted so much and could not have, and yet they were not happy....
Then at the end of my life, God put untold comfort in my way, when He gave me such a friend....
And one thing I have not to reproach myself with--that I have not known your worth nor appreciated you, my good Schmucke....
I have loved you with my whole heart, with all the strength of love that is in me....
Do not cry, Schmucke; I shall say no more if you cry and it is so sweet to me to talk of ourselves to you....
If I had listened to you, I should not be dying.
I should have left the world and broken off my habits, and then I should not have been wounded to death.
And now, I want to think of no one but you at the last--” “You are missdaken--” “Do not contradict me--listen, dear friend....
You are as guileless and simple as a six-year-old child that has never left its mother; one honors you for it--it seems to me that God Himself must watch over such as you.
But men are so wicked, that I ought to warn you beforehand...
and then you will lose your generous trust, your saint-like belief in others, the bloom of a purity of soul that only belongs to genius or to hearts like yours....
In a little while you will see Mme.
Cibot, who left the door ajar and watched us closely while M. Trognon was here--in a little while you will see her come for the will, as she believes it to be....
I expect the worthless creature will do her business this morning when she thinks you are asleep.
Now, mind what I say, and carry out my instructions to the letter....
Are you listening?
” asked the dying man.
But Schmucke was overcome with grief, his heart was throbbing painfully, his head fell back on the chair, he seemed to have lost consciousness.
“Yes,” he answered, “I can hear, but it is as if you vere doo huntert baces afay from me....
It seem to me dat I am going town into der grafe mit you,” said Schmucke, crushed with pain.
He went over to the bed, took one of Pons’ hands in both his own, and within himself put up a fervent prayer.
“What is that that you are mumbling in German?
” “I asked Gott dat He vould take us poth togedders to Himself!
” Schmucke answered simply when he had finished his prayer.
Pons bent over--it was a great effort, for he was suffering intolerable pain; but he managed to reach Schmucke, and kissed him on the forehead, pouring out his soul, as it were, in benediction upon a nature that recalled the lamb that lies at the foot of the Throne of God.
“See here, listen, my good Schmucke, you must do as dying people tell you--” “I am lisdening.
” “The little door in the recess in your bedroom opens into that closet.
” “Yes, but it is blocked up mit bictures.
” “Clear them away at once, without making too much noise.
” “Yes.
” “Clear a passage on both sides, so that you can pass from your room into mine.
--Now, leave the door ajar.
--When La Cibot comes to take your place (and she is capable of coming an hour earlier than usual), you can go away to bed as if nothing had happened, and look very tired.
Try to look sleepy.
As soon as she settles down into the armchair, go into the closet, draw aside the muslin curtains over the glass door, and watch her....
Do you understand?
” “I oondershtand; you belief dat die pad voman is going to purn der vill.
” “I do not know what she will do; but I am sure of this--that you will not take her for an angel afterwards.
--And now play for me; improvise and make me happy.
It will divert your thoughts; your gloomy ideas will vanish, and for me the dark hours will be filled with your dreams....
” Schmucke sat down at the piano.
Here he was in his element; and in a few moments, musical inspiration, quickened by the pain with which he was quivering and the consequent irritation that followed came upon the kindly German, and, after his wont, he was caught up and borne above the world.
On one sublime theme after another he executed variations, putting into them sometimes Chopin’s sorrow, Chopin’s Raphael-like perfection; sometimes the stormy Dante’s grandeur of Liszt--the two musicians who most nearly approach Paganini’s temperament.
When execution reaches this supreme degree, the executant stands beside the poet, as it were; he is to the composer as the actor is to the writer of plays, a divinely inspired interpreter of things divine.
But that night, when Schmucke gave Pons an earnest of diviner symphonies, of that heavenly music for which Saint Cecile let fall her instruments, he was at once Beethoven and Paganini, creator and interpreter.
It was an outpouring of music inexhaustible as the nightingale’s song--varied and full of delicate undergrowth as the forest flooded with her trills;
sublime as the sky overhead.
Schmucke played as he had never played before, and the soul of the old musician listening to him rose to ecstasy such as Raphael once painted in a picture which you may see at Bologna.
A terrific ringing of the door-bell put an end to these visions.
The first-floor lodgers sent up a servant with a message.
Would Schmucke please stop the racket overhead.
Madame, Monsieur, and Mademoiselle Chapoulot had been wakened, and could not sleep for the noise; they called his attention to the fact that the day was quite long enough for rehearsals of theatrical music, and added that people ought not to “strum” all night in a house in the Marais.
--It was then three o’clock in the morning.
At half-past three, La Cibot appeared, just as Pons had predicted.
He might have actually heard the conference between Fraisier and the portress: “Did I not guess exactly how it would be?
” his eyes seemed to say as he glanced at Schmucke, and, turning a little, he seemed to be fast asleep.
Schmucke’s guileless simplicity was an article of belief with La Cibot (and be it noted that this faith in simplicity is the great source and secret of the success of all infantine strategy); La Cibot, therefore, could not suspect Schmucke of deceit when he came to say to her, with a face half of distress, half of glad relief: “I haf had a derrible night!
a derrible dime of it!
I vas opliged to play to keep him kviet, and the virst-floor lodgers vas komm up to tell _me_ to be kviet!...
It was frightful, for der life of mein friend vas at shtake.
I am so tired mit der blaying all night, dat dis morning I am all knocked up.
” “My poor Cibot is very bad, too; one more day like yesterday, and he will have no strength left....
One can’t help it; it is God’s will.
” “You haf a heart so honest, a soul so peautiful, dot gif der Zipod die, ve shall lif togedder,” said the cunning Schmucke.
The craft of simple, straightforward folk is formidable indeed; they are exactly like children, setting their unsuspected snares with the perfect craft of the savage.
“Oh, well go and sleep, sonny!
” returned La Cibot.
“Your eyes look tired, they are as big as my fist.
But there!
if anything could comfort me for losing Cibot, it would be the thought of ending my days with a good man like you.
Be easy.
I will give Mme.
Chapoulot a dressing down....
To think of a retired haberdasher’s wife giving herself such airs!
” Schmucke went to his room and took up his post in the closet.
La Cibot had left the door ajar on the landing; Fraisier came in and closed it noiselessly as soon as he heard Schmucke shut his bedroom door.
He had brought with him a lighted taper and a bit of very fine wire to open the seal of the will.
La Cibot, meanwhile, looking under the pillow, found the handkerchief with the key of the bureau knotted to one corner; and this so much the more easily because Pons purposely left the end hanging over the bolster, and lay with his face to the wall.
La Cibot went straight to the bureau, opened it cautiously so as to make as little noise as possible, found the spring of the secret drawer, and hurried into the salon with the will in her hand.
Her flight roused Pons’ curiosity to the highest pitch; and as for Schmucke, he trembled as if he were the guilty person.
“Go back,” said Fraisier, when she handed over the will.
“He may wake, and he must find you there.
” Fraisier opened the seal with a dexterity which proved that his was no ‘prentice hand, and read the following curious document, headed “My Will,” with ever-deepening astonishment: “On this fifteenth day of April, eighteen hundred and forty-five, I, being in my sound mind (as this my Will, drawn up in concert with M. Trognon, will testify), and feeling that I must shortly die of the malady from which I have suffered since the beginning of February last, am anxious to dispose of my property, and have herein recorded my last wishes:-- “I have always been impressed by the untoward circumstances that injure great pictures, and not unfrequently bring about total destruction.
I have felt sorry for the beautiful paintings condemned to travel from land to land, never finding some fixed abode whither admirers of great masterpieces may travel to see them.
And I have always thought that the truly deathless work of a great master ought to be national property; put where every one of every nation may see it, even as the light, God’s masterpiece, shines for all His children.
“And as I have spent my life in collecting together and choosing a few pictures, some of the greatest masters’ most glorious work, and as these pictures are as the master left them--genuine examples, neither repainted nor retouched,--it has been a painful thought to me that the paintings which have been the joy of my life, may be sold by public auction, and go, some to England, some to Russia, till they are all scattered abroad again as if they had never been gathered together.
From this wretched fate I have determined to save both them and the frames in which they are set, all of them the work of skilled craftsmen.
“On these grounds, therefore, I give and bequeath the pictures which compose my collection to the King, for the gallery in the Louvre, subject to the charge (if the legacy is accepted) of a life-annuity of two thousand four hundred francs to my friend Wilhelm Schmucke.
“If the King, as usufructuary of the Louvre collection, should refuse the legacy with the charge upon it, the said pictures shall form a part of the estate which I leave to my friend, Schmucke, on condition that he shall deliver the _Monkey’s Head_, by Goya, to my cousin, President Camusot; a _Flower-piece_, the tulips, by Abraham Mignon, to M. Trognon, notary (whom I appoint as my executor): and allow Mme.
Cibot, who has acted as my housekeeper for ten years, the sum of two hundred francs per annum.
“Finally, my friend Schmucke is to give the _Descent from the Cross_, Ruben’s sketch for his great picture at Antwerp, to adorn a chapel in the parish church, in grateful acknowledgment of M. Duplanty’s kindness to me; for to him I owe it that I can die as a Christian and a Catholic.
”--So ran the will.
“This is ruin!
” mused Fraisier, “the ruin of all my hopes.
Ha!
I begin to believe all that the Presidente told me about this old artist and his cunning.
” “Well?
” La Cibot came back to say.
“Your gentleman is a monster.
He is leaving everything to the Crown.
Now, you cannot plead against the Crown....
The will cannot be disputed....
We are robbed, ruined, spoiled, and murdered!
” “What has he left to me?
” “Two hundred francs a year.
” “A pretty come-down!...
Why, he is a finished scoundrel.
”
