There is a window, with iron bars before it, and panes daubed over with white paint--the window of the domestic offices, like a glazed eye--the only aperture of 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 for ever, it is just as I saw it the last time, with its little iron-grated wicket.The single stone step in front of it is deeply worn, and, without having very good eyes behind my spectacles, I can see the little white scratches on the stone which have been made by the nails in the shoes of the girls going in and out.And why cannot I also go in? I have a feeling that Jeanne must be suffering a great deal in this dismal house, and that she calls my name in secret.I cannot go away from the gate! A strange anxiety takes hold of me.I pull the bell.
The scared-looking servant comes to the door, even more scared-looking than when I saw her the last time.Strict orders have been given; I am not to be allowed to see Mademoiselle Jeanne.I beg the servant to be so kind as to tell me how the child is.The servant, after looking to her right and then to her left, tells me that Mademoiselle Jeanne is well, and then 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 that wall, and passed before the little door,--full of shame and despair to find myself even weaker than that poor child, who has no other help of friend except myself in the world!
Finally I overcame my repugnance sufficiently to call upon Maitre Mouche.The first thing I remarked was that his office is much more dusty and much more mouldy this year that it was last year.The notary made his appearance after a moment, with his familiar stiff gestures, and his restless eyes quivering behind his eye-glasses.
I made my complaints to him.He answered me....But why should Iwrite down, even in a notebook which I am going to burn, my recollections of a downright scoundrel? He takes sides with Mademoiselle Prefere, whose intelligent mind and irreproachable character he has long appreciated.He does not feel himself in a position to decide the nature of the question at issue; but he must assure me that appearances have been greatly against me.That of course makes no difference to me.He adds--(and this does make some sense to me)--that the small sum which had been placed in his hands to defray the expenses of the education of his ward has been expended, and that, in view of the circumstances, he cannot but gently admire the disinterestedness of Mademoiselle Prefere in consenting to allow Mademoiselle Jeanne to remain with her.
A magnificent light, the light of a perfect day, floods the sordid place with its incorruptible torrent, and illuminates teh person of that man!
And outside it pours down its splendour upon all the wretchedness of a populous quarter.
How sweet it is,--this light with which my eyes have so long been filled, and which ere long I must for ever cease to enjoy! I wander out with my hands behind me, dreaming as I go, following the line of the fortifications; and I find myself after awhile, I know not how, in an out-of-the-way suburb full of miserable little gardens.By the dusty roadside I observe a plant whose flower, at once dark and splendid, seems worthy of association with the noblest and purest mouning for the dead.It is a columbine.Our fathers called it "Our Lady's Glove"--le gant de Notre-Dame.Only such a "Notre-Dame"as might make herself very, very small, for the sake of appearing to little children, could ever slip her dainty fingers into the narrow capsue of that flower.
And there is a big bumble-bee who tries to force himself into the flower, brutally; but his mouth cannot reach the nectar, and the poor glutton strives and strives in vain.He has to give up the attempt, and comes out of the flower all smeared over with pollen.
He flies off in his own heavy lumbering way; but there are not many flowers in this portion of the suburbs, which has been defiled by the soot and smoke of factories.So he comes back to the columbine again, and this time he pierces the corolla and sucks the honey through the little hole which he has made; I should never have thought that a bumble-bee had so much sense! Why, that is admirble! The more I observe, them, the more do insects and flowers fill me with astonishment.I am like that good Rollin who went wild with delight over the flowers of his peach-trees.I wish I could have a fine garden, and live at the verge of a wood.
August, September.
It occurred to me one Sunday morning to watch for the moment when Mademoiselle Prefere's pupils were leaving the school in procession to attand Mass at the parish church.I watched them passing two by two,--the little ones first with very serious faces.There were three of them all dressed exactly alike--dumpy, plump, important-looking little creatures, whom I recognized at once as the Mouton girls.Their elder sister is the artist who drew that terrrible head of Tatius, King of the Sabines.Beside the column, the assistant school-teacher, with her prayer-book in her hand, was gesturing and frowning.Then came the next oldest class, and finally the big girls, all whispering to each other, as they went by.But I did not see Jeanne.
I went to police-headquarters and inquired whether they chanced to have, filed away somewhere or other, any information regarding the establishment in the Rue Demours.I succeeded in inducing them to send some female inspectors there.These returned bringing with them the most favourable reports about the establishment.In their opinion the Prefere School was a model school.It is evident that if I were to force an investigation, Mademoiselle Prefere would receive academic honours.
October 3.
