The Immortal by Alphonse Daudet (short story to read txt) 📖

weaned. The boy continued to fulfil his function of looking lovely, and was waiting impatiently for old Rehu's centenary. As for himself, he was hard at work. He had two pictures in the Salon this year, not badly hung, and not badly sold. On the other hand a creditor, not less unwise than hard, had taken possession of the Knight, and he had passed from stage to stage, first lying much in the way in a fine suite of rooms on the ground floor in the Rue St. Petersbourg, then packed off to a stable at Batignolles, and now shivering under a cowkeeper's shed at Levallois, where from time to time the sculptor and his family went to pay him a visit.
'So much for glory!' added Vedrine with a laugh, as the voice of the usher called for the witness Astier-Rehu. The head of the Permanent Secretary showed for a moment, outlined against the dusty light of the court-room, upright and steady; but his back he had forgotten to control, and the shiver of his broad shoulders betrayed intense feeling. 'Poor man,' muttered the sculptor, 'he's got heavy trials to go through. This autograph business, and his son's marriage.'
'Is Paul Astier married?'
'Yes, three days ago, to the Duchess Padovani. It was a sort of morganatic marriage, with no guests but the young man's mamma and the four witnesses. I was one of them, as you may suppose, for a freak of fate seems to associate me with all the acts and deeds of the Astier family.'
And Vedrine described the sorrowful surprise with which in the Mayor's room he had seen the Duchess Padovani appear, deathly pale, as haughty as ever, but withered and heart-broken, with a mass of grey hair, the poor beautiful hair that she no longer took the trouble to dye. By her side was Paul Astier, the Count, smiling, cold, and charming as before. They all looked at one another, and nobody had a word to say except the official who, after a good stare at the two old ladies, felt it incumbent upon him to remark with a gracious bow:
'We are only waiting for the bride.'
'The bride is here,' replied the Duchess, stepping forward with head erect and a bitter smile which spoilt and twisted her beautiful mouth.
From the Mayor's office, where the deputy on duty had the good taste to spare them an oration, they adjourned to the Catholic Institute in the Rue de Vaugirard, an aristocratic church, all over gilding and flowers and a blaze of candles, but not a soul there, nobody but the wedding party on a single row of chairs, to hear the Papal Nuncio, Monsignor Adriani, mumble an interminable homily out of an illuminated book. A fine thing it was, to hear the worldly prelate with large nose, thin lips, and hollow shoulders under his violet cape, talking of the 'honourable traditions of the husband and the charms of the wife,' with a sombre, cynical side-glance at the velvet cushions of the unhappy couple. Then came the departure; cold good-byes were exchanged under the arches of the little cloister, and a sigh of relief with 'Well, that's over,' escaped the Duchess, said in the despairing, disenchanted accent of a woman who has measured the abyss, and leaps in with her eyes open only to keep her word.
'Ah, well,' Vedrine went on, 'I have seen gloomy and lamentable sights enough in the course of my lite, but never anything so heart-breaking as Paul Astier's wedding.'
'He's a fine rascal, though, is our young friend,' said Freydet, between his closed teeth.
'Yes, a precious product of the "struggle for existence."'
The sculptor repeated the phrase with emphasis. A 'struggler for existence' was his name for the novel tribe of young savages who cite the necessity of 'nature's war' as an hypocritical excuse for every kind of meanness. Freydet went on:
'Well, anyhow, he's rich now, which is what he wanted. His nose has not led him astray this time.'
'Wait and see. The Duchess is not easy to get on with, and he looked devilish wicked at the Mayor's. If the old lady bores him too much, we may still see him some day at the Assize Court, son and grandson of divinities as he is.'
'The witness Vedrine!' called the usher at the top of his voice.
At the same moment a huge roar of laughter ran over the thronging crowd and came through the door as it swung open. 'They don't seem bored in there,' said the municipal officer posted in the passage. The witnesses' room, which had been gradually emptying during the chat of the two schoolfellows, now contained only Freydet and the caretaker, who, scared at having to appear in court, was twisting the strings of her cap like a lunatic. The worthy candidate, on the contrary, thought he had an unparalleled opportunity of burning incense at the shrine of the Academie Francaise and its Permanent Secretary. Left alone, when the good woman's turn came, he paced up and down the room, planted himself in front of the window, and let off well-rounded periods accompanied by magnificent gestures of his black gloves. But he was misunderstood in the house opposite; and a fat hand at the end of a bare arm pulled aside a pink curtain and waved to him. Freydet, flushing crimson with shame, moved quickly away from the window, and took refuge in the passage.
'The Public Prosecutor is speaking now,' said the doorkeeper in a whisper, as a voice in a tone of assumed indignation rang through the heated air of the court--'You played,' it said, 'on the innocent passion of an old man.'
'But how about me?' said Freydet, thinking aloud.
'I expect you have been forgotten.'
Freydet was at first puzzled, but presently disgusted at the strange fate which prevented his coming forward in public as the champion of the Academie, and so getting himself talked about and seeing his name for once in the papers. Just then a shout of laughter greeted the enumeration of the forgeries in the Mesnil-Case collection; letters from kings, popes, empresses, Turenne, Buffon, Montaigne, La Boetie, Clemence Isaure, and the mere mention of the absurd list showed the extraordinary simplicity of the historian who had been befooled by the little dwarf. But at the thought that this disrespectful laugh was a scoff at his master and protector, Freydet felt an indignation not altogether free from selfishness. He felt that he was himself hit by the recoil, and his candidature damaged again. He broke away, mingling in the stir of the general exodus amid a confusion of footmen running to and fro in the beautiful waning light of a fine June day, while the parasols, pink, white, mauve, or green opened like so many large flowers. Little explosions of laughter were still coming from the various groups, as if they had been seeing an amusing piece at the theatre. The little humpback had got it hot--five years' imprisonment and costs. But how comic Margery had been! Marguerite Oger was exclaiming in fits, 'Oh my dears, my dears!' and Danjou, escorting Madame Eviza to her carriage, said aloud in his cynical way, 'It's a slap in the face for the Academie, well planted--but it was cleverly done.'
Leonard Astier, who was walking alone, heard Danjou's remark as well as others, in spite of the warnings passed from mouth to mouth, 'Take care--there he is.' It signified to him the beginning of his fall in estimation, consequent on the general knowledge of his folly and the amusement of Paris.
'Take my arm, my dear master!' said Freydet, who had been carried to him by the strong impulse of affection.
'Ah, my dear friend, how much good you do me!' said the old man in a dull, broken voice.
They walked on in silence for some time. The trees on the quay cast a tracery of shade upon the stones below; the sounds of the street and the river echoed in the joyous air. It was one of those days on which human wretchedness seems to have been reprieved.
'Where are we going?' asked Freydet.
'Anywhere--except home,' answered the elder man, who felt a child's terror at the thought of the scene his wife would inflict on him at dinner.
They dined together at the Point-du-Jour after walking a long time by the river. When poor Astier returned home very late the friendly words of his old pupil and the sweetness of the air had succeeded in restoring his peace of mind. He had got over his five hours in the stocks on the bench of the Eighth Chamber--five hours to endure with bound hands the insulting laughter of the crowd and the vitriol squirt of the counsel. 'Laugh, apes, laugh! Posterity will judge!' was the thought with which he consoled himself as he crossed the large courts of the Institute, wrapped in slumber, with unlighted windows and great dark foursquare holes right and left where the staircases came down. He felt his way upstairs and reached his study noiselessly like a thief. Since Paul's marriage and his quarrel with his son he was in the habit of flinging himself down every night on a bed made up in the study, to escape the interminable midnight discussions in which the wife always comes off victorious, thanks to the never-failing support of her 'nerves', and the husband ends by giving way and promising everything for the sake of peace and permission to sleep.
Sleep! Never had he so much felt the need of it as now, at the end of his long day of emotion and fatigue, and the darkness of his study as he entered seemed the beginning of rest--when in the angle of the window he dimly distinguished a human figure.
'Well, I hope you are satisfied.' It was his wife! She was on the look out for him, waiting, and her angry voice stopped him short in the dark to listen. 'You have won your cause; you insisted on making yourself a mockery, and you have done it--daubed and drenched yourself with ridicule, till you won't be able to show yourself again! Much reason you had to cry out that your son was disgracing you, to insult and to curse your son! Poor boy, it is well he has changed his name, now that yours has become so identified with ignorance and gullibility that no one will be able to utter it without a smile. And all this, if you please, for the sake of your historical work! Why, you foolish man, who knows anything about your historical work? Who can possibly care whether your documents are genuine or forged? You know that nobody reads you.'
She went on and on, pouring out a thin stream of voice in her shrillest tone; and he felt as if he were back again in the pillory, listening to the official abuse as he had done all day, without interrupting, without even a threatening gesture, swallowing the insults as he had in court, and feeling that the authority was above attack and the judge one not to be answered. But how cruel was this invisible mouth which bit him, and wounded him all over, and slowly mangled in its teeth his pride as a man and a writer!
His books, indeed! Did he suppose that they had got him into the Academie? Why, it was to his wife alone that he owed his green coat! She had spent her life in plotting and manoeuvring to break open one door after another; sacrificed all her youth to such intrigues, and such intriguers, as made her sick with disgust. 'Why, my dear, I had to! The Academie is attained by talent, of which you have none, or a great name, or a high position. You had none of these things. So I came to the rescue.'