Tom Burke Of "Ours", Volume II

CHAPTER XXVIII. THE PENSION DE LA RUE MI-CARÊME

When I returned to the garden, I found that the Père Arsène was seized by an access of that dreadful malady, whose intervals of comparative release are but periods of dread or despondence. The tertian of Egypt, so fatal among the French troops, now numbered him among its victims, and he looked worn and exhausted, like one after weeks of illness.

My first care was to present myself to the official whose business it was to inspect the passports, and by explaining the condition of my poor friend, to entreat permission to delay my journey, – at least until he should be somewhat recovered. The gruff old sergeant, however, deliberately examined my passport, and as rigidly decided that I could not remain. The words of the minister were clear and definite, – “Day by day, without halt, to the nearest frontier of France,” was the direction; and with this I must comply. In vain I assured him that no personal convenience, no wish of my own, urged the request, but the duty of humanity towards a fellow-traveller, and one who had strong claims on every soldier of the Empire.

“Leave him to me, Monsieur,” was the only reply I could obtain; and the utmost favor he would grant was the permission to take leave of my poor friend before I started.

Amid all the sufferings of his malady, I found the good priest dwelling in his mind on the scene with the vivandière, – which, perhaps, from the impressionable character of a sick man’s temperament, had entirely filled his thoughts; and thus he wandered from the subject of his sorrows to hers, with scarcely a transition between them.

When I mentioned the necessity of our parting, he seemed to feel it more on my account than his own.

“I wished to have reached Paris with you,” he repeated over and over. “It was not impossible I could have arranged your return home. But you must go down to Sèvres, – the priest there, whoever he may be, will know of me; tell him everything without reserve. I am too ill to write, but if I get better soon – Well, well; that poor girl is an orphan too; and Alphonse was an orphan. With what misery have we struggled in France since this man has ruled our destinies! how have the crimes of a people brought their retribution to every heart and every home! – none too low, none too humble, to feel them. Leave this land; no blessing can rest upon it now. Poor thing! how worthy of a better lot she is! If this same officer should know, – it is not impossible. But, why do I say this? No, no; you’ll never meet him now.”

He continued to mutter thus some broken and disjointed sentences, half-aloud, for some minutes, apparently unconscious of my presence.

“He was in a regiment of the Guard. Alas! she told me which, but I forget it now; but his name, surely I remember his name! Well, well, it is a sad story. Adieu, my dear child! good-by! We have each a weary road before us; but my journey, although the longest, will be soonest accomplished. Do not forget my words to you. Your own country, and your country’s cause, above every other; all else is the hireling’s part. The sense of duty alone can sustain a man in the trials which fit him for this world, or that better one which is to follow. Adieu!” He threw his arm around me as he said this, and leaned exhausted and faint upon my shoulder.

The few who journey through life with little sympathy or friendship from their fellow-men, may know how it rent my heart to part with one to whom I clung every hour closer; my throat swelled and throbbed, and I could only articulate a faint good-by as we parted. As the door was closing, I heard his voice again.

“Yes, I have it now; I remember it well, – ‘Le Capitaine Burke.’”

I started in amazement, for during all our intercourse he had never asked nor had I told my name, and I stood unable to speak; when he continued, – “You ‘ll think of the name, – she said, too, he was on the staff, – ‘Burke!’ Poor girl!”

I did not wait for more, but like one flying from some dreaded enemy I rushed through the garden, and gained the road, my heart torn with many a conflicting thought; the bitterest of all being the memory of Minette, the orphan girl, who alone of all the world cared for me. Oh! if strong, deep-rooted affection, the love of a whole heart, can raise the spirit above the every-day contentions of the world, – can ennoble thought, refine sentiments, and divest life of all its meaner traits, making a path of flowers among the rocks and briers of our worldly pilgrimage; so does the possession of affection for which we cannot give requital throw a gloom over the soul, for which there is no remedy. Better, a thousand times better, had I borne all the solitary condition of my lot, unrelieved by one token of regard, than think of her who had wrecked her fortunes on my own.

With many a sad thought I plodded onward. The miles passed over seemed like the events in some troubled dream; and of my journey I have not a recollection remaining. It was late in the evening when I reached the Barrière de l’Étoile, and entered Paris. The long lines of lamps along the quays, the glittering reflection in the calm river, the subdued but continual hum of a great city, awoke me from my reverie, and I bethought me that my career of life must now begin anew, and all my energies must be called on to fashion out my destiny.

On the morning after my arrival I presented myself, in compliance with the requisite form, before the minister of police. Little information of mine was necessary to explain the circumstances under which I was placed. He was already thoroughly acquainted with the whole, and seemed in nowise disposed to evince any undue lenity towards one who had voluntarily quitted the service of the Emperor.

“Where do you purpose to remain, sir?” said the préfet, as he concluded a lengthened and searching scrutiny of my appearance.

“In Paris,” I replied, briefly.

“In Paris, I suppose,” said he, with a slight derisive curl of the lip, – “of that I should think there can be little doubt; but I wished to ascertain more accurately your address, – in what part of the city.”

“As yet I cannot tell; I am almost a stranger here. A day or two will, however, enable me to choose, and then I shall return here with the intelligence.”

“That is sufficient, sir; I shall expect to see you soon.”

He waved his hand in sign to me to withdraw, and I was but too happy to follow the indication. As I hastened down the stairs, and forced my way through the crowd of persons who awaited an audience with the préfet, I heard a voice close to my ear whisper, “A word; one word with you, Monsieur.” Conceiving, however, it could not have been intended for me, to whom no face there was familiar, I passed on, and reached the court.

The noise of footsteps rapidly moving on the grave behind me induced me to turn; and I beheld a small, miserably-dressed man, whose spare and wasted form bespoke the sorest trials of poverty, advancing towards me, hat in hand.

“Will you deign me one word, Monsieur?” said he, in a voice whose tone, although that of entreaty, was yet remote from the habitual accent of one asking alms.

“You must mistake me,” said I, desirous to pass on; “I am unknown to you.”

“True, sir; but it is as a stranger I take the liberty of addressing you. I heard you say just now that you had not fixed on any place of abode in Paris; now, if I might venture to entreat your preference for this establishment, it would be too much honor for me, its poor master.”

Here he placed in my hands a small card, inscribed with the words, “Pension Bourgeoise, Rue de Mi-Carême, Boulevard Mont Parnasse, No. 46,” at top; and beneath was a paragraph, setting forth the economical fact that a man might eat, drink, and sleep for the sum of twelve francs a week, enjoying the delights of “agreeable society, pleasant environs, and all the advantages of a country residence.”

It was with difficulty I could avoid a smile at the shivering figure who ventured to present himself as an inducement to try the fare of his house. Whether my eyes did wander from the card to his countenance, or any other gesture of mine betrayed my thoughts, the old man seemed to divine what was passing in my mind, and said, —

“Monsieur will not pronounce on the ‘pension’ from the humble guise of its master. Let him but try it; and I promise that these poor rags, this miserable figure, has no type within the walls.”

There was a tone of deep dejection, mingled with a sense of conscious pride, in which he said these few words, that at once decided me not to grieve him by a refusal.

“You may count on me, then, Monsieur,” said I. “My stay here is so far uncertain, that it depends not altogether on myself; but for the present I am your guest.”

I took my purse from my pocket as I spoke, knowing the custom in these humbler boarding-houses was to pay in advance; but the old man reddened slightly, and motioned with his hand a refusal.

“Monsieur is a captain in the Guards,” said he, proudly; “no more is necessary.”

“You mistake, friend, I am no longer so; I have left the army.”

“Left it, en retraite?” said he, inquiringly.

“Not so; left it at my own free will and choice. And now, perhaps, I had better tell you, that as I may not enjoy any considerable share of goodwill from the police authorities here, my presence might be less acceptable to your other guests, or to yourself.”

The old man’s eyes sparkled as I spoke, and his lips moved rapidly, as though he were speaking to himself; then, taking my hand, he pressed it to his lips, and said, —

“Monsieur could not be more welcome than at present. Shall we expect you to-day at dinner?”

“Be it so. Your hour?”

“Four o’clock, to the moment. Do not forget the number, 46 Monsieur Rubichon; the house with a large garden in front.”

“Till then,” said I, bowing to my host, whose ceremonious politeness made me feel my own salute an act of rudeness in comparison.

As I parted from the old man, I was glad at the relief to my own thoughts which even thus much of speculation afforded, and sauntered on, fancying many a strange conceit about the “pension” and its inhabitants. At last the hour drew near; and having placed my few effects in a cabriolet, I set out for the distant boulevard of Mont Parnasse.

I remarked with pleasure, that as we went along the streets and thoroughfares became gradually less and less crowded; scarcely a carriage of any kind was to be met with. The shops were, for the most part, the quiet, unpretending-looking places one sees in a provincial town; and an air of peacefulness and retirement prevailed, strongly at variance with the clamor and din of the heart of the capital. This was more than ever so as we emerged upon the boulevard itself: on one side of which houses, at long straggling intervals, alone were to be seen; at the other, the country lay open to the view, with its orchards and gardens, for miles away.

“Saprelotte!” said the driver, who, like so many of his calling, was a blunt son of Alsace, – “saprelotte! we have come to the end of the world here. How do you call the strange street you are looking for?”

“The Rue de Mi-Carême.”

“Mi-Carême? I ‘d rather you lived there than me; that name does not promise much in regard to good feeding. Can this be it?”

As he spoke he pointed with his whip to a narrow, deserted-looking street, which opened from the boulevard. The houses were old and dilapidated, but stood in small gardens, and seemed like the remains of the villa residences of the Parisians in times long past. A few more modern edifices, flaring with red brick fronts, were here and there scattered amongst them; but for all the decay and dismantlement of the others, they seemed like persons of rank and condition in the company of their inferiors.

Few of the larger houses were inhabited. Large placards, “à louer,” on the gateways or the broken railings of the garden, set forth the advantages of a handsome residence, situated between court and garden; but the falling roofs and broken windows were in sad discordance with the eulogy.

The unaccustomed noise of wheels, as we went along, drew many to the doors to stare at us, and in the gathering groups I could mark the astonishment so rare a spectacle as a cabriolet afforded in these secluded parts.

“Is this the Rue Mi-Carême?” said the driver to a boy, who stood gazing in perfect wonderment at our equipage.

“Yes,” muttered the child, – “yes. Who are you come for now?”

“Come for, my little man? Not for any one. What do you mean by that?”

“I thought it was the commissary,” said the boy.

“Ah, sapperment! I knew we were in a droll neighborhood,” murmured the driver. “It would seem they never see a cabriolet here except when it brings the commissaire de police to look after some one.”

If this reflection did not tend to allay my previous doubts upon the nature of the locality, it certainly aided to excite my curiosity, and I was determined to persist in my resolution of at least seeing the interior of the “pension.”

“Here we are at last,” cried the driver, throwing down his whip on the horse’s back, as he sprang to the ground, and read aloud from a board fastened to a tree, “‘Pension Bourgeoise. M. Rubichon, propriétaire.’ Shall I wait for monsieur?”

“No. Take out that portmanteau and cloak; I’m not going back now.”

A stare of most undisguised astonishment was the only reply he made, as he took forth my baggage, and placed it at the little gate.

“You ‘ll be coming home at night,” said he, at length; “shall I come to fetch you? Not to-night,” repeated he, in amazement. “Well, adieu, Monsieur, – you know best; but I ‘d not come a-pleasuring up here, if I was a young fellow like you.”

As he drove away, I turned to look at the building before me, which up to this time I had not sufficiently noted. It was a long, two-storied house, which evidently at an early period had been a mansion of no mean pretension. The pilasters which ornamented the windows, the balustrades of the parapet, and the pediment above the entrance, were still remaining, though in a dilapidated condition. The garden in front showed also some signs of that quaint taste originally borrowed from the Dutch, and the yew-trees still preserved some faint resemblance to the beasts and animals after which they had once been fashioned, though time and growth had altered the outlines, and given to many a goodly lion or stag the bristly coat of a porcupine. A little fountain, which spouted from a sea-monster’s nostrils, was grass-grown and choked with weeds. Everything betokened neglect and ruin; even the sundial had fallen across the walk, and lay moss-grown and forgotten; as though to say that Time had no need of a record there. The jalousies, which were closed in every window, permitted no view of the interior; nor did anything, save a faint curl of light blue smoke from one chimney, give token of habitation.