Their love dates from the blooming of the first blue corn flower. They met in a wheat field. Having long known one another, without ever having seen each other, they took the same path to return to the city. She wore a large nosegay at her bosom, like one betrothed. She ascended the seven floors, and, feeling too tired, was unable to go down again.
Will she have strength to do so tomorrow? She does not know. In the meantime she is resting, whilst tripping about the garret, watering the flowers, looking after a home which does not exist. Then she sews, whilst the youth works. Their chairs touch; little by little, for greater comfort, they end by taking only one for both of them. Night comes. They scold each other for their idleness.
Ah! what fibs that poet tells, Ninon, and how delightful his falsehoods are! May that unalterable child never become a man! May he continue to deceive us when he can no longer deceive himself! He comes from Paradise to tell us of its love-making. He met two saints there, Musette and Mimi, whom it pleased him to bring among us. They only just grazed the earth with their wings, and went off again in the ray that brought them. Hearts twenty summers old are seeking for those saints, and weeping at not finding them.
Must I, in my turn, tell you fibs, my well-beloved, by bringing them from Paradise, or must I confess that I met them in Gehenna? If there, near the fire, in that armchair where you are rocking yourself, a friend were listening to me, I would boldly raise the golden veil with which the poet has decked such unworthy shoulders! But you — you would close my lips with your little hands, you would get angry, you would vow it was false, because it was so true. How could you believe in lovers of our age drinking in the gutter when they feel thirsty in the street? How angry you would be if I dared tell you that your sisters, the loving ones, have unfastened their fichus and unbound their hair! You live laughing and serene in the nest I built for you; you are ignorant of the ways of the world. I shall not have the courage to confess to you that flowers are very sick of those ways, and that tomorrow, perhaps, the hearts that are there will be dead.
Close not your ears, darling: you will not have to blush.
II
Léon, then, lives in the midst of the Latin Quarter. His hand is more grasped than any other in that land where all hands know one another. His frank look makes each passerby his friend.
The women dare not forgive him the hatred he bears them, and are furious they cannot confess they love him. They detest him whilst doting on him.
Previous to the facts I am about to relate to you, I never knew him to have a sweetheart. He says he is blasé, and speaks of the pleasures of this world as would a Trappist, were he to break his long silence. He has a weakness for good living, and cannot bear bad wine. His linen is very fine, and his garments are always exquisitely elegant.
I see him sometimes stop before pictures representing virgins of the Italian school with moist eyes. A fine marble procures him an hour’s ecstasy.
Léon, moreover, leads a student’s life, working as little as possible, strolling in the sun, lounging obliviously on all the divans he meets with. It is particularly during these hours of semi-slumber that he gives utterance to his worst abuse of women. With closed eyes, he seems to be fondling a vision whilst cursing reality.
One May morning I met him looking quite cheerless. He did not know what to do, and was rambling through the streets on the lookout for something to interest him. The pavement was muddy; and although the unforeseen was encountered from place to place by the pedestrian’s feet, it was only in the form of a puddle. I took pity on him, and suggested going into the fields to see if the hawthorn were in flower.
For an hour I had to listen to a lot of long philosophical orations, all of which pointed to the nihility of our pleasures. Houses gradually became scarcer. Already on the thresholds of the doors, we perceived dirty brats rolling over fraternally with great dogs. As we reached the real country, Léon suddenly stopped before a group of children playing in the sun. He fondled one of them, and then owned to me that he adored fair heads.
For my part I have always liked those narrow lanes, confined between a couple of hedges, which are free from the ruts of great waggon-wheels. The ground is covered with fine moss, as soft to the feet as a velvety carpet. One treads amid mystery and silence; and when an amorous couple lose themselves there, the thorns in the verdant wall compel the fond girl to press against her lover’s heart. Léon and I found ourselves in one of these out-of-the-way walks, where kisses are only overheard by feathered songsters. The first smile of spring had vanquished my philosopher’s misanthropy. He experienced prolonged tenderness for each drop of dew, and sang like a schoolboy who had broken out of bounds.
The lane continued to stretch ahead. The high thick hedges were all our horizon. This sort of confinement, and our ignorance as to where we were, made us doubly merry.
The pathway gradually became narrower; we had to walk in single file. The hedges began to take sudden turns, and the lane was transformed into a labyrinth.
Then, at the narrowest part, we heard a sound of voices; next, three persons appeared at one of the leafy corners. Two young men marched in front, putting aside the branches that were too long. A young woman followed them.
I stopped and bowed. The young fellow facing me did the same. After that we looked at each other. The position was delicate; the hedges shutting us in on either side were thicker than ever, and neither of us seemed inclined to turn round. It was then that Léon, who was behind me, standing up on tip-toe, perceived the young woman. Without uttering a word, he dashed bravely in among the hawthorns; his clothes were torn by the brambles, and a few drops of blood appeared upon his hands. I had to do as he had done.
The young men passed by, thanking us. The young woman, as if to reward Léon for his self-sacrifice, stopped before him, wavering, gazing at him with her great black eyes. He immediately sought to frown, and could not.
When she had disappeared I came out of the bush, sending gallantry to the deuce. A thorn had torn my neck, and my hat was so beautifully suspended between two branches that I had the greatest difficulty imaginable in getting it down. Léon shook himself. As I had given the pretty passerby a friendly nod, he inquired if I knew her.
“Certainly,” I answered. “Her name’s Antoinette. She was three months my neighbour.”
We had begun walking on again. He held his tongue. Then I talked to him of Mademoiselle Antoinette.
She was a fresh and delicate little party, with a half-mocking, half-tender look, a determined air, and a smart, nimble gait; in a word, she was a nice girl. She could be distinguished among her fellows by her openheartedness and probity, qualities peculiarly rare in the society in which she lived. She expressed an opinion about her own self without vanity, as also without modesty, and announced openly that she was born to love and take her pleasure where fancy led her.
For three long winter months I had seen her living, poor and alone, on the produce of her labour. She acted thus without display, without uttering that big word virtue, because that was her idea at the time. So long as her needle sped on, I never knew her to have a lover. She was a good comrade to the men who came to see her; she pressed their hands, laughed with them, but bolted her door at the first pretence of a kiss. I confess I had tried to court her a bit. One day when I offered her a ring and pendants, she said:
“My friend, take back your jewellery. When I give myself away it is only for a flower.”
When in love she was idle and indolent. Lace and silk then took the place of calico. She carefully got rid of all traces of the needle, and the workgirl became a grand lady.
Besides, when in love, she maintained her grisette liberty. The man she was enamoured of soon knew it; he knew quite as quickly when she loved him no more. She was not, however, one of those pretty, capricious creatures who change their sweetheart each time they wear out a pair of shoes. She had a broad intelligence and a great heart. But the poor girl often made mistakes; she placed her own hands in others that were unworthy, and rapidly withdrew them in disgust. And so she was tired of this Latin Quarter, where the young men appeared to her very old.
At each