"I am your uncle, " the librarian finally
stammered out, "your old Uncle Huguenin, your poor mother's brother.
"
"You are my
uncle!" Michel exclaimed, deeply moved.
"You
don't know me, but I know you, my boy. I was there when you won your splendid
prize for Latin Versification! My heart was pounding, and you never knew a
thing about it. "
"Uncle!"
"It's
not your fault, dear fellow, I know. I was standing in back, far away from you,
so as not to get you into trouble with your aunt's family; but I have been
following your studies step by step, day by day! I used to tell myself: it's
not possible that my sister's boy, the son of that great artist, has preserved
none of those poetic instincts that so distinguished his father; nor was I
mistaken, since here you are, asking me for our great French poets! Yes, my
boy! I shall give them to you, we shall read them together! No one will trouble
us here! No one bothers to keep an eye on us! Let me embrace you for the first
time!"
The
old man clasped his nephew in his arms, and the boy felt himself restored to
life in that embrace. It was the sweetest emotion of his life up to that very
moment. "But, Uncle, " he asked, "how have you found out what
was happening to me all during my childhood?"
"Dear
boy, I have a friend who is very fond of you, your old Professor Richelot, and
through him I learned that you were one of us! I saw you at work; I read the
theme you wrote in Latin verse—a difficult subject to handle, certainly,
because of the proper names: Marshal Pélissier on the Malacoff Tower.
But that's how it goes, they're always about old historical subjects, and, my
word, you managed it very nicely!"
"Not
really!"
"Oh
yes, " the old scholar continued, "you made two strong beats and two
weak ones for Pelissierus, one strong and two weaks for Malacoff, and you were
right: you know, I still remember those two fine lines:
lam
Pelissiero pendenti ex turre Malacoff
Sebastopolitam
concedit Jupiter urbem...
Ah,
my boy, how many times, had it not been for that family who despise me and who,
after all, were paying for your education—how many times I would have encouraged
your splendid inspirations! But now, you will visit me here, and often!"
"Every
evening, Uncle, when I am free to do so. "
"But
isn't this your vacation?"
"Vacation!
Tomorrow morning, Uncle, I must start working in my cousin's bank. "
"You
in a bank, my boy!" exclaimed the old man. "You in business! Lord,
what will become of you? A poor old wretch like me is no use to you, that's for
sure, but my dear fellow, with your ideas, and your talents, you were born too
late, I dare not say too soon, for the way things are going, we daren't even
hope for the future!"
"But
can't I refuse? Am I not a free agent?"
"No,
you're not. Monsieur Boutardin is unfortunately more than your uncle—he is
your guardian; I can't—I mustn't encourage you to follow a deadly path;
no,
you're still young; work for your independence, and then, if your tastes have
not altered and I am still in this world, come to see me. "
"But
the banking profession disgusts me!" Michel exclaimed.
"I'm
sure it does, my boy, and if there were room for two of us in my place, I'd say
to you: come and live with me, we'll be happy together; but such an existence
would lead nowhere, and it's absolutely necessary that you be led
somewhere.... No! Work, my boy! forget me for a few years; I'd only give you
bad advice; don't mention our meeting to your uncle—it might do you harm;
don't think about an old man who would be dead long since, were it not for his
dear habit of coming here every day and finding his old friends on these
shelves. "
"When
I'm free...," said Michel.
"Yes!
in two years! You're sixteen now, you'll be on your own at eighteen, we can
wait; but don't forget, Michel, that I shall always have a warm welcome for
you, a piece of good advice, and a loving heart. Come and see me!" added
the old man, contradicting his own counsels.
"Yes,
Uncle, I will. Where do you live?"
"Oh,
a long way away, out on the Saint-Denis Plain, but the Boulevard Malesherbes
Line takes me very close—I have a chilly little room out there, but it will be
big enough when you come to see me, and warm enough when I hold your hands in
mine. "
The
conversation between uncle and nephew continued in this fashion; the old
scholar sought to smother just those tendencies he most admired in the young
man, and his words constantly betrayed his intention; an artist's situation,
as he well knew, was hopeless, declasse, impossible. They went on talking of
everything under the sun. The old man offered himself like an old book which
his nephew might come and leaf through from time to time, good at best for
telling him about the good old days. Michel mentioned his reason for visiting
the library and questioned his uncle about the decadence of literature.
"Literature
is dead, my boy, " the uncle replied. "Look at these empty rooms, and
these books buried in their dust; no one reads anymore; I am the guardian of a
cemetery here, and exhumation is forbidden. "
During
this conversation time passed without their noticing it. "Four
o'clock!" exclaimed the uncle. "I'm afraid I must leave you. "
"I'll
see you soon, " Michel promised.
"Yes!
No! My boy, never speak of literature, never speak of art! Accept the situation
as it is! You are Monsieur Boutardin's ward before being your Uncle Huguenin's
nephew!"
"Let
me walk you some of the way, " said young Dufrénoy.
"No,
someone might see us. I'll go by myself. "
"Then
till next Sunday, Uncle. "
"Till
Sunday, my dear boy. "
Michel
left first, but waited in the street; he saw the old man heading toward the
boulevard, his steps still confident; he followed him, at a distance, all the
way to the Madeleine station. "At last, " he rejoiced, "I'm no
longer alone in the world!"
He
returned to his uncle's mansion. Luckily the Boutardins were dining in town,
and it was alone in his peaceful little room that Michel spent his first and
last vacation evening.
At
eight o'clock the next morning, Michel Dufrénoy headed for the offices of the
Casmodage and Co.
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