air outside was still. In the distance could be heard the clarions of the Ecole Militaire sounding the tatoo.
CHAPTER III
TOWARDS morning Daniel again went up to his room. This big fellow of eighteen had the heart of a child. The peculiar circumstances under which he found himself had deeply stirred his affectionate disposition. He made himself laughable by his youth and devotion.
It will, no doubt, have been recognised by this time that he was the orphan mentioned in the Semaphore. Blanche de Rionne, the young unknown protector, had had him educated, and when he grew older, put him to the Lycée at Marseilles. She made it a rule seldom to see him, wishing that he should barely know her, and that he should only, so to speak, have Providence to thank for his position.
When she married she did not even speak to Monsieur de Rionne of her adopted child. This was one of her many secret good works.
At the Lycée Daniel’s awkward manners, joined to the timidity of an orphan, drew upon him the ridicule of his companions, and he was deeply wounded at being treated as a pariah. Then his gait became yet more ungainly. He was left alone, and thus he kept all his early innocence. He escaped all those first lessons in vice that youths of fifteen and upwards, in France particularly, impart to each other.
He was ignorant of everything, and had no knowledge of life whatever. In the loneliness created by his awkwardness an ardent love of study had seized him.
His quick and emotional intellect, which should have made him a poet, drove him, by a seeming contradiction, to the study of science, for in his nature there was a deep desire for truth.
He discovered a profound joy in seeking step by step the solution of some intricate problem in mathematics, and thus in a way he made poetry. He withdrew into himself and Nature, and circumstances led him to a life of meditation.
He was at home in science, for in its pursuit he had nothing to do with men; he had nothing to do with schoolmates, who laughed at his yellow hair. All human society terrified him; he loved better to live higher up in the regions of pure speculation, of absolute truth. There he could theorise poetically at his ease; he was no longer encumbered by his awkwardness of person. These scholars — these aged children of timid manners whom one meets in the streets — are sometimes great poets.
Railed at by his companions, his nerves always highly strung, Daniel hid away his affections in the recesses of his heart. All he had to love in this world was that unknown mother who watched over him, and he had loved her with all the intensity of passion which is centred on one object alone. Side by side with the poet-mathematician there was the passionate adorer, with an affection which grew in warmth the more it was repulsed. Daniel’s adoration of the good fairy had grown with years and made his existence sweet for him. The obscurity in which she kept herself made her all the more saintly to him. He knew her face thoroughly from having met her two or three times, and he spoke of her as he would of something wonderful and sacred.
One day, when he was almost eighteen, as he was leaving the Lycée he was told that Madame de Rionne had sent for him to be with her in Paris. He nearly went out of his mind with joy, for now he would be able to see her freely, to thank and love her, at his ease.
The wild dream of his youth was about to be realised; the good fairy, the saint, his providence, was admitting him into the heaven where she dwelt, and so he started in all haste.
He arrived and found Madame de Rionne in her bed, dying. Every evening, for eight days, he went down to the room she occupied; he gazed at her from a distance and wept. He thus awaited the terrible end, intoxicated with grief, unable to understand how it happened that saints could be mortal and die.
Then at last he had knelt down at her bedside and solemnly promised the dying woman that her last wish should be carried out.
He passed the night near the body, in the company of the watcher. Monsieur de Rionne had remained on his knees an hour, and afterwards discreetly retired.
Whilst the priest prayed and the watcher rested in an easy chair, Daniel was in dreamland, with dry eyes, unable to weep. He felt crushed, but was in that quiet, tranquil state, without pain, similar to the light drowsiness that precedes sleep. He grasped nothing distinctly, and every now and then his thoughts wandered. For nearly ten hours one idea alone filled his brain: Blanche was dead, and henceforth little Jeanne would be the saint whom he would love, to whom he would give his devotion.
But, unconsciously, during that long, mournful night his courage was rapidly maturing; he was becoming a man indeed.
The terrible scene at which he had assisted, the despair which had so deeply shaken him, all this stern education in suffering had killed the timidity of childhood in him. In his oppression he dimly felt this working of sorrow; he yielded to the force which was transforming him, and ripening, in a few hours, his heart and mind.
In the morning, when he went back to his room, he was like a drunken man who could not recognise the place he lived in. The long, narrow room had only a window which opened in the slanting roof, whence once could see the tops of the trees of the esplanade, as it were a lake of verdure; further on, to the left, could be seen the heights of Passy. The window had remained open, a bright light filled the room, and it felt almost cold.
Daniel sat down on the edge of his bed. He was ready to drop with fatigue, but did not dream of going to rest. He remained thus a long time, forgetting himself, whilst staring at the furniture, asking himself now and then what he was doing there, and suddenly remembering all.
At times he listened, astonished, wondering why he did not hear himself weeping. Then he went and stood at the window, and the air did him good. Not a sound came up from the house. Below, in the little garden, there were people silently hurrying about On the boulevard the carriages rolled along as if nothing sorrowful had taken place in the night Paris was slowly awakening, and now a pale sunlight whitened the topmost leaves of the trees. The joyful aspect of the sky, the heedlessness of the city, saddened Daniel profoundly, and gave him excuse to weep again. It was a salutary crisis, which made his head feel lighter. He remained at the window in the fresh air, trying to reflect as to what he should do.
Then he understood that as yet nothing rational would come to his brain, and decided to occupy himself mechanically. He moved several objects from one place to another, ferreted in his trunk, took out some clothes, which he put back again directly afterwards.
His head began to grow less painful. When night came once more he was quite surprised. He could have sworn the day had only just begun. He had remained shut up, pondering on one idea only, and that long day of suffering seemed quite short. He left his room and tried to eat; then he wished to see Madame de Rionne once more. He could not, however, gain admittance to the death chamber. So, going up again to his own room, he fell into a heavy sleep, which overpowered him till very late the next day.
When he awoke he heard a suppressed murmur of voices. The funeral carriages were about to leave the house. He hastily dressed himself and went downstairs. On the way he met the coffin, which four men could just manage. It gave out a dull sound at every concussion.
At the start there was some confusion on the boulevard. The followers were numerous, and the procession was only slowly organised.
Monsieur de Rionne put himself at the head of it, accompanied by his brother-in-law. His sister, a young woman, whose eyes wandered freely over the crowd, entered another carriage. Immediately behind Monsieur de Rionne came the frequenters of the house, the servants, and Daniel took up his place amongst the latter. Then the remainder of the followers came in groups, in irregular file.
Thus S. Clothilde — the church, surrounded by flowers and verdure — was reached. The nave filled up, and the choir began chanting.
Daniel knelt down in a corner near a chapel. He was calm now and could pray. But he could not follow the priest’s prayers; his lips remained closed — his prayer was only a passionate