“The boatie rows, the boatie rows,
The boatie rows full weel.”
GERARD’S barque was now launched prosperously upon a smiling sea; its fair white sails filled by a favoring breeze.
He had all the qualities calculated to ensure success in the brilliant society to which Madame Geoffrin’s favor admitted him. With the air of a handsome young shepherd, fresh from the Arcadia of which it was the fashion to dream, he had the manners of a Parisian. He was modest, but not shy; and his conversation, always full of intelligent simplicity, soon acquired the piquant grace, the fine and perfumed pleasantry of the salons. As he happened to be the only musician whom Madame Geoffrin received, he was no man’s rival; and could praise a sketch of Vernet’s, a tale of Marmontel’s, a poem of Marivaux’, without reserve or jealousy.
Madame Geoffrin could not have had a more delightful protégé. He was young enough to be submissive without servility, and docile without the sacrifice of manly independence; while his inexperience made advice, and even dictation, really advantageous to him. Madame Geoffrin hated nothing so much as having to defend her friends. She never had to defend Désiré Gerard. From taste, not from principle, he retained, even amidst the dissipations of Paris, a simplicity and purity that might have exposed him to ridicule in freer circles. Moreover, he never startled the salon with bewildering paradoxes, or wild theories subversive of the first principles of morality and religion. The admiration and gratitude with which he regarded his patroness were profound, and their expression, at once delicate and ingenuous, was more flattering than most of the other tributes she received as Queen of Fashion.
The friendship of the Baron de Grimm also proved invaluable to Gerard. With his help a few “chansons,” mere trifles composed long ago, were soon exchanged for a little pile of bright louis-d’or. Marivaux entrusted him with the libretto of an opera; even the renowned Diderot employed him to correct some errors in the article on music destined to appear in the Encyclopedia; and a signal honor he esteemed it to be associated, however humbly, with the masterwork of the age, “the great confused Bible of the Eighteenth Century,” at that time all the more an object of general interest and enthusiasm because unwisely suppressed by authority.
Grimm introduced him to his friend the Baron d’Holbach, and he was as successful in pleasing that wealthy nobleman as in gaining the regard of Madame Geoffrin. Before long he became a frequent guest at his famous suppers; in fact, almost a member of what was called the “clique Holbachique.” This circle comprised the most “advanced thinkers” of the time, such as Raynal, Helvetius, Diderot, and D’Holbach himself, whose “System of Nature” provoked the indignation even of Voltaire, and has been truly called “a crime of lèse-humanity.” The very qualities that made Gerard so pleasant and so popular, left him peculiarly exposed to influences of every kind and from every quarter.
No increase of prosperity tempted him to forsake his humble lodging in the Rue Béthizy. No more brilliant engagement kept him from the Sunday dinner of the Bairdons, or superseded the evening walk with them on the Boulevards. What was more remarkable, he sometimes escorted Madame Bairdon and Griselle to early mass at St. Sulpice on Sundays and holidays.
He did not meet M. Goudin again. The old priest lodged amongst the rôtisseurs of the Quais, in a poor district of the Quartier St. André. Smallpox, that curse of the age, was raging there, and his unceasing ministrations to the sick entailed upon him the self-denial of a total separation from the Bairdons. Not until the plague was stayed did he even venture to call at the shop and make inquiries for the family, especially for the little children, who were very dear to him.
Gustave recovered in due time from his injury, though a slight lameness remained, and the puny boy looked more weak and ailing than ever. But his mind developed rapidly, and in very undue proportion to his growth of body. He could not be accused of ingratitude to Gerard, for whom he eagerly performed every little service in his power, listening to his words with a veneration very like that which Gerard himself paid to those of D’Alembert, Diderot, or D’Holbach. He even attempted the study of music (though nature had denied him the necessary gifts), that he might appreciate the achievements of his hero. Gerard, flattered by this deference, often talked with the boy, giving him the benefit of his “advanced ideas,” and lending him the writings of his philosophic friends.
One morning Griselle rose early to prepare breakfast for her father, who was going to visit some friends at St. Cloud, and, to her surprise, found Gustave already in the parlor, reading.
“Good morning, brother,” she said. “How early you are today!”
“M. Gerard woke me,” returned Gustave. “He went out an hour ago.”
“Indeed! What are you reading?”
“Oh! a book you could not understand,” said Gustave loftily ― “‘L’Esprit,’ by M. Helvetius.”
“Don’t you think you could explain it to me if you tried?” Griselle asked good-humouredly.
“Perhaps―M. Gerard could if he were here. The other night, when he was telling us about that English book of Adam Smith’s, I think even you understood him.”
“That was easy. It was only about buying and selling, demand and supply. That goes through everything, even your mother’s lace.”
“So it does,” said Gustave brightening. “Now, for instance, if I had that lace in England, where no one makes it, and many want to buy it, it would be worth a king’s ransom.”
“Yes; but you would have to pay heavy customs and duties.”
“That’s so like a girl,” said Gustave, with a gesture of impatience. “Girls never understand an illustration. A man cannot talk of the mountains of the moon but they think he is setting out to climb them. Besides, those duties and customs are absurd and oppressive, fruits of the selfishness of kings and the folly of subjects. But, Griselle, this is a wonderful book of M. Helvetius’. He proves, most unanswerably, that every one does everything just because he likes it, and for no other possible reason. There is nothing but selfishness in the world.”
“What a horrible lie!” said Griselle.
“Girls’ ignorance again! If you were able to think and reason―like a man―you would see it is no lie, but the truth. The other day M. Gerard repeated to me a bonmot he heard somewhere about Helvetius, ‘This man has told the secret of all the world.’”
“It is false, I say,” Griselle repeated, her blue eyes kindling and her cheek glowing. “We are not all selfish; we do care for each other, and the good God above cares for us all.”
“Old wives’ nonsense!” cried Gustave with bitter contempt. “How can I believe there is a God that cares for me? Here am I, Gustave Adolphe Bairdon, fifteen years old, with ‘esprit’ more than enough―esprit which is worse than useless, only a burden and a pain, because I have not a body to match. I am like a knife blade, keen and sharp, but without a handle. Of course, if I had belonged to the noblesse I would have been made bishop or abbé to begin with, and then I could have kept my place with the best; ay, and made a name too in the world of letters and science. But my father is nobody―in this country―and my mother sells lace. Advocate I might have been, and wished to be; but, Griselle, the lads in the college laugh at me and call me harlequin, dwarf, hunchback, and if I stood up to speak in court the public would laugh too. And then―was it not enough to be ugly, deformed, sickly, without being lame too? Was the good God caring for me when I fell under the horse’s hoofs last June?”
“He was, brother; or M. Gerard would not have been at hand to save you,” Griselle answered softly.
“Save me!―for what?” he exclaimed bitterly.
“For a brave and noble life, my brother.”
Gustave had risen to his feet, and they stood together near the window. Griselle laid her hand gently on his forehead, pushing back the soft fine hair which fell over it. “Do not slander yourself, and reproach your Maker,” she said. “Gustave, the face I look on now is not ugly. There is in it that which would be beautiful if you would let it shine forth as God means it to do. Your deformity is so slight, brother, that a little care in dress almost hides it; and you may yet outgrow it, and your feeble health too. God has given you precious gifts―keen thought, ready wit, an eloquent tongue; only do not feed your brain while you starve your heart, Gustave, or else you may be an advocate, or even a philosopher, but you will never be a man.”
“Good morning, mademoiselle,” said Gerard entering, and bringing with him into the city room a breath of spring and a beam of sunshine. “I am not worthy to wish you joy upon this auspicious morning, so I have ventured to make these flowers, whose pure loveliness resembles, though it cannot rival, yours, my ambassadors and interpreters.” He presented a bouquet, carefully chosen from amongst the choicest treasures of the Marché des Innocents.
“It is her fête!” thought Gustave in great vexation. “And I, who told him of it a month ago, forgot it myself! How unkind she must think me!” With a blundering desire to make some little reparation, he went to fetch water for the flowers. “Is it very necessary to hasten back with it?” he asked himself, as he stood in the dark narrow passage, vase in hand, and caught, through the open door, a glimpse of Gerard’s graceful figure and bright handsome face, glowing with emotion. How eager, how happy he looked! Perhaps, after all, there were things in the world worth considering beside theories, thoughts, and philosophies.
That step on the stairs was his father’s. Gustave hurried down into the shop to avoid him, for the father and son were not then on the most friendly terms. But he heard greetings exchanged, and words of congratulation and of thanks, from which he inferred that M. Bairdon, as well as Gerard, had remembered Griselle’s birthday.
An hour later, Griselle, in the quiet of her chamber, untied the silken thread which bound the lilies, roses, and camellias Gerard had selected for her. Had some child fairy been at sport amongst them, and left his plaything, a tiny hoop of glistening gold, garnished with one drop of liquid light? A perfumed billet, tinted like a rose leaf, and scarcely larger, explained the mystery: “Deign, mademoiselle, to accept one flower which will not fade, as a messenger of sentiments yet more unfading.”