The Conqueror of Death Read online

  Come back in two hours; he is still there, in the same position; angler and cork are mummified, and when nightfall forces him to pack up his baggage, he returns home placidly. He rarely gets a bite, and it is marvelous to see the stoicism with which the crestfallen angler, incapable of discouragement, replaces the maggot that the malign gudgeon has just eaten off the barb of his hook, and continues that maneuver until dusk, chasing away the daylight, puts an end to the unequal combat in which the man, always vanquished, returns the next morning to recommence his new and infallible defeat.

  Defeat! Now it was me who feared it, remembering that Vincent Champignol was a man to pursue the execution of his decisions with the tenacity of a Mohican. Nevertheless, I reproached myself for my hesitations, and when the time came I made the decision to commence the attack and to fall upon the enemy. “To vanquish without peril, or triumph without glory,” I recited with the poet, in order to excite my courage—and I went down incontinently to the water’s edge.

  A strong breeze was shaking the tangled vegetation leading down to the hiding-place. Vincent didn’t hear me coming. I surprised him in the middle of detaching his hook, which had caught on a bramble—an inconceivable error for an experienced angler. Thus, it was in a murderous humor that he greeted me, without any great expenditure of courtesy.

  “Oh, it’s you,” he said. “My word, I wasn’t expecting you!”

  “Believe me, I wouldn’t disturb you if an urgent and imperious reason hadn’t obliged me to speak to you for a few moments.”

  “Good God, what’s it about? Wait a minute…and above all, don’t speak too loudly…you’ll frighten the fish. Damned hook…it’s stuck to this accursed branch…good! It’s free…it wasn’t so difficult. Some new bait, and I’ll be all ears.”

  Vincent cast his line methodically, with a gesture that he attempted to render both noble and graceful.

  “Hazard,” I went on, “has informed me about the imminent marriage—or, rather, the marriage plans—relative to Mademoiselle Laure, and I feel that it’s my duty to warn you about the rumors…the nasty rumors circulating with regard to Félix Grandin...”

  “What are these rumors, if you please?”

  “They claim that Monsieur Félix is not a well-behaved man, that he leads a dissolute existence, and...”

  “Shhh! Shhh! I had a bite, damn it! If you hadn’t spoken, I’d have caught a nice fish. Go on—I’m listening...”

  “They say, moreover, that he’s a thoroughly bad lot and will end up devouring the paternal fortune.”

  “Who’s they? When one makes accusations against someone, it’s necessary to be precise.”

  “The public in general—everybody, in sum, is in agreement in saying that Félix Grandin is a debauchee, and that the woman he marries will be the chief victim of his passions.”

  “Come, come, my friend, turn the handle you’re holding—I know this song, damn it! Félix is now what we once were…he’s young, he’s taking advantage of his youth. When you were twenty-five, didn’t you have fun? Personally, I don’t mind admitting that that I had fun—a lot of fun…an enormous amount of fun…which doesn’t prevent me from being an honest man and an excellent husband...”

  “But you didn’t amuse yourself in the same way as Félix Grandin...”

  “Oh damn! That’s another one I’ve missed…damn it! I believe you’re frightening the fish, and you’ll be the cause of my going home empty-handed...”

  “Please,” I said, impatiently, “leave the fish where they are and listen to me. It’s a matter of your child’s future, and I think that consideration far outweighs those that it pleases you to invoke in order to prevent me from speaking.”

  Vincent raised his head and forgot himself to the point of losing sight of his cork.

  “Don’t go on,” he said to me. “I understand how difficult your situation is. I can see that you’re an ‘envoy extraordinary,’ and I can’t hold it against you. Do you think that I’m acting lightly and that I don’t know how to strive for my daughter’s happiness? Félix Grandin is a charming young man, perhaps something of a fop, but a god enough fellow. If one judges young men by the peccadilloes and indiscretions that are virtually part and parcel of youth, none of them would be worthy of marriage. Women get alarmed about trivia, silly things they laugh about later, when time and experience have ripened heir reason. It isn’t possible for me to desire or find a more suitable son-in-law than Félix Grandin…and Laure will marry him no matter what.”

  This parental and matrimonial tirade was pronounced in a tone that neutralized my determination to do Madame Champignol’s bidding. I was especially humiliated to find that our artillery had been unmasked at the very beginning of the battle, and that it only remained for me to retreat in good order. Even so, I made one further attempt.

  “Come on,” I went on. “What if you’re mistaken, and Laure’s inclinations are in another direction…if she doesn’t love Félix...”

  “She will love him...”

  “If you inflict an incurable wound on her heart...”

  “Ah! At last! I’ve got one...”

  And the excited angler pulled a small barbel out of the water. Either because the backward movement of the line was too precipitate, however, or because the fish was poorly hooked, it came loose and fell back into the river.

  What curses! What wrath! No blast of wind was ever unleashed in the bosom of a tempest with greater fury. No thunderbolt ever burst with as much violence in the midst of the sinister rumblings of a storm. I alone was guilty. Why was I meddling in an affair that was none of my concern? I was frightening the fish. What a disastrous idea it had been for me to come! I’d brought the evil eye with me. To miss such a nice catch! And for idiotic quibbles! Did one need permission to marry a daughter?

  “I swear by God,” he continued, with concentrated rage, “that Laure will marry Félix Grandin, and I’ll never permit her to fall for a good-for-nothing, an art student, a dauber, a sign-painter who’ll let her die of poverty and starvation...”

  I listened in bewilderment. The plot was thickening.

  In Vincent Champignol’s tone there was all the scorn and ferocious disdain of a bourgeois for an artist who has not yet arrived.

  An artist! There was an artist in the woodpile!

  Why hadn’t Madame Champignol warned me, thus leaving me disarmed before her husband, as he yielded to all the extravagances of spite? Mentally, however, I excused the poor woman, thinking that intimate considerations that were none of my business had forced her to be discreet and reserved.

  But who was the fortunate mortal sufficiently favored by fate to merit the sympathy of the Champignol ladies and attract the aversion—or, rather, the hatred—of Vincent Champignol? In our small town I knew only three amateur painters and two photographers, all devoid of the aureole, the ideal quality that sometimes seduces romantically-inclined young women. Of the five individuals in question, moreover, three were married and the two other confirmed bachelors. It was not in that society that I ought to seek for the new Juliet’s Romeo.

  I withdrew, slightly disappointed, casting a farewell and rather dry “Good luck” in Vincent’s direction. The latter had already calmed down, though, and he shook my hand effusively.

  “Don’t hold it against me,” he said. “You caught me at a bad moment. I was annoyed by the memory of a family argument. Then again, I’ve drawn an absolute blank. I don’t have my usual self-composure—the fish are running away from me. When I’m alone, I’ll get my revenge. Au revoir!”

  All the fatherly affection had disappeared beneath the egotism of the angler!

  I continued my walk, reflecting sadly on the unexpected vicissitudes of existence, and embarrassed by the inept role that I had just played. What was I going to say to Madame Champignol? Would not confessing my discomfort allow her to suppose that I was apprehensive of doing her bidding and was retreating from the task she had imposed upon me? And yet, the morning breeze was so fragrant, the sum
mer heat so frank, the countryside so beautiful; the insects and the birds were celebrating the joy of living with so much enthusiasm that the unwelcome impressions in my mind were erased one by one, and my thoughts came gradually into harmony with the splendid landscape that was unfolding before my eyes.

  I believe—God forgive me!—that I even rhymed a few lines and that an Alexandrine strophe was elaborated in my mind. While versifying, and seeking to avoid a hiatus that would hinder my poetic eloquence, I arrived at a clump of acacias providing a profusion of cool shade. I was about to sit down and devote myself to the dulcet forniente so beloved by the favorites of Apollo when, to my great surprise, I heard someone speak my name.

  A man of about twenty-seven, with a masculine bearing, distinguished features and a proud gaze was standing before me, respectfully. He had a sketch-pad in his hand, on which I could make out a drawing of the location that surrounded us, and in the distance, the Champignol house, with its appearance of a Swiss villa, and the veranda on which Madame Champignon and her daughter loved to devote themselves to some embroidery work or read the newspapers that they received regularly.

  Aha! I thought. Can this be anyone but the Prince Charming that no one mentioned to me?

  The unknown brought me out of my embarrassment by saying: “Excuse me if I take the liberty of interrupting you. I’m assured that you can give me some assistance in…a most delicate affair, and I’m coming to you…at one time, you were an acquaintance of my father’s, and I dare to hope that you might do me the honor of taking an interest in me. I’m Julien Tafforel.”

  “Julien Tafforel! Dr. Tafforel’s son?”

  “Yes.”

  “My God! That name brings back memories. Your father and I were more than acquaintances—we were true friends. He had such a generous heart, there was so much nobility in his character that the most indifferent individuals felt attracted to him.

  “Oh, Monsieur, how glad I am to hear you say that...”

  Julien Tafforel furtively wiped away a tear that had formed beneath his eyelid and offered me his hand cordially. It was all so natural, so rapid and imprinted with an emotion so sincere that I formed the highest opinion of the tall young man, whose solicitations I understood.

  And for a few moments, I invoked the past.

  Dr. Tafforel, a college friend, had been the providence of the region, and many people retained grateful memories of him. And yet, good fortune had not been with him. Married to a wife he adored, he had lost her after a few years of marriage. His child remained to him, and he left no stone unturned to give him an excellent education. There, at least, he received some satisfaction, for the child was intelligent and learned quickly. But the good doctor was not to see the results of his effort and sacrifice. One night, summoned to the bedside of an invalid whose home was several kilometers away, he harnessed his trap and departed. Whether because the night was too dark or the horse bolted, his carriage was found the next day, overturned by the roadside. Tafforel was badly hurt; his skull was fractured.

  Julien was then fourteen or fifteen years old. What had become of him since? The doctor’s modest fortune comprised an annual income of 1,800 francs and a small property with a rustic house whose revenues were much reduced. Presently, the property and the house, also situated on the bank of the river, were let to a “fish farmer,” a former mariner known as Père Benamer. It was known that Julien Tafforel had been taken in by his father’s sister, who lived in Paris, and after that, no one gave him any further thought. Had I even been aware that he still inhabited this vale of tears and misery?

  Side by side, the young man and I walked along the river bank, and a few minutes of conversation confirmed my first impressions. Without it being necessary to solicit “confidences,” we understood one another very quickly and chatted with casual ease.

  “Come on,” I said, “how did this come about?”

  “This was caused by a sprained ankle,” Julien replied, in the same tone. “About two months ago, I remembered that I was a property-owner, and decided to take advantage of the spring to visit my domain, knowing that it was surrounded by pretty landscapes and that I wouldn’t be wasting my time, for I’m a painter…I forgot to tell you that I’m a painter...”

  “I know that—go on...”

  “The country pleased me…there were genuine treasures to be gleaned. The nature of the Midi is so beautiful, so rich, so varied in hue! Père Benamer gave me two rooms, diabolically furnished but perfectly lit. I asked for no more. Immediately, I set to work, going hither and yon, sometimes absenting myself for days at a time—in sum, leading the nomadic life, full of the unexpected, that has so many charms for the artist. You see, Monsieur, that I have employed my vacation well and am worthy of the second medal that my works brought me at this year’s salon.”

  “Oh! You have a second medal—very good, and so much the better!”

  I rubbed my hands joyfully, for, in my opinion, the metal planted the “dauber” five hundred feet underground. It was a powerful argument to combat Champignol’s prejudices.

  “One evening,” Julien Tafforel continued, “I was coming back home, laden with all the impediments I take with me on my excursions. I was rather badly dressed and I must have looked like a stray clown. At the corner of the path leading to my house, I perceived two women. One of them, the younger, was sitting on a pile of stones and whimpering in pain. I went to them and offered my services. It was one of those thousand misfortunes, one of those little accidents, that always happen unexpectedly. While out walking, after a false step, a sprain had occurred, and the young woman appeared to be suffering intensely.

  “Well—one goes to war when needs must! I was alone. Except for me there was no possible assistance. Madame Champignol and your servant picked Mademoiselle Laure up and we clip-clopped to my domicile. I’m not the son of a physician for nothing, and artists know a heap of remedies that work marvelously. Madame Champignol took her daughter’s shoe and sock off and I saw the daintiest, the pinkest…well, Cinderella didn’t have such a foot...”

  “Oho!” I said. “What enthusiasm!”

  “I’m giving you my impressions as an artist. I immediately brought a large bowl full of fresh water and prepared a curative compress with camphorated eau-de-vie, which perfumed my apartment. I placed it myself, with a dexterity worthy of an experienced medical student. For at least five minutes, I held that foot in my hand, rubbing it gently, scarcely brushing it with my fingers, so fearful was I of reviving the pain occasioned by the sprain.

  “When the suffering had diminished, the two women cast an investigative glance around them, and paused on a few paintings hanging on the wall.

  “‘Is it you, Monsieur, who painted all these pretty pictures?’ she asked.

  “I nodded my head. Oh, I’m not mistaken. Before those canvases, into which I had put all my inspiration, in which I had faithfully reproduced nature while trying to discover its most poetic aspects, she experienced those elevated sentiments which remove all banality from admiration and reveal noble souls.

  “What can I add? They left. Then they came back to thank me. I sought to see her again. And when I saw her, it seemed that life was passing into my brushes and that my colors harmonized, identifying with I don’t know what unknown, which plunged me into an ecstasy from which I never wanted to emerge…and little by little, my heart went out to her…but I’m becoming as sentimental as a romance, and I must be making you laugh.”

  “No, no,” I replied, squeezing the brave lad’s heart. “One doesn’t laugh at the skylark, nor the nightingale, when they sing their songs of love; on the contrary, one listens to them with a religious silence.”

  “I’ve learned that Monsieur Champignol has rejected me, and I’ve come to you...”

  “I’ve seen Monsieur Champignol this very morning and catechized him as best I could, but I ran into resistance, and a stubbornness I hadn’t expected.”

  “From where does his aversion to me stem?”

&nbsp
; “Oh, you great innocent. You don’t have much money and you’re a painter.”

  “But my paintings are appreciated and I’m beginning to earn money. I’ll wager that Monsieur Champignon thinks I’m looking for a dowry. Let him keep his dowry. The future belongs to the valiant. Without boasting, I affirm that I am one of them...”

  “Does Monsieur Champignon know you?”

  “He has never seen me.”

  “Perfect. Are you determined to attempt anything to be worthy of Mademoiselle Laure?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know that Monsieur Champignol is a fervent angler.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “Well, it’s necessary to make use of his passion—or rather, his obsession—to win him over and get him on your side.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Listen to a little true story, and try to profit from it.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “Monsieur de Salvandy, one of Louis-Philippe’s ministers, was a keen angler. He knew the best spots, and when his functions left him a little leisure time, he devoted himself ardently to his favorite pleasure. The chroniclers of the era claim that he was prouder of catching a good fry-up than of his successes in the Chambers. Is it more difficult to catch fish than humans? Who can tell? A frequent petitioner studied his minister and kept careful watch on him. He became convinced that Monsieur de Salvandy was fond of a particular place…the good spot. Almost all anglers are superstitious. And every morning, as soon as rosy-fingered dawn parted the gates of the Orient, he took possession of it. The first day, the Minister was irritated; the second day, His Excellency was more violently irritated; the third day...”