IN MEMORY OF COLUMBINE.

Poverty Bay Herald, Volume XXXIV, Issue 11157, 21 December 1907, Page 5 (Supplement)

IN MEMORY OF COLUMBINE.

.t < In the bedroom of Monsier de Courcelles one received an impression of great simplicity, but of a simplicity rich, m many harmonious elements. Religion and art, spirit and form, were here blended into, a beautifuL unity. ?-An old Breton armoire stood against one' wall, a large bookshelf against an.oiher. "On the bookshelf was a small figure of ThorWaldsen's ; "Christ," on a stood little busts of Dante, S^ayonarola, Shakespeare, Racine, and Mbliere, There were bright vases m djU'k corners, and quaintly carved chairs; aiid on an easel facing tlje bed a portrait dfcM.de Courcelles' wife, who had died iix months after their marriage. .4.. Those "who have seen this room- declare that; its dignity, its harmony, its air ■off-*.- thought, of culture, and of piety, made them feel that they were m, the 4nte-r6Om, of M. de Courcelles' innerzriost mind, which was believed by those who knew him to be a very beautiful arid .rare mind. But there was one incongruous !note--an object so crude and cheap and ugly that one imagined thp \vhole room's protesting against x it. Yet year after year it remained there, m a conspicuous position near the bed. ,. Indeed, there is no reason to suppose,; that &~i's hot there now*" . This object was a figure of St. Anthony holding the Blessed Child. "It was about eighteen inches ; in', heigfit, and" made of plaster, which tfaa brightly -'painted. The dark brown robe of "the saint was girded, with a green l cord; 'his- eyes' were brilliant blue, curiously outlined with black; his cheeks were rosy; m his right hand he held a tinsel lily; in' his left hand, whichwas slightly malformed, he clasped the Holy Child, who had no beauty whatsoever,, but a very bright blue robe. Many people' asked the history of the figure arid the reason: of its; presence there. They, suspected the saint of penitential origin. To some M. de Courcelles replied briefly that 1 he kept it ' 'm memory of Columbine" '■} but to one\or two he told the story.-. ' ;-..'•; \ •■-. ■ : ' ■;■■ ■■.. ' . - . Ml de 'Courcelles was intellectually a decadent. He loved dreams better than facts. . -He stood, as other Frenchman stand, 1 on the threshold l of the infinite, for a gleam, a sound from the untraversed vastness. He. loved the shad, psws of things the. labyrinthine ways of dreams, the shades of emotion, the dim forests of fanpy, v the hints of sensation. He wrote books and poems that were un,derstood by , other dreamers, but -prditfounced by the homely; paterfamilias, the man of, affairs, to be "rot," or its equivalent, m French. But once Ml de Courcelles wrote a children's play, that was Bufficiently deiiriite m fbito to be universally admired. The play was called La Folie de Jeanette, but it is now forgotten, exqepfr, of course, by the few. : At its con-, elusion there was a harlequinade, for M. Courcelles saw invthis old mirthful pantomime something", world-old yet worldy9ung, something that speaks to men of the world's springtime, of ; its Childhood'; of melt's laughter and ieavs.' It pleased his fancy to introduce this harlequinade, with its types of mankind, at the end of his play j and it pleased his fancy, likewise, to assign its different parts to children. Harlequin, Pantalpon, Qolumbirie, Were\>H little children; '• i - .-■' At the fiist there "was some difficulty ■m finding a Columbine suitable for the part;, but" one. day .a friend of M. de Courcelles. saw m a poor quarter of Paris a Kttlechild who was dancing to the music of a pipe. Though the dancing. of children is always beautiful from the idea of youth it conveys, it is riot always . graceful ; but this child displayed genius. Inquiries were made, and it was found that she lived with her aunt, the wife, of a ragpicker. These people, whp ■were respectable but very poor, objected strongly to the idea of the child's , taking part m the harlequinade. The stage had been the glory, 1 -.the temptation, and the ruin of-, her beautiful, weak-willed mother, Jaqueine Mottoe.. yrhose datichig had enchanted Paris a decade before this time, but whom Paris had forgotten when site died m. poverty:^ and shame, leavirig her child, the little Marie, to- her respectable, unadmired sister, the ragpicker's wife. ' ;■■.'■ -At last, however, their objections were oyerocme, and Marie itook the part- «f iCpiumbine, » and reminded the' world o$; the Jaqueline Mottoe whom they had forgotten. The play and the harlequinade were successful ; they had a season of popularity;.^!, de Gourcelles was pleas6d— -so pleased, indeed, that he made a 'great sacrifice and invited all the children to a. fete his (beautiful house, His sisfcef, Md<laine Pelissier, and his housekeeper, prepared the feast, and saw that the children had plenty to eat, arid M. de Courcelles gave a pretty gift to each child and; a 1 new Although !». he had a grave and dreamy manner, he - possessed that rare, inexplicable charm to ;.which children are so sensitive. Hfe little guests deserted Madame Pelissier arid clung to M.'fdeV Gourcelles.- 'They showed no 'inciiuatfon for -gam^s,'- unless , bB-.played m them also; and;. at. last, ih *» he conduoted a few of them iohis beautiful bedroom, that they might amuse themselves with a collection of clever mechanical -toys which were stored away m the armoire. ";« He was asked for minute explanations of every- object m the room. His chest of drawers was rummaged, his cupboards explored. At that time there stood near the -bed another St. Anthony. It was of marble, excellently sculptured. The '• saint was represented as a boy ; and the youthful, delicate face seemed^ if you ; 'looked , at it suddenly, to smile at the vHoly Child t who wasso tenderly held m the boy's arms. It was the work of an Italian who had died m poverty m the Quartier Latin. But that morning sin accident had occurred. A clumsy, servant knocking over the pedestal, the i figure had .been dashed against the leg 'of the bedstead, breaking off the nose arid the fingers of both hands, and entirely destroying the beauty of the work. M. de Courcelles looked at this re. gretfully while the little Columbine clung to his hand. "See," said he, "llow quickly the. work of months, per* haps of a lifetime, may be spoiled. My Servant has broken the dream of one who is now dead, and I have lost my dear St. Anthony." _ Warm? fingers tigjitenied on his. '*Camft>t. 'Monsieur get another?" "No. little one, I cannot get anotherSt.. Anthony ; and I shall miss him every morning and evening." "It ,is a, great damage, Monsieur. - "It is, dear child, but I must resign myself, unless the saints send me another like it." "Perhaps they will, Monsieur. The hours of* M. de Courcelles's self-. sacrifice ticked themselves away. The children went home and left him to his dreams and his warm self -satisfaction. It was two years after the performance of his play that he received a visit from a stranger, who was announced tis the Abbe Cadic. M. de Courcelles was vexed by the interruption, but he rose with a courteous smile to receive his visitor. He saw a young priest with a sweet and placid face, dressed m the ordinary clerical dress, but more shabby and worn and shiny than M. de Courcelles had ever seen it. / "I hope you will forgive me, Monsieur for disturbing you thus," the young ('man said presently, with a blush. \ "But certainly, M. l'Abbe. I am at your service." . , "Do you remember, then, Monsieur, a little girl called Marie MottoeT' . M. de Courcelles went to the cupboard of his' memory, but found no Marie Mottoe. He shook his head. "She took the part of Columbine m your harlequinade pf two years ago." "Ah ! Columbine. Yes, now I remember the child— a. dear little girl with a genius for dancing. I can see her again; she had such an eager little pale face and such a lively mind that her thoughts seemed to be written m her eyes. How is she. then, Monsieur?" "She is dying, I fear— or rather I think I hope it, for she has an evil inher. itance from her poor mother, and her life would be either too. hard or too fatally easy.',' "Dying, Monsieur? lou grieve me. What is the matter with her, poor child?" "Hip disease." M. de Courcelles shuddered. "How ugly, how inexplicable, a thing is all disease! And she who danced so well!" "Her aunt thinks it the judgment of heaven for the part she played m your harlequinade, and for her mother's sins."

"Poor little one ! How hard these respectable people can be ! But how did she get it?" "She - fell and sprained her leg. It was not treated properly. She is a delicate child,, and the disease began and has progressed very quickly. The end ig inevitable, but I hope it may be quick. For the dear little one is quite prepared." The Abbe Cadic bent to pat the poodle's shaven back and — though this is not certain — to wink back his tears. For his monotonous, hard-working- life knew one radiant passion, a singular devotion ■to children. He loved all his flpck, even those sheep which were gray or black; but for the lambs he had a Kculiar tenderness. He delighted to ptize them, to hear their- confessions, to absolve their little childish offences,' to see - them receive their first communion. He raised his ■ head and- looked at M. de Courcelles with wistful eyes. "This little one has a great devotion for you, Monsieur. Children cherish these ardent affections for those above them. The flame burns very brightly even when it is fed only by a, . dim remembrance.. She has spoken, of you of ten ; it would please her very weU'if you sent her^ome message. She seems to have some little trouble on her mind;— an anxiety, a restlessness which she does not explain ; perhaps you could dissolve; it by some kind words, which I" would repeat." He rose and stood there fingering his hat, looking at M .' de . Gourcelles anxiously. The other rose too. "If M. l'Abbe Will conduct me, I will go.and see the, little Columbine." They went together to a poor street, and up a. flight of stairs to a small but clean garret, which was decorated by a cheap print of the Crucifixion and a bright figure of the Madonna. A geranium stood m the window-sill, and not far, froni it was: the little bed where Columbine lay. , > . She tried to rise, but the cumbrous irons m which her leg was fixed prevented; her; from doing soy She turned a radi* aritface towards the two men . M. de Courcelles kissed her. He stood by the; bedside, holding 7 her hand and talking, to her, tenderly and humorously, doiiigi his utmost to cheer and amuse- heii, At last ' he turned to go, but a very bony little hand detained him. "The saints have hot sent Monsieur another St. ' ArifcHohy ?" she asked with evident anxiety. , . ■ : "But no, dear child, riot as yet.". "Perhaps they may some day." , ' "Perhaps, dearie. Goo d-by." ''Good-bye, Monsieuri" The priest conducted M. de, Courcelles to the door and gripped his ihiijiwjiite hand so hard that the red nmrksidiu not fade from it for k minute or so! Then he ran up the stairs with quite uncleri^ cal speed. ''' . ;W y ■ .." ,'■■ ■'". .- ■ :. ; ■■'■*•-' '"■■ > ; - As he entered the, room Marie evidently concealed something from his under her pillows. The Abbe Cadic was grieved 1 , but he said nothing. ; : : "Now,; little one, are you not happy?" he asked. "You have seen your dear friend, and he is, going to send, you grapes and wine arid toys 'and pretty books.".: He held lip. his. hands with a gesture eijpr^ssed a plenitude of good things.' ■ .'- :! ''-- ; -- ' ■■•• ■•■.- ■'■ ' 'r ■ ' '■ '■'■. . "tarn w&l obnterit, Father," said the little girl. ' There Was a shade of [ evasion m her voice, and her face as she turned it toward ithe window was marked with the anxiety that poverty and the consideration of money write on the faces of the poor,; even on their children!.: ,-' ■ : '- ■ „■■"*' ■■■■■ ■■. •: ,' ,' ( . -/.' : ■ .; In the weeks that followed Marie grew worse; she had time^ of great suffering, arid the sight ,of her worn little face saddened the heart of her friend the Abbe more than her death could have done. , A time came when she seemed so neat death that.he administered the last sacra* ments. But" she rallied fora little, and the pain seemed to cease. . But still her troubled little soul looked out piteously through her eyes, V, as though seeking dumbly something for Which she ; would not ask. One day the Abbe was with her arid her sadness, so- grieved him that he determined to find out the cause. Marie always set aside some pif M. de Courcelles' grapes for/her friend. And these he accepted, to, please her. He ate the graphs, then spoke, one ,big hand laid upon her little one. "Dear child>" he said, "you are sad, and. I would have you go into our > dear Lprd;s presence ■■with; a smile/ /Is there ; nothing that I .can do for you?, Yourlebhscience-is clear, but something , troubles you still; tell : it^--then,: / t6 i; 'yonr'"dld^'feeiia^hd ; We. whether he .cannot help you." A ' Marie raised her head and looked at him with intense eagerness; "o' Father,*-' she said, "would you, could you give me a franc?" , The Abbe Cadic started. This thought of money . coming from a dying child shocked him. It seemed tp him like a dark cloud obscuring the innocent child's soul. He fumbled, in his pockets and produced a franc. ; "Here is the franc, Marie. " Her thin, hot fingers seized it; then putting it beside her shfe began to feel m the mattress for something which was hidden there.,^. To the. priest's 'surprise she 'presently /produced a< little hoard of money. > "Count it, Father," she cried; He counted the coins solemnly. "Six francs and /twenty-five centimes. , She turned a face toward him and clasped his "hands with: both hers. "Dear Father," she said, speaking . almost incoherently m her haste, "go thou to Papa Lepage at the corner of the Rue d'Alsace ; you will see there a -beautiful St. Anthony; he is but six and a half francs, and Papa Lepage promised that I should have him for. six, for I have waited to buy him for two years, and I thought I, should never get the money, for once when I got it I gave a franc to Mere Coqueliri, because she had no food, and once I lost fifty centimes through a hole 'in my pocket. Go there, Father, quickly, lest the 'Pere Lepage should have sold it." - The Abbe hurried away to Papa Lepage's. He had no artistic sense, this pure-souled, kindly young man, but- he was struck by the ugliness of the plaster St. Anthony at his first glance.. There it stood, m the sordid little shop, waiting for its child admirer to ransom it. An innocent but deeply rooted love of bargaining, made the priest haggle for some time over the price of the figure ; and he was crowned with triumph when he came out of the shop with the bulky possession and a franc to the good! He returned to the- child's garret and laid the parcel on the bed, then iindid the string, because she was too weak to do so. She gave a little cry of joy. ."Ah ! heavens, how beautiful it is, this St. Anthony! And when will;' Monsieur come and see it? I hope we'll that I shall live to see his pleasure." "I shall fetch him now," said, the Abbe, and away he went, striding through the rain and praying as he went. I do not think he knew that m hlh innermost heart" he was jealous of Marie's love for M. de Courcelles, He wondered why this grave t dreamer should win so easily what he himself persistently courted. But that is a riddle as old as mankind and as fresh as the morning dew. When he reached the big house he rang the bell and stood there, dripping with rain and panting. The servant, a supercilious varlet and an avowed pnosthater, told him that M. de Courcelles was engaged. The Abbe urged the importance of his message. The servant replied that his master was engaged with M. Saint-Simon, at that time the greatest philosopher m France. The Abbe grew angry. "M. Saint-Simon can wait, but Death can't," he said, and pushed his way into the hall. , The man showed him into the presence of M. de Courcelles and his famous guest and for a moment the priest felt an overwhelming- shyness. He-. was of another world, arid his world was rainy and bleak and poverty-stricken, while theirs was warm and cultured and smooth. He bowedawkwardly. There was appeal m his eyes. - "It is your little Columbine," he blurted out; "she is dying, Monsieur; can you not come with me?" M. de Gourcelles looked from one man to the other; perhaps he was noting the contrast. Then he turned to M. SaintSimon. "You will excuse me," he said, and followed the priest out into the rain. They walked so quickly that the older man could scarcely find breath to speak ; but fads younger companion . -related to him ■ the story of the sadness of Columbine, of her secret, and of the purchase of the figure. "It is very ugly," he- said. "M. l'Abbe, I am not blind; I shall not fail to see its beauty,"

As they went into the street, Marie's aunt and cousin withdrew to the door. The child appeared almost unconscious, and she did not recognise M. de Courcelles until he bent over her and raised her m his arms. Thea she opened her eyes and looked at him with rapture. "Monsieur, the saints have sent you another St. Anthony — oh, but so beautiful ! They have colored him while they kept you waiting. See." The priest handed him the figure. "Dear child," said M. de Courcelles, "I have never had a present I valued so. much. I shall put it m the place oi the old one, and look at it morning and night, and remember the little Colum r bine, and " His voice broke sud>denly. He knelt beside the bed holding one wasted little hand ; arid the priests jealously, one must admit— held '.the other while he knelt m. prayer. So Columbine, with a great content m her heart, fell asleep; and- looking at her, they saw that she was dead. ' The Abbfe arid M. de Courcelles went downstairs. They were both weepr mg 1 , and they did not try fy conceal it. The Abbe Wiped his' eyes withi a, magen-ta-oolored haridltarchief. . 'xhen he fumjbled m his pockets ifor" string. : "I will fasten him up for you," he said huskily, arid he took the figure from M. de Courcelles. "It was kind of you, Monsiemy to accept ; him, for lie is an ugly fellow; and his cheeks are too. rosy for a saint." M. de Courcelles leaned against the door. ' 'He is an u^ly, fellow, M. i* Abbe, as you say," he answered; "but he speaks tome of that which is most beautiful m the world!— of the humanity of Christ, of child love and child innocence. He speaks to me of that which is real. He calls me out of dreamland to see what is lovely, and yet tangible, and common as the daisies m the grass. I have sought the light through dim ; and phantasmal places, I have looked for it with aching eyes; and now a little child and an ugly plaster figure have shown it to me. I shall not forget." That is why the ugly St. Anthony stands beside M. de Courcelles' bed.