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In nearly all the second-class
prefectures of France there exists
one salon which is the meeting-ground
of those considerable and well-
considered persons of the community
who are, nevertheless, NOT the
cream of the best society. The
master and mistress of such an
establishment are counted among
the leading persons of the town;
they are received wherever it
may please them to visit; no
fete is given, no formal or diplomatic
dinner takes place, to which
they are not invited. But the
chateau people, heads of families
possessing great estates, in
short, the highest personages
in the department, do not go
to their houses; social intercourse
between them is carried on by
cards from one to the other,
and a dinner or soiree accepted
and
returned.
This salon, in which the lesser
nobility, the clergy, and the
magistracy meet together, exerts
a great influence. The judgment
and mind of the region reside
in that solid, unostentatious
society, where each man knows
the resources of his neighbor,
where complete indifference is
shown to luxury and dress,--pleasures
which are thought childish in
comparison to that of obtaining
ten or twelve acres of pasture
land,--a purchase coveted for
years, which has probably given
rise to endless diplomatic combinations.
Immovable in its prejudices,
good or evil, this social circle
follows a beaten track, looking
neither before it nor behind
it. It accepts nothing from Paris
without long examination and
trial; it rejects cashmeres as
it does investments on the Grand-Livre;
it scoffs at fashions and novelties;
reads nothing, prefers ignorance,
whether of science, literature,
or industrial inventions. It
insists on the removal of a prefect
when that official does not suit
it; and if the administration
resists, it isolates him, after
the manner of bees who wall up
a snail in wax when it gets into
their hive.
In this society gossip is often
turned into solemn verdicts.
Young women are seldom seen there;
when they come it is to seek
approbation of their conduct,--a
consecration of their self-importance.
This supremacy granted to one
house is apt to wound the sensibilities
of other natives of the region,
who console themselves by adding
up the cost it involves, and
by which they profit. If it so
happens that there is no fortune
large enough to keep open house
in this way, the big-wigs of
the place choose a place of meeting,
as they did at Alencon, in the
house of some inoffensive person,
whose settled life and character
and position offers no umbrage
to the vanities or the interests
of any one.
For some years the upper classes
of Alencon had met in this way
at the house of an old maid,
whose fortune was, unknown to
herself, the aim and object of
Madame Granson, her second cousin,
and of the two old bachelors
whose secret hopes in that direction
we have just unveiled. This lady
lived with her maternal uncle,
a former grand-vicar of the bishopric
of Seez, once her guardian, and
whose heir she was. The family
of which Rose-Marie-Victoire
Cormon was the present representative
had been in earlier days among
the most considerable in the
province. Though belonging to
the middle classes, she consorted
with the nobility, among whom
she was more or less allied,
her family having furnished,
in past years, stewards to the
Duc d'Alencon, many magistrates
to the long robe, and various
bishops to the clergy. Monsieur
de Sponde, the maternal grandfather
of Mademoiselle Cormon, was elected
by the Nobility to the States-General,
and Monsieur Cormon, her father,
by the Tiers-Etat, though neither
accepted the mission. For the
last hundred years the daughters
of the family had married nobles
belonging to the provinces; consequently,
this family had thrown out so
many suckers throughout the duchy
as to appear on nearly all the
genealogical trees. No bourgeois
family had ever seemed so like
nobility.
The house in which Mademoiselle
Cormon lived, build in Henri
IV.'s time, by Pierre Cormon,
the steward of the last Duc d'Alencon,
had always belonged to the family;
and among the old maid's visible
possessions this one was particularly
stimulating to the covetous desires
of the two old lovers. Yet, far
from producing revenue, the house
was a cause of expense. But it
is so rare to find in the very
centre of a provincial town a
private dwelling without unpleasant
surroundings, handsome in outward
structure and convenient within,
that Alencon shared the envy
of the lovers.
This old mansion stands exactly
in the middle of the rue du Val-Noble.
It is remarkable for the strength
of its construction,--a style
of building introduced by Marie
de' Medici. Though built of granite,--a
stone which is hard to work,--its
angles, and the casings of the
doors and windows, are decorated
with corner blocks cut into diamond
facets. It has only one clear
story above the ground-floor;
but the roof, rising steeply,
has several projecting windows,
with carved spandrels rather
elegantly enclosed in oaken frames,
and externally adorned with balustrades.
Between each of these windows
is a gargoyle presenting the
fantastic jaws of an animal without
a body, vomiting the rain- water
upon large stones pierced with
five holes. The two gables are
surmounted by leaden bouquets,--a
symbol of the bourgeoisie; for
nobles alone had the privilege
in former days of having weather-vanes.
To right of the courtyard are
the stables and coach-house;
to left, the kitchen, wood-house,
and laundry.
One side of the porte-cochere,
being left open, allowed the
passers in the street to see
in the midst of the vast courtyard
a flower-bed, the raised earth
of which was held in place by
a low privet hedge. A few monthly
roses, pinkes, lilies, and Spanish
broom filled this bed, around
which in the summer season boxes
of paurestinus, pomegranates,
and myrtle were placed. Struck
by the scrupulous cleanliness
of the courtyard and its dependencies,
a stranger would at once have
divined that the place belonged
to an old maid. The eye which
presided there must have been
an unoccupied, ferreting eye;
minutely careful, less from nature
than for want of something to
do. An old maid, forced to employ
her vacant days, could alone
see to the grass being hoed from
between the paving stones, the
tops of the walls kept clean,
the broom continually going,
and the leather curtains of the
coach-house always closed. She
alone would have introduced,
out of busy idleness, a sort
of Dutch cleanliness into a house
on the confines of Bretagne and
Normandie,--a region where they
take pride in professing an utter
indifference to comfort.
Never did the Chevalier de
Valois, or du Bousquier, mount
the steps of the double stairway
leading to the portico of this
house without saying to himself,
one, that it was fit for a peer
of France, the other, that the
mayor of the town ought to live
there.
A glass door gave entrance
from this portico into an antechamber,
a species of gallery paved in
red tiles and wainscoted, which
served as a hospital for the
family portraits,--some having
an eye put out, others suffering
from a dislocated shoulder; this
one held his hat in a hand that
no longer existed; that one was
a case of amputation at the knee.
Here were deposited the cloaks,
clogs, overshoes, umbrellas,
hoods, and pelisses of the guests.
It was an arsenal where each
arrival left his baggage on arriving,
and took it up when departing.
Along each wall was a bench for
the servants who arrived with
lanterns, and a large stove,
to counteract the north wind,
which blew through this hall
from the garden to the courtyard.
The house was divided in two
equal parts. On one side, toward
the courtyard, was the well of
the staircase, a large dining-room
looking to the garden, and an
office or pantry which communicated
with the kitchen. On the other
side was the salon, with four
windows, beyond which were two
smaller rooms,--one looking on
the garden, and used as a boudoir,
the other lighted from the courtyard,
and used as a sort of office.
The upper floor contained a
complete apartment for a family
household, and a suite of rooms
where the venerable Abbe de Sponde
had his abode. The garrets offered
fine quarters to the rats and
mice, whose nocturnal performances
were related by Mademoiselle
Cormon to the Chevalier de Valois,
with many expressions of surprise
at the inutility of her efforts
to get rid of them. The garden,
about half an acre in size, is
margined by the Brillante, so
named from the particles of mica
which sparkle in its bed elsewhere
than in the Val- Noble, where
its shallow waters are stained
by the dyehouses, and loaded
with refuse from the other industries
of the town. The shore opposite
to Mademoiselle Cormon's garden
is crowded with houses where
a variety of trades are carried
on; happily for her, the occupants
are quiet people,--a baker, a
cleaner, an upholsterer, and
several bourgeois. The garden,
full of common flowers, ends
in a natural terrace, forming
a quay, down which are several
steps leading to the river. Imagine
on the balustrade of this terrace
a number of tall vases of blue
and white pottery, in which are
gilliflowers; and to right and
left, along the neighboring walls,
hedges of linden closely trimmed
in, and you will gain an idea
of the landscape, full of tranquil
chastity, modest cheerfulness,
but commonplace withal, which
surrounded the venerable edifice
of the Cormon family. What peace!
what tranquillity! nothing pretentious,
but nothing transitory; all seems
eternal there!
The ground-floor
is devoted wholly to the reception-rooms.
The old, unchangeable provincial
spirit pervades them. The great
square salon has four windows,
modestly cased in woodwork painted
gray. A single oblong mirror
is placed above the fireplace;
the top of its frame represented
the Dawn led by the Hours, and
painted in camaieu (two shades
of one color). This style of
painting infested the decorative
art of the day, especially above
door-frames, where the artist
displayed his eternal Seasons,
and made you, in most houses
in the centre of France, abhor
the odious Cupids, endlessly
employed in skating, gleaning,
twirling, or garlanding one another
with flowers. Each window was
draped in green damask curtains,
looped up by heavy cords, which
made them resemble a vast dais.
The furniture, covered with tapestry,
the woodwork, painted and varnished,
and remarkable for the twisted
forms so much the fashion in
the last century, bore scenes
from the fables of La Fontaine
on the chair-backs; some of this
tapestry had been mended. The
ceiling was divided at the centre
of the room by a huge beam, from
which depended an old chandelier
of rock- crystal swathed in green
gauze. On the fireplace were
two vases in Sevres blue, and
two old girandoles attached to
the frame of the mirror, and
a clock, the subject of which,
taken from the last scene of
the "Deserteur," proved the enormous
popularity of Sedaine's work.
This clock, of bronze-gilt, bore
eleven personages upon it, each
about four inches tall. At the
back the Deserter was seen issuing
from prison between the soldiers;
in the foreground the young woman
lay fainting, and pointing to
his pardon. On the walls of this
salon were several of the more
recent portraits of the family,--one
or two by Rigaud, and three pastels
by Latour. Four card tables,
a backgammon board, and a piquet
table occupied the vast room,
the only one in the house, by
the bye, which was ceiled.
The dining-room, paved in black
and white stone, not ceiled,
and its beams painted, was furnished
with one of those enormous sideboards
with marble tops, required by
the war waged in the provinces
against the human stomach. The
walls, painted in fresco, represented
a flowery trellis. The seats
were of varnished cane, and the
doors of natural wood. All things
about the place carried out the
patriarchal air which emanated
from the inside as well as the
outside of the house. The genius
of the provinces preserved everything;
nothing was new or old, neither
young nor decrepit. A cold precision
made itself felt throughout.
Tourists in Normandy, Brittany,
Maine, and Anjou must all have
seen in the capitals of those
provinces many houses which resemble
more or less that of the Cormons;
for it is, in its way, an archetype
of the burgher houses in that
region of France, and it deserves
a place in this history because
it serves to explain manners
and customs, and represents ideas.
Who does not already feel that
life must have been calm and
monotonously regular in this
old edifice? It contained a library;
but that was placed below the
level of the river. The books
were well bound and shelved,
and the dust, far from injuring
them, only made them valuable.
They were preserved with the
care given in these provinces
deprived of vineyards to other
native products, desirable for
their antique perfume, and issued
by the presses of Bourgogne,
Touraine, Gascogne, and the South.
The cost of transportation was
too great to allow any but the
best products to be imported.
The basis of
Mademoiselle Cormon's society
consisted of about one
hundred and fifty persons; some
went at times to the country;
others were occasionally ill;
a few travelled about the department
on business; but certain of the
faithful came every night (unless
invited elsewhere), and so did
certain others compelled by duties
or by habit to live permanently
in the town. All the personages
were of ripe age; few among them
had ever travelled; nearly all
had spent their lives in the
provinces, and some had taken
part in the chouannerie. The
latter were beginning to speak
fearlessly of that war, now that
rewards were being showered on
the defenders of the good cause.
Monsieur de Valois, one of the
movers in the last uprising (during
which the Marquis de Montauran,
betrayed by his mistress, perished
in spite of the devotion of Marche-a-Terre,
now tranquilly raising cattle
for the market near Mayenne),--Monsieur
de Valois had, during the last
six months, given the key to
several choice stratagems practised
upon an old republican named
Hulot, the commander of a demi-brigade
stationed at Alencon from 1798
to 1800, who had left many memories
in the place. [See "The Chouans."]
The women of
this society took little pains
with their dress,
except on Wednesdays, when Mademoiselle
Cormon gave a dinner, on which
occasion the guests invited on
the previous Wednesday paid their "visit
of digestion." Wednesdays were
gala days: the assembly was numerous;
guests and visitors appeared
in fiocchi; some women brought
their sewing, knitting, or worsted
work; the young girls were not
ashamed to make patterns for
the Alencon point lace, with
the proceeds of which they paid
for their personal expenses.
Certain husbands brought their
wives out of policy, for young
men were few in that house; not
a word could be whispered in
any ear without attracting the
attention of all; there was therefore
no danger, either for young girls
or wives, of love-making.
Every evening, at six o'clock,
the long antechamber received
its furniture. Each habitue brought
his cane, his cloak, his lantern.
All these persons knew each other
so well, and their habits and
ways were so familiarly patriarchal,
that if by chance the old Abbe
de Sponde was lying down, or
Mademoiselle Cormon was in her
chamber, neither Josette, the
maid, nor Jacquelin, the man-servant,
nor Mariette, the cook, informed
them. The first comer received
the second; then, when the company
were sufficiently numerous for
whist, piquet, or boston, they
began the game without awaiting
either the Abbe de Sponde or
mademoiselle. If it was dark,
Josette or Jacquelin would hasten
to light the candles as soon
as the first bell rang. Seeing
the salon lighted up, the abbe
would slowly hurry to come down.
Every evening the backgammon
and the piquet tables, the three
boston tables, and the whist
table were filled,--which gave
occupation to twenty-five or
thirty persons; but as many as
forty were usually present. Jacquelin
would then light the candles
in the other rooms.
Between eight and nine o'clock
the servants began to arrive
in the antechamber to accompany
their masters home; and, short
of a revolution, no one remained
in the salon at ten o'clock.
At that hour the guests were
departing in groups along the
street, discoursing on the game,
or continuing conversations on
the land they were covetous of
buying, on the terms of some
one's will, on quarrels among
heirs, on the haughty assumption
of the aristocratic portion of
the community. It was like Paris
when the audience of a theatre
disperses.
Certain persons
who talk much of poesy and
know nothing about
it, declaim against the habits
of life in the provinces. But
put your forehead in your left
hand, rest one foot on the fender,
and your elbow on your knee;
then, if you compass the idea
of this quiet and uniform scene,
this house and its interior,
this company and its interests,
heightened by the pettiness of
its intellect like goldleaf beaten
between sheets of parchment,
ask yourself, What is human life?
Try to decide between him who
scribbles jokes on Egyptian obelisks,
and him who has "bostoned" for
twenty years with Du Bousquier,
Monsieur de Valois, Mademoiselle
Cormon, the judge of the court,
the king's attorney, the Abbe
de Sponde, Madame Granson, and
tutti quanti. If the daily and
punctual return of the same steps
to the same path is not happiness,
it imitates happiness so well
that men driven by the storms
of an agitated life to reflect
upon the blessings of tranquillity
would say that here was happiness
ENOUGH.
To reckon the importance of
Mademoiselle Cormon's salon at
its true value, it will suffice
to say that the born statistician
of the society, du Bousquier,
had estimated that the persons
who frequented it controlled
one hundred and thirty-one votes
in the electoral college, and
mustered among themselves eighteen
hundred thousand francs a year
from landed estate in the neighborhood.
The town of
Alencon, however, was not entirely
represented
by this salon. The higher aristocracy
had a salon of their own; moreover,
that of the receiver-general
was like an administration inn
kept by the government, where
society danced, plotted, fluttered,
loved, and supped. These two
salons communicated by means
of certain mixed individuals
with the house of Cormon, and
vice-versa; but the Cormon establishment
sat severely in judgment on the
two other camps. The luxury of
their dinners was criticised;
the ices at their balls were
pondered; the behavior of the
women, the dresses, and "novelties" there
produced were discussed and disapproved.
Mademoiselle Cormon, a species
of firm, as one might say, under
whose name was comprised an imposing
coterie, was naturally the aim
and object of two ambitious men
as deep and wily as the Chevalier
de Valois and du Bousquier. To
the one as well as to the other,
she meant election as deputy,
resulting, for the noble, in
the peerage, for the purveyor,
in a receiver-generalship. A
leading salon is a difficult
thing to create, whether in Paris
or the provinces, and here was
one already created. To marry
Mademoiselle Cormon was to reign
in Alencon. Athanase Granson,
the only one of the three suitors
for the hand of the old maid
who no longer calculated profits,
now loved her person as well
as her fortune.
To employ the jargon of the
day, is there not a singular
drama in the situation of these
four personages? Surely there
is something odd and fantastic
in three rivalries silently encompassing
a woman who never guessed their
existence, in spite of an eager
and legitimate desire to be married.
And yet, though all these circumstances
make the spinsterhood of this
old maid an extraordinary thing,
it is not difficult to explain
how and why, in spite of her
fortune and her three lovers,
she was still unmarried. In the
first place, Mademoiselle Cormon,
following the custom and rule
of her house, had always desired
to marry a nobleman; but from
1788 to 1798 public circumstances
were very unfavorable to such
pretensions. Though she wanted
to be a woman of condition, as
the saying is, she was horribly
afraid of the Revolutionary tribunal.
The two sentiments, equal in
force, kept her stationary by
a law as true in ethics as it
is in statics. This state of
uncertain expectation is pleasing
to unmarried women as long as
they feel themselves young, and
in a position to choose a husband.
France knows that the political
system of Napoleon resulted in
making many widows. Under that
regime heiresses were entirely
out of proportion in numbers
to the bachelors who wanted to
marry. When the Consulate restored
internal order, external difficulties
made the marriage of Mademoiselle
Cormon as difficult to arrange
as it had been in the past. If,
on the one hand, Rose-Marie-
Victoire refused to marry an
old man, on the other, the fear
of ridicule forbade her to marry
a very young one.
In the provinces, families
marry their sons early to escape
the conscription. In addition
to all this, she was obstinately
determined not to marry a soldier:
she did not intend to take a
man and then give him up to the
Emperor; she wanted him for herself
alone. With these views, she
found it therefore impossible,
from 1804 to 1815, to enter the
lists with young girls who were
rivalling each other for suitable
matches.
Besides her predilection for
the nobility, Mademoiselle Cormon
had another and very excusable
mania: that of being loved for
herself. You could hardly believe
the lengths to which this desire
led her. She employed her mind
on setting traps for her possible
lovers, in order to test their
real sentiments. Her nets were
so well laid that the luckless
suitors were all caught, and
succumbed to the test she applied
to them without their knowledge.
Mademoiselle Cormon did not study
them; she watched them. A single
word said heedlessly, a joke
(that she often was unable to
understand), sufficed to make
her reject an aspirant as unworthy:
this one had neither heart nor
delicacy; that one told lies,
and was not religious; a third
only wanted to coin money under
the cloak of marriage; another
was not of a nature to make a
woman happy; here she suspected
hereditary gout; there certain
immoral antecedents alarmed her.
Like the Church, she required
a noble priest at her altar;
she even wanted to be married
for imaginary ugliness and pretended
defects, just as other women
wish to be loved for the good
qualities they have not, and
for imaginary beauties. Mademoiselle
Cormon's ambition took its rise
in the most delicate and sensitive
feminine feeling; she longed
to reward a lover by revealing
to him a thousand virtues after
marriage, as other women then
betray the imperfections they
have hitherto concealed. But
she was ill understood. The noble
woman met with none but common
souls in whom the reckoning of
actual interests was paramount,
and who knew nothing of the nobler
calculations of sentiment.
The farther
she advanced towards that fatal
epoch so adroitly
called the "second youth," the
more her distrust increased.
She affected to present herself
in the most unfavorable light,
and played her part so well that
the last wooers hesitated to
link their fate to that of a
person whose virtuous blind-man's-buff
required an amount of penetration
that men who want the virtuous
ready-made would not bestow upon
it. The constant fear of being
married for her money rendered
her suspicious and uneasy beyond
all reason. She turned to the
rich men; but the rich are in
search of great marriages; she
feared the poor men, in whom
she denied the disinterestedness
she sought so eagerly. After
each disappointment in marriage,
the poor lady, led to despise
mankind, began to see them all
in a false light. Her character
acquired, necessarily, a secret
misanthropy, which threw a tinge
of bitterness into her conversation,
and some severity into her eyes.
Celibacy gave to her manners
and habits a certain increasing
rigidity; for she endeavored
to sanctify herself in despair
of fate. Noble vengeance! she
was cutting for God the rough
diamond rejected by man. Before
long public opinion was against
her; for society accepts the
verdict an independent woman
renders on herself by not marrying,
either through losing suitors
or rejecting them. Everybody
supposed that these rejections
were founded on secret reasons,
always ill interpreted. One said
she was deformed; another suggested
some hidden fault; but the poor
girl was really as pure as a
saint, as healthy as an infant,
and full of loving kindness;
Nature had intended her for all
the pleasures, all the joys,
and all the fatigues of motherhood.
Mademoiselle Cormon did not
possess in her person an obliging
auxiliary to her desires. She
had no other beauty than that
very improperly called la beaute
du diable, which consists of
a buxom freshness of youth that
the devil, theologically speaking,
could never have,--though perhaps
the expression may be explained
by the constant desire that must
surely possess him to cool and
refresh himself. The feet of
the heiress were broad and flat.
Her leg, which she often exposed
to sight by her manner (be it
said without malice) of lifting
her gown when it rained, could
never have been taken for the
leg of a woman. It was sinewy,
with a thick projecting calf
like a sailor's. A stout waist,
the plumpness of a wet-nurse,
strong dimpled arms, red hands,
were all in keeping with the
swelling outlines and the fat
whiteness of Norman beauty. Projecting
eyes, undecided in color, gave
to her face, the rounded outline
of which had no dignity, an air
of surprise and sheepish simplicity,
which was suitable perhaps for
an old maid. If Rose had not
been, as she was, really innocent,
she would have seemed so. An
aquiline nose contrasted curiously
with the narrowness of her forehead;
for it is rare that that form
of nose does not carry with it
a fine brow. In spite of her
thick red lips, a sign of great
kindliness, the forehead revealed
too great a lack of ideas to
allow of the heart being guided
by intellect; she was evidently
benevolent without grace. How
severely we reproach Virtue for
its defects, and how full of
indulgence we all are for the
pleasanter qualities of Vice!
Chestnut hair of extraordinary
length gave to Rose Cormon's
face a beauty which results from
vigor and abundance,--the physical
qualities most apparent in her
person. In the days of her chief
pretensions, Rose affected to
hold her head at the three-quarter
angle, in order to exhibit a
very pretty ear, which detached
itself from the blue-veined whiteness
of her throat and temples, set
off, as it was, by her wealth
of hair. Seen thus in a ball-dress,
she might have seemed handsome.
Her protuberant outlines and
her vigorous health did, in fact,
draw from the officers of the
Empire the approving exclamation,--
"What a fine
slip of a girl!"
But, as years rolled on, this
plumpness, encouraged by a tranquil,
wholesome life, had insensibly
so ill spread itself over the
whole of Mademoiselle Cormon's
body that her primitive proportions
were destroyed. At the present
moment, no corset could restore
a pair of hips to the poor lady,
who seemed to have been cast
in a single mould. The youthful
harmony of her bosom existed
no longer; and its excessive
amplitude made the spectator
fear that if she stooped its
heavy masses might topple her
over. But nature had provided
against this by giving her a
natural counterpoise, which rendered
needless the deceitful adjunct
of a bustle; in Rose Cormon everything
was genuine. Her chin, as it
doubled, reduced the length of
her neck, and hindered the easy
carriage of her head. Rose had
no wrinkles, but she had folds
of flesh; and jesters declared
that to save chafing she powdered
her skin as they do an infant's.
This ample person offered to
a young man full of ardent desires
like Athanase an attraction to
which he had succumbed. Young
imaginations, essentially eager
and courageous, like to rove
upon these fine living sheets
of flesh. Rose was like a plump
partridge attracting the knife
of a gourmet. Many an elegant
deep in debt would very willingly
have resigned himself to make
the happiness of Mademoiselle
Cormon. But, alas! the poor girl
was now forty years old. At this
period, after vainly seeking
to put into her life those interests
which make the Woman, and finding
herself forced to be still unmarried,
she fortified her virtue by stern
religious practices. She had
recourse to religion, the great
consoler of oppressed virginity.
A confessor had, for the last
three years, directed Mademoiselle
Cormon rather stupidly in the
path of maceration; he advised
the use of scourging, which,
if modern medical science is
to be believed, produces an effect
quite the contrary to that expected
by the worthy priest, whose hygienic
knowledge was not extensive.
These absurd practices were
beginning to shed a monastic
tint over the face of Rose Cormon,
who now saw with something like
despair her white skin assuming
the yellow tones which proclaim
maturity. A slight down on her
upper lip, about the corners,
began to spread and darken like
a trail of smoke; her temples
grew shiny; decadence was beginning!
It was authentic in Alencon that
Mademoiselle Cormon suffered
from rush of blood to the head.
She confided her ills to the
Chevalier de Valois, enumerating
her foot-baths, and consulting
him as to refrigerants. On such
occasions the shrewd old gentleman
would pull out his snuff-box,
gaze at the Princess Goritza,
and say, by way of conclusion:--
"The right
composing draught, my dear
lady, is a good and kind
husband."
"But whom can one trust?" she
replied.
The chevalier would then brush
away the snuff which had settled
in the folds of his waistcoat
or his paduasoy breeches. To
the world at large this gesture
would have seemed very natural;
but it always gave extreme uneasiness
to the poor woman.
The violence of this hope without
an object was so great that Rose
was afraid to look a man in the
face lest he should perceive
in her eyes the feelings that
filled her soul. By a wilfulness,
which was perhaps only the continuation
of her earlier methods, though
she felt herself attracted toward
the men who might still suit
her, she was so afraid of being
accused of folly that she treated
them ungraciously. Most persons
in her society, being incapable
of appreciating her motives,
which were always noble, explained
her manner towards her co-celibates
as the revenge of a refusal received
or expected. When the year 1815
began, Rose had reached that
fatal age which she dared not
avow. She was forty-two years
old. Her desire for marriage
then acquired an intensity which
bordered on monomania, for she
saw plainly that all chance of
progeny was about to escape her;
and the thing which in her celestial
ignorance she desired above all
things was the possession of
children. Not a person in all
Alencon ever attributed to this
virtuous woman a single desire
for amorous license. She loved,
as it were, in bulk without the
slightest imagination of love.
Rose was a Catholic Agnes, incapable
of inventing even one of the
wiles of Moliere's Agnes.
For some months past she had
counted on chance. The disbandment
of the Imperial troops and the
reorganization of the Royal army
caused a change in the destination
of many officers, who returned,
some on half-pay, others with
or without a pension, to their
native towns,-- all having a
desire to counteract their luckless
fate, and to end their life in
a way which might to Rose Cormon
be a happy beginning of hers.
It would surely be strange if,
among those who returned to Alencon
or its neighborhood, no brave,
honorable, and, above all, sound
and healthy officer of suitable
age could be found, whose character
would be a passport among Bonaparte
opinions; or some ci- devant
noble who, to regain his lost
position, would join the ranks
of the royalists. This hope kept
Mademoiselle Cormon in heart
during the early months of that
year. But, alas! all the soldiers
who thus returned were either
too old or too young; too aggressively
Bonapartist, or too dissipated;
in short, their several situations
were out of keeping with the
rank, fortune, and morals of
Mademoiselle Cormon, who now
grew daily more and more desperate.
The poor woman in vain prayed
to God to send her a husband
with whom she could be piously
happy: it was doubtless written
above that she should die both
virgin and martyr; no man suitable
for a husband presented himself.
The conversations in her salon
every evening kept her informed
of the arrival of all strangers
in Alencon, and of the facts
of their fortunes, rank, and
habits. But Alencon is not a
town which attracts visitors;
it is not on the road to any
capital; even sailors, travelling
from Brest to Paris, never stop
there. The poor woman ended by
admitting to herself that she
was reduced to the aborigines.
Her eye now began to assume a
certain savage expression, to
which the malicious chevalier
responded by a shrewd look as
he drew out his snuff-box and
gazed at the Princess Goritza.
Monsieur de Valois was well aware
that in the feminine ethics of
love fidelity to a first attachment
is considered a pledge for the
future.
But Mademoiselle
Cormon--we must admit it--was
wanting in
intellect, and did not understand
the snuff-box performance. She
redoubled her vigilance against "the
evil spirit"; her rigid devotion
and fixed principles kept her
cruel sufferings hidden among
the mysteries of private life.
Every evening, after the company
had left her, she thought of
her lost youth, her faded bloom,
the hopes of thwarted nature;
and, all the while immolating
her passions at the feet of the
Cross (like poems condemned to
stay in a desk), she resolved
firmly that if, by chance, any
suitor presented himself, to
subject him to no tests, but
to accept him at once for whatever
he might be. She even went so
far as to think of marrying a
sub-lieutenant, a man who smoked
tobacco, whom she proposed to
render, by dint of care and kindness,
one of the best men in the world,
although he was hampered with
debts.
But it was only in the silence
of night watches that these fantastic
marriages, in which she played
the sublime role of guardian
angel, took place. The next day,
though Josette found her mistress'
bed in a tossed and tumbled condition,
Mademoiselle Cormon had recovered
her dignity, and could only think
of a man of forty, a land-owner,
well preserved, and a quasi-young
man.
The Abbe de Sponde was incapable
of giving his niece the slightest
aid in her matrimonial manoeuvres.
The worthy soul, now seventy
years of age, attributed the
disasters of the French Revolution
to the design of Providence,
eager to punish a dissolute Church.
He had therefore flung himself
into the path, long since abandoned,
which anchorites once followed
in order to reach heaven: he
led an ascetic life without proclaiming
it, and without external credit.
He hid from the world his works
of charity, his continual prayers,
his penances; he thought that
all priests should have acted
thus during the days of wrath
and terror, and he preached by
example. While presenting to
the world a calm and smiling
face, he had ended by detaching
himself utterly from earthly
interests; his mind turned exclusively
to sufferers, to the needs of
the Church, and to his own salvation.
He left the management of his
property to his niece, who gave
him the income of it, and to
whom he paid a slender board
in order to spend the surplus
in secret alms and gifts to the
Church.
All the abbe's
affections were concentrated
on his niece, who
regarded him as a father, but
an abstracted father, unable
to conceive the agitations of
the flesh, and thanking God for
maintaining his dear daughter
in a state of celibacy; for he
had, from his youth up, adopted
the principles of Saint John
Chrysostom, who wrote that "the
virgin state is as far above
the marriage state as the angel
is above humanity." Accustomed
to reverence her uncle, Mademoiselle
Cormon dared not initiate him
into the desires which filled
her soul for a change of state.
The worthy man, accustomed, on
his side, to the ways of the
house, would scarcely have liked
the introduction of a husband.
Preoccupied by the sufferings
he soothed, lost in the depths
of prayer, the Abbe de Sponde
had periods of abstraction which
the habitues of the house regarded
as absent-mindedness. In any
case, he talked little; but his
silence was affable and benevolent.
He was a man of great height
and spare, with grave and solemn
manners, though his face expressed
all gentle sentiments and an
inward calm; while his mere presence
carried with it a sacred authority.
He was very fond of the Voltairean
chevalier. Those two majestic
relics of the nobility and clergy,
though of very different habits
and morals, recognized each other
by their generous traits. Besides,
the chevalier was as unctuous
with the abbe as he was paternal
with the grisettes.
Some persons may fancy that
Mademoiselle Cormon used every
means to attain her end; and
that among the legitimate lures
of womanhood she devoted herself
to dress, wore low-necked gowns,
and employed the negative coquetries
of a magnificent display of arms.
Not at all! She was as heroic
and immovable in her high-necked
chemisette as a sentry in his
box. Her gowns, bonnets, and
chiffons were all cut and made
by the dressmaker and the milliner
of Alencon, two hump-backed sisters,
who were not without some taste.
In spite of the entreaties of
these artists, Mademoiselle Cormon
refused to employ the airy deceits
of elegance; she chose to be
substantial in all things, flesh
and feathers. But perhaps the
heavy fashion of her gowns was
best suited to her cast of countenance.
Let those laugh who will at this
poor girl; you would have thought
her sublime, O generous souls!
who care but little what form
true feeling takes, but admire
it where it IS.
Here some light-minded person
may exclaim against the truth
of this statement; they will
say that there is not in all
France a girl so silly as to
be ignorant of the art of angling
for men; that Mademoiselle Cormon
is one of those monstrous exceptions
which commonsense should prevent
a writer from using as a type;
that the most virtuous and also
the silliest girl who desires
to catch her fish knows well
how to bait the hook. But these
criticisms fall before the fact
that the noble catholic, apostolic,
and Roman religion is still erect
in Brittany and in the ancient
duchy of Alencon. Faith and piety
admit of no subtleties. Mademoiselle
Cormon trod the path of salvation,
preferring the sorrows of her
virginity so cruelly prolonged
to the evils of trickery and
the sin of a snare. In a woman
armed with a scourge virtue could
never compromise; consequently
both love and self-interest were
forced to seek her, and seek
her resolutely. And here let
us have the courage to make a
cruel observation, in days when
religion is nothing more than
a useful means to some, and a
poesy to others. Devotion causes
a moral ophthalmia. By some providential
grace, it takes from souls on
the road to eternity the sight
of many little earthly things.
In a word, pious persons, devotes,
are stupid on various points.
This stupidity proves with what
force they turn their minds to
celestial matters; although the
Voltairean Chevalier de Valois
declared that it was difficult
to decide whether stupid people
became naturally pious, or whether
piety had the effect of making
intelligent young women stupid.
But reflect upon this carefully:
the purest catholic virtue, with
its loving acceptance of all
cups, with its pious submission
to the will of God, with its
belief in the print of the divine
finger on the clay of all earthly
life, is the mysterious light
which glides into the innermost
folds of human history, setting
them in relief and magnifying
them in the eyes of those who
still have Faith. Besides, if
there be stupidity, why not concern
ourselves with the sorrows of
stupidity as well as with the
sorrows of genius? The former
is a social element infinitely
more abundant than the latter.
So, then, Mademoiselle Cormon
was guilty in the eyes of the
world of the divine ignorance
of virgins. She was no observer,
and her behavior with her suitors
proved it. At this very moment,
a young girl of sixteen, who
had never opened a novel, would
have read a hundred chapters
of a love story in the eyes of
Athanase Granson, where Mademoiselle
Cormon saw absolutely nothing.
Shy herself, she never suspected
shyness in others; she did not
recognize in the quavering tones
of his speech the force of a
sentiment he could not utter.
Capable of inventing those refinements
of sentimental grandeur which
hindered her marriage in her
early years, she yet could not
recognize them in Athanase. This
moral phenomenon will not seem
surprising to persons who know
that the qualities of the heart
are as distinct from those of
the mind as the faculties of
genius are from the nobility
of soul. A perfect, all-rounded
man is so rare that Socrates,
one of the noblest pearls of
humanity, declared (as a phrenologist
of that day) that he was born
to be a scamp, and a very bad
one. A great general may save
his country at Zurich, and take
commissions from purveyors. A
great musician may conceive the
sublimest music and commit a
forgery. A woman of true feeling
may be a fool. In short, a devote
may have a sublime soul and yet
be unable to recognize the tones
of a noble soul beside her. The
caprices produced by physical
infirmities are equally to be
met with in the mental and moral
regions.
This good creature,
who grieved at making her yearly
preserves
for no one but her uncle and
herself, was becoming almost
ridiculous. Those who felt a
sympathy for her on account of
her good qualities, and others
on account of her defects, now
made fun of her abortive marriages.
More than one conversation was
based on what would become of
so fine a property, together
with the old maid's savings and
her uncle's inheritance. For
some time past she had been suspected
of being au fond, in spite of
appearances, an "original." In
the provinces it was not permissible
to be original: being original
means having ideas that are not
understood by others; the provinces
demand equality of mind as well
as equality of manners and customs.
The marriage
of Mademoiselle Cormon seemed,
after 1804, a
thing so problematical that the
saying "married like Mademoiselle
Cormon" became proverbial in
Alencon as applied to ridiculous
failures. Surely the sarcastic
mood must be an imperative need
in France, that so excellent
a woman should excite the laughter
of Alencon. Not only did she
receive the whole society of
the place at her house, not only
was she charitable, pious, incapable
of saying an unkind thing, but
she was fully in accord with
the spirit of the place and the
habits and customs of the inhabitants,
who liked her as the symbol of
their lives; she was absolutely
inlaid into the ways of the provinces;
she had never quitted them; she
imbibed all their prejudices;
she espoused all their interests;
she adored them.
In spite of her income of eighteen
thousand francs from landed property,
a very considerable fortune in
the provinces, she lived on a
footing with families who were
less rich. When she went to her
country-place at Prebaudet, she
drove there in an old wicker
carriole, hung on two straps
of white leather, drawn by a
wheezy mare, and scarcely protected
by two leather curtains rusty
with age. This carriole, known
to all the town, was cared for
by Jacquelin as though it were
the finest coupe in all Paris.
Mademoiselle valued it; she had
used it for twelve years,--a
fact to which she called attention
with the triumphant joy of happy
avarice. Most of the inhabitants
of the town were grateful to
Mademoiselle Cormon for not humiliating
them by the luxury she could
have displayed; we may even believe
that had she imported a caleche
from Paris they would have gossiped
more about that than about her
various matrimonial failures.
The most brilliant equipage would,
after all, have only taken her,
like the old carriole, to Prebaudet.
Now the provinces, which look
solely to results, care little
about the beauty or elegance
of the means, provided they are
efficient.
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