On a Wednesday morning, early,
toward the middle of spring,
in the year 16,--such was his
mode of reckoning,--at the moment
when the chevalier was putting
on his old green-flowered damask
dressing-gown, he heard, despite
the cotton in his ears, the light
step of a young girl who was
running up the stairway. Presently
three taps were discreetly struck
upon the door; then, without
waiting for any response, a handsome
girl slipped like an eel into
the room occupied by the old
bachelor.
"Ah! is it you, Suzanne?" said
the Chevalier de Valois, without
discontinuing his occupation,
which was that of stropping his
razor. "What have you come for,
my dear little jewel of mischief?"
"I have come
to tell you something which
may perhaps give you as
much pleasure as pain?"
"Is it anything
about Cesarine?"
"Cesarine! much I care about
your Cesarine!" she said with
a saucy air, half serious, half
indifferent.
This charming Suzanne, whose
present comical performance was
to exercise a great influence
in the principal personages of
our history, was a work-girl
at Madame Lardot's. One word
here on the topography of the
house. The wash-rooms occupied
the whole of the ground floor.
The little courtyard was used
to hang out on wire cords embroidered
handkerchiefs, collarets, capes,
cuffs, frilled shirts, cravats,
laces, embroidered dresses,--in
short, all the fine linen of
the best families of the town.
The chevalier assumed to know
from the number of her capes
in the wash how the love-affairs
of the wife of the prefect were
going on. Though he guessed much
from observations of this kind,
the chevalier was discretion
itself; he was never betrayed
into an epigram (he had plenty
of wit) which might have closed
to him an agreeable salon. You
are therefore to consider Monsieur
de Valois as a man of superior
manners, whose talents, like
those of many others, were lost
in a narrow sphere. Only--for,
after all, he was a man--he permitted
himself certain penetrating glances
which could make some women tremble;
although they all loved him heartily
as soon as they discovered the
depth of his discretion and the
sympathy that he felt for their
little weaknesses.
The head woman,
Madame Lardot's factotum, an
old maid of forty-six,
hideous to behold, lived on the
opposite side of the passage
to the chevalier. Above them
were the attics where the linen
was dried in winter. Each apartment
had two rooms,--one lighted from
the street, the other from the
courtyard. Beneath the chevalier's
room there lived a paralytic,
Madame Lardot's grandfather,
an old buccaneer named Grevin,
who had served under Admiral
Simeuse in India, and was now
stone-deaf. As for Madame Lardot,
who occupied the other lodging
on the first floor, she had so
great a weakness for persons
of condition that she may well
have been thought blind to the
ways of the chevalier. To her,
Monsieur de Valois was a despotic
monarch who did right in all
things. Had any of her workwomen
been guilty of a happiness attributed
to the chevalier she would have
said, "He is so lovable!" Thus,
though the house was of glass,
like all provincial houses, it
was discreet as a robber's cave.
A born confidant to all the
little intrigues of the work-rooms,
the chevalier never passed the
door, which usually stood open,
without giving something to his
little ducks,--chocolate, bonbons,
ribbons, laces, gilt crosses,
and such like trifles adored
by grisettes; consequently, the
kind old gentleman was adored
in return. Women have an instinct
which enables them to divine
the men who love them, who like
to be near them, and exact no
payment for gallantries. In this
respect women have the instinct
of dogs, who in a mixed company
will go straight to the man to
whom animals are sacred.
The poor Chevalier
de Valois retained from his
former life
the need of bestowing gallant
protection, a quality of the
seigneurs of other days. Faithful
to the system of the "petite
maison," he liked to enrich women,--the
only beings who know how to receive,
because they can always return.
But the poor chevalier could
no longer ruin himself for a
mistress. Instead of the choicest
bonbons wrapped in bank-bills,
he gallantly presented paper-bags
full of toffee. Let us say to
the glory of Alencon that the
toffee was accepted with more
joy than la Duthe ever showed
at a gilt service or a fine equipage
offered by the Comte d'Artois.
All these grisettes fully understood
the fallen majesty of the Chevalier
de Valois, and they kept their
private familiarities with him
a profound secret for his sake.
If they were questioned about
him in certain houses when they
carried home the linen, they
always spoke respectfully of
the chevalier, and made him out
older than he really was; they
talked of him as a most respectable
monsieur, whose life was a flower
of sanctity; but once in their
own regions they perched on his
shoulders like so many parrots.
He liked to be told the secrets
which washerwomen discover in
the bosom of households, and
day after day these girls would
tell him the cancans which were
going the round of Alencon. He
called them his "petticoat gazettes," his "talking
feuilletons." Never did Monsieur
de Sartines have spies more intelligent
and less expensive, or minions
who showed more honor while displaying
their rascality of mind. So it
may be said that in the mornings,
while breakfasting, the chevalier
usually amused himself as much
as the saints in heaven.
Suzanne was one of his favorites,
a clever, ambitious girl, made
of the stuff of a Sophie Arnold,
and handsome withal, as the handsomest
courtesan invited by Titian to
pose on black velvet for a model
of Venus; although her face,
fine about the eyes and forehead,
degenerated, lower down, into
commonness of outline. Hers was
a Norman beauty, fresh, high-colored,
redundant, the flesh of Rubens
covering the muscles of the Farnese
Hercules, and not the slender
articulations of the Venus de'
Medici, Apollo's graceful consort.
"Well, my child,
tell me your great or your
little adventure,
whatever it is."
The particular point about
the chevalier which would have
made him noticeable from Paris
to Pekin, was the gentle paternity
of his manner to grisettes. They
reminded him of the illustrious
operatic queens of his early
days, whose celebrity was European
during a good third of the eighteenth
century. It is certain that the
old gentleman, who had lived
in days gone by with that feminine
nation now as much forgotten
as many other great things,--like
the Jesuits, the Buccaneers,
the Abbes, and the Farmers-General,--had
acquired an irresistible good-
humor, a kindly ease, a laisser-aller
devoid of egotism, the self-
effacement of Jupiter with Alcmene,
of the king intending to be duped,
who casts his thunderbolts to
the devil, wants his Olympus
full of follies, little suppers,
feminine profusions--but with
Juno out of the way, be it understood.
In spite of his old green damask
dressing-gown and the bareness
of the room in which he sat,
where the floor was covered with
a shabby tapestry in place of
carpet, and the walls were hung
with tavern-paper presenting
the profiles of Louis XVI. and
members of his family, traced
among the branches of a weeping
willow with other sentimentalities
invented by royalism during the
Terror,--in spite of his ruins,
the chevalier, trimming his beard
before a shabby old toilet-table,
draped with trumpery lace, exhaled
an essence of the eighteenth
century. All the libertine graces
of his youth reappeared; he seemed
to have the wealth of three hundred
thousand francs of debt, while
his vis-a-vis waited before the
door. He was grand,--like Berthier
on the retreat from Moscow, issuing
orders to an army that existed
no longer.
"Monsieur le chevalier," replied
Suzanne, drolly, "seems to me
I needn't tell you anything;
you've only to look."
And Suzanne presented a side
view of herself which gave a
sort of lawyer's comment to her
words. The chevalier, who, you
must know, was a sly old bird,
lowered his right eye on the
grisette, still holding the razor
at his throat, and pretended
to understand.
"Well, well,
my little duck, we'll talk
about that presently.
But you are rather previous,
it seems to me."
"Why, Monsieur
le chevalier, ought I to wait
until my mother
beats me and Madame Lardot turns
me off? If I don't get away soon
to Paris, I shall never be able
to marry here, where men are
so ridiculous."
"It can't be helped, my dear;
society is changing; women are
just as much victims to the present
state of things as the nobility
themselves. After political overturn
comes the overturn of morals.
Alas! before long woman won't
exist" (he took out the cotton-wool
to arrange his ears): "she'll
lose everything by rushing into
sentiment; she'll wring her nerves;
good-bye to all the good little
pleasures of our time, desired
without shame, accepted without
nonsense." (He polished up the
little negroes' heads.) "Women
had hysterics in those days to
get their ends, but now" (he
began to laugh) "their vapors
end in charcoal. In short, marriage" (here
he picked up his pincers to remove
a hair) "will become a thing
intolerable; whereas it used
to be so gay in my day! The reigns
of Louis XIV. and Louis XV.--remember
this, my child--said farewell
to the finest manners and morals
ever known to the world."
"But, Monsieur le chevalier," said
the grisette, "the matter now
concerns the morals and honor
of your poor little Suzanne,
and I hope you won't abandon
her."
"Abandon her!" cried the chevalier,
finishing his hair; "I'd sooner
abandon my own name."
"Ah!" exclaimed
Suzanne.
"Now, listen to me, you little
mischief," said the chevalier,
sitting down on a huge sofa,
formerly called a duchesse, which
Madame Lardot had been at some
pains to find for him.
He drew the magnificent Suzanne
before him, holding her legs
between his knees. She let him
do as he liked, although in the
street she was offish enough
to other men, refusing their
familiarities partly from decorum
and partly for contempt for their
commonness. She now stood audaciously
in front of the chevalier, who,
having fathomed in his day many
other mysteries in minds that
were far more wily, took in the
situation at a single glance.
He knew very well that no young
girl would joke about a real
dishonor; but he took good care
not to knock over the pretty
scaffolding of her lie as he
touched it.
"We slander ourselves," he
said with inimitable craft; "we
are as virtuous as that beautiful
biblical girl whose name we bear;
we can always marry as we please,
but we are thirsty for Paris,
where charming creatures--and
we are no fool--get rich without
trouble. We want to go and see
if the great capital of pleasures
hasn't some young Chevalier de
Valois in store for us, with
a carriage, diamonds, an opera-box,
and so forth. Russians, Austrians,
Britons, have millions on which
we have an eye. Besides, we are
patriotic; we want to help France
in getting back her money from
the pockets of those gentry.
Hey! hey! my dear little devil's
duck! it isn't a bad plan. The
world you live in may cry out
a bit, but success justifies
all things. The worst thing in
this world, my dear, is to be
without money; that's our disease,
yours and mine. Now inasmuch
as we have plenty of wit, we
thought it would be a good thing
to parade our dear little honor,
or dishonor, to catch an old
boy; but that old boy, my dear
heart, knows the Alpha and Omega
of female tricks,--which means
that you could easier put salt
on a sparrow's tail than to make
me believe I have anything to
do with your little affair. Go
to Paris, my dear; go at the
cost of an old celibate, I won't
prevent it; in fact, I'll help
you, for an old bachelor, Suzanne,
is the natural money-box of a
young girl. But don't drag me
into the matter. Listen, my queen,
you who know life pretty well;
you would me great harm and give
me much pain, --harm, because
you would prevent my marriage
in a town where people cling
to morality; pain, because if
you are in trouble (which I deny,
you sly puss!) I haven't a penny
to get you out of it. I'm as
poor as a church mouse; you know
that, my dear. Ah! if I marry
Mademoiselle Cormon, if I am
once more rich, of course I would
prefer you to Cesarine. You've
always seemed to me as fine as
the gold they gild on lead; you
were made to be the love of a
great seigneur. I think you so
clever that the trick you are
trying to play off on me doesn't
surprise me one bit; I expected
it. You are flinging the scabbard
after the sword, and that's daring
for a girl. It takes nerve and
superior ideas to do it, my angel,
and therefore you have won my
respectful esteem."
"Monsieur le
chevalier, I assure you, you
are mistaken, and--"
She colored, and did not dare
to say more. The chevalier, with
a single glance, had guessed
and fathomed her whole plan.
"Yes, yes! I understand: you
want me to believe it," he said. "Well!
I do believe it. But take my
advice: go to Monsieur du Bousquier.
Haven't you taken linen there
for the last six or eight months?
I'm not asking what went on between
you; but I know the man: he has
immense conceit; he is an old
bachelor, and very rich; and
he only spends a quarter of a
comfortable income. If you are
as clever as I suppose, you can
go to Paris at his expense. There,
run along, my little doe; go
and twist him round your finger.
Only, mind this: be as supple
as silk; at every word take a
double turn round him and make
a knot. He is a man to fear scandal,
and if he has given you a chance
to put him in the pillory--in
short, understand; threaten him
with the ladies of the Maternity
Hospital. Besides, he's ambitious.
A man succeeds through his wife,
and you are handsome and clever
enough to make the fortune of
a husband. Hey! the mischief!
you could hold your own against
all the court ladies."
Suzanne, whose mind took in
at a flash the chevalier's last
words, was eager to run off to
du Bousquier, but, not wishing
to depart too abruptly, she questioned
the chevalier about Paris, all
the while helping him to dress.
The chevalier, however, divined
her desire to be off, and favored
it by asking her to tell Cesarine
to bring up his chocolate, which
Madame Lardot made for him every
morning. Suzanne then slipped
away to her new victim, whose
biography must here be given.
Born of an
old Alencon family, du Bousquier
was a cross between
the bourgeois and the country
squire. Finding himself without
means on the death of his father,
he went, like other ruined provincials,
to Paris. On the breaking out
of the Revolution he took part
in public affairs. In spite of
revolutionary principles, which
made a hobby of republican honesty,
the management of public business
in those days was by no means
clean. A political spy, a stock-jobber,
a contractor, a man who confiscated
in collusion with the syndic
of a commune the property of
emigres in order to sell them
and buy them in, a minister,
and a general were all equally
engaged in public business. From
1793 to 1799 du Bousquier was
commissary of provisions to the
French armies. He lived in a
magnificent hotel and was one
of the matadors of finance, did
business with Ouvrard, kept open
house, and led the scandalous
life of the period,--the life
of a Cincinnatus, on sacks of
corn harvested without trouble,
stolen rations, "little houses" full
of mistresses, in which were
given splendid fetes to the Directors
of the Republic.
The citizen
du Bousquier was one of Barras'
familiars; he
was on the best of terms with
Fouche, stood very well with
Bernadotte, and fully expected
to become a minister by throwing
himself into the party which
secretly caballed against Bonaparte
until Marengo. If it had not
been for Kellermann's charge
and Desaix's death, du Bousquier
would probably have become a
minister. He was one of the chief
assistances of that secret government
whom Napoleon's luck send behind
the scenes in 1793. (See "An
Historical Mystery.") The unexpected
victory of Marengo was the defeat
of that party who actually had
their proclamations printed to
return to the principles of the
Montagne in case the First Consul
succumbed.
Convinced of the impossibility
of Bonaparte's triumph, du Bousquier
staked the greater part of his
property on a fall in the Funds,
and kept two couriers on the
field of battle. The first started
for Paris when Melas' victory
was certain; the second, starting
four hours later, brought the
news of the defeat of the Austrians.
Du Bousquier cursed Kellermann
and Desaix; he dared not curse
Bonaparte, who might owe him
millions. This alternative of
millions to be earned and present
ruin staring him in the face,
deprived the purveyor of most
of his faculties: he became nearly
imbecile for several days; the
man had so abused his health
by excesses that when the thunderbolt
fell upon him he had no strength
to resist. The payment of his
bills against the Exchequer gave
him some hopes for the future,
but, in spite of all efforts
to ingratiate himself, Napoleon's
hatred to the contractors who
had speculated on his defeat
made itself felt; du Bousquier
was left without a sou. The immorality
of his private life, his intimacy
with Barras and Bernadotte, displeased
the First Consul even more than
his manoeuvres at the Bourse,
and he struck du Bousquier's
name from the list of the government
contractors.
Out of all his past opulence
du Bousquier saved only twelve
hundred francs a year from an
investment in the Grand Livre,
which he had happened to place
there by pure caprice, and which
saved him from penury. A man
ruined by the First Consul interested
the town of Alencon, to which
he now returned, where royalism
was secretly dominant. Du Bousquier,
furious against Bonaparte, relating
stories against him of his meanness,
of Josephine's improprieties,
and all the other scandalous
anecdotes of the last ten years,
was well received.
About this time, when he was
somewhere between forty and fifty,
du Bousquier's appearance was
that of a bachelor of thirty-six,
of medium height, plump as a
purveyor, proud of his vigorous
calves, with a strongly marked
countenance, a flattened nose,
the nostrils garnished with hair,
black eyes with thick lashes,
from which darted shrewd glances
like those of Monsieur de Talleyrand,
though somewhat dulled. He still
wore republican whiskers and
his hair very long; his hands,
adorned with bunches of hair
on each knuckle, showed the power
of his muscular system in their
prominent blue veins. He had
the chest of the Farnese Hercules,
and shoulders fit to carry the
stocks. Such shoulders are seen
nowadays only at Tortoni's. This
wealth of masculine vigor counted
for much in du Bousquier's relations
with others. And yet in him,
as in the chevalier, symptoms
appeared which contrasted oddly
with the general aspect of their
persons. The late purveyor had
not the voice of his muscles.
We do not mean that his voice
was a mere thread, such as we
sometimes hear issuing from the
mouth of these walruses; on the
contrary, it was a strong voice,
but stifled, an idea of which
can be given only by comparing
it with the noise of a saw cutting
into soft and moistened wood,--the
voice of a worn-out speculator.
In spite of the claims which
the enmity of the First Consul
gave Monsieur du Bousquier to
enter the royalist society of
the province, he was not received
in the seven or eight families
who composed the faubourg Saint-Germain
of Alencon, among whom the Chevalier
de Valois was welcome. He had
offered himself in marriage,
through her notary, to Mademoiselle
Armande, sister of the most distinguished
noble in the town; to which offer
he received a refusal. He consoled
himself as best he could in the
society of a dozen rich families,
former manufacturers of the old
point d'Alencon, owners of pastures
and cattle, or merchants doing
a wholesale business in linen,
among whom, as he hoped, he might
find a wealthy wife. In fact,
all his hopes now converged to
the perspective of a fortunate
marriage. He was not without
a certain financial ability,
which many persons used to their
profit. Like a ruined gambler
who advises neophytes, he pointed
out enterprises and speculations,
together with the means and chances
of conducting them. He was thought
a good administrator, and it
was often a question of making
him mayor of Alencon; but the
memory of his underhand jobbery
still clung to him, and he was
never received at the prefecture.
All the succeeding governments,
even that of the Hundred Days,
refused to appoint him mayor
of Alencon,--a place he coveted,
which, could he have had it,
would, he thought, have won him
the hand of a certain old maid
on whom his matrimonial views
now turned.
Du Bousquier's aversion to
the Imperial government had thrown
him at first into the royalist
circles of Alencon, where he
remained in spite of the rebuffs
he received there; but when,
after the first return of the
Bourbons, he was still excluded
from the prefecture, that mortification
inspired him with a hatred as
deep as it was secret against
the royalists. He now returned
to his old opinions, and became
the leader of the liberal party
in Alencon, the invisible manipulator
of elections, and did immense
harm to the Restoration by the
cleverness of his underhand proceedings
and the perfidy of his outward
behavior. Du Bousquier, like
all those who live by their heads
only, carried on his hatreds
with the quiet tranquillity of
a rivulet, feeble apparently,
but inexhaustible. His hatred
was that of a negro, so peaceful
that it deceived the enemy. His
vengeance, brooded over for fifteen
years, was as yet satisfied by
no victory, not even that of
July, 1830.
It was not without some private
intention that the Chevalier
de Valois had turned Suzanne's
designs upon Monsieur du Bousquier.
The liberal and the royalist
had mutually divined each other
in spite of the wide dissimulation
with which they hid their common
hope from the rest of the town.
The two old bachelors were secretly
rivals. Each had formed a plan
to marry the Demoiselle Cormon,
whom Monsieur de Valois had mentioned
to Suzanne. Both, ensconced in
their idea and wearing the armor
of apparent indifference, awaited
the moment when some lucky chance
might deliver the old maid over
to them. Thus, if the two old
bachelors had not been kept asunder
by the two political systems
of which they each offered a
living expression, their private
rivalry would still have made
them enemies. Epochs put their
mark on men. These two individuals
proved the truth of that axiom
by the opposing historic tints
that were visible in their faces,
in their conversation, in their
ideas, and in their clothes.
One, abrupt, energetic, with
loud, brusque manners, curt,
rude speech, dark in tone, in
hair, in look, terrible apparently,
in reality as impotent as an
insurrection, represented the
republic admirably. The other,
gentle and polished, elegant
and nice, attaining his ends
by the slow and infallible means
of diplomacy, faithful to good
taste, was the express image
of the old courtier regime.
The two enemies met nearly
every evening on the same ground.
The war was courteous and benign
on the side of the chevalier;
but du Bousquier showed less
ceremony on his, though still
preserving the outward appearances
demanded by society, for he did
not wish to be driven from the
place. They themselves fully
understood each other; but in
spite of the shrewd observation
which provincials bestow on the
petty interests of their own
little centre, no one in the
town suspected the rivalry of
these two men. Monsieur le Chevalier
de Valois occupied a vantage-ground:
he had never asked for the hand
of Mademoiselle Cormon; whereas
du Bousquier, who entered the
lists soon after his rejection
by the most distinguished family
in the place, had been refused.
But the chevalier believed that
his rival had still such strong
chances of success that he dealt
him this coup de Jarnac with
a blade (namely, Suzanne) that
was finely tempered for the purpose.
The chevalier had cast his plummet-line
into the waters of du Bousquier;
and, as we shall see by the sequel,
he was not mistaken in any of
his conjectures.
Suzanne tripped
with a light foot from the
rue du Cours, by
the rue de la Porte de Seez and
the rue du Bercail, to the rue
du Cygne, where, about five years
earlier, du Bousquier had bought
a little house built of gray
Jura stone, which is something
between Breton slate and Norman
granite. There he established
himself more comfortably than
any householder in town; for
he had managed to preserve certain
furniture and decorations from
the days of his splendor. But
provincial manners and morals
obscured, little by little, the
rays of this fallen Sardanapalus;
these vestiges of his former
luxury now produced the effect
of a glass chandelier in a barn.
Harmony, that bond of all work,
human or divine, was lacking
in great things as well as in
little ones. The stairs, up which
everybody mounted without wiping
their feet, were never polished;
the walls, painted by some wretched
artisan of the neighborhood,
were a terror to the eye; the
stone mantel-piece, ill-carved, "swore" with
the handsome clock, which was
further degraded by the company
of contemptible candlesticks.
Like the period which du Bousquier
himself represented, the house
was a jumble of dirt and magnificence.
Being considered a man of leisure,
du Bousquier led the same parasite
life as the chevalier; and he
who does not spend his income
is always rich. His only servant
was a sort of Jocrisse, a lad
of the neighborhood, rather a
ninny, trained slowly and with
difficulty to du Bousquier's
requirements. His master had
taught him, as he might an orang-outang,
to rub the floors, dust the furniture,
black his boots, brush his coats,
and bring a lantern to guide
him home at night if the weather
were cloudy, and clogs if it
rained. Like many other human
beings, this lad hadn't stuff
enough in him for more than one
vice; he was a glutton. Often,
when du Bousquier went to a grand
dinner, he would take Rene to
wait at table; on such occasions
he made him take off his blue
cotton jacket, with its big pockets
hanging round his hips, and always
bulging with handkerchiefs, clasp-knives,
fruits, or a handful of nuts,
and forced him to put on a regulation
coat. Rene would then stuff his
fill with the other servants.
This duty, which du Bousquier
had turned into a reward, won
him the most absolute discretion
from the Breton servant.
"You here, mademoiselle!" said
Rene to Suzanne when she entered; "'t'isn't
your day. We haven't any linen
for the wash, tell Madame Lardot."
"Old stupid!" said
Suzanne, laughing.
The pretty girl went upstairs,
leaving Rene to finish his porringer
of buckwheat in boiled milk.
Du Bousquier, still in bed, was
revolving in his mind his plans
of fortune; for ambition was
all that was left to him, as
to other men who have sucked
dry the orange of pleasure. Ambition
and play are inexhaustible; in
a well-organized man the passions
which proceed from the brain
will always survive the passions
of the heart.
"Here am I," said
Suzanne, sitting down on the
bed and jangling
the curtain-rings back along
the rod with despotic vehemence.
"Quesaco, my charmer?" said
the old bachelor, sitting up
in bed.
"Monsieur," said Suzanne, gravely, "you
must be astonished to see me
here at this hour; but I find
myself in a condition which obliges
me not to care for what people
may say about it."
"What does all that mean?" said
du Bousquier, crossing his arms.
"Don't you understand me?" said
Suzanne. "I know," she continued,
making a pretty little face, "how
ridiculous it is in a poor girl
to come and nag at a man for
what he thinks a mere nothing.
But if you really knew me, monsieur,
if you knew all that I am capable
of for a man who would attach
himself to me as much as I'm
attached to you, you would never
repent having married me. Of
course it isn't here, in Alencon,
that I should be of service to
you; but if we went to Paris,
you would see where I could lead
a man with your mind and your
capacities; and just at this
time too, when they are remaking
the government from top to toe.
So--between ourselves, be it
said--IS what has happened a
misfortune? Isn't it rather a
piece of luck, which will pay
you well? Who and what are you
working for now?"
"For myself, of course!" cried
du Bousquier, brutally.
"Monster! you'll never be a
father!" said Suzanne, giving
a tone of prophetic malediction
to the words.
"Come, don't talk nonsense,
Suzanne," replied du Bousquier; "I
really think I am still dreaming."
"How much more reality do you
want?" cried Suzanne, standing
up.
Du Bousquier rubbed his cotton
night-cap to the top of his head
with a rotatory motion, which
plainly indicated the tremendous
fermentation of his ideas.
"He actually believes it!" thought
Suzanne, "and he's flattered.
Heaven! how easy it is to gull
men!"
"Suzanne, what
the devil must I do? It is
so extraordinary--I,
who thought-- The fact is that--
No, no, it can't be--"
"What? you
can't marry me?"
"Oh! as for
that, no; I have engagements."
"With Mademoiselle
Armande or Mademoiselle Cormon,
who have
both refused you? Listen to me,
Monsieur du Bousquier, my honor
doesn't need gendarmes to drag
you to the mayor's office. I
sha'n't lack for husbands, thank
goodness! and I don't want a
man who can't appreciate what
I'm worth. But some day you'll
repent of the way you are behaving;
for I tell you now that nothing
on earth, neither gold nor silver,
will induce me to return the
good thing that belongs to you,
if you refuse to accept it to-day."
"But, Suzanne,
are you sure?"
"Oh, monsieur!" cried the grisette,
wrapping her virtue round her, "what
do you take me for? I don't remind
you of the promises you made
me, which have ruined a poor
young girl whose only blame was
to have as much ambition as love."
Du Bousquier was torn with
conflicting sentiments, joy,
distrust, calculation. He had
long determined to marry Mademoiselle
Cormon; for the Charter, on which
he had just been ruminating,
offered to his ambition, through
the half of her property, the
political career of a deputy.
Besides, his marriage with the
old maid would put him socially
so high in the town that he would
have great influence. Consequently,
the storm upraised by that malicious
Suzanne drove him into the wildest
embarrassment. Without this secret
scheme, he would have married
Suzanne without hesitation. In
which case, he could openly assume
the leadership of the liberal
party in Alencon. After such
a marriage he would, of course,
renounce the best society and
take up with the bourgeois class
of tradesmen, rich manufacturers
and graziers, who would certainly
carry him in triumph as their
candidate. Du Bousquier already
foresaw the Left side.
This solemn deliberation he
did not conceal; he rubbed his
hands over his head, displacing
the cap which covered its disastrous
baldness. Suzanne, meantime,
like all those persons who succeed
beyond their hopes, was silent
and amazed. To hide her astonishment,
she assumed the melancholy pose
of an injured girl at the mercy
of her seducer; inwardly she
was laughing like a grisette
at her clever trick.
"My dear child," said du Bousquier
at length, "I'm not to be taken
in with such BOSH, not I!"
Such was the
curt remark which ended du
Bousquier's meditation.
He plumed himself on belonging
to the class of cynical philosophers
who could never be "taken in" by
women,--putting them, one and
all, unto the same category,
as SUSPICIOUS. These strong-minded
persons are usually weak men
who have a special catechism
in the matter of womenkind. To
them the whole sex, from queens
of France to milliners, are essentially
depraved, licentious, intriguing,
not a little rascally, fundamentally
deceitful, and incapable of thought
about anything but trifles. To
them, women are evil-doing queens,
who must be allowed to dance
and sing and laugh as they please;
they see nothing sacred or saintly
in them, nor anything grand;
to them there is no poetry in
the senses, only gross sensuality.
Where such jurisprudence prevails,
if a woman is not perpetually
tyrannized over, she reduces
the man to the condition of a
slave. Under this aspect du Bousquier
was again the antithesis of the
chevalier. When he made his final
remark, he flung his night-cap
to the foot of the bed, as Pope
Gregory did the taper when he
fulminated an excommunication;
Suzanne then learned for the
first time that du Bousquier
wore a toupet covering his bald
spot.
"Please to remember, Monsieur
du Bousquier," she replied majestically, "that
in coming here to tell you of
this matter I have done my duty;
remember that I have offered
you my hand, and asked for yours;
but remember also that I behaved
with the dignity of a woman who
respects herself. I have not
abased myself to weep like a
silly fool; I have not insisted;
I have not tormented you. You
now know my situation. You must
see that I cannot stay in Alencon:
my mother would beat me, and
Madame Lardot rides a hobby of
principles; she'll turn me off.
Poor work-girl that I am, must
I go to the hospital? must I
beg my bread? No! I'd rather
throw myself into the Brillante
or the Sarthe. But isn't it better
that I should go to Paris? My
mother could find an excuse to
send me there,--an uncle who
wants me, or a dying aunt, or
a lady who sends for me. But
I must have some money for the
journey and for--you know what."
This extraordinary piece of
news was far more startling to
du Bousquier than to the Chevalier
de Valois. Suzanne's fiction
introduced such confusion into
the ideas of the old bachelor
that he was literally incapable
of sober reflection. Without
this agitation and without his
inward delight (for vanity is
a swindler which never fails
of its dupe), he would certainly
have reflected that, supposing
it were true, a girl like Suzanne,
whose heart was not yet spoiled,
would have died a thousand deaths
before beginning a discussion
of this kind and asking for money.
"Will you really go to Paris,
then?" he said.
A flash of gayety lighted Suzanne's
gray eyes as she heard these
words; but the self-satisfied
du Bousquier saw nothing.
"Yes, monsieur," she
said.
Du Bousquier then began bitter
lamentations: he had the last
payments to make on his house;
the painter, the mason, the upholsterers
must be paid. Suzanne let him
run on; she was listening for
the figures. Du Bousquier offered
her three hundred francs. Suzanne
made what is called on the stage
a false exit; that is, she marched
toward the door.
"Stop, stop! where are you
going?" said du Bousquier, uneasily. "This
is what comes of a bachelor's
life!" thought he. "The devil
take me if I ever did anything
more than rumple her collar,
and, lo and behold! she makes
THAT a ground to put her hand
in one's pocket!"
"I'm going, monsieur," replied
Suzanne, "to Madame Granson,
the treasurer of the Maternity
Society, who, to my knowledge,
has saved many a poor girl in
my condition from suicide."
"Madame Granson!"
"Yes," said Suzanne, "a
relation of Mademoiselle Cormon,
the president
of the Maternity Society. Saving
your presence, the ladies of
the town have created an institution
to protect poor creatures from
destroying their infants, like
that handsome Faustine of Argentan
who was executed for it three
years ago."
"Here, Suzanne," said du Bousquier,
giving her a key, "open that
secretary, and take out the bag
you'll find there: there's about
six hundred francs in it; it
is all I possess."
"Old cheat!" thought Suzanne,
doing as he told her, "I'll tell
about your false toupet."
She compared du Bousquier with
that charming chevalier, who
had given her nothing, it is
true, but who had comprehended
her, advised her, and carried
all grisettes in his heart.
"If you deceive me, Suzanne," cried
du Bousquier, as he saw her with
her hand in the drawer, "you--"
"Monsieur," she said, interrupting
him with ineffable impertinence, "wouldn't
you have given me money if I
had asked for it?"
Recalled to
a sense of gallantry, du Bousquier
had a remembrance
of past happiness and grunted
his assent. Suzanne took the
bag and departed, after allowing
the old bachelor to kiss her,
which he did with an air that
seemed to say, "It is a right
which costs me dear; but it is
better than being harried by
a lawyer in the court of assizes
as the seducer of a girl accused
of infanticide."
Suzanne hid the sack in a sort
of gamebag made of osier which
she had on her arm, all the while
cursing du Bousquier for his
stinginess; for one thousand
francs was the sum she wanted.
Once tempted of the devil to
desire that sum, a girl will
go far when she has set foot
on the path of trickery. As she
made her way along the rue du
Bercail, it came into her head
that the Maternity Society, presided
over by Mademoiselle Cormon,
might be induced to complete
the sum at which she had reckoned
her journey to Paris, which to
a grisette of Alencon seemed
considerable. Besides, she hated
du Bousquier. The latter had
evidently feared a revelation
of his supposed misconduct to
Madame Granson; and Suzanne,
at the risk of not getting a
penny from the society, was possessed
with the desire, on leaving Alencon,
of entangling the old bachelor
in the inextricable meshes of
a provincial slander. In all
grisettes there is something
of the malevolent mischief of
a monkey. Accordingly, Suzanne
now went to see Madame Granson,
composing her face to an expression
of the deepest dejection.
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