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Madame Granson, widow of a lieutenant-colonel
of artillery killed at Jena,
possessed, as her whole means
of livelihood, a meagre pension
of nine hundred francs a year,
and three hundred francs from
property of her own, plus a son
whose support and education had
eaten up all her savings. She
occupied, in the rue du Bercail,
one of those melancholy ground-floor
apartments which a traveller
passing along the principal street
of a little provincial town can
look through at a glance. The
street door opened at the top
of three steep steps; a passage
led to an interior courtyard,
at the end of which was the staircase
covered by a wooden gallery.
On one side of the passage was
the dining-room and the kitchen;
on the other side, a salon put
to many uses, and the widow's
bedchamber.
Athanase Granson, a young man
twenty-three years of age, who
slept in an attic room above
the second floor of the house,
added six hundred francs to the
income of his poor mother, by
the salary of a little place
which the influence of his relation,
Mademoiselle Cormon, had obtained
for him in the mayor's office,
where he was placed in charge
of the archives.
From these indications it is
easy to imagine Madame Granson
in her cold salon with its yellow
curtains and Utrecht velvet furniture,
also yellow, as she straightened
the round straw mats which were
placed before each chair, that
visitors might not soil the red-tiled
floor while they sat there; after
which she returned to her cushioned
armchair and little work-table
placed beneath the portrait of
the lieutenant-colonel of artillery
between two windows,--a point
from which her eye could rake
the rue du Bercail and see all
comers. She was a good woman,
dressed with bourgeois simplicity
in keeping with her wan face
furrowed by grief. The rigorous
humbleness of poverty made itself
felt in all the accessories of
this household, the very air
of which was charged with the
stern and upright morals of the
provinces. At this moment the
son and mother were together
in the dining-room, where they
were breakfasting with a cup
of coffee, with bread and butter
and radishes. To make the pleasure
which Suzanne's visit was to
give to Madame Granson intelligible,
we must explain certain secret
interests of the mother and son.
Athanase Granson
was a thin and pale young man,
of medium
height, with a hollow face in
which his two black eyes, sparkling
with thoughts, gave the effect
of bits of coal. The rather irregular
lines of his face, the curve
of his lips, a prominent chin,
the fine modelling of his forehead,
his melancholy countenance, caused
by a sense of his poverty warring
with the powers that he felt
within him, were all indications
of repressed and imprisoned talent.
In any other place than the town
of Alencon the mere aspect of
his person would have won him
the assistance of superior men,
or of women who are able to recognize
genius in obscurity. If his was
not genius, it was at any rate
the form and aspect of it; if
he had not the actual force of
a great heart, the glow of such
a heart was in his glance. Although
he was capable of expressing
the highest feeling, a casing
of timidity destroyed all the
graces of his youth, just as
the ice of poverty kept him from
daring to put forth all his powers.
Provincial life, without an opening,
without appreciation, without
encouragement, described a circle
about him in which languished
and died the power of thought,--a
power which as yet had scarcely
reached its dawn. Moreover, Athanase
possessed that savage pride which
poverty intensifies in noble
minds, exalting them in their
struggle with men and things;
although at their start in life
it is an obstacle to their advancement.
Genius proceeds in two ways:
either it takes its opportunity--like
Napoleon, like Moliere--the moment
that it sees it, or it waits
to be sought when it has patiently
revealed itself. Young Granson
belonged to that class of men
of talent who distrust themselves
and are easily discouraged. His
soul was contemplative. He lived
more by thought than by action.
Perhaps he might have seemed
deficient or incomplete to those
who cannot conceive of genius
without the sparkle of French
passion; but he was powerful
in the world of mind, and he
was liable to reach, through
a series of emotions imperceptible
to common souls, those sudden
determinations which make fools
say of a man, "He is mad."
The contempt which the world
pours out on poverty was death
to Athanase; the enervating heat
of solitude, without a breath
or current of air, relaxed the
bow which ever strove to tighten
itself; his soul grew weary in
this painful effort without results.
Athanase was a man who might
have taken his place among the
glories of France; but, eagle
as he was, cooped in a cage without
his proper nourishment, he was
about to die of hunger after
contemplating with an ardent
eye the fields of air and the
mountain heights where genius
soars. His work in the city library
escaped attention, and he buried
in his soul his thoughts of fame,
fearing that they might injure
him; but deeper than all lay
buried within him the secret
of his heart,--a passion which
hollowed his cheeks and yellowed
his brow. He loved his distant
cousin, this very Mademoiselle
Cormon whom the Chevalier de
Valois and du Bousquier, his
hidden rivals, were stalking.
This love had had its origin
in calculation. Mademoiselle
Cormon was thought to be one
of the richest persons in the
town: the poor lad had therefore
been led to love her by desires
for material happiness, by the
hope, long indulged, of gilding
with comfort his mother's last
years, by eager longing for the
ease of life so needful to men
who live by thought; but this
most innocent point of departure
degraded his passion in his own
eyes. Moreover, he feared the
ridicule the world would cast
upon the love of a young man
of twenty-three for an old maid
of forty.
And yet his passion was real;
whatever may seem false about
such a love elsewhere, it can
be realized as a fact in the
provinces, where, manners and
morals being without change or
chance or movement or mystery,
marriage becomes a necessity
of life. No family will accept
a young man of dissolute habits.
However natural the liaison of
a young man, like Athanase, with
a handsome girl, like Suzanne,
for instance, might seem in a
capital, it alarms provincial
parents, and destroys the hopes
of marriage of a poor young man
when possibly the fortune of
a rich one might cause such an
unfortunate antecedent to be
overlooked. Between the depravity
of certain liaisons and a sincere
love, a man of honor and no fortune
will not hesitate: he prefers
the misfortunes of virtue to
the evils of vice. But in the
provinces women with whom a young
man call fall in love are rare.
A rich young girl he cannot obtain
in a region where all is calculation;
a poor young girl he is prevented
from loving; it would be, as
provincials say, marrying hunger
and thirst. Such monkish solitude
is, however, dangerous to youth.
These reflections explain why
provincial life is so firmly
based on marriage. Thus we find
that ardent and vigorous genius,
forced to rely on the independence
of its own poverty, quits these
cold regions where thought is
persecuted by brutal indifference,
where no woman is willing to
be a sister of charity to a man
of talent, of art, of science.
Who will really understand
Athanase Granson's love for Mademoiselle
Cormon? Certainly neither rich
men--those sultans of society
who fill their harems--nor middle-class
men, who follow the well-beaten
high- road of prejudices; nor
women who, not choosing to understand
the passions of artists, impose
the yoke of their virtues upon
men of genius, imagining that
the two sexes are governed by
the same laws.
Here, perhaps, we should appeal
to those young men who suffer
from the repression of their
first desires at the moment when
all their forces are developing;
to artists sick of their own
genius smothering under the pressure
of poverty; to men of talent,
persecuted and without influence,
often without friends at the
start, who have ended by triumphing
over that double anguish, equally
agonizing, of soul and body.
Such men will well understand
the lancinating pains of the
cancer which was now consuming
Athanase; they have gone through
those long and bitter deliberations
made in presence of some grandiose
purpose they had not the means
to carry out; they have endured
those secret miscarriages in
which the fructifying seed of
genius falls on arid soil. Such
men know that the grandeur of
desires is in proportion to the
height and breadth of the imagination.
The higher they spring, the lower
they fall; and how can it be
that ties and bonds should not
be broken by such a fall? Their
piercing eye has seen--as did
Athanase --the brilliant future
which awaited them, and from
which they fancied that only
a thin gauze parted them; but
that gauze through which their
eyes could see is changed by
Society into a wall of iron.
Impelled by a vocation, by a
sentiment of art, they endeavor
again and again to live by sentiments
which society as incessantly
materializes. Alas! the provinces
calculate and arrange marriage
with the one view of material
comfort, and a poor artist or
man of science is forbidden to
double its purpose and make it
the saviour of his genius by
securing to him the means of
subsistence!
Moved by such ideas, Athanase
Granson first thought of marriage
with Mademoiselle Cormon as a
means of obtaining a livelihood
which would be permanent. Thence
he could rise to fame, and make
his mother happy, knowing at
the same time that he was capable
of faithfully loving his wife.
But soon his own will created,
although he did not know it,
a genuine passion. He began to
study the old maid, and, by dint
of the charm which habit gives,
he ended by seeing only her beauties
and ignoring her defects.
In a young man of twenty-three
the senses count for much in
love; their fire produces a sort
of prism between his eyes and
the woman. From this point of
view the clasp with which Beaumarchis'
Cherubin seizes Marceline is
a stroke of genius. But when
we reflect that in the utter
isolation to which poverty condemned
poor Athanase, Mademoiselle Cormon
was the only figure presented
to his gaze, that she attracted
his eye incessantly, that all
the light he had was concentrated
on her, surely his love may be
considered natural.
This sentiment, so carefully
hidden, increased from day to
day. Desires, sufferings, hopes,
and meditations swelled in quietness
and silence the lake widening
ever in the young man's breast,
as hour by hour added its drop
of water to the volume. And the
wider this inward circle, drawn
by the imagination, aided by
the senses, grew, the more imposing
Mademoiselle Cormon appeared
to Athanase, and the more his
own timidity increased.
The mother had divined the
truth. Like all provincial mothers,
she calculated candidly in her
own mind the advantages of the
match. She told herself that
Mademoiselle Cormon would be
very lucky to secure a husband
in a young man of twenty-three,
full of talent, who would always
be an honor to his family and
the neighborhood; at the same
time the obstacles which her
son's want of fortune and Mademoiselle
Cormon's age presented to the
marriage seemed to her almost
insurmountable; she could think
of nothing but patience as being
able to vanquish them. Like du
Bousquier, like the Chevalier
de Valois, she had a policy of
her own; she was on the watch
for circumstances, awaiting the
propitious moment for a move
with the shrewdness of maternal
instinct. Madame Granson had
no fears at all as to the chevalier,
but she did suppose that du Bousquier,
although refused, retained certain
hopes. As an able and underhand
enemy to the latter, she did
him much secret harm in the interests
of her son; from whom, by the
bye, she carefully concealed
all such proceedings.
After this explanation it is
easy to understand the importance
which Suzanne's lie, confided
to Madame Granson, was about
to acquire. What a weapon put
into the hands of this charitable
lady, the treasurer of the Maternity
Society! How she would gently
and demurely spread the news
while collecting assistance for
the chaste Suzanne!
At the present
moment Athanase, leaning pensively
on his elbow
at the breakfast table, was twirling
his spoon in his empty cup and
contemplating with a preoccupied
eye the poor room with its red
brick floor, its straw chairs,
its painted wooden buffet, its
pink and white curtains chequered
like a backgammon board, which
communicated with the kitchen
through a glass door. As his
back was to the chimney which
his mother faced, and as the
chimney was opposite to the door,
his pallid face, strongly lighted
from the window, framed in beautiful
black hair, the eyes gleaming
with despair and fiery with morning
thoughts, was the first object
which met the eyes of the incoming
Suzanne. The grisette, who belonged
to a class which certainly has
the instinct of misery and the
sufferings of the heart, suddenly
felt that electric spark, darting
from Heaven knows where, which
can never be explained, which
some strong minds deny, but the
sympathetic stroke of which has
been felt by many men and many
women. It is at once a light
which lightens the darkness of
the future, a presentiment of
the sacred joys of a shared love,
the certainty of mutual comprehension.
Above all, it is like the touch
of a firm and able hand on the
keyboard of the senses. The eyes
are fascinated by an irresistible
attraction; the heart is stirred;
the melodies of happiness echo
in the soul and in the ears;
a voice cries out, "It is he!" Often
reflection casts a douche of
cold water on this boiling emotion,
and all is over.
In a moment,
as rapid as the flash of the
lightning, Suzanne
received the broadside of this
emotion in her heart. The flame
of a real love burned up the
evil weeds fostered by a libertine
and dissipated life. She saw
how much she was losing of decency
and value by accusing herself
falsely. What had seemed to her
a joke the night before became
to her eyes a serious charge
against herself. She recoiled
at her own success. But the impossibility
of any result; the poverty of
the young man; a vague hope of
enriching herself, of going to
Paris, and returning with full
hands to say, "I love you! here
are the means of happiness!" or
mere fate, if you will have it
so, dried up the next moment
this beneficent dew.
The ambitious grisette asked
with a timid air for a moment's
interview with Madame Granson,
who took her at once into her
bedchamber. When Suzanne came
out she looked again at Athanase;
he was still in the same position,
and the tears came into her eyes.
As for Madame Granson, she was
radiant with joy. At last she
had a weapon, and a terrible
one, against du Bousquier; she
could now deal him a mortal blow.
She had of course promised the
poor seduced girl the support
of all charitable ladies and
that of the members of the Maternity
Society in particular; she foresaw
a dozen visits which would occupy
her whole day, and brew up a
frightful storm on the head of
the guilty du Bousquier. The
Chevalier de Valois, while foreseeing
the turn the affair would take,
had really no idea of the scandal
which would result from his own
action.
"My dear child," said Madame
Granson to her son, "we are to
dine, you know, with Mademoiselle
Cormon; do take a little pains
with your appearance. You are
wrong to neglect your dress as
you do. Put on that handsome
frilled shirt and your green
coat of Elbeuf cloth. I have
my reasons," she added slyly. "Besides,
Mademoiselle Cormon is going
to Prebaudet, and many persons
will doubtless call to bid her
good-bye. When a young man is
marriageable he ought to take
every means to make himself agreeable.
If girls would only tell the
truth, heavens! my dear boy,
you'd be astonished at what makes
them fall in love. Often it suffices
for a man to ride past them at
the head of a company of artillery,
or show himself at a ball in
tight clothes. Sometimes a mere
turn of the head, a melancholy
attitude, makes them suppose
a man's whole life; they'll invent
a romance to match the hero--who
is often a mere brute, but the
marriage is made. Watch the Chevalier
de Valois: study him; copy his
manners; see with what ease he
presents himself; he never puts
on a stiff air, as you do. Talk
a little more; one would really
think you didn't know anything,--you,
who know Hebrew by heart."
Athanase listened
to his mother with a surprised
but submissive
air; then he rose, took his cap,
and went off to the mayor's office,
saying to himself, "Can my mother
suspect my secret?"
He passed through the rue du
Val-Noble, where Mademoiselle
Cormon lived,--a little pleasure
which he gave himself every morning,
thinking, as usual, a variety
of fanciful things:--
"How little
she knows that a young man
is passing before
her house who loves her well,
who would be faithful to her,
who would never cause her any
grief; who would leave her the
entire management of her fortune
without interference. Good God!
what fatality! here, side by
side, in the same town, are two
persons in our mutual condition,
and yet nothing can bring them
together. Suppose I were to speak
to her this evening?"
During this time Suzanne had
returned to her mother's house
thinking of Athanase; and, like
many other women who have longed
to help an adored man beyond
the limit of human powers, she
felt herself capable of making
her body a stepping-stone on
which he could rise to attain
his throne.
It is now necessary
to enter the house of this
old maid toward
whom so many interests are converging,
where the actors in this scene,
with the exception of Suzanne,
were all to meet this very evening.
As for Suzanne, that handsome
individual bold enough to burn
her ships like Alexander at her
start in life, and to begin the
battle by a falsehood, she disappears
from the stage, having introduced
upon it a violent element of
interest. Her utmost wishes were
gratified. She quitted her native
town a few days later, well supplied
with money and good clothes,
among which was a fine dress
of green reps and a charming
green bonnet lined with pink,
the gift of Monsieur de Valois,
--a present which she preferred
to all the rest, even the money.
If the chevalier had gone to
Paris in the days of her future
brilliancy, she would certainly
have left every one for him.
Like the chaste Susannah of the
Bible, whom the Elders hardly
saw, she established herself
joyously and full of hope in
Paris, while all Alencon was
deploring her misfortunes, for
which the ladies of two Societies
(Charity and Maternity) manifested
the liveliest sympathy. Though
Suzanne is a fair specimen of
those handsome Norman women whom
a learned physician reckons as
comprising one third of her fallen
class whom our monstrous Paris
absorbs, it must be stated that
she remained in the upper and
more decent regions of gallantry.
At an epoch when, as Monsieur
de Valois said, Woman no longer
existed, she was simply "Madame
du Val-Noble"; in other days
she would have rivalled the Rhodopes,
the Imperias, the Ninons of the
past. One of the most distinguished
writers of the Restoration has
taken her under his protection;
perhaps he may marry her. He
is a journalist, and consequently
above public opinion, inasmuch
as he manufactures it afresh
every year or two.
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