To complete the picture of the
internal habits and ways of this
house, it is necessary to group
around Mademoiselle Cormon and
the Abbe de Sponde Jacquelin,
Josette, and Mariette, the cook,
who employed themselves in providing
for the comfort of uncle and
niece.
Jacquelin, a man of forty,
short, fat, ruddy, and brown,
with a face like a Breton sailor,
had been in the service of the
house for twenty- two years.
He waited at table, groomed the
mare, gardened, blacked the abbe's
boots, went on errands, chopped
the wood, drove the carriole,
and fetched the oats, straw,
and hay from Prebaudet. He sat
in the antechamber during the
evening, where he slept like
a dormouse. He was in love with
Josette, a girl of thirty, whom
Mademoiselle would have dismissed
had she married him. So the poor
fond pair laid by their wages,
and loved each other silently,
waiting, hoping for mademoiselle's
own marriage, as the Jews are
waiting for the Messiah. Josette,
born between Alencon and Mortagne,
was short and plump; her face,
which looked like a dirty apricot,
was not wanting in sense and
character; it was said that she
ruled her mistress. Josette and
Jacquelin, sure of results, endeavored
to hide an inward satisfaction
which allows it to be supposed
that, as lovers, they had discounted
the future. Mariette, the cook,
who had been fifteen years in
the household, knew how to make
all the dishes held in most honor
in Alencon.
Perhaps we ought to count for
much the fat old Norman brown-bay
mare, which drew Mademoiselle
Cormon to her country-seat at
Prebaudet; for the five inhabitants
of the house bore to this animal
a maniacal affection. She was
called Penelope, and had served
the family for eighteen years;
but she was kept so carefully
and fed with such regularity
that mademoiselle and Jacquelin
both hoped to use her for ten
years longer. This beast was
the subject of perpetual talk
and occupation; it seemed as
if poor Mademoiselle Cormon,
having no children on whom her
repressed motherly feelings could
expend themselves, had turned
those sentiments wholly on this
most fortunate animal.
The four faithful
servants--for Penelope's intelligence
raised
her to the level of the other
good servants; while they, on
the other hand, had lowered themselves
to the mute, submissive regularity
of the beast --went and came
daily in the same occupations
with the infallible accuracy
of mechanism. But, as they said
in their idiom, they had eaten
their white bread first. Mademoiselle
Cormon, like all persons nervously
agitated by a fixed idea, became
hard to please, and nagging,
less by nature than from the
need of employing her activity.
Having no husband or children
to occupy her, she fell back
on petty details. She talked
for hours about mere nothings,
on a dozen napkins marked "Z," placed
in the closet before the "O's."
"What can Josette be thinking
of?" she exclaimed. "Josette
is beginning to neglect things."
Mademoiselle
inquired for eight days running
whether Penelope
had had her oats at two o'clock,
because on one occasion Jacquelin
was a trifle late. Her narrow
imagination spent itself on trifles.
A layer of dust forgotten by
the feather-duster, a slice of
toast ill-made by Mariette, Josette's
delay in closing the blinds when
the sun came round to fade the
colors of the furniture,--all
these great little things gave
rise to serious quarrels in which
mademoiselle grew angry. "Everything
was changing," she would cry; "she
did not know her own servants;
the fact was she spoiled them!" On
one occasion Josette gave her
the "Journee du Chretien" instead
of the "Quinzaine de Paques." The
whole town heard of this disaster
the same evening. Mademoiselle
had been forced to leave the
church and return home; and her
sudden departure, upsetting the
chairs, made people suppose a
catastrophe had happened. She
was therefore obliged to explain
the facts to her friends.
"Josette," she said gently, "such
a thing must never happen again."
Mademoiselle
Cormon was, without being aware
of it, made happier
by such little quarrels, which
served as cathartics to relieve
her bitterness. The soul has
its needs, and, like the body,
its gymnastics. These uncertainties
of temper were accepted by Josette
and Jacquelin as changes in the
weather are accepted by husbandmen.
Those worthy souls remark, "It
is fine to-day," or "It rains," without
arraigning the heavens. And so
when they met in the morning
the servants would wonder in
what humor mademoiselle would
get up, just as a farmer wonders
about the mists at dawn.
Mademoiselle
Cormon had ended, as it was
natural she should
end, in contemplating herself
only in the infinite pettinesses
of her life. Herself and God,
her confessor and the weekly
wash, her preserves and the church
services, and her uncle to care
for, absorbed her feeble intellect.
To her the atoms of life were
magnified by an optic peculiar
to persons who are selfish by
nature or self-absorbed by some
accident. Her perfect health
gave alarming meaning to the
least little derangement of her
digestive organs. She lived under
the iron rod of the medical science
of our forefathers, and took
yearly four precautionary doses,
strong enough to have killed
Penelope, though they seemed
to rejuvenate her mistress. If
Josette, when dressing her, chanced
to discover a little pimple on
the still satiny shoulders of
mademoiselle, it became the subject
of endless inquiries as to the
various alimentary articles of
the preceding week. And what
a triumph when Josette reminded
her mistress of a certain hare
that was rather "high," and had
doubtless raised that accursed
pimple! With what joy they said
to each other: "No doubt, no
doubt, it WAS the hare!"
"Mariette over-seasoned it," said
mademoiselle. "I am always telling
her to do so lightly for my uncle
and for me; but Mariette has
no more memory than--"
"The hare," said
Josette.
"Just so," replied Mademoiselle; "she
has no more memory than a hare,
--a very just remark."
Four times
a year, at the beginning of
each season, Mademoiselle
Cormon went to pass a certain
number of days on her estate
of Prebaudet. It was now the
middle of May, the period at
which she wished to see how her
apple-trees had "snowed," a saying
of that region which expressed
the effect produced beneath the
trees by the falling of their
blossoms. When the circular deposit
of these fallen petals resembled
a layer of snow the owner of
the trees might hope for an abundant
supply of cider. While she thus
gauged her vats, Mademoiselle
Cormon also attended to the repairs
which the winter necessitated;
she ordered the digging of her
flower-beds and her vegetable
garden, from which she supplied
her table. Every season had its
own business. Mademoiselle always
gave a dinner of farewell to
her intimate friends the day
before her departure, although
she was certain to see them again
within three weeks. It was always
a piece of news which echoed
through Alencon when Mademoiselle
Cormon departed. All her visitors,
especially those who had missed
a visit, came to bid her good-bye;
the salon was thronged, and every
one said farewell as though she
were starting for Calcutta. The
next day the shopkeepers would
stand at their doors to see the
old carriole pass, and they seemed
to be telling one another some
news by repeating from shop to
shop:--
"So Mademoiselle
Cormon is going to Prebaudet!"
Some said: "HER
bread is baked."
"Hey! my lad," replied the
next man. "She's a worthy woman;
if money always came into such
hands we shouldn't see a beggar
in the country."
Another said: "Dear
me, I shouldn't be surprised
if the vineyards
were in bloom; here's Mademoiselle
Cormon going to Prebaudet. How
happens it she doesn't marry?"
"I'd marry her myself," said
a wag; "in fact, the marriage
is half- made, for here's one
consenting party; but the other
side won't. Pooh! the oven is
heating for Monsieur du Bousquier."
"Monsieur du
Bousquier! Why, she has refused
him."
That evening at all the gatherings
it was told gravely:--
"Mademoiselle
Cormon has gone."
Or:--
"So you have
really let Mademoiselle Cormon
go."
The Wednesday chosen by Suzanne
to make known her scandal happened
to be this farewell Wednesday,--a
day on which Mademoiselle Cormon
drove Josette distracted on the
subject of packing. During the
morning, therefore, things had
been said and done in the town
which lent the utmost interest
to this farewell meeting. Madame
Granson had gone the round of
a dozen houses while the old
maid was deliberating on the
things she needed for the journey;
and the malicious Chevalier de
Valois was playing piquet with
Mademoiselle Armande, sister
of a distinguished old marquis,
and the queen of the salon of
the aristocrats. If it was not
uninteresting to any one to see
what figure the seducer would
cut that evening, it was all
important for the chevalier and
Madame Granson to know how Mademoiselle
Cormon would take the news in
her double capacity of marriageable
woman and president of the Maternity
Society. As for the innocent
du Bousquier, he was taking a
walk on the promenade, and beginning
to suspect that Suzanne had tricked
him; this suspicion confirmed
him in his principles as to women.
On gala days the table was
laid at Mademoiselle Cormon's
about half- past three o'clock.
At that period the fashionable
people of Alencon dined at four.
Under the Empire they still dined
as in former times at half-past
two; but then they supped! One
of the pleasures which Mademoiselle
Cormon valued most was (without
meaning any malice, although
the fact certainly rests on egotism)
the unspeakable satisfaction
she derived from seeing herself
dressed as mistress of the house
to receive her guests. When she
was thus under arms a ray of
hope would glide into the darkness
of her heart; a voice told her
that nature had not so abundantly
provided for her in vain, and
that some man, brave and enterprising,
would surely present himself.
Her desire was refreshed like
her person; she contemplated
herself in her heavy stuffs with
a sort of intoxication, and this
satisfaction continued when she
descended the stairs to cast
her redoubtable eye on the salon,
the dinner-table, and the boudoir.
She would then walk about with
the naive contentment of the
rich,--who remember at all moments
that they are rich and will never
want for anything. She looked
at her eternal furniture, her
curiosities, her lacquers, and
said to herself that all these
fine things wanted was a master.
After admiring the dining-room,
and the oblong dinner-table,
on which was spread a snow- white
cloth adorned with twenty covers
placed at equal distances; after
verifying the squadron of bottles
she had ordered to be brought
up, and which all bore honorable
labels; after carefully verifying
the names written on little bits
of paper in the trembling handwriting
of the abbe (the only duty he
assumed in the household, and
one which gave rise to grave
discussions on the place of each
guest),--after going through
all these preliminary acts mademoiselle
went, in her fine clothes, to
her uncle, who was accustomed
at this, the best hour in the
day, to take his walk on the
terrace which overlooked the
Brillante, where he could listen
to the warble of birds which
were resting in the coppice,
unafraid of either sportsmen
or children. At such times of
waiting she never joined the
Abbe de Sponde without asking
him some ridiculous question,
in order to draw the old man
into a discussion which might
serve to amuse him. And her reason
was this, --which will serve
to complete our picture of this
excellent woman's nature:--
Mademoiselle
Cormon regarded it as one of
her duties to talk;
not that she was talkative, for
she had unfortunately too few
ideas, and did not know enough
phrases to converse readily.
But she believed she was accomplishing
one of the social duties enjoined
by religion, which orders us
to make ourselves agreeable to
our neighbor. This obligation
cost her so much that she consulted
her director, the Abbe Couturier,
upon the subject of this honest
but puerile civility. In spite
of the humble remark of his penitent,
confessing the inward labor of
her mind in finding anything
to say, the old priest, rigid
on the point of discipline, read
her a passage from Saint-Francois
de Sales on the duties of women
in society, which dwelt on the
decent gayety of pious Christian
women, who were bound to reserve
their sternness for themselves,
and to be amiable and pleasing
in their homes, and see that
their neighbors enjoyed themselves.
Thus, filled with a sense of
duty, and wishing, at all costs,
to obey her director, who bade
her converse with amenity, the
poor soul perspired in her corset
when the talk around her languished,
so much did she suffer from the
effort of emitting ideas in order
to revive it. Under such circumstances
she would put forth the silliest
statements, such as: "No one
can be in two places at once--unless
it is a little bird," by which
she one day roused, and not without
success, a discussion on the
ubiquity of the apostles, which
she was unable to comprehend.
Such efforts at conversation
won her the appellation of "that
good Mademoiselle Cormon," which,
from the lips of the beaux esprits
of society, means that she was
as ignorant as a carp, and rather
a poor fool; but many persons
of her own calibre took the remark
in its literal sense, and answered:--
"Yes; oh yes!
Mademoiselle Cormon is an excellent
woman."
Sometimes she
would put such absurd questions
(always for
the purpose of fulfilling her
duties to society, and making
herself agreeable to her guests)
that everybody burst out laughing.
She asked, for instance, what
the government did with the taxes
they were always receiving; and
why the Bible had not been printed
in the days of Jesus Christ,
inasmuch as it was written by
Moses. Her mental powers were
those of the English "country
gentleman" who, hearing constant
mention of "posterity" in the
House of Commons, rose to make
the speech that has since become
celebrated: "Gentlemen," he said, "I
hear much talk in this place
about Posterity. I should be
glad to know what that power
has ever done for England."
Under these circumstances the
heroic Chevalier de Valois would
bring to the succor of the old
maid all the powers of his clever
diplomacy, whenever he saw the
pitiless smile of wiser heads.
The old gentleman, who loved
to assist women, turned Mademoiselle
Cormon's sayings into wit by
sustaining them paradoxically,
and he often covered the retreat
so well that it seemed as if
the good woman had said nothing
silly. She asserted very seriously
one evening that she did not
see any difference between an
ox and a bull. The dear chevalier
instantly arrested the peals
of laughter by asserting that
there was only the difference
between a sheep and a lamb.
But the Chevalier
de Valois served an ungrateful
dame, for
never did Mademoiselle Cormon
comprehend his chivalrous services.
Observing that the conversation
grew lively, she simply thought
that she was not so stupid as
she was,--the result being that
she settled down into her ignorance
with some complacency; she lost
her timidity, and acquired a
self-possession which gave to
her "speeches" something of the
solemnity with which the British
enunciate their patriotic absurdities,--the
self-conceit of stupidity, as
it may be called.
As she approached her uncle,
on this occasion, with a majestic
step, she was ruminating over
a question that might draw him
from a silence, which always
troubled her, for she feared
he was dull.
"Uncle," she said, leaning
on his arm and clinging to his
side (this was one of her fictions;
for she said to herself "If I
had a husband I should do just
so"),--"uncle, if everything
here below happens according
to the will of God, there must
be a reason for everything."
"Certainly," replied
the abbe, gravely. The worthy
man, who
cherished his niece, always allowed
her to tear him from his meditations
with angelic patience.
"Then if I
remain unmarried,--supposing
that I do,--God wills it?"
"Yes, my child," replied
the abbe.
"And yet, as
nothing prevents me from marrying
to-morrow if
I choose, His will can be destroyed
by mine?"
"That would be true if we knew
what was really the will of God," replied
the former prior of the Sorbonne. "Observe,
my daughter, that you put in
an IF."
The poor woman, who expected
to draw her uncle into a matrimonial
discussion by an argument ad
omnipotentem, was stupefied;
but persons of obtuse mind have
the terrible logic of children,
which consists in turning from
answer to question,--a logic
that is frequently embarrassing.
"But, uncle,
God did not make women intending
them not to marry;
otherwise they ought all to stay
unmarried; if not, they ought
all to marry. There's great injustice
in the distribution of parts."
"Daughter," said the worthy
abbe, "you are blaming the Church,
which declares celibacy to be
the better way to God."
"But if the
Church is right, and all the
world were good Catholics,
wouldn't the human race come
to an end, uncle?"
"You have too
much mind, Rose; you don't
need so much to be
happy."
That remark brought a smile
of satisfaction to the lips of
the poor woman, and confirmed
her in the good opinion she was
beginning to acquire about herself.
That is how the world, our friends,
and our enemies are the accomplices
of our defects!
At this moment the conversation
was interrupted by the successive
arrival of the guests. On these
ceremonial days, friendly familiarities
were exchanged between the servants
of the house and the company.
Mariette remarked to the chief-justice
as he passed the kitchen:--
"Ah, Monsieur
du Ronceret, I've cooked the
cauliflowers
au gratin expressly for you,
for mademoiselle knows how you
like them; and she said to me:
'Now don't forget, Mariette,
for Monsieur du Ronceret is coming.'"
"That good Mademoiselle Cormon!" ejaculated
the chief legal authority of
the town. "Mariette, did you
steep them in gravy instead of
soup- stock? it is much richer."
The chief-justice was not above
entering the chamber of council
where Mariette held court; he
cast the eye of a gastronome
around it, and offered the advice
of a past master in cookery.
"Good-day, madame," said Josette
to Madame Granson, who courted
the maid. "Mademoiselle has thought
of you, and there's fish for
dinner."
As for the Chevalier de Valois,
he remarked to Mariette, in the
easy tone of a great seigneur
who condescends to be familiar:--
"Well, my dear
cordon-bleu, to whom I should
give the cross
of the Legion of honor, is there
some little dainty for which
I had better reserve myself?"
"Yes, yes,
Monsieur de Valois,--a hare
sent from Prebaudet; weighs
fourteen pounds."
Du Bousquier was not invited.
Mademoiselle Cormon, faithful
to the system which we know of,
treated that fifty-year-old suitor
extremely ill, although she felt
inexplicable sentiments towards
him in the depths of her heart.
She had refused him; yet at times
she repented; and a presentiment
that she should yet marry him,
together with a terror at the
idea which prevented her from
wishing for the marriage, assailed
her. Her mind, stimulated by
these feelings, was much occupied
by du Bousquier. Without being
aware of it, she was influenced
by the herculean form of the
republican. Madame Granson and
the Chevalier de Valois, although
they could not explain to themselves
Mademoiselle Cormon's inconsistencies,
had detected her naive glances
in that direction, the meaning
of which seemed clear enough
to make them both resolve to
ruin the hopes of the already
rejected purveyor, --hopes which
it was evident he still indulged.
Two guests, whose functions
excused them, kept the dinner
waiting. One was Monsieur du
Coudrai, the recorder of mortgages;
the other Monsieur Choisnel,
former bailiff to the house of
Esgrignon, and now the notary
of the upper aristocracy, by
whom he was received with a distinction
due to his virtues; he was also
a man of considerable wealth.
When the two belated guests arrived,
Jacquelin said to them as he
saw them about to enter the salon:--
"THEY are all
in the garden."
No doubt the assembled stomachs
were impatient; for on the appearance
of the register of mortgages--who
had no defect except that of
having married for her money
an intolerable old woman, and
of perpetrating endless puns,
at which he was the first to
laugh--the gentle murmur by which
such late-comers are welcomed
arose. While awaiting the official
announcement of dinner, the company
were sauntering on the terrace
above the river, and gazing at
the water-plants, the mosaic
of the currents, and the various
pretty details of the houses
clustering across the river,
their old wooden galleries, their
mouldering window- frames, their
little gardens where clothes
were drying, the cabinet- maker's
shop,--in short, the many details
of a small community to which
the vicinity of a river, a weeping
willow, flowers, rose-bushes,
added a certain grace, making
the scene quite worthy of a landscape
painter.
The chevalier studied all faces,
for he knew that his firebrand
had been very successfully introduced
into the chief houses of the
place. But no one as yet referred
openly to the great news of Suzanne
and du Bousquier. Provincials
possess in the highest degree
the art of distilling gossip;
the right moment for openly discussing
this strange affair had not arrived;
it was first necessary that all
present should put themselves
on record. So the whispers went
round from ear to ear:--
"You have heard?"
"Yes."
"Du Bousquier?"
"And that handsome
Suzanne."
"Does Mademoiselle
Cormon know of it?"
"No."
"Ha!"
This was the PIANO of the scandal;
the RINFORZANDO would break forth
as soon as the first course had
been removed. Suddenly Monsieur
de Valois's eyes lighted on Madame
Granson, arrayed in her green
hat with bunches of auriculas,
and beaming with evident joy.
Was it merely the joy of opening
the concert? Though such a piece
of news was like a gold mine
to work in the monotonous lives
of these personages, the observant
and distrustful chevalier thought
he recognized in the worthy woman
a far more extended sentiment;
namely, the joy caused by the
triumph of self-interest. Instantly
he turned to examine Athanase,
and detected him in the significant
silence of deep meditation. Presently,
a look cast by the young man
on Mademoiselle Cormon carried
to the soul of the chevalier
a sudden gleam. That momentary
flash of lightning enabled him
to read the past.
"Ha! the devil!" he said to
himself; "what a checkmate I'm
exposed to!"
Monsieur de Valois now approached
Mademoiselle Cormon, and offered
his arm. The old maid's feeling
to the chevalier was that of
respectful consideration; and
certainly his name, together
with the position he occupied
among the aristocratic constellations
of the department made him the
most brilliant ornament of her
salon. In her inmost mind Mademoiselle
Cormon had wished for the last
dozen years to become Madame
de Valois. That name was like
the branch of a tree, to which
the ideas which SWARMED in her
mind about rank, nobility, and
the external qualities of a husband
had fastened. But, though the
Chevalier de Valois was the man
chosen by her heart, and mind,
and ambition, that elderly ruin,
combed and curled like a little
Saint- John in a procession,
alarmed Mademoiselle Cormon.
She saw the gentleman in him,
but she could not see a husband.
The indifference which the chevalier
affected as to marriage, above
all, the apparent purity of his
morals in a house which abounded
in grisettes, did singular harm
in her mind to Monsieur de Valois
against his expectations. The
worthy man, who showed such judgment
in the matter of his annuity,
was at fault here. Without being
herself aware of it, the thoughts
of Mademoiselle Cormon on the
too virtuous chevalier might
be translated thus:--
"What a pity
that he isn't a trifle dissipated!"
Observers of the human heart
have remarked the leaning of
pious women toward scamps; some
have expressed surprise at this
taste, considering it opposed
to Christian virtue. But, in
the first place, what nobler
destiny can you offer to a virtuous
woman than to purify, like charcoal,
the muddy waters of vice? How
is it some observers fail to
see that these noble creatures,
obliged by the sternness of their
own principles never to infringe
on conjugal fidelity, must naturally
desire a husband of wider practical
experience than their own? The
scamps of social life are great
men in love. Thus the poor woman
groaned in spirit at finding
her chosen vessel parted into
two pieces. God alone could solder
together a Chevalier de Valois
and a du Bousquier.
In order to explain the importance
of the few words which the chevalier
and Mademoiselle Cormon are about
to say to each other, it is necessary
to reveal two serious matters
which agitated the town, and
about which opinions were divided;
besides, du Bousquier was mysteriously
connected with them.
One concerns
the rector of Alencon, who
had formerly taken
the constitutional oath, and
who was now conquering the repugnance
of the Catholics by a display
of the highest virtues. He was
Cheverus on a small scale, and
became in time so fully appreciated
that when he died the whole town
mourned him. Mademoiselle Cormon
and the Abbe de Sponde belonged
to that "little Church," sublime
in its orthodoxy, which was to
the court of Rome what the Ultras
were to be to Louis XVIII. The
abbe, more especially, refused
to recognize a Church which had
compromised with the constitutionals.
The rector was therefore not
received in the Cormon household,
whose sympathies were all given
to the curate of Saint-Leonard,
the aristocratic parish of Alencon.
Du Bousquier, that fanatic liberal
now concealed under the skin
of a royalist, knowing how necessary
rallying points are to all discontents
(which are really at the bottom
of all oppositions), had drawn
the sympathies of the middle
classes around the rector. So
much for the first case; the
second was this:--
Under the secret inspiration
of du Bousquier the idea of building
a theatre had dawned on Alencon.
The henchmen of the purveyor
did not know their Mohammed;
and they thought they were ardent
in carrying out their own conception.
Athanase Granson was one of the
warmest partisans for the theatre;
and of late he had urged at the
mayor's office a cause which
all the other young clerks had
eagerly adopted.
The chevalier, as we have said,
offered his arm to the old maid
for a turn on the terrace. She
accepted it, not without thanking
him by a happy look for this
attention, to which the chevalier
replied by motioning toward Athanase
with a meaning eye.
"Mademoiselle," he began, "you
have so much sense and judgment
in social proprieties, and also,
you are connected with that young
man by certain ties--"
"Distant ones," she
said, interrupting him.
"Ought you not," he continued, "to
use the influence you have over
his mother and over himself by
saving him from perdition? He
is not very religious, as you
know; indeed he approves of the
rector; but that is not all;
there is something far more serious;
isn't he throwing himself headlong
into an opposition without considering
what influence his present conduct
may exert upon his future? He
is working for the construction
of a theatre. In this affair
he is simply the dupe of that
disguised republican du Bousquier--"
"Good gracious! Monsieur de
Valois," she replied; "his mother
is always telling me he has so
much mind, and yet he can't say
two words; he stands planted
before me as mum as a post--"
"Which doesn't think at all!" cried
the recorder of mortgages. "I
caught your words on the fly.
I present my compliments to Monsieur
de Valois," he added, bowing
to that gentleman with much emphasis.
The chevalier returned the
salutation stiffly, and drew
Mademoiselle Cormon toward some
flower-pots at a little distance,
in order to show the interrupter
that he did not choose to be
spied upon.
"How is it possible," he continued,
lowering his voice, and leaning
towards Mademoiselle Cormon's
ear, "that a young man brought
up in those detestable lyceums
should have ideas? Only sound
morals and noble habits will
ever produce great ideas and
a true love. It is easy to see
by a mere look at him that the
poor lad is likely to be imbecile,
and come, perhaps, to some sad
end. See how pale and haggard
he is!"
"His mother declares he works
too hard," replied the old maid,
innocently. "He sits up late,
and for what? reading books and
writing! What business ought
to require a young man to write
at night?"
"It exhausts him," replied
the chevalier, trying to bring
the old maid's thoughts back
to the ground where he hoped
to inspire her with horror for
her youthful lover. "The morals
of those Imperial lyceums are
really shocking."
"Oh, yes!" said the ingenuous
creature. "They march the pupils
about with drums at their head.
The masters have no more religion
than pagans. And they put the
poor lads in uniform, as if they
were troops. What ideas!"
"And behold the product!" said
the chevalier, motioning to Athanase. "In
my day, young men were not so
shy of looking at a pretty woman.
As for him, he drops his eyes
whenever he sees you. That young
man frightens me because I am
really interested in him. Tell
him not to intrigue with the
Bonapartists, as he is now doing
about that theatre. When all
these petty folks cease to ask
for it insurrectionally,-- which
to my mind is the synonym of
constitutionally,--the government
will build it. Besides which,
tell his mother to keep an eye
on him."
"Oh, I'm sure she will prevent
him from seeing those half-pay,
questionable people. I'll talk
to her," said Mademoiselle Cormon, "for
he might lose his place in the
mayor's office; and then what
would he and his mother have
to live on? It makes me shudder."
As Monsieur de Talleyrand said
of his wife, so the chevalier
said to himself, looking at Mademoiselle
Cormon:--
"Find me another
as stupid! Good powers! isn't
virtue which
drives out intellect vice? But
what an adorable wife for a man
of my age! What principles! what
ignorance!"
Remember that this monologue,
addressed to the Princess Goritza,
was mentally uttered while he
took a pinch of snuff.
Madame Granson had divined
that the chevalier was talking
about Athanase. Eager to know
the result of the conversation,
she followed Mademoiselle Cormon,
who was now approaching the young
man with much dignity. But at
this moment Jacquelin appeared
to announce that mademoiselle
was served. The old maid gave
a glance of appeal to the chevalier;
but the gallant recorder of mortgages,
who was beginning to see in the
manners of that gentleman the
barrier which the provincial
nobles were setting up about
this time between themselves
and the bourgeoisie, made the
most of his chance to cut out
Monsieur de Valois. He was close
to Mademoiselle Cormon, and promptly
offered his arm, which she found
herself compelled to accept.
The chevalier then darted, out
of policy, upon Madame Granson.
"Mademoiselle Cormon, my dear
lady," he said to her, walking
slowly after all the other guests, "feels
the liveliest interest in your
dear Athanase; but I fear it
will vanish through his own fault.
He is irreligious and liberal;
he is agitating this matter of
the theatre; he frequents the
Bonapartists; he takes the side
of that rector. Such conduct
may make him lose his place in
the mayor's office. You know
with what care the government
is beginning to weed out such
opinions. If your dear Athanase
loses his place, where can he
find other employment? I advise
him not to get himself in bad
odor with the administration."
"Monsieur le Chevalier," said
the poor frightened mother, "how
grateful I am to you! You are
right: my son is the tool of
a bad set of people; I shall
enlighten him."
The chevalier
had long since fathomed the
nature of Athanase,
and recognized in it that unyielding
element of republican convictions
to which in his youth a young
man is willing to sacrifice everything,
carried away by the word "liberty," so
ill-defined and so little understood,
but which to persons disdained
by fate is a banner of revolt;
and to such, revolt is vengeance.
Athanase would certainly persist
in that faith, for his opinions
were woven in with his artistic
sorrows, with his bitter contemplation
of the social state. He was ignorant
of the fact that at thirty-six
years of age,--the period of
life when a man has judged men
and social interests and relations,--the
opinions for which he was ready
to sacrifice his future would
be modified in him, as they are
in all men of real superiority.
To remain faithful to the Left
side of Alencon was to gain the
aversion of Mademoiselle Cormon.
There, indeed, the chevalier
saw true.
Thus we see that this society,
so peaceful in appearance, was
internally as agitated as any
diplomatic circle, where craft,
ability, and passions group themselves
around the grave questions of
an empire. The guests were now
seated at the table laden with
the first course, which they
ate as provincials eat, without
shame at possessing a good appetite,
and not as in Paris, where it
seems as if jaws gnashed under
sumptuary laws, which made it
their business to contradict
the laws of anatomy. In Paris
people eat with their teeth,
and trifle with their pleasure;
in the provinces things are done
naturally, and interest is perhaps
rather too much concentrated
on the grand and universal means
of existence to which God has
condemned his creatures.
It was at the
end of the first course that
Mademoiselle Cormon
made the most celebrated of her "speeches";
it was talked about for fully
two years, and is still told
at the gatherings of the lesser
bourgeoisie whenever the topic
of her marriage comes up.
The conversation, becoming
lively as the penultimate entree
was reached, had turned naturally
on the affair of the theatre
and the constitutionally sworn
rector. In the first fervor of
royalty, during the year 1816,
those who later were called Jesuits
were all for the expulsion of
the Abbe Francois from his parish.
Du Bousquier, suspected by Monsieur
de Valois of sustaining the priest
and being at the bottom of the
theatre intrigues, and on whose
back the adroit chevalier would
in any case have put those sins
with his customary cleverness,
was in the dock with no lawyer
to defend him. Athanase, the
only guest loyal enough to stand
by du Bousquier, had not the
nerve to emit his ideas in the
presence of those potentates
of Alencon, whom in his heart
he thought stupid. None but provincial
youths now retain a respectful
demeanor before men of a certain
age, and dare neither to censure
nor contradict them. The talk,
diminished under the effect of
certain delicious ducks dressed
with olives, was falling flat.
Mademoiselle Cormon, feeling
the necessity of maintaining
it against her own ducks, attempted
to defend du Bousquier, who was
being represented as a pernicious
fomenter of intrigues, capable
of any trickery.
"As for me," she said, "I
thought that Monsieur du Bousquier
cared
chiefly for childish things."
Under existing circumstances
the remark had enormous success.
Mademoiselle Cormon obtained
a great triumph; she brought
the nose of the Princess Goritza
flat on the table. The chevalier,
who little expected such an apt
remark from his Dulcinea, was
so amazed that he could at first
find no words to express his
admiration; he applauded noiselessly,
as they do at the Opera, tapping
his fingers together to imitate
applause.
"She is adorably witty," he
said to Madame Granson. "I always
said that some day she would
unmask her batteries."
"In private she is always charming," replied
the widow.
"In private, madame, all women
have wit," returned the chevalier.
The Homeric laugh thus raised
having subsided, Mademoiselle
Cormon asked the reason of her
success. Then began the FORTE
of the gossip. Du Bousquier was
depicted as a species of celibate
Pere Gigogne, a monster, who
for the last fifteen years had
kept the Foundling Hospital supplied.
His immoral habits were at last
revealed! these Parisian saturnalias
were the result of them, etc.,
etc. Conducted by the Chevalier
de Valois, a most able leader
of an orchestra of this kind,
the opening of the CANCAN was
magnificent.
"I really don't know," he said, "what
should hinder a du Bousquier
from marrying a Mademoiselle
Suzanne What's-her-name. What
IS her name, do you know? Suzette!
Though I have lodgings at Madame
Lardot's, I know her girls only
by sight. If this Suzette is
a tall, fine, saucy girl, with
gray eyes, a slim waist, and
a pretty foot, whom I have occasionally
seen, and whose behavior always
seemed to me extremely insolent,
she is far superior in manners
to du Bousquier. Besides, the
girl has the nobility of beauty;
from that point of view the marriage
would be a poor one for her;
she might do better. You know
how the Emperor Joseph had the
curiosity to see the du Barry
at Luciennes. He offered her
his arm to walk about, and the
poor thing was so surprised at
the honor that she hesitated
to accept it: 'Beauty is ever
a queen,' said the Emperor. And
he, you know, was an Austrian-German," added
the chevalier. "But I can tell
you that Germany, which is thought
here very rustic, is a land of
noble chivalry and fine manners,
especially in Poland and Hungary,
where--"
Here the chevalier stopped,
fearing to slip into some allusion
to his personal happiness; he
took out his snuff-box, and confided
the rest of his remarks to the
princess, who had smiled upon
him for thirty-six years and
more.
"That speech was rather a delicate
one for Louis XV.," said du Ronceret.
"But it was, I think, the Emperor
Joseph who made it, and not Louis
XV.," remarked Mademoiselle Cormon,
in a correcting tone.
"Mademoiselle," said the chevalier,
observing the malicious glance
exchanged between the judge,
the notary, and the recorder, "Madame
du Barry was the Suzanne of Louis
XV.,--a circumstance well known
to scamps like ourselves, but
unsuitable for the knowledge
of young ladies. Your ignorance
proves you to be a flawless diamond;
historical corruptions do not
enter your mind."
The Abbe de Sponde looked graciously
at the Chevalier de Valois, and
nodded his head in sign of his
laudatory approbation.
"Doesn't mademoiselle know
history?" asked the recorder
of mortgages.
"If you mix up Louis XV. and
this girl Suzanne, how am I to
know history?" replied Mademoiselle
Cormon, angelically, glad to
see that the dish of ducks was
empty at last, and the conversation
so ready to revive that all present
laughed with their mouths full
at her last remark.
"Poor girl!" said the Abbe
de Sponde. "When a great misfortune
happens, charity, which is divine
love, and as blind as pagan love,
ought not to look into the causes
of it. Niece, you are president
of the Maternity Society; you
must succor that poor girl, who
will now find it difficult to
marry."
"Poor child!" ejaculated
Mademoiselle Cormon.
"Do you suppose du Bousquier
would marry her?" asked the judge.
"If he is an honorable man
he ought to do so," said Madame
Granson; "but really, to tell
the truth, my dog has better
morals than he--"
"Azor is, however, a good purveyor," said
the recorder of mortgages, with
the air of saying a witty thing.
At dessert du Bousquier was
still the topic of conversation,
having given rise to various
little jokes which the wine rendered
sparkling. Following the example
of the recorder, each guest capped
his neighbor's joke with another:
Du Bousquier was a father, but
not a confessor; he was father
less; he was father LY; he was
not a reverend father; nor yet
a conscript-father--
"Nor can he be a foster-father," said
the Abbe de Sponde, with a gravity
which stopped the laughter.
"Nor a noble father," added
the chevalier.
The Church and the nobility
descended thus into the arena
of puns, without, however, losing
their dignity.
"Hush!" exclaimed the recorder
of mortgages. "I hear the creaking
of du Bousquier's boots."
It usually happens that a man
is ignorant of rumors that are
afloat about him. A whole town
may be talking of his affairs;
may calumniate and decry him,
but if he has no good friends,
he will know nothing about it.
Now the innocent du Bousquier
was superb in his ignorance.
No one had told him as yet of
Suzanne's revelations; he therefore
appeared very jaunty and slightly
conceited when the company, leaving
the dining-room, returned to
the salon for their coffee; several
other guests had meantime assembled
for the evening. Mademoiselle
Cormon, from a sense of shamefacedness,
dared not look at the terrible
seducer. She seized upon Athanase,
and began to lecture him with
the queerest platitudes about
royalist politics and religious
morality. Not possessing, like
the Chevalier de Valois, a snuff-box
adorned with a princess, by the
help of which he could stand
this torrent of silliness, the
poor poet listened to the words
of her whom he loved with a stupid
air, gazing, meanwhile, at her
enormous bust, which held itself
before him in that still repose
which is the attribute of all
great masses. His love produced
in him a sort of intoxication
which changed the shrill voice
of the old maid into a soft murmur,
and her flat remarks into witty
speeches. Love is a maker of
false coin, continually changing
copper pennies into gold-pieces,
and sometimes turning its real
gold into copper.
"Well, Athanase,
will you promise me?"
This final sentence struck
the ear of the absorbed young
man like one of those noises
which wake us with a bound.
"What, mademoiselle?"
Mademoiselle Cormon rose hastily,
and looked at du Bousquier, who
at that moment resembled the
stout god of Fable which the
Republic stamped upon her coins.
She walked up to Madame Granson,
and said in her ear:--
"My dear friend, you son is
an idiot. That lyceum has ruined
him," she added, remembering
the insistence with which the
chevalier had spoken of the evils
of education in such schools.
What a catastrophe! Unknown
to himself, the luckless Athanase
had had an occasion to fling
an ember of his own fire upon
the pile of brush gathered in
the heart of the old maid. Had
he listened to her, he might
have made her, then and there,
perceive his passion; for, in
the agitated state of Mademoiselle
Cormon's mind, a single word
would have sufficed. But that
stupid absorption in his own
sentiments, which characterizes
young and true love, had ruined
him, as a child full of life
sometimes kills itself out of
ignorance.
"What have you been saying
to Mademoiselle Cormon?" demanded
his mother.
"Nothing."
"Nothing; well, I can explain
that," she thought to herself,
putting off till the next day
all further reflection on the
matter, and attaching but little
importance to Mademoiselle Cormon's
words; for she fully believed
that du Bousquier was forever
lost in the old maid's esteem
after the revelation of that
evening.
Soon the four tables were filled
with their sixteen players. Four
persons were playing piquet,--an
expensive game, at which the
most money was lost. Monsieur
Choisnel, the procureur-du-roi,
and two ladies went into the
boudoir for a game at backgammon.
The glass lustres were lighted;
and then the flower of Mademoiselle
Cormon's company gathered before
the fireplace, on sofas, and
around the tables, and each couple
said to her as they arrived,--
"So you are
going to-morrow to Prebaudet?"
"Yes, I really must," she
replied.
On this occasion the mistress
of the house appeared preoccupied.
Madame Granson was the first
to perceive the quite unnatural
state of the old maid's mind,--Mademoiselle
Cormon was thinking!
"What are you thinking of,
cousin?" she said at last, finding
her seated in the boudoir.
"I am thinking," she replied, "of
that poor girl. As the president
of the Maternity Society, I will
give you fifty francs for her."
"Fifty francs!" cried Madame
Granson. "But you have never
given as much as that."
"But, my dear
cousin, it is so natural to
have children."
That immoral speech coming
from the heart of the old maid
staggered the treasurer of the
Maternity Society. Du Bousquier
had evidently advanced in the
estimation of Mademoiselle Cormon.
"Upon my word," said Madame
Granson, "du Bousquier is not
only a monster, he is a villain.
When a man has done a wrong like
that, he ought to pay the indemnity.
Isn't it his place rather than
ours to look after the girl?--who,
to tell you the truth, seems
to me rather questionable; there
are plenty of better men in Alencon
than that cynic du Bousquier.
A girl must be depraved, indeed,
to go after him."
"Cynic! Your
son teaches you to talk Latin,
my dear, which
is wholly incomprehensible. Certainly
I don't wish to excuse Monsieur
du Bousquier; but pray explain
to me why a woman is depraved
because she prefers one man to
another."
"My dear cousin,
suppose you married my son
Athanase; nothing
could be more natural. He is
young and handsome, full of promise,
and he will be the glory of Alencon;
and yet everybody will exclaim
against you: evil tongues will
say all sorts of things; jealous
women will accuse you of depravity,--but
what will that matter? you will
be loved, and loved truly. If
Athanase seemed to you an idiot,
my dear, it is that he has too
many ideas; extremes meet. He
lives the life of a girl of fifteen;
he has never wallowed in the
impurities of Paris, not he!
Well, change the terms, as my
poor husband used to say; it
is the same thing with du Bousquier
in connection with Suzanne. YOU
would be calumniated; but in
the case of du Bousquier, the
charge would be true. Don't you
understand me?"
"No more than if you were talking
Greek," replied Mademoiselle
Cormon, who opened her eyes wide,
and strained all the forces of
her intellect.
"Well, cousin,
if I must dot all the i's,
it is impossible
for Suzanne to love du Bousquier.
And if the heart counts for nothing
in this affair--"
"But, cousin,
what do people love with if
not their hearts?"
Here Madame
Granson said to herself, as
the chevalier had
previously thought: "My poor
cousin is altogether too innocent;
such stupidity passes all bounds!--Dear
child," she continued aloud, "it
seems to me that children are
not conceived by the spirit only."
"Why, yes,
my dear; the Holy Virgin herself--"
"But, my love,
du Bousquier isn't the Holy
Ghost!"
"True," said the old maid; "he
is a man!--a man whose personal
appearance makes him dangerous
enough for his friends to advise
him to marry."
"You could
yourself bring about that result,
cousin."
"How so?" said
the old maid, with the meekness
of Christian
charity.
"By not receiving
him in your house until he
marries. You owe
it to good morals and to religion
to manifest under such circumstances
an exemplary displeasure."
"On my return from Prebaudet
we will talk further of this,
my dear Madame Granson. I will
consult my uncle and the Abbe
Couturier," said Mademoiselle
Cormon, returning to the salon,
where the animation was now at
its height.
The lights, the group of women
in their best clothes, the solemn
tone, the dignified air of the
assembly, made Mademoiselle Cormon
not a little proud of her company.
To many persons nothing better
could be seen in Paris in the
highest society.
At this moment du Bousquier,
who was playing whist with the
chevalier and two old ladies,--Madame
du Coudrai and Madame du Ronceret,--was
the object of deep but silent
curiosity. A few young women
arrived, who, under pretext of
watching the game, gazed fixedly
at him in so singular a manner,
though slyly, that the old bachelor
began to think that there must
be some deficiency in his toilet.
"Can my false front be crooked?" he
asked himself, seized by one
of those anxieties which beset
old bachelors.
He took advantage of a lost
trick, which ended a seventh
rubber, to rise and leave the
table.
"I can't touch a card without
losing," he said. "I am decidedly
too unlucky."
"But you are lucky in other
ways," said the chevalier, giving
him a sly look.
That speech naturally made
the rounds of the salon, where
every one exclaimed on the exquisite
taste of the chevalier, the Prince
de Talleyrand of the province.
"There's no
one like Monsieur de Valois
for such wit."
Du Bousquier
went to look at himself in
a little oblong mirror,
placed above the "Deserter," but
he saw nothing strange in his
appearance.
After innumerable repetitions
of the same text, varied in all
keys, the departure of the company
took place about ten o'clock,
through the long antechamber,
Mademoiselle Cormon conducting
certain of her favorite guests
to the portico. There the groups
parted; some followed the Bretagne
road towards the chateau; the
others went in the direction
of the river Sarthe. Then began
the usual conversation, which
for twenty years had echoed at
that hour through this particular
street of Alencon. It was invariably:--
"Mademoiselle
Cormon looked very well to-night."
"Mademoiselle
Cormon? why, I thought her
rather strange."
"How that poor
abbe fails! Did you notice
that he slept?
He does not know what cards he
holds; he is getting very absent-minded."
"We shall soon
have the grief of losing him."
"What a fine
night! It will be a fine day
to-morrow."
"Good weather
for the apple-blossoms."
"You beat us;
but when you play with Monsieur
de Valois
you never do otherwise."
"How much did
he win?"
"Well, to-night,
three or four francs; he never
loses."
"True; and
don't you know there are three
hundred and sixty-five
days a year? At that price his
gains are the value of a farm."
"Ah! what hands
we had to-night!"
"Here you are
at home, monsieur and madame,
how lucky you are,
while we have half the town to
cross!"
"I don't pity
you; you could afford a carriage,
and dispense
with the fatigue of going on
foot."
"Ah, monsieur!
we have a daughter to marry,
which takes off one
wheel, and the support of our
son in Paris carries off another."
"You persist
in making a magistrate of him?"
"What else
can be done with a young man?
Besides, there's
no shame in serving the king."
Sometimes a discussion on ciders
and flax, always couched in the
same terms, and returning at
the same time of year, was continued
on the homeward way. If any observer
of human customs had lived in
this street, he would have known
the months and seasons by simply
overhearing the conversations.
On this occasion
it was exclusively jocose;
for du Bousquier, who
chanced to march alone in front
of the groups, was humming the
well- known air,--little thinking
of its appropriateness,--"Tender
woman! hear the warble of the
birds," etc. To some, du Bousquier
was a strong man and a misjudged
man. Ever since he had been confirmed
in his present office by a royal
decree, Monsieur du Ronceret
had been in favor of du Bousquier.
To others the purveyor seemed
dangerous,--a man of bad habits,
capable of anything. In the provinces,
as in Paris, men before the public
eye are like that statue in the
fine allegorical tale of Addison,
for which two knights on arriving
near it fought; for one saw it
white, the other saw it black.
Then, when they were both off
their horses, they saw it was
white one side and black the
other. A third knight coming
along declared it red.
When the chevalier went home
that night, he made many reflections,
as follows:--
"It is high
time now to spread a rumor
of my marriage with Mademoiselle
Cormon. It will leak out from
the d'Esgrignon salon, and go
straight to the bishop at Seez,
and so get round through the
grand vicars to the curate of
Saint-Leonard's, who will be
certain to tell it to the Abbe
Couturier; and Mademoiselle Cormon
will get the shot in her upper
works. The old Marquis d'Esgrignon
shall invite the Abbe de Sponde
to dinner, so as to stop all
gossip about Mademoiselle Cormon
if I decide against her, or about
me if she refuses me. The abbe
shall be well cajoled; and Mademoiselle
Cormon will certainly not hold
out against a visit from Mademoiselle
Armande, who will show her the
grandeur and future chances of
such an alliance. The abbe's
property is undoubtedly as much
as three hundred thousand; her
own savings must amount to more
than two hundred thousand; she
has her house and Prebaudet and
fifteen thousand francs a year.
A word to my friend the Comte
de Fontaine, and I should be
mayor of Alencon to-morrow, and
deputy. Then, once seated on
the Right benches, we shall reach
the peerage, shouting, 'Cloture!'
'Ordre!'"
As soon as she reached home
Madame Granson had a lively argument
with her son, who could not be
made to see the connection which
existed between his love and
his political opinions. It was
the first quarrel that had ever
troubled that poor household.
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