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The news of Mademoiselle Cormon's
choice stabbed poor Athanase
Granson to the heart; but he
showed no outward sign of the
terrible agitation within him.
When he first heard of the marriage
he was at the house of the chief-justice,
du Ronceret, where his mother
was playing boston. Madame Granson
looked at her son in a mirror,
and thought him pale; but he
had been so all day, for a vague
rumor of the matter had already
reached him.
Mademoiselle
Cormon was the card on which
Athanase had staked
his life; and the cold presentiment
of a catastrophe was already
upon him. When the soul and the
imagination have magnified a
misfortune and made it too heavy
for the shoulders and the brain
to bear; when a hope long cherished,
the realization of which would
pacify the vulture feeding on
the heart, is balked, and the
man has faith neither in himself,
despite his powers, nor in the
future, despite of the Divine
power,-- then that man is lost.
Athanase was a fruit of the Imperial
system of education. Fatality,
the Emperor's religion, had filtered
down from the throne to the lowest
ranks of the army and the benches
of the lyceums. Athanase sat
still, with his eyes fixed on
Madame du Ronceret's cards, in
a stupor that might so well pass
for indifference that Madame
Granson herself was deceived
about his feelings. This apparent
unconcern explained her son's
refusal to make a sacrifice for
this marriage of his LIBERAL
opinions,--the term "liberal" having
lately been created for the Emperor
Alexander by, I think, Madame
de Stael, through the lips of
Benjamin Constant.
After that fatal evening the
young man took to rambling among
the picturesque regions of the
Sarthe, the banks of which are
much frequented by sketchers
who come to Alencon for points
of view. Windmills are there,
and the river is gay in the meadows.
The shores of the Sarthe are
bordered with beautiful trees,
well grouped. Though the landscape
is flat, it is not without those
modest graces which distinguish
France, where the eye is never
wearied by the brilliancy of
Oriental skies, nor saddened
by constant fog. The place is
solitary. In the provinces no
one pays much attention to a
fine view, either because provincials
are blases on the beauty around
them, or because they have no
poesy in their souls. If there
exists in the provinces a mall,
a promenade, a vantage-ground
from which a fine view can be
obtained, that is the point to
which no one goes. Athanase was
fond of this solitude, enlivened
by the sparkling water, where
the fields were the first to
green under the earliest smiling
of the springtide sun. Those
persons who saw him sitting beneath
a poplar, and who noticed the
vacant eye which he turned to
them, would say to Madame Granson:--
"Something
is the matter with your son."
"I know what it is," the
mother would reply; hinting
that he
was meditating over some great
work.
Athanase no longer took part
in politics: he ceased to have
opinions; but he appeared at
times quite gay,--gay with the
satire of those who think to
insult a whole world with their
own individual scorn. This young
man, outside of all the ideas
and all the pleasures of the
provinces, interested few persons;
he was not even an object of
curiosity. If persons spoke of
him to his mother, it was for
her sake, not his. There was
not a single soul in Alencon
that sympathized with his; not
a woman, not a friend came near
to dry his tears; they dropped
into the Sarthe. If the gorgeous
Suzanne had happened that way,
how many young miseries might
have been born of the meeting!
for the two would surely have
loved each other.
She did come,
however. Suzanne's ambition
was early excited by
the tale of a strange adventure
which had happened at the tavern
of the More,--a tale which had
taken possession of her childish
brain. A Parisian woman, beautiful
as the angels, was sent by Fouche
to entangle the Marquis de Montauran,
otherwise called "The Gars," in
a love-affair (see "The Chouans").
She met him at the tavern of
the More on his return from an
expedition to Mortagne; she cajoled
him, made him love her, and then
betrayed him. That fantastic
power--the power of beauty over
mankind; in fact, the whole story
of Marie de Verneuil and the
Gars--dazzled Suzanne; she longed
to grow up in order to play upon
men. Some months after her hasty
departure she passed through
her native town with an artist
on his way to Brittany. She wanted
to see Fougeres, where the adventure
of the Marquis de Montauran culminated,
and to stand upon the scene of
that picturesque war, the tragedies
of which, still so little known,
had filled her childish mind.
Besides this, she had a fancy
to pass through Alencon so elegantly
equipped that no one could recognize
her; to put her mother above
the reach of necessity, and also
to send to poor Athanase, in
a delicate manner, a sum of money,--which
in our age is to genius what
in the middle ages was the charger
and the coat of mail that Rebecca
conveyed to Ivanhoe.
One month passed away in the
strangest uncertainties respecting
the marriage of Mademoiselle
Cormon. A party of unbelievers
denied the marriage altogether;
the believers, on the other hand,
affirmed it. At the end of two
weeks, the faction of unbelief
received a vigorous blow in the
sale of du Bousquier's house
to the Marquis de Troisville,
who only wanted a simple establishment
in Alencon, intending to go to
Paris after the death of the
Princess Scherbellof; he proposed
to await that inheritance in
retirement, and then to reconstitute
his estates. This seemed positive.
The unbelievers, however, were
not crushed. They declared that
du Bousquier, married or not,
had made an excellent sale, for
the house had only cost him twenty-seven
thousand francs. The believers
were depressed by this practical
observation of the incredulous.
Choisnel, Mademoiselle Cormon's
notary, asserted the latter,
had heard nothing about the marriage
contract; but the believers,
still firm in their faith, carried
off, on the twentieth day, a
signal victory: Monsieur Lepressoir,
the notary of the liberals, went
to Mademoiselle Cormon's house,
and the contract was signed.
This was the first of the numerous
sacrifices which Mademoiselle
Cormon was destined to make to
her husband. Du Bousquier bore
the deepest hatred to Choisnel;
to him he owed the refusal of
the hand of Mademoiselle Armande,--a
refusal which, as he believed,
had influenced that of Mademoiselle
Cormon. This circumstance alone
made the marriage drag along.
Mademoiselle received several
anonymous letters. She learned,
to her great astonishment, that
Suzanne was as truly a virgin
as herself so far as du Bousquier
was concerned, for that seducer
with the false toupet could never
be the hero of any such adventure.
Mademoiselle Cormon disdained
anonymous letters; but she wrote
to Suzanne herself, on the ground
of enlightening the Maternity
Society. Suzanne, who had no
doubt heard of du Bousquier's
proposed marriage, acknowledged
her trick, sent a thousand francs
to the society, and did all the
harm she could to the old purveyor.
Mademoiselle Cormon convoked
the Maternity Society, which
held a special meeting at which
it was voted that the association
would not in future assist any
misfortunes about to happen,
but solely those that had happened.
In spite of all these various
events which kept the town in
the choicest gossip, the banns
were published in the churches
and at the mayor's office. Athanase
prepared the deeds. As a matter
of propriety and public decency,
the bride retired to Prebaudet,
where du Bousquier, bearing sumptuous
and horrible bouquets, betook
himself every morning, returning
home for dinner.
At last, on a dull and rainy
morning in June, the marriage
of Mademoiselle Cormon and the
Sieur du Bousquier took place
at noon in the parish church
of Alencon, in sight of the whole
town. The bridal pair went from
their own house to the mayor's
office, and from the mayor's
office to the church in an open
caleche, a magnificent vehicle
for Alencon, which du Bousquier
had sent for secretly to Paris.
The loss of the old carriole
was a species of calamity in
the eyes of the community. The
harness-maker of the Porte de
Seez bemoaned it, for he lost
the fifty francs a year which
it cost in repairs. Alencon saw
with alarm the possibility of
luxury being thus introduced
into the town. Every one feared
a rise in the price of rents
and provisions, and a coming
invasion of Parisian furniture.
Some persons were sufficiently
pricked by curiosity to give
ten sous to Jacquelin to allow
them a close inspection of the
vehicle which threatened to upset
the whole economy of the region.
A pair of horses, bought in Normandie,
were also most alarming.
"If we bought our own horses," said
the Ronceret circle, "we couldn't
sell them to those who come to
buy."
Stupid as it was, this reasoning
seemed sound; for surely such
a course would prevent the region
from grasping the money of foreigners.
In the eyes of the provinces
wealth consisted less in the
rapid turning over of money than
in sterile accumulation. It may
be mentioned here that Penelope
succumbed to a pleurisy which
she acquired about six weeks
before the marriage; nothing
could save her.
Madame Granson, Mariette, Madame
du Coudrai, Madame du Ronceret,
and through them the whole town,
remarked that Madame du Bousquier
entered the church WITH HER LEFT
FOOT,--an omen all the more dreadful
because the term Left was beginning
to acquire a political meaning.
The priest whose duty it was
to read the opening formula opened
his book by chance at the De
Profundis. Thus the marriage
was accompanied by circumstances
so fateful, so alarming, so annihilating
that no one dared to augur well
of it. Matters, in fact, went
from bad to worse. There was
no wedding party; the married
pair departed immediately for
Prebaudet. Parisian customs,
said the community, were about
to triumph over time-honored
provincial ways.
The marriage of Jacquelin and
Josette now took place: it was
gay; and they were the only two
persons in Alencon who refuted
the sinister prophecies relating
to the marriage of their mistress.
Du Bousquier
determined to use the proceeds
of the sale
of his late residence in restoring
and modernizing the hotel Cormon.
He decided to remain through
two seasons at Prebaudet, and
took the Abbe de Sponde with
them. This news spread terror
through the town, where every
individual felt that du Bousquier
was about to drag the community
into the fatal path of "comfort." This
fear increased when the inhabitants
of Alencon saw the bridegroom
driving in from Prebaudet one
morning to inspect his works,
in a fine tilbury drawn by a
new horse, having Rene at his
side in livery. The first act
of his administration had been
to place his wife's savings on
the Grand-Livre, which was then
quoted at 67 fr. 50 cent. In
the space of one year, during
which he played constantly for
a rise, he made himself a personal
fortune almost as considerable
as that of his wife.
But all these foreboding prophecies,
these perturbing innovations,
were superseded and surpassed
by an event connected with this
marriage which gave a still more
fatal aspect to it.
On the very evening of the
ceremony, Athanase and his mother
were sitting, after their dinner,
over a little fire of fagots,
which the servant lighted usually
at dessert.
"Well, we will go this evening
to the du Roncerets', inasmuch
as we have lost Mademoiselle
Cormon," said Madame Granson. "Heavens!
how shall I ever accustom myself
to call her Madame du Bousquier!
that name burns my lips."
Athanase looked at his mother
with a constrained and melancholy
air; he could not smile; but
he seemed to wish to welcome
that naive sentiment which soothed
his wound, though it could not
cure his anguish.
"Mamma," he said, in the voice
of his childhood, so tender was
it, and using the name he had
abandoned for several years,--"my
dear mamma, do not let us go
out just yet; it is so pleasant
here before the fire."
The mother heard, without comprehending,
that supreme prayer of a mortal
sorrow.
"Yes, let us stay, my child," she
said. "I like much better to
talk with you and listen to your
projects than to play at boston
and lose my money."
"You are so
handsome to-night I love to
look at you. Besides,
I am in a current of ideas which
harmonize with this poor little
salon where we have suffered
so much."
"And where
we shall still suffer, my poor
Athanase, until your
works succeed. For myself, I
am trained to poverty; but you,
my treasure! to see your youth
go by without a joy! nothing
but toil for my poor boy in life!
That thought is like an illness
to a mother; it tortures me at
night; it wakes me in the morning.
O God! what have I done? for
what crime dost thou punish me
thus?"
She left her sofa, took a little
chair, and sat close to Athanase,
so as to lay her head on the
bosom of her child. There is
always the grace of love in true
motherhood. Athanase kissed her
on the eyes, on her gray hair,
on her forehead, with the sacred
desire of laying his soul wherever
he applied his lips.
"I shall never succeed," he
said, trying to deceive his mother
as to the fatal resolution he
was revolving in his mind.
"Pooh! don't
get discouraged. As you often
say, thought can
do all things. With ten bottles
of ink, ten reams of paper, and
his powerful will, Luther upset
all Europe. Well, you'll make
yourself famous; you will do
good things by the same means
which he used to do evil things.
Haven't you said so yourself?
For my part, I listen to you;
I understand you a great deal
more than you think I do,--for
I still bear you in my bosom,
and your every thought still
stirs me as your slightest motion
did in other days."
"I shall never
succeed here, mamma; and I
don't want you to
witness the sight of my struggles,
my misery, my anguish. Oh, mother,
let me leave Alencon! I want
to suffer away from you."
"And I wish to be at your side," replied
his mother, proudly. "Suffer
without your mother!--that poor
mother who would be your servant
if necessary; who will efface
herself rather than injure you;
your mother, who will never shame
you. No, no, Athanase; we must
not part."
Athanase clung to his mother
with the ardor of a dying man
who clings to life.
"But I wish
it, nevertheless. If not, you
will lose me; this
double grief, yours and mine,
is killing me. You would rather
I lived than died?"
Madame Granson looked at her
son with a haggard eye.
"So this is what you have been
brooding?" she said. "They told
me right. Do you really mean
to go?"
"Yes."
"You will not
go without telling me; without
warning me? You must
have an outfit and money. I have
some louis sewn into my petticoat;
I shall give them to you."
Athanase wept.
"That's all I wanted to tell
you," he said. "Now I'll take
you to the du Roncerets'. Come."
The mother
and the son went out. Athanase
left his mother
at the door of the house where
she intended to pass the evening.
He looked long at the light which
came through the shutters; he
clung closely to the wall, and
a frenzied joy came over him
when he presently heard his mother
say, "He has great independence
of heart."
"Poor mother! I have deceived
her," he cried, as he made his
way to the Sarthe.
He reached the noble poplar
beneath which he had meditated
so much for the last forty days,
and where he had placed two heavy
stones on which he now sat down.
He contemplated that beautiful
nature lighted by the moon; he
reviewed once more the glorious
future he had longed for; he
passed through towns that were
stirred by his name; he heard
the applauding crowds; he breathed
the incense of his fame; he adored
that life long dreamed of; radiant,
he sprang to radiant triumphs;
he raised his stature; he evoked
his illusions to bid them farewell
in a last Olympic feast. The
magic had been potent for a moment;
but now it vanished forever.
In that awful hour he clung to
the beautiful tree to which,
as to a friend, he had attached
himself; then he put the two
stones into the pockets of his
overcoat, which he buttoned across
his breast. He had come intentionally
without a hat. He now went to
the deep pool he had long selected,
and glided into it resolutely,
trying to make as little noise
as possible, and, in fact, making
scarcely any.
When, at half-past nine o'clock,
Madame Granson returned home,
her servant said nothing of Athanase,
but gave her a letter. She opened
it and read these few words,--
"My good mother,
I have departed; don't be angry
with me."
"A pretty trick he has played
me!" she thought. "And his linen!
and the money! Well, he will
write to me, and then I'll follow
him. These poor children think
they are so much cleverer than
their fathers and mothers."
And she went to bed in peace.
During the
preceding morning the Sarthe
had risen to a height
foreseen by the fisherman. These
sudden rises of muddy water brought
eels from their various runlets.
It so happened that a fisherman
had spread his net at the very
place where poor Athanase had
flung himself, believing that
no one would ever find him. About
six o'clock in the morning the
man drew in his net, and with
it the young body. The few friends
of the poor mother took every
precaution in preparing her to
receive the dreadful remains.
The news of this suicide made,
as may well be supposed, a great
excitement in Alencon. The poor
young man of genius had no protector
the night before, but on the
morrow of his death a thousand
voices cried aloud, "I would
have helped him." It is so easy
and convenient to be charitable
gratis!
The suicide was explained by
the Chevalier de Valois. He revealed,
in a spirit of revenge, the artless,
sincere, and genuine love of
Athanase for Mademoiselle Cormon.
Madame Granson, enlightened by
the chevalier, remembered a thousand
little circumstances which confirmed
the chevalier's statement. The
story then became touching, and
many women wept over it. Madame
Granson's grief was silent, concentrated,
and little understood. There
are two forms of mourning for
mothers. Often the world can
enter fully into the nature of
their loss: their son, admired,
appreciated, young, perhaps handsome,
with a noble path before him,
leading to fortune, possibly
to fame, excites universal regret;
society joins in the grief, and
alleviates while it magnifies
it. But there is another sorrow
of mothers who alone know what
their child was really; who alone
have received his smiles and
observed the treasures of a life
too soon cut short. That sorrow
hides its woe, the blackness
of which surpasses all other
mourning; it cannot be described;
happily there are but few women
whose heart-strings are thus
severed.
Before Madame du Bousquier
returned to town, Madame du Ronceret,
one of her good friends, had
driven out to Prebaudet to fling
this corpse upon the roses of
her joy, to show her the love
she had ignored, and sweetly
shed a thousand drops of wormwood
into the honey of her bridal
month. As Madame du Bousquier
drove back to Alencon, she chanced
to meet Madame Granson at the
corner of the rue Val-Noble.
The glance of the mother, dying
of her grief, struck to the heart
of the poor woman. A thousand
maledictions, a thousand flaming
reproaches, were in that look:
Madame du Bousquier was horror-struck;
that glance predicted and called
down evil upon her head.
The evening after the catastrophe,
Madame Granson, one of the persons
most opposed to the rector of
the town, and who had hitherto
supported the minister of Saint-Leonard,
began to tremble as she thought
of the inflexible Catholic doctrines
professed by her own party. After
placing her son's body in its
shroud with her own hands, thinking
of the mother of the Saviour,
she went, with a soul convulsed
by anguish, to the house of the
hated rector. There she found
the modest priest in an outer
room, engaged in putting away
the flax and yarns with which
he supplied poor women, in order
that they might never be wholly
out of work,--a form of charity
which saved many who were incapable
of begging from actual penury.
The rector left his yarns and
hastened to take Madame Granson
into his dining-room, where the
wretched mother noticed, as she
looked at his supper, the frugal
method of his own living.
"Monsieur l'abbe," she said, "I
have come to implore you--" She
burst into tears, unable to continue.
"I know what brings you," replied
the saintly man. "I must trust
to you, madame, and to your relation,
Madame du Bousquier, to pacify
Monseigneur the Bishop at Seez.
Yes, I will pray for your unhappy
child; yes, I will say the masses.
But we must avoid all scandal,
and give no opportunity for evil-judging
persons to assemble in the church.
I alone, without other clergy,
at night--"
"Yes, yes, as you think best;
if only he may lie in consecrated
ground," said the poor mother,
taking the priest's hand and
kissing it.
Toward midnight a coffin was
clandestinely borne to the parish
church by four young men, comrades
whom Athanase had liked the best.
A few friends of Madame Granson,
women dressed in black, and veiled,
were present; and half a dozen
other young men who had been
somewhat intimate with this lost
genius. Four torches flickered
on the coffin, which was covered
with crape. The rector, assisted
by one discreet choirboy, said
the mortuary mass. Then the body
of the suicide was noiselessly
carried to a corner of the cemetery,
where a black wooden cross, without
inscription, was all that indicated
its place hereafter to the mother.
Athanase lived and died in shadow.
No voice was raised to blame
the rector; the bishop kept silence.
The piety of the mother redeemed
the impiety of the son's last
act.
Some months later, the poor
woman, half beside herself with
grief, and moved by one of those
inexplicable thirsts which misery
feels to steep its lips in the
bitter chalice, determined to
see the spot where her son was
drowned. Her instinct may have
told her that thoughts of his
could be recovered beneath that
poplar; perhaps, too, she desired
to see what his eyes had seen
for the last time. Some mothers
would die of the sight; others
give themselves up to it in saintly
adoration. Patient anatomists
of human nature cannot too often
enunciate the truths before which
all educations, laws, and philosophical
systems must give way. Let us
repeat continually: it is absurd
to force sentiments into one
formula: appearing as they do,
in each individual man, they
combine with the elements that
form his nature and take his
own physiognomy.
Madame Granson, as she stood
on that fatal spot, saw a woman
approach it, who exclaimed,--
"Was it here?"
That woman
wept as the mother wept. It
was Suzanne. Arriving
that morning at the hotel du
More, she had been told of the
catastrophe. If poor Athanase
had been living, she meant to
do as many noble souls, who are
moneyless, dream of doing, and
as the rich never think of doing,--she
meant to have sent him several
thousand francs, writing up the
envelope the words: "Money due
to your father from a comrade
who makes restitution to you." This
tender scheme had been arranged
by Suzanne during her journey.
The courtesan
caught sight of Madame Granson
and moved rapidly
away, whispering as she passed
her, "I loved him!"
Suzanne, faithful to her nature,
did not leave Alencon on this
occasion without changing the
orange-blossoms of the bride
to rue. She was the first to
declare that Madame du Bousquier
would never be anything but Mademoiselle
Cormon. With one stab of her
tongue she revenged poor Athanase
and her dear chevalier.
Alencon now witnessed a suicide
that was slower and quite differently
pitiful from that of poor Athanase,
who was quickly forgotten by
society, which always makes haste
to forget its dead. The poor
Chevalier de Valois died in life;
his suicide was a daily occurrence
for fourteen years. Three months
after the du Bousquier marriage
society remarked, not without
astonishment, that the linen
of the chevalier was frayed and
rusty, that his hair was irregularly
combed and brushed. With a frowsy
head the Chevalier de Valois
could no longer be said to exist!
A few of his ivory teeth deserted,
though the keenest observers
of human life were unable to
discover to what body they had
hitherto belonged, whether to
a foreign legion or whether they
were indigenous, vegetable or
animal; whether age had pulled
them from the chevalier's mouth,
or whether they were left forgotten
in the drawer of his dressing-table.
The cravat was crooked, indifferent
to elegance. The negroes' heads
grew pale with dust and grease.
The wrinkles of the face were
blackened and puckered; the skin
became parchment. The nails,
neglected, were often seen, alas!
with a black velvet edging. The
waistcoat was tracked and stained
with droppings which spread upon
its surface like autumn leaves.
The cotton in the ears was seldom
changed. Sadness reigned upon
that brow, and slipped its yellowing
tints into the depths of each
furrow. In short, the ruins,
hitherto so cleverly hidden,
now showed through the cracks
and crevices of that fine edifice,
and proved the power of the soul
over the body; for the fair and
dainty man, the cavalier, the
young blood, died when hope deserted
him. Until then the nose of the
chevalier was ever delicate and
nice; never had a damp black
blotch, nor an amber drop fall
from it; but now that nose, smeared
with tobacco around the nostrils,
degraded by the driblets which
took advantage of the natural
gutter placed between itself
and the upper lip,--that nose,
which no longer cared to seem
agreeable, revealed the infinite
pains which the chevalier had
formerly taken with his person,
and made observers comprehend,
by the extent of its degradation,
the greatness and persistence
of the man's designs upon Mademoiselle
Cormon.
Alas, too, the anecdotes went
the way of the teeth; the clever
sayings grew rare. The appetite,
however, remained; the old nobleman
saved nothing but his stomach
from the wreck of his hopes;
though he languidly prepared
his pinches of snuff, he ate
alarming dinners. Perhaps you
will more fully understand the
disaster that this marriage was
to the mind and heart of the
chevalier when you learn that
his intercourse with the Princess
Goritza became less frequent.
One day he
appeared in Mademoiselle Armande's
salon with the calf
of his leg on the shin-bone.
This bankruptcy of the graces
was, I do assure you, terrible,
and struck all Alencon with horror.
The late young man had become
an old one; this human being,
who, by the breaking-down of
his spirit, had passed at once
from fifty to ninety years of
age, frightened society. Besides,
his secret was betrayed; he had
waited and watched for Mademoiselle
Cormon; he had, like a patient
hunter, adjusted his aim for
ten whole years, and finally
had missed the game! In short,
the impotent Republic had won
the day from Valiant Chivalry,
and that, too, under the Restoration!
Form triumphed; mind was vanquished
by matter, diplomacy by insurrection.
And, O final blow! a mortified
grisette revealed the secret
of the chevalier's mornings,
and he now passed for a libertine.
The liberals cast at his door
all the foundlings hitherto attributed
to du Bousquier. But the faubourg
Saint-Germain of Alencon accepted
them proudly: it even said, "That
poor chevalier, what else could
he do?" The faubourg pitied him,
gathered him closer to their
circle, and brought back a few
rare smiles to his face; but
frightful enmity was piled upon
the head of du Bousquier. Eleven
persons deserted the Cormon salon,
and passed to that of the d'Esgrignons.
The old maid's marriage had
a signal effect in defining the
two parties in Alencon. The salon
d'Esgrignon represented the upper
aristocracy (the returning Troisvilles
attached themselves to it); the
Cormon salon represented, under
the clever influence of du Bousquier,
that fatal class of opinions
which, without being truly liberal
or resolutely royalist, gave
birth to the 221 on that famous
day when the struggle openly
began between the most august,
grandest, and only true power,
ROYALTY, and the most false,
most changeful, most oppressive
of all powers,--the power called
PARLIAMENTARY, which elective
assemblies exercise. The salon
du Ronceret, secretly allied
to the Cormon salon, was boldly
liberal.
The Abbe de Sponde, after his
return from Prebaudet, bore many
and continual sufferings, which
he kept within his breast, saying
no word of them to his niece.
But to Mademoiselle Armande he
opened his heart, admitting that,
folly for folly, he would much
have preferred the Chevalier
de Valois to Monsieur du Bousquier.
Never would the dear chevalier
have had the bad taste to contradict
and oppose a poor old man who
had but a few days more to live;
du Bousquier had destroyed everything
in the good old home. The abbe
said, with scanty tears moistening
his aged eyes,--
"Mademoiselle,
I haven't even the little grove
where I have
walked for fifty years. My beloved
lindens are all cut down! At
the moment of my death the Republic
appears to me more than ever
under the form of a horrible
destruction of the Home."
"You must pardon your niece," said
the Chevalier de Valois. "Republican
ideas are the first error of
youth which seeks for liberty;
later it finds it the worst of
despotisms,--that of an impotent
canaille. Your poor niece is
punished where she sinned."
"What will become of me in
a house where naked women are
painted on the walls?" said the
poor abbe. "Where shall I find
other lindens beneath which to
read my breviary?"
Like Kant, who was unable to
collect his thoughts after the
fir-tree at which he was accustomed
to gaze while meditating was
cut down, so the poor abbe could
never attain the ardor of his
former prayers while walking
up and down the shadeless paths.
Du Bousquier had planted an English
garden.
"It was best," said
Madame du Bousquier, without
thinking
so; but the Abbe Couterier had
authorized her to commit many
wrongs to please her husband.
These restorations destroyed
all the venerable dignity, cordiality,
and patriarchal air of the old
house. Like the Chevalier de
Valois, whose personal neglect
might be called an abdication,
the bourgeois dignity of the
Cormon salon no longer existed
when it was turned to white and
gold, with mahogany ottomans
covered in blue satin. The dining-room,
adorned in modern taste, was
colder in tone than it used to
be, and the dinners were eaten
with less appetite than formerly.
Monsieur du Coudrai declared
that he felt his puns stick in
his throat as he glanced at the
figures painted on the walls,
which looked him out of countenance.
Externally, the house was still
provincial; but internally everything
revealed the purveyor of the
Directory and the bad taste of
the money-changer,--for instance,
columns in stucco, glass doors,
Greek mouldings, meaningless
outlines, all styles conglomerated,
magnificence out of place and
out of season.
The town of Alencon gabbled
for two weeks over this luxury,
which seemed unparalleled; but
a few months later the community
was proud of it, and several
rich manufacturers restored their
houses and set up fine salons.
Modern furniture came into the
town, and astral lamps were seen!
The Abbe de Sponde was among
the first to perceive the secret
unhappiness this marriage now
brought to the private life of
his beloved niece. The character
of noble simplicity which had
hitherto ruled their lives was
lost during the first winter,
when du Bousquier gave two balls
every month. Oh, to hear violins
and profane music at these worldly
entertainments in the sacred
old house! The abbe prayed on
his knees while the revels lasted.
Next the political system of
the sober salon was slowly perverted.
The abbe fathomed du Bousquier;
he shuddered at his imperious
tone; he saw the tears in his
niece's eyes when she felt herself
losing all control over her own
property; for her husband now
left nothing in her hands but
the management of the linen,
the table, and things of a kind
which are the lot of women. Rose
had no longer any orders to give.
Monsieur's will was alone regarded
by Jacquelin, now become coachman,
by Rene, the groom, and by the
chef, who came from Paris, Mariette
being reduced to kitchen maid.
Madame du Bousquier had no one
to rule but Josette. Who knows
what it costs to relinquish the
delights of power? If the triumph
of the will is one of the intoxicating
pleasures in the lives of great
men, it is the ALL of life to
narrow minds. One must needs
have been a minister dismissed
from power to comprehend the
bitter pain which came upon Madame
du Bousquier when she found herself
reduced to this absolute servitude.
She often got into the carriage
against her will; she saw herself
surrounded by servants who were
distasteful to her; she no longer
had the handling of her dear
money,--she who had known herself
free to spend money, and did
not spend it.
All imposed limits make the
human being desire to go beyond
them. The keenest sufferings
come from the thwarting of self-will.
The beginning of this state of
things was, however, rose-colored.
Every concession made to marital
authority was an effect of the
love which the poor woman felt
for her husband. Du Bousquier
behaved, in the first instance,
admirably to his wife: he was
wise; he was excellent; he gave
her the best of reasons for each
new encroachment. So for the
first two years of her marriage
Madame du Bousquier appeared
to be satisfied. She had that
deliberate, demure little air
which distinguishes young women
who have married for love. The
rush of blood to her head no
longer tormented her. This appearance
of satisfaction routed the scoffers,
contradicted certain rumors about
du Bousquier, and puzzled all
observers of the human heart.
Rose-Marie-Victoire was so afraid
that if she displeased her husband
or opposed him, she would lose
his affection and be deprived
of his company, that she would
willingly have sacrificed all
to him, even her uncle. Her silly
little forms of pleasure deceived
even the poor abbe for a time,
who endured his own trials all
the better for thinking that
his niece was happy, after all.
Alencon at first thought the
same. But there was one man more
difficult to deceive than the
whole town put together. The
Chevalier de Valois, who had
taken refuge on the Sacred Mount
of the upper aristocracy, now
passed his life at the d'Esgrignons.
He listened to the gossip and
the gabble, and he thought day
and night upon his vengeance.
He meant to strike du Bousquier
to the heart.
The poor abbe
fully understood the baseness
of this first and
last love of his niece; he shuddered
as, little by little, he perceived
the hypocritical nature of his
nephew and his treacherous manoeuvres.
Though du Bousquier restrained
himself, as he thought of the
abbe's property, and wished not
to cause him vexation, it was
his hand that dealt the blow
that sent the old priest to his
grave. If you will interpret
the word INTOLERANCE as FIRMNESS
OF PRINCIPLE, if you do not wish
to condemn in the catholic soul
of the Abbe de Sponde the stoicism
which Walter Scott has made you
admire in the puritan soul of
Jeanie Deans' father; if you
are willing to recognize in the
Roman Church the Potius mori
quam foedari that you admire
in republican tenets,--you will
understand the sorrow of the
Abbe de Sponde when he saw in
his niece's salon the apostate
priest, the renegade, the pervert,
the heretic, that enemy of the
Church, the guilty taker of the
Constitutional oath. Du Bousquier,
whose secret ambition was to
lay down the law to the town,
wished, as a first proof of his
power, to reconcile the minister
of Saint-Leonard with the rector
of the parish, and he succeeded.
His wife thought he had accomplished
a work of peace where the immovable
abbe saw only treachery. The
bishop came to visit du Bousquier,
and seemed glad of the cessation
of hostilities. The virtues of
the Abbe Francois had conquered
prejudice, except that of the
aged Roman Catholic, who exclaimed
with Cornelle, "Alas! what virtues
do you make me hate!"
The abbe died when orthodoxy
thus expired in the diocese.
In 1819, the
property of the Abbe de Sponde
increased Madame
du Bousquier's income from real
estate to twenty-five thousand
francs without counting Prebaudet
or the house in the Val-Noble.
About this time du Bousquier
returned to his wife the capital
of her savings which she had
yielded to him; and he made her
use it in purchasing lands contiguous
to Prebaudet, which made that
domain one of the most considerable
in the department, for the estates
of the Abbe de Sponde also adjoined
it. Du Bousquier thus passed
for one of the richest men of
the department. This able man,
the constant candidate of the
liberals, missing by seven or
eight votes only in all the electoral
battles fought under the Restoration,
and who ostensibly repudiated
the liberals by trying to be
elected as a ministerial royalist
(without ever being able to conquer
the aversion of the administration),--this
rancorous republican, mad with
ambition, resolved to rival the
royalism and aristocracy of Alencon
at the moment when they once
more had the upper hand. He strengthened
himself with the Church by the
deceitful appearance of a well-feigned
piety: he accompanied his wife
to mass; he gave money for the
convents of the town; he assisted
the congregation of the Sacre-Coeur;
he took sides with the clergy
on all occasions when the clergy
came into collision with the
town, the department, or the
State. Secretly supported by
the liberals, protected by the
Church, calling himself a constitutional
royalist, he kept beside the
aristocracy of the department
in the one hope of ruining it,--and
he did ruin it. Ever on the watch
for the faults and blunders of
the nobility and the government,
he laid plans for his vengeance
against the "chateau-people," and
especially against the d'Esgrignons,
in whose bosom he was one day
to thrust a poisoned dagger.
Among other benefits to the
town he gave money liberally
to revive the manufacture of
point d'Alencon; he renewed the
trade in linens, and the town
had a factory. Inscribing himself
thus upon the interests and heart
of the masses, by doing what
the royalists did not do, du
Bousquier did not really risk
a farthing. Backed by his fortune,
he could afford to wait results
which enterprising persons who
involve themselves are forced
to abandon to luckier successors.
Du Bousquier
now posed as a banker. This
miniature Lafitte
was a partner in all new enterprises,
taking good security. He served
himself while apparently serving
the interests of the community.
He was the prime mover of insurance
companies, the protector of new
enterprises for public conveyance;
he suggested petitions for asking
the administration for the necessary
roads and bridges. Thus warned,
the government considered this
action an encroachment of its
own authority. A struggle was
begun injudiciously, for the
good of the community compelled
the authorities to yield in the
end. Du Bousquier embittered
the provincial nobility against
the court nobility and the peerage;
and finally he brought about
the shocking adhesion of a strong
party of constitutional royalists
to the warfare sustained by the "Journal
des Debats," and M. de Chateaubriand
against the throne, --an ungrateful
opposition based on ignoble interests,
which was one cause of the triumph
of the bourgeoisie and journalism
in 1830.
Thus du Bousquier, in common
with the class he represented,
had the satisfaction of beholding
the funeral of royalty. The old
republican, smothered with masses,
who for fifteen years had played
that comedy to satisfy his vendetta,
himself threw down with his own
hand the white flag of the mayoralty
to the applause of the multitude.
No man in France cast upon the
new throne raised in August,
1830, a glance of more intoxicated,
joyous vengeance. The accession
of the Younger Branch was the
triumph of the Revolution. To
him the victory of the tricolor
meant the resurrection of Montagne,
which this time should surely
bring the nobility down to the
dust by means more certain than
that of the guillotine, because
less violent. The peerage without
heredity; the National Guard,
which puts on the same camp-bed
the corner grocer and the marquis;
the abolition of the entails
demanded by a bourgeois lawyer;
the Catholic Church deprived
of its supremacy; and all the
other legislative inventions
of August, 1830,--were to du
Bousquier the wisest possible
application of the principles
of 1793.
Since 1830
this man has been a receiver-general.
He relied
for his advancement on his relations
with the Duc d'Orleans, father
of Louis Philippe, and with Monsieur
de Folmon, formerly steward to
the Duchess-dowager of Orleans.
He receives about eighty thousand
francs a year. In the eyes of
the people about him Monsieur
du Bousquier is a man of means,--a
respectable man, steady in his
principles, upright, and obliging.
Alencon owes to him its connection
with the industrial movement
by which Brittany may possibly
some day be joined to what is
popularly called modern civilization.
Alencon, which up to 1816 could
boast of only two private carriages,
saw, without amazement, in the
course of ten years, coupes,
landaus, tilburies, and cabriolets
rolling through her streets.
The burghers and the land-owners,
alarmed at first lest the price
of everything should increase,
recognized later that this increase
in the style of living had a
contrary effect upon their revenues.
The prophetic remark of du Ronceret, "Du
Bousquier is a very strong man," was
adopted by the whole country-
side.
But, unhappily
for the wife, that saying has
a double meaning.
The husband does not in any way
resemble the public politician.
This great citizen, so liberal
to the world about him, so kindly
inspired with love for his native
place, is a despot in his own
house, and utterly devoid of
conjugal affection. This man,
so profoundly astute, hypocritical,
and sly; this Cromwell of the
Val-Noble,--behaves in his home
as he behaves to the aristocracy,
whom he caresses in hopes to
throttle them. Like his friend
Bernadotte, he wears a velvet
glove upon his iron hand. His
wife has given him no children.
Suzanne's remark and the chevalier's
insinuations were therefore justified.
But the liberal bourgeoisie,
the constitutional-royalist-bourgeoisie,
the country-squires, the magistracy,
and the "church party" laid the
blame on Madame du Bousquier. "She
was too old," they said; "Monsieur
du Bousquier had married her
too late. Besides, it was very
lucky for the poor woman; it
was dangerous at her age to bear
children!" When Madame du Bousquier
confided, weeping, her periodic
despair to Mesdames du Coudrai
and du Ronceret, those ladies
would reply,--
"But you are
crazy, my dear; you don't know
what you are wishing
for; a child would be your death."
Many men, whose hopes were
fastened on du Bousquier's triumph,
sang his praises to their wives,
who in turn repeated them to
the poor wife in some such speech
as this:--
"You are very
lucky, dear, to have married
such an able
man; you'll escape the misery
of women whose husbands are men
without energy, incapable of
managing their property, or bringing
up their children."
"Your husband
is making you queen of the
department, my love.
He'll never leave you embarrassed,
not he! Why, he leads all Alencon."
"But I wish," said the poor
wife, "that he gave less time
to the public and--"
"You are hard
to please, my dear Madame du
Bousquier. I assure
you that all the women in town
envy you your husband."
Misjudged by
society, which began by blaming
her, the pious
woman found ample opportunity
in her home to display her virtues.
She lived in tears, but she never
ceased to present to others a
placid face. To so Christian
a soul a certain thought which
pecked forever at her heart was
a crime: "I loved the Chevalier
de Valois," it said; "but I have
married du Bousquier." The love
of poor Athanase Granson also
rose like a phantom of remorse,
and pursued her even in her dreams.
The death of her uncle, whose
griefs at the last burst forth,
made her life still more sorrowful;
for she now felt the suffering
her uncle must have endured in
witnessing the change of political
and religious opinion in the
old house. Sorrow often falls
like a thunderbolt, as it did
on Madame Granson; but in this
old maid it slowly spread like
a drop of oil, which never leaves
the stuff that slowly imbibes
it.
The Chevalier de Valois was
the malicious manipulator who
brought about the crowning misfortune
of Madame du Bousquier's life.
His heart was set on undeceiving
her pious simplicity; for the
chevalier, expert in love, divined
du Bousquier, the married man,
as he had divined du Bousquier,
the bachelor. But the wary republican
was difficult of attack. His
salon was, of course, closed
to the Chevalier de Valois, as
to all those who, in the early
days of his marriage, had slighted
the Cormon mansion. He was, moreover,
impervious to ridicule; he possessed
a vast fortune; he reigned in
Alencon; he cared as little for
his wife as Richard III. cared
for the dead horse which had
helped him win a battle. To please
her husband, Madame du Bousquier
had broken off relations with
the d'Esgrignon household, where
she went no longer, except that
sometimes when her husband left
her during his trips to Paris,
she would pay a brief visit to
Mademoiselle Armande.
About three years after her
marriage, at the time of the
Abbe de Sponde's death, Mademoiselle
Armande joined Madame du Bousquier
as they were leaving Saint-Leonard's,
where they had gone to hear a
requiem said for him. The generous
demoiselle thought that on this
occasion she owed her sympathy
to the niece in trouble. They
walked together, talking of the
dear deceased, until they reached
the forbidden house, into which
Mademoiselle Armande enticed
Madame du Bousquier by the charm
of her manner and conversation.
The poor desolate woman was glad
to talk of her uncle with one
whom he truly loved. Moreover,
she wanted to receive the condolences
of the old marquis, whom she
had not seen for nearly three
years. It was half- past one
o'clock, and she found at the
hotel d'Esgrignon the Chevalier
de Valois, who had come to dinner.
As he bowed to her, he took her
by the hands.
"Well, dear, virtuous, and
beloved lady," he said, in a
tone of emotion, "we have lost
our sainted friend; we share
your grief. Yes, your loss is
as keenly felt here as in your
own home,--more so," he added,
alluding to du Bousquier.
After a few more words of funeral
oration, in which all present
spoke from the heart, the chevalier
took Madame du Bousquier's arm,
and, gallantly placing it within
his own, pressed it adoringly
as he led her to the recess of
a window.
"Are you happy?" he
said in a fatherly voice.
"Yes," she
said, dropping her eyes.
Hearing that "Yes," Madame
de Troisville, the daughter of
the Princess Scherbellof, and
the old Marquise de Casteran
came up and joined the chevalier,
together with Mademoiselle Armande.
They all went to walk in the
garden until dinner was served,
without any perception on the
part of Madame du Bousquier that
a little conspiracy was afoot. "We
have her! now let us find out
the secret of the case," were
the words written in the eyes
of all present.
"To make your happiness complete," said
Mademoiselle Armande, "you ought
to have children,--a fine lad
like my nephew--"
Tears seemed to start in Madame
du Bousquier's eyes.
"I have heard it said that
you were the one to blame in
the matter, and that you feared
the dangers of a pregnancy," said
the chevalier.
"I!" she said artlessly. "I
would buy a child with a hundred
years of purgatory if I could."
On the question thus started
a discussion arose, conducted
by Madame de Troisville and the
old Marquise de Casteran with
such delicacy and adroitness
that the poor victim revealed,
without being aware of it, the
secrets of her house. Mademoiselle
Armande had taken the chevalier's
arm, and walked away so as to
leave the three women free to
discuss wedlock. Madame du Bousquier
was then enlightened on the various
deceptions of her marriage; and
as she was still the same simpleton
she had always been, she amused
her advisers by delightful naivetes.
Although at
first the deceptive marriage
of Mademoiselle Cormon
made a laugh throughout the town,
which was soon initiated into
the story of the case, before
long Madame du Bousquier won
the esteem and sympathy of all
the women. The fact that Mademoiselle
Cormon had flung herself headlong
into marriage without succeeding
in being married, made everybody
laugh at her; but when they learned
the exceptional position in which
the sternness of her religious
principles placed her, all the
world admired her. "That poor
Madame du Bousquier" took the
place of "That good Mademoiselle
Cormon."
Thus the chevalier
contrived to render du Bousquier
both ridiculous
and odious for a time; but ridicule
ends by weakening; when all had
said their say about him, the
gossip died out. Besides, at
fifty-seven years of age the
dumb republican seemed to many
people to have a right to retire.
This affair, however, envenomed
the hatred which du Bousquier
already bore to the house of
Esgrignon to such a degree that
it made him pitiless when the
day of vengeance came. [See "The
Gallery of Antiquities."] Madame
du Bousquier received orders
never again to set foot into
that house. By way of reprisals
upon the chevalier for the trick
thus played him, du Bousquier,
who had just created the journal
called the "Courrier de l'Orne," caused
the following notice to be inserted
in it:--
"Bonds to the
amount of one thousand francs
a year will be
paid to any person who can prove
the existence of one Monsieur
de Pombreton before, during,
or after the Emigration."
Although her marriage was essentially
negative, Madame du Bousquier
saw some advantages in it: was
it not better to interest herself
in the most remarkable man in
the town than to live alone?
Du Bousquier was preferable to
a dog, or cat, or those canaries
that spinsters love. He showed
for his wife a sentiment more
real and less selfish than that
which is felt by servants, confessors,
and hopeful heirs. Later in life
she came to consider her husband
as the instrument of divine wrath;
for she then saw innumerable
sins in her former desires for
marriage; she regarded herself
as justly punished for the sorrow
she had brought on Madame Granson,
and for the hastened death of
her uncle. Obedient to that religion
which commands us to kiss the
rod with which the punishment
is inflicted, she praised her
husband, and publicly approved
him. But in the confessional,
or at night, when praying, she
wept often, imploring God's forgiveness
for the apostasy of the man who
thought the contrary of what
he professed, and who desired
the destruction of the aristocracy
and the Church,--the two religions
of the house of Cormon.
With all her feelings bruised
and immolated within her, compelled
by duty to make her husband happy,
attached to him by a certain
indefinable affection, born,
perhaps, of habit, her life became
one perpetual contradiction.
She had married a man whose conduct
and opinions she hated, but whom
she was bound to care for with
dutiful tenderness. Often she
walked with the angels when du
Bousquier ate her preserves or
thought the dinner good. She
watched to see that his slightest
wish was satisfied. If he tore
off the cover of his newspaper
and left it on a table, instead
of throwing it away, she would
say:--
"Rene, leave
that where it is; monsieur
did not place it
there without intention."
If du Bousquier
had a journey to take, she
was anxious about
his trunk, his linen; she took
the most minute precautions for
his material benefit. If he went
to Prebaudet, she consulted the
barometer the evening before
to know if the weather would
be fine. She watched for his
will in his eyes, like a dog
which hears and sees its master
while sleeping. When the stout
du Bousquier, touched by this
scrupulous love, would take her
round the waist and kiss her
forehead, saying, "What a good
woman you are!" tears of pleasure
would come into the eyes of the
poor creature. It is probably
that du Bousquier felt himself
obliged to make certain concessions
which obtained for him the respect
of Rose-Marie-Victoire; for Catholic
virtue does not require a dissimulation
as complete as that of Madame
du Bousquier. Often the good
saint sat mutely by and listened
to the hatred of men who concealed
themselves under the cloak of
constitutional royalists. She
shuddered as she foresaw the
ruin of the Church. Occasionally
she risked a stupid word, an
observation which du Bousquier
cut short with a glance.
The worries of such an existence
ended by stupefying Madame du
Bousquier, who found it easier
and also more dignified to concentrate
her intelligence on her own thoughts
and resign herself to lead a
life that was purely animal.
She then adopted the submission
of a slave, and regarded it as
a meritorious deed to accept
the degradation in which her
husband placed her. The fulfilment
of his will never once caused
her to murmur. The timid sheep
went henceforth in the way the
shepherd led her; she gave herself
up to the severest religious
practices, and thought no more
of Satan and his works and vanities.
Thus she presented to the eyes
of the world a union of all Christian
virtues; and du Bousquier was
certainly one of the luckiest
men in the kingdom of France
and of Navarre.
"She will be a simpleton to
her last breath," said the former
collector, who, however, dined
with her twice a week.
This history would be strangely
incomplete if no mention were
made of the coincidence of the
Chevalier de Valois's death occurring
at the same time as that of Suzanne's
mother. The chevalier died with
the monarchy, in August, 1830.
He had joined the cortege of
Charles X. at Nonancourt, and
piously escorted it to Cherbourg
with the Troisvilles, Casterans,
d'Esgrignons, Verneuils, etc.
The old gentleman had taken with
him fifty thousand francs,--the
sum to which his savings then
amounted. He offered them to
one of the faithful friends of
the king for transmission to
his master, speaking of his approaching
death, and declaring that the
money came originally from the
goodness of the king, and, moreover,
that the property of the last
of the Valois belonged of right
to the crown. It is not known
whether the fervor of his zeal
conquered the reluctance of the
Bourbon, who abandoned his fine
kingdom of France without carrying
away with him a farthing, and
who ought to have been touched
by the devotion of the chevalier.
It is certain, however, that
Cesarine, the residuary legate
of the old man, received from
his estate only six hundred francs
a year. The chevalier returned
to Alencon, cruelly weakened
by grief and by fatigue; he died
on the very day when Charles
X. arrived on a foreign shore.
Madame du Val-Noble and her
protector, who was just then
afraid of the vengeance of the
liberal party, were glad of a
pretext to remain incognito in
the village where Suzanne's mother
died. At the sale of the chevalier's
effects, which took place at
that time, Suzanne, anxious to
obtain a souvenir of her first
and last friend, pushed up the
price of the famous snuff-box,
which was finally knocked down
to her for a thousand francs.
The portrait of the Princess
Goritza was alone worth that
sum. Two years later, a young
dandy, who was making a collection
of the fine snuff-boxes of the
last century, obtained from Madame
du Val-Noble the chevalier's
treasure. The charming confidant
of many a love and the pleasure
of an old age is now on exhibition
in a species of private museum.
If the dead could know what happens
after them, the chevalier's head
would surely blush upon its left
cheek.
If this history has no other
effect than to inspire the possessors
of precious relics with holy
fear, and induce them to make
codicils to secure these touching
souvenirs of joys that are no
more by bequeathing them to loving
hands, it will have done an immense
service to the chivalrous and
romantic portion of the community;
but it does, in truth, contain
a far higher moral. Does it not
show the necessity for a new
species of education? Does it
not invoke, from the enlightened
solicitude of the ministers of
Public Instruction, the creation
of chairs of anthropology,--a
science in which Germany outstrips
us? Modern myths are even less
understood than ancient ones,
harried as we are with myths.
Myths are pressing us from every
point; they serve all theories,
they explain all questions. They
are, according to human ideas,
the torches of history; they
would save empires from revolution
if only the professors of history
would force the explanations
they give into the mind of the
provincial masses. If Mademoiselle
Cormon had been a reader or a
student, and if there had existed
in the department of the Orne
a professor of anthropology,
or even had she read Ariosto,
the frightful disasters of her
conjugal life would never have
occurred. She would probably
have known why the Italian poet
makes Angelica prefer Medoro,
who was a blond Chevalier de
Valois, to Orlando, whose mare
was dead, and who knew no better
than to fly into a passion. Is
not Medoro the mythic form for
all courtiers of feminine royalty,
and Orlando the myth of disorderly,
furious, and impotent revolutions,
which destroy but cannot produce?
We publish, but without assuming
any responsibility for it, this
opinion of a pupil of Monsieur
Ballanche.
No information has reached
us as to the fate of the negroes'
heads in diamonds. You may see
Madame du Val-Noble every evening
at the Opera. Thanks to the education
given her by the Chevalier de
Valois, she has almost the air
of a well-bred woman.
Madame du Bousquier still lives;
is not that as much as to say
she still suffers? After reaching
the age of sixty--the period
at which women allow themselves
to make confessions--she said
confidentially to Madame du Coudrai,
that she had never been able
to endure the idea of dying an
old maid.
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