💍✨ Les mariages de Paris | Edmond About 📖🎧

Découvrez *Les mariages de Paris* d’Edmond About, une fresque vive et passionnante qui nous plonge dans les mœurs, les ambitions et les illusions de la société parisienne du XIXe siècle. ✨ Dans cette œuvre, l’auteur explore avec finesse et ironie les intrigues sentimentales, les convenances sociales et les ambitions parfois démesurées qui entourent l’institution du mariage.

📖 Ce roman, à la fois critique sociale et tableau réaliste, nous offre une immersion dans l’élégance et les contradictions de Paris. Les personnages y sont dessinés avec humour et profondeur, révélant les forces et les faiblesses de l’âme humaine, entre passion, calcul et quête de respectabilité.

🎧 Plongez-vous dans cette lecture captivante et laissez-vous séduire par la plume vive d’Edmond About, où l’amour et l’intérêt se croisent dans une danse parfois tendre, parfois cruelle. Un véritable voyage littéraire au cœur des mariages et des illusions de la capitale française.

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– Une plongée dans la société parisienne du XIXe siècle 🕰️
– Une satire subtile des mariages et conventions 💍
– Des personnages hauts en couleur et inoubliables 🎭
– Un style élégant, plein d’esprit et de modernité ✒️

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**Navigate by Chapters or Titles:**
00:00:32 Chapter 1.
00:20:16 Chapter 2.
00:37:51 Chapter 3.
01:02:04 Chapter 4.
01:19:12 Chapter 5.
01:27:30 Chapter 6.
01:40:17 Chapter 7.
01:58:28 Chapter 8.
02:18:21 Chapter 9.
02:41:59 Chapter 10.
03:01:25 Chapter 11.
03:21:32 Chapter 12.
03:57:09 Chapter 13.
04:15:50 Chapter 14.
04:33:21 Chapter 15.
05:31:36 Chapter 16.
06:03:43 Chapter 17.
06:36:57 Chapter 18.
06:59:19 Chapter 19.
07:23:53 Chapter 20.
07:46:42 Chapter 21.

Let’s dive together into the fascinating world of Edmond About with Les mariages de Paris. In this work, the author paints a vivid and sometimes ironic picture of the unions and romantic intrigues that animated 19th-century Parisian society. Through his penetrating gaze and satirical wit, he highlights the ambitions, hypocrisies, and dreams hidden behind marriages, between social conventions and personal aspirations. It is a humorous and truthful immersion into the mores of his time, where social criticism blends with literary charm. Chapter 1. When I was a candidate at the École Normale (it was in October of the year of grace 1848), I became friends with two of my competitors, the Debay brothers. They were Bretons, born in Auray, and educated at the college of Vannes. Although they were the same age, give or take a few minutes, they were nothing alike, and I have never seen two twins so ill-matched. Matthieu Debay was a small man of twenty-three, rather ugly and stunted. His arms were too long, his shoulders too high, and his legs too short: you would have said he was a hunchback who had lost his hump. His brother Léonce was a type of aristocratic beauty: tall, well-built, with a fine waist, a Greek profile, a proud eye, and a superb mustache. His hair, almost blue, quivered on his head like a lion’s mane. Poor Matthieu was not red-haired, but he had had a narrow escape: his beard and hair offered a sample of every color. What was attractive about him was a pair of small gray eyes, full of finesse, naiveté, gentleness, and everything that is best in the world. Beauty, banished from his entire person, had taken refuge in that corner. When the two brothers came for exams, Léonce would whistle a little cane with a silver head that aroused much jealousy; Matthieu philosophically dragged under his arm a person of all body types red umbrella that won him the goodwill of the examiners. However, he was rejected like his brother: the college of Vannes had not taught them enough Greek. Matthieu was missed at school: he had the vocation, the desire to learn, the rage to teach; he was born a professor. As for Léonce, we unanimously thought that it would be a great shame if such a well-built boy shut himself up like us in the university cloister. His taking the robe would have saddened us like taking the habit. The two brothers were not without resources. We even found that they were rich, when we compared their fortune to ours: they had Uncle Yvon. Uncle Yvon, a former coastal captain, then a sardine fishing shipowner, owned several boats, many nets, some property in the sun, and a pretty house in the port of Auray, in front of the Pavillon d’en bas. As he had never found the time to marry, he remained a bachelor. He was a man with a big heart, excellent for the poor and especially for his family, who were in great need of it. The people of Auray held him in high esteem; he was on the municipal council, and the little boys would say to him, taking off their caps: Good morning, Captain Yvon! This worthy man had taken Mr. and Mrs. Debay into his home, and he saved two hundred francs a month for the children. Thanks to this munificence, Léonce and Matthieu were able to stay at the Hôtel Corneille, which is the Hôtel des Princes in the Latin Quarter. Their room cost fifty francs a month; it was a beautiful room. There were two mahogany beds with red curtains, and two armchairs, and several chairs, and a glass-fronted cupboard for storing books, and even (God forgive me!) a rug. These gentlemen ate at the hotel; the board was not bad at 75 francs a month. Food and board absorbed Uncle Yvon’s two hundred francs; Matthieu provided for the other expenses. His age did not allow him to apply a second time to the École Normale. He said to his brother: I’m going to prepare for the exams for my degree in literature. Once I’m graduated, I’ll write my theses for my doctorate, and Dr. Debay will one day or another obtain a substitute position in some faculty. You ‘ll study medicine or law; you’re free. And money? asked Léonce. “I’ll mint money. I went to Sainte-Barbe and asked for lessons. They accepted me as tutor for the ninth and tenth grade students: two hours of work every morning, and two hundred francs every month. I’ll have to get up at five o’clock; but we’ll be rich. ” “And then,” added Léonce, “you belong to the family of early risers, and it’s a pleasure for you to wake the sun.” Léonce chose law. He spoke like an oracle, and no one doubted that he would make an excellent lawyer. He followed the lectures, took notes, and wrote them up carefully; after which he would wash up, run around Paris, show himself to the four cardinal points, and spend the evening at the theater. Matthieu, dressed in a hazelnut overcoat that I can still see, listened to all the professors at the Sorbonne, and worked in the evenings at the Sainte-Geneviève library. The whole Latin Quarter knew Léonce; no one in the world suspected the existence of Matthieu. I went to see them on almost all my outings; that is to say, on Thursdays and Sundays. They lent me books, Matthieu had a cult for Madame Sand; Léonce was a fanatic of Balzac. The young professor relaxed in the company of François le Champi, of Bonhomme Patience or of Bessons de la Bessonière. His simple and serious soul walked dreamily in the reddish furrow of the plows, in the paths bordered by heather or under the large chestnut trees that shade the Devil’s Pond. Léonce’s restless spirit followed entirely different paths . Curious to probe the mysteries of Parisian life, eager for pleasure, light, and noise, he inhaled from Balzac’s novels an intoxicating air like the scent of hothouses. He followed with dazzled eyes the strange fortunes of the Rubemprés, the Rastignacs, the Henry de Marsays. He entered into their clothes, slipped into their world, witnessed their duels, their loves, their enterprises, their victories; he triumphed with them. Then he came to look at himself in the mirror. Were they better than me? Am I not worth them ? What would prevent me from succeeding like them! I have their beauty, their wit, an education they never had, and, what is even better, the sense of duty. I learned from college the distinction between good and evil. I will be a de Marsay minus the vices, a Rubempré without Vautrin, a scrupulous Rastignac: what a future! All the joys of pleasure and all the pride of virtue! When the two brothers, with half-closed eyes, interrupted their reading to listen to some inner voice, Léonce heard the tinkling of the millions of Nucingen or Gobsek, and Matthieu the quivering sound of those rustic bells that announce the return of the flocks. We sometimes went out together. Léonce took us for rides along the Boulevard des Italiens and through the better districts of Paris. He chose hotels, he bought horses, he enlisted footmen. When he saw an unpleasant face in a pretty coupé, he took us to task: Everything is going wrong, he said, and the universe is a foolish country. Wouldn’t this carriage suit us a hundred times better? He said “we” out of politeness. His passion for horses was so intense that Matthieu took out a twenty- fee subscription to the riding school. Matthieu, when we left it to him to drive us, would head towards the woods of Meudon and Clamart. He claimed that the countryside was more beautiful than the city, even in winter, and the crows on the snow were more pleasing to his eyes than the bourgeois in the droppings. Léonce followed us, murmuring and dragging his feet. Deep in the woods, he dreamed of the associations mysterious like that of the Thirteen, and he suggested that we join forces together for the conquest of Paris. For my part, I took my friends on some curious walks. A small charity office has been founded at the École Normale. A contribution of a few sous per week, the proceeds of an annual lottery , and old school clothes make up a modest fund from which we take every day without ever exhausting it. We distribute in the neighborhood a few printed cards representing wood, bread, or broth, some clothes, a little linen, and a lot of kind words. The great usefulness of this small institution is to remind young people that poverty exists. Matthieu accompanied me more often than Léonce up the winding stairs of the 12th arrondissement. Léonce said: Poverty is a problem for which I want to find the solution. I will take my courage in both hands, I will overcome all my disgust, I will penetrate to the depths of these accursed houses where the sun and the bread do not enter every day; I will touch with my finger this ulcer which eats away at our society, and which has put it, very recently still, on the verge of the grave; I will know in what proportion vice and fatality work for the degradation of our species. He said excellent things, but it was Matthieu who came with me. He followed me one day to Rue Traversine, to the house of a poor devil whose name I do not remember. I only remember that he was nicknamed the Little Grey, because he was small and his hair was gray. He had a wife and no children, and he re-caned chairs. We paid him our first visit in July 1849. Matthieu felt chilled to the core as he entered Rue Traversine. It’s a street I don’t want to speak ill of, because it will be demolished within six months. But, in the meantime, it looks a little too much like the streets of Constantinople. It’s located in a part of Paris that Parisians hardly know; it borders on the Rue de Versailles, the Rue du Paon, the Rue de la Montagne-Sainte-Geneviève; it runs parallel to the Rue Saint-Victor. Perhaps it’s paved or macadamized, but I can’t answer for anything: the ground is covered with chopped straw, debris of all kinds, and very much alive kids rolling in the mud. To the right and left rise two rows of tall, bare, dirty houses, pierced with small, uncurtained windows . Quite picturesque rags dot each facade, waiting for the wind to take the trouble to dry them. The Rue de Rivoli is much better, but the Little Gray couldn’t find a place to rent on the Rue de Rivoli. He told us about his poverty: he earned a franc a day. His wife wove doormats and earned fifty to sixty centimes. Their lodgings were a room on the fifth floor; their flooring, a layer of beaten earth; their window, a collection of oiled papers. I took a few coupons for bread and broth from my pocket. The Little Gray received them with a slightly ironic smile. Sir, he said to me, you will forgive me if I interfere in what is none of my business, but I have the idea that it is not with these little boxes that we will cure poverty. It is as much like putting lint on a wooden leg. You took the trouble to climb my five flights of stairs with your friend, to bring me six pounds of bread and two liters of broth. We have been here for two days. But will you come back the day after tomorrow? It is impossible: you have other things to do. In two days I will be in the same situation as if you had not come. I’ll be even hungrier, because the stomach is fierce the day after a good dinner. If I were rich like you others,” Matthew jabbed his elbow in my side, “I would arrange things so as to get people out of trouble for the rest of their days. “And how? If the takings are good, we’ll profit from them. ” “There are two ways; we buy them a business, or we procure a government position. “Shut up,” his wife told him. “I always told you that you would harm yourself with your ambition. ” “What’s the harm, if I am capable? I confess that I have always had the idea of ​​asking for a position. If someone offered me ten francs to set myself up as a seasonal merchant or to buy a match business, I certainly would not refuse, but I would always regret a little the position I have in mind. ” “And what position, please?” asked Matthieu. “Sweeper for the city of Paris. You earn your twenty sous a day, and you are free at ten o’clock in the morning, at the latest. If you could get that for me, my good gentlemen, I would double my earnings, I would have enough to live on, you would be spared from having to come up here with little boxes in your pockets, and I would be the one who went to your house to thank you.” We didn’t know anyone at the prefecture, but Léonce had met the son of a police commissioner: he used his influence to obtain the appointment of the Little Gray. When we came to congratulate him, the first piece of furniture that caught our eyes was a gigantic broom whose handle was embellished with an iron ring. The owner of this broom thanked us warmly. Thanks to you, he told us, I am above want; my superiors already appreciate me, and I do not despair of enlisting my wife in my brigade; that would be wealth. But there are two ladies on our landing who could do with your assistance; unfortunately, they are not made for sweeping. “Let’s go see them,” said Matthieu. “Let me speak to you first. They are not people like my wife and me: they have had misfortunes. The lady is a widow. Her husband was a jeweler himself, of all types of bodies, on Rue d’Orléans, in the Marais. He left last year for California with a machine he invented, a gold-finding machine; but the ship sank on the way, with the man, the machine, and everything else. These ladies read in the newspapers that not a single match had been saved. So they sold what little they had left and went to live on Rue d’Enfer; and then the lady caught an illness that ate everything away. So they came here. They embroider from morning to night until their eyes die, but they don’t earn much. My wife helps them with their housework when she has time: we’re not rich, but we give a helping hand to those who are struggling too much. I’m telling you this to make you understand that these ladies don’t ask anything from anyone, and that you’ll have to be polite to make them accept anything. Besides, the young lady is as pretty as a picture, and that makes you savage, as you understand. Matthieu turned very red at the thought that he might have been indiscreet. We’ll find a way, he said. What is this lady’s name? “Madame Bourgade. ” “Thank you.” Two days later, Matthieu, who had never wanted private lessons, undertook to prepare a young man for the baccalaureate. He gave himself to it so wholeheartedly that his pupil, who had been refused four or five times, was accepted on August 18, at the beginning of the holidays. It was only then that the two brothers set off for Brittany. Before leaving, Matthieu gave me fifty francs. ” I’ll be away for five weeks,” he told me. “I have to come back in October, for the start of the school year and for the license exams . You will go to the post office every Monday and take a money order for ten francs, made out to Madame Bourgade: you know the address. She thinks it’s a debtor of her husband’s who pays in detail.” Do n’t show yourself in the house: you mustn’t arouse the suspicions of these ladies. If one of them fell ill, Little Gray would come and warn you, and you would write to me. I told you that one could only read good feelings in Matthew’s little gray eyes. Why didn’t I keep the letter he wrote me during the holidays? It would please you. He described to me with naive enthusiasm the countryside gilded by gorse, the druidic stones of Carnac, the dunes of Quiberon, the sardine fishing in the gulf, and the flotilla of red sails harvesting oysters in the Auray River. All this seemed new to him, after a year of absence. His brother was a little bored thinking about Paris. For him, he had found nothing but pleasures. His parents were doing so well! Uncle Yvon was such a nobody of all body types and so fat! The house was so beautiful, the beds so soft, the table so generous! – Perhaps I forgot to tell you that Matthieu ate for two. – Do you know the only thing that saddened me? he wrote to me in a postscript. I’ll admit it to you, when you should be making fun of me. There are two large, lazy rooms in the house, well -floored, well-ventilated, well-furnished, and which are of no use to anyone. I’m sure my uncle would rent them for nothing to any honest family who wanted to take them. And one pays a hundred francs a year to live on Rue Traversine. Matthieu returned in October and won his degree in literature with flying colors. The examiners’ marks were so favorable that he was offered the chair of the fourth year at the Chaumont high school; but he could not bring himself to leave his brother and Paris. From time to time he gave me news from Rue Traversine: Madame Bourgade was ill. You will only fully understand the interest he took in his invisible protégées if I let you in on the great secret of his youth: he had not yet loved anyone. Since his comrades had not spared him jokes about his ugliness, he was modest to the point of regarding himself as a monster. If anyone had tried to tell him that a woman could love him as he was, he would have thought they were making fun of him. He sometimes dreamed that a fairy struck him with her wand, and he became another man. This transformation was the indispensable preface to all his love stories. In real life, he passed by women without raising his eyes: he feared that the sight of him would be unpleasant to them. The day he became the unknown benefactor of a beautiful young girl, he felt in the depths of his heart a humble and tender contentment. He compared himself to the hero of Beauty and the Beast, who hides his face and lets only his soul be seen; or to that pariah of The Indian Cottage, who says: You can eat these fruits, I have not touched them. It was an unforeseen accident that brought him into the presence of Miss Bourgade. He was at Petit-Gris’s asking for news when Aimée entered , crying for help. Her mother had fainted. Matthieu ran with the others. The next day he brought an intern from the Pitié. Madame Bourgade was only ill from exhaustion; she was cured. Petit-Gris’s wife was installed in her home as a nurse. She went to get the medicines and food; and she knew how to bargain so well that she got them for nothing. Madame Bourgade drank an excellent Médoc wine that cost her sixty centimes a bottle; she ate ferruginous chocolate at two francs a kilogram. It was Matthieu who performed these miracles and who did not boast about it. He was seen only as an obliging neighbor; he was thought to be lodged on Rue Saint-Victor. The sick woman slowly became accustomed to the presence of this young professor, who displayed the delicate attentions of a young girl. Her maternal prudence never put itself on guard against him; at most, if she regarded him as a man. From the simplicity of his dress, she judged that he was poor; she was interested in him as he was interested in her. One Monday in December, she saw him coming in a hazelnut overcoat, without a coat, in very cold weather. She told him, after much circumlocution, that she had just received a sum of ten francs, and she offered to lend him half. Matthieu did not know whether he should laugh or cry: he had hired his coat that very morning for those miserable ten francs. That was where they were after a month of acquaintance. Aimée was giving herself up less to the pleasures of intimacy. For her, Matthieu was a man. Comparing him to Petit-Gris and the inhabitants of Rue Traversine, she found him distinguished. Besides, at the age of sixteen, she had hardly had time to observe the human race. She was ignorant not only of Matthieu’s ugliness, but also of her own beauty; there was no mirror in the house. Madame Bourgade told Matthieu what he knew in part, thanks to Petit-Gris’s indiscretions. Her husband was doing poorly in business and barely earning enough to live on when he learned of the discovery of California. As a sensible man, he guessed that the first explorers of this fortunate land would pursue the gold ingots and nuggets buried in the rock, without taking the time to exploit the gold-bearing sands. He said to himself that the safest and most lucrative speculation would consist of washing the dust from the mines and the sand from the ravines. With this in mind, he built a very ingenious machine, which he called, after himself, the Bourgade separator. To test it, he mixed 30 grams of gold powder with 100 kilograms of earth and sand. The separator reproduced all the gold, to within two decigrams. With this experience, Mr. Bourgade gathered together the little he had, left his family enough to live on for six months, and embarked on the Belle-Antoinette, from Bordeaux, by the grace of God. Two months later, the Belle-Antoinette was lost, body and goods, leaving the Rio de Janeiro channel. Matthieu realized that, without making a trip to California, the late Bourgade’s invention could be exploited for the benefit of the widow and her daughter. He asked Mrs. Bourgade to entrust him with the plans she had kept, and I was instructed to show them to a student at the École Centrale. The consultation was not long. The young engineer said to me, after a second’s examination: Known! It’s the Bourgade separator. It ‘s in the public domain, and the Brazilians manufacture ten thousand of them a year in Rio de Janeiro. Do you know the inventor? “He died in a shipwreck. ” “The machine will have survived; that’s something you see every day.” I returned piteously to the Hôtel Corneille to report on my embassy. I found the two brothers in tears. Uncle Yvon had died of apoplexy, leaving them all his possessions. Chapter 2. I have kept a copy of Uncle Yvon’s will. Here it is: On August 15, 1849, the feast of the Assumption, I, Matthieu-Jean-Léonce Yvon, of sound body and mind and having received the sacraments of the Church, drew up this will and document of my last wishes. Foreseeing the accidents to which human life is exposed, and desiring that, if anything happens to me, my property be shared without dispute between my heirs, I divided my fortune into two parts as equal as I could make them, namely: 1. A sum of fifty thousand francs yielding five percent, and invested by the care of Mr. Aubryet, notary in Paris; 2. My house located in Auray, my moors, arable land and real estate of all kinds; my boats, nets, fishing gear, weapons, furniture, clothes, linen and other movable objects, all valued, in conscience and justice, at fifty thousand francs. I give and bequeath all of these assets to my nephews and godchildren, Matthieu and Léonce Debay, enjoining each of them to choose, either amicably or by lot, one of the two shares designated above, without resorting, under any pretext, to the intervention of men of law. In the event that I should die before my sister Yvonne Yvon, wife of Debay, and her husband, my excellent brother-in-law, I entrust to my heirs the care of their old age; and I trust that they will not let them lack anything, following the example that I have always given them. The division was not long in being made, and there was no need to consult fate. Léonce chose the money, and Matthieu took the rest. Léonce said: What do you want me to do with my poor uncle’s boats ? I would be fine dredging oysters or fishing for sardines! I would have to live in Auray, and just thinking about it makes me yawn. You would soon learn that I am dead and that nostalgia for the boulevard has killed me. If, by good fortune or bad luck, I escaped destruction, all this little fortune would soon perish in my hands. Do I know how to rent land, lease a fishery , or settle partnership accounts with half a dozen sailors? I would let myself be robbed of the ashes of my fire. If Matthieu leaves me the money, I will invest it in a solid security that will bring me twenty for one. That is how I understand business. “As you please,” replied Matthew. “I don’t think you would have been forced to live in Auray. Our parents are well, thank God! And they are perhaps sufficient for the task. But tell me, what is the miraculous value in which you intend to invest your money? ” “My head. Listen to me calmly. Of all the roads that lead a young man to fortune, the shortest is neither commerce, nor industry, nor art, nor medicine, nor pleading, nor even speculation; it is… guess. ” “Lady! I see nothing left but theft on the highways, and it becomes more difficult every day; for locomotives cannot be stopped. ” “You forget marriage! It is marriage that has made the best houses in Europe. Do you want me to tell you the story of the Counts of Habsburg? Seven hundred years ago, they were a little richer than me, not much.” By dint of marrying and marrying heiresses, they founded one of the greatest monarchies in the world, the Austrian Empire. I am marrying an heiress. “Which one? ” “I don’t know, but I will find her. ” “With your fifty thousand francs? ” “Stop right there! You understand that if I set out in search of a wife with my little wallet containing fifty banknotes, all the millions would laugh at me; at most, I would find the daughter of a haberdasher or the heiress presumptive to a hardware store. In the world where such a meager sum would be taken into account, no one would be grateful for my appearance, my mind, or my education. For, after all, we are not here to be modest. ” “Good! In the world where I want to marry, they will marry me for me, without inquiring about what I have.” When a suit is well made and well worn, my dear, no girl of condition asks what’s in the pockets. Thereupon, Léonce explained to his brother that he would use Uncle Yvon’s money to open the doors of high society. Long experience, acquired in novels, had taught him that with nothing you can make nothing, but with a good dress, a pretty horse, and good manners, you can always find a loving match. Here’s my plan, he said: I’m going to eat up my capital. For a year, I’ll have fifty thousand francs in effigy income, and the devil will be very clever if I don’t make myself loved by a girl who actually owns them. “But, wretch, you’re ruining yourself! ” “No, I’m investing my money at twenty for one.” Matthieu didn’t bother to argue with his brother. Besides, the invested funds weren’t supposed to be available until June ; there was no danger in the matter. Uncle Yvon’s heirs did not change their way of life; they were no richer than before. The boats and the nets kept the house in Auray going. Maître Aubryet gave two hundred francs a month, as in the past; the rehearsals for Sainte-Barbe and the visits to the Rue Traversine went on at their pace. The truth obliges me to say that Léonce was less assiduous in his classes. the Law School than to dance and fencing lessons. Little Gray, always ambitious, and, I fear, a little scheming, obtained his wife’s appointment, and installed a second broom in his apartment. This was the only event of the winter. In May, Madame Debay wrote to her sons that she was in great difficulty. Her husband had a lot to do and was not enough; one more man in the house would not have been too much. Matthieu feared that his father would tire himself out excessively; he knew him to be hard-working and courageous despite his age; but one is no longer young at sixty, even in Brittany. If I listened to myself, he said to me one day, I would go and spend six months there. My father is killing himself. “What’s keeping you?” “First, my rehearsals. ” “Pass them on to one of our comrades.” I’ll point out six who need it more than you. –And Léonce who will do crazy things! –Don’t worry, if he has to do it, it’s not your presence that will hold him back. –And then… –And then what? –These ladies! –You did leave them during the holidays. Give them to me again to look after, I’ll make sure they don’t want for anything. –But I’ll miss them, he continued, blushing up to his eyes.
–Hey! Speak! You didn’t tell me there was love under the rock.
The poor boy was terrified. He guessed for the first time that he loved Miss Bourgade. I helped him examine his conscience; I wrested from him one by one all the little secrets of his heart, and he remained moved and convinced of passionate love. In my life I have never seen a more confused man. Had he been told that his father had gone bankrupt, I believe he would have shown less shame. It was necessary to reassure him a little and reconcile him with himself. But when I asked him if he believed he was being repaid, he showed a redoubled confusion that pained me. I told him in vain that love is a contagious disease, and that nineteen times out of twenty sincere passions are shared, he believed he was an exception to all the rules. He modestly placed himself at the bottom of the ladder of beings, and he saw in Mlle Bourgade perfections above humanity. No knight of the good times made himself more humble and smaller before the beautiful eyes of his lady. I tried to raise his self-esteem by revealing to him the treasures of kindness and tenderness that were in him: to all my reasons he responded by showing me his face, with a little resigned grimace that brought tears to my eyes. At this moment, if I had been a woman, I would have loved her. Let me see, I said to him, how is she with you? “She is never with me. I am in the room, she too; and yet we are not together. I speak to her, she answers me, but I cannot say that I have ever spoken with her. She does not avoid me, she does not seek me out…. I believe, however, that she avoids me, or at least that I am disagreeable to her. When one is built like that! He was furious at his poor person with charming naiveté. The coldness of Mademoiselle Bourgade towards such an excellent being was not natural. It could only be explained by the beginnings of love or by a calculated coquetry. Does Mademoiselle Bourgade know that you have inherited? “No. ” “Does she think you are poor like her?” “Without that, I would have been shown the door a long time ago. ” “Yes, however…. Don’t blush. ” If, by some impossible chance, she loved you as you love her, what would you do? –I…. would tell her…. –Come on, no false shame! She’s not here: would you marry her? –Oh! if I could! But I would never dare to marry. This happened on a Sunday. The following Thursday, although I had promised to avoid the Rue Traversine, I paid a visit to the Petit-Gris. I had put on my finest uniform, with palms all over it. new in the buttonhole. The Little Gray went to inform Madame Bourgade that a gentleman was asking the favor of speaking with her alone for a few moments. She came as she was, and our host left under the pretext of buying coal. Madame Bourgade was a tall and beautiful woman, a person of all types of body down to the bones; she had long sad eyes, beautiful eyebrows and magnificent hair , but almost no teeth, which made her look old. She stopped in front of me, a little taken aback; poverty is shy. Madame, I said to her, I am a friend of Matthieu Debay; he loves your daughter, and he has the honor of asking for your hand. That is how we were diplomats at the École Normale. Sit down, sir, she said to me gently. She was not surprised by my action, she expected it; she knew that Matthieu loved his daughter, and she admitted to me with a sort of maternal modesty that her daughter had long loved Matthieu. I was sure of it! She had thought long and hard about the possibility of this marriage. On the one hand, she was happy to entrust her daughter’s future to an honest man before she died. She believed herself to be dangerously ill, and attributed to organic causes a weakening produced by deprivation. What frightened her was the idea that Matthieu himself was not very robust, that he might one day take to his bed, lose his lessons, and be left without resources with a woman, perhaps with children, for everything had to be foreseen. I could have reassured her with a single word, but I was careful not to. I was only too happy to see a marriage concluded with that sublime imprudence of the poor who say: Let us love each other first, each day brings its bread! Madame Bourgade only argued with me for form’s sake. She carried Matthieu in her heart. She had for him the love of a mother-in-law for her son-in-law, that love with two degrees, which is a woman’s last passion. Madame de Sévigné never loved her husband like Monsieur de Grignan. Madame Bourgade took me to her home and introduced me to her daughter. The beautiful Aimée was dressed in poorly dyed cotton whose color had faded. She had neither bonnet, nor collar, nor cuffs: laundering is so expensive! I was able to admire a large braid of magnificent blond hair, a neck a little like anyone of all body types, but of a rare elegance, and hands that a great lady would have paid dearly for. Her face was that of her mother, twenty years younger. Seeing them side by side, I involuntarily thought of those architectural drawings where one sees in the same frame a ruined temple and its restoration. Aimée’s figure, with a brassiere instead of a corset, and a simple petticoat without a crinoline, showed a proper elegance. The high cost of coquetry’s devices means that the poor are less often duped than the rich. What surprised me most about the future Madame Debay was the limpid whiteness of her complexion. It looked like milk, but transparent milk: I can’t compare her face better than to a fine pearl. She was quite frankly happy, the little pearl of the Rue Traversine, when she learned the news I brought. In the midst of her joy fell Matthieu, who hadn’t expected to find me there. He wouldn’t believe he was loved until it had been repeated to him three times. We were all talking together, and Beethoven’s quartets are poor music compared to what we were singing. Then, as the door had remained ajar, I slipped away without saying anything. Matthieu knew I was a bit of a mocker, and he wouldn’t have dared to cry in front of me. He married on the first Thursday in June, and I was careful not to be consigned to the School, because I wanted to serve as his witness. I shared this honor with a young writer who was then starting out in L’Artiste. Aimée’s witnesses were two friends of Matthieu, a painter and a teacher: Mme Bourgade had lost touch with her old acquaintances. The town hall of the 11th arrondissement is opposite of the church of Saint-Sulpice: we only had to cross the square. The entire wedding party, including Léonce, was contained in two large cabs which took us to dinner near Meudon, at the home of the Fleury guard. Our dining room was a chalet surrounded by lilacs, and we discovered a small bird that had made its nest in the moss above our heads. We drank to the prosperity of this winged family: we are all equal before happiness. Believe it who wants, but Matthieu was no longer ugly. I had already noticed that the air of the forests had the privilege of beautifying him. There are figures that are only pleasing in a drawing room; you will find others that are only charming in the fields. The floured dolls that one admires in Paris would be horrible to meet at the edge of a wood: I shudder when I think of it. Matthieu was, on the contrary, a very presentable Sylvan: He announced to us, at dessert, that he was going to leave for Auray, with his wife and his mother-in-law. The excellent Mama Debay was already opening her arms to receive her daughter-in-law. Matthieu would write his theses at leisure; he would be a doctor and a professor when the sardines permitted. Not to mention the children, added a voice that was not mine. “My word!” resumed the groom, “if we have children, I will teach them to read by the fireside, and may I have ten students in my class! ” “As for me,” said Léonce, “I postpone you all until next year. You will attend the wedding of Léonce Debay with Miss X., one of the richest heiresses in Paris. ” “Long live Miss X., the glorious unknown!” “Until I know her,” the speaker continued, “you will be told that I have wasted a fortune, scattered treasures, and dispersed my inheritance to all the winds of the horizon. Remember what I promise you: I will throw away the gold, but as a sower throws the seed. Let them talk and wait for the harvest! Why should I not admit that we were drinking Champagne?” Matthieu said to his brother: “You will do what you wish; I no longer doubt anything; I believe everything is possible, since she was able to marry me for love!” But the following Sunday, at the railway station, Matthieu seemed less reassured about his brother’s future. “You are going to play no one of all body types game,” he said, shaking her hand. ” If Boileau had not gone out of fashion, like the hairstyles of his time, I would say to you: This sea you are sailing in is fertile in shipwrecks! ” “Bah!” It’s not about Boileau, but about Balzac. This sea I’m sailing through is fertile in heiresses. Count on me, my brother: if there’s one left in the world, it will be for us. –Finally, remember, whatever happens, that your bed is made in the house at Auray. –Have a pillow added. We’ll go see you in our carriage! The Little Gray looked Léonce over with an approving glance that meant to say: Young man, your ambition pleases me. But Léonce didn’t lower his gaze to the Little Gray. He took me by the arm after the train left, and led me to dinner with him; he was cheerful and full of bright hopes. The die is cast, he told me; I’m burning my ships. Yesterday I reserved a delicious mezzanine on the Rue de Provence. The painters are there; in a week, I’ll put the upholsterers there. It is there, my poor dear, that you will come, on Sunday, to eat the chop of friendship. –What idea do you have to begin your campaign in the middle of summer? There isn’t a soul in Paris. –Leave it to me! As soon as my nest is settled, I will leave for the waters of Vichy. Acquaintances are made quickly at the waters: people become friends, they invite each other for next winter. I have thought of everything, and my seat is made. In two weeks, I will have finished with this dreadful Latin Quarter! –Where we spent such good times! –We thought we were having fun, because we didn’t know each other. Do you find this chicken edible? –Excellent, my dear. –Atrocious! By the way, I have a cook; a marriageable boy is dining in town, but he has lunch at home. All that remains is to find a servant. Don’t you have anyone to direct me to? –Of course! I’m sorry to be at the School for eighteen months. I
would have offered myself, so magnificent a teacher do I think you’ll make. –My dear fellow, you’re neither small nor tall enough: I need a colossus or a gnome. Stay where you are. Have you ever thought about liveries? It’s a serious question. –Lady! I’ve read Aristotle’s chapter on hats. –What would you think of a sky-blue greatcoat with red facings? –We also have the uniform of the Pope’s Swiss, yellow, red, and black, with a halberd. What do you say to that? –You’re boring me. I’ve reviewed all the colors; black is just right, with a cockade; but it’s too severe. The brown one isn’t young enough, the person of all types of blue body is discredited by the trade: all the cashiers have blue coats and white buttons. I ‘ll think about it. Look at my new business cards. –LÉONCE DE BAŸ and a marquis’s crown! I’ll give you the marquisate, it doesn’t harm anyone; but I think you would have done better to respect your old father’s name. I’m not a rigorist, but it always angers me a little to see a gallant man disguise himself as a marquis, outside of carnival time. It’s a delicate way of disowning his family. For you to be a marquis, your father must be a duke, or dead: take your pick. –Why take things so tragically? My excellent father would laugh with all his heart to see his name dressed up like that. Don’t you think that diaeresis over the y is an admirable invention? It gives names an aristocratic color! All I need now is a coat of arms. Do you know the blazon? –Bad.
–You still know enough to draw me a shield. –Boy, some paper? Here, here are the arms I give you. You bear quartered or and gules. This represents gules lions on a gold field, and that or martlets on a gules field. Are you satisfied? –Pleased to meet you. What is a martlet? –A duck. –Better and better. Now a slightly cheeky motto. –BAŸ DE RIEN NE S’ÉBAYT. –Magnificent! From this moment on, I owe you homage as to my liege lord. –Well then! Loyal marquis, let’s light a cigar and take me back to the School. Chapter 3. Léonce spent the summer in Vichy and returned in October. He brought back a tall blond servant and a magnificent black horse. It was the legacy of an Englishman who had died of spleen between two glasses of water. He had his return announced to me by the superb Jack, whose mouse-grey livery excited my admiration. Jack wore the arms of the Baÿ on his buttons, without paying me royalties. The handsomest of my friends received me in an apartment imbued with masculine coquetry. There was none of the trinkets that betray the intervention of a woman: not even a tapestry chair! The dining room furniture was oak, the drawing room, of ponceau brocatelle, had a decent, rich, and comfortable air. The study was full of dignity: you would have said it was the sanctuary of an author writing the history of the Crusades. In the bedroom, there was an enormous tapestry depicting the clemency of Alexander, a white marble dressing table, a magnificent set of necessaries spread out in the most perfect order, four carpeted armchairs, and a four-poster bed, a monastic bed, no more than three feet wide. The decoration gave no lie to the assurances of the furnishings. In the drawing room, landscapes. In the dining room, a hunting picture, birds, still lifes. In the study, a trophy of arms, canes, and riding crops, and four large passe-partouts filled with etchings that might have appeared in the home of the fierce Hippolyte. In the bedroom, five or six family portraits bought second-hand from the second-hand dealers on the Rue Jacob. The furniture, the paintings, the engravings, and the books in the library, sorted with scrupulous care, sang the praises of Léonce in unison. The mothers-in-law could come! My first concern upon entering was to look for the cigars, but Léonce no longer smoked. He said that the cigar, which unites men , has no virtue in arranging marriages, and that tobacco equally offends women and bees, winged creatures. He told me about his summer campaign, and triumphantly showed me twenty-five or thirty visiting cards which represented as many invitations for the winter. Read all these names, he said, and you will see if I have thrown my powder to the sparrows! I was surprised to see only names from banking and industry. Why this preference? Balzac’s heroes went to the Faubourg Saint-Germain. “They had their reasons,” said Léonce; I have my own to avoid going there. At the Chaussée d’Antin, my name and title can be useful to me; they might harm me in the Faubourg Saint-Germain. Announces a marquis in a salon on the Rue Laffitte, fifty people will look at the door. On the Rue de l’Université, no one will raise an eye. The servants themselves are blasé about marquises. And then, all these nobles of old know and understand each other: they would soon know that I am not one of them. No one would ask to see my parchments, but they would whisper in each other’s ears that they had never seen them. My marquisate would be out, and I would be sent to seek my fortune elsewhere. Besides, great fortunes are rare in this noble suburb. I made inquiries: there are a hundred or a hundred and fifty of them, so old that everyone has heard of them; so clear, so obvious, so well established in the sun, that everyone wants them: from there, twenty suitors around an heiress. I would have a good game to make the twenty-first! I won’t be caught out. Look at the right bank: what a difference! In the salon of the least banker or the most modest stockbroker, you see dancing in the same quadrille a dozen colossal fortunes unknown to the public, and who do not know each other. This one dates back twenty years, that one from yesterday. One comes from a refinery in Auteuil, another from a factory in Saint-Étienne, another from a factory in Mulhouse; one arrives directly from Manchester, the other has barely arrived from Chandernagore. The foreigners are all at the Chaussée d’Antin! In this throng, all resounding with the clang of gold, all glittering with diamonds, people meet, they know, they love, they marry, in less time than it takes a duchess to open her snuffbox. It is there that one knows the value of time; it is there that men are alive, restless, and eager to act like me; it is there that I will cast my net into the noisy and tumultuous water ! He recited to me a passage from The Lily of the Valley, which contained the rules of his conduct; it is the last letter from Madame de Mortsauf to young Vandenesse. We then reread Henri de Marsay’s advice to Paul de Manerville; then he asked for lunch, then he wasted two hours on his toilet, exactly two hours, following the example of Monsieur de Marsay. I saw him often enough during the winter to notice how he practiced his master’s lessons. If it is true that work deserves reward and that all effort is worthy of praise, it was his duty to marry Modeste Mignon, Eugénie Grandet or Mlle Taillefer. He showed himself everywhere at the hours when one shows oneself. He galloped to the woods every evening, as exactly as if his race had been paid. He never missed a first performance of the theaters of good company; he was assiduous at the Italians as if he had loved music. He did not refuse an invitation, did not miss a ball, and never forgot a digestive visit. In which I admired him. His dress was exquisite, his shoes perfect, his linen miraculous. I was ashamed to go out with himself on Sundays, when we wore starched shirts. As for him, he gladly went out with me. He had rented a brand new coupé for six months on which the coachbuilder had temporarily painted his coat of arms. In society, he immediately distinguished himself by two talents that rarely go together: he was a dancer and a conversationalist. He danced the best in the world, to the point of being said to have wit down to his toes. He had strong hamstrings, which doesn’t hurt anything, and an arm to carry a leaden waltz. All the girls who danced with him were enchanted with themselves, and consequently with him. Mothers, for their part, always wish well to the man who makes their daughters shine. But when, after a waltz or a quadrille, he went to sit among the women of a certain age, the fondness they had for him turned into enthusiasm. He had too much good taste to throw compliments at people’s heads, but he made his neighbors come up with ideas, and the most foolish became witty at the touch of his wit. He severely refused himself the pleasures of gossip, noticed no ridicule, pointed out no stupidity, and joked about everything without hurting anyone; which is not always easy. He had no opinion on political matters, not knowing into which family love could bring him. He observed himself, watched himself, and spied on himself perpetually without appearing to do so. He said to himself a hundred times each evening: My daughter, stand up straight! As gracious as he was with women, he was just as cold in his relations with men. His stiffness bordered on impertinence. It was yet another way of courting those from whom he expected everything; a roundabout way of saying to them: I live only for you . The weaker sex is sensitive to the homage of the strong, and it is a double pleasure to make a proud head bow. His pride was too affected to go unnoticed: it attracted quarrels. He fought three times and gallantly defeated his adversaries at the point of his sword: the sickest of the three was in bed for fifteen days. The world was grateful to Léonce for his moderation as well as his bravery, and he was recognized as a fine player who was generous with his life while sparing that of others. It was, moreover, the only game he allowed himself. Even if Madame de Mortsauf’s letter had not warned him against cards, he would have defended himself, in the interest of his reputation and his finances. He threw money away freely, but wisely. He refused neither a concert ticket nor a lottery ticket; no citizen of the Paris salons paid his dues more generously. He knew, on occasion, how to empty his purse into a beggar’s purse, or to sign up for twenty louis in the book of a charity worker. He spent a lot on watches and very little on pleasure, considering any outlay made without witnesses to be useless. It was in this above all that he distinguished himself from his models, the Rubemprés and the de Marsays, men of joy and great liveliest people. He did not run up debts, he had no mistresses; he avoided anything that could stop him in his tracks. He wanted to arrive without delay and without reproach. Despite such laudable efforts, he spent three winter months and 35,000 francs of silver, without finding what he was looking for. Perhaps he lacked a little flexibility. I would have liked him to be more mellow. Studying him closely , one discovered a bit of a Breton ear that could frighten off marriage. He was too agitated, too nervous, too tense. It was a superbly constructed machine; but the noise of the wheels was audible . A woman of thirty could have given him the extra touch of manners he lacked; and, if I believe his reputation, he had teachers to choose from, but his seat was made and he accepted lessons from no one. When I paid him my New Year’s visit, he reviewed the three months that had just passed. He had so far found only unattainable matches : a light-hearted and slightly ruined widow; a richer Russian princess, but followed by three children from a first marriage; and the daughter of a deranged speculator. I can’t understand anything, he told me with a certain bitterness. I have friends and no enemies; I know all of Paris and I am well-known; I go everywhere, I am popular everywhere; I am launched, I am even settled, and I achieve nothing! I march straight to my goal, without stopping along the way: it is as if the goal recedes before me. If I sought the impossible, that would be explained; but what am I asking for? A woman of my own circle, who loves me for me. It is not a supernatural thing! Matthieu has found in his world what I vainly pursue in mine. However, I’m as good as Matthew. –Physically, at least. Have you heard from them? –Not often: the happy are selfish. The graduate improves his land; he digs marl, he sows buckwheat, he plants trees: a hundred nonsense! His wife is as well as her condition allows. We hope for the arrival of Matthew II in April: there’s no time wasted. –I’m not asking you if we still love each other? –Like in Noah’s Ark. Papa and Mama are on their knees before their daughter-in-law. Madame Bourgade took it well: it seems she’s decidedly a distinguished woman: everyone is busy, having fun, and adoring each other: they ‘re happy. –You never had the inclination to run to join them with the rest of your money? –My word, no! I prefer my troubles to their pleasures. And then, it ‘s not yet time to go and hide. Indeed, eight days later, he arrived radiant at the School’s parlor. Brr! he said, it’s not hot here. “Fifteen degrees, my dear, that’s the rule. ” “The rule isn’t as sensitive to the cold as I am, and I did well to let myself be refused, especially since I’m nearing my goal. ” “Are you on the right track? ” “I’ve found it! ” Léonce had noticed the kindness and elegance of a tiny woman, so frail and so pretty that her perfections had to be admired under a microscope. He had waltzed with her, and he had almost lost her several times, so light she was and so little felt in the hand; he had chatted, and he had remained under her spell: she babbled in a little warbler’s voice melodious enough to make one believe in one of those metamorphoses that Ovid recounted in his verses. This feminine mind ran from one subject to another with charming volubility. Her ideas seemed to undulate at the whim of the air, like the marabouts that adorned the front of her dress. Léonce asked the name of this young lady who resembled so much a hummingbird: he learned that she was neither a woman nor a widow, despite appearances, and that her name was Mademoiselle de Stock. The world gave her twenty-five years and a great fortune. On this information, Léonce began to love her. Among civilized peoples, naturalists recognize two varieties of honest love: one is a wild plant that sows itself spontaneously in the hearts, that develops without cultivation, that throws its roots to the very depths of our being, that resists wind and rain, hail and frost, that grows back if it is pulled up, and that borrows from nature an invincible vigor and tenacity; the other is a garden plant that we cultivate ourselves, either for its flowers or for its fruits: sometimes it is a mother who sows it in the soul of her daughter to prepare her insensibly for a brilliant marriage; sometimes we see two families, eager to unite by a close bond, weeding and watering in the hearts of their children a small vegetable passion; sometimes an ambitious young man, like Léonce, applies himself to developing in him the seeds of a love that promises golden fruits. This variety, more common than the first, is grown in flowerbeds in the salons of Paris; but, like all garden plants, it is delicate, it requires care, it rarely resists the cold, and never poverty. Léonce had Baron de Stock shown to him, who was playing écarté and losing sums with the indifference of a millionaire. At that moment, Mlle de Stock seemed even prettier to him. The Baron was wearing a rather beautiful array of foreign decorations. His daughter is adorable! thought Léonce. He had himself presented to the Baroness, a noble doll from Germany, covered in old smoky diamonds. This worthy woman pleased him at first glance. Perhaps he would have found her a little ridiculous if she had not had such a witty daughter. Perhaps also he would have judged that Mlle de Stock lacked a little distinction, if he had not known her to have such a majestic mother. He danced all evening with the pretty Dorothée, and whispered in her ear words of gallantry that sounded very much like words of love. She responded with a coquetry that did not resemble intolerance. The Baroness, after making inquiries, invited Léonce to her Wednesdays: he was a regular. M. de Stock lived on Rue de La Rochefoucauld, in a small hotel between courtyard and garden of which he was the owner. Léonce knew about furniture, since he had bought furniture. Without being an expert, he had a feeling for elegance. He could be mistaken, like everyone else, because one must be an auctioneer to distinguish an artistic bronze from a cheap overmolding, to guess whether a piece of furniture is stuffed with horsehair or economically fed with tow, and to recognize at first glance whether a curtain is made of lampas or wool and silk damask. However, he was not made of wood from which one makes fools, and the Baron’s interior delighted him. The servants, in amaranth livery, had good square heads, and a German accent that grated deliciously on the ear. One recognized in them old servants of the family, perhaps vassals born in the shadow of the Château de Stock. The household expenses represented an expense of sixty thousand francs a year. The day Léonce was welcomed by the Baron, feted by the Baroness and looked at tenderly by their daughter, he could say without presumption: I found it! Around the middle of January, he learned that Dorothée was to collect for the poor at Notre-Dame de Lorette. He, who often missed mass, was exemplary in his punctuality. He made me have lunch at a gallop and dragged me with him at the stroke of one o’clock. I have forgotten the details of his attire, but I remember well that it dazzled. I recognized Mademoiselle de Stock from the portrait he had painted of her, although he had forgotten to tell me that she was dark, like a Maltese. A dark-haired German woman is a rare enough phenomenon to be mentioned. At the end of the mass, the faithful filed past the beggars, who were kneeling at each door of the church. Dorothée solicited the charity of passersby with a questioning glance, with a very worldly grace. I put two sous in her velvet purse, the poor schoolboy’s mite. Léonce greeted the beggar as if in a drawing room, giving her a thousand-franc note folded in four. How much do you have left? I asked her in the vestibule. “Thirteen thousand francs and some centimes. ” “That’s not much. ” ” That’s enough. The alms I have just given will be returned to me a hundredfold. Centuplum accipies.” I said nothing: I was thinking of Matthieu’s poor ten francs. On returning to the rue de Provence, my charitable friend gave me some ideas about castle life in the lordships of Germany. He described to me those grand meals washed down with Tokai and Johannisberg wines, those gatherings bedecked with uniforms and ribbons, those salons where the court dress of the Duke of Richelieu is still fashionable; and those miraculous hunts, those great hunts after which the Hares are counted in the thousands, and venison is sold in tragic events for thirty leagues around. When he came home, he found a very short letter from his brother: What could I tell you? wrote Matthieu. Our life is united like a mirror; all our days are alike like drops of milk in the same cup. Work is stopped by winter, and we spend the day by the fire, among ourselves. You know how wide the fireplace is; there is room for everyone; we could even put in an extra armchair if we squeezed in a little, if you wanted. Papa pokes furiously. You know his passion, the only passion of his life. If we took his tongs away, we would make him very unhappy. Mama Debay and Mama Bourgade spend the day sewing vests, hemming diapers and embroidering little hats. Aimée knits cashmere stockings , real doll stockings. When I see all these preparations, I feel like laughing and crying. The dear little creature will have a royal layette. The family council decided that if it were a son, we would call him Léonce: your name will bring him luck. Let’s hope he doesn’t take it into his head to look like his father! We put your portrait in our room: you know, that beautiful portrait that Boulanger painted before leaving for Rome. I show it to Aimée every morning and every evening. Little Léonce promises to be as restless as you. His mother complains about him; and, what is more singular, Mama Debay assures us that she feels the aftereffects of all his movements. I told you that Aimée had stomach aches in the early days of her pregnancy; but a few bottles of mineral water and the joy of feeling her child alive comforted her; she is gaining weight visibly. As for me, I am still the same, except that I hardly work anymore. You remember the words of the peasant who was asked what his profession was, and who replied: My wife is a wet nurse. I am in the same boat, or almost: I am waiting for my son. The famous theses have not made much progress: the Battle of the Peloponnese, by Bello Peloponnesiaco, is at the death of Pericles, and Corneille, the comic author, remains at Clitandre. So much the worse for the faculty of Rennes! It will have to wait. I want to be a father before being a doctor. Ah! brother, if you knew how insipid your pleasures are compared to ours! You would come by the diligence, and you would spare us the carriage with which you threatened us. You alone are missing us; you are our only worry. Papa makes his big wrinkle when we talk about the rue de Provence. Finally! I reassure him by telling him that if any man in the world is to succeed, it is you. “They are good people,” said Léonce, throwing the letter on his desk. “They will soon hear from me.” A few days later, the Baron fell to him from the sky at ten o’clock in the morning. Such an approach was a good omen. Mr. Stock visited the apartment as an amateur, and made an inventory of the furniture to himself. Any sensible man would have thought he was in the home of a son of a family: the Baron was delighted. He was an amiable man, this German. Everyone knew that he had been a banker in Frankfurt-am-Main, and yet he never spoke of his fortune. No one disputed his nobility, and yet he never spoke of his titles. His castles, his lands, his forests were the things he seemed to care least about. He never said a word about them to Léonce, and Léonce recognized from this sign that he was truly rich and a true gentleman. For his part, Léonce was too delicate to attribute to himself a false fortune. He let people’s imagination run wild, and did not argue with those who said to him: You who are rich. But he boasted of nothing. When he spoke of his family, he said without emphasis: My parents live on their lands in Brittany. In which he was not lying at all. I pointed out to him that everything would be revealed in the end, and that he would be forced to confess the origin of his nobility and the modesty of his fortune. Leave it to me, he replied; the baron is rich enough to allow his daughter a marriage of love. Dorothée loves me, I am sure of it; she told me so. When the parents see that I am necessary to their daughter’s happiness, they will overlook many things. Besides, I will not deceive anyone, and they will know everything before the marriage. He did not publicly court Mademoiselle de Stock, but he saw her every evening in society. Their relationship, although a little constrained, only had more charms. The small obstacles, the surveillance that everyone exercises over everyone else, the respect for propriety, the necessity of pretending, add something tender and mysterious to these loves which progress, from salon to salon, to the door of the church. Constraint is a marvelous spring which doubles the joys of the heart as well as the strength of the mind. What makes a thought more beautiful in verse than in prose is constraint. Léonce and Dorothée wrote to each other every day, in verse and prose, and it was a pleasure to see them exchange their notes sheltered by a handkerchief or in the shade of a fan. The Baroness was amused by these little maneuvers; she had given her daughter’s heart free rein, she allowed her to love M. de Baÿ. In the last days of February, Léonce took his courage in both hands: he made his request. M. and Mme de Stock, warned by Dorothée, received him in a solemn audience. Monsieur le Baron, Madame la Baroness, he said, I have the honor of asking you for the hand of your daughter. So as not to leave you in the dark about my situation… The Baron interrupted him with a lordly gesture: Stop here, Monsieur le Marquis, I beg you. All Paris knows you, and my daughter loves you: I want to know nothing more. Even if your name were obscure, even if your father had eaten up his fortune, I would still tell you: Dorothée is yours. He embraced Léonce, and the Baroness gave him her hand to kiss: You do not know, said the Baroness, our romantic Germany. That is how we all are… at least in the upper class. In the midst of the wildest joy, Léonce felt deep down a kind of revolt of honesty. I cannot deceive these good people, he said to himself, and I would be a rogue if I abused their good faith. He continued aloud: Monsieur le Baron, the noble confidence you have shown me obliges me to give you some details about… –Monsieur le Marquis, you would seriously distress me if you insist further. I would think that you only persist in giving me this information to force me to provide proof of my rank and fortune. The Baroness emphasized these words with a friendly gesture that meant: Don’t insist, he’s touchy. Come on, thought Léonce, it’s postponed. We’ll explain ourselves, whether we like it or not, on the day of the contract. But the Baron would not hear of a contract. Between gentlemen, he said, these commitments, these signatures, these guarantees are humiliating precautions. Do you love Dorothée? Yes. Does she love you? I’m sure of it. Then what’s the point of putting a notary between you? I imagine that your love will do without stamped paper. “However, sir, if you had been deceived about my status…” “But, terrible child, I wasn’t deceived, I wasn’t told anything.” I know nothing about you, except that you please my daughter, my wife, me, and the whole world. I don’t want to know anything more. Do I need your money? If you are rich, so much the better. If you are poor, so much the worse. Say the same about me, and we will be even. Here, this will put your conscience at rest: you have nothing, my daughter has nothing: your name is Léonce, her name is Dorothée, and I give you my paternal blessing. Are you happy? Léonce wept with joy. Dorothée was brought in. Come, my daughter, said the baroness, come and tell the marquis that you do not marry his name or his fortune, but his person. “Dear Léonce,” said Dorothée, “I love you madly!” She didn’t lie a syllable. Léonce married in March. It was about time: the basket devoured the last thousand-franc note. I did not serve as a witness this time: witnesses were personalities. Matthieu could not come to Paris; he was waiting for his wife to give birth. He had asked me to report on the celebration, and I happily fulfilled my task as historiographer. Dorothée, in her white dress of pinned velvet, was an adoring success. She was called the little brown angel. After the ceremony, a dinner for forty people was served at the baron’s, and Léonce was kind enough to invite me. He introduced me to his wife as we left the table: My dear Dorothée, he said to her, this is one of my old friends, who will one day or another be our children’s teacher. I hope you will always give him a warm welcome; the best friends are not the most brilliant, but the most solid. “Mr. Professor,” said the beautiful Dorothée, “you will always be welcome in our house. I hope that Léonce will bring me all his friends in marriage. Do you know German? ” “No, madame, to my great shame. I will always regret not being able to read Hermann and Dorothée in the text. ” “The loss is not great, believe me. An emphatic pastoral; a flageolet air played on the ophicleide. You have better than that in France. Do you like Balzac? He is my man.” Chapter 4. The conversation of the pretty marquise and the pleasure of dancing with my people of all types of bodies made me forget the school rules. I came home an hour too late, and I was confined for two weeks. As soon as I was free, my first visit was to Léonce. I found him all alone, busy tearing out his hair, which he had very beautiful, as you know. My friend, he said to me in a pitiful voice, I have been cruelly deceived! “Already! ” “My father-in-law is rich like me, noble like me: his name is Stock in one syllable, and his only assets are about twenty thousand francs in debt. ” “Impossible!” “The thing is beyond doubt; my wife confessed everything to me on the evening of the wedding. There were not five hundred francs in the house. “But the house alone is worth a hundred thousand! “It is not paid for. Mr. Stock was rich five or six years ago: he held a certain rank in Frankfurt, and his liquidation left him with more than thirty thousand pounds a year. But he is a gambler like the jack of diamonds himself. He lost everything at roulette, at trente and quarante, and at those innocent games which Germany uses so well to despoil us. At the beginning of winter, all that remained of his splendor was a skewer bought cheaply in the small courts of the North, a few honorable connections, the habit of spending, the fury of gambling, and about fifty thousand francs. He thought it ingenious to invest this capital in Dorothée and come to Paris to stake his all. He intended to fish in troubled waters, in this infernal world of the Chaussée d’Antin, a son-in-law rich enough to rid him of his daughter, to support him and his wife, and to give him every summer a few rolls of louis to lose on the banks of the Rhine. Isn’t that disgusting?
“Be careful,” I said to him. “Do you know how he’s talking about you now ?” “What a difference! I didn’t deceive him. I wanted to tell him frankly the state of my affairs. It was he who stopped me, who shut my mouth. I know why now, and his confidence no longer surprises me! It was he who dragged me into the abyss into which we are now rolling together. ” “Have you explained yourselves?” “I ran to his house to confound him, and I beg you to believe that I didn’t hold back my eloquence. Do you know what he answered me? Instead of recriminating, as I expected, he took my hand and said, in a moved voice: We are in trouble. We could each have found a fortune on our own: it is very unfortunate that we have met. –That is wisely said. –What will become of me? –Is this advice you are asking me? –No doubt, since you cannot give me anything else! –My dear Léonce, I know only one honorable way to get you out of this trouble. Liquidate heroically; go and hide in a working-class neighborhood, Rue des Ursulines or Boulevard Montparnasse; finish your law studies, get your degree, become a lawyer. You have talent; you cannot have entirely lost the habit of work; the connections you have made in these six months will serve you later; you will regain the lost time, and the money too. –Yes, if I were a bachelor! My poor friend, it is clear that you live in a box: you know nothing of life. Balzac proved long ago that a boy can achieve anything, but that once married, one’s strength is spent obscurely struggling against the cook’s additions and the household ledger. You want me to work between a wife, a father-in-law, a mother-in-law, and the children who may come along, obsessed with family, and confined with all these people to a four-hundred-franc apartment ! I would succumb to it. –Then do something else. Take your new family to Brittany. Uncle Yvon’s house is big enough to accommodate you all; we’ll put an extension on the table and add a dish to dinner. –We’ll ruin them! –Not at all. Aimée will buy herself one less dress every year, and Matthieu will prolong the existence of the famous hazelnut overcoat. –Oh! I know their hearts. But you don’t know my father-in-law and my mother-in-law. If my wife loves the world, her parents are furious about it. Mrs. Stock spends hours in front of her mirror curtsying! Mr. Stock will never be a bearable Breton. He would sulk at hospitality, he would humiliate our dear house: he would reproach us for the bread we would give him! “Well then! Let the parents manage in Paris. Take away your wife, she is young, and you will educate her. ” “But just think that this old man is riddled with debts! He is my father-in-law, after all; I cannot abandon him on the royal road to Clichy. ” “Let him sell his furniture! He has more than twenty thousand francs worth of it. ” “And how will they live, the poor wretches?” “I see with pleasure that you pity them. But I will say in my turn: What are you going to do? I no longer know what course to advise you, and I am at the end of my string of beads. ” “I am going to ask for a position. They think I do not need it, they will give it to me.” He solicited for a long time, and wasted more than a month in useless proceedings. At the height of his troubles, he learned that Aimée was the mother of a boy of all types . You will be his godfather, wrote Matthieu, and pretty Aunt Dorothée will not refuse to be godmother. We are waiting for you; your bed is ready, hurry up and have the carriage hitched. Léonce had not yet told his parents about his misfortune. What good was it to throw bad news into their happiness? The poor boy was braver than I would have hoped. While he sold his paintings for a living, he was tender and attentive to his wife. The present embarrassment, the uncertainty of the future, and the regret of having speculated badly did not alter his natural good humor for long: at least he had the good taste to hide his grief. It is fair to say that Dorothée consoled him as best she could. If she cried sometimes, it was on the sly. She gave back to the merchants part of her wedding basket. I believe that the honeymoon would have been more brilliant if the young couple had lacked nothing, and if Mr. Stock had not been in debt; but, in spite of the embarrassments of all kinds and the importunity of the creditors, they loved each other. Léonce and Dorothée clung to each other like surprised children by the storm. They were as happy as one can be on a boat that is leaking from all sides. I saw them regularly on all my outings, each visit showed them better and made them dearer to me. One Thursday, around half past one, I was leaving school to go to their house, when I met in the middle of the rue d’Ulm a little man in a velvet jacket. He was an old acquaintance whom I had somewhat neglected since Matthieu’s marriage. Good morning, Little-Gray, I said to him. Put your cap back on. Did you come to see me? “Yes, sir, and I am very glad to have met you to ask your advice. ” “Has anything happened at your house? Is your wife well? Are you still working for the city of Paris? ” “Always, sir, and I dare say that my wife and I have a clean sweep that does you credit. You will not be blamed for having placed us. ” “It is not me, Little-Gray; He is a young man, a friend of mine, to whom I would like to be able to render the same service. –Is Mr. Matthieu still happy? Aren’t these ladies ill? –Thank you. Matthieu has a son, and the whole family is in the best of health. –So, sir, this is what happened: This morning, as we were returning from work and my wife was going to get the soup she had kept warm in our bed, a gentleman came in who was not very tall, rather short, a man of my height, in short, and about my age. He asked me if I had been in the house during Madame Bourgade’s time . I told him what was the matter, since I have nothing to hide, I do nothing wrong, and I owe nothing to anyone. But when he learned that I knew these ladies, he began to question me about this and that, and who the young lady was married to, and what her husband did, and what she had for dinner, and how long she had stayed in the neighborhood, and, finally, where she lived. When I saw that he had the idea of ​​confessing to me, I would not answer anything. I did not like that man! He looked at the house with the eyes of a rich man; one would have said that our room made his heart ache. I understood well that he was curious to have Mr. Matthieu’s address; but I did not know what he wanted to do with it. I said that I did not know it, however that it might perhaps be possible to obtain it. Thereupon, he promised to pay me well if I brought it to him. Sir, I replied, I do not need to be paid, I have two government positions. He left me his address, which I didn’t read, you understand why, and I came to show it to you, to know what to do. Little Gray took a beautiful glossy card from his pocket, on which I read: LOUIS BOURGADE, Hôtel des Princes. Louis Bourgade! said Little Gray, he’s a relative. “Hôtel des Princes! He’s a rich relative. ” “He could have come sooner, when these poor ladies were dying of hunger! Now we have no more need of him. ” “That’s probably why he’s showing up, my dear Little Gray: he will have learned of Mlle. Aimée’s marriage. But mercy is in the balance; you ‘ll have to give him the address. ” “Come on, I’ll go. Is the Hôtel des Princes far? ” “Don’t bother: it’s on my way, I’ll go in as I pass, and I’ll talk to this gentleman. See you soon.” If he had anything, I would go and tell you. As I walked along, I was thinking: A rich relative! It’s not at Léonce that such a windfall will come! I asked for Monsieur Bourgade, and immediately a valet from the hotel went ahead of me to show me. Monsieur Bourgade occupied a magnificent apartment on the first floor, overlooking the street. I understood his disdain for the slums of Rue Traversine. This lord made me wait for ten minutes, which I conscientiously spent cursing him. I felt bubbling within me a vigorous indignation, in the style of Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Ah! you scoundrel, I said in a low voice, you are their relative, and you are staying at the Hôtel des Princes! Your name is Bourgade, and you make me wait in the antechamber! When the door opened, I let loose the floodgates on my rhetoric. I was young. At most, I took the trouble to look at my interlocutor: my eyes were only useful for hurling thunderbolts. I proudly presented myself as an old friend of Madame and Mlle Bourgade. I recounted how I had intruded into their intimacy, without having the honor of being a member of the family; I painted a moving picture of their misery, their courage, their work, their virtue. Believe me , I did not skimp on colors and that I did not proceed by half-tones! I affected to repeat Bourgade’s name often, and each time I emphasized it. My indictment had its effect. M. Bourgade did not look me in the face: he hid his head in his hands, he seemed overwhelmed. To finish him off, I told him about Matthieu’s behavior; I told him the story of the coat hired for ten francs, and all the privations that this worthy young man had imposed on himself, although he was not of the family and his name was not Bourgade. Excellent Matthieu! He took from his necessities, when so many others are stingy with their superfluities! Finally, he had married this abandoned orphan; he had taken her to Auray, to the house of her ancestors; he had given her a name, a fortune, a family! Today, Aimée Bourgade, happy wife, happy mother, no longer needed anyone, and could disdain, in turn, the selfish world that had disdained her. M. Bourgade spread his hands and I saw his face flooded with tears: She is my daughter, he said; I thank you very much for loving her so. My dear child! Let me kiss you! I didn’t need to be told twice. I didn’t ask him how or why he was alive; I didn’t ask him any questions or objections, I took him by the neck and kissed him four or five times on both cheeks. I was quite sure I wasn’t mistaken: a father’s tears are always recognizable! However, when the first emotion had passed, I looked at him with an air of profound astonishment, and he noticed it. I will explain everything to you, he said, when I have seen my wife and daughter. I am running to Auray. Thank you; goodbye; see you soon! –Halt! Please. I’m not letting you go yet. First of all, we can only leave this evening on the seven o’clock train; then there are precautions to be taken, and you won’t just disembark in the square at Auray. You would kill your wife and daughter, and the Breton peasants would kill you yourself with pitchforks: a ghost! Sit here and tell me your story. Then I’ll tell you the precautions you have to take. But how is it that you escaped this shipwreck? On which section of mast? On which chicken coop? –My God! Nothing could be simpler. When the ship went down, I was no longer on board. You know what I was going to do in America. We stopped for eight days in Rio de Janeiro to pick up passengers and merchandise. I’m going ashore like everyone else . I had letters for some French people established there, and among others for a dyewood merchant named Charlier. We talked; I explained my system to him; he was struck by it: everyone’s minds were turned towards California. Charlier assured me that my invention was excellent, but that I was not strong enough to operate it alone, and that I would not find any workers. Do better, he told me, disembark with arms and baggage; establish yourself as a machine builder, and operate the Bourgade separator here. The complete apparatus will cost you five hundred francs, you will sell it for a thousand; all the miners who go to San Francisco will get their supplies from you in passing. Believe me, this is the real California. You don’t have money to start the business, some will be provided for you; a good business always finds capital, especially in America. If you need a partner, here I am. That’s how we founded the house of Charlier, Bourgade et Cie, whose shares are listed on the Paris Stock Exchange. We issued them with a capital of five hundred francs, and I have a thousand of my own. They have increased tenfold in value, and they won’t stop there. There is talk of new mines in Australia. “What?” I said to him, “you’ve made five million! ” “Better than that, but what does it matter! Tell me, then, by what miracle of misfortune all my letters remained unanswered? ” “You will find them at the post office. The news of the sinking of the Belle-Antoinette was quickly learned in Paris . Your first letter will have arrived a few days later, when these ladies had left the rue d’Orléans. I seem to remember that they moved without giving their address: they wanted to hide their misery, and besides, they weren’t expecting any more news from anyone. How could the post office have discovered them? The postman doesn’t come into the Rue Traversine once in eight days. –You have no idea what I suffered: writing for more than two years without receiving a single word in reply! –Come on! Come on! I saw two women who suffered as much as you. –No; they were weeping over a real misfortune; I saw a thousand imaginary ones. I knew they were without resources, exposed to all the privations and all the advice of poverty; I was rich, and I could do nothing for them! That cursed cholera of 1849 made me spend many sleepless nights. I would have liked to come to Paris, question the police, search the whole city; but I was stuck at home! I had a note inserted in the Press and the Constitutionnel, but no one replied. So you don’t read the newspapers? “Not often; and these ladies, never. ” “I read them all, and I’m glad I did. It was the Siècle that told me about Aimée’s marriage. ” “Now I must tell her of your return. But beautifully, if you please; she is a wet nurse. If you believe me, you will be preceded by an ambassador. I happen to know a young man who is looking for a position: he is the brother of Matthieu, Aimée’s brother-in-law ; moreover, a man of intelligence and worthy of representing a great power. If you are satisfied with his services, I will tell you how to pay your dues. Would you like us to call on him?” A few hours later, M. Bourgade, Léonce, and Dorothée climbed into a fine post-chaise, which the railway took to Angers. In Vannes, Mr. Bourgade stayed at the hotel. The newlyweds continued their journey and arrived by carriage, as Léonce had predicted. When Dorothée expressed, in vague terms, the idea that Mr. Bourgade might not be dead, the good widow replied: Perhaps! She had become so accustomed to happiness that nothing seemed impossible to her. Léonce recalled what the student from the central school had once told me about the separator. If the invention had survived, the inventor might have escaped shipwreck. Hope returned in gentle waves to these brave hearts, and the day Mr. Bourgade appeared in Auray, his wife and daughter naively exclaimed: We knew very well that you were not dead! Mr. Bourgade does not have the appearance of a great lord, far from it! but he doesn’t have the manners of an upstart either. If you met him on foot, you’d think you were seeing a good jeweler from the Rue d’Orléans. This excellent little man deserved to have a son-in-law like Matthieu. He gave his daughter a dowry of two million, much to the confusion of Matthieu, who said: I’m an intriguer; I abused my personal advantages to make a rich marriage. The Debays They have built a princely residence; what adds to the beauty of their castle is that there are no poor people nearby. Matthieu has finished his theses and obtained his doctoral degree; we do not have two doctors in France as rich as him, we do not have four as hardworking. Aimée gives her husband a child every year. Léonce no longer thinks of imitating M. de Marsay; he has two daughters and a bit of a belly. For these reasons, he lives in Brittany, in the middle of the family. He has a hundred thousand francs a year, since Matthieu has them. M. and Mme Stock have crossed the Ocean; M. Bourgade has given them a place in his factory. Dorothée’s father is still intelligent and still a gambler; he wins over no one of any type and loses everything he wins. Petit-Gris and his wife no longer live on Rue Traversine; if you want to meet them, you will have to take the road to Auray. They have not lost that admirable sweeping of which they were so proud; they keep the castle clean and do a thorough dusting. I receive news from my friends five or six times a year. Only yesterday they sent me a basket of oysters and a crate of sardines. The sardines were good, but the oysters had opened on the way. THE UNCLE AND THE NEPHEW. Chapter 5. I am sure that you have passed twenty times in front of Doctor Auvray’s house , without guessing that miracles are performed there. It is a modest and almost hidden dwelling, without pomp and without a sign; one does not even read on the door this banal inscription: Maison de santé. It is situated towards the end of the Avenue Montaigne, between the Gothic palace of Prince Soltikoff and the gymnasium of the great Triat, which regenerates man by the trapeze. A bronze-painted gate opens onto a small garden of lilacs and rose bushes. The caretaker’s lodge is on the left; the pavilion on the right contains the doctor’s office and the apartment of his wife and daughter. The main building is at the back; it turns its back on the avenue and opens all its windows to the southeast, onto a small park well planted with chestnut trees and lime trees. It is there that the doctor treats and often cures the insane. I would not introduce you to his house if there was a risk of encountering all kinds of madness there; but fear not, you will not have the distressing spectacle of imbecility, paralytic madness, or even dementia. M. Auvray has created, as they say, a specialty: he treats monomania. He is an excellent man, full of knowledge and wit, a philosopher and student of Esquirol and Laromiguière. If you ever met him with his bald head, his clean-shaven chin, his black clothes and his dull physiognomy, you would not know if he was a doctor, a professor, or a priest. When he opened his thick lips, you guessed that he was going to say to you: my child! His eyes are not ugly for eyes that are flush with the head; they cast around them a broad, clear and serene gaze; one perceives in the depths a whole world of good thoughts. These eyes of all types are like days opening onto a beautiful soul. Mr. Auvray’s vocation was decided when he was still an intern at the Salpêtrière. He passionately studied monomania, this curious alteration of the faculties of the mind which is rarely explained by a physical cause, which does not respond to any visible lesion of the nervous system, and which is cured by moral treatment. He was assisted in his observations by a young supervisor from the Pinel division, quite pretty and very well-bred. He fell in love with her, and, as soon as he became a doctor, he married her. This was a modest entry into life. However, he had a little wealth, which he used to found the establishment you know about. With a little charlatanism, he would have made his fortune; he was content to cover his expenses. He avoids noise, and when he has obtained a marvelous cure, he does not announce it from the rooftops. His reputation made itself, almost without his knowledge. Do you want proof? The treatise on Reasoning Monomania, which he published at Baillière in 1842, is in its sixth edition, without the author having sent a single copy to the newspapers. Modesty is certainly good in itself, but it should not be abused. Mlle Auvray has no more than twenty thousand francs in dowry, and she will be twenty-two in April. About two weeks ago (it was, I think, Thursday, December 13), a hired coupé stopped in front of M. Auvray’s gate. The coachman asked for the door, and the door opened. The carriage advanced to the pavilion inhabited by the doctor, and two men entered briskly into his office. The servant asked them to sit down and wait until the visit was over. It was ten o’clock in the morning. One of the two strangers was a man of fifty, tall, dark, sanguine, colorful, rather ugly, and above all badly shaped; pierced ears, thick hands, enormous thumbs. Imagine a workman dressed in his employer’s clothes: that’s M. Morlot. His nephew, François Thomas, is a young man of twenty-three, difficult to describe, because he looks like everyone else. He is neither tall nor short, neither handsome nor ugly, neither built like a Hercules, nor chiseled like a dandy, but average in every way, modest from head to toe , brown in hair, in mind, and even in dress. When he entered M. Auvray’s, he seemed very agitated: he walked around with a sort of rage, he couldn’t keep still, he looked at twenty things at once, and he would have touched everything if his hands hadn’t been tied. Calm down, his uncle said to him; What I am doing with it is for your own good. You will be happy here, and the doctor will cure you. –I am not ill. Why did you tie me up? –Because you would have thrown me out the door. You are not in your right mind, my poor François; M. Auvray will restore it to you. –I reason as well as you, uncle, and I do not know what you mean. I have a sound mind, a sound judgment, and an excellent memory. Do you want me to recite some verses to you? Do I have to explain some Latin? Here is a Tacitus in this library…. If you prefer another experiment, I will solve a problem in arithmetic or geometry…. You do not want to?.. Well! listen to what we did this morning…. You came at eight o’clock, not to wake me, since I was not asleep, but to get me out of bed. I washed myself, without Germain’s help; You asked me to follow you to Doctor Auvray, I refused; you insisted, I got angry . Germain helped you tie my hands, I will send him away this evening. I owe him thirteen days’ wages, that is to say thirteen francs, since I took him on at the rate of thirty francs a month. You will owe him compensation, you are the cause of him losing his New Year’s money. Is that reasonable? And do you still intend to make me pass for a mentally ill person?… Ah! my dear uncle, come to your senses! Remember that my mother was your sister! What would she say, my poor mother, if she saw me here?… I don’t hold it against you, and everything can be arranged amicably . You have a daughter, Miss Claire Morlot…. –Ah! I’ve caught you out! You see that you’re no longer in your right mind! I have a daughter, myself? But I am a bachelor, and very much a bachelor! “You have a daughter,” François resumed mechanically. “My poor nephew!… Come, listen to me carefully. Do you have a cousin? ” “A cousin? No, I have no cousin. Oh! you will not find me at fault. I have neither male nor female cousins. ” “I am your uncle, am I not? ” “Yes, you are my uncle, although you forgot it this morning. ” “If I had a daughter, she would be your cousin; now, you have no cousin, therefore I have no daughter. ” “You are right… I had the happiness of seeing her this summer at the waters of Ems with his mother. I love him; I have reason to believe that I am not indifferent to him, and I have the honor of asking you for his hand. “Whose hand? ” “The hand of your daughter. ” “Come now!” thought Uncle Morlot, “Mr. Auvray will be very clever if he cures him! I will pay six thousand francs in pension from my nephew’s income. Whoever pays six out of thirty, has twenty-four left. Now I am rich. Poor François! ” He sat down and opened a book at random. “Sit here,” he said to the young man, “I am going to read you something. Try to listen; it will calm you. He read: Monomania is the obstinacy of an idea, the exclusive dominion of a passion. Its seat is in the heart; it is there that it must be sought and cured. Its causes are love, fear, vanity, ambition, remorse. It betrays itself by the same symptoms as passion; sometimes by joy, gaiety, audacity, and noise; sometimes by timidity, sadness, and silence. During this reading, François seemed to calm down and doze off: it was warm in the doctor’s office. Bravo! thought M. Morlot; here is already a miracle of medicine: it puts to sleep a man who was neither hungry nor sleepy. François did not sleep, but he played sleep perfectly. He inclined his head in time, and mathematically regulated the monotonous sound of his breathing. Uncle Morlot was caught in it: he continued reading in a low voice, then he yawned, then he stopped reading, then he let his book slide, then he closed his eyes, then he fell asleep in good faith, to the great satisfaction of his nephew, who was leering at him maliciously out of the corner of his eye. François began by moving his chair; M. Morlot moved no more than a tree; François walked around making his boots creak on the parquet floor: M. Morlot began to snore. Then the mentally ill person approached the desk, found a scraper, pushed it into a corner, pressed firmly by the handle and cut the rope that tied his arms. He freed himself, regained control of his hands, suppressed a cry of joy and came with small steps towards his uncle. In two minutes M. Morlot was tied up firmly, but with such delicacy that his sleep was not even disturbed. François admired his work and picked up the book, which had slid to the ground. It was the latest edition of Monomanie raisonnante. He took it to a corner and began to read, like a wise man, while waiting for the doctor to arrive. Chapter 6. I must, however, relate the background of François and his uncle. François was the only son of a former tablet maker in the Passage du Saumon, named Mr. Thomas. Tablet making is a good business; you make a hundred percent on almost every item. Since his father’s death, François had enjoyed that ease which is called honest, no doubt because it frees us from doing base things, perhaps also because it allows us to be honest with our friends: he had an income of thirty thousand francs. His tastes were extremely simple, as I think I told you . He had an innate preference for what does not shine, and he naturally chose his gloves, his waistcoats and his coats in that series of modest colors which extends between black and brown. He did not remember having dreamed of panache even in his earliest childhood, and the ribbons which are most envied had never disturbed his sleep. He did not wear glasses, for the reason, he said, that he had good eyes; nor a pin in his tie, because his tie stayed on without a pin; but the fact is that he was afraid of being noticed. The varnish on his boots dazzled him. He would have been very sorry if the chance of birth had afflicted him with a remarkable name. If to finish him off, his godfather had called him Améric or Fernand, he would not have signed his life. Fortunately his names were as modest as if he had chosen them himself. His timidity prevented him from taking up a career. After crossing the threshold of the baccalaureate, he leaned against that great door which leads to everything, and he remained in contemplation before the seven or eight paths which were open to him. The bar seemed too noisy to him, medicine too hectic, teaching too imposing, commerce too complicated, administration too subjugating. As for the army, it was not to be thought of: it was not that he was afraid of the enemy; but he trembled at the thought of the uniform. He therefore stuck to his first profession, not as the easiest, but as the most obscure: he lived off his income. As he had not earned his money himself, he lent willingly. In return for such a rare virtue, heaven gave him many friends. He loved them all sincerely, and did their bidding with the utmost grace. When he met one of them on the boulevard, it was always he who let them take his arm, turned around , and walked wherever they wanted to lead him. Note that he was neither stupid, nor narrow-minded, nor ignorant. He knew three or four modern languages; he mastered Latin, Greek, and everything one learns at college; he had some notions of commerce, industry, agriculture, and literature, and he judged a new book soundly when no one was there to listen. But it was with women that his weakness showed itself in all its force. He always had to love someone, and if in the morning, while rubbing his eyes, he had not seen some glimmer of love on the horizon, he would have gotten up gloomy and would infallibly have put his stockings on backward. When he attended a concert or a show, he would begin to search the room for a face that he liked, and he would fall in love with it until the evening. If he found one, the spectacle was beautiful, the concert delightful; if not, everyone spoke badly or sang out of tune. His heart had such a horror of emptiness that, in the presence of a mediocre beauty, he would beat his sides to find her perfect. You will guess without me that this universal tenderness was not debauchery, but innocence. He loved all women without telling them, because he had never dared to speak to any of them. He was the most candid and the most harmless of rogues; Don Juan, if you like, but before Dona Julia. When he loved, he would compose bold declarations within himself that regularly stopped on his lips. He paid court: he showed the depths of his soul; he pursued long conversations, charming dialogues in which he made the questions and the answers. He found speeches energetic enough to soften rocks, burning enough to melt ice; but no woman was grateful to him for his silent aspirations: one must want to be loved. The difference is great between desire and will, the desire that sails softly on the clouds, the will that runs on foot among the stones; the one that expects everything from chance, the other that asks nothing but itself; the will that walks straight to the goal through hedges and ditches, ravines and mountains; the desire that remains seated in its place and cries in its sweetest voice: ….
Bell tower, bell tower, arrive, or I am dead! However, in August of this year, four months before binding his uncle’s arms, François had dared to love face to face. He had met at the Ems waters a young girl almost as fierce as himself, and whose trembling timidity had given him courage: she was a frail and delicate Parisian, pale as a fruit ripened in the shade, transparent like those beautiful children whose blue blood flows openly under their skin. She kept company with her mother, whom an inveterate illness (chronic laryngitis, if I am not mistaken) condemned to take the waters. The mother and daughter must have lived far from the world, for they cast a long, astonished gaze over the noisy crowd of bathers. François was introduced to them unexpectedly by a convalescent friend of his who was traveling to Italy via Germany. He saw them assiduously for a month, and he was, so to speak, their only company. For delicate souls, the crowd is a great solitude; the more noise the world makes around them, the more they huddle in their corner to whisper to each other. The young Parisian and her mother entered François’s heart straight away, and found themselves at ease there. They discovered new treasures every day, like the first navigators who set foot in America; they trod with delight this virgin and mysterious land. They never inquired whether he was rich or poor: it was enough for them to know he was good, and no find could be more precious to them than that of this heart of gold. For his part, Francis was delighted with his metamorphosis. Have you ever been told how spring blooms in the gardens of Russia? Yesterday the snow covered everything; today a ray of sunshine arrives and puts winter to flight. At noon the trees are in blossom, in the evening they are covered with leaves, the next day they almost have fruit. Thus Francis’s love blossomed and fructified. His coldness and embarrassment were swept away like ice cubes in a debacle; the ashamed and pusillanimous child became a man in a few weeks. I don’t know who first uttered the word marriage, but what does it matter? It is always implied when two honest hearts speak of love. François was of age and master of his own person, but the one he loved depended on a father whose consent he had to obtain. It was here that the unfortunate young man’s timidity took over. Claire had told him in vain: Write boldly; my father has been warned: you will receive his consent by return mail. He wrote and rewrote his letter more than a hundred times, without deciding to send it. However, the task was easy, and the most vulgar mind would have pulled it off gloriously. François knew the name, position, fortune , and even the mood of his future father-in-law. He had been initiated into all the secrets of the family; he was practically part of the household. What remained for him to do? To indicate in a few words what he was and what he had; the answer was not doubtful. He hesitated so long that after a month Claire and her mother were reduced to doubting him. I believe they would have been patient for another two weeks, but paternal wisdom would not allow it. If Claire loved, if her lover did not decide to officially declare his intentions, it was necessary, without loss of time, to put the young girl in a safe place, in Paris. Perhaps then M. François Thomas would decide to come and ask for her hand in marriage: he knew where to find her. One morning when François was going to take these ladies for a walk, the head waiter announced to him that they had left for Paris. Their apartment was already occupied by an English family. Such a harsh blow, falling unexpectedly on such a weak head, bewildered his reason. He went out like a mentally ill person, and began to look for Claire in all the places where he usually took her. He returned home with a violent migraine which he treated God knows how! He bled himself, took boiling water baths, applied ferocious mustard plasters; he avenged on his body the sufferings of his soul. When he thought he was cured, he left for France, determined to ask for Claire’s hand before even changing his clothes. He ran to Paris, jumped out of the carriage, forgot his luggage, got into a cab, and shouted to the coachman: “Hers, and at a gallop! ” “Where, bourgeois? ” “At Monsieur’s…, rue… I don’t know anymore!” He had forgotten the name and address of the woman he loved. Let’s go to my house, he thought; I’ll find her…. He handed his card to the coachman who drove him home. His concierge was a childless old man named Emmanuel. Arriving before him, François bowed low and said: Sir, you have a daughter, Miss Claire Emmanuel. I wanted to write to you to ask for her hand; but I thought it would be more proper to do this in person. It was recognized that he was mentally ill, and they ran to fetch his uncle Morlot from the Faubourg Saint-Antoine. Uncle Morlot was the most honest man on the rue de Charonne, which is one of the longest in Paris. He made antique furniture with ordinary talent and extraordinary conscientiousness. He wouldn’t have given blackened pear wood for ebony, or delivered a sideboard from his factory for a piece of medieval furniture! And yet he possessed, just like anyone else, the art of splitting new wood and simulating worm bites, of which the worms were innocent. But he had as a principle and a law to harm no one. By an almost absurd moderation in luxury industries, he limited his profits to five percent over and above the general expenses of his house: thus he had earned more esteem than money. When he wrote an invoice, he would start the addition over as many as three times, so afraid was he of making a mistake to his advantage. After thirty years of this business, he was almost as rich as when he left his apprenticeship: he had earned his living like the humblest of his workmen, and he wondered with a little jealousy how Mr. Thomas had managed to amass an income. If his brother-in-law looked down on him a little, with the vanity of the upstart, he looked down on him even more, with the pride of a man who did not want to succeed. He draped himself superbly in his mediocrity, and said with plebeian arrogance: At least, I am sure of not having anything to anyone. Man is a strange animal: I am not the first who has said so. This excellent M. Morlot, whose meticulous honesty amused the whole suburb, felt in the depths of his heart a pleasant tickling when someone came to tell him of his nephew’s illness. He heard a small, insinuating voice saying to him in a low voice: If François is a mentally ill person, you become his guardian. Probity hastened to reply: We shall not be the richer for it. “What!” the voice continued: “but the pension of a lunatic has never cost thirty thousand francs a year.” Besides, we will take the trouble; we will neglect our affairs; we deserve compensation; we are not wronging anyone.–But, replied disinterestedness, one owes oneself gratis to one’s family.–Really! murmured the voice. Then why has our family never done anything for us? We have had moments of difficulty, difficult deadlines: neither nephew François, nor his late father ever thought of us.–Bah! cried kindness, it will be nothing; it is a false alarm, François will recover in two days.–Perhaps also, continued the obstinate voice, the illness will kill its patient, and we will inherit without wronging anyone. We have worked thirty years for the sovereign who reigns at Potsdam; who knows if a blow of a hammer on the head of a thoughtless person will not make our fortune? The good man stopped his ear; but this ear was so large, so ample, so nobly flared in the shape of a sea conch, that the subtle and persistent little voice always slipped into it in spite of himself. The house on the rue de Charonne was entrusted to the care of the foreman; the uncle took up his winter quarters in his nephew’s beautiful apartment. He slept in a good bed, and felt comfortable. He sat at an excellent table, and the stomach cramps of which he had complained for many years were magically cured. He was served, combed and shaved by Germain, and he got used to it. Little by little he consoled himself with seeing his sick nephew; he came to terms with the idea that François might never recover. At most, if he repeated to himself from time to time , for the sake of his conscience: I’m not harming anyone! After three months, he was bored of having a mentally ill person in the house, because he thought he was at home. François’s perpetual rambling and his mania for asking Claire to marry him seemed an intolerable scourge: he resolved to clean up the house and shut the sick man up at Mr. Auvray’s. After all, he told himself, my nephew will be better cared for and I will be more at ease. Science has recognized that it is good to take mentally ill people out of their surroundings to distract them: I am doing my duty. It was in these thoughts that he had fallen asleep, when François took it into his head to tie his hands: what an awakening! Chapter 7. The doctor entered, apologizing. François got up, put his book back on the desk, and explained the case with great volubility, pacing back and forth with great strides. Sir, he said, this is my maternal uncle whom I have come to entrust to your care. You see a man of forty-five to fifty years of age, hardened to manual labor and the privations of a laborious life; moreover, born of healthy parents, in a family where no case of mental alienation has ever been seen. You will therefore not have to struggle with a hereditary disease. His illness is one of the most curious monomanias that you have ever had the opportunity to observe: it passes with incredible rapidity from extreme gaiety to extreme sadness, it is a singular mixture of monomania properly speaking and melancholy. “Has he not completely lost his mind?” “No, sir, he is not demented; he is only delusional on one point; and he belongs to your specialty. ” “What is the nature of his illness? ” “Alas! sir, the nature of our century, greed! The poor invalid is very much of his time. After having worked since childhood, he finds himself without a fortune. My father, who started from the same point as him, left me a fairly considerable estate. My dear uncle began by being jealous; then he thought that, being my only relative, he would become my heir in the event of my death, and my guardian in the event of madness, and as a weak mind easily believes what it desires, the unfortunate man persuaded himself that I had lost my mind. He told everyone, and he will tell you yourself. In the carriage, although his hands were tied, he believed that it was he who was bringing me to you.” “When did the first attack occur?” “About three months ago. He went down to my concierge and said to him with a terrified air: Monsieur Emmanuel, you have a daughter… leave her in your lodge and come and help me tie up my nephew. ” “Does he judge his condition correctly? Does he know he is ill? ” “No, sir, and I think that is a good sign. I will tell you, moreover , that there are notable disturbances in the functions of life and nutrition. He has completely lost his appetite, and he is subject to long periods of insomnia. ” “So much the better! A lunatic who sleeps and eats regularly is almost incurable. Allow me to wake him.” Monsieur Auvray gently shook the sleeper’s shoulder, who sat up. His first impulse was to rub his eyes. When he saw his tied hands, he guessed what had happened during his sleep, and he burst into a fit of laughter. What a joke! he said. François pulled the doctor aside. You see! Well, in five minutes, he’ll be furious. “Let me do it. I know how to handle them.” He smiled at the sick man like a child you want to amuse. “My friend,” he said, “you wake up early; have you had good dreams? ” “Me! I didn’t dream. I laugh to see myself tied up like a person. You’d think I was the mentally ill person.” “There!” said François. “Please be so kind as to relieve me, doctor; I will explain myself better when I am at my ease. ” “My child, I am going to untie you; but you promise to be very good? ” “Oh, sir, do you honestly take me for a mentally ill person? ” “No, my friend, but you are ill. We will treat you, we will cure you. Here! Your hands are free, do not abuse them. ” “What the devil do you want me to do with them? I was bringing my nephew to you… ” “Good!” said M. Auvray; “we will talk about that presently. I found you asleep; do you often sleep during the day? ” “Never! It is this stupid book… ” “Oh! oh!” said the author, “the case is serious. So you believe that your nephew is mentally ill? ” “To be tied up, sir;” and the proof is that I had to tie his hands with this rope. –But it was you who had his hands tied. Don’t you remember that I have just freed you? –It was me, it was him. Let me explain the whole matter to you! –Hush! my friend, you are getting excited, you are very red: I don’t want you to tire yourself out. Just answer my questions. You say that your nephew is ill? –No one mentally ill! No one mentally ill! No one mentally ill! –And you are happy to see him no one mentally ill? –Me? –Answer me frankly. You don’t want him to get well, do you? –Why? –So that his fortune remains in your hands. You want to be rich? Is he angry with you for having worked so long without making a fortune? You think your turn has come? M. Morlot did not answer. His eyes were fixed on the ground. He
wondered if he wasn’t having a bad dream, and he tried to unravel what was real in this story of tied hands, this interrogation, and the questions of this stranger who was reading his conscience like an open book. Does he hear voices? asked M. Auvray. The poor uncle felt his hair stand on end. He remembered that fierce voice speaking in his ear, and he answered mechanically: “Sometimes. ” “Ah! he’s hallucinating. ” “But no! I’m not sick! Let me go out! I’d lose my mind here. Ask all my friends, they’ll tell you I’m in perfect sense. Feel my pulse, you’ll see I don’t have a fever. ” “Poor uncle!” said François. “He doesn’t know that madness is a delirium without fever.” “Sir,” added the doctor, “if we could give our patients a fever , we would cure them all.” Mr. Morlot threw himself into his chair. His nephew continued to pace the doctor’s office. Sir, said François, I am deeply distressed by my uncle’s misfortune, but it is a great consolation for me to be able to entrust him to a man like you. I have read your admirable book, Monomanie raisonnante: it is the most remarkable thing written in this genre since the Treatise on Mental Illnesses of the great Esquirol. I know, moreover, that you are a father to your patients, so I will not do you the insult of recommending Mr. Morlot to you. As for the price of his board, I leave it entirely to you. He took a thousand-franc note from his wallet and placed it nimbly on the mantelpiece. I will have the honor of appearing here sometime next week. When is it permitted to visit the sick? ” From noon to two o’clock. As for me, I am always at home. Goodbye, sir.” “Arrest him,” cried Uncle Morlot, “don’t let him go! He’s the one who’s mentally ill; I’ll explain his madness to you. ” “Calm down, my dear uncle!” said François, withdrawing. “I’ll leave you in the hands of M. Auvray; he’ll take good care of you.” M. Morlot wanted to run after his nephew, but the doctor held him back: What a fatality! cried the poor uncle; he won’t say something stupid! If he could only be a little unreasonable, you would see that it is not I who am mentally ill. François was already holding the doorknob. He retraced his steps as if he had forgotten something, walked straight to the doctor and said to him: Sir, my uncle’s illness is not the only reason that brings me here. “Ah! ah!” murmured M. Morlot, who saw a ray of hope shine. The young man continued: “You have a daughter. ” “At last!” cried the poor uncle. “You are witness that he said: You have a daughter!” The doctor replied to François: “Yes, sir. Explain to me…. “You have a daughter, Miss Claire Auvray. ” “There she is! There she is! I told you so. ” “Yes, sir,” said the doctor. “Three months ago, she was at the waters of Ems with her mother.” “Bravo! bravo!” shouted M. Morlot. “Yes, sir,” replied M. Auvray. M. Morlot ran to the doctor and said, “You are not the doctor; you are a resident of the house! ” “My friend,” replied the doctor, “if you are not good, we will give you a shower. ” M. Morlot recoiled in terror. His nephew continued, “Sir, I love your daughter, I have some hope of being loved by her, and provided her feelings have not changed since September, I have the honor of asking for her hand. ” The doctor replied, “So it is to M. François Thomas that I have the honor of speaking? ” “To himself, sir, and I should have begun by telling you my name. ” “Sir, allow me to tell you that you have kept us waiting.” At that moment, the doctor’s attention was attracted by M. Morlot, who was rubbing his hands with a sort of rage. What is the matter, my friend? he asked him in his gentle, fatherly voice. “Nothing, nothing; I’m rubbing my hands. ” “And why? ” “I have something that bothers me. ” “Show me: I can’t see anything. ” “Can’t you see? There, there, between your fingers. I can see it clearly! ” “What do you see? ” “My nephew’s money. Take it away, doctor! I am an honest man; I want nothing from anyone.” While the doctor listened attentively to M. Morlot’s first ramblings, a strange revolution took place in François’s person . He was turning pale, he was cold, his teeth were chattering violently . M. Auvray turned towards him to ask him what he was feeling. “Nothing,” he replied; “it’s coming, I hear it; it’s joy… but I am overwhelmed by it. Happiness falls on me like snow. The winter will be harsh for lovers.” Doctor, look at what’s in my head. M. Morlot ran to him, shouting: Enough! Don’t be unreasonable any longer! I don’t want you to be a mentally ill person anymore. It’s as if I were the one who stole your reason. I’m honest. Doctor, look at my hands; search my pockets; send to my house, rue de Charonne, in the Faubourg Saint-Antoine; open all the drawers; you’ll see that I don’t owe anyone anything! The doctor was very embarrassed between his two patients when a door opened, and Claire came to tell her father that lunch was on the table. François stood up as if by a spring; but his will alone ran to meet Mademoiselle Auvray. His body fell heavily back onto the armchair. He could barely stammer out a few words. Claire! It’s me. I love you. Will you?… He passed his hand over his forehead. His pale face turned a bright red. His temples were throbbing violently; he felt a violent compression above his eyebrows . Claire, as dead as she was alive, seized both his hands: his skin was dry and his pulse so hard that the poor girl was terrified. This was not how she had hoped to see him again. In a few minutes, an orange tint spread around the wings of the nose; nausea came next, and M. Auvray recognized all the symptoms of a bilious fever. What a pity, he said, that this fever had not befallen his uncle; it would have cured him! He rang; the servant ran; then Madame Auvray, whom François barely recognized, he was so overwhelmed. It was necessary to put the sick man to bed, and without delay. Claire offered her room and her bed. It was a charming little boarding school bed with white curtains; a cute and chastely coquettish room, hung with pink percale, and decorated with large heathers in bluish porcelain vases. On the mantelpiece was a large onyx cup: it was the only present that Claire had received from her lover. If you catch a fever, dear reader, I wish you a similar infirmary. While François was being given first aid, his exasperated uncle was bustling about in the room, stopping the doctor, embracing the sick man, grabbing Madame Auvray’s hand, and shouting at the top of his lungs: Save him quickly , quickly! I don’t want him to die; I will oppose his death, it is my right: I am his uncle and his guardian! If you don’t cure him, they will say that it was I who killed him. You are witnesses that I am not asking for his inheritance. I am giving all his possessions to the poor. A glass of water, please, to wash my hands! He was transferred to the nursing home. There, he became so agitated that they had to put him in a heavy canvas jacket that is laced up at the back and whose sleeves are sewn at the ends: this is what is called a straitjacket. The nurses took care of him. Madame Auvray and her daughter cared for François with love, although the details of the treatment were not always pleasant; but the more delicate sex delights in heroism. You will tell me that these two women saw in their sick man a son-in-law and a husband, but I believe that if he had been a stranger he would have lost almost nothing. Saint Vincent de Paul invented only a uniform, for there is in women of every rank and age the makings of a sister of charity. Sitting night and day in this feverish room, the mother and daughter spent their moments of rest talking together about their memories and their hopes. They could not explain François’s long silence, nor his sudden return, nor the occasion which had brought him to the Avenue Montaigne. If he loved Claire, why did he keep him waiting for three months? Did he need his uncle’s illness to get into M. Auvray’s house? If he had forgotten his love, why hadn’t he taken his uncle to another doctor? There are enough of them in Paris. Perhaps he had believed his passion was cured, until Claire’s presence undeceived him? But no, since, before seeing her again, he had asked for her hand in marriage. To all these questions, it was François who answered in his delirium. Claire, leaning over his lips, eagerly gathered his every word; she commented on them with her mother and the doctor, who soon glimpsed the truth. For a man trained to unravel the most confused ideas and to read the souls of mentally ill people as in a half- erased book, the daydreams of a feverish person are an intelligible language, and the most confused delirium is not without enlightenment. It was soon known that he had lost his mind and in what circumstances; it was even explained how he had innocently caused his uncle’s illness. Then began a new series of fears for Miss Auvray. François had been mentally ill. Would the terrible crisis she had unknowingly provoked cure the patient? The doctor assured him that fever has the privilege of judging, that is to say, of ending madness: however, there is no rule without exception, especially in medicine. Supposing he were cured, would there not be relapses to fear? Would Mr. Auvray want to give his daughter to one of his patients? As for me, said Claire, smiling sadly, I’m not afraid of anything: I would risk it. I am the cause of all his ills; should I not console him? After all, his madness was reduced to asking for my hand: he will have nothing more to ask the day I am his wife; we will therefore have nothing to fear. The poor child was only sick from an excess of love; cure him well, dear father, but not too much. Let there remain enough mentally ill people to love me as I love him! “We shall see,” replied M. Auvray. “Wait until the fever has passed. If he is ashamed of having been ill, if I see him sad or melancholic after recovery, I am not responsible for anything. If, on the contrary, he remembers his illness without shame or regret, if he speaks of it with resignation, if he sees again without repugnance the people who cared for him, I don’t care about relapses! ” “Eh! My father, why should he be ashamed of having loved to excess? It is a noble and generous madness, which will never enter little souls. And how could he be reluctant to see again those who cared for him?… It is us! After six days of delirium, a profuse sweat carried away the fever, and the sick man began to convalesce. When he saw himself in an unfamiliar room, between Madame and Mademoiselle Auvray, his first idea was that he was still at the Hôtel des Quatre-Saisons, in the main street of Ems. His weakness, his thinness, and the presence of the doctor brought him back to other thoughts: he remembered, but vaguely. The doctor came to his aid. He poured out the truth with prudence, as one measures food to a body weakened by diet. François began by listening to his story like a novel in which he played no part; he was another man, a completely new man, and he emerged from the fever as from a tomb. Little by little the gaps in his memory filled in. His brain was full of empty boxes that filled in one by one, without a jolt. Soon he was master of his mind; he regained possession of the past. This cure was a work of science and above all of patience. It was here that Mr. Auvray’s paternal consideration was admired. The excellent man had the genius for gentleness. On December 25, François, sitting on his bed, weighted down with chicken broth and half an egg yolk, recounted without interruption, without agitation or rambling, without shame, without regret, and with no emotion other than quiet joy, the story of the three months that had just passed. Claire and Mrs. Auvray wept as they listened to him. The doctor seemed to be taking notes or writing from dictation, but something other than ink fell onto his paper. When the story was finished, the convalescent added by way of conclusion: Today, December 25, at three o’clock in the morning, I said to my excellent doctor, to my beloved father, Mr. Auvray, whose street and number I will never forget: Sir, you have a daughter, Miss Claire Auvray; I saw her this summer at the waters of Ems, with her mother; I love her; she has proved to me quite clearly that she loved me, and, if you are not afraid that I will fall ill again, I have the honor of asking for her hand.
The doctor only gave a small nod, but Claire put her arms around the sick man’s neck and kissed him on the forehead. I do not desire another answer when I make such a request. The same day, Mr. Morlot, calmer and freed from the straitjacket, got up at eight o’clock in the morning. Getting out of bed, he took his slippers, turned them over, turned them over, probed them carefully, and passed them to the nurse, begging him to see if they did not contain thirty thousand pounds of income. It was only then that he agreed to put on his shoes. He combed his hair for a good half hour, repeating: I don’t want anyone to say that my nephew’s fortune has passed over my head. He shook each of his clothes out of the window, after having searched them down to their last folds. Dressed, he asked for a pencil and wrote on the walls of his room: MANY OTHERS WILL NOT DESIRE. Then he began to rub his hands with incredible vivacity, to convince himself that François’ fortune was not attached to them. He scratched his fingers with his pencil, counting them from the first to the tenth, so afraid was he of forgetting one. M. Auvray paid him his daily visit: he thought he was in the presence of an examining magistrate, and earnestly asked to be searched. The doctor identified himself and informed him that François was cured. The poor man asked if the money had been found. Since my nephew is going to leave here, he said, he needs his money: where is it? I don’t have it. Unless it’s in my bed! And he overturned his bed so nimbly that no one had time to stop him. The doctor left, shaking his hand; he rubbed it with scrupulous care. They brought him his lunch; he began by exploring his napkin, his glass, his knife, his plate, repeating that he did not want to eat his nephew’s fortune. When the meal was finished, he washed his hands thoroughly . The fork is silver, he said; if only I had had any silver left after my hands! M. Auvray does not despair of saving him, but it will take time. It is especially in summer and autumn that doctors cure madness. LAND FOR SALE. Chapter 8. Henri Tourneur, who has just won his first medal at the Universal Exhibition, is not a painter of genius, but he only produces excellent pictures. He draws almost as well as M. Ingres, and his color is almost as rich as that of M. Diaz. His painting has been fashionable for four or five years, and it has nothing to fear from the whims of fashion. He sells it at English prices, that is to say, exorbitant. The Ladies of the Court Visiting the Studio of Jean Goujon were paid eighteen thousand francs for a museum in Paris. A banker from Rouen gave six thousand francs for The Kiss by Alain Chartier, a small canvas of 4, false size; and Mlle Doze Listening to the Confessions of Mlle Mars has just been bought for eleven thousand francs by a rich Belgian art lover. He has more commissions than he can fulfill in two years, and I don’t see what would prevent him from earning forty thousand francs a year. His first successes date from the Exhibition of 1850. Until then he had earned his living obscurely. Mr. Tourneur senior, a wine broker, retired from business with an income of ten thousand francs, had neither helped nor hindered his son’s vocation; he had left him to his own devices, without money, with these encouraging words: If you have talent, you will get by; if you have none, you will give up painting, and I will place you in commerce. From twenty to thirty years old, Henri designed woodcuts for cheap editions, he painted fans, confectioner’s boxes, porcelains and even fireplace fronts. The child with pot-au-feu, which is still sold in the provinces, is one of his youthful sins. These ten years of hardship were profitable for him: he learned economy. The day he saw his bread assured for eighteen months, he turned his back on industry and took up painting. His studio is the largest on Avenue Frochot and one of the most beautiful in Paris. It is a museum where you can see a little of everything, except paintings. The reason is very simple. When Tourneur wants to paint a young lady from the time of Louis XIII sealing a love letter, he starts by running around the dealers of curiosities: he buys either a tapestry of the time, or an embossed leather hanging to fill the background of the painting. He chooses a beautiful piece of antique furniture, which he has brought to his home. He unearths a small, richly inlaid desk at the back of a shop , he pays for it and carries it under his arm. He procures, at any price, the old silks and the guipure two centenarians whose costume he will compose; he watches at public auctions for Marion Delorme’s writing desk and Ninon de Lenclos’s stamp . Such is his love of precision. He dresses his mannequin with scrupulous care, he brings in a beautiful model for the head and hands, and he paints everything from life. He only does one painting at a time, finishes it without interruption and delivers it immediately varnished. In his work one sees neither sketches, nor pochades, nor drafts, nor that jumble of interrupted studies, sketched imaginations and unsold paintings that one likes to encounter in a studio. One finds only a canvas in the process of being executed and already placed in the frame. But the walls are covered with splendid hangings and bristling with magnificent coats of arms, more than one of which cost a thousand francs. The old furniture and shelves support a multitude of porcelain, earthenware, stoneware, precious enamels, rare bronzes, and artistic jewelry. His house is like a branch of the Cluny Museum. As for him, those who have not seen his portrait engraved by Calamatta will never recognize him in the street. He looks much less like an artist than a young English merchant. His face is regular, a little cold; his skin very white, his hair light brown. He wears his hair in the English style, on the temples, and only wears sideburns. He is small, but well-built in his small stature. I know few men who dress better than him; he has the finest linens and the best-cut clothes. Never light colors, never eccentric shapes, and no jewelry except for his watch, which is by Breguet. If he carries a cane, it is a hundred-franc cane, with a small black tortoiseshell knob worth a hundred sous. I met him many times, when he was his own valet, and I do not remember seeing a speck of dust on him. He often went to bed without dinner, but he never went out without fresh gloves. When he took his meals in a dairy on the Rue Pigalle, he ordered his hats from the Rue Richelieu, and his shoes from the good maker. In the workshop, he dresses in white, either wool or ticking, according to the season, and never gets stained; he is clean and neat like his painting. For the past year he has indulged in the luxury of black. He is a young Nubian of eighteen, forgotten in Paris by an Englishman who was returning from Egypt. He was not baptized: Tourneur gave him the name Snowball. He taught him all the liberal arts that are within the reach of the black races: scrubbing the floor, dusting the furniture, brushing clothes, polishing shoes, and delivering letters to their addresses. Thanks to the care he has taken, he is, for ten francs a month, the best served man in all of Paris. It is claimed that he has already made considerable savings; but I, who know him, can assure you that this is not the case. Artists exaggerate everything, and particularly the savings of other artists. Tourneur has spent too much on purchases of all kinds to have much cash left over. Note, moreover, that Snowball devours three kilograms of bread a day, and you will understand why his master’s fortune is reduced to fifty thousand francs, invested in state annuities. However modest the figure may seem, it proves to any sensible man that M. Henri Tourneur is an artist of good living. He attends neither balls nor theaters, and only goes to the Comédie-Française, where he has his entries. His conduct is as regular as that of a man of thirty-five can be. However, I would not swear that he is indifferent to the beauty of Mellina Barni. When she broke off her engagement with the director of La Scala to come and sing in Paris, he persuaded her to delay her debut, which is still awaited. He is often seen at her house, and even, what is more serious, she is met sometimes at home. But that’s none of my business. On May 15 of this year, an hour after the opening of the Exposition des beaux-arts, Henri Tourneur was contemplating himself, and smiling at his painting by Alain Chartier, when he received on the shoulder one of those familiar taps which would shake the balance of an ox. He turned around, as if he had been touched on a spring; but his anger did not hold up in front of the person of all types of body ruddy smile of M. de Chingru: he began to laugh. Good morning, Van Ostade, Miéris, Terburg, Gérard Dow! cried M. de Chingru, so loudly that five or six people benefited from his speech. I saw your three paintings, they have lost nothing, they are magnificent; in fact, that’s all there is here. You beat France, Belgium and England, Meissonnier, Willems and Mulready. You paint the genre as genre itself, and you are as learned as pinxit. If the government does not give you a hundred thousand francs commission and the cross, I will demolish the Bastille! He took Henri by the arm, and added in a low voice: Do you want to get married? –Leave me alone! –A million! –You are a mentally ill person! A million would not want me. –Why is that? A million and you, you are worth the same. What does a million earn a year? Fifty thousand francs. You can do as much: you are then of the strength of a million. –Where did you dig that up? –Ah! ah! the story interests you. Listen then. There exists in the world a Mr. Gaillard…. –Who plays on the Stock Exchange? Thank you. I saw Ceinture dorée. –He does not play any more than I do; he is an archivist at the Ministry of…. –A place worth ten thousand francs? –No; three thousand six hundred, plus four hundred francs of gratuity which never fails; total four thousand. There’s the father-in-law. –And my million? –Ah! my million! You bite, Van Ostade, you bite! Mr. Gaillard is a model employee. For thirty years, he arrives at his office at five minutes to ten, leaves at five minutes to four, and in the meantime he doesn’t let himself be replaced by his hat to go play billiards. –Chingru, you’re annoying me. –A little patience! This archivist, the likes of which you don’t find anymore, lives near the top of Rue d’Amsterdam with his daughter, his sister, and his maid. Their apartment is on the fourth floor; three bedrooms, no living room. The windows…. –Goodbye, Chingru. –Goodbye, Gérard Dow. The windows overlook a plot of ten thousand meters. You haven’t left yet? –Go on! –Ten thousand meters at one hundred francs makes a million. Anyone who would deny this would be giving the lie to Pythagoras! This million, my dear Terburg, is the property of Mr. Gaillard. –But how is it…? –Rest assured, he didn’t steal it. You can steal a wallet, it happens every day; but you can’t steal a hectare of land: you’d have to have very deep pockets. In the year of grace 1830, a few days after the July stories, Mr. Gaillard, a fifth-year supernumerary, found himself in charge of a sum of seventy-five thousand francs, the inheritance of an uncle in Narbonne. He was looking for an investment sheltered from revolutions, when he discovered these fortunate plots of land, which were then worth seven francs per meter. His account was soon settled: seventy thousand francs for the purchase, five thousand for the notary and the taxman. He paid cash and was respected. –But since then, why hasn’t he sold?… –Since then? He never moved the sign, and I’ll show it to you whenever you want: Land for sale in whole or in lots. And I beg you to believe that there was no shortage of buyers. The day after the deed was signed, he was offered a profit of ten thousand francs. He said to himself: Good! I didn’t make a foolish deal. And he kept his land. When the Saint-Germain station was built, a speculator brought him two hundred thousand francs. He scratched his nose (it’s the only fault I know of him), and replied that his wife didn’t want to sell. In 1842, his wife had died; a gas company made him dazzling offers : half a million! Well, he replied, since I’ve waited twelve years, I’ll wait a little longer. I see with pleasure that time is working for me; it mustn’t be disturbed. When my daughter is old enough to marry, we’ll see! It’s good to tell you that his daughter is a contemporary of the famous piece of land. In 1850, his daughter was twenty, a fine age, and the land was worth eight hundred thousand francs, a good price. But he has become so accustomed to keeping both that it will take the cross and the banner to decide him either to sell or to marry. They preach to him that the case is quite different, that land is not lost for waiting, but that girls, past a certain age, are subject to depreciation: he plugs his ears and returns to his office to scratch paper. –And his daughter? –She’s bored at a hundred francs a day, and so wholeheartedly, that she ‘ll love the first man she sees shining on the horizon. –Isn’t she seeing anyone? –Nobody who looks human: an old provincial notary and five or six employees who look like office boys. You understand that we’re not going to give balls in an apartment with three bedrooms! I’m the only presentable man who has access to the house. –Isn’t she too ugly? –She’s magnificent! I’m just telling you that. –Does she have a human name? I warn you that if she’s called Euphrosyne…. –Rosalie: does that suit you? –Yes, Rosalie…. Rosalie…, that’s a pretty name. Is she a little high-minded?
–She? An artist, my dear, like you and me. –Let’s distinguish, I beg you. –Ungrateful! She doesn’t play any instrument, and she doesn’t go copying paintings at the Louvre; but she understands painting, she feels music like the one who invented it. Besides, a strict upbringing: the theatre six times a year, the monuments twice a month, four concerts in Lent, a serious library, few novels, and all English; no turtledoves in the house, not a cousin in the family!
–Talk, talk, Chingru; I can bear you! When will you introduce me? –Tomorrow, if you like. I’ve already spoken to her about you. –And what did you tell her? –That you were the only one of our great painters of whom I didn’t have any paintings.
–I’ll start one for you the day after the wedding. –Thank you. I’ll ask you one more favor. –If it isn’t a silver service…. –You know, my dear, that I’m nearly forty, and I have no job. At my age, everyone is settled, it’s the custom. It annoys me to be an exception, and to hear people whispering around me: M. de Chingru; a fine name; what does he do? –He has enough to live on: he’s a man who asks nothing of anyone. –Yes; but what does he do? By Jove! I’d do like everyone else, if I only had a job paying three thousand francs! Come, my little Turner, I’m not asking you for anything now; later, if you’re happy. You have influence, you know the men in high places, you go to ministers; you’ll put in a word for me, won’t you? –What are you good for? –Everything, for I haven’t studied anything specifically. –Well! I won’t say no. What time tomorrow? –At two o’clock. She’ll be alone with her aunt; you’ll come to buy a plot of land. –Do you want me to come and get you? –No, no; I’ll call at your studio; I’m never at home. Do you even know where I live? –I don’t remember exactly. –There, when I told you! Well! All my friends are as advanced as you. I don’t stay; I’m perching. At most, if I know my address, I live so little at home! Goodbye. M. de Chingru (Louis-Théramène), without an avowed profession and without a known address, is what is commonly called a studio pest. His talent consists of entering artists’ homes, giving them a censer in their faces with his person of all types of body, speaking ill of one in another, making them address him informally, and here and there taking down a sketch that they allow him to take. Without being either an artist or a critic, he nevertheless has a second-hand dealer’s nose, and he sniffs out canvases that are in disrepair quite well. In the studios where he is received, he places himself as a point of admiration along the walls, celebrating everything, the good and the bad, until he has set his sights on a work to which the artist attaches little value. He devotes all the effort of his admiration to it, he gives it all the impetuosity of his enthusiasm. He moves away from it, then he returns; he depreciates a masterpiece for the benefit of his dominant passion; he leaves. But he adjusts his last glance on the object of his desire. The next day, he is seen again, but he sees no one; he barely says hello, he goes straight to the painting from the day before. He is his pole: you would say a magnetic man. He is not afraid to say to the artist: Here is your first masterpiece; the day you did this, you left the peers; the day before, you were just a painter like the others, a Delacroix, a Troyon, a Corot; the next day, you were you. And he looks again, and he takes down this unframed canvas, he carries it to the window, he wipes it with the back of his sleeve, he puts it back in place while grumbling against the bourgeois who do not come to cover it with gold. Eight days later, he returns, but he looks elsewhere; He avoids that corner, he only glances at it furtively while stifling a sigh. One morning, he arrives with the sun: he dreamed that his beloved painting was sold to the Queen of England; he wants to admire it once more. Suddenly the artist loses patience and insults him: You’re nothing but an ass; there are twenty paintings here, not bad, and you’ll be amazed by a piece of rubbish. This sketch is stupid, nothing will ever be done with it; I don’t want to see it again; take it away, but don’t mention it to me again. Chingru doesn’t need to be told twice: he runs to the painting with cries like a hungry eagle, he shows it to the artist, he celebrates it with great superlatives, and he ends up having a signature put on it that triples its value. No one thinks too much about giving him a painting, because they know he has several, and good painters; We tell ourselves that we will not be compromised in his gallery. But
his gallery, no one knows it. His house is the lion’s den: we know what goes in, we don’t know what comes out. All the paintings we give him are immediately sold underhand to a second-hand dealer, who sends them to the provinces, to Belgium or to England. If chance brought someone back to Paris, Chingru would answer without being troubled: I gave it away; I have nothing of my own; I’m such a bon vivant! or else: I exchanged it for a Van Dyck. What painter would complain of having been exchanged for a Van Dyck? This is how Louis-Théramène de Chingru made a charity office of all the studios in Paris. Henri Tourneur had never given him anything, and for good reason: when you sell your painting, what’s the point of giving it away? But he promised himself to reward him handsomely if he brought the marriage affair to a successful conclusion. Both were punctual at the rendezvous, and two o’clock was striking from the railway station on the Rue Saint-Lazare when Chingru reached out for M. Gaillard’s crowbar. It was Rosalie who opened the door: the old aunt was at the market with the maid. She showed them into the dining room, gave Chingru news of the whole family, allowed herself to be introduced to M. Tourneur as one would receive a man of whom one had heard much, and listened graciously to the explanations he gave her about the choice of land and the construction of a studio. She did not know under what conditions her father wanted to sell, nor if he would agree to divide a lot into two halves; but she showed a lithographed plan, which Henri asked permission to take home for a day or two: he would return to come to an agreement with M. Gaillard. The interview lasted ten minutes and the painter left dazzled. Well? Chingru asked him on the stairs. “Leave me alone; my eyes are tingling, it seems to me that I have just been on a trip to Italy. ” “You are not far mistaken: the Gaillard dynasty originates from Narbonne, a Roman city. Father Gaillard prides himself on being descended from the conquerors of the world. He would be greatly humiliated by proving to him that his name is only a very French adjective that has reached the rank of a proper noun. When someone sings to him, as at the Opéra-Comique: Bonjour, bonjour, Monsieur Gaillard! He begins a devilish dissertation to prove to you that there were soldiers or army valets, responsible for taking care of the helmets, galea, helmet, galearius, hence Gaillard; see the Strategy of Vegetius, such chapter, such paragraph…. That’s how you listen to me? Henri had his eyes glued to M. Gaillard’s house. Chingru continued: Don’t take so much trouble; its windows look out onto the courtyard. Is she then to your taste? –She is not a woman, Chingru; she is a goddess. I expected to see a poor Eugénie Grandet, wasted by privation and dried up by boredom. I would never have believed her to be so tall, so well made, so rich in beauty, and of such a dazzling color. You say she is twenty-five years old? Yes, she must be twenty-five, the age of perfection for women. All Greek statues are twenty-five! –Brrr! You’re leaving like a flock of partridges. Have you noticed her eyes? –I saw everything: her big black eyes, her beautiful chestnut hair, her divinely drawn eyebrows, her proud mouth, her thick red lips, her small transparent teeth, her beautiful slender hands, her powerful arms, her foot as big as a hand and as wide as two fingers, her ear as pink as a West Indian shell. Yes, I noticed her eyes! But I noticed her dress, which is made of English alpaca; her collar and her sleeves, which she designed herself, for they don’t make such designs at the merchants’. She has no rings on her fingers, and her ears are not pierced: you see that I know it by heart. –Good heavens! If the heart is already involved, I have nothing more to do here. –I must have said a thousand stupid things; I couldn’t hear myself speak; I was all in my eyes; I felt for the first time in my life the happiness of contemplating perfect beauty. –That’s all right; now come and contemplate something else. –What then? –The land. –I care a great deal about the land! If that girl is penniless and wants me, I’ll marry her! –Don’t be embarrassed, my dear; if the land bothers you, you ‘ll give it to me. I’ve long regretted not having been born a landowner. When M. Gaillard returned from his office, Rosalie told him that M. de Chingru had brought a young artist, M. Henri Tourneur, to see the land; that she had given him the plan; that this gentleman would come back to speak to her. But, she added, laughing, I’d wager he has another idea in mind, for he only looked at me; he spoke without knowing what he was saying; and besides… he’s much too good for a simple land buyer. M. Gaillard didn’t frown; he scratched his nose familiarly, which was very beautiful, and replied: M. de Chingru should mind his own business. I’ll go tomorrow morning to ask this young man for my plan again, and find out what he wants from us. Chapter 9. The next day, at eight o’clock in the morning, Henri put on his jacket. of the workshop, when Snowball introduced a very tall, very dry, very polite, somewhat timid man, preceded by a magnificent nose: it was Mr. Gaillard. He sat down and explained, with many circumlocutions, that his land had been divided once and for all, for the greater convenience of the purchasers; that it was impossible to divide a lot into two halves of equal value, since each lot had only fifteen meters of frontage, that it would be very difficult to calculate the value of the remaining fraction which did not give onto the street, and that, if Mr. Tourneur was not in a position or in the mood to buy an entire lot, unless he were to resell part of it, it would be better to leave it at that. Sir, continued Henri, almost as troubled as Mr. Gaillard, I am neither a very skilled buyer nor a very experienced seller. I am an artist, as you see. Mr. de Chingru…, but, look! I prefer to speak to you frankly, although the things I have to say are not easy to explain. Sir, you are not only a landowner; you are a father. I had heard Mademoiselle your daughter spoken of in such favorable terms that I felt an incredible desire to know her and speak to her. I took these lands as a pretext; I chose, I confess, a moment when I hoped to find her alone; I obtained by surprise the honor of talking with her for ten minutes; she seemed to me marvelously beautiful and quite well-bred; and since you came of your own accord to an interview that I would have requested today or tomorrow, allow me to tell you that my dearest ambition would be to obtain the hand of Mademoiselle Rosalie Gaillard. Mr. Gaillard quickly put his hand to his nose. Henri continued: I know, sir, how unusual there is in such a direct and unexpected request. You know my name at most. I am thirty-four years old; the public loves my painting and pays very well for it. I have amassed, in five years, a sum of fifty thousand francs, and I have bought the following furniture with my savings: it is worth about as much. I can justify eighty thousand francs in orders, which I will execute before January 1, 1857, without rushing. That is my assets, as my father would say. As for liabilities, not a cent of debt. I could count my father’s fortune among my assets, ten thousand francs of income, honorably amassed in business: I mention it only for the record. My father has acquired the sweet habit of letting me work as I please and of helping me in nothing: I will not cause him the trouble of asking for a dowry. For your part, if you would do me the honor of granting me Mademoiselle your daughter, I would beg you to keep all your wealth to use as you wish; I will earn a living for my wife and children. I do not conceal from myself that these conditions do not remedy the inequality of our fortunes. To do well, I would have to be richer or you poorer; but I do not know how to get rich in a day, and I am not selfish enough to desire your ruin. What I believe I can promise you is that, the day when Mademoiselle your daughter comes into possession of her property, I will have amassed enough comfort so that a million earned without work will not make me blush…. I do not know, sir, if I have made myself understood…. “Yes, sir,” replied M. Gaillard, “and, artist as you are, you seem to me to be a very honest man.” Henri Tourneur blushed to the whites of his eyes. “Excuse me,” the good man replied quickly; “I do not want to speak ill of artists: I do not know them.” I simply wanted to make you understand that you reason like a man of order, an employee, a merchant, a notary, and that you do not profess the cavalier morality of people of your profession. Besides, you are a good person, and I believe that you would please my daughter if she saw you. often. She has always had a pronounced taste for painting, music, embroidery and all those little social talents. Your age matches that of Rosalie. Your character seems good to me, both serious and cheerful. You seem to understand business, and I believe you are capable of administering a fortune of some importance. Finally, you please me, sir! That is why I beg you not to set foot in my house again, until further notice. Henri dreamed that he fell from Strasbourg Cathedral. M. Gaillard hastened to add: I would not say this to you if I believed you to be a man of no consequence, like, for example, M. de Chingru. But I am prudent, sir, and, in your interest as in the interest of my daughter, I need to make inquiries. I believe that you are leading a good conduct; But if, by chance, you had some affair that would later cause my daughter unhappiness, you wouldn’t be the one to warn me, would you? You tell me that you are earning mountains of gold, and I believe you, although it seems to me quite extraordinary that a single man could produce eighty thousand francs’ worth of paintings in eighteen months. I believe you; but, to clear my conscience, I must make inquiries. I need to talk to your father, to find out if he has ever had cause to complain about you. It will be good for me to inquire in the neighborhood if you owe anything to anyone…. –Sir…. –I believe you; but sometimes one has debts without knowing it. Where did you study? –At the Charlemagne College, Jauffret Institution. –Good! I will go and see your headmaster and the head of your institution: I am not taking you by surprise, but I am being prudent, sir. It’s my quality; my fault, if you like. I’ve always done well. If I were less prudent, I would have sold my land to the Saint-Germain company in 1836: just look at the great deal! If I were a starling father like so many others, I would have given my daughter last year to a stockbroker who has just blown his brains out. Patience, young man, you won’t lose anything by waiting. If you deserve my daughter, you will have her; but business must take its course. I am prudent…. don’t send me back…. If my father had been as prudent as I am, I would be richer than I am…. Go to work, go…. I am prudent! Henri spent eight days performing variations on this well-known theme: A plague on prudence and prudent men! However, he acted prudently by untying the ties that bound him to Mellina. He sent him a grand piano he had promised him, and he sternly consigned it to his door. On the eighth day, Chingru came to tell him of M. Gaillard’s visit. He said that M. Gaillard had traveled all over Paris, questioned all the ministries, and especially the fine arts department, questioned the art dealers, consulted the booklets of previous exhibitions, reread the last five salons of Théophile Gautier, and collected a whole file of admirable information. He knows everything; he knows that you won a history prize in the general competition in the fourth year, on the organization of the Roman colonies: this particularly touched him. It was me that he questioned on the delicate question: needless to say, we did not discuss Mellina. M. Gaillard came at four thirty. He began the subject with a vigorous handshake, which delighted the painter. My young friend, he said, I have just come from forty or fifty houses where I have heard a lot about you: it remains for me to study you a little for myself. I would not be sorry either if you became better acquainted with my daughter, because it is not me that you will marry, if you marry. It is necessary, above all, that we see each other every day for two or three months; after which, we will speak business. Henri thanked him profusely. How kind you are, sir! You authorize me to go and pay my respects to Mlle Rosalie? “No, no, no! How you go about it! They’re talking about beautiful things in the house! A young man at my house every evening! And if the affair fell through! All of Paris would know that M. Henri Tourneur had to marry Mlle Rosalie Gaillard, that he paid court to her, and that the marriage failed. They would look for reasons why; they would invent reasons: who can predict what they would say?” Henri very opportunely restrained a movement of impatience. “Sir, ” he said, “do you know of any other place where we can meet every day? ” “Well, no, and that’s what embarrasses me. Look for it, you’re young, you say you’re in love: it’s up to you to find ideas!” –If it were only a matter of five or six meetings, we would have the theaters, the concerts; but we can’t go there every day. An idea! You don’t want me to come to your house? Come to my house. –Young man! With my daughter! –Why not? I am an artist before I am a man. Have you never seen a studio? –No, and here is the first one…. –Know then that an artist’s studio is like neutral ground, a public square shaded in summer, heated in winter, where people come when they want, where they leave when they have had enough, where they meet, where they arrange appointments, where everyone is at home from sunrise to sunset. A foreigner who comes to Paris visits the studios like the palaces and churches, without tickets to show, without permission to obtain, on the sole condition of greeting on entering and thanking on leaving. There is better, it is the artist who thanks. –But I don’t want France and foreigners to come here and parade before my daughter! –Is that all? I’ll lock my door. –But his visits must still have a plausible pretext. –Nothing could be simpler: I’ll paint her portrait. –Never, sir! I’m incapable of accepting…. –You’ll pay me! –I’m not rich enough to indulge in this fantasy. –My God! Perhaps you think a portrait costs a lot! –I know how much you sell your paintings for. –Pictures, yes, but not portraits! I hope you don’t confuse a portrait with a painting! –The difference isn’t so great. –What, not so great? My dear Monsieur Gaillard, what determines the price of a painting? Is it the color? No. Is it the canvas? No. It’s the invention. Paintings are only so expensive because there are few men who know how to invent. But, in a portrait, invention is useless, I say more, dangerous: one must only copy the model exactly. The first painter who comes along makes a portrait. A photographer, a worker, a man who can neither read nor write can whip up an admirable portrait for you in ten minutes: price twenty francs, with the frame.
Faced with this competition, we have been forced to lower our prices, unless we can make up for it with the paintings. Walk along the boulevards, the price of portraits is posted everywhere. They are no longer sold , they are given away; a small one, fifty francs; a large one, one hundred francs; but the frame is not included! –That is not what would stop me. But what will my friends say when they see at my house the portrait of my daughter from the brushes of the famous Henri Tourneur? –You will tell them that you had it done on the boulevard. –Then you promise me not to sign? –I promise you anything you please. When is the first sitting? –Listen; I am entitled to a fortnight’s leave every year, without deduction. It has been two years since I took advantage of my right; I was saving time for a trip to Italy. I can therefore, by notifying my superiors, take six weeks’ leave. Give me five or six days to negotiate this matter smoothly. I don’t want to attract the attention of the entire ministry: I am prudent. He left, and the painter meditated joyfully on the nothingness of human wisdom . Here, he thought, is a father who, out of prudence, brings his daughter into a studio! One does not know how much the sight of a beautiful studio can disturb a woman’s imagination. I am speaking of a painting studio; for the cold, the humidity, the clay tub, the garish tone of the plaster and the marble dust which invades everything, harm the effect of the most beautiful sculptors’ studios. In a painter’s house, as long as he is rich and has taste, one is dazzled from the moment he enters the door. A frank and decisive light, which falls from the sky in a straight line, plays through the fabrics, the hangings, the costumes hanging on the wall, the old furniture and the trophies. A person accustomed to conventional furnishings, where each thing has its marked purpose, where everything is understood and explained, remains delightfully astonished by this organized jumble. His eager gaze runs from object to object, from mystery to mystery; it probes the depths of the old oak chests; it glides lightly over the plump porcelain of China and Japan; it rests on a quiver stuffed with long arrows; it falls back on a large two-handed sword; it stops on a Roman cuirass eaten away by the rust of twenty centuries. A guzla without strings, a hunting horn enameled with verdigris, the bagpipes of a pifferaro, a crudely motley Basque tambourine, become objects of great curiosity. For an intelligent woman (and all women are), each of these trifles must have a meaning, each tapestry expresses a legend, each beer jug ​​a lied, each Etruscan vase a novel, each steel blade an epic. All the arrows must have been dipped in curare, that poison from Central Africa which causes death in one sting. The mannequins crouching in the corners look like mysterious sphinxes who are silent because they have too much to say. The possessor of all these marvels, the king of this luminous empire, could not be a man like the others. When we see him, smiling and hospitable, in the midst of so many hieroglyphs which he understands, we admire him. His clothes, whatever they may be, add to the charm. It is a costume apart, free from the ridiculousness of fashion, and in harmony with his surroundings. If it is cotton, it must come from India; If it is flannel, it was woven in Scotland with Australian wool: you would never think it came from La Belle-Jardinière. The red slippers, bought on Rue Montmartre, are transformed into babouches from Cairo or Beirut. The small bedroom , whose half-open door reveals a bed covered in Algerian linen, has a false air of a harem. You would only be half surprised if you saw five or six oudals come out, a jug in their hands or an amphora on their heads. If you see a handsome black person, like Snowball, prowling around the workshop, dressed in oriental style, the illusion is complete. Even the heady smell of varnishes and essences contributes in its part to this intoxication. Add a few drops of Malaga wine to a glass of Venice, and Rosalie Gaillard, who has never drunk anything but water, will feel transported a thousand leagues from Paris. The first session was decisive. Henri had transplanted the entire stock of a florist from Neuilly into his garden; he had put flowerbeds right into the workshop. If I went to her house, he thought, I would bring her a bouquet every day; I don’t want her to lose. Rosalie adored flowers, like all Parisian women, and she had lived for many years in the hope of a garden. By a singular whim of nature, this child, born of inept parents, had all the needs of elegant life. She would have done without bread more willingly than music, and she judged flowers more useful than shoes. Her eyes lit up at the sight of a fine carriage, although she had never gone out except on foot or by omnibus. She loved the toilet, without ever having dressed ; she danced a little every evening in her imagination, although she had never been taken to a ball; she bought all the parks and all the castles that she saw for sale on the fourth page of the Constitutionnel. With such tastes, she would have been much to be pitied without the well-founded hopes that sustained her. A life of privation, her instincts perpetually offended, would have embittered her heart to the core and given to her ideas that grayish tint that one observes in old maids. But she knew her father’s fortune; she was sure of the future; She consoled herself by glancing over the vast, bare ground that was her entire horizon. She had taken as her motto: “A time will come!” and she lived on hope. She had created for herself, deep within her soul, a delightful retreat where she lacked nothing, not even the love of a handsome young man, who would soon present himself. Thus secluded, she patiently took care of the housework, the sewing, the conversation of her father’s friends, and the eternal game of piquet with which they enlivened their evenings. For a year, M. de Chingru had appeared to her as an intermediary being, ranked between these gentlemen and the people of the world, just as in the animal scale the monkey is placed between the dog and the man. When she saw Henri Tourneur, she said to herself that she had found him, and she looked no further. Her person, her garden, her mind, her studio represented ideal perfection to her; if someone had come and said to her: There is better, she would have thought they were making fun of her. The painter, while sketching a full-length portrait, one-quarter from nature, studied down to the smallest details this complete beauty which had first dazzled him. His first glance had not deceived him. One must be something of an artist to judge if a young girl is truly beautiful. The radiance of youth, the freshness of the skin and a certain measure of plumpness often compose a false beauty which lasts one or two years, and which the first pregnancy sweeps away. One has married an adorable girl, and one carries through life an ugly woman. True beauty is not in the epidermis, but in the structure, which never changes; hence it is that a truly beautiful woman remains so for her whole life, in spite of the external ravages of old age. Rosalie has that unalterable beauty that does not fear wrinkles and defies time. Those who have traveled in Italy will easily imagine her, if I tell them that she is a Roman with small feet. The ice was soon broken, to the great astonishment of M. Gaillard, who no longer recognized his daughter. He had never seen her so cheerful, so talkative, so lively. Rosalie gave herself over without constraint to the inclination of a permitted love. She ran in the garden, she jumped in the studio, she touched everything; she questioned, laughed and chattered like a thrush in the grape harvest. She was only fourteen years old now: her youth, long suppressed, was bursting forth. Henri, a little more restrained, lived in ecstasy. After all the privations to which poverty and economy had condemned him, everything fell from the sky at the same time, fortune and happiness. In fifteen years he had formed some pleasant relationships which had cost him quite a bit, and he was a little surprised to be loved for nothing by a girl prettier and more witty than any he had known. He had indeed foreseen the possibility of a marriage of money, but as a soldier in the field foresees the Invalides; he did not suppose that fortune would be so beautiful, and he had never heard that a million had such small hands and such large eyes. Joy lit up his somewhat effaced face, and he was truly handsome for two months. When he took up his violin, in the intervals of the pose, and played the prettiest motifs from Les Noces de Jeannette, or the most joyous melodies from Les Trovatelles, Rosalie thought she saw an inspired artist. M. Gaillard conscientiously fulfilled his role as troublemaker: he made Henri Tourneur talk. The good man belonged to the deplorable category of ignoramuses who want to learn at an age when one no longer learns. Enamored with Roman history, as one is enamored with the natural history of insects or shellfish, he had read and reread two or three volumes of outdated erudition; he quoted them at every opportunity, questioning, discussing, and seeking, as he said, to extend the modest scope of his knowledge. Henri played his part with all the respect due to the age, fortune, and status of a future father-in-law. When he was tired of discoursing, and the young people fell back on the subject of their love and their hopes, he would soon resume speaking and embark on long, rambling recommendations which could be summarized thus: Don’t love each other too much; you know that nothing is yet decided. In spite of these small precautions, Henri’s studio was an earthly paradise, under the watchful eye of Snowball. Mr. de Chingru tried several times to enter; he suspected some mystery. But he always found bronze face; Snowball answered him imperturbably: Sir, go outside,—master to me, dine in town.—Good little white man, go to the country, hunt animals, shoot a gun. It was his master who taught him the picturesque language of Friday. Instead of sending him to school, where he would have been taught French, he imposed upon himself the duties of a teacher. Take care not to become too learned and to speak like everyone else, he sometimes told him: you would lose your color! And Snowball insists on preserving his color, the most beautiful in the world, according to him. The portrait was finished during Mr. Gaillard’s vacation, towards the end of July. No one took care not to send it to the framer, where twenty artists could have seen it. A workman came to take the measurements, and three weeks later brought a border worth 500 francs, for which Mr. Gaillard paid one louis without haggling. While he was there, he paid the 50 francs for the portrait against a receipt. The following Sunday, he hosted an evening of beer and échaudés for all his friends: a former notary from Villiers-le-Bel, three old expeditioners, Rosalie’s writing master, and a retired cap-visor maker with a thousand crowns in income. They met at seven-thirty. At nine o’clock, M. Gaillard announced a surprise: he delicately removed the lampshade while his sister drew back a green serge curtain and revealed Rosalie’s portrait . There was only one cry of admiration: “What a beautiful frame!” exclaimed the visor maker. “Hey! Why, it’s the portrait of your young lady!” said the notary. “And a likeness!” said the chorus of employees. “That’s how I do things,” added M. Gaillard, kissing his daughter’s forehead. “I will allow myself an observation,” resumed the writing master, who had not yet said anything: “why did M. Gaillard not wait until September 4th, the feast day of Saint Rosalie , to give Mademoiselle this surprise ? ” “Because I am preparing another one for her feast day,” replied M. Gaillard resolutely. “You have the means!” said the chorus. “Would anyone dare ask,” said the notary, “how much this image costs you? ” “Seventy francs, all included. ” “It is expensive, and this is not expensive. And whose is it? ” “It is no one’s; it is a portrait.” “That!” cried a loud voice that made everyone start, “that’s a Turner, second style, and it’s worth 8,000 francs! ” M. Gaillard fell thunderstruck onto a chair. ” Good evening, Papa Gaillard! Ladies, I have the honor! Gentlemen, I am yours!” added M. de Chingru, whom the maid had brought in without announcing him. “It’s devilishly hot. ” “The weather is heavy,” said the notary, panting. “The atmosphere is electric,” continued the writing master, seriously oppressed. “It will rain tomorrow,” said the chorus. The conversation continued in this tone until ten o’clock. M. de Chingru beat a retreat, and everyone followed him. There had been a scandal at M. Gaillard’s. The next morning, Chingru appeared at the workshop, and Snowball opened the door to him: he recounted the previous day’s event and warmly congratulated his friend. After such an outburst, he said, the deal is in the bag. The old Roman has crossed the Rubicon, and I congratulate you. Without me!… –I know what I owe you, and I won’t forget it. –My goodness! my dear, if you want to be grateful, I bring you a fine opportunity. I, too, have unearthed a golden marriage. –Pestilence! So there’s something for everyone! –A magnificent deal, I tell you…. I’m beginning to pay my court. –Bravo! –The devil is, there are advances to be made, bouquets, gifts, and I am temporarily penniless. –I thought you were well off. –They don’t pay me my allowance. Ah! My dear friend, heaven forbid you ever have farmers! –You want money? Here it is. –Two hundred francs! What do you want me to do with two hundred francs? –We have quite a few bouquets for that price. But if you need the five hundred, come back at noon, I’ll give them to you. –My dear fellow, I see with sorrow that we are far from the account. To do it right, you should be able to lend me ten thousand-franc notes. –For your bouquets? –For my bouquets and for something else. Are you afraid of me? Am I not good for ten thousand francs? –All right! Don’t be angry. You know that I could get married at any moment . I announced fifty thousand; if I don’t have my account, Father Gaillard will raise a hue and cry. –You will present him with my title. –That changes the thesis. Ah! If you give me a title, I have no more objections. Where are your properties? “A mortgage! Who do you take me for? They give a mortgage to a usurer; but I thought that with a friend a signature was enough. I offer you my signature! “Much obliged! ” “You refuse me? ” “Positively. ” “You don’t know what can happen! ” “Come what may! ” “Your marriage is not yet agreed upon. ” “What does that mean? And in what tone do you take it? ” “I’ll give you twenty-four hours to think it over. If tomorrow…” The painter heard no more. He opened the door, seized Chingru by the shoulders, and threw him horizontally onto a basket of hydrangeas, which never recovered. Chapter 10. M. Gaillard poured out his complaints after his friends left. His daughter and sister consoled him. What’s the harm? said old Miss Gaillard. A little earlier, a little later, they should have been told of the marriage. What marriage? “Mine, Papa,” Rosalie continued boldly. “You talk about it as if it were a done deal. You’re not afraid of anything, are you! ” “You’d have to be a real coward to be afraid of happiness. ” “So you love this young artist?” (The name “artist” still grated a little on that venerable mouth.) “I think I love him with all my heart. ” “It’s not enough to believe, you’d have to be quite sure. Think again; weigh the pros and cons carefully. ” “That’s all there is to it, Father. ” “Don’t you feel the need to collect yourself a month or two before?” such an important matter? –For twenty-five years and three months I have been meditating, my good father. –Oh! children! If this marriage takes place, you will begin by signing me a holographic declaration, that is to say, written entirely in your hand, stating that it is you who wants to marry Mr. Tourneur. –I will sign with both hands, my dear father. –In this way, my responsibility will be covered; and if you come and say to me in ten years: Why did you marry me to an artist? I will answer you, proof in hand: It was you who wanted it! –I will never complain, my excellent father. But what have they done to you, these poor artists, that you judge them so badly?
–You may say what you like, they form a caste outside of society. I understand the manufacturers who produce, the merchants who sell, the soldiers who illustrate their country, the civil servants who administer it. The artist is outside of everything; The Romans, our ancestors, paid no attention to it; they considered it a superfluity of the social body. –Fie! the ugly big words! When this poor Henri shuts himself in his studio in front of his canvases or his panels, what does he do? –What does he do? Not much: he makes pictures. –Ah! I’ve caught you out. He makes. He is a manufacturer. A painter is a manufacturer of pictures. He produces painted canvases, just as your friend Mr. Cottinet produced cap peaks! –That’s quite different! –I agree. And when he has finished a picture, what does he do with it? Does he keep it in a store? –No, he sells it. –You see! He sells it. He sells his products, he sells his merchandise, he trades; he is a merchant! –You’re playing with words. –Not at all, I’m reasoning; and when he has made a hundred masterpieces (for he makes masterpieces), what will people say in the world? They will say: Paris is honored to have given birth to the famous Henri Tourneur; Henri Tourneur, whose paintings humiliated old Holland and illustrated modern France. That is well worth a second lieutenant’s epaulette. He will be decorated within two years, the minister promised him. What do you mean by glory? –You can say what you like, it is not…. –No, no, I will not spare you a syllable, and you will hear everything. You spoke of civil servants! But Henri is ten times more so than you, a civil servant! –Ah! I would like to see that. –What is a civil servant? A man in the service of the State, and paid from the budget; the more one is paid, the more one is a civil servant. And now, when Henri receives an order from the ministry that will keep him busy for a whole year, does he put himself in the service of the State, yes or no? And when at the end of the year he goes to the treasury to collect 40,000 francs, is he not ten times more of a civil servant than you, who only collect 4,000? –Big child! This proves to us…. –That I must marry my dear Henri, if you want me to marry a manufacturer, a merchant, and a civil servant at the same time! –But, terrible girl, do I have time to marry you? Here again are my lands coming up again: there is talk of founding a workers’ city there. I saw the list of the board of directors; all very good men. They had one of my superiors speak to me; I would receive a million, cash on the table, and they would leave me a plot of land measuring 20 meters by 15 to build on. It’s very fine: what should I do? –Accept, since it’s so beautiful. –But in ten years it would be superb! –But in a hundred years, Papa, it would be magnificent! It’s true that neither you nor I would enjoy it. –All this is racking my brain. Good evening, I’m going to bed. –Without deciding anything, Papa? –Night brings counsel. The worthy man slept, as usual, a deep sleep and resounding, whose noise sometimes recalled the rumbling of lightning, sometimes the rolling of a stagecoach over a bridge. There are two things in him that gnawing worries have never been able to affect: appetite and sleep. He left for his office more irresolute than he had ever been, but weighed down with a pound of bread and an enormous bowl of café au lait. He had barely arrived at the rue Saint-Lazare when his daughter and sister heard the most formidable chime that, in the memory of a doorbell, had sounded in the house. Rosalie ran to the door, shouting: Something has happened to Papa! The bell-ringer was M. de Chingru, buttoned up to the neck, with a great air of important discretion. They received him: Rosalie and her aunt were dressed from eight o’clock in the morning, as if in the provinces. By nine, the traces of lunch had disappeared, and the dining room was transformed into a workshop. Ladies, said Chingru, forgive me for disturbing you at this hour. I have come to fulfill the duty of an honest man. It was I who brought M. Henri Tourneur here, on the occasion of a piece of land he intended to buy: may I arrive in time to stop the consequences of my imprudence! “Hurry up, sir, speak; what is it?” said Rosalie. “Mademoiselle, you are witness that I have always praised M. Tourneur. ” “Yes, sir; then? ” “I told you, as well as to your aunt and your father, that Tourneur was a talented artist, an excellent heart, and what we men of pleasure call a truly good boy. I judged him as a comrade, and my opinion has not changed; if you question me again on these points, I would answer you the same thing. But why didn’t I know sooner that your father had other ideas, and that he wanted to marry you off to him? Certainly, I wouldn’t have shouted at you: Don’t marry him, he’s unworthy of you, you’d regret it later! No, I’m not the man to disservice a friend. But I would have said to you very gently, right there, in your own interest: Here’s the obstacle; there are women who would be terrified by it; there are others who would think it’s nothing; it’s up to you to see if you want to engage in a struggle with this person, and the memory of a long affair, and the reciprocal pledges, and all that follows. If you hope to be the stronger, get married! M. de Chingru had no sooner spoken than he reaped the fruits of his speech. The tears did not fall from Rosalie’s eyes, they gushed forth before her, as if thrown by an invisible force. But it was a matter of a moment. The courageous girl contained her grief. I thank you for your good intentions, she said, we knew everything. She added, to ensure the effect of her all-too-obvious lie: Mr. Tourneur confided to us the story of the affair you speak of, and your zeal tells us nothing. Besides, everything is broken, is it not true? –I believe it, mademoiselle, as much as one can break it off…. –That is enough, sir; and if no other duty to fulfill keeps you with us…. –I…. If you…. You understand, mademoiselle, that, placed between the necessity of speaking or of remaining silent…. –You kept silent when it was necessary to speak, and you spoke when it was necessary to remain silent. Farewell, sir. It was in these words that Mr. de Chingru was shown the door. The same day, at four o’clock in the evening, Mr. Gaillard had just put away his quills, his penknife, and his black percale sleeves. A tall, beautiful woman, yellow as an orange, invaded his office. Sir, she cried with a very marked accent, he is a monster! I loved him, I still love him; I left for him my country, my family and the Scala theatre where I was absolute prima donna. He wants to get married; he abandons me with our two poor children, Enrico and Henriette. He is a monster, sir, an unnatural father. I you forbid yourself to give him your daughter! My dear Gaillard, you look like an honest man; promise me that you will not give him your daughter! I am crazy, you see; understand me well, my good Gaillard, I do not know French, I mi spiego mal; but you see well that I… I am no longer in my right mind. If he marries, I will kill him… I will kill him and his wife; I will kill myself afterwards, I will set fire to the church, and I will go to do penance in Rome! Swear to me that you will not give him your daughter! M. Gaillard endured a deluge of words in which Italian and French mingled pleasantly. He untangled this jumble of exclamations as best he could, and he learned that his future son-in-law had seduced and abandoned Mellina Barni. He consoled the inconsolable beauty as best he could, and he wrote, immediately, the following note which he had delivered by a messenger: Paris, this Monday, July 30, 1855, 4:15 p.m. Sir, I received at my office the visit of Miss Mellina Barni; I have nothing more to say to you. This young lady seems very interesting, and I am not unnatural enough to want to separate her from the father of her children. Please accept, sir, the assurances of my most distinguished consideration , GAILLARD. The signature was initialed by a master hand. The paper was that beautiful shaped paper, thick, heavy, laid, seigneurial paper, which the government has made expressly for the use of its offices and the correspondence of its employees. Henri Tourneur did not go into so many details. He dressed in a jiffy, took his cane and ran to Mellina, who received him with open arms. Mellina is a small, blonde woman, slender, and white as a drop of milk. She speaks French without any accent, since she is to make her debut at the Opéra-Comique in a one-act, three- scene play, a little masterpiece by Meyerbeer. She was in a white dressing gown and was rehearsing the allegro of a magnificent piece. Henri made a scene for her which she understood nothing of, except that her name had been misused. She knew neither M. de Chingru nor M. Gaillard. She guessed that Henri had broken up with her to get married, and she had good reasons to be upset about her marriage; but at no price would she have wanted to hinder it. The intervention of the two children infuriated her. She was indignant that she had been made to play a role in M. de Pourceaugnac’s La Limousine or La Picarde without her knowledge . For nothing, she would have run with Henri to M. Gaillard’s; and the painter had some difficulty in making him understand that the remedy would be worse than the disease. He went straight to the rue d’Amsterdam, and found the door closed: they were at the show, at least the servant said so. For eight days, he returned to the attack, and always met with the same response. He came during the day: they were at the concert. So many shows and concerts were equivalent to a formal dismissal. If, on going down the stairs, he had met M. de Chingru, he would have made a piece of it. He wrote to M. Gaillard, then to his sister: his letters were returned to him in envelopes. He lost patience, and had himself taken to the palace to the substitute on duty. He was a young man of thirty, initiated before his time into all the mysteries of Parisian life. Sir, the magistrate replied, this is not the first time that the public prosecutor has heard of such a matter. You have heard of marriage agencies whose public dealings have sometimes been tolerated, sometimes repressed by the courts. Apart from the great houses which display their prospectuses, there exists a whole class of individuals whose sole profession is to track down great fortunes, colossal dowries and millions lodged on the fourth floor in order to take a share of them. They associate with each other and form anonymous companies whose only capital is intrigue, and whose statutes have never been published. Some demand up to ten percent of the dowry, others are content with a modest profit, because there, as everywhere, you will find competition. Mr. de Chingru, whatever his real name, has certainly shown himself to be one of the most moderate. When he was refused the remuneration he hoped for, he will have had one of his associates, or rather his accomplices, play the little scene you are telling us about. We will look for the actress and the author of the play; but it is not likely that we will discover a woman about whom you have so little information, and, even if we did find her, it would be quite difficult to establish Chingru’s complicity. On returning home, the painter found the following letter, dated from Le Havre:
My poor Turner, if I had offered to give you 990,000 francs and an adorable wife into the bargain, you would have placed me among the gods. I was foolish enough to present the matter to you differently; I offered you a million, 10,000 francs of which were for me. You got angry, and you’re pissed off. I took my revenge like an artist. I found a way to persuade Mr. Gaillard that you were the father of two children and the husband, or almost, of a yellow woman. It’s a blow from which you’ll never recover, poor Turner! But when you laid me down on the hydrangeas, was I on a bed of roses? CHINGRU and Co. Henri was about to tear up the paper in a fit of anger; but, as he was blond, he changed his mind: That good Chingru! he thought, he’s going to reconcile me with Mr. Gaillard! It’s just a matter of forcing him to read this letter. He looked for a large envelope, slipped Chingru’s letter into it, sealed it with an enormous cornelian bearing the arms of Ninon de Lenclos, and wrote the address in a beautiful round: To Mr. GAILLARD, archivist, At the Ministry of…. Mr. Gaillard opened the letter as piously as if he were unsealing a dispatch. Chingru’s signature piqued his curiosity: he had promised himself to return Tourneur’s letters, but not Chingru’s. This singular document turned his mind upside down. He accused himself of injustice and cruelty, and he asked permission to leave the office at two o’clock: it was the first time in thirty years! Rosalie wet Chingru’s autograph with her tears. I was sure of it, she said, and if you had believed me, you would have listened to poor Henri’s defense! We agreed to go and find him at his studio the next morning, all together, Rosalie, her father, and her aunt. We owed him this reparation. Rosalie was overjoyed. What! Did you still love him? her father asked her. “More than ever. Something told me that he had been slandered. ” The door opened abruptly and the servant announced Miss Mellina Barni. Rosalie and her aunt only had time to flee into the next room. I don’t know what they were saying there, but I think it would have been difficult to pass a hair between Rosalie’s ear and the dining-room door . M. Gaillard looked at the real Mellina as a child at Séraphin’s looks at Chinese shadows. The idea came to him for a moment that a plot had been formed against him, and that a new Mellina Barni would be sent to him every day. He thought of moving without giving his address. Mellina had great difficulty in persuading him that her real name was Mellina, that she was nineteen years old, that she was not a mother, that she lived with her mother, and that she had not come to complain about M. Henri Tourneur. She explained to him in very good French that she was being good, even though she had just left the Scala theatre and was entering the Opéra-Comique. She taught him that a theatre girl can make visits, receive presents and have friends, without being compromised or compromising. She confessed that she had loved M. Henri Tourneur and that she had hoped to marry him, but that, since the middle of May, he had stopped all visits and honorably ended a relationship that had never been anything but honorable. I will not tell you, sir, she added, that I have renounced my hopes without regret; but it is a destiny that we must all expect. We are all courted a little by rich young men who find us beautiful enough to be loved, who do not love us enough to marry us, and who, when they are assured of our virtue, turn their backs on us and marry in town. This is precisely the story of M. Tourneur; and since you have been told another story that is neither to his praise nor to mine, since you have closed your door on him, since I know that he is sick with grief, I took my courage in both hands, I came, and I hope that you will be able to distinguish between inventions and slander and the language of truth. When Mellina had left, Rosalie ran up. Perhaps she would have preferred that Chingru’s lies had been without any foundation; and yet I would not swear that Mellina’s visit had had a bad effect on her. Mellina, seen through the keyhole, had seemed very pretty to her, and she forgave the painter for having loved her. She knew that a girl who marries a man of thirty-four always has rivals in the past, and she preferred not to have them ugly: nineteen women out of twenty will reason like her. She had recognized from Mellina’s accent that she was speaking the truth and that this love was irreproachable. Finally, she learned beyond doubt that she had dethroned the beautiful Italian woman in the middle of May, that is to say, at first glance. But M. Gaillard had fallen back into all his perplexities. He no longer wanted to go and see M. Tourneur; he reproached his daughter for the obstinacy of her love. I am quite willing, he said, to accept that this young man is less guilty than I have been told; but he has frequented actresses, and whoever drinks will drink. You think he will be faithful to you; but he has abandoned this young Italian woman; he could well play the same trick on you.
Besides, as long as my lands are not sold, we must not think of this marriage. When he was pressed to sell his lands, he replied: There is no hurry; I will sell them to give a dowry to my daughter, and my daughter is not yet married. The sight of the portrait saddened him; He thought with vexation that he was indebted to Henri Tourneur. What will we do with this cursed portrait? he asked Rosalie. We can’t keep it here after a break-up. What if we sent it back to him? “Are you thinking about it, Father? I would be permanently in his studio? ” “Selling it and making him give the money would be indelicate. Give it? To whom? I want neither to give nor to sell my daughter’s portrait. It could fall into the trade, and at each sale at the Hôtel Drouot, I would be afraid to read in my newspaper: Portrait of Miss RG, by Mr. Henri Tourneur: 8000 francs. I would rather scrape it out with my own hands.
” “Destroy my portrait! All that remains to me of the happiest moments of my life! ” “Shut up! Cursed painter! Cursed Chingru! Cursed land! I would give it for nothing to anyone who wanted to take it! If we were less rich, all this would not have happened!” M. Gaillard lost his appetite; he ate like an ordinary man. His sleep became much lighter and infinitely less noisy. He was inaccurate at his office; he arrived twice after ten o’clock, on August 17 and 18. When he returned home, the old aunt said to Rosalie: Your father must have thought a lot, his nose is all red on one side. Henri no longer worked; he lived on the sidewalk of the Rue d’Amsterdam. M. Gaillard carefully avoided him, and he did not dare approach M. Gaillard. He would have dared to speak to Rosalie, but she didn’t go out without her father. Finally, on September 3, he received a letter from M. Gaillard inviting him to come and collect 7,950 francs as payment for the portrait. He would be expected at five o’clock with the funds. He accepted this strange invitation, not for the money, but for Rosalie. At the same time, the three principal founders of the workers’ city were gathered at M. Gaillard’s house to finalize the land deal. The man hadn’t wanted to take responsibility for anything: he had relied on Rosalie for everything, and it was she who had dealt with the buyers. Henri arrived as the notary was reading the last paragraph of the deed of sale. The buyers agreed to build a dwelling house for M. Gaillard and his family on lot F, belonging to the seller, with a painter’s studio on the first floor. M. Gaillard looked at his daughter, who looked at Henri, who was looking at no one: he was horribly pale and leaning against the wall. Come on! said the good man, taking up his pen, here is a signature that will free me from all my worries! “Sir,” remarked the notary, “your handwriting is very fine.” THE BUST Chapter 11. If you have good legs and if long journeys do not frighten you, we will walk as far as the castle of the Marquis de Guéblan. It is located six kilometers from Tortoni, further than the Rue Mouffetard, further than the Gobelins and the Marché aux Chevals, in those working-class regions where the Bièvre flows its inky stream. However, it is within the city walls, and the wine drunk there has paid for the entrance. It is a contemporary palace of the First Empire, built by Fontaine, in the Greek style, and surrounded by the obligatory colonnade. Its first use was to house the pleasures of a wealthy supplier to the army: it was then called the Folie-Sirguet. It was inaugurated in 1804 by the beautiful Thérèse Cabarrus, who was not yet Countess of Caraman, and who was no longer Madame Tallien. In 1856, the Folie-Sirguet was one of the most beautiful villas to be found in the interior of Paris: its garden is a park of twenty hectares where one hunts rabbit, pheasant, and even, if one squeezes in a little, roe deer. The pond contains magnificent samples of all the fish of Europe, without exception the catfish. Fishing and hunting! What more could one desire? Is this not, in two words, the countryside in Paris? The interiors of the castle are grandiose, as they were loved in the past, and elegant as they are preferred today. The cute luxury of 1856 is played out at ease in the vast rooms of 1804. I only saw the reception apartment, that is to say the ground floor, and I came away amazed. The dining room, paneled in old, black, shiny oak, opens on one side onto the billiard room, the weapons room, and the smoking room; on the other, onto a series of very rich and tasteful salons. Only one has retained its original decoration, the sphinx-headed armchairs and the lyre-shaped chairs: it is placed between a Pompadour boudoir and a Chinese salon whose furniture, carpets, chandelier, wall hangings, and even paintings were brought back from Macao. All the ceilings are painted with frescoes or hung with old tapestries. The Russian drawing room, cluttered with comfortable furniture, is covered with ivy that winds around the mirrors and provides a second green setting for the paintings. I rested with delight in a beautiful room paved with mosaics and decorated in the elegant style of the small houses of Pompeii. One would think one was at the foot of Vesuvius, if one did not see in the next room an enormous tapestry pouf crowned by a group by Pradier. This hospitable apartment is open to the art of all nations and all centuries: it also welcomes the fleshy painting of Rubens and the poetic reveries of Ary Scheffer; one sees there a blond landscape Corot’s castle, four steps from a seascape of Lorrain; Clodion’s joyful nymphs seem to smile at Barye’s lions, and Daniel Fert’s shipwrecked Don Juan clings to the damp rock, without making Cavalier’s Penelope raise her eyes. The first floor includes the apartments of the Marquis, his sister, and his daughter, and I don’t know how many guest rooms. The castle is so far from everything that one rarely dines there without sleeping there, although M. de Guéblan had two buses made to take his guests back to Paris. M. de Guéblan is a gentleman such as was not seen a hundred years ago, such as is rarely seen, even today. I hasten to tell you that his nobility is of good quality, and that his titles do not come from one of those small underground offices which are less rare than one might think. We have noble counterfeiters who extract income from the stupidity and vanity of their contemporaries, but the Guéblans have nothing to do with the industry of these gentlemen: they date back to Saint Louis. They made the last two crusades; they carried arms from father to son, until the Revolution, and they did not emigrate, which I praise. By a chance of which history offers few examples, the blood of this noble family has not become impoverished, and the last of the Guéblans could measure himself in a closed field with his ancestors. He is tall, broad, vigorous, colorful, and strong enough to wear the armor. He draws the sword like a musketeer, rides a horse like a reiter, eats like a lansquenet and drinks like M. de Bassompierre. His fifty years weigh no more than a feather on him. Besides, he proudly bears his name; he is not sorry to be someone’s son; he willingly reads the history of France and puts aside all the books that speak of his family; he preserves his honor with jealous care; he is full of rectitude; he knows how to give, lend and lose his money; in short, he has a noble heart. If you find ten men more aristocratic than him between the Quai d’Orsay and the rue de Vaugirard, you will have good eyes. But what would Guéblan I, equerry to Queen Blanche, say if he could be resurrected in his great-nephew’s study? He would exclaim, rubbing his eyes: Oh! oh! the world has become beautiful son, since my first acquaintance! It seems to me, Marquis, that you are making money. The big word is out; I can tell you everything: the Marquis is making an enormous amount of money. He does his own business, he has no steward, he is robbed by no one, he is not ruined any more than the lowest bourgeois, and he works like a proletarian to double his income. And how? In all honor, I beg you to believe him. The Marquis spent two years at the École Polytechnique, three years at the École des Ponts et Chaussées; he took agricultural lessons at Grignon; he often goes to listen to the professors of arts and crafts. He follows the progress of science step by step, and he makes the most of it. As much as his ancestors would have been ashamed to know, he would be humiliated if he were caught in the act of ignorance. It was he who drained the first field in Normandy, and he tripled the value of his land. Twenty kilometers from Lisieux, he manufactures drainage pipes which he delivers to his neighbors with a profit of 75%. He bought one of the first threshing machines ever sold in France, and he perfected it. He is thinking of acclimatizing the oak silkworm in his forests in Brittany, he is manufacturing indigenous opium on his property at Plessis-Piquet; within five years, he will be exporting it to China. Fish farming has quadrupled the product of his ponds in the department of Ain; his vineyards in Langres, which had never yielded anything but mediocre piquette, now provide an esteemed Champagne wine , which comes in line immediately after the famous brands. I would wager that you have tasted some of his pineapples; there are delivers 4000 francs a year to the Paris trade: the leftovers from his table! This bourgeois gentleman, very superbly gentlemanly and very wittily bourgeois, does not disdain to print his coat of arms on the wheat he harvests and the wine he makes. If his ancestors found fault with this, he would answer them in good French: We are in the 19th century, life is expensive, gold mines have been discovered; what cost a hundred francs in your time is worth a thousand today; the greatest fortunes are lost in fifty years; the right of primogeniture is abolished, and for my grandsons to have a little money, I must earn a lot. He could add that France is as grateful to him for his peaceful conquests as for twenty lance thrusts received in pitched battle, for he is an officer of the Legion of Honor without having earned a single epaulette. His ancestors, who only wore a pen in their hat, would not be a little surprised to read the books he signed. The most recent (Paris, 1854, Dentu) is entitled: ON SMALL CATTLE , a treatise including the education of Russian rabbits and Cochinchinese chickens . And why not? Old Caton did indeed bequeath to his son and to posterity a recipe for making cabbage soup! The Marquis de Guéblan, who writes his language very neatly, is a member of the Society of Men of Letters; he was quaestor around 1850. Writers and artists have always found in him a protector without arrogance and a creditor without memory. He has kindness for them, and, what is better, consideration. I could cite a painter whom he literally pulled from the Seine, and two novels which would never have been published without him. What a wonderful dinner he offered us at the end of December! I hope, however, that you will spare me from transcribing here the card of three services. The immense properties that bring in half a million a year to M. de Guéblan are not precisely his. They belong to his sister and her companion, Madame Michaud. The Marquis married very young to a noble lady who left him a widower with ten thousand francs a year and a daughter to raise. Around the same time, his sister married a castle demolitionist, a knight of the Black Band, whose profession was to fell oaks to make logs, and to clear parks to plant vegetables. This honest industrialist died two years after Madame de Guéblan. His widow, rich and childless, placed all her affairs in the hands of the Marquis, saying to him: Manage my property, I will raise your daughter: you will serve me as a farmer, I will serve you as a housekeeper. Once the deal was done, they settled into the beautiful château that M. Michaud hadn’t had time to demolish. While working for his sister, M. de Guéblan took care of his daughter, since Victorine was Madame Michaud’s sole heir. This Madame Michaud is an excellent woman, but an original one! By placing her in a museum, we would only be doing her justice. First of all, she is almost as tall as her brother, that is to say, with a little more moustache, she would make a very presentable cent-garde. Her hands and feet are terrible: heaven forbid we receive a slap from her hand! and if she dies standing up, as I predict, it will take four men to lay her in the coffin. Besides, she is built as solidly as a drama by Frédéric Soulié, and her head is not ugly. She has a curved nose, a proud mouth and white teeth that cost her nothing. A double chin softens the severity of her features. Her hair is completely gray, although she is barely forty; but this shade suits her well, and she exaggerates it by putting on powder. Her shoulders are the kind that can be shown off; so you will see her with her neckline off from four o’clock in the evening. It is not that she wants to please anyone: she dresses for herself, and that is obvious enough. The opinion of others is so indifferent to her, that she does nothing but her own way and only wears her own fashion. She cuts her own dresses and pays the dressmaker double the cost to be dressed according to her fancy. When the milliner brings her a new hat, her first concern is to undo it. Under her formidable hands, a small masterpiece of taste is soon transformed into a rag: it is the work of two snips of the scissors and three punches. When she receives guests at her home, it is in inexplicable attire, which Champollion himself would not decipher. I have seen her wearing a crêpe de Chine scarf, with natural flowers scattered here and there, and lace from all over, white and russet, heavy and light, no Venice and no England, all put together with great reinforcement of pins, and in such beautiful disorder that a cat would not have found its kittens there. Dear Madame Michaud! her wardrobes are a jumble of magnificent rags that no chambermaid has ever been able to put in order; and her mind is a little like her wardrobes. The fault is doubtless the Guéblan family, who thought that a man never knows too much, but that a woman always knows enough. Not only does Madame Michaud rebel against the most paternal laws of spelling, but she has the misfortune of mutilating as many words as she pronounces. This is an infirmity that her husband has never noticed, and for good reason; her brother is so accustomed to it that he no longer notices it. Fortunately, she speaks so quickly that one rarely has time to hear her; she tells twenty things at once, without connection, without order, without transition: she most often knows neither what she says, nor what she does, nor what she wants, a good woman, moreover , and who would have ruined herself twenty times over without the authority of her brother. Sometimes prodigal, sometimes miserly; today paying without haggling, tomorrow haggling without paying; lighting a hundred-franc note to pick up a sou, and quarreling with the whole house over a match; refusing bread to a poor man, because begging is forbidden, and throwing a louis to a hungry dog ​​looking for bones in a pile; full of respect for her brother and watching for every opportunity to make him angry; passionately devoted to her niece, and eager to get rid of her by marriage: such was, in the month of June 1855, the sister of M. de Guéblan and the aunt of Mlle Victorine. It may be surprising that a man of great sense like M. de Guéblan entrusted his child to such an unreasonable governess. But the Marquis has too much on his plate to ponder Fénelon’s treatise on the Education of Girls, and besides, one owes a little condescension to a relative who personifies in herself a dozen millions. Finally, M. de Guéblan persuades himself, rightly or wrongly, that a woman’s true tutor is her husband. He knows that Victorine will not learn at the château everything she should know, but he is sure that she will know nothing of what she ought to be ignorant of. Full of this confidence, he sleeps soundly. The fact is that Madame Michaud has only given her niece teachers who are sixty years old; I do not except the dancing master. Of all the authors she has allowed him, the most dangerous is Sir Walter Scott, translated by Defauconpret. She has added Numa Pompilius and the complete works of Florian, Uncle Tom’s Cabin, some of Dickens’s little masterpieces, five or six volumes of Mme Cottin, and a selection of the chivalric romances that charmed Mme Michaud’s childhood and which do not sadden Victorine’s youth. The beautiful heiress is sixteen at most. She is a child, but a child of the most beautiful birth, tall, well-made, and in the fullness of her charms. I confess that her cheeks are a little too rosy: her face resembles a peach in September. Her hands are quite red; but the scarlet of hands does not beseem young girls. Her teeth are a little too short: it’s a kind of ugliness that I would rather appreciate. Her mouth is half flesh and half pearl, a charming mixture of transparent pulp and sparkling mother-of-pearl: do you like pomegranates? Her foot is not what one calls a small foot: a Chinese woman would not want one, and the learned mandarins would not write verses in her praise; but it is slender, arched, and exquisitely elegant; the soles of her boots are just the size of a sponge biscuit. Do not fear that Victorine will ever reach the colossal proportions of her terrible aunt: she takes after her mother, who was blond and delicate. When one wants to know how long a girl’s beauty will last, it is prudent to look at her mother’s portrait. This child, very attractive on the outside, is endowed with an inexplicable soul. She rarely speaks, perhaps because she is never questioned. Her father doesn’t have time to talk with her, and Madame Michaud, who talks with everyone, always gets the lion’s share. The men who come to the château are too much of their time to amuse themselves by deciphering a little girl’s mind. Finally, she has no friends from school, having never been sent to boarding school. People think she’s a bit silly, because she’s acquired the habit of silence; but her heart sings within. A young girl who is silent is like an aviary whose doors are closed. Come very close, you hear nothing. Put your ear to the door, not a whisper. Open! A chorus of fresh, sonorous chirping rises, filling the air and rising to the heavens. When Victorine went into the park, a book in her hand, escorted by her maid or old Perrochon, Madame Michaud would murmur as she followed her with her eyes: Poor little thing! she says nothing, but I want the wolf to eat me if she thinks more. Madame Michaud did not suspect that her niece, by dint of reading in books and in herself, was substituting herself for the opiate of all her novels, and that she had already had more adventures than the beautiful Angélique and Madame de Longueville. The day this story begins, Monsieur de Guéblan was running to Lisieux to rest from a trip to Nantua. Madame Michaud had come out like a shot, saying: I have some pretty money, I received the dividend on my shares in the Quatre-Canaux; I am going to order a bust in Paris! Victorine, followed by Perrochon, but at a respectful distance, had advanced to the end of the park, towards the outer boulevard, to a place where the wall is replaced by a four-meter-wide wolf’s leap. She sat down, like an opiate in a novel, in the shade of an old tree, famous in the songs of the 15th century under the name of the Round Oak: The lord holds his justice Beneath the round oak: Answer without artifice. All round, round, round! They drink and eat there Beneath the round oak; They dance there on Sundays Round, round, round! I will spare you the other couplets. The romance has nine times nine, all as poetic and as richly rhymed. Mademoiselle de Guéblan took from her pocket a small book with a red edge bound with the arms of her family, and entitled True Story of the Marvelous Adventures of the Incomparable Atalanta. She looked for the bookmark, and resumed her reading at the point where she had left off the day before: Now know that the wise and submissive princess was required in marriage by the younger son of the king of the Dacians and by the caliph of Schiraz. Poor me! said Victorine. I would like to choose neither one nor the other. But what would the queen of Michaud’s country say? She continued: And the beautiful Atalanta was very sad, and had no rest in this world, especially since the caliph had a strange face, for he had a short, wide nose and ears as large as the “Good!” she said. “Mr. Lefébure, my father’s candidate ! Let’s see the other one.” And the Prince of the Dacians was puny in body and pale in face, as if he had water and not blood in his veins. But! he does not resemble Mr. de Marsal, my aunt’s protégé, in a small way. Let’s listen to what happened: At this point the jousts began, and these two lords were to run one against the other to see who would have the princess. And then the princess and several other ladies were mounted on scaffolds, very nobly adorned with cloth beaten with gold, pearls and precious stones. But before the rival princes came to blows, a richly adorned knight, dressed entirely in white, entered the lists and said to them: Do not draw your lances until I have defeated you both and driven you flat to the ground. And as he said this, his voice was so harsh that both knights and horses trembled with great fear, but not the princess. And immediately the knight with the white armor rushed upon the caliph of Schiraz, and from the first thrust he made on his horse, he did so with such force that the fearful caliph did not know whether it was day or night. Seeing this, the knight turned against the prince of the Dacians, putting his sword back in its place, and struck him across the body and pulled him from his horse, and threw him so stiffly to the ground that it was almost as if he would have pierced his heart or his belly. And the ladies clapped their hands; and it seemed to them that the knight with the white arms was as handsome as the archangel Gabriel. Then the noble knight came to the ladies’ scaffold, and knelt before the beautiful Atalanta, saying: Lady, I am the Prince of Iron; and, as iron melts in fire, so does my heart in the flame of your eyes. Atalanta—I mean Victorine—continued her reading, closing her eyes. The day was heavy; and the June heat crept creeping under the great trees of the park. The pretty reader touched upon that delicious moment when waking and sleeping, reverie and dream, lies and reality seem to join hands. She saw the person of all types of body, Mr. Lefébure, lawyer at the Court of Appeal, swaddled in a heavy cuirass, under which passed a hem of black robe, and wearing a pot whose handles were represented by his ears. A little further on, Mr. Viscount de Marsal, pale and wan, made the most pitiful grimace through the visor of a plumed helmet. She also saw the Iron Prince, but without being able to uncover his face, which he kept obstinately hidden. Will I never see him? she asked. It is time for him to hurry, if he wants to deliver me from Caliph Lefébure and Prince de Marsal. I have already waited for him long enough. And in her half-sleep, she murmured the refrain of a peasant round dance she had learned in her childhood: Ah! I wait, I wait, I wait Will I wait much longer? Suddenly it seemed to her that a rocket passed before her eyes. A tall young man with a black beard had leaped over the leap and fallen in front of her. She jumped up with a start, while Perrochon came running up on his old legs. Her
first thought was that she was finally allowed to see the face of the Iron Prince. She stammered a few incoherent words: Prince…. my father…. your rivals…. the queen of Michaud’s country…. The young man bowed politely and said to her: Forgive me, mademoiselle, for entering your house like a bomb in Sevastopol. I rang for a quarter of an hour at an old gate that is probably blocked, and, unable to find the door, I took the shortest route. My name is Daniel Fert and I have come to make a bust of Madame Michaud. Chapter 12. Thirteen or fourteen years ago, I knew a little Spaniard whose parents had sent him to the M*** institution. It is the best disciplined of all the houses surrounding the Lycée Charlemagne. No new book is smuggled in; every yellow-bound volume is strictly confined to the door; the students read during recreation the less light tragedies of Racine, and the less frivolous funeral orations of Bossuet. The young Madrilenian was bored as if at work, and erased the days one by one on his little calendar. One of our comrades, touched by his pain, asked him: Why does time seem so long to you? Is it your family you miss, or simply your homeland? “Neither one nor the other,” replied the child. “I have begun reading an admirable novel in a Madrid newspaper, and I am waiting to return to Spain to read the end of it. In thirty months and seventeen days! ” “And what is the title of your Spanish novel? ” “Los Tres Mosqueteros,” “The Three Musketeers.” I don’t know why this anecdote comes back to me every time I speak of Daniel Fert. Perhaps it’s because Daniel resembles a musketeer lost in the 19th century. Put together the appearance of d’Artagnan, the pride of Athos, the vivacity of Aramis, and a little of the naiveté of Porthos, and you will have a fairly accurate idea of ​​the young sculptor. His tall, slender figure has the appearance of a steel spring; he has a sinewy hamstring, a powerful arm, an arched waist, and a hooked mustache. His large blue eyes are set in two bronzed sockets, under eyebrows of the most beautiful black. His broad, prominent, and polished forehead is crowned with ample , admirably planted hair, which falls back like a lion’s mane. Add a neck as white as ivory, pearly, smiling teeth, which seem happy to live in a pretty mouth; The long, thin nose of Francis I, the hands of a child, a woman’s foot, here, I think, is a fairly presentable hero of a novel. And yet this is not a novel. This man, thus built, is a compatriot of the small wine of Arbois, and the son of a winegrower without vines who worked by the day. At four years old, Daniel ran barefoot on the road, gleaning horse manure here and there and asking passengers on the stagecoach for a penny. At twelve , he broke stones like a man; at fifteen, he handled a billhook and carried a basket in the grape harvest. Ambition brought him to a master marble-worker in Besançon, who first entrusted him with slabs to polish, then epitaphs to engrave, then monuments to sculpt. He had taste and skill: it was guessed that he could win the Grand Prix de Rome and bring fame to his department. The General Council proved its munificence by sending him to Paris with a pension of 600 francs. He left with his mother: his father had just died. Madame Fert, old before her time, like all country women, but strong and patient, became her son’s housekeeper. Daniel was diligent at the School of Fine Arts, and earned some money in his spare time. He practiced art in the morning, crafts in the evening. After working according to the academy, he drew ornaments or sketched clock subjects. In 1853, at the age of twenty-five, after two admissions to the lodge, he spontaneously renounced the grand prize, and sent back the 600 francs he received from Besançon. Decidedly, he said to his mother, I am too old to go back to school; and, besides, what would become of you without me? He had managed, not without difficulty, to earn his living, and he had more talent than money. His busts and medallions are of fine and tight work, which recalls the exquisite manner of Pradier; his compositions, which he would have executed on a grand scale if he had been rich, and which he delivered, for lack of anything better, to the bronze merchants, are all of a bold flow, which proceeds from the genius of David. He worked passionately; it was neither for money nor for glory, but for the pleasure of working. The artist’s attachment to his work can only be compared to maternal tenderness: even a father does not know how to love like this. We adore with all the warmth of our soul these living creatures who came out of us. But, when Daniel was satisfied with his work, he gave it away. The merchants soon had to deal with him: he did not charge for his progress, nor for his vogue, nor for his nascent glory. The peasant wisdom of Madame Fert fought in vain against this spirit of detachment. She had no trouble reminding her son of his debts to pay, the illnesses to be anticipated and the holidays he granted himself from time to time, for he worked in fits and starts, like all those who deserve the name of artist. A mill can grind every day, but a brain that tried to do as much would only produce sad flour. When Daniel was at work, he would not have bothered to hear the statue of Memnon sing; but when he was in a vein of pleasure, no power would have made him return to the workshop, not even hunger, which is reputed to drive wolves out of the woods. He had only one regular habit, that of bodily exercise. He was awakened by his fencing master, and it was in the gymnasium that he digested his lunch: so he was incredibly strong, and violent in proportion. He is the last Frenchman who has retained the habit of throwing people out of windows. I remember the day he threw from the first floor a water carrier who had answered his mother rudely. Since that time, he has not encountered any impolite suppliers. With his friends, and especially with his mother, he is touchingly gentle . He holds the good woman to his heart with as much caution as if he feared breaking her. He has never been able to persuade her to take a servant; but, whenever he has money, he buys her a beautiful druggette dress, an Italian straw hat, or a few bottles of anisette, which she appreciates better. When Madame Michaud came to get him, he was entering a period of work: it was time! Since the beginning of May, he had rested without unbridling. He had completely forgotten that he had to pay his practitioner a thousand francs on July 15, and two hundred to his landlord: one does not notice everything. Madame Michaud, the booklet of the Exhibition in her hand, found him beyond the Faubourg Saint-Honoré, at the bottom of a garden, in a small colony of artists and literary people , which is called the Enclos des Ternes. Daniel and his mother occupied a rather elegant pavilion between Madame Noblet and Madame Persiani. He was a little surprised, he who received few visitors, to see this tall, escaped woman enter . She walked straight up to him and held out a large hand, which he did not dare take. He was modeling, and he had clay at his fingertips. Touch it, she said to him; you do not know me, but I know you. I bought the shipwreck of Don Juan. You are a great artist. “My shipwreck of Don Juan?” Daniel continued, still quite astonished. “Yes, your shipwreck of Don Juan. It is in one of my rooms, on the clock. But that is not all: I need my bust for my niece, who is going to marry M. Lefébure or M. de Marsal, I do not know which, but soon. How much will you charge me? ” “Twelve or fifteen sittings, madame. ” “That is not money. What, twelve sittings! But I shall never have the time. Where do you want me to take twelve sittings? First of all, you live too far away.” What idea did you have to lodge in this country of savages? You will have to come to my house. Is two thousand francs enough? That will give you almost two hundred francs a day. How do you find me? I want to be in marble; bronze portraits are too sad: they look like old Romans. You will take a very clean marble, and you will have it taken to the castle. I warn you that if you do not flatter me enormously, I’ll leave your portrait to you. Victorine mustn’t make a scarecrow of it. –Madame, I think I can make you a fine bust that will be a likeness. –Don’t talk nonsense! If it’s a likeness, it will be awful. I look like Berezina, with my mustache. You’re the
one who’s handsome! Let me see you in profile! But, my dear sir, you’re simply magnificent! I imagined sculptors as masons! You absolutely must come and stay at the château. My niece is fine too; you’ll see. I’ll have your tools brought . She doesn’t look like me, not at all, and that’s a good thing. I’m curious to know if you’ll agree with me about the husband. M. Lefébure is awful: a boar’s head and enormous knees. But rich! That’s why my brother thinks so highly of him. M. de Marsal is better. And then, a fine name! I’m all for beautiful names. How singular yours is! Fert! Fert! Why not Caillou? You’ll tell me that when one’s name is Madame Michaud!… That’s precisely why. Here is my address: At the Folie-Sirguet, behind the Gobelins. There’s only one park on that side: it’s ours. Come early; we have a few people to dine with, among them Monsieur de Marsal. Oh, come on, don’t go courting him! You’d get us into a fine mess! But I’m crazy: one doesn’t get married in your condition. Is that settled? See you this evening. The most famous waterfalls, from the Tivoli Cascades to the Niagara Falls, would be ridiculously slow compared to Madame Michaud’s torrential speech. Daniel behaved like a traveler surprised by the rain: he wrapped himself in its silence as in a cloak. The downpour having passed and Madame Michaud gone, he collected his memories and concluded that he had found the opportunity to earn 1,500 francs in two weeks: he counted 500 francs in marble and in the practitioner. Madame Michaud’s figure did not displease him: life in the château pleased him greatly, and he foresaw a way to pay his debts delightfully. He told his mother about the adventure while dressing. That’s going well, said Madame Fert. This unfortunate deadline kept me awake. I’ll send you the saddle, the clay loaves, the roughing-pen, and everything else tomorrow. I’ll go over your clothes, check the buttons, and put everything away in the big trunk; you must be presentable. Perhaps they’re in the habit of playing in the evening, like at the Château d’Arbois; You will have tips to give to the servants: take the money we have at home and leave me 50 francs: that’s enough for me. You know I’m never hungry when you’re not there . Try to finish soon, and don’t let yourself be disturbed. But above all, watch yourself: there’s a young lady in the house and you’re a big, mentally ill person. “Don’t worry, Mama,” replied Daniel. “I’m taking 200 francs with me , which is our entire fortune, or almost. The meager little song of these ten louis chasing each other in my pocket would restore my sanity if I could lose it. For a poor devil like me, a rich young lady is of no sex. ” Thus left the Iron Prince for the kingdom of the incomparable Atalanta. Victorine did not suppose for a moment that a young man so handsome and with such a proud countenance was a simple artist condemned to make a bust of Madame Michaud. She instantly constructed a little novel as plausible as the last one she had read. Surely, she thought, he is of high birth; it is enough to see his feet and hands. Rich? He must be that too, provided that a jealous enchanter or a dishonest guardian has not dispossessed him of his fathers’ inheritance. At least he has been left some dilapidated castle on the banks of the Rhine or on a peak in the Pyrenees? An eagle’s nest is the only dwelling worthy of him. Where has he met? At the ball last winter. Perhaps at the Spanish embassy! Yes, I’ve seen him before, I recognize him; it’s definitely him. My aunt took me away at midnight like Cinderella: she had her cursed migraine. Poor prince! What despair when he realized I was gone! Since that fatal moment, he has looked for me everywhere; he has asked heaven and earth for me: I can see clearly that he has suffered. Yesterday at last, chance, or rather his lucky star, led him to a sculptor’s studio. The artist was away, he waited for him; my aunt arrived: who would not guess the rest? But will he be able to carry the ruse to its conclusion? How can he outwit the surveillance of his rivals? We will see that this bust is not made. M. Lefébure has wit; M. de Marsal is only half stupid; and my father who is coming back! Certainly, I can help him hide his rank and his fortune, I who am somewhat in the know; but what if he is imprudent! She feared that by taking off his overcoat, the handsome stranger would discover a diamond star. Daniel followed her to the château, talking of indifferent things and admiring the beauty of the trees in the park. He was not blind to Victorine’s beauty, and he thought on the way that he would gladly make her bust for nothing, if he had the money. But he soon scolded himself for such an ill-timed idea, and his mother’s advice came back to him. He found Madame Michaud at the foot of the steps getting out of the carriage. Where the devil did you go? she asked him. He told how he had made his entrance into the Guéblan estate. Wooden saber! said the amazed woman, the Tyrolean chamois don’t jump any better than you. This story will make my brother happy and Mr. Lefébure despair. We’ll put you up at home. Perrochon, take the gentleman to the green room. Here! You’ll sleep between Victorine’s two husbands: stop them from fighting. Daniel bowed and followed Perrochon. Well! asked Madame Michaud to her niece, what do you think of my sculptor? It’s for my bust; a surprise I’m giving myself . We’ll start tomorrow, in the little drawing room at the end. Admit that he doesn’t look like an artist. He’s a hundred times better than all these gentlemen. The woman he marries will be able to boast of having a handsome husband! But I forbid you to notice it: if you noticed that he’s a handsome guy, I’d show him the door. After all, M. de Marsal is no swindler. Could my aunt be in on the plot? thought Victorine. Daniel took possession of a pretty room furnished with the most elegant simplicity. The hangings were light green chintz with pink and white bouquets. The bed, with twisted columns, sank into a sort of alcove formed by two dressing rooms. The writing desk, chest of drawers, chairs, and smoking chair were all bourgeois in rosewood, but of a pleasing shape and impeccable workmanship. The bookcase contained about fifty new novels and a few of those good, serious books that one likes to leaf through at night before falling asleep. The carpet had been replaced by a very fresh mat. The window opened onto a magnificent horizon: first the parterre, then the park and its tall groves, then a few laundresses’ gardens, all blooming with white towels and camisoles billowing in the wind; finally Paris, the domes of the Panthéon and the Val-de-Grâce, and the old tower of the Henri IV college. The young artist found himself so comfortable in his new home that he already regretted having to leave it. He would have hastened slowly, following Boileau’s precept, and he would have dragged his bust until the month of October, without the pressing need to earn fifteen hundred francs. But the fifteen hundred francs were indispensable, and there was no happiness that could stand up to these fifteen hundred francs. In these reveries that would have astonished Victorine, he moved an armchair near the window, looked at the landscape, thought of Madame Michaud’s profile, closed his eyes, and slept the sleep of athletes until the dinner bell. He found a company of twenty people seated in the pit on iron seats imitating reeds. Madame Michaud had not yet come down: she was powdering herself. He looked in this crowd for a familiar face, and found only Victorine: so he ran to her with an eagerness that was noticed. A man out of his element clings to the person he knows, like a drowning man to a pole. Victorine was a little troubled, especially since she felt all eyes fixed on her. She almost said to Daniel: “We are being watched, watch yourself.” At the second stroke of the bell, Madame Michaud appeared with three English shuttlecocks, and the artist breathed more freely. The queen of Michaud’s country asked for his arm, put it on her left, and didn’t say a word to him during the whole dinner. Daniel’s other neighbor was a dowager who was a little deaf; so he ate without distraction. Around him, people were talking about the little events in the Faubourg Saint-Germain and the latest news from the châteaux: he let them talk, and didn’t miss a beat. His only study was to sort out M. Lefébure and M. de Marsal, the two suitors that Madame Michaud had announced to him. He had no trouble recognizing them. M.
Francisque Lefébure is the only son of the famous lawyer Pierre Lefébure, who became known in the Cadoudal trial. The father, who owned nothing in 1804, was enriched by the generosity of the elder branch and the clientele of the Faubourg Saint-Germain. At the accession of Charles X, he refused letters of nobility and the peerage. He left his son 200,000 francs a year, a mediocre talent, more bombast than eloquence, and a hereditary ugliness. M. Lefébure, the second of the name, is a stocky, ruddy, and sanguine man; a person of all body types, a nose, a person of all body types, a short-sighted eye and large lips, the neck of an apoplectic, high shoulders, short arms, and massive legs. If he didn’t shave every day, he would have a beard down to his eyes. I must say that it is rare to meet a man more careful of his person. He watches his body like an Italian watches his enemy. He follows a strict diet, eats white meat, forbids himself floury foods and sweets, and wears an elastic belt. He devotes himself to the most violent labors and passionately studies gymnastics, English and French boxing, the stick, the cane, the saber and the sword: all to ward off the plumpness that threatens him, and to avoid resembling his father, who resembled a cask. The exercises he undertakes out of necessity have ended up becoming a pleasure, then a glory. He places his honor in his physical talents, and he makes more of his merit as a lawyer than of his abilities as a boxer. Moreover, he is a gallant man, and much more witty than the majority of fencing masters. M. de Marsal despises the vigor of M. Lefébure, who despises the weakness of M. de Marsal. If it is true that each of us is subject to a constellation, M. le Vicomte de Marsal was born under the influence of the Milky Way. I am not exaggerating when I say that he is the blondest of men, except for Albinos. His pale, thin person is one of those who escape illness and old age; illness does not know where to take them, and the years do not leave their mark. He is forty years old, like his rival, and yet, if you ever meet him, you will say with Madame Michaud: Poor young man! This feeble creature is a frigate captain and officer of the Legion of Honor. M. de Marsal entered the Naval Academy at fourteen , and he has made his way in the ports. His only expedition is a voyage around the world, an interesting voyage, not very dangerous, where he encountered no other enemies than seasickness. The pistols he had bought the day before his departure were not discharged from 1840 to 1855. However, the young officer did not waste his time traveling: he collected shells. His collection is one of the finest we have in France, and it is the only one where we find the ostrea marsaliana from Hong Kong, discovered and named by M. de Marsal. It was not the invention of this precious shell that allowed the captain to claim the hand of Mlle de Guéblan: he has other titles. His name is one of the oldest of the Lorraine nobility; the small town of Marsal, in the department of Meurthe, belonged for a long time to his ancestors. The Marsals are allied to the La Rochefoucaulds, the Gramonts, the Montmorencys, the greatest families of the suburb. Victorine valued these advantages only moderately, and M. de Guéblan himself did not make the most of them that he should have; but Madame Michaud was infatuated with them. M. de Marsal’s mind was not quite up to his birth, and, in terms of wealth, he had little or nothing . On the other hand, his education was perfect. He had that exquisite and icy politeness that distinguishes naval officers. For you know, I think, that sea dogs have had their day, that sailors no longer swear by a thousand ports, and that the day when etiquette is banished from all salons, it will be found aboard battleships . M. de Marsal, a small eater, and M. Lefébure, who lived on a diet, observed, for their part, the face of the newcomer. For some time they had ceased to observe each other. Each of them believed he was sure of prevailing over his rival. One relied on his name, the other on his fortune. The gentleman relied solidly on Madame Michaud; the bourgeois had no doubt about the support of Monsieur de Guéblan. But the arrival of an intruder put them on the alert. This handsome young man, whom no one knew, and whom Madame Michaud seemed to have pulled out of a box, seemed to them to be of the figure and size to play the role of the third thief. Daniel’s gargantuan appetite reassured them at first: they had nothing to fear from a man who devoured so boorishly. Meanwhile, Victorine, seated in the middle of the table, opposite her aunt, often raised her eyes to the stranger. On the other hand, the good aunt was so capricious that even her protégé could not place much trust in her friendship, and that anything was to be expected. As they left the table, the two suitors instinctively approached Madame Michaud. She introduced Daniel to them. Here, she said, is a new resident, Mr. Fert, the maker of my clock; he is going to make my head. By the way, sir, she asked Daniel, did you say that the marble was to be brought? Daniel could not help smiling as he replied: Oh! Madam, for the marble, we have time. “What! We have time! But it is a matter of urgency. I was counting on starting tomorrow. ” The artist told his model that he would first have to make her bust in clay, then mold it in plaster, then repair it carefully before touching the marble. God! It takes so long! said Madame Michaud. He wants to save time, thought Victorine, who did not miss a word of the conversation. With that, they drank coffee. There were five or six young women among the guests. Mr. de Marsal sat down at the piano and played a waltz. Daniel danced with Mademoiselle de Guéblan, and danced well. I was sure of it, she said to herself; but he’s going to compromise himself. There isn’t a sculptor who knows how to dance like that. The waltz over, Daniel took M. de Marsal’s place and played a quadrille. He was a mediocre musician, for he had started late. However, he played as well as M. de Marsal. Madame Michaud danced opposite her niece. At the ladies’ line, she shook his hand and said: Do you hear? For a man who breaks marble with a hammer!… ” Decidedly,” thought Victorine, “my aunt is in on the secret.” At ten o’clock, half the company set off for Paris, and the dancers were no longer in number. Two gaming tables were set up. Daniel was imprudent enough to admit that he was playing whist and to accept a card. He found himself partnered with M. Lefébure, against M. de Marsal and M. Lerambert the banker. M. Lerambert did not know that he was dealing with an artist. He asked, as he shuffled the cards: “The ordinary game, in five, a louis a card?” M. Lefébure answered briskly: “That’s very expensive, for a poor lawyer. ” “Yes, sir,” said Daniel, “the ordinary game. ” Victorine blushed to her ears. What would people think when they saw the Iron Prince pull out a long purse full of gold coins bearing his father’s image? She went up to him and said: Monsieur Fert, I’ll only allow you one rubber, after which I’ll need you. She didn’t wait long. Daniel lost three times and three times, and left his ten louis on the table. He emptied his pocket with such a detached air that Monsieur Lefébure and Monsieur de Marsal exchanged a quick glance that could be translated as: It seems that one earns a lot of money carving clocks! Madame Michaud didn’t notice anything: she was gambling for a pittance at the next table. Daniel went away, all thoughtful, thinking that if someone brought him his saddle and tools, he wouldn’t have enough to pay for the carriage. Victorine took his arm and said: Monsieur, I am ashamed of my ignorance. We have a lot of sculpture here, good and bad, and I don’t know how to distinguish good from bad. Will you give me a lesson in criticism, you who are in the profession? She intended to prove to him that she was not his dupe, and that she had never taken him for a sculptor. Daniel was, like most artists, a completely useless critic . He knew how to recognize beautiful things, but he was incapable of saying why they were good. He obediently went through all the rooms of the castle, stopping at each bronze and each marble, and judging them with a word. He said: This is good; that is detestable. This is amusing sculpture; that is stupidly done. This group is by a man who knows his trade; that one is by an ass. –What do you think of this figure: the Child-God? –It is nice. –And this Philopœmen? –It is the masterpiece of modern sculpture. –Why? –Because nothing better has been done yet. –This Spartacus? –Good composition; poor work. –This Penelope? –Good, very good. –This Don Juan? –Mediocre. –What, mediocre? –Yes, an empty, raked sculpture. –But it’s by you! –I knew it. –Let’s stop here; I thank you for the lesson. Now, Mr. Artist, I am as learned as you. My goodness, she continued in the form of an aside, I am curious to see how he will go about sketching the bust of my aunt, and I vow not to miss a sitting . When she reappeared leaning on Daniel’s arm, M. Lefébure and M. de Marsal promised themselves to keep a close eye on this young intruder who was circling the aunt and wandering around alone with the niece. Madame Michaud left the boston and said in an intelligible voice: Tomorrow, after lunch, we will begin my bust in this living room. Whoever loves me will come there. “Madame…” said the two suitors, all with one voice. That evening, Daniel found his room less beautiful, his furniture less elegant, and his bed less comfortable than he had judged at first sight. It was because his pocket was empty. Man is built like that: no money, no illusions. This is doubtless why the poor are less fortunate than the rich. The next day he got up at eight o’clock and left for Paris with his watch and chain. He took care not to tell his mother how he had played whist and how much he had lost: such a confession would have brought him nothing but a reprimand for his dignity. He instead turned to a pawnbroker, who lent him 200 francs without explanation, without reproach, and without advice. Besides, what was a watch for at the Château de Guéblan? There were fifty clocks and a clock! This clock was striking noon when they sat down to lunch. The previous day’s guests had left, and only the castle’s guests remained , that is to say, the suitors and Daniel. M. Lefébure ate a cup of tea; M. de Marsal ate a slice of salmon with his lips ; Victorine pecked at a plate of cherries; The sculptor and the model resolutely fell upon an enormous pie. Madame Michaud informed Daniel that his tools had arrived with a horrible tub filled with greasy clay, and that everything had been set up. The two rivals were too curious to keep an eye on Daniel not to sacrifice their daily pleasures. In ordinary times, the captain fished; the lawyer practiced fencing with Monsieur de Guéblan, or amused himself by shooting magpies. They took a walk in the park before the session. Madame Michaud told Monsieur Lefébure about Daniel’s memorable leap. Monsieur de Marsal was very amused by this way of entering unannounced. ” I think,” he said, “that Maître Lefébure has met his match. ” “I don’t pride myself on jumping ditches,” replied the lawyer. “However skilled we may be at this kind of exercise, there is always a small animal that is stronger than us. ” “What do you call it?” asked Madame Michaud. “The kangaroo. I’ll show you one at the Jardin des Plantes. ” “I didn’t do it for glory,” Daniel continued naively, “but because I couldn’t find the door. ” “Do you draw a sword, sir? ” “Yes, sir, and you? ” “For fifteen years, at the Lozès. ” “Me, in my studio, with a former provost of Gâtechair. We ‘re not from the same school. ” “What! Sir, you practice fencing?” said Victorine. “But Papa will adore you!” They set off again towards the château. Madame Michaud said to Daniel: ” Doesn’t it bother you that I invited these gentlemen to our sessions? ” “No, madame, as long as they don’t prevent you from posing. As for me, I’ll work to the sound of the cannon. ” “Don’t worry, I’ll keep quiet like an Anabaptist. Watch these two lovers carefully: they’ll put on a show for you. What do you think of the lawyer? ” “I don’t think he’s any good.” “Poor man! He’s doing everything he can to lose weight, except drinking vinegar. And the captain? ” “Thin, very thin. ” “Yes, I always wonder how the gales didn’t carry him off. He must have had stones in his pockets. Which would you choose if you were a woman? ” “I think I’d ask for a few years to think it over. ” “Unfortunate! Don’t say that to Victorine; she’s been thinking about it for more than six months. You must find it a little strange that we should have accepted two suitors at once; it was my idea. My brother wouldn’t budge from his lawyer; I clung to my gentleman. I said: Let’s invite them both, Victorine will choose. I don’t know if she has any preferences; in any case, she hides them well. If you become her friend, you will try to get her secret out. She’s a bookworm, a scribbler in notebooks; She reads every day, she writes every evening; I would soon know what she thinks, if I were a little piece of paper. Everyone who has posed for a portrait knows that the first sitting is almost always spent choosing the pose, arranging the light and to prepare the work of the following days. Madame Michaud’s hairdressing took no less than two hours. The worthy woman had dreamed of a Rococo bust with a Pompadour hairstyle. Daniel thought she had a Roman head, the mask enormous, the forehead narrow, the head small. He left the maid to exhaust herself making and unmaking an impossible edifice, on which everyone had their say. Then he asked permission to try it in his turn; he rolled up his sleeves and gave his model an admirable cameo hairstyle; it was a matter of a few strokes of the comb. The maid dropped her arms in amazement ; Madame Michaud looked at herself in the mirror without recognizing herself, and claimed that she had been given a new head like a doll’s: the suitors murmured in low voices the name of hair artist, and Victorine said to herself: It must be admitted that he is a good hairdresser, but as for the sculpture…. Daniel began to sketch out his bust, and it was then that the work became difficult. In these days of April when the wind shifts every moment from east to west, from north to south, the weather vanes do not turn as quickly as Madame Michaud’s head. Mobile as a wave is a word that would imperfectly describe the perpetual agitation of her whole person. She found it too much to remain seated, and she consoled herself for this partial immobility by talking here and there, at random, by calling out to everyone around her one by one, by imitating the telegraph with her arms, and by beating time with her feet. So she was exhausted after an hour of this exercise: the session had to be adjourned. Daniel had spent more patience in sixty minutes than a santon in sixty years; the bust was not sketched. I had predicted it, thought Victorine. “Phew!” said Madame Michaud, “and one! Eleven more sessions, and we will be finished.
” Daniel did not dare tell her that if the sessions all resembled the first, more than a hundred would be needed. This singular work lasted until the end of June: the bust did not have a human figure. Madame Michaud suspected, after a while, that the artist was perhaps a little disturbed by the company. She shared her thoughts with Victorine; but Victorine would not listen to that. She was sure that the handsome stranger knew nothing about sculpture, and she helped him as best she could to hide his ignorance. What would become of us, she thought, if he were forced to confess the truth? She made it her duty to disturb her aunt, to interrupt Daniel and to shorten the sessions. The poor artist thought with terror of the deadline of July 15, and cordially cursed all the importunates, without excepting Victorine. What astonished the incomparable Atalante a little was the obstinate silence of her lover. Alas! she said to herself, what good will all his tricks and mine be to us, if he does not decide to tell me that he loves me? Is he afraid to open up to me? I will keep his secret so well! Sometimes, to pique him with jealousy, she affected to treat M. Lefébure or M. de Marsal well: she became coquettish for love of him! These young girlish whims caused great upheavals in the castle. M. de Marsal wrote triumphant letters to his family; M. Lefébure thought about packing his trunks; Madame Michaud bought a new carriage as a token of joy; Daniel alone noticed nothing . The next day, the wheel had turned: M. de Marsal was gloomy; M. Lefébure was noisy; Madame Michaud was so worried that she could no longer sit still in her chair, and Daniel saw mountain ranges rising between him and his fifteen hundred francs. What is he waiting for to declare himself? said Victorine. She took care to undo all the bouquets that the gardener brought into her room, and she crumpled them with vexation, after making sure that they would not contained no note. At night, she spent hours at her window, waiting for a serenade. If a gondola had come by land to the grand staircase of the château; if she had seen two rebecs, an oboe and a viola d’amore descend; if little Negroes, dressed in red satin, had served before her a collation of Italian fruits and a few basins of oranges from China, such a phenomenon would have astonished her less than Daniel’s miraculous silence. One evening, between eleven o’clock and midnight, in mild and amorous weather, she heard a magnificent bass voice singing in the aisles of the parterre. She was too far away to distinguish the words; but the music, which she did not know, seemed strangely dreamy and melancholy. She was leaning behind her blinds to listen a little more closely, when Madame Michaud entered her room. Daniel, convinced that everyone in the castle was asleep, walked around smoking a cigar, and between each puff sang a verse from The Plagues of Egypt. It is a well-known lament in the Parisian workshops. On damp shores , populated by crocodiles, the Jews groaned and built pyramids, with no other consolation than eating onions. Victorine had only heard a vague and delicious sound of this verse. Know that crocodiles are ferocious lizards, bigger than the Pont des Arts, who ate Jews by the thousand. The onions, in these misfortunes, still drew tears from them. This time! she murmured, I heard clearly. He said: Misfortunes and tears. Finally! But why is he standing so far away? It was then that Madame Michaud entered the room. Victorine began to chat noisily with her aunt, to prevent her from hearing the serenade. Only the echo benefited from the following two verses: This people, full of audacity, But not liking to die, Would have liked to clear off To go and live in Alsace; But to leave, first They needed a passport. A legitimate monarch, But full of perversity, Was withholding their papers: He will not have our esteem. If you do not know his name, It was King Pharaoh. Madame Michaud had a slight headache. She said to her niece: Since you are not sleeping, come to the garden; the fresh air will restore me. Victorine had her ear pulled; however, she went downstairs, determined to drag her aunt into the avenues of the park where one could only hear the nightingales. Unfortunately, the breeze carried a few stray notes to Madame Michaud’s ears. Look! she said, a serenade! “I didn’t notice anything, aunt. ” “Are my ears ringing? I heard it all right. There! What did I tell you? ” “You’re mistaken, aunt; it’s your migraine. ” “No, it’s not my migraine! It’s… yes! It’s Fualdès’s lament. ” “Let’s go, aunt; I’m afraid. ” “You’re afraid of Mr. Fert! But he sings very well, if he doesn’t work much! If his work resembled his warbling! Wait! Come here, we’ll surprise him.” Victorine was trembling like a willow leaf. Her aunt led her, by circuitous paths, to within forty paces of the singer. The young girl coughed to warn Daniel. “Hush!” said Madame Michaud: “let’s listen.” Daniel, as calm as a Homeric god, intoned the twenty-sixth verse: Moses visited The king who was dying of hunger: He made a fine dinner With four cooked apples, Without even a miserable stew of hare. You see, said Madame Michaud, that it is Fualdès’s lament! –What happiness! thought Victorine, he had the wit to change the song. Chapter 13. The next day, M. de Guéblan was expected. Madame Michaud recounted at lunch that she had spent the night listening to her beloved artist, who sang like a siren. Her story made the suitors open their eyes wide . When they learned that Victorine had been there , their surprise turned to stupor, and they wondered what role they were being made to play. They had never had much sympathy for M. Fert, but they were beginning to take a serious dislike to him. Certainly, Madame Michaud had the right to commission her bust from whomever she pleased, but to take her niece for a walk at night with a young man of thirty at most was beyond the pale of a joke. This sculptor, after all, was no eagle. His principal masterpieces were perched on clocks; he had been working for two weeks on an unfortunate bust without managing to sketch it. His conversation was anything but sparkling; he spoke little, and wit did not stifle him. Madame Michaud should be on her guard against his one-hour infatuations. She exposed the most serious interests of her family on the green carpet of paradox and caprice: in short, it was time for the marquis to return to the château. In the meantime, everyone was punctual at the hour of the session. Daniel, rather discouraged, removed for the fifteenth time the damp cloths which covered the shapeless bust of Madame Michaud. Monsieur Lefébure and Monsieur de Marsal looked at him with an air of sullen and malicious pity. Victorine, a little troubled by her father’s wait, wondered anxiously how the poor boy would get out of the impasse into which he had strayed. She scolded her aunt and reminded her from time to time to pose, but she was careful not to leave her there for long. Are you in luck today? asked Madame Michaud to Daniel. The hours pass one another and are not alike. Last night, you were singing, and I was very pleased. Well! Now sculpt! “Madame,” continued Daniel, “I know your face well, I am beginning to know you by heart, and it seems to me that I could do a lot of work in an hour, if you could only pose a little. ” “Be happy; I say nothing more, I don’t know anyone anymore, I pose!” said the good woman, doing a half-somersault while sitting, accompanied by a most original grimace, “and I beg the gallery to observe the law of silence. Ah! if I were a pretty girl like Victorine, you would have more heart for your work, artist that you are! ” “Monsieur Lefébure,” said Victorine, spying on Daniel’s face, ” do you believe that one becomes an artist through love? ” “No doubt, mademoiselle; on one condition. ” “And which one? ” “Very little: ten or twelve years of work!” “You are a man of prose: you do not believe in the power of love. ” “If there were unbelievers,” interrupted M. de Marsal gallantly, “you would not have to preach long to convert them. ” “Captain, if you pay me compliments, I shall reason all wrong. Where were we? My aunt, stand up straight. I was saying that love can work miracles. Example: I am the princess… what princess? Princess Atalanta, daughter of the king of I don’t know where. I am riding in a carriage drawn by four horses; no, by four white unicorns: that is rarer and prettier. A shepherd, who was watching his sheep, saw me pass on the road. He fell in love with me. The next day, he sent me a sonnet. “By what means, if you please? ” “But by air, under the wing of a tame dove; This happens every day. Now, the sonnet is admirable, therefore love has made a poet. –He did much better, mademoiselle, replied M. Lefébure, laughing: he taught prosody, spelling and writing to a man who only knew how to look after sheep, and that in one day! not to mention of the particular rules of the sonnet, which are very complicated, so they say. I was recently reading a little poem, written by a dentist…. –That’s good; I’m giving up poetry. But painting! A young Italian woman is in the hands of an old man, who intends to marry her against her will. A handsome lord from the neighboring town enters the castle under the dress and name of a renowned painter; he has never handled a brush, but love guides his hand: will you still say that this has never been seen? –God forbid! But I would like to see it. Drawing is a spelling that cannot be taught in thirty lessons; and, as for color, we have members of the Institute who have never been able to learn it. –Is that true, Monsieur Fert? –Yes, mademoiselle. –But you, who are a sculptor, are you also going to set sculpture against me? Grant me only that a man of the world, a gentleman, who has never handled your modelers, can, by dint of love, in order to get closer to the one he loves, make… a bust! “My goodness! Mademoiselle, it is something I would have thought impossible six months ago. ” “And now? ” “Now, I agree with you: I believe in the miracles of love.” Victorine felt herself turn pale; it seemed to her that all her blood was flowing back to her heart. “Is it a story?” she asked in a trembling voice. “Not too long, and I can tell it to you.” Madame Michaud was keeping quiet by chance; Daniel pushed on briskly with his work, while following her story with the slowness of Franche-Comté. ” Six months ago,” he said, “I was finishing a group for the Spanish ambassador.” I received a visit from a man of my country and my age, a school friend, named Cambier. He had come to Paris to write; but he hardly wrote, or he wrote badly. He edited a newspaper called La Feuille de Rose, L’Impartial de la parfumerie, I don’t remember exactly. The fact remains that the poor devil often needed a hundred sous. In January, he wore a wool and cotton jacket from La Belle-Jardinière, with a gray hat with bristling fur . He met in my studio a Jewish woman named Coralie who posed for the head and hands. She is truly beautiful, and she behaves well; she lives with her aunt in these parts, rue Mouffetard. This Cambier looked at her for half an hour like a dazed man; when she came out, he asked me all sorts of questions about her. He had never seen anything so beautiful; she was the woman he had dreamed of; he had been waiting for her for ten years! He asked me her name; he looked up her address on the slate where I wrote down my models; he wanted to see her again at all costs. He was capable of asking her to marry him and confusing two miseries into one. I warned him that he would probably be badly received, because the aunt lived off her niece and had no thought of marrying her off. Then he begged me to have her come to my house to pose, even though I wouldn’t need it: the poor man offered to pay for the sessions! I didn’t pay much attention to the nonsense he said; he seemed like a mentally ill person. The following days I was regularly absent; I was working in town. When I returned to the studio, I saw his name written ten or twelve times on the door. Note that I am at Ternes and he is on Rue de l’Arbre-Sec. Finally he reached me. He had gone to see Coralie, who had thrown the door in his face. As he told me about his visit, he wept. What a pity, he said, that I am not a sculptor! She would come to my house, and I could look at her to my heart’s content. He asked me for some old tools to borrow; I gave him a handful. A month later (it was the middle of February) he came back to see me. You would have said he was another man; I no longer recognized him. He had lively eyes, an animated face, and he stretched his hamstrings as he walked; a little more, and he would have sung. For example, what had not changed, It was his jacket and his hat. He started talking to me again about Coralie; he was more in love with her than ever, and he hoped to make himself loved by her. To begin with, he had made her bust from memory, and he thought he had succeeded. He didn’t let me rest until I had seen his work. Willingly or not, we had to leave with him. The Roule bus took us to the corner of Rue Saint-Honoré and Rue de l’Arbre-Sec; that’s where he lived, above the fountain, and well above. I didn’t count the floors, but there were six or seven. The bust was placed on a sort of night table. At that time I did not believe in the miracles of love, and I was as skeptical as M. Lefébure, for my first words, as soon as he had removed the linen, were: It was not you who did that! I swear to you, without false modesty, that I would gladly give everything I have done and everything I will do for this bust of Coralie. It was something naive and learned, vigorous and passionate, which recalled certain paintings by Holbein, certain drawings by Alber Durer, or, if you like, some of the most beautiful sculptures of the Middle Ages. The fact is that this bust in reddish clay shed a light like a masterpiece in the attic. I told the artist everything that came into my head; I was happier than those who discover a gold mine. He thanked me, he kissed me, he was a person mentally ill with joy: he already saw the day when Coralie would come to his studio. I asked him to wait for me the next day until three o’clock, and I returned with M. David, M. Rude and M. Dumont. The masters took his hand and told him that he was a great artist. They all declared that this bust must be molded and put in the exhibition. I pointed out to them at a glance the bareness of this room where there were not thirty francs for the molder. My sign was so well understood that after we left, Cambier found more than five louis on his chest of drawers. The head a little more to the left, madame, if you please. “And this masterpiece, what has become of it?” asked M. Lefébure. The public has not seen it; the art critics have said nothing about it! “Alas! Sir, love has done like tigers, who willingly eat their children. Eight days after this visit, I returned to Cambier. He was standing in front of his house, his feet in the melted snow, and he smoked his pipe with a gloomy air while looking at the fountain and the water carriers. He recognized me when I tapped him on the shoulder. I asked him what he was doing there. He replied: You see, I’m having fun.–And your loves?–Ah! that’s true. I went to Coralie’s with my bust under my arm. It was she who opened the door for me.
I told her what I had done for love of her, and what you had all told me, and that I would be an artist, and that she would come and pose at my house. She replied that she was making fun of me, that I bored her, and that I could take my plaster with me. I didn’t take it very far; I broke it against the boundary stone. “And is Coralie married?” asked Mlle de Guéblan. “Yes, mademoiselle, to a knife grinder who earns three francs a day. ” “What joy!” cried Mme Michaud. “What?” asked everyone present. “What joy! My bust! It’s me; I’m striking; I catch your eye! Ah! my dear artist, I want to throw my arms around your neck too!” And to kiss Daniel, who hardly expected it. The bust was not finished, far from it; but it had made more progress in two hours than in a whole fortnight. Mme Michaud had posed without knowing it, out of pure distraction, while listening to Daniel’s story . The artist had seized the opportunity on the fly, and his work, although improvised, was no less successful. Everyone agreed, even Victorine, who could not believe her eyes. In her confusion, She said to Daniel: Ah! Sir, you have truly proven that love works miracles! Daniel thought she was referring to the story of Mr. Cambier. He stood with his arms crossed in front of his bust, and said to himself: This is a rather good sketch; it remains to finish it without spoiling it. It is July 1st, I have time on my hands. If these gentlemen would leave me alone, the plaster would be repaired in two weeks, and I could ask for fifteen hundred francs in advance. What is there of truth in this story? thought Victorine. The Spanish embassy…. a girl who lives here, with her aunt…. a young man of her age and from her country…. a masterpiece made for love…. Who marries a knife-grinder? And by what spell did this block of earth take on the figure of Madame Michaud? The Marquis had announced that he would return on July 1st for dinner , and although he had not written for four days, his mathematical accuracy was so well known that his apartment was ready and his place setting on the table. After the triumphant session where the bust had been miraculously sketched, Daniel, radiant as a sun, ran to the smoking-room to fill his cigar-case. Don Juan’s clock showed ten minutes past six: so, before dressing, they had a good half-hour of recreation. To return from the smoking-room to the garden, they had to cross the fencing-room. It was a large square room, with a fir floor, unwaxed , and lined with weapons of all kinds. There they saw side by side the combat swords, sharpened, greased, brand new and shining, and the assault swords, rusted by contact with the hands and chipped by parades. M. de Guéblan did not like foils, whose suppleness and lightness make the hand lazy. Daniel passed by humming: he saw M. Lefébure contemplating a panoply. The lawyer had not digested the successes of the newcomer , nor the famous serenade, nor that nurse’s kiss that Madame Michaud had just applied so generously to the face of her sculptor. Add that for two weeks he had not taken any exercise. The blood tormented him; he felt itching in his hands, he was like Mercury when he met Sosie. He asked heaven for a man, just one man, a poor little man whose bones he could break. In these philanthropic dispositions, he caressed with his eyes the speckled swords and those good, stiff blades whose knob leaves a bruise on the body. Daniel appeared to him like a victim sent by Providence: how sweet it would be to marble with all his might such a large and appetizing breast ! Victory was not in doubt: fifteen years in the hall and a recognized strength! M. Lefébure readily repeated, with proud modesty: I have already met three amateurs stronger than me, Lord Seymour, M. Legouvé and the Marquis de Guéblan. This was to say rather elegantly: I fear no one, except the three best fencers in Paris. He felt the need to give a good lesson in fencing to M. Fert. It is always pleasant to show oneself superior to the man one does not like, but it is doubly pleasant when the demonstration can be made in a fencing hall. The young artist had nothing against M. Lefébure. He did not find him handsome, and he would not have painted his portrait for gold or silver; he had found him importunate for fifteen days, from two o’clock to six; but apart from that, he only wanted good for him. He stopped to talk with him, examined the weapons, accepted a glove and a sword, and allowed himself to be masked with the innocent candor of a lamb dressed for sacrifice. The belligerent lawyer rushed at him without warning! and gave him twenty blows with a button in less time than I can tell : it was a hailstorm. As he pushed each boot, he murmured inwardly: Well! Well! Well! Here’s for your sculpture! Here’s for your music! Here’s to teach you to fly like a cockchafer in the midst of my loves and my affairs! Daniel pocketed the blows without breaking, and each time he was hit, he said according to the rules of the game: Touch-touch-touch! After five minutes of this little task, M. Lefébure stopped to catch his breath and to mop his streaming forehead. Daniel was neither hotter nor colder than when he had crossed swords. He looked at the purple face of his adversary, and said to himself: Now I know your game; you will not touch me again! The fact is that this person of all types of body, sanguine man, shot very badly. His French fury could disconcert a novice, and his hand was quick enough to surprise a clumsy one; but he revealed himself at every moment, he attacked with cuts, he riposted before parrying, he dazzled himself, went in blind, and saw neither his blade nor the blade of his adversary. My turn! said the artist. He firmly withstood a second assault more furious than the first, parried, riposted, did everything in its time, did not receive a button tap, and returned with wear the waistcoat that had been given to him. M. Lefébure would not admit it. In fencing, as in all games, there are good and bad players; he was a detestable player. Instead of shouting: Touch! when he was touched, he would say in riposte: It’s on the arm! on the neck! on the thigh! the blade slipped! bad blow! missed! We will not count this one! Over to you! That is what is called a touch! “Pardon me, sir,” Daniel continued, taking off his mask. “It seems to me that if your iron had been unspiked, I wouldn’t have received a scratch. ” “Not even the first time?” asked M. Lefébure mockingly . “However, let’s be fair: the second was a little better. We’ll start again later. Give me time to breathe.” Daniel was not pleased. This bad faith in a gallant man was driving him mad. He would have liked a gallery. He was furious at being right. “Let’s start again,” he said. He became so animated by the game that it was M. Lefébure’s turn to be dazzled and blink. Daniel gave him back beans for peas, and the button strokes went off so briskly that they would have said the bouquet of fireworks. Phew! said M. Lefébure, throwing his sword on a bench: I believe, sir, that we are strong. “My goodness! sir,” resumed the artist with charming roundness, “I thought I had beaten you. ” “What! what! I won the first round, the second is a draw, and the third is yours. ” “Pardon; I did not know that the second was a draw. ” “Draw, that is to say, equal. You gave me two or three taps on the button, and I flatter myself that I gave them back to you. ” “Well, so be it!” said Daniel, exasperated. “Do you please play the fool? ” “Will we have time?” The door of the billiard room was open, M. Lefébure went in, looked at the time on the clock, and came back saying: “It is twenty to.” During his absence, Daniel took down a perfectly sharpened fighting sword and substituted it for M. Lefébure’s. “We shall see !” he said to himself. He continued aloud: It’s a matter of an instant; the beauty in one blow, a touch that hits. Come on, sir, on guard! M. Lefébure seized his iron and ran like a mentally ill person at the artist, who was standing sternly on guard. He threw two or three cuts in quick succession, the last of which whipped Daniel’s forearm roughly. The lawyer immediately lowered his point. Did I not hit? he asked politely. “I don’t think so, sir.” ” I thought I was quite sure, sir.” “You were mistaken, sir. ” “It’s a strange illusion, sir: I would have bet that I had hit you full in the chest.” “If you are sure, sir….” “Perfectly sure, sir. ” “Then how is it that I am still alive, sir? ” “I don’t understand, sir. ” “Please look at the point of your sword.” M. Lefébure felt himself stagger. ” We will not shoot together again, sir,” he said at once. “You have made a terrible joke there: you have exposed me to killing you. ” “No, sir, I was sure that you would not touch me.” Victorine, her aunt, M. de Marsal, and the Marquis de Guéblan had arrived at the door of the fencing room, and their entrance prevented the discussion from degenerating into a quarrel. “What a man!” thought Victorine; “he is a valiant escapee from some old novel.” When Daniel had been presented to the Marquis, she approached him and whispered in his ear: ” Mr. Daniel, I forbid you to risk your life. ” “That little girl annoys me,” thought the sculptor. Chapter 14. During dinner, the Marquis studied Daniel’s face with interest, M. Lefébure gave him a cold face, M. de Marsal looked at him with stupefaction as a child looks at shadow puppets; Madame Michaud praised him in every tone, and Victorine was in ecstasy before him. As for the hero of the day, he didn’t miss a beat .
They parted two hours earlier than usual. A master of a house who returns home after a fortnight’s absence has a hundred questions to ask, and M. de Guéblan had a thousand to address to Madame Michaud. Victorine guessed well that she would be discussed at this conference. She did not go to bed; she took a book, and what she read did not profit her much. M. Lefébure and M. de Marsal, in league against the common enemy, sought together ways to thwart Daniel’s policy. Daniel went to bed bravely at ten o’clock, and slept soundly until the next morning. My dear sister, said the Marquis to Madame Michaud, I have done what you wished: I have opened a competition which is not without danger, and above all without ridicule, by agreeing to two suitors at once. I do not see that the question has made much progress in my absence. Where are we? What does Victorine say? –Always the same speech: she says nothing; but if she has a penny’s worth of understanding, she will choose M. de Marsal. I told her this again three days ago, and I will repeat it to both of you until you have understood it: one does not marry a man, but a name. A woman goes everywhere without her husband; but she must, willingly or unwillingly , drag her name behind her. In a drawing-room, those who see her dance do not inquire whether her husband is tall or short; They say: What is the name of that pretty woman who is waltzing over there? The name! But it eclipses everything, dress, fortune, beauty: it is the greatest luxury in life, because it is not within everyone’s reach . –Bah! They make them every day, and… –Because they make rhinestone jewelry, must they throw the diamonds into the street? You don’t know how flattering to the ear there is in a pretty, sonorous and good name. You are jaded; for fifty years and some months you have been called Marquis de Guéblan. Ah! if you could only, for ten minutes, be called Michaud! To think that I was well born, just like you, your sister by father and mother, and that I will forever be called Madame Michaud! I don’t blame my husband, God rest his soul! I lived in peace with him, I loved him despite his name and all his other faults; but, in all fairness, couldn’t he take his Michaud with him to the other world? Finally! she continued with a sigh, I’ve made up my mind, I resign myself, but on one condition, that Victorine will not be called Michaud. –Lefébure is not an ugly name, and, besides…. –Lefébure is Michaud. Any name that is not accompanied by a title, surmounted by a crown, flanked by a shield, falls into the great category of Michaud! There are thirty-seven million Michauds in France, and I am one of them! Two or three thousand Guéblans, and Victorine will be one of them! –And why not? She could marry M. Lefébure and be called Madame de Guéblan. I am the last of the name; and the council of the seal of titles…. –Bad, my brother, bad! M. Lefébure is known by his name throughout Paris. The graft would not take, and the Marquis Lefébure de Guéblan would never be anything but Lefébure. Marsal is a pretty name! M. de Guéblan had excellent reasons for rejecting M. de Marsal. He knew that the last scion of such an ancient family would not consent to exchange his name for any other, and the marquis passionately desired not to be the last of the Guéblans. He was still saying to himself, glancing out of the corner of his eye at the captain’s face, that by marrying him to Victorine, he was preparing for himself a pale and feeble posterity. Finally, he was not counting blindly on his sister’s fortune, although he had earned a good part of it. Madame Michaud was capable of remarrying for the pleasure of changing her name; Victorine was sheltering herself from all whims by marrying Monsieur Lefébure. This last argument, which the Marquis developed in all frankness, amused Madame Michaud greatly. You are mentally ill! she said to her brother. Who would want to marry an antiquity like me? Victorine will have everything. How much do you want me to give her in marriage? A hundred thousand francs a year? She will no longer need to marry Monsieur Lefébure. I understand that those who have no money seek it; but as soon as one has the necessities, what is the point of pursuing the superfluous? The only thing necessary is a hundred thousand francs a year; Victorine will not eat more: her teeth are so small! I believe, moreover, that she has a preference for M. de Marsal. “You should have told me at the beginning, we would not have argued. But are you quite sure?” ” Let’s go to her house, she is not in bed, we will confess her between the two of us. ” Victorine, the silent one, was beginning to tire of the role of the mute character. Since she was sure of being loved, joy escaped through her eyes. Happiness, long enclosed in the depths of her soul, rose to her lips; her love was like those aquatic plants which remain hidden until the day when they bloom on the surface of the water. She listened with a radiant brow to her father’s little exhortation, who begged her to frankly name the one she preferred. Lefébure or Marsal? Choose! added Madame Michaud. “Neither one nor the other,” she replied. “And why, my niece? ” “Because I don’t love them, aunt. ” “As you say! I’m not asking you if you’re in love with one of these gentlemen; people marry first out of friendship, love comes later. ” “I want to love my husband in advance.” “First of all, that’s not good form. I don’t know anything as shocking as those brides who doted on their husbands: they look as if they were at a wedding! When I married M. Michaud, I knew him, I esteemed him, I thought the greatest of his character, but I didn’t love him any more than the Emperor of China. Love is a tree that grows slowly; only bad marijuana grows quickly. ” “Dear aunt, is it also good form for a husband to marry a wife without loving her?” “I didn’t say that, don’t accuse me of nonsense! ” “It seems to me that these gentlemen like neither of me. ” “What! ” “Oh! I’m not mistaken. I’ve studied them carefully, especially since we’ve been working on the bust. Here, in a few words, is the summary of my observations. ” “We’re listening.” “M. de Marsal is a well-born, well-bred man, of a gentle character, an even temper, and very agreeable manners. ” “Ah!” cried Madame Michaud triumphantly. “Wait! M. Lefébure has a varied mind, lively and elegant, a beautiful voice, moving speech, noble and resolute gestures. ” “Eh! eh!” murmured the Marquis. “Patience, father! One is blond, the other is dark; one is thin, the other is people of all types of body; one is poor, the other is rich: and yet one would think they were the same man, so much do they resemble me in their manners. They say the same insipid things to me, as if they had learned them from a manual. They look at me in the same way; they have no two ways of approving me when I speak. If I smile at them, they are uniformly triumphant; if I pout at them, they bow their brows under the weight of the same pain.” It seems as if they agree to turn the conversation to the subject of marriage, and each one goes to great lengths to prove that he would be the best of husbands. If I condemn indifference, they frown like two jealous people. If I speak out against jealousy, their two faces simultaneously take on a blissful indifference. If my aunt said a single word against avarice, they would run to skip forty-franc pieces; if she reprimanded prodigality, they would look for pins in the carpet! That is not how one loves! “What do you know? ” “I feel it there! The heart is clear-sighted, especially at my age: its eyes are not tired! If these gentlemen were in love with me, something would tell me, and, whether I like it or not, I would at least feel grateful . But when their attentions leave me indifferent, it is because they are not addressed to me, and it is my dowry that should thank them. M. de Guéblan was less struck by his daughter’s words than by the tone in which she spoke. He had never seen her so animated. He wanted to examine her more closely; he took her by both hands, pulled her from her armchair, and gently sat her on his knees. Look me in the eyes, he said. Victorine was experiencing that first transfiguration that happy love produces in young girls: she was blossoming. Would you love someone? her father asked her. She kissed him for all reply. Is he noble? “Like a king. ” “Rich? ” “Like my aunt. ” “Handsome?”
“Like you, my good father; and brave, and proud, and witty like you! ” “We know him? ” “You have seen him; but you do not know him. ” “Where did you meet him?” –At the Spanish embassy last winter. –A century ago! –Yes; I went six months without news. –Has he forgotten you? –No.
–How do you know? –I have proof. –I don’t ask you if he wrote to you: you are my daughter. –Oh! my father! –Who is it then? Tell us his name! Victorine would have been very embarrassed to answer. Madame Michaud said to the marquis: You frightened her; now she’s all seized up. Leave me alone with her, she’ll tell me her secret. I don’t know how Victorine managed to bewitch her aunt. The fact is that she didn’t tell her her secret, and that she enlisted her in a conspiracy against the suitors. They promised to prove to them themselves that they had no love except for Madame Michaud’s fortune. Victorine soon made her siege; Love is a great master of strategy. On the spot, she cut out the following sentence from a volume in the Bibliothèque bleue, which was placed in an envelope addressed to M. Lefébure: The lady and her niece were married on the same day to the two knights they loved, and those who were in the chapel of the castle witnessed two beautiful ceremonies. Let us reason, said Madame Michaud. When the postman brings him this anonymous rag, he will not throw it in the fire: it is summer. He will read it. What will he think? First, let them make fun of him… a bad joke… a schoolboy’s trick. When I was supposed to marry Mr. Michaud, my father received more than twenty anonymous letters: one among others in which it was stated that my future husband was married to four women in Turkey! Then he will scratch his head, and he will say to himself that I am quite crazy enough to marry a second time, with my mustache and my gray hair. If I marry, the consequence is clear: you enter straight into the interesting category of girls without a dowry. This person of all body types Lefébure is bourgeois to the bone, very well-endowed with his income, and incapable of marrying you for free. I can see the grimace he will pull. Mr. de Marsal would marry you anyway! He is a knight. But I am thinking: how can I make the lawyer believe that I have a husband in mind? He never leaves my side! He knows perfectly well that we haven’t had fifteen visitors in two weeks. To get married, you need a husband. Find me a phantom husband! Wait! That little sculptor! –Oh! Aunt! –Why? He’s very handsome. –No doubt, but…. –He has talent. –I agree, but…. –He has an absurd name, but a well-known name. That’s nobility! What I like in artists is that they’re not bourgeois. –But just think, Aunt…. –That he’s penniless? I’m rich enough for two! After all, this marriage would be a hundred times more likely than that of the Countess of Pagny with her steward Thibaudeau. The Marquise de Valin did marry a little engineer from the port of Brest named Henrion! And Madame de Bougé! And Madame de Lansac! And Madame de La Rue! “Yes, aunt, but what role will you have this poor young man play ?” “How unhappy he is! I will be charming with him; I will pay him compliments, I will take him for a walk with me in the park, and I will serve him chicken wings, while I will make Monsieur Lefébure eat the drumsticks. Besides, he will suspect nothing, and my attentions will only be intelligible to a man who has been warned.” Madame Michaud undertook to reassure the Marquis about her daughter’s mysterious love. She described it to him, in confidence, as a pure whim of the imagination, one of those daydreams that young hearts often have. There was no danger at home: Victorine was safe at the château, far from the world and the salons of Paris. The good aunt, who did not give up her project on Monsieur de Marsal, thought of hiring assistants. She brought Madame Lerambert from Paris with her son and her daughter, who had a dowry of a million. She was counting on Miss Lerambert to create a successful diversion by drawing the enemy’s forces towards her. At the same time, she sent a telegraph dispatch to old Miss de Marsal, a person of sense and intelligence, the elder and much older sister of her candidate. Miss de Marsal was to form the reserve and march in the rearguard. Unfortunately, she was deplorably slow in leaving her little castle at Lunéville, in taking leave of her neighbors and her cats, and in embarking in a traveling carriage. She had so little confidence in the railways that she wanted to come with her Lorraine horses, brave beasts, moreover, and which proudly covered their ten leagues a day. This reinforcement carriage did not arrive until July 12, when Mr. Lefébure was Miss Lerambert’s declared pursuer , and Daniel, tenderly pampered by Mrs. Michaud, was putting the finishing touches to his cast. The artist had noticed neither the rapid cooling of M. Lefébure, nor the joy that Victorine and her aunt had felt at it, nor his attentions returned to the banker’s daughter, nor the regret of the Marquis de Guéblan, nor the triumph of M. de Marsal: he had seen only his bust and the due date of the fifteen hundred francs. Nothing had been able to distract him, not even the looks of Victorine, which he had not not met, and her half-words, which he had not understood. Madame Michaud’s attentions had been close to his heart: he had no doubt that such a kind person would grant him the advance he needed . Full of this confidence, he had hastened his work and completed, in twelve sittings, a remarkable work. Artists never succeed better than under the whip of necessity: this is why millionaires are rarely great artists. Those who saw him work with such heart said to each other: How he loves! It is said that Phidias, when he made the Minerva of ivory and gold, was in love with his model. Who could have foreseen that Madame Michaud’s first passion would be shared by such a handsome boy? He will make a marriage of money and a marriage of love. No one doubted that he was seriously in love, except Victorine and M. de Marsal, who had another blindfold over their eyes. Madame Michaud herself was beginning to be alarmed by her work, and Monsieur de Guéblan was thinking of reprimanding his venerable sister. But it was Monsieur Lefébure who was laughing sincerely to himself. Seeing his old rival getting more and more bogged down, he congratulated himself on having been born a man of wit, and he was already picturing the pitiful face of the captain, the day when Daniel and Madame Michaud would walk down the aisle together. The lawyer had no illusions about Victorine . Since he learned she had no dowry, he found her much less beautiful than Mademoiselle Lerambert. For its part, the Lerambert family highly appreciated the eloquence and fortune of Monsieur Lefébure. The Marquis, greatly scandalized by the conduct of his candidate, felt himself drawn back by a secret instinct towards Monsieur de Marsal. He regretted more than ever having entered his daughter into the competition; He feared that the rumor of this adventure would spread to the Faubourg Saint-Germain, and he felt the need to marry Victorine as soon as possible. In this mood, he welcomed the captain’s advances favorably. He arranged two or three secret conversations with him: he opened his heart to him, and finally broached the delicate question of the change of name. M. de Marsal only needed to be asked in the right way; he resigned himself to being called Gaston de Marsal de Guéblan or de Marsal-Guéblan, or de Guéblan-Marsal, as it pleased the Marquis. Once the deal was done, he tenderly embraced his sister, who had just arrived from Lunéville, and told her the great news. Mlle de Marsal wept with joy, and said: I have arrived just in time to bless you. That is why, no doubt, Madame Michaud called me in such haste. The next day, July 13, was a Friday: a day of ill omen twice over . Mademoiselle de Marsal had had time to make inquiries and find out everything that was going on in the house. After lunch, she took her brother aside and said to him: What is Mademoiselle de Guéblan’s personal fortune? “I don’t know. Nothing, or ten thousand francs a year. ” “In property born and acquired? ” “No, at her father’s death. Why do you ask me that? You know very well that she has her aunt’s fortune. ” “From Mademoiselle Daniel Fert? ” “What are you saying? From Mademoiselle Michaud! ” “But, wretch! Don’t you know? ” “What?” “Madame Michaud is marrying the little sculptor. Everyone is in on the secret, except you. That’s why Monsieur Lefébure has withdrawn. ” “Mercy! ” Monsieur de Marsal ran out: he had never in his life had such vivid colors . His sideburns, blond as flax, looked red. He fell into Madame Michaud, who took him amicably by the arm and said to him: Where are you running to? I am taking you prisoner. I have many things to tell you. You behaved like an angel; Monsieur Lefébure is a beast; I am delighted by the arrival of your sister, and you will have my niece. He looked rather impolitely at his faithful ally and replied in a dry tone: Thank you, madame. I think someone is being deceived here, and I I will try to make sure that the dupe is not me. Madame Michaud remained rooted to her feet: she thought she saw a lamb unchained. He gave the poor woman a low bow and ran to Daniel, who was walking with young Mr. Lerambert at the edge of the pond. Monsieur le sculpteur, he said to him, you have been making fun of me for a long time , and I feel obliged to tell you that I like neither rogues nor schemers. Mr. Lerambert dropped his arms in amazement. Daniel looked at the captain as a doctor from Bicêtre looks at a mentally ill person. Is it me you are talking to, sir? “Yourself. ” “I am the one who is a roguish man and a schemer?…” “And an impudent one, if the other words are not enough to make the portrait seem like him to you. ” Daniel wondered for a moment if he would throw the captain into the pond ; but after reflection, he took his gloves from his pocket and threw them in his face. Chapter 15. Never has a case been more badly conducted than the duel between M. Fert and M. de Marsal. The captain had not touched a sword in his life, and his pistols, loaded in 1840, were still brand new, as you know. Daniel, trained in all weapons, had only used his talents to expel a water carrier from the window: no one was sufficiently hostile to himself to pick a quarrel with him. The great advantage of those who know how to fight is that they almost never fight . On the other hand, the clumsy often come to ask their assistance and choose them as witnesses to their feats of arms. But Daniel lived far from the world, and he had few friends, all artists, confined to their studios, pacific by taste and by profession. So he had never appeared on the field, even as a spectator. M. de Marsal chose as witnesses the young M. Lerambert and his old rival M. Lefébure. But the lawyer was too prudent to expose himself to a month in prison in the event of misfortune: he wisely recused himself. M. Lerambert junior, a law student, very young, almost a child, felt himself grown a little by the completely new role to which he was called. He undertook to find a second witness among the innocents of his age. If you had seen him walking, his frock coat buttoned to the neck, one hand in his pocket, his eye half veiled, his face imbued with an air of important discretion, you would not have been able to stop yourself from smiling, and you would have forgotten that this schoolboy was about to risk the lives of two men. The captain, outraged by the affront he had received, and even more by the ruin of his hopes, was in a hurry to get it over with. I do n’t think he positively wished for Daniel’s death, but a pistol shot could break up Madame Michaud’s marriage and ensure Victorine an income of five hundred thousand francs. The artist, for his part, had no time to lose: he had signed a note for the 15th, and his practitioner, who had workmen to pay, was not in a position to wait. Daniel spent the rest of the day finishing his bust. At six o’clock, he informed Madame Michaud that he was forced to dine out, and he rushed to Paris. He was counting on two officer friends of his who were staying on Rue Saint-Paul, near the Ave-Maria barracks. Unfortunately , when he arrived at their house, he learned that the regiment had left for Lyon for a fortnight. He had himself taken to the Faubourg du Temple to see M. de Pibrac, former commander of the Royal Guard, one of the finest blades of 1816. He found him in bed with gout. In desperation , he returned to the Rue de l’Ouest and the workshops of his friends. He chose two of them for their vigor and composure rather than for their experience. They were a painter and a medal engraver, as new as he was in the matter of duelling. He asked them to stay at home all evening, to receive M. de Marsal’s witnesses. These two children were waiting for him in an office of the Provençal Brothers; They both lived with their parents, and they were afraid of alerting their family. Daniel brought them, at nine o’clock, the address of his two friends. He met M. de Marsal on the stairs as he was descending, and he exchanged a very ceremonial greeting with him. At ten o’clock in the evening, the four witnesses opened a truly singular conference in the rue de l’Ouest. None of them knew the causes of the duel. They knew that M. de Marsal had insulted M. Daniel Fert in words, who had insulted him in action. Daniel himself was unaware of the grievances that the captain might have against him. His ultimatum, written by his friends, under his dictation, was neither long nor complicated. I never had anything against M. de Marsal. He called me deceitful, scheming and impudent, I don’t know why. Attacked on my honor, I threw my glove in his face. If he withdraws what he said, I will regret what I have done. I want the matter settled tomorrow before noon. If I have the choice of weapons, I request the sword. M. de Marsal would have had no trouble finding more able witnesses than his own. He was not from Paris, and he knew few people there; but he had witnesses to choose from, either at the ministry or at the hotel of the military navy. He contented himself with two students, so as not to have to answer for them. M. Lerambert spoke, saying: Gentlemen, M. Daniel Fert has thrown down his glove to M. de Marsal; we are charged with demanding an explanation. None of the usual rules were observed: Daniel’s witnesses did not even know the names of M. de Marsal’s witnesses. There was no mention of Madame Michaud, nor of Victorine, nor of Daniel’s alleged intrigues, nor of the captain’s deception. This is what the captain had wanted. Under these conditions, no arrangement was possible. M. de Marsal was exasperated, like any indolent man who goes out of character. Daniel was not sorry to give him one of those lessons in politeness that one remembers in bed for six weeks: it was in this spirit that he had chosen the sword. The witnesses, the eldest of whom was not yet thirty , wanted to be witnesses to something. If you want a matter to be settled, never choose young witnesses. The conference lasted no more than half an hour: it is sooner declared battle than concluded peace. A meeting was arranged for the next day, six o’clock in the morning, at Petit-Montrouge. Beyond this village you will find a good number of abandoned quarries, where people fight more peacefully than in the Bois de Boulogne. The choice of weapons was up to no one, since the offenses were mutual. It was agreed to draw lots on the ground. As he was about to take his leave, M. Lerambert asked his adversaries: By the way, gentlemen, do you have any weapons? “No, sir; and you? ” “We don’t have any either. ” “We should go to a gunsmith. ” “Is that prudent? Suppose we were followed! I think we could get some from the Château de Guéblan. Or rather, no: that would be abusing the Marquis’s hospitality. He would never be consoled if, unfortunately… ” “My dear Édouard,” his companion told him, “M. de Marsal told us he had combat pistols. Would these gentlemen accept them? ” “Why not?” the painter replied naively. “If they are good, so much the better for the most skillful; if they are bad, we won’t hurt ourselves. ” “They are good.” “As for the swords, don’t worry. M. Fert has several in his studio.” During this interview, Daniel got out of the car at the entrance to the Ternes enclosure. He came there regularly on Thursdays and Sundays, after dinner to play dominoes with his old mother, and to find out if she lacked anything. I only lack you, the good woman invariably replied. That evening she wasn’t expecting him, since she had seen him the day before. She had gone to bed at nine o’clock, and was sleeping her first nap, the only good one for people her age. Daniel silenced the doorbell in the little garden, entered his workshop quietly, untied a pair of swords, wiped off the dust, bent the blades, and made sure the hilts were in his hand. He wrapped the two weapons in green serge and carried them discreetly to the garden. Here, he thought, are two good lancets to bleed M. de Marsal. My poor mother will be a little frightened when I come tomorrow to tell her about my adventure. Bah! He was about to leave, but I don’t know what force held him back. He searched in his pocket for the double key to the house; he entered stealthily , and only stopped in front of his mother’s bed. A small nightlight scattered its flickering light around the room. Madame Fert, surrounded by drawings, plaster casts, bronzes, and a thousand little works by her son, smiled as she slept. In her dreams, she saw her dear Daniel enameled with the green embroidery of the Institute and tied with the red ribbon of the Legion of Honor. Daniel looked at her tenderly for a few minutes; then he knelt before her, then kissed a small wrinkled hand that hung over the edge of the bed, then took a corner of the very white sheet, perfumed with a good scent of violets, and wiped his eyes with it. On returning to the château, he went nimbly up to his room, hid his swords in the dressing room, brushed his knees, and went back down to the drawing room. The Marquis, his sister, and his daughter were playing vingt-et-un with Monsieur Lefébure, Mademoiselle de Marsal, and the Lerambert family. Young Monsieur Lerambert and the captain arrived together after a quarter of an hour. Finally! said Madame Michaud, I am taking possession of all my boarders. Since seven o’clock, I have been like a hen that has lost her chicks. It’s as if you had agreed to leave us here, gentlemen. I don’t know if I should offer you tea; you hardly deserve it. My dear sculptor, a cup? Ah! I forgot that you take it without sugar. Pass the sugar bowl to Monsieur de Marsal; he really needs it today. The captain’s hand trembled imperceptibly as he received the cup from Daniel. Monsieur Lerambert junior, more pimply than ever, did not look like a young traitor in a melodrama. He tried to eat a piece of brioche with his tea, but the pieces stopped at his throat. He loosened the knot of his tie, which, however, was not too tight. Gentlemen absent, continued Madame Michaud, I sentence you to play twenty-one and lose your money with us. Who will take the bank? Mr. Fert? “Willingly, madame,” replied Daniel. He played so happily that he soon won five hundred francs. Mr. Lefébure and Mr. de Marsal were trying to break the bank. Mrs. Michaud said to them giddily: “Oh! No matter what you do, he’s stronger than you. He’s lucky. For example, that money will cost him dearly! Lucky at gambling… you know the proverb?” Mlle. de Marsal gave her brother a penetrating look. Victorine tried to meet Daniel’s eyes. Daniel said to himself: ” Good! I’ll only ask Mrs. Michaud for a thousand francs.” They parted around two o’clock. As they climbed the stairs to the first floor, Daniel exchanged a few words with Mr. Lerambert. “Is it for tomorrow? ” “Yes, sir, at six o’clock, in front of the town hall of Petit-Montrouge. ” “Weapons? ” “We’ll draw lots. ” “I have my swords. ” “We have our pistols.” We will leave by the small door: take the other side, so that no one will have any suspicions. –The whole castle will be asleep; we go to bed so late! M. de Marsal took his pistols from the bottom of his trunk. He changed the primers, which were all green, wrote a long letter to his sister, threw himself fully dressed on his bed, and did not sleep a minute. Daniel rested like Alexander or the great Condé on the eve of a battle. At five-thirty, he was on his feet. The two adversaries left without waking anyone. M. de Marsal gave the guard at the little gate the letter he had written to his sister. Everyone was punctual for the meeting. The town hall of Montrouge is a new building, erected a few steps from the village, in the middle of the fields. The witnesses dismissed their cabs, and they set off on foot in the direction of the quarries. Daniel led the march with his friends. How calm you are! the painter told him. “I am calm if we have the sword. With these devilish pistols, I am not responsible for anything: I kill my man. ” “How? ” “It’s quite simple. With sword in hand, I am sure he will not hurt me, and I can spare him. With pistols, one does not spare the clumsy, because they are capable of breaking your head. Advise them to use the sword, for their own good.” M. Lerambert said to M. de Marsal: You refuse the sword; so you draw the pistol? “Not me at all. ” “Then it doesn’t shoot either? ” “It hits nineteen times in twenty shots. ” “Well! Let’s take the sword, it won’t kill you! ” “I’ll tell you later what to do.” They went down into a quarry forty paces long by twenty. The ground was as even as the floor of a fencing hall. M. Lerambert threw a five-franc piece into the air. The painter asked for tails, and the coin came up heads: they were fighting with pistols. It remained to fix the distance and measure the terrain. The four witnesses were well cured of the intoxicated pride that had brought them there. M. Lerambert was stumped; the other three were weeping. Place us forty paces apart, said Daniel to his friends, and make sure he fires first: he will miss me and I will send my bullet to the larks. M. Lerambert came to bring the captain’s proposals: Gentlemen, he said, M. de Marsal has never fired a pistol; M. Fert is of the first force. The only way to make the chances equal is to discharge one of the two pistols, and draw lots to see who will have it. The two adversaries will be placed five paces apart. This is how M. de Marsal intends to fight. “But it is a fight to the death!” cried Daniel. “We will never allow it!” added his two witnesses. “Then,” replied M. Lerambert with visible satisfaction, “the duel is impossible, and the matter must be arranged. ” “Eh! by Jove!” said Daniel, “arrange it.” I thirst for no one’s blood, and I am quite ready to forgive the captain for the foolish compliments he paid me. “May I report your words to him, sir? ” “Certainly, sir. See how far the forgetfulness of form and etiquette was carried! Daniel was talking on the field with his adversary’s witnesses. M. Lerambert said to the captain: He is well-mannered, he passes judgment on everything you told him: the matter is half settled. ” “We will get a good deal,” replied M. de Marsal: “these heroes of the sword and pistol rely on their skill. They refuse to play as soon as the game becomes equal. Ask, I pray you, what excuses he will make for the rudeness of his conduct.” M. Lerambert crossed again the neutral ground which ran between the two enemy camps. He addressed Daniel directly and said to him: M. de Marsal learned with pleasure that you no longer held his words against him; He hopes, sir, that you will be kind enough to give a new proof of courtesy by asking his forgiveness for… Daniel heard no more. Sir, he said in his most haughty voice, I ask forgiveness from no one, especially from people who have insulted me. Please unload a pistol! –But, sir…. –No buts, I beg you. The shortest jokes are the best, and this one has lasted too long! He was handsome in his anger, and his long black hair quivered magnificently on his forehead. His witnesses tried to calm him; he would hear nothing. The captain, a little cooled, sent M. Lerambert to him; he replied that he was not asking for explanations, but for pistols. M. de Marsal, pale as death, handed the weapons to his witnesses. Daniel examined them one by one with meticulous care. Thick barrels, he said, dry steel, a little sour and brittle; good weapons, otherwise. Who loaded them? “M. de Marsal’s gunsmith. ” “Have you brought powder and bullets? ” “Yes, sir. Would you like us to reload in front of you? ” “It is useless.” He took a pistol and fired it in the air. ” They are well loaded,” he said. “Be kind enough, sir, to put a primer on them.” The two pistols were wrapped in a scarf; M. de Marsal chose one, the artist took the other. The painter, who had long legs , measured five enormous paces. The four witnesses withdrew apart, sobbing. Gentlemen, said M. Lerambert in a panting voice, I will clap three shots, you can fire when you wish. Daniel fired first; only the cap went off. His pistol was not loaded. M. de Marsal, paler than ever, remained in his place for a few seconds, his arm outstretched, the barrel pointed at Daniel’s chest. His legs gave way beneath him, his eyes swam in uncertainty and fear; his whole body wavered like a birch shaken by the wind. At a moment like this, seconds are longer than years. Daniel, his body effaced, his chest sheltered by his right arm, his head half hidden behind his pistol, had time to lose patience. Shoot! he shouted. “Shoot, sir!” repeated the four witnesses mechanically. All possible misfortunes seemed preferable to the anguish that was suffocating them. The captain, without lowering his hand, replied in a quavering voice: “Sir, your life is mine; but I hate to take it. You will ask my forgiveness. ” “No, sir. Shoot! ” “If I shot now, I would be a murderer. Ask my forgiveness! ” “If you don’t shoot, you are a coward! ” “Sir! ” “I will miss you, sir; your hand is trembling. ” “Don’t push me to the limit!” Daniel thought neither of death, nor of his art, nor of his mother: he was boiling at the thought of his life in the hands of another. “Shoot!” he cried again. M. Lerambert took a step towards the two adversaries, saying: “This is intolerable!” “Wait!” replied the artist; “I will send him courage.” He thrust his left hand into his pocket to look for his gloves. The shot went off. It was M. de Marsal who fell backward. Everyone ran to him; Daniel arrived first. The pistol had exploded an inch from the thunder, and the captain’s arm was broken. The engraver and the painter wore long cravats; they arranged them in sashes, one under the forearm, the other around the wounded man’s arm. It won’t matter, sir, said Daniel. So, why the devil were you asking me for excuses when I’ve done nothing to you? “Forgive me, sir, and be happy! Marry the one you love. ” “Me? ” “You. ” “I love Mlle. de Guéblan? ” “No, Mme. Michaud.” The poor fellow looked at M. de Marsal’s head to make sure nothing had entered his brain. The skull was perfectly intact. At the same time, M. Lerambert picked up the section of the pistol. Daniel took it in his hands and examined it like a connoisseur. Who loaded this one for you? “My gunsmith.” “That’s right; but in what year?” “In 1840. ” “You’ll tell me so much!” The captain, leaning on Daniel’s arm, returned on foot to Petit-Montrouge. In the Grand’Rue they met the castle’s physician, that excellent Doctor Pellarin. He took the wounded man to one of his friends and put on the first apparatus, while M. Lerambert ran to reassure Mlle de Marsal. The morning had been stormy at the Folie-Sirguet. Mlle de Marsal, struck by her brother’s strange appearance, spent a sleepless night and got up before six o’clock. She came to knock at the captain’s room, entered without ceremony, found the nest deserted, and went in search of someone in the park. The guard gave her the letter he had for her. It was a detailed account of the quarrel, followed by a holographic will in case of an accident. Mlle de Marsal, terribly worried, found the legs to run to the castle. She unceremoniously woke Madame Michaud, who woke her brother, who sent for M. Lefébure. Victorine awoke of her own accord and hurried downstairs. Madame and Mademoiselle Lerambert soon appeared. I believe that if the Marquis’s ancestors had been buried nearby, they would have run to the sound. No one had thought of dressing; everyone had come as they happened to be, the men in their dressing gowns, the women in their night gowns, everyone in slippers. Never had the salons of the château seen such a carnival. Madame Michaud and Madame Lerambert lost a great deal by appearing so early, and the banker’s daughter did not retain all her illusions about the person of Monsieur Lefébure. But Victorine found it to her advantage. When she entered, with her hair down and without a corset, in a long embroidered percale dressing gown, she looked as beautiful as Mademoiselle Rachel in the last act of Polyeucte. The first words she heard told her what was happening. She was violently moved, not with fear, but with audacity. Don’t worry, she said: nothing will happen to him. I know him, he is the invincible man. “My brother?” asked Mademoiselle de Marsal. “It’s not your brother; but don’t be afraid, mademoiselle, he will be spared! If lionesses talk together in the desert, that’s how they should talk about lions.” The whole audience opened their eyes wide. Victorine didn’t need to be asked twice to tell her secret: a woman is not ashamed to love the man who fights for her. She told her father the short and full story of the month that had just passed, Daniel’s admirable discretion, his courage, and all the talent that love had given him. M. de Guéblan was thinking to himself that he had taken too much care of his affairs and too little of his house, Mme Michaud thought she was foolish, M. Lefébure was rubbing his eyes, and Mlle de Marsal no longer knew whether to be frightened or scandalized. Victorine’s passion was flaring up like those fires that have smoldered for several days on board a ship: you open a hatch and everything catches fire. Her father would have preferred to learn this great mystery in a smaller company. Such a confidence, made before witnesses, was equivalent to a formal engagement. But the Marquis had had time to appreciate Daniel, and, son-in-law for son-in-law, he preferred him to M. de Marsal. The latter, very probably, would not quibble over being called M. Fert de Guéblan! As for Mme Michaud, the most volatile of women, she passed in the blink of an eye from surprise to enthusiasm. I would not swear that her forty-year-old heart had remained insensitive to the beauty of the young sculptor. Taking him as a husband was out of the question; however ridiculous one may be, one is always afraid of ridicule. But nothing prevented her from making him her nephew: That’s always it! she thought. However, she reminded her niece of that marvelous stranger she had spoken of a fortnight before, that young man as noble as a king, as rich as a Hamburg banker, as handsome as… But it’s him! replied Victorine in the most convinced tone; be I’m sure he hid his name and birth from us. Nature is not so mistaken as to give the face of a prince to an unfortunate little sculptor. Just wait until he comes back, he’ll tell us everything. As for his fortune, could you believe that it was as modest as he said? Didn’t you see how the gold falls from his hands? Didn’t you notice, last night, with what disdain he picked up the money he had earned? These illusions did not hold up in the face of the appearance, the speech and the dress of Daniel’s mother. She in no way resembled the dowager queen of the country of Fert, and when she came, with tears in her eyes, to ask for news of her son, we recognized that same Franche-Comté accent which distinguished Perrochon’s language. The main caretaker of the Ternes enclosure is a feeder who sells milk and eggs to his entire colony. When her daughter, a pretty, fair-haired child, brought Madame Fert some cream for her lunch, she said to her: How late Monsieur Daniel came, Madame Fert! You must have been in bed. –When? –But yesterday evening. –You’re mistaken. –I’m sure of it; it was I who pulled the string. He took away a large green package like that of Monsieur Moreau, the fencing master. Two minutes later, the poor mother had recognized the absence of two swords in her son’s workshop. She dressed herself in her best clothes and ran to the Château de Guéblan. Ah! my dear sir! she said to the marquis, that’s just what I feared. I told him: There’s a beautiful young lady there, beware of falling in love! But he’s such a great, mentally ill person! Victorine didn’t think of criticizing the figure or the dress of her future mother-in-law; she had only one idea: He loves me! he told his parents! And to embrace the good old woman, who apologized for such a great honor. Monsieur
Lerambert junior finally arrived, and everyone was reassured, except for Mademoiselle de Marsal. She took the young messenger’s carriage and had herself driven to Montrouge. Hardly had she left when a cabriolet stopped in front of the steps, and a footman came to tell Madame Michaud that Monsieur Fert was asking her for the favor of a private interview. Wait, she said to everyone; it’s to me he wants to confess. She found him in the hall, took him by the hand, and led him to a boudoir on the first floor. Ah! Monsieur, she called to him with the brusqueness you know, I’m hearing some great things about you! Daniel was much more moved than when he said to Monsieur de Marsal: “Shoot!” He humbly replied: Forgive me, madame: I swear to you that if I had not been rudely provoked, I would have had more respect for the laws of hospitality. Besides, it was not I who hurt M. de Marsal: he hurt himself. –We know. Afterwards? –I understand, madame, that following such an outburst, I am no longer permitted to remain under your roof. I have therefore come to take leave of you, and to thank you for a welcome for which I will retain eternal gratitude . –What does he say? –Fortunately your bust is finished, and, with your permission, I will execute the marble at home. –Speak then! Afterwards…. –Afterwards, madame, afterwards…. –You have something to ask me? –It is true, madame; and since you are so kind as to encourage me…. –Certainly I encourage you! –Well! Madam, I have a note to pay tomorrow, or rather Monday, and if you would be so kind as to advance me a thousand francs towards the price of this bust, I… –Granted! Granted! Afterwards? –Afterwards, madame, I have nothing left to do but thank you. –Come now! I know everything. –What, madame? –Everything! You love my niece! –Me, madame? But I swear I don’t! –I swear I do! Why did you risk your life on the short straw against M. de Marsal? –Because he insulted me. –Why did you want to get yourself killed by that awful M. Lefébure? –Because he was getting on my nerves. –What a pretty reason! Be honest, and agree between us that you are not a mentally ill person for Victorine? –Madame, I want to die if…. –Don’t die; she loves you! Daniel was sincerely sorry. Tears welled up in his eyes. My dear Madame Michaud, he said, I have been slandered! On my mother’s head …. –She is here, your mother, and she has confessed to us that you love Victorine. Is he obstinate, good God! Since she is being given to you in marriage! “The joke, madame, is a little harsh, and whatever my faults, I don’t think I deserved it… ” “You have deserved my niece’s hand, I tell you, and you shall have it! What a lovely misfortune! Do you find her ugly? ” “No, madame, she is admirably beautiful. ” “That’s very fortunate! ” “The first thought that came to me when I saw her was that I would rather paint her portrait than any other. ” “Is what you say kind to me? But no matter! She will give you your portrait, big child, and may God grant that we have six copies!” “No incredulity can stand against such language.” Daniel allowed himself to be gently persuaded. “Happiness is a guest who needs no announcement: it always finds doors open.” On February 1, 1856, under a beautiful winter sun, M. Fert de Guéblan and his young wife were strolling in an American car through the park paths. Daniel was driving himself. As they passed under the round oak, Victorine signaled him to stop. Do you remember? she said. This is where the introduction took place. I was sitting there, under my beautiful old oak, whose leaves were less russet than today, and I was devouring a book of the greatest interest, the story of the incomparable Atalanta: I never saw the end of it.
“And why? ” “Did you give me time? Here it is, this unfortunate little book. Do you want me to read you a chapter? ” “Thank you, my dear love. Put your hands back in your muff. ” “Only the last sentence?” “What’s the use, if I don’t know the beginning? ” “You don’t know what you’re missing.” Listen: They married, and from them was born a prince as handsome as the day. –True? –There are only truths in that little book. GORGEON. As he had won second prize for tragedy at the Conservatoire, he soon made his debut at the Odéon. It was, if I remember correctly, in January 1846. He played Orosmane on the feast of Saint Charlemagne, and was booed by all the schoolboys on the left bank. None of his friends were surprised: it is so difficult to succeed in tragedy when one is called Gorgeon! He should have taken a battle name, and called himself Montreuil or Thabor; but what can you do? He clung to the name Gorgeon as to the only inheritance his parents had left him. His fall made little noise; he did not fall from a great height. He was twenty years old, had few friends, and no patrons in the newspapers. Poor Gorgeon! However, he had a fine moment in the fifth act, stabbing Zaire with a lion’s roar. No director wanted to hire him for tragedy; but an old vaudevillian who wished him well got him into the Palais-Royal. He made up his mind philosophically: After all, he thought, vaudeville has a better future than tragedy, because tragedies will no longer be written as beautiful as those of Racine, and everything leads me to believe that better verses will be rhymed than those of M. Clairville. It was soon recognized that he did not lack talent: he had the comic gesture, the happy grimace, and the pleasant voice. Not only did he understand his roles, but he put his own into them. The public took a liking to him, and the name of Gorgeon circulated pleasantly among men. It was repeated that Gorgeon had made a place for himself between Sainville and Alcide Tousez, and that he happily combined finesse and silliness. This metamorphosis from Orosmane to Jocrisse took eighteen months. At twenty-two, Gorgeon earned ten thousand francs, not counting the fires and profits. One does not advance so quickly in diplomacy. When he believed himself to be at the height of fame and fortune, he lost his head a little: we do not know what we would have done in his place. The astonishment of seeing furniture in his room and louis in his drawer troubled his reason. He led the life of a young man and learned to play lansquenet, which unfortunately is not difficult. No one would ruin themselves at gambling if all games were as complicated as chess. The poor boy persuaded himself, looking at his casket, that he was a son of family. When he left the theater on the 3rd of the month, with his salary in his pocket, he said to himself: I have a good man of a father, a hardworking, studious, and virtuous Gorgeon, who earned me a few crowns on the stage of the Palais-Royal: it’s up to me to make them roll! The crowns rolled so well that the year 1849 surprised him in the midst of a small crowd of creditors: he owed twenty thousand francs, and he was a little surprised: What! he said, at the time when I earned nothing, I owed nothing to anyone! The more I earn, the more I owe. Would people of all types of income have the privilege of putting their man in debt? His creditors came to see him every day, and he sincerely regretted disturbing so many people. It is not true that artists wallow in debt like fish in water. They are sensitive, like all other men, to the boredom of avoiding certain streets, of flinching at the ring of a doorbell, and of reading hieroglyphics on stamped paper. Gorgeon more than once regretted the time of his beginnings, that time, that happy time when the grocer and the milkmaid refused Orosmane any credit. One day, as he meditated sadly on the embarrassments that wealth brings, he cried out: Happy is he who has only the bare necessities! If I earned just enough to meet my needs, I would not commit follies, therefore no debts, and I could move freely in all the neighborhoods. Unfortunately, I have more than I need: it is this cursed superfluity that ruins me. I need five hundred francs a month, everything else is too much. Give me old parents to support, sisters to provide for, brothers to send to college! I will be enough for everything, and I will still find the means to pay my debts. But I am the only one of my race, and I have no family responsibilities. If only I married! He married, to save money, the most coquettish girl in his theater and in Paris. I am sure that you have not forgotten her, that little Pauline Rivière, whose wit and kindness served as a parachute for seven or eight vaudevilles. She spoke a little too quickly, but it was a pleasure to hear her stammer. Her small eyes, for they were small, seemed at times to spread over her whole face. She never opened her mouth without showing two rows of sharp teeth like those of a young wolf. Her shoulders were those of a person of all body types, a four-year-old child, pink and plump. Her black hair was so long that they made her play a Swiss girl expressly to display it. As for her hands, they were an object of curiosity like the feet of a Chinese woman. At seventeen, with no other fortune than her beauty, and no other ancestors than the head of the theater cheerleader, this pretty baby had almost metamorphosed into a marquise. A descendant of the Knights of the Round Table, a very marquis and a very Breton, had taken it into his head to marry her. It was a close call, and without the intervention of the Dowagers of Huelgoat and Sarravent, the matter was settled. But the anger of dowagers, as Solomon says, is terrible; especially that of Breton dowagers. Pauline remained Pauline as before; her marquisate fell into the water, and she was not so distressed as to go looking for it. She continued to lead five or six little loves of all conditions at great speed on the royal road to marriage. It was then that Gorgeon came to harness himself to his chariot. She received him as she received all her suitors, serious or frivolous, with a good, impartial grace. He was tall and well-built, and did not look too much like a porcelain brought back from China. He had neither puffy eyes, nor a hoarse voice, nor a blue chin. His demeanor was almost severe. He dressed like a member of the Comédie-Française. He paid his court. From the first day, Pauline found him well. After a month, she found him very well: that was in February 1849. In March, she found him better than all the others; in April, she fell in love with him, and made no secret of it. He expected to see his rivals rejected; but Pauline was in no hurry. The preparations for the wedding were made in the midst of a congestion of lovers that made Gorgeon impatient. He was not well anywhere, neither at home nor at Pauline’s: at her place, he found his rivals; at his, his creditors. He asked her one day quite pointedly if these gentlemen would not soon be sighing elsewhere. Are you jealous? she said. “No, although I made my debut in Orosmane. ” “In town? ” “On stage. But I would play it in town if I were forced to. ” “Be quiet; you have a bad eye.” Why would you be jealous? You know very well that I love you. Jealousy is always a little ridiculous, but in our situation it is absurd. If you start it once, you will have to be jealous of the directors, the authors, the journalists and the public. The public courts me every night! What does that do to you? I love you, I tell you, I prove it to you by marrying you; if that were not enough for you, it is because you would be difficult. The marriage took place in the last days of April. The public had paid Gorgeon’s debts and the bride’s basket. It was the affair of two benefit performances. The first was given at the Odéon; the second, at the Italiens. All the theaters of Paris wanted to take part: Gorgeon and Pauline were loved everywhere. They
married in Saint-Roch, gave a grand luncheon at the restaurant, and left in the evening for Fontainebleau. The first quarter of their honeymoon lit up the tall trees of the old forest. Gorgeon was radiant like a king’s son. Around him, spring was bursting the buds of the trees. Everything was turning green, except the oaks, which are always late, as if their grandeur tied them to the shore. Marijuana and moss spread like a soft carpet under the feet of the two lovers. Pauline stuffed her pockets with white violets. They went out at dawn and returned at night. In the morning, they frightened the lizards; in the evening, the buzzing cockchafers threw themselves at their heads. On May 1, they went to the Sablons festival, which lasts from dusk to dawn under the tall beeches. All the young people of the area were there; the little bourgeois women of Moret, the winegrowers of Sablons and Veneux, and the beautiful girls of Thomery, peasants with white hands, whose job is to watch over the vines, thin out the bunches and remove the small grapes that bother people of all body types. All these young people admired Pauline; they took her for a local lady of the manor. She danced with all her heart until three o’clock in the morning, although she had a little sand in her boots. Then she walked, arm in arm with her husband, to the waiting carriage. They returned more than once their eyes to the festival that was taking shape behind them like a large red stain. The music of the minstrels, the sound of sugar whistles, the squeaking of rattles and the detonations of firecrackers reached their ears confusedly. Then they walked in a charming silence, lit by the moon and interrupted from minute to minute by the voice of a nightingale. Gorgeon felt moved; he let fall two good big tears. I swear to you that an elegiac poet could not have wept more, and the proof is that Pauline began to laugh and sob: How they would have fun, she said, if they saw us like this! It seems to me that we are two hundred leagues from the theater. ” Unfortunately, we will return there in three days. ” “Bah! life is not made for crying. We will not love each other less for loving each other gaily.” Gorgeon was not jealous. When he reappeared at the Palais-Royal, he was not scandalized to hear the old actors addressing his wife informally as they were accustomed to. She was almost their adopted daughter; they had seen her as a child in the wings, and she remembered dancing on their knees. What bothered him more was seeing Pauline’s old admirers in the orchestra, opera glasses in hand. He had distractions, and his memory failed him several times; this was noticed, and he was a little mocked by his comrades. It was said that he was playing a supporting role. In the special language of the theater, the supporting roles are the traitors, the jealous, and all the characters in a dark mood. A bad joker asked him if he was not thinking of returning to the Odéon. He took all the gibes quite well; but he could not stomach the young men with opera glasses. Fortunately, he thought, these gentlemen will not come either on stage or to my house. Every time he went up to his dressing room by the dirty little staircase on the Rue Montpensier, he reread with a certain satisfaction the decree of the police prefect which forbade the entry of any person outside the theatre backstage. As a precaution, he accompanied Pauline whenever she played without him, and he took her with him whenever he played without her. Pauline asked for nothing better. She was coquettish and she readily threw smiles into the audience, but she loved her husband. The summer passed well; the orchestra was half empty; the handsome young men who so greatly displeased Gorgeon spent their leisure time in Baden-Baden, Biarritz or Trouville; M. de Gaudry, that Breton marquis who had been forced to marry Pauline, spent the fine season on his estate. The young couple lived in profound peace, and the honeymoon did not fade. But in December all of Paris had returned, and the Society of Dramatic Artists everywhere advertised a grand ball for February 1st. Gorgeon was commissioner and his wife was patroness. All the men who were even remotely interested in the theater ran to the patronesses to buy tickets; the beautiful saleswomen vied with each other in zeal, and it was a race to see who could get the most tickets. Gorgeon saw clearly that it would be impossible for him to keep his door closed. There was a tremendous coming and going on his stairs, and the yellow gloves wore out the cord of his bell . What could he do? He had to make himself a prisoner at home, he was rehearsing in two rooms, and his time was taken from noon to four o’clock. He rarely returned home without meeting some handsome gentleman who came downstairs humming a tune from his vaudevilles. When he found one near his wife, he had to put on a brave face, everyone being exquisitely polite to him. M. de Gaudry came to get a ticket, then he came back to get a second one for his brother. Then he lost his, and came back to get a third; then he wanted a fourth for a young man from his club, and so on until he got to twelve. Gorgeon drew his sword, he was first-rate with a pistol, but what good was it? M. de Gaudry had not never failed, quite the contrary. He congratulated him, he adulated him, he praised him to the skies; he said to him: My dear Gorgeon, you are an admirable joker. You have no equal when it comes to amusing people. Only yesterday you made me laugh so much that I had tears in my eyes. How comical you are, my dear Gorgeon! If the poor man had become angry, not only would everyone have agreed with him, but it would have been said that he had become mentally ill. Pauline loved him as much as on the first day, but she was very happy to see a few people and to hear compliments. The love of a few well-born and well-bred men did not bore her; she played with fire like a woman who is sure not to get burned. She kept a record of the passions she had experienced; She carefully noted the nonsense that had been said to her, and she laughed about it with her husband, who hardly laughed. When Gorgeon proposed outright that she close her door to the gallants, she sent him far away: I don’t want, she said, to make you ridiculous. Don’t worry; if one of these gentlemen were to dare to overstep the mark, I would know how to put him in his place. You can rely on me to look after your honor. But if we made a splash, all of Paris would know about it, and you would be singled out. He was imprudent enough to allude to these debates in front of his comrades at the theater. Gorgeon was teased; he was given the nickname Gorgeon the Tiger. He softened, he refrained from any remarks, he put on a good face to those who displeased him the most. His friends changed their tune, and called him Gorgeon-Dandin. No one would have thought of mocking him to his face, but that cursed name of Dandin hovered in the air around him. As he was about to enter the stage, he heard it behind a backdrop. He looked, and saw no one, the speaker had disappeared. He wanted to run further, impossible! unless he missed his entrance. Do not look for supernatural causes for this persecution; it is easily explained by the frivolity of Pauline, who was only a child, and by the natural malice of actors, who want to laugh at all costs. The jeers soured Gorgeon’s mood, and the good harmony of the household was broken. He quarreled with his wife. Pauline, strong in her innocence, stood up to him. She said: I do not want to be tyrannized. Gorgeon replied: I do not want to be ridiculous. Their mutual friends disagreed with the husband. If he was so touchy, why take a wife to the theater? He would have done better to marry a little bourgeois woman, no one would have gone to his house to chase her up. In the midst of these debates, the anniversary of their wedding passed without either of them having thought about it. They noticed it the next day, each on their own; Gorgeon said to himself: She must love me very little to have let it slip by. Pauline thought that her husband probably regretted having married her. M. de Gaudry, who was never far away, sent Pauline a bracelet. Gorgeon wanted to return it, with a thank you of his own; Pauline intended to keep it. Because you didn’t think of giving me a present, she said, you like to find fault with the slightest attentions from my friends! “Your friends are rogues whom I will correct. ” “You would do better to correct yourself.” I have believed until now that there were two classes of men above the others, gentlemen and artists: I now know what to think of artists. “You may think what you please,” said Gorgeon, taking his hat, “but it is no longer I who will provide a text for your comparisons. “Are you leaving? ” “Goodbye. ” “Where are you going? ” “You will find out. ” “Will you return? ” “Never.”
Pauline was four months without news of her husband. They looked for him everywhere, even in the river. The public missed him; his roles were distributed to others. His wife mourned him sincerely; she had never ceased to love him. She kept her door closed to everyone , sent back the Marquis’s bracelet with horror, and rejected all consolations from men. She detested his coquetry and said, pulling at her beautiful hair: I killed my poor Gorgeon! Towards the end of September, a rumor spread that Gorgeon was not dead, and that he was the delight of Russia. Could the rascal be alive? thought the inconsolable Pauline. If it is true that he is well and that he made me cry for no reason, he will pay me for my tears. She tried to laugh; but the pain was stronger, and everything ended in a redoubled weeping. Eight days later, an anonymous friend, who was none other than M. de Gaudry, sent him the following article, cut from the Journal de Saint-Pétersbourg: On September 6 (18), in the presence of the court and before a brilliant assembly, the rival of Sainville and Alcide Tousez, the famous Gorgeon, made his debut at the Théâtre Michel, in La Sœur de Jocrisse. His success was complete, and the young defector from the Palais-Royal was showered with applause, bouquets, oranges and gifts of all kinds. One or two more such acquisitions, and our theater, already so rich, will no longer have an equal in Europe. Gorgeon is engaged at the rate of six thousand silver rubles and a profit per year. His penalty, which is insignificant, will be paid from the funds of the imperial theaters. Pauline no longer wept: the pretty widow entered the category of abandoned women. All of Paris agreed to pity her and blame her husband. After a year of living together, to leave an adorable woman about whom he had never had cause to complain! To leave her to her own devices at the age of eighteen! And all this without reason, without pretext, purely on a whim! What excuse could he offer? Jealousy? Pauline was the model of women; she had endured all the seductions without losing a feather of her wings. To add a final touch to the picture, it was said that Gorgeon was abandoning his wife without resources: as if she did not earn enough to live at the Palais-Royal! Her husband had left her all the money he possessed and some fine furniture, some of which she sold when she moved to the rue de la Fontaine-Molière, on the fourth floor. She inspired deep compassion in all the men, and especially in M. de Gaudry and his neighbors at the orchestra. But she did not allow any good soul in straw gloves to come and pity her at home. She lived alone with a cousin her own age who served as her cook and chambermaid. Her father was neither of much help nor much consolation to her: he drank. In her retirement, she wasted herself in useless projects and contradictory resolutions. Sometimes she wanted to sell everything she owned, embark for Petersburg and throw herself into the arms of her husband; sometimes she found it more just and more conjugal to go and tear out his eyes. Then she changed her mind; she wanted to stay in Paris, set an example of all virtues, edify the world by her widowhood and deserve the name of Penelope of the Palais-Royal. Her imagination also suggested other whims , but she did not stop there. Gorgeon, shortly after his debut, wrote her a letter full of tenderness. His anger had cooled, he no longer had his rivals before his eyes, he saw things sanely; he forgave, he asked forgiveness, he called his wife to him; he had found her an engagement. Unfortunately, these words of peace arrived at a time when Pauline, surrounded by three good friends, was stirring up her intolerance against her husband. Gorgeon, who was counting on a good response, was offended and wrote no more. In November, Pauline’s resentment, fueled by her friends, was still in all its strength. One morning, around eleven o’clock, she was dressing in front of her mirror to go to a rehearsal. Her cousin had gone to the market, leaving the key in the door. The young woman was taking off her last curls when she turned around with a cry of terror. She had seen in the mirror a little man, exceedingly ugly and furred up to his eyes with sable. Who are you? What do you want? Get out! One doesn’t come in like that…. Marie! she cried so hastily that her words fell one on top of the other. I don’t love you, you don’t please me, replied the little man, visibly embarrassed. “Do I love you? Get out! ” “I don’t love you, madame; you don’t…. ” “Insolent! Get out or I’ll call; I’ll cry ‘thief!’ I’ll throw myself out of the window! ” The little man piteously clasped his hands and replied in a supplicating voice: “Forgive me; I didn’t mean to offend you.” I have traveled seven hundred leagues to propose something to you; I have just come from Saint Petersburg; I speak French badly; I have prepared what I was to say to you, and you have intimidated me so much…. He sat down, and passed a cambric handkerchief over his completely bare forehead. Pauline took advantage of this moment to throw a shawl over her shoulders. Madam, replied the good man, I do not love you… , excuse me, and do not be angry any more. Your husband has played a vile trick on me. I am Prince Vasilikof; I have a million in income, but I am only of the fourteenth class of nobility, having never served. –That is quite indifferent to me. –I know it well, but I had prepared what I was to say to you, and…. I continue. You see, madame, that I am neither very handsome, nor what one might call in the first flush of youth. Moreover, as I have grown older, I have acquired certain habits, or, if you will, certain nervous tics, which make people in society try to ridicule me . This did not prevent me from falling in love with a charming person from a very good family, and from asking her to marry me. Her parents had accepted me because of my fortune, and Varvara (her name is Varvara) was on the point of giving her consent, when your husband had the infernal idea…. –To marry her? –No, but to make a caricature of myself on the stage and amuse the whole town at my expense. My marriage failed. After the first performance, I received my dismissal; at the second, Varvara became engaged to a little Finnish colonel who has not even a hundred thousand livres a year. –Well? –Well, I have resolved that I will take revenge on Gorgeon; and, if you want to help me, your fortune is made. I do not love you, although you are very pretty, and no woman can please me, except Varvara. The proposals I bring you are therefore perfectly honorable, and I beg you not to be surprised at what may be extraordinary in them. Would you like to leave for Saint Petersburg in an excellent post-chaise? You will find, on the Place du Palais-Michel, a hundred steps from the theater, a magnificent hotel which belongs to me and which I give you. The people of the house are my mougicks who will obey you blindly. The head waiter and the steward are French; you are free to take with you a chambermaid and a lady-in-waiting; you will have two carriages at your command. At the theater, I have rented for you a proscenium on the ground floor. I will provide for all the expenses of your house; my steward will count you every month the sum which you indicate to him; Finally, the day before you leave Paris, I will deposit with your notary as much capital as you please to ask for. I am not talking about a trifle of fifty to sixty thousand francs, but a fortune of two to three hundred thousand: you will only have to speak. Pauline had had time to recover. She crossed her arms, and looked her strange interlocutor in the face: My dear sir, she said to him, who do you take me for? “An honest woman shamefully abandoned, and who has a thousand reasons to take revenge on her husband. ” “There is some truth in what you say; but if I were to take revenge on Gorgeon, I would do it as an honest woman and I would not take a partner. ” “Madame, allow me to repeat to you again, at the risk of displeasing you, that I do not love you; on the other hand, I respect you very much, and I consider you to be a very honest woman. There is more : I esteem the character of your husband , although he treated me very cruelly. If I believed that he was indifferent to his honor, I would seek another form of revenge. Here is what I ask of you, in exchange for an assured fortune. Do not be alarmed too soon. You will owe me neither love, nor friendship, nor gratitude, nor complaisance.” I will promise, on my honor, not to set foot in your house. We will never go out together; you will be free to do what you want; you will receive whomever you wish, without excluding your husband. All I ask… Pauline opened both ears. All I ask is a seat next to you, in your box, for eight performances. Gorgeon made the court laugh at my expense: I want to put the laughers on my side. The young woman knew her husband’s proud temper well enough to know that such revenge would be cruel. She thought of the terrible consequences that could follow. You are mentally ill, she said to the prince; don’t you have a hundred other ways of punishing my husband? How difficult it would be for you to send him to Siberia for two or three months! “Very difficult. In your country, there are prejudices about Siberia. Besides, despite my title and my fortune, I am not a personage, because I have never served.” “I hear.” She thought for a few minutes, then continued: “In two words, here is the deal you are proposing to me: a fortune in exchange for my reputation! ” “Not even that; I have no interest in losing your honor. You will have the right to publish the conditions of our deal at any time. For my part, I undertake to justify myself to the best of my ability; I am only concerned with the dramatic twist. Once the effect has been produced, you will regain your reputation. You see, then, that for you this is only a role to play. I engage you for eight performances, at a price that no director ever offered to an actress, and I leave you free to tell everyone: It’s a comedy.” The debates continued until Marie’s return. Pauline asked for time to deliberate, and the matter was postponed for eight days. In the meantime, the young woman’s friends unanimously advised her to accept the prince’s offers. Some were delighted to see her leave, others were delighted to know she was compromised. She was told of her husband’s unforgivable wrongs, the sweetness of revenge, the singularity of such a new role, and the profits she would derive from it. She listened with a distracted ear, as if thinking of something else. Explain who will the oddities of the female heart! What would you think if I told you that she accepted these absurd proposals, and that she consented to this unfortunate journey, because she was dying to see her husband again? What proves that she was disinterested is that she refused Prince Vasilikof’s money. It took prayers to make her accept the dazzling outfits which were, so to speak, the costumes of her role. She left on December 1st, by post, with her cousin Marie. She arrived on the 15th, in a magnificent sleigh bearing the prince’s coat of arms . The whole town was moved by this; Vasilikof had arrived two days before, and no one was unaware of the great news, neither the Russians, nor the French, nor Gorgeon. Pauline was already repenting her escapade. The eagerness of the Public curiosity gave her food for thought. All the men she saw in the street or on the Prospect reminded her of her husband’s appearance; all men look alike under their coats. The prince gave her two weeks to recover; she was then given another week’s extension, because Gorgeon was not performing. She looked at the posters as the condemned, during the Terror, read the executioner’s lists. She enjoyed neither her clothes, nor her house, nor the prodigious luxury with which she was surrounded. Her drawing room was considered one of the marvels of Petersburg. The walls were of white Paros, and the furniture of old Beauvais with figures. The windows had no curtains other than six large ponceau camellias, trained in espaliers. In the middle, under an enormous rock crystal chandelier , was a circular divan shaded by a weeping camellia, a true horticultural miracle. Pauline barely paid any attention to it. Her cook, an illustrious Provençal whom Vasilikof had stolen from a prince-bishop of Germany, exhausted all the resources of his imagination in vain; Pauline was no longer hungry. She was, however, a little too greedy when she ate dinner at the Café Anglais with her husband. On January 6 (new style), the notice that was being taken to her house informed her that Gorgeon was playing that evening in Madelon’s Dinner. It seemed to her that she had received a blow to the heart. She wanted to write to her husband. She had a tender and supplicating letter delivered to Gorgeon’s house in which she faithfully recounted everything that had happened. I don’t know what to become of it, she said; I am alone, without support or advice. The day we were married, you promised me help and protection; come to my aid! She slipped into the envelope a small dried flower kept between two pages of her Molière; it was a white violet from Fontainebleau. Unfortunately, the man who delivered this letter to Gorgeon wore Prince Vasilikof’s livery. That evening, at seven o’clock, Pauline let herself be dressed like the dead. She vaguely hoped that the prince would take pity on her and spare her his company; but as she got out of the carriage, in front of the little door of the vestibule, she saw him running eagerly and radiant. She followed him, staggering, to her box, which was at the level of the footlights, and threw herself into an armchair, without seeing that the entire audience was staring at her. The theater was full; the Russians were celebrating Christmas. The management allows the tenant of a box to pile in as many people as it can physically contain. The hemicycle was literally carpeted with heads, all looking at Vasilikof’s box. When the curtain rose, Pauline felt dizzy. She saw before her an abyss full of fire, and she clung to the balustrade to keep from falling into it. Gorgeon had armored himself with courage and indifference. He had hidden his pallor under a thick layer of rouge, but he had forgotten to paint his lips; they became livid. He was sufficiently self-possessed to preserve his memory, and he played his part to the end. The evening was stormy. The audience at the Michel Theatre is composed of two very distinct elements: the great Russian world, which understands French, and the French colony. There are more than six thousand French people in Petersburg, and all of them, whoever they may be, tutors, merchants, hairdressers, or cooks, are crazy about the theatre. The Russians had admired Vasilikof’s coup d’état, and even those who had applauded his caricature two months earlier had turned to his side. The French idolized Gorgeon; they covered him with applause. The Russians responded with ironic applause, clapping their hands at every turn and out of place. After the curtain fell, they called him back so obstinately that he was forced to return. Pauline was more dead than alive. The next day, they gave The Misanthrope and The Auvergnat. Gorgeon was truly admirable in the role of Mâchavoine. The French had brought crowns; the Russians threw ridiculous crowns at him. A bad joker shouted to him: “Bless you madame!” He was crying with rage when he returned to his dressing room. There he found a letter from Pauline, a letter wet with tears. He trampled it underfoot, tore it into a thousand pieces and threw it into the fire. After these two horrible evenings, Pauline, terrified by her husband’s silence, begged the prince to spare her the rest. Wasn’t Gorgeon punished enough? Wasn’t Vasilikof avenged enough? The prince was conciliatory: he remitted half of Gorgeon’s sentence, and decided that the day after tomorrow, after the performance, Pauline would be free to spend her time as she saw fit. “You have to be fair,” he said, “Gorgeon has played me eight times in two weeks; but evenings like this must count double.” After the fourth, honor will be satisfied. A very cheerful vaudeville by Messrs. Xavier and Varin, La Colère d’Achille, was to be given for two consecutive days . It was almost a piece of circumstance. Achille Pangolin is a modern Sganarelle who believes he finds everywhere the proofs of his imaginary disgrace. Everything is a matter of suspicion to him , from the meowing of his cat to the interjections of his parrot. If he finds a cane in his house, he believes it has been left by a rival, and he tears it to pieces before recognizing that it is his own. He forgets his hat in his wife’s room; he returns, he finds it, he seizes it, he crushes it: he searches in every corner for the owner of this cursed hat. In the excess of his despair, he wants to end his life, and he loads a pistol to blow out his brains. But a scruple stops him on such a fine path. He wants to destroy himself, but he doesn’t want to hurt himself: death attracts him and pain bothers him. To reconcile his horror of life and his tenderness for himself, he stands in front of a mirror and harms himself in effigy. The Wrath of Achilles was a resounding success at the Théâtre Michel. All the words carried! Two hours before the performance, Gorgeon had refused to receive a visit from his wife. He played the rage au naturel. Unfortunately, the theater’s pistol was a venerable relic taken from the props store: it misfired. A lord of the orchestra cried out in bad French: Bad luck! After the performance, as the stage manager apologized, Gorgeon said to him: It’s nothing. I have a pistol at home, I’ll bring it tomorrow. He came with a double-barreled pistol, a fine weapon, indeed . You see, he said to the stage manager: if the first shot misses, I have the second. He played with a zest that had never been seen in him. In the last scene, instead of aiming at the ice, he turned the cannon toward his wife and killed her. He then blew his own brains out. The performance was interrupted. This adventure caused a great stir in Petersburg. It was Prince Vasilikof who told it to me. Would you believe, he said to me in closing, that this Gorgeon and this Pauline had married for love? That’s how you are in Paris! THE MARQUISE’S MOTHER. Chapter 16. This is an old story that will soon be ten years old. On April 15, 1846, the following announcement was published in all the major newspapers of Paris : A young man of good family, a former student of a government school , having studied mining, smelting, forging, accounting, and timber exploitation for ten years, would like to find honorable employment in his specialty. Write to Paris, poste restante at MLMDO The owner of the beautiful forges of Arlange, Mrs. Benoît, was then in Paris, in her small hotel on the rue Saint-Dominique; but she never read the newspapers. Why would she have read them? She was not looking for an employee for her forge, but a husband for her daughter. Mrs. Benoît, whose mood and appearance have changed considerably over the past ten years, years old, was at that time a perfectly amiable person. She
was delightfully enjoying that second youth which nature does not grant to all women, and which extends between the fortieth and fiftieth year. Her somewhat majestic plumpness gave her the appearance of a very full-blown flower, but no one seeing her thought of a faded flower. Her small eyes sparkled with the same fire as at twenty; her hair had not turned white, her teeth had not lengthened; her cheeks and chins shone with that vigorous, shiny, and down-free freshness which distinguishes the second youth from the first. Her arms and shoulders would have been the envy of many young women. Her foot had been a little crushed under the weight of her body, but her small, pink, plump hand still shone amidst the rings and bracelets like a jewel among jewels. The inner side of such an accomplished person corresponded exactly to the outer side. Madame Benoît’s mind was as lively as her eyes. Her face was no more radiant than her character. Laughter never dried up on that pretty mouth; her beautiful little hands were always open to give. Her soul seemed made of good humor and good will. To those who marveled at such sustained gaiety and such universal benevolence, Madame Benoît replied: What do you expect? I was born happy. My past contains nothing but pleasantness, except for a few hours long forgotten; the present is like a cloudless sky; as for the future, I am sure, I have it. You see that one would have to be mad to complain about fate or take a dislike to the human race! As there is nothing perfect in this world, Madame Benoît had a fault, but an innocent fault, which had never harmed anyone but herself. She was, although ambition seems a privilege of the ugly sex, passionately ambitious. I regret not having found another word to express her only failing; for, to tell the truth, Madame Benoît’s ambition had nothing in common with that of other men. She aimed neither at fortune nor honors: the forges of Arlange brought in a fairly regular income of one hundred and fifty thousand francs; and, as for the rest, Madame Benoît was not a woman to accept anything from the government of 1846. What was she pursuing then? Very little. So little, that you would not understand me if I did not first recount in a few lines the youth of Madame Benoît née Lopinot. Gabrielle-Auguste-Éliane Lopinot was born in the heart of the Faubourg Saint-Germain, on the banks of that blessed stream in the Rue du Bac, which Madame de Staël preferred to all the rivers of Europe. His parents, bourgeois up to their chins, sold novelties under the sign of the Bon Saint Louis, and quietly accumulated a colossal fortune. Their well-known principles, their enthusiasm for the monarchy and the respect they displayed for the nobility kept them a clientele throughout the suburb. M. Lopinot, as a well-trained supplier, never sent a bill unless it had been requested. It has never been heard of him taking a recalcitrant debtor to court. Thus the descendants of the crusaders often went bankrupt at the Bon Saint Louis; but those who pay, pay for others. This estimable merchant, surrounded by illustrious people, some of whom robbed him and others of whom allowed themselves to be robbed, gradually came to uniformly despise his noble clientele. He was seen very humble and very respectful in the shop; but he would get up as if by spring when he returned home. He astonished his wife and daughter with the freedom of his judgments and the audacity of his maxims. Madame Lopinot almost crossed herself devoutly when she heard him say after drinking: I am very fond of marquises, and they seem good people to me; but at no price would I want a marquis for a son-in-law. This was not Gabrielle-Auguste-Éliane’s plan. She would have been quite happy with a marquis, and, since each of us must play a role in this world, she preferred the role of marquise. This child, accustomed to seeing carriages pass by like peasant children to seeing swallows fly, had lived in perpetual amazement. Prone to infatuation, like all young girls, she had admired the objects that surrounded her: hotels, horses, dresses and liveries. At twelve, a great name exercised a sort of fascination on her ear; at fifteen, she felt seized by a profound respect for what is called the Faubourg Saint-Germain, that is to say, for this incomparable aristocracy which believes itself superior to all mankind by right of birth. When she was old enough to marry, the first idea that came to her was that a stroke of fortune could bring her into those hotels whose carriage entrances she gazed at, seat her beside those radiant grand ladies whom she dared not look in the face, involve her in those conversations which she believed to be more witty than the finest books and more interesting than the best novels. After all, she thought, it doesn’t take a great miracle to lower the insurmountable barrier before me. It’s enough that my figure or my dowry should win over a count, a duke, or a marquis. Her ambition was aimed above all at the marquisate, and for good reason. There are dukes and counts of recent creation who are not received in the suburb; while all marquises without exception are old stock, for since Molière they have stopped making them. I suppose that if she had been left to her own devices, she would have found the man she wanted for a husband without a lantern. But she lived under her mother’s wing, in profound solitude, where M. Lopinot came from time to time to offer her the hand of a lawyer, a notary, or a stockbroker. She disdainfully refused all matches until 1829. But one fine morning she realized that she was twenty-five years old, and she suddenly married M. Morel, ironmaster at Arlange. He was an excellent commoner, whom she would have loved like a marquis if she had had the time. But he died on July 31, 1830, six months after the birth of her daughter. The beautiful widow was so outraged by the July Revolution that she almost forgot to mourn her husband. The embarrassments of the succession and the care of the forges kept her in Arlange until the cholera of 1832, which took away her father and mother in a few days. She then returned to Paris, sold the Bon Saint Louis, and bought her mansion on the rue Saint-Dominique, between the Count of Preux and the Marshal of Lens. She settled with her daughter in her new home, and it was not without secret joy that she saw herself lodged in a mansion of noble appearance, between a Count and a Marshal. Its furniture was richer than that of her neighbors, its greenhouse larger, its horses of better breed and its carriages better suspended. However, she would have gladly given greenhouse, furniture, horses and carriages to have the right to be a neighbor at all. The walls of her garden were no more than four meters high, and, on quiet summer evenings , she heard people talking, sometimes at the Count’s, sometimes at the Marshal’s. Unfortunately, she was not allowed to take part in the conversation. One morning, her gardener brought her an old cockatoo that he had taken from a tree. She blushed with pleasure when she recognized it as the Marshal’s parrot. She would not allow anyone the pleasure of returning this beautiful bird to her mistress, and, at the risk of having her hands torn to pieces by the pecks, she carried it back herself. But she was received by a person of all kinds, a steward, who thanked her worthily on the doorstep. A few days later, the children of the Count of Preux sent a brand new balloon into her flowerbeds. Fearing that she would be thanked by a steward, she returned the balloon to the Countess through one of her servants, with a very witty letter in the most aristocratic style. It was the children’s tutor, a real pedant, who replied. The pretty widow (she was then in the height of her beauty) was displeased by his advances. She sometimes said to herself in the evening, when she returned home: Fate is so ridiculous! I have the right to enter as much as I want at number 57, and I am not allowed to enter for a quarter of an hour at 59 or 55! Her only acquaintances in the world of the suburb were a few of her father’s debtors, from whom she took care not to ask for money. As a reward for her discretion, these honorable people sometimes received her in the morning. At midday, she could undress: all her visits were made. The forge manager tore her away from this intolerable life by calling her back to her business. Arriving in Arlange, she found there what she had searched in vain throughout Paris: the key to the Faubourg Saint-Germain. One of her country neighbors had been sheltering the Marquis de Kerpry, a captain in the 2nd Dragoon Regiment, for three months. The Marquis was a man of forty, a bad officer, a bon vivant, always lively, insured against old age, and famous for his debts, his duels, and his pranks. Moreover, rich in his pay, that is to say, excessively poor. I have my marquisate! thought the beautiful Éliane. She paid court to the Marquis, and the Marquis did not hold it against her. Two months later, he sent his resignation to the Ministry of Battle and took the widow of M. Morel to church. In accordance with the law, the marriage was posted in the commune of Arlange, in the 10th arrondissement of Paris, and in the captain’s last garrison. The groom’s birth certificate, drawn up during the Terror, bore only the common name of Benoît, but a certificate of public notoriety was attached attesting that within living memory Mr. Benoît was known as the Marquis de Kerpry. The new marquise began by opening her salons in the nearby Faubourg Saint-Germain: for the suburb extends to the borders of France. After dazzling all the squires in the area with her luxury, she wanted to go to Paris to take revenge on the past; and she told her husband of this plan. The captain frowned and declared bluntly that he was happy in Arlange. The cellar was good, the cuisine to his taste, the hunting magnificent; he asked for nothing more. The Faubourg Saint-Germain was as new to him as America: he had no relatives, friends, or acquaintances there. Good heavens! cried poor Éliane, must I have stumbled upon the only marquis on earth who doesn’t know the Faubourg Saint-Germain! This was not her only disappointment. She soon realized that her husband drank absinthe four times a day, not to mention another liqueur called vermouth, which he had brought from Paris for his own personal use. The captain’s reason did not always resist these repeated libations, and when he lost his senses, it was most often to fly into a rage. His vivacity spared no one, not even Éliane, who came to wish for nothing more than to be a marquise. This event happened sooner than she had hoped. One day the captain was ill from having behaved too well the day before. His head was heavy and his eyes were aching. Sitting in the largest armchair in the living room, he was sadly polishing his long red mustache. His wife, standing by a samavar, was pouring him enormous cups of tea one after the other. A servant announced Monsieur le Comte de Kerpry. The captain, sick as he was, suddenly stood up. Didn’t you tell me you were without relatives? asked Éliane. little surprised. “I didn’t know,” replied the captain, “and I want the devil to take me… But we’ll see. Let me in!” The captain smiled disdainfully when he saw a young man of twenty appear, almost childlike in his beauty. He was of reasonable height, but so frail and delicate that one might have thought he hadn’t finished growing. His long blue eyes looked around them with a sort of fierce timidity. When he saw the beautiful Éliane, his face flushed like an espalier peach. The timbre of his voice was soft, fresh, limpid, almost feminine. If it weren’t for the brown mustache that delicately traced itself on his lip, one might have taken him for a young girl disguised as a man. “Sir,” he said to the captain, half turning towards Éliane, ” although I don’t have the honor of being known to you, I have come to speak to you about family matters.” Our conversation, which will be long, will doubtless contain some tedious chapters, and I fear that madame will be bored by it. “You are wrong to be afraid, sir,” continued Éliane, puffing herself up. “The Marquise de Kerpry wants and must know all the family affairs, and, since you are a relative of my husband… ” “That is what I still do not know, madame, but we will decide it soon, and in front of you, since you wish it and monsieur seems to consent.” The captain listened with a dazed air, without really understanding. The young count turned towards him as if to take him to task. “Sir,” he said, “I am the eldest son of the Marquis de Kerpry, who is known throughout the Faubourg Saint-Germain, and who has his mansion on the Rue Saint-Dominique. ” “What luck!” cried Éliane giddily. The count responded to this exclamation with a cold and ceremonious bow. He continued: Sir, as my father, my grandfather, and my great-grandfather were only children, and there have never been two branches in the family, you will excuse the astonishment that seized us the day we learned from the newspapers of the marriage of a Marquis de Kerpry. “So I had no right to marry?” asked the captain, rubbing his eyes. “I am not saying that, sir. We have at home, besides the family tree, all the papers that establish our right to bear the name Kerpry. If you are our relative, as I desire, I have no doubt that you also have in your hands some family papers. ” “What’s the use? Paperwork proves nothing, and everyone knows who I am. ” “You are right, sir, it doesn’t take many parchments to establish solid proof; A birth certificate is enough, with… –Sir, my birth certificate bears the name Benoît. It is dated 1794. Do you understand? –Perfectly, sir, and, despite this circumstance, I still hope to be your relative. Were you born in Kerpry or in the surrounding area? –Kerpry?… Kerpry? Where do you take Kerpry? –But where it has always been: three leagues from Dijon, on the road to Paris. –Eh! sir, what does it matter to me? Since Robespierre sold the family property…. –You have been misinformed, sir. It is true that the land and the château were put up for sale as émigré property, but they did not find a buyer, and HM King Louis XVIII deigned to return them to my father. The captain had gradually emerged from his torpor; this last incident finally woke him up. He walked with clenched fists towards his frail adversary and shouted in his face: My little sir, I have been the Marquis of Kerpry for forty years, and whoever takes my name from me will have a strong wrist. The count turned pale with anger, but he remembered the presence of Eliane, who was stretched out, devastated, on a chaise longue. He replied in a casual tone : My great sir, although the judgments of God are out of fashion, I would willingly accept the means of conciliation that you offer me, if I alone were interested in the matter. But I represent here my father, my brothers and an entire family, who would have reason to complain if I were to play their interests at stake. Allow me then to return to Paris. The courts will decide which of us usurps the name of the other. Thereupon the count did a pirouette, bowed low to the supposed marquise, and returned to his post-chaise before the captain could think of detaining him. The samavar was no longer boiling; but it was not tea that was at issue between the captain and his wife. Éliane wanted to know whether or not she was the Marquise de Kerpry. The impetuous Benoît, who had just used up his remaining patience, forgot himself to the point of beating the prettiest woman in the department. These were the circumstances to which Madame Benoît was referring when she spoke of a few unpleasant hours long forgotten. The Kerpry vs. Kerpry trial was not long in coming. Although Mr. Benoît repeated through his lawyer that he had always heard himself called Marquis de Kerpry, he was ordered to sign Benoît and pay the costs. The day he received this news, he wrote the young count a letter of gross abuse, signed Benoît. The following Sunday, around eight o’clock in the morning, he returned home on a stretcher, with ten centimeters of iron in his body. He had been in a fight, and the count’s sword had broken in the wound. Éliane, who was still asleep, arrived just in time to receive his apologies and farewells. If this adventure had not caused a terrible scandal, the province would not be the province. The neighboring squires displayed a comical exasperation: they would have liked to take back from the false marquise the visits they had made to her. The widow did not hear the noise around her: she was weeping. It was not that she regretted anything about M. Benoît, whose faults, small and large, had forever corrected her from marriage; but she deplored her betrayed confidence, her lost hopes, her narrowed horizon, her ambition condemned to impotence. If you want to paint the state of her soul, imagine a fakir to whom it is made known that he will never see Wichnou. From the depths of her retreat, she cast over the Faubourg Saint-Germain the glances of Eve driven from earthly paradise. One morning as she wept under a bower of flowering clematis (it was in the summer of 1834), her daughter ran past her. She stopped the child by her dress and kissed her five or six times, reproaching herself for thinking less of her daughter than of her sorrows. When she had kissed her thoroughly, she looked at her face and was satisfied with the examination. At four and a half years old, little Lucile announced a fine and aristocratic beauty. Her features were charming; the attachments of her feet and hands, exquisite. Éliane searched in vain in her memory, she did not remember having seen a single child of such a distinguished type playing at the Tuileries. She gave a last kiss to the little one, who took a flight. Then she wiped her eyes, and since then she has not cried. But where was my head? she murmured, resuming her happiest smile. All is not lost; everything can be arranged; everything is arranged; it is good; it is for the best! I will go in; it is a matter of patience; It will take time, but these proud doors will open before me. I will not be a marquise, no; I have been married enough, and I will not be caught out again. The marquise, there she is, stamping her feet in the strawberries. I will choose a marquis for her, a good one: my experience must be of some use. I will be the real mother of a real marquise! She will be received everywhere, and so will I; celebrated everywhere, and so will I; she will dance with dukes, and so will I… I will watch her dance, unless these gentlemen of 1830 make it a law to leave mothers in the cloakroom! From that moment on, her only concern was to prepare her daughter for the role of marquise. She dressed her like a doll, taught her the various grimaces that make up grand manners, and taught her to curtsy, while her governess taught her the alphabet. Unfortunately, little Lucile was not born in the Rue du Bac. She woke to the song of birds and not to the rumble of carriages, and she saw more villagers in blouses than footmen in livery. She did not listen to the lessons in aristocracy that her mother gave her any better than her mother had listened to M. Lopinot’s diatribes against the marquises. The minds of children are formed by everything that surrounds them; they have their ears open to a hundred tutors at once; The sounds of the countryside and the sounds of the street speak to them much louder than the most intractable pedant or the most rigorous father. Madame Benoît preached in vain: the first pleasures of the young marquise were to fight with the little girls of the village, to roll in the sand in a new dress, to steal hot eggs from the henhouse, and to be dragged by a person of all body types, a Scottish hound that she pulled by the tail. Watching her play in the garden, an attentive observer would have guessed the blood of goodman Morel and Father Lopinot. Her mother lamented that she found in her neither pride, nor vanity, nor the simplest gesture of coquetry. She watched with feverish impatience the day when Lucile would despise someone, but Lucile opened her heart and her arms to all the good people around her, from Margot the cowherd to the blackest worker in the forge. When she grew up, her tastes changed a little, but not in the way her mother had desired. She took an interest in the garden, the orchard, the flock, the farmyard, the factory, housekeeping, and even (why not say so?) cooking. She kept an eye on the fruiterer, she studied the art of making jams, she worried about pastry. Strange thing! The people of the house, instead of growing impatient with her supervision, were very grateful to her for it. They understood, better than Madame Benoît, how wonderful it is for a woman to learn early order, care, a wise and liberal economy, and those obscure talents which make the charm of a house and the joy of the guests to whom she opens her door. Madame Benoît’s lessons had borne strange fruits. However, they were not entirely lost. The governess was stern out of love for her daughter, impatient out of love for the marquisate, and angry by temperament. She lost patience so often that Lucile became afraid of her mother. The poor child heard herself repeating every day: You know nothing about anything, you understand nothing about anything, you are so lucky to have me! She naively persuaded herself that she was very lucky to have Madame Benoît. She believed herself, in all honesty, to be foolish and incapable; and, instead of being sorry for it, she satisfied all her tastes, gave in to all her inclinations, was happy, loved, and charming. Madame Benoît was so eager to enjoy life and the suburb that she would have married her daughter at fifteen if she could have. But Lucile at fifteen was still only a little girl. The awkward age extended beyond the ordinary limits for her. It is noteworthy that village children are less precocious than those in towns: it is doubtless for the same reason that wildflowers lag behind those in gardens. At sixteen, Lucile began to take shape. She was still a bit of a nobody of all body types, a bit ruddy, a bit awkward; however, her clumsiness, her thinness and her red arms were not scarecrows to frighten off love. She resembled those chaste statues that the German sculptors of the Renaissance carved cathedrals in stone; but no fanatic of Greek art would have disdained to play the role of Pygmalion in her presence. Her mother said to her one fine morning, while closing five or six trunks: I am going to Paris to look for a marquis whom you will marry. “Yes, Mama,” she replied without objection. She had known for years that she was to marry a marquis. A single worry preoccupied her, without her ever having dared to reveal it to anyone. In the living room of a friend of her mother’s, Madame Mélier, while leafing through an album of costumes, she had seen a colored engraving representing a marquis. He was a little old man dressed in a costume from the time of Louis XV, short breeches, shoes with gold buckles, a sword with a steel hilt, a hat with plumes, a coat with sequins. This image was so well lodged in one of the compartments of her memory that it presented itself at the mere name of marquis, and the poor child could not persuade herself that there were other marquises on earth. She believed them all drawn after the same model, and she wondered with dread how she could prevent herself from laughing while holding her husband’s hand. While she abandoned herself to these innocent terrors, Madame Benoît set out in search of a marquis. She soon found one. Among her father’s debtors with whom she had maintained relations, the most amiable was the old Baron de Subressac. Not only was he always there for her, but he even did her the honor of coming to lunch at her house, alone. These familiarities were not compromising, for a man of seventy-five. She asked him one day, between the last two glasses of a bottle of Tokay wine: Baron, do you sometimes attend to weddings? “Never, charming, since there have been houses for that.” The Baron called her paternally charming. ” But,” she continued without flinching, “what if it were a question of doing two of your friends a favor? ” “If you were one of them, madame, I would do anything you ordered me to do. ” “You are at the heart of the matter. I know a sixteen -year-old girl, pretty, well-bred, who has never been to boarding school, an angel! But, in fact, I don’t see why I should be secretive: she is my daughter. Her dowry, first of all, is this mansion: I mention it only for the record; plus a forest of four hundred hectares; plus a forge that works all by itself and brings in one hundred and fifty thousand francs in the worst years. On top of that, she will have to give me an income of fifty thousand francs, which, added to a few little things I have, will be enough for me to live on. We say then: a hotel, a forest and a hundred thousand francs income. –That’s very nice. –Wait! For very delicate reasons, which I am not permitted to divulge, my daughter must marry a marquis; we are not asking for money; we will be very lenient about age, intelligence, appearance, and all external advantages; what we want is a proven marquis, of good stock, well-connected, known throughout the suburb, and who can present himself proudly everywhere, with his wife and family. Do you know, Monsieur le Baron, a marquis whom you would love enough to wish for a pretty wife and a hundred thousand livres income? –My faith! Charming, I could not find two, but I know one. If your daughter accepts, she will marry a man I love like my son. But I’m giving you much better than you ask for. –True? –First of all, he’s young: twenty-eight. –That’s a detail, let’s move on. –He’s very handsome. –Vanity of vanities! –Your daughter won’t say the same. He’s full of wit. –A useless commodity in a household. –A serious education: a former student of the École Polytechnique! –Very well. –Furthermore, he has done special studies which will not be… –That’s very good; but the solid, Baron! –Ah! As for fortune, he fits the program too exactly. Ruined from top to bottom. He resigned upon leaving the School, because …. –I forgive him, Baron. –The last time he came to see me, the poor fellow was thinking of looking for a position. –His position is all found; but tell me, dear Baron, is he really noble? –Like Charlemagne. So that’s what you call solid! –No doubt. –One of his ancestors almost became King of Antioch in 1098. –And his relatives? –The whole suburb. –A well-known name? –Like Henry IV. He’s the Marquis d’Outreville. You must know that…. –I think so. Outreville!… it’s a pretty name. We’ll put a marble plaque above the carriage entrance: HÔTEL D’OUTREVILLE. But will he want my daughter? A misalliance! –Hey! Charming, a man doesn’t make misalliances. I understand that a girl called Mlle de Noailles or Mlle de Choiseul might be reluctant to change her name to Madame Mignolet. But a man keeps his name, so he loses nothing. Besides, Gaston doesn’t have the prejudices of his caste. I ‘ll see him when I leave here, and tomorrow at the latest I’ll give you news of him. –Do better, my excellent baron: if he’s well disposed, come tomorrow, without ceremony, to dine with him. Does he have family papers? A genealogical tree? –No doubt. –See to it that he brings them! –Are you thinking about it, charming? I’ll come one of these days to decipher this whole tome for you. See you soon! The Baron walked slowly towards number 34 Rue Saint-Benoît. It was a bourgeois house whose principal tenant had furnished a few rooms to house the students. He went up to the second floor and knocked on a small numbered door. The Marquis, in a work jacket, opened the door. He was indeed a handsome young man and a very desirable husband. He was a little tall, but so well-built that no one thought of criticizing him for being a few inches overweight. His feet and hands testified that his ancestors had lived without doing anything for several centuries. His head was magnificent: a high, broad forehead crowned with black hair that spontaneously fell back; blue eyes of great gentleness, but deeply set beneath powerful eyebrows; a proudly arched nose whose fine wings quivered at the slightest emotion, a slightly wide mouth and charming teeth; a thick, shiny black mustache, which framed beautiful red lips without hiding them; a complexion both brown and pink, the color of work and health. The baron took stock of this with a quick glance, while squeezing Gaston’s hand, and he murmured to himself: If the little girl isn’t happy with the present I’m giving her!… The young marquis’s face was open, but not radiant. On examining it closely, one would have seen something mobile and restless, the perpetual agitation of an unfulfilled desire, the tyranny of a dominant idea. Perhaps, on further investigation, one would even have recognized the seal of predestination that marks the face of all inventors. Gaston had left his work to open the door for his old friend. He was busy washing with Indian ink a large plate of drawings at the bottom of which was written: Plan, section and elevation of an economical blast furnace. His table was cluttered with drawings and memoirs whose titles, half hidden by each other, were of a nature to pique the curiosity of even the most indifferent. One saw there, or rather one guessed at the following superscriptions: On a new, more fusible steel.–New system of blast furnaces.–Most frequent accidents in mines, and means of preventing them.–Means of casting the wheels of…. in one piece.–Rational use of fuel. in….–New steam bellows for the forges…. When one had cast one’s eyes on this table, one saw nothing else in the room. The small boarder’s bed, the six wool damask chairs , the Utrecht velvet armchair, the small bookcase overloaded with books, the stopped clock, the two vases of artificial flowers under their globes, the framed portraits of La Fayette and General Foy, the red curtains with yellow battens, everything disappeared before this heap of labors and hopes. My child, said the baron to the marquis, it is eight whole days since I saw you: how are your affairs? “Good news, sir: I have a position. A few days ago , I had a notice placed in the newspapers. One of my old school friends who manages the mines of Poullaouen, in Finistère, guessed my name under the initials; He spoke to the administrators about me, and I was offered a position worth 3,000 francs, to be taken up on May 1st. It was about time! I was starting my last hundred-franc note. I will leave in five days for Brittany. Poullaouen is a sad country, where it rains ten months of the year, and you know how much I love the sun. But I will be able to continue my studies, practice some of my theories, carry out my experiments on a large scale: that’s quite a future! –See how unlucky I am! I came to propose something else to you. –Always say: I haven’t answered yet. –Do you want to get married? The Marquis made a perfectly sincere face. You are very kind to take care of me, he said to the old man, shaking both his hands: but I have never thought of such things. I don’t have the time; you know my work; I still have a million things to find; Science is jealous. “Ta, ta, ta!” the Baron continued, laughing. ” What! You are twenty-eight years old, you live here like a Carthusian; I have come to offer you a good, pretty, well-bred girl, a sixteen-year-old angel; and this is how you receive me! ” A flash of youth lit up in the depths of Gaston’s beautiful eyes, but it was only a matter of a moment. “Thank you a thousand times,” he replied, “but I have no time. Marriage would impose duties on me contrary to my tastes, unbearable occupations…. ” “It would impose nothing on you at all. Your future father-in-law has been dead for more than fifteen years; the family consists of a mother-in-law, an excellent bourgeois, despite her pretensions. To give you an idea of ​​her manners, I will tell you that she has asked me to take you to dinner at her house tomorrow, if this marriage does not displease you. You see , there is no ceremony!” “Thank you, sir, but I have Poullaouen on my mind.” “What a man! You are assured by contract of ownership of a hotel on Rue Saint-Dominique, of a forest of four hundred hectares in Lorraine, and of a hundred thousand pounds of income. Will they give you as much at Poullaouen? ” “No, but I shall be in my element there. Would you offer a fish a hundred thousand francs of income to live out of water? ” “Well! Let’s not speak of it any more. I wanted to say that to you in passing. Now I have some visits to make; goodbye. You will not leave without saying goodbye to me?” The baron advanced to the door, smiling maliciously. As he was leaving, he turned and said to Gaston: ” By the way, the hundred thousand francs of income are the income from a magnificent forge . ” Gaston stopped him on the threshold: “A forge! I’m marrying!” Will you allow me to go and get you tomorrow for dinner at my mother-in-law’s? “No, no. Marry Poullaouen! ” “My old friend! ” “Well, so be it. See you tomorrow.” Chapter 17. After the Baron’s departure, Gaston d’Outreville threw himself into the armchair, buried his head in his two hands, and reflected so long that his Indian ink had time to dry. “What is the purpose, ” he wondered, “of a bourgeois woman offering me her daughter and a hundred a thousand francs a year? I know a good many young people who, in his place, would have been less embarrassed. They would soon have constructed a love story to explain the whole mystery. But Gaston lacked conceit, like Lucile lacked coquetry. The only idea that came to him was that Madame Benoît wanted a well-bred blacksmith for a son-in-law. She has heard of me, he thought; someone will have told her a word about my research and my discoveries; I was quite common in the suburb, at a time when I was not yet aware of the stupidity and vanity of worldly relations. It is obvious that this factory needs a man: a mother and her daughter added together do not make a master ironworker. Who knows if the work is not suffering, if the enterprise is not in danger? Well, morbleu! we will save it. Outreville to the rescue! as our ancestors used to say, those heroic craftsmen who forged their own swords. With that, he refilled his Indian ink and conscientiously finished his wash. The next day, he strolled briskly through the Luxembourg Gardens until lunchtime. In the afternoon, he shut himself in a reading room, where he leafed through all the daily newspapers and all the monthly magazines: he hadn’t committed such debauchery for a long time. It’s lucky, he thought, that people don’t get married often: they wouldn’t have to work much. At five o’clock, he began to dress, which was a long one: he was expecting to dine with his bride-to-be. Six-thirty struck when he entered the Baron’s. He hoped to learn from his old friend how Madame Benoît had taken it upon himself to choose him as her son-in-law; but the Baron was as mysterious as an oracle. He respected his pride too much to tell him the truth. Arriving at the little hotel on the Rue Saint-Dominique, they saw two workmen perched on a double ladder, busy measuring something above the carriage entrance. “Guess,” said the Baron, “what those good people are doing up there! They are measuring a marble plaque on which they will write: Hôtel d’Outreville. ” “Good joke!” replied Gaston, crossing the threshold . “You don’t believe me? Come back here. Hey there! Monsieur Renaudot; isn’t that you I see? ” “Yes, Monsieur Baron,” said the marble mason, who went downstairs at once. “How long do you think it will take to install the plaque? ” “But not before a month, Monsieur Baron, because of the coat of arms that must be carved above it. ” “What! You only asked the Marquis de Croix-Maugars for a fortnight ? ” “Ah! Monsieur Baron, the coat of arms of Outreville are much more complicated.” –That’s right. Good evening, Monsieur Renaudot. Well, skeptical? –Now, my old friend, what fairy tale are you leading me through? –It’s like Puss in Boots, since there’s a marquis…. –Much obliged! –And Sleeping Beauty, since the future marquise, who has never seen you, is sleeping innocently soundly in the depths of your forest of Arlange, waiting for the king’s son to come and wake her.
–What! Isn’t she here? –We’ll let her know that you missed her. Madame Benoît welcomed her guests with open arms. Informed in time of the success of the affair, she had ordered an archbishop’s dinner. Little time was wasted on introductions: acquaintances are better made at table. The conversation began pleasantly enough between the mother-in-law and the son-in-law. Gaston spoke of Arlange, Madame Benoît answered faubourg; she launched into questions of nobility, he made a detour and returned to the forges, each one obstinately following his favorite idea. This obstinate struggle enlightened no one, not even the excellent baron, who gave himself up to the sole pleasure of his age, and did honor to dinner more than to conversation. Madame Benoît did not guess the passion of her son-in-law, and Gaston did not did not suspect his stepmother’s mania. He said to himself: One of two things: either Madame Benoît avoids, out of bourgeois vanity, talking about the subject that interests her most; or she is afraid of boring the Baron, who is not listening to us. Madame Benoît thought at the same time: The poor fellow thinks he is being polite by talking to me about things I know; he does not know that I know the suburb as well as he does. Weary of the battle, Gaston abandoned the question of iron and the metallurgical industry, and Madame Benoît was able to question him on anything she wanted. She knew by heart the ledger of her father’s store, that prosaic golden book of the Parisian nobility, and she was not unaware of any of the names that d’Hozier would have recognized. To ensure that Gaston was able to drive her everywhere, she subjected him, without his knowledge, to an examination from which he naively escaped to his credit. She rejoiced in the depths of her ambition to learn that Gaston had dined here, that he had danced there; that he was addressed informally in such and such a house, that he was scolded in such and such another; that he had played at the age of ten with such and such a duke and galloped at the age of twenty with such and such a prince. She inscribed in her memory on tablets of stone and bronze all the relatives, near and far, of her son-in-law. If she had forgotten a single one, she would have felt she was missing out on her own family. After coffee, they took a walk in the garden: the night was magnificent and the sky lit up as if for a festival. Madame Benoît showed the Marquis the neighboring properties. Here, she said, we have the Count of Preux, do you know him? “He is my uncle in the Breton fashion.” The glorious bourgeoise triumphantly inscribed this unexpected relative. ” There,” she continued, “is the Maréchale de Lens. It would be a curious encounter if she were also a member of the family. ” “No, madame, but she was the godmother of a brother I lost. ” “Good!” thought Madame Benoît. “If the person of all types of stewardship corps is still in this world, we will see to it that he is driven out. Such a son-in-law is a treasure!” If Gaston had thought to say, “Let’s jump over the wall and surprise the Maréchale,” Madame Benoît would have jumped. But the baron, who readily went to bed after dinner, sounded the retreat, and Gaston followed him. A good brougham, bearing Madame Benoît’s cipher, was waiting for them at the door. My dear child, said the baron as soon as the door was closed, I dined prodigiously, and you? But one doesn’t dine at your age. What do you think of your stepmother? “I find her just what I could wish for; she is a vain and hollow woman, who will not meddle with the forge and who will not come to thwart my experiments. ” “So much the better if she pleased you. As for you, you have conquered her : she told me so with a sign while I kissed her hand. I think we can propose marriage. ” “Already? ” “But that is how matters are conducted in all fairy tales . When the king’s son had awakened Sleeping Beauty, he married her immediately, without even going to seek permission from her parents.
“As for me, unfortunately, I need no one’s permission . ” “If you find that tomorrow is a little early, we will wait a few days. I will abide by your orders.” By the way, you must lend me your birth certificate and a few other essential documents. “Whenever you wish. I have all my papers in a bundle; you can take what you need. ” The carriage stopped in front of the Baron’s house. Gaston also got out and continued on foot, to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. The next day, M. de Subressac came to collect the birth certificate and , as if absentmindedly, took away all the papers that accompanied it. He entrusted the file to Madame Benoît, who, out of an abundance of caution, submitted it to the glasses of a paleographer archivist, a former student of the School of Charters and assistant curator at the Royal Library. The authenticity of the smallest rag was recognized and certified. The baron then made the official request, which was accepted by acclamation. The radiant widow remained uncertain for some time whether she would marry her daughter in Paris or whether she would move this grand ceremony to the small church of Arlange. On the one hand, it was very flattering to occupy the high altar of Saint-Thomas d’Aquin and disturb half the suburb for the wedding mass; but there was revenge to be had, and it was important to erase the last traces of the Marquisate of Kerpry from the countryside. Madame Benoît decided on Arlange, but with the firm intention of returning to Paris soon. She wrote to her coachbuilder: Mr. Barnes, I will leave on May 5 to marry my daughter, who is marrying, as you know, the Marquis d’Outreville. As soon as I leave, you will have all my carriages taken away to be refurbished and the doors painted with the enclosed coat of arms. Furthermore, I beg you to make me as soon as possible a carriage in the old style, wide, high and of the noblest shape you can. The coachman and footmen will be powdered white; regulate the harmony of the colors accordingly . She then thought that it would be her daughter who would introduce her to society, and this idea inspired in her a resurgence of maternal love. She wrote to Lucile, whom she was not accustomed to much address: My dear child, my beautiful darling, my adored Lucile, I have found the husband I was looking for: you will be Marquise d’Outreville! I chose him from among a thousand, so that he would be worthy of you: he is young, handsome, full of spirit, of an ancient and glorious nobility, and allied to the most illustrious families of France. Dear little one! Your happiness is assured and mine too, since I live only through you. You will soon come to Paris, you will leave this dreadful Arlange, where you have lived like a beautiful butterfly in a black chrysalis, you will be welcomed and celebrated in the greatest houses; I will lead you from pleasure to pleasure, from triumph to triumph: what a spectacle for a mother’s eyes! Madame Benoît was as light as a titmouse; her feet no longer touched the ground; her face had rejuvenated by ten years; one thought one saw a flame around her head. She sang while dancing, she cried while laughing, she had the itch to stop passers-by to tell them of her joy; She found herself greeting the ladies she met in armorial carriages. She was so tender with the Marquis, she enveloped him in such a network of little attentions and kindnesses, that Gaston, who for a long time had been no one’s spoiled child, took a real liking to his mother-in-law. He rarely left her , drove her everywhere, and was never bored with her, although she avoided all conversation about the forges. Two days before his departure, Madame Benoît took him for the day. She took him first to Tahan’s, where she chose before him a large rosewood box, long, wide, and flat, and divided inside into unequal compartments. What is this strange chest for? asked Gaston as he left. “That? It’s my daughter’s wedding basket.” “But, madame,” the Marquis continued with the pride of the poor, “it seems to me that it is mine… ” “It seems very wrong to you. My dear Marquis, when you are Lucile’s husband , you will give her as many presents as you please: from the day after the ceremony, you will have carte blanche; but, until then, it is up to me alone to give her anything. I find impertinent the custom which allows a girl’s fiancé to give her fifty thousand francs worth of clothes and jewels before the marriage and when she still has nothing. Say, if you like, that I have ridiculous prejudices, but I am too old to get rid of them.” Today we are going to choose my wedding presents: in a month I will come, if you wish, to help you choose yours. The reasoning was easy to refute; but it was deduced in such a caressing tone and such a maternal voice, that Gaston found no reply. For three days he had been in negotiations with a moneylender about this basket. He allowed himself to be taken to twenty merchants and chose fabrics, shawls, laces and jewels. No diamonds: Madame Benoît shared hers with her daughter. The mother-in-law took leave of her son-in-law on May 5, giving him an appointment for the 12th. She undertook to have the first publication made at the church and the town hall, while Gaston pushed his shirtmaker and his suit with a sword in his loins. In the confusion inseparable from a departure, she inadvertently packed up all the papers from the house in Outreville. Lucile’s first thought, on seeing Madame Benoît again, was that her mother had been changed in Paris. Never had the pretty widow been so indulgent. Everything Lucile did was well done, everything she said was well said; she behaved like an angel and spoke with gold. The tender mother could never part with such an accomplished daughter; she would follow her everywhere and leave her only at death. She said to her, as in the story of Ruth: Your country will be my country. Lucile opened her heart to this new mother, and learned with great satisfaction that there were many young, well-made marquises who did not wear sequined clothes. The day after Madame Benoît’s arrival, her friend, Madame Mélier, came to announce the impending marriage of her daughter Céline to M. Jordy, a refiner in Paris. M. Jordy was a very wealthy young man, and Madame Mélier did not hide her joy at having established her daughter so well. Madame Benoît responded vigorously with the announcement of Lucile’s impending marriage to the Marquis d’Outreville. Congratulations were expressed on both sides, and several embraces were exchanged. When Madame Mélier had left, Lucile, who had been close to the future Madame Jordy since childhood, cried out: “What joy! If I go to Paris, I will be very close to Céline; she will come to my house; I will go to her house; we will see each other every day . ” “Yes, my child,” replied Madame Benoît, “you will go to her house in your large emblazoned carriage, with your footmen powdered white; but as for receiving her at your house, that’s another matter. One owes oneself to one’s world, and one is a bit of a slave to the society in which one lives. When a duchess comes to your salon, she mustn’t rub shoulders with the wife of a refiner, of a man who sells sugar loaves!… That’s no reason to pout. Come now! You will receive Céline in the morning, before noon. –God! what a stupid country this Paris is! I prefer to stay in my poor Arlange, where one can see one’s friends at any hour of the day. Madame Benoît replied sententiously: “A wife must follow her husband.” The great event that was being prepared at Arlange was soon known throughout the surrounding area. Madame Mélier was on a visiting tour, and, since she was announcing a marriage, it cost no more to announce two. In each of the houses where she stopped, she repeated a ready-made phrase that she had arranged when leaving Madame Benoît’s: Madame, I know too well the interest you take in our whole family not to have wanted to announce to you myself the marriage of my dear Céline. She is marrying, not a marquis, like Mlle Lucile Benoît, but a handsome and good manufacturer, M. Jordy, who is, at thirty-three, one of the richest refiners in Paris. Madame Mélier had good horses; her carriage and the news she carried traveled ten leagues before nightfall. The local Faubourg Saint-Germain began by pitying poor Lucile and making fun of Madame Benoît, who had found a second marquis for her daughter de Kerpry. Madame Benoît learned without batting an eyelid everything that was being said about her. She took the papers of the Outreville family and had herself taken to the home of a very gossipy and influential old baroness, Madame de Sommerfogel. Baroness, she said to her in the most respectful tone, although I have only had the honor of receiving you two or three times, it did not take much more for me to appreciate the infallibility of your judgment, your in-depth knowledge of high society matters, and all the high qualities of observation and experience that are in you. You know how I had the misfortune to be deceived by a noble thief who had stolen, I know not where, an honorable name. Today, a seemingly magnificent match presents itself for my daughter , the Marquis d’Outreville. I have in my hands her genealogical tree and all the parchments of her family, right down to the most remote period. But I am only a poor, undiscerning bourgeois ; it has been cruelly proven to me, and I no longer dare to think for myself. Will you allow me, Madame la Baronne, to submit to you all the documents entrusted to me, so that you may judge them without appeal and in the last resort? This little speech was not clumsy; it flattered the Baroness’s vanity and piqued her curiosity. Madame de Sommerfogel gave the beautiful widow a warm welcome and accepted with visible satisfaction the important task entrusted to her. That same day, she summoned the ban and arrière-ban of the surrounding nobility, and Gaston’s papers passed before the eyes of twenty or thirty country gentlemen: this is what Madame Benoît had hoped for. This venerable bundle, from which exhaled a frank odor of nobility, made a profound impression on all the squires who were able to approach it with their sense of smell. Those most hostile to the mistress of the ironworks turned abruptly towards her. It was a concert of praise, in which Madame de Sommerfogel fulfilled the functions of conductor. This poor Madame Benoît will have something to console herself with, and I am very pleased; she is a deserving woman. –This Benoît, who deceived her, was a scoundrel. If we had known her at that time, we would have put her on her guard. –After all, what can one reproach her for? For having wanted to enter the nobility? That proves that in the eyes of enlightened bourgeoisie, nobility is still something. –Madame Benoît is not stupid. –Nor ugly. I don’t know what secret she has found to rejuvenate herself. –As for his daughter, she’s a little angel. –It’s been a long time since I saw her, in 1836. She was already showing promise. –From now on, we’ll see her often: she’s one of us! –She was already one by her upbringing. I have it on good authority that her mother always wanted to make her a marchioness. –Her mother will be one of us too; a daughter doesn’t go without her mother. –The marquis is arriving shortly; he’s a considerable addition to the canton’s aristocracy. –He’s said to be fabulously rich. –They’ll make a good house. –They’ll give parties. –We’ll be at the wedding. The next day, Madame Benoît’s drawing room was invaded by a horde of close friends she hadn’t seen for twelve years. The marquis arrived on May 12th at dinnertime. After searching for and finding a thousand francs, which cost him no more than sixty louis, he packed his bags, embraced the baron, and modestly took the carriage to Nancy. At Nancy, he embarked in the diligence to Dieuze; at Dieuze, he procured a cabriolet and a post horse which took him to Arlange. It is a matter of an hour when the roads are fine. As he approached the village, he felt something in his left side that was very much like a palpitation. I must say, to the shame of the scholar and the praise of the man, that he was not thinking of the forge, but of Lucile. An illustrious Englishwoman, Lady Montague, who was not much bothered by singing, was astonished that the Apollo Belvedere and some ancient Venus could remain in the museum without falling into each other’s arms. This little scandal almost occurred at the first meeting of Lucile and Gaston. These young beings, who had never seen each other, felt at the same moment that they were born for each other. From the first glance they were lovers; from the first words they were friends: youth attracted youth, and beauty beauty. There was neither trouble nor embarrassment between them: they looked at each other in the face, and reflected themselves in each other with the charming impudence of naiveté; Gaston’s heart was almost as new as Lucile’s. Their passion was born without mystery, like those beautiful summer suns that rise without clouds. I do not deny the intoxication of guilty passions that remorse seasons and that peril ennobles; but what is most beautiful in this world is a legitimate love that advances peacefully on a flowery road, with honor on its right and security on its left. Madame Benoît was too happy and too sensible to hinder the progress of a passion that served her so well. She left the two lovers that sweet freedom that the countryside allows: their first days were only a long tête-à-tête. Lucile did Gaston the honors of the house, the garden and the forest; they mounted their horses at noon, after lunch, and returned like children who have played truant, long after the dinner bell. After the forest, the forge had its turn. Gaston had the courage not to set foot there without Lucile; But when he saw that she did not despise work, that she knew the workers by name and that she was not afraid of staining her dresses, it was a redoubled joy. He gave himself up without constraint to the passion of his youth; he examined the work, questioned the foremen, advised the workshop managers, and enchanted Lucile who marveled to see him so learned and so capable. Madame Benoît, seeing them come home all powdered, or even a little blackened by the smoke, said: How happy the children are! Everything serves as a plaything! To relax from their fatigue, they sat at the bottom of the garden under an arbour of climbing roses, and they made plans. Plans of happiness and work, of love and retirement. They promised to hide their lives deep in the woods of Arlange, as birds make their nests in the thickest part of a bush or on the thickest branch of a tree. Not a word from Paris; not a word from the suburbs and the vanities of the world. Lucile was unaware that there were other pleasures; Gaston had forgotten that. One fine morning, Madame Benoît gave them great news: it was that evening that the contract was being signed. The marriage was set for Tuesday, June 1st; they would be married the day before at the town hall. As there are no pleasures without pains, the signing of the contract was preceded by an interminable dinner to which all the local people had been invited. While waiting for the arrival of the guests, Gaston and Lucile strolled in the garden in straw hats, one dressed in white coutil, the other in pink barège. As he passed within reach of the factory, Gaston was accosted by the manager, who held him in high esteem and readily asked for his advice. The three of them entered one of the workshops, and an interesting experiment began before them. When the factory clock struck four, Lucile slipped out to go and wash, saying to Gaston: “You have time to see the end; stay, I want you to!” He stayed and took such a keen interest in the spectacle that he put his hand to the work and got himself terribly dirty. At five o’clock he ran away, his sleeves rolled up and his hands black, and he appeared right in the middle of a group of guests who were walking around in full finery. Someone recognized him and called his name. It was the engineer from the saltworks of Dieuze, one of his classmates. The École Polytechnique is, like the aristocracy of the suburb, a little Freemasonry: it is found everywhere. Gaston threw his arms around his friend’s neck and kissed him on both cheeks, holding his hands in the air for fear of blackening him. There were three or four noble ladies there who were a little surprised to see a marquis made like a chimney sweep, and kissing an employee of the saltworks on both cheeks; but they were reconciled with him when he reappeared in a new suit, like the latest issue of the Journal des Tailleurs. He was to dine between Mme Benoît and the Baroness de Sommerfogel; but just as they were about to set out, the old lady had been struck with a migraine. Her apologies arrived during the soup. Their place was cleared, and Gaston found himself next to his friend the engineer. He was the center of attention; each of the guests, and especially the deputies of the nobility, expected a gracious glance and a kind word from him, just as on going to court one hopes for a little word from the king. But his two passions absorbed him too much for him to think of examining the collection of grotesques that were feasting around him. He had eyes only for Lucile, and ears only for his neighbor. The squires thought they could attract his attention by engaging in a semi-political conversation, in which the ridiculousness of old prejudices was naively displayed; a conversation full of freedom against what existed, full of regret for what had been. These speeches, whose suave absurdity would have revived a good-old marquis, buzzed around Gaston’s ears without reaching his brain. In a moment of silence, he was heard saying to the engineer: You have an underground railway in the salt marshes: how much do you pay for the rails? “In France, 360 francs for 1000 kilos. An English ton, which is 15 kilos heavier, is worth, free on board, from 11 pounds 10 shillings to 12 pounds 5 shillings. ” “I believe that by using certain economical furnaces, the plan of which I will show you, we could deliver excellent merchandise to you , well below English prices, at 200 francs a ton, perhaps less. ” “So you are always the same? ” “No, worse. Do you sometimes have cables breaking?” “Too often: we lost four men last month.” “I’ll show you a remedy for these accidents.” “Have you found a secret to prevent the cables from breaking? ” “No, but to hold the weight they drop in suspension in the shafts. I practiced this system for three years in a coal mine I managed at Saint-Étienne, and we didn’t have a single accident to deplore. All the nobility of the canton opened their ears, and Madame Benoît was dying to step on her son-in-law’s toe. The Viscount de Bourgaltroff introduced himself timidly into the conversation. Does the Marquis own coal mines in the Loire department? ” “No, sir,” replied Gaston; “I was the foreman there.” This time, Madame Benoît thought we had had enough dessert, and she got up from the table. As they passed through the drawing-room, the gentlemen whispered among themselves about the Marquis: “Singular great lord, who blackens his hands in a forge, who kisses employees, who invents machines, who sells rails cheaply, and who has been foreman for a simple coalman in Saint-Étienne!” The most indulgent, who were not in the majority, tried to defend him: “After all,” they said, “Louis XVI made locks. ” “Louis XVIII wrote Latin verses. ” “Henri III shaved his courtiers. ” “But,” a severe critic would retort, “who is it who amuses himself by breaking coal at the bottom of a hole? “Hey, sir,” replied an indulgent man, “my father burned matches in Berlin during the emigration!” Madame Benoît guessed well that Gaston was being talked about, but she was not at all worried about it. “Talk, my good friends,” she murmured between her teeth; “I forced you to recognize my son-in-law as a true marquis; you came here to humiliate yourselves before me; Benoît is forgotten, I am avenged. I am leaving in eight days for Paris, and when I set foot in Arlange again, the youngest among you will have white hair! As for Maître Gaston, who is a frank eccentric, the stay at his hotel and the society of his equals will soon have cured him of his ideas. Before the signing of the contract, the basket was brought which arranged all the women on Gaston’s side. The poor fellow was bombarded with compliments which he did not dare to defend himself against; but he promised himself to tell Lucile, and the very next day, that it was not him she should thank. When the notary unrolled his notebook, it was a question of who would sit closest to him, not to learn Lucile’s dowry, which was well known, but to hear the enumeration of the Marquis’s lands and castles . Public curiosity was deceived: M. d’Outreville was getting married with his rights. The day after this celebration, Lucile and Gaston renewed the chain of their pleasures, and the last days of the month passed like hours. On May 31, the two lovers were married at the town hall, and neither of them trembled at the moment of saying yes. When the mayor, code in hand, repeated for the hundredth time in his life that a woman must follow her husband, Madame Benoît made a small , very expressive sign to her daughter . On returning home, the triumphant mother-in-law said to the Marquis in Lucile’s presence: My son-in-law (for you are my son-in-law by law), I will give you tomorrow the first half of your income. “A little patience, my charming mother!” replied Gaston; “what do you want me to do with such a sum? Money,” he added, looking at Lucile, “is the least of my worries. ” “Hey! don’t disdain this poor money: you’ll need a lot of it in a few days in Paris. ” “In Paris! Hey! Great God! What would I do there? Get a foothold, rally your friends and relatives, prepare a circle of acquaintances for the winter and for life. ” “But, madame, I am determined not to live in Paris. It is an unhealthy city where all the women are sick, where families die out after three generations for lack of children.” Do you know that every hundred years Paris would turn into a desert, if the provinces were not so furious as to repopulate it? “It is so that it does not become a desert that we have decided to go there as soon as possible. ” “You did not tell me, mademoiselle.” Lucile lowered her eyes without answering: her mother’s presence weighed on her. Madame Benoît replied sharply: “These things can be guessed without being said. My daughter is the Marquise d’Outreville: her place is in the Faubourg Saint-Germain! Isn’t that true, Lucile? ” She answered with a hint of a “yes.” That was not the way she had said “yes” at the town hall. “To the Faubourg!” Gaston continued, “to the Faubourg! You are curious to enter the Faubourg!” Following some disappointment, the secret of which no one knew, he had conceived a violent intolerance against the Faubourg. Do you know, mademoiselle, what one sees in the suburbs? Young girls as insipid as fruit grown in a greenhouse; young women lost in dress and vanity; old women who have neither the imposing stiffness of our seventeenth-century ancestors, nor the verve and good humor of the contemporaries of Louis XV; old men dazed by whist, young people who are lively and devout who mix up the names of racehorses and preachers in conversation; among men of an age to act, a policy without conviction, regrets artificial, loyalties that are put on display in the hope that someone will be pleased to buy them: this is the suburb, mademoiselle; you know it as well as if you had seen it. What! You live in the middle of an admirable forest, surrounded by a small people who love you; I am not talking about me who adores you; you have fortune, which allows you to make people happy; health without which nothing is good; the joys of family, the amusements of summer, the intimate pleasures of winter, the present illuminated by love, the future peopled with little white and pink children, and you want to abandon everything for a life of silly compliments and absurd reverences! It is not I who will be the accomplice of such a fatal exchange, and if you go to the suburb, mademoiselle, I will not take you there! Listening to this speech, Madame Benoît had the face of a child who has built a tower of dominoes and who sees the monument crumble stone by stone. She barely found the strength to say to Lucile: ” Answer me!” Lucile held out her hand to Gaston, and said, looking at her mother: “A woman must follow her husband.” This time, the Marquis was less reserved than the Apollo of the Belvedere. He took Lucile in his arms and kissed her tenderly. Madame Benoît spent the rest of the day forming plans, giving orders, and plotting ways to get her son-in-law to Paris. The next day, after the wedding mass, she took him aside and said: “Is that your last word? You don’t want to introduce us to the suburb? ” “But, madame, didn’t you hear how willingly Lucile renounced it ? ” “And what if I didn’t renounce it?” And what if I told you that for thirty years (I’m forty-two) I’ve been tormented by the ambition to get into it? What if I told you that the desire to hear myself advertised in the salons of the Rue Saint-Dominique made me marry a contraband marquis who beat me? What if I added finally that I chose you neither for your appearance nor for your talents, but for your name which is a key to open all doors? Oh, do you think they give you a hundred thousand livres a year to waste your time working? “Pardon, madame. First of all, at the price of spotless names, I’m so vain as to believe that mine wouldn’t be expensive at two million. But that’s not the case, since you haven’t given me anything.” The forge and the forest are Lucile’s inheritance; the rent we must pay you represents the interest on all the sums you have contributed to the enterprise, and the two hundred thousand francs that the mansion on the Rue Saint-Dominique cost you . So I have everything from Lucile, and with her, I have no trouble paying it off. “But it is from me that you have Lucile; it is from me that she has you,” cried the poor woman, “and you are ungrateful if you refuse me the happiness of my life! ” “You are right, madame: ask me for everything in the world, except one thing; and I have nothing to refuse you. But I swore never to set foot in the suburb again. ” “In heaven’s name, why didn’t you tell me? ” “You didn’t ask me.” Leaving Gaston, Madame Benoît said three words to her maid and four to her coachman. She did not speak to the Marquis again about the first half of her income. That evening, at the ball, Lucile was a success of beauty and happiness. None of the women present remembered having seen a bride so frankly happy. All the young people envied Gaston’s fate, as was customary; I will not allow myself to say that anyone envied Lucile’s. At two o’clock in the morning, the dancers had left, and the bride and groom remained in the breach: Madame Benoît had judged it appropriate that they close the ball as they had opened it. This tender mother, whose brow seemed veiled by a light cloud, asked for the grace to chat for a quarter of an hour with her daughter, and she led her into the bridal chamber, on the ground floor, while Gaston, who had to shake off the dust from the ball, returned for the last time to his little apartment on the second floor. As he descended the grand staircase, he was surprised to hear the sound of a carriage trotting away . He entered the bridal chamber: it was empty. He went to Madame Benoît’s: all the doors were open and the apartment deserted. Satin shoes, two ball gowns and a great disorder of clothes littered the carpet. He rang; no one came. He went out into the vestibule and came face to face with the rustic countenance of the little groom Jacquet. He grabbed him by the blouse: Didn’t I just hear a carriage? “Yes, sir: you’d have to be deaf… ” “Who’s leaving so late, after everyone else?” “But, sir, it’s madame and mademoiselle in the sedan, with the people of all types of bodies, Pierre and Mlle Julie. ” “That’s good. Didn’t they say anything? Didn’t they leave anything for me? ” “Forgive me, sir, since madame left a letter. ” “Where is it? ” “It’s here, sir, under the lining of my cap. ” “Give it, animal! ” “It’s because I stuffed it right at the back, you see, for fear of losing it. There it is! ” Gaston ran under the lantern in the vestibule and read the following note: My dear Marquis, in the hope that love and well -understood interest will be able to tear you away from dear Arlange, I am transporting your wife and your money to Paris: come and take them! ” Chapter 18. Gaston crumpled up Madame Benoît’s note and stuffed it into his pocket. Then he turned to Jacquet, who was looking at him foolishly, rolling his cap between his hands: Didn’t Madame la Marquise say anything to you? “Mademoiselle? No, sir; she didn’t even look at me. ” “Is there a side road to Dieuze? ” “Yes, sir. ” “Is it shorter? ” “By a good quarter of an hour. ” “Saddle Forward and Indiana for me. Wait! I’ll help you. You’ll show me the way. A louis for you if we arrive before the carriage. ” Half an hour later, Jacquet in his blouse and the Marquis in his wedding clothes stopped in front of the Dieuze post office. Jacquet woke a stable boy and inquired if any horses had been requested during the night. The answer was good: no traveler had shown up since the day before. “Here,” said the Marquis to Jacquet, “here are the twenty francs I promised you.” “Sir,” the little groom timidly continued, “are the louis no longer twenty-four francs? ” “A long time ago, you simpleton. ” “It was my grandfather who always told me that. In his time, two louis and forty sous made fifty livres.” Gaston said nothing: his ear was pricked up towards Arlange. Jacquet continued, talking to himself: “How is it that such fine gold pieces have fallen to that price?” “Listen!” said the Marquis; “don’t you hear a carriage? ” “No, sir. Ah! that’s very unfortunate! ” “What?” “That the gold louis have fallen to twenty francs. ” “Take it, animal; here’s another, and be quiet.” Jacquet remained silent out of obedience; he merely said between his teeth: “It’s all the same.” If the louis were still at twenty-four francs, two louis like here, and forty sous that madame gave me, would make me just fifty livres. But times are hard, as my grandfather used to say. Gaston waited for a good hour without dismounting. At last, he feared that an accident had happened to the carriage. Jacquet reassured him: Sir, he said to him, it is perhaps quite possible that these ladies have reached the royal road without going through Dieuze. “Let’s run,” said the marquis. “It’s not worth it, go on, sir: they have nearly two hours in advance. “Well then! Take me back home by road.” The house remained as Gaston had left it. The carriage was not under the coach house, and two horses were missing from the stable. In the distance, a sound of shrill violins and discordant songs could be heard : it was the workers and peasants dancing in the open air. Gaston first thought of ensuring Jacquet’s silence and the secrecy of his nocturnal pursuit. He found no better way than to send his confidant to Paris. “Go take the diligence from Nancy,” he told him; “in Nancy, you will embark in the rotunda for Paris. You will have yourself driven to the Hôtel d’Outreville, 57 rue Saint-Dominique, and you will tell Madame Benoît that I will arrive in two days. Here is enough to pay for the carriage.” “Sir,” Jacquet asked in an insinuating voice, “if I walked , would the money be mine?” He received in reply a peremptory kick, which took him away from Arlange and brought him closer to Paris. Gaston, exhausted, went back up to the second floor and threw himself on his bed, not to sleep, but to dream more calmly of his strange adventure. Lucile’s flight, at the moment when he thought himself most sure of being loved by her, seemed inexplicable to him. Obviously this departure was premeditated; it would have been impossible to prepare it in a quarter of an hour. But then, the young woman’s whole conduct was a lie: the happiness that shone in her eyes, the gentle pressure of her hand amidst the whirlwinds of the waltz, the delicious words she had murmured an hour before in her husband’s ear, everything became deception, bait, and bad faith. However, if she did n’t love him, why had she married him? It was so easy to say no instead of yes! Her mother wouldn’t have forced her, since she was favoring her escape. Gaston then remembered the animated discussion he had had that very morning against Madame Benoît; he understood without difficulty the widow’s vexation and her revenge. But how could this ambitious mother, in less than a day, have turned her daughter’s heart? Why hadn’t Lucile written a word of explanation to her husband? This idea led him quite naturally to search his pocket for Madame Benoît’s note. He noticed a word there that had escaped him on first reading: Your wife and your money! In truth, it was indeed money that was in question! As if money were something to someone who sees all the happiness of his life crumble away! What does a miserable sum matter to someone who has lost what cannot be bought at any price? Your wife and your money! It resembled the lugubrious joke of the assize courts which condemn a man to the death penalty and the costs of the trial! Gaston imagined, quite wrongly, that his mother-in-law had only written this note to remind him of the modest position from which she had lifted him, and his touchy dignity was revolted. By dint of rereading this unfortunate note, he persuaded himself that it would be a shame to leave for Paris without anyone knowing whether he was running after his wife or his money, and he resolved to remain at Arlange until Lucile had written to him. This decision led him into an expenditure of wit and amiability which he had not foreseen. The news of the Marquise’s departure had spread with electric speed; and as it had never been heard, within four leagues around, that a wedding ball had ended in such a way, all those who had dined or simply danced at the forge ran there in all haste under the natural pretext of a digestive visit. The Marquis faced this army of curious people, in such a way as to prove to the most difficult that he was a man of the world when he had the time. For a week, the house was always full, and he showed no annoyance at spending half the day in the drawing-room. This small crowd, thirsting for scandal, was stupefied by his tranquil air, his natural voice, with a happy and smiling face. He told anyone who would listen that for more than two weeks, Madame Benoît had been in Paris on urgent business that required her and her daughter’s presence ; that as a good mother, she had not wanted to delay Lucile’s marriage on that account; that as a wise administrator, she had wanted to leave a reliable man at the head of the forge; that as a gracious mistress of the house, she had not inconvenienced her guests by the announcement of such an imminent departure. If someone assumed a condolence and seemed to pity the victims of such an untimely separation, Gaston hastened to reassure this good soul by informing them that in a few days the husband, wife and mother-in-law would be definitively reunited. Not content with deceiving the curious and the malicious, he took the trouble to charm them. He displayed his natural and acquired graces in their favor ; he settled in the hearts of all women and in the esteem of all men; he approved of all the ridiculous things, he gave headlong into all the prejudices; he deceived his audience so cleverly that he won over the entire canton: this can happen to the most honest man. The first result of this comedy was to give him one hundred and fifty close friends; the second was to persuade everyone that his story was the pure truth. Here is the truth. After the ball, Lucile, her heart heavy with anxious joy, followed her mother to her apartment. Hardly had she entered when Madame Benoît stripped her, in a jiffy, of her white dress, wrapped her in a thick dressing gown and threw a shawl over her shoulders, while Julie replaced the satin shoes with a pair of ankle boots. Without giving her time to be surprised by this attire, her mother said briskly, while changing her dress: My darling, Gaston has complied with my prayers; we are leaving for Paris at once. “Already? He hasn’t spoken to me about it yet! ” “It’s a surprise he was planning for you, dear child, because, deep down, you were rather sorry not to see this beautiful Paris! ” “No, Mama. ” “You were sorry, my daughter; I know you better than you know yourself.” There was a discreet knock at the door. Madame Benoît started. ” Who’s there?” she asked. “Madame,” Pierre’s voice answered, “Madame’s carriage is hitched up.” The widow led her daughter to the carriage. “Quick, quick,” she said to her; “our people are dancing; if they got wind of our departure, we would have to endure their farewells. ” “But I would have liked to say goodbye to them,” murmured Lucile. Her mother threw her to the back of the carriage and rushed in after her. And Gaston? asked the young woman, completely stunned by these hurried movements. “Come, my child. Pierre, where is Monsieur le Marquis?” Pierre’s lesson was given. He answered without embarrassment: “Madame, Monsieur le Marquis is having the luggage loaded onto the old chaise. He asks Madame to wait for him a minute or two. ” Lucile, driven by a secret inspiration, tried to open the door. The right-hand door, whether by chance or by calculation, refused to open. To get to the other, she had to pass over her mother’s body . Her courage did not go that far. “Julie,” she said, “see what Monsieur le Marquis is doing. ” Julie, who had been in Madame Benoît’s service for fifteen years, left, returned, and replied: “Madame, Monsieur le Marquis asks these ladies not to wait for him. A line has broken; it is being mended; Monsieur will join the relay. At the same moment Pierre approached the left door, and Madame Benoît whispered in his ear: Take the crossbar; burn Dieuze, and straight to Moyenvic! The carriage set off at a trot. It was, in truth, a singular wedding night. Madame Benoît was triumphant at leaving Arlange and driving towards the suburb in the company of a marquise. She complained of fatigue, headache, sleep, and she retreated, her eyes closed, in a corner of the sedan, for fear that her daughter’s reflections might disturb the tumultuous joy that bubbled in her heart. The poor bride, without fearing the coolness of the night, stretched her neck out of the door, listening to the breath of the wind, and plunging her moist gaze into the darkness. At the Moyenvic relay, Madame Benoît threw off the mask and said to her daughter: Don’t open your eyes wide looking for your husband. You will not see him again until the Faubourg Saint-Germain. Lucile guessed the betrayal; but she was too afraid of her mother to answer her with anything other than tears. Your husband, continued the widow, is an obstinate man who refused to take you into the world. It is in your interest that I forced his hand. He will have joined you within twenty-four hours, if he loves you. There is no reason to cry like Hagar in the desert. I am your mother, I know better than you what is best for you; I am taking you to Paris: I am saving you from Arlange. “Oh, my poor happiness!” cried the child, wringing her hands. “What are you complaining about? You loved him, you married him. You are married! What more do you want? ” “So,” said Lucile, “this is marriage! Ah! I was much happier when I was a girl: I saw my husband! ” From Arlange to Paris, she never tired of looking out of the window. It seemed impossible to her that Gaston was not in pursuit of her. In every carriage that raised the dust of the road, on every horse that galloped behind the carriage, she thought she recognized her husband. This journey, which suffocated her triumphant mother with joy , was for her an interminable series of hopes and disappointments. Paris, without Gaston, seemed to her an immense solitude, and the Faubourg Saint-Germain, abandoned by half its inhabitants, was for her a desert within a desert. The day after her arrival, the first object she saw on opening her window was the figure of Jacquet. She came down in less than a second: Gaston must be in Paris! She learned that, if he had not arrived, he would not be long, and I leave you to imagine whether she celebrated the messenger of such good news. While Madame Benoît was still sleeping the sleep of the happy, Jacquet recounted the smallest details of the journey to Dieuze. How he loves me! thought Lucile. I even believe she thought aloud. To finish the story, continued Jacquet, the Marquis must owe me an eight-franc piece. “Here are twenty, my good Jacquet.” “Thank you very much, mademoiselle. I am not positively sure of what I am saying; but it seems to me that he owes them to me. I had calculated that he owed me twenty-four francs, and he only gave me twenty: that is four francs less. And then, he once again only gave me twenty: that is another four francs. And since four and four make eight…. However, I could be mistaken, and if you want me to pay you back…? “Keep it, keep it, my boy, and go and rest from your journey.” She ran to the garden and gathered flowers like on Corpus Christi Day, so that her room would be beautiful when Gaston arrived. Jacquet watched her leave, saying to himself: Sixty-two francs, that’s a bad calculation, as my grandfather used to say. And he calculated on his fingers how many more gold louis and forty-sou pieces would be needed to make one hundred francs. The day passed, and the next day, and a whole week, without news of the Marquis. Madame Benoît hid her annoyance; Lucile did not dare to grieve in front of her mother; but they made up for it well, one by cursing, the other by crying during the night. From morning to night, the mother drove her daughter in a coat-of-arms carriage, without footmen and without powder, for the famous coach was still at the construction site. She drove her to the Champs-Élysées, to the Bois, and everywhere where the high society goes, to give her a taste for those pleasures of vanity that one only savors Paris. In the absence of the Italians, she made him endure heavy evenings at the Théâtre-Français and the Opera. But Lucile acquired no taste for the pleasure of seeing or being seen. Wherever her mother took her, she carried with her the desire to return to the hotel and the hope of finding Gaston there. Madame Benoît guessed before her daughter that the Marquis was seriously sulking. Since she was not lacking in character, she soon made up her mind. Ah! she said to herself, my son-in-law can do without us! Let us try to do without him for a while. What did I lack in the past to mingle with the world of the suburb? A coat of arms and a name; I had everything else. Today, we lack nothing: we have a fine coat of arms on our carriages, we are the Marquise d’Outreville, and we must enter everywhere. But where to begin? That is the question. Lucile cannot go out and say to people who don’t know her : Open your door to me; I am the Marquise d’Outreville! But, I’m thinking of it! I will go and see my debtors, my good, my excellent debtors! They will receive me on a different footing than last time: one treats the daughter of a supplier cavalierly, but one shows consideration for the mother of a marquise. Her first visit was to the Baron de Subressac. She did not take Lucile to his house or to his other debtors. What good is it to teach this child how much it costs to open a door? Ah! dear Baron, she said as she entered, to what a cursed mentally ill person we have given my daughter! The Baron did not expect such an exordium. Madame, he continued a little too quickly, the mentally ill person who has done you the honor of becoming your son-in-law is the noblest heart I have ever known. “Alas! My God! If you only knew what he has done! Married for eight days, he has already abandoned his wife! She explained, without disguising anything, all the events of which the baron was ignorant, and which you know. As she spoke, the smile reappeared on the baron’s lips. When she had recounted everything, he took her hands and said gaily: You are right, charming, the marquis is a great culprit: he abandoned his wife as King Menelaus abandoned his. “Sir, Menelaus ran after Helen, and I maintain that a husband who lets his wife go without pursuing her, abandons her. ” “Fortunately, the case is less serious, for I see no Paris on the horizon. You will bring your daughter back to her husband; it is your duty, you must not separate what God has joined. These children adore each other, happiness will seem all the sweeter to them because it has been delayed.” You will witness their joy, you will enjoy the spectacle of their love, and you will write to me within ten months to give me news of them. The pretty widow stretched out her hand, and with her index finger made a small horizontal gesture which meant: Never! But then, continued the baron, what do you intend to become? “Can I rely on your friendship, Monsieur le Baron? ” “Have I not already proved it to you, charming one? ” “And I will never forget it as long as I live. If your kindness does not fail me , I have enough to do without M. d’Outreville forever. ” “Do you think the young marquise would say as much? ” “It is not her that is at stake for the next quarter of an hour. Parents, in all justice, must come before children. What do I ask of God and man? Entrance to the suburb. What is necessary to have me received there? That Lucile be admitted.” Now, she has every imaginable right; all she lacks is an introducer. Will you refuse to present her? “Absolutely. First, because this honor is less fitting for a baron than for a baroness. Second, because I do not want to contribute to delaying Gaston’s happiness. Finally, because all my good will would be of no use to you. Your daughter, madame, undoubtedly has the right to enter everywhere, but on what grounds?” because she is Gaston’s wife. As Gaston’s wife, she will find the door open to all those who know her husband, that is to say, to all of us; but see if I would have the grace to introduce her by saying: Ladies and gentlemen, you love and esteem the Marquis d’Outreville; you are his relatives, his allies or his friends, allow me then to introduce to you his wife, who did not want to live with him! Believe me, charming, it is the experience of seventy-five years which speaks to you; a young woman never cuts a good figure without her husband, and the mother who parades her like this, all alone, outside of her household, does not play an applauded role in society. If you absolutely insist on rubbing shoulders with duchesses, go and get your son-in-law to bring you back to Paris by kind gestures. Your escapade has offended him; that is why he is not coming to join you. If you wait for him here, I know him well enough to predict that you will wait a long time. Return to Arlange. Let us not be prouder than Mahomet: the mountain did not come to him, he went to find the mountain. It was well enough said, but Madame Benoît did not take it for granted. She presented herself, past noon, to five or six of her debtors. No one was unaware of her daughter’s marriage, but no one showed any desire to know her. People spoke at length of the Marquis, they described him as a gallant man, they praised his wit, they regretted his rareness and his misanthropy, and they inquired whether he would spend the winter in Paris. The widow tried in vain to replace the petition she had addressed to M. de Subressac; she could find no opening. She did not lose hope, however, and promised herself to return to the charge. Besides, she still had one resource left, one anchor of salvation, which she was saving for the last extremities: the Countess of Malésy. The Countess was the woman who owed her the most, and consequently the one from whom she had the most to expect. She was a pretty little old woman of sixty, who was reproached for nothing but coquetry, gluttony, an unbridled love of gambling, and a rage for throwing money out of the window. Madame Benoît said to herself, with good reason, that a person with so many chinks in her armor could not be invulnerable, and that one must, by one way or another, reach her heart. She was already enjoying the Baron’s surprise, the day he would meet her in society between Lucile and Madame de Malésy. While she was making so many useless visits, the pretty Marquise d’Outreville shut herself in her room and, without consulting anyone , wrote the following letter to her husband: What are you doing, Gaston? When will you come? Yet you promised to join us. How could you have gone ten whole days without seeing me? When we were together in our dear Arlange, you did not know how to leave me for an hour. God! How long the hours are in Paris! Mama speaks to me every moment against you, but at your name alone there is a din in my heart that prevents me from hearing. She tells me that you have abandoned me: you guess that I do not believe it. For, after all, I am no uglier than when you knelt before me; and if I am older, it is not by much. All is not over between us, the last word has not been said, and I feel that I still have happiness to give you. You are not the man to close such a good book on the first page. Since I no longer have you, I have been completely dazed and languid. Imagine that at times I believe that I am not your wife, and that this beautiful ceremony in the church, and this ball where we were so happy, are a dream that ended too soon. What was not a dream was this kiss that you gave me. I have received many kisses since I was born, but none had penetrated so deeply into my heart. It is doubtless because this one came from you. Everything that belongs to you has something special about it that I don’t know how to define: for example, your voice is more penetrating than any other; no one has ever been able to say Lucile like you. Why aren’t you here, my dear Gaston? That kiss you gave me, I would be so happy to return it! It wouldn’t be bad, would it, since I am your wife! You will never imagine how much I miss you. When I go out with Mama, I look for you in the streets: all I have seen in Paris so far is that you are not there. In the evening, I regularly mix up your name in my prayers; in the morning, when I wake up, I look to see if you are not around me. Is it possible that I think so much about you and that you have forgotten me? Perhaps you are angry with me for having left you so abruptly and without saying goodbye. If you only knew! It wasn’t me who left; it was Mama who took me away. I thought you were going to catch us with the old post-chaise and the luggage; Mama had assured me of that, Pierre too, Julie too. I cried a lot, you see, when I learned that I had been told such a nasty lie. Since then, I would have cried all day long, if I didn’t hold back; but I’m holding back my tears, firstly so as not to be scolded, and secondly so that you don’t find me with red eyes. You mustn’t be angry if I didn’t write to you sooner: you sent word that you were coming, and when you’re expecting someone, you don’t write to them. Now I’ll write to you until I ‘ve seen you: I must not have much self-respect, for I write like a kitten, and I hardly know how to string my sentences together. It’s that I had never written to anyone, having neither uncles, nor aunts, nor friends from school. I hope that you will not let me ruin myself in stylistic expenses and that you will leave at my first request: come, leave the forge: there is no more business in the world while we are separated: I will reconcile you with Mama, on the condition that she will do everything you wish and that she will not ask you for anything disagreeable. If the stay in Paris displeases you as much as it does me, rest assured, we will not stay there long. But if you do not arrive, what do you expect me to do? It would be easy enough for me to escape from the hotel one day when Mama was out without me; but I cannot run the highways alone ! However, if you demanded it, I would leave; I would put myself under Jacquet’s protection. But something tells me that you won’t have to be asked twice or wait, just think of two little red hands reaching out to you! Madame Benoît came in while Jacquet was taking this letter to the post office. Weren’t you bored all alone? the mother asked her daughter. “No, Mama,” replied the Marquise. Chapter 19. The next three days were days of waiting. Lucile waited for Gaston as if he might already have received his letter; Madame Benoît hoped that her noble debtors would return his visits. So the mother and daughter stayed at home, but not together. One sat by a window in the living room, her eyes fixed on the carriage entrance; the other walked under the chestnut trees in the garden, her eyes turned toward the future. Madame Benoît was counting on her luxury to make friends: she promised herself to show her the beautiful apartments on the ground floor: We shall be unhappy, she thought, if no one offers us a cup of tea in the meantime; one gives willingly to those who can return. The drawing-room, hung with dazzling flowers, had a festive air; the mistress was in her finery from morning to night, like Russian officers who never take off their uniform. While waiting for the house to be assembled, Jacquet, transformed by a new livery, was serving his apprenticeship as a footman in the hall. Sensitive hearts will be pained to learn that all this expenditure was in vain: no debtor came to Madame Benoît’s house. What do you expect? The habit was set. These gentlemen and ladies had made a habit of paying her neither in money nor in courtesy, and of returning nothing, not even her visits. She was meditating sadly, behind a curtain, on the ingratitude of men, when a brougham, trotting along at full speed, made the sand in the courtyard squeal harmoniously. The pretty widow felt her heart leap: it was the first time that a carriage other than her own had come to trace two ruts in front of her door. The carriage stopped; a man still young got out. It was not a debtor; it was a hundred times better: the Count de Preux himself! He disappeared under the vestibule; and Madame Benoît, with the promptness of lightning, reviewed her salon, cast a final glance at her dress, and prepared the first words she would have to say: she had, however, enough wit to leave it to the chance of improvisation. The Count delayed a little: she cursed Jacquet, who was doubtless holding him in the antechamber. Why did the door not open? She would have run to meet her noble visitor, if she had not feared injuring herself by excessive haste. At last the door opened; a man appeared: it was Jacquet. “Let him in!” said the panting widow. “Who, Madame?” replied Jacquet, in that drawling voice which distinguishes the peasants of Lorraine. “The Count! ” “Ah! He’s a Count? Well, there he is in the courtyard.” Madame Benoît ran to the window and saw Monsieur de Preux return to his carriage without turning his head, and give an order to the coachman. Run after him, she said to Jacquet. What did he say to you? “Madame, he’s a very nice man, not at all proud. He probably comes from the country, for he thought that Monsieur le Marquis was here. I said he wasn’t; that’s it. ” “You fool, didn’t you say that Madame was here?” “Yes, Madame, I said so; but he didn’t seem to hear. ” “You should have repeated it! ” “And the weather? He immediately began to ask me when Monsieur would be back. It seems his idea was to speak to Monsieur. ” “What did you answer? ” “My goodness! That we didn’t quite know how to get on with Monsieur; that he didn’t seem to want to come back.” And then, as he wasn’t proud at all and seemed to be enjoying himself with me, I told him about the good joke that madame and mademoiselle had played on monsieur. “Wretch, I’m turning you out! Go away! How much do you owe me? ” “I don’t know, madame. ” “How much do you earn a month? ” “Nine francs, madame. Don’t turn me out! I haven’t done anything! I won’t do it again! And tears. How long has it been since you were paid? ” “Two months, madame. What do you expect me to do if you turn me out? ” “Come here, here are your eighteen francs. Here are twenty more that I ‘ll give you so that you have time to look for a job.” Go! Jacquet took the money, looked to see if his account was there, and fell to his knees , crying: ” Pardon, madame! I’m not wicked! I’ve never hurt anyone!” “Master Jacquet, you should know that stupidity is the worst of all vices. ” “Why is that, madame?” Jacquet yelled. “Because it’s the only one you never correct.” She pushed him out and threw herself onto a sofa. Jacquet left the hotel, carrying, like the philosopher Bias, his entire fortune with him. If anyone had followed him, they would have heard him murmur in a desolate voice: Sixty-two and eight make seventy; and ten, eighty; and twenty, one hundred. But I’ve killed the goose: I’ll have no more eggs! Lucile learned of Jacquet’s disgrace at dinner, but she didn’t dare ask the cause. The mother and daughter, one sad and worried, the other sullen and scolding, were eating with their fingertips, without saying anything, when a letter was brought for Madame d’Outreville. From Gaston! she cried. Unfortunately not; the address bore the Passy stamp. It was Madame Céline Jordy, née Mélier, who was remembering her friend. Lucile read aloud: My pretty country girl, I am writing to you at the same time to our hamlet and to Paris; for since your marriage, you have neglected me so completely that I do not know what has become of you. As for me, I am happy, happy, happy! That is my whole story in three words. If you want more details, come and get them, or tell me where you are hiding. Robert is the most perfect of all men, apart from Monsieur d’Outreville, whom I will know when you have shown him to me. When will I be able to kiss you? I have a thousand secrets that I can only tell to you: haven’t you been my only confidante for sixteen years? I’m curious to know if you’ll recognize me without me writing my name on my hat. You , too, must be very changed. We were such children, you, two weeks ago, me, three weeks ago! Come tomorrow, if you’re in Paris; when you can, if you’re in Arlange. I like to believe that we won’t act like marquises, and that we’ll see each other as long as we can, without ever counting the visits. I can’t wait to show you my house: is it the most charming bourgeois nest that has ever been built on earth? You’re free to humiliate me afterwards with the spectacle of your palace; but I must see you. I want to. It’s a word that no one disobeys in Passy, ​​rue des Tilleuls, no. 16. See you soon. I kiss you without knowing where, blindly. YOUR CELINE. Dear Celine! I’ll go and spend the day with her tomorrow. Don’t you need me, Mama? No, I’m going out on my own to see one of my friends. Who, Mama? You don’t know her: the Countess of Malésy. It had been twelve or thirteen years since Madame Benoît had seen this venerable friend, in whom she placed her last hope. She found her little changed. The Countess had become deaf from hearing the shouting of her creditors; but it was a complacent deafness, even a little malicious, which did not prevent her from hearing what pleased her. Besides, her eye was kind and her stomach admirable. Madame de Malésy recognized her creditor and received her with touching familiarity. Good morning, little one, good morning! she said to her. I didn’t forbid you from my door. You have too much wit to come and ask me for money? “Oh! Countess! I have never paid you a self-interested visit. ” “Dear little one, just like her father! Ah! my child. Lopinot was a good man. ” “You fill me with joy, Countess.” “Do you understand why someone should come and ask a poor woman like me for money ? It’s not a year since I married my daughter to the Marquis de Croix-Maugars! It’s a good deal, I admit; but this marriage cost me an arm and a leg. Mademoiselle de Malésy hadn’t received a centime of dowry. I, Madame, have just married my daughter to the Marquis d’Outreville. ” “What do you mean? What do you call that man?” Madame Benoît made a crowbar with both hands and cried: “The Marquis d’Outreville!” “Good, good, I understand; but which Outreville?” There are good Outrevilles and fake Outrevilles; and there aren’t many good ones left . –He’s a good one . –Are you quite sure? Is he rich? –He had nothing. –Good for you! The bad ones are rich as hell; they bought the land and the castle, and took the name into the bargain. What kind of nose does he have? –Who? –Your son-in-law. –An aquiline nose. –I compliment you. The fake Outrevilles are real hoards, all with noses like pots and pans. –He’s the one who came out of the École Polytechnique. “But I know him! A bit of a mentally ill person: he’s a good man. But then, you who are a sensible woman, explain to me how he committed such a stupidity? ” It was Madame Benoît’s turn to turn a deaf ear. The Countess continued: “I say, the stupidity of marrying your daughter. Is she very rich then? ” “She had a hundred thousand livres in marriage income. We bourgeois have kept the habit of giving dowries to our daughters…. Catch! ” “No matter; that astonishes me about him. I thought he was in a better position. You understand, little one, that I wouldn’t say that if he were here; but we are among ourselves…. What is it, Rosine? ” “Madame,” replied the maid, “it’s that clerk of the Bon Saint Louis. ” “I’m not sure! These merchants have become unbearable. Ah! Little one, your father was a gallant man!” I was saying then that the Marquis will be blamed by everyone. No one will reproach him to his face; his name is his, he drags it wherever he wants. But it is not permissible for a true Outreville to enca…. se mésa…. What is it now, Rosine? –Madame, it is M. Majou. –I am not there; I am out for the day, I have just left for the country. Has anyone seen such a wine merchant? Creditors today are worse than beggars: no matter how much you chase them away, they always come back! Ah! little one, your father was a holy man! Is your daughter pretty, at least? –Madame, I will have the honor of presenting her to you one of these days in the afternoon. My son-in-law is on our estates. –That’s it, bring her to me one morning, this young woman. I’m here for you until noon…. Again, Rosine! So it’s a procession today? –Madame, it’s M. Bouniol. –Answer that someone put the leeches on me. –Madame, I’ve already told him that the Countess is not there. He replies that he has come five times in eight days without seeing Madame, and that, if they refuse to see him, he will not come back. –Well, let him come in: I’ll tell him what he thinks. Will you allow me , little one? We are showmen. Ah! my dear, your father was a great man! Madame Benoît said in a low voice as she got back into her carriage: Joke, joke, impertinent old woman! You have debts, I have money: I have you! Even if it costs me five hundred louis, I demand that you lead me by the hand to the middle of your daughter’s drawing-room! It was with these feelings that she parted from the Countess. Lucile had long been in her friend’s arms. She left the hotel at eight o’clock and an hour later arrived at the most beautiful gate on the Rue des Tilleuls. The morning was magnificent; the house and garden were bathed in sunlight. The garden, all in bloom, resembled an immense bouquet; a lawn studded with royal roses was framed in a circle of yellow blossoms, like a blood jasper in a gold setting. A large acacia tree showered its blossoms on the surrounding shrubs and delivered its intoxicating scents to the morning wind. Blackbirds with golden beaks flew singing from tree to tree; wrens hopped in the branches of the hawthorn, and cheeky finches chased each other along the paths. The house, built of red bricks with white joints, seemed to smile at the happy luxury that blossomed around it. Everything that climbed and everything that flowered bloomed and climbed along its walls. The wisteria with its violet clusters, the bignonia with its long red flowers, the white jasmine, the passion flower, the birthwort with its broad leaves, and the Virginia creeper that turns purple with the last smile of autumn, raised their intertwined stems to the roof. Large mats of morning glories bloomed at the door, and the blue bells of the water gourds adorned all the windows. This spectacle awakened in the marquise the sweetest memories of Arlange: in this moment she would have given for nothing her hotel on the rue Saint-Dominique and this too narrow garden where the flowers suffocated between the heavy shadow of the house and the thick foliage of the old chestnut trees. A dressing gown of ecru scarf, half hidden in a clump of rhododendrons, abruptly tore her from her reverie. She ran, and only stopped in the arms of Madame Jordy. Have you ever observed the meeting of Orestes and Pylades at the theater? However skillful the actors may be, this scene is always a little ridiculous. This is because human friendship is, by its nature, neither expansive nor graceful. A person of any type of body, a clasp of hands, an arm grotesquely passed around a neck, or the absurd rubbing of one beard against another, are not objects that can charm the eyes. How much more elegant is the tenderness of women, and how great artists in friendship are the most awkward! Céline was a very small, plump, and round blonde, with a rounded forehead and an upward-pointed nose, showing at every turn her sharp, white teeth like those of a young dog, laughing for no other reason than the joy of living, crying without sorrow, changing her face twenty times in an hour, and always pretty without anyone ever being able to say why. Fortunately for the narrator of this true story, beauty is not subject to definition; for it would be impossible for me to say by what charm Mlle Mélier seduced her husband and all those who saw her. There was nothing particularly beautiful about her, except the roundness of her figure, the perfection of her bust, the radiance of her complexion, and two very pretty little dimples, although they were not placed with all the desirable regularity. Lucile did not resemble Mme Jordy in any way; If friendship lives on contrasts, their connection must be eternal. The young marquise was a head taller than her friend, and plumper less: I warned you that her youth was a late bloomer. Imagine the beauty of people of all body types and the nervousness of Diana the Huntress. Have you sometimes seen, in the admirable landscapes of M. Corot, those nymphs with slender bodies and slender waists, who dance in circles under the great trees holding hands ? If the Marquise d’Outreville were to come and join their games, with no other clothing than a tunic, no other headdress than a golden arrow in her hair, the living circle would widen to make room for her, and the round would continue with one more sister. By a whim of chance, the queen of the woods of Arlange was, that morning, in a white crepe hat and a pink taffeta dress; and the little blonde bourgeois woman was dressed like a woodswoman: straw hat, flowing clothes: How good of you to have come! she said to the marquise. Spare me the trouble of noting down all the kisses with which the two friends interrupted their conversation. I had dreamed of you. How long have you been in Paris, my dear? “Since the day after my wedding. ” “A fortnight lost for me! But it’s dreadful! ” “If I had known where to find you!” murmured the little marquise. “I really needed to see you. ” “And me! First, look me between the eyes. Do I really look like a lady? Will they still call me mademoiselle? ” “That’s true; you have something more assured about you: an air of gravity… ” “Not another word, or I’ll die laughing. And you? Come on! You’re still the same. Good morning, mademoiselle!” “Your servant, madame. ” “Madame! What a pretty word! If you behave yourself at lunch, I ‘ll call you madame at dessert. Do you remember the time we used to play madame? ” “It’s not long ago that I’ve forgotten it.” “Come, mademoiselle, let me take you for a walk in my garden. You won’t touch the flowers!” While talking, she picked an enormous handful of roses, behind which she disappeared entirely. I beg pardon for your beautiful garden, cried Lucile. “First of all, I forbid you to call it my beautiful garden. Everyone sees it, everyone comes here; it’s everyone’s garden! My beautiful garden is over there, behind that wall. There are only two people who walk there , Robert and me; you will be the third. Come; do you see that green door? Who will arrive first?” She started running. Lucile followed her, and soon got ahead of her. Madame Jordy, on arriving, took a little key from her pocket and opened the door. “This,” she said, “is our private park. These lime trees, whose flowers have wings, bloom only for us. We walk here alone every morning before work time, for we are early birds; I have kept my good habits from Arlange.” As for Robert, I don’t know how he manages it, but no matter how early I wake up, I always find him leaning on his pillow and gravely busy watching me sleep. Come over here. Here, the former owner had built a big, damp, beastly grotto, lined with rocks and shells, with a plaster Apollo in the middle and toads everywhere. Robert had three-quarters of it demolished ; he brought in the air and the light. It was he who arranged these climbing plants, hung these hammocks, installed this pretty table and these armchairs. He has taste like an angel; he’s an architect, he ‘s an upholsterer, he’s a gardener, he’s everything! Just sit down for a bit on this moss. No, I forgot your new dress. Here’s what I put on every morning: with it you can sit anywhere. Let’s go! “Not yet! It’s so comfortable under these beautiful trees!” –We’ll come back there later for lunch. Come and see our house. Then I’ll show you my husband; he’s at the factory. You
‘ll see, my Lucile, how handsome he is! Do you remember the jokes we used to make about our ideal? My ideal was a tall, dark man with a crooked mustache and eyebrows as black as ink. Well! my dear, my husband doesn’t look like that, not at all. He’s no taller than Papa; his hair is chestnut, and he has a pretty blond beard, as soft as silk , for it has never been shaved. Now I think my ideal was dreadful, and if I met him in the street, I’d be afraid. Robert is gentle, delicate, tender; he’s crying, my dear! Yesterday, at nightfall, he was sitting beside me; we were making plans; I was expounding my little ideas on the education of children. He let me talk to myself, and hid his head in his hands, as if to look into himself. When I had finished, he kissed me without saying anything, and I felt a big tear roll down my cheek. How beautiful they are, a man’s tears! Mama loves me well, but she has never loved me like this. What you will never believe is that with men he is proud, stiff and terrible at times. I was told that last year our workers wanted to go on strike to get rid of a foreman. He discovered the plot in time; he marched straight on the leaders, in the midst of fifty or sixty men mutinying against him, and he drove the revolt underground. Everyone in the house fears him, except me: judge if I have reason to be proud! It seems to me that I am making all these people march who obey him. O my Lucile, what an admirable thing marriage is! The day before we were two, the next day we are one; we have everything in common, we are two halves of the same soul; we hold together like two Siamese twins, who cannot separate without dying. Here is our room; what do you say? He chose the hanging for me like a dress: blue, in honor of my blond hair. By the way, what is a hanging? A dress that dresses us from afar. You, my dark-eyed brunette, you must have a room of pink satin? “I think so,” Lucile continued, all dreamy. “How? I think so! You answer like an Englishwoman. But I am English in one respect too. Don’t go imagining that everyone comes in here as if they were in the street! We have our discretion and our delicacy; if it weren’t for you, you wouldn’t be sitting in that armchair. Do you know that I make my own bed! It’s true that Robert helps me a little. ” Lucile said nothing. She contemplated with a thoughtful eye a magnificent jumble of lace and embroidery in the middle of which two large pillows lay side by side. The door opened, and Monsieur Jordy entered carelessly, throwing down his straw hat. At the sight of Lucile, he stopped, completely taken aback, and bowed respectfully. His wife threw her arms around his neck without ceremony, and said, pointing to the marquise with a gesture full of grace and simplicity: ” Robert, it’s Lucile!” That was the whole introduction. M. Jordy paid Lucile a little, unceremonious compliment, which proved that he had often heard of her, and that she was neither a stranger nor indifferent to him. He sat down, and his wife found a way to slip in beside him. Isn’t he handsome? she said to the marquise. But where has he come from? He must have been running; he’s sweating. And with a gesture as quick as words, she passed a cambric handkerchief over the forehead of the young man who was trying in vain to defend himself. M. Jordy had more people than Céline; but in vain did he give her looks that were meant to be severe, the little native of Arlange put both hands over his eyes and brazenly kissed his closed eyelids. Don’t scold me, she said to him; Lucile has been married for a fortnight, that is to say, as mad as we are. The clock struck noon; It was lunchtime. They ran to the garden and happily sat down under the beautiful lime trees that gave their name to the neighboring street. No servants were present at the meal; everyone served themselves and others; the two friends, raised in the village and strangers to the sentimentality of Parisian education, were not water drinkers; they dipped their lips in a lovely straw wine that M. Jordy fetched a few steps away, from a running stream. Robert easily pleased the Marquise; without lacking in wit or education, he was simple, full of heart, and of the kind of wood from which one makes the best friends. Besides, we all feel a natural sympathy for faces that radiate joy; only selfish people do not like happy people. Céline, who wanted to make her husband shine, forced him to sing at dessert. He chose one of Béranger’s most beautiful songs , although the old poet was already out of fashion. The birds, awakened in the middle of their nap, performed a joyful accompaniment above his head. Lucile sang in turn, without being asked, words that were not Italian. They joked as honest people joke; they talked about everything, except the next one and the new play; they laughed heartily, and no one noticed that there was a little fever in the Marquise’s gaiety. Why isn’t Monsieur d’Outreville here? said Madame Jordy. Two people are very fond of each other; but four people are in competition! Around two o’clock, Monsieur Jordy went about his business, and the two friends resumed their confidences. Céline spoke without tiring and without realizing that she was giving a monologue. Women are marvelously organized for microscopic work; they excel at detailing their pleasures and their pains. Lucile, moved, panting, listened, learned, guessed and sometimes even did not understand. She was like a navigator thrown by the storm into an enchanted land, but whose language he does not understand. Dinner time was approaching; Céline was still talking, and Lucile was still listening. As for the children, said the young woman, we must hope that they will come soon. Do you ever think about it, my Lucile? Love only lasts for a time; twenty years at most; and now three weeks have passed! The love of children is something else: it lasts as long as we do, and closes our eyes. You know that I was not very devout in the past; now, when I think that our children are in the hands of God, I become superstitious. What do you ask for? A son or a daughter? –But…. I have not thought about it yet. –You must think about it, my dear. If you do not think about it, who will think about it for you? I want a son. Listen to the paragraph I added to my prayers: Holy Virgin, if my heart seems pure enough to you, bless my love and obtain that I may have the happiness of having a son to teach it the fear of God, the worship of good and beauty, and all the duties of man and of the Christian. This last stroke finished off poor Lucile. The torrent of tears she had been holding back for so long broke the dams, and her pretty face was flooded with them. You’re crying! cried Céline. Have I hurt your feelings? “Ah! Céline, I’m so unhappy! Mother forced me to leave on the evening of my wedding, and I haven’t seen my husband since the ball! ” “The evening? Since the ball? Mercy!” Suddenly, Madame Jordy’s face took on a serious expression. “But this is a betrayal,” she said. “Why didn’t you tell me this sooner ? I’ve been talking to you since morning like a woman, and you’re only a child! You should have stopped me at the first word, and I would never forgive you for letting me talk, if you weren’t so much to be pitied. ” Lucile related her story briefly. ” Why didn’t you write to your husband?” asked Céline. “I wrote to him.” “When? ” “Four days ago. ” “Well! My child, don’t cry anymore: he’ll arrive this evening.” At dinner, the table was elegant, the dining room bright and cheerful, the last rays of the setting sun played with the blinds and jalousies, the straw wine laughed in the glasses, and Monsieur Jordy caressed his wife’s pretty face with a radiant look; but Céline retained the gravity of a Roman matron, and I believe (God forgive me!) that she said “vous” to her husband. The Marquise left at ten o’clock. Céline and her husband took her back to her carriage. Seeing the coachman, Madame Jordy had a sudden inspiration: “Pierre,” she said in an indifferent tone, “has the Marquis arrived? ” “Yes, madame.” The Marquise threw herself into her friend’s arms with a cry. ” What is it?” asked Robert. “Nothing,” said Céline. Chapter 20. Upon receiving Lucile’s letter, Gaston did what any man would have done in her place: he kissed the signature a thousand times, and left by post for Paris. Fortune, which amuses itself with us almost as much as a little girl with her dolls, made him enter the Hôtel d’Outreville on a Tuesday evening, two weeks to the day after his marriage. With a little good will, he could imagine that the first two weeks of June had been a bad dream, and that he was waking up, worn out with fatigue, at his wife’s side. This time, his resolution was firmly taken; he had armed himself with courage against the maternal despotism of Madame Benoît, and he swore to himself to defend her property to the bitter end. He had not yet opened the door when Julie entered Madame Benoît’s room, shouting: Madame! Madame! Monsieur le Marquis! The widow, who did not know that her daughter had written to Arlange, thought she had won the day. She replied with barely contained joy: ” There is nothing to shout about: I was expecting it. ” “I did not know, madame; and, because of what happened a fortnight ago, I thought madame would be very pleased to be informed. Is madame then in favor of the Marquis? ” “Certainly! Go! Run! What are you interfering with?” “Pardon, madame; but the Marquis’s trunks are being unloaded. Is he going to stay at the hotel? ” “And where do you want him to stay? Go and take care of his luggage. ” “Pardon, madame; but where must they be taken? ” “Where? You fool! To the Marquise’s room! Is n’t a husband’s place beside his wife?” Gaston entered his mother-in-law’s room, all powdered, and his first glance sought the absent Lucile. Madame Benoît, more considerate than on her best days, answered this glance: ” Are you looking for Lucile? She is dining with a friend; but it is late; you will see her before one o’clock. At last, here you are! Kiss me, my son-in-law; I forgive you. ” “My goodness! my dear mother, you are stealing the first word I wanted to say to you. May all your wrongs be erased by this kiss!” –If I am wrong, you had justified them in advance by this incredible mania of which you are finally corrected! Wanting to live with wolves at your age! Admit that it was blindness and give thanks to the one who enlightened you! Are you not better off here than anywhere else? And can one live a human life outside Paris? –Pardon, madame, but I did not come to Paris to live here. –And for what purpose? To die here? –I will not stay here long enough for nostalgia to overcome me. I came to Paris to seek my wife and make an essential visit. –You intend to bring my daughter back to Arlange? –As soon as possible. –And she will accompany you to this burrow? –It seems to me that she must. –Will you order her to follow you by law, and will your love be escorted by two gendarmes? –No, madame; I would renounce my rights if I had to claim them in court; but we are not there yet: Lucile will follow me out of love. –For love of you or of Arlange? –Of both, of the forge and the blacksmith. –Are you sure of that? –Without conceit, yes. –We shall see. And can we know what this indispensable visit is that shares with my daughter the honor of bringing you to Paris? –Don’t delude yourselves; it is a visit to which you cannot come with me. –To which privileged mortal? –The Minister of the Interior. –The Minister! For what purpose? Are you thinking of it? If only we knew! –We shall know. It is important to the interests of the forge that I sit on the general council. A vacancy presents itself, and I want to ask the Minister to accept me as a candidate. –But, wretch, you are going to set me at odds with our entire party! “One only quarrels with people one knows. If you had asked me about my political opinions, I would have told you that I am not a man of opposition. Besides, it seems to me that we , the great landowners, have no reason to complain: nothing is done but for us! ” “You did say that word: We, the great landowners!” One would think, upon my word, that you have been one all your life! “What, madame! But I have been one from father to son for nine hundred years! Do you know many of older dates? ” “If we play on words, we could talk for a long time without understanding each other. Listen. You like to seek provincial honors, fine. However, the forge has done well for fifteen years, although I have never sat on the general council. You want to present yourself as a ministerial candidate; I believe you would have done better to ask for the votes of our friends, who are numerous, rich, and influential.” However, I will pass over that again. See if I am lenient! I have just won a victory over you; I forced you to come to Paris, to my land…. –To my house. –That is true. Oh! you were born a landowner; you soon put down roots! Despite everything, you came here because I brought you here forced; it is a defeat; but I do not pretend to take advantage of it. Will you sign the peace? –With both hands!… if you are reasonable. –I will. You love Arlange, you are eager to return there, and you do not want to live there without your wife, which is very natural. I will give you back Lucile so that you can take her to the forge. –That is all I ask: let us sign! –Wait! For my part, I love Paris as you love the forge, and the suburb as you love Lucile. If I do not enter once and for all into the great world, I am a dead woman. Would it cost you much, while you are here, all carried away, to present your wife and me to eight or ten houses of your friends, and to show us a little corner of this earthly paradise from which I have always been excluded by…. –By original sin! It would cost me a lot and would be of no use to you. I will not repeat to you that I have an old grudge against the suburb which absolutely forbids me from setting foot there again: you believe you have enough right over me to demand the forgetting of my repugnances and the sacrifice of my self-esteem. But can you demand that I lay out for you Lucile’s entire future? I am reserving for her, far from Paris, a modest, equal happiness, without splendor, without noise, and of a smiling uniformity. We have, if God grants us life, thirty or forty years to spend together in a narrow but charming horizon, with no other events than the birth and marriage of our children. Such happiness is enough for her ambition, she told me. Who assures me that the sight of a country where everything is parade and vanity will not turn her head? That her eyes, dazzled by the brilliance of chandeliers and candelabras, will be able to accustom themselves to the soft light of the lamp which must illuminate all our evenings? that her ears, deafened by the din of the world, will always be able to hear the voices of our forests and mine? At this moment, she is still the Lucile of old; she is bored to death in Paris…. –What do you know? –I am sure of it. But I do not know if in six months she would think as she does today. It only takes one ball to change the heart of a young woman, and ten minutes of waltzing can cause more upheaval than an earthquake. –You think so? Well, so be it. Lucile is yours, govern her as you see fit. But me! Listen carefully: this is my ultimatum, and if you reject it, I break off the conferences! Who would prevent you from introducing me , I do not say in the whole suburb, but in five or six houses of your acquaintance? –Without my wife! Believe me, my dear Madame Benoît, let us each tie a stone around our necks and throw ourselves into the river together; that would be just as wise. The entire aristocracy knows you as they knew your father. They know your persevering ambition; you are already the talk of the faubourg; it was the Baron who wrote to me, and his testimony is not refutable. They say that you bought with your millions the pleasure of sailing the world in tow of a marchioness. If I were to introduce you today, tomorrow they would count the visits we made, and calculate, to the nearest centime, the sum that each one brought me. What do you say? Even if you were young enough to want to play such a game, I am not enough of a philosopher to serve as your partner. I am leaving tomorrow for Arlange with my wife; I offer you, as a good son-in-law, a place in the carriage, and that is all that common sense allows me to do for you. Madame Benoît was violently tempted to tear the eyes out of this model of sons-in-law, but she hid her annoyance. My friend, she said, you have spent thirty hours in a post-chaise, you are tired, you are sleepy, and I was ill-advised to want to convert a man still in boots. You will be more accommodating when you have slept. Wait for me in this chair, and allow me to go and see to your rest. I’m yours! She went out smiling and ran like a storm to her daughter’s room. I don’t know if she opened the door or if she burst it open, her entrance was so violent. She roughly seized Julie’s arm, who was unfolding a pillowcase: “Unhappy woman,” she cried, “what are you doing? ” “But, madame, what madame told me. ” “You’re crazy! You didn’t understand me. Leave that and move all this luggage to me. Has anyone ever seen anything like this? A boy’s trunks in my daughter’s room! ” “Pardon, madame, but… ” “There’s no but, and you’ll be forgiven when you obey. Take it away! Take it away! ” “But where, madame? ” “Wherever you like; in the street, in the courtyard! No, here: in my room! ” “Madame is giving away her apartment?” But where will Madame’s bed be made? “Here, on this couch, in the Marquise’s room. Why are you acting surprised? Isn’t a mother’s place beside her daughter? ” She left the maid to her task and her surprise, and went back downstairs, saying to herself in a low voice: “The Marquis has only come to defy me; he will not have the joy of it. I want to go into society under his nose: Madame de Malésy will help me; we will show that devilish blacksmith that we can do without him. But I must not let him seduce my daughter! He would carry her off to Arlange, and then, goodbye to the suburb! ” At the same moment, Pierre asked for the door, and the Marquise, drunk with hope, jumped lightly from the step into the house. Madame Benoît was in the drawing-room before her; She feared nothing so much as the first meeting, and it was important that she be there to stop the expansion of these young hearts. Lucile thought she would fall into her husband’s arms ; it was her mother who received her: So here you are, dear little one! she said to her with her usual volubility and more than usual tenderness . How long you have stayed! I was beginning to worry. My heart hangs by a thread when I do not feel you near me. Dear beauty, there is only one disinterested affection in this world: the love of a mother for her child. How did you spend the day? Do you feel better than recently? See, sir, how she has changed! Your behavior has done her a lot of harm. She needs the greatest care; violent emotions are fatal to her, the sight of you alone makes her pale and blush at the same time. But you yourself, my dear marquis, do you know that I no longer recognize you? You claim that the air of Arlange is good for you; one wouldn’t say so to look at you. You are no longer that brilliant lord of Outreville whom I was introduced to two months ago. After all, one must allow for fatigue: poor fellow! A hundred leagues in post, all in one breath! It’s enough to break a man sturdier than you. Fortunately, a good night’s sleep will mend everything. There is an excellent bed waiting for you here nearby, in my room which I give up to you. “But, madame…” murmured Gaston timidly. “No objections and no fuss with me! Sacrificing everything for our children is our happiness, we mothers. Besides, I shall sleep very well on a camp bed, near my dear Lucile, whose health requires all my care. We should already be in bed. Come, sleepyhead, say goodnight to your wife, and come kiss her hand: it seems to me that you are not giving her much of a welcome!” Neither Gaston nor Lucile were fooled by this speech, but they were its victims; impudence almost always succeeds with young people, because they feel a kind of shame in refuting a lie. In the present circumstance, another kind of delicacy paralyzed the courage of Lucile and Gaston. These honest hearts would have thought it a shame to face the ill will of Madame Benoît. Gaston himself, after all the vigorous resolutions he had taken, did not dare to assert his rights, nor appeal to his wife’s feelings: he was as timid as Lucile, perhaps more so. Whatever boldness is attributed to our sex, it is no less true that well-born men are, in love, more fierce than young girls. The presence of a third party is enough to freeze the words on their lips and repress to the depths of their souls an overflowing passion. Madame Benoît drew up a plan of campaign which would never have succeeded without the influence she had taken over her daughter, and especially without Gaston’s proud timidity. For a whole week, she managed to keep apart two beings who adored each other, who belonged to each other, and who dined together every evening. The amount she spent on turbulence to stun her daughter and on effrontery to intimidate her son-in-law amounts to an incalculable sum. Every day she imagined a new pretext for dragging Lucile into Paris and leaving the Marquis at home. She clung to her daughter, leaving her only when it was wise, when Gaston was out. Seeing her zeal and perseverance, you would have said she was one of those jealous mothers who cannot resign themselves to sharing their daughter with a husband. Her first idea was simply to punish her son-in-law and inflict on him in turn the troubles of an unhappy passion. The success of her calculations then gave her a little hope: she thought that Gaston would end by admitting defeat and spontaneously offer to take her out into society. But the Marquis took his widowhood patiently: he wrote to Lucile, he received a few notes written surreptitiously; he was plotting a plan of escape with her. Thanks to Madame Benoît’s supervision, these two spouses, united by law and religion, were reduced to schoolboy stratagems. Their love, without losing any of its assurance and serenity, had gained the piquant charm of illegitimate passions. The daily ceremony of kissing the hand, authorized and presided over by the mother-in-law, covered up the exchange of this correspondence that Madame Benoît never guessed. Finally tired of waiting uselessly for her son-in-law’s conversion, she returned to her original plans and turned her attention back to Madame de Malésy. She had learned from her dressmaker that the Marquise de Croix-Maugars was going to give a party in her garden for her wedding anniversary. All the nobility present in Paris would be gathered there, for balls are rare on June 22, and when one encounters the opportunity to dance under a tent, one takes advantage of it. By a providential chance, Gaston had precisely obtained an audience with the minister for the 21st, at eleven o’clock in the morning. The widow took advantage of her son-in-law’s forced absence to leave Lucile at home, and she ran to the old countess’s. Madame, she said to her point-blank, you owe me eight thousand francs, or almost… “Please?” asked the countess, who rarely heard it that way. “I have come neither to demand them from you nor to reproach you for them. ” “Good.” “I care so little for money that not only will I renounce this sum, but I will also make other sacrifices if necessary to achieve my goal. I want to be received in the suburb with the marquise, my daughter, and without delay.” Tomorrow is the day Madame de Croix-Maugars is giving her ball: you are her mother, she has nothing to refuse you: would it be an abuse of the rights I have acquired through your kindness to ask you for two letters of invitation? The Countess’s bright little eyes rounded into armchair nails. She smiled at the widow’s speech like a miner at a vein of gold. Alas! child, she said, tearing up, my credit has been greatly exaggerated. My daughter is my daughter, I do not deny it; but she is in the power of a husband. Do you know Croix-Maugars? “If I knew him, I would have no need. ” “That is true. Well, dear child, I need only ask him for a service to obtain a refusal. I am the most unhappy woman in Paris. My creditors are hounding me, although I have never done anything to them. My son-in-law is a man; he should protect me: he abandons me. What did I ask of him the day before yesterday? A little money to pay the Good Saint Louis, who has degenerated so much since your father! He replied that his party would be magnificent, and that his purse was empty. I don’t know where to turn. How do you have the heart to come and talk about balls and pleasure to a poor desperate woman like me? All this will end badly; I will be seized, they will sell my furniture… Here the countess fell silent, and let her tears speak. Excuse me, she continued. You see that I am hardly in a state to receive visitors ; but I will always have pleasure in seeing you: you remind me of my good Lopinot. Ah! If he were still alive! Come back one of these days, we’ll talk, and if I’m still good for anything, I’ll do my best to serve you. At the Countess’s first tears, Madame Benoît had resolutely taken out her handkerchief. She said to herself: Since we must cry, let’s cry. After all, tears cost me no more than they do her! The sensitive widow added aloud: Come now, Madame la Comtesse, a little courage! It ‘s not enough to break a heart like yours. So you owe a lot of money to that wicked Saint-Louis? Alas! little one: fifteen hundred francs! But it’s a pittance! Yes, it’s a great pittance! To be called the Countess of Malésy, to be the mother of the Marquise de Croix-Maugars, to hold the first rank in the suburb, to have entry to all the salons for oneself and one’s friends, and not to be able to pay a sum of fifteen hundred francs! I pain you , don’t I? Farewell, my child, farewell. My grief redoubles to see you cry; leave me alone with my troubles! –Will you allow me to go to the Bon Saint Louis? I will undertake to arrange the matter. –I forbid you!… or rather, yes: go ahead. These people are your successors: you will get on with them better than I will. Besides, they are of your caste; merchants do not eat each other. You are lucky, you others; they give you for a hundred crowns what costs us a thousand. Go to the Bon Saint Louis. I bet, you rascal, that you will buy the debt without spending a penny; and it is to you that I shall owe fifteen hundred francs! –That is agreed, Madame la Comtesse; and as one service is worth another… –Yes; I will render you all the services in my power. But I definitely prefer that you not make my peace with these shopkeepers. What would I gain by it? It would soon be known that they are paid, and I would have to deal with all the others. My poor dear, I owe God and the devil. –How much? –Ah! how much! I don’t know myself anymore. My memory is failing. But I have some bills here. Look: the pastry chef in the Rue de Poitiers is demanding five hundred francs for half a dozen chickens that I had brought up to my house and a few miserable cakes that I nibbled at in his shop. How you exploit us! –I will have a word with him. “Yes, tell him he should be ashamed, and that I don’t want to hear anything about him again. ” “Don’t worry.” “Now here is Master Majou asking the price of an ordinary cask of wine. ” “It’s a trifle: give me that paper. “A thousand francs. ” “Good heavens! Your ordinary wine is not to be despised. ” “Here: here is the bill from a very honest man; I’m sure you would come to an arrangement with him. He’s the upholsterer who restored this furniture . He’s asking me for a thousand crowns, but if you knew how to use him, you could get a receipt for almost nothing. ” “I’ll try, Madame la Comtesse.” She took the four bills and folded them carefully. “It’s noon,” she continued: “I’m going from this not put your affairs in order. But now that your mind is freer, won’t you go and try the effect of your eloquence on the Marquis de Croix-Maugars? “Yes, little one, I will go. But my mind is less free than you think. I haven’t told you all my sorrows.” She opened a drawer of her worktable and took out a wallet stuffed with papers. You ‘re going to learn of many other miseries! “All fine!” thought Madame Benoît. “Six thousand francs, although that ‘s a good price for a simple passport within the suburb. But the old lady has acquired a taste; her appetite is coming, and if I don’t put a stop to it, she’ll ask me to buy her, on the way, the Louvre and the Tuileries!” The widow put the bills she had taken back on the table, and said in a moved voice: “Alas! Madam, I fear greatly that you are right, and that your sorrows are without remedy! “But no! But no!” replied the Countess quickly. “I am sure of getting out of this difficulty one day or another. You have given me back my courage, and I feel quite refreshed. I will be at my daughter’s in an hour; time to put on a dress! I will have an invitation card in the name of the Marquise d’Outreville. You will not need two; you will enter with your daughter: I want to avoid this name of Benoît which would spoil everything. While I attend to you, go to your merchants with the bills, and finish this little speculation, which seems to please you. Meet here at three o’clock sharp, and we will exchange our powers like two ambassadors. ” M. de Croix-Maugars grimaced when he saw his mother-in-law enter. The Countess was so terribly needy that people dreaded her appearance like the arrival of a bill of exchange. But when they learned that she wasn’t asking for money, they had nothing left to refuse her. The Marquis, smiling, handed her a square of satin cardboard, the value of which he was far from knowing; it was the fourth time in a year that he had paid her debts. Madame Benoît, as joyful as a sailor returning to port, ran to her notary, returned to the creditors, and paid without haggling. The accommodating upholsterer whom the Countess had praised was that fierce Bouniol, who had forced her door eight days earlier. At three o’clock, Madame de Malésy pocketed the receipts, and the widow ran to her hotel with the precious invitation. She didn’t put it in her pockets; she kept it in her hand, she contemplated it, she smiled at him. At last! she said, here are my letters of naturalization; I am a citizen of the suburb. Provided that between now and tomorrow I do not fall ill! She then remembered that Lucile had been alone since eleven o’clock, and that the Marquis had had time to talk to her alone. This idea, which would have exasperated her the day before, seemed almost indifferent to her. Happiness reconciled her with the whole world and with Gaston: a drunken man no longer has enemies. As she got out of the carriage, she saw in the courtyard a former victim of her outburst, the candid Jacquet. Come here, my boy! she said to him. Come here, have nothing to fear: you are forgiven. So you want to return to my service? “Oh! thank you very much, madame. Monsieur the Marquis introduced me to a house. ” “The Marquis introduced you? You are lucky, you! ” “Yes, madame, I earn fifty francs a month. ” “I compliment you.” Is that all you had to say to me? “No, madame; I have come to bring you two letters. ” “Give them!” “Just a moment, madame; I’m looking for them under the cap of my hat. Here they are! One of these letters was from Gaston, the other from Lucile. Gaston said: My charming mother, In the hope that maternal love will tear you away from this Paris that you love too much, I am taking your daughter to Arlange. May you come and join us there soon! Who gave you this?” asked Madame Benoît of Jacquet. But Jacquet had fled, like a bird before a storm. She quickly unsealed her daughter’s letter and found three pages of excuses that ended with these words: A woman must follow her husband. I do not want to speak ill of the human heart, but the widow, after reading these two letters, thought neither of the abandonment of her daughter, nor of the betrayal of her son-in-law, nor of the isolation in which she was left, nor of the severance of all the ties that bound her to her family. She thought that she had just bought an invitation, that this invitation was in the name of Outreville, that it could not be of use to Madame Benoît, and that they would dance without her at the Hôtel de Croix-Maugars. Chapter 21. The Marquis d’Outreville, confident in his rights and sure of Lucile’s love, did not fear being pursued by his mother-in-law. The escape of the two spouses was a lovers’ promenade. We traveled a little in the morning, a little in the evening; we chose the lodgings; we stopped, like two connoisseurs in a painting salon, at all the fresh landscapes; we got out of the carriage, we followed the paths, we entered, arm in arm, into the woods; we often got lost, we always found each other again. Lucile, as much of a marquise as a woman can be, and recognized as such by all the innkeepers along the road, covered in three weeks the road that with her mother she had devoured in twenty-four hours: however, the second journey seemed shorter to her than the first. The arrival of the two spouses was a celebration in Arlange: Lucile was adored by all her vassals. The elders of the country and the deans of the forge came to tell her in their patois that they had found the time long after her; the companions of her childhood came awkwardly to bring her good morning: she received them in her arms. She amply repaid the good, fat, friendship coin that these good people spent on her; she inquired about the absent; she asked for news of the sick; she spread throughout the village the joy with which her heart was full. This tribute once paid to the memories of her early life, she intended to retreat into the forge with Gaston, close the door to all visitors, and live on love in the depths of her retreat. Children have the improvidence of those American savages who cut down the tree at the base and eat all the fruit in a day. But the Marquis, since his marriage, had given serious thought and divined the great secret of domestic life: the economy of happiness. He knew that solitude for two, that dream of lovers, must quickly exhaust the richest hearts , and that if one says everything in a day, one must soon repeat oneself or be silent. If all young spouses were not in the habit of wasting their happiness, the honeymoon, which the universe accuses of being too short, would have more than four quarters. Gaston felt enough tenderness in his soul to make his happiness last as long as his life, but on condition that he managed it carefully. He gently led Lucile to divide her time between love, work, and even boredom, that salutary neighbor who adds so much charm to pleasure. He interested her in his studies and his research; he persuaded her to make and receive visits; he had the heroism to take her to the Baroness de Sommerfogel! He joined her in begging Mr. and Mrs. Jordy to come and spend the first vacation they could take at the forge; he dictated five or six letters to her intended to soften Mrs. Benoît and bring her back. These signs of filial submission only exasperated the widow ‘s anger . She was not far from believing herself offended by vain excuses which had not the virtue of opening the slightest salon to her. If she had had to forget for a moment what she called the betrayal of her daughter, the invitation of the Marquis de Croix-Maugars, which she carried with her, would have brought it back before her eyes. She became a misanthrope like all weak minds when they believe they have something to complain about. She became intolerant of the entire universe, even her former paradise, the Faubourg Saint-Germain: it seemed to her that the aristocracy of Paris was conspiring against her, and that the Marquis d’Outreville was the leader of the plot. If she did not say an eternal farewell to the scene of her disappointments, it was so as not to admit defeat. She persisted in associating with the nobility, but only to brave them more closely: she wanted to tread the carpets of the Rue de Grenelle as Diogenes trampled underfoot the luxury of Plato! She saw neither Madame de Malésy nor her other debtors again, except the Baron de Subressac. It was not that she expected any service from him: she had folded her arms and now expected nothing but chance. But the baron showed him goodwill, and that is something, for want of anything better, than the friendship of a baron. M. de Subressac was very old at seventy-five: at twenty-five, he had been particularly young. He had spent his life and his fortune without counting, and his former adventures still provided the intimate conversation of the dowagers of the suburb. Unfortunately for his old age, he had forgotten to marry in time, and he had condemned himself to solitude, that cold companion of old bachelors. Relegated to a fourth floor with a life annuity of six thousand livres, between a valet and a cook who served him out of habit, he hated the home and lived outside. Every day, after lunch, he dressed himself with the meticulous coquetry of a woman who is getting on in years. It has been claimed that he wore rouge, but the fact does not seem to be well established. Once dressed, he made five or six visits at a leisurely pace, was well received everywhere, and invited to dinner seven times a week. He was loved for the care he took of himself and others: he had exquisite attentions for women of all ages that the younger generation no longer knows. Independently of this merit, sex rewarded thirty years of loyal service in him, as a sovereign gives the Invalides to a soldier aged in harness. I am not speaking of five or six venerable grandmothers among whom he found that closer friendship which is like crystallized love. Thanks to the good feelings he had sown along his path, he was as happy as one can be at seventy-five when one is forced to seek happiness outside one’s home. He had no infirmities, but from the winter of 1845, his closest friends began to notice that he was declining. He was no longer as alert to conversation; He had absences. His speech seemed less lively and his tongue less fluid. Finally, a more serious symptom, he could no longer resist sleep. One evening, after dinner, at the Marquis de Croix-Maugars’s, he fell asleep in his chair. Madame de Malésy, one of his whims of 1815, was the first to notice this and quoted a menacing saying about it: Youth that watches, old age that sleeps, omens of death. In April 1846, the Baron was seized by a dizziness in front of the barracks on Rue Bellechasse; he would have fallen to the pavement if it had not been for a brigadier of chasseurs who held him in his arms. This circumstance made him keenly miss a carriage: people were always happy to receive his visits, but they did not have him picked up at home. Madame Benoît was the first to show him such delicate care. Whether she was waiting for him or whether he was taking leave of her, she never forgot to place at his disposal the softest of her carriages and the softest cushions. She showed herself more attentive than old friends, and do not be surprised: he was a hope for her, for others a memory. The day when she no longer expected anything from him, after Lucile’s departure, she did not diminish her attentions in any way, quite the contrary. She felt a bitter pleasure in satisfying the only gentleman who was one of her friends. She said to herself: The fools! That’s how I would have pampered them all! The Baron took a true friendship for the one who treated him so well. Old people are like children: they instinctively attach themselves to those who take care of their weakness. He made her take advantage of the leisure that the season left her; while a large half of the suburb ran to the country to rest from the pleasures of winter, he took up his quarters in the rue Saint-Dominique, and came almost every day to dine with the bourgeoisie. The meal was ordered for him: he was served the dishes he liked. He ate slowly: Madame Benoît took his example, so as not to appear to be waiting for him. He liked old wines; she served him the cream from her cellar. At dessert she told him her grievances, and he listened to her. He came to pity her seriously for her imaginary ills. She wept, and, as tears are contagious, he wept with her. Three months after Lucile’s departure, he was with her. He had grown accustomed to this easy and rich life and these quiet pleasures which cost him only a little compassion. One evening, it was towards the end of September, he said to Madame Benoît: I am no longer good for anything, my poor charming: I am like an old tapestry which shows the thread everywhere, and of which the design is three-quarters erased; but, such as I am, I can still give you what you have wished for all your life: do you want to be a baroness? It is not a husband that I am proposing to you, it is only a name. At your age, and made as you are, you would deserve better; but I offer what I have. Something tells me that I will not bore you long, and that my old age will soon be over; I even believe that we would do well to hurry, if you want to become Madame de Subressac. I have many connections in the suburb; I am loved almost everywhere: let me just have time to introduce you to my friends! After my death, they will continue to receive you for love of me. Then nothing will prevent you, if you feel like it, from choosing a man of your age, who will be your husband in truth and no longer in effigy. Meditate on this proposal: take eight days to think it over, take fifteen, I am still good for fifteen days. Write to your children; perhaps the fear of this marriage will decide them to do what you want. As for me, whatever happens, I will die more peacefully if I have the consolation of having contributed to your happiness. Madame Benoît was in no way prepared for these overtures; however, she did not waste two days in reflection. An hour after the Baron’s departure, her decision was made. She said to herself: I swore I would not remarry; but before that I swore to enter the suburb. This time, at least, I am sure I will not be beaten by my husband! I marry the baron, I distort my fortune, and I disinherit the marquise of everything I can possibly take from her: let’s get to work! She had her reply taken to M. de Subressac, and the very next day, without writing to her children, she hastened the preparations for her marriage. Never did a passionate lover run more ardently to his wedding: it was because Madame Benoît married much better than a man, she married the suburb! A slight indisposition of M. de Subressac warned her that she had no time to lose: she took to the skies and displayed more activity than on the approach of her daughter’s marriage. While the baron was kept in the room, the fiancée ran from the town hall to the notary’s office, and from the office to the sacristy. She still found time to see her dear patient and to talk with the doctor. The ceremony was set for October 15. On the 14th, M. de Subressac, who was better, complained of a heaviness in his head; the doctor spoke of bleeding him; Madame Benoît silenced him; the bleeding was postponed until the next day, the headache dissipated, and the future spouses dined together with good appetite. The month of October was charming in 1846: one would have thought it was the first days of September, and the sun gave the calendar a brilliant lie. The grape harvest was beautiful throughout France, and even in Lorraine. While Madame Benoît ardently pursued her barony, her daughter and son-in-law enjoyed the autumn in the company of their friends. Mr. and Mrs. Jordy had left their businesses to come and spend three weeks in Arlange. Madame Mélier kept them for eight days and then allowed them to live in the forge; neither mothers nor husbands refuse anything to a young woman four months pregnant. A
close friendship had been established between the refiner and the blacksmith. They hunted every day together, while their wives sewed a prince’s layette. Robert called the Marquise Lucile and Gaston called Céline to Madame Jordy. On the very day when the Marquis was to gain a father-in-law and lose a fortune, the two couples, awake at dawn, embarked together in a sturdy chariot, proof against all the ruts of the forest. The dew in large drops sparkled in the marijuana; the yellowed leaves descended , swirling in the air, and came to lie at the foot of the trees. The robins followed the course of the carriage from branch to branch; the wagtail ran, wagging its tail, right under the horses’ hooves. From time to time a startled rabbit, its ears laid back, passed like lightning across the road. The sharp morning air colored the faces of the young women. I know of nothing more charming than these autumn shivers between the oppressive heat of summer and the brutal ice of winter. The heat enervates us, the cold stiffens us; A gentle coolness strengthens the springs of body and mind, stimulates our activity and redoubles the joy of living. After a long walk, which seemed long to no one, the four friends got out of the car. Lucile, who commanded the expedition, led them to a beautiful green space, under a large oak tree, near a small spring framed with watercress. Madame Jordy, lazy out of duty, settled comfortably on the woodland marijuana, finer and softer than the best furs, while her husband emptied the trunks of the char-à-bancs and the Marquis lit a large fire for lunch. Lucile threw in armfuls of dry leaves and handfuls of dead branches; then Robert carved the cold partridges, and the Marquise used all her talents to make a magnificent omelet. Then the coffee was put near the fire, at a respectful distance, recommending to the Marquis not to let it cook. Then began one of those tournaments of appetite which would be ridiculous in the city but are delicious in the country; and when an acorn fell into a glass, people laughed heartily, and they thought the old oak had a great deal of wit. It was not far from noon when the table was delivered to the footmen and the coachman. The two young women took a path they had known for a long time, walked briskly to the edge of the wood, and threw their husbands into the middle of the harvest in Madame Mélier’s vineyards. A soft sun lit up the purple leaves of the vines. The sturdy vines pressed their gnarled roots into the ground, like a vigorous child clinging to its nurse’s breast. The beautiful red earth, slightly soaked by autumn, clung to the feet of the harvesters, and each of them carried a small acre of it on his shoe. Two carts laden with large vats waited at the bottom of the hill, and every now and then a winegrower, bent under the weight, came to pour his full basket into them. A little further on, two six-year-old children watched the grape pickers’ meal with hungry eyes. An enormous cabbage soup bubbled up its succulent vapors; Potatoes were cooking under the ashes, and the curdled milk was waiting its turn in the blue stoneware jars. The two children’s eyes said with a certain eloquence: Oh! Hot potatoes , with cold curdled milk! The grape-pickers in short petticoats sang a rustic poem from the top of their heads. This noisy gaiety benefits the master of the vineyard: A mouth that bites the song does not bite the grape. While Gaston and Robert climbed the hill and reviewed a battle front bristling with stakes, a strange discussion arose between the two friends, near the grape-pickers’ kitchen. Are you crazy? said Madame Jordy; this soup must be detestable. “Just a plateful!” said the marquise. “But you’ve just had lunch! ” “I’m hungry for that soup. ” “If you’re hungry, let’s go back to the car.” “No, it’s soup I need; ask for some for me, or I ‘ll steal it. I’m dying of desire! ” “Tears! Oh! This is getting serious. I thought that desires were only allowed to me. But, in fact, who knows? Eat, madame, eat. ” The pretty marquise devoured a thresher’s portion in the barn. Madame Jordy was astonished that one could have such a fierce appetite when one wasn’t eating for two. She took her friend aside, asked her a thousand and one questions, and chatted with her for a long time. The conclusion was that we should seek the doctor’s advice. ” Are we disturbing you?” asked Gaston, who was retracing his steps. “Not at all,” replied Madame Jordy; “we were talking about rags. ” “Ah! ” “My God, yes. You know that we are working on a layette. ” “Well? ” “Well, a serious worry has come to us. ” “And what?” “We’re afraid we’ll have to make two.” Gaston felt his legs give way under him: he was a strong man, though. He suggested getting back in the carriage and running to the doctor. ” What joy!” Lucile was saying. “If the doctor says yes, I’ll write to Mama tomorrow. ” That same day, at ten o’clock in the morning, Madame Benoît climbed into the famous carriage that had finally been completed, but with the coat of arms changed. Before climbing the velvet staircase that served as a step, she complacently eyed the baron’s tortil and the Subressac coat of arms. Contrary to custom, it was the bride who was going to fetch her husband. She climbed lightly to the fourth floor, rang the bell briskly, and found herself face to face with two weeping servants: the baron had died suddenly during the night. The poor bride felt the overwhelming grief of Calypso when she learned of Ulysses’ departure. She wanted to see what remained of the Baron: she touched his cold hand, she sat down by his bed, overwhelmed, stupid and without tears. Seeing this despair, the old valet, who knew the list of his master’s loves, said to himself that no one had loved him like Madame Benoît. It was Madame Benoît who provided for the Baron’s funeral. She assured the future of her old servants by saying: It is up to me to pay his debts: am I not his widow in the eyes of God? She resolved to wear her mourning. She followed the procession to the cemetery. The whole suburb was there. When she saw the long line of carriages advancing at a walking pace behind hers, she burst into tears, and cried out amidst sobs: How unhappy I am! All these people would have come to dance at my house! As she returned to the hotel, crushed under the weight of grief, she was given the following letter: Dear Mother, This is the sixth letter I have written to you without receiving two lines of reply; but, this time, I am sure of success. I will not repeat to you that we love you, that we are sorry to have caused you pain, that we miss you, that we are starting to light a fire in the evening, and that your empty armchair brings tears to our eyes. eyes: you have resisted all those good reasons, and more victorious arguments are needed to make up your mind. Listen then: if you want to be good and come back to us, I will give you as a reward…. a grandson! I am not trying to describe our joy to you; it is better that you come and see it and share it. LUCILE D’OUTREVILLE Yes, cried Madame Benoît, a grandson! And if it were a granddaughter! She ran to the fireplace, and continued, looking at herself in a mirror: I am forty-two years old; in sixteen years, my granddaughter will make her entrance into the world; her parents will never leave Arlange: who will take her to the suburb, if not me? Dear little one! I love her already. I will be fifty-eight years old, I will still be young; and until then, I will not be so foolish as to let myself die like certain clumsy old men. On my way to Arlange! “Madame,” interrupted Julie, “they have come from Queen Artemisia with mourning clothes. ” “Send these people away! Are they making fun of me? The Baron was nothing to me, and I do not want to display ridiculous regrets. ” “But, madame, it was madame who said…” “Mademoiselle Julie, when your mistress speaks to you, it is not for you to say but.” Because I have put up with your faults for fifteen years, you perhaps thought that I was engaged to you for life? It is like Master Pierre, your faithful friend, who follows your good examples and only wants to do as he pleases. You serve me rather badly; and what is much more serious, it has happened to both of you to grossly fail Madame la Marquise d’Outreville. Don’t come and object again that it was I who said it. The fact is that my daughter can no longer see either of you; and since I am returning to Arlange…. –I understand; madame is punishing us for having obeyed her. This is how Madame Benoît dismissed her allies before the signing of the peace. Two days later, her smile lit up Arlange. She did not speak of the past; she abstained from all recriminations; she frankly reconciled with her daughter and son-in-law: she almost admitted her wrongs. My children, she said, how good you are here! Stay here for a long time, stay here always! Gaston was quite right to praise the countryside: it is there that one lives well and raises good families. Give me many grandchildren; I will never complain of having too many. It is I who will provide dowries for your daughters: so, my Lucette, regulate yourself accordingly. But do you understand this infatuation they have for Paris? It is an abominable city; I have found nothing but disappointments there, and I will never set foot there again except to lead my grandchildren into society! Seven months later, the Marquise gave birth to a boy. He was Madame Jordy’s godson; Madame Benoît did not want to be his godmother. I am expecting the girls, she said. In the ten years that have just passed, Lucile has given her husband seven children, and such happy fertility does not seem to have tired her. She has gained a little plumpness without losing any of her grace: are the cherry trees less beautiful because they bear cherries every year? Gaston, faithful to the two passions of his youth, devotes the better part of his time to Lucile, and the rest to science. His factory is prospering as well as his household. He has vigorously pushed forward progress in the metallurgical industry; he has precipitated the decline in the price of iron: thanks to him, the ton of rails has fallen from 360 francs to 285, and he does not despair of bringing it to 200, as he once promised to his friend the saltworks engineer. The Marquis d’Outreville is, moreover, a fine blacksmith, and you would not give him more than thirty years: years have so little hold on a happy man ! But Madame Benoît is a little old woman, emaciated, wrinkled, sullen, unbearable to others and to herself. It is because she waited in vain for the little blond head on which she based her last hopes. The seven children of the Marquis are seven chubby rascals who roll from morning to night in the dust, who wear holes in their jackets at the elbows and their trousers at the knees, who have chilblains in the winter, and red hands in all seasons, and who will go alone to the Faubourg Saint-Germain, if they ever have the curiosity to see their grandmother’s paradise. Gabrielle-Auguste-Éliane will die like Moses on Mount Nebo, without having set foot on the promised land. You have just traveled with Edmond About behind the scenes of Parisian weddings, where passions, illusions and social strategies meet and collide. This fine and piquant portrait of Parisian life reminds us how human relationships are both universal and timeless. We hope this story entertained you and offered a new perspective on 19th-century customs and spirit. Thank you for listening, and look forward to more literary gems on this channel dedicated to the great voices of classical literature.